Ten rehearsals and two concerts later, another whirlwind season of Cantate is over. This time, the theme of our program was Latin, meaning we had a hodgepodge of classical Latin pieces, Latin American folk songs, and Latin jazz numbers. Saxophonist and band leader Greg Ward accompanied us on several pieces, then his band led the second half of the program with Latin jazz numbers. When I read the program notes, I realized that Ward had been born in 1982, meaning he's only 3 years older than me. Considering that Ward travels, composes and performs all over the world (he just got back from Spain), I was immediately hit with a sense that I Have Accomplished Nothing With My Life. But I digress.
This program was stylistically more diverse and overall less challenging for audiences. Don't get me wrong, I love the lush, warm traditional choral works we performed last fall, but as with any piece with depth, it takes repeated exposure to fully grasp the motivation behind the pieces. We had a couple stunningly beautiful Latin pieces at the beginning of the concert, one dedicated to the passing of one of our own members from cancer, and I was happy to hear people comment that these were gorgeous. However, the most accessible piece was undoubtedly "Chili con Carne," a Latin jazz piece ironically written by Swedes. This is a fun, whimsical piece that is actually a recipe, with directives like "don't forget the Mexican spices/without them you won't get the flavor of Mexican sunshine" and "when your mouth gets full of fire/you might need something to drink/one or two or three or four or/seven beers will be enough."
Much to my relief, only two of our pieces were in Spanish; the rest were either in Latin or were some sort of nonsensical scat singing. Having studied French and Latin, I know just enough about romance languages to royally butcher the rules of pronunciation for Spanish. Conclusion: I will take the rapid-fire rhythmic challenge of "wa p t ba da da t ba ba chi ki ba tsao" over the trimmed diphthongs of Spanish any day.
On another note, the recessionary economy has damaged the finances of many groups, including performing arts organizations. Nowhere is this more evident than in the conservative programming that many groups have planned for the next year. In good years, ensembles are able to take risks, plan challenging programs, commission pieces and premiere new works. For next year, Chicago Acappella will be rehashing old standards (Beatles, "Holiday Favorites") in an effort to draw audience members and cut down on rehearsal time. Grant Park Orchestra will be performing Beethoven 9 and a lot of material you have probably already heard. Oh, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra is performing Beethoven 9 too, the third time in 5 years that they've ended their season with the piece.
Cantate has always been entirely self-financed, depending on its members for publicity and to drum up an audience. When all is said and done, we usually clear about $100 in the bank when all the bills are paid. For this concert, we had enough saved up that we were able to take a chance and veer sharply away from recognizable names and pieces. It remains to be seen whether the gamble paid off, but I am extremely grateful for everyone that did come out to support us.
Anyway, I strongly encourage you all to continue supporting live music and the arts.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Indiana Dunes
It is a universally recognized fact that Indiana is the backwoods armpit of the United States, where casseroles go to die. So when the idea of daytripping to the Indiana dunes came up, I admit to feeling some trepidation. Wait, we're leaving Chicago? To go to...the Midwest?? I also wasn't quite sure how to handle the thought of dunes in Indiana. I mean, don't those belong in deserts? The only image that came to mind was that scene in Spaceballs when they're wandering the dunes, combing the desert.
After a 45 minute drive, we began seeing signs for various beaches and dunes. Spying an arrow for the Indiana Dunes State Park, we pulled in toward the gatehouse. "That'll be $5 for parking," said the trooper. "Wait, are you Indiana residents?" No, we responded. "Then it'll be $10." We supressed some grumbling and handed him the money, while asking for directions on how to get to the Cowles Bog Trail (the only trail marked as "moderately arduous.") "Oh, actually that's outside of here, in Indiana Dunes National Park. They're entirely separate from us," said the trooper. "Uh, well then can we get a refund?" we asked. "Nope, sorry. I can't just give refunds like that," the trooper responded, as he pocketed our still-warm Hamilton. We looked at him agape. "Well, it's up to this guy." He waved at another guy wearing a blue t-shirt. "It's your call, do you want to give them a refund?" Luckily, the guy in the blue shirt was reasonable and said, "Sure, why not? Why pay if you don't want to be here?" He handed us a lengthy form to fill out. Under "reason for refund request," Katherine wrote, "Don't want to be here." On our way out of the parking lot, I may have loudly called the trooper a douchebag.
