In which I defile my classmates

DESPITE INSISTING MY FRIENDS avoid 4 Girls at all costs, apparently the reaction video would not suffice for a few. Behold as the shame spiral captures a five new victims.

Cluster H Watches 4 Girls

The pride of our alma mater.

Still thrilled.

I GOT MY SUMMER offer a week and four hours ago and I'm still absurdly happy about it. When I was pounding the pavement looking for an internship, a sense of dread would wash over me a couple times a day. Now, I'll be walking between classes and my mind will switch into recruiting mode, thinking about what I need to do, or who I need to call. And then it will hit me that I don't need to think about that anymore. My heart will swell a little and I'll smile. If it hits me while I'm standing waiting for the subway listening to music, I'll realize that I'm shaking my ass just a little to the beat.

It's weird to be this happy about something that you know is going to be really tough, something that's going to gobble up your personal life and be a source of stress in the future. But for now I'm trying not to think about that, and focusing on feeling like this:

Dooce - Leta Learns to Splash

splashing in the tub from dooce on Vimeo.
Next up, insanely cute puppies.

[Via Dooce]

Give it to me.

GUESS WHO'S GONNA BE gainfully employed this summer?

After suffering the slings of excessive self-doubt, after countless recruiting cocktails and conversations with a dozen firms, after a slew of interviews where I whipped out my MECE at every conceivable instant, your boy's got an offer from a great firm.

Needless to say, I'm stoked. It's a firm I'd jocked all semester - smart, fun, genuine people, interesting, meaningful work, great brand name.

Early on in the process, a second-year at school told me that the whole recruiting process was like dating. You're out trying to make it happen with someone, putting out your best. That's recruiting events.

You find someone you're clicking with, but you're more into them than they are into you. You're just trying to keep them from getting tired of you, so you flash a little leg and telling all your really good stories. That's interviewing.

Then, at some point in the relationship, the power switches hands and you realize the person you're seeing is really into you. Supposedly, that's what it's like after the offer comes.

And then you realize that you're both into each other, and you make a ten thousand babies.

Let's just say I'm really looking forward to this stage in the relationship.

Amerie - "Gotta Work"

"Show me someone without a goal, show me someone with no control."

Done. (Settle down!)

IT'S OVER! I took my last final this morning. It was beautiful. The only thing that would have made it better would have been if it had been proctored by the woman who proctored our Economics exam.

(To give you a preview of where this is going, there's a reason why proctor and proctologist begin the same way: they're both pains in the ass.)

This woman - who, I might add, had the most spectacularly hideous gold spectacles I've ever seen in my life - got into an argument with one of my classmates over whether she'd given him enough blue books for the test. We needed three, and right before telling us we could begin, she asked whether everyone had enough.

My classmate raised his hand. "You only gave me one."

"Impossible," she said curtly.

The room stopped, curiosity piqued. Impossible? Really?

"Well, I only have one," he said, slightly befuddled.

"That's impossible."

A few of us laughed.

"Settle down!" she said, as if we were middle schoolers. "Everyone settle down!"

Emboldened, my classmate asked, "Can I have my blue books now?"

Her eyes narrowed behind her remarkable glasses. After a moment, apparently having failed to think of a single valid reason why someone would steal two blue books, she walked up the aisle and slapped them onto his desk.

"Alright people, settle down. I said settle down!" At this point, my mouth was literally hanging open. "You may begin."


AS I PUSHED THE SUBMIT button to finish my exam today, I said a silent goodbye to that woman, who basically summed up my entire first semester: absurdly hideous, emotionally trying, and yet somehow, in retrospect, worth the pain.

Still, glad it's over.

Teen Girl Squad #4

"I love you too, Brett."

This is for my people. My business school people.

TAKEN (ALMOST) DIRECTLY FROM a textbook I'm studying today:

A physicist, a geologist, and an economist are stuck at the bottom of a 40-foot pit. They've been stuck for days, and are on the brink of dehydration. They've tried everything they can think of to get out of the pit, tried dozens of hair-brained schemes based on their knowledge of physics and chemistry, and nothing has worked.

Finally, the scientists turn to the economist.

"We're out of ideas. Isn't there anything from your training that could get us out of here?"

The economist thinks for a moment.

"Sure. Assume a ladder."

Oh man, it's funny 'cause it's true. Is reading Corporate Finance fun or what?

