Life of Pi: The Movie

There were definitely some things that I liked about Ang Lee's recent adaptation of Yann Martel's Booker-Prize-winning novel, but they were overwhelmed by the movie's over-reliance on computer-generated images.

The early scenes of Pi's childhood in Pondicherry were the most coherent. The schoolroom scenes in particular set the magical-realist tone that allows both the book and the movie to do what it is that they do, and the scenes of Pi's religious education glowed with color and life.

That said, once at sea, the movie falls victim to an unfortunate technological quandary: The CGI isn't good enough. The animals in the zoo are believable; seeing animals in a cage allows us to overcome our disbelief. At sea, however, out of their narrative element, the zoo animals fall apart. The zebra sliding around with rubbery legs might match the book's description, and might even look like a real zebra sliding on a ship's deck. But actual verisimilitude is not CGI's central issue. We need to be allowed to suspend our disbelief. Showing unbelievable images (zebra on a ship's deck, tiger in a lifeboat, etc.) places CGI in jeopardy, and Life of Pi's CGI is not up the challenge.

The tiger's face is believable enough, but as soon as the camera pulls back, the overly-lifelike fur and the too-lithe legs betray the image. I am not trying to pick nits here; were this problem limited to a few scenes, it would not sink the movie. Since this movie relies upon the believability of the unbelievable image, since most of its running time involves the CGI tiger, it cannot succeed.

Interestingly enough, this throws the movie into the same role as Pi's narrative within the film: We, like the Yann Martel character in the apartment scenes, cannot believe the story we are being told. Had this been the filmmakers' intent, this movie would have been unbelievably interesting. Sadly, that movie is not what I saw in the theater. 

Twelve Days of Co-op Christmas

Last Saturday, we had a Haymarket House Christmas party, complete with secret Santa gifts and carol-singing around the tree. One of our housemates suggested that we compose our own "Twelve Days of Christmas." There were twelve of us, so we went around, composing verses as we sang. What we came up with sheds some light on co-op living:

Day 1: A blender that doesn't break down 

Since there are thirteen of us living in this house, and most of us like smoothies, blenders get heavy use, and break fairly often. Our current blender has a five-year warranty, and looks pretty industrial. We're hoping it lasts a year.

Day 2: Two legal egresses

Our house was recently (right before Heather and I moved in) renovated to comply with city code, much of which has to do with fire safety and escape routes.

Day 3: Three empty cook days

 Again, there are thirteen of us. Since we each cook twice per month, this means that some days, there is no one scheduled to cook dinner.

Day 4: Four elemental bathrooms

There are four bathrooms in the house, each one named for an Aristotelian element (there is also a mysterious fifth "Heart Bathroom")

Day 5: Five-week-old seitan

Seitan is a wheat-based meat substitute. It is easiest to make in large batches, when it can then be used for meals. This bulk process means that sometimes the seitan gets real old.

Day 6: Six make-up chores

When a co-op member doesn't get their chore done on time, they have to do a make-up chore in addition to the chore that they neglected. No one ever racks up six at once, as far as I know.

Day 7: Seven awkward silences

With so many people around the dinner table, conversations inevitably split apart and recombine in interesting patterns, sometimes resulting in everyone in silence at the same time.

Day 8: Eight alarms alarming

With the renovations, a state-of-the-art fire alarm system was installed. What that means is that, if one alarm is triggered, the whole floor, then the whole building is triggered with blaring alarms. Sometimes, even when the situation is under control, the system continues to sound. Eight is not a stretch.

Day 9: Nine bakers baking

Lots of people in the house like to bake. All stereotypes of co-ops to the contrary, "bake" is not a euphemism for marijuana use in this lyric. It actually refers to cookies, cakes, etc.

Day 10: Ten kinds of beans

Pinto, Garbanzo, Black, Red, White, Green, Kidney, Navy, Coffee, and the dog named Bean who used to live here. Beans are important when you aren't eating meat.

Day 11: Eleven socialists protesting

We live in a house named for one of the most famous workers'-rights happenings in U.S. history. And one of our housemates is a community organizer.

Day 12: Twelves rooms named for spices

Each bedroom is, in fact, named for a different cooking spice. Heather and I live in Crushed Red Pepper.

Last night, we were walking through the park near our house. I had my bike with me, rolling at my side. One of our neighbors was walking towards us with his dog. The dog leaned back and barked at us, neither threatening nor welcoming us. We looked at each other. The neighbor looked at us, guiding his dog off of the sidewalk to let us pass. "He's afraid of bicycles," he said.

Too much coffee?

I had a dream that my hand grinder got water inside it, which was terrible, because in my dream it had high-carbon steel burrs, and they rust almost immediately when they get wet. So I was really mad, but when I took it apart, it had porcelain burrs, so it was all right.

Then, later in the dream, I was at a coffee shop where they only served Sumatran coffees, and I had decided that I didn't like Sumatran coffees, and I didn't know what to do.

Barista Competition?

This weekend, I learned what it means to be a competing barista.

Friday, I attended a great cupping at Counter Culture's Chicago office. I also planned to take my barista certification exam. The practical exam is structured like a barista competition routine: a high-pressure, low-time presentation that falls somewhere between a stage performance and a busy moment at a cafe. Even though the time is more than adequate for the certification version, I was not prepared for it. I passed my written exam, but I froze up during the practical exam, and, instead of making single cappuccinos (as the rules dictate) I made doubles, among some other glaring errors. So I'll have to re-cert, which was incredibly disappointing, as I was hoping to go home a certified barista.

Thankfully, the next day, I got a great consolation prize: I attended a workshop on barista competition (and so, by extension, barista certification) with the current US barista champion, Katie Carguilo. She performed her award-winning routine (this video is from the World Barista Championship, where she competed with different coffees than at the USBC) live, as we learned what competition judges are looking for.

It was great to spend nearly a whole weekend at Counter Culture's Chicago training center, to hang out, work, and chat with folks who know and care so much about something that I also know and care about.

Even as I poke around into other career paths here in Chicago, it's nice to move towards certification as a signpost on my coffee journey. And who knows? Regional competition is in January, so maybe I'll enter.

P.S. While the video linked above gives a good sense of the competition scene in general, this interview highlights the actual coffees that Katie presented during the workshop that I attended.

Argo: A Cosmic Conflagration

Last night, Heather and I went to see "Argo" (Affleck, 2012). In light of having recently seen "Sneakers," I kept thinking of "Argo" as a heist movie. The con man is a CIA agent, working for the forces of law and order; the mark is the Iranian revolutionary movement; the goods are six American diplomats; the oddball heist crew consists of Hollywood insiders and a few CIA agents.

Set in 1980, at the height of the Iranian/American hostage crisis, the film focuses on six diplomats who escaped the hostage-taking. Their safety is compromised, and the American government wants to bring them back. The con involves Agent Tony Mendez (Ben Affleck, who directed, plays Mendez), pitching a harebrained scheme to his superiors: He, and the six, will masquerade as members of a film crew who have been location scouting in Tehran.

