Blog Death

I don't anticipate posting to this with any regular frequency in the upcoming months, thanks to my attempt to focus on studying for some arbitrary test. Think of it as a quarter beat rest in the composition that is my life. As the saying goes: I'll see you on the other side. Adios.

Foot Fetish

I have heinous feet and toes. I would be willing to bet you do too. I think that shoe salesman job during college scarred me permanently because I can no longer look at them. Some resemble meat hooks; others resemble long piano-like fingers. Some are stubby and others bring to mind little pigs in a blanket. Few things on Earth make me as ill as looking at a woman’s feet and toes as she enters the train. For some unknown reason after the month of May, women are required to wear sandals, flip-flops, and open-toed shoes. They are unseemly! Don’t get me wrong; there are some nice feet in the world but they don’t travel the subways in Gotham. Most of them are so disgusting that you get ill when you look at those little aliens hanging over the side of the shoe touching the filthy ground, but like a car crash I cannot divert my eyes. I’m getting nauseated just thinking about it. My gag reflex would appreciate it if autumn would hurry along and cover those mutants in boots.

Baffling Bullsh*t

Your blog is slightly more tolerable than mine; mine is the gum that you step in during your walk to the subway. I won't be fooled! I refuse to be baffled by your bullsh*t. It may have worked at that small New England University, where you were a journalism major, but I can't stand reading it anymore. It's sloppy. I know you think you're being creative but the result is superfluous, loud, and void of substance. Try being concise. Try saying what you mean. You have cleverly disguised countless run-ons, incorrect comma and semicolon usage, and excessive exclamation points with allusions to old scotch and typing in your bed. I'm no better. Despite claiming that our relationship is over, I'm compelled to read you. You're like the Real World for me. Damn it. I hate you and the grip you have over me.

Pet Rock

Some brilliant business man, and I use the phrase generously, placed a bunch of rocks in a box and sold them as Pet Rocks. The sale of many of these pets proved once again that people hate money and are willing to part ways with it. If your money burdens you, give it to me. Easy enough.

7 Train

John Rocker's disparaging remarks, while grotesque and deplorable, were not entirely inaccurate.

Still Life

There's something heartbreakingly beautiful about fruit set on a table top, or even in a bowl, depicted on canvas unveiling imperfections and discolorations. Don't even mention flowers in a vase...Oh, how you mock me Vincent, with those sunflowers teasing and reminding me that it's summertime.

Some People

...get so uncomfortably lucky that it suffocates me. These are the people that hit the genetic lottery. I'm not talking about people birthed with Brad Pitt or Megan Fox looks. I'm referring to the super mediocre human beings that have no outstanding traits aside from being birthed by uber-wealthy parents. They are neither a liability nor source of pride to their parents; they just are. It could be disastrous; they could be like Michael Douglas's son. They usually wander through life with a menial job and barely noticeable social skills. Then the fateful day comes, which is simultaneously the most tragic and financially liberating day of their lives, when their parents die. Instantly their normal lives are transformed into those of lottery winners. I can't really fault them for never really knowing how much their family had socked away over the years, or maybe they veiled their riches with their choice of occupation. The end result is the million dollar apartment, paid for in cash, located on 57th and Park. Excuse me, I don't think I can continue writing this entry. I need to go to the restroom to battle this involuntary sickness that's suddenly come upon me.

Holocaust Fears

"Did you know that the president has his own private military?" Steve questioned in lieu of his normal morning greeting. "No, I had no idea," I replied. "Go ahead and Google it. Google 'President Obama private military'."

After I had eaten my lunch, Steve and I cordially met in the bathroom. I hoped he had forgotten his suggestion of that particular search topic and continue relieving myself at the urinal. He intentionally waited at the sink for me to wash my hands, and at the sight of my blue shirt remembered his greeting. "Did you Google what I told you?" "Yeah," I said. Waiting for a response, Steve pushed, "Well...?" "Oh, that doesn't really surprise me. It's not like he has them sitting around the White House and Camp David playing capture the flag. I think they are stationed in high tension areas all over the world." Infuriated, Steve raised his voice, "What is this Nazi Germany? Hitler had troops throughout Europe. Obama is Hitler." Simply shocked I stated, "I wouldn't go that far, Steve." Steve walked away disgusted, mumbling things to himself under his breath, completely aware that I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction he was so desperately seeking. I cannot understand his reaction. It was as if someone had told him that Santa Clause doesn't exist.

This is why I hate discussing politics. Compound the topic of politics with the Holocaust and mix that with the work environment and you've got yourself an explosive HR Bomb. How about them Yankees?

Currently Reading

I am currently reading The Elements of Style, by William Shrunk Jr and E.B. White, which confirms my defeated libido.

Less Tired

"TIRED OF BEING TIRED?" is the slogan that Lance Armstrong endorsed in an add that was adjacent to the Bill Simmons article I was reading. The truth is, I can't remember the last time I wasn't tired. Tired of work. Tired of my routine. Tired of not sleeping soundly at night. Tired of my future. Sometimes I feel like this constant state of "tired" hamstrings me. I could probably be one of those famous people that gets profiled in that famous magazine that you read, if I wasn't always tired. Recently the spectrum has ranged from tired to the point of fatigued and borderline exhaustion and less tired at best. I no longer wake up feeling refreshed and eager to tackle the day. I now wake up and try to determine whether today should be a green tea or coffee day and which crutch would be more appropriate. I'm guessing this is partly attributed to the fact that I haven't exercised in a long time, but you know how that can be, so tiring. In addition to the lack of physical exertion, I haven't necessarily been eating well, but then again there's the point that I'm too tired to make anything other than pb&j. At a quarter century I'm starting to accept that maybe the best I'll ever be is less tired.

Fashion Accessory

For the life of me, I cannot understand why any male or person other than a 13 year old girl would wear a cell phone, on a belt in a pleather case, around his waist as if it was a fashion accessory. Maybe it compliments his spectacular khaki, button-down, and Sketchers ensemble that he has perfected in the name of "business casual."

Proposed Legislation

The following is a suggestion for the proverbial suggestions box: if an employee, dwelling in NYC, earns a salary of $55k or less per annum [regardless of profession] he/she is subject to "Summer Fridays."

