The Enron Scandal

The documentary Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room is guaranteed to make you angry. It tells the story of just how it is that the company was able to make huge amounts of profits through swindling their employees. The film goes through how the company got started on its way to climbing to the seventh largest company in America and followed through to the company and its owners downfall.

It's hard to watch at parts knowing just what happens in the end for the company, but even harder to comprehend is that the dubious money laundering schemes started almost from the beginning. Kenneth Lay is horribly and rightfully depicted as a man hell bent on making money at any cost. In the end hoarding the retirement funds of employees to make profit off a dying company.

The most disturbing scenes in the film for me however weren't ones that covered the retirement fund scandal but rather those depicting fact that Enron knowingly fabricated the California energy crisis. When in fact there wasn't ever a shortage of power in California. Through various forms of media the film shows how the Enron traders shut down 30 percent and 50 percent of California's energy industry. Not only do they steel but they destroy.

After watching this film it's easy for me to say that Enron deserved what it got. I'm still a little surprised there isn't still talk about it and the possibility of something like it happening again.

Netflix Economics

Even with the availability of free movies via internet, Netflix has continued to steadily increase its revenue from 2005 to 2009. In 2005 the company reported a net income of $41,889 which rose to $48,839 in 2006. However, the profit jumped in 2007 with the growth of subscribers rising by 25.6% in 2008 with 9,390 subscribers. The growth in the number of subscribers is certainly the cause for the increase in net income. Now in 2009 the company has a net income of $115,860 and another 30.6% raise in customers.

For Netflix's CEO Reed Hastings the raise in the companies income has not changed drastically. In 2007 the reports show that he generated a total compensation of $2,418,577 which rose to $2,760,854 a fairly large increase. This seems to be due to his salary increase from $850,000 in 2007 to $994,231 in 2008. What's interesting to note is that even with another salary increase in 2009 to $1,000,000 his total compensation actually dropped down to less than he made in 2008. The change is not drastic but doesn't seem to fit with the other executives continual growth in total compensation.

All in all Netflix and Hastings seem to be doing well and still ever growing despite the Internets attempts to make DVD renting a thing of the past.

Tattoos

I never really thought about tattoos. I didn’t want one, couldn’t think of one I’d want to have. I got one just before my 18th birthday. My first tattoo was my sister’s name. It was the signature from the mirror on her bedroom wall. She signed her name in a delicate font right below “have a good day sweetie.” She had written the words on the mirror with black permanent marker and they’re still there. My brother, father and I all got inked together. All in the same place (our wrists) but all with a different signature she had made. My father’s her license signature. My brother’s the last card she had written to him. Each tattoo was our first and for my brother and father their last. The tattoos we got together got us through a very rough time and they continue to do so. I only have two tattoos and I don’t think I’ll get another.

Getting tattoos is certainly becoming more popular. You see many people with visible tattoos in the work place as well as many even with full sleeve tattoos. People are getting them for various reasons and different ways. I began to look into the new types of tattoos out there and was amazed at the variety.

The first I looked at were black light tattoos. These tattoos are almost invisible in daylight but once under a black light become just as if they were done in black. The problem many reports said with black light tattoos was that they didn’t last as long. These don’t seem to be growing in popularity but they do look pretty interesting.

The second and more interesting tattooing was not a type of tattoo but a method. It’s called Samoan tattooing. This is a method in which the artist takes a bamboo or wooden “rake” dips it in the ink and then strikes the rake pushing the ink under the skin. This method allows for more vibrant colors and designs. However these tattoo are known to hurt a little more then the common western tattoo (machine). These more traditional tattoos are becoming more popular in mainstream tattooing and because of the pain staking time it takes to do them cost more.

The last tattooing I want to share was on the top of the head. In the United Kingdom a company that uses tattoos to mask balding. The procedure called “hair follicle replication” involves tattoo the top of the head where the balding occurs and matches the color with the natural coloring. In order to do this however those with the tattoos must continually shave their heads, better then being bald I suppose. If I do get another tattoo I think I’ll probably stay away from these different tattoos but maybe finding an interesting means by which to get the tattoo would cool. Tattoos are evolving in both popularity and how they’re produced. I hope they don’t become just another fad.