"Argo" is based on a true story, and it includes within the fictionalization real audio and video from the events portrayed (Carter's voice, news footage imposed onto TVs throughout the film, etc.). But the film does a good job of bracketing fact from fiction. The first moments comprise a brief documentary on the history of U.S.-Iran relations. We fade out to "Based on a True Story," followed by the title. At the end, as the credits roll, we see images from the film matched with the real photographs that were re-created within the fiction.

Situating itself between two very clear presentations of factual information affords "Argo" a level of verisimilitude that would otherwise be lost, without confusing the viewer into believing that the events portrayed happened exactly as they were portrayed. The fiction is heightened by the fact.

The real-life poster for the fake movie.

Not that it needs much heightening; the film is incredibly well-paced, switching from the cooped-up tension of the hidden diplomats to the high-level negotiations between Mendez and his bosses, to the shocking violence on the streets in Tehran. And there is comedy.

John Goodman and Alan Arkin co-star as a makeup artist and producer, respectively, charged with conning the Hollywood press into making a big enough deal about the movie that it provides believable cover for the diplomats. These two play like a pair of character actors in an old studio-system film, lightening the tension just enough to let us catch our breath. Their scenes--buying the script, the costumed read-through, complete with Chewbacca and 3-CPO knock-offs--had me laughing out loud.

The whole movie, in fact, plays like old-time Hollywood: The dashing-but-damaged leading man, the humorous sidekicks, the simplistic villains, the rah-rah ending. We do see some nuance politically: The factual opening sequence reminds viewers of the many missteps of the U.S. government's interactions with Iran. Additionally, while there are no sympathetic characters within the ranks of the revolutionaries, neither are they portrayed as purely malicious (those portrayals go to the more militant Revolutionary Guard). A scene where a young Iranian student reads a statement for the news cameras is movingly intercut with news reporting of a Texas riot where Americans savagely beat an Iranian-American man. Such images evoke the response of Americans to 9/11, while the embassy plot is similar (unintentionally, of course, since the movie was only recently released) to the recent attacks on the U.S. embassy in Benghazi.

In short, "Argo" is tonally timely while remaining formally timeless, and totally worth watching.

TNT and Cupping: Coffee Lingo Explained

The logo of the sponsoring group: A stylized latte design.

This week was bookended by coffee. The first event was the TNT: no, not the explosive. TNT is shorthand for Thursday Night Throwdown. Not all throwdowns are on Thursday nights, but most of them get called TNT anyway.

This throwdown was on a Thursday. And what, you might ask, is a throwdown?

It's a latte art contest. Baristas, using only the milk pitcher, pour hot foamed milk into espresso in such a way that it leaves a contrasting, white-on-brown design on the top of the cup. These designs can be as simple as a heart or as complex as three hearts nested within a squiggly fern. Two baristas create art at once, set their cups on the judging table, and the judges pick the best one. Everyone pays to play, and the winner takes home the pot.

I didn't win (I didn't even make it out of round 1), but I did get to hang out with some of the most interesting and welcoming people in Chicago's coffee world. We ate pumpkin cupcakes and sipped locally-brewed beer and talked while we watched the other competitors throw down.

So when Heather and I, along with our friend Ashleigh, attended a coffee cupping party this past Thursday, we saw familiar faces.

Cupping is like wine tasting, but for coffee. Unlike a TNT, you don't need to know how to work an espresso machine; you just need a functioning sense of taste and smell. Normally, a public cupping features 3-5 coffees. Participants smell the grounds, taste the coffees, and talk about what makes them similar and different.

At this event, there were more than 30 coffees on the table, all from top-notch roasters the world over, and all sourced from Kenya. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to taste some of the best and most interesting coffees out there. It was also very loud.

The smelling portion of a cupping is fairly sedate: all the coffees are in 6-8oz. glasses. Participants pick up a glass, shake it, and smell the escaping gasses. The only sounds are the clink of the glasses going back to the table and the occasional "Mmmm" or "Hmmm?" as people react.

But once the hot water is poured into the glasses, participants can't pick them up (they're hot!). So everyone has a soup spoon, which they dip into the cup, fill with coffee, and slurp. The slurping is loud, short, and explosive. The coffee should be vaporized, hitting all the taste buds in the mouth at the same time. A polite sip from the soup spoon will not leave a correct impression (as Ashleigh learned: "When I slurp, they taste better," she said).

Imagine, then, a coffee shop, crowded with people. The room smells of coffee, and on every open surface are glasses filled with grounds and hot water and small bags with notes like "Stumptown Portland: Nyeri AA Kenya. Crisp grapefruit and honeydew in a full body." Concrete floors and open ceilings reverberate with a low chatter, but mostly with SLLLURRRRP, HISSSSST, and the clink of spoons on rinse cups.

As we left, walking down the hallway, the sound of slurping followed us.

Sneakers

Awhile back, I mentioned that I might write about Sneakers (Robinson, 1992). Slate wrote extensively about this movie a few months ago, so I tracked it down at the public library.

It's a lighthearted but complicated heist movie. Those of you who know me know that I have a weak spot for heist movies, particularly funny ones, so it's not surprising that I thoroughly enjoyed this movie.

While it's not over-the-top hilarious, the comic performances are what make this one stand out. Robert Redford, Sidney Poitier, David Strathairn, Dan Aykroyd, River Phoenix, and Ben Kingsley all feature to some degree, and they all (with the exception of Kingsley's attempt at an American accent) do a great job of making us laugh, and at making us believe the story.

Which, by the way, centers on a group of misfits, led by Redford's Mart Bishop. They break into banks (slight spoiler to the opening scene coming up, but don't worry about it) at the request of the banks, as a live-test of the banks' own security. They're all criminals to some extent, and nerds to a greater extent.

Already, the concept is reflexive: the con men conning for the good guys, the break-in helping prevent break-ins. It is about fooling the system, and the system includes surveillance cameras. The sneakers themselves use video and audio for their own ends as well (extensive film-student ramblings re: the cinema eye pointing back at the viewer, etc. cut for length). Yet for all its self-consciousness, Sneakers never slips into self-parody.

When you watch it, think of the scene just after the scrabble scene: the characters gather around the computer. In the cutting to and from the computer screen, we are reminded that these characters, funny, pratfall-prone, and pedestrian as they can be, have a high reverence for knowing things. Of course (as must be the case) they end up knowing too much.

Nonetheless, for a movie set and shot in the 1990s, it communicates a surprisingly earnest and prescient concern for the power of (digital) information without beating us over the head with it (an exception to that last clause: Cosmo's (Kingley) speech at the top of the ladder).

A funny, thought-provoking, and suspenseful movie with an A-list cast. What more could you ask for?

You could ask for a stronger female lead, especially from a movie that wears its progressive politics so proudly. You could ask Ben Kingsley to re-dub his dialogue with a British accent, since plot holes are easier to overlook than poor delivery. You could ask Robert Redford to find Paul Newman and bring some of that Sundance Kid charm. But really, you can't have everything.

