i'm at a cafe called "it's a grind". the more accurate name would be, "it's a mediocre cafe with baristas straight out of the wb and too-loud music and random black kids dancing outside on friday nights." maybe thats what they meant by "grind".
also notable at this cafe is me, about to do homework, except with a green headband on. yes, it's a fashion statement (probably saying, "i am gay or i work at urban outfitters") but it also serves a functional purpose. it keeps my ridiculously long hair out of my eyes, which is crucial in order for me to dominate this math econ homework.
dan just informed me that this is "like the third post about being in a cafe. good job." well to that i would say, the previous sentence was the third - nay - fourth use of quotation marks in this post alone. also, this is the third paragraph. this is the third time i've said third.
but yeah, about the wb-likeness of these girls at this cafe, right now working is a shift leader and a cashier girl. the cashier girl looks just like kristin kruek from smallville, except this girl is more friendly and outgoing, and not really mysterious. the shift is older, and she's like the oldest sister from charmed. i've never seen a full episode, but i imagine they have similar personalities, and they probably look the same. i guess i don't really fit into this wb thing b/c there are no asian males in the wb.
here comes kristin kruek! ok... time to study and look smart. buy!
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
the tallest man, the broadest shoulders
This is a secondhand account, which was suggested to me by the protagonist of the story. So note - I am not an obsessive homosexual, as some readers suspected.
When I walk around a big city with my friends, I admit that i take stock of their build, athleticism and fighting abilities. So, if you're a girl, your stock is very low, especially if you're hot. Being hot will increase chances of harassment or attention from crazies, something I'd like to avoid if at all possible. So, sorry my hot lady friends, we're going to have to hang out in the suburbs.
If you're a guy, you should be athletic and strong, because I am not. If someone random homeless guy tries to attack us, don't depend on me to do anything except run away (3 varsity track letters.... ok they were for pole vault).
or, you can be dave park.
Here is a picture of dave, who is comparably huge standing next to me.
Ladies, swoon. Men, swoon too. Let me tell you a story about dave, one that highlights his broad shoulders and validates his heroism in the face of danger.
He was on time, a little early even, walking from the subway to Clara Barton High School in the heart of Brooklyn. There, he teaches math, or tries to, amidst confessions of resignation from his disenfranchised students: "yo mista, you can't help people that don't wanna help theyselves." He trudges on, putting up on the board some algebra or geometry. Sometimes he'll come across a youth who, instead of completing the square, would rather "make you bleed duck sauce". He suspends such types. Not all of his students are violently resistant to math, though they do beg the question, "Man, what the F*ck is up wit dis chinese nigga?"
So there's dave's normal work day, which is today, friday, december 7th 2007. He's been teaching at Clara Barton for five months, life-coaching urban students who hurl insults, threats, duck sauce and racial epithets at him. That's what he had looking forward to his day as he walked from the subway to Clara Barton High school when he turned the corner, took a few steps down the street and glanced into the alley.
A few boys engaged in horseplay, he initially thought. Just messing around, like he used to do with kids at the tae kwon do lessons he taught years ago. He took another step towards Clara Barton, but his conscience tugged his gaze towards those boys for a second look. There was a black boy, in his late teens, on top of a younger latino boy, whose head was in the aforementioned boy's hands and was being pounded against the ground. A split-second moment seemed like an eternity, as the latino boy gasped for air, shouted for help and caught, just for a split second, the worried eyes of our hero dave. The black boy's hand fell down to his victim's pockets, searching violently for a cell phone, a wallet.
The defender of the weak, the protector of the poor, dave did not hesitate. Dropping his bag full of failed homework, he took a few powerful strides towards the mugging. the assailant wore a blue puffy jacket, big enough to conceal a knife or a gun. Dave grabbed the jacket, pulling the boy up to his feet, and threw him against the alley wall. "Don't Move!" bellowed our hero, in a rattling baritone that temporarily stunned the mugger. When Dave looked down to help the victim, the black boy took off running.
"Th..Thank you," stammered the latino boy. Latino man, really. He was an 18 year old custodian at the Brooklyn Museum, but that's all the information Dave got before the frightened boy/man ran away. So there he stood, our hero, gathering himself and the events that had just occurred.
Picking up his bag of homework, papers bleeding with red ink and mistakes, dave walked to school, taken aback by his own heroic instincts. The adrenaline began to fade and rational thoughts began to creep in: What if he had a knife? Or a gun? What if he'll remember me and come back, with bigger, stronger goons?
But if he does come back, Dave will be ready. Whether he knows it or not, displays of heroism spring from an inner light that never turns off. Moments like this are not exceptions, but definitions, so we can now see Dave for the hero he is.
Also, after this incident, Dave bought a gun, which he carries everywhere he goes. Yes, he'll be ready.
