Summer Associate Training – This is where it all started to go wrong. The training program for summer associates wasn’t the Cash Kushel version that every full time banker gets – this was a one week blitz taught by some disgruntled-and-soon-to-be-fired bankers at TBTNLSA. I’ve had firehosesque training before – nuclear power school was no fucking picnic – but this shit made me legitimately look like I fell off a turnip truck and ended up in downtown NYC.
Let me take a step back. It’s important to note that, during the first semester at B-School, I busted my ass to get good grades. (Yes, my school had grade disclosure. And, no, that is not a bad thing. In fact, it’s a pretty great thing: if you have good grades from a “quant” school, interviewers are loathe to ask you detailed analytical questions, figuring that you have that shit wired and will potential expose some gaps in their knowledge. Why they believe that the B-School packet readers should be the arbiters of passage to wall street, I am not sure.) Yeah, I got one B – fuck you Strategy 101 and your Fox Force Five Forces or whatever; you see how successful this website has become? Who needs fucking strategy? – but in all the real classes with the classic “right/wrong” answer structure, I rocked that shit. And I worked hard to prep for banking interviews, with repetitious interview training and memorization of Vault guides. I had no idea about the job I wanted, I just wanted it, and knew a few of the buzzwords and concepts to get my foot in the door. “Yes, I expect to work hard, in submarines we rarely, if ever, slept, and that was generally considered punishment. My hobbies are teamwork, communication and building analytic models for cable companies that have working balance sheets and are sensitive to even one subscriber discontinuing his Roaderrunner service in Idaho Falls.” I still only got a job by sheer chance and the fact that one of the interviewers loved to curse and make sexist comments and felt comfortable doing so in my presence.
So that was first semester – once second semester started, with job in hand, I loosened my academic standards somewhat. (Translation: I let my various teammates do 100% of the work, almost every class was a team effort after the first semester. As mentioned previously, international students generally have a bit higher fervor toward academic achievement.) So I didn’t do shit – other than drink, go to the gym and illegally download shit from the glorious original version of Napster. My thinking was, “I’m a smart guy, they’re gonna show us what we need to do at the bank, these cases surely don’t capture the essence of what we’ll actually be doing.” I was 1/3 right: the cases wouldn’t have helped all that much, but the wall street training didn’t really help all that much either. And it turns out I’m not a smart guy.
So when training starts and these guys are like go down to the microfiche room and get a 10-K for Cisco (seriously, things have changed dramatically since 2001, there was a no-shit microfiche room. Like doing a fucking research project in the 80s.) and build a mini-model based on these estimates. What now? Come again? My recollection here is pretty fuzzy, so I may have made up the part about having to go get the 10-Ks; I definitely went to the microfiche room at some point looking for something, but maybe it wasn’t that, surely they hooked us up in training. I believe it was just a DCF model where you’d use historical performance to estimate terminal growth rates or whatever. But I was flummoxed, that was my first time dealing with a filing. I still remember the feeling of accomplishment when I filled in the shares outstanding – “Hey, that’s listed right on the fucking cover here!” Too bad there were diluted shares to consider and a host of other things that were coming fast and furious.
Right now you’re thinking, “Chilly, it sounds like it’s your own goddam fault you sucked as a summer intern.” And that’s correct, it was my fault. The Wharton kids were zipping that shit out like it weren’t no thang – and thank god for my man C-Note, who basically walked me through everything so that I got to leave by midnight most nights. The people running the classes were dicks (foreshadowing of what was to come) with little tolerance for rubes from the sticks. Not that I would ask stupid questions, my hatred for the kids at B-School who wouldn’t shut the fuck up with dumb shit was well-established. The training went by in a flash, having gone through the basic models (mini-merger, dcf, lbo?), comps and the ridiculously awful document control system. I was completely lost, and we hadn’t even started. The worst was yet to come.
Would Flint Hit It?
In our continuing series, I solicit commenter Flintstone’s opinion regarding sexual union with various potential partners. As a reminder, Flint has long been a proponent of “hitting it” as opposed to “not hitting it.” The subject in question is a fictional character, Meredith from The Office. Flint, remember, it’s the boozy, loose-moraled character Meredith, as opposed to the actress Kate Flannery, who portrays her. So star-fucking tendencies need not come into consideration. Would you hit it?
Fuck, I am running late, apologies for any errors or incongruencies, don’t have time to proofread. After completing my five month resolution of not going to a casino, we are going to hit up some AC this weekend. Do you know what that means? Hibachi-san!
Oh, Apple spread update: currently up $424! That’s almost an iPad right there! Now if everything else I did wasn’t dogshit.
Have a great Memorial Day, later,