Shits and Giggles

Short post today...At the job I had before I went to school I had an office. Theoretically, if I wanted to take a cat nap I could. Of course I didn't, but I could. When you sit on the trading floor you can't take a nap, even if you wanted to. I was having this discussion yesterday with one of the analysts who came in after a long night and was saying that she would love to just close her eyes for a few minutes. I don't know what your offices are like, but there's a couch in the women's bathroom where I work. I imagine this is pretty common in offices in Manhattan. Well my friend decided that she was going to go into the ladies room and kick back on the couch for a minute. She went into bathroom and came back not a minute later only to report that there was a woman passed the heck out on the couch, shoes off, wrapped in a blanket, taking a nap. I was shocked. And from what I was told this wasn't some hungover intern, this was someone who was kind of senior. In some ways I was jealous though. The ladies can nap one off but the guys can't, after all there's nowhere we can shut our eyes in the men's room. Well apparently there is a place. An hour later I went to the bathroom and while standing at the urinal I heard snoring. I saw a pair of shoes sticking out from under the last stall. Some guy was passed out on the toilet. And in full disclosure, these toilets just are equipped with just a toilet seat and no lid, so you can imagine how comfortable that probably was.

The executive bathroom

I guess grownups need to be put down for a nap sometimes too, especially after the post-lunch food coma kicks in. I had to admire the guy's resourcefulness. Some people can fall asleep anywhere. I happen to not be someone who can fall asleep sitting up...in a bathroom...on a toilet. I guess practice makes perfect though. And speaking of stalls, I'll be talking about paper thin walls and more inappropriateness in my next post. Hopefully you'll stick around for it.

Guns Germs & Steel

There's a significant portion of Jared Diamond's book Guns Germs & Steel that's devoted to hunter vs. gatherer debate. I'd like to chalk up these past weeks to "hunting" or perhaps, "being hunted", and also "gathering" material for future blogs. I'm going to call it a sabbatical. As some of you may know, over the past few weeks I've been embroiled with some craziness that will give me a fireside story to tell for the rest of my days. In fact, last night I was at a clambake, and as we were sitting around a fire at about 11:30p, not 100% sober, I unleashed this beast of a story on a few friends by the fire and definitely "ooh-ed" and "ahh-ed" and "holy-shitted" the crowd for a solid 30 minutes. This story is going to take more than a single blog to tell so at some point I'll get to it. There's still not an ending so as I look for closure on this thing I'll think about how I want to tell it.

Last time I dropped some knowledge was around July 4th. I'm now 7 weeks into my 10 week internship. So far so good. I don't want to bore you with the details of the actual work, but all I'm going to say is that I'm hoping that there's an offer at the end of the rainbow because the more I look at Michigan's upcoming football schedule the more I look forward to the possibility of not having to recruit again right in the middle of it all. Apparently I find out about an offer on the last day of work. I kind of envision it going down in a Gladiator-like fashion, when I step into a room, the king/head recruiter gives me a thumbs up or a thumbs down, and I either die (inside, of course) or I live to fight another day.

Oil is at what?!!

In this type of market you have to prepare for the worst, and hope for the best. And if I'm going down, I'm at least going down with a mouthful of sushi. When I first started working in New York I was always jealous of my friends who got their lunch and dinners paid for by their companies. Meanwhile, I was getting paid less than I would've liked and took to brown-bagging it a solid three to four days a week. How great would it be to have the company pay for dinner, and on top of that, it would even be possible to use my credit card, get the miles, and then expense it back to the company. The equation was simple... eat food = see the world. As I sat at my cube eating the same turkey on wheat day after day I dreamed of the day I'd be able to use Seamless Web on the company's account. Well that day came this summer, and it came in the form of a $25 dinner allowance. The first time I ordered, I ordered $25 of thai food for myself. I stuffed my face as I sat alone at my desk, finishing up my work. If I had to work through dinner it might as well be with a stomach full of pad see ew...and soup...and me krob...and some dessert. At about 8:30pm I sat at my desk, wanting to vomit, and all I had in front of me were five empty takeout dishes and two more hours of work. It took about thirty minutes to realize that staying at work and ordering food sucked, regardless of what my dinner allowance was.

I really haven't had to stay late a whole bunch this summer, which I suppose is good, but I can 100% understand why some of my friends who are bankers put on some serious lbs. when they started work. If you are ordering on someone else's dime, maybe you order that extra sushi roll in case you want it, and of course you end up eating it when you probably didn't need to. And if you do that for a year, that one extra yellowtail roll really ends up being 30-40 extra yellowtail rolls, and that extra side of cornbread becomes 30-40 extra sides of cornbread, and the only thing Seamless about any of this is the transition to bigger pant sizes. I'm not advocating smaller meal stipends, although I wouldn't be surprised to see them shrink in this market, but I am advocating restraint, not for the sake of money, but for the sake of well-being. I know that as soon as I realize I'm staying for dinner I start planning out where I'm going to be seamless webbing later that night. Not good. I acknowledge that I'm still an amateur at this and I suppose that if I did this more often I'd be able to find my sweet spot where I could eat, eat quickly, eat healthfully, and get my work done and leave, but with a whopping seven weeks of seamless web experience I'm still struggling with the whole, "my eyes are bigger than my stomach" thing.

I guess practice makes perfect though. I just feel lucky that I've been able to avoid ordering seamless web for dinner at around 8:00pm and then ordering breakfast at 5am the next morning. Some of my fellow Michigan summer associates haven't been as lucky, because as Snoop Dogg would say, they may come in at 10:00am but "they ain't leaving 'til 6 in the, 6 in the morn". Anyway, I've got about nine more hours until my bacon egg and cheese sandwich tomorrow morning and the faster I can get to sleep the closer I can get to my beloved breakfast sandwich.

