On this blog, I’ve often written about my plans to leave finance and pursue a career as a starving writer.  Of course, like forgiveness, skydiving, or not-cringing-when-viewing-an-ugly-baby, it’s easier said than done.  However, over the past few months, I have been hard at work to try and actually make it happen.

So, attached is a registered WGA spec script that I wrote a couple months ago for the TV show 30 Rock.  If you’ve seen the show and have some free time, I welcome you to give it a read.  Any comments, thoughts, and suggestions (like “don’t quit your day job,” or “my cat could craft better plots with his feces than you,” or “you are a genius sent straight from heaven to shine light in my life”) would be greatly appreciated.

And if you do reference your cat’s bowel movements, I will forgive you.  Or, at least I’ll try.

“Easy Birth Oven” – Copyrighted and registered with the WGA, 2009

The Premise: Jack unveils a new GE product for aspiring mothers.  As a result, Liz and Jenna fight over who would be the better mom.  And Tracy decides to take the SATs, to the delight of the writing staff.

One of the virtues of being an alum is that people start asking for your expert advice.  This past weekend, I attended a business conference in Boston, where I met several ambitious young women who all want to land fancy jobs after college.   They showered me with a barrage of inquiries: What interests should I include on my resume?  What kind of suit should I wear to my banking interview?  What about job sites, high school achievements, appropriate networking etiquette?  Finance vs. consulting, pants vs. skirts, New York vs. not New York?  And, my favorite question (if only for its implications that I’m somehow a career sensei): How do I become as wildly successful as you are?

Well, I’m here to say that it’s tough.  Some people just aren’t born with my natural charm, superior intelligence, and strikingly good looks.  But even if you’re awkward, stupid, and heinously ugly, you could still get struck by lightning.  And in this metaphor, lightning equals getting a job.

Given that you’re all astute business students, here is a Porter’s Five Forces diagram to show how the job landscape.

So, good luck everyone.  And if the job thing doesn’t work out, you can always turn to blogging (or, moving to India).

* Yes, the title is from a Kelly Clarkson song.  I’m not ashamed.

During the summer before my senior year of college, I did an internship at a large investment bank in New York.  To get the job, I professed my love for DCF models and calculating betas.  I made myself sound like the most interesting person in the world: “I enjoy reading Reuters.com, making data tables in Excel, and taking nonlinear walks along the beach.  I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer A&W.  That company’s got quite the cash flow.”

I suppose it worked.  I accepted an offer from a prestigious bank in midtown Manhattan, working in equity research for the summer of 2006.

I thought I would need a few weeks to determine whether I’d find my calling in finance.  But after just a few days, I already hated it.  I hated the dress code, the formality, the hierarchy, and the Big Brother-ness of it all.  I hated the work, which teetered between mundane and soul-sucking.  Most days, I just felt like a highly-paid supermarket cashier, plugging in numbers and being rude.  I quickly learned that there were three tenets of business: 1) Jerkiness is a coveted personality trait…  2) “Fuck” can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, insult, directive, and occasionally, term of endearment…  3) Lastly, in order to fit in, you have to be strongly opinionated about HR, women leaders, and taxes.  (The opinion must also be negative, although you can “support them in concept.”)

Throughout the summer, I felt like I was part of a giant sociological experiment, where you throw fifty impressionable college kids into (what I would consider) the worst job in the world (except, maybe, dairy farming) and record their reaction.  The people who loved it also seemed to hate it as well, but they had all accepted that hatefulness was part of the job, and therefore it was palatable.  And for a summer at least, it was palatable, especially given the fact that we were well-paid, well-fed, and living in New York with an unlimited reign over the four-letter word dictionary.

Nearing the end of my two-month stint, I had to meet with HR (ugh) to discuss full-time opportunities.  The bank was well-known for only hiring first-years from its summer intern class.  Even though I knew, deep down, that I didn’t want to do this for two full years, I still wanted to get an offer.  I still wanted to have a job lined up, even though I swore I wouldn’t take it.  I wouldn’t.  Even though it was a prestigious firm.  I wouldn’t.  Even though I’d built up a strong network.  I wouldn’t.  Even though I’d get to live comfortably in New York City.  I wouldn’t.  Or would I?