Ladies, Dave is single. Gentlemen, Dave has no guy friends either. Be his girlfriend, or just his friend, and you're guaranteed a strong, athletic chinese nigga when walking down the unpredictable New York streets.
And call me when you get to the suburbs.
(kidding about dave buying a gun, though i would if i were him.)
When I walk around a big city with my friends, I admit that i take stock of their build, athleticism and fighting abilities. So, if you're a girl, your stock is very low, especially if you're hot. Being hot will increase chances of harassment or attention from crazies, something I'd like to avoid if at all possible. So, sorry my hot lady friends, we're going to have to hang out in the suburbs.
If you're a guy, you should be athletic and strong, because I am not. If someone random homeless guy tries to attack us, don't depend on me to do anything except run away (3 varsity track letters.... ok they were for pole vault).
or, you can be dave park.
Here is a picture of dave, who is comparably huge standing next to me.Ladies, swoon. Men, swoon too. Let me tell you a story about dave, one that highlights his broad shoulders and validates his heroism in the face of danger.
He was on time, a little early even, walking from the subway to Clara Barton High School in the heart of Brooklyn. There, he teaches math, or tries to, amidst confessions of resignation from his disenfranchised students: "yo mista, you can't help people that don't wanna help theyselves." He trudges on, putting up on the board some algebra or geometry. Sometimes he'll come across a youth who, instead of completing the square, would rather "make you bleed duck sauce". He suspends such types. Not all of his students are violently resistant to math, though they do beg the question, "Man, what the F*ck is up wit dis chinese nigga?"
So there's dave's normal work day, which is today, friday, december 7th 2007. He's been teaching at Clara Barton for five months, life-coaching urban students who hurl insults, threats, duck sauce and racial epithets at him. That's what he had looking forward to his day as he walked from the subway to Clara Barton High school when he turned the corner, took a few steps down the street and glanced into the alley.
A few boys engaged in horseplay, he initially thought. Just messing around, like he used to do with kids at the tae kwon do lessons he taught years ago. He took another step towards Clara Barton, but his conscience tugged his gaze towards those boys for a second look. There was a black boy, in his late teens, on top of a younger latino boy, whose head was in the aforementioned boy's hands and was being pounded against the ground. A split-second moment seemed like an eternity, as the latino boy gasped for air, shouted for help and caught, just for a split second, the worried eyes of our hero dave. The black boy's hand fell down to his victim's pockets, searching violently for a cell phone, a wallet.
The defender of the weak, the protector of the poor, dave did not hesitate. Dropping his bag full of failed homework, he took a few powerful strides towards the mugging. the assailant wore a blue puffy jacket, big enough to conceal a knife or a gun. Dave grabbed the jacket, pulling the boy up to his feet, and threw him against the alley wall. "Don't Move!" bellowed our hero, in a rattling baritone that temporarily stunned the mugger. When Dave looked down to help the victim, the black boy took off running.
"Th..Thank you," stammered the latino boy. Latino man, really. He was an 18 year old custodian at the Brooklyn Museum, but that's all the information Dave got before the frightened boy/man ran away. So there he stood, our hero, gathering himself and the events that had just occurred.
Picking up his bag of homework, papers bleeding with red ink and mistakes, dave walked to school, taken aback by his own heroic instincts. The adrenaline began to fade and rational thoughts began to creep in: What if he had a knife? Or a gun? What if he'll remember me and come back, with bigger, stronger goons?
But if he does come back, Dave will be ready. Whether he knows it or not, displays of heroism spring from an inner light that never turns off. Moments like this are not exceptions, but definitions, so we can now see Dave for the hero he is.
Also, after this incident, Dave bought a gun, which he carries everywhere he goes. Yes, he'll be ready.
Ladies, Dave is single. Gentlemen, Dave has no guy friends either. Be his girlfriend, or just his friend, and you're guaranteed a strong, athletic chinese nigga when walking down the unpredictable New York streets.
And call me when you get to the suburbs.
(kidding about dave buying a gun, though i would if i were him.)
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
i <3 showers
there's freedom in the routine, in being able to maneuver the turns and obstacles, knowing what to expect, what to avoid, when to hide or when to appear. maybe freedom is the wrong word.
i take a shower and after 10, 20, 30 minutes, sometimes i'll forget to shampoo my hair. sometimes i'll shampoo twice because i forgot i'd already done it. i'll step out of the shower and realize i hadn't put on any soap. once, when i started drying off, i heard the pop-pop of shampoo still cleaning my hair - i'd forgotten to rinse it off. i'm not being absent-minded. when i get in the shower, when the water turns on and rushes through the pipes and out the shower head, when it hits the ground like a jar of coins spilled onto the floor, except over and over again in a constant blur, something in my mind turns on that allows me to finally think. i get engrossed in these thoughts, which become as clear as day, or as obscure as night, or as trite as these long long sentences, and so inevitably the utility of the shower becomes the thought and not the shampoo or soap or whatever it is i forget to apply. cuz finally i'm free to think. it's the freedom of knowing that there's nowhere else to be but there, and nothing else to do but stand in heat. not that those things are bad, being places, doing things. but when i step into the shower, all of my expectations are met.