Vanilla Sky - "Umbrella"

Assume a US fanbase.

Your wake-up call killed my buzz

I'VE HAD ENOUGH of being odd man out because I happen to sleep with men on the odd night out.

Tonight, hanging out with classmates from school, I endured four separate incidents of people using the word "gay" in a derogatory way. Each time, the person realized what they'd said and apologized profusely. In that moment, this formerly "innocuous" word, this synonym for "lame" or "weird" or "uncool," came crashing into a the reality of a person they know and, on some level, think of as a friend. My hope is that it's a powerful moment for them, and that they never use the word in that way again.

For me, though, the whole experience is a total drag. Yes, on some level I'm glad that I can facilitate greater awareness of the issue, but I'm not hanging out drinking beers with you because I want to raise social consciousness. I'm out because I'm one of the guys - note! not because I want to be one of the guys, but because I actually am one of the guys - and suddenly, I'm forced into being something other than one of the guys. I'm a gay guy. I'm a stand-in for the issue. My sex life is the topic of conversation (in the most boring way) because you've put your foot in your mouth.

What's more, I spend the next few minutes reassuring you that it's cool, that I know you're not a homophobe, that I know I'm the first gay guy you've actually known, really known, that you'd never really thought about the word that way before. The truth is, although I'm the one who should be offended, we're back to talking about you. We're back to soothing your ego.

And you know what? Fuck that. I am not gay for the purpose of straight people.

Once and for all, let me enumerate the things I am not:

I am not your wake up call.

I am not your kicky, zany best friend.

I am not your interior decorator.

I am not your shopping partner.

I am not your next-best option on a Friday night.

I am not your musclebound (unfortunately) sex-crazed club kid.

I am not your trendy accessory.

I am not your Real World token cast member.

I am not your hair stylist, and I am not giving you a makeover of any kind.

And to prove it all, I give you Margaret Cho. (Ha!)

Margaret Cho - "ITOTIW, Part 1/10"

"You go girl! You go! No, I mean you go! Bye!"

This goose is cooked.

WE'RE SMACK DAB in the middle of finals right now. Two down, three to go. I've been attacking Economics problem sets like a wounded creature in a last ditch effort for survival, but thanks to two friends in the library, I've powered through a lot longer than I thought I would.

The library is a mixed blessing. On one hand, you look around and see other people studying, which motivates you to keep going. On the other, even with headphones on and a nose to your practice exam, you're fair game for any random conversation your study partners desire.

Tonight's topic of choice: Top Hotties, proving that the nation's future business leaders think with their wangs and snizzes as much as they do with their dope Excel models and cheat sheets. Emails have been exchanged, lists made, conferences held.

The problem with making these definitive judgments during exam period is that people tend to develop Library Hot. That guy you wouldn't look twice at during the semester? You're suddenly thinking he might be doable in the dim, florescent lights of the library stairwells. That girl who hasn't changed her sweatpants in five days, and who you suspect may be sleeping in a pile of crumpled Accounting notes? You're suddenly certain she needs to get a life.

Avoiding the trap of Library Hot is the main reason we all need to take a study break every now and then. Step out of the library and onto the street and remember what normal people look like. People who shower. People who manage to pull a brush through their hair. People who don't look like they've been awakened in the night by a rushing mind thinking, "Assets equals liabilities plus owners equity."

Or maybe to see people who have more important things to worry about than whether they get that job at Goldman they don't really want, but God dammit, they've worked for it and they're going to get what they deserve.

Gui Boratto - "Beautiful Life"

It's okay, Nana. We all drop fruit sometimes.

1 perfect thank you note won't get you a job. 100 perfect thank you notes just might.

LIKE A MAJORITY OF FIRST-YEAR business school students, I'm in the middle of the summer internship search. I'm gunning for a job in consulting, and applications are due in a few weeks for the big firms. Like any other Type-A overachiever, I'm doing as much as I can to make sure that when I pull the lever on the big employment slot machine, I pull cherries or sevens and not... uh... you know, something that leaves me without job.

The hardest part about this whole job search thing is the fact that, ultimately, it's out of my hands.

This is hard for me to accept.

I don't do hard drugs. I don't gamble. I don't fall in love easily, as any number of ex-boyfriends can attest. Not because they're stupid things to do (which they are), but because they require you to surrender yourself to something else: a chemical, chance, or someone else's uncertain affection.