Off the Rails

In every process -- or maybe just in many processes -- there is that moment where it all can, to use a train metaphor, go off the rails. One moment, everything is fine -- under control, exactly as it should be, utterly predictable -- and then, in an instant that is sometimes imperceptible and sometimes notable for its incredible clarity, everything is out of control, exactly as it should not be, and predictable only in its calamity.

Today, that instant was crystalline: standing the basement kitchen, making a note in my notebook, and smoke pours out of the coffee roaster. Roasting is generally smoky, but the smoke that is now filling the kitchen is unprecedented. For a moment, pen still in hand, I pause. It is beautiful, gray-black smoke, and some of it is filtering in boring straight lines into the exhaust fan. The majority of it swirls hypnotically into the kitchen. It smells pungent, like dry woodsmoke mixed with chocolate and some sort of essential oil that an old hippie might burn to cover up the scent of pot. The coffee roaster is still on the stove. The coffee is still in the roaster. It is popping, like that dry wood fire. The cell structure of the coffee beans is audibly breaking down. Soon, I know (from research, not experience) the flaked-off coffee matter and the oil that is pouring through the compromised cell walls will combust, probably very dramatically. The coffee, the stove, the roaster, the thermometer that I have jerry-rigged into the roaster, the notebook, and the man who was moments ago noting how well the process was proceeding will all be consumed in the fireball. It may even travel up the exhaust fan and billow out into the side alley. The fire trucks will definitely appear, perhaps in time to save the house.

Sometimes (though never in my experience playing with H-O scale model trains as a child) the train goes back on the rails.

I pull the roaster from the heat, coughing in the smoke. I pour it into the cooling tray atop a fan, forcing  cool air through the bed of beans. I set the roaster to the side, waving the smoke towards the exhaust fan. Both the roaster and the beans are still smoking, and for a moment, I fear that the beans are going to ignite the cooling fan, and that the resultant electrical fire will be unstoppable. But the smoke dies, and as it does, I station myself beside the smoke detector, waving the clouds away, fooling it with artificial wind. "What a fresh, autumnal breeze," it thinks in its robot brain, "everything is under control in this house. No danger of fire."

Conspiracy Theory

Someone always leaves the New York Times on the big shared table in the coffeeshop. We get the Times here at the house, so I never bother to take it home. Usually, I fold it and put it on the window ledge and go back to the espresso machine. Usually, on the front page of the business section, I find a strange legend. First, to the left of the header, four capital letters. Today's: "MGYR." Then, to the right, inevitably circled, "sell," followed by four more letters. Today's: "MNAT."

A little bit of digging reveals that MNAT is the stock symbol for Marquette National Corporation, a Chicago area bank, and that MGYR is Magyar Bankcorp, a New Jersey bank. So some sort of financial investor, that makes sense, especially in a well-to-do neighborhood like East Hyde Park. But why is the left hand symbol always unaccompanied by "sell," and why is the right hand symbol always "sell" and never "buy?"

Maybe something else is going on here. Maybe the problem is too small of a sample size. More newspapers might reveal the answers, especially if I tack them onto a corkboard and connect overlapping symbols with red twine. Maybe I'll just notice who leaves the paper, and then ask her/him what the deal is. Maybe s/he is a secret agent, so I'll keep a mug of hot coffee on hand, just in case I need a defense/distraction. I'll pump my tires tonight, so that my bike will be ready for a fast getaway. I'll leave this record here. If you don't hear from me, remember MGYR / sell MNAT.

---

This departure from reality was inspired in part by the heist comedy Sneakers (Robinson, 1992). Check it out. I'll try to have a review posted soon. The newspapers are totally real, by the way.

Music on the Northside

For the second time since I moved to Chicago, I found myself in Rogers Park. Before you get to the self-contained, self-absorbed suburb of Evanston, Rogers Park is the farthest north that Chicago will allow. 

I left the red line stop at Granville, and walked north to the next stop, Loyola, crossing from Edgewater to Rogers Park one block before I got to the station. Then I turned west on Devon. The last time I was this far north, it was by accident: CTA construction forced Heather and I to travel north to Loyola in order to switch to a southbound train. All southbound track from whichever northern neighborhood we were then visiting was closed for repairs, repairs that will soon creep south and, by the spring, completely shut down the red line in our part of town. 

Joy Ike

This time, it was intentional. Joy Ike, a singer-songwriter from PA was touring through, and we both had chances to enjoy her music when we lived in Harrisburg. Here's why we were so far north: there are two Uncommon Grounds. One of them is in the not-nearly-as-far-north Lakeview. We didn't really look that hard at Google Maps before committing to go, and inviting friends, and talking up the show, and then realizing where it really was. 

We made it, and we got some food and drink, and the first of the three acts (Joy Ike being the second) began. He was terrible. I know that you can use the magic of the internet to figure out his name if you want to, but I won't provide it here. His banter was politically incorrect ("Shout out to my friend's bachelor party here tonight. We got some sexually charged men in the house. All you other men, hold onto your ladies." and later "I sound like a retarded Neil Young. Makes me want to commit suicide") and his lyrics were reminiscent of a B-list Billy Joel. That he covered "Movin' Up" did nothing to dispel this illusion. That he used the wrong key harmonica in his closing song was unsurprising.

Angela Sheik

The only good thing about terrible opening acts is that they only make the headliners look good by comparison, and that was exactly what happened here. Joy Ike and Angela Sheik are touring the Midwest together, and everything that their opener did wrong, they did right: Engaging, unconventional music, mixed with genuine, sensitive banter, and a stage presence that was neither apologetic nor arrogant (their opener had, somehow, managed both). 

Ike's set was great. If you haven't listened to her music yet, just go ahead and put some on while you read. She has a great sense of rhythm, and she's willing to vary time signatures without straying too far from an accessible pop sound, while her lyrics deal with real topics that can stray quite far from the canon of accessible pop songs.

Maybe it was the novelty of seeing someone new (I've seen Joy play once before), but Angela Sheik was the evening's highlight. Angela Sheik is a looping artist, so 1) I was predisposed to find her music a bit gimmicky, but 2) her music packs  a huge punch live, more so than it does in any video or audio recording. Looping involves using a digital recorder to record a bit of sound and replay it repeatedly, usually to create an ambient drone or a rhythmic backing line.

In this case, Sheik performed her riffs live, cued them into the machine, and then cued them on and off with a foot pedal, letting each bit of sound build up behind her as she performed with the next instrument, then turning the loops on and off to create texture. We saw each bit performed live, and then heard it return again and again. Sheik is an accomplished singer, and her set exemplified a vocal range that extends in pitch and dynamics.

Though she sometimes performs with a theremin, at this gig, she used only an autoharp and a flute, tapping on the microphone to create percussion (and maybe, if I heard right, using one or two pre-recorded drum samples), and of course, singing in harmony with herself via the magic of the loop. She opened with some original songs, included an all-vocal loop performance of Amazing Grace, and closed her set with a cover of Radiohead's "Fifteen Step." While it was no live drumline, Sheik's cover sealed a great set that opened my eyes to the creative potential of looping.

