You have to admit it’s getting better, getting better all the time.

Incidentally, check out the blog of the same name. It’s written by a metro north conductor and it’s hilarious.

(sorry no links…written from iPhone)

Update: Thanks to Chris at StationStops and Kristen at Stamford Talk for pointing out that the Hilarious Metro-North conductor’s blog is actually called Derailed.  For the first time in my life, I was wrong.  See comments for links to app.

I feel very lucky, even though we lost 3 weeks of house searching and $1,300.  The place was a money pit just waiting to happen.  We loved some of the funky features of the place and the rocks and woods surrounding the house.  But there were a host of problems and the sellers were completely unreasonable about addressing them.

First, the garage/addition did not have a certificate of occupancy, likely because the septic tank was too small to accommodate the additional living space.  Or maybe it’s because the addition wasn’t built to code…so all the safety precautions around fire retardant materials were ignored.

Second, the water and air were infected with radon and bacteria, requiring expensive mitigation systems.

Third, the septic system needed an outlet baffle.  I have no idea what this means, but I know it costs $1,000 and the septic system doesn’t work without it.

108 Sawmill Road

We documented all of these findings, but the sellers refused to mitigate any of these issues.  So basically we would have purchased an unsafe home that required thousands of dollars of repairs…just so we could breathe the air, drink the water, and expunge our waste!

They claimed they had another superior offer.  In this market, I doubt it.  If it’s true, then let’s hope the new buyers do their homework!

click here for more pics.

But the last couple of months were rollercoaster crazy.  Everything is changing.

1.  Greta is pregnant again.  She is due April 13 with #2.  Wowza.  You are probably as surprised as we were.

I first noticed that something was going on when Greta complained of feeling queasy on a motorboat in New Hampshire.  Greta does not complain, so I knew something was up.

A week later, we bought a pregnancy test.  She took it into the bathroom, peed on it, and then refused to look at it.  Instead, she sent me in.  I locked the door, took a deep breath, and then BAM…saw the indicator.

First reaction was calm.  There must be a mistake.  Then a little voice in my head started to repeat over and over again: “ohmigod this is actually happening ohmigod this is actually happening.”   Then, eventually, happiness.

We are doing a terrible job documenting anything this time around.  Poor #2.  It will be harshly neglected.

2.  I left McKinsey.  I am now working at Bloomberg in New York, in a new strategy group.

About 2 weeks ago, I received a call from a McKinsey partner who had previously announced that he was leaving the firm to join Bloomberg in a strategy role.  I had worked with him for 6+ months on 3 different studies, and I had a lot of respect for him.

He asked whether I would ever consider leaving the Firm.  With another baby on the way, the prospect of traveling 4 days a week was not exactly enticing.  I said yes, I would consider it.

We talked for a few more days about the role and the company.  I called a few trusted friends and my parents.  4 days later, I accepted.

I will be spending most of my time thinking about how to grow the media businesses.  Bloomberg has a large newsgathering staff, a cable network with distribution all over the world, a radio station, a magazine and a website.  Andy Lack was recently hired to head the multimedia group.  Bloomberg is investing for growth, which is impressive in this market, and I am excited to be a part of it.

I will miss McKinsey.  I never really expected to be a lifelong consultant, but I enjoyed the work far more than I thought I would.  I gained exposure to a range of media companies, including a pro sports league, a cable network, and a newspaper company.

Mostly I enjoyed working with incredibly intelligent values-based people.  In case you didn’t already know…I’m pretty much a freak.  I become obsessed with things like vampires, alternate political views, and devilish satire.  But I was surrounded by people with equally strange passions, and I found sharing ideas with them was hugely rewarding.

But the lifestyle is just too difficult to sustain when you have a family.  (I found pockets of people that made it work, but for the most part it seemed to get harder as one progressed upwards)  This opportunity at Bloomberg couldn’t have come at a better time.

3. We’re buying a house in North Stamford.  We reached a verbal agreement last night on a home in North Stamford.  It’s on 1+ acre of woods, with lots of places for Jack and the neglected #2 to play and explore.  The house is old, but some parts have been recently updated (kitchen, bathroom) so it’s ready to move in.  Going forward, we have a few ideas on ways to spruce the place up- knock out a wall here, but a wet bar there.

The best part about the house is the “80’s wing.”  There’s a section of the house with faux-wood paneled walls that will serve as the guest wing.  We look forward to visitors.

But before we celebrate too much, we’d like to see a signed binder, and of course get through the inspection.

