deeper thoughts

In light of MLK day, I’ve decided to blog a more serious, reflective post. I will try to explain in layman’s terms, to the best of my abilities, exactly what happened on wall street over the last few years.

Basically, the Street worked like a giant game of blackjack (Ben Bernanke was the dealer). Some days you won, some days you lost, some days you just played the slots (private equity). But in the long run, if your firm had enough rainmans, you made money. Well, starting in December 2007, let’s just say the rainmans got Street smart. They realized how indispensable they were to the game and went on strike. Simultaneously, for unexplained reasons, Bernanke decided to play with a 100 deck shoe and make deuces wild. As a result, Bear Stearns went bankrupt and the remaining firms dashed to the cashier to redeem their chips. Along the way, J.P. Morgan charlie-horsed Lehman, and AIG married a stripper. WaMu is buried in the desert outside Carson City. After the dust settled, Bernanke changed the game to Keno, and the remaining players are just senior citizens and William H. Macy.

nostalgia

I hadn’t been back to The Street (aka Wall Street aka The Bear Pit aka Ameri$a) since 9/15. On a whim, I decided to take a stroll through its canyons and promenades this afternoon. Some things I saw:

1. a tall, well-coiffed man using his suspenders to wipe away tears

2. a second taller, well-coiffed man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk reading Siddhartha

3. a group of alpha-women knitting

4. a certain CEO [name withheld] doing SuDoKu on a park bench

5. a man(?) dressed in a bear-suit offering free stock tips, massages

6. a hot-dog vendor using CDS’s as napkins and mustard as ketchup

7. a hobo with a blackberry…in a mirror

fauxbos

Permit me to repeat myself. I am not a fauxbo, nor a pseudo-bum, nor a crypto-vagrant. There are no job openings on wall street and I have zero marketable skills. Until the google adsense dollars start coming in, I’m only going to be shaving with a kitchen knife and sour cream.

fame

Ugly Betty was shooting in my neighborhood and wouldn’t you know a bunch of non-hobos were just standing there watching the teamsters unspool and respool cables. I was disgusted. Don’t you people have internships to go to? What do you think is going to happen — Ugly Betty is going to come out of her trailer and marry one of you on prime-time while Barbara Walters officiates?

I did get a walk-on role as an ambient hobo. Airs March 23rd, 9pm. They paid me in coffee.

overheard

child: “why is that homeless man typing on a backberry [sic]?”

father: “son, this is America!”

war

Treo Transient has been shit-tweeting me again. This means war. But we’ll get to our revenge anon. Let me first set the record straight:

1. I was not an “analyst” at Lehman. I was a vice-president, specializing in analysis and financial analysis.

2. I am not just collecting unemployment and sleeping on my cousin’s futon. I am a full-blown, trashcan-fire-loitering, newspaper-blanket-using, bindle-carrying, street-corner-sulking, bearded-Will-Ferrel-style hobo. That I also use a blackberry is simply a sign of the zeitgeist.

3. My name is not Parker Davenport or Haze Davenporter. I clubbed with those fine gentleman, but they are not I (or vice versa).

4. I didn’t go to Wharton. T.T. is thinking of Parkerton Goldstein, who I am not.

5. I do in fact have a serious socks-issue. This is not just an “affectation” or a “hook”.

6. This blog predates anything T.T. has tweeted by days, if not weeks. I have a photo of me blogging in Times Square on New’s Year Eve which I will upload as soon as mr. bridge-and-tunnel e-mails it to me.

7. Actually, I’m not an alcoholic. Not all hobos are alcoholics. It’s a common misconception because dried body secretions do eventually ferment.

8. I am not “gawker”.

9. This is not “conceptual”.

10. The reason I don’t have any savings is because I lived a bottle-service lifestyle and always “banked” on tomorrow. My penury has nothing to do with a failed investment in HD-DVD.

11. I have not been seen tooling around on a Vespa.

blackberry barack

As I am the first blackberry bum, so Obama shall be the first blackberry president. Keep in mind that his is encrypted, bullet-proof, and can launch nuclear weapons if shaken just so. But the principle is the same: the revolution will not be Treo’d!

beds, bedding

in order of decreasing comfort

1. friend’s futon

2. friend’s floor

3. frenemy’s futon

4. friend’s bathtub (dry)

5. friend’s bathtub (moist)

6. friend’s couch during a party, sitting and pretending to be awake, weekend-at-bernie’s-style

7. backseat of an abandoned impala on w. 153rd [street names have been altered to foil other hobos]

8. sleepwalking

we are all hobos now

The unemployment rate just hit 7.2%. (And that understates the case: “hobo” is considered a profession in Northern Florida.)

new jersey

I got a hot tip that Jersey’s become bum-central (in a good way). But how am I going to get there? I could swim, but my blackberry isn’t waterproof. There’s a place that rents kayaks, but I would have to leave my blackberry as a security deposit, so same problem. And the GW-bridge requires proper footwear (i.e. not egg cartons painted suede).

Oh, Garden State, you are my New Valhalla. Tonight I will examine your topography on google earth, and dream of your contours.