Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Commuting

Nick Paumgarten, one of my favorite New Yorker writers, has a beautiful story about commuting in a recent issue. His elegant descriptions of something as mundane as driving a car back and forth everyday are really haunting, and his musings on the daily grind ("tedium broken by episodes of aggravation and despair") are certainly reminiscent of Cheever. Descriptions of modern-day offices have more than just an overtone of Orwell: "He slipped in through a side door and into his office; it was a little like going into a motel. There was no one around to greet him or to make small talk.
“Here are some of our products,” he said, showing me svelte ergonomic containers for soup (Campbell’s Soup at Hand) and dog treats (Pup-peroni to Go). There was a watercolor of his kids over his desk. We went to get a cup of coffee. A few lab workers in hairnets wandered about in the corridors. In the kitchen, a TV was playing an ad for Ambien."

Good lord, that's some good writin'.

Everyone Pile on the I-Banker

Recent developments have forced a cease-and-desist on I-banker-hating around these parts, so lucky for me, the rest of New York is picking up my slack.

I-bankers in the blogosphere must feel as I do when I go home for Thanksgiving or any other holiday and am verbally accosted and berated by froth-mouthed Republicans who feel it's their mission to convince me -- the invading Blue State heathen -- that carbon dioxide is not a greenhouse gas and that if Hillary Clinton is elected they will be forced to marry the hog that lives in their barn, and together the two shall pay 57% income tax, the proceeds of which will be used to support the illigetimate throngs of cloned children bred on the East Coast and used to harvest organs.

Some days I just wish they'd have a special wall set up for me at the airport for me when I fly into the Midwest; upon my departure from the plane, I'll stand in front of the wall and all the Republicans can throw tomatoes at me until their rage is slaked, and then I can go on about the rest of my visit in peace.

So anyway, I kind of sympathize with this guy except that, at the end of the day, he can go home and cry into the sleeve of his two-thousand-dollar suit, and I have only a scratchy generic tissue with which to wipe the tomatoes off.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Forgive My Absence

I realize I haven't posted in roundabout a hundred years, but I've been busy celebrating my friend Lacy's birthday. For most people, that consists of a one-evening bar outing, but Lacy looooooves his birthday and so this weekend the bacchanal raged on for not three hours but three days. If you want to live vicariously through the photos (taken with a very expensive magic camera that made everyone look hot -- even though I hadn't done my hair!), you can click that link. Me, I'm gonna go power down a few quarts of water in my continued efforts to recover from the insanity. I'll get back to you when I regain my ability to think, although to be honest, life is so peachy that I haven't had a lot to bitch about -- another reason I've been scarce around these parts.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

A Whale Lives in Brooklyn

Apparently, some poor creature that has been nicknamed Sludgie the Whale (a riff on the delicious ice-cream Fudgie the Whale cake) got lost during the recent storm in New York and ended up swimming in circles around the Gowanus Canal, a polluted slick of water that skulks around a mere five blocks from my house. Poor little guy, I hope he finds his way back to cleaner waters.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

IM Conversation of the Day

Me to Friend with Pregnant Wife: The due datemust be coming up soon, yes?

Friend: She might pop a bit early. For both of our sakes, I hope that's the case. [Wife] is doingwell, but she's basically had it with being pregnant. She's tired. She'scranky. She's sore. And she's been pretty successful in letting me know what it's like, which makes me tired, cranky, and sore.. What's going on with you?

Me: Some job interviews. New boyfriend.

Friend: What's with the new man? Who is he? How did you meet him? Andhow come you're calling him your boyfriend without vetting him through me first?

Me: Eh, I figured you were probably too busy going on Chunky Monkey/dill pickle runs to waste any time judging the latest float in my ongoing man-parade. :)

Food Porn

The Amateur Gourmet -- a guilty pleasure and nine times out of 10 my "first read" of the day before I get down to actual business -- has a lovely post today about the Gourmand tasting menu at 11 Madison Park, a place I've never been but has gotten all kinds of buzz this year thanks to innovations by new chef Daniel Humm. If you're into food porn, go read it. The descriptions of the dishes there left me in danger of drooling all over my sweater this morning as I read it while snarfing down a sad (and yet magically delicious!) little bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast. I gotta say, fake-marshmallow rainbows -- no matter how vividly colored -- pale in comparison to Adam's description of the foie gras torchon with rhubarb. Gurgle. I doubt that the picture do the food justice, and this is because I believe Adam, the writer, does not use flashes when he's in nice restaurants as they'd disturb other guests. I think that's courteous, so I don't mind. I also love the end of this piece where he says his boyfriend -- with whom he was celebrating his one-year anniversary -- was the best thing in his life -- "better than a langoustine." And judging by the looks of that langoustine, his boyfriend must be pretty great.