Take two: we made our way (down the street) to Dune Acres, which is part of Indiana Dunes National Park. Here, there was ample parking for free, even though the trooper assured us that we'd have to pay anywhere else we went. The sun was shining, the water was frigid, and we spread out our wares and began picnicking on the beach.
Adam, Shani and Leah smile for the camera as Melissa displays her lip-framed sunglasses.
Our picnic included many interesting contributions, including this lovely cherry & chocolate chip studded emerald-green cake with blue frosting. I think my teeth hurt after eating a piece of this.
Katherine taking a picture of me as I take a picture of her
A sand dune, covered with small grasses, trees, and intrepid explorers. If a dune is not anchored with grass and other plants, it is considered a "living" dune since it moves.
After spending a couple hours on the beach, watching white people get comically sunburned, we went to the Cowles Bog trailhead. This was billed as a 5 mile loop with three types of terrain. I was excited for my first real hike in the Midwest, since the last attempt in Madison was fairly lame (it turns out the prairie is flat). The first mile or so was relaxing, a scenic tour of forest and wetlands, but nothing particularly novel. Then, as if Nature had read my mind and wanted to up the ante, we came to the Bridge of Branches. A large expanse of water stood between us and the other side, and the only way across was to walk over a haphazard series of branches. No railings, no solid planks, just pure balance. "I bet there are crocodiles in these waters," I joked. "Probably not, but there are definitely leeches." said Adam. I wrinkled my nose in dismay. For some reason, the lava theme from Donkey Kong 2 came to mind.
Leah leads the way, boldly testing which of the branches are the most stable.
Melissa officially wins for having the most grace and balance. I blame the dance lessons.
Adam takes in the not-quite-ocean vista.
The amount of vegetation that manages to grow and thrive in these sands is amazing.
Coming down the dune, we decided to take off our shoes, since we were plunging in past our ankles with each step.
The view from the bottom, on the beach with "singing sands"
Katherine demonstrates the singing sand
I was highly amused by the name of this boat.
And of course, this being Northwest Indiana, there are plants sprinkled amidst the other plants.
On the way back, we spotted a few frogs, and Katherine managed to pick one up. Several warts promptly developed afterwards.
All in all, I must say that this was one of the best hikes of my life. I hereby revise my opinion of Indiana's suckitude; there are select parts of Indiana that are awesome. Also, I will never take solid ground for granted again.
After a 45 minute drive, we began seeing signs for various beaches and dunes. Spying an arrow for the Indiana Dunes State Park, we pulled in toward the gatehouse. "That'll be $5 for parking," said the trooper. "Wait, are you Indiana residents?" No, we responded. "Then it'll be $10." We supressed some grumbling and handed him the money, while asking for directions on how to get to the Cowles Bog Trail (the only trail marked as "moderately arduous.") "Oh, actually that's outside of here, in Indiana Dunes National Park. They're entirely separate from us," said the trooper. "Uh, well then can we get a refund?" we asked. "Nope, sorry. I can't just give refunds like that," the trooper responded, as he pocketed our still-warm Hamilton. We looked at him agape. "Well, it's up to this guy." He waved at another guy wearing a blue t-shirt. "It's your call, do you want to give them a refund?" Luckily, the guy in the blue shirt was reasonable and said, "Sure, why not? Why pay if you don't want to be here?" He handed us a lengthy form to fill out. Under "reason for refund request," Katherine wrote, "Don't want to be here." On our way out of the parking lot, I may have loudly called the trooper a douchebag.
Take two: we made our way (down the street) to Dune Acres, which is part of Indiana Dunes National Park. Here, there was ample parking for free, even though the trooper assured us that we'd have to pay anywhere else we went. The sun was shining, the water was frigid, and we spread out our wares and began picnicking on the beach.
Adam, Shani and Leah smile for the camera as Melissa displays her lip-framed sunglasses.
Our picnic included many interesting contributions, including this lovely cherry & chocolate chip studded emerald-green cake with blue frosting. I think my teeth hurt after eating a piece of this.