here in this cafe, i could always be doing more. i could be studying more, socializing more, being more perceptive or more introspective or more anything. i could be at home, at school, in bed, in a gym, in the shower, anywhere else but here. the freedom of choice is a bit too much, because i could be doing everything, yet i'm only doing this: typing, listening to music, drinking coffee. i'm doing those three things. i'm not doing everything else.
when someone asks me how i'm doing, i tell them. when someone asks me what i did that day, i tell them. i work well with these kinds of questions, ones that have answers. i work well with schedules that i can bend and shape, that i can maneuver and change. but this kind of freedom, the empty kind, is too much, the freedom to be nowhere at once, compared to the sad finite of here.
madvillian take me home. literally, home, not something more dramatic. the workers here have been staring at me for the past 15 minutes waiting for me to leave. adioz.
i take a shower and after 10, 20, 30 minutes, sometimes i'll forget to shampoo my hair. sometimes i'll shampoo twice because i forgot i'd already done it. i'll step out of the shower and realize i hadn't put on any soap. once, when i started drying off, i heard the pop-pop of shampoo still cleaning my hair - i'd forgotten to rinse it off. i'm not being absent-minded. when i get in the shower, when the water turns on and rushes through the pipes and out the shower head, when it hits the ground like a jar of coins spilled onto the floor, except over and over again in a constant blur, something in my mind turns on that allows me to finally think. i get engrossed in these thoughts, which become as clear as day, or as obscure as night, or as trite as these long long sentences, and so inevitably the utility of the shower becomes the thought and not the shampoo or soap or whatever it is i forget to apply. cuz finally i'm free to think. it's the freedom of knowing that there's nowhere else to be but there, and nothing else to do but stand in heat. not that those things are bad, being places, doing things. but when i step into the shower, all of my expectations are met.
here in this cafe, i could always be doing more. i could be studying more, socializing more, being more perceptive or more introspective or more anything. i could be at home, at school, in bed, in a gym, in the shower, anywhere else but here. the freedom of choice is a bit too much, because i could be doing everything, yet i'm only doing this: typing, listening to music, drinking coffee. i'm doing those three things. i'm not doing everything else.
when someone asks me how i'm doing, i tell them. when someone asks me what i did that day, i tell them. i work well with these kinds of questions, ones that have answers. i work well with schedules that i can bend and shape, that i can maneuver and change. but this kind of freedom, the empty kind, is too much, the freedom to be nowhere at once, compared to the sad finite of here.
madvillian take me home. literally, home, not something more dramatic. the workers here have been staring at me for the past 15 minutes waiting for me to leave. adioz.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Creeping
I don't mean to look, and for the past few minutes I've been trying to keep my eyes on this screen and nothing else. But I have to look. My gaze is somehow magnetized to this pole, and it's unfortunate that someone's noticed.
I snagged a good seat at a busy cafe in Davis and I haven't moved for several hours. I had worked productively for several of those several hours but the weariness of research had combined with my hyperactivity from three cups of caffeine. Not wanting to lose this prime seat, I resorted to people-watching as a sort of release. It's not just sitting here judging people. Sometimes, I can find an ethereal connection with an unaware stranger, some memory from my past or future. An asian man, looking for the bathroom key. How many times have I been him, and how many more until I'm his age? Some arabic students, friends who clamor and discuss this or that with fluid aspirations. Without the arabic, I've been them before, at a Starbucks in Cleveland, at Choco Latte, with Fred, with Prisca.
But as it goes, the inevitable cute girl had to take the nearest seat to the table directly across me. She was small, asian, probably a church-goer if one could make such a distinction. Nothing about her was particularly alluring, but her movements held a kind of self-consciousness that certain minorities have. She probably sees it as a weakness to overcome, but I like it. That table became base for my eyes, a place from where I dare not stray, lest I be captured or tagged. She's still sitting there, her profile facing towards a middle-aged woman on a computer, who is facing me. People at that table keep moving, directing my attention to them and to then her. When a guy next to the computer woman stood up, I quickly glanced at him and automatically at cute girl, and I felt two immediate eyes look up in my direction. The fastidious computer woman caught me creeping, and my reaction plead my guilt; I quickly affixed my eyes to my screen.
