2011 Valedictory Roast

Here's the transcript of my address at the 2011 ESB graduation dinner. If a video becomes available, I'll post that as well.
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2011 ESB Valedictory Address

Dean Taras, members of the Saskatoon business community, parents, relatives, and students – thank you. It’s an honour to be named Valedictorian of the 2011 Edwards School of Business graduating class. In all honesty, I was gunning for the sports award, but apparently these Herculean triceps and thuder-clap thighs weren’t enough. Not even a nomination. This disappointing blow led to a personal realization, and so tonight I announce my pre-emptive retirement from competitive body building. I will be sticking to business.

It’s equal parts fun and rewarding to see everyone come together tonight, not to mention that you all look like you belong on a red carpet somewhere. You’re beautiful, handsome - all that jazz. I myself wanted to arrive inside of an egg, but Lady Gaga stole my idea at the Grammys. Anyways, like I was saying, it’s wonderful to come together to celebrate our years of academic achievements. For some, these achievements include publishing honours research, attaining great distinction, and/or placing first in national business competitions, while for others it includes finally passing Managerial Accounting with a 51. Remember, reachable goals: the first step to success.

Some of the students here, myself included, represent Edwards' first full graduating class in the sense that the College of Commerce became ESB four years ago. Others have been here much longer and quite frankly just want to get out. In either case, this is a day where professionals, professors, and parents can chuck their metaphorical batons at a new generation who, ready or not, have to grab hold to lead the future. To the professionals specifically: thank you for your support, time, and guidance beyond our classroom settings. To the professors: thank you for your ongoing commitment, considerable patience, and attempts at humour. To the parents who always knew their children could persevere and get through their degree, congratulations, you should be proud. And to the parents who had their doubts: I’ve been in groups with many of your children, and I’m as surprised to see some of them graduating as you are. Finally, to my fellow students: in a sense we've grown up together. We've run side-by-side to catch buses in blizzards, helped each other pass web-tests, and slept in the reading room on those mysterious chair stains more times than is humanly healthy. In fact, we've spent so much time together in groups that I think I qualify for common-law marriage with at least twenty of you in this room. We may not all be best friends or even acquaintances, but, as a whole, we've made some pretty good memories. Well, let's be honest - we've lost some memories and made some mistakes, too, but that was mostly at the Branch and LB5Q.

When trying to hunt for some inspiring, perspicuous message to talk about tonight, I admit that I had trouble finding the right launch pad. So I thought “why not go back to the very beginning?”. Why did I choose to take business? Why did any of us choose Edwards? Introspectively interviewing my younger self was an interesting exercise. For example, in elementary school I wanted to be a zamboni driver. Later on, my aspirations changed to pastry chef, then to talk-show host, to antique appraiser, to accountant – all sorts of ridiculous things. My life changing moment, however, can be pinpointed with razor exactness. March 2004. I started watching The Apprentice on NBC and Donald Trump had me mesmerized. It wasn't even something he said. It was one particular camera shot - and I can remember it so clearly - where The Donald is walking with his two viceroys (Carolyn Kepcher and George Ross) through Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City.

Boom. I needed to be this billionaire.

I didn't even know what Trump did, but I wanted his lifestyle so bad that from that moment on, I knew I had to enrol in business. You think I'm joking – I'm not. And who knows, maybe I’d have been a billionaire by now if I didn’t have to spend so much on U of S parking tickets every week. Seriously. Anyhow, eight years after my Donald Trump epiphany my goals and game-plan have changed slightly, but the underlying inspiration is still there: to be able to dream big and live my passion. And that's what I truly believe an Edwards degree allows us to do; I've witnessed bits of it in my life already, and so those experiences and that theme are what I want to talk about tonight.

Last summer, I had the amazing opportunity to live and work in Manhattan, New York City. I lived two blocks away from the Empire State Building, I worked in Madison Square Garden's 50 storey office building, and at one point I got to have lunch with Terry McGraw, chairman of the United States' Business Roundtable from 2003 – 2006, on the top floor of a sixth avenue skyscraper that overlooked all of New York and Lady Liberty on the Hudson. I paint this picture not to make anyone jealous, although it certainly gets my current self green with envy, but to illustrate where a small town Saskatchewan prairie boy was hanging around at age 20. I loved that summer because it broke the stereotypes I myself had set of Saskatchewan opportunity. And I ended up learning two things over those four months: one, that our careers’ trajectories are limited only by the amount of work that we put into them. Before finding the job that I ended up with, I had sent out 114 different cover letters and gotten four calls back. Competition is vicious but perseverance prevails. The second thing that I learned was that the value of an Edwards education is equivocal to the best business educations out there. The friends I made -- from Phoenix to Chicago to Long Island -- were all learning the same things that I was, down to the same textbooks. So, truly, what we get out of this entire educational experience equals what we put in.

