I am getting particularly outraged over the current outrage. People need to take a sober minute before expressing such rage. In today's economic downturn, corporate America has sure to have played a large part. But personal responsibility should still be accounted for. All of these people complaining need to look in the mirror first.
Over-leveraged in you own personal finances? Don't blame the banks that did the same thing.
Borrowing against your house to live? That is basically cheap money from China. Don't complain about Chinese ownership of our government's debt.
Ever buy from Wall-Mart? Don't complain about the lack of mom and pop shops.
Don't take the bus or ride your bike? Don't whine about global warming.
Had a bonus last year even though your company didn't do well? Don't scream about AIG.
Corporate America, imperfect as it is, is a function of the demands of real America. Our anger should be tempered by our own personal responsibility first.
About Me
- Chris Pham
- Chris works for Autonomy Corporation - the innovative leader behind meaning-based computing.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
To Do Lists
Sometimes I feel like my life is one To Do List after another. Here is today's sample:
1. Work Out
2. Redeem SW Airlines Miles
3. Sign up for Relay for Life
4. Update Craigslist Ad (we're subletting if you're interested)
5. Edit Foster's Brewing Memo
6. Review Marketing Simulation
7. Finish reading Legal Studies tort cases
Between six hours of class, running three hours of study hours, Twitter updates, responding to e-mails, and eating, I'll find time...to make tomorrow's To Do List.
1. Work Out
2. Redeem SW Airlines Miles
3. Sign up for Relay for Life
4. Update Craigslist Ad (we're subletting if you're interested)
5. Edit Foster's Brewing Memo
6. Review Marketing Simulation
7. Finish reading Legal Studies tort cases
Between six hours of class, running three hours of study hours, Twitter updates, responding to e-mails, and eating, I'll find time...to make tomorrow's To Do List.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
In Like Lions, Out Like Lambs
Its kinda hard when you don’t understand. The problem with life is that we all only grow one way, one perspective in a countless number. The empathy needed can be breathtaking. In travel I have been blessed with meeting a wide cross-section of people. Additionally, I have had the fortune of growing up in a privileged house and have been admitted to a gilded college.
It is only after meeting people who have not had these luxuries, which do not study in the confines of the ivory tower, do I begin to understand how much I do not understand about people. One day, I’ll know how much I don’t know, but I don’t think that will be any day soon.
There’s a lot to learn out there, but perhaps the most important is knowing all that you don’t know. It may be daunting, but to succeed that’s probably necessary. To hold on to that hunger. Too often, especially here at Penn and in the Ivy’s in general, we lose that spirit which got us here in the first place. We are owed nothing, and we will have to continue to claw for every inch we get.
It is only after meeting people who have not had these luxuries, which do not study in the confines of the ivory tower, do I begin to understand how much I do not understand about people. One day, I’ll know how much I don’t know, but I don’t think that will be any day soon.
There’s a lot to learn out there, but perhaps the most important is knowing all that you don’t know. It may be daunting, but to succeed that’s probably necessary. To hold on to that hunger. Too often, especially here at Penn and in the Ivy’s in general, we lose that spirit which got us here in the first place. We are owed nothing, and we will have to continue to claw for every inch we get.
Twitter-up
In the midst of school its harder and harder to come by time for blogging. Shortened it up to Twitter, check it out at username WasteLndWharton.
Other than that just came back from spring break, boring this time around. A year ago though, different story. Here's what I can remember from one of the more adventurous nights.
---
In what is to be a tumultuous night of rowdiness, we head out to the local pubs. Not to be outdone by anyone, there we obligingly get rowdy.
On that dark night in Mexico, Scott and I begin to make our return home. Walking back, we encounter Nate.
‘Hey, guys, we have got to get out of here,” he says.
Scott begins to interject, but the sudden urge to order another drink by Nate precedes his comment. There is little he can do to object, other than to look on. Nate, swallowed in the haze, begins to make his way toward our friend, Maggie. Her boyfriend, also on the trip, and her had been having troubles. Nate probably noticed.