Study Habits

Confession: In approximately two weeks I will commence studying for the GMAT. I realize this is a complete 180 degree turn from my prior stance on the merits of business school in this type of economic climate. I also realize that my life will become unavoidably depressing in upcoming days, but maybe I like that. Maybe I take comfort in sulking. Maybe I'm just masochistic, or more accurately find pleasure in the torture.

I keep telling myself that I need to hit the reset on this Nintendo game that is my life, and studying for this test appears to be a logical first step. There is only one problem. I have no idea how to go about studying. I haven't formulated a plan, and as you well know, without a plan there can be no attack. I didn't exactly own the SATs, and I'm positive that scoring above 700 will take nothing short of an act of God. So in preparation of my, well, preparation, I've been obsessing over GMAT blogs and forums, which only adds to this nauseating feeling that is festering in the pit of my stomach. Surprised aren't you? My obsessive and neurotic behavior rules the day, yet again.

At least after this 3-4 month process I'll be able to rule some options out. If I score over a 700, I will continue the process of applying to business school. If I don't score quite as well, I'll just scrap the whole idea and start again from scratch. What can I say? I'm a slave to futility.

Serendipity & Apartments

I cannot conjure up anything more irritating than searching for an apartment in NYC. To add insult to injury you always hear tales of these lucky floozies, who magically procure an "amazing" space either rent free or close to paying nothing. It seems to always be women that experience these serendipitous events or people that need least to have such fortune bestowed upon them. We minions are left to sorting through the tedious craigslist postings as if we were shopping at TJ Maxx for that item that our friends will never believe we have found among the rubble (read, racks of pilled sweaters and irregular-sized pants). I remember living in my grandparents' basement and drowning my brain in beer describing my "NYC apartment hunting" experience. I tossed out phrases like rentdirect.com, urbansherpa.com, individual management companies, and the hours spent scouring the dreaded CL. With a smile the girl would say something annoying, as she sipped her cosmo, like, "Oh, I was so lucky. I just got this job at a hedge fund and moved into my parents friend's loft in TriBeCa. He's a traveling musician and said I can stay there as long as I want, rent free." Excuse me while I go spit up blood because that smile may as well have been a swift kick to my almond shaped reproductive organs. Am I jealous and bitter? Absolutely. If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

Roommate Love

Dear Meal Matrix,
I'd like to buy your parents a beer for copulating and birthing your peculiar ass. Happy Birthday! In honor of you, I will parade around our apartment shirtless, only wearing my sweater.

Yours Truly,
S.A.

Man Basket

Very few things are as emasculating as carrying the ultimate sign of bachelorhood around the grocery store, the man basket. It screams: I'm a little boy. Roaming the aisles with the plastic container means that you aren't wed and lack the super sperm required to reproduce. You shy away from that attractive woman that came directly after work and is wearing her pencil skirt and Rainbow sandals. Hopefully she doesn't see that you're a phenomenal chef when it comes to heating Bagel Bites or crafting one of your signature pb&j delights. A single man does not labor behind a cart. He doesn't have mouths to feed. Avoid the awkward stares that you'll receive and just go out 7 days a week for meals.

Spelling Errors

Usually when I type these entries I'm in a fog, and the result is a mess of words with unacceptable punctuation (or the lack thereof), spelling mistakes, and grammar that is usually likened to a kindergartner. In the past, I prided myself on being a capable speller but all of that has gone out the window. Here I am, a quarter century, and my spelling has become incomprehensible. I've tried to combat this downward spiral by voraciously reading. It hasn't worked. I sit here at work and misspell the same words on a daily basis. No matter how many times that little jagged red underline pops up, I can't spell beginning or address correctly. For some reason my mind sees beginning as correctly spelled: "b-e-g-i-n-i-n-g" and variations of address include: "a-d-r-e-s-s" and on certain days "a-d-d-r-e-s" appears correct. When I was younger definitely was an issue for me and I regularly receive emails that misspell the term. I guess certain people suffer from this affliction. My grandfather, a man I consider intelligent, struggles with apartment. I guess even brilliant savants have human flaws.

7 Years

I'm not superstitious, but I'm convinced that today is going to be uniquely awful for me. I don't believe in signs and think voodoo is the punchline of some horribly rehearsed joke, but today I'm thinking more about their merits. I took a shower later than usual. She yawned and stretched her arms over her head and out to the side and broke a mirror in my bathroom. At least I know what to expect for the next seven years of this sorry excuse I call a life. If that didn't confirm the curse, then surely it was dropping my 47 cents in change on the floor and scrambling to pick it up, already five minutes late for work. I grabbed my book, the cookies, and had put the keys in the door, when I remembered Weather on the 4s calling for a vicious downpour this afternoon, which caused me to double back for my umbrella. That's just bad luck, right? The cookies that she had baked and put in a Ziploc bag for me had fallen victim to the heat and humidity on my walk to the subway, and formed an unrecognizable smear of chocolate and peanut butter. Maybe it was my hurried jaunt to the subway that caused the bucket of perspiration to soak my undershirt and seep through certain unflattering parts of my cream shirt. This is beyond bad luck. This is destiny and I hope it's just temporary. I'd encourage you to avoid me at all costs, I wouldn't want you to "catch" what I've got, this disease. Like Ace of Base said, "I saw the sign."

iPhone Lust

On Saturday I signed a two-year contract. As a result, AT&T (with all of its dropped calls and shortcomings) owns the majority of my life, with Steve Jobs claiming the remnants. My phone, unlike me, is now smart. Here's to iSheeple.

Make-out Marathon

I had consumed three quarters of the Charles Shaw Shiraz she had left at my apartment, the remainder of a good night. I settled into my half of the couch, reserving a spot for my roommate on his half despite his absence. At approximately 9:10PM she sent me a text, inviting me to Williamsburg for drinks with her and her friends. She had taken the red eye back to Bradley, driven to White Plains, taken MetroNorth into Grand Central and met up with her good friend in Brooklyn. I battled the lethargic urge to wallow in my Shiraz drunk, and made it to the other borough. We exchanged pleasantries, caught up, she downed shots and beers, and then fessed up. See, I had always believed her when she maintained her posture as an asexual. I really had no reason not to, but then she shattered that notion with a simple sentence.