I want to take a break from all this, the watching, the watched, but my only other option is impossible. I brought along a book in case I get bored, a suggestion from my brother. Unfortunately, the title "Lolita" is imprinted bold on the cover, along with a pair of giant nymphet lips. For someone accused of creeping, busting out the most historically creepy book would further confirm the accusation. This especially because I think computer woman still has her eye on me.
So instead I blog. And not even in a blog, but in TextEdit, in tiny font in case someone's trying to look on. Do I hate myself? No, not at all. In fact, I'm priding myself on a recent mix I made. I got 60/60 on my last math exam. I am wearing my cowboy shirt.
I have many positive qualities that outweigh my creepiness in this moment, which, to my conscience, is important in getting a good night's rest tonight. And if I don't, God, let it be the three cups of caffeine.
I snagged a good seat at a busy cafe in Davis and I haven't moved for several hours. I had worked productively for several of those several hours but the weariness of research had combined with my hyperactivity from three cups of caffeine. Not wanting to lose this prime seat, I resorted to people-watching as a sort of release. It's not just sitting here judging people. Sometimes, I can find an ethereal connection with an unaware stranger, some memory from my past or future. An asian man, looking for the bathroom key. How many times have I been him, and how many more until I'm his age? Some arabic students, friends who clamor and discuss this or that with fluid aspirations. Without the arabic, I've been them before, at a Starbucks in Cleveland, at Choco Latte, with Fred, with Prisca.
But as it goes, the inevitable cute girl had to take the nearest seat to the table directly across me. She was small, asian, probably a church-goer if one could make such a distinction. Nothing about her was particularly alluring, but her movements held a kind of self-consciousness that certain minorities have. She probably sees it as a weakness to overcome, but I like it. That table became base for my eyes, a place from where I dare not stray, lest I be captured or tagged. She's still sitting there, her profile facing towards a middle-aged woman on a computer, who is facing me. People at that table keep moving, directing my attention to them and to then her. When a guy next to the computer woman stood up, I quickly glanced at him and automatically at cute girl, and I felt two immediate eyes look up in my direction. The fastidious computer woman caught me creeping, and my reaction plead my guilt; I quickly affixed my eyes to my screen.
I want to take a break from all this, the watching, the watched, but my only other option is impossible. I brought along a book in case I get bored, a suggestion from my brother. Unfortunately, the title "Lolita" is imprinted bold on the cover, along with a pair of giant nymphet lips. For someone accused of creeping, busting out the most historically creepy book would further confirm the accusation. This especially because I think computer woman still has her eye on me.
So instead I blog. And not even in a blog, but in TextEdit, in tiny font in case someone's trying to look on. Do I hate myself? No, not at all. In fact, I'm priding myself on a recent mix I made. I got 60/60 on my last math exam. I am wearing my cowboy shirt.
I have many positive qualities that outweigh my creepiness in this moment, which, to my conscience, is important in getting a good night's rest tonight. And if I don't, God, let it be the three cups of caffeine.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
wheat
The trade of wheat globally is pretty complicated, as it is for all commodities. But I'm exploring wheat, specifically durum wheat, as a tradable commodity for my international agricultural trade and policy class. So far I've found out that I don't know how to interpret data. I feel like I'm learning a lot, but someone who's better with data would probably be able to see some significance in the numbers, whereas I don't. That was really boring to write and even more boring to reread.
Something about international trade is really interesting to me, but I'm having a hard time really pinpointing it, especially since I suck at trade theory. I think I like it because of the irony. People that are into development seem to lean towards protectionism, a good handful of them at least. They vilify the United States (even though the EU is a bigger culprit) as the protector of the bad guys, subsidizing giant multi-national corporations in order to further their interests. It's such a story-book picture, and for people looking to pick sides, the argument seems obvious. The US protects their economies, currently and historically, so country X should be able to do the same. Level the playing field, they say.**
Here in America, in small towns built around a single commodity, the mood is strikingly similar to that of the bleeding heart development advocate. Farmers can't compete with cheap labor across our borders, and it's our government's job to protect us. Like the Brazilian orange farmer, we've been farming oranges for generations. So why should you give some Brazilian a break, when you can help out your own people? Raise the tariffs and represent your people well, Senator. Protect the well-being of your constituents.
Both views are two sides of a bigger story, which has way more than just two sides. These views are ironic because they're so short-sighted, and they lead to protectionism, which if there is a "solution" is not that. It's like a game in which we're stuck in an equilibrium with no incentive to move. That is, unless there are bold and informed decision makers that can arbitrage a different equilibrium. I guess that's what Doha was all about. I find irony in people's negative reactions against the WTO. Doha was supposed to be a stage for arbitrage, where the influence of Florida citrus farmers would equal that of the Mexican sugar farmer. Still here, there are bad guys (the EU, the US) and good guys (the G20), a the classic showdown in Cancun, and further talks that might lead to some dramatic end (the WTO disintegrating). I remember reading last winter about how slowly things were progressing in Hong Kong after the last ministerial conference. It was disappointing to see how frustrating the negotiations were, and how they couldn't come to an agreement.
