Must Love Dogs...and Laying Pipe

This just in from cnn.com...Jamie Lynn, a baby herself, had a baby. In case you don't remember...

"The Spears family announced in December that Jamie Lynn was pregnant. The father is Casey Aldridge, a pipe-layer from Liberty, Mississippi. The couple is not married but announced an engagement several months ago."

Mazel Tov Jamie Lynn. And mazel to you as well Casey Aldridge, you pipe laying son of a gun. Honestly, if Jamie Lynn's baby daddy did anything aside from laying pipe for a living I feel like I would've been disappointed. Mr. Aldridge, you are an inspiration for pipe layers of all shapes and sizes. Anyway, I'm hoping that in traditional white trash fashion, Jamie Lynn names her baby something ridiculous with several unnecessary "y"s...like Cheyenne, but spelled Chyaynn.

Jamie Lynn, basically, you effed up. You were a child star. You could've laid low, done some shitty movies, married an arguably gay movie superstar and become a scientologist. But no, you had to get knocked up by a guy who lays pipe for a living. He lays pipe. I'm sorry, I can't get over this. Alternatively, you could've, I don't know, gone to school and lived a sorta kinda normal life, but no, you have officially guaranteed that in two years your body will look 15 years older. Well done.

Renewable energy has been my mistress these past two weeks. We've had some late nights. I take her out to the suburbs to sit by the pool with me on the weekends, and in 8 weeks (who's counting?) I'm going to dump her. The work is exciting though. I mean, it's not pipe laying, but it's been interesting. Unfortunately, work has sucked all of my weekday blog mojo, so I'm going to bed, but I'll be back this weekend. Have a good Friday.

First Knives Club

Yeah, I know, it's been a while. I became a working man this past Monday. I am officially part of the "machine". It had been over a year since I sat in an office, so I'm making the transition. The financial services world has given me something that I've never had before...2 computer screens. My goal is to have at least four by the end of the summer. I need one for my work email, one for ESPN.com, one for ESPN.com, and one for ESPN.com. Some traders have eight screens; those guys must really read a lot of ESPN.com. But seriously, when you are a summer associate and you're sitting on a trading floor you're not reading ESPN.com. It was nice to rejoin the working world just because it has given me some sort of purpose again. Staying tan wasn't really something incredibly aspirational. Hands down though, the WORST, absolute worst thing about working at a bank is having to shave every day. It's like my face was the secret ingredient on Iron Chef.

Chef Batali is plating his Fingertheblog face carpaccio

I can't even remember the last time I shaved five days in a row. Actually, I might never have shaved five days in a row. No more razors please. If that ends up being the worst part of my job then I think I'll be all right. What everyone always wants to know about are the hours. I'm working 12 hour days, which isn't so bad, and the work is interesting so the day goes by quickly. Going to the gym has become a luxury which is also something I'll have to adjust too. On Thursday I left work and went for a few beers with some colleagues and then despite feeling a little buzzed and tired I still went and lifted. Lifting a little buzzed...not a good idea, but sometimes you get to the gym for peace of mind more than anything else.

But I want to talk about something that doesn't give me peace of mind, and it's the bathroom situation at work. What do you do when you go into the bathroom and the three stalls are occupied and the three urinals are being used? You go in and pretend that you just wanted to wash your hands, so you wash and then you leave. When you work on a floor with two huge trading floors in a male dominated industry you're going to find that the bathroom is completely packed for good portions of the day. So now I have the cleanest hands of everyone in Manhattan and everyone probably thinks I'm OCD. I guess it could be worse...I could, I don't know pick up a nasty habit of say, blackberrying whilst on the toilet. I'm willing to bet that someone is reading this blog on their blackberry while sitting on the toilet. I think there needs to be a sign above the sink that says "Employees Must Wash Hands and Blackberries". I mean, that's just gross. Although if I had a blackberry, would I do the same thing? Um, no comment.

I'm going to try my damnedest to get to this thing more often than I have. So far work has not provided much fodder, unless of course you are dying to learn about renewable energy. Wait you are?

