How to Pronounce NumiPlus: Innovation

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

Look, I was gonna go easy on you Not to hurt your feelings But I'm only going to get this one chance Something's wrong, I can feel it (Six minutes) Just a feeling I've got Like something's about to happen But I don't know what If that means what I think it means We're in trouble, big trouble And if he is as bananas as you say I'm not taking any chances You are just what the doc ordered I'm beginnin' to feel like a Rap God, Rap God All my people from the front to the back nod, back nod Now, who thinks their arms are long enough To slap box, slap box? They said I rap like a robot, so call me Rap-bot But for me to rap like a computer It must be in my genes I got a laptop in my back pocket My pen'll go off when I half-cock it Got a fat knot from that rap profit Made a livin' and a killin' off it Ever since Bill Clinton was still in office With Monica Lewinsky feelin' on his nutsack I'm an MC still as honest But as rude and as indecent as all hell Syllables, skill-a-holic (Kill 'em all with) This flippity dippity-hippity hip-hop You don't really wanna get into a pissin' match With this rappity brat, packin' a MAC In the back of the Ac' Backpack rap crap, yap-yap, yackety-yack And at the exact same time I attempt these lyrical acrobat stunts While I'm practicin' that I'll still be able to break a motherfuckin' table Over the back of a couple of faggots and crack it in half Only realized it was ironic I was signed to Aftermath after the fact How could I not blow? All I do is drop F-bombs Feel my wrath of attack Rappers are havin' a rough time period Here's a maxi pad It's actually disastrously bad for the wack While I'm masterfully constructing this masterpiece as 'Cause I'm beginnin' to feel like a Rap God, Rap God All my people from the front to the back nod, back nod Now, who thinks their arms are long enough to slap box, slap box? Let me show you maintainin' this shit ain't that hard, that hard Everybody wants the key and the secret To rap immortality like Ι have got Well, to be truthful the blueprint's Simply rage and youthful exuberance Everybody loves to root for a nuisance Hit the Earth like an asteroid Did nothing but shoot for the Moon since (Pew!) MCs get taken to school with this music 'Cause I use it as a vehicle to "bus the rhyme" Now I lead a new school full of students Me? I'm a product of Rakim Lakim Shabazz, 2Pac, N.W.A, Cube, hey Doc, Ren Yella, Eazy, thank you, they got Slim Inspired enough to one day grow up Blow up and be in a position To meet Run–D.M.C., induct them Into the motherfuckin' Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Even though I'll walk in the church And burst in a ball of flames Only Hall of Fame I'll be inducted in Is the alcohol of fame On the wall of shame You fags think it's all a game 'Til I walk a flock of flames Off a plank and, tell me what in the fuck are you thinkin'? Little gay-lookin' boy So gay I can barely say it with a straight face Lookin' boy (Ha-ha!) You're witnessin' a massacre Like you're watching a church gathering take place, lookin' boy "Oy vey, that boy's gay!"—that's all they say, lookin' boy You get a thumbs up, pat on the back And a "way to go" from your label every day, lookin' boy Hey, lookin' boy! What you say, lookin' boy? I get a "hell yeah" from Dre, lookin' boy I'ma work for everything I have Never asked nobody for shit Get outta my face, lookin' boy! Basically, boy, you're never gonna be capable Of keepin' up with the same pace, lookin' boy, 'cause— I'm beginnin' to feel like a Rap God, Rap God All my people from the front to the back nod, back nod The way I'm racin' around the track Call me NASCAR, NASCAR Dale Earnhardt of the trailer park, the White Trash God Kneel before General Zod This planet's Krypton—no, Asgard, Asgard So you'll be Thor, I'll be Odin You rodent, I'm omnipotent Let off, then I'm reloadin' Immediately with these bombs, I'm totin' And I should not be woken I'm the walkin' dead, but I'm just a talkin' head A zombie floatin' But I got your mom deep-throatin' I'm out my Ramen Noodle We have nothin' in common, poodle I'm a Doberman, pinch yourself in the arm And pay homage, pupil It's me, my honesty's brutal But it's honestly futile if I don't Utilize what I do though For good at least once in a while So I wanna make sure somewhere in this Chicken scratch I scribble and doodle enough rhymes To maybe try to help get some people through tough times But I gotta keep a few punchlines Just in case, 'cause even you unsigned Rappers are hungry lookin' at me like it's lunchtime I know there was a time where once I Was king of the underground But I still rap like I'm on my Pharoah Monch grind So I crunch rhymes, but sometimes when you combine Appeal with the skin color of mine You get too big and here they come tryin' To censor you like that one line I said on "I'm Back" from The Mathers LP 1 when I Tried to say I'll take seven kids from Columbine Put 'em all in a line, add an AK-47, a revolver and a 9 See if I get away with it now That I ain't as big as I was, but I'm Morphin' into an immortal, comin' through the portal You're stuck in a time warp from 2004 though And I don't know what the fuck that you rhyme for You're pointless as Rapunzel with fuckin' cornrows You write normal? Fuck being normal! And I just bought a new raygun from the future Just to come and shoot ya, like when Fabolous made Ray J mad 'Cause Fab said he looked like a fag at Mayweather's pad Singin' to a man while he played piano Man, oh man, that was a 24-7 special on the cable channel So Ray J went straight to the radio station The very next day, "Hey Fab, I'ma kill you!" Lyrics comin' at you at supersonic speed (J.J. Fad) Uh, summa-lumma, dooma-lumma, you assumin' I'm a human What I gotta do to get it through to you I'm superhuman? Innovative and I'm made of rubber So that anything you say is ricochetin' off of me And it'll glue to you and I'm devastating, more than ever demonstrating How to give a motherfuckin' audience A feeling like it's levitating Never fading, and I know the haters are forever waiting For the day that they can say I fell off, they'll be celebrating 'Cause I know the way to get 'em motivated I make elevating music, you make elevator music "Oh, he's too mainstream." Well, that's what they do when they get jealous They confuse it "It's not hip-hop, it's pop, "—'cause I found a hella way to fuse it With rock, shock rap with Doc Throw on "Lose Yourself" and make 'em lose it "I don't know how to make songs like that I don't know what words to use." Let me know when it occurs to you While I'm rippin' any one of these S that versus you It's curtains, I'm inadvertently hurtin' you How many verses I gotta murder to Prove that if you were half as nice Your songs you could sacrifice virgins too? Ugh, school flunky, pill junkie But look at the accolades these skills brung me Full of myself, but still hungry I bully myself 'cause I make me do What I put my mind to And I'm a million leagues above you Ill when I speak in tongues But it's still tongue-in-cheek fuck you I'm drunk, so, Satan, take the fucking wheel I'ma sleep in the front seat Bumpin' Heavy D and the Boyz Still "Chunky but Funky" But in my head there's something I can feel tugging and struggling Angels fight with devils And here's what they want from me They're askin' me to eliminate some of the women hate But if you take into consideration the bitter hatred I have, then you may be a little patient And more sympathetic to the situation And understand the discrimination But fuck it, life's handin' you lemons? Make lemonade then! But if I can't batter the women How the fuck am I supposed to bake them a cake then? Don't mistake him for Satan; it's a fatal mistake If you think I need to be overseas and take a vacation To trip a broad, and make her fall on her face and Don't be a retard — Be a king? Think not Why be a king when you can be a God?