Finger: The Blog

The Last Post

2010-09-13T20:51:00.002-04:00

So I guessed I dragged this out because in some ways I'm not sure I wanted to finish up here. But alas, it is time. I started this blog back in 2007, and have logged in and written from all over the world. You've been to Greece with me. You've been to Laos with me. You've been to Ann Arbor with me. From Summer of Finger, to business school, to the Summer of Finger Part II, to the office. I appreciate you all keeping up with me. If I didn't get such positive feedback I'm sure I would've shut this thing down long ago.

I'm not 100% on this but I feel like I'm stopping this thing as my readership is the highest it's ever been. I'm sure Ashley York has something to do with that, and I'm okay with that. Writing this thing has been enjoyable, sometimes burdensome, but mostly something I'd look forward to every week or every other week. It served as a study break when I was at school, and a creative outlet when all I was doing during the day was going crunch crunch crunch with spreadsheets. In short, it made me happy. Plain and simple. And when you find something that makes you happy you hold onto it. I'm not giving all this up completely. I actually went out and bought Final Draft and have taken a stab at writing a TV show. I can't say I know exactly what I'm doing, but it's been pretty fun writing dialogue and making a story. As you can imagine, I have plenty of material. Does anyone ever say "when I grow up I want to be a corporate financier" anyway?.

When I thought about this post I had writer's block as to what I'd write about. But one night it hit me. It actually hit me pretty hard. I was playing the top of a 2-3 zone in a league playoff game when chasing down a skip pass I ran directly into a player on the opposing team. I didn't even see him. My forehead right into his face. We collided, and I can still hear the horrible sound it made. Like dropping a rock onto another rock. Two heads smacking each other. As I staggered away I looked at the other guy who was gushing blood from his mouth. I then slowly put my hand to my forehead to assess the damage and when I pulled my hand away it was as if I'd stepped into a scene of True Blood. His teeth had gone through the skin on my forehead and I was leaking. I don't like blood, and I was a little concerned, and by "a little" I mean a lot. Truth be told, it was a small cut, but a lot of blood. Once the bleeding stopped I bandaged it up and went back in. I'm not saying I'm Willis Reed or anything, but despite bleeding my own blood it was just fun to be out there playing. It reminded me of the last episode of The Wire when drug kingpin Marlo, clearly uncomfortable at Levy's white collar real estate function sneaks out and starts walking the streets of Baltimore until he encounters two kids and engages them in a fight only to get cut on his arm by one of them during the skirmish. Marlo looks at his bloody arm and smiles because he knows that being on the streets is what makes him happiest.

I'm not advocating going around looking for knife fights. It is pretty simple though. When you can find what makes you happy, do it. Whether it's writing, being a Baltimore drug kingpin, valuing companies, or making artisanal cheese. Maybe I'm writing this for you, or maybe I'm writing this for me so when I come back to this in a few weeks or months, or years or whenever I can remind myself what I said. Either way, it's out there, on the internets.

This isn't an Emmy speech, but I do want to thank you all for reading Finger:TheBlog. It really has been fun writing. After today if you want to get in touch regarding the blog or any of the posts, or anything else, I created fingertheblog@gmail.com, so holler at me. If you're a newbie, go back and read some of the early stuff. If you've been following since my trip to Woodbury Commons, well, hell, go back and read some of the early stuff too. Thanks again. I'm off to bed.

Ashley York Vol 10: Epilogue

2010-09-01T22:02:00.003-04:00

Last week I ended the story of Ashley York. This is a fact. It is a fact, because the story was in fact over. And now you sit here perhaps saying to yourself, "Volume 10? How?". Here is how.

The internets are a strange place. That is how.

Last week I closed every loop I could close. I presented the facts (names, pictures, etc) and I let you, the reader, decide what you what you wanted to believe. I showed you the picture of Ashley York and then I showed you the pictures and named the names of the actual girls in the photos. These were the facts as I found them. If you revert back to Volume 9 you'll see that all pictures and names have been redacted by me. If you're a little late to the game you won't get to see any pictures of Ashley York or Krista Marks and you won't get to know the names of the real people in those pictures. Here is why.

My last post was Tuesday evening before I went to bed. On Wednesday and Thursday I saw the number of hits on my blog jump like crazy. I wasn't quite sure why, but it was nice to end on such a flurry of blog activity. By Thursday night I had begun thinking about what my last post would be like. Perhaps a simple 'thank you' post, or maybe something more akin to an Emmy acceptance speech. It didn't really end up mattering because Friday was one of the strangest days I'd had in a while. I was off from work and on a little mini-vacation. By about 2pm I was on the beach, relaxing and enjoying the water and sun. At about 4pm I get a call from my sister, urging me to call her back immediately. So I called her. My sister tells me that a friend of hers from high school is friend with the actual real girl in the Ashley York pictures, and that this girl saw my blog and is totally freaked and upset and wants me to remove all photos, names, and anything else related to herself and also her sister (Krista Marks). Wait, what?

So to recap, a mere 48 hours after I finish this story and recap it and name names, all of the sudden, out of the woodwork someone claims they are friends with the sisters in the photos and wants me to take everything down. I'm sorry, but after all the shenanigans I've had to deal with on this whole subject I found the timing to be SUPER coincidental. Perhaps too coincidental. Was I actually getting too close to figuring out this mystery? Had I caught them with their hands in the cookie jar, and finally exposed the truth? The email my sister received also had mention of getting lawyer involved, etc etc... To me, it sounded a little desperate. Lawyers getting involved with my poorly formatted blue and green blog? Really? I guess people were upset. But lawyers? Really? You're telling me that after writing this thing for the past two-plus months and with all these assumptions and conjectures that 48 hours after I post this thing, the real person in these pictures stumbles upon little old Finger:TheBlog, some two-bit blog operation in the corner of the internet universe? Come on now. This isn't Gawker for crying out loud.

My sister responded to the email and cc'd me, and as I asked her to, and basically said to her friend that I was willing to help find the person behind this whole mess. And truthfully, I was willing to help. My services were available. I mean, shoot, if anyone wants to solve this thing it's me. But the whole thing had me quite spooked and skeptical. Fast forward to dinner with my sister a few hours later, and I get a call from Private Number. I let it ring, obviously, and there's no voicemail. Next thing I know I get a text from some person named Andee claiming to be a friend of the girl in the picture (I will call her REAL Ashley York) and for me to call her back.

If you read any of my posts on this you know full well I ain't calling back anyone claiming to be anyone's anything. In fact I emailed my sister's friend and said more or less, "Listen, I'm getting some weird calls and texts from weird people. I'm not interested in talking to anyone but you or REAL Ashley York. Otherwise, I'm sorry".

My sister's friend's response was that they'd Skype me later on in the evening. They? Skype? Yes, "they" as in my sister's friend was literally with the REAL Ashley York. Maybe the REAL Ashley York was in Greece after all. So I'm sitting there with my sister still trying to figure out how in 48 hours after posting, and more importantly, 2 years after this craziness all began, how in the world I was about to talk to the REAL Ashley York. Folks, you can't make this up.

And my phone rang...000123456, which is what happens when you get a call from Skype. I picked up. It was my sister's high school friend. After a brief intro the friend said, "John, I'm going to let you and REAL Ashley York talk now" (of course she said the girl's real name and not REAL Ashley York, but I'm honoring my word by not naming names).

Then there was a pause. And then a 'hello'.

And I swear to God, for about five seconds the girl sounded exactly like the Ashley York I'd spoken to for hours on end back in 2008. But after those five seconds it was pretty clear that it wasn't the same person. So we talked. And we talked. Probably close to thirty minutes.

She seemed exasperated, and quite honestly I think we'd all be if we found out that some lunatic had been posing as us for AT LEAST 7 years, and had gone on wreaking havoc on one person's life after the next. She was concerned. Her sister was concerned too since her identity had be appropriated as well. Her parents were concerned. Her friends were concerned. Hell, I was concerned. I told her basically all I knew, but the most detailed account I could possibly give her is written in Volumes 1 through 9. It doesn't get more detailed than that. It sounded like she was going to make this a police matter. I couldn't blame her for escalating it. I don't know though. If the Department of Homeland Security couldn't track her than who knows, but I hope they really give it a go. I wished her the best of luck and offered my help. And as she asked, I took down all names and photos the next day.

If this were a true Hollywood ending we'd team up and catch this person, but this isn't Hollywood. We're not Edmund Exley and Bud White. This isn't L.A. Confidential. This is some real life shit, impacting real life people. I actually think that in our chat we might've found a lead or two in helping her figure out who this person might be. Unfortunately, the 201 number for Ashley York has since been disconnect. I'd say that perhaps this thing is close to being solved but I know better than to make statement like that at this point. I'd like to follow that Kim Daniel lead a little bit more now actually. What I can say with confidence was that the girl I mentioned in Vol 9, the girl I spoke to on the phone last Friday, that girl, she's not Ashley York but she is probably the biggest victim in this whole thing.

So you can look at this a few ways. Yeah, my blog post probably made a few people unhappy. Fine. But now at least two people know what the hell has been going on with their identities for over seven years. In a way I'd like to think I at least helped a little. In fact, I know I did help, more than a little.

How they found Finger:TheBlog...I'm not sure I'll ever know, but I'd love to know. It still seems strange to me. I never like to be the bearer of bad news. In fact, if you know me well, you know that I don't like conflict. I don't like arguing. I don't like drama. Perhaps this is why this whole thing has fired me up so much and still fires me up two years later. Things like this don't happen to me and that's why I wanted answers. One day I might get them. Last Friday Team Krashley got perhaps its most important new member.

Best of luck.

I'll be back with a final post next week.

Ashley York Vol 9: And So It Ends...

2010-08-24T22:18:00.006-04:00

You didn't have to wait two weeks, but I did. Actually I think it was more like three weeks, or even a month.

I got back to school and resumed the good life. About a week after classes began I got a call from my summer employer telling me I got a full-time offer. I immediately threw all my books out the window and lit them on fire in the parking lot. Okay, maybe not exactly like that, but it most definitely eased some of the pressure of my second year. Actually, I don't know if eased is the right word. More like, removed, entirely. My focused turned to more gentlemanly pursuits such as drinking german beer out of a boot-shaped glass, calisthenics, Rick's, Michigan football, and thai food. Not necessarily in that order of course. Ashley York was so yesterday. Nothing more than an amazing fireside story.

I was actually planning on going down to Columbus, OH for the Michigan/Ohio St game in November, and for whatever reason I thought that I'd run into Ashley. After all, if you remember from one of the earlier volumes, she was in fact an Ohio State fan. How a British girl becomes and Ohio State fan, I mean, I don't know, but then again, she wasn't British, she wasn't real either. Leave it to a fake girl to pick Ohio St. But the girl in those pictures, she was an Ohio State fan. She and her piercing blue eyes.

Anyway, it was mid-week when I got a call from my sister. I picked up.

"I FOUND ASHLEY YORK! On Facebook!"

Impossible I thought. But my sister assured me it was her, in fact it was her picture but someone else's profile. So this is the dilemma. I'm going to name names here. I'm not going to tie anything together. If you've read this far you've earned your junior detective badges as far as I'm concerned so you can make your own assessments. I've made mine.

So here is the profile picture (finally) of Ashley York.

[PICTURE REMOVED]

You understand why I wanted this thing to pan out? Make a little more sense now? And because you've stuck with me this long, here's the most absurd picture Ashley had on her facebook profile. I had to save it because nobody would believe it.

[PICTURE REMOVED]

Whatcha doing Ash?"

-"Ya know, just riding a donkey in my bikini"

So shame on me for wanting to go out on a date with a tennis-playing donkey-riding vixen. But back to my sister. She directed me to the page of one [Redacted], from Harvard. Below is [Redacted's] current facebook profile picture.

[PICTURE REMOVED]

And that young lass there in the blue...you may recognize her as one Krista Marks. Or perhaps maybe you can start calling her by her real name...[Redacted]...aka [Redacted's] younger sister. Also a Harvard grad.

As the kids say these days, "WTF?"

Seriously. What the hell was I supposed to do with this information. Of course I dropped some knowledge on Team Krashley that evening. Yeah, I pretty much rocked their world. Two hot chicks from Harvard? Really, could these girls really have been behind all this? That was one theory. I doubted Kate's involvement, after all when I spoke to her on the phone it was a guy on the other end of the line.

I went bed that night and thought four things:

One. Chipatis were the dumbest invention of all time. It's basically a salad in a pita. Girls love ordering them and then systematically tearing the pita and just eating the innards (lettuce and so forth) leaving the outer pita shell untouched. Just order a salad. Jesus.

Two. Harvard girls? Really? Two pretty Harvard girls at that. They must have better things to do than torment guys...I should hope.

Three. Maybe Ashley was a 500 pound woman who used this ruse as her only way to get attention from guys. Maybe she couldn't leave her house. Maybe she just was so socially awkward she had to play these games.

Four. Maybe I have the best. imagination. ever.

I slept like shit.

James really stepped up his game the next day calling his Harvard friends to get the inside scoop on [Redacted] and [Redacted]. I don't think it would be 100% fair to tell you what information James got about [Redacted]and[Redacted]because I'm not besmirching anyone's name here, but I will just say that what we heard about [Redacted]was most interesting. Interesting enough to continue searching in that direction. James, through a friend was able to track down [Redacted] phone number through some Harvard eating club alumni directory. Yes, eating clubs. They have those at Harvard. So there we were. A phone call away from talking to [Redacted]. I was incredibly nervous, and I didn't even know what I'd say. James called me, and then once he had me on he called [Redacted]number. We agreed I would do the talking.

It starting ringing.
One ring.
Two rings.
Someone picked up.

"Hello. Is [Redacted]there?", I said.
"Que?", said a man's voice on the other end.
"[Redacted]?", I said again.
"Eh. Lo siento. Sorry. No [Redacted]. Wrong number." And then click.

A fake phone number. James called his Harvard people back and apparently {Redacted] last known whereabouts were Greece. Another dead end. Folks, let me tell you. I wish I went to Greece and started knocking on doors of whitewashed villas looking for a blond girl in a bikini riding a donkey. I wish I could tell you this is what happened. I wish I could tell you I found this girl in a small village on a mountain, sitting in a courtyard writing poems about a girl riding a donkey while wearing a bikini and showing off her six-pack abs. I wish. But sadly, this is where the story peters out. Just like every other time we had a breakthrough, it would just lead to another dead end.

I remember St Patty's Day 2009 I was driving to Chicago with two friends. They'd only heard pieces of the story, and asked that I tell it from start to finish. So I did. After I was done, they were like you and everyone else..."we gotta catch this girl". I casually mentioned that I still had Ashley's number. Screw it, we'd call her from my friend's phone and would see if anyone picked up. Again, this is March 2009. We called, and lo and behold someone picked up.

"Hey Ashley", my friend Josh said.
"Um, hi. Who is this", said a NOT-BRITISH voice.
"It's Josh, from the Hamptons. You never called me back. What's up with that?".
"Who is this", Ashley said again.
"Come on now. We met at the Talkhouse. You don't remember", Josh said.

Meanwhile, I actually was really nervous. It was the first time I'd heard her voice in two years and while it wasn't British it certainly sounded like the same person and it gave me the chills. I don't care what the person on the other end of the line looked like but she was a sociopath and I couldn't shake that thought.

"I don't know you. Bye", Ashley said and hung up.

We exploded in laughter, but then when the laughter subsided we realized that Ashley York was still up to her old tricks and had her same cellphone. And just for shits and giggles, Ashley York is still in my phone...201.638.3893. I have no qualms whatsoever about giving that information out. And you know what, ashley.york@yahoo.com probably still works too. Knock yourself out.

But do you know the scariest thing? When I started with Volume 1 a few weeks back Ashley York was nowhere on facebook, but at some point along the way she activated her profile AGAIN. And what's even more bizarre is that Mark (Troy's friend from a previous Vol) is still her friend and we have another mutual friend. Ashley's privacy settings are so severe that I don't think you can even find her, but since I have message history with her from 2008 her profile is still visible to me. You'll have to take my word on that. And her picture, well, it's the same ol' Ashley York/[Redacted].

So in reality, while it was case closed with this guy, who knows what other Ashley York-related shenanigans are going on these days. Truthfully, I'd still like to have a chat with [Redacted] and ask her a few questions, but in my heart of hearts I believe she's riding burros is Greece and will be unavailable for comment. I wish her the best though. I think.

There are many lessons here to be learned. One, Facebook is the devil. That's obvious. But there are probably thirty or thirty thousand other lessons to be learned. For example, don't drive to Montauk in the middle of the day on 4th of July weekend, ever, especially if it's to meet a girl in a parking lot. Or perhaps, if a girl calls you and sounds like a guy, it's probably best you never speak to that girl again. I don't even know if I mentioned this, but at the end of that summer in 2008 the New York Philharmonic was playing in Central Park. Out of the blue Ashley asked if I wanted to meet her in the Park to watch it. So another piece of advice, don't go chasing imaginary girls in Central Park, at night, when there are tens of thousands of people already in the Park. I think I provided enough life lessons here to last you all at least until the rest of the summer.

This is where the my Ashley York saga ends. I'm still going to come back for one last post. (Tear). I will say that I've really enjoyed the feedback from many of you over these past few months. I can't believe how many hits I've gotten on this site, and while I wish I had a better ending for you, I really do appreciate you sticking with me. Hell, if you have any insight in this matter holler at me. You can post a comment and I promise you I'll read it and if you have a question post it. I'll get back to you and answer any questions you may have. It really has been a pleasure getting this story, this true story, out there. Feel free to tell it to your friends.

I have a feeling we'll find out the truth one day, but until then, let's just enjoy the REAL people in our lives. They're definitely more fun and more cool than the imaginary ones.

Ashley York Vol 8: Closure. Kind of.

2010-08-20T21:00:00.012-04:00

Ok, so where was I? Krista Marks...broham. Officially. Krista Marks...the Indian Chief from The Village People. Quite possibly. Krista Marks...scaring the shit out of me from afar. Oh hell yes.

As I mentioned, I had some calls to make, but who was going to believe this? Team Krashley would, but of course I'd get seriously ribbed for having facebook messaged with a chick who was really a dude (who probably had a mustache) all these weeks. But one by one I told Team Krashley and I think everyone was more sketched out than I was. Part of me felt like I was walking into an episode of Dateline: To Catch a Predator meets Candid Camera. Somewhere, there must be someone having a laugh, aside from Krista and Ashley of course. What I couldn't figure out, among other things of course, was how Krista, or Kris, or Ralph or whatever, could possibly think, for a single second, that I wouldn't immediately recognize that this was a man on the other end of the phone. If it was Phuket, and it was dark, and I'm a couple of Singhas deep maybe I'd have trouble because the ladyboys are so ambiguous and confusing and scary. But even in Phuket, if a he-she opens his-her mouth and says something you KNOW if you're speaking to a Krista or a Kris. This was a Kris.

Up until this point though Krista was nothing more than a picture of a pretty blond girl who wrote me messages, but the realness of the conversation honestly scared me. I was frightened a little bit. In fact, here's a picture of the Krista Marks I thought I was dealing with.

[PICTURE REMOVED]

"LOL!!! I have an Adams Apple"

Cute right? Cute like the Son of Sam. The general consensus among Team Krashley was first, not to get killed, and second, to go out and expose these frauds. I agreed, but I wanted to do it right. But leave it to Krista to continue to push. Here is another exchange I had with Krista just days after our phone call. And by the way, at this point, zero interaction with Ashley just so you are clear.

Krista: ARE U TWO JUST NOT INTO EACHOTHER. FED UP WITH EACH OTHER. FRUSTRATED? IF U DONT CARE THEN I WILL STOP BOTHERING.

Krista: JUST DONT UNDERSTAND

JOHN: Frustrated. I think you do understand. This all is too good to be true.

Krista: What does that mean?? U said you REALLY liked her and now ur fucking it up. Are you afraid of good things? And i dont understand. All I know is that she is confused and given ur actions is starting to get over it. LOL WHATS WRONG WITH U?

So you see, I made a vague reference to things not being kosher. And to her question of being afraid of good things...well, if good things include "she puts the lotion on the skin", then yes, perhaps I was a little afraid, and that's why I didn't call out Krista right then and there. In the meantime, Troy and James were working double-time to get this Ashley story out there. James put me in touch with the guys over at thrillist.com, which is dailycandy.com for men for those who don't know. If you don't know what dailycandy.com is then wikipedia it. But through thrillist I was put in touch with this girl. A columnist who had some pretty good credentials. We had only emailed, but she'd heard the general story from the thrillist folks and was interested in hearing the raw and uncut version. The thing was, this story was evolving every single second, so it would be hard to wrap it in a nice little bow, but I would try. Unfortunately time was running thin a little bit. I had to get back to Ann Arbor for my second year of business school. The writer, and I forget her name now, but we kept missing each other. Team Krashley and I had come to the sad conclusion that this really was going to go unsolved. I felt a little bit like a failure. With all the resources we had how could we not figure this out. More than anything I wanted to know who this Ashley was. A week went by and I was getting ready to head back to school in a day or two and wouldn't you know who comes popping up on my facebook again. Your friend and mine, Krista Marks. Mind you, a full calendar week she's picking right back up on the same thread.

Krista Marks: July 25, 2008 at 10:32am Report
And too good to be true is bullshitt.

John Finger: July 25, 2008 at 10:54pm
I don't even think she exists, because if she feels the way you say she feels then she would've made more of an effort a long time ago. She's clearly not interested.

Krista Marks: July 26, 2008 at 2:46pm Report
Umm ok then. Are u interested!? Whatevs, u two would be great. If ur gonna have a sour attitude then forget about it. And shed be more interested if uactually bit back LOL
Sent via Facebook Mobile

So to recap, I just said to her that I didn't think Ashley didn't even exists and she writes back "are u interested". Not that I'm a tough guy, but enough was enough here, so I let it all hang out. And apologies to anyone that is offended by the below. I was just angry.

John Finger July 26, 2008 at 3:42pm
Bite back. While you joke, I mean really, this has been a game for you two and it's getting kind of old.

I liked her when I thought she was real, and now I don't think that anymore. Obviously I spoke to someone on the phone, but not "Ashley York" and she sure as hell doesn't look like that. And it's hard to believe that none of your friends have facebook profiles. You might want to create some to make it all seem more legit. If everything was kosher we would've already met. And quite honestly, any girl who looks like that has better things to do than mess around with some random dude she's never met.

I thought you all would just let this thing die a natural death, but you keep coming back for more. I don't know you guys, and you don't know me, but absolutely nothing checks out. Nothing. I could write a book about all the BS that's been peddled my way. If you are going to say you went to Spence you should've realized that there are 30 girls in a class and of the class of 2000 I know about 10% of the girls, and nobody has ever heard of Ashley York, and trust me, if there was a girl who looked like that who ever came to Spence for even 2 weeks people would remember. That's one. Two, you all play in a very small pool. People who are friends with both of you who I know have never heard of either of you. Not a single one. If a hot blonde facebooks someone you are going to accept, but you know this. And Georgetown...come on. You don't think I know people at the State Department who can run a background check and see that Ashley never went to Georgetown, or that she bought her cell phone at a CellCo in Hackensack? And Elle? Really? Nobody there has ever heard of Ashley York. It sucks getting fired, but it really must really suck getting fired from a pretend job. I could literally go on for another half an hour. A Saturday flight to London at 4:00 doesn't exist and neither does a flight at 3:30, or 3:00, so while I heard all three times thrown out it really doesn't matter. MOMA in Brooklyn? Nashville, Chicago, Miami, North Carolina? Is Marley real? Royal Ascot? What are you going to tell me next, that Ashley got hit in the head with a steel beam back on 9/11? What you all did to Cole was really wrong, and I'm just happy that I asked around as soon as I thought shit was getting weird. And just when I really thought that maybe I was paranoid, you call me, sounding like a dude from Ronkonkoma, and not girl from Old Westbury. If you have laryngitis, I hope you get better, but no girl who allegedly grew up in Old Westbury and went to Columbia talks like that.
If you are going to try to pull this shit, pick people from the Midwest who don't know any better or tighten up your game. "Ashley" was actually very charming and sweet and seemingly bright when I spoke to her. It's a shame you all clearly get off on doing this to unsuspecting people. I want to know the real deal and so do a ton of people that I know. I'm not sure we'll ever figure it out though, but if you want to let me know I'd certainly be happy to pass along the story behind it all. I really want to know who those blondes are. If you know that at least give me that before you go silent. And I hope I'm 100% wrong on this because this would be an extremely ridiculous message, but I know I'm 100% right. You really picked the wrong person this time.

Krista Marks July 26, 2008 at 5:28pm Report
You are 100 percent wrong and fuck u I do talk like that. I never did anything to you and I like Ash is real. I am a good person you are. Clearly paranoid. I don't have time for games. Wow - goodbye.
Sent via Facebook Mobile

Catharsis can be a beautiful thing. Who knew that sounding like you're from Ronkonkoma was so horrible either? Her response was super weird too. It was as if he-she just got his-her hand caught in the cookie jar. Some of the details in the note you may not be familiar with. The one that piqued your interested was the 9/11 comment. Apparently at one point on one of Cole's visits Ashley had a relapse into a coma post-head trauma somehow related to a falling beam on 9/11 and was at an undisclosed hospital location. I know...

But it felt good. Really good. If I wasn't going to catch these two I'd at least like to put a scare into them.

The next day I went onto Ashley's profile. When I read what was on her page I could barely believe it. The chutzpah of some people. I don't have the exact quote, but she stated that at some point in the last six months someone had stolen her facebook login and had been communicating with a number of people. She said how sorry she was for the miscommunications and how sorry she was if she hurt anyone. She went on to say how traumatic it was for her these last few months and how deeply affected she'd been by this invasion of her privacy. Rrrrrright. I call bullshit. In fact, I felt it was time to call it to her face (or as least as close as I could get to her face).

Here's my email....and please excuses typos and grammar. It wasn't my finest piece of writing.

Thursday, July 31, 2008 12:56 AM

Ashley,

I just saw your facebook message and I'm really confused. I can't believe that someone stole your identity and has been pretending they have been you for the past 6 months. I was still talking to you on the phone and also through facebook so I really don't know who I was speaking to. Clearly what's going on now is that you are pretending that someone stole your pretend identity. Unfortunately I think you're in over your head a little bit. There's no Ashley York, plain and simple, and I can tell you why.

1. You didn't go to Spence. I know a lot of girls who graduated in '00 and none of them have ever heard of you. You didn't go there for one day, one week, or one year. I actually made people go back through their yearbook and check. Nothing.

