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How to Pronounce First, I love learning about different industries and commodities, how they developed over time, often over millennia, shaping world markets and modern political economies (e.g. cotton, gold, salt, cod, petroleum). “The Fish” provides a fascinating introduction to the world of bananas, a fruit that every American today knows and most of whom love on their breakfast cereal or as a mid-day, nutritious snack. Only, as I learned, bananas aren’t actually a fruit and little more than a century ago they were far from common, but rather quite exotic, a true luxury, displayed at the 1876 Centennial Exposition to crowds of gawking onlookers as if it came from another planet. Indeed, according to the author, a banana in 1900 was as unusual to the average American as an African cucumber is today. There’s a lot about the very familiar banana that I never knew. For instance, Cohen explains that the banana tree is actually the world’s largest herb, and thus its offspring, the banana, are technically berries. Even more fascinating, bananas grow from rhizomes, not seeds. In other words, cut appendages continue to grow, replicating the original. As Cohen describes it: “When you look at a banana, you’re looking at every banana, an infinite regression. There are no mutts, only the first fruit of a particular species and billions of copies. Every banana is a clone, in other words, a replica of an ur-banana that weighed on its stalk the first morning of man.” Believe it or not, the story of the banana gets even crazier. If you’ve ever wondered why old black-and-white films joked about slipping on a banana peel even though the banana peel that you’ve long known doesn’t feel particularly slippery, that’s because we have completely different bananas today. In the early nineteenth century, Americans were introduced to the “Big Mike,” a variety of banana that went extinct in 1965. It was bigger, tastier and more robust than the bananas we have today, according to Cohen, and their peels were far more slippery. The bananas we eat today are known as “Cavendish,” their primary benefit being immunity to the Panama disease that wiped out the Big Mike. Again, because bananas are all exact genetic copies, they are highly susceptible to rapid eradication from disease. Second, I’m a sucker for a great rags-to-riches story. The tale of Samuel Zemurray delivers that in spades. He arrived in America in 1891, a penniless Jew from what today is Moldova, and settled in the Deep South. (It may surprise many Americans but the South was far more hospitable to Jews for most our history. For instance, Jefferson Davis had two Jews in his Cabinet; Lincoln had none.) While still in his teens Zemurray recognized a business opportunity where other only saw trash: the ripe bananas that Boston Fruit discarded along the rail line in Mobile, Alabama before shipping off to Chicago and other northern metropolitan destinations. Zemurray was a natural entrepreneur; he had no particular affinity for bananas, it was just the opportunity at hand. “If he had settled in Chicago,” Cohen writes, “it would have been beef; if Pittsburgh, steel; if L.A., movies.” Zemurray quickly turned one man’s trash into cash, renting a boxcar to carry the castoff bananas along the slow rail route through the South, selling his cargo to local merchants at each Podunk rail stop until either his inventory ran out or spoiled. From such humble beginnings did a great international trading company eventually take root, Cuyamel Fruit, named after the river separating Honduras and Guatemala, the heartland of banana growing. By 1925, Cuyamel Fruit Company, the creation of an upstart Jewish immigrant banana jobber, had emerged as a serious threat to United Fruit, the undisputed king of the industry, a company that was led by Boston’s best, the sons of Brahmins. The threat was not because of Cuyamel’s size. In most ways United Fruit still dominated its aggressive rival (i.e. United Fruit was harvesting 40 million bunches a year with 150,000 employees and working capital of $27m, compared to Cuyamel’s 8 million bunches, 10,000 employees and $3m in working capital). The threat was that Cuyamel was a better run business and more innovative, leading the way with selective pruning, drainage, silting, staking and overhead irrigation. “U.F. was a conglomerate, a collection of firms bought up and slapped together,” Cohen writes. Cuyamel, by contrast, was a well-oiled machine, vertically integrated and led from the front by Zemurray, the ultimate owner-manager-worker. Cuyamel’s success was certainly no accident. It was the product of hard work, an obsessed owner-operator who understood his business at a visceral level, a skill earned over decades of hard, unglamorous work. Zemurray adhered to his own, classically American immigrant code of conduct: “get up first, work harder, get your hands in the dirt and the blood in your eyes.” Cohen describes his commitment and ultimate advantage this way: “Zemurray worked in the fields beside his engineers, planters, and machete men. He was deep in the muck, sweat covered, swinging a blade. He helped map the plantations, plant the rhizomes, clear the weeds, lay the track…unlike most of his competitors, he understood every part of the business, from the executive suite where the stock was manipulated to the ripening room where the green fruit turned yellow…By