But who else will plead the case of the African rice farmers, besides the Seattle protesters and Oxfam (which is not an economic research group, and has an agenda on a lot of their "research")? Well, hopefully, it's the WTO, the Cairns group, and the G20. Cairns and the G20, in short, are groups representing several nations that mean to stand up against the implicit one-sidedness of WTO agreements, which are usually spearheaded by the big nations. The Agreement on Agriculture as a system is pretty complex, and to battle one aspect of it will just open up an opportunity for protectionism elsewhere. One might say that the G20 is fighting a meaningless battle, but I think they at least have the means to do it, and the influence to demand true liberalization and free trade.
I mentioned in response to a post recently about international trade that our individual decisions don't really make a difference. What I was thinking about was this: The US marks up domestic sugar through tariffs over 100%. That means we're paying more than twice as much for US sugar, and we don't have access to cheaper foreign sugar. So what the heck is an individual consumer supposed to do about that? Nothing, except complain, or move to Mexico... That is, until next year, when we've committed to opening up to Mexican sugar. We'll see how that fares. Not like anyone really notices.
Japan imports rice exclusively from a few American rice corporations. The Japanese people don't see that rice in their supermarkets; the rice is for cattle and sake. So Japanese cattle farmers get cheaper rice and make more profit on the margin because of it. Japanese consumers still buy expensive Japanese rice. Japan has seemingly liberalized their markets since they've "opened up" trade for rice, but not really. And what is an informed American or Japanese citizen supposed to do about it? Again, complain, move, or work within the system to change the policy.
Maybe if everyone realized they were paying twice as much for sugar, or that a few guys in suits are making bank with their exclusive trading rights to Japan, we'd be able to influence our congress to do something about it. But people just don't care enough, and the ones that do are fooled by a two-dimensional fairy tale about good guys and bad guys that leads to protectionism.
In what I've described so far, I haven't even talked about the play between domestic industries, the conflict over GM crops, or ethanol/biofuels, let alone really delve into the intricacy of the WTO, trade litigation and trade theory. Pretty much, I don't know anything, this is all too complicated for me, and I have no idea how to talk about the world market for wheat since everything is all messed up. If only the WTO would come to my rescue and make it simple. If that could be done before December 10th when my paper is due, that would be awesome.
** The reason why this view is short-sighted is because, on average, developing nations' tariff rates are a lot higher than developed nations' rates. So in the realm of international trade, it's the developed nations who want the playing field leveled. If the government of some small African nation brings up "fair trade", the US would counterpoint with the numerous markets to which the African country has access. That might not seem fair, but the point is that the fair trade argument would actually hurt a small nation. If they put up barriers, the US (and every other nation) would probably put up theirs. If the point is to improve GDP, removing trade is counterproductive.
Oftentimes, people bring up the infant-industry argument, which intuitively is appealing, but realistically falls apart. The appeal is clear: Industries that show promise, but need time to be able to compete with the world market, should be protected. However, neither trade theory nor historical evidence supports the infant-industry argument. Latin-American nations thought they ought to protect their manufacturing industries, according to the research done by Prebisch and Singer. In short, it was a disaster. GDP did not grow. Markets didn't flourish. Their manufacturing industries never took off and labor and capital were misplaced within their markets. How is a government to know which industry will flourish? How will that industry fare if other nations restrict access in retaliation to the protection? How could that industry prevent from relying on that protection and building it into their business models?
Arguments for this kind of protectionism oftentimes point to Japan, how they protected their auto industry. Who's to say they didn't do so to make more profit, and not because the industries truly needed it? Who's to say they wouldn't have recouped early losses with the gains from free trade, specifically the wider market access? Trade theory forces these questions, which then brings to light the possibility that their auto industry would have flourished anyway.
Something about international trade is really interesting to me, but I'm having a hard time really pinpointing it, especially since I suck at trade theory. I think I like it because of the irony. People that are into development seem to lean towards protectionism, a good handful of them at least. They vilify the United States (even though the EU is a bigger culprit) as the protector of the bad guys, subsidizing giant multi-national corporations in order to further their interests. It's such a story-book picture, and for people looking to pick sides, the argument seems obvious. The US protects their economies, currently and historically, so country X should be able to do the same. Level the playing field, they say.**
Here in America, in small towns built around a single commodity, the mood is strikingly similar to that of the bleeding heart development advocate. Farmers can't compete with cheap labor across our borders, and it's our government's job to protect us. Like the Brazilian orange farmer, we've been farming oranges for generations. So why should you give some Brazilian a break, when you can help out your own people? Raise the tariffs and represent your people well, Senator. Protect the well-being of your constituents.
