Random Reader Reaction

Dear BusinessWeek,

A friend recently sent over a link to your article “Jammin’ Like Crazy at Goldman,” a description and insider’s take on life as an investment banking analyst. Frankly, the article left much to be desired.

The young gunner you selected to write this article appears to have attended one “Indiana University.” I’m not entirely certain where or what exactly this is, but I do know that it is most definitely not a member of the Ivy League. It is remarkable, however, that in a sea of pedigree, you managed to find the one statistical outlier. I imagine that chip on his shoulder is rather cumbersome to lug around all the time, huh?

Anyway, allowing someone like that to be the voice of investment banking is like letting the football team’s kicker speak at the national press conference. It’s like putting a band’s bassist on the album cover (not Sting). It’s like letting the ESL kid give the valedictorian speech at graduation—it just doesn’t make sense, and it’s comes out sounding all wrong.

Out of respect to The Firm, I will make no further comment on the writer, I’m mostly just concerned with Banking culture being accurately portrayed. There is indeed a lot of analysis and number crunching, but I assure you this is not at all what Banking is all about. All the important aspects of the lifestyle have been entirely neglected. The article does not even mention the most significant part of life as a Banker, the true essence of Banking: the nightlife.

To help you correct this blunder, I have attached some of my own notes, which should offer you a more authentic perspective, from someone with a bit more subject matter expertise. Feel free to publish these in your next issue. To facilitate inclusion in your magazine, I have followed your “day in the life” format, but mine is (cleverly) a “night in the life.”

You do run a fine publication (no Economist, but a fine publication, nonetheless), so I hope you’ll address this issue in a speedy fashion.

The following is a usual Friday night:

8:30 p.m. – I have been working on a spreadsheet for 9 hours straight, and the carpal tunnels is setting in with a vengeance. I adjust my back pillow and curse Microsoft’s odd split keyboard contraption. The tingles are running up to my elbows.

9:30 p.m. – My friends and I have now sent upwards of 30 one line emails back and forth discussing what we are going to do tonight. There is no consensus, but one thing is agreed: it is going to be epic.

10:30 p.m. – The musky scent of Manhattan nightlife is seeping into the walls of our otherwise sterile office and entering my nose. It smells raw, unadulterated, and sexy.

10:31 p.m. – Face time is officially over. I take out my Cross pen, puncture a can of Red Bull, and shotgun it. Once I have siphoned all of the party-nectar, I put on my blazer and leave. There is always someone that has to work late and can’t go out, and I assure them that The Scene will miss them dearly.

10:40 p.m. – I am at my friend’s apartment, pre-gaming with Tuaca, Grey Goose, and other fine spirits. The clock strikes 10:45, and we are now “Rolling Hard” – banker lingo for partying.

11:30 p.m. – The five of us roll to Marquee, a throwback to last year when it was our “go-to spot.” I catch a glimpse of the welcoming orange lights from about 100 yards away, and I long to be bathed in their electric heat, if only for a moment.

The line is long, but the bouncer spots our ties (each of which costs more than his Kia) and ushers us to the front. We buy bottles.

12:30 a.m. – I dance with a hipstery looking girl. I try to impress her by telling her how American Apparel was just bought by a PE firm. The line does not work and renders her confused. She asks me what stocks she should buy. I tell her she should buy stock in me: I’m feeling bullish.

2:30 a.m. – Only 1/1000th of my bonus has been spent. I buy two more bottles.

3:00 a.m. – The club is not as cool as it used to be. We go to Scores. Lindsay Lohan is not there, unfortunately, but all of my favorite dancers are.

3:15 a.m. – We have gotten 20 lap dances and a private room, all courtesy of the little green AMEX guy. Who’s getting jammed now?

4:30 a.m. – I end up back at my apartment and pass out after two Kati Rolls. My Indian banker buddy insists on going there every single time we go out, and I back it.

8:30 a.m. – My blackberry goes off, and I have to go into work. I try to shower the stink of booze and stripper off me, but it is futile. I go into work smelling like Manhattan nightlife. I am raw, unadulterated, and sexy.

Hope this helps put things into perspective.

Logan

Related: Jammin’ Like Crazy At Goldman