Katherine taking a picture of me as I take a picture of her
A sand dune, covered with small grasses, trees, and intrepid explorers. If a dune is not anchored with grass and other plants, it is considered a "living" dune since it moves.After spending a couple hours on the beach, watching white people get comically sunburned, we went to the Cowles Bog trailhead. This was billed as a 5 mile loop with three types of terrain. I was excited for my first real hike in the Midwest, since the last attempt in Madison was fairly lame (it turns out the prairie is flat). The first mile or so was relaxing, a scenic tour of forest and wetlands, but nothing particularly novel. Then, as if Nature had read my mind and wanted to up the ante, we came to the Bridge of Branches. A large expanse of water stood between us and the other side, and the only way across was to walk over a haphazard series of branches. No railings, no solid planks, just pure balance. "I bet there are crocodiles in these waters," I joked. "Probably not, but there are definitely leeches." said Adam. I wrinkled my nose in dismay. For some reason, the lava theme from Donkey Kong 2 came to mind.
Leah leads the way, boldly testing which of the branches are the most stable.
Melissa officially wins for having the most grace and balance. I blame the dance lessons.With abated breath, we all successfully stayed dry. Once we made it across, the terrain gradually shifted from boggy to sandy. The dirt trail underfoot morphed into sand, and we found ourselves climbing in elevation. If you think hiking uphill is hard, try doing it as the ground gives way underneath and you slide backwards. Suddenly, we reached the summit and were rewarded with a gorgeous view of the beach and Lake Michigan below us.
Adam takes in the not-quite-ocean vista.
The amount of vegetation that manages to grow and thrive in these sands is amazing.
Coming down the dune, we decided to take off our shoes, since we were plunging in past our ankles with each step.
The view from the bottom, on the beach with "singing sands"That's right, the sand makes noises in Indiana, particularly if you drag your toes through it. I would liken the phenomena to the sound a seal makes. According to Wikipedia, for singing sand to occur, the sand grains must be round and between 0.1 and 0.5 mm in diameter, must contain silica, and the sand needs a certain humidity.
Katherine demonstrates the singing sand
I was highly amused by the name of this boat.
And of course, this being Northwest Indiana, there are plants sprinkled amidst the other plants.
On the way back, we spotted a few frogs, and Katherine managed to pick one up. Several warts promptly developed afterwards.All in all, I must say that this was one of the best hikes of my life. I hereby revise my opinion of Indiana's suckitude; there are select parts of Indiana that are awesome. Also, I will never take solid ground for granted again.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Blood is Thicker than Water
Last Sunday, I checked my phone to find three voicemails in the span of an hour. The first was my mom, frantically telling me that my cousin Fong was in town, and that we should hang out and could I please make sure my apartment was clean if he came over. The second was my aunt, telling me that my cousin Fong was in town, and that we should spend some time together. The third was (surprise!) my cousin Fong, who said that he was in town and we should get together. All right, all right...
To provide some background knowledge, Fong is one of the cousins on my mom's side that we don't particularly keep in touch with. I hadn't seen him since about 6th grade. I didn't know what he was doing job-wise, or where he was living. I couldn't remember how old he was. Hell, I didn't even know his (English) name. This was pretty much like a blind date except for that sharing genetics part. Hesitantly, I picked up the phone and tried to tease out what he liked to do, so I could get a better sense of what form this hang-out would take. After all, this is Chicago, so we could have done anything from seeing Jersey Boys to jeering in the bleachers at a Cubs game.
I threw out the idea of a brewpub, and Fong was on that like white on rice. (Go figure, beer is almost always a sure-fire common denominator.) Since I've been meaning to go back to the Publican, I billed the restaurant as the ultimate anti-Semitic temple to pork, oysters and beer and Fong readily agreed to meet me there. He also said that he would eat anything. So far, so good.
On Monday, Fong gave me a call to find out what time I would be free. "Well, I'm about to go to a lecture by Michael Pollan right now, but that should only last an hour. Um, he's an activist who supports sustainable agriculture and eco-conscious eating. He wrote Omnivore's Dilemma, if you've heard of that...Actually, you don't need to give me a ride to the restaurant because I'm going to bike."
