Back to the business of job hunting, given that I am vastly unwilling to trade lifestyle for money. If there was a perfect universe where the two would meet, I may actually be happy flipping burgers but comanding 100 grand a year. In thumbing through the Internet, I keep coming across MBA student’s blogs or articles where MBA students are quoted. My one takeaway: Oh dear. Are MBA students that boring? Are they that work-oriented that they can’t see past their neckties? Isn’t it great we are a self-suffering bunch that insist on infliction of pain, suffering and long hours of work - makes me feel like it’s a Brownies badge earned more than anything.

In coming to business school, I was concerned that I would struggle to fit in. I was wrong about that since everyone I have met in B-school has been amazingly normal, well-balanced and a good majority (sadly if not all) possess a vibrant, unbeatable spirit to change the world. And I like that, makes me feel like being a tree-hugger might be a viable career option. So, I am led to believe that all these boring blogs I have been reading belong to MBAs in other schools Is candour dead or that the corporate world moves on a different humour button? Does it have one? Must all people in power possess a superiority only matched by anal-retention? Not sure about that, but I am pretty certain that my sense of humour will not be quick to sell tickets at an ib fanfare

Being a song-writer of sorts, a brainwave hit me this morning in the shower. this tune should be sung to Que Sera Sera…

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother "a banker, shall i be?"

I won’t be pretty, but i will be rich

Here’s what she said to me:

Que sera sera, whatever will be will be

Your future is yours you see

A banker you won’t be

on a more shocking note…i came across this bulletin board while doing a search on tobacco brands (and no, I do not intend to find a job in the tobacco industry, but it was for a proper pitch i am staffed on) but…anyways…little known fact if you ever wondered about ingesting baby powder. http://www.faqfarm.com/Q/Is_it_harmful_to_eat_baby_powder perhaps, there is some amazing useless revelance to a career in ib after all??

I probably should have updated my blog sooner, after Friday night’s extravagenza! Sadly…I didn’t get back from the office until just (Goodbye Sunday…)-let me not start on the inefficiencies of i-banking and the ridiculousness of MDs and the total lack of respect that they have for other human beings.

Anyhoos, on Friday - going to Turnmills turned out to be quite a mission and given that no Insead person called me, I wasnt quite sure that I wanted to hit a club alone again. After all, I can only be asked "Hi, are you dancing alone?" or "U got any pills" so many times. It gets tiresome being either the slut-on-wheels or the crack dealer on the corner street after several solo tries. Peishan called and commanded my presence to watch The 1990s…for free! Tired as I was, since I already had 2 cappucinos and shopped the entire Covent Garden with Richard, I felt compelled to drag my sorry arse to another fun night out. As with Murphy’s law and whenever me and Darren meet up - we are guaranteed of 1 thing: that we wont ever get it. So, we missed The 1990s - sounds of their 60’s vibe waft out as we stare with disbelief that we have to miss yet another gig. But salvation comes in many ways and God is often with a secret hand (much like Adam Smith’s Free Market will right itself theory).

Salvation came in the form of indie rock night at The Tavingstock hotel (a 3-star smucky joint) with leather chairs and deep blue carpets with red patterns. yes, it’s ugly…for those that actually think i was describing italian upholstry (Try your grandma’s house), think again. For all that the hotel was, this night was completely…random. We find ourselves navigating our way to Russell Sq, walking around the bulding,past an outdoor sitting area, past a carpark, past the restuarant, past the…god knows what else (it’s 11pm dammit!), paying 6 quid and entering a room…to find a cinema with cushy chairs showing cheesy flicks like The Big Lebowski, walking through a myraid of karaoke rooms, pool tables (with the tinniest pool balls i have ever seen) and…to hit the dancefloor that has a band playing…beside…a…bowling alley. That’s right - the tavingstock hotel has everything you could ever want on a dream date (Except fried chicken, which would basically seal marriage for me). Bowling alley, karaoke, pool, movie hall, bar, cheap drinks - all in 1 joint with kids all dressed in their 1950’s gear, and practicing the foxtrot to Blondie and the latest Killer’s single. magikal!!

the new deborah harry! i like! darren and i lamented that we digged their sound but we really dont know who this band is. but imagine debuting your musical prowess in a bowling alley!

its ironic that the 1950s are back in, it’s almost like the bowling shoes match everyone’s clothes! have you ever wondered how people look like wearing polka-dot flare skirts and those cute-ass bowling shoes? head to the tavingstock on saturday.

our friendly friends - blast from the past. did i mention i love london fashion?

