College Experience

You go to college to delay the inevitable. You go to college to further your skills, to develop your interests into passions and pray that it translates into a career. You go to college for the "experience." College, in many aspects, resembled what I imagined prison to be. Aside from showering with the fear of being shanked, college was mostly lifting weights, playing basketball [with other inmates], reading books, dabbling in drugs, and depending on a group of people to survive [like prison gangs].

I remember prior generations looking through and past me about my college choice, almost like they were transported to an Animal House memory, a memory they were stuck on - a Toga Party or maybe they were occupied with the memory of double secret probation. Whatever the word "college" conjured up for people that asked about my future endeavors, they were hardly nostalgic for English 101. I remember being apprehensive about going to a "city" school in New England, and leaving my friends. "You'll make new friends," my parents were quick to retort. "Those kids will always be your friends, but college is about making new friends - friends for life."

My parents were right. And now when people ask me about college I can only smile, not because of the things that I learned, but because of the friends I've made and cemented with alcohol, knowing it would stick for good.

Paul Bunyon - (known for tall tales) was one of my first friends at school. He was an outgoing kid from the shore of Connecticut and from time to time needed to be reminded that he was not Jack Johnson. Paul Bunyon and I had met on a few separate occasions, but didn't become friends until I got blackout drunk one night and climbed on top of my lofted bed to vomit all over myself. Paul Bunyon and another friend somehow got me down and dragged me into the shower. I later returned the favor on his 21st birthday when he decided to take a face plant on the cement (eventually sending him to the hospital, his 21st birthday was a success).

Missed It - Missed It and I had grown up together, but were never really close until we went to college. Missed it was odd. He was content to stay in his single room and video game his life away, rather than enjoy college. Missed It once locked himself in his dorm room for a week after the Raiders were owned in the Super Bowl. Missed It was always delusional when referring to "his girls," but nobody ever held him to it. Missed It once consumed warm urine from a Corona bottle, and pretty much solidified his notoriety forever.

Shevchenko - Shevchenko was another kid from Eastern Connecticut. He was proud to hail from the heroin capital of the Eastern seaboard. He fit in well with us because he enjoyed sports and could shoot the lights out in basketball. Shevchenko had the temper of a 3 year old pissy little girl. Take for instance the Boone home run hit off of Wakefield to send the Yankees to the World Series - he destroyed our apartment on account of that. As time lapsed he became less focused on sports and actually playing and just focused more and more on being a "terrible, horrible person" and getting himself good at drinking games. He tried building up his tolerance and mastering drinking games as a clever way to hook up with girls and I gotta admit it's pretty crazy how girls get mesmerized by a game of speed quarters. Shevchenko and I entered into a little wager for the college football championship when I was a freshman. I bet him (with the spread) that Miami would destroy his beloved OSU. As a result he took pleasure in Bic'ing my head. We went on to live together for 4 years after.

Meal Matrix - Meal Matrix was a skinny kid from Long Island. He never talked much, and had it not been for Paul Bunyon, we would never have met. Meal Matrix and Paul Bunyon dragged me into the shower on that fateful night when I wrestled with Bacardi and Sprite. "Yo, Connecticut, you wanna do this project together?" I didn't know anyone else in my math class, and I knew I didn't want to get stuck with the kid that smelled like tomato soup. Meal Matrix hated living in Boston, and I loved him for that. Meal Matrix is the only one of my really good friends that lives in NYC and we hang out regularly.

There were other cast members that played a significant role in this ongoing tragedy, but those four remain critical. So now things have changed, and I'm living in NYC, and we don't talk nearly as much, we don't drink nearly as much, or harass each other as much as we once used to. The point is we don't have to. We can just pick up again where we left off, it's seamless. So beyond the Irish car bombs, the weed, and the wiffle ball games, I learned that I'd do anything for these four.

"Yeah. You'll have a great time in college," as I look past a prospective college student asking about my school.