Friend: I had a make-out session with a 19 year old for 8 hours on a Lovesac.

S.A.: What the f*ck? [I look at her friend and confirm the fact as she displayed a laugh] No f*cking way. I'm going to call bullsh*t on that. I've known you since I was thirteen... Also nobody makes out for 8 hours. I'm sorry.

Michelle: What's even more ridiculous is that you timed this 8 hour make-out.

S.A.: Yeah, absolutely no possible way. Who does that? I mean when I time myself it's fairly simple. Eight seconds, and she's completely unsatisfied.

Friend: I made out with another boy for 6 hours after twelve hours of drinking and a softball game.

S.A.: Alright, I've heard enough.

The night stumbled on, and bottles of liquor were emptied, but nothing was really notable beyond that exchange.

Same Topic

While we are at it, why not discuss people that pronounce mature like "muh-toor." Last I checked, it was simply mature. Negotiate is another favorite of mine. It's not "neg-oh-see-ate," it's negotiate. I'm surely going to burn in hell for this, but I'll be laughing all the way to Hades.

Enunciating Days

It certainly is not "Mondy" or even "Tuesdy." Can't you speak, you degenerate? It's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. These minor infractions have recently seized hold of me, and I'm not sure why, but can no longer be ignored. Of course I didn't correct the offender, I just jotted it down in this terrible little blog that nobody ever reads. I epitomize the term coward.

Pondering Veganism

Politics aside, being a militant vegan is awfully boring. It's like playing z-pong, when the rest of the world is playing PS3. No. Wait. That's a terrible analogy. You spend the majority of your life justifying your lifestyle, sitting on your stoop in Williamsburg inhaling toxic nicotine and tobacco. The alternative is eating at a vegan-friendly restaurant for what seems to be eternity, because the only thing waiting for you outside of the restaurant is that uncomfortable stoop. You're so strict and intent on this political statement that you can't even go to the local pub, like Clem's, to enjoy a pint with your friends and other hiptsers. You are destined to spend the prime of your life on that god damned stoop. Give me jail because I don't think I could handle militant veganism.

King's County

You do not need a passport to visit Williamsburg, a hipster enclave of Brooklyn, but be sure to dress appropriately. For girls, that means: skinny jeans, bangs, and an ill-fitted (read, baggy) top. For extremely skinny boys, that requires: at least one sleeve of tattoos, skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors Converse, a beard, and thick glasses that would make Woody Allen envious. When drinking at a bar, a woman thumbs her nose at cosmos and gulps a whiskey or gin drink. The hipster boy spends $4 for a Pabst Blue Ribbon. What did I order? Brooklyn Lager. I believe they call that "hipster fail."

Woody Allen

It's just one of those things. They're almost synonymous, Woody Allen and NYC. I've taken a liking to his work and I suppose that cements my stature as a New Yorker. What's next? Walking behind my Teacup Yorkie, named Periwinkle (like the color), with a plastic bag in hand begging to pick up a steaming, heaping, massive pile of feces?

Do yourself a favor and read Without Feathers. Much like the author, it's short, peculiar, witty, sarcastic, and humorous.

Gemma & Rufus

[Scene opens at Gemma, a restaurant in between NoHo and the East Village, with the sun setting and Rufus meeting friends for cocktails]

Friend: It's so great to see you, Little Pizza!
S.A.: I know. It's been too long. How have you been?
Friend: Oh, I'm grea... Oh, this is Kristin, Erin, you know Rod...[as she continues to introduce me to friends and colleagues in the medical profession]...This is Little Pizza.

[Time lapses, and strangers approach me curious to know the origins of my name]
I simply point to her and say she just started calling me Little Pizza, it doesn't really bother me.

Erin: I don't get it but that's alright. I'd rather call you by your real name. What is it?
S.A.: It's Chip Douglas. Honestly you could call me anything. By the time I have my fill of Peronis, I'll probably be responding to Rufus.

[Erin introduces me to Kristin (again)]
Erin: Kristin, this is Little Pizza. His real name is Chip Douglas, but he said we can call him Rufus.
Kristin: Rufus? Why would I call him Rufus?
S.A.: It's really not a problem. You can call me whatever you want. It's really not going to matter. No offense, but hopefully I never have to see any of you people again.
Kristin: Well, that's not very nice.

It probably wasn't a nice thing to say, but as a male I hope to never have to see anyone who considers urologic oncology a profession at their place of business.

Test Results

Dear Ex-Lover(s),
Despite the results of the test, I still hate you. Am I positive? Yes, I'm sure you still make my blood boil, but in an unscripted twist of fate I'm negative. Wait. Positive and negative? It's impossible. I'm positive; I'm negative. You may now exhibit a great sigh of relief knowing that you dodged a bullet. At this point you should resume your planning of your ordinary life without me.

Regards,
S.A. [not even a drip]

93% Humidity

With 93% humidity, just stop teasing and wash out this oppressive grid of sidewalks. I guess it could be worse, I guess I could live in Portland, OR, where they've seen record temperatures of 109 degrees. Even worse, I could live in Staten Island or New Jersey.

Shaving Whiskers

Recently the days have been defined by the unending pursuit of justifiable excuses to conveniently not shave my whiskers.

"Un-Friending"

Technology, generally, improves peoples' lives. However, sometimes it makes me consider the costs, like functioning on a human level. I don't think I'd ever text a fiance and tell her that the marriage is off and I'm packing my crap to leave our apartment. Sometimes people take advantage of technology to replace interactions that used to occur in person. I'm not criticizing the trend and actually I think in certain instances it's a lot "cleaner" than dealing with things in real life. Texts, emails, and posting on peoples' walls have replaced meaningful interactions. These have become the acceptable social norms.

Let's examine this quasi-relationship that I had with a girl. She was very keen on technology and shocked that I wasn't readily accessible on Facebook. We spent time together, wallowed in each others' neurosis, and even "hooked up" [as the kids call it these days]. Then I must have done something, something that bothered her because we stopped whatever it was that we were. One day I was bored at work and noticed that we were no longer "friends" on various social networking sites. I was mature enough to not pursue it, and relieved that she had discarded me in such a way that it was clear that we were no longer speaking. By "un-friending" me she severed all ties with me, sans public dispute and drama (read, cleaner).