During my session with HR, I was bombarded with a barrage of questions that I hadn’t prepared for: “What are your three biggest weaknesses?  What would you title your autobiography?  Which historical figure do you identify with most?”  To the last question, I blurted out “Abraham Lincoln,” after a long, awkward silence in which I contemplated whether Chairman Mao had any redeeming qualities.  (For some reason, he’s the first “historical figure” that pops into my head.)  After trying to justify to HR that Abe was a perfectly legitimate answer (“I see myself in him through his honesty…his passion for humanity…his log cabin roots”), I realized that I would always be better at BS-ing about Lincoln than modeling cash flows.

So when I got my full-time offer, I turned it down.  I took another job, still in finance, but at a media company where I could learn to hone my creative talents.   And now, two years later, as I’m coming to the end of my term, I have to make another decision — whether to stay in my backup plan, or to go ahead and do something crazy, like compare myself to Abraham Lincoln.  Like eschew a stable finance career for the peripatetic life of a starving writer.  I’m leaning towards the latter, because I’m young, hungry, and ready to give it a real shot.  And as they say, it will work itself out in the end…

After all, the full-time offer I turned down, in the winter of 2006, was from Lehman Brothers.

Tuesday, 1 PM: I’m getting water from the kitchen when I run into a co-worker gazing out the window.  There’s a beautiful rooftop garden on one of the buildings nearby.  “I never see anyone up there though,” I say.

My co-worker shrugs. “Maybe they won’t let people outside because they’re afraid they’ll jump.”  The building is owned by a financial company, of course.

I point at the window that we’re looking out of.  “Well, we could jump out here, too,” I say, jokingly.

I receive a blank stare from my co-worker, followed by a nervous laugh and a worried-for-you expression… Hmm, maybe this wasn’t a joke-able topic.  I try to salvage my non-suicidal reputation by saying, “Not like we would… merely an observation…”  This only leads to another concerned look, so I finally just blurt out: “How ’bout them Yankees?”

… But come on–like I’d really jump out a window to my death?  If I actually wanted to, I’d do it from a rooftop garden.  I gotta have a classy exit.  I’m in finance after all.

When you graduate from college, your circle of friends will inevitably do two things: #1 – Promise to visit each other and stay friends forever and ever and ever, and #2 – Create a mailing list with a clever title, like “She Wolves” or “Homies Sweet Homies.”  Really, #2 is for when you realize that #1 won’t work out, especially if your friends are bankers.

The friends’ mailing list is sacred: within its archives, you will find serious discussions, biting arguments, soliloquies, confessions, rambles, insults, and of course, gossip.  On my mailing list, some recent topics of conversation included: Halloween costumes, celebrity baby names, spelling, becoming fat because your friends are fat, thoughts on academic freedom/torture, and Miley Cyrus.  Naturally.

Of course, besides heated discussion about talentless seventeen year-olds, the main purpose of the mailing list is to share absurd links with your friends.  So, here are some obscure links from my industrious group of procrastinating friends.

• Ad for “Georgetown sophomore seeking a personal assistant“:   Apparently, the sophomore is looking for a fellow undergrad to be his bitch: to “organize closet / make bed / and do laundry” for him, amongst other tasks.  He’ll pay $12/hour, plus “bonus” opportunities.  This has got to be the most blatant case of sex-soliciting in DC since Larry Craig.
• Profile of Ashley Tellis, Senior Associate at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace: With the message, “What would an ‘Ashley Tellis’ look like to you? I think: white, mid-40s, hippie parents with a questionable taste in first names.”  See the picture above, from the link to Carnegie’s website.  Yes, that is Ashley Tellis.  Viva assimilation!
• The Cat Game: Okay, I have to admit that my mom actually sent this to me.  But then a college friend sent it as well, so I suppose my mom is just that cool (or, my friends are just that lame).  This may ruin a good half-hour of your time, but it’s worth it when you finally corral that stupid black cat.

