Month: June 2014

James

James sat at the dark, dimpled walnut bar in a four-legged stool with one leg too short. He sipped deliberately on two fingers of a blended Scotch whisky. It cost four times as much as a half-liter of local Pilsner, but this was a celebration.

This particular drinking establishment was built, it seemed, on a pile of trash. Stairs descended from the street into an area that may have once been the foundation for a more ambitious project, but which now comprised a sort of concrete hole in which all manner of stratified refuse could be found. From this depression rose a concrete structure, two stories in height and riddled with holes and graffiti.

But this strange two-story structure, having risen from basement level, reached only the same height as the adjacent structures, which were—mind you—infinitely better situated and significantly better-looking. The resulting visual effect of the queer structure was that of a smoking, volcanic island in a sea of trash, or an ill-proportioned game of Jenga rising from a newly formed crater. What surrounded this enigma was really a typical well-to-do bar district.

But to James, this particular bar was a castle with a moat—and a drawbridge—for you see, a length of stamped sheet metal was employed to bridge the precarious gap between the street and the concrete structure that comprised the bar, and not everyone was let in. Indeed, this was a bar that preferred foreigners—and at two blocks away from the United States Embassy, foreign professionals were not uncommon. Not to mention the wealth of European university students on exchange.

James had once been a student himself, much like those in this bar, but he didn’t particularly like the students. They received stipends, he’d heard—many of them well in excess of what was necessary to live comfortably. Alcohol balanced their books, in more than one sense. It was not uncommon for a student to blow a hundred Euro on a night out. The sheet-metal “drawbridge,” of course, kept out the locals, who did not have enormous stipends to spend on alcohol.

The floorboards throughout the bar had been torn up in what appeared to be a bout of abortive renovation, and so it had remained for many weeks now. James’s bar stool, already wobbly, became less predicable on a spongy, uneven floor, and James—this being his fourth Scotch—also became less predictable and more wobbly.

It was nearly three A.M. and the atmosphere in the bar was manic. Drinks were poured. Drinks were spilled. Students and embassy workers mingled and danced on the not-floorboards of the small, rickety space. Smoke filled the air. But the cause for James’s celebration was his own, and—at least in his mind—did not lend itself to the mania of European Erasmus students. Besides, he had already picked his poison. It did not matter that his poison had cost him nearly seventy dollars already—he felt content.

The seventy dollars, after all, was nothing compared to a bonus he had received for some information and a lead on a less-popular (and allegedly much-benighted) political party. Subversives, they were, and James had befriended them, which was what he did best. A little marijuana and a little beer went a long way toward friendship. The information that he had been hoping for had all flowed freely one night, and he had recorded it, as he often did. He did his own translation and sent the media and transcript, encrypted (his own precaution), to his “client.”

Already receiving a comfortable retainer for his mere existence on top of the adequate wages from tutoring English and (occasionally) writing academic papers for the largely incompetent children of the local upper-class, a bonus was unneeded but not unwelcome. James’s client himself had many clients, or so he was told. As he had explained it, though, it wasn’t just a “highest-bidder” system—there was a gradation. If a news story were every released regarding James’s findings, most of the details would be omitted—sold elsewhere on conditions of exclusivity. Sometimes James wondered how much his middle-man made, but right now (and as usual), he didn’t care.

The fifth Scotch always changed things, though. Suddenly, it seemed such a shame that his Audi coupe, parked on the street, would be driven back, less than a mile to his apartment, without a passenger. James thought in terms of opportunity costs and efficiency when he became drunk. He had been a straight-A student in economics, which was why he never completed the major. Only when inebriated did James sink into the utilitarian thought processes of an economist. His drunk self would have never driven a car less than a mile—it took the same amount of time to walk it. Regrettably, of course, he’d been sober when he made that decision. Now the challenge was to do the responsible thing (James always found Washington, D.C.’s HOV lanes quite charming, anyway) and at least fill his passenger seat on the way back. Carpooling.

The fifth Scotch not only changed things—it was also the easiest. Gone in seconds. Opportunity costs abound. James hit the dance floor, unapologetic. He was no older than the master’s students, he figured, and reserved the right to make a fool of himself on occasion. He was attractive enough, or at least dressed attractively enough, to not worry too much about it. A short, pretty Portuguese girl was laughing and hanging from his arm by the time the party dwindled, and he effectively dragged her across the drawbridge and shut her in the coupe. Before entering the driver’s side he smiled, happy for himself, and took a deep breath of cool, night air.

Suddenly, it was quiet, but James could only appreciate the volume of the ringing in his ears for a split-second after closing the door to the coupe. The Portuguese girl, now visibly sweating, had not only dug her hands under her thighs, but had started leaning forward in the seat. A familiar gesture. James closed his eyes and waited for the gush of vomit, preparing himself for the sound of a thick, viscous liquid meeting epoxy, carpet, and leather. How much would it cost to clean?

But the gush never came. When James opened his eyes (it could have been a full minute), the pretty Portuguese girl was gazing at him like a deer in headlights. James stared back, unsure of what to say, until she broke the silence.