I guess part of me wishes things weren't so easy. I feel cheated on this one. If I am such a bastard, the type that you cannot feign interest in being "friends" with on some meaningless online forum, then certainly that should deserve some sort of explanation. Part of me wants to email her and ask her if I can buy her a cup of coffee so I can hear why she abruptly ceased communications. I'm not really pissed at all, but maybe it shouldn't be so easy to drop off my radar.

Option 2

I loathe commercials on television. It's no wonder when I was at her apartment, just watching television, that I instinctively grabbed the remote and established a backup channel. We were watching this show about enormous catfish and the possibility of this particular species to be considered "man-eaters." I let one commercial break lapse and started up a conversation with her, but couldn't endure another 2 minutes (read, eternity). After another segment on these ginormous creatures, I looked to her to make a move for the remote. Surely, she'd want to watch reruns of "Friends." Right? After 3 seconds of a Saturn commercial, I snatched the remote and set up the Yankees game as option 2. I didn't bother to ask permission. I just flipped it to the Yes Network and didn't think twice. I didn't even have to watch the Yankees, I just couldn't stand to watch another commercial. She just gave me this look and smiled as she reclaimed control of the remote, making it clear that we were not in my man-crib and she'd be the one making the television choices. I returned her gaze with a quizzical look of my own. Doesn't everybody hate commercials? Doesn't every person think that commercials are the bane of his/her existence? I don't regret imposing my will and taking action. I would do it again if I had to.

City Time

Time is such an abstract concept. I'm not the only person to ever think about a specific dynamic related to time, but I have been thinking a lot about it recently. It's been described more precisely and better by others, and I'm not even willing to enter that competition, but the following is how I have reduced time in my head lately.

Sure, the seconds flutter away into minutes. The minutes sweep across the face of a clock into hours. The hours fade into sunrises and sunsets. Time - it's constantly moving, but I take comfort in the regularity of the progress.

In the city people are always racing against time, moving in a choreographed ballet along the sidewalks. They embrace the concept of perpetual motion and appear to be moving in a controlled rush to get somewhere. However, time slows to a snail's pace with regards to relationships. It isn't uncommon to meet a woman in her mid-thirties, who is unwed (read, single) and appears to be content. Maybe she hides it well, but her suburban counterpart is sprinting to the finish line with a husband and children in her minivan to Wal-Mart. One isn't right and the other wrong, they're just different. Funny how living in a city will make you think about time.

Exercise Clothes

"I've been reading your blog and I guess you're right about guys and girls being friends," she says as she instinctively tugs at her white Nike track jacket.

"It's really not a rule, it's just something I've noticed," I nervously confessed, realizing my inflammatory writing style. I stumbled around my mind for the words to describe my theory in greater detail, coping with the caffeine employed to mute my hangover.

Dating Deal-Breaker

Smoking. It's one of the few habits that I consider completely undesirable. Megan Fox could be a chronic nail biter or maybe even addicted to piercings or tattoos and I'd be able to stifle my vomit long enough to play the skin flute with her, but I draw the definitive line at smoking butts.

It was December 31st, and we headed to a rooftop apartment that a friend of a friend had rented. To say it was cold was an understatement. We climbed countless stairs in the decrepit Chelsea building en route to a New Year's celebration. We had sent texts back and forth to ensure that she was bringing her friends. We hadn't really seen each other until she moved to UES and I happened upon her on First Avenue walking her dog. A year and a half removed from college and the lines on their faces had become a little clearer, as the harshness of reality set in. We hugged and I kissed her cheek with a pleasant holiday greeting, but my eyes gravitated directly to her friend.

I hadn't seen her since we were freshmen at that school in Boston. She was weird. Maybe weird isn't the right word, but as a freshman she was convinced Boston wasn't for her. It wasn't New York. She was destined for New York. She had this demeanor that could only be described as indifference. Other guys found her to be intolerable, and disgustingly pretentious. Maybe that was the curse of a hyphenated last name or maybe it was attributed to her boyfriend from Europe, who she visited nearly every weekend. She was in my communications class and I was smitten. She had transferred to a school in the the Big Apple and I drowned the memory of her in pools of light beer in my mind. So you can imagine my delight when I saw her wearing her red dress and matching heels. She had just returned from the Dominican Republic and her tan was responsible and even. The six years that had passed were kind to her features, and had replaced an eighteen year old's figure with a mature appearance to match her aura. Her red lipstick and nail polish complimented her dress and shoes, and made me rethink my stance on this particular shade as an indication of a woman of loose morals. She was always kind enough to initiate small talk and would often digress from the weather into grander topics. You can imagine my fall, when she politely excused herself and shouldered her wool coat to take a few drags of a Parliament cigarette outside.

She was the type that would drive thirteen year old boys to smoke, despite years of D.A.R.E. training. She was effortlessly cool, sophisticated and had a mature sex appeal. She wasn't the Marlboro Man. She was intelligent, and when she delicately held the cigarette in between her long index and middle fingers it made me want to reconsider my dating deal-breaker. So instead of biting the bullet and licking the ash-tray, I opted to stare at my brother and gang full of solitary guys.

Ozzie Dies

I've decided on a mercy killing for Ozzie, the festering menace that has replaced my abdominal muscles. I'm going to take him out back and splatter his guts all over the pavement. Graphic, I know, but entirely necessary. Here's to New Year's resolutions in April. I'm committed (at least in my mind) to drinking less, making better decisions regarding food intake, and devoting more time to outdoor activity. I never fully grasped the significance of January 1st as the day that one would make life changes. Why not April 23rd? The date is just as arbitrary. I'm not really a work-out maniac, but I'm obsessed with the notion of making changes in my lifestyle and seeing the results, even if only temporary. I'm not stout or even portly and I do not stare at my furry body in the mirror and imagine a reflection that would make a young Arnold Schwarzenegger weep. While I do have an obsessive personality, body and image is a topic that I willfully ignore. My primary concern is the result, and beyond that, knowing that I'm capable of making a change. I find that notion particularly empowering and motivating.