The same construction that had forced us so far north the first time delayed our return trip, and we didn't get home to Hyde Park until close to 2AM. Even though I was waking up at 5:30 for work the next day, it was worth the trip.

Urban Kayaking

The Chicago River links the Great Lakes with the Mississippi. The Great Lakes are linked, via the Saint Lawrence Seaway, with the Atlantic. The Mississippi flows into the Gulf of Mexico. So one can circumnavigate the eastern U.S. via Chicago.

We put our kayaks in at a little dock on the Chicago River Turning Basin, a square, dredged out lake where large barges can turn. The river isn't a very active commercial waterway (we never see any large cargo vessels, either on kayaks or as we wander downtown), but it has the potential.

The river is an active tourism space. There are at least three kayak rental facilities along its banks, and we encountered seven different tour boats (some of them more than once) plying their way through the city.

The turning basin is north of the city center. The two branches of the river surrounding Goose Island reconvene in the basin, and the river flows north from there as the North Branch. South, the way we paddled, one encounters residential, industrial, and commercial districts before the confluence at Wolf Point. We, as the smallest traffic on the water, were advised to give way at all times (though, as non-powered vessels, traditional maritime traffic rules gave us right-of-way). The confluence was the most dangerous point, a T intersection with no stop signs.

We passed through the confluence with no other traffic, paddling well ahead of the couple in the tandem boat that had left the rental dock at the same time. Our adventure occurred further down the river's main branch, just past the downtown private yacht garage and amidst the riverside cafes and bars. We paddled east, towards Lake Michigan, passing under streets and near landmarks that we see whenever we go downtown.

At Clark Street, we decided to turn back. We waited for two tour boats to go by, and then nodded at each other. We faced our boats into the channel, across the wake of a pleasure boat, and paddled hard. A bright yellow water taxi bearing down the channel. Using our paddles like whitewater kayakers, we dug into the waves that crashed over the bows of our kayaks, pulling towards the far seawall, safe from the main channel. From the bridge above us, we heard "Yeahhhh! Kayaks! Woooo! Kayakers!"

Heather raised her paddle in salute, and then we sliced in again, letting the wake from the water taxi rock us back and forth, a welcome respite from the flat water on the north branch.

Go!

Yesterday, it was beautiful outside. I parked myself on a low wall in Chicago's Near North district, peppered with hotels, chain restaurants, and deep-dish pizza joints. At a "don't walk" sign, a man started asking bystanders to help him get to State Street. "I dunno," said one guy. "Umm..." another started to point the opposite direction. I pointed him in the right direction, and realized that was in a tourist district. State is one of the main streets through downtown, and one of the easiest to find.

I was downtown with my banjo, not just busking, but playing a role in The Go Game.

The Go Game is a San Francisco-based company that designs large-scale games, clue hunts, and scavengers hunts (usually, but not always, for corporate clients sending their staffs on team-building or training retreats). 

Teams were told my location, told to look for a street performer, and to dance to his music. Once they had danced enough, I gave them a clue. Simple enough. Most teams did fine.

One team, however, tore off down the block as I noodled around on a blues figure. Two of them slowed down, looked at me, and kept going. They crossed the street as the red hand blinked, waited for the next "walk" sign, then crossed back towards me.

They watched me play for a minute, then some of them started dancing. One of the team members said "Wait. You're not just a random guy on the street? Or... wait? Are you?"

That moment is what these games are for: The dawning realization that looking entails looking at everything. 

Once someone starts wondering who is in on it, the whole urban scene becomes a rich field, planted with conspirators in the fun. That is how it should always be.

A Brief Coffee Post

Thanks, mom, for sending this NPR piece my way:





This is exactly what I love to do.

Crossword

Heather and I have had our mornings off this week. She doesn't leave for her job until 11 or 12, and I don't leave for mine until 12:30. 

I've been waking up first, crawling over her, and heading downstairs to eat. Inevitably, this wakes her up. Inevitably, she tries to overcome that, and rolls back over.

Meanwhile, I rustle up whatever coffee beans are currently the freshest or lightest roasted in the house. I haven't replenished my stock of green coffee, so I'm stuck with either A) Starbucks-roasted Costco coffee (too dark) or B) six-month-old specialty coffee that I dredged out of a box during the kitchen move-in (too stale). I usually choose B.

I brew a cup, and set another filter in the cone brewer while I heat the baked oatmeal. Then, I sit down with oatmeal, coffee, and the Times to read.

Even though we live in Chicago, we get the New York Times every morning. Even though she's tried to sleep in, Heather comes down just as I'm about to follow a story from page 1 into the section. Brew second cup of coffee. Turn to the arts page. Start the crossword.

The New York Times crossword increases in difficulty as the week goes on, with Monday as the easiest. We've cut our teeth on the even-easier-than-Monday puzzles in Chicago's second-best daily transit paper, the Redeye. Its weekly cousin, the Chicago Reader, has no puzzle, but we don't fault it for that, as its reportage is far superior.

We aced the Monday puzzle, stumbled a few times on Tuesday's puzzle (Old Indian Ruler: Chief or Rajah?), and on today's puzzle, a house of cards built on one  long, difficult clue, we were stumped. 

But next Monday is coming, and we're getting better. 

Wind Farm

Driving I-65 south from Chicago to Indianapolis, one encounters: 1) corn 2) billboards for "adult" stores 3) the dairy-farm equivalent of South of the Border ("We double dairy you to exit #220!") and 4) A wind farm.

In daylight, in a light breeze, the farm seems to creep up on the highway. One turbine quickly gives way to a horizon-full, their three-pronged heads spinning like oversized lawn decorations. Taken in the aggregate, the spinning becomes unpredictable: one turbine's blade will jump up out of the field, followed by twenty others almost (but not quite) in unison. 

Hundreds of these towers redefine the cornfields, reminding the passing driver of the flatness of the earth, of the lowness of the ground. The tall white structures act as the scrapers of a downtown, calling the gaze upwards, reminding the hinterland and the suburbs of their dependence. Here, however, there are no suburbs. Stretching almost to the horizon in one direction and past it in the other, the towers call the eye up as quickly as it has dropped. The spacing between them is just enough to create this oscillation in the eye. 

Driving I-65 north from Indianapolis to Chicago, one encounters the wind farm first. In darkness, in almost no wind, they disappear. The cornfields, the darkness, the lack of head- and tail-lights stretches away. Then, in perfect concert, a hundred red lights appear, like the eyes of a spider reflected in a flashlight, like an invading army, like a grid superimposed scores of feet above the ground.

Unlike the uncoordinated, wind-driven turbine blades, reaching up one or twenty or three at a time, all of the lights behave as one. They are timed at intervals longer than a high-tension tower or a skyscraper. For three or four seconds, the prairie is empty. For three or four seconds, it is occupied. Then the grid disappears for three or four seconds. Et cetera, et cetera.

