Cone-traversy on 24th Street

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Louis-Philibert Debucourt’s “Frascati” (1807) shows a scene from the Parisian glacerie.

The St. Francis Fountain, as we all know, has been operating on 24th street in San Francisco’s Mission District for a very long time.  The self-described “old-fashioned confectionery” says it opened in 1918, and claims to be the oldest operating ice cream counter the City.  Its longstanding 1940’s interior was renovated about ten years ago: a Formica soda-bar with red vinyl upholstered swivel stools, period clocks and neon, banquettes, a burgers-and-shakes menu, and a stern attitude about the proper use of an ice cream cone.

Last weekend I went to the St. Francis with a friend and visitor to the City who, to protect from scandal, we will call “V”;  She is a petit, attractive woman of means, known in some quarters of the sports world.  We were accompanied by a gay couple (“D” and “L”, if you must know), and their two-year-old son to whom we will to not even pseudonymously refer due to his age and the delicate situation I will now describe.

We seated ourselves, all in a row, at the long Formica counter, manned (and yes, it was an all-male staff save one rather bewildered-looking lady scooper) by smartly-dressed young hipsters clothed in the lean styles and mustaches the 1960s.  I ordered a single scoop of Mitchell’s coconut ice cream in a cup.  V. asked for a small vanilla cone.  The lady-scooper, new-on-the-job, took our orders. D., and L. were served in turn, followed by their young son, who (fortunately, as you will note) opted for a dish rather than a cone.

Food can be taken quite seriously in San Francisco.  The manager of the St. Francis rushed from the kitchen to confront V.  You could hear him struggle to remain civil as he spoke.  “Cones are not served at the counter.”  He cast an accusing look at the lady scooper (who had actually prepared the cone), and then at V. for entrapping the staff. “The cone,” he recited, in a tone one might reserve for the Book of Matthew, “is by tradition a carrying device for take-out ice-cream.” We were invited to consider these also-unthinkable analogies: “serving hamburgers at the tables in paper bags”, “sodas in to-go cups”, “a waiter bringing ketchup packets.”

Our lady scooper had slunk away by now (no doubt to face more dire analogies later).  The manager approached us, arms extended, in an apparent attempt to gain control of the cone.   V. was unswayed: “I can have the scoop in a bowl, with the cone on top. Like a hat.”  As she spoke, she moved the cone close to her chest, then motioned — perhaps, batted — the manager away. She fixed her gaze on him. “I like the cone,” she said.  There would be no more discussion.

TheSt.FrancisFountain

The St. Francis Fountain on 24th Street in San Francisco

And so the bowl came, amid grumbled disclaimers from the manager.  In went the ice cream cone, inverted, and so, partially defused.  “This is a one-time event!” muttered the manager.  He had lost control of the shop(pe), and he knew it.  Helpness now, he addressed the female staffer:  “If the owner were here, he would say the very same thing.”

V., victorious, possessing both cone and bowl, surveyed the crowd.  But her fellow diners seemed to side with the manager.  There were murmurs and mutual glances among the crowd.  V. turned her back on them, picked up the spoon, and ate.

The St. Francis Fountain’s stock is in it’s purity of tradition.  It’s a play that often employs a heavy dose of kitch.  Schtick, even.  The old-time appeal is an unsubtle respite from food innovation, and its relentless stress of choice.

Just one block away, a competing ice cream shop trades in exotic futures.  The transgressive mecca for foodies is called Humphrey-Slocum, after the main characters in 1980’s BBC television series “Are You Being Served?”.  The counter looks like that of a dry cleaner, as it may well have been recently.  From a barren mini-storefront they serves up flavors like FlufferNutter, Thai chili lIme, “Jesus Juice,” and, of course, several combinations of bacon.  Each weeks’ flavors shock anew on Twitter, Facebook, and, as we are in San Francisco, Google Plus.  The food press lights up with regular commentary and adoration.

It’s a stand-off on 24th Street.  The Saint Francis staring down Slocum’s “ice cream with attitude.”  Simple chocolate and strawberry against “Skull splitter,” “Pink grapefruit tarragon,” and “Strawberry Candied Jalapeño”.  The scooper is, say, a pink-haired man who favors Comme Des Garçons.  Because it is an affront to transgressivism, “vanilla” at Humphey-Slocum is spelled as the neologized obscenity “v*nill@” so it can appear on the menu.