The Most Disciplined Man in Media Services

If you've been watching any TV lately maybe you've noticed the ads for the McDonald's Southern Chicken Sandwich. Unfortunately I can't find the ad I want on youtube right now, but if I do I'll be sure to post it. For the first 20 seconds you think you're watching an ad for TIAA-CREF or something, but then some cute artsy chick with some fancy reading glasses likens the new McDonald's Southern Chicken Sandwich to a piece of art. This is followed by some hipster surfer dude dubbing the new McDonald's creation as the perfect sandwich. While next Monday I start my career in Financial Services, I really won't ever be able to completely forget or ignore my passion for media. While working at my last job one of my buddies once called me "The Most Disciplined Man in Media Services" which I think had something to do partly with how I worked, partly how I played, and partly how I ate. Whatever it was, I liked the moniker. So while I haven't officially put on my financial services hat, I thought I'd dust of the media services hat and see if there was any truth behind McDonald's claims about this new chicken sandwich. Oh, and here's what it looks like in their print ads...

First off, what's this sandwich missing? Color. Sesame seeds on the bun. Some character perhaps. And most importantly, it's missing any clear distinction that this isn't actually a fish fillet sandwich. Already four strikes against this sandwich before even tasting it. Being the investigative journalist that I am, I didn't just take some stranger's word that they saw a tape of the Rams pre-Super Bowl walk-through, I actually decided to go and try this thing. Just to be very clear, I would NEVER go to McDonald's, ever, unless I was eating for free, or I had to use the bathroom in an emergency. It just so happened that I was eating for free because there was a coupon for a free Southern Chicken Sandwich in the paper this weekend.

While running errands with my sister I asked her to pull into a McDonald's so I could try the thing. I walked into the McDonald's looking for that cute artsy girl with the glasses. She wasn't there. What about the surfer dude, who totally rode some killer tubes at this morning's surf sesh? Not there either. Who was there? A bunch of fat people on their lunch break. Weird, I know. Know your customer Ronald, know your customer. And speaking of knowing your customer, watch this commercial for the breakfast version of this sandwich and ask yourself whether McD's is targeting white kids who are asking for a beatdown somewhere in Harlem.



And yes, that white kid says "A chicken fo' brefast, girl". A part of me wanted to go and find the cutest woman in the place and sidle up next to her and say, "A chicken fo' lunch, girl, I knew there was something freak-ay abou' chu". Since I was in a crowded McDonald's in Port Chester with a bunch of ravenous women around, I decided to spare myself a black eye before I start work and just order the sandwich and leave.

I ordered the sandwich and presented the coupon to the cashier and was asked if that was all I wanted. I calmly pointed to my hat

and told her it stood for "Most Disciplined Man in Media Services" and that I live a spartan lifestyle and all I wanted was the sandwich. No way McDonald's was making money off of me today. I got to the car and my sister had locked me out. Not to blame her, but that McDonald's smell in a car might as well just be called the White Trash air freshener. I looked at the sandwich, and it looked back at me, and it looked as sad as it did on the commercial. One piece of chicken, three pickles, no sauce, no lettuce, no tomatoes. Why would anyone get to the register, look up at the menu and order the most plain, boring looking thing on it. The sandwich tasted okay, but perhaps if I acted like a jackass like that kid in the commercial it would taste not only "Freaky", but "Freaky good". Naturally, I started doing the Running Man in the parking lot of the McDonald's while eating my sandwich. Unfortunately it still just tasted okay. I took about four bites and then threw the rest out (again, MDMIMS).

What I learned was that McDonald's new racist chicken sandwich is a) racist, b) questionably chicken, c) not that tasty, d) not that tasty even while doing the Running Man, and e) unpleasant to look at.

I'd love to have been in on that marketing meeting where some braniac was like, "Okay, my idea is to take off the tomatoes, the lettuce, and the sauce, but we're going to have not one, not two, but three pickles". And then there was silence....and then Ronald McDonald stood up, cried a little white tear and started clapping and then everyone else in the room burst out in applause. I love marketing. I love media. I sure as hell don't love me a McDonald's Southern Chicken Sandwich fo' lunch and not fo' brefast either.