4.  Finally, to put the icing on the cake, we’re getting a minivan.  Yes, you read right.  A minivan.  And since Greta refuses to drive it (something about an unsafe chassis), I will be commuting to and from Stamford train station in a 2001 Chrysler Town & Country.  Fully Loaded.

Thanks, Dad.  (Why didn’t we buy that Audi my mother sold last year??)

Yesterday, on the return flight from Salt Lake City, I played the in-flight
trivia game for 5 hours (that’s about 16 rounds). It’s a real-time game
that you play against your fellow passengers. Points are awarded for both
correct answers AND response time.

After each question, the screen displays a scoreboard with the names and
seat locations of all the players. A winner is recognized after each round.

This picture is a shot of the all-time top scores on the flight. I snapped
it with my blackberry just before we landed.

Not sure if it’s clear enough to make out, but ‘GRREEE’ is at the top with
4900 points. That’s my wife, Greta.

She scored 4900, an almost impossible score, in the very first round. It
infuriated me to see her name at the top of the board. All lucky guesses.

So I played 15 straight rounds trying to beat it. My alias was ‘DAD.’ As
you can see, I came close with 4800, but it wasn’t good enough.

Humiliating.

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Why have just one?
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During the debate, McCain proudly displayed his bracelet to the world, saying he is the candidate of choice for the military, because he’s the only one who wants to win.  In contrast, Obama wants to dishonor the sacrifices we’ve made by pulling out.

Ever since, the campaign machine is lashing out at Obama because he never used the word “victory” during the debate.

Are people actually swallowing this bullshit?

Of course our troops want to win.  I sure as hell hope so.  If they said anything else, I’d be deeply concerned.

But shouldn’t the commander-in-chief take a fuller view of the situation, and be willing to pull our troops out (kicking and screaming, if necessary) if it’s in the best interests of the United States?

Is it “country first” or “ego first?”

I think the Democrats originated this idea, but I first learned of it from Bill Kristol in this morning’s NYT. 

Kristol, the conservative NYT columnist, suggests that McCain should call for a limit on salaries for all employees of the banks that choose to participate in the bailout.  What’s a reasonable limit, according to Kristol?  No one shall make more than the President of the United States. 

The President makes $400,000.  Wow.  Imagine that.

Banks, you can finally unload your toxic assets and right your balance sheet.  There’s just one minor concession: you will now compete with the postal service for new talent. 

No matter, it’s not as though human capital plays an important role for an investment bank.

Sure, it was a bit tree-huggery.  But they had fresh produce and meats, do-it-yourself peanut butter, a huge wine selection, and 78 varieties of Kashi cereal.

Life was good.

Here in Stamford, we go to the Stop & Shop.  It’s total crap.

With all these rich white people around, isn’t there a decent grocery store to serve up overpriced food?

Don’t anyone mention the whole foods in Greenwich….it’s NOT a real whole foods.

In the last few months, I’ve written a few draft posts, but I wanted my first post back to be spectacular.  Unfortunately, I’m just not that creative.

Instead, Ill share a few random thoughts from the world of finance.

I had drinks tonight with a few friends from Lehman and Merrill.  They seemed upbeat, mostly because it looks like they’ll be keeping their jobs, for now.  It must be scary times for them, especially when you consider how much of their comp usually comes from their year end bonus.

It fascinates me to watch real people react to such life-changing events.  It’s absurd, in the French existentialist sense.  Markets are being turned upside down and storied banks are collapsing, but real people are dealing with it just like any other “crisis,” with good sense and good humor. 

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This is, by far, the best place to drink in Stamford.

Thanks, Blog Stamford.

Look at this picture. It’s an advertisement for a crib from Burlington Coat Factory.  I’m sorry, but this baby is Ugly.

Where do they find these kids?

I guarantee that Jack would sell triple the cribs as this ugly baby.

Should we get him involved in child modeling? Maybe he’d start to pull his
own weight, financially, and Mom could get a new pair of shoes.

1. We saw this bumper sticker at the beach near my father’s house in Fairfield. I laughed. It reminded me of how many people think the world is “dog eat dog,” and, in fact, it just might be. There is some funny dialogue on this topic in Rabbit, Redux, which I’m currently devouring.

Garfield Minus Garfield is a site dedicated to removing Garfield from the Garfield comic strips in order to reveal the existential angst of a certain young Mr. Jon Arbuckle. It is a journey deep into the mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness and depression in a quiet American suburb.

Here’s an example:

I just emailed her to remind her to bring the nail clippers tonight when she picks me up from work. I HATE having even a millimeter of extra fingernail…because inevitably I pick at them and mangle them to shreds. (Aren’t blogs great? Putting personal information out there on the web is really transforming society for the better, no?)

