Microwave Popcorn: Harmless Snack or Deadly Killer?

Microwave popcorn has been linked to severe lung malfunctioning:

"A furniture salesman, the man was becoming increasingly short of breath. He had never smoked and was overweight. His illness had been diagnosed as hypersensitivity pneumonitis, an inflammation of the lungs usually caused by chronic exposure to bacteria, mold or dust. Farmers and bird enthusiasts are frequent sufferers.

But nothing in the Colorado man’s history suggested that he was breathing in excessive amounts of mold or bird droppings, Dr. Rose said. She has consulted to flavorings manufacturers for years about “popcorn workers’ lung,” and said that something about the man’s tests appeared similar to those of the workers.

“I said to him, ‘This is a very weird question, but bear with me. But are you around a lot of popcorn?’ ” Dr. Rose asked. “His jaw dropped and he said, ‘How could you possibly know that about me? I am Mr. Popcorn. I love popcorn.’ ”

The man told Dr. Rose that he had eaten microwave popcorn at least twice a day for more than 10 years. "

A beautiful advertisment

"Sending 250,000 multi-coloured 'superballs' bouncing down the streets of San Francisco may seem the strangest way to do this, but that's exactly what Danish director Nicolai Fuglsig did for the BRAVIA commercial in July 2005."

This advertisement is stunningly beautiful. It would have been wonderful to have watched it filmed.

On the Flight from Dubai to New York...

...they served Gefilte Fish.

I landed in New York, sailed through customs, and then took a connector jet down to Dulles, where I was picked up by a morbidly obese taxi driver.

I hadn't seen anyone obese in two weeks.

As the sun set, we drove to Winchester, Virginia in a mini-van with broken air conditioning.

Friday night at the mall (of the Emirates)

I enter through an elegant hotel lobby, and am immediately confronted with children sledding through snow, through the glass wall to my right at snow school in ski Dubai. The kids are in rented snowsuits, and the veiled and headressed parents take pictures. Everyone seems to be enjoying the artificial cold, and the place looks like a commercial for itself.



We can control the weather, said capitalism. And it did, for a 70 deirham admission fee.

I immediately seek out the food court. Starbucks guards the entrance, with white robed and headressesd men ("wrah-men") drinking lattes and working on laptops.

Within minutes, I am sitting in the food court, eating turkish fast food from pasha, the only middle eastern-themed fast food I can find that will accept a credit card. To my left, a man gingerly handles a leg from kfc, and in front of me tourists masticate Mcdonalds hamburgers, burger king fries, pizza hut mozzarella rings, etc. I opt for a spinach and feta pita/pizza, and beef sausages with fries. To my right, there is a merry-go-round with bizarre bug-eyed neon seats and an escalator to magic planet, a children's fun-zone.

A marching band saunters by, white men in red shirts and black pants playing mack the knife. No one seems to care.

I notice that many of the wrah-men carry their giant cell phones in hand, and wonder whether the robes have pockets. They are often tall and move in groups. It's an outfit that is meant to be take seriously- the security and customs man at the airport and overseers at the nicer hotels all wear them. Some wear red checked headdresses, the quality of which must signify socioeconomic or religious/familial status. I see one robed man wearing a California baseball hat.

For dessert, I go to Costa, a hip Italian coffee shop (presumably a chain) with a direct view of skidubai. Waiting for my cappuccino and fudge cake, I peer down at the cold customers, watch the skiers mount the lift, and see brothers pulling each other around on red plastic sleds. Around me, twenty-somethings smoke cigarettes, text message friends, and hang out.

The cappuccino is enormous, and terrific. As I eat, I wonder what the Rwandans would think of all this. As I get up to leave, the call to the evening prayer begins on the loudspeaker, slow, wailing, full of traditional emotion.

I am clearly a long way from east Africa.

Dubai

I landed in Dubai this morning at 12:15am. The first sensation was heat- it was between and 80-90 degrees outside when I got off the plane.

The airport was a mess of moving people, mostly from South Asia (India and Pakistan, I think). As we waited in the customs lines for 30 minutes, men in long white robes and headresses circled above us on the balcony, looking through the crowds. The customs agent was friendly and apologetic for the wait.

I got into a sleek, modern taxi, which quickly took to my hotel. My driver was an Indian from Kerala who had been in country for 5 months. He cross-examined me about my business, and was happy to hear about my Indian best friend, who is from the same area in India.

