CHRIS WALKER VS. THE “AMAZING” GAME

Posted in The Dumbing Down of America on July 7, 2009 by Chris Walker

Drinking games. Everyone knows how to play at least one, right? There’s a variety of them: King’s Cup, Never Have I Ever, Presidents and Assholes. One of my favorites: the Every Time Game. You know how it’s played; whenever [fill-in-the-blank] happens during [fill-in-the-blank] you take a shot of [fill-in-the-blank]. I remember there was an Every Time Game that revolved around the Buffy The Vampire Slayer television show; every time one of Sarah Michelle Gellar’s bra straps was revealed during an episode you had to drink. One time, I got so drunk playing that game, I ended up in the gardening department of Wal-Mart wearing nothing but red Power Ranger underwear, arm floaties, and a Hello Kitty bike helmet.

Anyway. I’ve created a new drinking game, a new Every Time Game. My version is so hardcore I don’t even recommend drinking alcohol while you play. Chances are, if you do, you’ll die. Here’s what you do: every time you come in contact with the word “amazing” — whether you say it, someone talking to you or in your vicinity says it, you read it on a blog or in a gossip magazine, or hear it on morning-fuck-zoo radio show or on TV, whatever — imagine taking a shot of hard alcohol.

An example:

“Oh my god, Ashley; did you watch last night’s episode of The Hills? It was amazing. When Heidi was all like, ‘Look at my new shoes, they’re amazing,’ and Whitney was all like, ‘You’re right; they are amazing!’ I was all like, no they’re not! It was amazing.”

I believe that’s worth four shots.

Do it for twenty-four hours. Hell, do it for one hour if you’re watching HGTV. Keep score on a napkin or something. I guarantee when you’re done, the number will be so high, just adding up all the check marks will give you a 1.0 percent blood alcohol level.

I don’t know when the whole of the American population forgot our language contains an extensive list of adjectives — adjectives other than “amazing” — but it has happened. It bothers me; it depresses me; I notice it and think about it all the time. Almost as much as I think about recreating Tom Colicchio’s pastrami sandwich from his restaurant chain, ‘wichcraft, and playing strip-poker, strip-foosball, strip-anything with Fox News’ Megyn Kelly.

Megan KellyMegyn Kelly. I’m not always listening to what she’s saying, but I’m sure it’s amazing.

Maybe it’s Sex and the City’s fault. I’ve never been coherent through an entire episode of that show but I can’t imagine the chick from Big Trouble In Little China using a word other than “amazing” to describe something. Okay; maybe “fabulous”. Is Kanye West to blame? I’m sure he’d like to take credit, not being a big book reader and all, but I feel like this started before his music. No matter who’s fault it is, I know what I’m getting everyone this year for Christmas: a thesaurus and a shot glass. That, and the first season of Dawson’s Creek on DVD. That show was amazing.

LINKS:

‘wichcraft

Big Trouble In Little China (One of the finest cinematic adventures ever, starring Kim Cattrall.)

Fox News’ Megyn Kelly

Dawson’s Creek (I’ve signed this thing, like, fifty times.)

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CHRIS WALKER VS. NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED

Posted in Idiots on June 11, 2009 by Chris Walker

“Chris, I now understand what you were saying earlier,” said My Mexican Acquaintance in his choppy English from across the table. I was with a large group of Mexicans, sitting on the patio of a “hooker bar” in Panama, sucking down Panama beer, which is quite possibly the weakest beer ever. It makes Bud Light taste strong. Seriously. “Hooker bars” are like strip clubs only no one gets naked and no one is dancing. Girls, heavily glittered and over-perfumed, loiter around the bar, vying for your attention. If you’re foolish enough to give it to them they’ll sit with you, order drinks on your tab, and negotiate services. Taking them back to your hotel room will cost you roughly $100 US. While I love chlamydia just as much as the next guy, I wasn’t interested.

Pulling myself out my favorite “How cool would it be if the Cloverfield monster came over the top of that building and just started kicking everything’s ass” fantasy, I looked over at My Mexican Acquaintance, giving him my undivided attention. I was curious what kind of epiphany he’d had while sitting in this armpit of a country, where the food is disgusting and the Crown Royal is watered down. He continued, “When you said, ‘It’s good for now, but not for forever,’ I thought you were talking about the clothes but now I realize you were talking about the girl.” His facial expression was a mixture of disgust and contempt. “I can’t believe you would say that right in front of her.”