Two Weeks of Fun and the 3-1-1

Yesterday marked my highly anticipated (by whom, I don't know) return stateside, and the first day since May 13th that I didn't consume some sort of alcoholic beverage. I've had to dust the cobwebs off of this blog and I apologize for being such a delinquent blogger. I was always told that the most important aspect of writing a blog was to write entries at a consistent pace. I've likely lost a couple readers due to the inactivity, and I'm just hoping this audience loss doesn't put my reader count back in the single digits. All that said, I'm about to break some personal blog length records this afternoon. In this blog I will be discussing my 5 Year Penn Reunion, my gluttonous trip to Aruba, and then my trip to Toronto. I've missed you all. Truly, I have.

It was great getting back to Philadelphia for the weekend and catching up with friends and also people I never get to see. Since we were only there from Friday to Sunday there was a lot of moving around, drinking, and cramming as many meals into two and a half days as possible. In general, people looked the same. Some people hold up very nicely, some people don't hold up as well, but that's natural selection, or something. People seemed genuinely jealous that I was back at school, which I guess was kind of nice, although I was genuinely jealous that the majority of the people I spoke to get a paycheck twice a month. Turning tricks just isn't as steady a job in this economy as it used to be. The grass is always greener on the other side I suppose. I think perhaps the craziest thing was that the 10 Year Reunion tent was chock full of strollers. It makes sense that five years from now a lot of my friends are going to be pushing strollers rather than pushing themselves to have that second or third Mex margarita (so good by the way). And speaking of progressing into adulthood, I know there was a table where people could register, and I know there was a table where people could get a hot dog, and I know there was a table were people could make a donation to the school, but did I miss the table where they were giving out humongous diamond engagement rings? Sweet Jesus, someone remind me to pick up one of those things next time there's a reunion. I guess some people had the foresight not to go into sports marketing and get paid Connecticut minimum wage upon graduation. Looking back, I think it would've been a wise decision to go into crab fishing like on the Discovery Channel's Deadliest Catch. You might die out on the Bering Sea, but you can also make $25,000 in just one week. Just one week. And just look at how cute these things are...

Awww. They have their father's eyes.

But you know what, it's not all about the money. It's about the vacations. On that Sunday of my reunion weekend I left for my trip to Aruba, my third trip to the Caribbean in three months. How am I paying for all of this on my non-existent salary. I'm actually sponsored by GEICO now, permanently, via ink. Check out my tattoo.

The truth is that back in March my friend mentioned that his parents had a timeshare in Aruba and he said that a few of us could go and stay in a suite for $150...for the week. Done. Aruba as you may or may not know is part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, so the island is highly populated by the Dutch who are not only incredibly friendly, but also make an incredible oven. I swear to you, I've been waiting several months to make that joke. The first night out we met these girls from New Jersey who said that the night before a local Dutch-Aruban had so nicely offered to take them out on his boat at night for some drinks. Now that's what I call hospitality.

Three of us flew down from Newark and we met a buddy who had a connection in Houston. Perhaps I'm in the minority here, but vacations for me have typically meant laying low, nice dinners, perhaps getting in some exercise, and hanging out on the beach. I realized what kind of trip this was going to be when we found our fourth friend at the airport in Aruba sixteen sheets to the wind. When he sobered up a day later he explained how he was able to get so drunk on the flight down to Aruba. Some of you might be familiar with the TSA's 3-1-1 Rule. If not, here is it: "3-1-1 for carry-ons = 3 ounce bottle or less (by volume) ; 1 quart-sized, clear, plastic, zip-top bag; 1 bag per passenger placed in screening bin. One-quart bag per person limits the total liquid volume each traveler can bring. 3 oz. container size is a security measure."

Our friend explained that in the 1 quart-sized, clear, plastic, zip-top bag he was able to tightly fit ten 50mL bottles (airplane bottles) of Jack Daniel's. Firing up the ol' conversion calculator, 10 x 50mL bottles equals 500 mL of Jack, which equals, ~16 oz., which for you Guinness drinkers equals a little over a pint of Jack. But since they were in small bottles they met the TSA's standards. Somewhere, our Operations professor is surely smiling.

Mini, but still alcohol.