The ensuing altercation was timid at best. The reality was that Nate did not know, nor care, in his state what was going on or who it was with. Maggie left with her on-again off-again and we continued our raging.
By this time, I am deep into things, and ready to go home. Perhaps too much fun was being had.
‘Quiero ir a la casa,’ I mimicked the accent as well I could.
‘This place is dying. Let’s go.’ Scott managed.
Our trio heads down the one road, for it is a one road town. There is not much for us to talk about, yet we manage to yell at each other anyway. For a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is his haze, Nate begins an argument with Scott on a trivial and purely academic matter. Who drank more should never be litigated between friends, especially by fists. Unfortunately the brawl breaks out onto the street, and I am entangled between two friends. Rolling on the dirt, we collect an entourage of on lookers. They cheer, hoot and holler until the police come to break us up.
Nate runs. And runs. I see him off into the night, while Scott and I do not manage to do anything more than stare. The five-oh, upon us, start in the incessant use of flash lights. There is nothing worse than flashlights with cops. I try my Spanish, developed over four long semesters at Penn, but I fail spectacularly. They push us up against the wall, and search us.
His hands start at my legs and work its way up. My knees. I’m feeling ok. My thighs. A little nervous. Thanksfully, he skips the groin region and begins on the upper body, skipping his way through. He knows I’m unarmed, but the show works. I’m scared out of my wits.
In the end, he smiles, looking innocently at both of us. I look into his eyes, not knowing what he wants. He seems an honest man, but I have heard enough about cops in Mexico to know better than to sit here and do nothing. I offer him what is left in my wallet, a whopping 8 dollars. Slyly, I try to slip it into his hands. He refuses. I am baffled, and I ask him to take it, openly. My best use of Spanish in the night behind me, I insist by simply pressing the bills into his hand.
Scott and I are shaken, though probably not rightly so. The drama of the night had begun to get to us.
‘Shit man…what just happened? Where’s Nate? I think he ran off out of town,’ Scott began, ‘I think we should get off the road. There are cops all over here and they’re just waiting for two tourists like us. Its not safe to get back on the road, plus I have no freakin’ clue where we are.’
‘Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, when we came into town the ocean was on our left, so if we follow the beach, with the ocean to our right, we should make it back to our beach house, right?’
Scott agreed, and we set off to find the beach. Trudging the sand of Rocky Point, we begin to realize how the area got its name. Our sandals are bare relief from the pointed edges of some of the most painful rocks that hid in the sand. It is dark. Stumbling, the long walk taxes our spent energy, but we remain alert. Someone approaches, silently. Scott and I stop in our tracks. We duck down behind the sea wall, a solid concrete affair separating the beach from the nearby dirt lot.
Breathing heavily, we wait. Tense, our muscles twitching to make a run in the opposite direction of this creeping stranger, we wait longer. Three long minutes pass as we wait for the Creep, and we see him in the shadowy light of a nearby post. College student. Drunk. Scott and I laugh off our foolishness and continue home.
The sand had gotten no easier to walk through in the meantime. Scott, in a rugged disbelief of our situation, begins to pick up the pace.
‘You know, we started off tonight with like fifteen of us. Now its just you and me. They all suck. I bet they’re all in bed right now. Psch, this is spring break,’ Scott rambles.
A steady silence is all that I can manage.
Wham! Flood lights come on not 20 feet away from us, blinding us in an unnaturally bright light.
‘What the ---,’ Scott exclaims.
Three men with machine guns stare at us, yelling in indistinctive Spanish. I respond to the best of my abilities, but give up. My Spanish professor, Senora Mendez, would be ashamed.
Clad in camouflage, they carry what looks like MP5 sub-machine guns. Black boots, funny green clothing, and stern voices work to intimidate us into submission.