Here’s what happened. Somewhere between the flight from Mexico City to Panama, the airline managed to lose my luggage, along with My Mexican Acquaintance’s luggage, even though the Mexico City airport was a ghost town due to the swine flu overreaction and very few people were traveling. The next day I went shopping while My Mexican Acquaintance went to a training seminar. When he returned, he called me and asked if I’d show him where to buy clothes. I obliged.

“Do you want cheap or expensive?” I asked when we met in the hotel lobby.
“Cheap.”
I took My Mexican Acquaintance to Panama’s answer to TJ Maxx, where he bought a funky yellow button down and basic denim jeans. Even though he was just an acquaintance, I could tell the clothes were not his typical “style”. So, while a young, female sales associate rang up his purchase, I approached the counter and said, “Ah, you know, it’s good for now, but not for forever. It’ll get you through the night.”

I made the comment about the clothes, not the girl. Yet, there My Mexican Acquaintance was, sitting across from me in a Panamanian “hooker bar”, abhorrence in his eyes, accused me being a chauvinistic douchebag, uncouth and classless.

At the time, I didn’t correct him. I didn’t really care, I was just like, “Ah, yeah, whatever,” and went back dreaming of being elsewhere. After the fact, it bothered me. I remember the look in his eyes, that look of disbelief, like he had just solved some great conundrum, and at the end of it was me — this fucking asshole — whom he was now ashamed to be associated with. It only dawned on me during the plane ride back to the US that he hadn’t spoken to me after that night. Perhaps it was coincidence; perhaps it wasn’t.

Granted, I’m not always polite and chivalric to women. I have little regard for sloppy, entitled dorm rats trying to use the men’s bathroom when I have to use it, and I’ll make ridiculously bold assertions about collective female behavior, but to crassly evaluate a random woman’s worth right in front of her while she’s just ringing up merchandise? I have a soul. I’m not completely tactless, which was exactly what My Mexican Acquaintance was implying. He was completely wrong.

Part of me wants to run up to My Mexican Acquaintance the next time I see him and say, “Listen, know-it-all; remember that time when you accused me of making rude comments about a girl in a department store? Well, I wasn’t. You just have shitty English skills and misconstrue things. I was talking about your ugly clothes so fuck you!” But I won’t see him for another year and by then it will be too late. Lesson learned. Take a Mexican in need of clothes shopping and you become a womanizing dick. No good deed goes unpunished. Especially in Panama.

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CHRIS WALKER VS. BITCHES WHO REFUSE TO EAT HAM

Posted in Anthony Bourdain, Food on June 10, 2009 by Chris Walker

tony
Last Saturday, Anthony Bourdain and Mario Batali were at the Paramount in Seattle answering questions, sharing wisdom, and throwing good-spirited jabs at one another. Or, in this case, knock out punches. Bourdain said to Batali of his PBS show, “Spain… On The Road Again”, in which Batali and (presumably insufferable) actress Gwyneth Paltrow indulge in Spain’s bountiful, culinary offerings, “Why would you go to Spain with the one bitch who refuses to eat ham?”

Spain is well known for its pig products. Evidently, Paltrow, ever pretentious and (again) insufferable, follows a strict macrobiotic diet and did not eat meat during the series. I wouldn’t know because I didn’t watch the show. Sounds terribly boring, though.

Later in the evening Bourdain quipped, “The people who watch the Food Network are the ones with a gallon of soda and a bag of Cheetos going, ‘Oh, I could make that.’”

And the world seems right again.

LINK:

Saturday: Anthony Bourdain & Mario Batali @ The Paramount, via Seattle Weekly.

By the way, I never really cared for Black Lips until I read this. Now I love them. While I’m at it, this is brilliant. Today is full of wonderful gems.

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CHRIS WALKER VS. THE MARRIAGE CARD

Posted in Travel on May 10, 2009 by Chris Walker

Reluctantly, I’ve been chatting with the couple sitting beside me. They’re nice enough but it’s hard to understand what the man is saying, even though we’re both evidently speaking English, and, honestly, I’d rather be left alone. “Maybe you’ll make new friends!” the hostess said when she lead me to my table. Maybe I don’t want to make new friends, I thought; maybe I’ve been bullshitting with strangers and in meetings all day and now I’d prefer to just relax and gather my thoughts. Evidently, if you’re eating by yourself in Australia people take great pity on you (or maybe it’s everywhere for that matter; I don’t know); they don’t think you’re there, alone, of your own accord.