It is just long enough for a passing glance, just long enough to look away and look back and say "I need to get some sleep." 

But like so many unbelievable things, this flashing red grid, this false downtown of monstrous do-gooders is real. Even coming around the sharp corner of a mountain pass in West Virginia, driving just-too-close to the blades of one of these turbines that rose out of the valley did not have this effect. Their sheer numbers, the way that they spread across the corn and hijack the eye, their eerie coordination, are unsettling. Even as I understand and wholeheartedly encourage the planting of these odd trees, the meta-perception of them--their combined affect--makes me long for the hidden coal and nuclear plants, spewing invisible pollution, setting no blinking red grids over the cornfields. Their grids are more dangerous, but (and because) they are imperceptible.

IS THIS REAL LIFE?

Yes it is.

NPR has the story here.

Let me use this brief post to say that stuff like this always makes me happy.

1) Because it is art that interacts so straightforwardly with everyday life and

2) Because the addition of the wildlife (perhaps more accurately, tame-life; livestock?) speaks directly to the child in me; the same child who spent time growing up at the local dairy farm having conversations with the cows.

Untitled

Just north of the Chicago River, the river that was reversed -- the river that's more of an urban canal than a true river like the ebullient, island-studded Susquehanna -- there's a door. 

Down along the river, below street level, but above the waterline, like the holes where the groundhogs dig in along real rivers, are the waterfront cafes and restaurants.

The steel bridges cross the river at a thousand points. These bridges are the truth of Chicago, their top arches of sinuous steel, not the pure triangles of the Rust Belt. They are straining towards respectability, and that straining imparts the arches with a rough beauty. Elegant but naked, they stretch across the reversed river.

Clark Street walks on the back of one of these bridges, north, out of the Loop. On the western side, between a bakery and a CVS drugstore, the big brown door could almost be overlooked.

Like the bridges, it strains. It wants to evoke hiddenness, so it must hide, at least halfheartedly. The hiding, however, is a ruse; it wants to be noticed. It is the door to a speakeasy.

Inside, the long black staircase is exposed to the rooms beneath, at the level of the cafes: below the street, above the waterline, though the waterline is two blocks south. 

The room is cavernous: large and dark, yes, but also like a cavern in that its size contains small nooks with tables and booths. They have curtains drawn across them and those curtains leak light onto the main floor. Dapper servers appear and disappear. Around every corner, it seems that there is a different bar, with different bartenders all dressed in black vests and starched white shirts. At the deep end of the cavern, a jazz quintet tuned up.

Not quite well-dressed, well-spoken, or well-funded enough to secure a table, we found some deep armchairs, forgotten in a corner. We watched the light from the outside as the doorman opened that large, straining door. At the top of the steps, everyone assessed the plunge, and the staff assessed everyone. We ourselves had been so assessed, and that was why we were sitting in the corner in red armchairs, the waitstaff passing back and forth in front of us. 

It was what we wanted. We didn't want the expensive food, and we didn't want to drink more once the drinks were gone. We, too, were straining.

The staff's caps and suspenders, their somber airs, enhanced the illusion of hiddenness, but the patrons undid it. They, too, were straining. They gave off the forced air of "this is a good time." Their sidelong glances at each other, at the staff, at the man or woman down the bar, undid them. 

At the end of our glasses, having taken too many sips of melting ice, having visited the bathroom, having waited for the right tempo, we stood up. We walked the length of the room, dodging those noticing and being noticed and remaining ourselves unnoticed until we stepped up by the band. They overshadowed the dance floor, the trumpet player occasionally leaning over a railing to blast a figure out of the cavern, towards the stairs.

We hadn't danced in a few months, not to a live band, not with so many people noticing. We two-stepped, swung out, and remembered. We only watched each other, and we took up half the floor until a few others got up to dance. Then we danced close, following the traditional Lindyhop "slot" back and forth on the floor. From the hidden alcoves, a woman watched us, smiling. When we stopped between dances for water, the bartender shook hands. 

We danced once more and then left. We had stopped straining, and had let the river flow in us. We stopped on the bridge on our way back south.


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David Wax is Back!

For those of you who weren't reading back in February 2011, or who had forgotten, there's this great band called David Wax Museum. Soon, they'll be releasing an album, and now, as part of their promotion for that album, you can download a pay-what-you-wish sampler of their work: two preview tracks, two old tracks, and a live recording. It's  below, or at this address: http://noisetrade.com/davidwaxmuseum

I cannot vouch for the spamminess or lack thereof at Noisetrade.com, having just downloaded this sampler myself. I can, however, vouch for this awesome band.

I vouched for them in the post linked at the top (and seriously, it's linked right here, just read it).

This is one of the bands that I would go to see at any time. They've taken popular/independent music's now-waning interest in American folk music and done something really unique with it. As anyone who listens to a lot of the current folk-revival movement can confirm, that's not easy to do. Also, they put on a killer live show.

Games

The players cooperate to explore the "House on the Hill"
... until one of them turns traitor

I've been playing and thinking about games a lot. Haymarket House has an excellent collection of board, card, and other games. I've been interested in cooperative games (not in the game theory sense) as a result of playing Pandemic! and Betrayal at House on the Hill.

In the purest form of these games, the entire group of players wins or loses together. As its title might indicate, "Betrayal" introduces a competitive element (usually one "traitor" against the group) partway through, though the first portion of the game is entirely cooperative.

I really enjoy these games: it feels good to use the resources of the game playing group to work against the game, rather than against each other. "Pandemic," for instance, is very difficult, and winning without bending the rules feels great for everyone involved.

As a result of my fascination with this kind of gameplay, I've been working on a set of rules for a cooperative game. If you are interested in proof-reading these rules, let me know.

I'm looking for readers who play games and like conceptualizing rules. In particular, I'm hoping to find places where players can, whether through malicious intent or through accidental action, find themselves in a place where the rules are inadequate or do not apply.

The other thing is that I'm conceiving this game as a live-action game, to be played in downtown Chicago.

More to come as it develops!

Go Trolls!

There he is.

Today, a blue Prius drove through the intersection at 55th and Dorchester. Painted on its side: Trinity Christian College. Painted on the back: Go Trolls!

It turns out that Trinity Christian College, located in Palos Heights, southwest of Chicago, has a large blue troll for its mascot. Knowing anything about internet slang, and the propensity of some Christians' behavior as internet commenters, a troll seems like the last thing a Christian college would want for a mascot.

No one (that I could find in my five minutes of googling) seems to see any connection or negative repercussions for the trolls here (e.g. this sports site or the school's own athletics dept. page).

Roasting: Outliers

Green (unroasted) coffee.

Haymarket House has a gas stove, so one of the first things I did upon arrival was to order some green (unroasted coffee). Gas stoves are much better than electric stoves when it comes to temperature control, and temperature control is essential for a good roast.