Entering the hotel room was an event of culture-shock: running hot water, carpeting, a beautiful bedspread, large t.v., fully stocked minibar, etc.

I took a hot shower, marveling at the strength and longevity of the water stream. After watching part of Babel, I went to sleep.

Awaking this morning, I discovered that my camera seems to have been lost/stolen while in the airport last night. After trying to call the airport lost and found in vain, I sulked over a large breakfast, which included fried cheese (delicious) sweet vermicelli noodles, excellent croissants, yoghurt, and scrambed eggs.

After breakfast I walked outside to a wave of heat- it is 106 degrees (f) here. Being on the streets is an effort in and of itself.

Back in Kampala, briefly.

After an 8-hour bus ride from Kigali to Kampala, I awoke in a dirty, hotel room in Kampala. The hotel is called the "Vagabon guest house," but they told me they are changing it to Gabon.

I spent the morning trying to change rwandan francs, which was a difficult errand. After a few tries, I found a small forex shop that offered me 2.5 (the rate should be closer to 3).

On the way back to Vagabon, I bought some moisterizer at a beauty shop for my Kibuye sunburn. Kampala has loads of shops which seem to all have exactly the same products.

I also bought some coconut cakes from the back for an open truck (many bakers bring goods in the back of trucks) which were delicious.

My driver to Entebbe spent the hour complaining about the Ugandan political system: its corruption, lack of a fair justice system, tribal spoils-system of the Museveni's ministers, and the jailing of the political opposition. He also complained about the uselessness of microfinance to middle-class people, and even the upcoming preparation for CHOGM (the British Queen's visit). There wasn't much I could say, but I did suggest that he write a newspaper column or run for Parliament. He seemed uninterested in either course of action.

At Entebbe, I wandered around the duty-free shops, getting rid of Ugandan Shillings. They has a small bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label (the best scotch that JW makes) for $35, but the man told me it would be $2 cheaper in Dubai, so I refrained.

Finally, I boarded the Emirates flight to Dubai, which stopped first in Ethopia. The seats were covered in a strange, golden-greenish fabric, and the stewardesses wear red, circular hats with veils to the side.

The food was good (halal meals), and I watched city slickers.

The Congolese Ring of Fire

Crossed the border this morning into Congo (or the DRC, as it is affectionately referred to by the locals), stopping through Gisenyi, a dusty border town at the Northwestern corner of Rwanda.

Adams and I spent an hour or so in Goma: a filthy, disorderly town, part of which had been burned when the nearby volcano erupted. We bought expensive groceries and permits to enter the national park.

That afternoon, we climbed said volcano (Mount Nyiragongo), which is still active. It was a fast, intense, climb- four hours of hiking straight up, often on sharp, black, volcanic rock.

We summitted around 5:30 and peered into a cauldron of boiling lava, veiled by cloud of smoke and steam. The porters pitched our tent and built a fire. Adams and I shared our groceries with them around the fire and we silently consumed thousands of calories of bread, cheese, meat pastries, and biscuits. The air around us was very cold- maybe 45 degrees.

That night, the cloudy veil lifted and we looked into the lava directly. We drank banana liquor around the fire for an hour, and went to sleep at 8:30.

Friday in Kigali

In the morning, we went to Kigali's main market. It was remarkably Mzungu-free (the Kinyarwanda word for white person, which is repeated constantly when Rwandans see you walking around).

Long rows of stacked, filthy vegetables, cones of arranged flower and sugar, bags of dried fish, thousands of flies circling. Towards the back, clothing, cloth, and African artwork for tourists rising high on stockades.

I wander through the aisles, and the merchants try to get my attention. HEY, MZUNGU! OWARRYUU? MZUNGU, MZUNGU!

I spend an hour negotiating in my limited French, and make some purchases. One of the merchants speaks great English. She was raised in Uganda by parents who had left Rwanda (presumably as Tutsi refugees in exile). Two of her brothers joined the RPF, the rebel army that successfully invaded Rwanda (and which is is currently the official army of Rwanda).

We talked for a long time about how hard it was for people without a lot of money to make a good living in Rwanda, and about her kid, Uganda, my life in NY, etc. I made the mistake of asking her if she was/considered herself a Tutsi... to which she replied that she was Rwandan.

