I ran this route today. Follow the blue line. I'm gonna go sleep now for about 36 hours.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Getting to Know Me, Getting to Know All About Me
What has two thumbs and is insane enough to take a class on Labor Day weekend? This guy!
This class, however, had nothing to do with theory or learning content about your traditional subjects. If it were as such, I likely would have turned down the opportunity. Heading into my senior year I don't much worry about the accounting topics I haven't learned. Working this summer made me realize that the hands-on stuff is so much more important anyway. The most essential thing I want to glean out of the next few months is how to transition out of being coddled in academia into being open to the uncertainty that comes with real adulthood. Luckily this course fell squarely into that niche.
"Self Leadership and Life After Fordham" guided me on a journey from startling confusion to utter frustration, and finally to optimistic uncertainty. The professor challenged us to identify our strengths. This had nothing to do with using our talents to make us financially satisfied, but everything to do with matching those strengths to discover our "sweet spot" which will allow us to live the good life. This good life, according to the author Seligman, means happiness and success.
After completing a 240-question self-assessment, I discovered my top strengths were identified as gratitude, kindness/generosity, spirituality, zest and enthusiasm, and the capacity to love and be loved. Enter the aforementioned startling confusion and utter frustration. Am I a future accountant or an aspiring priest? I can't say I disagree with this strength assessment. These are all major pieces of who I am. But they always struck me as my general personality, not something that would necessarily form my career. Yet through further work in something called Hogan Personality Inventory, I discovered that my primary motivators were recognition, affiliation, and altruism. Money ranked fifth out of ten. I'm not sure I know a lot of accountants like that.
Upon revealing my strengths and motivators to the class, my professor told me these were all marks of a teacher. Funny thing is, I occasionally imagined myself working in the field during my twenties and thirties and then transferring careers once my family started to grow (read: get needy). I would love to teach either accounting or finance as I always find myself thinking of how I'd explain certain concepts to a group of college kids.
None of this has changed my decision to start in public accounting and then see what's out there after I become a CPA. What comes after is up to what I think at that point.
This class, however, had nothing to do with theory or learning content about your traditional subjects. If it were as such, I likely would have turned down the opportunity. Heading into my senior year I don't much worry about the accounting topics I haven't learned. Working this summer made me realize that the hands-on stuff is so much more important anyway. The most essential thing I want to glean out of the next few months is how to transition out of being coddled in academia into being open to the uncertainty that comes with real adulthood. Luckily this course fell squarely into that niche.
"Self Leadership and Life After Fordham" guided me on a journey from startling confusion to utter frustration, and finally to optimistic uncertainty. The professor challenged us to identify our strengths. This had nothing to do with using our talents to make us financially satisfied, but everything to do with matching those strengths to discover our "sweet spot" which will allow us to live the good life. This good life, according to the author Seligman, means happiness and success.
After completing a 240-question self-assessment, I discovered my top strengths were identified as gratitude, kindness/generosity, spirituality, zest and enthusiasm, and the capacity to love and be loved. Enter the aforementioned startling confusion and utter frustration. Am I a future accountant or an aspiring priest? I can't say I disagree with this strength assessment. These are all major pieces of who I am. But they always struck me as my general personality, not something that would necessarily form my career. Yet through further work in something called Hogan Personality Inventory, I discovered that my primary motivators were recognition, affiliation, and altruism. Money ranked fifth out of ten. I'm not sure I know a lot of accountants like that.
Upon revealing my strengths and motivators to the class, my professor told me these were all marks of a teacher. Funny thing is, I occasionally imagined myself working in the field during my twenties and thirties and then transferring careers once my family started to grow (read: get needy). I would love to teach either accounting or finance as I always find myself thinking of how I'd explain certain concepts to a group of college kids.
None of this has changed my decision to start in public accounting and then see what's out there after I become a CPA. What comes after is up to what I think at that point.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Flushing 2032
"Good afternoon, New York Mets? Yes, yes, just a moment." Roberta pressed the intercom button. "Mike, it's Bob Remsen. Shall I put him through?"
"Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow. Citigroup can wait a day on the team's 401(k). I don't plan on retiring this weekend anyway."
"But what if I do?"
"Then this whole organization might as well fold. I still tell Omar that if it weren't for your pound cake the day Johan Santana brought his kids to see how he felt about the team's atmosphere, then the Phillies would've won the pennant in 2015."
"Oh, yeah right. Mr. Minaya wouldn't have any of that talk."
"I'm gonna head down to the stands, 'Bert. I've been waiting twenty-eight years to see the team retire numbers five and seven. I guess this officially means Jose's done swiping bags. Just when we could use a good shortstop, too."
"Michael, Michael, Michael. Don't worry! I'll get the boys we need, you just make sure we got the dough to pay 'em." The longest reigning general manager in the sport had just walked in, and even at seventy-four, he was still not one to have his baseball acumen questioned.
"I'm not sure if we could ever have enough cash to keep buying out Paul. But you da GM!"
I was one of the few who could get away with teasing Omar about our manager situation. For the past seven years, we'd gone through five managers. Paul LoDuca. Tony Gwynn, Jr. Paul LoDuca. Ed Travers. Paul LoDuca. Paul and Omar have always had a colorful relationship. Ever since the days of Paul saying and doing things to make the front office cringe in 2006 and 2007, it had been a rough road for the two. Everyone agrees that the only unbreakable bond between them is their common obsession with the New York Mets since birth.
"I'm tellin' ya, Mikey. If that little punk pushes down one more umpire over a questionable called strike in the ninth inning of a 12-3 rout, I'll make sure he doesn't manage so much as an ant farm!"
"That little punk's won ya four division titles and a World Series -
"Ay! Shut up already, you coming downstairs or what?"
"To party like it's 2007? Yeah, five minutes. My wife's bringing my David Wright jersey."
"Ay dios mio, Michael, you're our CFO, not our head cheerleader. It's bad enough you can't type with those four World Series rings on all the time. Like Fred always said, if we gave Mr. Met a checkbook and sat him at your desk, no one would ever know the difference. See you behind the plate."
I sat in my office a few more minutes, waiting for Julia to get to the stadium with my jersey and the kids. Being married to the New York City Schools' Chancellor always meant having to be patient while some principal whined to her about class sizes. My cell phone rang and I headed downstairs.
"Daddy! Did Mr. Wright ever hit a home run?" My youngest daughter was just starting to learn the terminology of our family's favorite pasttime.
"Yes, pumpkin. Mr. Wright hit lots of home runs. C'mon, I think he and Uncle Keith wanted to show you something before the game."
I led my wife and our three kids up to the Ralph Kiner Television Booth. The room has carried the same name since I was a teenager, and probably will until Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez finally decide to hang up their microphones. They each only do a few innings a piece these days, but remain just as incredible as ever. Wright was beginning his second year in the booth, and SNY's ratings were at an all time high. My suspicion is that the population of female Mets fans exploded when they were able to stare at New York's favorite pretty boy every night on TV. I happened to think David was doing a good job, but the critics weren't being as kind. They did have a point though. Few people want to hear a play-by-play man gush about how Mets fans are the greatest fans in the world when the middle reliever has just been booed off the field after giving up yet another home run.
"Hey, Emily! You know what this is?" Keith was already in the booth.
"A babblehead!"
"Nope, Keith's a babblehead," David Wright said as he walked into the room. "This is a bobblehead. A Willie Randolph bobblehead. Has Daddy ever told you about him?"
"He was Daddy's favorite manager!"
"Mr. Wright's favorite manager too, Emily," Keith proclaimed. "I brought it for you."
"Thank you, Uncle Babblehead!"
Keith chuckled. "Stop corrupting Mike's girl, Dave!"
It was a beautiful night at Shea. It felt so liberating to say Shea again. One of my proudest accomplishments was negotiating with Citi to drop their name from the stadium five years ago. Omar wanted to kill me since buying out that contract put a strain on payroll, but Jeff Wilpon backed me all the way.