At the restaurant, I waited and nervously scanned the incoming crowd for Asian guys. Finally, there was a tap on my shoulder. "Fong, what's up? It's been forever!" I hugged Fong and looked him over. A little shorter than I remembered (or maybe I had simply grown), but still a recognizable fit with my hazy memories. Fong took a look at me and said, "Ok, so how much of a hippie are you?" I cringed inwardly and tried to explain that I wasn't that much of a hippie, just environmentally conscious. (Oh boy, has Ithaca done a number on me...)
The rest of the conversation proceeded smoothly. Fong has always been the self-proclaimed black sheep of the family, and the most prominent story about him in the family is the time he went to the wedding reception for Terri (my oldest cousin) and got ridiculously drunk. I wasn't actually there, but I've definitely heard about this from several relatives. In his defense, Fong simply said, "Well, I was 19, and there was free alcohol, and oh yeah, I spent most of my time hitting on one of Maggie's friends...yeahhh."
As you might expect, Fong's antics tended to raise eyebrows amongst my conservative Chinese relatives. In contrast, I was always upholding the "perfect" child, academic superstar mantle. Hence, I was somewhat relieved when Fong sized me up and said, "Well, I'm glad you turned out cool. You drink beer."
Fong went on to say that while he may have experimented lots in college, he was much less adventurous these days and mostly just stuck to smoking. Besides, while he may not be considered a role model by his Chinese relatives, compared to the Cambodian side of his family, he was a friggin' genius. Most of his cousins on that half of the family were working blue-collar jobs and didn't have college degrees. So really, he was doing quite all right for himself, thank you very much, Judgmental Chinese Relatives. Then, he may have strongly advised trying mushrooms just once in my life, so long as I was in a safe environment with people I trust. Say, how about a family vacation in Amsterdam?? I giggled as I pictured traipsing through Europe with my cousins on the ultimate family-unfriendly vacay.
Hedonism aside, Fong shored up his nerd cred and cemented my respect for him when he mentioned that he'd set up an FTP server at his parents' house, since they were one of the first households to get access to Verizon FiOS, and so he gets insanely fast download and upload speeds. "There's 1.2 T of space on that computer! I'll make you an account when I get home and you can check out all the media that's on there." He went on to describe his extensive collection of jazz, french rap, indian music and anime. "Wait, French rap?" I questioned. "Oh, I'm fluent in French. I even spent a few months in a Bhuddist temple in France one summer."
It's funny to think that I really don't know many of my cousins. For a variety of reasons, we never meet as a group. We're geographically dispersed across the country, and there's never been a tradition of getting together around the holidays. Also, since there are 8 siblings on my mom's side of the family, various factions are always feuding with each other at one point or another. In fact, every year when I send out Christmas cards, I ask my mom if there's anyone we're currently not talking to.
My mom is known informally as 老六, or Number Six, and she is closest to her younger siblings (#7-8). Fong's mom is 三姨, or Aunt Three, and since she left Vietnam to study abroad when my mom was pretty young, they were never very close. Thus, we've had little contact with Fong over the years, but I know my youngest cousins pretty well (e.g. we're Facebook friends). Fong, on the other hand, couldn't name any of the younger cousins, and drew a blank when I mentioned Chester. "Who's Chester?" he asked. "Um, my brother?" I replied. "Ohh shit. Don't tell your mom I said that."
We went through the list and tried to figure out everyone's ages. I was shocked to hear that Terri now has two kids (I haven't seen her since I was maybe 3.) For the record, here are all the cousins on my mom's side of the family: Terri (36?), Maggie (34?), Al (31), Jun (30?), Fong (28), Choy (28?), Chris (26?), Yogi (26?), Me (23), Jenny (21), Chester (17), Steven (17), Stanley (14), Evelyn (15), Marilyn (12?), Dino (10?)
I mentioned that for the most part, I disliked talking on the phone but was logged into some form of instant messenger 24/7. In a classic dork moment, Fong said, "Oh, me too! What's your screenname, what platform(s) do you use?" Then we bonded over our mutual use of Pidgin. Perhaps it will be another decade before I meet up with Fong (legal name: Sornak) again, but at least we will keep hanging out on the internets. Or maybe Amsterdam.
To provide some background knowledge, Fong is one of the cousins on my mom's side that we don't particularly keep in touch with. I hadn't seen him since about 6th grade. I didn't know what he was doing job-wise, or where he was living. I couldn't remember how old he was. Hell, I didn't even know his (English) name. This was pretty much like a blind date except for that sharing genetics part. Hesitantly, I picked up the phone and tried to tease out what he liked to do, so I could get a better sense of what form this hang-out would take. After all, this is Chicago, so we could have done anything from seeing Jersey Boys to jeering in the bleachers at a Cubs game.
