Congratulations Summer Interns of 2013… Grab a pen. Here are a few words of wisdom.

Congratulations, you made it. You are a 2013 Goldman Sachs Summer Analyst. You might feel like you just crossed the finish line. But the race hasn’t even started yet.

Most banks hire the majority of their 1^st year Analysts from the intern pool. They’ve proven themselves. They’re likely to accept the offer.  And it saves HR a shitload of time and money.

Don’t worry if you don’t make the cut.  You ‘ve been vetted and hired by Goldman fucking Sachs.  Even if this is your last dance here,  there are plenty of Vineyard Vines wearing, New Canaan commuting,  Morgan Stanley name-dropping ‘rainmakers’ waiting to pick you up and dust you off.   Not making the cut at Goldman is like being traded by the Yankees. You’ll still probably make millions, but it’s just not the same.

So here are 20 tips to help you with your journey:

1. If your boss smokes, smoke.
2. If your boss is Indian or Pakistani, learn the rules of cricket.  He probably also smokes, so see #1.  But be careful, if he doesn’t, he’s a vegetarian yogi.
3. Don’t wear Hermes ties, ever. You have to earn it.
4. Buy a decent suit or 3, but no cuffed or pleated pants.  And don’t wear a tie unless you might have a meeting.  No one likes that kind of kiss-ass.
5. Learn how to tie a double Windsor; just make sure the knot’s not too fat.
6. Keep your shoes shiny, but don’t let anyone see you having your shoes shined.  You have to earn it.
7. If you went to a decent boarding school, subtly find out if anyone who matters went to the same school.  Boom, he’s your rabbi.  At this point, no one cares about college credentials; it’s a given.
8. As it relates to fellow interns, make no mistake about it – it’s war:
   1. Let’s be clear. It’s impossible to compete with female interns.  And it’s not cool.  So don’t bother trying.
   2. When a fellow intern leaves his desk, change his screen (or screens) to rolex.com, porsche.com, or morganstanley.com.
   3. Come up with dismissive nicknames for fellow interns (Chico, Bud Fox, Fredo, Bubba, etc.). Hope that it catches on.
   4. When a fellow intern leaves his computer unlocked at the end of the evening, change the signature on his Email settings.  Using white font, add any variety of obscene words.  No one will see it… except for IT and HR.

9. Don’t be too good to do the coffee runs.  It shows confidence.  Just don’t fuck it up.  If you can’t be trusted with coffee, how can you sell bonds or manage risk.

10. Call Bloomberg and have them give you a tutorial on functions.  It’s free.  And most EDs and above are still using functions and short cuts from 5+ years ago.  It’s an easy way to impress them.  And many of the Bloomberg girls are hot.

11. Leave a jacket on the back of your chair at all times. While you are at it, keep a tie in your drawer.  Zegna is a good choice.

12. Ask the secretary for the travel schedules of the senior members of your group for the week ahead.  She’s dumb enough to think you are being proactive.  But now you know when you can sleep in, hit the gym, or beat the traffic to Southampton.

13. Never tell racist jokes. Always repeat racist jokes in the proper company and be sure to credit ‘the other intern’ who told you.

14. Don’t offer to buy drinks when out with your seniors;  you can’t afford them and it won’t score any points.

15. Don’t brag about being a decent golfer. This should be a given.

16. Bang a (female) intern, and tell the Associates and above about it.  If they haven’t ever done it, they sure as hell always wanted to. They’ll respect you for it.  And you’ll always be the guy that banged her first, before she ends up marrying that dickhead PMD in Emerging Markets.  After all, Ray J is still famous.

17. An MDs jokes are always funny. Period. And if you are at the receiving end of a joke, you better laugh with it.  If you take yourself too seriously, no one else will.  This is Wall Street; there is no such thing as ‘bullying’.

18. Acknowledge the quotes from Caddyshack or Fletch, but don’t make any yourself.  You have to earn it.   And don’t initiate the fist bump that comes with ‘Charge it to the Underhills’.

19. This might be the most important one. It’s okay to make a mistake or ask a question. But don’t ever ask the same question or make the same mistake twice. If you do, just know that the world needs ditchdiggers too.

20. Don’t talk in the fucking elevators…  or at a bar.

*21. Follow @GSElevator on Twitter 

Transatlantic

I’m flying from New York to London almost on a monthly basis.  Having recently moved to the UK, I keep having to go back and visit my girlfriend of less than a year, only because I am too much of a pussy to break up with her.

It’s Sunday evening and, after yet another weekend wasted, I am on the red eye back to London. I know that as soon as I land, I will have to take the train into town, race home to shower and change and then greet another arduous week on the wrong foot – knowledge that is quick to breed a quiet concoction of anger and resentment.