Nothing could top the gorgeous May evening. I had been working for my number one obsession for the past twenty years. We were in the midst of three straight years of sitting atop the NL East. My two favorite ballplayers of all time, Mets for life until they retired after the 2027 World Series, were about to have their numbers hung from the Jackie Robinson rotunda. With my beautiful family at my side, we took our seats behind the dugout.
"No one will ever touch this man's career record of 1,804 stolen bases!" bellowed Master of Ceremonies Tom Glavine from the field. "With a lifetime .310 average, he helped lead the Mets to six World series titles dating back to 2007. He'll tell you with his trademark smile that it was Pedro Martinez' Game 1 perfect game that did the trick, but that doesn't excuse our shortstop's .512 batting average during the Series. Ladies and gentlemen, as we take his number out of use for the New York Mets, please give it up for the shortstop, number seven, JO-SAYYYYY REYES!"
At the chorus of 45,000 people chanting his old familiar theme, Reyes came running as hard as ever onto the field. Lo Duca could be seen bellowing his name from the field as well.
I leaned over my GM's shoulder. "Omar, I don't care if he goes after the entire opposing team with a bat tonight, you can't fire him now."
"I'll do what I can, but if he lets Vegas win tonight, I might just lose it. Ever since they moved, he can't seem to get it through his fat little head that they're still the Marlins!"
The ceremonies continued. The love for Reyes was omnipotent. The same went for Wright a few minutes later. The old left side of the infield tandem raised each other's arms, reminiscent of all the times they strode down the ticker tape parades together. What a night to be a Mets fan.
"Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow. Citigroup can wait a day on the team's 401(k). I don't plan on retiring this weekend anyway."
"But what if I do?"
"Then this whole organization might as well fold. I still tell Omar that if it weren't for your pound cake the day Johan Santana brought his kids to see how he felt about the team's atmosphere, then the Phillies would've won the pennant in 2015."
"Oh, yeah right. Mr. Minaya wouldn't have any of that talk."
"I'm gonna head down to the stands, 'Bert. I've been waiting twenty-eight years to see the team retire numbers five and seven. I guess this officially means Jose's done swiping bags. Just when we could use a good shortstop, too."
"Michael, Michael, Michael. Don't worry! I'll get the boys we need, you just make sure we got the dough to pay 'em." The longest reigning general manager in the sport had just walked in, and even at seventy-four, he was still not one to have his baseball acumen questioned.
"I'm not sure if we could ever have enough cash to keep buying out Paul. But you da GM!"
I was one of the few who could get away with teasing Omar about our manager situation. For the past seven years, we'd gone through five managers. Paul LoDuca. Tony Gwynn, Jr. Paul LoDuca. Ed Travers. Paul LoDuca. Paul and Omar have always had a colorful relationship. Ever since the days of Paul saying and doing things to make the front office cringe in 2006 and 2007, it had been a rough road for the two. Everyone agrees that the only unbreakable bond between them is their common obsession with the New York Mets since birth.
"I'm tellin' ya, Mikey. If that little punk pushes down one more umpire over a questionable called strike in the ninth inning of a 12-3 rout, I'll make sure he doesn't manage so much as an ant farm!"
"That little punk's won ya four division titles and a World Series -
"Ay! Shut up already, you coming downstairs or what?"
"To party like it's 2007? Yeah, five minutes. My wife's bringing my David Wright jersey."
"Ay dios mio, Michael, you're our CFO, not our head cheerleader. It's bad enough you can't type with those four World Series rings on all the time. Like Fred always said, if we gave Mr. Met a checkbook and sat him at your desk, no one would ever know the difference. See you behind the plate."
I sat in my office a few more minutes, waiting for Julia to get to the stadium with my jersey and the kids. Being married to the New York City Schools' Chancellor always meant having to be patient while some principal whined to her about class sizes. My cell phone rang and I headed downstairs.