What I'm getting at, and maybe I'm skirting around what I actually want to say, is that I encourage my fellow graduates to use your good education from Edwards to pursue something that you love doing, because the education itself will never limit you. Saskatchewan is exploding with opportunities right now – we've heard it a thousand times – and if you see your place here, then I strongly endorse the decision to stay and to make this your home, and encourage you to continue to build our provincial reputation for the rest of your careers. BUT that's not the only way to build provincial reputation. If by now you still have a gut feeling that there’s something else out there beyond area code 306, I encourage you to go exploring and find something that actually excites you. It's scary, I know – I've done it to some degree. But risk and failure, as the finance majors will tell us, is better had when we're young and daring. So please, go ahead and do what makes you happy.

Now don’t worry, I’ve got plenty more clichés where that came from. In fact, if you’re like my family and you’re currently playing the drinking game: “Drink when the speaker says a grad cliché”, here are a few more for you. Ready?

“Follow your dreams”, “We are the future”, and “This isn’t the end, it's just the beginning”. You’re welcome, grandpa.

Alright, everyone – now’s the time when we have to take a break from this regularly scheduled speech to hear a few words from our sponsors. Please stay tuned after these messages.

Business students: late night studying and midterms making you dizzy? All that cheap fast-food crap churning your stomach? No need to worry – get Pepto-Bismol! [Slam a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on the podium] It's great, great, great for Porter’s Other Five Forces: nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea. Relief is only $9.99 away, act now before it’s too late.

You should have guessed: put a marketing student up here and he’s going to start selling crap. This is captive audience marketing at its finest, folks. I would not pass up the opportunity. And Pepto-Bismol, I’ll be waiting by my mailbox for my spokesperson check.

Honestly, I wonder how often marketing students get to give the valedictory address? Probably not often because, as it’s quickly becoming clear, we’ve got about two minutes of real stuff to say interspersed among eighteen minutes of jokes and products to sell. Guess I do belong in advertising.

It’s difficult to develop blanket advice that applies to all students, though. With so many different interests and majors, what’s valuable to one group may be quixotic or irrelevant to another. And so I want to take a minute just to address all the different majors separately and sincerely, if I could.

First, to all the accounting majors. You made a sturdy career choice, one that will unassailably bring you financial stability and a strong career path. Indeed, if birth, death, and taxes are the three certain forces of this universe, you've picked a steadfast occupation. My only question is why stop with taxes? Why not go for a hat-trick or triple-whammy? Start a sperm bank that offers coffins as a sign-up incentive and you'll have all three stages of life covered. Think about it, accountants.

To all the finance majors: I am truly, deeply terrified that some of you could be managing my money one day. I don't know a lot about RRSPs, RRIFs or TFSAs, but I do know that a pub crawl to the Pat, the Scuz, and Jax does not count as “diversifying risk”. Or maybe, depending on if you'd rather get punched or stabbed, it does. But anyway, finance majors, my advice to you is an investment tip. Seeing as many of you will probably ride the emotional roller-coasters of the stock markets for the rest of your careers, you'll most likely be the first of us to go grey. Hence, invest in hair dye now for a financially sound future.

To all the human resource majors: most of you probably chose HR because you're “people persons”. You're good listeners, you're trustworthy. Usually I find you're too nice, though. Take employee evaluations, for example. You always try to come up with points for improvement or mutually beneficial solutions. If I were to conduct reviews and come across someone with substandard performance, I would probably write something like “Jack has delusions of adequacy” or “Jill should return to her previous job as village idiot”. You, HR majors, have a level of patience I can only dream of. My only advice is to slack a little. Stir the pot. Spread some mean rumours. If you solve all an organization's people problems and everyone's happy, no one will need you. So go ahead - slap some bums, stoke some fires.

To all the management majors: you probably came into university with absolutely no clue what you wanted to do, and are now leaving just as clueless. Parents, students, that's not a bad thing. Perhaps there are entrepreneurs among you. The next strategic consultants, or sales reps, or Wal-Mart cashiers. To the University, a management major is like the toy inside a Kinder Surprise wrapped with chocolate tuition. They never know what the toy's going to be, but if it's amazing, great -- if not, hey, at least they got their chocolate. My advice to the management majors, especially when looking for jobs in the next few months, is to listen to the wise words of the great philosopher Mick Jagger when he said: “You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you might find you get what you need.”

To all the biotechnology students: my regrets that your major is as extinct as the pterodactyl, triceratops, and procompsognathus. I'm sorry, but I don't have any advice for you.

To my fellow marketing majors: we are few but mighty. We've spent the last couple years learning how to target and position and sell the right value propositions to the right consumers, but now – on the precipice of the real world – we have to figure out how to turn all that into a career. That's what I love about this major. There is absolutely no limit to it; every company, every not-for-profit, every entrepreneur needs to sell something, and we're the heart behind that. We can build our own dream jobs, but first it requires each of us building our own brand. And that applies broadly to all the majors. We have to learn to sell more than products now, we have to sell ourselves. Figuratively, of course. Although I hear there's some good money to be made on 22nd. Anyways...