Maine to New York

You can’t escape the city, and to tell you the truth I really wouldn’t want to if I could. No more dirt roads, no more trees, and I couldn’t be happier without them. I lived in Maine, in the same house, in the same town until I was 18. I feel like what Lang has done for me is remove me from the redundancy of a small town life. I’ve left and I enjoy living in the city, and I know I can always come back rather than never leave. Going home for break brought this realization that if I had stayed in Maine I would have been trapped. I see beautiful and brilliant people chained to my small town, to the drugs, to the booze that allows them to be content with living forever in a town of nothing. I cannot leave myself out in saying I was one of those people who had little hope that I would live out of Maine. I live in New York fucking City! I found a way out and I couldn’t be happier where I landed.

If I were to say what Lang has done most for me I’d say it just opened me up. It opened me up to different ideas, different environments, and to the limitless possibilities of New York City. I thought at first Lang was a good fit because they didn’t require math and that’s my kind of school. The more time I spent here I realized that I did fit here. I could’ve stayed in Maine and gone to the state university and survived. However had that been the case it wouldn’t live up to the standards I have now. I can speak my mind, I can smoke my cigarettes, I can say that I like classical music, I can question religion, I can, I can, I can. That’s it; I can do what ever the hell I want with my life and not be looked down on for wanting something more than a winning Red Sox season, not that that wouldn’t be nice. I guess what’s special to me about my experience so far at Lang is that I’ve found intellectual freedom, that is shared between genuinely interesting people.

Reading through this I felt like I’ve betrayed Maine. In all honesty it is a great place to grow up. I climbed tree’s, biked through the woods, and I’d do it the same if I had the choice. Once climbing trees isn’t cool, once you drive instead of biking it changes. You can’t stay a child forever and once you develop liberal or unorthodox ideas get the fuck out. Vacationland is simply that for me. A place to refuel and rest and remember how beautiful it is when I come back, but I have to know that I’ll only stay for so long.

Giving Change

Before New York I’d only seen relatively few homeless people. I’d visited Boston a few times and seen a few. I always gave up the change I had. New York was different. I’d see the same sad face of a woman begging every day walking to school. I’d hear the rants of another as I ventured back from my class, another in Union Square would stop me. They seemed to be everywhere and all equally miserable. I still can’t get over seeing a person so hopeless, so far away from luck that they had no one and nothing. What ached me the most was that I changed, and no longer gave change, as I stayed longer in the city I changed.

When I first came to New York I would give up the few cents that I had jingling in my pocket. I would always give up the cigarette I didn’t actually need. I was more sympathetic and much more generous. As the weeks and months went by however I became just another person who ignored their signs, passed by them without looking at them. I was continually told that, “you don’t have to give every one of them something, they’ll just spend it on booze.” So I stopped reaching into my pocket and forced my eyes to stare straight ahead. I regret this.

On the last day that I was in the city, after cleaning my dorm room and moving out I walked the streets. My roommates and I had always kept a jar that we filled with spare changed that we never spent. All year it sat on my desk collect silver that would never be used. I think it was our ego’s that never cashed the change in. We thought it was embarrassing to bring in change to a store. I never used the change and probably never would. I decided almost selfishly to make up for my recent inability to give. I filled my pockets with the silver and started to walk.

I walked first down 6^th Avenue where I knew the woman I passed everyday would be sitting with her tattered sign. I gave her the most. I reached in my front pocket and took out the handful of quarters I had collected. As I poured them into her open hands her face lit up. I can’t describe this to do justice to her expression. The change none of gave a shit about, that we were embarrassed to use, made this woman ecstatic. I continued on and did the same for another five people. Each had the same response. They couldn’t believe being given just five dollars in quarters, just change. Maybe they spent the five dollars of beer or cigarettes. To tell you the truth I don’t really care what it was spent on. I hope that maybe they felt a little something akin to happiness. I still could’ve given more, I regret that.