I threw out the idea of a brewpub, and Fong was on that like white on rice. (Go figure, beer is almost always a sure-fire common denominator.) Since I've been meaning to go back to the Publican, I billed the restaurant as the ultimate anti-Semitic temple to pork, oysters and beer and Fong readily agreed to meet me there. He also said that he would eat anything. So far, so good.
On Monday, Fong gave me a call to find out what time I would be free. "Well, I'm about to go to a lecture by Michael Pollan right now, but that should only last an hour. Um, he's an activist who supports sustainable agriculture and eco-conscious eating. He wrote Omnivore's Dilemma, if you've heard of that...Actually, you don't need to give me a ride to the restaurant because I'm going to bike."
At the restaurant, I waited and nervously scanned the incoming crowd for Asian guys. Finally, there was a tap on my shoulder. "Fong, what's up? It's been forever!" I hugged Fong and looked him over. A little shorter than I remembered (or maybe I had simply grown), but still a recognizable fit with my hazy memories. Fong took a look at me and said, "Ok, so how much of a hippie are you?" I cringed inwardly and tried to explain that I wasn't that much of a hippie, just environmentally conscious. (Oh boy, has Ithaca done a number on me...)
The rest of the conversation proceeded smoothly. Fong has always been the self-proclaimed black sheep of the family, and the most prominent story about him in the family is the time he went to the wedding reception for Terri (my oldest cousin) and got ridiculously drunk. I wasn't actually there, but I've definitely heard about this from several relatives. In his defense, Fong simply said, "Well, I was 19, and there was free alcohol, and oh yeah, I spent most of my time hitting on one of Maggie's friends...yeahhh."
As you might expect, Fong's antics tended to raise eyebrows amongst my conservative Chinese relatives. In contrast, I was always upholding the "perfect" child, academic superstar mantle. Hence, I was somewhat relieved when Fong sized me up and said, "Well, I'm glad you turned out cool. You drink beer."
Fong went on to say that while he may have experimented lots in college, he was much less adventurous these days and mostly just stuck to smoking. Besides, while he may not be considered a role model by his Chinese relatives, compared to the Cambodian side of his family, he was a friggin' genius. Most of his cousins on that half of the family were working blue-collar jobs and didn't have college degrees. So really, he was doing quite all right for himself, thank you very much, Judgmental Chinese Relatives. Then, he may have strongly advised trying mushrooms just once in my life, so long as I was in a safe environment with people I trust. Say, how about a family vacation in Amsterdam?? I giggled as I pictured traipsing through Europe with my cousins on the ultimate family-unfriendly vacay.
Hedonism aside, Fong shored up his nerd cred and cemented my respect for him when he mentioned that he'd set up an FTP server at his parents' house, since they were one of the first households to get access to Verizon FiOS, and so he gets insanely fast download and upload speeds. "There's 1.2 T of space on that computer! I'll make you an account when I get home and you can check out all the media that's on there." He went on to describe his extensive collection of jazz, french rap, indian music and anime. "Wait, French rap?" I questioned. "Oh, I'm fluent in French. I even spent a few months in a Bhuddist temple in France one summer."
It's funny to think that I really don't know many of my cousins. For a variety of reasons, we never meet as a group. We're geographically dispersed across the country, and there's never been a tradition of getting together around the holidays. Also, since there are 8 siblings on my mom's side of the family, various factions are always feuding with each other at one point or another. In fact, every year when I send out Christmas cards, I ask my mom if there's anyone we're currently not talking to.
My mom is known informally as 老六, or Number Six, and she is closest to her younger siblings (#7-8). Fong's mom is 三姨, or Aunt Three, and since she left Vietnam to study abroad when my mom was pretty young, they were never very close. Thus, we've had little contact with Fong over the years, but I know my youngest cousins pretty well (e.g. we're Facebook friends). Fong, on the other hand, couldn't name any of the younger cousins, and drew a blank when I mentioned Chester. "Who's Chester?" he asked. "Um, my brother?" I replied. "Ohh shit. Don't tell your mom I said that."