As all of us – the students - cross the TCU stage in June, cameras blinding our eyes and robes trying to trip our feet, we’ll all exit the other end of that stage with the same degree in hand. Bachelor of Commerce from the Edwards School of Business at the University of Saskatchewan. We’ll finally have a tangible piece of evidence that says we accomplished something significant, and that’s something that will always be behind us as a reminder of what we can achieve. A degree isn’t just a job warrant, it’s reward and reassurance. With it we should feel secure in our ability to tackle more and navigate life’s vicissitudes.

But that degree – the piece of paper itself – is not the important part. It’s a symbol of accomplishment of something that we started years ago. And now tonight, in front of everyone here, I would like to share my own personal symbol of accomplishment. As I explained before, I went into business for a pretty strange reason, following in the footsteps of pretty big shoes. But now, being one step closer to success, I finally feel proud, privileged, and worthy to don my own Donald Trump hair-doo.

[Put on a Donald Trump wig]

I feel inspired again. And to share this feeling, here are a few Donald Trump quotes for all the graduates who haven’t fallen asleep yet:

1. When somebody challenges you, fight back. Be brutal, be tough.
2. Sometimes your best investments are the ones you don't make.
3. As long as you’re going to be thinking anyway, think big.

I’d like to take a minute just to reiterate a few more thank-yous. First, to the Edwards Business Students' Society, especially Max and Ashlee, for organizing this event. Second, to the school and specifically our new Dean, Daphne Taras. Daphne’s said at the end of her speeches before that she’s so proud of the students here she wishes we were her own kids. Well, in turn, I’d like to say that we’ve been just as proud and lucky to have you as our surrogate mom this year. Third, thank you to the families for the support you’ve given us all these years, specifically to my own mom and dad and both grandmas and grandpas. I’m as thankful as you are proud. And finally, to all the students. Please, add me on Facebook and Twitter and LinkedIn and all that good stuff. I’m eager to follow everyone’s careers.

Beyond that, there’s only one thing left to say. Go out, graduates, and continue to build our provincial reputation. You’re prepared, you’re primed, you’re polished and, take it from Trump, “you’re hired".

Thank you very much.

Auschwhiskers

Last week, a close friend with questionable sanity decided to adopt a kitten. He'd found a black cat on the SPCA's web site and -- being an ardent fan of 1993's cult classic Hocus Pocus -- decided he must buy it and name it Binx. Sounds like a joke from a pot produced haze, right? Wrong. He was determined. Resolute. High only off the fumes of The Black Flame Candle.

The two of us got directions to the SPCA and took a drive to find Binx. The city passed by, becoming tinier and tinier in the rear view mirror; prairie fields popped up and the single-lane street stretched on and on and on. Where was this place?

Finally I found it. My car rolled into a gravel lot and parked by a building set back from the road. We got out, strolling to the doors in silence (maybe not in silence, but it adds dramatic effect), and pushed inside. The lobby is bright and cheerful, trying hard with its pet fresheners and plump, nonthreatening check-in staff to cover up the scents and sights of death. Tiny puppies and kittens (no doubt new arrivals) can be seen being examined in the background by women in lab coats, and to the right is a massive picture board of all the people who have come before you to save a poor Snoopy or Smokey from slaughter.

Once we checked in, the secretary told us to go through a big blue door at the end of the hall. Beyond this door would be another set of blue doors followed by three cat chambers and two dog dens. We walked towards the heavy looking blue door, passing a couple cats that were "on sale" (IE Death Row) at the back of the lobby.

After the first blue door is a small hallway with stacks of empty cages lining the right wall. A hill of discarded shoes comes grimly to mind; anyone over five years old knows what happened to those poor puddy tats. At the very end is the second stark blue door which opens up on a longer hallway, cement from ceiling to floor. The three cat rooms are along the right and the dog rooms are -- as the employee indicated -- at the end. After sanitizing our hands with the required safety goo, we went inside the first inspection room to peer through rows of cages in search of just the right cat. We'd take them out of their pens, away from their brothers and sisters, and examine them fully for any quirks or flaws. Only the best would do. Black hair, green eyes. There's something oddly medical, medieval, and Nazi about the whole process.

This place is Auschwitz for animals.

After goose-stepping through all three inspection rooms and appraising the subjugated furballs, we still hadn't found Binx. Both of us became quite fond of a gnarled Tabby named "Ol' One Eye", but a cat like that is at the end of his rope. If he could hack a few words past his grumbling purr, he would probably sputter something like, "Go on. Save one of the whippersnappers."

Just as we were about to give up looking for Binx, my friend remembered the cats that were on sale in the lobby. And finally, on our way back out the blue doors, I spotted the exact guy we'd been searching for. He was hunched in a kennel on Death Row, no doubt quietly crossing himself and putting his paws together in kitty prayer.

Love at first sight.

We took him out, rolled him back and forth and -- within five minutes -- my friend was signing adoption papers. The employees seemed a bit miffed and asked if he was certain that this was the cat he wanted. Taken aback, as if his new child was just insulted by Kanye West on stage, he replied that he was sure this was the only animal for him.