She told me to come back sometime and bring her a blackberry, like the one I had. We took a picture, and shook hands in the Rwandan style.

That night I went to a Mzungu party at Pasadena, a dance bar. It was relatively boring, though there were single (paid) male dancers performing break-dance moves and lip-synced acts for the entire audience.

Also, I was told that one should not date or do business with a Nigerian by a well-established NGO worker.

I started to walk home, but was offered a ride by a drunk accountant.

A full day with Voices of Rwanda: Interviewing a Survivor of the Genocide

I spent today assisting/observing on interview with a survivor of the 1994 genocide. These interviews lie at the heart of Voices of Rwanda, the organization with which I've been volunteering.

The interviewer (Taylor Krauss, Executive Director of VOR) and translator faciliated the process, prompting the survivor with questions that drew out his narrative.
Speaking fluidly, the survivor talked at enormous length, (the hardest part of the experience was sitting for seven hours straight). His testimony came in roughly three segments:

1- His childhood, upbringing, and family. He was born on Feb. 18th, 1983 (which makes him exactly one year and three days older than me). He father was a very religious man, and he had two brothers, one of whom died when he was young, before 1994.

He liked to sing a child (I did too), and had a good voice. Taylor asked him if he'd like to sing one of his favorite songs, and he did- which was a wonderful experience.

2- His experience from April 6th 1994 to August/September. He began by describing the 6th (the day the Hutu president, Juvenal Habyarimana was killed when his plane was shot down). Then, after the translator translated, Taylor told him he could continue without translation. The survivor began speaking, and spoke continuously for over 30 minutes straight, without external questions. He seemed almost compelled to talk during this part, as if the experience took over his narration. It was fascinating to watch, even if I didn't understand a word.

3- His life after the genocide. His father, brother, and most of his extended family were killed, with only his mother surviving. His main problem these days is loneliness: he feels alone most of time, and his mother often gets sick, and has traumatic episodes. At 24, he is in the process of finishing secondary school. He is still religious, which he openly attributes to his father's influence. He has a hard time with the current claim of victimization by killers (Hutus) who are upset that they spent time in jail. Most difficult for him is their implicit claim that what has been done to them is worse than the fate of the survivors. This makes him especially angry.

But, he seemed to agree with the government (led by Paul Kagame, the former general of the RPF, which re-invaded Rwanda after the genocide began and ultimately stopped it by taking over the country) in its policy and hope for reconciliation. He continues to attend his old church, even if the head of the local interhamwe (militias that did most of the killing) sits a few pews over.

It was an exhausting day. After we broke down the interviewing set-up, we ate dinner. I drank a quarter of a liter of Mbanza (banana liquor), caught some lizards, and went to sleep at 11.

The Memorial and My Feet

I spent the afternoon at the Kigali genocide memorial center here in Kigali. The center was built by the Aegis Trust, a British Foundation devoted to genocide education.

It is a neat building, well-designed and carefully landscaped by Rwandan standards. It consists of an outdoor memorial with an anonymous mass grave (with over 250,000 bodies), a garden, and two floors of indoor exhibits.

The bottom floors is a circular exposition of the historical conditions before, during, and after the Rwandan genocide of 1994, arranged in a circular set of rooms through which visitors proceed chronologically.

The format mirrors Yad Vashem (the Israeli Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem) and the United States Holocaust Museum.

The floor contains an exhibit on other genocides: the Armenian, Herero, Holocaust, Cambodian, and Balkan ethnic cleansing. Darfur is not mentioned in the entire memorial, which I found a bit surprising.

All in all, it is an impressively rendered display. I found the following particularly fascinating:

-A quotation as I entered: "if you knew me and you really knew yourself, you would not have killed me." I was unclear whose words these were.

-The historical note that the Belgian division of the population into Hutus or Tutsis in 1932 hinged on whether or not a person had 10 or more cows. If you had the cows, you were a Tutsi, if not- a Hutu. Apparently, in pre-colonial times the two groups weren't ethnic or racially-associated, but purely sub-clan socioeconomic labels. One could switch groups through "upward mobility."

Finally, the children's memorial was fascinating: individual profiles of kids slaughtered by the interhamwe (state-sponsored militias of armed Hutu that did most of the killing)

I copied down one child's profile.

