-Brunch Money-
One of the fattest cats I've ever seen has very pretty coloring. Black and orange and every amber-brown cusp in between, He's a tortoiseshell tom who puffs in alarm when someone new tries a head-to-tail stroke.
The investment banker (who now has my e-mail address) does not have pretty coloring. He's got a pherenology theory-crushing head, angry red with lumps. He wears a cotton golf shirt, business logo over the heart in a manner that suggests: "I am sixty-years old and so comfortable that I won't even make an effort for you, my potential clients."
Cookies, bagels, and coffee adorn the otherwise sparse island, but I forced myself to pour a glass of orange juice from the sidebar, first. I don't stick my neck out and get twitchy for nobody, at least among this crew. These are friends from childhood, and I like everyone of them. But I don't always like myself from back then, and through no fault of their own, their presence sometimes makes me sad the same way the collective works of Fiona Apple do. Indeed, I could fill an i-pod with songs that flash debilitating images into my mindseye.
The banker cut me off just when I was getting on a roll, my vitamin C buzz spoiled by cold economics. The Childhood friends take their seat in the borrowed room. There was no sign of the fat cat.
His powerpoint presentation wasn't very profound, but I'd seen worse in my last semester of school. At least the banker knew better than to put every talking point on a slide, or to read the slides aloud, which we always found maddening in 2 hour and 50 minute seminars.
His major points? Invest now, not later. Pay yourself first. Had he told us to diversify, I would have said he had covered all of the usual advice given on NPR's Marketplace.
Much later, powerpoint has shifted into standby mode. I had behaved myself, I know I had, but the investment banker felt the need to slam me.
"I know you all have only begun to think about these things." he said, in summation. "You all have lives -- except maybe this guy."
My witty retort never came out, because a large part of me agreed with him.
One of the fattest cats I've ever seen has very pretty coloring. Black and orange and every amber-brown cusp in between, He's a tortoiseshell tom who puffs in alarm when someone new tries a head-to-tail stroke.
The investment banker (who now has my e-mail address) does not have pretty coloring. He's got a pherenology theory-crushing head, angry red with lumps. He wears a cotton golf shirt, business logo over the heart in a manner that suggests: "I am sixty-years old and so comfortable that I won't even make an effort for you, my potential clients."
Cookies, bagels, and coffee adorn the otherwise sparse island, but I forced myself to pour a glass of orange juice from the sidebar, first. I don't stick my neck out and get twitchy for nobody, at least among this crew. These are friends from childhood, and I like everyone of them. But I don't always like myself from back then, and through no fault of their own, their presence sometimes makes me sad the same way the collective works of Fiona Apple do. Indeed, I could fill an i-pod with songs that flash debilitating images into my mindseye.
The banker cut me off just when I was getting on a roll, my vitamin C buzz spoiled by cold economics. The Childhood friends take their seat in the borrowed room. There was no sign of the fat cat.
His powerpoint presentation wasn't very profound, but I'd seen worse in my last semester of school. At least the banker knew better than to put every talking point on a slide, or to read the slides aloud, which we always found maddening in 2 hour and 50 minute seminars.
His major points? Invest now, not later. Pay yourself first. Had he told us to diversify, I would have said he had covered all of the usual advice given on NPR's Marketplace.
Much later, powerpoint has shifted into standby mode. I had behaved myself, I know I had, but the investment banker felt the need to slam me.
"I know you all have only begun to think about these things." he said, in summation. "You all have lives -- except maybe this guy."
My witty retort never came out, because a large part of me agreed with him.
posted by Benedict | 2:05 AM
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