Upon commencement of the courtesy in-flight beverage service our friend put these 10 mini bottles on his tray table and told the stewardess to keep the Coke's coming. After arriving he ordered a few local Balashi beers from the airport bar, and didn't remember any of the rest of the first day or night, which included a delicious fish dinner and a fun night out at the bar. I'm pretty sure his credit card will remember though. That first night pretty much set the tone for the trip. Needless to say, it was a lot of fun. A lot of beach, a lot of pool, a lot of throwing around the football, and too many Balashi's to even count. Oh, and I caught this little thing when we went deep sea fishing

This was especially exciting for someone like me who pretends like if I was stranded in the jungle or in the wilderness I could fend for myself and find food and make shelter. To catch your own fish at 8am, and have it for lunch at 11am, well, if that doesn't absolutely reek of the pioneering/Live-Off-the-Land (or Sea) spirit, then I don't know what does. Granted I was neither responsible for baiting the line or actually filleting the damn 25lb. wahoo. And I actually didn't cook it either, we paid a restaurant to do that. And, yeah, we chartered the boat as well. So in summation, the modern Live Off The Land (or Sea) spirit is more like having the money to pay some poor local fisherman and cooks to do your dirty work, so you, the tourist, can pose with a fish you reeled in and can have a few pics with it so you can post it on Facebook, which I did.

The weather in Aruba was perfect and it was a fantastic vacation. I highly recommend Aruba to anyone, especially if you only have to pay $150 for the week. The Aruban sun got me nice and dark for the wedding I had in Toronto on Memorial Day weekend. Of course, if I didn't have an airline complaint at some point my vacation wouldn't be complete. My connection from Miami to Toronto was delayed because someone, while inspecting something else, determined the tire tread wasn't sufficient. Who is making that call and why is that call being made while there are 200 people aboard a plane vs. when the plane is all tucked up in bed for the evening. And more importantly, why do I continue to fly American Airlines.

I got to Toronto, changed and went to the out-of-towners dinner which was a lot of fun. We (the fraternity brothers of the groom) decided to go out to a club the night before the wedding. I went clubbing in Toronto once before, probably close to ten years ago. I was visiting my grandparents and my grandmother set me up with her hairdresser's daughter to go out on the town. The hairdresser's daughter (a great name for a movie by the way) picked me up and brought along a friend. I guess she figured if I was some sort of serial killer at least one of them could run away and get one of those mounties with their horse to chase me down and throw me in jail. It turned out that I wasn't a serial killer, and we all had a nice time. I don't know much about the Toronto club scene, but there was an extraordinary number of girls at this place, and the girl to guy ratio had to be at least 3:1, which I'm not sure you can that find anywhere else in the world. I was talking with this girl and she was telling me she was a country girl and she loved country music and she just moved to Toronto. I thought she was going to say she was from Tennessee or Kentucky or something, but it turned out she was from Ottawa. So, if you meet a girl and she has no discernible accent yet she says she's "country", she's probably from Ottawa.

I am of the camp that thinks everyone looks better when they're all dressed up, so I was looking forward to putting on my tux. My current tux is a stop-gap, as it is my Dad's tux from the '70s altered to fit me. So while in some ways it is cool and vintage, in other ways, the waistline is incredibly high and it looks like my ass starts somewhere in the middle of my back. Let's just say that Travolta: The Blog might have been a more appropriate name if you had seen me on Sunday.

Look at those lapels. They just don't make 'em like that anymore. No really, I don't think they make lapels like that anymore.

The two week odyssey was capped off by a very nice and emotional family event and now I'm back in the U. S. and A. I don't think I've eaten as well in the past year than I have in the past two weeks. I don't think I've slept less either, but it was all in the name of fun. I'm looking forward to the rest of the summer in NYC and I promise I'll be writing in this space at least once a week.

Powering Down

I've been in and out of NYC for the past week or so. It's all the little things that make New York so great. Just the things you hear on the street as you walk around make living in New York a great experience. Here are a couple of my favorites from the past few days...