My father may be surprised to read about this need for control. I frequently leave on trips without a map, directions, or even a precise destination address. Yet I know that I can always call him and he'll tell me where I've managed to wind up, and how to get where I'm going, thereby providing the illusion of control. (All that said, I pray he's not actually reading this blog, as it occasionally acknowledges the existence of sex and that I have a semi-functional sex drive. Dad, if you're reading this, those things are lies. Also, Hillary made me do it).

I know that I'll eventually need to give up on this need, that being successful eventually becomes less about doing the right thing all the time, and more about leveraging a rare moment of possibility and otherwise rolling with the punches. It's hard to make that shift, though, when doing what I can to determine the outcome of uncertain periods has been relatively successful.

Here's hoping the illusion lasts a little longer.

Ida Maria - "Oh My God"

"You think I'm in control? Oh my God."

How To: Dissuade Potential Suitors

TONIGHT THE SCHOOL HOSTED a bunch of prospective gay students who wanted to learn more about the school and gayness thereat.

I was tempted to stand up and say, "Our schoolwork is indiscriminate in its brutality, and everyone, gay and straight alike, is generally miserable. The only difference is that us gays aren't making up for it by finding hot future hedge fund managers at happy hour. Questions?" But I bit my tongue, and put on my best salesman face.

I spent most of the evening talking to a guy who was more interested in discussing his recent break-up than he was in learning about the school. Fine. If you want me to play psychologist, its an open bar and I'm not going anywhere.

"How do you think I can get him back? Should I make him feel really guilty?"

"Um... that may not be the best course of action," I said, feigning thoughtfulness. "I'd say play it cool. Act like you don't want him back and you're okay without him."

"But I do want him back," he said, his well-groomed brows furrowing.

"Right, but you need to even the power out a bit."

"So you don't think I should try to make him miserable?"

"No," I said firmly.

"But I want him back," he reiterated, seeming to suggest I hadn't understood earlier.

"Well, that's sort of his decision, right? Not yours. Maybe you should try dating someone else? Get out there a bit."

"I just joined a whole bunch of websites. Facebook, Connexion, Myspace, and then a bunch of sex ones."

"Well, that's... ah... a start."

"Are you on any?" he asked, looking at me over the top of his drink.

"Personally, I'm more of a Facebook and Friendster kind of guy."

"I like the sex ones."

"Well... heh... I mean, I'm like one cat and a hitch trailer away from being a lesbian," I said, using standby lesbian humor to make myself less uncomfortable. "I mean, that's just me. For you, uh... I'm sure it's really nice?"

"I like that there's no pretense about why you're there."

"That's... uh... true."

"So I'd like to take you out on a date sometime."

It's a wonder anyone dates. Ever.

A Very Hairy Jake Gyllenhaal

LAST WEEK, MAHMOUD AMADINEJAD visited Columbia. Amadinejad said that there were no gays in Iran. My response: "Not anymore!"

Coming out of the speech, the big controversy, of course, was whether it was appropriate for Columbia President Lee Bollinger to rip a world leader a ragged new asshole, effectively performing the most spectacular magic trick of all time by making the man almost seem like a sympathetic figure.

The second biggest controversy, however, was the age old question: "Hot or Not?"

I'm going to pull a Hillary Clinton and straddle the fence so as to avoid offending anyone (thereby annoying everyone). Although he's not an unattractive man, I've personally never been into the whole "bad boy (read: crazed despot)" thing. I mean, ride a motorcycle (even better, a Vespa and a helmet), but murdering your own citizens is a bridge too far. That said, Osama should buy stock in Just For Men. Yum!

I will say that, rather than being a total douche whose balls must have fallen out his pants leg on the walk to the podium, Bollinger should have (used a time machine and) played this video from the SNL premier this past weekend.

SNL Digital Short - "IRAN"

Andy, if I go tanning will you love my butter pecan thighs?

New habit, same as the old habit

THERE'S NOT MUCH I can say about La Lohan's recent run in with The Laws, aka Sweet Sweet Justice, so I'm not even going to try. I'll let the picture below say it all.