Speaking of food porn, Robyn, The Girl Who Ate Everything, had a post the other day about macarons that had such gorgeous pictures that it actually lured me out of my office, into the sunshine, and across the street to Rockefeller Center to visit La Maison du Chocolat -- which she declared had the best macarons in all of New York City. After spending a semester abroad from NYU in Paris (much of it seemingly in search of the perfect macaron), this is a woman who knows something about the gorgeous little French confections. I had never had a real French macaron, and I'm not even all that keen on sweets, but I know I'll be tempted by the macarons at LMdC every time I walk past. I sampled the rasberry and the salted caramel; both were fantastic, although I thought the rasberry had a slight edge. A long, slim, clear box of 12 macarons, which they sell at the shop, would make a fantastic hostess gift if you're ever looking for such a thing. At $2 each for a small macaron, these are not cheap treats, but I found them worth every penny, considering a bag of M&Ms costs a buck.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Week in Reviews

Since I have an ugly deadline rapidly approaching, now seems about the perfect time to procrastinate by writing a completely pointless post reviewing a few things I've been meaning to review. So here they are.

1) Dana Vachon's "Mergers & Acquisitions"

Damn, how I did NOT want to buy this book. I didn't want to give into the media frenzy. I didn't want to eat the hype. I wanted to distinguish myself from the rest of the fawning reviewers by turning up my nose at this book. Of course, given the recent hypocrisy around these parts, I ended buying not just ONE but TWO copies of this book (you're welcome, Dana), one for me and one for my boyfriend, who works in finance. And I can't put it down. It's hilarious, and I will never again gaze upon a chicken satay skewer without cracking up. This is a spot-on sendup of Manhattan's I-banking culture and it's just perfect. My friend Aileen describes it as "What happened when Holden Caulfield grew up," and I think that's pretty apt.

One thing I can't stop wondering since I've started reading it: How do the ladies respond to Dana Vachon the hot writer, compared with how they responded to Dana Vachon, the hot investment banker-slash-anonymous blogger of D-Nasty fame? Also, Dana Vachon, are you reading my blog? On page 79, with regard to the two-cheeked kiss, you are CLEARLY taking a page from my 2003 archives. (Sigh. These are the lengths to which I must go to marginally associate myself with greatness.)

2) Ringling Brothers/Barnum & Bailey Circus Bellobration

I've had a fascination with elephants ever since I was a little kid. The wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom of our old house sported a very 70's jungle-animals theme, with lions and tigers and zebras and giraffes and elephants. I'd hang out with my mom in that bathroom in the mornings while she got ready for the day, and I'd point at the animals and shout out their names (although, for some reason, I thought elephants were called WHA-toos, and I believe it was only when the kindergarten teachers threatened to give me a less-than-perfect score unless I came around that I changed my ways). Anyway, the point is, when I got invited to go watch the circus at Madison Square Garden on Tuesday, I was pretty excited to go spot me some wha-toos. The trapeze artists, elephant, dancing doggies and tiger shows were great -- eliciting ACTUAL SQUEALS and oohs and ahhs from the adults in attendance -- and it didn't hurt at all that we had nice seats in a corporate box that included free unlimited booze and Cracker Jacks and big trays full of pigs in blankets.

But a few words of advice for the fine brothers at Ringling: It's the circus. You don't need to try to infuse it with cultural relevancy by including bits about celebrating racial diversity. You don't need to rip off Cirque de Soleil -- we like the acrobats just fine. And for the love of Pete please stop with those horrible Bello-bration songs you blast over the loudspeakers. Just have elephants. And make them dance.