Professional Shopper

Grocery shopping has morphed into an exercise in futility for me in the Big Apple. It's partially attributable to the lack of variety on the shelves or maybe the perverse interpretation of "fresh produce" or maybe it's the general apathy by every employee. Whatever the reason I've been recently intensely yearning to return to the suburbs and drive a gas-guzzling SUV to the local Whole Foods and enjoy the experience once again. That's not to say there aren't Whole Foods or even other healthy and great alternatives abound, but they aren't located up here in Museum country. I just don't have patience for the battle at the grocery store anymore. Now I just enter Morton Wiliams' defeated and surrender to a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter and maybe some grape jelly for my reserve.

Allow me to describe every hungover twenty something's worst nightmare realized. So I wake up a shade before noon with a headache that feels like Shaq was playing basketball with my head and start toward the landfill across the street to pick up some groceries.

I walk up to the door anticipating the automatic doors giving way to the most horrendous produce section in Gotham, but I'm too impatient and wind up walking through the door (maybe I'm still drunk). I make a loop around the edges of this mini grocery store, because I know that the freshest stuff isn't shelved in the aisles. This turns out to be a walk that bears no fruit, both literally and figuratively. I physically manage to choke off the urge to regurgitate last night's light beer and decide that I have to buy something for dinner, because I can't make an entire trip to the grocery store across the street for naught. So I head to the meat section, where I spot this rare species, we'll call her professionalis shopperis.

You can spot her from a mile away. She dressed for the sport, like a midevil knight donning chain mail. She's wearing her slippers, quarter length socks with her stained sweatpants tucked in to said socks, a sweatshirt that was originally white,a cardigan vest, her glasses are perched on the edge of her nose, her hair is concealed by a wrap of sorts, and her wallet dangles from a chain around her neck where she keeps all of her important belongings like insurance card, bus pass, food stamps, etc., and she reeks of moth balls. She doesn't require a store provided cart because she roams the avenues with her own. She leaves her cart in the middle of the aisle as she inspects every aspect of every label of every meat offering that Associated has in stock, to ensure that no other customers can pass. She can sense my blood boil; she knows I'm thinking about the naked silhouette of the girl from last night in order to remain calm, but she doesn't care. It's almost like she wants to pick a fight. My "excuse me" either goes unheard or unnoticed, possibly both. By now she's scrutinizing the weekly circular even though she's spent the morning in her rent-controlled apartment memorizing the dirty pages as if they were the Bible, while watching The Price is Right. She's completely indecisive and is still there long after I've grasped the organic chicken breast package. With elevated blood pressure I try to force things, and make another pass at the fruit to no avail.

Sufficiently depressed and desperately hungover, I consider going to the express lane but see that there is a lengthy queue. A quick scan shows a few registers to the left have virtually no lines, so I dart to one. I look down at my iPod to put on some Tribe Called Quest and when I pick up my head all I can smell are moth balls. I stand in line bobbing my head trying to remain sane, as she unloads four tubs of Cool Whip, eight boxes of Jell-O, one loaf of rye bread, and a tiny jar of spicy mustard. She leans on the credit card machine as the unaffected 15 year old girl with tattoos on her wrists scans the items. This old pain-in-the-ass makes a comment of the price after she sees each price. No problem; I just turn up my iPod and continue reading the GQ while I wait. This woman verbally assaults the poor girl that just wants to move her along so she can text her friends because $6 an hour doesn't even pay for those fly Jordans she wants to buy. As if demonstrating her black belt in Kvetching wasn't enough, she reprimands the teen about the prices quoting the circular. When the employee sets her straight about the actual price, the old woman begins crying foul, "The circular said it was 4 four $1, you can't just deceive the customer." The teen rolls her eyes and tells her the total. This woman got like 32 items for $11.97. I spend more on a single lunch than this woman spent for all of this Jell-O and Cool Whip. She couldn't just swipe a debit card, or hand the girl a twenty. She begged the girl to check her manufacturers coupon on the Cool Whip. Finally, satisfied that she had squeezed every last cent out of the establishment, she paid with a five dollar bill, a food stamp and some miscellaneous coins.

Dear God, grant me the serenity....

What is it? Are they bored on the weekends? Do they get their jollies knowing they didn't over pay for 100 packs of Jell-O? I don't get it. It makes me want to slit my wrists vertically.