This post isn't the place to go into all that roasting coffee entails (for that, check here), but I will provide some tasting notes. All of the coffees that I ordered are unusual in some way or another, and roasting well (as I feel I did) them marks a new threshold in my roasting abilities.

Aged Sumatra Aceh

This is the most exotic of the coffees in the lot that I ordered. It was harvested in 2007, and sat in a dark warehouse until recently. Aging coffee is unusual: since it often results in a dulled flavor, few people are eager to produce it (plus, you tie up your warehouse for a few years holding perfectly sellable coffee). I am still not certain how folks go about aging coffees in such a way as to market them as "aged coffee." What I do know is that this method is only common in Sumatra. I roasted it twice, both times to a medium-dark profile, and it didn't disappoint. Spicy, musky and wood (cedar!) notes dominated over a silky body.

Brazil Modgliani Peaberry Natural Process

Two things make this coffee stand out from other coffees from Brazil (land of otherwise unremarkable coffee): every bean is a peaberry -- little round beans that roll differently in the roaster; and the beans were processed via the "natural process" -- the coffee fruit was removed after (rather than before) the beans were laid out in the sun to dry. Counter Culture Coffee is currently offering a natural process Ethiopian coffee which shines with blueberry and raspberry notes. This coffee was not nearly as dramatic. The fruit notes were there, over a complex, full body, but I was a little disappointed. My roasting error, probably. I'll be seeking out more natural process coffees as my roasting improves, and I still have some left to roast.

Ethiopia Yirga Cheffe Grade 1

This one was a bit of a splurge, but totally worth it. As with most of these coffees, I made two separate roasts (I get a pound at a time, and my roaster maxes out at 8oz.). The first one was very surprising: a very light body, tons of tea and lemongrass flavors. One of my housemates took a sip and thought that it WAS tea. These are the classic signs of underroasting, so in my second roast, I used less heat, but for longer time. The tea-like flavors returned, this time backed up by the floral sweetness that Yirgacheffe fans love. I hit the nail on the head with this one, I'm proud to report.

Yemen Mokha Ismaili

Mocha (Moka, Mokha, etc.) is the port that first shipped coffee to the West. People there were confused, and really into drinking hot chocolate at the time, and so Mocha is (sort of) responsible for the name of the drink that people order at coffeeshop when they want espresso mixed with chocolate

What made this coffee unusual was the instructions to "let rest three days before drinking." Most coffees are allowed to rest (left in an open container to allow CO2 to escape) for 12-24 hours immediately after roasting, before being sealed. I still don't know why this coffee must rest for so long, but I tried my first batch (a medium roast with notes of fig and chocolate in the cup) and it was delicious. The second batch is waiting its three days, so I'll report back once I've tasted it.

At the Library

The Blackstone Branch of the Chicago Public 
Library (where this story happened) is beautiful, btw.

The other day, as I was locking my bike by the library, a passer-by, unbidden, explained to me about a place where I could get a free bike. Not wanting to be unkind, I listened, the whole time wondering "why do you think I need a bike when I'm standing here locking up my bike?"

Then he told me that his bike was a limited edition Schwinn racer from the seventies, and that there were only fifty of them in existence. It was sky blue, and I believed him.

Downtown Sound

I've been listening to Abigail Washburn's music since her first album, Sparrow Quartet, came out in 2008. This past Monday, she played a free show here in Chicago. Heather and I arrived an hour and a half early, ate a sushi picnic on the Great Lawn at the Pritzker Pavilion, then moved down to get seats in the tenth row.



We got to see Washburn and her band (a guitarist and a fiddler, in addition to Washburn herself on banjo) sound check -- working on their arrangements, they decided to include a fiddle solo during which Washburn tap danced in front of a foot-level microphone. She laughed, swirling her arms as she danced. "It's so much harder when I have to think about how it sounds," she said after the mic was rigged.

It's been a while since I've been to a concert by a musician whose work I know from recordings (the Low Anthem in Harrisburg, maybe?), so it was great to hear songs I know reinterpreted live. Watching Washburn perform live, particularly with Kai Welch, her songwriting partner on her latest album, gave new insight on some of the music. She retold the story about "Taiyang Chulai"that you can see in the video above, and mentioned that her husband had walked in while she was writing "If I Had A Shotgun" (a darkly comic murder ballad). "He walked away pretty quick," she said.

If Abigail Washburn was a new insight into music that I love, the second act on the double bill was more of an unknown. From the moment that the band (trumpet, bari sax, organ, drums, bass, guitar) launched into a driving soul vamp, however, I was excited. "Please welcome," growled the organist, taking the still-vacant lead singer's mic, "The original Black Swan, the Screaming Eagle of Soul, the one, the only MISTER CHAAAAAAARLES BRAAAAAADLEY!"



Bradley has an inspiring life story and a charismatic stage presence. He tossed the microphone away from himself, and caught it while kneeling on the stage, yelling like James Brown. Before he was signed to Daptone Records (a familiar name, perhaps, to those who have heard Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings), Bradley performed as a James Brown impersonator. While this show captured that 70s funk-soul vibe to a tee -- with Bradley's vest open to his belly button and his horn players doing a synchronized two-step throughout the entirety of the show -- he sang all original material, centering on lyrics promoting love and togetherness. Washburn, introducing him, referred to him as the "Dalai Lama of Soul," saying "He gave me a hug and it felt like I was floating."

I didn't get a hug from the one and only Mister Charles Bradley, but throughout the night, there were some moments of floating.

Totoro

While at the apartment of my neighbors the other night, we all watched Hayao Miazaki's My Neighbor Totoro.


Though I have interest in both children's literature and film, and took a class on Japanese film, somehow I missed out on this gem.


Roger Ebert hits the nail on the head when he writes that "My Neighbor Totoro is based on experience, situation and exploration — not on conflict and threat." Unlike the majority of children's movies (and to be fair, I don't watch that many) this is not a movie where the plucky heroines must defeat any sort of evil, find any sort of treasure, or any other standard plot. Instead, it is a movie about growing up, about sibling relationships, and about the wonder of childhood.

Totoro itself (the gender of the title character is never made clear) is a huge, hilariously aloof forest spirit who, for this viewer, anyway, served as a revealing metaphor for the divine. While watching Totoro perform (with his two tiny colleagues) a mystical growing dance, while watching him delight in the drops of rain on his umbrella, and while watching him roar, not in menace, but... well, it's not always  clear why Totoro is roaring, but while watching all of these activities, it reminds me of the Christian triune God: Mysterious, joyful, and very much embodied in the world of humans, even as It transcends it.

Happy Birthday Woody!

Today (the one-month anniversary of my arrival in Chicago) would mark the hundredth birthday of the one and only Woody Guthrie. He said this awhile back:

---

I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim, too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. 


I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops. No matter what color, what size you are, how you are built. I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. 


I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think you've not got any sense at all. 


But I decided a long time ago that I'd starve to death before I'd sing any such songs as that. The radio waves and your movies and your jukeboxes and your song books are already loaded down and running over with such no good songs as that anyhow. 