I just can’t help but think that these people on the street must have lost so much. I would have to lose my entire family, all my friends, and probably even more to be put in that situation. They’ve lost much more than I could ever imagine so giving them something back seems minimal in comparison. I left New York with a good feeling. It felt shitty that I got some joy from giving so little and feeling good about my self for one good deed, but I’m still glad I experienced a homeless mans smile.

A Trip To Coney Island

We step outside to wind that whips through the avenue pushing us towards the subways entrance. Once underground it’s a race through the turnstiles to the already waiting L train. Just barely we make the first train and head towards Union Square just a stop away. The train feels hot compared to the outside world above and is most likely the reason for the constant smell of trash and sweat. I sit down on the nearest open seat after leaving the Union Square station, having transferred and now rattling on the Q train. I pull out E.B White’s “Here Is New York” and begin to read. I’m not very good at reading on trains. Any movement or cough too easily distracts me. However, today the train is almost empty. As I read I realize the truth of his words describing each neighborhood, each street as a city of its own. For a while I stop and envision my small city, my block that feels like a home. How little of the city I really know as well as 13^th street.. I have hardly left 13^th street since I’ve returned from schools winter break. I’ve seen almost nothing outside my comfort zone. Everything I need to stay content is right on my block. On the subway I’m glad to have left my cocoon.

We arrive at the Brighton beach stop and exit through the maze of unfamiliar staircases and exits, and onto a strange street. I’ve never seen any above ground train tracks from below, only in pictures of Chicago. The tracks seem to continue above the street and as my eyes tell me into the ocean before us. We decide to take the first street to left with hopes that it will lead us to the boardwalk. Our guess is right, walking up a large flight of stairs and onto a boardwalk filled with people. Before us lays a sprawling ocean that disappears into the clear blue sky, uninterrupted by any buildings. I realize I no longer have to crane my head upwards to see the sky and it reminds me of home. I wonder if here the stars are visible at night.

The wooden planks that make up the boardwalk are covered in sand. I kick at it like a child. As we continue to walk it seems that everyone we pass isn’t speaking English. There’s a constant chatter of Russian and I feel as if I’ve traveled further than a forty-minute train ride. There didn’t seem to be a mixture of languages, just an overwhelmingly disproportionate amount of Russian being spoken. I vaguely remember seeing a sign with some Cyrillic letters. Maybe this was the Russian city.

It’s a strange mix of natural beauty and concrete separated by only a wooden walkway. Here the ocean is meet by cement, and the ocean is not destroyed. I am used to beaches without any buildings around, that you have to walk through paths to get to. The people do seem to move at a slower pace. No one seems to stop to admire the skyscrapers of Manhattan, or people are simply too busy to take time to pause and take in the city. But here off the grid, off the pavement, natural beauty slows us down. I can feel myself slipping out of routine and slowing my pace.

In the distance I can see the skeleton of the motionless Ferris wheel, not even swaying in the wind. We walk towards it but stop once we see benches that sit in the sand. We sit for a while and write, and I forget that there are people around. All I can hear is the chatter of seagulls and the shrieking wind. I awake from my daze to the sound of a runner’s foot on wood, the creaks of the boards mimicking his stride. He breathes heavily in rhythm with an empty look in his eyes. It must feel free running here without the interruption of traffic lights and the constant dodging of people on the streets. I light up a cigarette and watch the man run out of sight.

We get back onto the Q train and I almost immediately fall asleep. I wake to the shove of my friend sitting next to me and sleepily walk with him back to our street. I have to look up to see the sky. I begin to wish I stayed longer at the beach, trying to think about the next time I’ll see the ocean that clearly. The boardwalk is a different world away from cabs, people, and city noise. I promise myself I’ll return to Coney Island, just to see the sky.