Favorite T-Shirt

She has molded her body perfectly, and sticks to your ribs like your orange t-shirt that you have had since 8th grade. The A*** Recreational Basketball t-shirt that has battled the laundry countless times and is barely visible, and when you hold the t-shirt up to the light you can see through it as if it was tracing paper. Waking up to carrot cake crumbs fumbled and green tea spilled on the sheets, and a smile that makes it all worthwhile.

Subway Girl

Dear Subway Girl,
I see you staring at me, even though I pretend to be studying the subway map. I'm flattered that when I test you and return the glance, you smile. I focus again on the subway advertisements and you fix your eyes back on me. I don't take offense to it, it makes my day and I probably should say something meaningless like, "You take this train too?" Then I'll be that guy! I'll settle for you scrutinizing the beauty marks on my face, and the nose to lip proportions that I exhibit. Maybe you aren't even looking at me like that, maybe you can't help but notice the dried toothpaste that's collected in the crease formed by my lips at the side of my mouth. That would explain a lot. It's too early in the morning to be over-analyzing these situations and I haven't even had my green tea yet.

Smitten,
S.A.

Exchanging Things

The vein on the temple of the head becomes obvious after hours of circumlocution. The palpable beat of elevated blood pressure manifests in a headache that feels like being stabbed behind the eye. Clearly your red face, tears, anger, and frustration have taken their toll on me - if only physically. The endless conversation of "we wouldn't be here if you had..." becomes too much to suffer through. It's clear that it's been broken beyond repair and I can see that I'll be leaving with my things. I'll be taking back my hooded sweatshirt, my pajama pants, my favorite t-shirt, those books that I lent you, my CDs, etc. I'll give you back your things, and throw away your toothbrush that I kept, the soap we housed in our shower, the razors you used to pare back the stubble on your legs, the makeup remover, the facial scrubs - they can all be found in the trash outside of my apartment on Tremont. There's something missing, we've exchanged brutal words and material possessions, but you took something that I'll never be able to get back. You can't give me back the measureless hours that we spent together or the time I should have been acting my age and drinking it in beer. I can't get back those hours that I should have been acting irresponsibly with friends that I neglected in order to watch you sleep.

Refund Psychology

If you are one of the (un)fortunate employees that are entitled to a federal tax refund, then it probably means you are right at the cusp of "uber-wealthy" and there is always next year for your Swiss bank account. However, for those of us that hastily prepare and file our 1040s in anticipation of getting a sizable check, we should take a moment to consider what is going on here.

Let's make this as simple as possible. Here goes. You sell your soul to the devil in the name of a paycheck. By the time you see the direct deposit in your magically shrinking checking account everyone and their mother has stuck their hands into your loot to claim a portion of your pretax salary. That means Uncle Sam on EVERY level inserts his, err...takes his portion, your insurance company, your public transit provider, etc. By the time it is electronically deposited into Chase you notice that those entitled to your money before you were kind enough to leave you with enough to cover your rent, afford the utilities bill that's three months overdue and a few paltry happy hours to cope with the aforementioned deal with the devil.

Then when you've finally arrived at that place that every abused Catholic boy has faced, when he listens to his chapped ass and realizes he physically can't take anymore, you check the mail anticipating bills that you can't afford. You insert the key three quarters of the way into the box, because by now you've realized that the key doesn't fit perfectly and it requires finagling to turn the locking mechanism. Exhausted, you flip through the countless credit card offers, Time Warner cable bundled discounts, and fumble upon an envelop from the federal government. You open the check that you had spent months ago and realize that life is just barely bearable because you finally got something back (after giving so much).

WRONG! You got your own money back. That was the money that you overpaid to the federal government, or excuse me, the money that was withheld in excess of your tax liability. At that moment, I [S.A.] realize that I and every other recipient of a refund have acted like a gigantic bank for the federal government. It's all very complex and involves the time value of money, but the bottom line is that the government was holding your money and chose to return a portion of it at a time that was convenient for them. Next time you're on your refund shopping spree, remember that it's nothing extra or special, but rather money that rightfully belongs to you. Forget it. What am I talking about? Steve Jobs would love to have you spend your refund check on another gadget.