---


To hear some music written, performed, and inspired by Woody Guthrie, check out NPR's The Mix.

My Neighbor(s)

Haymarket House, where Heather and I live, sits at the nexus of a number of interesting communities. Firstly, it is one of three houses that comprise Qumbya [koom-bee-ah], a housing collective in Hyde Park. 

All three houses are within walking distance of each other, and members of all three interact regularly. We were with our co-op-mates for Fourth of July, and tonight our house is hosting the other two houses for a joint dinner, preceded by a meeting of the co-op's governing board (comprised of current house residents). Sitting on the governing board is rightly considered as one of the "big chores," as in "You can sign up to do the house laundry, clean out the fridge, buy the groceries, or sit on the board."

Qumbya is a part of NASCO, which provides financial and logistical services to co-ops across the country. NASCO, I was recently reassured, is not a governing body. Nonetheless, all of us who live in the three houses pay a one-time membership fee to join NASCO.

Finally, Haymarket sits at the nexus of an informal community of current and former house members and friends. Some former residents remain as "boarders;" paying a fee and showing up to eat community meals with us. Others, still living in the neighborhood, will drop by with homegrown vegetables or invite us over to enjoy their air-conditioning.

Last night, some of us from Haymarket went to visit with some former residents who now reside in a wood-floored, brick-walled third-story apartment spitting distance from Hyde Park's favorite family, the Obama's (when they aren't doing whatever they do in that big house in D.C., that is). We watched "My Neighbor Totoro" (more on that later) munched carrot cake and popcorn, and enjoyed 1) air conditioning, but more importantly 2) a social life beyond our housemates. Even if they are people who used to live in our house and still eat there on occasion, that counts for something.

Beasts of the Southern Wild

"Sometimes, they speak in code."

Heather and I just watched this movie. Aside from our seating (second row left -- serious neck cramps and some reaction to camera shake) it was great.

Enough glowing reviews (two links; check'em both) have been written about this movie that I do not need to add my own. Instead, I want to lay out some other films to pair with this one. In no particular order:

Where the Wild Things Are

In Beasts' long cold-open, there is a bit where Hushpuppy leads her neighbors in a glowing parade, everyone holding sparklers or roman candles (watch the scene with director's commentary here). The camera dollies alongside them, through a wooded mise-en-scene while joyful, folksy music plays in the background. I was reminded of the trailer for Where the Wild Things Are, and where that movie failed, this movie succeeds. It is a stretch, but I would even suggest that Beasts of the Southern Wild is a better adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are (the book) than the movie version was. Plus, the monsters in Beasts are fiercer and more mysterious, just like Sendak would've wanted.

O Brother, Where Art Thou

Only in the last half did the similarities with O Brother make themselves evident to me: The importance of a dam and a flood. The journey away from and then back towards home. The persistence of the unjust Law. Whereas the other movies on this list share thematic or stylistic similarities, Beasts and O Brother line up with regard to their inspiration in the Odyssey; the eternal journey towards home (which cannot be separated from mother, as Freud and Hushpuppy would remind us).

Aurochsen

Works of Werner Herzog

It takes guts to include prehistoric creatures in a movie (see below), and as soon as Bathsheba rolled up her skirt to show her Aurochs tattoo, I was reminded of Herzog's Cave of Forgotten Dreams. The denizens of the Bathtub are, in some ways, akin to the prehistoric artists who populate the background of Cave. But it is not just his most recent work that leads me to connect Herzog to Beasts. He has been quoted numerous times saying that we need new images in our movies; new ways of seeing that undo visual cliche. Beasts does this, revealing new things in such a way that to describe what the movie is about does it a disservice. It must be seen.

Dinosaur

Tree of Life

I place this movie last on this list because 1) it is the closest in release date to Beasts, and 2) it is the most obvious comparison. Both movies employ the visual language of the poem more than the average narrative film does. Both concern themselves with The Universe; Tree of Life with its beginning, Beasts with its end ("kinda," to quote Hushpuppy). Both include prehistoric creatures. Both are about nature and grace, and how they play themselves out in childhood. 

As you can see, there's a lot going on here. Enough that you should probably just go watch Beasts of the Southern Wild and then compare it to other movies that you've seen. Let me know what you think. Here's the trailer if you need more convincing.

Photos

As I was writing this post, I thought "Man, I really want to put some photos with this. And Blogger's photo format has always caused me problems. And I'm running out of free accounts at photo hosting sites."

So I made a tumblr account. It will work as an auxiliary to this blog, hosting photos that I want to share with y'all. If a photo is necessary to a post, I'll still try to post the photo here, but the tumblr lets me post more photos in a prettier format than I can here.

It's real easy. Just go to moretracks.tumblr.com

Thanks for reading!

Fireworks & Gatsby

Just east of where I live is Promontory Point. It sticks out into Lake Michigan like the connecting joint on the end of a puzzle piece -- slightly rounded outward at the tip, tapering as it approaches the mainland. Its name, like those so many local features, is reduced to a definite article and the operative noun; "We're going to The Point,""We're riding The [number 6 Jackson Park express] Bus,"etc.

South of the point is the Museum of Science and Industry, and squished between the museum grounds and the point is the swimming beach. Lifeguards row just offshore, marking the edge of the swimming zone. This is unfortunate, since Lake Michigan, at least where it touches Hyde Park, stays waist-deep for a few thousand feet offshore.

In a classic demonstration of principle of economic limits, the overly-stringent lifeguards have created a thriving black market for alternative swimming holes. Our neighborhood has chosen the north side of The Point, and, in a move that mirrors current marijuana policy in the city, the police tend to conveniently forget that the north side of The Point is marked as a "no swimming zone."

Our co-op house, along with its two sister houses, chose the north side of the point for a Fourth of July barbecue. So did most of the neighborhood. The north side, in addition to being the swimming side, allows for a view of the city. The apartment towers of East Hyde Park loom up to the left along Lake Shore Drive, which disappears into the trees. To the right, the end of the point obscures the lake. To the front, due north, far enough that the towers are no taller than a fist or two, held out at arm's length, the Chicago skyline lights up.

Tonight, there were fireworks all over the navigator's spatial clockface. At six o'clock, directly behind us, amateurs set off bottle rockets and shriekers in the field at the center of the point. Every once in a while, they would find a professional-grade rocket in their stash, and the resulting boom convinced all of us that we were about the be obliterated.

At nine o'clock, where The Point meets the shore, more bottle rockets, red and green, went up in rapid succession. At ten and eleven, somewhere between East Hyde Park and Chinatown, the evening's sleeper hit went up: a barrage of spiraling, multi-colored, shimmering rockets whose blasts echoed between the towers and out over the lake.