Anyway, here’s Greta’s response:

silly, silly hubby. I could have a catfish hanging off my finger and it wouldn’t bother me

Has anyone heard that expression before?

Hey man, I just did something crazy.

It involves you, actually, because the story starts just as I was
dialing your phone number. I had just got into a car in nyc, a town
car, and I was sitting in traffic on W 51st street.

Right when your recording went beep, a black rastafarian crack dealer
black dude in rollwrblades smashed into the back of the town car with
his peanut vendor stand, which he was dragging behind him (it was on
wheels). His friend was sitting on the back of it, and clearly the
extra weight had pushed the cart out of control.

The black dude yelled. ‘What the fuck motherfucker’ and ‘you saw me
comin you coulda mooved’ and ‘whadda fuck you gonna do?’

So at the exact moment that I was going to say “hi jonny, isorry for
calling so late, hope I didn’t wake you up, but I’ve been working a
lot and I really wanted to chat, and how’s katie and I hope your house
isn’t on a flood plain,” well, at that exact moment, my driver pulled
his car over to the side of the road, threw the gear into park and
stepped onto the sidewalk.

I wanted him to get back in so I could go home. But as I listened to
Crack Pimp’s taunts, and as I watched Honest Immigrant Driver survey
the damage to his Chief Source of Income, I started to get angry. Why
shouldn’t Immigrant be upset?

So I unbuckled my seat belt (crossing that ‘action barrier of no
return)1, and stepped out of the car. Crack Pimp laughed when he saw
me, with my J Crew khakis and 5 feet 11 inches of pure bone.
“Whiteyman gonna do sometin?”

He skated right up to me and stuck his grill in my face. So close I
could see the white globules of spit at the corners of his mouth,
dripping into his sticky beard.

For some reason, I smiled. Fuck this asshole, I thought.

“Show some respect.”

“What?”. He couldn’t believe I had spoken. Neither could I.

“You heard me. Apologize to this man.”

He turned to his friend, who was lounging on the peanut cart. “Ya
heard this fool?”

When he turned back to face me, I punched him right in the face. As
hard as I could. I ‘m not sure what came over me. An overwhelming
feeling of rage had gripped me and I just acted. In hindsight, I
remember wanting to humiliate and hurt him, to destroy him. But those
are words, so it’s not quite accurate. In reality, my mind was
swirling with rage and animal instinct and I simply let myself go.

The punch probably didn’t pack much, but he was on rollerblades so it
actually knocked him sideways, off his feet. He crashed hard to the
pavement, and I saw blood spurt out of his nose into the tire-worn rut
in the middle of the street.

The next few minutes are kind of a blur. My driver hocked a fat
loogie on Crack Pimp, who lay there moaning, and then he pulled me
back to the car. I got in. We drove away. No idea what Crack Pimp’s
sidekick did.

Now my hand kinda hurts but I’m feeling exhilirated. Like a real man.
Ernest Hemingway. Fuck that guy.

1 Everything after this point is purely a figment of my imagination. In fact, I cowered safely in the backseat while the two men argued. After a good 5 minutes of insults, Honest Immigrant Driver got back in the car and drove me home, muttering the entire way about “low-lifes.”

Wish I was a Senior

Originally uploaded by christopherh01

It was awful.

Ben and I got in the water at 10am, planning to sail across Squam Lake to our rented cottage, have lunch with our women-folk, and return in the early afternoon. Ha. It was 4:30 before I tasted anything but lakewater and humiliation.

Ben is a pretty good sailor but I don’t know my bow from my sheet. Actually, I’m the guy that makes fun of guys that like to sail. I group them all into a general bucket of rich, prissy types who wear pink pants and chat about their portfolios over mango mojitos.

The horror started almost immediately. We spent a full hour attempting to maneuver out of the narrow cove, directly into the wind. I was in charge of the oar. I was useless. Every time we tried to hoist the sail (so many gay terms), we got flipped around and blown into the rocks. Then a boat would go by, towing little kids in their own sailboats, and we were forced to wait for them on the side of the channel. 5 year old kids with individual boats. Reminded me of those little skiiers with helmets–and no poles–whizzing by on the trail, effortlessly.

We finally managed to get out on the open water. But it got less fun. The tiny cockpits (another gay term) are built for something besides comfort. There’s nowhere to sit. So you end up crouching awkardly in the bilge water, trying to balance the weight and avoid the swinging pole (the boom). Your legs are all jammed up underneath you like a little kid and the oar juts up into your ass (everything on the boat has a purpose, except the designer wasn’t smart enough to build a oar-holder).