Fitness Freak

I'm convinced that more people don't exercise because of the English language. That being said, I am sitting here typing this entry with 6 beers short of a six pack and the physical endurance of the finest fantasy sports players in the land. Let's face it - work sucks! Given that, I can understand why anything related to "work" has such a negative connotation. After a long day of "work" where I willingly accept punishment that would make any S&M fetishist quiver, I'm undoubtedly less than enthusiastic to work-out. It's the connotation that the term implies. Everything about work is overwhelming, be it the excel spreadsheets or the physics definition.

I'd rather play-out. I think it's more important to remain active than develop the physique of a Greek God by supplementing weightlifting with steroids. This reclassification of physical activity is crucial for both mental and physical health and happiness. Think back to when you were a kid and you played soccer, running around and having fun with your peers (occasionally kicking the patches); you unknowingly were working out. It didn't register because it was play and even enjoyable. Then we grow older and lose sight of things that are fun and replace them with 25 minutes of cardio, a quick circuit of weight training, and remain completely focused on repetitions and time (cognizant of your routine in the same manner as your spreadsheets). When was the last time you played-out?

MetLife Building

It's interesting to flip through the pages of books that chronicle things like the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and see images of Wall Street, and stumble upon captions that say things like, "One time a symbol of prosperity, Wall Street was also the setting for countless suicides as bankers and investors alike plunged to their deaths."

I find myself wondering if things are really that bad in these trying times. People abuse the cliche that history tends to repeat itself, and maybe it does. On Tuesday, a 36 year old man shattered a window in his 17th floor office with a chair and jumped to his death (MetLife Building). Actions like this perpetuate the Santayana quote,"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

It's difficult to swallow. I mean the shock hasn't completely set in. I like to think a lot has changed since 1929 and lives have gotten better, but when something like that happens in the building that you work, it makes you wonder. It's just surreal. I wonder when books are written about this financial time if this will be a trend that authors will be forced to address.

Derty Talk

I've always been sexually conservative. You know, choke her with my tongue, exfoliate her face with my beard, missionary posish - all of that good kinky/freaky-deeky stuff [author blatantly lies about his freakishness]. The short of it is that it's usually the most traumatic 8 seconds of her life, and I roll over to sleep in a puddle of, well, me. See dirty talk to me is, "ZOMG You're so fooking hawt!" But I never took it to the extreme, because in my mind there's a thin line between dirty talk that enhances playing the skin flute and the absurd. Knowing my way with words and my command of the English language (spontaneously), I could envision going directly to absurd. Talk about killing the mood. Well. I'm here today to tell you, when done properly dirty talk can transform mediocre coitus into that upper echelon-type animalistic sex. The following was a recent foray into the netherworld of dirty talk after the girl consumed an entire bottle of wine and had slept through a movie:
S.A.: Hey, the movie is over. [five seconds of silence lapse] Man it's getting late I should get to bed.
Dirty Talk: Oh it's over? [hastily unbuttons her jeans - de-pantsing and grabs her sexy undies in one fell swoop.]
S.A.: No, the movie is over and I think I'm going to bed. That doesn't mean sex.
Dirty Talk: [straddling me]I'm sure you don't mean that. What if I did this? [girl engages in superb fellatio]
S.A.: Um, that was AMAZING, and I think you're great [at that], but we aren't slapping skins tonight.
Dirty Talk: What will it take for you to f*ck me? I can do that again for you.
S.A.: No, I'm pretty sure you've sucked every bodily fluid out of my body. Thank you.
Dirty Talk: You can do whatever you want to me.
S.A.: On any other day that would make me the happiest premature "ejaculate-or," but not tonight, love.
Dirty Talk: If you want, we can just start f*cking and then you can come all over me.
S.A.: [Having flashback to the soft-core porn I was exposed to as a 13 year old] You're only saying this because you're drunk.
Dirty Talk: Just have sex with me, we'll worry about everything else later.