These fireworks far outshone what we thought would be the big hit of the evening, the Navy Pier fireworks, which stared at 9:30PM, at one o'clock on our clock face. Navy Pier pokes straight into the lake. It is the quintessential tourist trap: expensive chain restaurants, a mini-amusement park, sightseeing boats, and a free trolley to and from the El stop. Tonight, it hung on the surface of the lake like a floating city, its yellow and red lights packed tighter than the reds and greens of the boats navigating the water. The ferris wheel stood up next to the skyline, the last tall object before the long string of flat lights on the water, where the fireworks, distant but beautifully choreographed, elicited oohs and ahhs before the East Hyde Park / Chinatown display overwhelmed them.

Sitting on the grass on the point, smelling the lighter fluid and the lake, seeing that long string of lights on the water, I couldn't think of anything but Gatsby, who stared at the green light at the end of the dock. It symbolizes his longing for Daisy, as I learned in my first real lesson on literary symbolism, but tonight, the lights on the dock, and on the pleasure boats in the water, symbolized money and power and privilege, and our little coterie of co-oppers, though well-educated and well-poised to gain that privilege, seemed a universe away from the Gatsbys and even the Nick Carraways of today. The fireworks reflected on the lake water, illuminating the swimmers and the waders, illuminating the distance between us and the Chicago skyline and the Navy Pier and the pleasure boats, shimmering out on the water.

Treasure Island

The local grocery store is called Treasure Island. Tagline: Arrrrrrrr! If only. The real tag line is "America's most European supermarket." The only that could've made that tag line more pretentious? Replace "supermarket" with "grocer."

So, whenever anyone in the house needs something last-minute, they will say something like this: "I'm going to swing by Treasure Island on my way out to the Point. Anyone need anything?"

Which always makes me want to say "A talking parrot! A peg leg! A ship, please!"

I'm sure the novelty and hilarity will wear off, but for now, hearing about Treasure Island is amusing to no end.

ALSO: To a Pennsylvanian, Treasure Island seems very European indeed, what with the selling of wine and beer in the grocery store.

More Market

So here, at last, is our room, all painted and (mostly) arranged. We still have some stuff to arrange, most notably my huge sack of ironing, but the house iron was located during our 7-hour workday on Saturday.

We all went to town on the common area / basement, transforming it from a dungeon for cardboard boxes into a livable (if not quite all-the-way painted) basement dining room, food storage area, and meeting space for our co-op.

I'm still learning the ins and outs of co-op-ing, but it is safe to say that co-op and intentional community designate two different approaches to "lots of hippies people living in the same house."

Whereas the intentional community derives its common living scenario from an intent, the co-op makes the common living experience its focus.

For example, we had a dinner guest who was, in the near future, moving to an intentional community. "It's a group of people who want to live together to discuss spirituality," he said, "and since I'm an atheist, I found that really interesting and wanted to live there."

Such a cognitive dissonance would not occur at Haymarket House. While this co-op has its own culture/style (more on that in later posts, perhaps) it does not have a mission beyond providing a livable, co-governed, safe space for people.

Granted, such things as vegetarian cooking and consensus/vote based decision making will self-select for people with certain commonalities, but those commonalities do not constitute a mission.

Anyway, I've taken on the chore of inventorying and ordering our bulk food, which I am learning from one of the house members. I was also informed (at what was an otherwise-serious meeting) that I must select (or be selected as) a nemesis. I am keeping my guard up.

Read & Discuss: Order Muppet / Chaos Muppet

First, read this. It was written by Slate's judicial reporter, hence the fascination with the Supreme Court. In the spirit of this Slate series, this post will probably take the concept a little too far. But go ahead, read the article.

Pretty great, right? Not without the flaws of other unified theories of personality (namely, people do not always behave consistently with their type), but still, a great way to work the Muppets into something applicable to everyday life.

So, here's the discussion question: Which kind of muppet is The Count?

Sure, at first glance he seems clearly in the order camp (he, by his own admission, loves to count, a clear sign of orderliness).

But there are two arguments for his inclusion in the Chaos camp.

Indulging his Order tendencies
against the Ur-Chaos-Muppet

First, the Count is scary. Of course, there are plenty of things that are both orderly and scary (the DMV comes to mind, as does the Galactic Empire). The Count's scariness (at least in earlier, less sanitized versions of Sesame Street) is in spite of his order-qualities, not because of it. The thunder, the caped entrance, the music; all of these things distract from counting.

On its own, this would seem to argue for the Count's inclusion in the order camp. After all, counting is his identity. Scariness is ancillary.

But watch the video below, and tell me that it is not the portrait of someone in the chaos camp. Particularly at 2:10 onward, the Count outs himself as a Chaos Muppet: "I wrote these letters myself... Oh, I'm not going to read them. I'm going to count them!... Ahahahaha!"

His need to count overwhelms any sense of orderliness about the very act of counting. The Count is crazy about counting! Thus, by overindulging his order-quality, the Count transforms himself into a Chaos muppet.

To discuss:
Which other muppets blur the line?
Are you an Order Muppet or a Chaos Muppet? Which particular muppet are you?

Sushi

Nigiri, left. California Roll, right

Yesterday was International Sushi Day. Heather and I celebrated at The Sit Down, one of many sushi places in Hyde Park. We only found out it was International Sushi Day an hour or so before we left our house, wiped out from unpacking, mustering the strength to walk one whole block to 53rd Street. This is why I did not post yesterday morning, alerting you of International Sushi Day.


When I told the waitress that I had ordered the sushi special with the Asian salad, not the one with the Miso soup, she was quick to apologize. She even offered to let me eat the Miso soup that she had mistakenly brought. It was 93 degrees Fahrenheit, so I politely declined. 

Hyde Park Roll (& Heather)

The sushi was as good as the service -- better, even, as it did not mistakenly bring the wrong thing before correcting its error. It brought the right thing right up front. The tempura-battered Hyde Park Roll was crispy without being oily. The nigiri were simple and delicate (a delicious reminder of the sushi-purist documentary that Heather and I saw, Jiro Dreams of Sushi). Delicious as these two were, the California Roll spoke most clearly of The Sit Down's excellence.


California Roll is our go-to sushi. Stacked with veggies, California Roll is hard to screw up, making it a safe bet at any establishment. But this California Roll reminded us that a great, fresh, full-flavored, roll can be so much more than a safe bet. The California Roll (sorry Fuji-Do!) might have been the best sushi that I've yet eaten.

Painting: After

Here it is, the room in the "after" stage, with Heather, demonstrating her joy at being finally done painting. We're still tracking down furniture (bed and dresser mostly) so that we can pull all of our stuff out of duffels and boxes, but now, at last, we can arrange the room as we see fit.

Also, as promised, Django the banana-eating cat. This morning, he joined Heather and myself at the kitchen island on his own bar stool, glancing over at our cereal with banana-envy in his eyes.

He is one of four house animals: Another cat (William? Gandalf? I forget his name), a small dog (named Socket, for the unkempt fur that makes her look as if she stuck her nose in one), and Bean (name origin unknown).

I have never lived in a house with indoor animals (aside from my sister's parakeet), so this is new for me. Right now, the animals are hilarious and novel. I hope it stays that way.