2. You didn't go to Georgetown, and I know this because my friend works in Homeland Security and did a background check and there's no Ashley York that ever went to Georgetown. So I guess you didn't make the tennis team there either. Oh, and you got your cellphone at a CellCo in Hackensack. My buddy at Homeland Security told me that too. He also told me the phone is registered to Kim Daniel. Do you know her?

3. Your Dad doesn't work for Merrill. I have a good friend who's an MD there and he told me the only York in the system is in Louisville, or something ridiculous like that.

4. You didn't work at Elle because I know people there and nobody has heard of you. People called, and again nobody has ever heard of you. Interns make the masthead, so it's hard to believe you wouldn't be up there as well. And even worse is that you got fired from an imaginary job. Talk about a tough job market.

5. You never had a flight to Wimbledon, because a 3:00 Saturday flight doesn't exist and neither does a 3:30 or a 4:00.

6. You never were in the Hamptons that weekend and I can't believe I got worked up over all that when you probably did all that just from the comfort of your own apartment.

7. You probably don't even have a dog.

8. Krista is a dude. LOL!! I have no idea why he/she called me trying to pretend it was a girl.And I don't know who Karine is, but from what I gather Krista and this Karine are the same person too. The question is whether all three of you are the same person.

9. Cole. How could you fuck with someone like that? That's just straight up malicious. I don't think you realize the pool your playing in is way smaller than you think. People know people. They talk. They have friends who talk. They see through this facebook shit.

10. If you were British royalty you would a) have better manners and a more authentic accent and b) wouldn't be fucking around on facebook and you'd have better things to do than talk with strangers, such as myself, until the wee hours of the morning.

I'm going to stop there, but I don't know where Ashley York stopped, and pretend Ashley York began, or Kim Daniel stopped and Ashley York began. I don't know who was telling me what. Whoever I spoke to, I enjoyed speaking with her, but I don't even know who that was. The thing is, there is no Ashley York, and that blonde girl is some randomly gorgeous girl who is not you and you've been swiping her pics from somewhere and posting it on the web. Although, if you know who it is can you tell me because I'd like to meet her. I'm over this whole thing, but a lot of the people who I've told this saga to are not over it, and a lot are willing to put in the leg work to figure it out. I'm back in school in a few weeks, where I can move on and focus on meeting real people.

-John

I'll tell you what, that felt pretty good too, but solving the mystery would've felt a hell of a lot better. One day after I wrote the email Ashley York disappeared off Facebook. Poof. Like Keyser Soze.

I had an eleven hour drive to Ann Arbor in a few days. I drove out with a buddy and of course I told him the story. We tried to piece it all together, but we couldn't. His question was the same question most of the people would ask, "so who was the girl in the picture?". I had no clue. It really was a shame that we'd never figure out who those two blond girls actually were...until we did, two weeks later.

Ashley York Vol 7: A Tangled Web

2010-08-10T21:55:00.005-04:00

Before I go any further I want to back up a quick second. In case the connection wasn't clear last episode when Troy's response to my mentioning Krista Marks was "Ashley York", the reason was because to lure his friend Cole, Krista had used herself as the springboard once again. Apparently she had played the "we've met before in (insert vague place/time here)" . It worked on me, and it had worked on Cole, and it started to dawn on me that Krista and Ashley (or were they the same person?) had worked on many many other people between 2003, when Cole "met" Ashley, and when I "met" Ashley five years later. Five years, same sick shtick...and all I can think of as I write this now, two years removed is The House of Vanger. But I digress...

Team Krashley went into overdrive. We were too resourceful to not figure this out. Plus now we had Troy. When Troy and Cole had traveled to Europe after college, at one point Troy got on the phone with Ashley after Cole had called her. I said to Troy, "doesn't she have the cutest British accent?". Troy's response, "what are you talking about, she's not British". He said, "Finger, I'm telling you man, she absolutely does not have a British accent". I was floored, once again. Who was this girl? What kind of crazy ass games was she playing? And then Troy decided that he himself had to hear Ashley speak. He had to hear her voice. It became his obsession.

I had other things to worry about though, like checking behind me as I walked into my apartment. I was legitimately spooked at this point, but I felt confident I was going to be able to explain everything. I couldn't let go of Ashley, not emotionally of course, but in terms of communications. It was vital to Team Krashley that I not fall off Ashley's radar. Krista on the other hand, well, she was a bit of a "facebook slut". I could get her attention any time I wanted. In fact, she wouldn't leave me the hell alone.

Here's a back and forth with Krista to illustrate. We had a conversation which she started, entitled "you alive?".

Krista Marks July 14 2008 3:59pm

Guess Not

John Finger July 14 2008 10:10pm

Yeah, I'm alive. Are you?

Krista Marks July 14 10:19pm

I AM - WHAT'S HAPPENING WITH U AN ASH???? WHY ARE THINGS WEIRD!!!!?!!???

John Finger July 14 2008 10:19pm

nothing is weird. What do you mean?

Krista Marks July 14 2008 10:26pm

NOT WHAT I HEAR

Weird is an understatement to describe what was going on, but I felt like if I just played it like I was still thinking about Ashley and that things were normal, maybe I could extract some kind of information from Krista. What was clearly obvious was that Krista and Ashley were in cahoots. I can clearly remember having a bonfire the following weekend in East Hampton and once again telling the story. New details had emerged and I'm not going to lie, I feel like I did a pretty bang up job of telling it. After I was done telling the story a friend from college pulled me aside and he said, "I know a guy who can find her. He can find anyone". So I responded, "great, put me in touch". And he said, "no, you don't understand, he can find anyone, but it's not cheap". I was thinking, how much would I spend to have this solved. He said "Two thousand bucks and I promise you, he'll find her". Well, I think I'd just take my chances with Team Krashley thank you very much.

That Monday Troy said he was going to contact Jared Morganstern, some big mucky muck over at Facebook and an old friend from Long Island. We were going right to the top here. But after a few emails and no response that conversation never materialized. Troy, let me tell you, he was adamant about talking to Ashley. He used to make me practice dialing him into calls from his cell phone and utilizing the calling from a "Private Number" function. His philosophy, "practice makes perfect", so occasionally we'd do our thing, dialing in to each others phones from private lines and such. It's not hard, but it's nothing I've ever done and I'm not the most tech savvy person of all time either. Troy also began putting out the feelers to his friends. He contacted his friend Ryan, from growing up, who also happened to have gone to Penn, and who also happened to be friends with Krista Marks. Troy had asked Ryan who Krista Marks was and Ryan's response "I don't know. She looked hot and she friended me, so I accepted". He had never met her and had never seen her, although he did say that last year Krista had contacted him insisting that he'd met her in the Hamptons. Ryan ignored her. This Krista was surely persistent. Ryan asked Troy what the deal was. Why was he asking all these random questions, so Troy gave him my story, and when Troy was done Ryan remarked that something about the name Ashley York was eerily familiar. He thought that he had recently met her. Ryan was going to think about it and get back to Troy.

Troy relayed this to me and of course I was pretty excited. Finally, a sighting. Ashley did exist. Not only did she exist but there had been a sighting, and a recent one at that. Ryan called Troy the next day. He hadn't met Ashley, but his friend Eric, a tennis player from Penn, was currently talking to her on Facebook and the phone and was supposed to go out with her. Ashley York = Black Widow Spider. Good God this girl works fast. All I could think of was how many balls was she juggling at once. How many guys were in her web. Troy Ryan Eric and I got on an email chain. I explained to Eric that he wasn't going to be meeting Ashley anytime soon and told him a watered down version of my story. He concurred that the whole thing was weird, starting with the initial note he received from Krista Marks all the way to the first time that Ashley flaked on him for drinks. My advice, stay away.

But the group dialogue proved to be a great way to disseminate and share information. We added Troy's friend Mark to it, who knew Cole. Mark knew of another guy who was friends with Krista Marks and that guy knew another one. Soon, a back and forth between me and Troy had turned into a real listserve. There were ten or so guys within a few days. It was an interesting cast of characters. Most were from the tri-state area, had gone to school at either on the Northeast or at one of the Big Ten schools, and many were Jewish. Ashley York's facebook profile showed that she had many friends and they posted on her wall. Stuff like, "hey, let me know when you're in the DC area". It seemed legitimate to me but I knew better. But back to the listserve...I mean, some of these guys really believed she existed. One guy said something like "I go to all the clubs and believe me, I would've remembered her if I saw her, and I'm hoping I'll find her one day". I chimed in, "nobody is ever going to meet her. She's not real". I'd had enough of the listserve after a few days. It wasn't helpful. Too much testosterone. I needed to focus.

Team Krashley recommended I do a reverse lookup on Ashley's phone number. I paid the requisite $20 and waited for a response. Finally I got it. The name that came back "Kim Daniel". Kim Daniel. Who the hell is Kim Daniel we all wondered and we all set out to find Kim Daniel. We poured through the directories and facebook and asked friends. Nothing. Well, something, but nothing substantial. We did know that the phone was purchased at a CellCo in Hackensack, NJ. But what did that do for us. There were a few Kim Daniels in northern New Jersey, but nothing that seemed to make sense as the women we looked up were all in their 40s and older. It was possible. We were hitting dead ends left and right. Looking back though, I wish we'd pursued that Kim Daniels lead a little harder, but things were about to take another bizarre turn.

Troy and I were on the phone one night. He had called me a few times from "private number" just to see if it worked, which it had. We chatted about new developments and stewed over our inability to make progress given the lead with Ryan's friend Eric and with Kim Daniel. We were letting this slip, and there was no reason for it. Well, maybe there was kind of, since, you know, I was trying to finish up a summer internship and get a job at my firm and you know, make something of myself and what have you. But Ashley York. Krista Marks. Ashley York. Krista Marks....

Krista Marks!

Krista was back on facebook messenger and she was messenging me some nonsense about me messing things up. At the same time I'm on the phone talking to Troy telling him that Krista just won't give up. Troy suggested that we get her on the phone, even if he just sat silent, he wanted to hear Krista explain herself.

Krista was blabbering away, and I was humoring her with, "I'm not sure", "I don't know", "something feels wrong", etc etc. She was buying it hook line and sinker. Meanwhile, Troy is pleading with me, "Finger, get her on the phone, just ask her to call you". So I write to Krista, "Krista, enough of this facebook bullshit. What's your number?" I tell Troy I'm going to call her and for him to hang up. We hang up. Krista says, "no, I'll call you what's your number". So I give it to her. Troy's on facebook messaging me now, "Finger, call me into the conversation right now. Before you call her". Troy's being persistent. So persistent that he can't wait. I get a call from "private number" again. I'm looking at it. Why can't Troy hold his horses for five seconds...

But let me take one second to tell you about Troy. And I might've told you this before, but Troy has a very distinct voice. He sounds kind of hoarse, and has since he was 9 years old. Deep voice, kind of scratchy, and very distinct.

It reads "private number" on my phone. Damnit Troy. I hit the answer button.

"Jesus, you are so impatient. Can't you wait like five seconds"

"Hello", said the voice on the other side.

"Troy, yeah, hi. Hold on a second"

"Who's Troy?"

Wait a second. What the fuck is going on here. I know this voice. But I don't know this voice. It sounds like Troy, but it doesn't. I start in again.

"Who is this?", I say.

"It's Krista".

And that 's' hissssssed like the day is long. I don't know how to describe this voice but it was somewhere between James Earl Jones and Richard Simmons, with a heavy slant on the Richard Simmons side of things. This cannot be for real.

"Hey Krista", I say, incredulously.

"So, what's the deal", Krista says, like she's talking to a close friend.

The word "deal", I don't know how, but Krista made it have 19 syllables.

"No deal. I'm just very confused right now", I said, barely managing to keep my composure.

"Do you like Ashley or not!?", Krista practically barked at me.

At the same time I'm facebook messaging with Troy. I tell him I'm speaking to Krista and Krista is a MAN.

You can imagine what was going through my head right now. Actually you probably can't. I know Ashley York was a girl, that I reminded myself was a fact. I'd spoken to Ashley, as you know, many times. But "Krista", did he/she really think he/she could get away with calling me and sounding like a man. Like a grown ass man. It was a man. It didn't sound like a man. It was. A. Fucking. MAN! All I could think of was "Ray Finkle is Lois Einhorn".

I don't even think the rest of my conversation with "Krista" was even coherent. I don't know what I said, but I feel like Krista just pressed me to stay involved and be a "man" (how ironic) and call Ashley. The same garbage she had been feeding me over facebook, but now, you know, just in the voice of an incredibly effeminate MAN. I hung up and just dropped my phone immediately, like it was a piece of kryptonite. I knew I needed to call Troy back, but I also needed a minute to digest.

My head spun. I had some calls to make. How does this story keep getting more twisted, I thought to myself. If only this was the last twist...

Ashley York Vol 6: Troy's Tale

2010-08-05T21:34:00.002-04:00

That weekend I headed down to a bar call Three Steps in Grammercy. I can't recall what the occasion was exactly, but it gave me a chance to see some friends who I hadn't seen in a few weeks. One of these friends was my friend Sean, who of course wanted to hear the full Ashley York story since I think I had given him snippets over the weeks prior. The story was getting harder and harder to tell with every passing day due to the sheer number of crazy details that regularly emerged. I'm not sure I'd even exchanged so much as a text with Ashley in a few days, but I found a really good reason to break the silence before I headed to the bar. My friend Lexi, who went to Spence and would have been in the same class as Ashley was going to be at the bar too, so I texted Ashley, and told her I was going to see one of her old high school classmates at the bar, knowing full well that Ashley never had so much as set a foot in Spence. Her response was something to the effect of, "Oh she wouldn't remember me, I was the awkward British girl". People, believe me, if you saw this girl (and I will post pictures at some point) you would've at least, at the very very least, recalled having gone to school with her. I laughed off her response...but back to Sean. Upon completing the story to Sean he looked at me and said, "text her right now and tell her to send a picture of herself to you". Why would Sean ask that? Well, the prevailing theory was that maybe there really was no Ashley York. Or perhaps someone was posing as this blond girl in all the pictures. I mean, there was a person I spoke to and there was a picture, but maybe there was something else weird going on. I didn't rule it out although it seemed highly unlikely.

I looked at Sean and said what the hell. I texted Ashley. "I miss you". She hit me back immediately with an "I miss you too". I followed, "Seeing your face would really cheer me up. Send me a picture of yourself". The thought being that she wouldn't be able to produce a picture of herself immediately and thus would further confirm our theory. Her response not ten seconds later, "I look kinda gross, just got back from the gym" and attached, a picture of a sweaty, but still pretty, smiling Ashley York. Go figure. I was dumbfounded. Sean and I looked at each other incredulously. We had no idea what to make of it.

Team Krashley wanted me to walk a fine line. Stay close, but not too close. Get more information, but don't be too obvious. Try to meet her, but be careful. It was a lot. I wanted a call from my government connection. I wanted an answer. On Monday morning, sitting at my desk I got a call...from 202.

My friend said that nothing checked out. None of the schools she claimed to have gone to she went to, and none of the places she claimed to have lived in she lived in. I remember very clearly, he said, "Finger, I advise you to steer clear". Easy for him to say, Ashley hadn't left him by the side of the road in East Hampton holding his balls, tennis balls that is. I'd heard the word of the Department of Homeland Security but I still really didn't have an answer.

As I said last time, I've known Troy since 1990, but I hadn't seen him or spoken to him in years. My second week of Michigan I was walking to the business school and I see this guy coming out of Red Hot Lovers, a tried and true Ann Arbor hot dog institution on East U. I squint and am thinking, wow that looks like Troy, and maybe it is since Troy had gone to Michigan undergrad. Lo and behold, it was Troy, and the icing on the cake, Troy had just purchased, yes purchased Red Hot Lovers. Over the course of that first year in business school Troy would come up periodically to check on business and I'd come into Red Hots and he'd hook me up with dogs, chili, fries, and we'd go out to the bars and hang out and catch up. It was fun. But when I had left a message for Troy it was a serious matter.

On Tuesday my cell rings. Troy. We catch up a bit, talk about work and Michigan and just shoot the shit. He apologized for not calling sooner but he'd been in Capri with his family. I said, "Troy, I gotta ask you a random question. Do you know a girl named Krista Marks, from Old Westbury".

Silence.

"Why" Troy says, like he's leaning in real close. I explain to him that I was in Aruba back in May, and this Krista Marks emails me and she's trying to set me up, and then Troy interrupts me mid-sentence. Two words.

"Ashley York"

Silence.

Me, "What?"

"Ashley York" Troy says again, softly and slowly.

I swear to God, every single hair on my body stood up at that point. Hell, it's doing the same thing right now. I remember, I was standing next to the window, looking down at the street. I was wearing a pink shirt, grey slacks, and my brown shoes. I remember exactly where I was standing when I heard Troy say, "Ashley York".

I said, "how did you know?" Now Troy starts screaming into the phone "oh my God, oh my God", and I'm screaming a little bit too, for what, I don't exactly know, but it seemed like the appropriate thing to do. Meanwhile, Jenny, my deskmate, nay, floormate is looking at me like I've literally lost my mind, but actually, I think I did. Once Troy and I stopped screaming at one another/together we started talking, quite frantically, as I tried to keep pace with what he was saying. What he first said was "stay away" and "you need to get away fast". I felt like my life was in danger and I asked as much, to which he said basically that it was. Shit. She knows where I live. I'm going to die.

Troy says, "Listen, I'm going to tell you something but you can't repeat it". I was all ears. He then delved deep into the craziest fucking story I've ever heard. I mean, you think this is all has been weird so far?...Child please.

Now it's been a while since I told Troy's tale, so if it's a little disjointed bare with me. And remember now, I'm at work and Troy is about to drop some knowledge. Here it goes...

Troy starts off by telling me back in 2003 when he was a senior at Michigan he lived with a few of his best friends. One of which was this guy named Cole. It was Troy and his friends' last semester. They were second semester seniors and when you are a second semester senior and you're single you basically try to live every single last day of COLLEGE like it's your last and Troy and his friends were doing just that, except for Cole. Cole had met some girl online that winter and had been spending an awful lot of time communicating with this girl. Pressed by Troy as to what the hell was going on with this girl online Cole had stated, somewhat reluctantly, that he had met this smoking hot girl online and that they'd spent a lot of time talking on the phone and emailing. In fact, they were officially dating. This girl's name, Ashley York.

At this point my chin hits the floor. I continue to listen. Troy says that Cole was extremely serious about Ashley to the point where he and Ashley had decided to continue to date when Cole graduated and moved back to Los Angeles. Ashley, for your edification, was working in New York at this point. Troy once asked Cole if he had even met Ashley, and Cole strangely, Troy said, never really gave him a good answer. This freaked Troy out, especially given that Cole's father had passed the year before and he had been on an emotional roller coaster for a year. This Ashley, Troy said, seemed to have given Cole something to latch onto at a difficult point in his life. Towards the end of the school year Troy told me that Cole and Ashley agreed to meet for the first time, in person, in New York. While Troy and all his friends cautioned Cole about the trip Cole seemed adamant and Troy said there was basically no talking the kid out of it. Cole left on a Friday, and he came back Sunday. When Cole came back all his friends were eagerly awaiting the full report. This was the girl Cole had fallen in love with online, and he'd finally gone to meet her in New York for the first time. Sounds romantic a little bit. Cole was bizarrely silent about his trip. He didn't say a word. Troy pressed, "did you guys meet up?". Cole's answer "no". At that point Troy and his friends were seriously worried about Cole, who from what Troy tells me, was pretty shaken up at the missed connection in New York, but Troy said Cole was undeterred, and apparently kept in close contact with Ashley post-Michigan, in what was a true bi-coastal long distance relationship. Troy moved the city and from time to time Cole would come to New York, to see friends, and to see his girlfriend Ashley. Troy tells me she always flaked on him. Every single time. One time she said she was too sick. One time she had an emergency work thing in another city. Time after time, month after month. But Cole kept coming back for more. Fast forward to the following winter, winter 2004. At this point, Troy says, Cole is seriously in a bad place, and even Cole's family is a little freaked out. He's been dating Ashley close to one year, and they still have, not, met. Cole decides he's going to invite Ashley to a Super Bowl party in New York and flies into the city. It's Super Bowl Sunday, and Troy and a bunch of his friends are about to head to the party and nobody can find Cole. Cole comes back the following day, in the morning, dressed in his same clothes from the day before, and of course everyone has been worried sick because Cole had literally dropped off the face of the earth for 24 hours, and all anyone knew was that he was supposed to be with Ashley. I'd say, "now this is where things get weird", but I feel like we got to that point a while ago, sooooo..., "now this is where things start crossing otherworldly boundaries". Troy gets in Cole's face and says, "where were you". Cole answers, "at the Super Bowl, in Houston, I went to meet Ashley". Yes, you read that correctly. Troy tells me he was dumbfounded. Apparently Cole had gotten to New York to learn that Ashley (the lover of big sporting events apparently...Wimbledon) had decided that morning to go to Houston for the game and told Cole to come. Cole BUYS A PLANE TICKET TO HOUSTON and flies to meet her. Arrives. Takes a cab to the Stadium and waits for Ashley outside the gate...

"And...." I say, literally on the brink of passing out.

"And he says he kissed her in the concourse".

"Okay, so there's proof she's real. He kissed her. He saw her. She's real"

And Troy says, "Finger, I've know Cole for a long time. He's one of my best friends. He's never lied to me about anything, but I know he was not telling the truth. He never saw her. He flew to Houston and back in one day for a girl who didn't even exist. He came back to New York and he acted like nothing ever happened and he never spoke her name ever again. I don't bring it up ever. None of my friends do. And Cole doesn't either".

Listen folks, I know. It's too strange to even believe, and you can imagine my reaction listening to Troy tell this story. What the hell was I to do with this information. I told Troy my story and he was excited. Excited because he wanted to catch her, whoever this was and make her pay for all the pain she had caused his best friend. Troy became an integral member of Team Krashley that day. You can imagine the phone call with Team Krashley that afternoon relaying this story to them. We were excited too. The most major breakthrough in the case yet, but there there was this feeling like, all right folks, we're dealing with someone who really might be dangerous and unstable. Had Ashley been up to her tricks since 2003? Were dealing with a professional here? A stone cold professional?

Maybe you don't poke this rattlesnake. Maybe you let sleeping dogs lie. Or maybe you hunker down, think a little harder, and smarter, and maybe you figure out who this "Ashley York" really is.

Ashley York Vol 5: Team Krashley & The Department of Homeland Security

2010-08-01T19:08:00.005-04:00

Before I headed back to New York City that Sunday I received a message from Krista saying that Ashley had missed her flight to London and was decompressing at her parents home in New Jersey. Of course, as always, Krista told me I really wasn't supposed to know this, and suggested that it might lift Ashley's spirits if I called her. Clearly Krista didn't quite understand the drama that had taken place the day before. I don't even think I responded to Krista at that point, although I might've written back a token, "that's horrible", but I just wanted it to be Monday already and get as far away from that wretched weekend as possible.

I'd just settled in back in the city that evening, when I received a Facebook message from Ashley confirming what Krista had told me. I felt bad for Ashley, because not only was it a really sour note to end an already crappy weekend, but also because she missed arguably the best tennis match of all time, Nadal's five set triumph over Federer. I felt bad, but not bad enough to respond. I was still pretty pissed, so I went to sleep.

Now let me pause to tell you briefly about my set up at work at this time. I was working on an extremely large trading floor. How large you ask...you can air out a fly pattern from one end to the other pretty easily. And more, not a single soul inhabited a single seat on the ENTIRE trading floor except for my friend Jenny, who was in my program and was also interning in the same group. The two of us sat next to each other in the back corner of the last row. It was the world largest corner office as far as I was concernd, with windows all around, and just the buzzing of computers and fluorescent lights. I'm sitting at my desk on Monday and it couldn't have been much before 10am that I received a text from Ashley saying hello. We were clearly regressing, as her last two attempts to reach out were via Facebook and texting, and not talking over the phone. I had bigger fish to fry though. I'd told this story to a few friends at this point and as you could imagine it piqued some serious interest. As such, I thought that it might be better to assess this situation with Krista and Ashley with multiple people versus just me. So I assembled what came to be known as "Team Krashley", you know, a mash-up of Krista and Ashley, like Brad and Angelina's "Brangelina".

Team Krashley would end up expanding extraordinarily quickly, but I'll just tell you the original participants. Eric, who I mentioned in last week's edition, had taken an immediate fascination with this story and like me, really wanted to know who this girl actually was, aside from just the "stats" that I'd gathered over the past few weeks. James, an early proponent of the "there's something here that we're missing" school of thought, and methodical thinker and puzzle solver. Amanda, basically Amanda was the closer, like Mariano Rivera. If we were close, she was going to tie a bow around it, and actually had done so in another strange "caper" back in college (don't even bother asking because I don't have the time). My sister, who's Facebooking abilities are unparalleled, and also, my Dad was still maintained an interest, because like everyone else (and you) he was curious as to what the hell had happened that Saturday.

Team Krashley knew one thing: something was clearly amiss, and we were going to stop at pretty much nothing to figure it out. So we held several conference calls that monday laying out what we knew as the facts. I re-hashed the story and the lead up to that Saturday more times than I cared for but it was worth it, because we began asking each other questions that pointed to a number of strange issues. But before I go there, back to Ashley...

On Monday night I called Ashley. I wasn't having any of this Facebook or text messaging grab-ass anymore. She picked up, and we spoke, but really didn't hit too much on that past Saturday since I think we'd beaten a dead horse already. I said, "let's meet up tomorrow" for a drink. She said no, citing some event and some other issues at work, which had apparently become a major concern for her. I knew work was tough and she thought she could get let go, but now she seemed to suggest that this could easily be her last week. After she said no, I kind of just let the conversation die. I wasn't interested in talking about politics or Sesame street or scallops or otters. I wanted a date. Talk was cheap. I said goodnight.

The next day Team Krashley had an early conference call. First item up was the issue of Ashley's employment at Elle Magazine. Now earlier I told you that Ashley was only a contributor to the mag. I'd googled and I couldn't find a story with any byline mentioning Ashley York. Team Krashley agreed that we needed to figure out if Ashley really worked at Elle. We all agreed we'd call Elle's office and ask to speak to Ashley York separately to see what happened. Well, it was unanimous, there was no Ashley York who worked at Elle.