A week later, I'm glad Binx was saved from the SPCA. He's a pretty cool cat and fits in well with the rest of us boys. He loves booze (brandy, specifically) and tries to play Wii by smacking the buttons on our remotes. I'm pretty jealous of his bow-tie collar and awesome patch of silver chest hair, too. And his cat fort. And his afternoon naps.

Basically I'm jealous of everything about Binx except his neutering appointment. But as the great Bob Barker always said:

Remember to help control the pet population -- have your pets spayed or neutered!

Stats Don't Lie

If you're reading this right now, you have already been exposed to this blog's new look and layout. Except, of course, it you happen to be blind. Are you blind? Trick question -- if you were blind, you couldn't read this in the first place and you would have just blown your cover by answering yes (I saw someone in New York once who pretended to be blind and beg for money -- when he failed to get anything from a group of tourists, he threw his cane on the sidewalk and dashed inside a strip club called The Dripping Lollipop). Note: If you are blind and happen to have some sort of braille computer screen or iPad (eyePad -- ha! made myself laugh), I apologize. I love all my viewers. All of them.

Wait. Are blind people still considered "viewers"?

Never mind.

Wordplay aside, I hope this new template turns your crank. I spent some time tweaking it yesterday and have to admit that I'm impressed with the new options available for bloggers these days. Five years ago, you only had like three looks to choose from -- now I can change just about anything. Among these changes you'll notice wider columns for easier reading, a new description on the right hand side, and fewer annoying ads. I HATE those ads. Bloggers get a few measly cents every time someone clicks one, which is why so many sites are overcrowded with pestilant Google links. I think these ads look desperate, cheap, and unprofessional. Content should be what counts, so I axed most of the side banners. That being said, I left a few on. I mean, let's be realistic. This isn't called Bohemian Businesskid for nothing.

So. Want to know something funny?

When I was changing up the design, I noticed a bunch of new options in the statistics section of Blogger's controls. I opened them up, curious to see who my reader base was, and discovered some interesting findings.

Obviously, most of my viewers are North American (about 55% Canadian, 35% American). But I also have 20 viewers in Hong Kong, 12 in Lithuania, 7 in the Netherlands, 4 in Croatia, and 1 in Argentina.

I'm surprised.

And flattered.

And curious about the one Argentinian. I mean thanks, but why don't you tell your other Argentinian friends about it? Come on, Arge. Help me out.

What's extra funny (and a little alarming) is that I can also see how people arrive here. For example, some Google search words that have led online travellers to this blog have been "Kyle Riabko", "Sean Hayes", and "Next to Normal". These make sense -- I've talked about them in my posts before. Meanwhile, other searches that have led people to this weird corner of the web include: "lasik eye surgery", "shroomy shrooms", and "bohemian milf".

I officially apologize to anyone who has ever come looking for important medical advice, psychedelic fungi, or scantily clad mothers and -- much to their dismay and sexual displeasure -- found me.

By the way, I love that some guy was searching "bohemian milf". That must be a pretty niche segment, no? This isn't professional financial advice or anything, but if you've got extra money lying around, my statistics strongly hint that the milf market is booming. On second thought, it might just be one person. And if it's the same person from Argentina, you, sir, are either the coolest or grossest guy in your country. High five.

Banana Boats

I have to admit, I'm a little sad right now. And no, it's not because I heard a depressing song or watched a tear-jerking movie. It's not because I'm out of groceries, either. It's not even because my nose is still a snot factory, or I can't find my Disney sheet music, or it's colder outside than a witch's teet.

Nope. I'm sad because I just finished my last final.

Hold on, you're thinking. What did he just type?

Yes. You read right. I'm sad finals are over.

Hear me out. We all know Christmas is a time for giving and resting and being with loved ones by warm firesides yadda yadda yadda. It's about unwinding. It's about presents. Depending on the amount of culinary talent that your family's women possess, it's about eating good food (that's not sexist, it's just true). Sure it might also be about spending lots of money you don't have, pretending you enjoy a gift when you really don't, and/or trying to ignore Uncle Paul for a few hours, but, on the whole, Christmas is pretty much the best thing to happen all year.

So why am I sad that finals are over?

Because finals represent a different holiday season. Let's be honest: a student's schedule from December 1st - 22nd is more lax than Montezuma's revenge. At most, we write five three-hour tests. The rest (minus the hours you say you spent studying) is academic freedom. I'm not about to declare that university life is easy, but, well, let's face it: it is pretty damn easy. Even law students, stressed out over 100% finals, should consider the day when they'll have a person's freedom in their hands instead of a sheet that says "Complete the following questions".

So, like I was saying, I'm officially done finals. No more blaming school for bad eating. No more staying up til 4am watching the latest Seth MacFarlane smut with the volume maxed out. And, worst of all, no more going anywhere after sunset (I'll be in Swift Current where dinner's done by 6 and the hicks are out cold by 9). Sigh. This year was a particularly good finals break, and I'm sad to see it go. I mean, between me and my old roommate across the street, we had 3 finals (I had 3, he had 0). You know what that meant? We frequently -- and I'm not exaggerating -- stayed up until 3:00am playing Donkey Kong Country for Super Nintendo while eating banana boats roasted in the oven. Banana Boats and Donkey Kong. If that isn't what God The Father Almighty's bible describes as "holy rapture", I can't imagine what is.