We went through the list and tried to figure out everyone's ages. I was shocked to hear that Terri now has two kids (I haven't seen her since I was maybe 3.) For the record, here are all the cousins on my mom's side of the family: Terri (36?), Maggie (34?), Al (31), Jun (30?), Fong (28), Choy (28?), Chris (26?), Yogi (26?), Me (23), Jenny (21), Chester (17), Steven (17), Stanley (14), Evelyn (15), Marilyn (12?), Dino (10?)
I mentioned that for the most part, I disliked talking on the phone but was logged into some form of instant messenger 24/7. In a classic dork moment, Fong said, "Oh, me too! What's your screenname, what platform(s) do you use?" Then we bonded over our mutual use of Pidgin. Perhaps it will be another decade before I meet up with Fong (legal name: Sornak) again, but at least we will keep hanging out on the internets. Or maybe Amsterdam.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
NRA Show
The NRA (National Restaurant Association) convention is in town this weekend. If you are unfamiliar with this spectacle, it is the nation's largest trade show for foodservice operators, distributors and suppliers, with over 70,000 attendees and 2,000 booths. This is essentially one-stop shopping for anyone in the restaurant industry, as vendors hawk fresh fruit and toilet paper, and everything in between. There are also lots of educational seminars, celebrity chef demos (Rick Bayless, Stephanie Izard) and celebrity chef book signings (Art Smith, Daniel Boulud). And did I mention the free food (and alcohol) samples? It's a fun, fun time. As a kid, my dad used to take me to the Sysco food expo in Louisville every now and then, so I knew what to expect for the most part. The only difference this time was that I was wielding a press pass, conspicuously marked green.
Obtaining a press pass was surprisingly easy, as I simply said I was a writer for Chicago Foodies and that was sufficient. This resulted in an incredible amount of access, and doors opened up that I never would have thought to crack. The show is closed to industry professionals only, and registration for most attendees is $80. Obtaining a press pass, on the other hand, is free. Plus, you have access to cover exlusive events (like the Restaurant Executive Breakfast on social media marketing) that are closed to general attendees.
More importantly, people are interested in coming to you. In the days leading up to the convention, I was barraged with dozens of emails from publicists who wanted to set up appointments with me to demonstrate new products. Chatting with the CEO of Lucid Absinthe, anyone? Several people called me (I submitted my cell when I registered), sometimes repeatedly, leaving voicemail entreaties (and always commenting at what a great voicemail message I have). I was somewhat stricken with guilt, but decided it'd be more painful to return any of their calls.
At the show itself, the spotlight continued to shine. I realize I'm a complete neophyte in journalism, but I was blown away by the interest that was immediately paid by people who noticed my green badge. It is astounding how people's demeanors change when they realize that you're press, and that every interaction they have with you could be influential in a very public way. "So, are you going to write about us?" asked one sales rep hopefully. "Probably!" I hedged, with a smile. At some points, craving anonymity, I took my clipboard and put it in front of my badge to hide it as I walked down the aisles. Unfortunately, I was called out by Dave from the toy crane machine booth, who said, "Oh, you're taking notes? Oh, you're press??" We then bonded over the hideousness of an adjoining Dixie ad that featured a guy in a burger suit.
Next up, the Candy Expo is in town next week.
Obtaining a press pass was surprisingly easy, as I simply said I was a writer for Chicago Foodies and that was sufficient. This resulted in an incredible amount of access, and doors opened up that I never would have thought to crack. The show is closed to industry professionals only, and registration for most attendees is $80. Obtaining a press pass, on the other hand, is free. Plus, you have access to cover exlusive events (like the Restaurant Executive Breakfast on social media marketing) that are closed to general attendees.
More importantly, people are interested in coming to you. In the days leading up to the convention, I was barraged with dozens of emails from publicists who wanted to set up appointments with me to demonstrate new products. Chatting with the CEO of Lucid Absinthe, anyone? Several people called me (I submitted my cell when I registered), sometimes repeatedly, leaving voicemail entreaties (and always commenting at what a great voicemail message I have). I was somewhat stricken with guilt, but decided it'd be more painful to return any of their calls.