I protested though saying that she wasn't a full-time employee, but I had to say that it was interesting that nobody at Elle knew anything of this Ashley York, contributor, full-time, part-time or otherwise. But if you remembered from last week, I'd seen a blond in a black BMW drive by me as I sat outside of La Fondita. It had to have been her. It really did. What did a bitchy secretary at Elle know about part-time contributors anyway.

I thought a lot about it that night. I think I saw her. I knew I spoke to her. This Elle thing really was strange though but I could easily explain why her name wasn't on anything associated with the magazine. We actually caught up from a brief second that night after her event. She said that she wished we'd gone out instead of her going to this horrible work event. I'd wished the same thing, but I kept to myself. She sounded really sweet over the phone, like she knew she'd messed up, but maybe that was me projecting. We said goodnight and then I got a message from Krista..

July 8, 2008 at 12:18am

She justgot home and its the first time Ive seen her since. She came back from this foo foo fete. I askked her in passing bout u and she said shes a little confused. Shes ok w/ everything and said u wrote a nice email to her YAYAYAY! But shes a lil irked bout this past wknd. But thenwas like u wanted to see her tonite. And that u were really persistent bout it.

I think u need to just be u and let it come naturally. Think u two went thru somethin awkward and need to just do what u to do and talk. Maybe dont add the pressure of mtg up but get her all gaga bout u again. Just my opinion. U still like her?

I responded...

July 9, 2008 at 12:40am

Yeah, I wanted to see her and kind of put this thing in the past. I don't know. Still some things that just don't make sense. Just spoke to her and it was fine. We'll see though.

I got to work the next morning and stared at my computer screen. I recalled Ashley saying that she had had an event at the MoMA in Brooklyn. I remembered at the time thinking that there was no MoMA in Brooklyn, so I called the MoMA and asked to speak to someone in event planning. A very nice girl picked up and we had a lovely conversation. I asked her if Elle had recently had an event at the MoMA, and her answer, "yes". So maybe Ashley had been telling the truth. The girl interrupted, "wait, no, I'm sorry, they have an event scheduled for this Fall, they didn't have an event last week". And as for the MoMA in Brooklyn, "no, there's no such thing". I scratched my head and called Team Krashley. We all agreed that things were getting awfully weird and really weren't adding up.

What else did we know? Well between the bunch of us we knew a lot of people who had gone to Spence during the years that Ashley had attended the school. And if you don't know, there are probably 30 or so girls in each grade, so it's a very small school. The next day when we reconvened, the answers were unanimous, nobody had recalled a pretty British girl joining their classes. I had 500 people in my high school class, and I'm pretty sure I could name close to 80% of them if really pressed, so in a class of 30, if someone didn't remember someone, I mean, I don't know, but that's suspect. To be thorough, we then asked all of our Georgetown contacts too, and nobody had heard of her either, not even the alumni representative for the Class of 2004 which was Ashley's class.

The best part of Team Krashley was that we fueled each other's madness and we would constantly update one another even with the most trivial piece of information. It was kind of fun. As for Jenny, my deskmate, she thought I was absolutely crazy and couldn't understand why on God's green Earth my phone was ringing off the hook...until I told her the story and Team Krashley grew by one. And that was the real beauty of it. Team Krashley continued to grow with every new person that got involved. It was viral. It was crazy. Everyone loves a good mystery. Everyone loves solving a good mystery even more. And we were a bunch of over-achieving New Yorkers with a big network and a slow month of July.

Later that night I checked my facebook and had two messages from Krista from that day continuing on our prior conversation. One message from the morning and one from the evening. I didn't have a blackberry at this point so there was no mobile Facebooking for me, thus all the evening Facebook activity (just so you know).

She wrote...

July 9, 2008 at 9:43am

Ok wow. I just spoke to Ashley via phone and she said the same thing. "Things don't make sense" and "he was being weird"... WHY ARE U TWO BEING LIKE THIS!!! GET OVER URSRLVES!!! Unless u don't want this. Grow up people!!

Sent via Facebook Mobile

July 9, 2008 at 8:38pm

REMEMBER UR THE GUY!!!!!! CHASING THE HOT SMART GIRL!!!!

HAVE A GOOD NITE!

At this point things had really tapered off with Ashley. I had pretty much stopped "chasing the hot smart girl!!!". Ashley seemed to get kind of desperate on the text, saying she missed me and how she hoped we could give it another try. While I took a pretty passive approach to it all, it was kind of hard to forget about the person I'd really come to enjoy speaking to over the phone. I hadn't completely given up but I just needed to figure some things out, but the more I figured out the more this whole thing not only bothered me, but scared me. In fact, seeing as that Ashley knew where I lived I started getting a little bit paranoid that she was going to sneak up on me as I was coming in my building. I'm being honest. Team Krashley advised me to be alert, and then as we spoke about security James suggested something that I cannot believe we didn't think of earlier. We had a friend who was working at the Department of Homeland Security. Why not just do a background check? Like a full on Hunt for Red October meets The Bourne Identity meets Blackhawk Down meets 100% USDA Certified BACKGROUND CHECK. I mean, we all paid our taxes, so we were surely entitled to one measly government background check per year, right?

We called our friend and left a voicemail. Later that day I get a call on my cell phone from a 202 number. Not 202-something. Just 202. Washington. D. C...it was The Government.

I quickly gave my friend the full rundown. He asked me to send him as much information on Ashley as I knew and he'd see if he could run it to his friend who had the access to run a check. I gave him the kitchen sink. I mean, I poured everything everything everything into email and sent it off. Team Krashley was riding high, but what did this all mean for me?

Everything seemed to point to Ashley not being honest, about anything, yet I was speaking to someone the entire time. It was a real person, and an engaging person at that. But why would this person lie so badly to me, seemingly about everything. It didn't make sense.

That night I got on the computer and started checking out some of the mutual friends I had with Ashley. None. Krista...one. My friend Troy who I'd known since summer camp when we were 8 years old. He grew up in Old Westbury, where Krista had grown up. When I say that Troy knew everyone in Long Island I do not exaggerate.

The next day at work I called Troy and left a voicemail. We didn't speak often, so I just said that I was hoping to catch up with him and that I had a question about someone from Long Island he might know.

Contact with Ashley was beginning to trickle to a slow drip. The second half of the week was even more strange because loudmouth Krista was eerily quiet. We'd made a lot of good progress that week and I awaited two incredibly important calls, one from the United States Department of Homeland Security and one from Troy. I knew one would come through big time, but the one who would come through big time was not the one I anticipated, and further, the call I would get the following week would not only blow this case wide open, but also would take this Ashley York saga into uncharted waters even I wasn't not willing to swim in.

Ashley York Vol 4: Tennis, Anyone?

2010-07-26T21:22:00.002-04:00

Yes yes, I know. Sorry. Okay. Deep breath. Hold. Exhale. Commence.

As you could possibly guess, it wasn't particularly easy falling asleep that Friday night. You probably imagine me laying my clothes out for the next morning but that's not the case. I woke up and headed downstairs to breakfast that Saturday. We usually have a big breakfast with the entire family on Saturday mornings out at the beach. Bagels, flagels (flat bagels), lox, fresh fruit, and so forth. It was most definitely overcast, but not raining, and not cold either. I had on my my white Nike tennis shorts, and light blue DeBeers (a lacrosse company) t-shirt. I ate lightly, as I was nervous. I forget who asked me, but someone in my family asked why I was wearing tennis shorts, and I simply responded by saying I was meeting a friend to play tennis. Nobody knew of this Ashley York at this point.

After breakfast I gathered my stuff and headed out the door. The drive to Sportime where the courts were would take me approximately three to five minutes. I got in my car, and drove to the courts, of course arriving early, because that's how I roll. I headed to the tennis house and spoke to the pro, gave her my name, and she told me it would be about 45 minutes to an hour. Quite frankly, I didn't care about the wait, because Ashley and I would just have a chance to sit and chill and talk. After all, I wasn't exactly looking for a serious tennis match here. I opened my phone (yes, it was a flip phone back in 2008) and sent a text. I'm sure it said something simple like, "Hey, I'm here, sitting by the courts". The layout was simple enough so that there was no way she could miss me.

Not surprisingly Ashley was late. I looked at my watch and realized that at this point she was 10 minutes late, which was fine, and understandable since she was coming from Montauk. But as I mentioned in the last edition, the directions were "straight, make a right". Straight. Make a right. Twenty minutes go by at this point and I'm starting to get worried, because that's one of my occasional hobbies. She said she's driving a black 3-series BMW, so I check the parking lot, and there's no black BMW. Then my phone rings. It's Ashley.

She sounded kind of panicked, and lost. She said she was in the lot, which I knew was impossible because I was in the lot as well. But then I remembered something...the year before Sportime merged with Dunes Racquet Club and there was a back entrance, so if she was there, there was no tennis house, and no tables by the court, and certainly no me. I told her she was probably in the other lot, and to make a right out of the driveway and another right. She was literally around the corner, and I told her that I'd come out to the entrance of the driveway and that I had on a blue shirt and white shorts. She sounded a lot more calm now, and we hung up. I proceeded to the end of the driveway to wait.

3 minutes.

5 minutes.

I called her cell. Straight to voicemail. I said something like, I think you should've passed me by now but I haven't seen you, call me.

10 minutes. This is getting strange. And all of the sudden, I start getting all these voicemails from her. Frantic. Almost scared. "Where are you? Call me back".

I call her back. Straight to voicemail. Then a text from her, "how come I dont see you". Me back to her, "I'm right here. I haven't moved. I'm wearing a light blue shirt. You can't miss me".

Then more voicemails flood my inbox. "Where are you? This is weird. I think this is a bad idea".

I call her. Straight to voicemail again. "Just stop driving and tell me what road you're on?"

Her to me via text, "I'm leaving. You are weird. I'm sorry we did this."

Me to her via text, "Just hold on. You're probably just one turn away. Try to get back to 27."

Another missed call. Another voicemail. Then a text "are you really even there?"

Me to her, "yes, I've been standing out at the end of the drive way".

Her back to me via text, "This is too weird. I can't believe this. You aren't even there. This is a bad idea. I'm going home".

Now at this point my phone is just about dead. And not only is it barely breathing, but it's hot to the touch. Like literally almost on fire. I have no juice left on my phone. I've just scared off Ashley and she thinks I'm a serial killer. Perfect. I drive home, but then I look down at my phone and it's her, live, calling me. I pull into the Aboff's parking lot on 27. I wished I never picked up the phone.

Ashley proceeds to verbally light me up. I don't remember exact words, but "creep", "asshole", "sketchy" seem to ring a bell. She said she couldn't believe I could do this to her and that she was so dumb to think this actually was a good idea. And what did I have to say back to her. Nothing. All I could say is that I was there. And I was there. I had been there since 10:15. I was coming on 11:15 now. It was a brutal hour of missed calls, missed connection, and misinterpretations, and I'd basically screwed up what I was hoping would be an unbelievable first date with an unbelievable girl.

Tail between my legs I drove back the few minutes back to the house. For whatever reason, my Dad and sister were on the front steps. I stepped out of the car, and I remember my Dad saying that I looked like someone had just killed my dog, and then I explained to him that basically someone had just killed my dog, except it was worse. So I'm relaying this story to him and also to my sister. Quite presciently, my Dad's first reaction, "no, I'm sorry, but this doesn't make sense". I was crushed. It hurt. It burned. Actually, it didn't burn, that was just my cellphone, and then I realized "Land Lines" and I ran inside and jumped on a landline. I called Ashley, and by some strange miracle she picked up.

I said something to the effect of, "I don't know what just happened, but you can choose to believe me or not. I know I was there. And that's the only thing I'm sure of today". She sounded skeptical, and basically said that we shouldn't talk anymore. She had to head to the airport because she was going to Wimbledon. Yes, that Wimbledon. The epic finals Federer vs Nadal Wimbledon. She hung up. Two weeks of build up flushed in one hour. I don't know how it was possible, but the absolute worst possibly outcome happened.

I went back out on the porch and sat, dejected with my Dad, and I'll never forget what he said next. He put his hand on my shoulder and he said, "how serious are you about meeting this girl?". I replied "serious" and told him about all the time we'd spent talking and how I'd been looking forward to this for a few weeks. He said, "if you really are serious, you get back in your car and you drive to her. Drive out to Montauk. Tell her that you'll be waiting for her, just like you were this morning, and if she choose to stop and meet you then great, but you put the ball in her court".

Yes. That was exactly what I was going to do.

I ran back to the landline and I called Ashley. Again, she picked up, and I read her the riot act. I said, I'm coming to Montauk to see you because I want you to know that I'm for real about this, and I would never flake on anyone like this, ever. Ashley pleaded with me not to come, telling me it was too late, and what's the point, and that she needed to catch a flight. I told her I didn't care. I was coming out, and I was going to park at Cyril's and if she wanted to stop for 30 seconds and say hi, I'd be there. And even if she wanted to drive and just see that I existed I'd be there. I ran back to my car and started out on 27 East...

...Bumper to bumper literally doesn't even do it justice. Shit. I text her. Change of plans. I'll be at La Fondita, also right on 27, and I'll be standing in front of my car, waiting for her, in a light blue shirt and white tennis shorts. She writes back, "ok". So a few minutes later I pull into La Fondita and get a prime parking spot facing 27. I see every single car passing by. Now, Ashley had told me she was going to be driving with her brother, so I'm on the lookout for a blond girl and a guy in a black 3-series BMW. I wait. And wait. Nothing.

Twenty or thirty minutes go by at this point, and I'm antsy, and slightly aggravated. And then my phone buzzes. It's a text. From Ashley. It reads "just drove by. you weren't there. sooo shady. enjoy the weekend, creep".

Well, I dug deep into my Oxford English dictionary and fired back, "fuck you, I've been here and you didn't drive by". And as I turned to get in my car I see a black 3-series drive my with a guy in the front driving and a blond in the passenger seat. Out in the Hamptons you see that probably more than you would in Missoula, but still the timing didn't make sense. I was even more confused now and decided to drove my sorry ass home, but first eat a taco at La Fondita, obviously. At this point I'm just emotionally spent. For those of you who know me well, it takes a lot to fire me up. I just needed a rest. Hell, I might've even napped.

And of course I know you all are wondering, where's Krista Marks. Well, at some point I got on facebook, and Krista had written to my saying, "what the hell happened today. I spoke to Ashley and she was so upset" etc etc, and kept urging me to call Ashley, which was literally the last thing I wanted to do, since I'd more or less told her to take a long walk off a short pier not hours earlier. And I'll let Facebook take it away.

John Finger July 5, 2008 at 9:18pm

Sometimes less is more. I didn't fuck up. I just want to give her space. If I was dating her, I'd pull the "don't go to bed angry" thing, but we ain't dating.

Krista Marks

July 5, 2008 at 9:18pm

I dunno say - was thinkin about u and feel awful about whats happened. can we talk when u land?

LOL, something like that but put it in ur words. Maybe u should go out and then call her. LOL

Hell of a time for "LOL"s Krista. I understood what Krista meant though, and you know me and my writing. I was supposed to go meet Eric Chelsea and Eric's sister and brother-in-law at The Lodge for a drink, but first I needed to just email Ashley, even though I knew at this point she was either in the air flying to London, or perhaps already across the ocean. And here is what I wrote, in an email with the subject line "Not a Good Saturday". Thank you Yahoo for preserving such horrific memories. Enjoy...

Hey, I got this email address from Krista. Facebook didn't seem like an appropriate place for this email. I don't know what went down this morning. I know I was there, you know you were there. And despite not seeing me at La Fondita either I assure you I was there too. I spent the better part of the morning rehashing everything, and no matter what I tried to figure out, the end result was the same shitty end result. There's no sense playing CSI with this anymore. I was trying my hardest to not get in touch with you today, but this has been eating at me and I couldn't help writing. In my heart of hearts I know you cannot possibly think I did not show up at all. Based on everything we've spoken about and the plans we made the night before it is highly illogical that either of us would have flaked. It makes no sense. I'm upset that 40 crappy minutes of missed connections and confusion has seemingly negated what has been countless hours on the phone getting to know one another. If I knew when I woke up this morning that today would've gone the way it ended up going I would've burrowed in my bed for the rest of the weekend.

I tried losing myself in a movie this afternoon. I decided to watch James Bond: Casino Royale since i hadn't seen it. As you can imagine, the movie was chock full of beautiful British women with accents so that basically was a 3 hour reminder of what transpired in the morning. After the movie, I showered up for dinner and was feeling a little better. The meal was good, but then dessert came, and it was strawberries and cream, which again was like a swift kick to the mid-section. I wouldn't be surprised if when I get back to my apartment tomorrow there's a complimentary copy of Elle on my desk.

I was venting my frustration to my friend this afternoon and he pointed out that this isn't how I typically act when I'm interested in someone. I'm always saying "it is what it is", and I kind of let the chips fall where they may, but for whatever reason I don't feel like that now. I'm writing this email because this is important to me, and I try to speak to you every night because it's important to me, and I wanted to meet you in person because that was important to me. So in a sense this whole thing is doubly frustrating because I put aside the whole "it is what it is" thing and put myself out there.

If you've made it through this far it probably means that you're either really bored and nothing good is on TV, or maybe there's a part of you that was hoping, like I was hoping, that today would've been a lot of fun. If there's any interest in giving this another chance, even one iota, I hope you can acknowledge that and at least consider trying this again. It doesn't need to be drinks, or dinner, or certainly not tennis. If you wanted to meet up at a starbucks wearing tube socks that's cool. If you wanted to show up with oreo crumbs all over your shirt, again, cool. Conversation with you comes so easily, especially for a pretty reserved guy like myself, and I am still looking forward to talking to you in person.

Bottom line here is that today sucked. Could not have gone any worse. Today is over in about an hour (eastern standard time), and I'm going to try to move on from it. I hope you will try to do the same. I know you may be tired when you get back tomorrow, but I'd be more than happy to just meet somewhere to say hello, even if for 5 mins. Even if it's to walk Marly with you. Ashley, I'm telling you, the absolute last thing I would want is to hurt you in any way, and I really and truly hope you can believe that. Think what you want and believe what you want, but I just had to write this and get it out there. What I really want is to just talk to you and hear your voice at some point, but I'd settle for a text or even a smoke signal, of course as long as the text doesn't say "eff off and ps your blog sucks" and as long as you are offsetting the carbon created by the smoke signal. I'm prepared for the worst though, but I'm hoping it doesn't have to be that way.

Enjoy the match.

John

Ok, so now that you've vomited in your cereal/soup/whatever from cheesiness, just realize that there were some jokes in there I haven't alluded to, but the sentiment was real. It's embarrassing as all hell to read this now, but that's what I came up with. I shut down the computer and headed out to meet my friends for drinks.

Naturally at drinks I'm telling this story, and everyone is loving it, which was a lot of fun, because it was entertaining, suspenseful, and it was the first time I think I'd laughed all day. Telling the story was a healthy way to get over it. Mid story my phone buzzes. It's Ashley. I pause, and tell the group, "it's Ashley". We're all on the edge of our seats. "What does it say. What does it say", they ask...one word...

"Poof"

Obviously, in reference to my line about the smoke signal. I'm happy, but I'm going to let this rest for a few days. I still hadn't the faintest idea of what the hell happened. I wanted an explanation, and I'd get it, but it would be an explanation that was not even close to anything I could ever have imagined.

I just gave myself the goosebumps, and I'm the one writing this thing. Jesus. Next up. Conjectures, confirmations, collusion, Team Krashley, and the Department of Homeland Security. Enjoy your week, and thanks for keeping up with the blog.

Ashley York Vol 3: Miami, Memphis, and Montauk

2010-07-16T23:15:00.005-04:00

Picking up from last week...

That first call, I mean, wow, it was a little nerve-wracking. I remember distinctly both of us commenting that it was kind of weird to finally speak over the phone. Real voices. Real people. However, once we got over the initial weirdness and were able to make fun of it a little the conversation flowed as easily as it had via Facebook messaging.

Quite frankly, her voice didn't match her picture. She had a real sultry English accent. I don't know Joss Stone (the singer), but that's the first thing that comes to mind when I try to describe what it sounded like. A little bit New York though too, which I attribute to her days in high school. So what did we talk about that first call you ask. All the same stuff you would probably talk about on a first date. Family, friends, jobs. She referred to her grandfather as her "grandpapa", like all english-like with an little extra mustard (Grey Poupon no doubt) on one of the "pa"'s so it sounded like "Graahnd-pa-pa". I'd been listening to the screeching Long Island JAPS for the prior year in business school and also had a healthy dose of that Michigander flavor....e.g. "cayretts" for carrots and so on. So British, to me, at least at the time, was exotic. Now, not even remotely appealing. But we're not there yet.

The first call went frighteningly well. I remember hanging up and literally being like, Jesus Christ, I just spoke to this girl for like 20 minutes about absolute nothing and absolutely everything. Instead of just picking up and calling the next day too I was a bit cautious. I remember the way she bristled at a potential meeting the week before, so like most things in my life, I was going to take it slowly. Fortunately for me Ashley had similar intentions. I got home the next night (June 17th ) to this facebook message..."Lakers or Celtics?". If you came home to this message, don't even tell me that it wouldn't be at least a little exciting. Ashley wanted to debate basketball with me and I gladly took the bait. Below is the brief facebook message chat we had that evening. Again, I cringe with mild embarrassment.

John Finger June 17, 2008 at 10:10pm

Are you going to tell me that Kobe has gorgeous eyes?

Ashley York June 17, 2008 at 10:15pm Report

Haha, no. But that ring he gave his wife after he cheated... GORGEOUS!

John Finger June 17, 2008 at 10:20pm

Yes, that was one huge and expensive "I'm Sorry". You care to talk, like, for real?

Ashley York June 17, 2008 at 10:23pm Report

Haha, sure - how about I call you in 15 after I walk Marls?
(though add on 5 to the 15 in order to peel him away from the wall...)

John Finger June 17, 2008 at 10:25pm

Yeah, let him get his aggression out in the fresh air. Speak to you in a bit.

Point of information, Marls, short for Marley was her dog, and Marley apparently had this weird infatuation with running into walls.

Anyway, while I was sure that the night before was a fluke, being that conversation was so easy, the conversation that night trumped the first one by leaps and bounds. Wait, what's that? Krista Marks update? I'm glad you asked.

Well...Krista was all over this as you could imagine. Her surreptitious sneaking and setting up seemed to be working out. She sent me a facebook message later that same night mentioning how excited she was and remarking how strange yet cool Ashley's "Americano/Brit" accent was. Remember now, Ashley doesn't know I'm talking with Krista, but Krista and Ashley are roommates, so if I'm talking to Ashley then Krista knows about it. As Facebook would say "It's Complicated". My response (direct quote) "Yeah, it's weird because you see someone's pic on facebook and you try to associate some voice with it, and then when you actually hear it and it isn't what you expected it is kind of weird. Truthfully, I don't mind setups. I am very picky as well, and i think that's the only way to be."

While still slightly weird, it was a lot of fun talking to Ashley York, and over the next week we started logging some minutes on the phone. We talked about everything from Mark Ronson mash-ups to cioppino at Dave's in Montauk, where her folks had a house. After a long day of talking commodities and cap and trade at work it was nice knowing that I'd be able to come home, relax, and just shoot the shit with someone who seemingly spoke my language. I learned that she was on the outs at Elle Magazine. She was feeling strung along a little bit because of the recent departure of Nina Garcia and the subsequent re-org taking place within the company. She'd written, or should I say, contributed to a piece on Hillary Clinton that seemed like an excellent and intellectual assignment, but she said those days of highbrow writing were over. She was moving onto "fashion events" which she deemed "lowbrow / despicable". At that point I would've put our interactions at "Lowbrow/brilliant". Every night, there was cupid shooting a flaming arrow of incredulity through my heart. I kept thinking to myself, who the hell is this breath of fresh air, and how much longer am I going to have to spend losing my voice on the phone before I can meet her.

Let me just tell you this straight up, I was logging damn near close to one hour sessions with Ashley on the phone. You ask me what on God's green earth we talked about, and I can tell you matter of factly that I simply. Don't. Know. But I knew that my phone would be warm and the battery depleted after these calls.

Meanwhile, back on planet Earth, I'd probably mentioned this whole situation to a handful of people. Probably no fewer than three but no more than five. In typical FingerTheBlog fashion, if I was going to inevitably fuck this up, I'd do so under the cover of darkness, without so much as a peep. So eventually I pulled up my britches and I asked Ashley out for a drink, but as I suspected, she was going to be busy with events, this time in Miami.

She went to Miami at the end of June for a few days. It was an Elle event. Star-studded affair. Red carpet. Blah blah. I spoke with her every night after work and texted with her during the day. At night I remember her at one point asking me to hold on, as there was a knock at her door. I heard her then begin to speak Italian with interspersed French. She was coordinating something or another for an important client or her boss, and I remember her getting back on the phone and I was like, "um, how many languages do you speak", and she said five. Impressive. Equally slash more impressive was a story she told me about getting her towel caught in the door jam and basically having to run down the hall to the phone stark naked to call the front desk to send someone up to let her in. Now, while I haven't sent you pictures of this young lady (and I will, so stay tuned), she had upped her flirtatiousness over the week and half. Conversations about Hillary Clinton and "It Takes a Village" this was not. In full disclosure, all these conversations were PG-13, but there were undertones. Let that simmer.

I really was excited when she came back to NYC the next week, and immediately asked her out. In fact, if I remember correctly I suggested that we go and walk Marley in the park. First meeting, public space, lots of people around...you know, somewhere where either of us could scream bloody murder in case shit got weird. But much to my dismay Ashley found excuse after excuse to blow me off. One time it was some MoMA event in Brooklyn. Another time it was a bad day at work. Then an impromptu trip to Memphis for 2 days for something or another. For someone about to be fired, or so she thought, Elle was certainly squeezing every last ounce of worth out of her, and it sounded like she was super frustrated. I didn't push too hard because even though we never met up we were still talking on the phone. Every night. One hour plus conversations. Yes, you read that correctly. Again, please don't even bother asking.

Krista again, continues to pry. We have the following exchange on July 2nd, in response to an awkwardly written note from her to me about "taking it to the next level". Enjoy...

John Finger July 2, 2008 at 12:15am
fyi, spoke to her tonight. She's quite the traveler and impossible to track down. Prob not going to see her this weekend because she's going to wimbledon.

Krista Marks July 2, 2008 at 3:50pm
LOL Well I talked to her about u today and she said u two talk a lot. She thinks ur really sweet. But when i asked if there is more she said that there wasn't/ That u two only talk on the phone but there isnt any indication of u liking her like that, etc!! LOL HELLOO!!!!!!! Of course she was vague like she awlays is.