Anyway. I should shove off. I've got my last Xmas party tonight before going home tomorrow (FYI: I'm ready to rant about Xmas parties, too, but I'll save it for later this week). If you're not as popular as I am and don't have anything to do tonight, I suggest finding an SNES and playing Donkey Kong Country followed by DK Country 2: Diddy's Kong Quest. They're pretty much the best games ever.

Merry Christmas, you filthy animal.

Naughty or Nice

Like any good North American urbanite trying to support a shitty economy, I've done my fair share of shopping lately. The candle of consumerism shines bright in my heart and burns holes in my wallet. Like Oprah, I've got my own list of favorite things for the holiday season, and, if St. Nick is reading this right now, I'd appreciate some help from the fat bastard (Santa, not Oprah).

First of all, I'd like to wish for Hewlett-Packard to get a good customer service department. Way back at the start of the school year, my Dell laptop died a sudden, unexpected death. The screen flashed a couple times, the speakers bleeped, and -- as I held it in my arms -- I heard the fan's soft breathing choke, sputter, then stop. Didn't even get a chance to say 'I love you, babe'. After a period of proper mourning, I bought an HP desktop from Futureshop and, within two weeks, it went into epileptic seizures of its own. 'Twas time to make the dreaded phone call to the outsourcing capital of the universe: India (I swear, Mumbai gets calls from the Qanzaar galaxy when aliens need space-parts repaired). And I kid you not, I spent 14 HOURS on the phone with HP service reps. I feel I was pretty patient at the start, but as the clock ticked on and the anger boiled, veins in my head began to pop. Sometime around the tenth hour, I flipped my shit. Apologies to any reps who went home crying that night. I wasn't myself. Yet still, it took over a month to solve my problem, which is unacceptable. I understand that most customer service departments are like warts -- crusty white warts that no amount of liquid nitrogen or cauterization can scorch off -- but HP's is like a hideous hunk of malignant face melanoma.

Second on my Christmas list is a job. With graduation just around the corner, a career would be a good thing to find in my stocking Xmas morning.

Third on my list is another pop hit from Lady Gaga and Beyonce. "Telephone" was ok, but I have a strong feeling they could do better. And then to battle Gaga and Beyonce on the charts, Ke$ha and Pink could team up too. And then all four of them should star in a pornographic feature film titled "Three Stinks, One Pink".

Fourthly, I wish that the reboot of the Spiderman movie series would be cancelled. Sam Raimi et al. did a perfectly fine version the first time around, and I do NOT feel like watching an uninspired train wreck starring the Lizard and some other obscure villain (Van Adder... wtf?).

Fifth on my list, I'd like a football with the face of Shia LaBeouf stitched on the side. Honestly, I would punt that pigskin every day.

Sixthly, I'm craving a scary book. Like a really scary book -- one that I wouldn't be able to read before bed because it would give me night terrors. Currently, I'm a fifth done "Pet Semetary" by Stephen King. If you know something scarier, please, leave a comment.

Speaking of pets, next I would like a maine coon cat. I was recently at someone's house who had one, and they are the BIGGEST, most kick ass cats ever. Don't believe me? Take a look:


So there you have it, my Xmas wishlist. If Christmas miracles exist, hopefully something good will come in my stocking December 25th. I mean, is adequate customer service or a maine coon cat too much to ask? I'm on the "nice" list, right?

Ok, I admit. Maybe I've been a bit naughtier in 2010 than other years. But no one's perfect, right? Actually, let's face it. Who cares if you get a lump of coal on Christmas morning? I say a crummy gift one day out of the year is worth being a bit naughty for the other 364. Modern Santa makes a list, checks it twice, high fives who's naughty, and rolls his eyes at who's nice. So tip back the eggnog, hang up your mistletoe, and slap some tannenbums. Happy holidays, everyone.

Ca-ching!!

Here it is, ladies and gents: financial proof this blog doesn't suck.


Thanks to everyone who follows along. And thanks to Google -- hope this is the start to a beautiful friendship.

Can't wait to add more zeros.

3 Seniors, 2 Firefighters, 1 Stoner

There are some things in life so ridiculous that they demand instant blogging. Tonight was one of those nights.

So I'm at home, drinking apple juice out of a coffee cup and eating butter flavored Crispy Minis on a Sunday night (I wish I could say I was doing something cooler, but let's be honest), when all of a sudden I hear someone's fire alarm going off in another room. 'Ok,' I think to myself, 'my fire alarm goes off all the time'. So I leave it.

The alarm persists for fifteen minutes.

At this point, I can't possibly think of a reason that a fire alarm is going off for fifteen minutes at 11:00pm on a Sunday night unless something is wrong. I slowly start packing up my laptop and passport and glasses (in situations like this, I'm a little paranoid -- if the building is indeed going to burn down, in no way will I be caught unprepared for a proper getaway).

