I love books. I’m still a member of that shrinking minority that enjoys reading in bursts of more than 140 characters. (And you are, too, if you read this far.)

As a bibliophile, naturally, I gravitate toward Brooklyn’s best fall festival: the Brooklyn Book Festival, which took place at the end of September. In past years, I’ve listened to Jonathan Safran-Foer–one of my favorite writers–read alongside Joyce Carol Oates, whose chosen excerpt was lengthy, eliminating the chance for a Q&A. The year before that, I cornered Daniel Asa Rose, an author whose brain I had wanted to pick, since his book about the Holocaust paralleled a nonfiction manuscript I’m still completing.

This year, however, I decided to indulge in the festival’s diversity, which featured more than one hundred programs.

The first panel discussion I attended was Comics by the People, which focused on how artists and writers can launch independent careers with tools like Kickstarter, the website that had allowed Amanda Palmer to raise 1.2 million dollars with the support of nearly 25,000 backers, who funded the creation of her latest album. In an age where publishing is fickle and houses are cautious, many artists are turning to self-publishing like Molly Crabapple, the panelist who had used Kickstarter to fund her “Week in Hell” project. Her idea was to lock herself in a Manhattan hotel room for seven days, cover the walls in paper, and create art. She required $4,500 to pay for the room and supplies. Backers gave five times that amount.

It’s a misconception, Crabapple warned, that Kickstarter is an “awesome, free charity for artists. [Receiving funds through Kickstarter] is not your first foray. It’s your reward for years of hard work… We’ve all spent years building value.”

Later in the day, I wanted to explore this theme further. I sat in on the event, “So, You Want to Publish a Book?” In attendance were aspiring writers and frustrated self-published authors. Literary agent and author of Your First Novel Ann Rittenberg moderated the panel, which consisted of four acclaimed editors who tried to paint a real picture of the book industry. But there were those who couldn’t escape fantasy and when it was time for questions, Rittenberg, the editors, and the audience had to entertain queries like:

“How can I write the next Twilight?”

Since it occurred to me that many writers in attendance had legitimate questions that went unanswered because of time constraints, I asked Rittenberg during our post-festival conversation what writers can do beyond self-publishing, since a few people at the festival had voiced their disappointment with self-publishing.

“You need to do your research,” she said, offering up hypothetical questions for writers to ask themselves before submitting their manuscripts to agents or editors: “Is it different enough? Are you an expert? Do you have the passion to write this book?” Rittenberg also pointed out that writers need to network and read acknowledgement pages of books similar to their own in order to discover agents who might be interested in their manuscript. “I like to demystify the business for [writers] and give them a reality check.”

My favorite truism from the discussion actually occurred during a tech malfunction when panelists, without the help of a techie, were forced to spend minutes fiddling with a pair of microphones that were squealing at one another. The audience and panel were getting frustrated. But the editors and agent managed to fix the problem and Rittenberg announced, “I think to be in book publishing, you have to be an eternal optimist.”

Of course, the festival is not just geared toward those who want to publish; it’s for readers, too. The panel discussion on “The Politics of Identity–Do They Still Matter?” ostensibly a serious topic, was uncomfortably funny. For instance, Rebecca Walker, author of Black Cool, confused a random black audience member for Baratunde Thurston, a panelist who was running thirty minutes late to the event. Thurston, when he finally arrived in his How To Be Black sweatshirt (the title of his new book), and Wesley Yang, a self-estranged Korean, humorously explored racial stereotypes and the fallacies of a post-racial America.

The only location where festival-goers could avoid lines was for the Main Stage, which was set up in the courtyard, near the tents where small publishing houses and literary magazines promoted their works. There, Sapphire–author of Push, which had inspired the blockbuster film Precious–took part in a discussion about violence in literature. Before that, Tony Danza was rapping about New York, stumbling over a rhyme that included the apparently discombobulating name of former senator, Alfonse D’Amato. Danza, who was plugging his book, I’d Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had, (his story about teaching for one year in Philadelphia’s public schools), was a hit with this Brooklyn crowd.

He won them over by voicing support for unions and teachers, and inflating his Brooklynese. He wooed them further with lines like “Let me hit you with teacher terms… Do Now… Modeling… Someone said I need a Venn diagram. I made a doctor’s appointment.” And he brought laughs when he told the story of his teacher, Mr. Dye, whose birthday he helped celebrate so many years ago by bringing a pair of six packs to his class.

It was ironic that Danza chose the festival to commit the following sins: He butchered the English language (“I says”), ruined book titles (“It’s in The Mockingbird.” Is that the prequel of To Kill a Mockingbird?), and destroyed the confidence of his students (Danza told the story about laughing at one kid after a peer compared the boy to Steinbeck’s Lennie). As a high school teacher of special education for eight years, my biggest cringe moment came when Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz proclaimed Danza’s book “required reading” for first year teachers.

Though the warmth of the day started to dissipate, crowds hung around for the end to listen to celebrity writers like Dan Savage speak at a discussion about marriage and monogamy.