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Detail from “Frascati”

The prevailing factors for our recent choice of The St. Francis were ambiance and — literally and figuratively — vanilla.  Being told what we can and can’t do there achieved its goal, to underscore the traditional authenticity of the experience.

But inappropriateness of a sit-down cone appears to be the flip side of Humphrey-Slocum’s drag show.   The very first ice cream cones evolved in France from flat wafer-like waffles, similar to the modern Italian pizzelle, that were eventually side-rolled into a “cornucopia” to contain both savory and sweet foods.   Food historians Robert J. Weir and (wife) Caroline Liddell, who have written several books around the history of ice cream, have produced the earliest documented use of the ice cream cone: circa 1807 at a fashionable café in Paris, back when Napoleon I was king of France.  In the print the couple uncovered, a elegant woman  (who looks rather similar to V.) is shown seated at a table licking an ice cream cone.   There is no bowl or spoon in sight.

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The Caliphate of Méxifornia

The name — to echo our politicians for a moment — of the Great State of California was invented in the early 1500’s by a Spanish author named García Ordóñez de Montalvo.  This fictional California was an island off the coast of Asia; the setting for his popular “gentlemen’s novel” Las Sergas de Esplandián (pub. 1510).  As in modern-day rap videos, Montalvo’s California was populated exclusively by nubile black women possessed of “beautiful and robust bodies” who wield lots of gold weapons and accessories.  It’s name combined the exotic concept of a middle eastern caliphate (خلافة) with, rather unsubtly, sexual gratification (-fornia).  “En toda la isla,” he wrote, “no había otro metal que el oro!” (“On all the island there was no other metal than gold!”).

The Island of California (1638)

The Island of California (1638)

It was such fabulous rumors of gold — and of similarly inclined women — that drove Spanish explorers Hernán Cortés and Francisco de Ulloa to sail the western edge of the American continent in 1530.  The Viceroyalty of New Spain planned to find (and loot) what it hoped would be the Seven Cities of Cibola. In a PR move equal to modern venture capital, the Viceroyalty optimistically named the land it found after the island in Montalvo’s then-familiar book. California, now our “Golden State,” is the only US state whose name derives from fiction.

And so it began: California as the provider of fables and fictions for the Western world.  Westward migrations came in waves: gold rushes, a great drought, and so many individual dreams.  Each changed the complexion of the state.  Through it all, the usual folks managed to hold power, and Hollywood told their stories.  Those tales rendered each decade mostly in white, and always in English.  But California’s future, like the fantasy that gave it birth, promises, finally, to be a fabulous tale told in Spanish.

Today, on the streets of the Mission District in San Francisco (the epicenter, if you will, of America’s food culture, and an export factory for hipster trends), the State name has evolved.  Various neologisms, each rich with meaning, and with factional adherents, challenge the past and predict the future of the state: “Mexifornia”, “Calexico”, “Amexica”, and, above all, a celebrated new meta-region emblazoned on t-shirts, graffiti-muraled walls, and flung, often, like a challenge: “Califaztlán.”

Califaztlán is a portmanteau in the literal sense, packed with meanings and syllables.  The idea is that a pre-Colombian Aztec(ish) empire had encompassed what is now California, Arizona, Texas, and México.  Tlán is the Aztec-language word for “place of,” and the usual suffix of Aztec city names.  “Califaztlán” packs in the idea that present-day northward migration of Mexican culture, itself a mix of the Spanish and pre-Columbian, is accomplishing a re-colonization the United States.

califaztlanThe far — and it has been alleged, race-baiting — political right originally came up with the words “Mexifornia” and “Amexica” in an attempt to entrance listeners, in the way Nancy Grace might with stories of an innocent girl’s kidnap and murder.  But Californians have made carne asada out of red talk-radio meat, embracing the x-words and featuring them on menus, clothing, cocktails, and in everyday conversation.  (As earlier gay activists did to defuse terms like “queer”)  The newfound banality of, say, “Mexifornia,” is encouraging the more fabulous constructions like Califaztlán and the handier “Aztlán” — both too high-concept a mouthful to rile the God-and-guns set.  So right-wing pundits have fallen back, of late, to another odd-sounding name that also packages immediacy, geography, and listener-fear in a few neat syllables:  NAFTA.