Both views are two sides of a bigger story, which has way more than just two sides. These views are ironic because they're so short-sighted, and they lead to protectionism, which if there is a "solution" is not that. It's like a game in which we're stuck in an equilibrium with no incentive to move. That is, unless there are bold and informed decision makers that can arbitrage a different equilibrium. I guess that's what Doha was all about. I find irony in people's negative reactions against the WTO. Doha was supposed to be a stage for arbitrage, where the influence of Florida citrus farmers would equal that of the Mexican sugar farmer. Still here, there are bad guys (the EU, the US) and good guys (the G20), a the classic showdown in Cancun, and further talks that might lead to some dramatic end (the WTO disintegrating). I remember reading last winter about how slowly things were progressing in Hong Kong after the last ministerial conference. It was disappointing to see how frustrating the negotiations were, and how they couldn't come to an agreement.
But who else will plead the case of the African rice farmers, besides the Seattle protesters and Oxfam (which is not an economic research group, and has an agenda on a lot of their "research")? Well, hopefully, it's the WTO, the Cairns group, and the G20. Cairns and the G20, in short, are groups representing several nations that mean to stand up against the implicit one-sidedness of WTO agreements, which are usually spearheaded by the big nations. The Agreement on Agriculture as a system is pretty complex, and to battle one aspect of it will just open up an opportunity for protectionism elsewhere. One might say that the G20 is fighting a meaningless battle, but I think they at least have the means to do it, and the influence to demand true liberalization and free trade.
I mentioned in response to a post recently about international trade that our individual decisions don't really make a difference. What I was thinking about was this: The US marks up domestic sugar through tariffs over 100%. That means we're paying more than twice as much for US sugar, and we don't have access to cheaper foreign sugar. So what the heck is an individual consumer supposed to do about that? Nothing, except complain, or move to Mexico... That is, until next year, when we've committed to opening up to Mexican sugar. We'll see how that fares. Not like anyone really notices.
Japan imports rice exclusively from a few American rice corporations. The Japanese people don't see that rice in their supermarkets; the rice is for cattle and sake. So Japanese cattle farmers get cheaper rice and make more profit on the margin because of it. Japanese consumers still buy expensive Japanese rice. Japan has seemingly liberalized their markets since they've "opened up" trade for rice, but not really. And what is an informed American or Japanese citizen supposed to do about it? Again, complain, move, or work within the system to change the policy.
Maybe if everyone realized they were paying twice as much for sugar, or that a few guys in suits are making bank with their exclusive trading rights to Japan, we'd be able to influence our congress to do something about it. But people just don't care enough, and the ones that do are fooled by a two-dimensional fairy tale about good guys and bad guys that leads to protectionism.
In what I've described so far, I haven't even talked about the play between domestic industries, the conflict over GM crops, or ethanol/biofuels, let alone really delve into the intricacy of the WTO, trade litigation and trade theory. Pretty much, I don't know anything, this is all too complicated for me, and I have no idea how to talk about the world market for wheat since everything is all messed up. If only the WTO would come to my rescue and make it simple. If that could be done before December 10th when my paper is due, that would be awesome.
** The reason why this view is short-sighted is because, on average, developing nations' tariff rates are a lot higher than developed nations' rates. So in the realm of international trade, it's the developed nations who want the playing field leveled. If the government of some small African nation brings up "fair trade", the US would counterpoint with the numerous markets to which the African country has access. That might not seem fair, but the point is that the fair trade argument would actually hurt a small nation. If they put up barriers, the US (and every other nation) would probably put up theirs. If the point is to improve GDP, removing trade is counterproductive.
Oftentimes, people bring up the infant-industry argument, which intuitively is appealing, but realistically falls apart. The appeal is clear: Industries that show promise, but need time to be able to compete with the world market, should be protected. However, neither trade theory nor historical evidence supports the infant-industry argument. Latin-American nations thought they ought to protect their manufacturing industries, according to the research done by Prebisch and Singer. In short, it was a disaster. GDP did not grow. Markets didn't flourish. Their manufacturing industries never took off and labor and capital were misplaced within their markets. How is a government to know which industry will flourish? How will that industry fare if other nations restrict access in retaliation to the protection? How could that industry prevent from relying on that protection and building it into their business models?
Arguments for this kind of protectionism oftentimes point to Japan, how they protected their auto industry. Who's to say they didn't do so to make more profit, and not because the industries truly needed it? Who's to say they wouldn't have recouped early losses with the gains from free trade, specifically the wider market access? Trade theory forces these questions, which then brings to light the possibility that their auto industry would have flourished anyway.
Monday, November 19, 2007
omg..
................
................
................
i've just made the greatest mix in the world.