Aurore Kirezi, Age 2
Favorite Drink: Cow's Milk
Favorite Game: Hide-and-Seek, with her big brother.
Behaviour: Very talkative
Cause of death: burnt alive at the Gikonda Chapel.

Afterwards, I sat in the cafe outside and had a Rwandan meal of rice, cooked squash, and beef soup, with avocado and a steaming thermos of coffee. For some reason, the genocide makes me hungry, like after a Jewish funeral.

I decided to walk part of the way home, rather than take a moto the entire way (motorcycle taxi, very cheap, fast, and somewhat dangerous).

On the way, I saw a sign advertising haircuts, manicures, and pedicures. On a whim, I asked for prices... the men outside were very amused, and told me it was 500 rwf for a pedicure (90 cents).

They also threw in a free manicure. I took a moto the rest of the way home.

Transcribing Genocide with Voices of Rwanda

Today I began volunteering with Voices of Rwanda, the first comprehensive video oral history of the Rwandan genocide.

I spent the day learning how to transcribe the video interviews (testimonies) of survivors of the genocide that are the heart of the organization's work.

I listened to the testimony of a man who described his childhood before 1994, marking spaces and transcribing his translated narrative. The interviewer asks questions in English, which are translated into French or Kinyarwanda, the local tongue by a translator. The interviewee then replies in Kinyarwanda, which is translated into English. I transcribe the entire process, noting breath points for the sections in languages that I can't translate.

It's fascinating to hear about another person's childhood. I find myself wishing that people in my life back in the U.S. would talk about their childhoods more often.

The Return of the Blogger

After a five-day transportation sabbatical, I've re-emerged in Kigali, Rwanda.

Before describing my time in Rwanda, I'd like to devote a few posts to catching up on where i've been for the past few days....

Our Raid On Entebbe

View Larger Map
Adams and I land in Entebbe at 7:50am, 10 minutes earlier than planned.

We step out onto the tarmac into the cool morning breeze. The air smells sweet, natural, and clean, and there is a large body of water to our left: the airport is built on a peninsular outgrowth that pushes into Lake Victoria, a massive body of water.

We walk a few hundred meters into the customs area, a shack with some desks and a conveyor belt. After waiting on a short line, we hand over our passports to a customs agent, who solicits the Visa fee of $30.

I ask him if he'd like to see my yellow fever certification and he laughs. "You care more about your health than we do," which is a pretty good point, on reflection.

After being aggressively pursued by a taxi driver while we exchanged money (1690 UHS to $1), we cut a deal for a $25 taxi ride to Kampala (it is an hour's ride, including traffic).

We stare out the taxi's windows on the road to Kampala as we acclimate to Africa, noticing:

lots of people standing around, doing nothing.

countless motorcycles, ferrying passengers.

impromptu agriculture, people farming in their backyards, with serious intent.

frequent burning. Small contained fires, lots of smoke.

billboards and painted shops advertising the same five companies (cellular or paint companies).

trash. All around. Some of the burnings are of trash.

I get a glimpse of a roadside painting of Bill Clinton, displayed prominently. As we approach the city, we see what looks like a giant mosque, which our driver (Ronald) tells us was finished by Colonel Quaddafi, though started by Idi Amin.

I joke that Ronald is named like Reagan, but either he doesn't get the reference, or he's a democrat. Probably the latter.

Leaving London Town

The food at Haz is excellent, though the servers are intensely disinterested in our satisfaction and well-being. We eat through two courses and coffee in a multi-hour affair that covers the past year and a half. It's good to re-encounter a friend in a semi-foreign country, and Adams and Levy click easily.

Afterwards, Levy shows us the exterior-lobby of the Marsh building, a neat, ultra-modern display of glass panels and metal-frames.

Within three hours, Adams and I are back in Heathrow, departing for our red-eye flight to Uganda.

It was a nice few hours in the mother country; now it's time to switch countries.

London Town: Part II

Sometime after 11, I arrive at the house on De Beauvoir Street. "Adams", my traveling companion and have planned to meet here before going to a nice lunch (he is staying here with K, a mutual friend). Instead, K greets me at the door pygama-esque clothing, having decided to work from home.

Adams has gone out to fetch an English breakfast, apparently forgetting our previous lunch plan. I call the third lunch mate to reschedule, take a shower, and wait for Adams to return, chatting idly with K about radical islam, non-profit management, and the supremacy of Arsenal (the local british football team).