I get a quick look at my interrogator, not wanting to seem too defiant less he think I need a bullet to think about. In his late thirties, I imagine this man lead a lifestyle more comfortable than most here in Mexico. His skin, dark and tanned, had not been beaten by unyielding sun from working in the fields or leathered from the winds while living on the streets. It was old from experience and the stress of his work.
Hands behind my head, I tell him I have no money. In an all too familiar manner, we are once again searched. This time my wallet is pulled from my pocket. I explain that I gave all of my money to the previous two cops already. He laughs. I can see the humor in our epic misfortune. I wish I could share in the quick laugh. At least, it seems to lighten the situation. I look over at Scott, and he is being given the same treatment. My guard laughs again. He pats me on my back, and lets us go on our way.
Scott and I are perplexed at our amazing luck. Petrified of moving on, we return to the town. It is decided that we needed a drink to celebrate not being killed. Since I have no money, Scott pulls out his wallet to pay for a couple of beers for us. Little did he know, but the Mexican Army had confiscated over $200 from him. They left him with about nine dollars. We spent it on the beers at the bar and about 12 for the road from a walk-through beer distributor.
Walking home some time later, Scott almost falls into a construction yard, about 2 feet from impaling himself on the dirty steel of a half-built house. We reach our beach house, in a sprint of relief. Scott and I both cut our feet in the last 100 feet, but we do not care. As soon as we reach the stairs however, another man with a flashlight approaches us.
Screaming bloody murder Scott and I run our way upstairs to the balcony of our house. We look down at the man with the flashlight, our security guard, and begin to scream raving obscenities not to be reprinted.
The next morning we find ourselves in our respective beds and ready for another day of spring break.
Other than that just came back from spring break, boring this time around. A year ago though, different story. Here's what I can remember from one of the more adventurous nights.
---
In what is to be a tumultuous night of rowdiness, we head out to the local pubs. Not to be outdone by anyone, there we obligingly get rowdy.
On that dark night in Mexico, Scott and I begin to make our return home. Walking back, we encounter Nate.
‘Hey, guys, we have got to get out of here,” he says.
Scott begins to interject, but the sudden urge to order another drink by Nate precedes his comment. There is little he can do to object, other than to look on. Nate, swallowed in the haze, begins to make his way toward our friend, Maggie. Her boyfriend, also on the trip, and her had been having troubles. Nate probably noticed.
The ensuing altercation was timid at best. The reality was that Nate did not know, nor care, in his state what was going on or who it was with. Maggie left with her on-again off-again and we continued our raging.
By this time, I am deep into things, and ready to go home. Perhaps too much fun was being had.
‘Quiero ir a la casa,’ I mimicked the accent as well I could.
‘This place is dying. Let’s go.’ Scott managed.
Our trio heads down the one road, for it is a one road town. There is not much for us to talk about, yet we manage to yell at each other anyway. For a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is his haze, Nate begins an argument with Scott on a trivial and purely academic matter. Who drank more should never be litigated between friends, especially by fists. Unfortunately the brawl breaks out onto the street, and I am entangled between two friends. Rolling on the dirt, we collect an entourage of on lookers. They cheer, hoot and holler until the police come to break us up.
Nate runs. And runs. I see him off into the night, while Scott and I do not manage to do anything more than stare. The five-oh, upon us, start in the incessant use of flash lights. There is nothing worse than flashlights with cops. I try my Spanish, developed over four long semesters at Penn, but I fail spectacularly. They push us up against the wall, and search us.
His hands start at my legs and work its way up. My knees. I’m feeling ok. My thighs. A little nervous. Thanksfully, he skips the groin region and begins on the upper body, skipping his way through. He knows I’m unarmed, but the show works. I’m scared out of my wits.