"Crackers always be angry. Always" - Non-Cracker, Central Park
"Pss. Pss. Mami, I love you. I know you're shaking that ass for me" - Maintenance Guy, 57th between 5th and 6th
"Is that bitch smoking Cloves?" - Sassily Dressed Student, Outside of the New School

This is what makes New York the best city, ever. What also makes New York the best city are the ridiculously good radio stations, which I sorely missed while living in Ann Arbor. In order to get reception on a DECENT station I had to take the wire antenna from my stereo, tie it around the cap of a Nalgene bottle, and then run the wire up my wall and tape it to the top of the doorway leading into my kitchen. I wish I was joking.

Environmentally friendly technology

Anyway, now I can indulge in my pre-REM sleep activity of "Powering Down with Power After Hours". For the laypeople, listening to R&B on Power 105.1 after 10pm. Back in the day, when it was Sunday and the Sopranos had just finished and you turned off HBO it meant one thing...work is less than 10 hours away. The Sopranos, or The Wire or whatever it was on HBO on Sunday always meant the end of the weekend. While everyone else was pouting and laying out their Dockers for the next day I was tuning in to "Lock Down Love", a Sunday night special feature on Power 105.1. Lock Down Love was a live call-in segment where people with significant others who were in jail could call in and give a shout-out to their loved one behind "the wall". It's really a nice thing that Power 105.1 does for their listening community. I never had anyone to call, except for that one time, but still, I'd listen.

The shout-outs that I heard and continue to hear on Sunday night are way better than anything I'd ever hear while walking on the street. I'm going to give a sample of what these shout-outs sound like. And mind you, 99% of these calls come from women.

"To my man, Chico, aka Big Killah C, behind the walls at Sing Sing in cell Block D...I just want to tell you your shorty loves you. We gonna ride 'til we die. Keep ya'll head up and I'm going to be here when you get out."

First, in this day and age of fickle love and relationships built on Chinese-made concrete it's nice to hear such commitment. I mean, truthfully, it's not easy to find commitment like that in New York and if going to jail is what it takes, then maybe I should look into subletting at Riker's Island. If Foxy Brown can handle it, then maybe so can I.

Second, if you are Chico, sitting up at 11:30 on Sunday night, hoping that your shorty is going to shout you out, and then she does her whole "aka Big Killah C" thing, you've gotta be sitting there just shaking your head watching that parole offer go down the toilet. Ladies, these guys are trying to get out of jail and by all of you perpetuating the whole murderer-thing it's not helping your man's cause. My suggestion would be to over-compensate the other way. For example, "I just want to shout out my man Mike, aka the Big Bible Reader, aka the Christ Rediscoverer, aka He Promises He's Really Sorry, and say I love you". Is that that difficult? The downside, maybe your man loses some street cred.

I really don't have a third point, but if you're feeling the blues on Sunday night because you have work the next day just tune into 105.1 for some sweet beats and some sweet shout-outs. You'll have sweet dreams about prison, I promise.

Sleeping Beauty

At some point this winter I was standing at the bar (in Ann Arbor) with my buddy. We had the following exchange:

Friend: Finger, you know what I like best about girls?
Me: What?
Friend: Everything.

Having been out a few times in NYC over the past week I can definitively say that no truer words have ever been spoken. But "everything"?, really, "everything"? I'm not one to drop knowledge in the "dating advice" department, but my creative juices were flowing when a friend came to me with an interesting girl problem. The issue was that a friend took a nice young lady home for the evening and this nice young lady insisted upon dreaming of Balenciaga bags and cushion-cut diamonds way after my friend had woken up the following morning. The dilemma...how to get this girl up and at 'em. Here are a couple of methods that could've helped my friend. And by the way, I feel very Bear Grylls-like dispensing advice like this.

"I'm about to teach you how to take a Gucci stiletto, some pine needles, and a piece of flint and create a smoke signal so people know you are in distress. "

Shake 'n' Bake
Not the be confused with your favorite Sunday dinner, the "Shake 'n' Bake" is so easy a caveman could do it. In fact, I'd be surprised if this wasn't invented by cavemen. Very simply, first, shake the sleeping beauty. Throw those circadian rhythms out of whack. Now that she's kind of up and disoriented go over to the thermostat and turn that puppy up to 85 degrees and close the bedroom door. When you are sitting out in your living room and she says, "why is it so warm in here?" you answer, "I don't know but I bet it's at least 10 degrees cooler on the other side of my front door". Normal girls will probably stir uncomfortably and leave. The ones that stay probably enjoy the heat as they are usually in some way related to the devil (usually on their mother's side).