I know you're probably thinking this took a turn for the worse and she begged for me to give her the infamous golden shower, but I assure you it didn't happen. This conversation continued for two more minutes as she was on top of me and treating my Johnson like an Atari joy stick. Of course we didn't have sex that night because she was a baby step away from being blackout drunk, and I had already established that there would be no horizontal shuffle on the menu that night. She settled for just sleeping in my bed.

I would be lying if I told you that I wasn't subconsciously punching my good angel in the face as he was telling me not to tackle the gazelle. The point is, that nasty crap that she was spitting really turned me on, and if she wasn't just barely clinically alive - I would have seized the opportunity with such vigor that would have had her begging me to stop [because I am that terrible]. Your sex is lame? Spice it up a bit with some dirty talk. It works!

Tarrot Cards

New York is just an endless sea of bodegas, corner delis, and seedy establishments where you can have your palm read or have a psychic tell you that the sky is blue. What is the deal with the latter establishment? I realize that you go to the bodega for terrible schwag and then the deli for the post-high feast, but why are there so many of these palm reader/psychics in the city? Don't they have to pay absurd rents, like the restaurant and Starbucks that are housed on either side? I can't recall ever seeing a single person in a place like that. Are these places fronts for brothels? Massage parlors? If we keep with the drug theme, is this where to shop for an "O" of blow? Something doesn't add up in my mind. How do they survive in abundance? Please advise.

New Toy

Some people refer to it as adult ADD. Some people think it stems from commitment issues. I hate psychology, but I know this happens to me.

The month of December was foreplay, what with decorating the house and tree, opening the advent calendar, buying gifts for my loved ones, and most importantly creating a detailed booklet that I conveniently called my "wish list." I would stay awake every night thinking about the new Nerf gun that Santa would leave under the tree and how I'd ambush my brother or the intense Lego set that I would construct immediately after taking pictures with my family. Christmas morning was simultaneously the best and worst capitulation of the entire season, it was usually the realization that I actually got what I wanted. Of course I would spend the remainder of day playing with the new toys and promise that I'd be a good boy for the rest of the year and assure my parents that I wouldn't want any other toys next year, especially with all the new toys that Santa got me this year.

It was all a lie. Next year there would be a new Nintendo game that I had to have. The point is that after a while the novelty wears off, and my attention wanders to the next shiny thing. Well, it is like that with girls too. I just lose interest. Pick a reason; you're probably right. It's an involuntary reaction, and short of you developing a gigantic third boob, you'll never live up to some cartoonish ideal I have in my head. That's only part of the problem. Once I've established my intense state of "like" and realize it will never be love, I just let it linger. Compounding mistakes, that's what I do best. So when I tell you that I like hanging out with you, it probably means that the novelty has faded and I won't hike up my skirt to grab my balls and tell you it's best to move on.

This Blog

...is a thorn in your side. You can't read it, because it makes you question the choices you made in your life. This blog confirms the idea that you fear most, that keeps you awake for countless hours at night. It forces you to realize that those four years at your sterile, highly reputable liberal-arts college were fruitless. You majored in English literature and doubled in creative writing with ambitious dreams of one day ending up at a coveted job with a publisher in NYC. This blog isn't for me. It's a constant reminder to you and a big middle finger to those that think they are the institution and the major that birthed them into the real world. It probably really pisses you off that I work on Wall Street. So what have you got now? A dependency on weed, scotch, a desire to dabble in LSD, that worn leather bound diary, a half-written novel with all of those perfectly placed semicolons, and the nauseating reality of knowing that I exist. You hate me, and that puts a smile on my face.

Mid-Forties

I can't wait for my mid-forties. I know for a lot of people it's a scary thought, but I look forward to my life unfolding according to plan. How hard could life be when you're in a middle management role making six figures, you've got an ambitious recent undergrad willing to embellish the unnatural curvature of his spine and go blind staring at excel to better your "franchise," and 75% of your workday devoted to correspondence with your wife - be it calling her, sending texts to her, or picking up her phone calls to bother you about things like dinner? Serfdom is so limited.