3) TheMud Truck at Astor Place

This is one damn fine cup of coffee. There's a Starbucks one block east, and another one block south, but please bypass them and get your coffee here. I'd venture to say it's the best cup of coffee in the entire city -- as far from acrid as can be and always with freshly steamed milk (not just dumped in cold out of a jug). In addition, there's eye candy for both the boys and the girls working the truck, and they're always ready with a smile and if the line is short a little conversation to boot. Not that I'm trying to objectify the baristas or anything! I'm just saying, it doesn't hurt. I don't know if it's the caffeine, the awesome coffee, or talking to the friendly folks inside the truck, but it's a really nice way to start the morning.

4) Cary Tennis

Cary Tennis has been a little insufferable as of late, but he has a totally interesting article today on pornography. I found it to be a very original view on why porn bothers some people, and also why and in what cases it can be harmful to people and couples. The letter that inspired the answer isn't very good, but his answer is -- and reader's comments on the matter make for just as interesting fodder on a very polarizing subject.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Life: The Cruel, Sweet Irony of It All

This blog has a few frequently recurring themes. Among them:

1) I was on the street, and someone catcalled me, harassed me, grabbed a tit, etc. These people are are rude, they ruin my day, and just once, I want to kick one of them in the crotch.

2) I grew up in the corn fields of South Dakota. Boy howdy is New York different!

3) Young investment bankers are pigheaded syphillitic cankers on society, and while they must be tolerated for career purposes, they are to be avoided socially at all costs.

So imagine my consternation now that I find myself happily ensconced in a relationship with none other than a hedge-fund analyst! Admittedly, hedge funds are not investment banks, but they do fall squarely within the realm of opportunistic finance. I imagine Life is having a pretty good laugh at me and my preconceived notions now.

While the relationship has been blissfully problem-free thus far (disregarding of course my tendency to snore like an overfed, alcoholic wildebeest, which ALWAYS ends up causing problems), it presents something of a challenge with regard to this blog. Because I may have just lost one of my top-three recurring topics.

Here's why. Last Friday, as I sat at a very nice steakhouse with the hedge-fund analyst in question (and for whom I am going to have to think of some kind of appropriate alias), I realized it would be AWFULLY hypocritical of me to go on blatantly insulting the men of the finance world if I was going to turn right around and let one of them buy me a thick, heavily marbled steak and an icy platter of fresh oysters. That just won't do. Plus, while *one* kindhearted hedge-fund analyst is not enough to redeem the marching troops of the entire finance industry, I'd hate to think he thinks he's included when I dismiss the lot of them as vampires who suck the very lifeblood from middle-class American homes and use it to drive up prices on midtown condos.

So I'm going to have to find a new variety of asshat to pick on when I need a quick shorthand for "pigheaded syphillitic canker on society." If not an I-banker, what?

I mean, hey, it's hard to criticize doctors for making money (and, knowing quite a few, they don't really make all that much, especially when you compare them to those greedy, gobbling I-ban....oh, WAIT. Crap!). See? See how hard this is?

Any ideas about who should receive the brunt of my vitriol from here out will be deeply appreciated.

Friday, April 06, 2007

C'Mon, Manhattan, I Thought We Had a Deal

What's up Manhattan? This is Brooklyn. I thought we had a deal.

This is how it's always worked: People who live in Manhattan get the coveted 212 area code. When they leave the city, they have Manhattan bragging rights with which to make Midwesterners and suburbanites jealous (since outside of the boroughs Brooklyn is known only as the place at which Miranda Hobbs turned up her pert little lawyer nose). Manhattanites can walk to work, and they're in close proximity to the high temples of gastronomy. We bow to you, Manhattan, and your captains of commerce and industry who plunk down a cool million to live in a 500-square foot studio in the West Village. We bask in your glow during the week, when we help support your many gyms and delis at lunch and downtown bars and cozy eateries at night.

Brooklynites, historically, have gotten something in exchange for our second-class status. We get bigger, cheaper, apartments with crown molding and character and fireplaces, and backyards in which to grill. We "endure" a 15-minute commute so we can enjoy trees and birds and open green spaces. We put up with jokes about B&T (even though we all know that means JERSEY and LONG ISLAND) because frankly, we like keeping the paradise that is Brooklyn a secret. The trashier you think it is, the fewer of you will come visit, and we can hog all of its brownstone glory for ourselves. We love having restaurants that deserve inclusion in the Michelin guide, but never make it because no one knows about them. And God forbid they do, or we'll never get in again: I'm looking at you, Good Fork.