Tra-lala, lalalalalalaa…actually, the music was a lot harder

peishan: explaining to me life, the universe and everything (plus, why it’s important to wear badges to demonstrate your personal beliefs) i concur in my odd fashion. I think its great to go for an indie event, where there are no rules to dancing and where being the resident uncool, is cool. I managed to sneak in inappropriate dance moves (for example, butt-slapping Beyonce moves and boy band "steal-my-heart hand flutter"and the running man), much to the chargin of Darren, who is the baby amongst us but feels like he is constantly embarressed. well…when you are my age, you ain’t got nuthin’ more to lose!

  but one always has time to pose…especially against a graffitized mural…oh wait, its a proper painting, and I thought it was graffiti art. uncool

nonetheless, we had time to warn the other patrons that aliens were coming.

darren, trying to convince us that he was a true B-boy, in his cheese work garb…yeah right.

Testing my presidential skills. I INSIST!

man, it takes me another 1 and the half hours before i saw my bed. thank you, useless night bus services of london and frustrating drunkards that hold up traffic or that yell at other harmless and lonely bus patrons. sleep never tasted this good…

photoalbum

ok, enough griping about banking and sucidal traders that go splat. here are pictures from our indie night out. Peishan, who strangely looks like the crazed japanese singer of Connechi (?!) graces the gig with her electric sense of style. We jokingly agreed that we could highjack the set, install Peishan as the singer, I would play the tambourine and Victor volunteered to be hair and makeup. Not sure what Darren’s role was in all this…but what the hell - he could very well be a dancer - aka like whats-his-face from The Stone Roses (manny?! bob?! boogie?!) who did nothing but his monkey moves on stage while the band played.

  a photographer’s challenge: how does one fit gigantor victor and pea-like peishan in the same pic. Stretching it…

with victor’s shaky hands, and we haven’t even started drinking yet! but what can i say…we tried for a good pic, we really did.

try again! peishan is so patient, she even has back the same pose.

darren: who is in truth a structurally displaced Irish potatoe farmer that has been forced to sell cheese in the city of London, aiming to be a folk singer in one of the Central Line Tube stations one of these days. I promised to play and sing backup but it is difficult to find an un-urinated spot - all the good ones have been taken.

  15 min later (we are still in the queue and trying to entertain ourselves), Darren…still with the same expression. He is trained in the "classic "school-of-one-look" genre - i heard it might be some sort of method acting. but i am not sure.

10 minutes later, we are still trying to entertain ourselves…

finally! one pic that fits both victor and peishan IN.

Madam Jo-jo’s (manky place in Soho) was crowded and while there was a fare share of street kids in street punk and electro garb, surprisely, there were also..erh hem…a fair share of matured beings (ie  right about pension age). we finally realized why…. Archie Bronson outfit (thanks peishan for correcting me that White Heat is the club night as opposed to the band name, i get easily excited by banners that spell out words that i can read) - the headlining act, came on stage and the matured audience started overtaking the scene. They knew all the lyrics to this weirdish artrock/country/detuned band with crazy John Zorn saxaphones. I dont know about you, but i have something against bands that expressly detune and use an open E tuning. firstly, it sounds all the same - droning…and lacking in complexity (i am just being picky and supremacist here) Most of the lyrics consisted of sweaty love or non-love (i think?!) and the singer was probably deaf cos he kept asking for his guitar to be turned up. mental. yes. check out the pix.

  the backup singer, who is probably a girlfriend, since her vocals were not really vocals - more like…more droning and repetitive repetitions of words…is that Karen Carpenter?? what did i say about the 60’s coming back??

  while some fight with guns and knives, others adopt the ninja tactic of 2-saxaphones-may-kill-more-eardrums technique. the zen trance-like look is completely optional and batteries do not, I REPEAT, do NOT, come included.