the time he was forty, he had served in every position from fruit jobber to boss. He worked on the docks, on the ships and railroads, in the fields and warehouses. He had ridden the mules. He had managed the fruit and money, the mercenaries and government men. He understood the meaning of every change in the weather, the significance of every date on the calendar.” Indeed, dedicated immigrants like Sam Zemurray have made America great. There’s nothing wrong with doing grunt work. In fact, it’s essential. United Fruit bought out Cuyamel in the early days of the stock market crash of 1929, when the former had a market share of 54% to the latter’s 14%. United Fruit’s profit was some $45m and its stock price $108. By 1932, profit was down to $6m and the stock languished at $10.25. “The company was caught in a death spiral,” according to Cohen. By January 1933, Zemurray used his massive stake and proxy votes to take over the company, claiming “I realized that the greatest mistake the United Fruit management had made was to assume it could run its activities in many tropical countries from an office on the 10th floor of a Boston office building.” The immigrant with dirt under his nails and a rumbled jacket knew the business better than the Ivy Leaguers with manicures and pinstriped suits. Indeed, the fish (Cuyamel Fruit) was swallowing the whale (United Fruit). Zemurray would run the company until 1951, arguably the most successful years of its history. In 1950, the company cleared $66m in profit. By 1960, profits would fall to just $2m. United Fruit collapsed, eventually restructuring and reinventing itself as Chiquita Brands, based in Cincinnati. When Zemurray started in the industry at the turn of the century, bananas were curiosities, a sidebar trade, something for the rich. By the time he retired, bananas were part of the daily American fabric, the interests of the industry consistent with that of political leadership in Washington. Indeed, some of the most illustrious and powerful men in government had close connections to United Fruit during the Zemurray era: CIA director Allen Dulles (member of the board of directors), secretary of state John Foster Dulles (U.F. legal counsel at Sullivan & Cromwell), New Deal fixer Tom Corcoran (paid lobbyist), UN Ambassador Henry Cabot Lodge (large shareholder), among others. By the 1950s, Cohen writes, “it was hard to tell where the government ended and the company began.” At its height, Cohen says, United Fruit was “as ubiquitous as Google and as feared as Halliburton.” For anyone interested in business history, American politics in Central America or the development of the global fruit industry, “The Fish that Ate the Whale” is a book to own and savor. Read less
How to Pronounce First, I love learning about different industries and commodities, how they developed over time, often over millennia, shaping world markets and modern political economies (e.g. cotton, gold, salt, cod, petroleum). “The Fish” provides a fascinating introduction to the world of bananas, a fruit that every American today knows and most of whom love on their breakfast cereal or as a mid-day, nutritious snack. Only, as I learned, bananas aren’t actually a fruit and little more than a century ago they were far from common, but rather quite exotic, a true luxury, displayed at the 1876 Centennial Exposition to crowds of gawking onlookers as if it came from another planet. Indeed, according to the author, a banana in 1900 was as unusual to the average American as an African cucumber is today. There’s a lot about the very familiar banana that I never knew. For instance, Cohen explains that the banana tree is actually the world’s largest herb, and thus its offspring, the banana, are technically berries. Even more fascinating, bananas grow from rhizomes, not seeds. In other words, cut appendages continue to grow, replicating the original. As Cohen describes it: “When you look at a banana, you’re looking at every banana, an infinite regression. There are no mutts, only the first fruit of a particular species and billions of copies. Every banana is a clone, in other words, a replica of an ur-banana that weighed on its stalk the first morning of man.” Believe it or not, the story of the banana gets even crazier. If you’ve ever wondered why old black-and-white films joked about slipping on a banana peel even though the banana peel that you’ve long known doesn’t feel particularly slippery, that’s because we have completely different bananas today. In the early nineteenth century, Americans were introduced to the “Big Mike,” a variety of banana that went extinct in 1965. It was bigger, tastier and more robust than the bananas we have today, according to Cohen, and their peels were far more slippery. The bananas we eat today are known as “Cavendish,” their primary benefit being immunity to the Panama disease that wiped out the Big Mike. Again, because bananas are all exact genetic copies, they are highly susceptible to rapid eradication from disease. Second, I’m a sucker for a great rags-to-riches story. The tale of Samuel Zemurray delivers that in spades. He arrived in America in 1891, a penniless Jew from what today is Moldova, and settled in the Deep South. (It may surprise many Americans but the South was far more hospitable to Jews for most our history. For instance, Jefferson Davis had two Jews in his Cabinet; Lincoln had none.) While still in his teens