The couple sitting next to me, swilling Corona and Jack and Diets, it’s their one year anniversary today. They’ve know each other over twenty years; they were married to other people prior; each divorced and then they fell in love. They both have their own kids, the youngest of which is three years old. I feign enthusiasm.

Near the end of the meal the woman gets up and leaves. The man, in his purple button-up and black, unbuttoned vest, leans over to me.
“I’ve got a marriage card and it gets me discounts here.”
“Really?” I say, perking up. I’m utterly fascinated. “Your marriage card gets you discounts on meals?”
“Yeah, mate,” he replies in his thick Aussie accent. “It gets you discounts on all sorts of things.”
“Wow. I guess it pays to be married in Australia.”
“Sure; my wife’s just run up to the room to get it.”

Moments later, the woman returns and hands him the card.

“See, mate,” he says, showing me the card. “my marriage card.”
I examine it; it’s a gold Marriott card. Wouldn’t you know it, the restaurant we’re dining in happens to be located inside of a Marriott hotel. I’d like to state for the record: I didn’t have a single drop of alcohol in me yet, here I was, under the impression that if you got married in Australia the government issued you a card that slashed prices on food throughout the country. Silly American.

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CHRIS WALKER VS. THE DEATH OF A LADY

Posted in Alcohol, Social Commentary, Women on April 24, 2009 by Chris Walker

“Feminism is dead, ladies. Put your bras back on; relinquish your right to vote; get back in the kitchen and make me a sandwich. Your successors have failed you.”

That’s one way I considered starting this. I wrote it in my head as I leaned against a wall in the corridor that connects the main room and back patio at Pub and Sub, a local college haunt. I was waiting to use the bathroom. Directly in front of me were two obnoxious fat girls. They were waiting to use the bathroom as well. The men’s bathroom. “Sorry,” said Fat Girl Number One, exuding superiority and entitlement. “We’re next.” Arms crossed, I smirked.

These girls could have been attractive once, I thought; maybe they even had class. Not anymore. Those days were done. Their thoughtless and vapid nature shined as brightly as the glitter they wore. After they used the men’s room they would undoubtedly go back to devouring pizza and chicken wings; they would continue mainlining Pabst Blue Ribbon. The clothes they brought with them when they came to college would continue to fit less; the guy they swore they wouldn’t blow at the start of the night would come that much closer to getting blown. I was witnessing their decent from grace in real-time. Granted, most of their “Freshman Fifty” had been gained before our interlude but I was still watching their ascent into fat, sloppy slutdom as it occured. It was remarkable.

When the door opened and the previous occupant exited, I pushed past the two behemoths (no easy feat) and entered the men’s room. “It’s okay; you can shove me out of the way,” barked Fat Girl Number One as I posted up at the urinal. I ignored her. Something you should know about the men’s bathroom at Pub and Sub: the only walls are the four establishing it as a room; with the exception of a small, chest-level divider between the sink and urinal, everything is exposed. This means if you decide to hunker down and drop a deuce while another guy is in the bathroom, he can watch you. This also means if you’re a shameless nineteen year old with a fake ID who has consumed too much beer, and you decide you want to come in, pull down your pants, and pee in front of a complete stranger, by God, you can.

That is, of course, exactly what Fat Girl Number One did. Meanwhile, Fat Girl Number Two loomed overhead, texting friends, or checking her MySpace account, or twatting about the situation on Twitter. Whatever. As they annoyingly carried on I found myself wondering, whatever happened to the iconic influence of Audrey Hepburn? Did it die when Hollywood green-lit Barb Wire starring Pamela Anderson? Surely, Hepburn wouldn’t approve of these ghastly whores. Virginia Woolfe would be ashamed. Even Julie London would shake her head in disgust. Buckling my belt and heading out the door I realized not only is chivalry dead, so is the need for it.

Interestingly enough, watching these little tradegies take place is the charm of Pub and Sub. (Or Pub and Chub, as my friends and I affectionately refer to it. We also call it the Rub and Tug, the Thug and Chug, the Drug and Plug, and the list goes on.) It’s one of the reasons my friends and I congregate there on Thursday nights. We show up for the $2.50 pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon; we stay for the laughs. No matter where you look or who you interact with, there’s always hilarity or adventure awaiting you. Sometimes both. More often than not, it involves chubby chicks who think they’re smart because they study interior design (or something equally useless), wear club attire to dive bars, and do their damnedest to set the women’s movement back a minimum of fifty years.