It is this inexorability of free movement that scares (or delights).  Imbalances no longer hold up the way they used to.  The mechanisms of information have become too accessible, fluid, transparent.  And so into the controlled vacuum of the North, a delicious chaos rushes in.  The social internet reveals much, and informs the otherwise excluded.  It offers alternatives to the tropes that have flowed from media formula-factories.  Real people appear on YouTube and Facebook, living real lives.  They now appear on the other and long-curated screens:  coupled, well-adjusted gays; unaccented latinos; blacks that do not so oddly live in Brooklyn Heights or Bel-Air.  (And, the downside: exploitative scripted-“reality” shows that conflate new transparency and old stereotypes.)

106555101_route-66-authentic-sign--mexifornia-us-1-18-gauge-steel-The fact is that the energy of California that is now, to be charitable to its traditional custodians, at least bi-lingual, radiates in every color.  The transparency we have achieved (technologically, socially) has made that impossible to hide, and so, difficult to misrepresent.  The team that won this years World Series is as much Los Gigantes as The San Francisco Giants, Los Niners (as they are known here) seem poised to win the nation’s Super Bowl.  The state’s nearly $2 trillion annual economy accounts for about 13 percent of US the economic activity.  And 75% of California’s infants are non-white.

As anyone with a catalytic converter might realize, there is, by now, some acknowledgement that what happens in California is inevitable for the rest of the nation.  And so we see the national rush to include those who, in California, are already included.  The elite who plan to thrive in the new United States are leading the charge.  In other groups, we see the resolve to entrench, to resist: the ex-New Yorker McMansion retirement communities of Arizona; the patrician networks of Boston; Wall Street; those for whom aspirational and racial are linked.  There is, of course, no future in such isolationism.  But these groups don’t care.  They hope to preserve wealth and privilege for their expected life, and they underestimate the speed of change.

In the meantime, the West roars ahead with advances in culture, technology, automotives, music, medicine, politics, film, cuisine, and, above all, social structure.  The Califaztlán, if you will, of the future is not multicultural — that old saw of a term that meant static groups co-existing in harmony — but rather a single fast-moving culture-liquid into which various traditions flow.  African-American Oaklanders may not speak Spanish (yet), but they unconsciously roll the ‘r’ in taquería as, well, everyone will.  Asian mayors have become common.  Gay shibboleths are out of closet and on late-night comedy shows.

The fluidity of this cultural recombination amounts to real intellectual capital, and it contributes the the quirky innovations that characterize the west coast: internet startups, self-driving electric cars, a dazzling culinary scene.

The traditional economy used to be dictated by financial capital.  It took lots of money to get a random idea built into a product/service/movie, and then lots more marketing money to bombard people with ads to get them to buy the often lousy result.  (This is the system that gave us the processed food of the 1990s, AOL, and Donald Trump.)

LouDobbsFinancial centers in New York and Boston pushed this scheme to ever more exotic abstractions, products became utterly divorced from utility, until finally, the finance system itself imploded in 2008.  Today, product launches are modest, sales and social media say yay-or-nay, and failures are caught early.  The West Coast is used to this model — they’ve been producing software for decades.  And people here are poised to create products and set the trends for a changing American demographic.  They are living in the place where demography already changed.  Ideas spring from a culture with less bias and more meritocracy.  Yes, some initial money is necessary, so crowdsourced alternatives like Kickstarter are steping in, kicking the traditional moneymen out of the innovation temple.

For all the marvelous glitter of the West, much of it also turns out to be gold.  There is an energy and and magic to life out here, as perhaps there always has been.  It seems obvious, as it did to Cortés and Ulloa, that the future, the treasure, and the best of life will be here — whatever you call the land.  And it is, at last, spreading East.

The latest zombie books

George Calderon's "Tahiti"

The opening page of the 1921 printing

George Calderon, a respected author and translator of the day, was already in his forties when World War One broke out.  He volunteered to fight for England anyway because, as (modern day) Boston University professor James Anderson Winn wrote he had a “strong sense of obligation”.  The numerous elegies written by his contemporaries seem to indicate he was also a pretty popular guy in scholarly and other circles.  As you read the elegies, some, to modern ears, seem to verge on adoration.

Calderon was killed at the Battle of Gallipoli in 1915.  He left behind a book he had nearly finished — a brilliant narrative detailing his visit to Tahiti (the book is out of copyright, and can be downloaded is various formats).  For at least five years, I have been looking for an actual copy of the book, out of print since, I think, the 1920s.