"Daddy! Did Mr. Wright ever hit a home run?" My youngest daughter was just starting to learn the terminology of our family's favorite pasttime.
"Yes, pumpkin. Mr. Wright hit lots of home runs. C'mon, I think he and Uncle Keith wanted to show you something before the game."
I led my wife and our three kids up to the Ralph Kiner Television Booth. The room has carried the same name since I was a teenager, and probably will until Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez finally decide to hang up their microphones. They each only do a few innings a piece these days, but remain just as incredible as ever. Wright was beginning his second year in the booth, and SNY's ratings were at an all time high. My suspicion is that the population of female Mets fans exploded when they were able to stare at New York's favorite pretty boy every night on TV. I happened to think David was doing a good job, but the critics weren't being as kind. They did have a point though. Few people want to hear a play-by-play man gush about how Mets fans are the greatest fans in the world when the middle reliever has just been booed off the field after giving up yet another home run.
"Hey, Emily! You know what this is?" Keith was already in the booth.
"A babblehead!"
"Nope, Keith's a babblehead," David Wright said as he walked into the room. "This is a bobblehead. A Willie Randolph bobblehead. Has Daddy ever told you about him?"
"He was Daddy's favorite manager!"
"Mr. Wright's favorite manager too, Emily," Keith proclaimed. "I brought it for you."
"Thank you, Uncle Babblehead!"
Keith chuckled. "Stop corrupting Mike's girl, Dave!"
It was a beautiful night at Shea. It felt so liberating to say Shea again. One of my proudest accomplishments was negotiating with Citi to drop their name from the stadium five years ago. Omar wanted to kill me since buying out that contract put a strain on payroll, but Jeff Wilpon backed me all the way.
Nothing could top the gorgeous May evening. I had been working for my number one obsession for the past twenty years. We were in the midst of three straight years of sitting atop the NL East. My two favorite ballplayers of all time, Mets for life until they retired after the 2027 World Series, were about to have their numbers hung from the Jackie Robinson rotunda. With my beautiful family at my side, we took our seats behind the dugout.
"No one will ever touch this man's career record of 1,804 stolen bases!" bellowed Master of Ceremonies Tom Glavine from the field. "With a lifetime .310 average, he helped lead the Mets to six World series titles dating back to 2007. He'll tell you with his trademark smile that it was Pedro Martinez' Game 1 perfect game that did the trick, but that doesn't excuse our shortstop's .512 batting average during the Series. Ladies and gentlemen, as we take his number out of use for the New York Mets, please give it up for the shortstop, number seven, JO-SAYYYYY REYES!"
At the chorus of 45,000 people chanting his old familiar theme, Reyes came running as hard as ever onto the field. Lo Duca could be seen bellowing his name from the field as well.
I leaned over my GM's shoulder. "Omar, I don't care if he goes after the entire opposing team with a bat tonight, you can't fire him now."
"I'll do what I can, but if he lets Vegas win tonight, I might just lose it. Ever since they moved, he can't seem to get it through his fat little head that they're still the Marlins!"
The ceremonies continued. The love for Reyes was omnipotent. The same went for Wright a few minutes later. The old left side of the infield tandem raised each other's arms, reminiscent of all the times they strode down the ticker tape parades together. What a night to be a Mets fan.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Later, P-Dubs
Posting here is my last official action on my PwC-owned laptop. This is my last day as an intern, and I will now take a one-year hiatus from the firm to finish my undergrad degree as well as start (and hopefully finish) my Masters of Business Administration in Finance. I've already been asked back to be an Associate in Fall 2008. At this moment, I'd say I am almost definitely going to accept the offer.
I'll probably post more frequently going forward. After my return from the Internship Development Program in Disney, that is. A paid trip to Disney? Man, these guys expect way too much from me.
Talk to you all on the other side of the Mouse.
I'll probably post more frequently going forward. After my return from the Internship Development Program in Disney, that is. A paid trip to Disney? Man, these guys expect way too much from me.