But before I do, how has my blog become a source for celebrity arrest jokes and mildly raunchy (slash, totally sweet) makeout stories? What has become of my life? Let's all hop in the wayback machine to a time ("Professor, send us to 1999!") when I worked hard and envisioned making something of my life. Now I can't even manage finding someplace to store my shit (not to mention myself) in the NYSizzle, despite the fact that I'm moving in about two weeks.

Let's hop forward a few years to college. Remember when I was a religion major? A poet? That's interesting right? "Oh! What an unusual combination, religion and creative writing," you'd say, secretly worried I'd end up on the street (which I still might yet if NYC has anything to say about it).

"Not that unusual," I would say, "Just think of the Bible as a long, surprisingly popular piece of creative writing, heavy on the voodoo and the smiting." And then me and the religious fundamentalists would laugh and laugh...

And now business school? That's where unusual uniqueness goes to die. It's a slippery slope to a Bloomberg and coke habit to call my own.

So bring on the Lohan. Say what you will about her, but she's always there, making me feel better about my minor concerns in life. Thank you, Lindsay. Thank you.


[via lolhan]

West Side walk it out

THIS WEEKEND I'M HEADED up to New York City to look for an apartment. I'm sure it's going to be a treat and am fully planning to traipse all over the West Side of Manhattan. If that woman from my school's off-campus housing office is correct, my goal of finding a place to live is sad, absurd and laughable, so you all need to cross your fingers for me.

What is it about an impending move to New York that makes everyone feel like they need to tell you horror stories about apartments and moves? Over the past few weeks I've heard more stories about moving back in with your parents, the untold pleasures of living in converted closets, and weeks of couch surfing. I've gotten advice on how to deal with corrupt brokers and the best places to store your belongings in the inevitable occurrence that you wind up homeless for a few weeks. All of the conversations inevitable end with a chipper, "I'm sure you'll find a place, though!"

If I do wind up finding an apartment, I'll flat out dance for joy. I'll bust a joyful Gwen Verdon.

[Thanks O for suggesting this brilliant YouTube video mashup.]

Gwen Verdon - Walk It Out

Fosse also invented crypt walking.

But are you calling my mom a pikey?

I'M STARTING BUSINESS SCHOOL in New York next year. I was thrilled with the school early on in the application process (hence my decision to apply early), and was, for obvious reasons, quite happy with the school when they decided to accept me.

Since then, it's been downhill. A meager financial aid package. A confusing website. Different ID names and passwords for everything. Systems and departments that don't speak to each other. Surprise charges. Through all of this, though, the saving grace has been all of the unhelpful and unpleasant people, people who treat me as if my confusion, my very existence, was a chafe on their soul.

Today was the latest in a growing list of indignities. I called the Off Campus Housing Office (because I have no chance of getting university housing), and asked a simple question: What paperwork should I bring with me on my apartment search?

From the beginning, the woman was a terror. She all but made fun of me for thinking I could find an apartment in New York with an August 1 move in date in early July. When I asked her the best time to start looking, she suggested three or four weeks from now. When I pointed out that four weeks from now was, in fact, August 1st, she told me tersely that the rental market was tight (really? in New York?), and suggested that I give myself two or three weeks to find a place. Ignoring the fact that two or three weeks from three or four weeks from now would be the middle of August, I told her that I had a full time job in another city, and that I would need to find something with a tad more alacrity.

I could almost hear her disinterested shrug.

"You may not find a place then."

I was flabbergasted. This woman's job was to help students find off campus housing, and here she was telling me that I would begin classes without a place to live. In effect, she was saying that she couldn't give two shits about the underlying purpose of her job, her sole reason for coming to work every day, the very reason her position, her entire department, existed. She was suggesting that I begin at her school (the honor for which I am paying upwards of $140K) living on the streets.

She must have taken my silence as some sort of grudging acquiesce to her flawless job performance.

"I need to go," she said. "The office closes at five o'clock."

It was 5:02.

It was then that I began to imagine having a Lauren Cooper conversation.

"I ain't bovvered," I would say.

"Excuse me?"

"Do I look bovvered?"

"Sir, the office is closed."

"But I ain't even bovvered though."

"What do you..."

"Are you calling me fat?"

Instead I said, in my fake happiest voice, "Well, gosh, thanks so much! You've been such a big help. I'll be in touch from my lean-to shantytown!"

Catherine Tate - Lauren Cooper Gets Murried

"I ain't even bovvered tho."