But apparently, the secret got out.

Manhattan, you are now officially violating one of the key agreements of our deal: limited weekend inter-borough bar mingling.

This one has never been a problem for me. Come Friday at five, I get over the Brooklyn Bridge as fast as I can, back into the large, welcoming bosom of Brooklyn (aka "the Better Borough"). Bars in Manhattan are pleasant enough during the week. Starting Fridays I make way for the stampedes of B&T and horny investment bankers who are easily drawn to fisticuffs should someone accidentally step on their Kenneth Coles in a mad dash for a key bump in the bathroom. Girls with flat-ironed hair and 200 of daddy's dollars in their designer handbags stand 10 deep at the bar, impeding my ability to drink myself out of the distinctive misery that is a weekend in Manhattan. And once I finally get there, bartenders charge $18 for a skimpy pour of Stoli. No thanks, you can have it, Manhattan.

But YOU'RE GOING BACK ON YOUR END OF THE DEAL. You are turning the tables and invading Brooklyn on the weekends, Manhattan. Before, I could enjoy a leisurely game of bocce at Floyd or commandeer an entire section of couches and tables at Abilene for my birthday party. I could reliably depend that the men at any bar I chose would be either friends of friends or, if strangers, intelligent, floppy-haired, well-read gents who probably would LIKE to go home with me, but wouldn't try to get me to do so with cheesy pickup lines or by waving their huge fat wallet in my face.

Manhattan, we're going to have to renegotiate our terms. You're slowly taking my bars away from me; what have you got in return? Don't make me go to Queens. Just don't make me do it.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

"Security Theater"

Undercover agents were able to sneak 90% of weapons, bombs, liquid explosives and IEDs past security checkpoint screeners at Denver International Airport and 15 other airports around the country, according to a story leaked to a Colorado TV station by one of the agents.

I don't find this news surprising. While security at NYC airports routinely takes me less than five minutes to pass through, with a minimal amount of hassle, that's never made me feel relatively less safe than I do at airports like DIA, where they employ grim-faced, power-thirsty nitpickers to hassle and frustrate fliers -- because I don't think it matters much either way. No offense to the TSA, but most security screeners don't seem to be educationally qualified to outsmart a determined and wily terrorist. And security institutionally has always operated in an offensive, as opposed to defensive, manner with regard to thwarting terrorism. If the terrorists try to sneak in a shoe bomb, they start checking shoes. If a terrorist tries to make a bomb out of liquids, we start using travel sizes and having our Immodium and personal lubricants and other embarassing items hand-searched by bored TSA workers who toe the line on whatever the latest inane policy is but don't seem to employ any ingenuity or intuition with regard to something that might actually pose a new, previously un-thought of threat.

I've always found security at DIA to be particularly vexing. Lines are interminably long and the agents there are (seemingly) far pickier about what you can carry onto airplanes than they are here in good old New York, a place that you'd think, after Sept. 11, would have a much greater impetus to be thorough. I've sat at DIA while a security agent unpacked and repacked my carry-on bag four times - ON VIDEOTAPE-- in search of a cuticle trimmer that was stuck in the lining, spreading dirty clothes and camping gear out over a huge table while berating me for not knowing how to get to the offending item. A hatchet-haired TSA agent confiscated a jar of onion and pickle relish from Harry & David for being a few ounces over the size limit -- I guess they feared I'd brain a flight attendant with it, or something, or perhaps just mix it with some cream cheese for a delicious in-flight snack.

The list goes on, and with it I won't bore you, but I've always felt that I were participating unwittingly in some kind of absurdist government experiment designed to test the limits of human patience and stupidity and lull the unquestioning masses into a false sense of security.

Which is why I found it appropriate that the agent quoted in the article referred to what happens at our nation's airport lines as "security theater." An apt description, and a scary one.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Great New Media+Finance Read

My brilliant friend Dean -- former WSJ reporter, winner of the Pultizer Prize, Soros fellow, rock climber, expert backyard griller of fine meat products, and maker of a killer martini -- has a great new blog he's developing for Columbia Journalism Review covering financial media. It's called The Audit, and you can find it here. I have no doubt it will become a must-read for New York media and those who are interested in how newspapers cover business and finance.