]]> http://freshisback.com/2009/11/02/mailing-lists/feed/ 0 FRESHisBACK tellis_color_medium http://freshisback.com/2009/10/29/personals/ http://freshisback.com/2009/10/29/personals/#comments Thu, 29 Oct 2009 04:44:41 +0000 FRESHisBACK http://freshisback.com/?p=2433 ]]>

When you graduate from Harvard, you’re automatically put on the distribution list for Harvard Magazine, a monthly publication full of big words and BMW spreads.  Each month, I eagerly await my issue.  When I finally get it in the mail, I go straight to the classifieds, to the land of people who love Mozart, clam bakes, and “the outdoors.”  There is truly nothing more entertaining than reading Harvard personals.

Every personal ad in Harvard Mag starts out the same.  It’s almost always a woman, over 40, who is “sensual” and “witty.”  I imagine that prior to placing this ad, she’s endured several blind dates, countless eHarmony mismatches, and more than a few country club flings.

In this month’s issue (Nov-Dec), there were 25 personal ads.

• 21 of the 25 ads were taken out by women looking for men (only 1 was for a man looking for a woman… the 3 others were dating service ads)
• 3 of the women were CEOs or CFOs
• 5 ads mentioned France or something French… examples of appropriate shout-outs: joie de vive, coq au vin, Musée de Orsay
• Hobbies that received multiple mentions: traveling, skiing, photography, Maine, birdwatching, and biscuits

I don’t know why I get so much pleasure from reading the mini-resumes of the old and lonely.  Perhaps I’m seeing my future… I have to pick up tips on how to write my own personal ad, twenty years from now.

So, how will it go?  Here are some lines I liked from this month’s magazine:

“Feel like an unpaired electron?” … I do!  All the time.  And you do too?  Well… isn’t that ionic?

“Extremely cute… dark alluring eyes hint at mystery and reveal quick intelligence and happy surprises.” …This is from the first woman who likes biscuits.  She also describes herself as “slender”.  Are you happily surprised?

“Magic ability to playfully enjoy humor.” …This is the second woman who likes biscuits.  She would like my “ionic” joke.  Blame it on magic.

“Looking forward to meeting personable man (59-73)” … Apparently, 74 is just too old.  And unless she has a strange aversion to numbers 58 and below, I’m guessing that she is 59 years old.  She ain’t no cradle robber.

“Great legs.  Classy, approachable, adventurous… can catch 75lb sailfish.” … Sailfish are the fastest fish in the world (I learned this from “Fun Fish Facts” in a D’Angelos kids meal), so she must have nice legs to catch one of those bad boys.

“Warm, classy, intellectual not dry or stuffy, just the real deal.” …Tell it like it is, homegirl.

So, with these cues in mind, here is my own Harvard Magazine personal ad.  I made it rhyme, just because it shows off my magic ability to playfully enjoy humor:

Are you an open parenthesis?  Have you always been looking for someone to complete your thoughts?  Complete your life? Well, I can turn your parenthesis into parentheses / I can turn your “me” into “us” and your “I” into “we” /  I am sexy and sensual and very classy / I like opera and Shakespeare and good duck confit (there’s my something French) / I look forward to meeting a man who can try / To love me and look me right straight in the eye / And tell me my legs are the best he has seen / Then feed me some biscuits all covered in cream / And though he must be over 18 in age / I don’t mind an old geezer as long as he pays… / …attention to me, and that’s all that I care / If he’s jobless or homeless or bald without hair / As long as I know that he really wants me / I just want to complete my parentheses, please.

In honor of my favorite Tuesday night TV show, I will be dressing up as The Biggest Loser this Halloween.  I will be stuffing my Biggest Loser t-shirt with candy, which is appropriate because 1) it’s Halloween, and 2) it’s a metaphor for obesity.  Throughout the night, I will give away my candy (social message!) until I become skinny again.