Anyways how r things?

John Finger July 2, 2008 at 8:25pm
Things are okay on this end. But more importantly, she said that there wasn't any inkling of anything more than just being friends? That sucks for me. last night I asked if maybe we could get together on Friday, but I didn't really get a solid answer. Is she being vague or is she just not into it?

Krista Marks July 2, 2008 at 9:02pm
U have to get her giddy and excited aobut u. Just how she makes u feel (That u miss her and want to talk to her) u have to make her feel the same! KEEP THAT HOT BOD!!! LOL

Mind you, I'm not LOL-ing so much because Ashley has more or less given me a 'thanks but no thanks' at every turn. So we were coming up on July 4th weekend and I call Ashley and she sounds horrible. She's going to Wimbledon this coming weekend, so how upset could she really be? Unfortunately, the other shoe had dropped. She had finally been fired. While inevitable, apparently, I guess the reality of being unemployed in what at the time was the beginning of the end of the economy/world was a lot for her to deal with. She was going to head to Montauk and wallow in her misery with her family and then head to Wimbledon. I commiserated and suggested that we meet up for tennis that weekend. She, having played varsity for a year at Georgetown, would surely make for a enjoyable hitting partner and I knew I'd be able to cheer her up. And for the first time she didn't have an excuse. In fact she was kind of was into it. You know who wasn't into it though? The man upstairs. The weather forecast was dicey. Rain. Rain. Possibly some more rain. That Friday I packed up my gear and caught a ride with Eric and Chelsea out the beach. I remember that car ride well, because in one hand I held their dog Harley and in the other I texted with Ashley the whole drive out.

When I finally got out to East Hampton I called Ashley to confirm we had a date the next day. She was apprehensive, with the weather forecast being so questionable, and perhaps a bit nervous. I know I was. That night, and I cross my heart on this, we spoke for like two hours. Details aren't important, but it was an excellent (and clean) phone call, and there was no way we weren't going to meet up the next day for tennis. Here were the details:

Where: Sportime Tennis, Abraham's Path, East Hampton

What: Tennis
Who: John Finger and Ashley York
When: 10:30am
Why: Because Facebook willed it

The directions from her place to tennis were easy. In fact, easy is a gross understatement.

Go west on 27. Make a right at Abraham's Path. Sportime was on the left half mile in. Fin.

I went to bed with a smile on my face that night, although my sister wanted to strangle me because I'd been on the phone forever. Sorry.

In less than 12 hours I was going to finally meet Ashley York...and have my entire world turned absolutely upside down.

Stay tuned.

Ashley York Vol 2: A Blond, A Jew, A Writer. A Blond Jewish Writer.

2010-07-12T19:22:00.005-04:00

Ashley wrote "I just waved hello to Prince Harry".

She was at the Royal Ascot, which for all intents and purposes is the Kentucky Derby and Preakness rolled into one. I leave out the Belmont Stakes here, because I don't think the Royal Ascot has any tailgating and peeing into Gatorade bottles on a huge parking lot. Perhaps I'm mistaken. But that is neither here nor there.

Ashley was updating me via her Facebook for Blackberry. She had managed to score passes to a very exclusive party, but amidst making eyes at royalty, eating cucumber sandwiches, and wearing outlandish hats, she wanted to chat with me and say what's up. As for me, well I remember it being an absolute scorcher of a day in Greenwich and I was at home alternating between swimming, and seeking shade. The occasional message from Ashley was a good excuse to seek solace from the heat and head inside to air conditioning. I'm not going to lie, I liked the fact that this girl was emailing me during this great event - which takes place in London by the way - to say what's up. She was also there visiting family. She's British. I didn't tell you that yet though. I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me pick it back up from post-Toronto wedding, which was a great time by the way. Ok, so post-Toronto wedding...

So at this point I'm back home and Krista sends me a Facebook message asking me how things are going. Nothing is "going" because there is nothing. And basically that's what I told Krista. I gave the old "college try" and that was it. I was done. Moving right along, as they say...

I didn't feel any need subject myself to rejection again, but Krista kept urging me, telling me how amazing her friend, and roommate, Ashley was. Then she started giving me some more information on this Ashley York. Here are some of the facts:

1. Born and raised in London.

2. Moved to NYC in HS

3. Went to Georgetown

4. Avid tennis player

5. Currently a writer for Elle Magazine

6. Jewish

So here I am. Single. Sitting in my room, being told that there's this very pretty blond, jewish, writer, tennis player, with an accent, and this girl's best friend in the world thinks we'd be compatible. I re-read 1 through 6. And then I emailed, on May 30th 2008, an email that would literally take me through one of the most bizarre two or three weeks in my entire life.

And wouldn't you know, Ashley York liked the email, and we started trading emails, or should I say facebook messages. Flirty, cute, short and sweet. And how do I recall these messages you ask...well, Facebook still has them and I'm looking at them right now. She was a rabid Ohio State Buckeye fan, and as you know, I'm a Michigan Man, so we joked about that. She made fun of my sneaker collection. I made fun of her writing stories about men's underwear for Elle. It was all real junior varsity stuff. But fun.

I started work the next week, on June 9th. I must've exchanged messages with her after my first day of work because on June 10th, she wrote a message that said, "hope day two went well..."

I realize that it was all a bit weird that this was all done via messages and email, but at the same time it was nice to know that someone out there was thinking about me, and this someone happened to be a ridiculously attractive blond jewish writer. And all the while, Krista Marks was all over me. Asking a million and one questions, urging me to meet her in person.

Ashley and I had been messaging for a few days now, perhaps almost a week's worth of messaging. So later on in the week I wrote a message to Ashley saying how it's kind of ridiculous that we don't meet up for a drink because we lived so close to each other. (She was an Upper East Sider too, where she lived with Krista, and her dog Marley, a terrier beagle mix). And then it got weird because Ashley said more or less, whoa whoa whoa, hold your horses, I don't even know you, and you're just some totally random internet dude. And you know what...she was right. I stepped back for a second and realized what the hell I was actually doing. I knew nothing about this girl, but at the same time, it would kind of be like a blind date. I mean, this is exactly what happens on Match.com or JDate or other dating sites I imagine. People exchange messages, it goes well, they meet for a drink. This in theory was no different.

On June 11th Krista and I had the following exchange, most likely about me meeting Ashley, and mind you this is exactly how it went because I am literally cutting and copying...

John Finger June 11, 2008 at 9:30pm

Yeah, she messaged me back today and agreed that perhaps phone is the next logical progression. I'm not going to push though right now though. I really like chatting with her. She's pretty sassy (a good thing, by the way), kind of like you. I can see why you two get along.

June 11, 2008 at 9:45pm

LOL, I'M JUST LOUD AND ANNOYING

John Finger June 11, 2008 at 10:34pm

Come on, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you are not annoying.

June 12, 2008 at 4:19pm

LOL, true.

The phone was the "next logical progression". Um, why did I sound like a scientist when I wrote that? Was I talking about meeting a girl or the history of jazz?

Anyway, I first called Ashley on June 16th, after a long facebook chat about social implications of Sesame Street. She was a writer, she was witty, she had me at www.hello. com. What do you want from me? So on June 16th I asked her to just email me her number, and she did.

I dialed and the phone rang, and someone picked up...

"Hello, John...?"

.....stay tuned....

Ashley York Vol 1: Beginning

2010-07-08T08:03:00.000-04:00

As I alluded to the other day, this will be the beginning of the end. Super dramatic, I know. The following series of posts will recount a tale from back in 2008. Please note that this isn’t based on a true story. This is a true story. Sometimes I may change a name or ad lib a dialogue, but this is actually how it all went down. There’s no embellishing here. I want you to remember this as you read on. No embellishing. I’ve been sitting on this for two years now, and I’m happy to be getting down in writing and sharing it with you. I hope you’ll enjoy.

It was about 90 degrees already at 8am, which for Aruba isn’t particularly unusual. As I did most mornings of this vacation, I woke up incredibly early and went down to the beach to claim a little hut and beach chairs that would prevent us from dying of heat stroke and alcohol poisoning in the blistering midday sun. With me on this vacation were three friends from Michigan. Fuller, Old Greg, and Hutchybear. The trip is exactly what you’d expect from four guys in paradise. A lot of drinking, a lot of throwing around the football in the water, and a lot of hitting on girls, almost always unsuccessfully. In fact, it was actually kind of funny to “throw salt” on each other’s game by interrupting innocent flirting by saying “oh, so I see you’ve met my friend Joran Van Der Sloot”. Sorry. Too soon?

After coming back upstairs to the room that morning, stepping over empties, making a PB&J, and putting on Lil Wayne’s “Lollipop” for the four hundredth time, I opened up the computer my friend had brought and decided to check my email and of course Facebook. Since I was the only one without a blackberry at that point I was feeling slightly disconnected, and relished the opportunity to catch up while the boys were still passed out. I grabbed a seat by the kitchen counter and logged in. It almost seemed wrong connecting back to the world. I could hear the birds, and the ocean, and the curtains flicked against the wall with the gentle Aruban breeze. The thought of starting my summer internship in a little more than a week made me literally cringe. Talk about a tough transition.

Now to be perfectly honest here, I’d been dating a girl from school, kinda, and she had just graduated. She happened to have been an undergrad. Whatever. We had hung out back in New York before the trip and while I had absolutely no desire or aspirations of dating her, I thought at least I would’ve seen an email from her in my inbox. Nothing. A touch dismayed, I then opened up Facebook to a message and friend request from a very cute blonde girl named Krista Marks.

The name did not ring a bell and I tend to always remember a name and almost always a face. Her note read something to the effect of “Hey, I don’t know if you remember me, but we met in the Hamptons last summer. I just wanted to say hello and tell you I think you’d be a really great match for my friend”.

Tom Stoppard once said, “every exit is an entrance somewhere”. This was awfully convenient considering nothing was doing with this Michigan girl. I’m not going to lie. I was kind of intrigued by Krista. If Krista’s friend looked anything like Krista then I was about to meet a very pretty girl. But still, I had no idea who Krista Marks was. At this point the guys began to stir, the first beer was cracked open, and it was not time for computers. I accepted Krista’s friend request and wrote the following:

“Krista, I have to apologize, but I can’t quite remember where we met. Where exactly were we?”

We kicked ass that day out on the beach. Fuller, as always, represented America with his portable NASCAR beer cooler/satchel and doled out ice-cold Balashi’s all day to the four of us. We even befriended two girls, one of which was stunning. Her last name was Van Peenen and she had recently received breast implants. Isn’t it weird the details you remember? Anyway, by day’s end the four of us and our two new friends had turned one of these thatched beach umbrella hut things into a regular bar. As we all hung out, listened to music, and had a good time I couldn’t help but think about this Krista Marks character. Perhaps not 100% sober at this point I placed our meeting at Stephen Talkhouse in the summer of 2007. I wanted to believe I’d met her. Hell, maybe I did.

After we all deemed it essential to passing out in the room before dinner I checked the computer again, and lo and behold, a response from my new friend Krista.

“I forget the name of the bar we met at. Whatever. I think you’d really be great for my friend Ashley. What do you think?”

Well at this point we were Facebook friends because she had accepted my request, so I got to look at her profile. Old Westbury, New York. Puzzling. Not to stereotype, but I didn’t realize they made them tall and blond in that part of Long Island. She seemed sporty. Lots of Lilly Pulitzer. Very pretty friends. What did I have to lose?

I wrote, “Hey. I’m up for a set up. I’m actually going to be back in the city this summer, so I’d be willing to meet your friend Ashley”.

Krista’s response, not five minutes later, “Great. Her name is Ashley York. If she found out I was trying to set her up she’d kill me. She doesn’t like setups but I really think it would be a good match. Just send her a message and don’t mention me. Be cute and funny”.

Me writing back to Krista, “I’ll give it a try, but she has no clue who I am. This is kind of ridiculous. I’m a complete stranger. There’s no way it’s going to work”. But then I went onto Ashley York’s facebook profile and I was actually shocked. This girl was a straight up knockout. She had stunning blue eyes, although I’ve seen MUCH better since, and looked like a model. A little bit hungry looking, which I don’t particularly care for, but hot nonetheless. So I mustered up the courage, and wrote a short but sweet email to Ashley York. It read something like

“Hi Ashley. We haven’t met, but we have a bunch of mutual friends in common. I came across your profile and just thought I’d drop you a note. I’m actually back in the city this summer and thought it might a fun to grab a drink if you were available. I know this is really out of the blue, but it’s always nice to meet some new people. Hope you are enjoying the summer”.

Now, that is me trying to remember what I wrote two years ago. Clearly it wasn’t that, but that’s what I think I would’ve written. Total cheeseball awkwardness. I’m taking a little bit of artistic license here. But you write a note to a total stranger model and tell me what you’d say.

The next day I woke up early and hopped on the computer and was excited to see a note from Ashley York. It read “New York is a lot of fun. Enjoy being back”. Well, not exactly what I was looking for. I wrote back to Krista thanking her for trying to make it happen, but told her that it makes no sense why a complete stranger would want to meet me, and how if she just set us up herself, which I still couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t, then we might have a chance of actually meeting. Later that day Krista got back to me and urged me to try again and be funnier and more charming. I liked this Krista Marks. I didn’t know her, but I liked her. Lots of “LOL” and exclamation points, but her enthusiasm was appreciated. It was nice to have her in my corner trying to make this happen.

Unfortunately though, I was taking off. We’d managed to escape Aruba while not getting arrested or deported. My Aruba vacation and Ashley York will forever be entwined. I was off to a wedding in Toronto though. Krista’s unbridled enthusiasm and Ashley’s apparent surliness would have to wait until after I got back from the wedding.

Next: Making contact, cucumber sandwiches, and the Royal Ascot.

Winding Down

2010-07-06T21:36:00.002-04:00

Yeah yeah. It's been a while. I know. The blog gods got me back though. As I was sitting out on a longboard during a surf lesson this weekend I started think about the last time I had blogged. I couldn't remember. It had to have been over 2 weeks ago. The air was crisp, the ocean warm, and I felt like a million bucks. And then all of the sudden I felt like five cents. Nausea slowly began to creep in and with every wave I caught I felt more and more ill. I honestly thought about vomiting right then and there out in the ocean, but then thought better of it because I had visions of grizzled fisherman chumming the waters in search of Great Whites, and if I threw up on myself, I'd basically be chumming myself.

I powered through, catching gnarly 1-2 foot barrels, because after all, with lobster salad at an offensive $60/lb down the street from the beach, the price points for anything out in the Hamptons don't exactly give you the warm fuzzies and I was determined to go until I literally couldn't go anymore. So when I got home the blogging gods made me pay and I gave back to the Earth if you will. I felt better immediately, but the moral of the story is make sure you hydrate and blog, in that order of course.

Now that I've spent several weekends out at the beach I think I've sufficiently lost touch with the pulse of New York. My world really exists from the walk to my office from my apartment and back. Thirteen blocks one way and thirteen blocks back. However, out in front of the little plaza where I work there's certainly some interesting things to be observed. For example, last week I sat next to an elderly man who was wearing a suit and proceeded to take scissors out of his pocket and cut his own hair. I also saw a woman perform an interesting feat of health as she alternated smoking a cigarette she held between her middle and index fingers, with eating a Snickers bar held between her thumb and ring finger on the same hand. People do strange things when it's this hot I suppose.

Maybe it's the heat, but I've decided to wind this thing down over the next couple of months. But before I do, I'm going to leave you with a final story, a true story, about me that I've told a million times in person but have yet to put down in writing. I don't know how many entries it's going to take, but it'll be my opus, if you will. I hope you stick it out with me for it.

Stay cool. It's hot out there.

Card Confusion

2010-06-13T20:36:00.004-04:00

The world is a confusing place. You don't need me to tell you this. You can step outside on any given day and see it for yourself. One day you have the President of the United States telling a company domiciled in England how to conduct their giving (or not) of dividends. The next day you can be walking down the street in East Hampton and see a husband and wife pushing an extremely expensive stroller down the sidewalk. What so weird about that? Nothing, except that inside the stroller was a 5 lb. dog. Yes folks, a dog. In a $800 stroller. My monthly rent in Ann Arbor wasn't even $800. By way, I'm quitting finance and going into stroller-making.

There are some things that you know will be confusing. But there are some things that should just be simple and straight-forward...like buying a birthday card. Apparently this is not the case anymore.

My girlfriend of several months celebrated her birthday last week. With the gift found, purchased, and wrapped all I needed was the card and I was set. After work I headed to the card section of my local CVS. Huge selection. Lot's of Hallmark stuff. I was going to go in, pick the card, buy it and go home. Five minutes tops. So I go to the birthday section, and as you well know, the sections are further divided. As I scanned I came across "From the Both of Us". No. "Sister". No. "Religious" is actually a favorite of mine. There's nothing like getting a birthday card signed by your boyfriend and Jesus Christ. I thought that would be funny, although kind of inappropriate, but funny.

What I like in a card is limited wording, or as I call it, "editorializing", because I like writing a lot, surprise surprise. After a few minutes I still hadn't found anything appropriate. I came across a section called "Love". Okay, I thought, I'll see what's here. I grabbed a card and looked at the front, which started "When we're old and gray", and I immediately put it down. If you're trying to scare someone off after a few months this is definitely a good card you choose. So I continued in the "Love" section hoping to find something better. I saw a teal card and grabbed it. It started "I want to sneak away with you". So I'm thinking, all right, we're onto something. Next line read "To a deserted island". Okay, I like deserted islands, go on. "And I know it might be selfish"...okay where are we going with this now..."But our kids are driving me fucking crazy, and walking away from our home and mortgage wouldn't be the worst thing, and seriously, why did we get that pool because I don't think anyone so much as dipped a toe in that thing all summer...". ABORT ABORT ABORT. I dropped the card like a hot coal. Wow Hallmark, talking about keeping it real.

The last thing you want to do is get a card that scares the bejesus out of someone, especially if you've only known that someone for a few months. It's a birthday, not a jail sentence. So many of these cards...so much potential and then one thing just seriously inappropriate. I saw this one card, and on the cover it read "You Rock My World". I thought, finally, something promising. On the inside in bold letters.....

"HERPES"

What the hell was going on here? So it's been like ten, fifteen minutes now. I'm officially the weirdo who can't find a birthday card, and I'll be damned if I'm leaving this store without a card. And that's when it hit me, like a 2x4 across the head, or should I say a mahogany 2x4 across the head. A section literally, and I swear this is for real, called "Mahogany". (Please read the "Cards with Sound" Section of that link.) I opened up the first card and it started, "Ayo Babygirl". First of all, is Hallmark telling me that "Babygirl" can only make it to a Mahogany card. That's a little bit racist Hallmark, is it not. Non-Mahogany people say "babygirl" all the time. In fact, my first full sentence as a child was "Babygirl, can I borrow some suuuuuuugar?"

I had to give this Mahogany section a chance. There was one card I liked. On the front it said, simply, and tastefully.

36-24-36

On the inside, simply, and perhaps a touch less tastefully

Only if you're 5'3"

I passed on it, and then picked up another one. On the front it read "Girl, you are crazy delicious". Nothing wrong with that. On the inside, "Tonight I'm going to drizzle syrup on that badonkadonk and then call up your mama and say 'thank you'". After a few minutes of giggling to myself I gave up on the Mahogany section, but I will say that I like that Hallmark has really made an effort to segment their selection. I hope this actually has translated into more business for them.

At this point though a solid fifteen had gone by. I was on the verge of frustration now. I happened up another section called "Love - New". Again, this is for real. There is a "Love - New" section. Now this seemed promising. The first card I saw...just a picture on the front. Perfect. Simple. On the inside "You put the 'Pill' in 'Morning After Pill". Um, yeah, when they were talking about "Love - New" I didn't realize the emphasis would be on the "New" part, and not the "Love" part.

I found the perfect card though, but it's what you write in the card to express yourself that matters. Next time you go to Hallmark just be prepared. Life has gotten confusing. I'm not sure when it happened, but it happened. Life should be simple and fun and fulfilling. Summer is going to give that to you. Get your fill. Have a great week.

Chillin' With Mr. Hoshizaki

2010-06-01T20:57:00.002-04:00

It feels like summer is officially here. At least that's what my lobster red back is telling me right now. New adventures, new bathing suits, new jobs. Yes, new jobs. Today was my first day of school all over again. My third rotation. My third job in ten months. Do you know how hard it is to be the new guy every four months? It's not that hard. It's actually kind of fun. You see, I really only need four months worth of jokes in my repertoire, and then I simply bow, exit stage left, and find a new gig.

This new job finds me across the street from my old one, but sadly 29 floors lower than my old one. I can no longer see New Jersey and Brooklyn and on a clear day Buenos Aires from my window. I see the concrete jungle that is midtown Manhattan. I have a nice big workspace, I'm not too far from the bathroom, and most importantly I have the closest seat to Mr. Hoshizaki. Mr. Hoshizaki is literally the coolest dude on the floor. He's the kind of guy who you always find hanging out in the kitchen just chillin' with the ladies in the morning. And under pressure it's pretty clear that he has ice water in his veins. Oh you don't know Mr. Hoshizaki? The man, the myth, the legend...

The Hoshizaki Ice Maker

Hoshizaki ice makers are the best. I'm not even going to argue this point. I love them. There, I said it. And I sit geographically closest to Mr. Hoshizaki. He is mine. I am never leaving this job. In my last job the ice was questionable. It tasted a bit like catfish and a bit like freon. It tasted like shit, but at least it had a pretty shade of blue. But no longer. Hard, yet chewable, cube-shaped morsels of tasteless goodness will be savored every single day for the next four months...at least. And that's pretty much it. After one day...best...job...ever.

It's a short one today. I think the sun took a lot out of me this weekend. I'll be back later on this week hopefully. Oh, and don't be a hero. Use sunscreen.

Spinning

2010-05-20T21:58:00.003-04:00

I'm off to another wedding tomorrow. Pittsburgh here I come. But before I get on that plane I needed to tell you about my maiden spinning voyage last Sunday. Yeah, I went spinning. Like stationary bike riding spinning. In the Hamptons. On a Sunday morning. Bayg.

I wasn't at all hesitant to go but I did wonder how serious a workout I could get in an hour of pedaling...and 4 days later I'm still feeling the answer. First of all, let me just say that the crowd was, I don't know, kind of MILFy. Everyone was good looking and seemed to know one another. Supermom Kelly Ripa was in the class before me, but I missed seeing her because, surprise, I was peeing. Do I have "going problem or a growing problem"? I don't know anymore. First it's Kelly Ripa, then I'll be kayaking with my buddies and I'll have to pull over on the side of the bank to pee. But likely I'd just pee right there in the kayak, you know, because I'm in the water anyway.

But Kelly Ripa or not, I walked into the barn and took my place on my bike. First impression: why is the seat made of barbed wire and bamboo. Like seriously. On a scale from 1 to 10 with 1 being Frette sheets on a pillow top mattress and 10 being this

I think the bike seats were about a 12 or 13. What I quickly learned was a lot of spinning is about controlling your abs and your torso, and apparently not slamming your nether-regions down on the seat every time you go from position 1 to position 2. I learned the hard way. I really still don't feel it so much in my tush, but moreso in my small intestine and ego. Bruises are deep my friends, bruise are deep. I can see how these lithe, skinny little things seemed to be so at ease on the bikes. It was because how hard is it to simulate a climb when you have no body mass to hold up as you climb. Skinny bitches and their damn skinny lattes and skinny jeans.

So that was really the only negative, the lasting scars and possible infertility, but you know, sometimes you gotta sacrifice for a good sweat. I thought the music was great. A lot of it was keeping the beat and if you have any sense of rhythm you can really find a groove. It was kind of like dancing and all the songs were all the club songs I would want to hear if I was out. But there are instructions to, barked out by the instructor who urged the masses, "to make this day the first day of changing your life" and "channel your energy to make a change" and other stuff she learned in The Dalai Lama Comes to New York 101. Was it inspirational? Eh, I don't know. I think I'm a sucker for some of that stuff sometimes. You can't "win" at spinning, but by God I was trying to "win" so I was kind of buying what she was selling. And as a result I was sweating, like a pig, in the kitchen of The Breslin Bar.

Profuse sweating is not what I would call a recessive gene in my family. I was dripping so much that I thought that after the workout instead of wiping down my bike they'd find me in the crowd and tell me that the sweat damage was irreparable and I'd simply have to buy the damn thing. It was like there was a faucet coming out of my chin, and part of it was me, and part of it was because they had 100 people elbow to elbow, forehead to ass, in a barn built for Barbaro and only Barbaro. I hope they hose that place down like they do at the end of the night at Rick's in Ann Arbor.

So how was the workout itself you ask. Well, there certainly was enough eye candy to keep me focused, and the back row is certainly the catbird as far as I'm concerned. The workout was great though. At one point towards the end I felt a little vomititious. It reminded me of basketball camp back in the day. The first drills were always after breakfast, so after you'd loaded up on pancakes and chemically enhanced OJ they took you out on the court and had you do plyometric drills for hours. You didn't even touch a ball in the first few hours. You basically would go on doing kangaroo jumps until the fat kid at the end threw up breakfast and then they'd stop the drills and say, "see, you think you can just come here out of shape? You think this is some kind of joke?" etc etc as they set the tone for the week. It was basically just go go go until vomiting occurred and you just prayed to God it wouldn't be you. Well, with five minutes left in the workout, with my triceps on...

Fi-yah?

Yeah, with my triceps on Fi-yah and my quads barking at me, I thought to myself, what are the chances I'd be the first one to throw up in here? Of course I didn't, but the moral of the story was that I was S.P.E.N.T. Gracias to Bret and Amanda for showing me the light. Spinning really did hurt so good. I can totally see how people get really addicted to it, and how it can tone the shit out of your body if you do it enough and do it correctly.

I will return to icing my rear end though. I need to be able to Harlem Shake my face off this weekend. Enjoy.

Some of this. Some of that. Some of Toohey's New.

2010-05-14T17:57:00.004-04:00

In my opinion, this blog is better when I'm crankier, grumpier, and slightly surly. So I've been waiting for those moments in the past weeks in order to turn those feelings into a post…but they never came. Wait, am I complaining that I have nothing to complain about? Yeah, that pretty much sounds right. And since my hours at work have been great, and I've been seeing friends, hanging out, working out, eating well, and learning how to tie a bowtie properly I'm just going to write about all the good stuff and just hope that it's all palatable and not overwhelmingly saccharine.