I’m sitting in the lounge waiting to board, thinking about how miserable the trip is.  Even in business class, it sucks.  By the time you take off, it’s a race to have enough drinks, recline your seat and fall asleep. And a mere 4 hours later, some lardy, badly-aged British cunt is standing over you telling you to put your seat up for landing because ‘we’re 20 minutes from landing.’ As if she doesn’t fucking know that we’re just going to circle Heathrow for another hour anyway.

I pass the time by double-fisting glasses of red wine, and looking at the pictures in Yachting magazine. I’ve really never understood why airport lounges are the only places in the world where, presumably, people like to peruse boating magazines.  Thirty minutes before boarding, time for the Klonopin, and the switch to Johnnie Walker doubles on the rocks. I don’t even like Johnnie Walker, but it’s free, and it’s there.

Some people like to board first. That’s retarded. I like to board last. I guess if I had to fight for overhead storage space, I might feel differently.

Once I get on the plane, I settle quickly into my aisle seat upstairs. My only objective at this point is to keep drinking so that I can fall asleep as quickly as possible.  The stewardess comes by with the hot towels, a concept that I wish would catch on everywhere besides just airplanes, Asian beach resorts, and rub ‘n tug joints.

Next up is the pre-flight drinks tray: orange juice, water, ‘champagne’, or red wine.  She looks at me strangely as I reach for 2 glasses, but what the fuck, their dwarfy wine glasses are bullshit.  “When we take off, please bring them two at a time; It’ll save us both time,” was my simple curt response to her “Ello.  Welcome to British Airways.”

Fortunately, we take off on time. Nothing is worse than sitting at the gate for prolonged periods of time.  For whatever reason, if you are in the air, they will serve you as many drinks as you want.  But at the gate, they are stingy as Hell.

The drinks keep coming and I shift my focus to Denzel Washington’s ‘Man on Fire’.  Airlines fucking love that movie for some reason; it is to airplanes what The Shawshank Redemption or Road House is to TNT.  Just a few more drinks, half a Xanax, and I’ll be ready to recline into the not-quite-so-flat position and float away.  This is before the herringbone seat configuration, so there isn’t even the possibility of rubbing one out.

The next thing I know, I am being shaken awake by another stewardess.  She’s good looking by BA standards, not hot, but I’ve probably traded worse.

“I’ve been trying to wake you. Please put your seat into the upright position, we need to make an emergency landing,” she says, and then immediately disappears.

Barely awake and far from lucid, I have an impossible time comprehending the fact that the plane is shaking seemingly uncontrollably, and that, at the same time, we’re experiencing violent jolts of turbulence.

“What the Hell is going on?” I ask the pasty ginger gunt sitting across from me.  He looks fucking frightened.  “The plane has a-a-a problem. We ne-need to ma-make an emerge-ge-gency landing?”

What the fuck? Last time I checked, we’re in the middle of the fucking Atlantic Ocean. But before I could ask that retard to elaborate, the pilot comes over the speaker.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a reminder. We need all of you to stay calm and remain in your seats.  Due to a mechanical failure, we will be making an emergency landing at _________ Military Base in Greenland.”  I’m not being coy, I have no recollection what it was called.

I didn’t need to hear any more; I’m going to die.  My heart doesn’t sink like I always thought it would in this situation, but I am fucking terrified.  Without hesitation, I grab the air phone, swipe my credit card and begin the process of saying my good byes.  I am oddly calm, a fact that probably doesn’t shock the medical community considering the alcohol, Klonopin, and Xanax cocktail.  But hey, I’m not a doctor.

“Hi Mom. My plane is about to crash, so I just wanted to say good-bye and that I love you,” I say matter-of-factly.  Whenever I call home, I usually speak to both of my parents at the same time, a habit that I picked up when I left for boarding school.  It saved time by not having to repeat everything twice, and always cut down on my parents’ phone bill.  No, they’re not Jewish.

“What?” My Dad interjects, “You’re calling from the airplane? This has gotta be costing you a fortune.”

“Shut up, Harold. I am talking to my son.”  My usually passive mother interjects.

“Have you been drinking?” my Dad pipes in again.  “Hang up the phone Francine; everything is fine.”

“Shut up, Harold.  I want to hear my son.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it often enough, Mom.  But I just want to say thank you, and that I love you.”

My next call was to my ex-girlfriend.  It went to her answering machine.  Yes, this happened back when people still had home phones and answering machines.