Adams returns and we hustle off to lunch, taking a bus to Liverpool street. We meet Levy, (a friend from Wesleyan), waiting in the entryway of Haz, sipping a kir royale.

Levy is a Jewish guy from Buffalo, NY who has spent the year studying at the famed London School of Economics. He's spent the summer working at Marsh, a subsidary Marsh & Mclennan Companies.

Switching Countries: A Foggy Day in London Town

I arrive in Heathrow airport at the start of the business day. I've slept a few hours on the plane after choosing to watch the unimpressive film "Amazing Grace," a preachy historical drama about William Wilberforce, the parliamentary leader of the British Abolitionist movement.

I sleepily work my way through customs, exchange a large amount of currency for a few pounds, and finally find my way to the underground.

Waiting for the train, I marvel at the ease of "switching countries." In ten hours I've gone from buying a coconut scraped ice from a vendor on Loisaida to sitting on a subterranean bench in London listening to brutish teenyboppers talk about their vacation in Southern Spain while a highly proper mechanical voice tells us to mind the gap sometime in the near future.

One marvels at the ease of it all: cab to JFK, check-in + board, take a nap, check-in, and... you're in Great Britain.

I wonder which has changed: the ease of international voyaging or my own psychological experience of traveling.

The train ride from Heathrow to Hackney is quite long, and I spend most of it thinking about the last time I was in London (late fall of 2004).

This Blog is Rated:

I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult.

Jon Stewart in Person

Yesterday, the Fed maintained interest rates at 5.25%.


Today, I attended the live taping of the Daily Show, on 52nd and 11th Avenue.
We arrived at 4:30, were seated at 5:30, and entertained by a British man named John Oliver.

Close to 6, Jon Stewart came out and briefly answered questions, before taping the entire show (which was shown tonight, and included an interview with Senator Joe Biden)

Stewart is terrific in person- he is bursting with energy, reflexively quick with verbal comebacks to audience comments, and able to improvise during delays or redos in the taping.

Watching him up close, you come away with a sense that he is thoroughly practiced professional, who has done this a million times. Watching the teleprompter, he would often make quick changes in wording, deviating mildly from the script without incident.

Joe Biden was hardly as impressive. While he managed to keep his cool and seem fully at ease on national television, there was little to no charisma or elegant showmanship.

One needs not wonder why his presidential campaign is going nowhere.

To Raise or Lower

The Federal Reserve meets tomorrow to set interest rates, which are currently at 5.25%.

The rationale for lowering rates is as follows, as I understand it:

-The market for credit (borrowing vast sums of money, which finance large buy-outs, investments, corporate risk-taking) has tightened very quickly over the failure of poorly monitored Mortgage-backed-securities. Tight markets for credit aren't good macro-economically, especially considering a good deal of recent success has been caused by giant LBO's (leveraged-buy-out) which prop up stock prices and give the market momentum. Inflation is low for the year at 2%, compared to a historical 3%. So, lowering rates (inflating the money supply) would make money cheaper, and ease the tightening caused by the failure of easy (and stupid) mortgage money.

The argument against it might be:

Wall Street has been coddled for too long by Greenspan's gentle hand, which led to the dot-come bubble burst of 2000. Financial markets need discipline, to stop making bad decisions that rely on overly optimistic assessments of future conditions (a problem with both the valuations of tech stocks in the late 90's and the issuing of sub-prime mortgages). Ultimately, market discipline leads to market efficiency.

The final question is how the change would effect the poorer and middle classes. The NYtimes article I link to earlier suggests that the tightening of the credit market squeeze the middle class, making it harder to get a mortgage, borrow money for a business, etc.

On purely macro-economic grounds, I would hold interests at 5.25%. However, on egalitarian grounds, I think there may be a case for a .25% cut.

In the long-run, more efficient markets do benefit the least and less well-off. But in the short-run, there are significant cuts in utility.

It's a tough trade-off.

A nice Weekend

It was a gorgeous day at Yankee Stadium, and the Yanks beat the Kansas City Royals 8-5, as N and I sat behind home plate (in the upper deck) and ate peanuts, talked about his new finance job, and enjoyed a beautiful clear Sunday afternoon.