Financial Crisis

Let's play a simple game.

What if I told you that there is a metaphysical place that exists in the universe and that place houses a fascinating machine? Furthermore, this machine has the potential to get you rich 99 out of 100 times. The only thing you needed to do was place a dollar into the machine and it would return $1.15. You would surely keep putting your money in that machine, wouldn't you? Well, what happens if you go to put your dollar in the machine one day and it doesn't return anything (not even your original dollar). What happens when this crazy little machine stops working?

Game Over (2009).

Sincerest Apologies

Approximately a week ago a reader challenged me to broaden the depth of this awful blog. She cited reasons such as, "Your blog reads like blah blah blah sex," or "dimension," and claimed it was predictable. I was beginning to wonder if anyone else was actually reading, because I was having similar thoughts as the reader. I was worried that I was becoming a caricature of myself with immature little dick and fart jokes. So I gave it a break, and I'm just not happy with the end result. I'm sick of my pathetic commentary on current events, sports, and NYC. It just didn't fit me. I will be resuming the previous path, because the new me was just completely mind-numbingly awful.

Excessive Greed

Greed - n. An excessive desire to acquire or possess more than what one needs or deserves, especially with respect to material wealth.

Much of America has a certain disdain for outrageous compensation packages that are reported in the media daily. I read the same newspapers as the rest of the general population, and can't even imagine what type of job would command a salary and bonus of $125 million. Perhaps that type of salary would be justifiable for the researcher or doctor that cured cancer, but certainly not the CEO of an Investment Bank, charged with allocating resources. Since we're playing the blame game, who else displayed greed?

When investors demanded and received returns that were uncharacteristic as a result of the financial engineering that was taking place on Wall Street, was that also not greed? Was it not greed, when that irresponsible family was willing to sign an ARM to enact their version of the "American Dream," and own a house that they could not reasonably afford? The point is, at every level there was greed, and once the train gathers enough steam it becomes uncontrollable - until the wheels fall off. I think it is safe to say, the wheels are falling off, if they haven't already.

There is a reason greed is considered one of the seven deadly sins, but it wasn't just pirates on Wall Street who were greedy as the media would love to have you believe.

Winter Weather

"It's hard to argue when
You won't stop makin' sense.
My tongue still misbehaves
And it keeps digging my own grave..." -Hands Open, Snow Patrol (even more British Pop Culture).

Time & Space

I can't help this feeling of lapsing time and immeasurable space, doused by beer and accentuated by monthly bills.

Daniel Ruettiger

Great movies transcend genres and achieve a universality that provokes human emotion. Rudy(1993) is a great movie. I cry, without fail, every single time I watch it. Based on a true story, the film chronicles a young man as he struggles to attend the University of Notre Dame and walk on the football team. Sure, it is a stereotypical account of an underdog that was glorified by Hollywood. However, it goes beyond football. It surpasses the symbolism of sport, and reminds the viewer of the importance of dreams.

Ever since I was a runt I have been infatuated with Notre Dame football, and being half Irish and raised Catholic the only two colors that mattered were blue and gold. Rudy just affirmed the only two options in my mind for college: 1) the University of Notre Dame, or 2) no college at all. Now that I have graduated from a university, that was not named Notre Dame, that had no football team to speak of, Rudy still remains a beacon of light.

Living in New York can be strenuous, even suffocating, and it can be easy to lose sight of things. Important things, like dreams. While football waved goodbye to me long ago, it was replaced by other dreams – modified dreams. However, living in NYC tends to bury them deep within my subconscious, and watching Rudy unearths them. Without dreams, I'm not convinced that life is worth living. While you may think that it's just a stupid movie about an undersized and talentless kid from a small town in Indiana who defies naysayers, I challenge you to consider your dreams and what you would be willing to sacrifice to achieve those dreams.