................
maybe i'll talk about it one day. here it is:
1) New Order - Ceremony (i took this song off the last mix and replaced it with a ted leo song.)
2) Pedro The Lion - Indian Summer
3) Radiohead - Reckoner
4) AmAnSet - Continuous Hit Music [lofi]
5) TV on the Radio - Dirty Whirlwind
6) Badly Drawn Boy - Cause A Rockslide [edit]
7) Joy Division - Love Will Tear Us Apart
8) No Age - Everybody's Down
9) Yo La Tengo - Sugarcube
10) The Arcade Fire - Neighborhood #2 (Laika)
11) Sufjan Stevens - Sister
12) The Notwist - Consequence
13) Deerhunter - Hazel St.
14) LCD Soundsystem - All My Friends
............. if only these track-listings could convey the awesomeness... let me know if you want one. if you do, i need ur address. email me at chris.rue@gmail.com.
................
................
i've just made the greatest mix in the world.
................
maybe i'll talk about it one day. here it is:
1) New Order - Ceremony (i took this song off the last mix and replaced it with a ted leo song.)
2) Pedro The Lion - Indian Summer
3) Radiohead - Reckoner
4) AmAnSet - Continuous Hit Music [lofi]
5) TV on the Radio - Dirty Whirlwind
6) Badly Drawn Boy - Cause A Rockslide [edit]
7) Joy Division - Love Will Tear Us Apart
8) No Age - Everybody's Down
9) Yo La Tengo - Sugarcube
10) The Arcade Fire - Neighborhood #2 (Laika)
11) Sufjan Stevens - Sister
12) The Notwist - Consequence
13) Deerhunter - Hazel St.
14) LCD Soundsystem - All My Friends
............. if only these track-listings could convey the awesomeness... let me know if you want one. if you do, i need ur address. email me at chris.rue@gmail.com.
Monday, November 12, 2007
No Age, Weirdo Rippers
Maybe it's that i've been listening to joy division, but No Age sounds like, well, joy division. or at least they want to. the freshness of exploration landed joy division in a place they didn't realize they were in, whereas the kids that are No Age stand firmly in this information age, knowing that no matter how far they escape they're still here. They still use the internet. They have mp3s. I can't help but hear someone else in them, even if they won't admit it. They're a replica of an 80s post punk band. A fine replica.
Well. Okay. They don't sound like joy division, really. I made most of that first paragraph up. But the idea's the same. Rock died somewhere at the turn of the century. Bands like No Age do what they can to revive it, but it's just a time cycle. They sprout, they grow, and then they die, not before pollinating the ground for others to do the same. And the same they become, growing, dying, finding that the counterculture is no longer interested in being anti. instead, it is more inter, obstinately defending the power of we, against all powers and politics and religions. So these rock bands that eventually die spring forth new ones that die, and so on and so forth. There's no forward movement, just a circle. Rock is a ferris wheel, frightening for the little ones and nostalgic for everyone else. We enjoy it as much as we can, and it reminds us that it's okay to ask, to ourselves or to the Man, who the f cares? I want to go on this ferris wheel, no matter how clearly I've overgrown it. Well. As great as that self-freedom is, we have families. We have friends. We have a world to which we are accountable, people, nations, animals and plants. We're not ticking time bombs set to explode at any moment, fragile, dangerous. Not caring isn't cool anymore. It's appreciated as much as fundamental religion. You're free to not care, but don't start imposing that view on me, or anyone else. Keep your rock to yourself.
Maybe there's still room to not care. There's still a pocket of air that's safe to abuse. A messed up family or something. Living off food stamps and getting beat up by gang members. I don't know what it is. Immediate problems need to be more glaring and important than, say, problems in the Darfur or the US Farm Bill. And that's not hard to achieve, since the injustices closer in physical and, more importantly, emotional proximity to us appear bigger than they really are. So look at that kid in the suburbs who happens to hate life. He hates his parents, his school and himself. The Darfur? He hates that too. Burma? He is the monk, beaten by some societal force that tells him he sucks. The state of the world doesn't urge him to get over himself, but instead reaffirms his need to screw it all. He picks up a guitar. He turns up his amp. He finds refuge in the noise, a kind of demon that whispers in his ear, through the distortion and noise, that nothing matters. So he makes a song that says, lyrically and musically, nothing matters. And it rings true to a generation. The problem is, that generation has long gone. We're not so angry anymore.
Or maybe it's not anger, just a sort of self-obsession. America's not short on that. In fact, nobody is. Some cultures may appear more community centered, but I think there are selfish bastards everywhere. I get the point though, that America is especially self-obsessed. Since we have the means, we go to amazing lengths to preserve ourselves. It rings at least a little bit true for rich people everywhere, but the 21st century America is a hotbed for such people. The reaction against such obsession is just more of the same. It's the idiot protesters who trashed all the Starbucks cafes in Seattle. It's the World Social Forum. It's No Age. It's a big F you to any teenager who hangs out at shopping malls, plays on the football team or sips five dollar mochaccinos. It doesn't care about others' feelings, or the fact that they're no better for seeing the phoniness and not doing anything about it other than complaining. It doesn't care about the Darfur. They don't call themselves monks.