Apparently, Exxon-Mobil is worth $455.22B in totality. In comparison, Microsoft is worth $ 271.65B, General Electric is valued at 389.97B, and Whole Foods is worth a paltry 5.60B.

Saw the Syrian Bride last night on DVD; I recommend avoiding it like a mine field.

Freedom, Choice, and Happiness

It's been a fast and productive week. Some things that occurred:

1- I watched a few movies: Rules of the Game (Good, insightful social commentary), Born Yesterday (mediocre-poor, trite social commentary), and on the big screens: Paris Je T'aime (enjoyable albeit piece-meal in format, not social commentary in any substantive sense.

2- I attend DL21C's annual summer bash, attended by a number of politicians. I met Manhattan Borough President Scott Stringer, who struck me as a pretty decent guy.

3- Rupert Murdoch purchased the Dow Jones, and took control of the Wall Street Journal.

4- Senator Schumer declared his opposition to taxing hedge fund managers at equal marginal rates.

Additionally, I watched a fascinating lecture by Professor Barry Schwartz entitled "The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less"

Professor Schwartz convincingly argues that excess choice can and often decreases human happiness. It's a fairly complex argument that is supported by large empirical trove of data.

The lecture is the most thought-provoking stimulus i've encountered in a year or so, and worth watching.

A Compassionate Misanthrope

Apparently, Hilary Clinton was quite the letter-writer during her college years.

It may be a bit unfair to peg an enigmatic candidate's personality by reference to letters written during their college years. Clearly, people change as they grow older... and I would hope that my middle-aged self will have grown enormously from my college years.

Still, there is something revealing in the way Hilary talks about people. She asks:

"Can you be a misanthrope and still love or enjoy some individuals?” Ms. Rodham wrote in an April 1967 letter. “How about a compassionate misanthrope?”

This resonates deeply with how I see the current Senator Clinton, particularly in comparison to her husand: as a masked misanthrope. A very capable, intelligent (maybe brilliant), driven, even diplomatic and politically astute misanthrope... but a misanthrope.

She's never convinced me that she really likes or loves the people who she serves as an elected representative. Bill Clinton's gregariousness was effortless, he was the epitome of an extrovert, someone who gained enormous energy and enjoyment from being around people. Rich or poor, black or white, Southern or Eastern, Bill Clinton seemed to just love interacting with people, it was apparent from his grin, handshake, and concerned eye contact.

Hilary has always seemed like she enjoys interacting with some people (such as her quips with a Texas Congressman during health care hearings, as shown in Michael Moore's Sicko).
And she's not out of place when glad-handing at a rally, or working a room at a fundraiser. Clearly, she has very refined social/interpersonal skills.

But she's lacking a certain love of humanity, an enjoyment of people in a very basic, raw, way.

To be fair, Obama isn't a model extrovert himself, as he's a little too serious to be truly enjoying social encounters. He does seem to be very concerned when interacting with others... he demonstrates a very deep and sincere care for what they have say, and seems to want to communicate a desire to use government to address their problems. His interactions have a parental/political-guidance counselor-feel.


Ultimately, I don't want a misanthrope at the helm of our democracy. I'd rather have a caring guidance counselor to lead us out of this mess.

Slow Sickly Saturday

It was a slow, sickly humid day in New York, so I spent it inside oversleeping and watching Miami Vice: a basically mediocre movie.

I spent the evening studying at the Whole Foods on Houston Street and then stopped by a rooftop party on Avenue B, which was teeming with liberal arts college students and recent graduates.

Upon arriving home, my roommate (L) and I began hearing intermittent smashing noises around our apartment.

L went up to the roof to investigate, and discovered a group of 10-15 young, male, hipster-ish lads throwing party objects off the sides of the building.

He chided them briefly before being told that someone had already given them a scolding.

Satisfied, L came back to our apartment, where he conveyed the story, noting that he should have stayed up on the roof and hung out with the offendors.

I don't there's any moral to this story. Maybe: Don't throw stuff off your roof... and... spend sickly humid weekends indoors.

A Startling Map

In slightly over four weeks, I will be in Dubai, United Arab Emirates.

I found this idealized map while looking for tourist guides.

The city looks quite wonderful. Apparently, building "out" into the water is quite common both in the Middle East and in Asia.

The perfect zoning of areas by function is also quite remarkable.