Someone told me that the costume could be offensive.  But, it’s just Halloween… This is the night where ninjas, pirates, and sexy nurses come out in droves.  This is the night where 12-year olds can turn into their favorite promiscuous pop star.  So, I don’t think that dressing up as The Biggest Loser is offensive… just reflective of American society.  I won’t even give any lectures on Type 2 diabetes or the spread of childhood obesity.  All I plan to do is pass out candy from inside my belly.

Don’t hate me.

In 2006, I did an internship at a now-dead investment bank in New York.  During my first week in orientation, I remember sitting in a large auditorium with the rest of my summer analyst class.  We had just endured several hours of listening to men in ties drone on about insider trading, compliance issues, and SEC regulations.  Finally, a woman stepped up to the podium… hello, HR!  We were talking about sexual harassment.

As interns, we would only be at the company for ten weeks… but apparently, we all needed a lengthy lecture about appropriateness in the workplace.  The sexual harassment talk is akin to the private parts talk that mothers give to their five-year olds: “If someone tries to hug you, run away… No one should ever touch you there, except for the doctor… If someone does try to touch you, tell the ombudsman immediately!”  We listened to the woman outline the company’s sexual harassment policies, then went off to happy hour next to a strip club for drinks with our new managers.

Last January, when I started my full-time job, I had to watch another sexual harassment tape.  (Companies must hire the same video production company to produce their ’80s-style anti-groping propaganda…  Every single video has at least one woman with frizzy hair and Coke-bottle glasses who serves as the object of a mustached man’s affection.)  I also had to fill out several online forms, in which I answered survey questions like, “Should Bob put his arm around Sue?”  And, “Is Sue allowed to kick Bob in the groin?” (My recollection is fuzzy on the exact wording.)

So, given my extensive immersion in the rules of sexual harassment, I figured that other places would have similar policies.  Like CBS.  Or, ESPN.  Or… the White House.  Then again, who can say no to Dave Letterman, Steve Phillips, and Bill Clinton?  “Yes, Bob, please put your arm around me.  And more.”

Then again, after witnessing the indiscretions of my fellow summer analysts with their bosses/mentors/HR reps in those ten weeks, I suppose the harassment talk didn’t serve as much of a deterrent during my internship.  And in my current company, work couples (or “inbreeders”) are common.  In fact, if you aren’t dating a colleague, then you’re likely to get laid off; as they say, it’s all about who you know.

Clearly, sexual harassment education isn’t working.  We’re still seeing predatory white-haired males hit on chubby young females.  We’re still  dealing with desperate, ladder-climbing women trying to leapfrog from cubicle to front office.

So, what can we do to reform the system?  Should we ban hugs from the office?  Give philandering men an attractive, no-strings-attached, government-sponsored public option?  Or maybe we just need to make better sexual harassment videos… Well, I hear that a writer, a production assistant, and a former TV host (Mr. Personality!) are all looking for jobs… Once we find an unemployed, mustached predator with white hair, we’re golden.

8:00 AM – Waking Up to “Music”

I wake up to Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” on the radio.  I don’t know it yet, but this song will be stuck in my head for the rest of the day.  Oh, joy.  I think I’d prefer the theme song to Lamb Chop’s Play-Along instead.

8:45 AM – It’s There to Warn Tourists

On my way to work, I pass by a disturbing billboard in Times Square.  Of course, there are hundreds of billboards in Times Square, usually featuring Hawaiian Tropic girls and Calvin Klein models in their underwear.  This one, however, has a magnified picture of a bed bug.  It appears that bed bugs have become such a big problem that they warrant their own Times Square billboard.  I love New York.

10:21 AM – Wrong Number…

I get a call from an unknown number.  When I pick up, the guy launches into his pitch: “Hi, my name is Andrew Porter. I love the morning show.  I’ve noticed that Al and Matt dress in different suits every day.  Well, I own a custom clothing company… Wait, this isn’t NBC Today?… You’re not Al Roker’s assistant?… Can you direct me to Al’s assistant?… Well, goodbye.”  Click.