Copies of “Tahiti” showed up occasionally on eBay and book sites for around $350, often in only fair condition.  I created various search agents to notify me should the price drop.  And, recently, boy did it.  Amazon, Powell’s, basically everyone suddenly had copies at around $15.  Lots of copies.  Of course I bought one without asking any questions.

The copy of the book is truly a copy. The so-called “print on demand” version.

When the book arrived, I (carefully) tore open the packing to find a simulacrum of the book.  The typeface is old, the drawings faded, the cover image imperfect.  But the paper is perfect: brilliant white, utterly new and undamaged.  The book is a bound photocopy.  The cover, all the images, and the “printed” pages are all from scans (uncorrected scans, many are too-light) of one of the $350 copies I thought I was getting at a bargain.

Even the size of the book is off.  It’s obviously taller and wider than Calderon’s “Tahiti”, and each page sits surrounded by a moat a while space.  The blank books, before they are printed, are apparently designed to accommodate images of books up to a certain size.

Various “print-on-demand” companies are now specializing in creating these ghosts of books past.  At some book stores, such as the Harvard Bookstore in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a print-on-demand machine is there waiting for your order.  If the book it “out of stock”, as it would be if it were last printed in 1922, you can have it print you a copy.

The odd and feeling of holding such a book in your hand makes an e-reader seem warm and fuzzy.  The book was obviously scanned by machine, does not fit well on its too-new paper, and is stiffer than you would expect even from a new hardcover.

Worse, it plays with your expectations.  In this case, I expected an actual book, not some zombie-resurrection of Calderon.  But even in the case where you are prepared for the xeroxbook, it serves only as a constant reminder, with each page, that it is not the book.

At least the e-reader doesn’t pretend.  It’s not trying to be a book.  And now I appreciate that all the more.

Sizes start at large: Lattes, muffins, waistlines

Baked "goods" at Barnes & Noble in Penllyn, PA

Baked “goods” at Barnes & Noble in Penllyn, PA

Some weeks ago, I was talking with a well-known Catalan chef who was visiting the United States, Boston to be more specific.  She had a few observations on American food.  “The muffins are enormous.  They are as big as a fist!  Who needs to eat the much?”  she laughed.  I laughed too.  Of all the things to notice about American food, by a rather famous chef no less.  Ha ha!  I chuckled the next time I visited a Starbucks (I usually frequent more rarified bakeries in Boston).

Ask for a "small" latte, get 16 ounces.

Ask for a “small” latte, get 16 ounces.

Here outside of Philadelphia, in the mall-lined exurbs, where you have no choice, its no longer seems so funny.  It’s upsetting.   A muffin, a slice of cake, a cookie at any of the chain cafés (Starbucks, Au Bon Pain, even Panera) is huge.  All the cookies at the Barnes and Noble café are at least 5 inches across and weigh about a quarter-pound.   There are no small options, and the prices are very low.

The side effect here is that even local cafés and bakeries must respond by producing equally large items, or face habituated customers who feel shortchanged.

Yes, I do know this subject has been covered.  To continue:  Starbucks admits on its web site that one of its 4.5-inch cookies, sweetened with “anhydrous dextrose”, contains half our total daily tolerance for saturated fat, and more sugar than 8oz of Mountain Dew.  And that’s if you believe a given cookie is only 84 grams, the “serving size” on which the disclosed figures are based.  I’ll need to conduct a cookie weigh-in on my home digital scale soon.

The people here are, by and large, quite fat.  The Wall-E lifestyle of driving to malls, to everywhere really, and washing down a huge, flavorless cookie, or a massive muffin, with a “tall” latte (there is no small) produces a visible statistical effect.

Demystifying the Blossom: Squash & Zucchini

Zucchini blossoms (soaked in cold water for an hour)

Food reader, you have no doubt been enticed by the delicate and intricate recipes — and their accompanying carefully-styled photos — for squash blossoms that involve stuffing them, breading them, and other impossible tasks that will cause anyone to never prepare squash blossoms again.

Stuffing the blossom is an activity best reserved for brain surgeons and those suffering from various obsessive-compulsive disorders.  The blossom tears apart easily as you try to stuff it, and easier still in the pan.  Those enticed to bread the blossoms and fry them will enjoy the result as much as anything that’s breaded and fried, but the delicate taste is diminished.

Just sauté them for a couple minutes in a bit of olive oil and butter, salt and pepper.  The result is beautiful, the taste is vegetable-floral and delicate, and the texture will be firm.