“Hi Sheila.  I am calling you because my plane is about to crash.  And I’m probably not going to make it.  I just wanted to let you know that you were the one.  You were the one, my soul mate, my lobster (and to think that I always made the jerk-off hand-motion in my mind whenever she would say that), and I’m sorry that I ever let you get away.  I will always love you, and will be looking over you.”

It didn’t matter that our relationship ended very badly and that we hadn’t spoken since. It didn’t matter that she subsequently went on to marry the next guy she went out with.  I’m sure her husband will love listening that message. But, it’s not like I said anything crazy about ‘that thing’ she does with her tongue, probably because the lazy bitch never did anything crazy with her tongue.

And obviously, that’s not her real name; I’d never fucking date a ‘Sheila.’

After that, I slowly worked my way through my Rolodex of close friends to bid my farewells.  The rest is, for the most part, a blur.  And then, everything fades away.

The next thing I know, I am sitting in a wheelchair.  If this were a movie, six months would have passed and I, the lone survivor, would be sitting in a hospital bed in Bermuda, surrounded by hot nurses trying to help me overcome my amnesia and piece my life back together.  Instead, I am in a NHS-looking relic of a wheelchair in the British Airways arrival lounge at Heathrow.  I look at my watch.  8 hours have passed since my last memory.  I look at my phone.  12 voicemail messages, 29 texts, and 37 missed calls.

One person I neglected to call during my ordeal, my current girlfriend. And actually, the blessing of this experience is that when she heard this story soon thereafter, she was so upset that she wasn’t on my list of people I’d call before I die, that she ended the relationship.

I roll myself towards the door, before remembering that I might as well walk.   I’m already going to be late into the office.

The gym

The ‘Freshman 15’ is also known to be as prevalent in banking as it is for college girls.   It certainly was the case for me.  100 hour work weeks.  Breakfast from Starbucks.  Lunch from Pret at my desk.  Dinner at my desk.  8pm would be the perfect time to go to the gym.  But, it’s too risky.  Any Associate or ED might call in just to see who is still on the floor, or to legitimately make changes to presentations.  And God forbid I’m at the gym and one of my fellow analysts answers the phone.  Beep.  Beep.  Under the fucking bus.  I should know.  I’m the Keanu Reeves of my analyst class.

It’s not only the job that has contributed to my rapid weight gain.  For the first time in my life, I don’t have to rely on my parents for money.  That means whenever I’m not eating at my desk, I’m eating out – and never going lower than any Zagat Top 10 category.

Work.  Drink.  Eat.  Drink.  Pass Out.  Repeat.

I’m 19^th century sexy – pale skin and a fat ass, and fortunately, a fatter wallet.

Translation: I have gained 30 pounds in my first 4 months as an analyst.

But, it’s time to get back into shape.  We’re heading into holiday season, which means if I am not careful, I can easily gain another 10 pounds before the year is out.  Thankfully, it also means capital market activity is slowing down, evaluations are done, and the face-time wardens have loosened the leash.

So instead of sneaking out for a few drinks with the other analysts, I decide to head to the gym.

iPods have not been invented yet, so I’m still rocking the Sony portable CD player.

Of course, it’s been so long since I was last at the gym that my AA batteries are dead. There is no way that I can sit on a treadmill for any meaningful length of time without some kind of music to fire me up.  And there is no way I can cope with the Enya shit they are playing over the gym speakers.  But that does give me an idea.

I take my Napster-produced CD mix up to the check-in counter, and ask the cockney fag with the Beckham faux-hawk to put it on for me.  It takes a little bit of convincing, but the gym isn’t that crowded, so he reluctantly obliges.

“Cheers, Geezer.”

I head back to my machine, crank it up to a 7 minute mile pace, cover the clock up with my towel, and I’m off.  That’s pretty fast for an out-of-shape fast ass like me, but I’m optimistic that my music will kick in and give me the motivation I need to uncover the high school me – varsity soccer, squash, and golf. 

A few minutes goes by and no music. 5 minutes later, and still no music. I’m losing my mojo here. 

Meanwhile, a guy I think I vaguely know from HR walks in, nods at a couple of people he recognizes and then gets on the treadmill next to me.  He cranks it all the way up, and immediately starts marathoning like a Kenyan.  Literally.  This guy is blacker than Wesley Snipes after a vacation on the sun.

All of a sudden, my music finally kicks in – blasting throughout the entire gym.

Uhh! Ahhhhhh!
Come on, uhh, uhhh, huhhh
But they don’t hear me though

A few people look up, possibly pleasantly surprised, but probably not.

Uhh, but they don’t hear me though
Uhh, but they don’t… but they don’t

I got blood on my hands and there’s no remorse
I got blood on my dick cuz I fucked a corpse
I’m a nasty nigga, when u pass by me nigga look me in my eyes
Tell me to my fuckin face that u ready to die. 