So what's No Age's tragedy? If I could hear an intelligible lyric I'd be able to say. But since I can't, I'll just have to say, suburban teenage angst, drug use, and no babes.
The spirit of angst that makes such music, while debatably dead, does indeed make awesome music. So hey. No Age rocks. And they don't overstep their artistry; each song is short and to the point. They still wail a big f you to the Man, even if that's no longer our anthem. Should they mature, they'd lose whatever freshness they have. If they can become more themselves, more focused, more ridiculous, then maybe they'll be great. It might not be a healthy path into themselves, but it will be enjoyable for listeners until the next cool band sprouts from underneath them. But here in the year 2007, with Sufjan selling out baroque orchestra shows in NYC, maybe we won't even care. Talk about underground.
Well. Okay. They don't sound like joy division, really. I made most of that first paragraph up. But the idea's the same. Rock died somewhere at the turn of the century. Bands like No Age do what they can to revive it, but it's just a time cycle. They sprout, they grow, and then they die, not before pollinating the ground for others to do the same. And the same they become, growing, dying, finding that the counterculture is no longer interested in being anti. instead, it is more inter, obstinately defending the power of we, against all powers and politics and religions. So these rock bands that eventually die spring forth new ones that die, and so on and so forth. There's no forward movement, just a circle. Rock is a ferris wheel, frightening for the little ones and nostalgic for everyone else. We enjoy it as much as we can, and it reminds us that it's okay to ask, to ourselves or to the Man, who the f cares? I want to go on this ferris wheel, no matter how clearly I've overgrown it. Well. As great as that self-freedom is, we have families. We have friends. We have a world to which we are accountable, people, nations, animals and plants. We're not ticking time bombs set to explode at any moment, fragile, dangerous. Not caring isn't cool anymore. It's appreciated as much as fundamental religion. You're free to not care, but don't start imposing that view on me, or anyone else. Keep your rock to yourself.
Maybe there's still room to not care. There's still a pocket of air that's safe to abuse. A messed up family or something. Living off food stamps and getting beat up by gang members. I don't know what it is. Immediate problems need to be more glaring and important than, say, problems in the Darfur or the US Farm Bill. And that's not hard to achieve, since the injustices closer in physical and, more importantly, emotional proximity to us appear bigger than they really are. So look at that kid in the suburbs who happens to hate life. He hates his parents, his school and himself. The Darfur? He hates that too. Burma? He is the monk, beaten by some societal force that tells him he sucks. The state of the world doesn't urge him to get over himself, but instead reaffirms his need to screw it all. He picks up a guitar. He turns up his amp. He finds refuge in the noise, a kind of demon that whispers in his ear, through the distortion and noise, that nothing matters. So he makes a song that says, lyrically and musically, nothing matters. And it rings true to a generation. The problem is, that generation has long gone. We're not so angry anymore.
Or maybe it's not anger, just a sort of self-obsession. America's not short on that. In fact, nobody is. Some cultures may appear more community centered, but I think there are selfish bastards everywhere. I get the point though, that America is especially self-obsessed. Since we have the means, we go to amazing lengths to preserve ourselves. It rings at least a little bit true for rich people everywhere, but the 21st century America is a hotbed for such people. The reaction against such obsession is just more of the same. It's the idiot protesters who trashed all the Starbucks cafes in Seattle. It's the World Social Forum. It's No Age. It's a big F you to any teenager who hangs out at shopping malls, plays on the football team or sips five dollar mochaccinos. It doesn't care about others' feelings, or the fact that they're no better for seeing the phoniness and not doing anything about it other than complaining. It doesn't care about the Darfur. They don't call themselves monks.
So what's No Age's tragedy? If I could hear an intelligible lyric I'd be able to say. But since I can't, I'll just have to say, suburban teenage angst, drug use, and no babes.
The spirit of angst that makes such music, while debatably dead, does indeed make awesome music. So hey. No Age rocks. And they don't overstep their artistry; each song is short and to the point. They still wail a big f you to the Man, even if that's no longer our anthem. Should they mature, they'd lose whatever freshness they have. If they can become more themselves, more focused, more ridiculous, then maybe they'll be great. It might not be a healthy path into themselves, but it will be enjoyable for listeners until the next cool band sprouts from underneath them. But here in the year 2007, with Sufjan selling out baroque orchestra shows in NYC, maybe we won't even care. Talk about underground.
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