Talk to you all on the other side of the Mouse.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
It Gets Late Early Around Here
Good evening! Good morning! Aw, hell, what's in a time of day anyway?
I've yet to go to sleep. Well, that's not completely true. I napped between the hours of 11:30PM and 1:20AM. This between my double feature of New York Mets Baseball at 7:10PM and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (in IMAX!!) at 3:20AM.
The internship is going pretty well. Manhattan living is, of course, going along famously. Sadly there hasn't been much to write about, but I'm not exactly tired. I just wanted to make an appearance. Cowabunga, dudes.
I've yet to go to sleep. Well, that's not completely true. I napped between the hours of 11:30PM and 1:20AM. This between my double feature of New York Mets Baseball at 7:10PM and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (in IMAX!!) at 3:20AM.
The internship is going pretty well. Manhattan living is, of course, going along famously. Sadly there hasn't been much to write about, but I'm not exactly tired. I just wanted to make an appearance. Cowabunga, dudes.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Two Months on the Upper West Side
At about 9:30 this evening, I finished my frozen chicken pot pie from D'Agostino and was sitting on my couch watching some Jazz/Spurs action. Then the thought struck me: Why am I watching a game that not even members of the Jazz or Spurs care about, especially on this pristine Manhattan night?
Two minutes later I was strolling down Columbus. I figured I'd walk until I was either bored or tired and then start to head back. By about 50th Street (I live on 60th) I was wondering if I'd run into someone I know. Coming to the corner of 47th Street, my self-absorbed thinking was interrupted (and reinforced?) by the yell of "Mike!" I turned around to see my semi-buzzed Kansas friend Bailey running towards me. She was in a wine bar with a friend. She insisted I come inside for a little while, to which I obliged, and I tasted a few sips of various vinos. She and her friend came down with a car they were borrowing in order to move Bailey into my building. Long story short, I ended up driving the friend back to her place on 82nd and Amsterdam, and took Bailey back to good ole' McMahon Hall. Thus an uneventful night can be converted in a New York minute.
I know I'll enjoy living here this summer. I'll enjoy it more in a few weeks when I start collecting a regular paycheck. If you ever find yourself on 60th between Amsterdam and Columbus give me a yell.
Two minutes later I was strolling down Columbus. I figured I'd walk until I was either bored or tired and then start to head back. By about 50th Street (I live on 60th) I was wondering if I'd run into someone I know. Coming to the corner of 47th Street, my self-absorbed thinking was interrupted (and reinforced?) by the yell of "Mike!" I turned around to see my semi-buzzed Kansas friend Bailey running towards me. She was in a wine bar with a friend. She insisted I come inside for a little while, to which I obliged, and I tasted a few sips of various vinos. She and her friend came down with a car they were borrowing in order to move Bailey into my building. Long story short, I ended up driving the friend back to her place on 82nd and Amsterdam, and took Bailey back to good ole' McMahon Hall. Thus an uneventful night can be converted in a New York minute.
I know I'll enjoy living here this summer. I'll enjoy it more in a few weeks when I start collecting a regular paycheck. If you ever find yourself on 60th between Amsterdam and Columbus give me a yell.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Yanks and Cano KAY-oed
If the Yankee secondbaseman's errors from this afternoon played last night's Yankee runs, the defensive gaffes would have it by a score of 3-2. FOX named Endy Chavez as the Mets' player of the game. WFAN gave the honor to David Wright. They both had it wrong. Robinson Cano was the MVP of the day.
Good teams get the breaks. Bad teams' pitchers have their index fingers broken. Now I don't wish injuries upon any player, unless your name is Barry Bonds and you're about to break a hallowed record. But the first of Endy's four hits on the day proved to be the hardest as it felled the Yanks' starter. Mike Myers was not shown mercy by the Kings of Queens and all of New York as David Wright served up a two-run bomb out of Shea and into Citi Field. The rest of the game was a dandy, with some repeat Wright Stuff later on.