Sadly, you may never even get to try.  Even at farmers markets, vendors don’t want to sell them. “They wilt less than a day after they’re picked.  No one will buy wilted blossoms,” says my neighborhood farm-to-overpriced-market owner.  Yes, they may look wilted when you buy them.  Just soak them in cold water for an hour, and they miraculously revive (see photo, above). The same applies for the blossoms of zucchini plants (whose vines produce blossoms in even greater abundance).

I’ve prepared some food-porn, complete with a bit of over-saturated color, to emphasize the point.  Below, the versatile and supple blossoms are shown solo, and lavished on a pork roast.   White wine of course.

with pork roast

blossom-as-hero shot

The Pretense of Burdick’s

I got to Hi-Rise Bakery in Harvard Square minutes late. It was closing – closed actually – so I will have to get inferior coffee at that pretentious fool-shack next door called Burdicks.

Tiny tables of Harvard hangers-on presenting themselves in plein gourmandise for tiny cubes of single-source and overpriced chocolates served on a porcelain square. So much geometry, so little taste.

My “pavé glacé” square of dark choclate is neither frozen or frosted, it’s just in French. And why must such places dust everything with powders? (cocoa in this case, and the croissants are inexplicably showered with confectioners sugar).

The windbag clientele needs to inhale a lot, and so they are choking/coughing, in turns, as the dusted mouthfuls get each of them one by one.

Where vegetables are unhealthy?


make vegetables delectable?

Local tomatoes are in season here in New England.  Summer, of course, is the time to enjoy fresh, local produce of all sorts wherever you may be.  Except in Hidden Valley.

The folks at HV Food Products, makers of Hidden Valley Ranch dressings, say (in a barrage of TV commercials on the Food Network) that your vegetables aren’t “delectable” unless you slather them with sugar, MSG, and a raft a flavor enhancers and oily fats.

The company’s new campaign has the actress Jenny Garth explaining why fresh, in-season vegetables need all this, and healthy dose of calcium disodium EDTA preservative to keep them that way for — months.

All your meme are belong to them

AYB Time was when an internet meme was an oddity that somehow spoke to a narrow but deep segment of like-minded people.  Those who perpetuated the meme knew that those who would appreciate it most had something wonderfully undefinable in common.  The meme was vox clamantis in deserto — for readers not in the Latin know here, a voice crying out in the wilderness — only those who understood the cry knew how to respond, or appreciate it.

Remember AYBAB2U?   This internet meme was single badly translated line of dialog from an obscure video game (Zero Wing), by equally obscure Japanese game developer Toaplan).  In the game the standard evil-lord charatacter, who here appeared to be half-machine and half-human declares forcefully (to the player) “ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US.”

It was right after the Y2K scare. In-the-know techies who had watched the world hold its breath in collective (and now-amusing) terror as the century-clock hit midnight gravitated toward this comical image of the dated, half-machine character threatening, wth his clumsy confidence, “all your base”.

Why open source programmers, role-playing game characters, and the internet-connected assemblage of like-minded nerds so adored, and propogated the phrase in its many forms was an inside joke, and a statement:  We are in control — clumsy and nerdy as we may be.  We somehow are going to come out on top.  All your base are belong to us, you just don’t know it yet.  By 2002, the phrase was a shibboleth for this clique, and poked into popular culture in only the most subtle and insider way.

Ah, the good old days.  Internet memes now speak to everyone, and speak the same language as mass media: reality. [pullquote]The memes spread now because they are so mildly appealing to so many, not because they are so viscerally comforting to so few.[/pullquote]

Where before the meme said “this is us” to its identity-strong propagators, the meme now says “this is what others will like” to its friend-seeking, identity-weak propagators.  Memes of real significance or meaning are drowned out with a monoculture of short-lived YouTube clips.  Maybe its just becoming to easy to pass information around — and the wrong sort of people are doing it.

Mainstream media itself, of course, has become a monoculture of reality shows.  Odd how slices of every part of reality have a stunning sameness when produced for a television network.  Baking cakes is somehow identical to driving trucks through the arctic is the same as singing Whitney Houston songs.  Like Polaroid color, reality TV casts everything it sees in an eerie same-tone.

Susan Boyle, a chubby, unassuming, and unattractive person with little charisma got on a reality-show stage to snickers — and , famously (for the moment) belted out songs with confidence and some talent.  Then transforms back into a frog when done singing.  The oddity stands out in a monotony of Idol-singing, and so becomes wildly popular.