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CHRIS WALKER VS. FREEMAN’S PLASTIC-FILLED HOTDOGS

Posted in Food on April 16, 2009 by Chris Walker

freemans

I’m an adventurous eater. That’s a fact. I’ve eaten chicken feet, fish eyeballs, duck testicles; you name it, I’ll try it. The only thing I don’t eat is cantaloupe. That, and hard, little pieces of plastic, two of which I found in one of Freeman’s “natural” hotdogs this afternoon.

Not adhering to a vegetarian or vegan lifestyle I wondered, is this one of the risks I have to take in order to eat more “healthy”? By cutting unnecessary hormones out of my diet do I have to add synthetic, amorphous solid materials? Or is this what Freeman’s means when they describe their meats as “raw” and “uncured”? I could already see their new advertisement; Freeman’s Hotdogs: Organic and Nitrate Free, Occasionally Legos.

Right now I’m looking at these two, tiny, white shards of whatever trying to figure out what they are. I’ve read owners Jason Freeman and Noel Judai have a son; maybe it’s a fragment from one of his toys. It could be part of a pen cap. I don’t really know. Maybe I’ve made a mistake and it’s actually a new menu addition. Should I have paid extra? I know pineapple chutney costs seventy-five cents; how much is plastic?

All jokes aside, when Dave, the bartender at Chapel, told me how ever many months ago that a guy named Jason Freeman was opening an organic hot dog restaurant in Reno I was enthusiastic. I loved the idea, and I’m a big proponent of natural, organic, pesticide and hormone free foods. My first experience at Freeman’s was mostly pleasant. I ordered the “Bun Burner” and, despite the fact the sourdough wheat bun was deplorably dry and split in half before I had even a single bite, the vegan chipotle sausage, chipotle-lime aioli, jalapenos, and salsa all tasted great. (Note: buns are provided by the House of Bread bakery.) My brother-in-law loves Freeman’s “F’n Hot Dog” — two beef hotdogs with cheese, tomatoes, onions, relish, mustard, ketchup, and jalapenos, served in a superior onion poppyseed bun — and has been getting their food to go on a regular basis. I had intended on eating at Freeman’s a few more times, trying many different things, before making a final judgment but this whole plastic-in-my-hotdog situation leaves me at a loss.

Initially, I was quick to write the bits of plastic off as a once-in-a-lifetime accident. After spitting out the pieces, I even managed to sit in my office and enjoy the rest of my F’n Hot Dog. Writing that last line, I now feel ridiculous. Pieces of plastic in my hotdog? That’s unacceptable.

Part of me says never go back. Part of me says this will never happen again and I should let it go. More than likely, this hasn’t happened to anyone else; it hasn’t happened to my brother-in-law and he’s eating Freeman’s food far more often than I am. Nevertheless, it’s disheartening and begs many questions. Questions like what are the kitchen conditions? How much are employees paying attention to cleanliness? Who is making these organic, nitrate-free sausages? Mr. Freeman, himself, his employees, or someone else entirely? (I was under the impression everything is made in-house.) Furthermore, how does something like this happen?

Time will tell if I completely dismiss Freeman’s. Chances are, I’ll give them another go. I eat Eggs Benedict, after all; I’m not afraid of a little bacteria… or plastic. At this point, I’m just extremely skeptical of Freeman’s “natural” hotdogs. And if something like this ever happens again, please believe you’ll be the first to know.

LINKS:

Freeman’s Natural Hotdogs

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CHRIS WALKER VS. PEGU CLUB

Posted in Alcohol on April 14, 2009 by Chris Walker

“They have a bouncer?” I asked rhetorically, eyeing the burly guy occupying the entryway as Pockets and I walked passed. “That’s unexpected.”

Whenever I read articles or talk to friends about the “best bars” in the United States the same names are always mentioned: Bourbon & Branch, Velvet Tango Room, Milk & Honey, Death & Company, The Violet Hour, Pegu Club, etc. I’ve made it a goal to eventually visit all these places. When I found out my girlfriend, Pockets, lives a mere handful of blocks away from Pegu Club I knew we had to go.