The only bit of agida came after Thomas Michael Glavine left the game - love the middle name, Tom. I predicted to my Dad when Schoeneweis came on in relief that an 8-2 Mets' laugher wouldn't stay very funny. I was right as he gave up three runs in the seventh and the start of the eighth, and I sensed a revived Yankee team as their lineup reverted back to the top. For the second straight night though, Captain Jeter went down to end the eighth. Thank you, the better blatantly German-named Mets' pitcher. By the by, his middle name is Michael, too.
To the bottom of the eighth, Cano made it a little more comfortable for us again when he thought his shoe was Josh Phelps' glove. Important to note here was that before Cano's botched throw, Wright and Beltran reached second and third on a double steal after Willie Randolph signaled for it. If Willie doesn't make that call, Cano puts the ball in his back pocket after Julio Franco's infield hit and only one run scores. Dr. Randolph again showed he deserves his new title.
On May 20, 2006, Billy Wagner came into the middle game of a Subway Series and attempted to close out a four run Mets lead to win the Shea half of the Series. This afternoon, Billy Wagner came into the middle game of a Subway Series and attempted to close out a four run Mets lead to win the Shea half of the Series. On May 20, 2006, giddiness turned to worry as Wagner proved shaky. This afternoon, giddiness turned to worry as Wagner proved shaky. On May 20, 2006, worry turned to horror as the Yankees tied the game and went on to beat Jorge Julio in the tenth. This afternoon, worry turned back into giddiness as Wagner baffled Phelps and put that bitch in the books, 10-7.
Tomorrow night I'll be at Shea with my broom to sweep the Yankees into the waiting hot bats of the Boston Red Sox. We then go to Atlanta and attempt to give ourselves some divisional breathing room. It's good to be king.
Good teams get the breaks. Bad teams' pitchers have their index fingers broken. Now I don't wish injuries upon any player, unless your name is Barry Bonds and you're about to break a hallowed record. But the first of Endy's four hits on the day proved to be the hardest as it felled the Yanks' starter. Mike Myers was not shown mercy by the Kings of Queens and all of New York as David Wright served up a two-run bomb out of Shea and into Citi Field. The rest of the game was a dandy, with some repeat Wright Stuff later on.
The only bit of agida came after Thomas Michael Glavine left the game - love the middle name, Tom. I predicted to my Dad when Schoeneweis came on in relief that an 8-2 Mets' laugher wouldn't stay very funny. I was right as he gave up three runs in the seventh and the start of the eighth, and I sensed a revived Yankee team as their lineup reverted back to the top. For the second straight night though, Captain Jeter went down to end the eighth. Thank you, the better blatantly German-named Mets' pitcher. By the by, his middle name is Michael, too.
To the bottom of the eighth, Cano made it a little more comfortable for us again when he thought his shoe was Josh Phelps' glove. Important to note here was that before Cano's botched throw, Wright and Beltran reached second and third on a double steal after Willie Randolph signaled for it. If Willie doesn't make that call, Cano puts the ball in his back pocket after Julio Franco's infield hit and only one run scores. Dr. Randolph again showed he deserves his new title.
On May 20, 2006, Billy Wagner came into the middle game of a Subway Series and attempted to close out a four run Mets lead to win the Shea half of the Series. This afternoon, Billy Wagner came into the middle game of a Subway Series and attempted to close out a four run Mets lead to win the Shea half of the Series. On May 20, 2006, giddiness turned to worry as Wagner proved shaky. This afternoon, giddiness turned to worry as Wagner proved shaky. On May 20, 2006, worry turned to horror as the Yankees tied the game and went on to beat Jorge Julio in the tenth. This afternoon, worry turned back into giddiness as Wagner baffled Phelps and put that bitch in the books, 10-7.
Tomorrow night I'll be at Shea with my broom to sweep the Yankees into the waiting hot bats of the Boston Red Sox. We then go to Atlanta and attempt to give ourselves some divisional breathing room. It's good to be king.
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