And, as is the case these days, existing popularity drives the internet memes of the moment.  Enter Lin Yu Chun, a chubby, unassuming, and unattractive person with little charisma who belts out songs (karaoke standards really) on a reality show with some talent.  He’s rather weird looking, and from Taiwan.  And he is dressed suspiciously like Susan Boyle — just add a bow tie.  As if it were necessary, he is usually called “The Taiwanese Susan Boyle”, and became known to American audiences as a nascent internet meme via YouTube.

But the mainstream US media can’t let well enough (or bad enough) alone.  Its not enough that Comcast and other US media companies want to control both the speed and the content of the internet, they also want to control the personality of the internet by drowning interesting would-be memes with manufactured junk-memes.  Like having this Lin-Yu-Chun-the-Taiwanese-Susan-Boyle sing a duet of “I Will Always Love You” with William Shatner on America’s “Lopez Tonight” show.  In the style of Whitney Houston.  With odd looks tender looks at one another that seem designed to entice bloggers to suggest a gay element to the duet. Seriously.  (Lin’s Wikipedia entry, suspected of being a shill written by media interests, is under consideration for deletion.  It may still be here.)

Of course the Lin-Shatner video being posted and reposted, sweeping through social networks and the internet itself like the virus it is, killing any evolving items that would have naturally moved to the top in due time.  There no floating to the top anymore, no natural evolution of odd and compelling ideas.  Just intentionally-created junk-meme catnip (crack?) like this.

If you haven’t seen it, unfortunately, here it is.

Aldo Buzzi, l’Imprevisto

His writing is something to savor and enjoy, paragraph by paragraph, as you move from the subject he is ostensibly writing about, to all manner of related history, personal asides, and truths of life and culture.

Aldo Buzzi (pronounced “Boot-see”) is an urbane raconteur whose slim, brilliant volumes are mostly available only in Italian.  His books are sometimes classified — as booksellers and marketers are wont to do — as “food writing” or “travel writing”, but the brilliance of the prose — witty, arch, breezily erudite, and very funny — winds up transcending these genres.

Three have been translated into English: The Perfect Egg in 2005, (L’uovo alla kok, 1979), Journey to the Land of the Flies in 1996 (Viaggio in Terra de mosche e altri viaggi, 1994), and A Weakness for Almost Everything in 2006 (Un debole per quasi tutto, 2006) .

Oddly, and inspirationally, Buzzi’s wrote his first book, Quando la pantera rugge, at age 62.  He was first published in English when the New Yorker magazine ran his (long) short story Chekov in Sondrio in 1992.  Buzzi was then 82.

For the first 60 years of his life, Buzzi was set designer, costume designer, and, occasionally, on the scriptwriting team for various movies, mostly with director Alberto Latuada, and, early on, with Federico Fellini.  Trying to find the rather obscure films on which he has writing credit, most notably (if you are an Italian film buff) L’imprevisto (The Unexpected, 1961), is impossible in the US.

The reportedly quirky documentary he directed and co-wrote, America Pagana (1995) promises “a mystical journey to the land of the feathered serpent” — Mayan Mexico.  [If any reader has access to a copy of this documentary, please e-mail me.]

Aldo Buzzi passed away last October (2009) at age 99.  In Parliamo d’Altro he wrote:

“Quello che si prova a 95 anni è quello che si provava anni fa a 85. E quello che si proverà, fra un po’ d’anni, a 105″

“What we try to do at age 95, is what we tried to do at age 85, and what we will be trying to do, a few years later, at age 105.”

Along with a body of marvelous writing, a memorable lesson:  Success is no impediment to trying again.

Charade start-ups as Cargo Cults

cargo-cult

In Boston, its the Term Sheet

I’ve never been a fan of posts that are largely repost of writing done elsewhere, but in this case …

A post by Roman Stanek, on TechCrunch.  He’s talking about Europe, but in so many cases its about start-ups anywhere (including certainly Boston) where the desire to score big financially is the overriding — and often only — goal.  A real desire to deliver a great product or service usually has a better result.

“My problem with the European startup ecosystem is somewhere else. I actually believe that it bears some signs of a Cargo Cult. Here is the definition from Wikipedia:

A cargo cult is a type of religious practice that may appear in traditional tribal societies in the wake of interaction with technologically advanced, non-native cultures. The cults are focused on obtaining the material wealth of the advanced culture through magical thinking, religious rituals and practices, believing that the wealth was intended for them by their deities and ancestors.

