These are areas at work. And this - really, this one of the signs of hope. These are good news. When we protect these areas, the fish don't die much fast, they take a longer time to die, they grow larger, they reproduce. And after a few years, there are so many fish that they spill over the boundaries of these reserves, so fishermen can catch more outside.
And we were in the Mediterranean this June on an expedition, and we asked some fishermen if they were happy with the marine reserve there. And they said, oh, we're so happy, without the reserve - you know, we couldn't be fishing. And this is our savings account. And there are so many things that you can do, individually, or you can do as an organization And I just like to say that on Monday and Tuesday, here in Washington, there was a meeting of conservation organizations, philanthropists, the government people, scientists. And we got together to create - well, an alliance that already existed - but to create a network, a very strong network of ocean lovers, ocean stakeholders called Mission Blue, with the goal of restoring the health and productivity of the ocean. Sylvia and I were here with other colleagues. And it was really, really hopefully.
It was really fantastic to see all these people who have dedicate their lives to save the ocean realize that alone we cannot make it happen. I just want to go back to a point you mention before, that the fishermen who almost always resist the creation of such areas because they say these are waters of families and our businesses have fished for years. But that after a few years, they actually support these reserves? As you say, Neal, the fishermen are the first to complain when you talk about creating a reserve. But after a few years, they realize that without these reserves, there is no future for them. And fishermen are part of the solution. And just one short story. There was this fisherman, Drew Lanka(ph) from Alaska who came to our meeting on Monday and Tuesday. And the Copper River fishermen -fishing community, they have decided that they are going to do direct marketing. They are going to sell the salmon directly to the consumer. So they are going to make more money.
And the consumers are going to pay less, because they wouldn't use - they eliminate the middle man, which means that the consumers are going to be happy and the fishermen don't need to catch as many fish to make more money. So everybody is part of the solution. Let's get a question from here in the audience. Hi. My name is Lisa Mensly.Id just like to say it's a pleasure to be in a room with such an amazing woman. My question is, how resilient is - and man... (Soundbite of laughter) LISA MENSLY: ...and Neal Conan. Hey. Cutting it rather fine, arent we?
I just want to say, how resilient is the ocean overall, given an ideal timeframe if people stopped eating fish people threw aside their balloons and went for flowers or something, how fast - what kind of timeframe would the ocean bounce back, or would it? Dr. EARLE: The sooner the better. But realistically, the next 10 years may be the most important in the next 10,000 years, or forever for that edison light. And it's not about will the world survive. Let's get a question from here in the audience.

That cast of mind is excessively attuned to such questions as how you say "tomato" - a word I now find myself pronouncing both ways, usually at random and always with misgiving. In this and more important respects I seem to have become, somehow, a motley product of my famously marvelous background. Oh, sure, I don't belong to any clannish or exclusive clubs, I prefer beer to hard liquor, I am neither affable nor peevish - the alternating currents of Wasp - and I love pop culture.
And yet. Until quite recently, I had the Wasp fridge: marmalade, wilted scallions, out-of-season grapes, seltzer, and vodka - nothing to really eat. (The Wasp fridge is like the bachelor fridge, but Wasps load up on dairy, including both 1 and 2 percent milk, moldy cheese, expired yogurt, and separated sour cream. And atop the Wasp fridge sit Pepperidge Farm Milanos, Fig Newtons, or Saltines - some chewy or salty or otherwise challenging snack.) I have a concise and predictable wardrobe, and friends even like to claim that I invariably wear the same oatmeal-colored Shetland sweater. I will never experience the pleasures of leather pants or a shark's tooth on a thong dangling in my chest hair. I will never experience the pleasures of chest hair. And, like the Tin Man, I don't articulate my upper body in sections; it moves en masse or not at all.
I politely stand aside: no, no, after you. I have a soft laugh, and I rarely raise my voice. Though I have an outsize grin, and friends take pleasure in trying to elicit it, I am reserved upon first meeting (it's Wasp women who are expected to charm). I used to like being told I was "intimidating," because it seemed to sanction my verbal jabbing to maintain a perimeter. Making everyone a little uneasy came naturally. When I characterized a college roommate's dancing style as "Jimmy Cracked Corn," he nursed the wound for decades, and a woman I fooled around with in my early twenties told me, years later, that she had to get a new mattress and headboard after I remarked on her "game-show bed." I am slow to depend on people because I hate being disappointed, hate having to withdraw my trust. All this has often led people to read me as aloof or smug.
I am fiercely but privately emotional - I was embarrassed, recently, when my wife, Amanda, found me having put The Giving Tree down while reading it to our twins, Walker and Addie, because I was in tears. I married Amanda, a strong-minded food writer, seven years ago: she revamped my fridge, and some of my other disaster areas. And I convinced her to have LED Cooler, the best thing we have done together.