Sconces & Candles

Upon crossing the threshold and entering the quiet studio, I start wondering what I've gotten myself into. She kisses well enough to lure me back to her place, and the years since college have kindly enhanced her figure, but something is odd. There aren't any pictures, posters, or art on the walls. Now, I can't really comment because my walls are barren and my room is more sterile than inviting, but I've got different reasons for that. The studio apartment is nice, and her country furniture goes well with the deep tones of her bedding and matches her chaise/lounge couch. It's not that. It's her candle fixation. Candles perched on sconces at every turn, and dried wax morphed like hardened lava being pulled by gravity downward. Even her "chandelier" above her elevated kitchen table/work area is void of light bulbs, equipped with tea lights instead. So when she turned out the lights and lit only three of these candles you can imagine my concern with her pyromaniac tendencies.

I don't get it. Why do girls love candles? It's like every girl's dream is to acquire more candles and scents than Yankee Candle. She was really a nice girl, and it had nothing to do with her piercing voice or being self-conscious about her body image. It was those God damned sconces. It's the 2000s, and we've got other sources of light besides candles. I had to leave because her apartment was eerily similar to the setting of a burlesque show.

Blue balls were a small price to pay to have every hair on my chest spared from being singed. I loathe the smell of hair burning; it's like roadkill...

Freelance Work

S.A.:"Hi. I'm S.A."
Girl: "Hi. I'm (irrelevant)."
[Time lapses as I drink myself stupid and say things that are undoubtedly funny, but are incomprehensible to her.]
S.A.: "So what do you do to pay the rent in this crazy city?"
Girl: "Freelance."
S.A.: "I'm sorry. Maybe I'm drunk, but could you describe freelance to me. I mean, I understand the concept, but it sounds like bullsh*t and leads me to believe your parents are subsidizing your extravagant lifestyle."
Girl: "Haha. You're such an ass. Freelance is anything you want it to be. For me it happens to be writing."
S.A.: "Oh that's cool. It sounds demanding. I'd imagine I'd be a good freelancer."

Opposite Sex

"Boys and girls can't be friends," I calmly explain to her. "It's not your fault. Actually it has nothing to do with you," I continue.

She darts a glance at me as I see the uncomfortable astonishment wash over her face.

I have this theory, well it's actually a rule. Boys and girls can not be friends. I should qualify the previous statement with the caveat that this friendship cannot exist without sexual tension. As a girl you will read this and think of every guy in your life that maintains the posture of a friend, hoping to expose the flaws in my logic.

There are many reasons that boys and girls are not friends. Chief among them is the fact that guys and girls often don't have much in common. The following example will plainly illustrate these differences. I met a girl, who conveniently lives on 81st in between Neurotic and Ridiculous. Upon meeting her at the bar for drinks and a bite to eat, it becomes painfully obvious that I'm in for hours of tortured misery. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a title claiming, "I brought you something. This book changed my life, but I don't need it anymore." Skinny Bitch was far from Earth-shattering and I did everything I could to stifle my involuntary reaction - laugh. That one gesture, while nice, set the tone for the night. After an hour we had covered the following topics: Skinny Bitch, going to school at F.I.T., and the strained relationship that developed between her father and her. At the brink of insanity, I made up an excuse to leave and walk her back to her apartment. During the walk I was accused of thinking that her Yves Saint Laurent bag was a fake, which is comical because I didn't even know that people cared about things like that, let alone whether this girl would actually own one. All in all the night was awful, but all was not lost as I got sufficiently drunk. In retrospect, this was a gigantic waste of time because when I think about it, I would have been a lot more content sitting on my couch playing Fifa with my roommate.

As a guy I'm concerned with a handful of things, which don't include handbags, fashion, shopping and Jolly Ranchers bathed in Zima. I like spending my time slugging beers, talking about sports, and talking about girls (read, sex).

Now let's talk about the male who you consider to be a friend, who you think has no interest in you sexually. It's true when you hang out you both have fun. He provides the male perspective when you curse my gender. Most important, he has not yet tried to cross the line and cop a feel. Now ask yourself if you've ever been in his company while he's blackout drunk. The answer is probably not, because if he was that inebriated he would have tried to swap spit with you (everyone knows it doesn't really count if he gets denied on account of being belligerent). He is not your friend. He just thinks he can endure months and even years of the title hoping that you'll become weak and eventually cave in to his pithy sexual innuendos.

Granted there are exceptions to every rule, but this one tends to withstand the test of time.

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.

Relative Truth

In an age when the world is spiraling out of control and people are faced with the foreclosures of houses that they never really could afford, I think it's important to be honest with yourself beyond your financial station in life. Honesty is important, but understand the caveat that the world is just layers of b.s. and we are just particular to our specific layer. Usually it requires someone telling you the harsh realities of, well, you. Someone to tell you that you're a certain way regardless of the way you perceive your own sense of self. Occasionally I like to refresh this concept in my mind, but now I've taken to committing it to ink, because there is a certain element of "truth" to things that are written.

While I think I'm completely normal to the rest of the inhabitants of this mixed-up world, I'll concede that: I'm self-deprecating, self-indulgent, unnecessarily abrasive, uncomfortably confident, miserably stuck in an unfulfilled career, presumptuous to a fault; I'm a spendthrift, quick to judge, preoccupied with death and illness, often holier-than-thou, and I err on the side of pessimism (I'm sure if I really thought about it I could devote an entire blog to each and those that haven't been mentioned). Some would look at this laundry list and think: how pathetic. I assure you that wasn't my intention with this exercise. Everybody knows their farts never stink, but occasionally it's important to consider what you present for others to consume for their sake of perception, as if you were gifting yourself to the world.

So how do you view yourself?