I visited the courthouse where The New York Times’ Gail Collins and Jodi Kantor sparred for Obama against Romney’s lone supporter, John R. MacArthur. The crowd was an opinionated bunch and I overheard disapproval of Collins’ referencing how Obama thought that other politicians were “jerks.” A woman turned to her neighbor and quietly complained of moderator Ta-Nahisi Coates’ outfit–a hoodie and hat.

When it was time for the Q&A, Coates, having met crowds like this before, humorously warned, “Do not make a statement. I will throw this microphone at you.”

Nobody challenged him, allowing questions for a distinguished panel to be answered. The most thoughtful question came from a shaggy-haired high schooler, which properly concluded the festival and allowed those in the presence of this youngster to recognize that reading–beyond Twitter–still matters.

Photo by David Dioctria

The post The Brooklyn Book Festival appeared first on The Faster Times.

When I cook chili, I eat it for dinner, at breakfast the next morning, and I make certain to pack some for lunch. The diet continues until I reach the bottom of the pot.

As the weather begins to turn on us, I was reminded of my favorite winter dish and of the best food festival I attended this summer when I found chili heaven at the South Street Seaport. The Beekman Beer Garden, a sandy respite with the Brooklyn Bridge as its backdrop, was the site of the 19th Annual Lone Star Chili Cook-Off.

The event brings together 1,500 carnivores, most of whom are alumni from the University of Texas and Texas A&M. But ever since the competition was forced to leave its rooftop roots uptown, it blew up like a room after a chili cook-off and the crowd has become a melting pot of chili enthusiasts from all across the city, some without any connection to Texas.

The first person I met was Tom Ellis of team More Cowbell. He was pacing nervously while his teammates, all of whom were inspired by Christopher Walken’s famous plea on Saturday Night Live, banged the cowbell, adding to the cacophony of reunited friends and rivals.

“We’ve won second place twice in seven years. But I’d love to win it all,” Ellis told me.

In his years of competition, Ellis had garnered a few tricks:

“I use mashed potatoes to thicken up the chili. For heat,” he looked over his shoulder. “I use Blair’s Ultra Death.” Those three words made Tom Ellis ebullient. “I swear to God, not even one drop will light you up.” The cowbell clanged louder than the band on stage. “I’m thinking about adding it to the third pot. I have a feeling we’re going nuclear.”

The rules for the competition are simple: Five member teams had to concoct five gallons of chili. Judges were looking for five things: color, heat, flavor, texture, and taste. (Read the Pointers from the Pros if you’re getting inspired.)

The best six teams make the finals. The grand prize: two cases of Shiner Bock beer, a Texas brew. (There is also the People’s Choice Award.)

Sampling all of the chili was a feat. Judging it was even harder since each cup robbed my tongue of sensation and my gut of vacancy. Plus, thanks to the unlimited Six Point Sweet Action beer, I was no longer a responsible decision-maker. However, of all the chilis, some managed to stand out to me, even though most of the following did not advance to the finals.

I thought Team Chilitios was daring, having poured two pounds of Swiss chocolate into their meat concoction. Best dressed went to the team in “Meat is Murder” shirts. “Delicious Murder” was printed on the back. A pregnant New Yorker with a Hot Mama nametag on her chest and another sticker pasted to her burgeoning stomach, which read The Babe, represented Baby Wants Chili.

“He’s pretty tolerant of mom’s love of chili,” the expecting mother told me, rubbing her belly, though it was unclear as to whether it was child or chili receiving her affection.

Cacho Borraccho Y Los Muchachos were five Brooklynites. Colin, AKA Cacho Borraccho, used his dad’s recipe, which consisted of Irish ale and a quarter bottle of whiskey.

“Some people were born with a silver spoon in their mouth,” he told me. “I was born with a chili spoon.” Having received that congenital utensil actually paid off. Cacho Borraccho made the finals.

Like any well-established competition, the cook-off had its conspiracy theorists. One competitor surmised that “the judges are ground beef people. [Cooking with ground beef is] the only way to advance.” His chili was made with brisket, pork belly, and chuck. “That’s how the cowboys used to do it. They didn’t have meat grinders out on the range.”

The $50 ticket price covers all-you-can-drink beer, wine, and sangria. Of course copious amounts of chili are included too, though with Texans and New Yorkers who love chili, it actually does run out.

After being spit on by every second person I had spoken with, since mouths watered like sprinkler systems from the heat and salt, I found Tom Ellis again. I wanted to know how much he had invested on this competition.

“It’s about $300 to make five gallons of chili. Plus the entry fee is $150.”

“How much do two cases of Shiner Bock cost?” I asked.

“One hundred dollars.” He laughed at his poor investment strategy. “But it’s good Texas beer. Plus you get bragging rights.”

This was followed by more cowbell.

Photo by Simon Glue

The post The Lone Star Chili Cookoff appeared first on The Faster Times.