for those that are contemplating a quick death: the key is banking. http://news.hereisthecity.com/news/business_news/5790.cntns

i am more than slightly inspired after re-reading Hemmingway’s Movable Feast. I imagine what life is like in France and the taste of good food, glorious conversations, cafe-toting and parisian walk-throughs, where life ambitions are dissected, discussed and ravaged…

juxtapose this against me, typing at my desk - a sad and pathetic note to myself on how i can be sitting at my desk, typing a sad and pathetic note to myself. movable feast my summer internship is not. i am sick of eating pre-packaged frozen casear salads and poor quality sushi at my desk. it’s summer, my mind says, but the work keeps me here. mind you, its not devastating mind-blowing work; banking as people are so befuddled by, is a series of big-sounding words such as "models", EBITDA, multiples and the like, and…it is exactly that. where mousy-like analysts crunch meaningless figures downloaded wholesale from bloomberg and aggregate it with brokers reports readily available online, put that together into a sucky pasta mix called powerpoint and stir it in the corporate colours of the bank. voila - finance plat du jour au take-out. what i hate is how i do jack all - the whole day - and as i am leaving, dreaming about a run in the park, dinner with friends, perhaps slink to a gig - i get staffed. Today was a classic, i got staffed IN THE LIFT, ON THE WAY DOWN. banking…smanking…

in between (like now), i am sitting here, flipping through a marked-up deck where at 11pm, i have a meeting to "ask intelligent questions" about the storyline of the pack. (man, are you serious?!) I nearly got my arse kicked for asking a seemingly basic but yet poignant question (if your ROIC is less than your WACC, should it not reflect in negative value creation…?) blank stare from the senior associate, who promtly writes out the formular of both ROIC and Net Value Creation for my perusal. Silence follows. we ponder, we think…but no hugs of joy and bonding yet. And the mandate: "interesting idea, why dont u go and develop a model for that to test the theory?" Eh…yes. indeed. for a person who barely averaged an average score on the z-curve for CFP and finance 1 - i am suppose to build a model for that? As our macro prof would say, " that is very interesting but its of academic interest."

i had a vingnette today, while having a wonderful haircut and yet dreading the fact that i would once again eat takeout and return back to my desk, while staring at the happy people grocery shopping and meeting up for drinks or dressed in gym gear, i had a blast of a vignette. fuck this bullshit, i love life too much and i have too much fun at gigs or making my friends laugh. once this summer is over, thats it for me and banking. There. I like finality. C’est tres clair.

Thank god Peishan is in London, finally have an indie gal pal to party with. YippeE! 2 singaporean girls will conquer the 5 quid scene in london.

My space is the new space.

1990s: http://www.myspace.com/1990sband

despite my herculean efforts to mosy a crowd of b-schers to Old Street, I failed. But still, the night calls and Modular Records, one of the most hip and happening record labels in UK right now were organizing a shindig at 333 Old Street. Entrance was 10 quid and the music was beyond amazing…Modular bands Cut Copy (fellow Aussies) were Dj-ing mind-numbing tech meets electro meets 80’s ‘video killed the radio star’. Check out Modular - http://www.modularpeople.co.uk/

The crowd was electrifyingly cute and gorgeous. Girls with coifs, vintage dresses, polka dotted hairbands and boys in skinny suit/shirt attire with long curly fringes. It’s the 60’s I love Lucys meets 70’s Sid Vicious. Lapping it up - the thing about such left of center events is this: the pick up scene is slightly more chilled out (i only managed to get hit on 3 times, which by drunk british boy standards, is a low hit rate). The lowest hit rates probably exist at drum n bass or jungle parties - the hit rates get down to zero, i suspect Bass is Maternal and it’s much to kick ass to try and get laid. If there is one thing I hate: i hate to be disturbed when i am listening to music. The experience is so fucking intense and the beats are loud and strong. It’s nasty when some insipid stranger comes up to you and like "Hey, wanna dance?". I thought I should recount one of my funnier moments last nite.

Him: "Hey, you dancing alone?"

Me: "Erhm, yes."

Him: "Wanna dance with me. I am fun."

Me: "Erhm, no. I like dancing alone."

Him: "Come on, it’s fun, dancing together is fun."

Me: gives blank, vacant stare. "No, it’s ok. i am unsociable like that. and plus, i need to take my medication now."