As for my bowtie, I learned how to tie it in preparation of becoming, for the first time in my life, a groomsman. A quick story before I move onto the incredibly fun and lovely wedding of Kim and Old Greg…the first time I had to do a bowtie by myself in a pressure situation was 2005. I had put on all my tux gear and all I had left was the bowtie. In the approximately 30 minutes it took me to get it right I had sweat through my shirt so hard that it looked like I'd gone to another wedding prior to one I was about to go to. My shoulders burned from holding my arms up for 30 minutes straight and I had fogged up the bathroom mirror and could barely see what I was doing. James Bond be damned if I was going to let that happen again. It didn’t. I've only been to a handful of weddings, and only have been married once myself (it was in Laos, there wasn't much English, I wasn't sure what was happening, my dowry was four goats and a tin drum of rice wine, whatever, it happens sometimes), but I think the following is universal when determining how to make a wedding great: 1) Good band, 2) Good music, 3) Bar next to the dancefloor. It's the triumvirate of awesomeness, and you'd think it wouldn't be that difficult to pull off, but it's not a given, and it this wedding, they nailed it. The wedding was in Columbus, OH and both bride and groom were from the midwest which means one thing…everyone is so damn nice. Like not "cordial" nice, but like "hey, for real, for real, we really like you and we are genuinely happy to share this occasion with you, friend". Let's all raise our glasses and toast true midwestern values. They exist. Anyway, it was great to have a lot of my good friends in one place for an entire weekend. It was by far the classiest we've acted as a group, I think ever. I think part of it was that we had dates and toned it down (slightly) and part of it we were dressed nicely an nobody really wants to clean jagermeister off a white tux shirt. Of course our classiness ended in about 2 hours when we sequestered the videographer and made him film a pretend beer commercial that we made up. Wow, how I miss College Part II. Toohey's New! And again, congrats to the bride and groom who are somewhere in the Pacific living out ABC's Lost for real.

The Old Stag. Toohey's New.

During my trips to the Caribbean it was almost never a question what I was going to eat for dinner…"fish and sauce, and fish and rice and sauce". Last night I took one step closer towards my next Caribbean voyage, a wedding in Turks and Caicos in November. I am in that wedding as well and the groomsmen went to try on the suits we will be wearing for the wedding. On the way to the store I noticed a large number of girls, fashionably dressed (read: most in black tights with long-ish plaid shirt dresses giving off that "I'm not trying-but I am-but I'm not-but I kinda am" look) scurrying around 5th Avenue in the 20s. It seemed like an awfully high concentration for the area, and then I realized the reason after I passed a sample sale. Forget consuming fish and sauce, and fish and rice and sauce, these girls were consuming baygs and baygs, and baygs and baygs and baygs. It was a bag sample sale. It looked like a colony of ants, rifling through leaves (bags), bumping into other ants as they went back and forth sorting, sifting, clawing. It was quite a sight for a Thursday afternoon. I guess walking back from midtown to the 60s with all the other suits and tourists I'm not privy to such NY activities, but I was glad that while millions of gallons of oil pour out from under the Earth, and not several blocks away an entire area was being shut down, these ants kept their eyes on the prize. Nobody has the determination New Yorkers have.

And while I'm talking about New Yorkers and their determination I want to give my pitch for Lebron James to come to NY. You know, because he reads my blog sometimes.

Dear Lebron,

I can't give you much. You can't even stay in my apartment, because you wouldn't fit in my Murphy bed. Sorry. Not even if you slept diagonally. I don't know a ton of girls to introduce you to either, because most either have boyfriends, are engaged, married, or are looking for a Jewish guy. If you are willing to convert though I might be able to help. I can't get you into the clubs. In fact I showed up at Marquee once wearing a full leg cast and was summarily laughed out of line. But what I will tell you is this, in this city you can make ANYTHING happen. Anything. You can sit on a stoop with a fish taco and beer, or you can be the absolute fanciest you can possibly be. This is a city with everything imaginable, tangible, non-tangible, and everything in between. It is the best city in the world and you can be the King of it…and maybe win a couple games too. Come join the party.

Sincerely,

Finger:TheBlog

Ok, I just needed to do my part in the wooing process. Lebron's official announcement is going to be crazy. I'm thinking primetime on every newschannel. I can see it being rivaled by only one event that I can remember in recent memory…The OJ verdict. When OJ was found guilty I couldn't even…wait, what? He wasn't? Are you serious. He was found not guilty? Wow. Are you sure? But he murdered those two people, did he not?

Anyway, my stint in Corporate Treasury will be coming to a close soon. Next stop, the Investment Bank, where people "stop being nice, and start being real". Or was that the Real World? Either way, I fully expect that everything I've been able to do in paragraph one, I'll be doing less of, which means in turn this blog will get better. But until then I'm going soak it up as much as I can, eat sleeves of girl scout cookies in single sittings, and run aimlessly through the streets of this city, preferably with Lebron James. Enjoy the weekend.

You scratch my creepy back…

2010-04-27T23:15:00.003-04:00

Back in the day at Michigan I used to give a lot of advice. Was I qualified to give advice? Probably not, but people kept asking. My toughest decisions centered around whether to go Pad See Ew beef or Pad See Ew chicken, and even then I had a hard time deciding. A Supreme Court justice I am not.

To the undergraduate girls I was friends with I became what I sometimes liked to call Sketchy Uncle Finger. I often found myself walking a fine line between “I’m interested” and “I’m your guidance counselor”. I advised on everything from boy issues to career issues. I mean, this wasn’t exactly Albert Camus insight I was giving here but sometimes things just had to be said.

-Why is my boyfriend so immature and why does he think it’s okay to call me at 3am?

-Because he’s 21 and on drugs and you’re wearing a bandana as a dress and you live in Michigan and it’s February.

-Do you think I need to go back to business school?

-It really just depends on how much you like being hit on by guys with buttondowns and facial hair?

It was both an art and a science. Office hours were held from 10pm to 11pm at the back tables at Scorekeepers, and then afterwards you could probably find me on the dance floor. I jest of course…kind of.

In addition to Sketchy Uncle Finger, I also was pretty involved in more wholesome endeavors, namely helping out other MBAs in the Corporate Finance Club. (Insert nerd joke here). Basically, I found the second year MBAs to have been incredibly helpful when I was going through the process so I wanted to give back, and since there was no chance in hell that I was going to give up my Sunday evenings which was when the meetings took place, I decided I’d just meet with other MBAs to review resumes, or to prep for interviews, or to take someone out for an ice cream cone if they needed cheering up. I had managed to wrangle a summer internship and then turn that into a full-time job, and de facto I became someone people thought “knew it all”. “Knew it all” to me meant I knew how to talk to recruiters, how to not cut myself shaving, and how to throw beanbags through a circular hole in a wooden box-ish thingy on the weekends. What more to life really was there?

CORNHOLE!

So yeah, I knew it all, whatever that meant. The students I used to meet with would usually come to me wound up like a jack-in-the-box and for whatever reason I did a good job calming them down. I told everyone that everything would work out. Right off the bat their shoulders would just relax and they’d stop talking to me like some pre-programmed robot. Sometimes people needed to hear that. Shit, sometimes, I need to hear that. As I look back I think people might’ve confused my gravelly “advice voice” with a Marlo Brando Godfather-esque voice and perhaps they thought I was dispensing good advice because I literally sounded like Don Corleone…when the more likely scenario was that I’d probably been belting out the lyrics to every single rap song the night before and was simply hoarse. Either way, for whatever reason, these MBAs seemed to hang on my every word and looked at me like a dog does a TV.

oh yes you are. oh yes you are.

In fact, after one one-on-one session the girl I was speaking with asked if I’d talk to her husband, and I said sure. To this day I’m still not sure whether he was a Michigan student or just a lazy husband who needed a pep talk and a slap on the tush. Either way I was happy to help. It was the least I could do. I always felt that the vibe inside the walls of the school could sometimes be a little toxic, so if I could just get someone to talk about recruiting without having to make it so formal or so pressure-filled I would because the people who were relaxed were always the ones who got the jobs.

But I’m a suit now and “greed is good” or something like that. I still speak to Michigan students who are in the recruiting process and offer advice but now I wear my corporate hat and it's not as fun but it’s good to be involved. Truly. However, the other day I get this email from a guy who graduated in 2008. He starts off by saying that he saw my profile on the business school directory, and that while we never met, my face looks very familiar….and I start filling out the restraining order. Next he says he came across a posting for a job at my company…okay…in Houston, TX. Now, for a second I’m going to pretend that perhaps he has me confused with the famous furniture Finger family from Houston and perhaps thought I had some pull down there because of my name, although I know this is not where he’s going. Next he says that he has someone he wants to recommend for this position. A fine candidate he says (excellent), a Michigan graduate he says (excellent), a woman who has won not one, not two, but yes, three “formal recognition awards” (excellent although unclear), a woman who has outstanding references from all of her past employers (excellent), a woman who is none other than…his wife (huh?).

His wife. His wife who apparently has no hands because she cannot type an email to me herself? His wife who is too busy knitting/churning butter/tending the rabbits to write me an email herself. In 2010 I thought nobody puts Baby in the corner. I guess I’m wrong. But like all Finger: The Blog tales, this gets better. He closes with the following:

“Can you please forward her resume to the right people for her consideration for an interview opportunity. I will greatly appreciate it. In [the] future it will be my pleasure to reciprocate this favor of yours if you need”.

This works out great for me because I know that when I’m ready to lock up my wife in a subterranean dungeon in about 15 years I’ll know exactly who to call to help me built it. Part of me wanted to write back “Two words. Happy. Ending.” But I thought better of it. It’s one thing to meet someone in person, and even talk on the phone, but it’s another thing to bend over backwards for a woman with three “formal recognition awards” who has to rely on her creepy husband to tell you via email that "you have a real purty mouth”. Suddenly Sketchy Uncle Finger is looking a whole lot more wholesome.

Spring Ad Infinitum

2010-04-14T21:18:00.003-04:00

Spring. Ad Infinitum...until, of course, summer rolls around, but until then...Spring. Live it. Love it. Rent the movie. Twice.

Perhaps you've joined the mass exodus and headed outside of your house/apartment/office/opium den to shed a layer or two and enjoy the sun. Perhaps you've taken it one step further and have gone out and up. Up as in elevation. I alluded to this back during the days of my glorious travel, but there's something about climbing up that Y-axis that really lifts people's spirits, both literally and figuratively. There's something about Spring that makes a person say, "hey, I know where we can drink..."...pause...look both ways...come in a little closer...whisper..."outside on a roof". Having been hostage to snow and sleet for so long, it seems like people aren't content with going to a bar that can simply have the windows open and some fresh air. The beginning of Spring brings out the classic "go hard or go home" attitude in many New Yorkers. It's all about patios and rooftops. But as excited as we all are let's just remember, it's not even May, people. Girl in the sundress...when the sun goes down it's going to be 40 degrees, and nobody is going to want to hear you complaining about being cold. Hipster dude with the beard in the cut-off shorts...when the sun goes down you better hope your legs can grow a beard too because you and your plaid shirt are going to be freezing. But that said, you have to love Spring in New York because there's no wading in, there's simply... "cannonball!"

"I'[m] trying this new fad called uh, jogging. I believe it's jogging or yogging. It might be a soft j. I'm not sure but apparently you just run for an extended period of time. It's supposed to be wild."

Grab a spot on your favorite roofdeck. Hunker down with a cocktail or beer and some good company, and get that 60 degree sunburn you've been thinking about since January. It's not just the humans who have caught Spring fever, it's the animal kingdom as well. What, like a coyote can't enjoy a jog or yog down the West Side Highway too. If you don't think coyotes want to look good for the beach this summer as well you are sorely mistaken.

Correctly running against the traffic, kinda...

And speaking of running down the West Side Highway...wow, who knew how awesome that is? Today was the first day I've ever run down there. A lot of grass, surprisingly, basketball courts overlooking the river, the Statue of Liberty cheering you on...still, to me, Central Park is the cat's meow, but it's just another reason why New York in the Spring cannot be beat.

But what if your thing isn't running, rooftop drinking, or petting wild coyotes. What if your thing is trying new Spring-y recipes. The market in Union Square has moved past its grey/brown/beige/boring tubers, bread, and quiche phase and is now offering stuff that has...wait for it...texture and color. You'll start to see all kinds red tomatoes and an awesome diversity of greens. Unfortunately, diversity in food can sometimes be taken a little too far.

"An Australian publisher has had to pulp and reprint a cook-book after one recipe listed "salt and freshly ground black people" instead of black pepper.

Penguin Group Australia had to reprint 7,000 copies of Pasta Bible last week, the Sydney Morning Herald has reported.

The reprint cost A$20,000 ($18,000; £12,000), but stock in bookshops will not be recalled as it is "extremely hard" to do so, Penguin said.

The recipe was for spelt tagliatelle with sardines and prosciutto.

"We're mortified that this has become an issue of any kind, and why anyone would be offended, we don't know," head of publishing Bob Sessions is quoted as saying by the Sydney newspaper.

Really Bob Sessions? Really? Do you really wonder why would someone might be offended? Personally, I prefer my food without freshly ground black people. Come to think of it, there weren't a whole lot of non-Caucasians in Australia when I was there last year and now I guess I know why. As far as I'm concerned, the first mistake was including a recipe for spelt tagliatelle with sardines. What, is this post-WWII Czechoslovakia? What's the appetizer to that dish, Stone Soup? I think I'd rather have a cardboard sandwich with melted cardboard on top, with a side of chipotle cardboard sauce. Somewhere Chef Boyardee is turning over in his beef ravioli-filled grave.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is Spring...yeah, get on the bandwagon, because this is when it starts to get good. Now where's my effing umbrella.

Viva Lost Wages

2010-03-31T18:27:00.004-04:00

Alex Trebek: Dangerous liaisons with Cubans. Sleep deprivation. Waterboarding. Brinkmanship.

You: What is The Cuban Missile Crisis, Alex?

Alex Trebek: No, I'm sorry

Me: The answer is What is Las Vegas…to…the…FACE.

I finally arrived at my apartment just shy of midnight on Sunday night. A mere shell of the man who so naively boarded a plane last Thursday evening with a nice little wad of crisp hundreds. I'd never been to Las Vegas, and now I'm wondering I'll ever go back. As a sportsman I'll give you this analogy, "leave it all on the court". Suffice to say, I just witnessed ten guys (it was ten, I think, I sometimes had trouble counting) just leave it all on the proverbial court. In fact, I think the best example of literally leaving it all on the court occurred at the club on Saturday, where a big-boned, high-heeled, strong-willed woman projectile vomited about an oil drum worth of Welch's Grape Juice and Hennessey on her way to rush the stage to get as close to Snoop Dogg as possible, since he was performing for some reason. She literally didn't even break stride. If I didn't have a drink in my hand I would've clapped. It was simultaneously the most inspiring yet disgusting thing I think I've ever seen. Welcome to Vegas.

Before I recount the glories of the weekend it's only fair to share the inglorious aftermath. At work on Monday I was, how you say, less than efficient, mostly due to severe dehydration and a bout of sleep apnea. At one point I was texting with the bachelor (the reason we went to Vegas) that when I'd gotten home I'd emptied my bag of its contents and then burned my computer. He wrote back, "why did you burn your computer", to which I wrote back, "I meant my clothing". Clearly I was not firing on all cylinders. But why did I want to burn my clothing…because it smelled like Las Vegas. More on that later. I'm still recovering I think. Primarily because of I've been downing the sweetest nectar on this planet…water, not eating Denny's at 6am, and doing this thing called sleeping. It's amazing by the way. Try it.

So what of the rest of the weekend? As you know…what happens in Vegas blah blah, so I'll honor that and just paint some broad strokes. Let me first describe the all-day bacchanalia at the pool/club/awesomeness at the MGM on Saturday. You know how if you wrap anything in bacon it makes it exponentially better. Bacon-wrapped scallops. Bacon-wrapped dates. Etc. Well if you had to dumb down the description of what went on at the MGM that gorgeous day, I think you'd have to basically say it was bacon-wrapped Spring Break 2010. Yeah, let that marinate for a minute. I think we gave a new definition to the word gluttony, but little did I know we'd continue to give a new definition to the word gluttony every subsequent evening. For shame Finger:TheBlog, for shame. Well as you can possibly imagine, after we finished up at the pool eight hours later I wasn't quite in shape to operate heavy machinery so I took a nap. I woke up to the phone buzzing at around 11:45pm. It was my friend, we'll call him Liev Schreiber, and he was saying that I had 15 minutes to get downstairs because he'd just won a serious four-game parlay of the Sweet 16 games that day, and then had thrown those winning on red and won that too and we were going out. In a near zombie-like state I took the coldest shower of my life, smacked my face a few times and headed downstairs to the lobby. At this point I was cold and shaking and hungry and in need of a hug. It was off to a Gentlemen's club.

I expected to go somewhere to learn how to better open doors for ladies, and how to properly ballroom dance. You know, gentlemanly pursuits and such. Well well well. I had been tricked because when I showed up at this "gentlemanly establishment", the most gentlemanly pursuit taking place was that a…um…actually there was nothing particularly gentlemanly going on. There's something magical about strippers and by "magical" I mean "grossed out by their c-section scars", but magically grossed out I suppose. And what of that smell? What of that smell? All weekend I was trying to put my finger on what that omnipresent smell was. In the elevator. In the lobby. In Denny's. In the cab. In the airport. I'm not scientist, but I'm pretty sure it's a combination of strawberries, Lysol, crushed up Marlboro Reds, and leather. I'm actually in talks with a major manufacturer to get this turned into a perfume. It's going to be called "Slots". I'm looking for some VC money so let me know if you're at all interested. Typical me, I was interested in the back stories of these wonderfully-talented women. I imagined they'd grown up in the Eastern Bloc, nibbling small rations of stale bread and potatoes in the depths winter just to stay nourished. They'd come to Vegas in pursuit of their lifelong dream of becoming a biochemist. They attended UNLV where they had just applied for a Marshall Scholarship to continue their studies, and stripping was just a way to pay the bills for school. Listen, I know it's not likely, but it's possible. In fact, the closest these girls would ever get to becoming a biochemist would probably be working in a meth lab to pay off their pimps. I'm not going to get into details of the evening, because they were pretty normal, given the circumstances of course. Get your mind out of the gutter people. This was clean, wholesome, American fun.

I'm not even going to try to describe the events at the club the next evening. Something about a giraffe, a 7-month pregnant woman, cocktail dresses the size of washcloths, our gracious and kind and caring club hostess Amber, shenanigans, shenanigans.com, www.shenanigans.com, follow me on twitter @shenaniganstotheface, Snoop Dogg, anger, redemption, pseudo-Cuban Bulgarians from Henderson Nevada, making assessments, drinking Baileys from a shoe, and the man of the weekend who was responsible for the tsunami of events that almost ended the lives of ten strapping young gents…Old Greggggggg.

I sum up Las Vegas like this…the city simultaneous embodies every reason why America is the greatest country on Earth and every reason why so many people on Earth hate America. From the mouth of the former self-proclaimed Most Disciplined Man in Media Services, I must say that Vegas is a true battle of the mind versus the body versus the wallet, and in some inexplicable way even though we all lost, we all won...big…and this, my friends, is why we go to Vegas.

Duende

2010-03-21T15:37:00.003-04:00

I didn't know what the word duende meant. In fact, I hadn't even heard it until Thursday when I read this article about David Simon and his new HBO show Treme. David Simon is the man, and I'm pretty jazzed, pun intended, for the premiere of this show. If you don't feel like reading the entire article, just sample this passage.

“THERE’S A THING about being capable of a great moment,” Simon told me on a break from shooting. “This city is capable of moments unlike any moments you’ll ever experience in life. To see an Indian come down the street in full regalia on St. Joseph’s Night on an unlit street of messed-up shotgun houses and one burned-out car, and he’s the most beautiful thing on the planet, and everything around him is falling down. It’s a glorious instant of human endeavor. It’s duende from the Spanish, chills on the back of your neck, and then the next minute it’s gone. Lots of American places used to make things. Detroit used to make cars. Baltimore used to make steel and ships. New Orleans still makes something. It makes moments. I don’t mean that to sound flippant, and I don’t mean it to sound more or less than what it is, but they’re artists with a moment, they can take a moment and make it into something so transcendent that you’re not quite sure that it happened or that you were a part of it.”

And you wonder why the writing on The Wire was so damn good. But back to duende, defined as the ability to attract others through personal magnetism and charm. So about two hours after reading the article on Thursday I'm walking from my office, through Grand Central, to the subway, and there's this huge painting on the wall in one of the buildings that connects to Grand Central that says "Duende". Coincidence...I suppose. Blog fodder...fo' sho'.

Duende sounds like a very appropriately seasonal word. Very "Spring-like". Warm, but not oppressively so. Flirty, but no overwhelmingly so. Now that I know what duende is, I want it. But alas, duende is most certainly a quality that's going to be elusive for a good percentage of people, and one person who does not have duende was a nice young lady I became acquainted with on the 6 train this past week.

It was a crowded downtown train but I had a seat. As the car I was in got increasingly crowded, people were getting jostled as they tried to exit at each stop. At one particular stop, I think maybe Union Square, this small elderly white woman tried to push her way through to exit the train. Her path was blocked by an extraordinarily tall black woman. The white woman couldn't make it out, missing her stop. The black woman then went on a rant saying how all white people were ignorant and didn't have the courtesy to say "excuse me" and that all the small white grandma had to do was say "excuse me" and she could've gotten out at her stop but now, because she was ignorant, she had missed her stop. Things got awkward for a second and then slightly more awkward when the charming black woman got in the white woman's face and said, and I paraphrase, but barely, "I'm 8 months pregnant. I'm from Brooklyn and I'll knock that ass out and leave you in the gutter because that's how we do". Now, I'm no doctor but I'm pretty sure a woman who is 8 months pregnant should avoid knocking anyone out and leaving anyone in the gutter. I'm just saying. I'm sure this woman's child will end up being as non-confrontational as her mother. The story ends well though, because at Astor Place as the train pulled into the station I believe every single white person in the entire subway car said "excuse me" whether they were getting off or not. I know I did. What, you think I'm trying to end up in a gutter? This woman certainly gave me, as David Simon says, "chills on the back of my neck", but obviously for all the wrong reasons. Sadly, there was no duende on the 6 train that afternoon.

But if I can't find duende on the 6 train, where in the world can I find it? Las Vegas perhaps. Yes, that sounds about right. I'll be venturing out to Sin City for the first time this Thursday evening. I've been told there are some incredibly sweet and charming young ladies who just like hanging out and doting on you and rubbing your shoulders as you gamble. How sweet and innocent sounding. From what I've heard, after 3 nights in Vegas I'll be so cooked and over it that I'll welcome an old fashioned Brooklyn beatdown from a pregnant woman.

Walk That Earth

2010-03-14T19:25:00.003-04:00

Watching Michael Lewis on 60 Minutes talk about bonuses and Wall Street makes me recall several conversations I had this past weekend. This question was posed to me this weekend, "how much money would you need right now, liquid, to leave your job and walk the earth?"

Hmm. Think about it. Now, I'm not saying that you would never work again. In fact, you might decide to travel for a month and then come back and get back into the workplace. But the point is, how much money would you need to leave, taking everything into account, such as the state of the economy and the uncertainty of job prospects upon returning home. There are a million and one variables. The answer I gave when posed this question was about $10 million different than the answer a friend gave not 30 minutes later. I thought this was pretty funny actually and as we talked about the rationale behind our numbers I figured I had to throw this out to the readers.

Maybe it's because I did some earth-walking last summer and that I know how far a good ol' greenback can go in Southeast Asia, that my number was much lower than several of my friends' numbers. I think once you've tasted the freedom it's hard to get that taste out of your mouth and you're willing to do more with less, or at least try to do more with less. While I was on the road for only six weeks we definitely came across people who had been walking the earth for a long time. These folks, very often couples, were "next level" travelers and it was pretty apparent. They traveled very minimally. Just the small packs on their back, often hoofing it on the beach with full gear which seemed to suggest that they'd camped out under the stars all night, or perhaps just swam up Navy SEAL-style right onto the shore from some undisclosed prior location. They wore versatile clothing that to me said, "hey, may look like a sari but it's also a headwrap/hammock/towel/parachute/flaming jumprope". These folks also maybe wore a puka shell necklace or two, and had tans so irreversibly deep that even Snooki would blush. Despite their quirky fashion sense and apparent need for a good dermatological once-over, these folks by and large looked extremely happy and you could just tell that they looked at all the junior varsity travelers like myself with a sense of, I don't want to say arrogance, but knowingness. Is that even a word? Yeah, apparently it. So yeah, with a sense of knowingness that at some point my trip was going to come to an end and I'd have to do the single most dreaded thing post-warm climate vacation...put on socks. And then of course head back to Responsibilityland. But getting back to the question at hand...how much would you need in the bank to set off on your own adventure, knowing full well you would or could come back whenever. How much would you need to be able to draw down on and set off with your main squeeze, like the aforementioned earth walkers, on an adventure like that? Or forget a companion. How much to just going it alone?

Since I'm pretty sure I'll never get this opportunity, or more accurately, take this opportunity, until I'm retired that is, it's at least fun (read: kind of depressing) to think about it. Feel free to share your number in the comments section. It's anonymous. Nobody's judging. It's much better getting actual real people comments instead of Taiwanese spam.

This could be you and your new, cool, hungry, earth-walking friends. Look how happy they all are playing in the sand. Walk the earth, people. Walk. The. Earth.

Indians Love Papaya

2010-03-09T22:26:00.007-05:00

(Dusting off the keyboard)

Yeah, it's been a minute. General malaise. Downright laziness. Snowdrifts blocking my path to the computer. Lindsay Lohan lawsuits. Killer whales. Too soon? Perhaps.

I can come up with a million and one excuses for taking so long since my last post but I don't really care and I imagine neither do you. The fact of the matter is there is very very little that stands between this man and Spring. Although perhaps another huge snowstorm, but aside from that, very little. Spring brings little gifts that are absent during the winter, like the title of this blog, "Indians Love Papaya". You see, there's a fruit truck outside my office, and during the bleak days of winter the asian husband and wife team that works inside this little metal kiosk of an office don't bother showing up. And frankly why would they bother freezing their tails off trying to sell people fruit and fruit smoothies. Well, with temperatures flirting and playing a little grab ass with the 50 degree mark the fruit truck is back, and when the fruit truck is back I get my $3 strawberry/banana/blueberry smoothie aka "the #5" aka "the yummy shake". THe name "Yummy Shake" is what they call it. Their forte is slicing and blending and not so much coming up with names. Today I took down the first smoothie I've had in a long while. The lady working the blender wasn't the usual woman, but she seemed quite pleased to earn my $3. In fact, she was so excited that she kept talking about her brother, or maybe it was a boat rudder, or maybe a cow's udder. I couldn't understand a damn thing she said, but she sure hooked me up with a delicious smoothie. My buddy from work came with me for the smoothie break. He's Indian. The woman working the blenders seemed especially excited to see my friend, talking to him unintelligibly as well. Strangely though, in crystal clear english she pointed to my friend and said "Indians love papaya". I looked at my friend quizzically and he nodded in confirmation. Indeed, Indians love papaya. Who knew?