Even Diddy Would Blush

First, fifty lashes with a wet noodle for being so delinquent on this blog. 

Now, onto business.

Justin Timberlake, stop biting my shit. This link was posted in January and has gone through some iterations. The gist of that January post was as follows...in the midst of the Giants epic playoff run I put some new words to Three Dog Night's "Eli's Coming". If you want this blog to make any sense you should probably click on the link above now and read that post and then come back. 

Again, because I sure as hell can't get enough...

What's 5'6", dates attractive woman, dances extraordinary well, and is behind the originality curve by five months...

You heard it hear first, kinda, sorta, whatever. For you loyal readers, I thought you'd appreciate knowing that when you read this blog, you are, like, looking several months into the future, or something. 

Anyway, on to more pressing matters...Despite what it may say above, today is July 4th, and in true American fashion I am spending the 4th in the epicenter of gluttony, The Hamptons. Despite what VH1 might feed you, coming out here can be a very relaxing, mellow, and quiet. However, fortunately for cable TV networks, the Hamptons are also abound with d-bags, and baygs who provide fuel for the fire, and in this case, my blog. Last weekend, after a lovely dinner, a friend recommended we go to this guy's house. He said something to the effect of, "this isn't going to be fun, but it's amazing people watching". I love me some people watching so I agreed to tag along. We arrived at a very nice house in Southampton that had been rented by a singular person. This kid apparently had money to burn. When we entered the house a cadre of girls were playing around with this pretty sweet looking blender and making strawberry margaritas, with patron, obviously. Anything less would be uncivilized. After standing around and playing some jewish geography I just didn't want to be there anymore. The atmosphere was getting stale, it had been a hectic day at work, and I just wanted to go home. And then someone suggested playing a few games of flip cup...talk about something right in my wheelhouse.

I went outside to the table and saw no beer. Kind of hard to play flip cup with no beer. Never fear, tonight flip cup would not be played with beer, it would be played with Dom Perignon. 

Definitely does not go down as smoothly as Miller Lite.

I'm not really into champagne, but who was I to pass up on this most utterly ridiculous variation of flip cup. This was more offensive than Diddy driving motorcycles off of his diving board into his pool just because he could. After several quick games and four empty bottles on the table, one girl remarked as she pointed to the empties, "that's a pair of shoes right there". What type of shoes were we talking about here? I countered by saying that the equivalent amount of money could've been taken to the Bass Outlet in Amagansett and used to purchase footwear for all 37 Pitt-Jolie children. 

I guess the point is that back in 1776, if the American soldiers had any idea they were fighting so that in 2008 some over-privileged kid could pour expensive French champagne all over a Chinese made table while smoking Canadian-grown marijuana, the soldiers probably would have laid down their guns, gone home, and watched reruns of Entourage. 

On this July 4th 2008, I am thankful for Eli Manning...what? Wrong holiday. On this July 4th I say Americans...grab an American flag (made in China), grab a burger (from a cattle ranch in Canada), grab your stereo (made in Japan), and grab the nearest piece of tail (your Polish housekeeper, nicely done), and just realize we ain't in Kansas anymore. 

Please Stop Pinging My Wheelhouse

So now that I work in financial services I have to be up on the lingo. I have to know the acronyms and I have to know what the "kids on the street" and the "kids on The Street" are saying these days. My job has an abundance of acronyms...CER, VER, REC, RGGI to name a few. I still prefer the simple, yet effective, WT for White Trash.

Two words that have really made their way into not only the industry lexicon, but I think everyone's lexicon are "ping" and "wheelhouse".

PING

Ping used to go with pong, plain and simple. And then when you got old enough you basically stopping saying ping, because you started substituting "beer" for "ping". It was kind of like a rite of passage. Like a dormant sexually transmitted disease apparently "ping" is baaaack. You are walking down the hall. You have your blackberry in your pocket. You feel it buzzing. You say, "dude, who's pinging me?" Or you're at a bar. Your buddy is taking his sweet time in the men's room while you wait entertaining the marginally attractive girl he thinks looks like Jessica Beil. You ping him and tell him to hurry the hell up. Back in the day you'd call or text or if you're really old, you'd go and say something in person. At some point along the line people stopped caring to distinguish between how you label initiating contact, so they just say "ping". I don't have a blackberry, so I'm not sure it's possible to ping someone yet. I guess that's something to look forward to.

WHEELHOUSE

By no means is this word new. If you pinged dictionary.com (is that possible?) you'd find the following under wheelhouse...

"An enclosed area, usually on the bridge of a vessel, from which the vessel is controlled when under way"

For me, wheelhouse was primarily used when describing a baseball pitch that fell right into your sweetspot that you'd crush. Now, everyone and their mother is saying wheelhouse. Wheelhouse made it's way back into my life during my recent trip to Aruba. It started when we were sitting around one morning and we were thinking about what to do. My friend said "drinking beers on the lazy river would definitely be in my wheelhouse". So the whole trip we were always talking about our wheelhouses. At two in the morning after a night out we'd all talk about what kind of food would be in our wheelhouse. Out on the boat deep sea fishing we concurred that catching a marlin would definitely be in our wheelhouse. We met a blonde girl who we all agreed we'd invite into our respective wheelhouses, and by the end of the trip we just simply referred to her as "Wheelhouse". For example, "is that Wheelhouse over there by the pool?"

Anyway, I've been away from the working world for some time now, but people at work are dropping "wheelhouse" every five minutes. Projects, agreements, vacations...I mean, how big are these wheelhouses these days. All I know is that I'm going to start dropping wheelhouse into conversations at least once a day now.

What really is in my wheelhouse right now is sleep.

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.