The best known examples of Cargo Cults come from some Pacific islands during World War II. The American airfields and their personnel brought relative prosperity and modernity to the island people, but once the war was over the Americans took their planes and equipment and left. The local people wanted to bring the prosperity back but they did not understand the substance of why the Americans came there. They only saw the form. And so the locals crafted wooden headphones, lit fires to light up runways and tried to attract back the planes with canned food and other useful goods by emulating airfield traffic.

Something similar happens in the startup community in Europe these days. People start companies, write business plans, meet with investors, talk about term sheets and exits. But in reality most Europeans don’t actually understand the substance of the system—the business plans are wooden headphones and term sheets are fabricated control towers. Repeating the form of US-based startups without a real understanding of how much the deep and complex ecosystem of Silicon Valley contributes to the success of VC-funded US startups won’t bring prosperity to companies coming from Europe.”

Michael Jackson, Friday night, Boston’s Back Bay

This Friday night, the day after Michael Jackson died, I was waiting in front of Back Bay station for about a half hour. Enough cars passed playing Michael Jackson’s music — I can probably just call him “Michael” for the remainder of the article — that the survey of his music was uninterrupted. Many Boston radio stations were playing nothing else. At the park in front of the Copley mall, there is a loud and enthusiastic sing-along to to the sound-snippets driving by: Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough, The Girl Is Mine, Billie Jean, Beat It, and Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin, and Thriller. People are moonwalking and doing that vampire dance.

I’m waiting for Wesley Morris, a writer for the Boston Globe who has been at work very late writing a piece about Michael’s relationship to race for the Sunday paper. A lot of writers at the Globe are writing a lot of articles prompted by Michael death. There’s a lot to write. As we walk down Dartmouth street, we’re talking about his article. How does his transformation reflect his and others attitudes toward race? And some other issues I didn’t quite get.

From behind us, a young woman, who is white, has overheard part of our conversation and confronts us. “Well, it doesn’t matter if he’s black or white. That shouldn’t come into it.” I don’t know exactly what she’s responding to (because I’ve also been listening to I Want you Back playing from a passing car) but she’s upset. And she looking at us. And approaching. And continuing, “That’s all people want to talk about, is plastic surgery, and kids sleepover, and all that. And its just not right because he gave us so much.” Her date, it may even be a first date, is plainly embarrassed.

I’m struck — and so is Wesley — by how very wrong it is to think we are doing anything but celebrating Michael tonight. “It made me really mad how all the news clips are of child molestation case and all that.” Wesley is quickly commiserating. “I heard the news channels couldn’t get the rights to play music clips. So they keep playing those old child molestation court case clips.” “Oh yes, fair use, they can only play 12 seconds of the video,” I offer. I need to say something.

Her face becomes more incredulous and irritated. Now she’s glaring at me. “Are you a lawyer?” A lawyer who is disrespecting Michael Jackson — is there anything worse. “No,” I may be stammering at this point, “we work for … a media company.” “Oh really?!” This is really too much for her. Did we spend all day running child molestation clips? I continue, “the Boston Globe,” as in, not-the-tv-news. She softens a bit. “It such a tragedy,” I offer. And I mean it.

So many of us spent our adult years distancing ourselves from the man who was the soundtrack to our childhood and adolescence. He gave us our MTV after school, our summer vacations, our prom, our times with our lifelong friends, our weddings, our nostalgia, and still most Saturday nights. And we questioned him, we mocked him, we laughed meanly when the New York Post shouted “Wacko-Jacko”. All at once, we all somehow know this is our time to sing along stand up for him. Even her date felt the need to step up. “They’ll never be another talent like him.” She looked up at him, and away from us. I think he’ll do alright tonight.

I’m feeling — I think we all are — the power to forgive, to absolve, to celebrate.

Pho Republique was not playing Michael Jackson music. They were playing Bob Marley. Our waiter apologized almost immediately. “We’ve been playing Michael Jackson music all night, and I just started getting so sad because … well its so terrible what happened. This seemed like the right thing to play now.” Maybe we came in at just the right time, but as I was scanning the menu, it became clear our waiter is a prophet. Bob Marley is explaining:

Won’t you help to sing,
These songs of freedom,
Cause all I ever have,
Redemption songs
Redemption songs.

In the Back Bay, we’ve been singing them all night.