You see, this is why the Spring is so wonderful. New cultural insights at every turn. So what that I was outside shivering my ass off drinking a fruit smoothie while my fingers turned blue. It was a nod to Spring and it was worth the frostbite.

More cultural insights this Spring...In my current rotation we deal periodically with the Brazilian office. I love me some international exposure, but the only problem is I never can tell who is who. It was the same thing at Michigan. We had a couple Brazilians in our section and when we'd have a new class and the professor would call roll he'd say a name and everyone would scratch their heads, look around and be like "no sorry, he's not in our section". And then from the last row the Brazilian student would put down his caipirinha, raise his hand and say, "eh, yes, this is me but eh, this is my fifth name", which begs the question, how many names can these Brazilians have. So here's an example, let's say there's a guy you work with from Brazil, and his name is Cristiano Feitosa. Well, his actual real name isn't Cristiano Feitosa, it's probably Joao Gilberto Feijoada, but of course around the office he's probably known as Didi. So when your boss says call Didi, I mean, what the hell are you supposed to do, put "Didi" into the company directory? I'll tell you what I do, I go to this website and have myself a couple good laughs then go to lunch. (PS, I'm Fingincha). When did life get so difficult? WWPD? What Would Pele Do?

I have to ease my way back into blogging so I'm going to call it an evening, but do me a favor, seek out those crocuses (croci?), give them funny Brazilian nicknames like Crocusinho, and appreciate the fact that Spring is allegedly lurking right around the corner.

Before You Fall Asleep Reading This...

2010-02-24T22:25:00.005-05:00

I once read where music impresario Lyor Cohen works and stays up as late as he can until he literally cannot keep his eyes open, and can only muster enough strength to take himself to bed. Found it. Every week I read "Corner Office" in the New York Times which is an interview with a CEO of some sort. This past week's article was an interview with a woman who works for an apparel company. She says that she sometimes sleeps two hours a night. Granted, she works part time in Germany, and perhaps that's just her German efficiency kicking in, but where I come from, two hours of sleep is called a nap. But hey, she's the CEO of a multinational operation and I'm the CEO of a not-for-profit blog that attracts spam from Asians.

Now that's I've tasted what it's like to have a decent amount of personal time outside of work, I can't help but feel that I'm not utilizing it appropriately. Back in the day (like 4 or 5 weeks ago) I got home in time to eat, shower, maybe read an article or two of something not work related, curse myself a little bit, and then pass out. So what I'm thinking about doing is training myself to start keeping longer hours, and thus sleeping less. I realize that this has disaster written all over it, because my body has been known to rebel if I burn the candle on both ends. For example, I have this trick hamstring, that tells me in a most painful way when I'm not hydrated enough. At first the muscle will kind of spasm, then it will go into "you think this is a joke, son" mode and hurt like the dickens. What I'm saying is that I'm fine tuned. Maybe not fine tuned, but tuned, at least, to a certain extent.

The saying goes that "nothing good happens after 2am", and I'm not saying that I'm going to start staying up until 2am, but I've gotta say, that when I do stay up after 2am it's usually because I'm out having fun. I'm not sure this saying applies to gang members though. Standing on the corner of 61st and Fifth and flashing gang signs to homeless people sleeping on the benches the border the park is a fairly innocuous activity. Move 60 or 70 blocks north and doing the same thing will probably net a different result. So perhaps in some situations nothing good ever happens after 2am. By the way, Vatos Locos for life, homes.

I'm usually in bed by 11 - 11:30, but what would happen if I just stayed up much later. You always hear about these chefs who would stay up late at night in their kitchens perfecting dishes with the help of their pet rat...or was that Ratatouille? Whatever. The point is that genius occurs as the sun comes up but during this time most of us are out cold dreaming about swimming in pools of candy or whatever other ridiculous dreams about unicorns and manifest destiny you folks are having these days. Weirdos.

All these pop/rap collaborations you see now have become so passe. If you told me Raffi just did a collaboration with Gucci Mane I'd barely bat an eye.

Oh hey there Raffi. How about singing that one about apples and bananas?

What was the first real cross-genre collaboration you can recall seeing or hearing...probably Aerosmith and Run DMC's "Walk this Way". If you for one second believe that the idea for that was conceived at an hour earlier than 2am then you are sorely mistaken. For chrissakes, in the movie Young Einstein, when a young Albert Einstein splits the beer atom with a chisel in order to add bubbles to beer, when do you think that happened? After 2am, duh? Scientific facts are irrefutable. It's true. Just ask the Texas Board of Education...wait what?

I suppose the question is this, would you sacrifice sleep and in turn be more grumpy in the morning if you knew that at night you were unlocking your sheer genius, whatever that may be?I hope you say yes, and I hope you stay up tonight and create the most badass origami Eiffel Tower the world has ever seen, or the most delicious carnitas taco the worst has ever tasted, or perhaps the most incoherent rambling blog the world has ever read. Don't take if from me, take it from a certified doctor....Dr. Bunson Honeydew...burner of midnight oil.

What I do Not Recognize, I do not Like

2010-02-17T18:44:00.004-05:00

First, let me just say that I can't explain just about any of the comments I've been receiving on this blog. They all look like spam as far as I'm concerned. They make no sense. Here's what they all sound like.

"This is most certainly exciting. Perhaps more color would be an addition. I very much enjoy the spectacle of earth. Buy some Levitra".

What?

Those of you who waited for a pithy Valentine's blog, well, I'm sorry, but I really didn't have it in me this year. You could've checked out my sad sack blog from 2008. Someone at work gave out those little cards that you used to give and get when you were in elementary school. My card had SpongeBob on it and that was the most love I got all weekend. In fact, on Valentine's Day proper I went and destroyed a double cheeseburger with bacon, a side or fries, a side of onion rings, and also a plate of fried pickled tomatoes. And of course a beer to wash it all down. Don't judge me for what I put in my body though. I'll leave the judging for those at work.

I like my new job, particularly the atmosphere. It's bright, quiet, and the people are young and nice. The only bad thing is that just about every morning at 9am the place starts to absolutely stink. Not stink, but reek of something that can only be described as sewage. The first couple days I just assumed it was the ventilation because I sit not too far from the bathroom, but then I noticed a number of people on the floor talking about it. Apparently it's been an ongoing problem. But then I started doing some sleuthing because my olfactory sense is better than yours. People would walk by our side of the floor and say out loud, "jesus, something smells like shit". Not so fast there ugly americans. The sense of smell is a very keen sense and it can stir up many emotions and memories, and after focusing a little bit I closed my eyes and was transported to a dusty, dirty alley in Ho Chi Minh City. Before me sat an old lady, smiling, hunched over a little push cart, folding spring rolls and placing them over the fire. Street meat. My friend and I were too hungry to pass up some fresh spring rolls so we sat on low, plastic, backless chairs, and pulled up to an equally low plastic table. The piping hot spring rolls were brought out with some greens and a side of sauce that smelled like something I wanted no part of...vinegary fish sauce my friends. I turned to the cube behind me to see my Chinese colleague tucking into some something from a tupperware that came from home. That was it.

I feel bad a little that people continually insult her breakfast without knowing, but she eats it all the time so she either has thick skin or fails to realize what she's doing to our side of the floor. I'm almost embarrassed for everyone in this scenario. I never saw an Asian eat cheese the entire 6 weeks I was away this summer so I'm going to assume they don't have an affinity for it. So I guess it would be like working in China, whipping out a grilled cheese sandwich (so tasty) and having everyone say how horrible it smelled. If I cared enough I'd offer some sort of diplomatic solution, but I don't care enough.

In other news, I went skiing this weekend for the first time in about 15 years and for the third time overall. It was a lot of fun, except for those few occasions when I felt I had little to absolutely no control over what was going on. A little scary, and at this age, I think first about how tremendously horrible it would be to blow out an ACL or something. But I survived. In fact I only bit it twice. But those beginner snowboarders...what's the point. They spend half the day on their ass. Strapping, Unstrapping. Strapping. Unstrapping. The falling I can understand, but what a production. I like skiing but I still like a sport where you just show up and you either have it, or you don't. There's not gear, no layers. It's just you. Although unfortunately there's no apres basketball, like there's an apres ski. Could you imagine. If you are trying to maximize your time on your feet learning you might as well ski. If you want to dress like an asshole and suck, apparently snowboarding is your game. I'm just reporting on what I saw. I'm excited to go skiing again. Maybe even...."out west"....which from everything I've heard might as well be Shangri la, ain't that right Lindsay Vonn?

Off to the gym to go for gold. Wish me luck.

The Andon System

2010-02-07T14:17:00.004-05:00

This past week I received a lot of positive feedback about the last blog on dating, so thank you for that. I figure maybe I'll touch on that topic a little more often.

In business school we took a class called Operations. I didn't particularly care for it, as to me the scenario of sorting and sifting through a cranberry processing plant never really seemed like it would be particularly applicable to anything I would ever be doing...except for that time I worked at a CRANBERRY PROCESSING PLANT! No. I lie. I didn't. I never worked at a cranberry sorting factory. I remember the final exam for that class being particularly cruel to me. It was probably a fair exam, but just not to me. It was the type of test where you open up see the first question, decide to skip it and come back later, and tackle question two first, and then five minutes later you find that you've flipped through the whole test and are back at question one, staring you in the face saying "now who wishes they'd paid attention to that cranberry sorting factory case study?"

I remember one question had to do with waiting in line at a hamburger stand, and there were three cashiers, a rate to build the burgers, a rate on how long it took to fill the sodas, and something about how many customers could be served in a certain window of time if it was a Leap Year or something. I think my answer was go next door to the taco stand where there's no line. I did learn though. I learned about the Andon system. To make it short and sweet, the Andon system is basically a way to signal an issue at a particular workstation in a manufacturing plant. If an issue occurs, work is stopped, the problem is quickly isolated, and the proper remedies are deployed in order to get the process up and running again. Simple and brilliant. Today, the Andon systems are way more involved, and I'm sure there are all kind of crazy computer programs and microchips and weird looking UPS-guys diagramming the heck out of the Andon system.

Insert your favorite Thomas More horsehair shirt/self-mortification joke here

While the Andon system doesn't seem particularly groundbreaking today, it was considered groundbreaking many years ago. In fact the Andon system was pioneered by a company largely regarded as the toast of the town in the world of manufacturing. You guessed it, Toyota. Well well well. How the tables have turned. How the tables. Have turned. So this unlikely turn of events for Toyota this past week begs the question of how a (now presumed) best-in-class car manufacturer can let something so important, like a issue with brakes, literally and figuratively run themselves off the road. Are you ready for some metaphors?

I really like the idea of the Andon system in the context of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If you don't use it (Toyota), what's the point of even having it.

Say you are dating someone. This someone is cool. This someone is popular. This someone is also fuel-efficient. However, you know that there's an issue, and it's not something insignificant. You see that Andon cord (it used to literally be a cord before things became automated) and you're staring at it. This someone starts going all "bitches be crazy" more and more often, and you're just staring at that Andon cord, kind of hoping someone will pull it and stop the craziness to address the problem, but the only person who can possibly pull that cord is you. And you just stare at it because pulling it is not the easy thing to do. This doesn't just apply to dating of course. It applies to jobs too and pretty much just about everything else on this planet. Sometimes you just have to do the difficult thing and pull that Andon cord. Toyota more than anyone else should have known better. I will dismount my soapbox now.

On to more pleasant things though. With one week of the new job under my belt I can say with a high confidence interval that I'm probably going to be able to have more of a social life this next four months than I had the last four months. In fact, I actually made plans for wait for it, wait for it...mid-week. Yup. It's going to happen (hopefully/possibly).

That's about all I got. Go enjoy the Super Bowl folks.

I'm Pretty Sure it Doesn't Have to be this Difficult

2010-01-31T20:54:00.005-05:00

Remember when the Black Eyed Peas used to be cool? Like circa Bridging the Gap? Remember when your mom just thought black eyed peas were something for a jambalaya? That feels like 100 years ago. It was in fact 10 years ago for those scoring at home. Ten years ago I was starting college. Ah freshman year. Playing pickup ball for hours on end and when I had nothing left in tank I'd head to the dining hall, swipe my card, go nuts on the buffet, and take a couple apples for the road. Ten years later, I still play ball, albeit once a week, and I head to a corporate dining hall, swipe a card, going not as nuts on the buffet, and after I work out in the gym in the building I'll take an apple for the road. The point being this: I really haven't changed that much. Life now is very much, I don't know, "same same but different". However, life is not the same same for a lot of my friends. Like the Black Eyed Peas found Fergie, a lot of friends have found mates, some are married, and some even have little ones running around. And don't get me wrong for a single second, this is all good stuff...and this leads me to a blog about dating (I keep my promises).

1. There is no such thing as a blind date.

Facebook, I want to punch you in the face and hug you at the same time. I'm cool with blind dates, and always have been. At worst it's a single drink, a single hour of your life spent meeting someone else. The thing is that gone are the days of truly meeting someone without any sort of pictures, preconceived notions, or prior reconnaissance. In many ways this is good because we (people of the earth) have preferences in terms of looks, and if there is a pre-screening of sorts that takes place prior to a date then I think that's a good thing...until it becomes a bad thing and we (again, people of the earth) start making snap judgements based on a couple profile pictures. Now part of me wants to know nothing if I'm supposed to meet someone, but part of me wants to know everything. Unfortunately, the part of me that wants to know everything always wins out and I go into whatever date with certain preconceived notions, which is simply just how it is.

2. Adjectives are incredibly (insert adjective here)

I've been incredibly fortunate that people look out for me and try to set me up with other people, and I pay it forward and try to make a match for friends on occasion as well. However, when I try to introduce people I do it because I really and truly believe in my heart of hearts that I'm doing something good for mankind. Although I do have to say that it is amusing, and appreciated when some of my non-Jewish friends meet a jewish girl and then say, "I met this girl, she's jewish, you're jewish, I mean come on, it's perfect". If I was a white rhino and my options for a potential mate were truly on the verge of distinction perhaps I wouldn't need to be so discerning. Sadly, I'm not a white rhino, so I can look around a bit I suppose, but I do appreciate my friends' intentions. In the end, they're only looking out for me. Guys give it to you straight. "Bro, she's a 7. Mad cool. A little crazy in college, but she's mellowed out and has a good job in marketing. Definitely down to drink a beer. Just broke up with a total douchebag". Do you understand how valuable information like that is? That's FBI-quality intelligence as far as I'm concerned. There's quantitative info, there's qualitative info, there's info on her past, her present, and inferences about her future. With girls it is literally the exact total opposite. What's the girl like, I may ask. The answer "she's amazing". Really? Amazing at mahjong. Amazing at croquet. Amazing at crochet. Amazing at telling stories. Amazing at telling lies. Amazing at what? What a meaningless adjective. "Cute" is perhaps not as bad, but still not particularly helpful. Is she cute like a newborn pug? A newborn baby? Is she cute like an expensive clutch? Cute like a decorated cupcake? When I hear she's cute what I really hear is that she's not pretty, because I've been out with "cute" many times, and what "cute" means to me and many of my guy friends is not the same as a girl's definition of cute. I can appreciate that people have incredibly different tastes and preferences, but sometimes I think I'd just rather get the "you'll have to decide for yourself". I don't want to make it sound like I'm bitching because I'm not. Getting set up is a great way to meet people. I just think sometimes people go with the "throw spaghetti against the wall and seen what sticks" method versus the "let me think about this for a second" method.

3. Straight Up Now Tell Me

I clearly have more than three beefs, but I'll make this the last one. Why can't people be more honest when they don't want to keep dating. If someone is not interested I'd want to know immediately, upfront, because I don't think anyone should have to waste their time unnecessarily. Doesn't everyone want that? Yes and no. Yes and no. Why is everything yes and no?

And so it goes. I'll figure it out.

I started the new job today, and whoa, it's different than the old one. Today I looked at a Word document, after having not looked at a single Word doc in four months. I. Like. Words. I can know whether I like a girl five minutes after meeting her, but rotations, not so much. I do know this though.

1) Free hot chocolate in the pantry. Woot!

2) It's quiet decibel-wise, in a good way

3) It clears out at 6:30 - 7:00p. What the what?!

I even got home in time tonight to watch "Oh dat bitch be craaazzaayyyyyy" aka "The Bachelor". Shoot, I even made dinner for myself. Granted, it was a hot dog salad, but cut me some slack, I haven't had the chance to cook for myself in forever, and I'm still getting out the cooking cobwebs. Anyway, I sit next to another guy who is my program, so today we went over the cafeteria to grab lunch. He got his sandwich before I got mine so he came over to me in line and said that he'd meet me out there. No problem. When I got my sandwich and paid I looked for him. He wasn't outside the entrance. He wasn't near the escalator. He wasn't even in the lobby. So I walked back across the street and up to my cube to eat my lunch. About twenty minutes later my friend walked in, and I said I looked for him and didn't see him so I came back. He said he was sitting right at one of the first tables, waiting. Wait, sitting, in a cafeteria, for lunch...what a novel concept. I took lunch away from my desk three times during the last four months, and the thought of actually sitting down somewhere not in front of a spreadsheet and eating did not even cross my mind. Oh Finger: The Blog, you and your crazy ways. I don't know what the next four months will be like, but the work-life balance may or may not be at least slightly better, and I'm looking forward to it.

However, unequivocally, I am looking forward to nothing more than settling in tomorrow and watching the season premiere of Lost. I'm prepared to have my world rocked by a show where the mysteries of dating only slightly out-mystify the mysteries of Lost.

Hot & Cold

2010-01-22T22:36:00.008-05:00

I don't know how it's possible to be as tired as I am after having only worked a three-day work week. I was in St. Croix this past weekend, for a much needed vacation coming on the heels of what was another much needed vacation. Vacation just breeds the desire for more vacation. It's kind of bad. How was the trip? Well...

As it is said, "nuff said", but here's a quick travel story. First off, there's nothing cool about flying these days. In St. Croix, going through customs is a pretty painless process, until you check the box that says you aren't bringing food with you, but when asked if you have any food you say you have a peanut butter sandwich. Well unfortunately I learned the hard way because this brought on a barrage of questions.

Are you bringing any fruits or vegetables? No.

Are you sure because you checked off you had no food but you had a sandwich? I'm sure.

Were you here for business? No, for vacation.

What do you do? I work in finance, it's not that exciting.

Where have you traveled internationally before this trip? Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand.

And they need finance in those countries? Uh, I suppose so, yes.

Listen, I'm happy to answer as many questions as they want if it means that I'll be safe. It was certainly less intense than flying El Al, where they ask you the kinds of questions that are simply going to elicit responses of "I don't know".

What was the name of your 3rd grade Hebrew school teachers? I don't know

When was your temple founded? I don't know.

What was the outside temperature the day you were circumcised? I don't know, pre- or post- turtleneck?

So now that travel/playtime is over for the moment it's back to the grind. I have another four days of work in my current rotation and then it's onto another rotation. I'm looking forward to the change. Let me just tell you that when it was October 1st 2009, February 1st 2010 might as well have been February 1st 2059. There was many a day where I would've paid a hefty sum to fast forward a few weeks. From what I've heard, the new rotation will be very different than the current one. I remain cautiously optimistic, because that's about as optimistic about anything as I can possibly be. And after all, the new rotation is in Corporate Treasury, which while I can't claim I know a whole lot about it, I do know that it's more exciting than shoveling shit and less exciting than spear fishing. Where it actually lands within that spectrum is anyone's guess. Fingers crossed closer to the spear fishing end though. This whole rotation-thing leaves a lot to chance and what the future holds always seems to be a bit of a mystery.

While I'm pondering some of the greater mysteries of the world, I've been perplexed, to say the least, about some of the more recent comments on my blog posts. I certainly don't understand the blog post that come across the transom in Japanese (any translation would be appreciated). As for some of the others...well, I don't think they come from readers that speak english, which is fine, because I'm all about spreading the gospel, but I just wonder how anyone might come across this blog if they don't already know about it. It's interesting to me though because somehow, some way, someone from another country is reading this thing and I guess that's the point of writing it. With all the brouhaha in China over internet scrutiny and access and freedom it would be kind of funny if there was some family somewhere in rural China that gathered around the computer once a week to read my blog and have a good laugh. I'm going to make myself a mental picture of that.

Lastly, I wanted to write quickly about an article in the NYTimes about people voluntarily keeping cold. You know, electing to not have heat, or living year-round with the windows open, or relying on fellow performance artists to drop by and using body heat to warm their apartments. Let me just say that I had some heating issues a few weeks ago, where basically my apartment had none. For those of us with heat issues and without an abundance of performing artist friends, having no heat simply ain't cool. Waking up in the morning and leaving a warm bed is cruel and torturous. My heat is back up and running which is great, but it just makes me appreciate small creature comforts even more, and makes me realize how truly awful it must be in Haiti right now. For all the bitching and moaning we all (I) do...jobs stuff, heating, airport security, whatever...at least we have a roof over our heads tonight.

Big Bonus

2010-01-11T21:09:00.003-05:00

I don't watch The Bachelor, but it's on, by accident or something, and I get so embarrassed watching it that I'm constantly turning it off, and then on, and then off. These girls are absolute train wrecks. Pretty train wrecks, but train wrecks nonetheless. And everyone's always crying, about nothing, all the time.

Anyway, after starting a blog post last night and having zero willpower to finish it I decided to start again today from scratch and I wanted to recount a little story from vacation. My Dad and I played golf at a Parks and Rec course in West Palm Beach. We were two, so they paired us with two other guys, Charlie from outside Philadelphia, and Fred from central New Jersey. Both were semi-retired and had worked in construction. They smoked cigs and Charlie crushed a Bud Heavy at the turn, which occurred pre-12:00. I'm not judging though, because beer and golf go together like, well, like this....

Ooh weeeeee John Daly

But after the turn I was chatting with Charlie and Fred, and they asked me where I worked, and what I did. I told them I worked in New York and I named the bank where I worked to which Fred immediately asked, "So are you getting a bonus this year?" I kind of hemmed and hawed a bit, because after having just explained that I started not barely three months ago, I actually was getting a bonus. It got quiet for a second. I looked over at the pond and thought about whether if thrown in I'd be able to fight an alligator. The look on Charlie's face as he squinted in the Florida sun and lit his Marlboro was probably as close to Main Street anger as I'd come. It's not like he was going to go all Elin Woods and take a 3-wood to my shins, but I can imagine what he was thinking.

Over the next few weeks Wall Street is going to get paid. Like paid paid. Don't take it from me, just read any newspaper's business section. A few weeks after I started I remember there was a protest outside of my office. It's not an uncommon sight these days actually, but as I walked out the doors to go to lunch and people were yelling in my direction about exorbitant bonuses I wanted to explain myself. I wanted to say "listen, I'm going to the cafeteria to eat meatloaf right now. Meatloaf. Not gold, but meatloaf. And maybe I'll splurge on a Poland Spring but chances are I'll fill up the same bacteria-filled water bottle I've been using for two weeks. I didn't ruin the economy, in fact, I wasn't even finance when all this shit went down so calm your britches and direct your yelling elsewhere. I'm just a man, a hungry man, who puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you". See, the thing is, I'm not NOT trying to get an inappropriately awesome bonus, but I've seen Main Street up close on the tee box of the 10th hole, and I get it, more than I got it before. This backlash will continue for a long time. Defer bonuses, issue stock instead of cash, whatever, people are still going to be pissed. That's just how it's going to be for a long long time.

And now, my favorite bonus-related business school story. We took a class called M.O., which if I'm not mistaken stands for Management and Organizations, or something. We were discussing a case which I scarily remember very well. It was about a female manager, Chloe, and her successful, but socially awkward asian employee Kaiping. Kaiping was doing well, but there was some serious culture clashing, and also some miscommunication of epic proportions. At the end of the day though Kaiping was kind of killing it, making sales, growing his connections, and simultaneous making awkward demands to his boss, Chloe. He wanted a bigger office, bigger than his colleagues because that is what he was used to back in Asia, where seniority and status were both more visible and more important in the business world. Our task as a class was to figure out how Chloe and Kaiping could bridge the gap in a way that produced meaningful results for both parties. After going back forth on some ideas, one girl, a native of China, raised her hand. She was called on and said in plain English, but in a strong non-native English speaking Asian way, "Chloe should maybe give Kaiping big boners". What the what? Even the folks who were usually passed the heck out in the back row picked up their heads. The teacher even giggled a bit. I had to stop myself from laughing. Chloe giving Kaiping big boners would surely keep Kaiping on the straight and narrow. Pun intended. Zing. What our friend of course really said was that perhaps Chloe could give Kaiping a big bonus with hopes to make him feel appreciated. Lost in Translation, for real. Boners, bonus, whatever. Either way someone's going to feel stiffed. Oh my God I'm amazing. But seriously, this whole bonus thing is super polarizing and will only get uglier. It's kind of traumatizing, kind of like this was...

But at least we can all agree...butter side up...right? Guys?

Already Tired Of/In 2010

2010-01-04T20:49:00.004-05:00

I really intended to blog over my vacation but somehow it just never happened. Oh well. Fresh start, fresh year, freshly exhausted from my 9:10pm flight last night that took off at 12:45am, and not hitting the hay until 3:45am this morning. So much for starting off the work week/year fresh. I was gone from work for a week and truthfully I didn't expect a full inbox when I got in this morning. Nobody emails me. I had a handful of emails, nothing particularly earth-shattering. I did have one interesting email though. It was a meeting request for a meeting that is taking place December 16th 2010. So just so you know, at 3:45 on December 16th I'm busy. Seeing December 16th 2010 on my calendar actually made me slightly nauseated. I'm trying to take this new year one day at a time, but a meeting December 16th? Really. For all I know I could be a baby daddy by December 16th. I could be living in Yemen by December 16th. A lot can happen between now and then, so why the rush?