U be a dead mutha fucka, red mutha fucka
Don’t be stupid, u heard what I said mutha fucka
Who shot u ohhh nigga like u don’t know
Stickin u for your doe, while I’m fuckin your broke ho

And then it carries on poetically from there.

It had really never occurred to me that the first song on my CD is one of DMX’s love ballads, and that it might not be everyone’s cup of tea.

Everyone literally stops what they are doing.  The entire gym comes to a complete halt.  Some people are just confused, clearly wondering if they are hearing what they think they are hearing.  Others are visibly offended.

No one says anything. Everyone just stares… not at me, but at the black guy next to me.  Stares slowly evolve into glares.

Disdain. Dismay. Disgust. 

Wesley Snipes, still in the zone, never notices a thing.  I was right; he must be in HR.

I look over at the cutish girl to my left, shrug my shoulders, nod toward Wesley Snipes and give her a look that says “Yeah. Can you believe this guy? What a dick.”

Racist motherfuckers.

A joke and a story… Or a story and joke…

An American businessman was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them. The Mexican replied, that it only took a little while. The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish. The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.

The American then asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life, señor.”

The American scoffed. “I am a Wharton MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats. Eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But señor, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “Fifteen or twenty years.”

“But what then, señor?”

The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.”

“Millions, señor? Then what?”

The American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”

————————————–

It’s late fall and the Indians on a remote reservation in North Dakota asked their new chief if the coming winter was going to be cold or mild.

Since he was a chief in a modern society, he had never been taught the old secrets. When he looked at the sky, he couldn’t tell what the winter was going to be like.

Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, he told his tribe that the winter was indeed going to be cold and that the members of the village should collect firewood to be prepared.

But, being a practical leader, after several days, he got an idea. He went to the phone booth, called the National Weather Service and asked, ‘Is the coming winter going to be cold?’

‘It looks like this winter is going to be quite cold,’ the meteorologist at the weather service responded.

So the chief went back to his people and told them to collect even more firewood in order to be prepared.

A week later, he called the National Weather Service again. ‘Does it still look like it is going to be a very cold winter?’ 

‘Yes,’ the man at National Weather Service again replied, ‘it’s going to be a very cold winter.’ 

The chief again went back to his people and ordered them to collect every scrap of firewood they could find.

Two weeks later, the chief called the National Weather Service again. ‘Are you absolutely sure that the winter is going to be very cold?’

‘Absolutely,’ the man replied. ‘It’s looking more and more like it is going to be one of the coldest winters we’ve ever seen.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ the chief asked. 

The weatherman replied, ‘The Indians are collecting a shitload of firewood.’

 

All I want for Christmas…

All I want for Christmas…

Something “for my kids”:  
http://bit.ly/Vpx3rK

Something even Bob Costas should appreciate:  
http://bit.ly/XBqUPu

Something good to read: 
http://amzn.to/TKXhsq

Something else to read: 
http://econ.st/RJddMy

Something to drink: 
http://bit.ly/XBrqNr

Somewhere to recharge: 
http://bit.ly/VSTTKD

Somewhere to go with my father: 
http://bit.ly/TMWEgT

Something practical to remind me why my grandfather would call me a pussy: 
http://bit.ly/SQ3Qch

Something for something’s sake: 
http://bit.ly/TLm247

The Mile High Club

It’s been a whirlwind 3 days in Miami – a city that I have always detested until now.  It’s got no substance, and even the rich people are seedy.  This, however, was a bachelor weekend to remember, the details of which are to remain forever sealed, mostly because I don’t remember many of them. 

I’ve got nothing left in the tank, so I’m sitting in the bar at the Fontainebleau, killing time until I have to head to the airport.  Normally, I’d do my pre-flight drinking at the airport, but MIA is a fucking shithole, and the Fontainebleau isn’t half bad.  The rest of the group has long since departed, as I am the only one with an international flight.

I’m doing what I do best, self-medicating.  Mentally, I’m already dead inside, so it’s just the physical pain of a 3-day binge of booze, girls, and some narcotics.  Some of the groomsmen-to-be are from places like Cleveland and Albany, so I felt a moral obligation to show them you don’t need a bowling alley or shotgun to have fun.

I make the caloric-conscious switch from Bloody Mary to the Dark and Stormy – the refreshing mixture of dark rum, lime juice, and ginger beer.   It’s good, but still doesn’t compare to ones at the Milk & Honey on Poland Street in London.  After a few of these, it’s about that time to head to the airport.  I don’t care how much the hotel bill is, and I really don’t want to see it, so I sign the bar tab to my room and leave without checking out.  It’s sort of like trying not to see your available balance at the ATM when you get back from a trip to Las Vegas or Macau.