In the end, he smiles, looking innocently at both of us. I look into his eyes, not knowing what he wants. He seems an honest man, but I have heard enough about cops in Mexico to know better than to sit here and do nothing. I offer him what is left in my wallet, a whopping 8 dollars. Slyly, I try to slip it into his hands. He refuses. I am baffled, and I ask him to take it, openly. My best use of Spanish in the night behind me, I insist by simply pressing the bills into his hand.
Scott and I are shaken, though probably not rightly so. The drama of the night had begun to get to us.
‘Shit man…what just happened? Where’s Nate? I think he ran off out of town,’ Scott began, ‘I think we should get off the road. There are cops all over here and they’re just waiting for two tourists like us. Its not safe to get back on the road, plus I have no freakin’ clue where we are.’
‘Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, when we came into town the ocean was on our left, so if we follow the beach, with the ocean to our right, we should make it back to our beach house, right?’
Scott agreed, and we set off to find the beach. Trudging the sand of Rocky Point, we begin to realize how the area got its name. Our sandals are bare relief from the pointed edges of some of the most painful rocks that hid in the sand. It is dark. Stumbling, the long walk taxes our spent energy, but we remain alert. Someone approaches, silently. Scott and I stop in our tracks. We duck down behind the sea wall, a solid concrete affair separating the beach from the nearby dirt lot.
Breathing heavily, we wait. Tense, our muscles twitching to make a run in the opposite direction of this creeping stranger, we wait longer. Three long minutes pass as we wait for the Creep, and we see him in the shadowy light of a nearby post. College student. Drunk. Scott and I laugh off our foolishness and continue home.
The sand had gotten no easier to walk through in the meantime. Scott, in a rugged disbelief of our situation, begins to pick up the pace.
‘You know, we started off tonight with like fifteen of us. Now its just you and me. They all suck. I bet they’re all in bed right now. Psch, this is spring break,’ Scott rambles.
A steady silence is all that I can manage.
Wham! Flood lights come on not 20 feet away from us, blinding us in an unnaturally bright light.
‘What the ---,’ Scott exclaims.
Three men with machine guns stare at us, yelling in indistinctive Spanish. I respond to the best of my abilities, but give up. My Spanish professor, Senora Mendez, would be ashamed.
Clad in camouflage, they carry what looks like MP5 sub-machine guns. Black boots, funny green clothing, and stern voices work to intimidate us into submission.
I get a quick look at my interrogator, not wanting to seem too defiant less he think I need a bullet to think about. In his late thirties, I imagine this man lead a lifestyle more comfortable than most here in Mexico. His skin, dark and tanned, had not been beaten by unyielding sun from working in the fields or leathered from the winds while living on the streets. It was old from experience and the stress of his work.
Hands behind my head, I tell him I have no money. In an all too familiar manner, we are once again searched. This time my wallet is pulled from my pocket. I explain that I gave all of my money to the previous two cops already. He laughs. I can see the humor in our epic misfortune. I wish I could share in the quick laugh. At least, it seems to lighten the situation. I look over at Scott, and he is being given the same treatment. My guard laughs again. He pats me on my back, and lets us go on our way.
Scott and I are perplexed at our amazing luck. Petrified of moving on, we return to the town. It is decided that we needed a drink to celebrate not being killed. Since I have no money, Scott pulls out his wallet to pay for a couple of beers for us. Little did he know, but the Mexican Army had confiscated over $200 from him. They left him with about nine dollars. We spent it on the beers at the bar and about 12 for the road from a walk-through beer distributor.
Walking home some time later, Scott almost falls into a construction yard, about 2 feet from impaling himself on the dirty steel of a half-built house. We reach our beach house, in a sprint of relief. Scott and I both cut our feet in the last 100 feet, but we do not care. As soon as we reach the stairs however, another man with a flashlight approaches us.
Screaming bloody murder Scott and I run our way upstairs to the balcony of our house. We look down at the man with the flashlight, our security guard, and begin to scream raving obscenities not to be reprinted.
The next morning we find ourselves in our respective beds and ready for another day of spring break.
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