While you and your friends engaged in some friendly gun play over the holidays I was catching up on sleep, getting sun, and being nursed back to health by my grandparents. I knew when I heard about it that the Gilbert Arenas gun incident would 100% be blog fodder. You see, Gilbert Arenas, or as he is known in the blogosphere, Agent Zero, was one of the main reasons I started blogging back in 2007. Gil's blog which I think he's now scrapped in favor of Twitter and other such media outlets was one of the first legit blogs written by an athlete. He wrote about anything and everything, and I read him religiously. And now he's pulling guns on friends, but I hear that's "very 2010". Sometimes I feel like my blog is lacking juice, but you don't go see me pulling guns on people to liven things up. As much as I like Gilbert Arenas the blogger, and the Gilbert Arenas the basketball player, I really think he should be asked to leave the NBA. Just my two cents on that.

And here are my two cents on 2010. Everyone is too optimistic about 2010. Most people were ready to kiss 2009 goodbye. As for me, well, 2009 was one of the most fun, fulfilling, enjoyable years I've ever had. I doubt that in any year in the near future I'll do as much cool traveling and see as many interesting things. I suppose I'll just have to rely on the NYTimes travel section and acid flashbacks for the foreseeable future. Right now all I have to look forward to in 2010 is a meeting on December 16th. I exaggerate, but I'm still holding onto 2009, at least for a few more weeks until I get reimbursed for my December dinner and cab receipts from work.

There are a lot of things I want/want to see happen in 2010. The only question is whether I'll make it happen or whether I'll be blogging about not making it happen a year from now. Ooooh so much pressure. Right now I just want one thing though. Bed. A belated Happy New Year to you all.

She's Got...Hungry Eyes

2009-12-19T18:38:00.004-05:00

As I sat eating the stem of a shiitake mushroom while googling "Can you eat the stem of a shiitake mushroom?" (yes, but they are tough and typically not eaten) I briefly looked out the window and realized that snow is a social life killer. It's early yet though. I want to go out. In fact I want to go out just so I can say that I didn't stay in and absent-mindedly watch She's Just Not That Into You, because I'm not doing that right now to be clear.

What I am doing is thinking about a hedge fund holiday party that I was invited to this past week, and while I may be staying in solo tonight, there is some hedge fund guy out there with a special black book entitled "Snow Days" and he certainly is not watching She's Just Not That Into You this evening because that would be pathetic. Let me tell you, all is well in the hedge fund industry, you know aside from all that insider trading stuff. As for said party, unbelievable location, top shelf open bar, hiring of an internationally acclaimed music group. You know, a usual Wednesday night for the average New Yorker. I was hearing that some firms were sending out letters to employees to not gather in groups of 12 or more as that might constitute a, dare I say it, party, and we all know that if there is one thing Main Street cares about, it's gatherings of 12 or more people. I'm just waiting for AIG to be blamed for this party somehow.

Soon after I arrived at the party I thought to myself, this must be blogged about. While the employees were downstairs at their employee and dates-only dinner, the invited folks were upstairs milling around, dropping $20 tips on singular Miller Lites. Good for them. That's one less delicious bowl of ramen soup they're going to be able to afford this week, suckers. But alas, the evening's most interesting tales did not involve the $20 tips, but the 20-some year old women flanking these hedge fund "ordinaires". There was a gentleman, a nerdy looking gentleman by most standards, with this one young lady. She wore a black outfit that might've been a one-piece. She was either coming from a Beyonce video, a yoga class, a biker rally or a Rydell High Class Reunion.

I don't know exactly, but the outfit was perhaps something that CatWoman once owned, and any CatWoman will do here (Eartha Kitt, Michele Pfeiffer, or Halle Berry). Anyway, the back of this outfit simply did not exist, and several law of physics were surely broken just to keep the top part from coming off. So here is this guy, who is with this girl, and this girl is shaking it, and showing off her God given/Doctorally enhanced? talents for everyone to see. The fellow...he looked like he no idea what to do with her. Like none. I half expected him to escort her out so nobody else could witness her gyrating herself into his midsection while he stood there flummoxed, and I half expected him to put a big ol' tag in her ear stating that this piece of meat belonged to his farm. While several of us were witnessing this spectacle, some guy behind me probably summed it up best how ridiculous it was when he remarked, "I think I'm going to go home and kill myself". These hedge funders just live in a different world I suspect. A world where they can descend the stairs of their plane in Cabo with their gaggle of girls and say, "eh, too cold. Let's head to Curacao" and then run back up the stairs while slapping the barren backsides of his travel companions as the girls playfully spray champagne all over the tarmac. What? That's how it happens.

I am a big fan of the HBO show Eastbound & Down so let me share with you what kind of sums up how these guys operate, or at least how I'd like to imagine they operate, because as we all know not everyone is like this, but enough are to where I can write a blog like this and at least a few people will shake their heads in affirmation...

These guys can make it rain every, single, night, dollar dollar bills ya'll.

There were wives and girlfriends there, and as the night wore on it was clear that there were a lot of women still milling around who were unattached, and how did I know they were unattached...because of their (beat) "huuuungry eyes". I can understand the appeal for both sides. The mantra of my most interesting class at Michigan was "the market knows best", and as the night dragged on, and more alcohol was consumed and as the married and coupled folks went home to their million dollar apartments, the market knew best, with guys undoubtedly doing the requisite financial models in their heads, and the girls scoping out which guys had the most hair on their heads. I'd like to think that perhaps a few marriages will come out of that evening. I'd like to think that two people, one with love of finance and one with love of finances, one with a penchant for creating complex models and one with penchant for surrounding themselves with models, one who used to look up to the great corporate raiders and one who used to date the Oakland Raiders...I'd like to think that these two seemingly different types of people can come together and make a real honest to goodness love connection in this crazy crazy world. If not, I guess a trip to Curacao works too.

10,000 Thank Yous

2009-12-12T15:12:00.003-05:00

First things first. Right before I left for my Southeast Asia backpacking adventure back in the first week of June I decided to put up a website hit counter at the bottom of the blog just to see what the traffic was like. This week, six months later, I surpassed 10,000 hits, and no I did not sit at home in the dark and refresh the webpage 10,000 times. I'm not saying there have been 10,000 unique visitors, but I am saying that I appreciate the love and wish I'd put up a counter back in May 2007 when this started. I hope that you'll continue to come on through and visit every once in a while.

So apparently the blog I wrote about Tiger seemed to have pushed him over the edge and into professional golf purgatory. My bad. I don't want to continue to beat a dead horse here, but I just want to share something that I've heard several times from several different people this past week. People say how Tiger's wife is way better looking than any of the women he allegedly had relations with, and wonder why he'd downgrade. But you have to think of it like this; every time you see a gorgeous woman walking down the street you have to remember that there's someone out there in this great big world who is probably bored of having sex with her. Yup. Listen, I didn't make up the rules here. Such is life.

On my way to work Friday the last song that came on my iPod was Journey's "Don't Stop Believing". Somehow it just seemed right for a Friday morning. It was one of those weeks. The week just reminded me of that cliche classic classroom scene where it's 2:59 and everyone is anxiously waiting for 3:00 so they can leave, and they pan to a shot of the clock and the minute hand goes backward to 2:58. Nine more days of work until I head out on vacation. Not that I'm counting. Other people out there have clearly started their holiday vacations early, as evidenced by the throngs of people walking up and down Fifth Avenue this weekend. I walked down Fifth yesterday to buy some sneakers right around Rockefeller Center. At one point my bobbing and weaving came to a slow crawl and I wondered what the hold up was. A dropped camera? People admiring chestnuts roasting on an open fire? I soon realized that I'd been sucked, tractor beam style, right into the mosh pit that is the line to get into Abercrombie & Fitch. After I immediately disentangled myself from the Midwesterners and Europeans clamoring to overpay for a plaid shirt I had to just admire what Abercrombie had done. They basically set up a velvet rope situation out in front of their store. I can't confirm this, but it almost looked as if it was a "one in, one out" door policy. I don't know what goes on in there (I'm guessing a lot of midriff comparing based on their ad campaigns) but they pump extremely loud music and all that cologne and perfume wafting out the doors makes midtown smell like a summer camp social. I continue to prefer the no-longer-mysterious maple syrup smell. I really have never seen anything like it though, but person after person left the store with a little Abercrombie bag, so clearly things are being purchased, and these days, "you gotta do anything to move product". I put that in quotes, because these days, with nothing really great on TV on Sunday night I put anything in quotes that vaguely reminds me of The Wire, and I always attribute the quote to Slim Charles. Always. Damn I miss that show.

For your viewing pleasure this rainy Sunday. Not Safe For Work (masterfully crafted explicit language).

If I ever resign or quit a job, you better believe I'm going to say "the game ain't in me no more".

Sustainability

2009-12-03T22:32:00.005-05:00

I always heard that things slow down during the holidays. That's clearly a lie. I just think that we slow down during the holidays. I am tired. The unpredictability of my hours at work have driven me to working out before work, because work can't touch me before 9am. Yes America and beyond, the hours of 6:30a and 8:30a officially belong to me, and only me. At school I used to work out in the mornings. Wake up, you know, around 8am, hit the gym by 8:30, in the gym for an hour, come back, shower, make an egg sandwich, and get to class by 11am. Now, an early morning outing to the gym happens at 6:30am, and by 6:30pm I'm gassed, and by 11pm, I'm a zombie. I did it two days in a row, and then my doorman remarked how shitty I looked (I paraphrase) so I decided to refrain from getting up early for a third time in row. I suppose I'd get used to it at some point, but right now is not that point.

It would feel wrong not to address the Tiger Woods saga. The initial story was kind of boring. We all know it went down like this...

I like to envision Tiger and Elin actually yelling with sub-titles. But like I've said, this was the boring part. I mean, we've all chased down loved ones with golf clubs, smashing the back window of our own SUVs, have we not? What is this, amateur hour.

The interesting part happened today. I don't really know about prenups. I married some Cambodian woman I met at an ice cream stand this summer (annulled the next morning...turns out she wasn't Jewish) and received a dowry of a couple chickens and three motors scooters, but we didn't do the prenup thing. But Tiger, well, he and Elin have one hell of an agreement.

"The initial prenup was worth $20 million after 10 years of marriage. However, the Chicago Sun-Times' Bill Zwecker has reported that Elin Woods will receive an immediate payment "into an account she alone controls," and that the 10-year timeframe -- which began when they married in 2004 -- has been shortened and the value increased "substantially."

The Daily Beast quotes "a lawyer familiar with the couple's negotiations" in reporting that the term of the prenup has been shortened to seven years, and that a series of staggered payments could increase the total value to $75 million."

But apparently there's also a behavioral component to all this: Elin Woods must "be a dutiful wife in showing up with him at social events and in public as if they were still the perfect couple, and sign a nondisclosure form that will prevent her from ever telling her story."

What the what? So basically Elin Woods is like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, except she kisses on the mouth? Is this a marriage or an endorsement deal? Do you mean to tell me that every time I buy Gillette razors that my money is going to Elin's "Dutiful Wife Fund" via Tiger's endorsement deal with Gillette? And can I invest in this fund because I'm pretty sure the return is going to be better than the 1% I'm getting on my money market savings account. Where the love at? Are these mega star athletes just absolutely so far removed from reality that they have to make up elaborate contracts with their significant other(s)? I just have so many questions. Like for one, how did this agreement even come to pass. Of course, this is how I envision it going down...

So the deal is, I'm going to pay you millions of dollars and you are going to act like we are the perfect couple.

But aren't we the perfect couple?

We're good, but when I pay you it'll be a guarantee. Do you understand?

Ya. I like Sweden.

Jesus Elin. I'm paying you to look good and shut up. It's a contract. Like you know how Gatorade is putting food on my plate because I say how tasty it is.

Ya. I like the red one.

Well just think of me as your Gatorade.

Ya, because you wear the red on the Sundays.

Listen. I'm paying you because I want to bang whores. There, I said it.

Schmurgen!!!!!

Schmurgen indeed.

The Last Line of Defense

2009-11-25T15:40:00.003-05:00

I know I said the next post would be post-Thanksgiving, but sometimes, like nature, blogging calls. So my birthday...good times. First trip to Sammy's Rumanian....check. Last trip to Sammy's Rumanian...check. I'm not sure my body can handle that again, at least not for another few years. Between the heart-attack inducing foods and the copious amounts of vodka (which I don't even like), in celebrating another year of life I most certainly lopped off another two on the other side. The next morning, as I sat on the N Train on my way down to Union Square I noticed that someone near me smelled like sweat, garlic, and onions only to realize that that holy trinity of olfactory nastiness had embedded itself quite nicely in the material of my Patagonia jacket. Suffice to say I let that bad boy air out over the course of the next few days.

But getting into the details of my birthday is not why I'm here. I'm here to single-handedly keep the financial system on its axis. I'm here to make sure that on Monday we all have jobs, and we all can go take out money at the ATM, and we all have someone for Main Street to yell out when bonuses are paid out this year.

Everyone in my group is out on Friday. In fact, it was just me and the other associate in for part of the day on Wednesday and it was incredibly quiet as one can imagine. But on Friday, it'll be just me. Originally it was going to be cool if I took the day off as well, however, Tuesday afternoon it was determined that I should be there "in case things blow up". Sounds promising. I understand that it's not a bad idea for someone to hold it down and I'm local for Thanksgiving and I'm the new guy so I guess it falls to me. So while nobody really expects anything to happen on Friday, I, the eternal optimist, am thinking of every possible doomsday scenario that could happen tomorrow. For something serious to happen tomorrow my phone would have to ring, and let me tell you, I can count on two hands the number of calls I've received in the past two months and I can count on one hand the number of times the call was actually for me and not a wrong number.

Once that phone rings I'm assuming the powers that be will be calling on me to avert total and utter destruction of the world's financial system as we know it. If my phone rings, well shoot, it's time to run to your local supermarket to stock up on water and your local gun shop to stock up on guns. If my phone rings tomorrow, oh boy, that's bad news for everyone. Tomorrow I will truly be the last line of defense. The same man who was unsuccessful in growing a respectable mustache not once, but twice this year...the same man who successfully fixed a school bus by watching other more competent people fix a school bus...the same man who proposed the idea of milk-smellers...the same man who once contemplated adding the skills of Air Drying, Watching the Discovery Channel, and Not Wearing Underwear to his resume...yes...it is this man who will be the last line of defense on Friday, the proverbial backstop to a global financial catastrophe. Do you even understand how difficult it was for me to get two different colored highlighters when I started? It's been two months and I can't even get a thumbtack. Not a one. I tape shit to the walls in my cube with scotch tape. My cubicle walls look like the bunch of first graders grabbed a bunch of papers off the printer and played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. You want me to forward your call onto someone else. Oops. I hung up. Why? Because I don't know how to forward calls. My phone is not a phone, but some evil Transformer. One time during my first week I literally flipped the display on my computer screen upside down and had no idea how to fix it. I knew better than to take this issue to the VP in my group so I went around the office introducing myself, and then following it up with the question "So I flipped my screen upside down, do you know how to fix it?". That was an awesome twenty minutes of my life. So when I get the call from some panicked corporate voice tomorrow this is how it'll go down..

Me: Hello this is John.
Voice: Is this John Finger? The man in charge on Friday November 27th? The man who can save us?
Me: Yes, this is he.
Voice: We need the 2045 through 2050 total assets under management estimates for our base case and adverse scenarios and we need them in ten minutes.
Me: Sure, the kitchen is over around the corner by the emergency exit.
Voice: What?
Me: The kitchen. It's over by the emergency exits right around the corner. Just about 20 feet down the hall.
Voice: What are you talking about. The financial system is minutes from collapsing. We need these numbers.
Me: Hello? Hello. You're breaking up. You know what, I'm just going to forward your call on to my manager.

Oops. I hung up.

It's a steep learning curve, but I'm doing the damn thing one day at a time. I may have once flipped my screen upside down, but at the end of the day you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall because I WILL ORDER THAT CODE RED.

Yeah, maybe I sold my unborn first child to the black market for a pink and a yellow highlighter, and maybe excel has made me her bitch from time to time, but come tomorrow, I'll be there, in my cubicle, taking tacos to the FACE, while I wait for that red phone to ring so I can pick it up and say, "Hello Mr. President, I'm here to save the financial system today, thumbtacks or not".

A Marginal Birthday? I Hope Not.

2009-11-19T22:40:00.005-05:00

I keep a notepad by my bed. I always have. You never know what kind of things you'll think about when you dream or when you are trying to fall asleep. At Michigan I'd often wake up in the middle of the night and scrawl some ideas down on paper in the dark and then wake up to realize I'd half written on my notepad and half on my nightstand, but at least I had the idea documented. Sometimes it was an errand I needed to run, or an idea for a blog, or just the name of a song I wanted to download.

The other night I woke up at some godforsaken hour and in a half-sleep turned to my notepad and wrote, "check the 06-09 pre-tax margins". When I woke up the next morning and looked at what I'd written I simply shook my head and muttered to myself, "Finger, you sandbaggin' son of a bitch". Finally when pencils are down for the day and I can think about anything anything anything under the sun I can't help but think about pre-tax margins? As the Germans say, "uber depressing".

Tomorrow is my birthday and I can vividly remember what I did last year for it. In fact a good portion was documented on facebook, so perhaps that's why I can recall it so vividly. I don't know what day it was exactly, because every day was Friday, but I had a bunch of people over to my apartment, or the Traphouse, as we liked to call it. Michigan was playing UCLA in a pre-season tournament. I had made a batch of Trapjuice, which is simply a delicious combination of Jim Beam and orange Gatorade (shake and pour over ice) and had a fridge stocked with Miller Lites. Ah college. We drank, hung out out in my super sparse apartment, and then took the party to Rick's where we celebrated a Michigan upset and partied the night away. It was exactly a year ago, but it feels like just yesterday. Tomorrow there will be no Trapjuice, no crew at the Traphouse, no Rick's. I'm simply hoping I get out of work by 9pm. That's really it. That's all I want. And if it doesn't work out, well, I have the weekend I suppose. I'll have the weekend. All weekend to have visions of pre-tax margins dancing in my head.

Bring on Thanksgiving I say. I won't be blogging again until the long weekend, so let's make it through this next week together loyal followers. Me, you, and The Man.

Safe travels to your Thanksgiving destinations and not to be preachy, but be thankful, even you jaded New Yorkers. Yes, I'm talking to you (and me).

Tomorrow is Friday the 13th by the way

2009-11-12T19:21:00.005-05:00

I went into this week thinking it would be a full week, but on Monday someone told me I had off for Veterans Day. Of course I didn't believe it until I received confirmation from about twenty people, but if you don't want me in the office I'm happy to oblige. With my Wednesday free I set out to do what I'm guessing a lot of unemployed people/people who don't work for big corporations do. After easily sleeping until 9am I went to the gym, and then headed down to Tebaya for a meal that I've been meaning to have for a long time. A totally unassuming Korean establishment on a totally unassuming block, Tebaya's acclaimed chicken wings definitely lived up to the hype. I'm kind of a little sick of people using the wording "cloyingly" because every Tom Dick and Harry uses it in every food review I've read as of late, but the wings were perfectly cooked, crisp on the outside, moist on the inside, with a bit of garlic, some sesame seeds and what I think was a teriyaki glaze that was sweet, but yes, not cloyingly sweet. Damn it. I was the first one in at around noon, but when I left it was pretty busy. A testament to the wings no doubt.

I then roamed around Union Square and because it was cold I went into Barnes & Noble where I read the first chapter of a book called Fordlandia about Henry Ford's attempt to build a utopian, rubber-producing, midwestern society right in the middle of the Amazon. I didn't make it to chapter two but I'm guessing Fordlandia ended up running as smoothly as the Detroit Lions. Zing. By the way, I was shocked at the number of people who had literally just found a couple feet of carpet and curled up with a book they surely had no intention to buy. I'm fine with that, but knowing that, the next time I buy a book at B&N I'm going to make sure that I grab a book from the back of the stack. I don't need any weirdo cooties on my brand new book, and believe me, there were some weirdo cooties up in B&N at 2:30 on a Wednesday. After meeting a friend for coffee and having dinner with my family it was off to see a New York Knicks team that had less chemistry than a New York City public high school. These guys are elite players. Don't get me wrong. But guys making that much money have no reason to look as horrible out there on the court as they did. The Knicks playing like they played...a shanda I tell you.

Wednesday left me fulfilled, but also exhausted, which is great because I'm sitting here waiting to head out to Chelsea Piers for a 10:15 basketball game. That's way too late, and if it were earlier in the week it probably would be something that could throw off my sleep for the rest of the work week. So I'm sitting here, trying to eat half a dinner, which I can't do because I'm an all or nothing kind of guy. I went "all" unfortunately, and I'm literally sitting here dunking cookies in milk and blogging, which is how I imagine much of middle America spends their evenings these days.

I got to thinking how a) at camp we had milk and cookies when we were younger, and b) how I'm pretty sure adult wannabes such as myself don't drink enough milk anymore. I do have a bowl of cereal each morning, and grew up drinking milk with dinner which surprisingly a lot of people find strange. Maybe I was subconsciously inspired to drink milk tonight because of this article in the NYTimes about the health benefits of drinking chocolate milk.

Somewhere in America a fat boy is crying out at the dinner table "I want my flavanoid-rich chocolate milk". And would you blame him? I know I'd rather give my kid chocolate milk for dinner than soda, which I've more or less sworn off since my junior year of college. Hell, Momofuku even has s Milk Bar, in which they charge exorbitant prices for flavor infused milk. If I want Froot Loops flavored milk I'll pour myself a bowl and let it sit in the fridge for a few hours to soak. I never looked at milk and cookies at camp as a way to get the youngins to get some calcium and flavanoids in their lives. I just remember it being a reason to have to climb down from the top bunk and freeze my ass off brushing my teeth for a second time. Anyway, I'm sure there was a good reason they didn't give us milk and cookies and then send us out to play basketball, because anyone who would do that is surely a moron.

A Shuffle. A Chortle. A Knock.

2009-11-05T22:36:00.004-05:00

I write this blog, and even I'm getting a little sick of reading about the working world in this space. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the workplace is fascinating, and often times for unpleasant reasons. Truth be told, several weeks ago I had consecutive midnight nights...to which the Investment Bankers out there say "boo freaking-hoo" and/or "FingerTheBlog is a candy ass"...but for me that was the first time I'd put in hours like that. On the morning of day three I was a bit on edge, a bit shell shocked perhaps. The sound of footsteps in the vicinity of my cube elicited a physiological reaction that wasn't particularly pleasant. In order to keep sane I realized I need to focus a little harder on the sounds at the office. I was going to have to learn to like be an office ornithologist of sorts.

I sit in a pretty highly trafficked area, but since paying closer attention to sounds I can sense when my manager is coming over to talk to me. I hear him walking and I know the sounds his shoes make against the carpet as they come to a halt just shy of the boundary to my cube. I'm beginning to understand what it's like to be SpiderMan. It sure is a lot of responsibility, but I can't wait until I can shoot webbing out of my hands. That'll definitely be a separate blog post. As of late there's been a bowl of candy that's been parked on the executive assistants' desk which resides right behind my cube. There's been an inordinate amount of foot traffic so basically my Spidey Sense has been tingling like whoa since Halloween and I still get those nasty mini-physiological reactions from time to time.

There's another fellow, who is from my best guess from a southern region of the midwest. I don't know for sure, nor will I ever ask, but he clears his throat in a eerily similar fashion to my manager who sits out of my earshot. For a while, the midwestern throat clearing really threw me for a loop because I thought that my manager was constantly near my cube, lurking, circling, waiting to swoop in for a kill. I jest of course. And if my manager was close at all times it's not like it would be an issue, because I'm doing anything illegal or illicit at my desk. I'm just working. I guess what it comes down to is the desire to not be snuck up on. A friend told me once that the partner at his hedge fund wears only socks all day, and has been known to sneak up on unsuspecting employees. Hopefully not on purpose. Sounds like a living nightmare to me.

I, like any mammal or otherwise, who has ever lived on this planet desires to have a maximum handle on his/her environment, and until humans evolve to develop eyes in the back of our heads (it's coming, oh yes, it's coming) we'll just have to rely on what we currently have in order to help us survive. I urge you to try it for yourself at the workplace, or even if you are just sitting at home or in the park or where ever. Not the car though. Close your eyes and just listen. I don't think we as a people listen enough. If you're at work though don't do this for too long because I've actually walked past someone who literally had their eyes closed and I don't think it was because she had read this blog. I think she had mastered sitting upright and sleeping, to which I earnestly say, "brava". Not everyone can do that.

I cannot wait for the sweet sweet sounds of Friday tomorrow. A little more laughter, a little less typing on the keypads, and hopefully the zipping of zippers and shuffling of papers around 6:30p as people pack up for the weekend. Back in the day TGIF meant Steve Urkel, but now I truly Thank God It's Friday.
Oddly enough I just bought a shirt just like that because plaid shirts just like that are very much in style these days. Upon closer look, the tortoise-shell aviator-style specs, the uptown fade, the plaid shirt...I think sans suspenders and an unbuttoning of the top button Steve Urkel would be the hippest dude in Williamsburg with that outfit on. Too bad he was fifteen years ahead of his time. Seriously, let that thought just simmer until it blows your mind. Boom.

New York is Leaking

2009-10-31T14:13:00.004-04:00

That was a lot of rain earlier this week. Walking to work became more of a mission to not step in a big puddle than anything else, and because I have cat-like quickness I was able to make it to work without getting too wet on Monday and Tuesday. I think it probably would make sense to keep an extra pair of socks at my desk for those rainy days. On Tuesday it was raining pretty hard and I went to pick up some food to bring back and eat at my desk, which is what I do every day. On my way back I was thinking about two things: avoiding stepping in puddles and how good my veggie soup would taste. Well I got a taste. A taste of about a gallon of puddle water splashing up from the street into my face/mouth. Luckily I had a full length trenchcoat on but NY puddle water to the dome was still demoralizing. I'm sure I drank a gallon of swine flu, and on top of that I smelled like wet dog. The rain never lasts forever though. Rain gives way to sun, and sun in turns gives way to grease.

Yes, grease.

It was Friday, moderately slow at work, and two friends from my program suggested that I join them for a sit down lunch. "Like sit down somewhere that's not my desk?" I ask incredulously. Scandalous, sure, but eating a Chicken TBM at Cosi would surely be better than eating at my desk, with my thumb on ALT and my index finger on TAB, toggling between the NYTimes and some spreadsheet that gives me heartburn. Cosi was great and I even grabbed a couple of those excellent, warm, salty, flatbread samples they put out while you wait in line. Ah, life was good, and then I get to the corner of 46th and Park, right across from my office and I'm looking at the ground and there are a hundred little specks of black, so I look up and from high above I see little droplets of oil raining down. I inspect my black Patagonia jacket and lo and behold I'm covered in grease and I smell not like a wet dog, but perhaps a wet dog who is a mechanic. The white shirt I had on as well...ruined. I love Patagonia, and all their products and their customer service and their eco-friendliness, but when the technological geniuses who designed my jacket picked the materials, they weren't thinking about whether their materials would be grease-repellent.