Noth hierth malk man hiolk han merth han! He yelled the rhyme aloud, and the goats came to him. They came very quickly, all of them together, not making any sound. They looked at him out of the dark slot in their yellow eyes. Duny laughed and shouted it out again, the rhyme that gave him power over the goats. They came closer, crowding and pushing round him.
All at once he felt afraid of their thick, ridged horns and their strange eyes and their strange silence. He tried to get free of them and to run away. The goats ran with him keeping in a knot around him, and so they came charging down into the village at last, all the goats going huddled together as if a rope were pulled tight round them, and the boy in the midst of them weeping and bellowing. Villagers ran from their houses to swear at the goats and laugh at the boy. Among them came the boy's aunt, who did not laugh. She said a word to the goats, and the beasts began to bleat and browse and wander, freed from the spell.
"Come with me," she said to Duny. She took him into her hut where she lived alone. She let no child enter there usually, and the children feared the place. It was low and dusky, windowless, fragrant with herbs that hung drying from the crosspole of the roof, mint and moly and thyme, yarrow and rushwash and paramal, kingsfoil, clovenfoot, tansy and bay. There his aunt sat crosslegged by the firepit, and looking sidelong at the boy through the tangles of her black hair she asked him what he had said to the goats, and if he knew what the rhyme was. When she found that he knew nothing, and yet had spellbound the goats to come to Led Heat Sink and follow him, then she saw that he must have in him the makings of power.

So, but all of these things - forgive the soliloquy here. All of these things are - it's really important to know this - subconscious. This is - you know, we're talking about here consciously, right, as though it's rational. Suppressed in our optimism bias.
Yes, suppressed in all sorts of things that let us do risk choices, but they're innately subjective. And so when Professor Jacob, somewhat naively I think, talks about retreating to higher ground, well, that's going to be hard to do with a third of the population of the planet. We want to live in these places. We are innately going to want to live in these places. A better way to deal with it is his suggestion and others, building codes, economic incentives and disincentives, zoning codes. There's a beach in Massachusetts - I used to be a TV reporter - that floods all the time during the storms. It just recently did. The people who have houses that are damaged there can rebuild only if they drive pylons down to bedrock and raise their house 18 feet above the water. OK. OK, well Dave Ropeik, let's go to a city where people are not going to be able to do that, but neither, I think, are they going to move. Let's check out the optimism bias of Harry(ph) in San Francisco, California. Welcome to TALK OF THE NATION, Harry, if he's - and I think that perhaps Harry has gone. Let's then go to Ginger(ph), who's calling us from Ashland, Oregon.
Welcome to TALK OF THE NATION, Ginger. Thank you, Jacki. I - I'm actually in Central America right now and just outside of Des Moines, but I live in Ashland indeed. I just want to echo some of the things, of course, that people have said. And I also want to mention that I grew up in Minnesota, and so the draw of water, I think, is universal, whether it's salt or fresh. I can smell water from miles away. One of your other callers said something, in fact, you know, nothing like smelling that. I went to the flood of Fargo-Moorhead in '97, so I also understand that people are very hard-pressed to really take Mother Nature seriously and prepare. In one way, there's no way we can predict. It doesn't matter what the forecasts are like. But I just want to chime in and say it doesn't - to me, it doesn't matter what kind of water it is. That allure and that fascination is pretty universal. So thanks.
But, Ginger... Yes. ...don't go away just yet. When you hear Dave Ropeik say, this is why people do it, and they think it isn't going to happen to them, and you've already witnessed the flood in Fargo, one of the most significant interior floods that we had in the last 15 years, does it all go in one ear and out the other? I don't think so, and I guess - I think there's a lot of context. Freshwater is different from saltwater in the fact that there is some land border in an interior way. At the same time, I think it echoes some of your other 100W Led Heatsink, is that we believe what we want to believe. And if it hasn't happened to us - our recent memory as a population is extremely short.

The concert stretches on for more than two hours but no one even remembers they're wearing a watch. There's 30 minutes of encore, as the band stunningly moves through electrifying versions of hits and album cuts like "Lady," "Back to the Future (Part I & II )," "Left & Right" and "Chicken Grease." Steaming hot funk marauds the Apollo, bouncing off the walls, dissolving time and space and bodies.
After a long stretch, there's demand for a second encore, and we get it in the form of "Till It's Done (TUTU)" and the song that no one will leave without hearing, D'Angelo's 2000 slow jam "Untitled (How Does It Feel)." One by one, the Vanguard members leave their posts and peel off into the wings until it's just D'Angelo alone on stage, crooning to us at his keyboard. All that's left is the powerful current connecting D'Angelo and his rapt Apollo congregation. Around that moment, I remembered lying in bed in Harlem in 1995, watching D'Angelo, dressed in a baggy clothing and sporting cornrows, on my 13-inch Sony television, as he performed "Brown Sugar" on this very stage for a promotional appearance on Showtime at the Apollo.
I still have that recording on VHS. (He also kickstarted his career on amateur night at the Apollo in 1991.) The sheer joy on stage at The Apollo Saturday night is a testament that D'Angelo did more than just survive in the intervening 20 years — he's lived through the record business, the arrival of children, breakups, bad drugs, good music, near fatal-car crashes, half-naked music videos, management changes, endless recording sessions at Electric Ladyland, Web 2.0, smartphones, 9/11, and I don't know what else — he evolved and his music did too.
Stepping out into the cold corporate winter air of the new New York, the enison light bulb, like the Black Messiah album, was bulwark: it was a reminder that music's ability to bring people together to celebrate soulful feeling is in and of itself, as Fela once remarked, a weapon of the future. I make my way back down 125th Street and descend back down into the subway. I'll be back.