Zemurray recognized a business opportunity where other only saw trash: the ripe bananas that Boston Fruit discarded along the rail line in Mobile, Alabama before shipping off to Chicago and other northern metropolitan destinations. Zemurray was a natural entrepreneur; he had no particular affinity for bananas, it was just the opportunity at hand. “If he had settled in Chicago,” Cohen writes, “it would have been beef; if Pittsburgh, steel; if L.A., movies.” Zemurray quickly turned one man’s trash into cash, renting a boxcar to carry the castoff bananas along the slow rail route through the South, selling his cargo to local merchants at each Podunk rail stop until either his inventory ran out or spoiled. From such humble beginnings did a great international trading company eventually take root, Cuyamel Fruit, named after the river separating Honduras and Guatemala, the heartland of banana growing. By 1925, Cuyamel Fruit Company, the creation of an upstart Jewish immigrant banana jobber, had emerged as a serious threat to United Fruit, the undisputed king of the industry, a company that was led by Boston’s best, the sons of Brahmins. The threat was not because of Cuyamel’s size. In most ways United Fruit still dominated its aggressive rival (i.e. United Fruit was harvesting 40 million bunches a year with 150,000 employees and working capital of $27m, compared to Cuyamel’s 8 million bunches, 10,000 employees and $3m in working capital). The threat was that Cuyamel was a better run business and more innovative, leading the way with selective pruning, drainage, silting, staking and overhead irrigation. “U.F. was a conglomerate, a collection of firms bought up and slapped together,” Cohen writes. Cuyamel, by contrast, was a well-oiled machine, vertically integrated and led from the front by Zemurray, the ultimate owner-manager-worker. Cuyamel’s success was certainly no accident. It was the product of hard work, an obsessed owner-operator who understood his business at a visceral level, a skill earned over decades of hard, unglamorous work. Zemurray adhered to his own, classically American immigrant code of conduct: “get up first, work harder, get your hands in the dirt and the blood in your eyes.” Cohen describes his commitment and ultimate advantage this way: “Zemurray worked in the fields beside his engineers, planters, and machete men. He was deep in the muck, sweat covered, swinging a blade. He helped map the plantations, plant the rhizomes, clear the weeds, lay the track…unlike most of his competitors, he understood every part of the business, from the executive suite where the stock was manipulated to the ripening room where the green fruit turned yellow…By the time he was forty, he had served in every position from fruit jobber to boss. He worked on the docks, on the ships and railroads, in the fields and warehouses. He had ridden the mules. He had managed the fruit and money, the mercenaries and government men. He understood the meaning of every change in the weather, the significance of every date on the calendar.” Indeed, dedicated immigrants like Sam Zemurray have made America great. There’s nothing wrong with doing grunt work. In fact, it’s essential. United Fruit bought out Cuyamel in the early days of the stock market crash of 1929, when the former had a market share of 54% to the latter’s 14%. United Fruit’s profit was some $45m and its stock price $108. By 1932, profit was down to $6m and the stock languished at $10.25. “The company was caught in a death spiral,” according to Cohen. By January 1933, Zemurray used his massive stake and proxy votes to take over the company, claiming “I realized that the greatest mistake the United Fruit management had made was to assume it could run its activities in many tropical countries from an office on the 10th floor of a Boston office building.” The immigrant with dirt under his nails and a rumbled jacket knew the business better than the Ivy Leaguers with manicures and pinstriped suits. Indeed, the fish (Cuyamel Fruit) was swallowing the whale (United Fruit). Zemurray would run the company until 1951, arguably the most successful years of its history. In 1950, the company cleared $66m in profit. By 1960, profits would fall to just $2m. United Fruit collapsed, eventually restructuring and reinventing itself as Chiquita Brands, based in Cincinnati. When Zemurray started in the industry at the turn of the century, bananas were curiosities, a sidebar trade, something for the rich. By the time he retired, bananas were part of the daily American fabric, the interests of the industry consistent with that of political leadership in Washington. Indeed, some of the most illustrious and powerful men in government had close connections to United Fruit during the Zemurray era: CIA director Allen Dulles (member of the board of directors), secretary of state John Foster Dulles (U.F. legal counsel at Sullivan & Cromwell), New Deal fixer Tom Corcoran (paid lobbyist), UN Ambassador Henry Cabot Lodge (large shareholder), among others. By the 1950s, Cohen writes, “it was hard to tell where the government ended and the company began.” At its height, Cohen says, United Fruit was “as ubiquitous as Google and as feared as Halliburton.” For anyone interested in business history, American politics in Central America or the development of the global fruit industry, “The Fish that Ate the Whale” is a book to own and savor. Read less