We went the night after I noticed the bouncer, a Saturday. It was around 1:00 AM and we were in need of a well-crafted nightcap. Or two. We passed the same burly guy as we entered, climbed the stairs to the main level, and were instantly hit by a wall of noise. The room was beyond loud. Between the music, and the voices trying to be heard over the music, it was near deafening. It was also packed. As I plotted my approach to the bar (which I could barely see), we were saved by a host, who lead us to the last available two-top. It would be the only good-willed gesture of the evening.

Maneuvering through the sea of bodies, I assessed the crowd. The majority were young and attractive, and clearly more interested in exchanging phone numbers than experiencing how house-made bitters, infusions, or fresh squeezed juices make for a better cocktail. I don’t say this as an insult, more as an observation. There was nothing to indicate Pegu Club caters to a more sophisticated clientele or is a venue people specifically seek out for high-quality cocktails. It seemed more a meat market than a Cocktail Mecca; I felt as if I could’ve been in any bar, lounge, or club in any city.

According to their website, Pegu Club is a place where they consider themselves “gatekeepers” of classic cocktail culture. “Our aim is to preserve the craft of a well-made drink through thoughtful preparation and respectful methodology.” Scanning the battered menu, I didn’t see how that was true. I did however understand why they don’t post a cocktail list on their website: it’s severely underwhelming. There were very few libations to suggest the bartenders at Pegu Club were authorities on classic cocktail culture. Out of two pages of cocktails, I only saw one drink I wanted to try.

That didn’t really matter, though, because by the time we saw a server nearly fifteen minutes had passed and I was thoroughly bored. In the meantime, Pockets and I struggled to have a conversation, a futile effort, even though we were only a few feet apart. When a server finally reached us she was completely disinterested. She was busy, and as customers we were clearly interfering with her job. She offered nothing in the way of guidance or suggestion on the menu, not even recommending the Pegu Club’s house cocktail, which they’re evidently famous for. Also according to the Pegu Club website, you should drink water with your cocktail; she had brought none. When Pockets asked what a certain ingredient was the server, visibly annoyed, said she didn’t know. Besides, they were out of it. What burdens we were. Clearly, we couldn’t order fast enough.

And we did. Then we waited. And we waited. And we waited. I know a cocktail, when properly built, takes time. This wait was excessive. There was still no water. Our server had disappeared. Did she quit? I wondered. Pockets and I kept trying to talk. It was pointless. Finally, through the noise I heard Pockets say something along the lines of “oldest bar in SoHo” and “wood-paneled bar downstairs you’ll love.” The frustration had reached it’s apex, and with the promise of cozier settings we left Pegu Club. I never even tried a cocktail.

Pegu Club is a place where they claim to “do lots of little things well.” I found that they do quite the opposite. For all their pretension and bold claims, Pegu Club is not remarkable. Nor is it impressive or unique. Maybe it should have stayed in the Gulf of Mataban where it originated. While Pegu Club claims to be the torchbearer of classic cocktail cuisine, it seemed like a place where I could order a “Cosmopolitan” or “Chocolate Martini” and not receive a second glance. Perhaps it is even encouraged.

LINKS:

Pegu Club

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CHRIS WALKER VS. MY NUMBER ONE ALBUM OF 2009

Posted in Music on April 1, 2009 by Chris Walker

strobe_light

Fucking amazing.

Chris Martin sounds so crazy on this shit!

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CHRIS WALKER VS. THE END OF THE DOWNERS

Posted in Food on March 31, 2009 by Chris Walker

OBAMA/Credit unknown.

When he’s not still campaigning for an election he already won, or persuading the American public to embrace the virtues of Socialism, President Barack Obama is doing good things. More specifically, President Obama, his wife, Michelle Obama, and the Obama administration are doing good things. Good things in the realm of food, that is.

President Obama has met with and heeded the message of Alice Waters, perhaps the most well-recognized and outspoken proponent of the Slow Food Movement; he’s read influential agricultural books such as Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma; in January, Obama appointed Sam Kass, a chef who promotes seasonal, local, organic cooking, to work under chef Cristeta Comerford (who is also well-versed in the cooking style) in the White House kitchen. Meanwhile, Mrs. Obama has been digging up the White House lawn to plant a 1,100-square-foot garden, something that will not only be a great future source of organic produce, but is also considered a symbol of the Obama family’s dedication to the education of healthy eating and living, as well as environmentalism.