Him: looks slightly worried and relieved that i rejected him. "Oh ok, have a nice time" (Hugs me)…

PIFF! But i did meet a whole bunch of electro girls and record label boys - which was great. It’s much better when sexual tensions dont exist and everyone is just crazily reacting to the music.

In the basement, old soul and nu-breaks dominated, with girls dancing dirty on stage. I like my Jackson brown and it was the only spot where the air-condition worked (there was none on the first floor, so us girls got by using cardboard pieces to frantically fan each other). One fantastic night…just brilliant.

Thom Yorke’s solo much-awaited album, The Eraser is out and it’s mindblowing…blips and clicks rule. it simply rulez. get it if you can.

Insead gathering by Hammersmith river this afternoon, finally, a sign of human contact in the horizon. Might be too much for my tiny soul. I might burst and dribble all my spare body parts all over the ground (much like the scene in Mars Attacks where the alien’s head bursts from listening to yoddling tunes). check ya later.

I have been to London many, many times over the last few years, but always, always as a struggling and minging student with so little money. I remember eating one meal a day, all day pub breakfasts for 1.85pounds, buying a weekly travel ticket but using it for two. running away from trainstation masters for jumping turnstiles and best of all, buying cds at virgin megastore and returning them after listening to them, just so that i can get a new cd. (I did the same thing with books, videos and clothes). Gigs consisted of watching only unknown bands, such as space, catatonia, only to have them break it big 6 months later. Food always consisted of soho fare (Wong Kei - cheap, and not so good chinese) London, as i have always known it, has always been dead expensive. A place of little choice and slightly better experiences.

Being here on this internship has made it different. I am earning pounds, and suddenly, I find myself looking at restaurent guides, buying CDs the way i would in Orchard Road, testing out musical equipment on Denmark Street and desiring to just buy it all. I sat in Hank’s guitar store - the premier place for all acoustic guitars, handling my dream Simon & Patrick guitar, looking at vintage guitar pedals…drooling…I have gone out and watched so many gigs and club nights are now within my reach. London for me now, is completely different. London, is, an awesome city (but only if you are earning pounds). I feel like other people have taken their internships much more seriously and for me, I feel no guilt that I am enjoying the city as much as I am. There is an underbelly of London that surfaces overtly (which is awesome), electro kids, punk rockers, tattooed hippies, death metalists and I savour it all. Although, I would beg to differ that in London, THIS is not the underbelly per se, because it’s just an alternate choice. And i like that.

What I do struggle with, is how to explain to my friends and collegues what a multi-faceted city this is. While I enjoy dinner at a pricey bar, and wearing D&G to a stylishly overpriced club, there is tons more to London. I struggle to explain this to the B-school crowd, but then I understand that people are creatures to safety and habit. Walking into Stockholm’s hippest Debaser club (an indierock barbiedoll electro place), with all the blonde gwen stefanis dressed like stepford wives and skinny robert smiths on display, was a shock to my senses. I never felt so unhip and uncool in my life. Surprisely, most swedish people i ask have never been to debaser, but if u are ever in stockholm, u have to go. So, i can imagine what it must be like for the uninitiated to do things that are new and out of reach. What i do love about London, is its diversity (not to mention, multitudes of plays, art, music, cafes). I walk into a bar that plays nu-jazz, another that plays chinese rock, another that plays electro clash, another that plays R&b, another that plays drum n bass, this is like unleashing a mad puppy in a big city - that mad puppy is me:)

What has been interesting is the amount of time i spend alone, for whatever reason, it has been difficult to get people mobilized on outings (ie. outings that i like) so as crazy and loud and flashy a city like London is, I am realizing that London has given me a lot of quiet time too. It’s a refreshing change of the cosiness and intimacy that I live with in Fonty, so it’s good. for now.

I made it to Camden yesterday. The Jazz Cafe is one of the oldest jazz joints around and its always a good reason to go to Camden, because its such a colourful place. The Jazz Cafe crowd is however, distinctly UN-camden. Most of the audience there to watch Terry Collier was 28 and up (erh hem, 28 being me); well-dressed in casual chic and the women who wear beads and curly free-flown hair, just to have an "ethnic look". I have heard Terry Callier on numerous remixes but to see him live, was a whole new world. The opening band was called Roads - a 9 piece outfit with 3 singers, 3 percussionist, 1 bassist, 1 keyboardist and 1 guitarist. They played a kind of funky-soul/ cuban type of music - loads of crazy percussions, strong beats and soulful vocals. Amazingly tight band.