The Importance of Being Extroverted

I met an old college friend today for lunch at the new whole foods on Houston street. Besides being impressed by the innovative supermarket-cafe design of the building, my friend (AR) told me a remarkable story that is quite instructive.

AR is rising college senior at Wesleyan, and was spending the summer living in New York and doing a crappy part-time internship at the Onion. A few weeks into the internship, it was clear that his summer was going nowhere fast, at least professionally.

While in a coffee shop, AR overheard a man explaining his new technology start-up to a friend. After listening, he politely interjected with interest, and got into a conversation with the entrepreneur/owner.

The conversation led to an invitation for drinks with the owner's partner, and they offered AR a trial part-time job (well paid for college student). It clicked, and he's now working a full-time (albeit with flexible hours), and has abandoned the Onion.

As I've always argued, if you are observant/attentive and take verbal risks with strangers, the potential gain is enormous.

Tisha B'av

Today was Tisha B'av, the 9th Day of the Jewish month of Av. The day commemorates the destruction of the second temple in Jerusalem, and the end of the temple period for the Jewish people.

It is customary for observant jews to fast on Tisha B'av, from the evening of the day before to the sundown of the day.

While I'm not a particularly observant Jew, I find fasts compelling, and have always gained a certain satisfaction from fasting in the middle of summer. So, I snuck out of LSAT class early last night, ate a large sandwich and soup from Cosi, and came home to begin my fast. This was in contrast to my ordinary late Monday night workout and midnight meal.

Instead, I came home early and lay in bed, reading the newest harry potter book, which is arguably appropriate as it contains a great deal of loss, trauma, and suffering... so far, not much else after 500+ pages.

I slept in this morning later than I had in 4-5 months, which was confusing and nice. I do feel that i've lost this ability to sleep for long periods, to let go for almost half the hours in a day.

I spent the rest of the day working and running errands, before attending a workshop for New York Cares, an organization through which I plan to volunteer in New York City. The workshop focused possible ways to volunteers in New York, and was required by one of the organizations which which I plan to work.

Throughout the day, I had a hard time focusing on sorrow and grief, though the lack of food and caffeine certainly had an effect.

As an old teacher of mine once said: it is very difficult to force yourself to feel a certain way as part of religious observance.

Yet, the day did feel separated and reflective.

Google's Big Move

Google Wants to Change the way that we use our cell phones. The company's proposal would push cell phone usage towards the TV model: you would have a device (phone) on which you can use any service, and then you shop around for services.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/21/technology/21google.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&th&emc=th


It does seem like a few very powerful cell phone companies have an enormous amount of market power, consumers suffering

Prices are high, and choice is low. From what I can tell, this is a market that is in badly need of opening towards more competition.

ATT and Verizon seem very scared from the ferociousness of their attacks on the proposal.

A Tight Community

With N (an Israeli from the American South), I took a walk in Central Park and learned of a remarkable Upper West Side phenomena.

On the Northwest corner of the Great Lawn, there is a buzzing mass of young, affluent, Modern Orthodox Jews.

It was a scene. Lots of white and black, kippot (ritual head-coverings for Men), long skirts, button-downs, groups of people, a frothing mass of the social and observant.

I find the density of social capital in this crowd to be immense: I bumped into two people I knew from my old days at Camp Ramah in the Berkshires, and N bumped into more than 10, without trying. These folks knew each other, directly or otherwise.

A remarkable contrast compared to the frothing chaos of the East Village.

As we walked away from the crowd, I recognized a dark, tall, sunglassed and straw-hatted man in white linen and who had been walking on 10th street (near my apartment) an hour earlier.

It turns out that he's Spanish, and named Fermi (like the physicist). He lives in Barcelona, and was visiting his son (James), who just opened a restaurant called Mercat that serves Catalanian (sp?) food. He was amused that I recognized him, and I was happy to see a "familiar" face from the East Village.

I am envious of the Modox crowd, and their tight interconnection. They have something that a lot us don't: a large and comfortable social safety net.

But, I have my new Spanish friend from the East Village.

Old Friends

A number of my friends mixed tonight, with alcohol as the lubricant, and oddly cold weather as the charm.

It was a cool evening for July, and I saw myself beginning to age, with the layers emerging... like backing away from a cliff and starting to discover different colors of sediment stacked upon each other.

Freud said that our minds (particularly the unconscious, I think) were like archaeological digs: cities built upon cities, built upon previously existing settlements.