Five more minutes pass. I wander out in the hallway to check for signs of trouble, and find two seventy year old men listening at the door of the room beside me.

We feel the door, smell for smoke, knock loudly. Nothing. But the alarm going off inside won't stop, so one old man touches the handle and discovers that the door's unlocked.

Now it's starting to get creepy.

We back away, concluding that we're all staying out of there. And just as we decide to phone the police, an old lady bursts through the side stairwell in an absolute tizzy. She's wrapped in a faded blue night robe, her glasses perched on her nose and white hairs flying everywhere (I later learned her name is Louise).

"What the blazes is going on?" Louise demands.

"We don't know," the old men and I reply. "The door's open but the lights are off inside."

"Well I can smell smoke outside!" yelps Louise.

At this point I run back in my room and dart for the patio -- sure enough, when I get outside there's the strong smell of smoke gushing from the room right next to mine. Suddenly I hear Lousie's loud voice bellow, "GET UP YOU ASS! YOU'RE BURNING THE BUILDING DOWN!"

I run back to the other room -- by the time I get there, Louise has thrown a smoking steel pot into the kitchen sink and is now fanning the fire alarm. Her and the old men are pointing and screaming at a middle aged man who looks drunk and/or stoned out of his skull: "Don't you know you could have killed us?!", "What were you doing?!", "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

The guy was completely out of it, barely able to string together a sentence. Had he been on drugs, I imagine this whole experience would have been extremely frightening -- to be startled awake by three screaming seniors while a very tall college boy quietly sips apple juice from a coffee cup in the background.

It turns out the burning was from overcooked macaroni and, despite being the only person there, this place wasn't even the stoned guy's apartment. Bizarre. Two firefighters showed up and Lousie filled them in on all the details, still agitated (and rightfully so). By then, more people were coming out of their rooms and I ended up meeting some really funny U of S students from down the hall. Not the best circumstance to be making friends, but, hey, when life gives you lemons.

So that's the story -- this crap basically writes itself. The extra cruddy part is that this is the third time my building's fire alarm has gone off. I've been evacuated three times.

THREE!

That's thrice too many.

A few months ago, management sent everyone a memo that asked if we had any suggestions for what to name the condo. You know, something nice like "Elm Ridge" or "Windsor Terrace".

Tomorrow I think I'll submit "Smoky Mountain" or "Flaming Pines". If you have any other recommendations, please, let me know.

There's No Place Like Home

January 2nd, 2010: my hunt for a summer internship began. One hundred and fourteen cover letters, eight months, and twelve weeks in NYC later, I’m proud to announce I finished everything I set out to do (and more). Mission complete. Sweet success. Flawless victory.

I’ve been asked a lot why I decided to do this. Unsurprisingly, the answer’s not far removed from the reason men do most things -- a girl, of course. Not to impress this particular girl, though, but rather because I was jealous of the NYC internship she’d scored the summer before. Her stories of Manhattan adventures, white collar coteries, and ridiculous fun inoculated a little voice in my brain that whispered “if she can do it, why can’t I?”.

That’s a question I ask myself a lot. Jealously ignites a fire in my gut, and if someone else has something I want, then it’s time to kick ambition into high gear until I get it. If that sounds selfish, it’s because it is. It's not schadenfreude –- it’s just my belief that people should do whatever they want to do if they’re willing to put in the effort. Win-win for everyone.

So last we left off, I had just moved out of my apartment to a hostel in Times Square. ‘Twas my first time in a hostel -– all I had to do was survive six nights with a roommate who, hopefully, wouldn't be a crazed serial killer bent on lurid murder.

Well, no worries there. My bunk buddy was a high school biology teacher from the UK: his cockney accent, plump waist, and fuzzy feet made him about as threatening as a hobbit. I didn’t see a lot of him because I was still working 9 - 5, but we did have good chats every night before bed -- like kids do at sleepovers, really, but instead of rating girls or laughing over words like ‘shart’ and ‘uranus’, we delved into deeper discussions on politics, history, and culture. It was odd, philosophizing with this complete stranger on topics like 9/11, the English monarchy, oil sands, and Baptist churches, but, oi, why not?

Those last six days at the hostel were bittersweet. I wasn’t a fan of living out of a suitcase, but very much enjoyed meeting folks from Ireland, France, Australia, and Israel. They were all terrific (except for the kiwi who made us watch Ghosts of Girlfriends Past – that movie is atrocious, what was he thinking?).

Back at McGraw-Hill, it was time to say goodbye. The coworkers took me out for lunch in Korea Town, and, at 5:00 on Friday the 13th (coincidence?), I took the elevator down from the 21st floor and walked away from Penn Plaza for the last time. Sigh. I’ll miss those guys.