Perfect Square

Today (3/3/2009) hundreds and thousands of math nerds had reason to reach for their trusty protractors (euphemism for cock, but not really) and celebrate today's date - a perfect square. What? I don't get it. Well, 3 squared = 9. It's a fairly rare occurrence, and apparently we will have to wait approximately seven more years until we witness it again (4/4/2016). Well ladies and gentlemen, how about this for mathematical significance? Today I turn a quarter of a century and will try my very hardest to drink my age within 2.5 straight hours at Swig. As an encore, I'm going to ralph 25 times tomorrow at work! Yahtzeeeeee!

Sick(s) Sense

It's like that terrible movie starring Haley Joel Osment and Bruce Willis, Sixth Sense (1999). Since then Haley Joel has been arrested for a DUI, driving what appeared to be his Mom's Saturn, but that's not really the point. Women know when men are getting attention from other women, they feel it like Haley Joel sees dead people. How can they tell? It's like girls/women can sense when I'm allocating my attention to other women. I'm not even talking about "cheating." I'm just talking about wasting hours on end with a particular girl, and then she looks into your eyes and reaches into your soul, which inconveniently displays your recent cell phone call log. The scariest part is that she didn't even need to look into my eyes. She knew. She's Ms. Cleo. Get the hell out of my head. I told you before - I bore easily and I have the attention span a gnat. If you keep mind-f*cking me, I'll have to be completely honest with you, and neither of us wants that.

Too Much

Sometimes it's like grabbing a handful of sand. You convince yourself that the tighter you squeeze the more you'll be able to hold on to it. You realize that it's just the opposite, but you can't convince your mind of it as the minuscule grains of sand escape the grasp of your clenched fingers and palm.

It's counter intuitive, but you get the impression that you're forcing it. There will be no more square pegs and round holes. From now on, you're committed to just letting things happen "organically." You know, like those tree-huggers, like those flower children, like those yuppies who grocery shop at Whole Foods. You haven't got a care in the world, but that's unsettling. Being without that normal anxiety is like sleeping in another bed, without your pillow and your down blanket. Have fun embracing "change" and don't tell me I didn't warn you when you wake up with a stiff neck from that other pillow.

Higher Education

It's all so very 2009, save my Blogger account which was "the hottest thing ever" circa 2003. I have been having a dialog with a devoted reader via blogs. Sometimes she responds to my post, not in the comments section (like a normal person does), but with a post of her own and provokes me to do the same. Credit her with the Dog Rebuttal and the following post that I'm about to scribble down.

"What will you do if/when you lose your job?" -Nana/Aunt Peggy/Mom/Dad/every person that has been reading the ink being spilled in the papers/every individual that I meet at the bar and confess my career.
"I don't know." Then I continue on, "I'd probably have to leave the city (and despite all of the city bashing in this blog, there really is no great luster that beckons me to suburban Connecticut)."
Then, typically, the questioner will offer sage advice, "Have you thought about going back to business school?"

I have thought about business school. I have concluded, at this point in my life, it would not really benefit my career as much as it might have in the past. While I'm all for increasing one's human capital via higher education, I'm baffled by those that look to graduate school as a panacea. They look at it like a shelter from the harsh realities of a declining global economy.

There are a handful of reasons that I will not be going back to graduate school. One, I'm currently debt free, and I'm convinced that graduate school for business is really only worthwhile on Wall Street if you could get into a top-tier b-school, which will put me in debt of roughly $200K (not even considering the loss of my salary: opportunity cost). Two, over the past 35+ years we, as a collective country, have been manufacturing and exporting MBAs, so there is clearly a glutton of supply. I believe in the merits of graduate school for those in the medical profession or even law, where you go to graduate school to fine-tune a trade. Another deterrent, is the changing landscape of financial services jobs and the impending shift in compensation (read: the Money Tree on Wall Street is currently being chopped down), so upon graduating I'll have assumed a significant amount of debt and be earning a salary + bonus that just does not justify the exorbitant costs of business school. I currently work in "equity research" and am a product of a non-Ivy league school. What I'm trying to say is, people go back to graduate school to get a job that I currently have. It just seems unnecessarily redundant to incur the debt and land back at my current job or sign my life away to gain exposure to investment banking. Education is generally a positive, but the current costs are prohibitive for an individual with Wall Street ambitions, especially in an economy that we have not seen since the 1930s.