At the show itself, the spotlight continued to shine. I realize I'm a complete neophyte in journalism, but I was blown away by the interest that was immediately paid by people who noticed my green badge. It is astounding how people's demeanors change when they realize that you're press, and that every interaction they have with you could be influential in a very public way. "So, are you going to write about us?" asked one sales rep hopefully. "Probably!" I hedged, with a smile. At some points, craving anonymity, I took my clipboard and put it in front of my badge to hide it as I walked down the aisles. Unfortunately, I was called out by Dave from the toy crane machine booth, who said, "Oh, you're taking notes? Oh, you're press??" We then bonded over the hideousness of an adjoining Dixie ad that featured a guy in a burger suit.
Next up, the Candy Expo is in town next week.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Zappos
After discovering that my current everyday shoes had holes in the soles, and that the padding was disintegrating into chunks, I decided it was perhaps time to go shoe shopping. But wait, I hate shopping, for it invariably involves an inefficient expenditure of time and energy as you case out the selections at multiple stores, desperately look for your size on the jumbled clearance rack, then go back to buy the first thing you saw, only to find that it has been snapped up by some other shopper. Pooh, screw that. This is clearly an information asymmetry problem that can be solved by (Drama Button) the Internet!Katherine suggested going to Zappos, and I was immediately intrigued. They offer free shipping and one free return on your shoes, plus you can avoid paying sales tax online. Moreover, with the long tail of the internet, you can pretty much find any style you could possibly want, in the size that you need. They group shoes by "lifestyle" category, which lead to some deep introspection...am I "Urban Mix" or "Retro"?
For a while, I was scrutinizing selections in the "Vegan" category, particularly these EcoSneaks made with organic cotton and recycled car tire inner tube. In the end though, I bought the first pair of shoes I liked (of course). These hybrid Adidas ballet flats were too ironically hilarious to pass up.
Let's review:
- No need to physically manifest in a store filled with angsty teens or pushy sales clerks
- Free shipping and returns
- No sales tax (a nontrivial 10.25% in Chicago)
- Browse the ginormous selection with your mouse
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Bank Structure Conference
The Chicago Fed hosted the 45th annual Bank Structure Conference this week, and I showed up for part of it, since today included such heavy-hitters like Ben Bernanke (Chairman of the Fed) and Sheila Bair (Chairman of the FDIC). I apologize that I didn't get a chance to ask Bernanke "What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?" during the Q & A, but my lame excuse is that I didn't have a pen at the time to submit a question. Some other highlights of his speech included:
It's striking how a person's job title is a very good proxy for what their speech is going to say, and how good their presentation skills are. It really explains how idiot politicians get elected in this country.
- Q: So, the stress test results are due to be released later today...I don't suppose you could give us the answers ahead of time?
Bernanke: No. - Q: The Cubs are playing the Nationals tonight, and given their records, what do you think the chances are for subsidies for these teams?
Bernanke: I think we need to get Soriano back. - Hecklers: Midway through the speech, two college-age guys strode into the middle of the aisle and shouted: "Fractional reserve banking is fraudulent! Austrian economics is the answer!" They then bolted for the doors. I was a tad disappointed that they didn't wait to be forcibly removed by burly security guards; I was hoping for tasers in fact.
It's striking how a person's job title is a very good proxy for what their speech is going to say, and how good their presentation skills are. It really explains how idiot politicians get elected in this country.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Please Pass (on) the Tuna
By now, most people have read or heard about Fast Food Nation, an indictment of the modern factory farm, where cheap meat is produced at an all-too-high, hidden environmental cost. The recent emergence of swine flu has once again put the spotlight on factory farming and how the industry encourages the proliferation of disease. With that in mind, I began investigating the complementary industries of fishing and aquaculture. Taras Grescoe's Bottomfeeder: How to Eat Ethically in a World of Vanishing Seafood provides an eye-opening, informative guide to the state of the world's seafood supply, and is a must-read for anyone who eats seafood, if only for reasons of self-protection.
The oceans have long been credited with inexhaustible supplies of seafood, but a combination of industrial-age fishing techniques and a burgeoning human population has wiped out many fish stocks to levels of commercial extinction. Bottom-trawling, or dragging a net across the seafloor, essentially destroys and levels hundreds of square miles of seabed each day. Dynamite and cyanide are commonly used to stun reef fish (grouper, Napoleon wrasse); it is estimated that a square meter of coral reef is killed for every reef fish caught. Meanwhile, people have been consuming more and more seafood, from the newly affluent Chinese to the explosion of all-you-can-eat shrimp and crab specials at American chains like Red Lobster.