How to Pronounce It was the end of the day and Mark was a bit tired but eager to get on his computer and check the messages on the dating site. In recent days he had sent quite a few messages out to various people and had gotten a few replies. He had done his best to follow up on every single one of them. He wasn't one for Tinder as he was looking for a legitimate, thought out relationship with someone rather than just a quick hook up. Looking at all of the apps that were offered he didn't feel that many were very good. They all seemed to be based around quick relationships and hook ups. Instead he focused his time on building a solid profile and responding on a computer so that he could properly read and respond to each girl. However with the best of intentions things weren't going very well. He went to his messages and found no new replies. Over the course of the last week of the few girls that responded to him fewer and fewer kept the conversation going. Mark had made sure to try different tactics with each one all based on their profiles and messages. The girls that seemed to send longer more thought out messages he went along with and tried his best to have a solid back and forth conversation to get to know them better, these usually lasted a few days before asking for a number or asking them out. The ones with shorter more to the point messages he would jump on within a day. He would even reverse it a few times for good measure. He expected denials but instead would just have the girl drop the conversation entirely, mostly only a few messages in and even before he could ask them out. There was one girl however that he seemed to have hit it off with pretty well, they had been talking for close to a week now and she seemed to share most of his interests and hobbies. It was almost like talking to himself. Earlier in the week he had asked if she wanted to meet up, not long after she had said yes. She went on to say she'd let him know about the weekend. Mark figured if he had to go months of flaky people denying him and ghosting him for one to say yes it might be worth it. However it seemed that he had once again been ghosted. It was Friday now and his last messages to her was on Wednesday saying: "No problem, let me know which day works for you. I'm free the whole weekend and I have a few ideas for places we could go." When she didn't respond to it on Wednesday he followed up with a quick message to try and keep the conversation going in the meantime about one of their shared interests. He had hoped Friday would bring her back to the conversation being the start of the weekend but no. Nothing he could do now, it was pretty obvious the girl on the other side wasn't going to respond. He scrolled through his inbox. It was filled with failures on every level. He closed his web browser and sat there in defeat. He pulled out his phone. Perhaps a change was in order. Maybe he should give apps like Tinder a try, it couldn't hurt. Sure it was more based around hook ups and casual sex but perhaps he could find like minded people on there or try and start something more serious from something casual. He quickly downloaded the app and opened it up. Mark thought to himself, "This is it, right now I'm gonna make a nice, catchy profile but keep it simple. It's going to be good and its going to be appealing. People will swipe right for me and may even initiate the conversation". He opened it up and was prompted to sign in with Facebook. He quickly pressed it and bare bones profile came up. However something was off, where Mark, 27 should be there was Melissa, 22. And instead of his Facebook profile's picture there was a hot blonde in a skimpy dress showing off her big ass with a duck face. Mark couldn't help but laugh, he quickly signed out of it and tried again. However it was the same thing when he signed back in. This was getting weird. He uninstalled the app and reinstalled it. Same thing. What the fuck? As unlikely as it sounded maybe this chick used his phone to check her Facebook and forgot to sign out. He opened up Facebook and sure enough a Melissa account popped up. He scrolled through the account. This girl was smoking hot but didn't have much else going on. Her account was filled with stupid status' ranging from how she can't find the right guy to saying how horny she was. She seemed to have no filter or she was fishing for a fuck. As hot as it was this Melissa was not what Mark was into. Any of his friends would ridicule him for that sort of sentiment but he just wasn't interested. He quickly signed out of the account and attempted to sign into his but was unable. He tried resetting his password but it said his email didn't match any accounts. What was going on? During all of this Mark didn't take notice that he was beginning to change. Fixated on trying to troubleshoot his social media problems he had failed to realize that his hair was now the same color blonde and was slowly inching down towards his shoulders. Mark shut his phone off and turned it back on. Before he could do anything Tinder reopened to this Melissa's profile. There were more pictures now of her. They were all very seductive or slutty ranging from her laying ass up on a beach in a small bikini to her taking a selfie in a bathroom mirror in nothing but a towel. Mark was getting a little nervous something was going on. He put his phone down and stood up, that's when he felt his hair hit against him. He