Terry Callier’s set was stripped down and his whole band consisted of cutsy grandpas or soon-to-be grandpas. They were easy on stage, an easiness that is only possible when you have played more than a 1000 gigs in your lifetime. I would know, i am always stupid and panicky when doing a live show - finesse is not there yet. The music was liquid, smooth and Terry’s vocals made my heart melt. He sang a mix of love songs but also some politco-charged tracks. Just brilliant. blown away.

everyone has been talking about paintball for like…forever. when i raised my hand to organize the summer associates social event, i basically opted for paintball. Agression, holding bb guns, paint pellets with some running - felt like a breeze….NOT! Firstly, paintball is dirty! there is sand and grime everywhere…it gets in your hair, eyes, nostrils and every other crevice possible. Secondly, paintball hurts! what i thought were tiny air pellets - turned out to be double-sized M&M wacko balls. And they hurt even more when they dont explode; simply bouncing off your chest or other exposed body parts. Thirdly, your facemask clogs up and all you can see is fog and smell is sweat. People are nasty out in the field. There was a moment where i "died", raised my gun to leave the tragic scene and proceeded to get hit by at least 10 pellets - some people have no control over their trigger - it’s aggression at its worst, in particular irate and overly excited Italian and Spanish women.

But here are some good time pix of the boys - how very YMCA-esque. this is as macho as i-bankers get:

  dinner followed at cafe rouge - i am nostalgic for french cuisine. this time, everyone looking SLIGHTLY cleaner…

the winning moment goes to Raphael "Numero Uno" - we finally got a chance to celebrate his belated b-day (poor dude had to turnaround a pitch and got stuck in the office till 1am). I prepped an IB survival kit as a gift, consisting of the the following vital items:

- Plasters (for paper cuts)

- asprin (headaches)

- eye drops (dry eyes from computer staring)

- Special K bars (Raphie’s fave and sustainence)

- KY jelly (to smooth the assults from senior staffers)

Special moment:

I got invited to an Aussie barbie today down by Farringdon, thanks to Lou (Jason’s wife). The sun was out and festivities and Pimms were in order. I got dreamily drunk hanging out on the rooftop terrace with Lou and her mates. There was a once-a-year cuban festival down on Exeter Market and the streets were thronged with party-goers, food  stalls, sun and fun. brilliant! SCENES FOR A ROOFTOP:

                                                                                               The Lemonheads (who remembers them!!!!???) played at Somerset house today. Bucolic with alcohol, i stumble towards Temple tube stn and walked into the prettiest venue ever. The opening band was an outfit named The Sleepy Jacksons (from down under) - which reminded me of a cross of Elvis Costello, dressed like Interpol but sounded like Stereophonics. Not exactly awe-inspiring, but still a great way to introduce the venue. Too much equipment i would say…juxtaposed against the 3-piece Lemonheads. Evan Dando stil looks the same (kudos for keeping same haircut) and the band was marvellously tight. I haven’t listened to The Lemonheads since i was 15 - that makes for 13 years of gap. Good to know, I still remember my fave tracks - Big Gay Heart (song about a gay trucker), Drug Buddy, Shame About Ray…nostalgia! reminds me of all the bands that i grew up with…REM, Dinosaur Jr, Juliana Hatfield, Aimee Mann, Til Tuesday, Elvis Costello - very very nice trip down memory lane. The Lemonheads didnt have much equipment at all, Evan used the same guitar thoughout, breaking off in the middle for a little solo strumming and humming. THe crowd was electric and lovin’it.

Enjoy the pix…!

First Band: Sleepy Jackson - made me quite sleepy and mostly staring with amazement at how huge the coif on the singer’s hair is. Does he not look like the singer from  supergrass??? with Beast’s hair-do. but of course.

bassist is quite hot looking:

becos i am uninspired, i take fotos of my unmanicured feet:

THE LEMONHEADS! striped tees still in face in boston, i see.

  will try to post the rest of the pix into a foto album.