Pots and Pans
During pledging we had Hell Week. We had to sleep in the basement of the fraternity house for a week. Each day and usually several times during the night we awoke to the utter cacophony of clanging pots and pans. Nobody can sleep through that noise, not even an Asian student in my marketing class. Well, maybe 10am on a Sunday is a perfect time to learn how to sear tuna, and maybe it's time to put away that plastic cookwear and use, I don't know, metal. Maybe you need to stir that olive oil around the pot with a metal spoon. Or maybe you need to just stand in front of the bedroom door with your favorite teflon pan and your favorite serving spoon and channel the Blue Man Group. When she asks "what's all that noise?" you answer "oh, I've got a pot luck dinner tonight and I'm just preparing".

Ringo always used the Pots and Pans method

Domo Arigato, Mr. Microwave
If "Shake and Bake" and "Pots and Pans" don't work, then it's time to start supplementing sass with technology. You're going to want to create all sorts of uncontrollable noise in your apartment and the best way to do this is via your friend, the microwave. In my house popcorn was always best when it went in the microwave for 3 minutes and 20 seconds. That's 200 seconds for you math majors. In a situation where a bear is hibernating in your bed you're going to want to set your microwave for 10 seconds. It's going to go like this...10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, ding ding ding ding. You are going to want to repeat this 20 times. For extra effectiveness, open and close the microwave door between each 10 second segment.

The Gym
If the above suggestions don't work then you've officially been defeated. You might as well go to the gym. Before you leave write a note and stick it to the front door. It should say the following

"Hope you slept well. Please don't steal my stuff"

Home Sweet Home

On Thursday I made the trek from Ann Arbor to Greenwich. I made the trip solo this time and did it in 10 hours. On the journey I passed the ridiculous (Fangboner Rd in Ohio...ouch) and the sublime (Lordstown, PA). Ten hours is a lot of time to have to yourself. I don't even know what I thought about, but I did come up with a pretty awesome business venture for next year. I'm going to open a bar/dog grooming establishment in Ann Arbor and I'm going to call it "What's Up, Bitches?". I haven't crunched the numbers yet, but I don't see how this can fail. I'm pretty sure it's going to the next Google, or WalMart.

"What's Up, Bitches?"

All said, it was a smooth ride. The one hiccup was when I realized, somewhere in Ohio, that I forgot to take out the garbage in my kitchen. I'm not going back to Ann Arbor until the end of August, so either something was going to grow out of my garbage or someone would have to lend a hand and take it out. I called my building management company and explained my predicament. As has been chronicled on this blog here, there's a mutual hatred, nay, "cold peace" between me and my landlord. Basically all I needed was for someone to open my door, take 10 steps, take out the trash, and then close the door for the rest of the summer. The cold hearted bitch I spoke to made it seem like I was asking for her unborn child. She said she'd never had such a bizarre request, and she'd ask maintenance if they could help me out. About two hours later I got a call back and the woman explained that it would cost $35 for them to take out my garbage. If she was in Ohio and called and I had a spare key to her place and she asked me to do the same I would have done it...for free. So out of principle I declined her insulting offer, and when I got home I mailed my spare to friends in the building and they are going to take out my garbage.

And speaking of garbage, I'm realizing that the breadth of meals I'd been cooking for myself at Michigan had been garbage. As far as I was concerned there were only a handful of flavors...teriyaki, caesar dressing, and Lawry's Seasoning. Obviously I exaggerate, but my palate has been reawakened since coming home. I've rediscovered so many different flavors. This must be how little kids in the Eastern Bloc felt when their countries overthrew their communist governments and were opened up to consumer packaged goods from the West/America. Mmm, Honey Nut Cheerios. I feel like a kid in a candy store right now.

I'm headed to the Manzana Grande on Lunes for Cinco de Mayo. Love Mexico, have a margarita, but first, enjoy the rest of the weekend.