Every time the boat
tilted (about every 3 seconds), I would panic and throw myself
to the other side. Ben, carefree and confident, started saying things like “Yeah, my wife doesn’t feel comfortable in a sailboat either.”

I just wanted to go home.

But we were far from home. I was in charge of the ‘chart’ (fancy sailing term for map), so I could see with painful clarity just how far from Bean Cove we were. Every time Ben asked me which direction we were headed, I would point in a direction perpendicular to our heading. You can never go straight in a sailboat.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the storm clouds rolled in. We had about 30 minutes to contemplate just how awful it would be if it started raining, and then it started raining. Drenching, freezing rain. My teeth were clacking together and I was shaking. The warm familiar bilge water was soon replaced with ice cold rainwater. Two words: frightened turtle. I was miserable. We made half-hearted attempts at humor, but my laughs were mostly the result of a clattering jawbone.

Then I really wanted to go home. But our adventure had 1 more turn to take.

The rain subsided, the wind picked up, and we started to get some real speed. Gybing (turning) gets pretty crazy in strong wind, because the sail swings violently and the boat tries to tip over. It’s funny because you beg for the wind and as soon as it comes, it’s the scariest thing imaginable.

My worst fears were realized when we tried to turn and the boat tipped to port about 45 degrees. I dove valiantly to starboard. Ben flipped backwards into the water like a scuba diver. My bravery wasn’t enough. The thing flipped me off and turned completely upside down in the water.

So there we were, floating in the middle of the lake, capsized. My first thought: “Thank God, maybe we can go home now.” More than anything else, I was relieved. Literally. (warm water is good for that)

My reaction couldn’t have been more different than Ben’s. The guy freaked out. His life jacket didn’t fit correctly so it rode up over his eyes. I helped him cinch it down, thinking he would relax and start laughing along with me. Instead, he started talking about hypothermia, and how people don’t actually realize they’re cold and then all of a sudden they freeze and die. Or something like that.

It’s worth pointing out that this was a 78-degree July day. At almost exactly the same moment that Ben was crying about hypothermia, my 8 month old son was swimming and splashing around in the water. In the same lake. (You would think I’d have been tipped off by the apron Ben wears when cooking or doing dishes.)

Anyway, some camp counselors on a nearby island rescued us. They helped us flip our boat over, crushing my dreams for a quick tow back to the rental place. We continued on.

2 hours later, we pulled up to the dock at the rental house. It was 4:30. Starved, tired, drenched, and freezing, I couldn’t have been happier to see my family on the dock.

Normally at this point, I would say something nice about sailing. You know, something about a newfound respect for people that battle the elements with nothing but raw intelligence and physics. How it’s actually quite difficult.

But I hated almost every minute of it.

An Apple for the Teacher

Originally uploaded by christopherh01

I received this glass apple today, in appreciation for my services as a
brilliant professor a few weeks ago.

My desk is really starting to fill out with meaningful mementos. I placed
it right near my Sagamore Film Festival awards for Best Musical and Best
Onscreen Chemistry. Don’t ask.

Seriously though, these little thoughtful touches really do mean a lot.
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Basically, I tried to make the case that democracy is in peril, because newspapers are seeing their business models blow up.  Without newspapers, who will watch the watchmen?  Answer: we all will.  We’ll use the Internet to take over some of the jobs that professional journalists have been doing, like spreading information and keeping our institutions honest.

I don’t think there’s anything earth-shattering here, but it certainly sparked a fascinating discussion with my co-workers.

I was checking out Manager Mom’s blog, and I was totally impressed with some of the stuff she’s been putting out. This MILF is hilarious! I clicked through (from Google Reader) to leave a comment, and was SHOCKED at the comment activity. The thing has exploded. There were like 50 comments on each of her posts.

I was impressed and definitely a little jealous. And there are plenty of other great blogs in Stamford, many of which are also starting to get a lot of traffic.

It got me thinking…. should we create some sort of Stamford Blog Network? This may be a little crazy, given the proliferation of ad networks out there. But there must be local advertisers who would pay to reach the audience that our blogs are creating. Local bars and restaurants would certainly be interested.

I doubt any of us are doing this for the money, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could make a little extra on the side?

Today Now!: How To Pretend You Give A Shit About The Election

When it comes to picking our next president, I can’t decide if I
prefer the smooth-talking, inspirational candidate who promises to give
my money to people who don’t work as hard as I do, or the old, short,
ugly, angry guy with one good arm who graduated at the bottom of his
class and somehow managed to shag a hot heiress and become a contender
for president. It seems dangerous to underestimate that guy.