On a 1-10 scale with 1 being a Zen-like state of tranquility and 10 being a murderous climb-to-the-top-of-a-tower-with-a-high-caliber-rifle blood-red rage, where would you place a bad haircut? I suppose it would depend on how much of a narcissist you were. It probably shouldn’t count for much, right?

After five years of perfection, Jenny unexpectedly left the hair salon without a word of warning. She left me in the hands of a butcher. The Demon Barber of Route 35. Two months ago, Jenna, my masseuse, left the spa unexpectedly as well. Neither of those two trollops left a forwarding address. How much dumping can one man take in such a short period of time and not snap? Do you have any idea how time consuming and expensive it is to brainwash someone into delivering a consistently perfect haircut? And don’t get me started on training a new masseuse! Jenna knew just where I ached. I jest with Mrs. Wife that getting a massage is the only legitimate way I can get another woman to put her hands on me and not have it result in divorce proceedings. Celebrating 10 years of fidelity. Do you think that was easy? For either of us?

The daylight lingers a bit longer and a warm breeze blows down 5th Avenue. At Benevolent Dictators, Inc. that can only mean one thing: the summer intern season is finally here! You see them in the elevators and roaming the halls. Young, fresh faced fraternity robots and sorority chippies who bubble over with enthusiasm and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. New ties and cuff links for the fellas and a smart new Talbots wardrobe for the gals. They’ve spent their entire lives within the protective confines of a classroom (except for an occasional backpacking sojourn across Europe). It’s all they know! Their innocence is equal parts touching and nauseating. Theirs is the unsullied outlook of a people who haven’t been torched by reality yet, bless them.

If you see one approaching your desk to pick your brain, it’s best to hunker down underneath it and pretend you’re away at a meeting. Otherwise, be prepared to get trapped in a dull, time-sucking discussion about which of our investment vehicles are focus products and why.

Not a joke: Yesterday I rode the elevator down with two young, strapping bucks and one said to the other, without the slightest hint of irony or sarcasm, “If I had a rough night I could always just skip a class and sleep in, but this place expects you to be here every day!”

That’s right, junior. Every. Fucking. Day.

I was summoned to a conference room this afternoon. My boss sat across a table and said, “I have a script I’m supposed to follow.” “Ah,” thought I. “Here it comes.” And I got it, alright. But I didn’t get what I thought I was going to get. There’s a lot of administrative details that are too dull to mention but the gist of the meeting was that Benevolent Dictator, Inc. is asking me to stop job hunting and stay with the company. Big Bosswoman said she’s confident they’re done firing people—excuse me—reducing headcount. They want me to hang around for the rebuilding and they are offering me a retention bonus to not leave. It’s a pretty thick check, too. It’s payable after 90 days. They feel that after 90 days, the ship will have righted itself and they want to insure that I don’t head for zee hills in the interim.

I was a high school loser. Ask anyone who was there. I never had a girlfriend. Didn’t go to my prom. My grades were so bad that I couldn’t get into a university. I never took my SATs. There was no point. After all my friends disappeared into academia, I spent two years anesthetizing myself with as much weed as I could lay my hands on. I pumped gas. Tore movie tickets in half. Mowed lawns on the medians of strip malls. Made sandwiches at a deli. I got dumped a lot. My lost years. To go from that mess to being offered a retention bonus by an investment bank is an arc I never could have imagined. I am the poster child for late bloomers.

Party time.

Well, thank God that’s over. I wonder how the Dems will fuck it up this time? They have a knack for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Perhaps Mr. Obama will lose his mind and select Dennis Rodman or The Reverend Wright as his running mate. I hope not, although it would make for some entertaining debates.

* * *

Today is the 51st Annual Puerto Rican Day Parade in Manhattan.

RUN!!!!

I went to Brooklyn for dinner this evening. I visited my old friend Oswaldo in my old neighborhood, Fort Greene. This will come as a shock everyone who thinks I’m just a lily white pretender from an Ohio suburb, but I actually have some street cred. I moved to Fort Greene in 1989. At that time I was the only white person in my building and, in fact, one of a small handful of Caucasians in the neighborhood. The neighborhood was pretty raw—I was mugged twice—but I chose to live there because I could afford an apartment on my own.

The neighborhood has been gentrified since then. There are glass and steel high rise apartment buildings that look idiotic and out of place amongst the beautiful, well kept, brownstones that were built in the 1800s. There is now a balance of moneyed whites and the original black residents with a smattering of Latinos. We had dinner at The Smoke Joint. I had a half rack of spare ribs and some collard greens. They were really nice.

All throughout dinner Oswaldo lamented the change in the neighborhood. He has been in his apartment —a small studio in a brownstone—for 30 years. He’s seen it all. He said that the new white professionals who have been buying up brownstone for $1M+ and pushing expensive strollers up and down South Portland Avenue are an unfriendly bunch. He said they don’t talk to you and will look at you in a way that makes you feel like you don’t belong in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s exaggerating. He said, “And what is it with white people and dogs? Can you explain to me why they all have to have dogs in the city?” I said, “I don’t understand it, either. I’ve never been much of a dog person.” He said, “That’s because you’re not white.” which I took to be a compliment.

There are a few different subway lines that will take you to downtown Brooklyn but I waited for a B train specifically because instead of passing under the East River, it goes over the Manhattan Bridge and affords you some pretty nice views of the harbor. I saw the Statue of Liberty floating around out there. As soon as we came out of the subway tunnel into the open air, a few passengers fired up their cell phones to make quick calls before ducking back underground. It spoiled the atmosphere. Fortunately, cell phone service on the train suddenly and inexplicably went out. I took the same line back but had to change cars because the one I initially boarded smelled like urine.