Dog Rebuttal

There are dog people and there are cat people; those remainders often are considered heartless. I'd like to make the argument that those that don't keep pets aren't necessarily heartless. My pet history would indicate that I'm a cat person, but ask me and I'll vehemently deny it. I've always considered myself a dog lover, but I've never been able to name, walk, or play with a dog of my own. I tried, believe me, I tried. I begged relentlessly as a young S.A. for a dog. My parents would ask what I wanted for Christmas, and I would reply, "a beagle." Instead of a beagle I'd get something that required less work, like the Treasure Island Lego set. For my birthday, my parents would ask me what I wanted with the stipulation that it couldn't be Nikes, so I would suggest a dog. No way, Jose. As I got older I tried to spin it one hundred different ways, like: we could use the companionship, Dad could blame his flatulence on the canine, Mom could get all of that exercise that she had promised. My parents never bent. No dog. Instead our family pets were goldfish and Reggie the outdoor cat. In case you had not noticed I blame my parents a great deal for "the way I am" today. My mom presented two reasons why we could never have a dog: 1) no matter how much my brother and I told her we would care for the canine, it would inevitably fall on her lap (she was right), and 2) she vowed to never own another dog after Kimo, my parents German Shepherd, and the heartbreak that ensued when he was killed chasing a tennis ball into oncoming traffic.

Today, I find myself praying for occasional rain to wash the urine and dog dung from the sidewalks so that I may have an unobstructed walk to the subway. At 24 and living on the UES, having a dog is all the rage. I am definitely a dog lover, but let's call a spade a spade. Dogs are eating, pissing, and crapping machines. So when a girl asks me why I don't get a dog, I think it's only appropriate to respond, "Because I can't take care of myself, let alone another breathing mammal." Immediately her eyes betray her smile as she laughs and I get placed into the heartless category. It's really fine. I don't expect that she understand my reasoning. She couldn't possibly understand that my parents don't contribute to my rent or that I couldn't physically walk the dog more than once a day. That, my friends, is animal cruelty.

Why do recent graduates, my age, feel compelled to get a dog? Is it because they're in such a rush to take on additional responsibility and divorce themselves completely from frat parties and beer? Is it for security in the city [certainly not with that Chihuahua]? Is it for the companionship [for both owner and dog]? Whatever the answer, it probably boils down to something that isn't fair to the animal, but somehow the owner manages to convince themselves that "it's no big deal." Believe me, my heart breaks every time I see Lilly, that gorgeous bulldog, drag her ass on the leash. However, I know if I got a dog, I'd bet kibbles to bits that the dog would end up in a shelter because I couldn't care for it as much as every UES girl would like to believe I could. The fact that I don't have any pets doesn't mean I'm heartless, just responsible. It has nothing to do with my ability to care or love you, so please forget what that psychologist said it means when she was quoted in that interview in Cosmo.

Ash Wednesday

Today marks the first day of Lent for Roman Catholics. Lent is a religious season, almost like a countdown for Jesus' resurrection on Easter. For me, Lent is a time when I try to avoid eating meat on Fridays and consider sacrificing something. In the recent past I've solely tried to observe the dietary restrictions, but this year I will try my hardest to "give up something." I figure the least I can do is attempt to curb this terrible habit of spewing curse words, considering Jesus died for man and all. I'm 99.99999% sure that I won't be able to make good on this little promise, but I figured it's worth a try, and for some unknown reason I think that if I write this down that it will stick.

One day down, and I haven't used a curse word, and I've noticed I'm much more pleasant to be around (which is a secondary objective for this season). Being sober at work is not really challenging; the real test will be when I'm at the bar teetering on my fourth beer and consider using curses as nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, etc. in an attempt to verbally chastise an UES girl. I guess we've all got our own crosses to bear, and mine just so happens to be a potty-free mouth. I've told people about my sacrifice and they can't help but laugh, "What do I get when you curse?" I guess my penalty is damnation in hell. I'd say that is a fairly dire consequence.

Primary Care

XI. Thou shall not consult the doctor, unless dead.

History tells us that this was actually a Commandment, and at the last second, as Moses was chiseling the letters into the stone tablets, God determined he liked round numbers and limited them to ten. No male, excuse me, hetero male consults the doctor. It's not due to religious beliefs, we're just genetically programmed to avoid the doctor. As men we can conquer anything if we put our minds to it, consider Al Gore's claims regarding the genesis of the intertubes. The Romans didn't seek out the doctor when faced with the flu-like symptoms, they sweat it out. A man sweats it out, and then goes to the megalopolis to participate in the early forms of democracy. A guy refuses a Z-Pac and goes straight to liquids, rest, steam therapy and countless loops of SportsCenter.

I'm 24 years old and haven't been to see the doctor since I was 18, when I saw the pediatrician for the mandatory physical before college. I don't even have a name or number of a general physician in NYC. It's always something that "I just never got around to." It was never something that I had even considered (finding a doctor), until I recently caught death making eyes at me.

I vowed that if I should defeat the virus spreading throughout my protoplasm that I would make it a priority to find one of these highly-trained lepers. Now that I'm over the rebel that tore through my body, I find that I am not really enthusiastic about finding a physician and could just fold it up and hide it in my mind again until I come down with something that brings me to inches within my life, when I'll be forced to consider it again. It's not that I think these highly educated doctors are anything more than snake-charmers, well I do, but it's not that. I've reached the point of no return. So much time has lapsed that I'm afraid of what these "experts" will say or might find. Maybe my cholesterol is too high, or my blood pressure is one that characterizes an unhealthy geriatric, or that I have testicular cancer, or that my liver can't sustain anymore beer. Thanks, but no thanks. I would rather not know. Ignorance is bliss. You know the saying.

I feel fine, but you never know what these quacks might suggest. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Part of me also is convinced that if I get a number of a doctor then I will become perpetually ill, even more than before (sans number). Yes it's idiotic. Having the number of a doctor does not increase the likelihood of me contracting diseases thus needing to call on him/her. Nobody said I wasn't superstitious. Not to mention I'm a man, and as men we extend our middle finger to western medicine (until it is absolutely necessary, and usually by this time it's too late). For now, I don't care if my leg needs to be amputated on account of the gangrene that's made itself visible, I still won't call the medic. Can you recommend a good doctor?