So that’s that. I’m penning the end to this episode in the La Guardia airport, about to hop the plane home. It seems like just last week when I arrived, all wide-eyed and eager and stuffed with first-class breakfast. Now I’m heading back in Cabin Y, the caboose of crammed economy, on Air Canada’s rickety little jazz craft. Good Lord, how could my aristocracy crumble like this? What has flying come to?

But in all seriousness...

Twelve weeks ago, I ended my first blog post in New York with the sentence: “this is a story where even the author doesn’t know what happens next”. Now that the tale’s been told, I look back with bloody amazement: from picnicking in Central Park to taking pictures on top of the Empire State Building; from sailing past the Statue of Liberty to touring Saturday Night Live soundstages in Rockefeller Center. I met dozens of celebrities, saw seventeen Broadway productions, laughed with Letterman at the Late Show, sat front row mezzanine at Radio City Music Hall, ate two scrumptious meals at two dinner show cabarets, munched lunch with my CEO, ooo’d and aahhh’d at 4th of July fireworks, walked the boardwalk at Coney Island, acted in an MTV show, AND met great new friends who best keep in touch or else. Elise, Casie, Jon-Jon, Jocelyn, Kirk, Maria, Prerna, Robyn, Erica, Angela, Alex, Stephen, Matt, Michelle, Peter, Andrew, George, Sam, Benjamin -- thanks for all the fun!

In retrospect, if living in New York has taught me anything –- if I can draw any themes from my own story, they would be these:

1. Value people over places, and
2. Success doesn’t rub off.

Of course I loved Manhattan, but the best parts of the summer didn’t come from just being there; they came from making those new friends I mentioned and taking on the city together. Point two is pretty simple: being around celebrities doesn't make you one. I’ve gotta work my butt off to earn my way back to the big city, and while publishing was a great industry to dip my toes in, I’m still eager to try out show biz...

Let's address that show biz thought for a second: could I settle into a comfortable suburban life after graduation? Sure. But do I want to? Not yet. There's still too much out there I haven't explored.

Take Penn Plaza's elevator as a metaphor.

At the NYC office where I worked, McGraw-Hill only occupied a few of the mid-range floors. During the 9:00 and 5:00 rushes, the elevator car would inevitably stop on every single level. One particular hall that would pass by was Madison Square Garden’s office area. The doors would glide open and reveal a sign in solid gold letters that read: “Madison Square Garden: Where Legends are Made”. All summer I rode that elevator up and down, watching people get on/off that floor, and I’d read the sign -- Where Legends Are Made -- right before the doors would slam shut in my nose. I always wished I could get off there. You know, walk in and ask reception “Excuse me, but your sign outside says you make legends. Could you book me an appointment? I’d very much like to dive into the entertainment world and be an instant hero without all that hassle of hard work and such.”

Alas, if only...

I’m back on the prairie now, far away from the towering NY skyline in a land where people know what “supper”, “washrooms”, and “bunnyhugs” are, distanced again from the throbbing entertainment industry and rushing New York pulse. It’ll be tough going back to school for another year, but with only two terms left I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Where that tunnel goes, who knows. But if you’re keen on finding out, keep checking this blog -- just because the New York chapter is finished doesn’t mean the story’s over yet. Trust me.

Thanks again to all the Americans who were so welcoming. Contrary to international belief, you're not all ignorant, bull-headed, selfish fatties with a shitty economy. You're funny, friendly, and hard working people with a shitty economy. It was a pleasure being with you -- come up and visit any time.

Long live the Queen, God bless America.

- Devon

I'm NOT Homeless!

And thank God, because life was about to enter into panic mode.

As some of you know, my apartment is only scheduled to last until August 9th, while my internship goes until the 13th. That's six nights that I hadn't started worrying about until, oh, I don't know, yesterday.

Craigslist to the rescue!

I contacted about half a dozen listings (mostly shared studios for ~$50/night) and got a couple responses back. Most of them were unavailable for all the nights that I needed -- and I wasn't about to move multiple times in the course of six days -- so when one guy emailed back with a reasonably good location, a great rate, and perfect availability, it seemed like heaven had opened up and God was smiling down.

That euphoria didn't last long.

What I thought was the perfect Craigslist posting was actually little more than a blowup mattress, a toilet behind two closet doors, and a bathtub in the middle of a living room with some curtains around it.

Yep -- turns out sometimes when God's smiling, it's because he's laughing.

I should mention at this point that one of my coworkers graciously offered her couch as a backup plan. Unfortunately, she lives out in White Plains (over a half hour train ride to Manhattan in the morning), and I was sort of hoping to spend my last week with my remaining friends in the city. The gesture was very much appreciated none-the-less.

So it was back to Craigslist.

Something that I found really interesting about responding to these online ads was that usually the first thing people asked in their replies was: "could you please tell me more about yourself?".

Umm... ok. I'm almost 21. I'm doing an internship, I'm Canadian. I'm not a douche.

What else do they want to know? How detailed do I get?