I hope for many more layers. It will be remarkable to see my friends age, particularly if the layers mix.

The Return: Diplomacy on 55th

In honor of Restaurant Week and the arrival of family friends from Germany, eight of us dined at the Aquavit Cafe.

Aquavit is arguably the best Swedish Restaurant on this Island, and it didn't disappoint.

Eating Swedish food with Europeans, I am reminded of my months in Stockholm. Healthy, succinct, and carefully presented dishes, particular conversations with a high degree of specificity, and the careful mixing of cultures and values. Cautious elegance. No cold this time, and we're on my former turf: East Midtown.

The lounge at Aquavit is really nice, with comfortable minimalist leather chairs, perfect lighting, and a roominess that projects a sense of calm confidence.

This restaurant plays its game well, but carefully. The hostess infers my reservation from the number of people I cite and then apologizes for mispronouncing my last name.

We are seated at a long table on the side of the cafe, opposite the door. Since we are on the early side and I sit against the wall, I watch the other couples invade the cafe in well-dressed pairs. It is an affluent and cautious bunch, one man wearing elegant leather suspenders under his silk jacket. I do notice a number of older couples.

Dinner consists of avocado soup, Hannah Arendt, sliced hangar steak, Angela Merkel and Joshcka Fisher, Carlsberg (Elephant Carlsberg, on my insistence), and peanut butter cake. The service is near exquisite: at one point, we have the cafe's entire wait staff (5 plus the Maitre D) serving us.

Also on the table throughout dinner: various types of Aquavit and the Vietnam War.

The food is less engaging than the conversation... I enjoy the Cappuccino most, perhaps because I am the only one drinking coffee, and thus not speaking.

Afterwards, we walk down to 23rd street where the Germans and my parents depart for Brooklyn.

I walk to Trader Joes to buy groceries.

Playin' Ball

Revelation #1 about out Hero: I save everything.

Looking through old issues of the NYtimes (which only get filed once I read them) I found an article that suggests that one's personality can be ascertained by the way that one plays basketball.


Thus, according to Obama's brother-in-law, (the couch of Brown University's Men's team) Obama will be a good president. Not a ball hog, good at admitting mistakes, and with nothing to prove.

I think the NYtimes just gave the Obama Campaign an idea for a fundraiser. $100 hoops with Barack.

You get a 30 seconds in an hour long pick-up game, and Obama's team assignment is random, but the commercial-friendly participants get put on his team (so the opposing team is a bunch of rich white guys who (thank heavens) left the Republican party over the Iraq war, out-of-control fiscal spending, the Patriot Act, or the Terry Schiavo incident.

120 (30 sec. spots) x 9 (players) x $100 = $108,000 of fundraising if he plays continuously for an hour. And it saves him the hour of senate gym time that he talks about in the Audacity of Hope.

The Clintons would prefer a market-based incentivized strategy- an auction: the person who could bundle the most $2,300 checks gets to have an argument with Hilary about any subject of their choice for an hour.

I wonder which campaign would raise more.

I think the more interesting insight of the article is the sport that the candidate picks, in that it speaks to their socioeconomic class and lifestyle identification.

Some Test Cases:
-Clinton's golfing was an attempt to mimic the entrepreneurs of the late 80's and 90's.
-Gerry Ford actually played football. This wasn't contrived, it got him a scholarship and was important for upward mobility.
-David Dinkins' big mistake was to play Tennis in New York City. Who plays Tennis in NY?
-Elliot Spitzer is a distance runner. I always thought this was enigmatic. He runs alone...

Which politician has the most interesting sporting hobby?

Public Reasonings: Episode I

Our story begins deep in the East Village, on a rainy, humid, day in New YorkCity.

The big news is that there wasn't a terrorist attack, but there was a large explosion in East Midtown.

Other than that, very little happened. I discovered an Israeli Grocery Store: "The Holy Land Market."

http://maps.google.com/maps?ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&q=the+holy+land&near=New+York,+NY&fb=1&sa=X&oi=local_group&resnum=1&ct=image

Good fluffy pita.

A bag of pita + large hummus + honey cake + Israeli chocolate candy + 1/2lb of mushroom and cheese bourekas = $12.83

It would have cost half as much in Netanya. When I noted this to the shopkeeper, he pointed out that we weren't in Netanya.

Good Point.