If Whodini’s 1983 breakout hit “The Freaks Come Out at Night” is better regarded as more hypothesis than truism, then certain members of Section K were seen doggedly refining their proofs two Saturdays ago.
It’s too tawdry to name names-for such would only taint love-but decks will do. Suffice it to say simply that Sky and Power got some that night.
“Don’t hate the player,” I’ve always been taught. “Hate the game.”
On a similarly salacious note, with all that jawboning about WTP and Coca-Cola two weeks ago in Marketing, after-hours pub talk eventually turned to WTA.
How much for an Indecent Proposal?
One of our sectionmates (hereinafter “smates” or “smate”) priced second-base out at $750, a 275% premium over the first-base tag. Echoing Seinfeld’s Elaine Benes’ pithy admonition to the Mets’ Keith Hernandez, however, our Sky Deck smate indicated that the third-base coach wouldn’t be waving anyone home.
At least, not without more cabbage.
All of which is meant to ask: Who is the real King or Kueen of K? Who’s got game? Supposing you could buy shares in any smate, their present value representing their future scandalous exploits, whom do you buy on margin? And whom do you short?
As Linda Richman, host of SNL’s “Coffee Talk,” says: “Tawk amongst yourselves.”
If you want to get in on the action, David Corris can help you with the odds. You’ll recall that during the red hat-blue hat quandary posed by Professor Mihir Desai last month, Corris demonstrated an astonishing facility with probability-related brainteasers. That’s because, prior to HBS, he made a living counting cards-and grabbing the butt-smoking cocktail waitresses who doled out the freebie sloe gin fizzes-at the Harrah’s Casino in East St. Louis.
There’s that and the fact that Corris actually authored a calculus textbook. Truth to tell, he’s been trying to conceal it, so let’s keep that little nugget between you and me, ‘kay?
Corris can also tell you with dizzying accuracy which professor is favored to take the Celebrity Death Match title.
So Corris wrote a math textbook and the incipient Dr. Robert Mittendorf apparently studies neurology at the medical school when he’s not slumming with us over here at HBS. In order to round out my own sense of inadequacy, I’m still trying to ferret out our section’s closet rocket scientist.
Martin Brand and Will Azeff mounted a spirited defense during the debate between HBS and the Yale School of Management that accompanies the yearly Harvard-Yale football game. Exchanging barbs over whether corporate executives should develop a code of ethics to prevent cultural imperialism, the duo gave an intellectual performance punctuated by dazzlingly elegant ripostes, crystalline logic, and visceral persuasion.
In response to a particularly pointed retort, however, Azeff inexplicably erupted with: “Yeah, well fuck you, Yalie bitch!”
That little hiccup, and the fact that Will was naked throughout the entire event, clinched it for the Elies.
I’ve been told that there’s an interesting article in last week’s New Yorker that Jaime Alvarez might find interesting: it apparently involves a potentially revolutionary treatment for narcolepsy.
Professor Joshua Margolis’ quantitative prowess and good humor notwithstanding, Boris Gutin reports a distance calculation that markedly differs from the 1/9th of a mile Margolis projected on the big screen last week. Gutin pegs the workout at .566 of a mile, an order of magnitude five times greater.
But Gutin never stated his assumptions. Margolis did.
It turns out there’s a reason Abigail is Wise: Like Snoop Dogg, her mind’s on her money and her money’s on her mind, which is why she drinks gin and juice. In her relentless pursuit of copy, Mariam Malik reports that she prefers the watermelon martini served by a place called “Hoochi Coochi,” or something like that, but that she’ll settle for a fifth of Mad Dog in a pinch. Rosalia Morquecho says she drinks nothing but tequila shots but that, curiously, she can never remember the brand. Gaston Mauvezin: Vermouth & Coke. Dorren Spinner: Cuban Rum & Coke. (“I’m not going near that Jamaican shit again,” he says.) Finally, the name of Melanie da Trindade-Asher’s Peruvian drink: “Pisco,” and it’s got egg in it, not milk.
Finally, as evidenced by his outbursts during TOM last Wednesday, Patrick O’Neil apparently served a stint in the Navy prior to his career in the hotel and lodging industry and his subsequent arrival here.
Just one choice quote from O’Neil’s obscenity-laden tirade against those effete Ritz Carlton sycophants: “I don’t buy this case one friggin’ bit.”
Cornered in the hallway after class and asked to explain his use of such uncharacteristically blue language in class, O’Neil simply shrugged, saying only that he’s learned a lot in FRC this year.