She related to him that she didn’t want to have sex. She was afraid, broken for some or another reason. And instead of hot, viscous, gastrointestinal liquid, James heard the sound of emotional baggage ricocheting off the floor and seats. With the fifth Scotch still dominant, James promptly opened the passenger door and gestured for her to leave. There was a time in his life when he cherished these moments. Learning experiences, he’d thought.

He was older now. So he left the short, pretty Portuguese girl on the sidewalk in her heels and a short dress and sweater. For a whole hour, James did a circuit of the city, trying to make the most of the fact that he’d brought the car to his binge (and not brought anything home in it). With a fifth Scotch in him, the streetlights were heavenly beacons, the clutch was a cumulus cloud, and the impoverished street humanity of 5 A.M. were noble and gracious citizens. At 6 A.M., he decided that it had actually been quite an enjoyable night, but he would forget this, and most of what had transpired, when he woke up alone—stark naked—in bed at 2 P.M. to the sound of the cleaning lady knocking at the door.

Enormity

I went to a small-town high school graduation ceremony today. The valedictorian was a female with short hair, glasses, and the air of one looking down one’s nose. In her speech, she made it obvious that she felt restrained by the smallness of her small town and will leave as soon as possible. To surround herself with “better people,” of course.

It was, I must clarify, not directly reproachful—the self-aggrandizing despair was merely an undercurrent, albeit a strong one. She made several half-hearted attempts to appease the audience by suggesting that this school; these graduates were “good people” to surround oneself with. And it seemed to work—people thought it was a “nice” speech. And so, this girl, who already thinks she’s quite clever, seemed to get away with her subtle sarcasm.

But to momentarily disregard the valedictorian’s esoteric point—one phrase of hers really struck me. I don’t remember the exact context—some saccharine bullshit about how we ought to believe in ourselves—but it went like this.

“… the enormity of our dreams.”

Now—in case the reader is not aware, “enormity” does not, in fact, mean “immensity,” “enormousness,” or indeed have anything to do with mere size or quantity. Rather, an “enormity” is an “atrocious crime,” “vast baseness,” “outrageous monstrosity,” or something like that. Genocide, y’know?

In the quiet auditorium, though, I was the only one who laughed at the error. Haha. Wut an idiot.

But anyway, the phrase struck me as quite neat, despite her obvious misuse of the word. Especially in the context of a high school graduation—where nearly every dream on stage (and likely in the audience)—is an outrageous, irresponsibly misguided one. It makes me want to write greeting cards:

*cap and gown clip-art*

“Never give up, grad, despite the enormity of your dreams.”

*stock photograph of mass graves*

Xe

The feminine personal pronoun is “she.”

The masculine personal pronoun is “he.”

The neuter personal pronoun is either “it” or “he.” When we need a placeholder, we use “he” to denote either gender.

Oh, right, and “Man” means “humankind,” not “men.”

If you disagree, go learn Turkish or Esperanto or something (i.e., go fuck yourself).

Pancakes

So one time, I was at a pancake place in Los Angeles. It was a good pancake place—thick-cut bacon, biscuits, real maple syrup, and excessively tall stacks of whatever variety of pancakes your heart desired.

My heart desired banana-walnut, and that’s what I told them. I was given banana-walnut pancakes. They were delicious, of course, but I did not finish them (owing to the aforementioned excessively tall stacks). Thus, I was given a polystyrene box with which to transport them home.

I did not call Los Angeles “home” at the time, however—nor will I ever. Ever. And so I had the need to dispose of these pancakes and the desire to do so sooner rather than later. There was a homeless man on the sidewalk outside of the pancake place, panhandling. Because remember, we’re in Los Angeles. In which I will never live.

Anyway, I thought it would be nice to offload my excess pancakes in a productive, rather than wasteful, manner. Perhaps the homeless man would like some banana-walnut pancakes. And with this thought in mind, I approached the man seated on the pavement.

“Excuse me, sir, would you like some pancakes?”

He looked at me. He looked at the box. He took it, and opened the box. Here was my moment of societal vindication. Here was that precious, timeless moment of human understanding—of knowing glances and appreciation. Here was that moment that the Evangelists of the State, or of the badly translated Gospel, always spoke of as giving meaning to their work, and to their lives. I smiled in anticipation.

He handed the box back.

“Banana-walnut? Nah.”

Pay the man

It is conventional wisdom that your portfolio ought to be “diversified.” “Overexposure” to a single market or vehicle is bad. Risk must be dissipated.

This advice is proffered by wealth managers, fund managers, and bankers. These people make money by researching markets and trends, knowing more than the average investor, and skimming off the top for themselves the profits of market growth (or decline), real or fabricated. This profit is skimmed directly from your mindlessly “diversified” portfolio, and you are none the wiser, because you simply can’t know every market inside-out.

How about we get ourselves some experts to do the work for us, then, and give them some modest incentives to manage our money properly? That way, our investments can be diversified and professionally managed. Behold, the mutual fund!