While that all sounds great, let’s face it: It’s kind of bullshit. Healthy chefs in the White House kitchen? Awesome; I’ll never get to eat their food. Mrs. Obama and her daughters planting kale on the South Lawn? It makes for one helluva photo-op but, really, what difference does it make to me? As I learned in a recent management seminar, I’m a “driver”; I don’t like touchy-feely; I want results. (Basically, I was told I’m an asshole.) I don’t care about the vegetables being planting on the White House lawn if the new, quality approach to food doesn’t personally affect me. And by me I mean we, the general public.

Turns out, the changes being made in the White House kitchen are resulting in changes that affect us. (I guess I am an asshole.) A couple weeks ago, Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack announced, “a final rule to amend the federal meat inspection regulations to require a complete ban on the slaughter of cattle that become non-ambulatory disabled after passing initial inspection by Food Safety and Inspection Service (FSIS) inspection program personnel,” according to a news release published on the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) website(1). The rule means “downer” cows, or cows too sick to walk on their own(2), are not allowed to enter the American consumer’s meat supply.

Downer cows can pose serious threats to people to eat their meat; they are often linked to mad cow disease and E. Coli. Downer cows were brought into focus last year after the Westland/Hallmark fiasco, which resulted in the recall of 143 million pounds of meat (the largest recall ever). The new rule is a significant victory for the health of American consumers, and it’s all thanks to the Obama administration. Hey, if we can’t eat their vegetables the least they can do is make our meat safer. Now, about those pesky antibiotics(3).

1. And you would’ve read about this final rule a couple weeks ago on the Versus had I not been working so hard to keep my job during this recession. Yeah, we’re not getting any bailouts.

2. Which I’ve only talked about, like, a million times now.

3. Remember: There are companies in the United States that have never condoned the slaughter of downer cows for consumption, nor condone the use of antibiotics and steroids on livestock. Seek them out; seek out the restaurants that use their products. Reward them and yourself: Eat their food.

LINKS:

Obama’s new White House chef Sam Kass will be thinking green & local. Daily News. Rosemary Black.

Ms. Waters Goes to Washington. Gourmet. Marian Burros.

Obamas to Plant Vegetable Garden at White House. The New York Times. Marian Burros.

Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack Announces Final Rule for Handling of Non-Ambulatory Cattle. United States Department of Agriculture. News Release.

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CHRIS WALKER VS. THE NEW NIMAN RANCH

Posted in Food on March 4, 2009 by Chris Walker

2005-logo-raised-with-care

I’ve long championed Niman Ranch for their dedication to humane, natural methods of raising and killing the animals we eat. I’d even made it a goal to visit Niman Ranch this year. I wanted to see firsthand how the animals live; I wanted to witness an actual slaughter. (However unrealistic that might’ve been; I doubt they let “civilians” on the slaughterhouse floor. Nevertheless, I would’ve tried.) Unfortunately, the meat purveyor is no longer what it once was.

Niman Ranch – with their unwaveringly high standards and determination to do things “the right way” – failed to ever make a profit and, in order to save the company from bankruptcy, in January of this year Niman Ranch merged with it primary shareholder, Natural Food Holdings LLC.

The merger sees the departure of Niman Ranch founder, Bill Niman, and has exposed some changes in the way the “new” Niman Ranch is raising animals. While the company claims they will never use antibiotics or hormones, Niman Ranch is already administering antimicrobials, drugs that kill bacteria, a practice Bill Niman is against. (Note: Antimicrobials are not classified as antibiotics by the USDA. Keep in mind, the USDA is the same organization that thinks carnivorous fish like salmon can be considered “organic”.) Bill Niman himself has already said he will no longer eat Niman Ranch products. I guess time will tell just how significant and/or devastating the change in ownership and the absence of Bill Niman will be.

As much as I’d like to blame our downtrodden economy for Niman Ranch having to compromise its core values for the sake of profitability, it just isn’t the case. Doing the right thing just doesn’t always make money. Or enough money. Sadly, this just reaffirms the old adage, “No good deed goes unpunished.”

SOURCES AND LINKS:

Niman Ranch founder challenges new owners, by Stacy Finz

Niman Ranch Completes Merger, via BusinessWire.

Financial difficulties herd Niman toward merger, by Sarah Duxbury.

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