Grescoe introduces the concept of trophic numbers, a way to classify levels of the food chain, ranging from 1 for plankton and plants to 5 for large predators like lions or humans. Generally, eating closer to the bottom of the trophic scale is better for the environment. In a whirlwind tour around the world, Grescoe follows the supply chains of the globe's most popular seafood dishes. The bad news is, once you know the story behind that plate of pan-roasted monkfish, you will feel compelled to never eat it again. The good news is, there are plenty of alternative seafood choices which are both better for the environment and better for your health. Some of the species highlighted follow below.
Bluefin Tuna (trophic level 4.4)
Though the word "tuna" tends to evoke cans emblazoned with "chicken of the sea," the bluefin tuna could not be further from that image. A ferocious torpedo-shaped hunting machine, the bluefin can grow up to 15' in length and sprint at 50 mph. Unfortunately, the bluefin tuna is now the ocean's ultimate cash cow. Once plentiful, Atlantic bluefin stocks have declined by 90% over the past four decades to feed the demand for bluefin sushi. And despite efforts by conservationists to limit the number of bluefin caught, you can still pick up a bluefin nigiri breakfast (including the prized toro) for a mere $15 in Tokyo. Meanwhile, the long-lived tuna species (yellowfin, albacore and bluefin) tend to be dangerously high in mercury. Tuna is also commonly caught using longlining, which snags sharks, swordfish, seabirds and turtles as bycatch.
With that knowledge, I would rather cross tuna off my list of things to consume. Another option: non-longline-caught skipjack tuna (marketed as "light tuna") is low in mercury and relatively plentiful in oceans.
Shrimp (2.6)
Shrimp farming takes place in some of the world's poorest countries, and the industry has left indelible destruction on the scale of the 2004 Asian Tsunami. Like large poultry and swine operations, shrimp ponds are treated with heavy-duty chemicals including antibiotics (to prevent disease) and piscicides (to kill any competing aquatic life). The resultant pollution causes disease in natives, destroys groundwater and wipes out the livelihoods of neighboring farmers and small-scale fishermen. The effects extend to distant consumers as well; some people who believe they have allergies to shellfish are in fact reacting to antibiotic residues in farmed seafood. Wild shrimp, on the other hand, are usually caught with bottom-trawlers. For every pound of shrimp caught, another ten pounds of unwanted, dead fish are thrown overboard.
What, then, is the conscientious shrimp-lover to do? Examine your purchases very, very carefully. If the shrimp on display glisten unnaturally or taste soapy after cooking, they have probably been treated with sodium tripolyphosphate, a suspected neurotoxicant. Wild-caught shrimp are undoubtedly better for your health, but exert a huge environmental cost. That leaves only a few stocks of northern shrimp, pink shrimp and spot prawns in Canadian and northern US waters which are considered sustainable choices.
Other Good Alternatives:
Oysters and mussels (2.0) are farmed without chemicals and help clean the oceans. Small schooling fish like herring (3.2) and sardines (2.6) are low in toxins and relatively abundant. Jellyfish (2.0) have proliferated in recent years due to climate change and overfishing of top-level predators. Trout (4.4), arctic char (4.3) and barramundi (4.4) are farmed in non-polluting, contained inland systems. Farmed tilapia (2.0) and catfish (3.8) are herbivores, so they do not diminish the net supply of protein, and buying domestic products reduces the risk of antiotic residues.
When buying seafood, you should be able to make an informed choice with 3 questions. Was the fish farmed or wild-caught? If wild, what ocean did it come from and what port did it land in? How was it caught (trawl net, hook and line)? If farmed, was it farmed domestically or overseas? If overseas, in which country? Shedd Aquarium provides a handy, wallet-size card that lists recommendations for purchasing seafood. I've printed one out to carry as a reference guide. But in the end, all the knowledge in the world won't help you if your grocer, fishmonger or server does not know the source of their products. If you find someone knowledgeable and willing to answer your questions (Dirk's and the Fishguy come to mind), support their business with your purchases.
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