I totally understand why they ask -- I mean, if they're living at the location too (which is often the case), they want to make sure that they're hosting someone with a congenial personality. I assume they want people who are tidy and nice and friendly etc. etc.. But honestly, no one is going to say "I throw obnoxious parties every night" or "I pick my nose" or "I don't put the toilet seat down", so unless it's for a stay longer than five nights, I would rather just exchange cash up front for the room keys and be on my merry way. I mean, real estate relationships are measured in square-foot-per-dollar. And let's face it: if someone's a serial killer, they're not going to admit it in their introductory email anyway.

Long story short, I didn't even go with anything from Craigslist. [Sorry -- you could have saved three minutes of your life by skipping straight to this part of the post instead, but hey, too late now.]

I ended up booking a room at the Times Square hostel. Good price, great location, no bath tub with curtains. So that's an immense weight off my scoliosis.

In other news, work is wrapping up insanely quick. Today, one of my coworkers brought me a box of cookies (to share with the whole department... not just for me) because she's off on vacation next week and I won't get to see her again. So all day, I had people popping in my cubicle wishing me good luck and best wishes and all that before stealing a cookie and ducking out. I hadn't even met most of them before, but free cookies in an office are like tequila shots to Lindsay Lohan. Irresistible.

Now, time for a celebrity update.

My parents and grandparents came in yesterday, and after having dinner at The Olive Garden, we walked through Times Square only to see a crowd of people doing a large choreographed dance around Justin Timberlake. Such is the weirdness a pedestrian can encounter here. Lots of my friends have spotted Russell Brand and Katy Perry walking around, too, so cross your fingers for me. And to Tina Fey: if you're reading this, I'm free for coffee next Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.

Because of all the moving and commotion of the upcoming week, I doubt I'll be able to do another blog post until next Saturday or Sunday. It will be the final post of my New York adventure, and even as I write this now, I feel something in my chest that has a hard time handling that. So until that last post, I'll take another break from the blogosphere to enjoy this last week in New York with wild abandon.

Oh, and if you don't see another post in the next ten days, chances are Tina Fey and I eloped. That, or I got stabbed at the hostel.

Star Spangled Nights

O! say can you see by the dawn's early light,
What celebs I have hailed at the twilight's last gleaming:


Hazaa! In the last four nights, I've met singer/songwriter Matt Doyle, Disney star Corbin Bleu, TV diva Sean Hayes, and Broadway powerhouse Kristin Chenoweth.

Hold on, back up a few nights.

The week was off to an awesome start when a friend from home arrived at the airport on Sunday. Very exciting to have a familiar face around (even though I still had to work my usual 9-5 job), and man did we pack of lot of stuff in. On Monday, for instance, she'd reserved us tickets to a dinner concert at the mega-ritzy, ultra-suave, you-better-tip-damn-good restaurant Feinstein's on Park Ave. The performer was Matt Doyle (Pic #1), a fiercely talented twenty-three year old who rivals Michael Buble's jazzy swagger and vocal chops. The kid can sing.

On Tuesday we saw IN THE HEIGHTS, a big vibrant show that won the 2008 Best Tony. Very Latino, very sexy. Two thumbs up. It starred Disney's afro-fluffing, b-ball playing B-lister from High School Musical: Corbin Bleu. He was actually pretty good, which sort of surprised me, and was as nice as could be at the stage door when we got him to take pictures and sign all our swag.

After meeting Corbin, we ran over to the Promises Promises theater to see if we could catch Kristin Chenoweth.

No luck.

Sean Hayes came out and zipped through a few signatures before the guard announced that Kristin had already left. But sometimes when guards say an actor is gone, I don't trust them. So while all the disappointed fans slumped away down the street, myself and my friend hid in the shadows like theater creepers and waited another ten minutes to see if she would sneak surreptitiously out the side door.

But she didn't. So that was a waste of time.

The NEXT night, however, we tried again and, lo and behold, she showed up! She's very tiny (4'11"), which makes looking for her in a crowd of people tougher than trying to spot a black midget in a dark nightclub. Fortunately, since we were front row, she came right up to us and said a quick "hi" before hopping in the back of her idling SUV and driving away.

That's one of my favorite parts: watching the celebs soar away from us mortals, waving back and blowing kisses and grinning like it's the best time of their life. I mean, the closest us Joe Schmoes get to that feeling is, I dunno, on pub crawls. Girly cheering, camera flashes, arms flailing out windows. Not that I have anything against pub crawls, of course, but a long yellow school bus isn't exactly my idea of a "stretch" (and as endearing as 'The Yogi Bear Song' is, I could go for something more sophisticated once in while).

Unfortunately, my friend's stay went by way too quick -- she's already gone, off to visit another friend in Chicago. Whatever will I do with myself? Well, here's the weekend forecast:

Tomorrow = Thai lunch with coworkers. Saturday = LION KING. Sunday = tickets to Scott Adsit @ Haft Auditorium.

I'm running out of days!

...Oh, and accommodations.

Haha, funny story...

See, my apartment rental only lasts until August 9th, while my internship goes until the 13th. So yeah. I'm sort of homeless for five days. And I don't have a plane ticket home yet either.

Gulp. Things could get interesting.