Roid Rage

Admittedly professional sports have had a diminishing role in my life as more personal minutiae has emerged to reign supreme. I used to be a fanatic. I used to devote endless hours to my favorite sports teams: The Yankees, Knicks, Rangers, and Giants. I can remember the spring of 1994, when the Rangers and Knicks were in the Stanley Cup Finals and NBA Finals, respectively. I had an excuse to come home everyday from school, eat dinner, and watch a game at night in lieu of completing my homework. This was supposed to be "the year" for New York sports. After 54 years the Rangers would take what was rightfully theirs on the broad shoulders of Captain Mark Messier, and with Michael Jordan retired from the NBA to "pursue baseball," Patrick Ewing and the Knicks would no longer be deprived of their birthright. The Rangers went on to bask in glory, and after that season I never really cared about being fanatical again. I remember what did it for me, the reason I no longer cared about memorizing baseball statistics from the back of Topps baseball cards. It was a scene in a movie that put everything in perspective. Sports were entertainment, and more importantly business. That point was perfectly demonstrated in a Bronx Tale, when an impressionable youth describes his infatuation with Mickey Mantle to a local mob boss. The boss ignores the fact that the kid has a sports hero that plays center field and goes on to tell him that nobody cares! A powerful statement, Mickey Mantle didn't care that the boy's father was struggling to pay rent, so why should the boy care about Mickey Mantle? It's true. It's like finding out that Santa Claus doesn't exist, but it's a lesson that every sport-loving kid needs to embrace.

I'll occasionally consult Espn.com or watch SportsCenter to stay current, but I'm barely conversational with regards to sporting events. That being said, Spring Training is the talk of the sporting world and there has been no bigger scandal than A. Rod admitting to ingesting a banned substance. SURPRISE! I could personally care less about this, and hardly consider it a news story. Cheating has been a part of sport since, well, forever. Rodriguez cheated. Ok. So what? The entire MLB roster cheated. In fact, Bud Selig might as well have been handing out syringes to save the dying sport of baseball.

The outrage doesn't lie in the fact that this supreme athlete cheated and enhanced his god-given ability into the richest contract in sports. The outrage lies in the fact that he broke the law. A. Rod will unlikely see the inside of a prison cell, but he should because he broke the law. If you or I get caught on "the pot," we would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Granted we don't make nearly the amount of money or posses the same celebrity as the third baseman, but we'd still be faced with the probability of prison. Blah blah blah - integrity of the game, etc. It disgusts me that a man can hit a baseball and is immune to the consequences that are associated with breaking the law in this country. Baseball and the perception of sport is broken, and has been for decades, going back as far as the Black Sox scandal of 1919 with "Shoeless Joe." It's no different than drinking and driving (over the limit). So the next time you get caught doing something illegal do not worry about going to jail because athletes like Michael Phelps, A. Rod, Roger Clemens, et. al. prove that jail isn't a viable option for those who break the law, or at least not for deities.

Democracy Prevails

The time to vote in my little poll has expired, and the masses have spoken. You nosy little perverts request that I post a photo. I will oblige within due time, seeing as this is the farthest thing from Communist Russia, and here in these United States the voice of the people is heard. There is one tiny problem. I don't own a digital camera or any passable substitute that may generate digital pixels of my likeness. I'll work on it. Hold on to your horses and be patient. I'll put it together. Thank yous, to all of those who participated and legitimately want to see this blog evolve.

Mad Libs

"Men in New York City suck!" Drink a different beer at a different bar - rinse & repeat ad nauseam. I have empathy for your plight. I really do, because people fundamentally want to find a mate (it's instinctual). Unfortunately for you every guy plays some variation of the following Mad Libs game when you expose the reason you aren't worthy of his affection: You're good, but you're not (blank) enough. You're not smart enough, attractive enough, fit enough, wealthy enough, creative enough, active enough, sane enough, holy enough, liberal enough, etc.

It's terrible, but it's true. You're aware of the immense competition that Gotham breeds because you subscribe to Timeout New York and Cosmopolitan, convinced that the answers are scattered within those pages. Think of it as an admissions process to get into Harvard, where the institution has all of the leverage in the situation, because after all it's Harvard. Multiple candidates got 1600 on their SATs, graduated in the top of their high school class with a 4.0, were in student government, and played sports. So how do you set yourself apart? Aside from being a published author at the tender age of 13, it's extremely difficult to distinguish yourself. You are faced with two choices: 1) don't apply to Harvard, or 2) differentiate yourself. Same holds true with men in Manhattan.

Is it really that hard to comprehend that you don't physically match up to the girl next to you at the bar, who gets paid to look the way she does (and often times is half naked in those magazines that you worship)? We call that a model, and they are abound in this city. I take back my previous statement: It's not difficult. It's damn near impossible. It's sickening that you'll never be enough. Perhaps you can individuate yourself by having a positive attitude for a change and refrain from using the opening quote (even if everyone knows it couldn't be more fitting). Then again, there's always Match.com.

Celebrity Deathmatch

It's not about the rusty trombone, or the Cincinnati bow-tie. It's not about the butt-hole pleasures. While all of those are certainly part of it, they do not indicate the potential for a lasting relationship. No. It's the ability for two parties to fight well and make-up even better. Being with someone is generally easy. They make you a better person, and you tend to rub off on them in a positive manner. When things are going well they are easy and everything is so simple. Your compatibility and relationship become tested at the first sign of a squall. The name calling commences, each individual points to an insignificant detail that preceded the others that was so obviously the source of the argument, the frustration mounts, and typing in CAPS lock becomes necessary.

I don't fight well. If my clay-mation figure was featured in Celebrity Deathmatch I'd undoubtedly grab any prop and or weapon to be sure to decapitate the other figurine. When I argue and fight it's no-holds-barred (so now you know). I punch below the belt (metaphorically speaking) and even bring up dead issues out of left field. Truth is, I hate fighting and look to avoid conflict at every turn; some say I'm a pussy, but I prefer pacifist . Sometimes it's inevitable. At 24, I've realized that I'm as mature as a 16 year old girl, who pouts when she doesn't get a pony for her sweet 16. My new measuring stick for relationships is my willingness to fight, and then resolve the issue. I'm usually quick to deliver a swift and decisive blow, but I'm as quick to apologize and point out that it's foolish to fight (just a waste of time and energy), and suggest moving on. Sometimes quarrels are an opportunity, a point to start over and create new and stronger foundations. Sometimes they indicate that differences can't be reconciled and the two parties fool each other into make-up sex and never see each other again.

