Simpson's Paradox

Professional connections have taken me to lunch at a trendy midtown restaurant, where one of the artistically-styled small plates cost the same as an outfit. One of my outfits, at least, which I’m rapidly realizing is not quite up to a Manhattan meeting where multi-million dollar deals are being tossed around. I had no idea one could be under-dressed for lunch!

When I consider my outfit, I think of boiling water in Yantai for my speed shampoo, soaping and bucket-rinse, I think of tying a scarf over my hair in a Mongolian dust storm, and then I hope that my jeans and t-shirt is charming and unpretentious and appropriate for a creative, and not a total faux pas.

The restaurant is so fashionable that they’ve deconstructed soup, making the serving a two-person job, where one waiter places graceful porcelain bowls of streamed mini veggies and fresh handmade pasta, and a second waitress pours boiling broth from a graceful porcelain jug. At this point, the lunch’s host is making a particularly forceful point about some losers in Silicon Valley who just aren’t visionaries, and bumps the soup-waitress’s arm, spilling a few drops of organic, artisan broth on the 400-threadcount tablecloth.

My table companions are talking about massive sums of money, dropping names of companies and C-level staff, who has no vision and who has no follow-through, who has a talented staff, but the market isn’t ready for their product, who’d have a game-changing product, if their staff weren’t such clowns, and finally the chosen ones, who’ve turned vast sums of angel investment into even more massive sums of money.

As we eat. there are tales of the start-ups at the perfect nexus of knowing the right people, knowing the market, getting the money in, spending it on the best coders and famed glad-handers, catching creative lighting in a bottle, and packaging it to sell.  I’m simultaneously thrilled to be part of this fast-moving, exciting realm, and uncomfortable, because I feel like an impostor in the world of multi-million dollar investments.

“I’m not going to tip,” the lunch’s host says to his assistant, at the end of the meal, “If she wanted a tip, she wouldn’t have spilled that soup.”

The Figment Project was on Governor’s Island last weekend. Roy wanted to go see it on Sunday, but I have class on Sunday, so I talked him into going on Saturday instead.

“Sure you can’t come on Sunday?” Roy texted, “The chances of juggling or hula-hooping will be much higher on the island than in your class!”

“Agreed.” I wrote back. (Although my classmates are pretty creative people — I would not be surprised to find a closet juggler* or hoop dancer among them.) “But the chances of career improvement will be lower.”

“You never know what will happen on an island with creepy abandoned buildings!”

I figured that no was was going to come out the old Coast Guard houses to offer me a writing gig or a game job, so I on Saturday, we caught the ferry to Governor’s Island, where we rode bikes and checked out some of the installation and cooperative art projects around the island.

I'm very sad after some kind of monkey-related apocalypse.

We watched a hula-hooping performance, on a lawn where I could see both the Statue of Liberty and the rising new World Trade Center, over the hundred neon-haired and costumed hoop dancers. Why does anyone want to live anywhere else?

Your Message Here

On the way back, we crowded onto the ferry with dozens of other tired Brooklynites. We got talking to a girl juggler** (well, more Roy than me, if you know what I mean), and then met one of the guys who runs MakerFaire. We exchanged cards, talked about last year’s MakerFaire, and asked if I’d be interested in covering the show in the fall as a tech blogger. Clearly, I’d underestimated the awesomeness of a tiny island with creepy abandoned houses.

*That’s someone who secretly juggles, not someone who juggles closets.

**That’s a girl who juggles, not someone who juggles girls.

I was chatting to one of my Swedish colleagues about this inter-Scandinavian rivalry I’ve just discovered. Previous to this discussion, I thought I was so cultured and educated because I could recognize the Swedish flag. (Kidding. Well, mostly kidding.)

Swedish Colleague: For instance as a Swede, if there’s someone speaking Finnish, from Finland, you can just tell ‘em to speak Swedish instead cause they learned it in school, and it also proves our superiority, of course.

Meg: Americans do that all the time abroad. WHAT? SPEAK ENGLISH!!! EVERYONE MUST SPEAK ENGLISH!!!

Swedish Colleague: Yeah, but it’s not the same, cause it’s pretty pointless to learn Swedish compared to English. Thus we’ve owned Finland harder than English has the rest of the world.