Over the next half hour I contacted the Helmsley building management company who put me in touch with the construction company, who then put me in touch with a guy who texted me quote "Can you meet me downstairs. I work for the mgmt company. I am wearing a black leather jacket". I figured this guy would either make my problems disappear or fit me for a new pair of concrete boots and make me disappear. Instead, with a cigarette hanging from his lips while he spoke, this fellow apologized like I imagine many NY construction workers do, peppering in four-lettered expletives amongst sympathetic sentiments. He said he'd get a check cut for me "for my troubles". All told, my damaged goods probably would run me about $300, but this guy emails his assistant to cut me a $400 check. Not bad. So Monday, hopefully, I'll have a $400 check in my hand. And hopefully at some point in the next week I'll have a new white buttondown and a new Patagonia jacket and an extra $100 worth of tacos.

I'm sick of the rain. Regular and of the grease variety. It's Halloween tonight. This week has already been strange enough, but I'm ready for the weirdness to continue I suppose. Bring it on. But first a nap.

Being an Apple

2009-10-24T23:08:00.003-04:00

I've been eating a lot of apples at work. Certainly at least one a day and often between the hours of 8p and 11p. Why so late you ask. I can't even go there right now, but I will say this, at 11p on Wednesday I took my eyes off my computer and grabbed an apple. I looked at it, bit it, admired it, bit it again, and thought, what if I was an apple. Then I thought to myself, if I was this apple I wouldn't be building this model right now, and I took a deep breath and buried my face in my computer and continued working. Existentialism has no place at the workplace though. In fact it's downright dangerous at 11pm on a weekday, especially on an empty stomach.

Today I got an email postcard (there's an app for that, apparently) from a friend who was back in Ann Arbor for the Penn State game. It was a blurry picture of a muddy patch of grass with maize and blue-clad students drinking from red Solo cups in the rain, and it was beautiful. Next week Michigan students will come to New York for their Wall Street Week and various other "professional treks". I chronicled this weird event back in 2007. This year I've been asked to speak to current MBA1s about the program, the process, the economy, the whatever. It's almost comical how different my world is now as compared to October 2007. So all these wide-eyed, wet-behind-the-ears students are going to come in and ask all kinds of questions so as to seem intelligent, interested, and smart, and all I'm going to want to say to them is, "Please have fun, please for the love of God enjoy yourselves, and appreciate those lazy Fridays where you wake up late, read or not read cases for a few hours, watch The Office and 30 Rock from the night before, change out of your pajamas, head to the gym, grab No Thai, and then go out with your friends". But really what I'll end up saying is something like prepare for your interviews blah blah blah, and then the MBA1s will look at me and see the tired look on my face and will say to themselves what I said to myself two years earlier which was, "whoa, it must suck to be this dude right now". As much as I hated standing in those godforsaken circles of chit-chat for all those months of recruiting, nodding my head at a bunch of guys I know would rather be doing anything else than talking to me, I would trade places with a first year MBA in half a second.

Today, Sunday, I'm actually "on call". I was asked to be ready to possibly come in and work today. So today I wait, with an imaginary guillotine over my head, and every time my phone rings a little piece of me dies, but so far the calls have only been good calls, ie friends and family. It's the first time, but I'm sure certainly not the last I'll be in this situation. I suppose in situations like this the question is whether it's better to know working on Sunday is a possibility or is it better to be surprised and have to come in on short notice. Is it better to be told on Friday that you might get punched in the mustache on Sunday and have to think about it all weekend, or is it just better to be sucker punched on Sunday out of nowhere. I'm not sure which is worse but I am sure that if I was an apple these aren't things I'd have to worry about. Enjoy the week.

Swag On

2009-10-14T23:02:00.003-04:00

Wow. I guess you really don't appreciate free time until it's been snatched from you and thrown into some bottomless pit. It doesn't seem right to measure the time in days it's been since I blogged last. I shall measure it in spreadsheets. One, two, a million-ish.

At school, and I know I've written this and said it a lot, but every day was Saturday. Now, every day is not Saturday, but doing small things during the week, or as I like to call it, "being a person" during the week, really makes things exponentially better. I guess it's the little things that keep me going all day, like when they have a Cuban food buffet in the cafeteria. Eating chicharrones while stealing glances at NYTimes.com during lunch, or grabbing a fruit shake with a buddy at a food truck at 4pm like I used to do last summer, or crawling under my desk for a thirty minute power nap. These are the luxuries of my life now. And no I don't nap, although I heard some bankers do that when they are pulling all-nighters.

There's this song that I have on my workout mix right now called "Swag On" by Souja Boy. Swag basically is short for swagger. You can do the extra research if you want a better definition. The song is a remix and there are about five or six guys on the track. I think it's Jeezy's who says this, but he has a few lines, and they go like this

"...tell them lames to lose my number/
until they find some money/
being joke is a broke, so that's why I find em funny/
They say life's a bitch but you couldn't take her from me/
Now won't you quit making blogs and try to make some money...."

I really do agree with this, at least the last part. But when I'm not sure Jeezy, or whoever it was that said this, was pointing said "lames" in the direction of finance. Anyway, when you listen to a song a couple times a week for a few weeks you start to think about it a little bit. I'm not saying it's time to quit making blogs, but perhaps it's time to start pursuing writing in other avenues. Unfortunately there's this whole lack of time thing I'm dealing with now, which brings me to my next question. How in God's name does anyone do this and have time for kids? Bless the parents out there, or at least the ones that don't go locking their kids up in cages in the basement.

Before I literally fall asleep at the keyboard here I'll leave you with the chorus to the aforementioned song. Suffice to say, when I get out of bed in the morning I look in the mirror and do my best Nancy Kerrigan impression and say "Whhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy!?!???" (see ~ 2:00).

Soulja Boy, how'd you get out of bed this morning?
Quote... "hopped up out tha bed, turn ma swag on, took a look in tha mirror said wassup, yeeeeea im gettin money (ohh)".

Compliance

2009-10-05T22:48:00.004-04:00

There's a mandatory online compliance training class that all new employees have to take. It's short and sweet, and the contents are pretty obvious. Although given the shenanigans we've seen as of late in the world of finance, perhaps people have a difficult time knowing right and wrong. Anyway, in this compliance training class there's mention of blogs and disseminating sensitive info. Basically, you can't say anything about work to anyone outside of work. In fact you can'teven say the word "work" outside of wo...that was close. The first rule of compliance club is that there is no such thing as compliance club. I think the moral of the story here is that I'm going to be super careful of what I write in regards to work. For example, I work between the Equator and about said place where I go five times a week between 8:30am and 8:00pm.

Last Thursday night I played in my basketball league and after a late game (a win), a post-game beer, and a trek all the way uptown it was coming on midnight by the time I started to settle in at home. I needed to get in early the next morning to finish up some work for a midday deadline, so I simply didn't get a whole lot of sleep. The next morning I walked into work with my bacon egg and cheese sandwich and got into the elevator. I got out of the elevator, turned a couple corners and went to my cube to start the day, and lo and behold there's someone sitting in my cube, sitting in my chair, eating my goddamn porridge. I thought to myself, "wow, I haven't even been here a month and I've already been replaced, that sure was quick". And then I looked around and realized that it wasn't my floor, and it was this crazy moment where I wasn't sure if I was in The Matrix or The Matrix was in me. Red pill, blue pill, red pill, blue pill. There I was, with a bacon egg and cheese in hand and a dumbfounded look on my face, a passive observer in this world that was exactly the same as my world, just one floor below me and yet completely different. It was like an out of body experience where I was looking at myself eating breakfast and just thinking that on every floor in this building at that very moment there was some bizarro Finger at the same cube eating his bizarro bacon egg and cheese, and I felt mighty mighty insignificant. I think it's probably best not to think of such things at work though. That was by far one of the strangest ways I've started a Friday in a long time.

Today there was an article about the FTC's new rules regarding bloggers and compliance. Jeez. Why won't everyone just get off my back. Here's a recap from the New York Times:

"The F.T.C. said that beginning on Dec. 1, bloggers who review products must disclose any connection with advertisers, including, in most cases, the receipt of free products and whether or not they were paid in any way by advertisers, as occurs frequently. The new rules also take aim at celebrities, who will now need to disclose any ties to companies, should they promote products on a talk show or on Twitter. A second major change, which was not aimed specifically at bloggers or social media, was to eliminate the ability of advertisers to gush about results that differ from what is typical — for instance, from a weight loss supplement."

I can't even begin to count the number of products I've mentioned/reviewed/lambasted in the last two years. I've never received so much as a penny, a Mallomar, or even a hug for any of my writings. In fact, I've only ever gotten a product for something I've written once, and this was when FingerTheBlog was just a twinkle in my eye. One time back in college I wrote to Chipwich telling them how awesome I thought Chipwiches were and how since 7-11 was only a half a block from my fraternity house we would eat them all the time, and how I would be truly honored if they'd send me a Chipwich t-shirt so I could spread Chipwich love across the world. A few days later I get this email from Chipwich saying how great my email was and how they wanted to use it on their website as a testimonial. I literally had absolutely no clue what the hell they were talking about so I went back to my "Sent Items" in Outlook to see what email they were talking about and found an email I'd written to them at like 3am on a Thursday night. Interesting. I thought to myself, this is why computers should come equipped with breathalyzers. So I wrote back that they could use my email on one condition...they send me a Chipwich t-shirt. A week later I got my t-shirt, which I still have. It reads "Chipwich...a miracle in your mouth". So FTC, eat your heart out, I had a torrid love affair with Chipwich back in 2002 and I'm shilling for them right now. Chipwich chipwich chipwich. Eat 'em while their cold and delicious.

Living Small, Living Large, and Everywhere in Between

2009-09-27T23:42:00.005-04:00

It's been much much debated. Much debated. How much does it cost to live in New York City? I'm talking about my twenty and thirty-something year old friends. I'm not talking about the outliers, and I'm not talking about the Naked Cowboy, and not the Avon Barksdales of the world, and not some of the clowns you see in the glossy summer magazines either. I'm talking about you and me, and even then Mr and Mrs Reader, chances are we're doing it differently. For example, I like chicken. A lot. I'll get some chicken at Food Emporium on a Sunday, and bread enough cutlets to feed a small army and then eat my way through it over the course of a couple days. Maybe you eat sushi four times a week. See, right there we're going to have differing food expense baselines. The point being, what I'm going to attempt to do is not a catch-all by any means, and my calculations are going to be crude and honest. This is a blog post I've been wanting to write for a while and since I'm taking off for Yom Kippur (note: it's taken me several days to actually get to posting) what better opportunity than to deal with elevated hunger and boredom levels than to lock myself up in my apartment and engage in a session of self-loathing, grouchiness, atonement, and blogging, followed by nine Mallomars directly to the FACE as soon as the sun goes down.

Bet you can't eat just nine. You know what I'm talking about Mallomars lovers.

I thought about trying to set up a spread sheet for this, but since I see excel in my dreams and/or nightmares these days I'm going to stick strictly to the alphabet to break down this money situation. So again, this is how I see it. Here goes.

HOUSING
Oh rent. I'm going to say let's assume that you are paying $2,500/month just to keep the numbers simple. If you're paying this much it likely means that you're in a doorman building. Who knows, maybe this amount of rent got you into a building with a fancy name like The Caroline, The Modern, The FedExKinkos, or The ShaDynasty. It's likely that this building comes with accoutrements. Perhaps a gym (that you never use), or a rec room (that you never use) or a laundry facility (that you never use). No, you never use the laundry room because who has time to do laundry. That requires you being home for about 3 consecutive hours, and let's face it, the only time you are ever home for three consecutive hours is when you are a) asleep, b) watching your HBO shows on Sunday, or c) watching football with your buddies on a Saturday or Sunday, and you're not going to be trying to fold laundry whilst crushing beers. But your place has to be clean, so inevitably at some point you've had a friend recommend his or her West Indian cleaning lady who is awesome because "She irons my socks, and washes my sneakers!" for 100 bucks a week x four times a month = $400. However if you grew up in Manhattan the person who cleans your parents' place just comes downtown once a week to clean up for you and then reports back that you still leave your wet towels on the floor in your bedroom. Mom and Dad pick up the tab on that one. Cost = $0. Throw another $100 for the unnecessary cleaning supplies your housekeeper buys and invoices you for (why do you need 2 gallons of grout cleaner again?), and we're at $3,000 so you don't have to live in a cardboard box and smell like you live in a cardboard box.

COMMUNICATION DOT COM
It's not an insignificant cost to be able to communicate with the world. As I blogged about a few weeks back, I got a blackberry, which I named Steve Jobs because back at Michigan my friends all called their iPhones Steve Jobs, and I wanted my own Steve Jobs too. It was always, "wait, it's going to be how cold for the game tomorrow?" and someone would say, "let me ask Steve Jobs" and they'd access their weather app. So figure you pay about $100 a month for phone and data. But maybe you are still part of a family plan like I am. Don't judge me because in my Fave Five are my parents, my sister, Charles Barkley, and Dwyane Wade. In any case, the family plan will reduce those cell phone bill costs for sure, but we'll stick to the aforementioned $100. But then you need internet, and if we're talking internet we should talk cable because these things are bundled. I don't have cable, and I've been successfully poaching others' internet for years. In fact I'm kind of like the Robin Hood of internet theivery. Over the years I've borrowed internet access from several prominent private equity companies, including some barbarians at a certain gate, and a few famous hotels. My all-time favorite was when for a period of several months I was using Chanel's corporate connection, and every time I walked by their crazy storefront displays I would say, "thanks, suckaaaas". Every time I want to connect I have to wrap myself up in tinfoil and hang wire hangers from my arms while standing on one leg in the western-most corner of my room, but it's free, suckaaaas. I don't know how you do communication dot com, but I'm going to say that per month it's costing you about $225 for phone/cable/internet and your splurges buying apps for your own Steve Jobs.

FOODSTUFFS AND DRINKSTUFFS
I'm not even sure how to figure this out really, but on the weekend if you go out to dinner and out to drink after your per person cost for that evening is going to be at least $100. I'm just going to say $160/weekend x 4 weekends = $640. That sounds weird and conservative buts that's what I'm going with. If you are an investment banker this cost is $0 because you are Seamless Web's bitch 24/7. In fact, I think if you are a banker you spend all your money between 11pm and 2am on DVDs and books and baselayers from online shopping sources. If you actually get to occasionally eat at home perhaps you buy groceries, which will run you probably another $200 per month.

Quick side anecdote...there is a gym in my building, which I use. In fact, sometimes I think I'm the only one who uses the gym. Tumbleweed everywhere. In the gym they have some apples and bananas for patrons and this fruit just sits and sits and sits. So back in the day when I was keeping it real and brown-bagging it to work a few times a week I'd stop down in the gym and grab a banana or an apple from time to time on my way to work. Well, after doing this for years and nobody saying anything I went down to the gym one morning and grabbed a banana and put it in my lunch bag. There next to the fruit stood a lady who worked in the building, and she exclaimed, like seriously exclaimed, "What are you doing!?" I said, "I'm getting a banana". To which she said, "but these are only for people who use the gym", and I replied "I use the gym almost every day, and I've been taking bananas for years and its fine". Apparently not. Well I get back from work and there's a note under my door asking me to please call the General Manager of the building. Am I in trouble for eating rotten fruit or something? So I call this fellow and I just need to add that he's German, because he is, and because it makes what he said to me even more awesome. I call the German and introduce myself and clearly he's not into the chit chat. He cuts to the chase. He asks me what I was doing in the gym that morning. I explained that I use the gym all the time and I just wanted to grab a banana. He said, and this is a quote which I will never forget, he said, "You need to stop this deviant behavior". Deviant Behavior? Holy scheiser dude, we're talking about taking a banana, not the Maltese Falcon. I felt like a street urchin who got caught red-handed stealing fruit in the bazaar and was about to get sent back to the orphanage. Bottom line, don't eff with a guy who is that serious about bananas. I adapted though. Instead of grabbing my fruit in the AM, I would just take some right after my workout for the following day, even if I looked like this leaving the gym.

Damn Chiquita, you fine as hell.

Anyway, I know I spend about $4 on a breakfast, $10 on lunch and another $10 on dinner, for $25 x 3 or 4 days a week for ~$100 x four weeks = $400. Can that be? I'm just going to throw another $50 per week for drinks x four weeks = $200.

$640 + 200 + 400 + 200 = $1440 per month for food and drink. Really? Damn, I'm a very hungry caterpillar.

TRAVELOGUE
You shouldn't skimp on travel. I think for the first time I'll run into a situation where I have vacation days but chances are I simply won't be able to use them. This makes me miss college and college part II even more. I can't break this out by month but I want to say $7,000 for travel all in per year and this is if you are really getting after it as you should be. This is travel to Australia and travel upstate, and everything in between. And maybe you say, well I spend more, and to that I say, good for you, you've earned it, spend that money. Or maybe that seems exorbitant, to which I say, child please, spend that money, you've earned it. The other day I heard someone talking about taking a week off and doing a "stay-cation". Go somewhere. Anywhere. Utah. Ann Arbor. Harlem.

WEDDINGS

You have to ask yourself "how popular am I?". Very = $10,000. Moderately = $6,000. Less So = $2,000. Hiring someone to dress up your two cats and throwing a wedding for them = $500. There are just way too many outliers here. Destination weddings, bachelor parties, replacing ruined suits, hotels, morning after pills. I've heard all kinds of stories. Let's just say $4,000 and we'll leave out "hush money" for your new baby mama. I'm talking to you John Edwards.

GIRLFRIENDS

"A milli a milli a milli a milli a milli". I must admit, I really don't have a good read on this these days, but I do know Valentine's, Anniversaries, Anniversaries of First Dates, Anniversatries of First Kisses, I-know-you-said-flowers-are-a-waste-but-here-are-some-flowers, and Birthdays aren't cheap, and the I'm Sorry Presents you have to buy when you forget one of the above don't exactly buy themselves. Maybe you date some emo girl who loves shopping at thirft stores and sewing her own clothing, but chances are you don't. Maybe you date a girl who's a Julia Childs in the kitchen, but chances are you don't and you're going out to fancy dinners a bunch. I don't what arrangement you have if you're attached, so this is the methodology I'm going to use.

But first let's do some math to see where we are.

Annualized

Weddings: $4000

Travel: $7000

Food/Drink: $1440 x 12 = $17,280

Communications: $225 x 12 = $2,700

Housing: $3,000 x 12 = $36,000

TOTAL = $66,980/year ($5,581.66 Monthly)

And back to girlfriends. Let's apply some percentage increases.

Girl from Long Island: Add 20% of monthly so (20% * $5,581) = $1,116 on top of your monthly spend, equals $6,697. I don't know why, but I find girls from Long Island to be the most unreasonable. They aren't bad people on the whole, but I just don't know what the deal is. Why wear a trashy t-shirt when you can wear a trashy t-shirt that looks like it was washed 20 billion times. And orange isn't a naturally occuring skin tone, at least not here on earth.

Girl from New Jersey: Add 18% of monthly so (18% * $5,581) = $1,004 on top of the monthly spend, equals $6,585. A little more reasonable, but claiming that mid level vodka gives you headaches...I mean, really? Too bad when you asked me to get you Grey Goose I got you Absolut and then watched you take a sip and say how much better Grey Goose tastes.

Girl from NYC/Westchester/CT: Add 15% of monthly so (15% * $5,581) = $837 on top of monthly spend, equals $6,418. In general, more likely to have their shit together, even though I know some people are going to vehemently dispute this. We all know some crazy NYC girls, yes we do, but don't we know waaay more crazy girls not from New York. I thought so

And I can't speak for any girl south of the Mason-Dixon line or west of the Allegheny Mountains, yet, which kind of makes me cringe a little. Man, I need to get out a little bit more.

Bottom line..."Now you're In New York/these streets will make you feel brand new/big lights will inspire you/ let's hear it for New York, New York...", so says Jay Z or actually Alicia Keys on Jay Z new track. What he omitted is that this place ain't cheap, and that Beyonce has her own small fortune. Oh that Beyonce. This was just a back of the napkin calc, and those numbers are going to seem high to some, and low to others. I tried people, I really did. I gotta get back to sewing my own clothes now.

Just A Little Unorthodox

2009-09-21T22:41:00.008-04:00

I'm sure some of you can relate to this. Sometimes, when you get stressed out or are doing something brand new you get this annoying twitch in your eyelid and you think to yourself that it must be the most noticeably awkward thing ever and that everyone must think you're giving them the "stink eye". Well, I don't have that. Instead I've had this weird week-long muscle spasm situation in my left tricep. I'm not going to say that it's directly tied to working in excel several hours a day, but I'm also not going to say that it's not at all related.

The city really emptied out last weekend. I stayed in Manhattan though and attended Rosh Hashanah services on Saturday morning with my sister. Since we are unaffiliated we attended a free service down near NYU. I attended free services a few times back at Penn and a few times at Michigan. You really get a mixed bag of experiences when you attend these free services. I remember one time at Penn there was some new age rabbi who insisted up adding the suffix "he or she" after every time she said the word "God". I'm pretty open-minded but that shtick got a little old after a while. Services last Saturday were led by an elderly female rabbi who you could tell was really relishing the opportunity to be up at the mic. She was part Gloria Steinem, part Coffee Talk with Linda Richman, part Estelle Getty. In fact, she even told us to feel free to "tawk amongst ya'selves while the service is taking place". That was a new one. Anyway, for a free service I thought it was going pretty well. People seemed to be engaged, which is I guess all you can really ask for if you are running a free service.

So we get to the haftorah, which for the gentiles... (from wikipedia) The Haftarah reading follows the Torah reading on each Sabbath and on Jewish festivals and fast days. Typically, the haftarah is thematically linked to the parasha (Torah portion) that precedes it. The haftarah may be sung in Cantillation (known as "trop" in Yiddish or "trope" in English). Related blessings precede and follow the Haftarah reading.

I'd like you to focus on the cantillation part, which for those not in the know and not sure about tropes, is kind of like a set of directions regarding the tone in which the haftorah is chanted. Man, this is hard to describe. Regardless, a woman came up to read the haftorah and like most other parts of any service I've ever been to, I don't have the slightest idea what is actually being said because it's in Hebrew. But lo and behold, this woman had translated this haftorah into English and was still applying the appropriate cantillation. Well, I immediately started giggling, which is horrible news for me since once I start laughing in temple it's basically impossible to stop, especially if I'm sitting next to my sister. Oh, and I'm 27 years old. I'd just never even heard of such a thing before. Of all my days as a 12 and 13 year old on the bar mitzvah circuit I had never come across anyone doing this. I realize this woman was just trying to make the haftorah and its lessons and teachings more accessible to all those in the room, and I really can appreciate that, but it was a little blasphemous, like, just a little. It was like she was just telling some random story but adding a musical twist to it. It was kind of like this...and please improvise your favorite cantillation to go along with this..

So this one time, I was walking up in Harlem.
It was very hot.
I saw this fellow and he was selling little sno-cones.
He said his name was Moses.
I said "Moses, what you do with sno-cones is delightful".
He said "buddy, I know this guy up in Yonkers,
He turns water into wine".
I said, "Jee-ee-ee-sus!"
He said, "no man, over there they pronounce it 'hey-sus'".

It was like that. Almost as absurd. However absurd though I'm glad that I went to services. Needless to say that after the haftorah was read I got up and left and went over to the East Village for some delicious ramen. Amen.

Who Loves Fasha?

2009-09-14T20:42:00.004-04:00

Great weekend. Great win for Michigan. Great win for the GMen. I had a feeling this past weekend would be good because the shenanigans really started on Thursday at lunchtime. I went out to 'get some fresh' as I like to say, and I was walking up and down Park just enjoying the nice weather. I came up behind two guys wearing sandwichboards. These were new age sandwichboards though, which means that instead of the over-the-head old school sandwichboards these were were more like backpacks with a huge sign than ran from about the midsection area to a few feet above these guys' heads.

Nobody steals from Walmart. Not even you Lee Wuornos.

So this being Fasha Week, or Fashion Week, there were a lot of strikingly striking women walking the streets. As I walked behind these two sandwichboarded guys (who were advertising for Atomic Wings, which are quite delicious by the way) I heard them say about a 9'9" girl directly across the intersection something to the effect of "I would court the hell out of that damsel". This girl was super-attractive and had legs from here to Brooklyn. So the light turned and Atomic Wings Guys and I crossed and one of the sandwichboard guys says "what's up girl? How you doing?" Now I definitely give this guy props for being so bold as to try to chat up a girl, in the middle of a Park Avenue intersection, in broad daylight, wearing a sandwichboard, but really? Really? Like was she going to stop and say, "Sandwichboard man, I've been waiting to be cat-called in the middle of the street by a sandwichboard man my entire life. Let's go make little sandwichboard babies and live in a sandwichboard house, and drive a sandwichboard car." Gutsy these New Yorkers are.

I'm not going to lie. I really don't understand fashion week that well. I'm not really down with people telling me what to wear and people telling me what to wear nine months from now seems kind of ridiculous. As far as I'm concerned manchego is the new black. I still wear a henley shirt that was bought for me in 1993. 1993 people. You want to talk about being a couple years behind the fashion curve...well I still wear my customized Jim Finn #20 Giants jersey to games even though he retired two years ago, and I still get dap for it in the Giants parking lot. In fact, some woman came up to me on Sunday and told me her sister was at Thanksgiving with Jim Finn last year, and now he's out in Cali doing his investing thing. Clearly, people know a classic when they see it. And now, back in crazytown, every high fasha boutique is peddling their double-breasted suits (I walk down Fifth Ave every morning so I know these things) and everyone knows that these double-breasted numbers will be seriously out of style in a year and a half and then what? I'll tell you what. You and this guy can go back to 1932 and play your trumpets together. Ya dig?

Maybe I'm just jealous though. No, not of the zoot suits, but of the ability to wear whatever. Deep down don't we all want to be able to dress however we want whenever we want. Sergio Tacchini warm-ups fo' life. Rest assured the first day I'm free to wear whatever that 1993 henley will be making an appearance, elbow holes and all.