Fighting is inevitable. It's how you deal with it that determines whether you want to or will spend significant amounts of time with the other.

*It should be noted that fighting with males is not really what this post is about, because if you piss a guy off he'll talk all sorts of junk to you/walk away/punch you in the face - and it's usually over.

Lifehouse Discography

Sometimes I can't help but feel that my life is unfolding like the Lifehouse discography. Just the right amount of angst, perfect allusions to depression, and that heartbreaking twinge of light at the end of the tunnel.

Worthless Tweeting

Maybe I'm old skool or maybe I'm just completely ignorant, but I can't understand the merits of Twitter. I understand what it is, and what it does. Blah blah blah micro-blog blah 140 characters, etc. I don't see the need for this additional noise on the already congested intertubes. I rarely find myself in the position where I need to know what another person is doing, and hardly think to do anything other than call that person when I do. Yeah that's great that Lance Armstrong posted to his Twitter account immediately after his bike was stolen. Who cares? Lance Armstrong doesn't care about my two functioning testicles, so why should I even consider his "miraculous" and tainted life? I've been reading a lot about the "Twitter Phenomenon" recently and I'm just bewildered. So I got to thinking. What would my Twitter read like on a Friday night?

SA@scripturalapothecary: Texting people & watching the woeful Knicks. (8PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Taking a dump, while reading MensHealth. (8:23PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Lathering soap on my body in the shower. (8:37PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: At Ryan's Daughter. (9:32PM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Drunk. Convincing a girl more drunk than me to put her tongue down my throat. (12:02AM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Sending drunk texts. (2:30AM)

SA@scripturalapothecary: Convincing the drunk girl in my bed that there is such a thing as a bad bj. (who really knows what time this is)

Interesting right? Doesn't your worthless little life feel enahanced after looking at my Twitter?

Immune Deficiency

Today the gods have me slated to play the role of Tom Hanks in Philadelphia (1993) in some twisted tragedy that will surely go unpublished. My immune system has been sufficiently defeated as I alternate between various liquids (tea, Gatorade, and water) and a deathly cocktail of over-the-counter decongestants to no avail. I've read ahead in the script, knowing we don't film the bedtime scene for another week, and I can see that I have a restless night where I pace around the apartment and consider overdosing on my roommate's unopened NyQuil and chase it with the remainder of the bottle of pink wine. It's only a matter of time before my withering dick unfixes itself from the rest of my body.

About Me

I was thinking today, as I searched other blogs, that the "About Me" portion of my blog is completely and unnecessarily redundant. Sure it's helpful if you want a quick abstract, but if you can't deduce (from the rest of the content) that I encounter women and drink lots of beer...well, then I guess the "About Me" section is reserved for you.

What started me on this "soul-searching" endeavor? Well, I was looking at another woman's blog and it was really well written, and I found myself wanting to find out more about her, which directed me to the "About Me" section. At the sight of her description I immediately wanted to perform a laparoscopy on this particular individual, to ensure that she could never poison the world with her spawn, what with a description that reads, "It's hard to say. ; P" That's it. Nothing like: I hug vegetables because I'm a maniacal vegetarian, nothing about her station in life, nothing about her interest in music, or even a reference to her favorite flavor of porn. Nothing. Just that terrible phrase, accentuated in all of its horrendous splendor by a pitiful emoticon. If you come across this particular twatwaffle, or any other description that lacks in such a flagrant manner, please don't hesitate to leave them a bunch of expletives in the comments section. K.Thx.Bye.

Tennis Shoes

By now we're all familiar with the cliche, that once we've struck it rich there will be something that we immediately buy, for whatever reason. Sometimes athletes will look to take care of their mother and buy them a mansion or maybe an actor will reward a family member with a Mercedes Benz. It's all so cliche, but I have one particularly special item that I will purchase upon "making" it. When I make my fortunes in the world I will skip the Bentley, skip the beach house in the Hamptons, skip hiring a personal chef and head directly to the nearest FootLocker. There I will buy the sneakers that I have wanted since 1997 - The Nike Air Max '97s. When they initially came out I was an eighth grader in middle school and tried to convince my parents that $160 was a small price to pay for my happiness, but they all of a sudden became selectively hard of hearing. Then in May of 2007, I was traveling throughout Europe and saw all of these filthy Italian kids with their D&G jeans and my favorite shoes. I walked into a shoe store and they were 160 Euros (x the $1.50 exchange rate), and I passed on them. Now I walk by shoe stores on a daily basis and see them calling for me, whispering in my ear, and begging me to stink them up, but I can't do it because I've committed my money elsewhere (namely rent and Ryan's). So when I finally make it to the PBA, the first thing I'm going to buy with all of that sweet moolah is a pair of Air Max '97s, because that's what I've always wanted.

Worthless LinkedIn

I'm sure it's really not worthless, but I can't see the value. MySpace for corporate nerds, that's how I'd define LinkedIn. It could probably prove invaluable to a recruiter, who spends hours surfing the web and bills it as work, because after all, he's searching for leads. There are also those fields that are tech-centric and users are conversational in this type of social networking, but I assure you finance isn't one of those professions. I have some "contacts" on LinkedIn that have north of 300 additional "contacts," and double digit recommendations. I think I am credited with 63 "contacts" and currently have zero recommendations [clearly power-user status].

I think the merits of the tool become exponentially greater when you are at least one job removed. I know my boss wouldn't write me a recommendation while I'm solely doing the work of our group. Why would he compromise his greatest asset by writing about what a workhorse I am? Another slight obstacle that arises is attributed to my boss' complete ignorance regarding all things computer. He can't even send an email properly, so he couldn't possibly be asked to sign up to some website in order to write me a recommendation. I have never heard of a success story or even someone being granted an interview via LinkedIn, so I will stick to my thesis that LinkedIn is analogous to Dungeon & Dragons, except it's acceptable in the work force.

Reader Feedback

Please participate in the poll that you see on the right of the screen. Your feedback is much appreciated and will dictate which direction I take with the layout of the blog. Clearly the content is not an issue, because it's beyond crappy and no poll could help that.