Manny gets me there in good time, although he talks too fucking much.  My last trip out of Miami had been on a PJ, so already I’m a little irritated at having to deal with the terminal riff raff.  I check in on American Airlines; no point going to the lounge – it’s fucking disgusting, and my flight is boarding soon anyway.  I swing by a bar, chug a beer with my Klonopin and head to the gate.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, the takeoff doesn’t bother me at all.  The steep turn the plane makes at what feels like a stall speed doesn’t concern me in the least; a crash would’ve put me out of my misery.  I don’t know if there is a Hell, but I’m definitely on track to go there at this point, especially after the decadence and debauchery of the last few days.  I quickly mumble what I could recall of the Lord’s Prayer as insurance, and go back to my iPod.

I know they say you can’t have electronic devices turned on during takeoff, but that’s such bullshit.  As Douglas Bader once said, “rules are for the obedience of fools, and the guidance of wise men.”  Given my fear of flying, I need my iPod for takeoffs and landings.  My usual go-to tune is a Britney Spears song; it doesn’t matter which one.  Not that I love Brittney Spears, but I am confident that it is not my destiny to die while listening to ‘Baby, One More Time.’

Once the plane levels off, my mood totally turns. First of all, the chick next to me is smoking hot by airplane standards.  In addition, the clientele on the Miami-London flight is totally different that what I am used on the New York-London flights – bankers and BP executives.

It’s like one big First Class party, and I am the life of it.  The drinks are flowing; every one is up, talking, and moving around.  It’s like everything Virgin Atlantic promises but never delivers; I’m wondering if I dropped my keys in a hat somewhere.

As a world-traveling banker, but not the lacrosse-playing, Brooks Brothers kind, I can relate to most people – especially the fun-loving jet-setter types you find on a Miami-London red eye. I’m ordering people drinks, telling stories, and making jokes – I am Lloyd Christmas lighting farts at the party.

I happen to be a connoisseur of inappropriate jokes. I have the confidence and security to tell such jokes with ease, mainly because my delivery is impeccable and hits exactly where the funny overtakes the offensive. Let’s be honest, most people love to hear off-color, rude or racist jokes.  As long as you can pull them off, you’ll be a hit.

I immediately seize on this unexpected atmosphere to impress Andrea, the chick sitting next to me.  I soon realize that there is a chance that I might just get lucky, and that the flight attendants are cool enough that they’d let me do it.  At the very least, I can set the framework to be her London tour guide, and we all know what that means.

So I ask for 2 glasses of champagne and go in for the kill.  Sadly, this is right about the point where everything catches up to me and, just like that, I’m out.  I don’t literally pass out; I just have no memory of what I say or do for the next hour or so before I eventually do pass out.

Subsequently, I have no recollection of landing, and very little memory of clearing customs.  It’s really only once I’m showered and am heading into the office that I start to sober up.  Fuck, I hope I didn’t embarrass myself.  Fuck it.  Who cares?  I never got her number, so it doesn’t matter any way.

A couple of days go by and I’ve more or less forgotten about the trip back, when a mysterious email lands in my work inbox:

Dear [me],

I just had to send you an email.

I have to say that you are by far the most interesting, entertaining, and funny person I have ever had the privilege of meeting on an airplane. You are a beautiful soul, inside and out. 

I felt an immediate connection with you, and sense that the feeling is mutual. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have the courage to be sending you this email.

I fly to London 2-3 times a month, and am usually there for a couple of days at a time. I would love nothing more than to see you again.

I have been a flight attendant for 14 years, and have had the pleasure of meeting some of the most fascinating and interesting people in the world from celebrities and politicians to business leaders and pro athletes.  But I have never enjoyed meeting anyone as much as I enjoyed meeting you.

Sincerely,

Andrew

Tweet Recycling

Yes, I fucking know that I repeat/recycle tweets occasionally.  You don’t have to tell me. They are my tweets. I already know. And if, for some reason, that bothers you (as it seemingly does to some of you), then simply fuck off.

To be succinctly clear, I repeat tweets for a few simple reasons:

1) I like them and they make me laugh.
2) Old tweets from before I had very many followers are ‘new’ to the majority of my followers.  Most people understandably don’t take the time to scroll back and read my entire history of tweets. 
3) A tweet that really stands out is often worth repeating as most people are too busy to devote themselves to Twitter.
4) I continue to grow my follower count in the Ks per day.  Hence, I will go back 3-4 months on a rolling basis and recycle a few standout tweets.