quickly moved his hand and felt it. Immediately he ran to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Starring back at him was the face of Melissa. Holy fuck! How could he not have felt this? His face was now so soft, so clean. His eyes were now light blue and surrounded by eyeliner. His lips were small but plump, a light pink lipstick on them. This wasn't good, this couldn't be happening. How was this possible? Suddenly he felt a slight tingling in this throat and before he could figure out what it was his Adam's Apple was gone. Mark knew what that meant. He had to do something. Tinder! That's what was causing all of this, at least it was what likely started it. He ran back to his phone which now was in a pink phone case with a tassel of beads hanging from a small loop on one of the corners. He picked it up and opened it. His background was now Melissa on a beach hugging another girl. Both of their breasts pushing up against one another. No! Mark thought, this has to stop now! He pressed down on Tinder and deleted it. The icon disappeared only for it to reappear immediately. He tried again, it just kept reinstalling. Shit this was bad. He suddenly felt like his view was lowering, sure enough he was losing height. He went from 6'1 to 5'4 in a matter of moments. What can I do? I need to do something! Mark thought to himself. Panic was beginning to set in. An idea. He quickly went to his computer and woke it up. His background another slutty beach picture. He went to his dating site and sure enough his account had changed also to that of Melissa's. He quickly read through her information. This girl was only out for sex. Her profile told basic information about her. She worked at a salon and in her spare time loved going to bars, dancing, clubbing and concerts. He scrolled down to the looking for section "guys ages 21-40 for new friends, sex and short term dating. Mark began to really panic now. Quickly he tried to edit the page info back to his old one but each time he finished a section and saved it would revert back to Melissa's. He opened up Tinder again and her profile was filled out now. Heyyyy I'm Melissa. I work at a salon and am an expert at all things makeup. I lovvveee going to clubs, bars and concerts. I'm just a party girl at heart :) <3 Give me your best pickup lines. Buy me drinks and take me to a show and I promise to make it up to you ;) If you treat me right your biggest concern should be your place or mine? As Mark read this he felt his whole body begin to burn. It was getting really hot and his clothes started to hurt on his skin. He tried to resist it but relented after a moment. Quickly he stripped all of them off and felt immediate relief. To his horror though as he looked down he couldn't see a single hair on his body. His legs and arms were now slim and smooth and he had a perfect hourglass figure. He looked up and saw that his room was now adorned with girls clothing, makeup and pictures of Melissa and her friends. "No! No! Stop, please stop!" Mark picked up his laptop and threw it to the floor. It smashed and broke into numerous pieces. He went to his phone to do the same but saw that his laptop was back on his desk in perfect condition. His dating profile open to the inbox which was filled with new messages. Mark couldn't help but take a look. They were all filled with "Hey baby" and "Damn you're sexy". Nothing even remotely civil or nice. These guys were treating Melissa like a slut... because she was one. No! Mark slammed the laptop shut and stepped back only to trip onto his bed. He landed on it but felt that his ass had absorbed the most of it. He turned over and saw that it was now enormous. "I didn't want this!" He felt a tingle in his groin as his penis slowly withered away as it was replaced with a wet but well manicured vagina. Mark started to feel funny. He felt heavy in the chest and sure enough two D breasts slowly rose out of him. "No, I didn't even want to use Tinder. Please don't change me into her! I don't want to be a slut! I just wanted a girlfriend! I just wanted..." Mark suddenly felt different, almost lighter. All of what he was concerned and focused on before was gone. All that was worrying her now was what, or who, she was doing tonight and what she was going to wear. Melissa laid in her bed. It was Friday night and no one had asked her out! Was she not pretty enough? She was certainly horny enough, why hadn't any guys messaged her yet? She looked to her phone next to her and opened up Tinder. Her profile was good but it was missing something. A catchy picture. She thought for a second and then figured what she'd do. She lifted the phone up above her and covered her bare tits with her free hand. She smirked and took the picture. No that didn't come out right. She tried a few more times and finally found the right one. Quickly she added it to her profile and began swiping right on only the hot guys. In no time she had a bunch of matches. The first one was from some sort of ripped jock named Derek who messaged "I don't know what your initials are but mine are DTF". She replied "Really?" He quickly responded with "Oh yeah you know it." Melissa smiled and responded with "We'll why don't you come over here and prove it, here's my address. I'll be waiting". She closed the phone and stood up. Now, what was she going to wear when this guy showed up. After all she wanted to make it hard for him. That was half the fun.