Well, I used to have a mutual “growth fund” tracking the S&P 500. It was a simple, straightforward index fund—no frills. Blue chips, dividends, stability, growth. Well, one year, the S&P did better than 30%. I was excited and looked at my account. It grew by 12%. I started to get suspicious. Another year, there was a loss of 13% or so in the market and I lost 20%. I took my money out of that fund, but not before the managers made away with an enormous portion of my gains. I was between 15 and 18 when that money was being stolen from me.

What’s more (in case you think you’ve found yourself a good fund), there are SEC restrictions on what mutual funds can do, and much of it prevents the acquisition of aggressive holdings, and thus real alpha. The reason for such restrictions? Everyone’s pensions are in mutual funds, and nobody really knows what the hell their 401k is invested in. If they lose it, they lose everything. Not a good place for risk. So, for someone with real knowledge in a given market and enough agility, it is a cake walk to extract money from these funds, and thus, their constituents—among them, you. Behold, the financial industry!

Your choice? Either pay the man or get out of the market. The only alternative is to invest in what you already know, do a good deal of research in a sector, or go buy gold and blow up parliament.

“Diversification,” meanwhile, is just another word for bankruptcy.

Self-respect

Grandpa said he was fine, ripped out the IVs, rolled out of bed, mowed the lawn, and died a man in his own bed, bathroom, or yard.

You, however, will trust your lawyer, your doctor, and the RN who sticks suppositories up your ass. They’ll draw your blood every night, sternly call you “sir,” and sedate you until you stop breathing.

 

Jedi mind tricks

I think that most people want jobs for two basic reasons: (1) To garner friends’ and parents’ (misguided) respect and admiration or (2) To have everything taken care of for them, like tax withholding and health benefits. After getting out of school (babysitting, so your parents can go work off their debt to feel good about themselves), the natural impulse of our average automaton is to seek another nanny, and this impulse is satisfied by the gracious employer. You should be pleased to be in his thrall.

Nine-to-five daycare. Or prison. Being that most of us are slaves to school debt, car debt, or house debt, packing up and leaving a soul-sucking office job is usually not an option. So perhaps prison is a more apt comparison.

I’ve been talked at lately about how I’m wrong. How I ought to get a job. Join the ranks of the respectable. “Work your way up,” they say. “That’s how you get to do what you want.” Or, “you work to make money so you can do the things you want.” Whenever someone suggests this, I think of leeches, and the antiquated methods of physicians. Just a few more leeches and you’ll feel fine. Hang in there. You’ll be happy when you’re sixty-five.

Out of something I wouldn’t quite call “respect,” I have nonetheless applied for jobs. In fact, I just got an interview. I haven’t responded yet. They want to do a video-conference sort of thing. I am composing an email right now to tell them that if they cannot be arsed to meet me (they have an office ten minutes away), they should go fuck themselves, and not be surprised when the real, self-respecting talent slips through their fingers. Am I too proud? I’m also being blown off by a company that decided to make a few talentless, politically correct hires instead of me. I think I have a right to be peeved.

I looked up how expensive healthcare is. I figured, based on how manic everyone is about getting health benefits through work, that it’d cost a fortune. It doesn’t. It really doesn’t. I’m not saying I could afford it right now (I have more critical expenses), but it isn’t what people make it out to be.

By the way, there’s no such thing as “working your way up.” You will not own Google after working there for fifty years. You won’t even own shares. The twentysomething guy (with more balls, and friends, than you) who launches the threatening start-up next door will get the $200k/yr. and equity when he gets bought out for $3M. Not you. The best you’ll do is middle-management, which is itself a concept so fraught with saccharine moral hazard that you should be ashamed of thinking about it. This shit is not linear, and if you think it is, you’re a pawn.

But hey, that’s what you were taught to be.

Banker Wanker

Whom shall I marry? One wonders.

Tinker, tailor,
Soldier, sailor,
Rich man, poor man,
Beggar-man, thief.

Tinker, Tailor,
Soldier, Sailor,
Gentleman, Apothecary,
Plough-boy, Thief.

A laird, a lord,
A richman, a thief,
A tailor, a drummer,
A stealer o’ beef.

Lady, lady on the sea-shore,
She has children one to four,
The eldest one is twenty-four,
Then she shall marry a
Tinker, tailor . . . .

Kaiser, König,
Edelmann,
Bürger, Bauer,
Bettelmann.

Soldier brave,
Sailor true,
Skilled physician,
Oxford blue.

Gouty nobleman,
Squire so hale,
Dashing airman,
Curate pale.

Army, Navy,
Medicine, Law,
Church, Nobility,
Nothing at all.

The lattermost, no? But seriously, I wonder how valuable it is to deal in quantitative abstractions as a profession. I’ve begun to think lately that one’s “career” should be considered in light of primarily the immediate community in which one exists. Police officers and teachers, for instance, get uncomfortable smiles, and discounts. Doctors get a good deal of admiration. And mechanics—mechanics are just dirty doctors. But nobody anywhere gives a flying fuck about investment bankers. What did they do for the community? Skimmed personal and municipal profits? The only economy they improve is Colombia’s.

Even politicians and lawyers are at least potentially not wankers.

I am considering being a high-school guidance counselor. I have good advice.