Take one part pointless activity, a dash of sarcastic and biting judging, several bottles of proud sponsor, Cuervo Black, and a sprinkling of heavy metal classics. What do you have? A night of manic , hysterical amusement. Who needs the Olympics?
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Air Guitar
Take one part pointless activity, a dash of sarcastic and biting judging, several bottles of proud sponsor, Cuervo Black, and a sprinkling of heavy metal classics. What do you have? A night of manic , hysterical amusement. Who needs the Olympics?
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The $10 Blueberry
For a town that prides itself on intellectual curiosity and carries itself with an air of superiority, sometimes I really have to wonder about San Francisco and the people in it. Are we as smart as we think we are or do we just have hyper inflated egos? Do we wake up in the morning and put on compassion like it's an accessory?
A few weeks ago, a Farmer's Market opened in my neighborhood. The neighborhood association announced the grand debut with a twinkle in their eye, so proud that they were able to get Nopa on the farmer's map. On my way home from watching the SF Marathon this morning, I finally got the chance to peruse the market, on the corner of Grove and Divisadero. It's a small little gathering, about 1/2 block long with a modest assortment of vegetable stands, bakers, flowers, and various other non-farmed delectables.
I made my way up the street, hoping to fill my fridge with a cornucopia of local, organic produce for the week. Instead, I walked away empty-handed and empty-hearted. The farmer's market has lost it's soul, it seems, and has become yet another example of price gouging that we all seem willing to passively accept as part of the price we pay to live in this fabulous urban jungle. But when we have the same feeling at the Farmer's Market that we have at the gas pump, I have to think that something is most definitely wrong.
Exhibit A:
"Certified California" is now a classification. Marketing crap 101: use the word "certified" to elevate the status of an otherwise non-pretentious object. Are we taking the Foster's Chicken commercial a little too far here? Are those pesky Oregonians and Nevadans masquerading their produce as Californian because they can charge more here? Obviously, this is a serious epidemic and must be regulated.
Exhibit B:
$7 for "Mountain Grown" blueberries. This is like paying extra for fish that comes from water. Words cannot describe how it feels to realize that I am being targeted as an idiot savant who might not know that blueberries are a) from mountains and b) grown. They must have seen me drive up on the short bus.
Exhibit C:
An extra $3 for the artificial flavoring on an almond. Tip for you shoppers: you can get the same crap at Trader Joe's for 1/4 the price. Try the Wasabi flavored almonds. Delish.
While there was a bumper crop of BS, what I didn't find much of at this Farmer's Market was the word "organic". It was strikingly absent and in it's place were a smattering of dazed shopper wandering around asking the vendors, "is your produce organic?". The dream is still alive, you see.
But there seems to be a complex array of forces working hard to destroy this dream. Do we care more about the cache of what a Farmer's Market implies than whether it's actually done right? And since when did farming become a marketing playground where consumers are dodging meaningless labels and fruitlessly searching for substance and truth? I want to believe in the dream, but I'm most certainly not paying $7 for a pint of it, even if it is mountain grown.
And here's the final proof that this Farmer's Market has lost it's authenticity. No hippies.
A few weeks ago, a Farmer's Market opened in my neighborhood. The neighborhood association announced the grand debut with a twinkle in their eye, so proud that they were able to get Nopa on the farmer's map. On my way home from watching the SF Marathon this morning, I finally got the chance to peruse the market, on the corner of Grove and Divisadero. It's a small little gathering, about 1/2 block long with a modest assortment of vegetable stands, bakers, flowers, and various other non-farmed delectables.
I made my way up the street, hoping to fill my fridge with a cornucopia of local, organic produce for the week. Instead, I walked away empty-handed and empty-hearted. The farmer's market has lost it's soul, it seems, and has become yet another example of price gouging that we all seem willing to passively accept as part of the price we pay to live in this fabulous urban jungle. But when we have the same feeling at the Farmer's Market that we have at the gas pump, I have to think that something is most definitely wrong.
Exhibit A:
"Certified California" is now a classification. Marketing crap 101: use the word "certified" to elevate the status of an otherwise non-pretentious object. Are we taking the Foster's Chicken commercial a little too far here? Are those pesky Oregonians and Nevadans masquerading their produce as Californian because they can charge more here? Obviously, this is a serious epidemic and must be regulated.
Exhibit B:
$7 for "Mountain Grown" blueberries. This is like paying extra for fish that comes from water. Words cannot describe how it feels to realize that I am being targeted as an idiot savant who might not know that blueberries are a) from mountains and b) grown. They must have seen me drive up on the short bus.
Exhibit C:
An extra $3 for the artificial flavoring on an almond. Tip for you shoppers: you can get the same crap at Trader Joe's for 1/4 the price. Try the Wasabi flavored almonds. Delish.
While there was a bumper crop of BS, what I didn't find much of at this Farmer's Market was the word "organic". It was strikingly absent and in it's place were a smattering of dazed shopper wandering around asking the vendors, "is your produce organic?". The dream is still alive, you see.
But there seems to be a complex array of forces working hard to destroy this dream. Do we care more about the cache of what a Farmer's Market implies than whether it's actually done right? And since when did farming become a marketing playground where consumers are dodging meaningless labels and fruitlessly searching for substance and truth? I want to believe in the dream, but I'm most certainly not paying $7 for a pint of it, even if it is mountain grown.
And here's the final proof that this Farmer's Market has lost it's authenticity. No hippies.
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