1:29 PM - Guaranteed to Suffer Injury Due to Karma 

Is it cruel to wish bad things onto other people? …Probably.  But, what if that other person is Alex Rodriguez?  I have an animated discussion with a co-worker about misfortunes that could befall A-Rod:  A-Rod breaks his leg.  A-Rod gets hit by a taxi.  A-Rod gets a shard of glass in his eye after an aggressive mirror kiss…  We’re not bad people.  But we’d just rather cheer for the Taliban than for the Yankees.

4:34 PM – That’s What She Said

We are having our monthly operating review with one of the senior executives of the company.  We reach a slide about demographics, which shows our increasingly male base.  Our concern is that we are driving away females.  The COO studies the slide for a minute.  Then she asks: “So, are women not coming at all, or are the men just coming on top of women?”  Pause.  “I didn’t mean it like that.”  Awkwardness.

TOTALS: 6 minutes lost trying to convince Mr. Porter that I was not Al Roker’s assistant, 100+ songs played to try and rid my brain of Miley Cyrus, and 1 extremely awkward meeting in which I strain a muscle from holding in laughter, because clearly — given my choice of music — I have the maturity of a 15-year old.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I will name my children (cats) when I hit baby-making (cat-buying) age.  I’ve often considered just marrying a man with a great last name (like “Smith”) so that the naming process will come easy: “Black,” or “Hammer,” or “Gold.”  Yes, I’m going to be that kind of mother: the one who will name a boy Sue.

In reality, I have learned that in order to truly scar your children, you must follow the lead of celebrities.  Most famous people, as ambassadors of “individuality,” take on great efforts to ruin their offspring.  Personally, I think it’s just a narcissistic attempt to ensure that the next generation will never overshadow them.  (I mean, come on: Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow’s poor daughter Apple will have to put up with juice and iPod jokes for the rest of her life.  She’ll be addicted to prescription pills by age 10.)

Of course, wannabe celebrities take it even further: use your progeny to catapult yourselves to fame!  It’s especially profound when you name your child Falcon, and then pretend to send him up in a giant helium balloon.  But alas, Falcon was not flying through the skies of Colorado; instead, he was hiding in the attic.  Poor Falcon participated in two Tupperware commercials before we discovered that his wings were clipped by dear ol’ Dad.  Just another case of tiptoeing the line between fame and jail… at the expense of your scarred-for-life children.

So, in order to ruin my brood, I’m going to name my babies (cats) something crazy too.  My friend recently sent over a list of the 50 craziest celebrity baby names.  I winnowed it down to my ten favorites, with comments:

My 10 favorite celebrity baby names:

1. Liberty: Ryan Giggs (the other sibling is named “Death”… they are rivals)
2. Ireland: Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger (much cooler than “Britain”, and likely to be more fun at parties)
3. Kyd: David Duchovny and Tea Leoni (will always be a bad speller)
4. Ocean: Forest Whitaker (this would be better if the father was Billy Ocean)
5. Fuchsia: Sting and Frances Tomelty (she has already picked out the color of her prom dress… it will be Gothic black)
6. Moxie CrimeFighter: Penn Jillette (the child is actually an anime cartoon)
7. Pilot Inspektor: Jason Lee and Beth Riesgraf (it’s only unique because “inspector” is spelled with a K)
8. Camera: Arthur Ashe and Jeanne Moutoussamy (no wonder why Canon sponsors the U.S. Open)
9. Saffron Sahara: Simon and Yasmin Le Bon (the first child to be named after a Crayola crayon)
10. Jermajesty: Jermaine Jackson and Alejandra Genevieve Oaziaza–previously married to Jermaine’s brother Randy (it sounds royal to me…and super classy, like Mom and Dad)

I’m thinking of a name like “Pocahontas” — full of built-in baggage and yet, still, educational.  And then, I would definitely marry a “Smith”…