The New York Times recently published a feature article about the consumer debt crisis' origins, outcomes, and long-term consequences. This hits right at home for millions of Americans and my guess is plenty of Minnesotans (including myself: Minnesota Private Colleges are affordable to a point, as in, sophomore year). The sprawling new developments in Maple Grove, Brooklyn Park, Arden Hills, etc. are strange reminders of excessive consumerism leading to our current bear market. I think it’s the harbinger of a cultural demise.
Recently, I drove to the residence of my good friend's parents in Maple Grove. He was in town staying there while he took a break from his Chicago graduate school life. On the phone, prior to my arrival, he gave me the address and directions. He lived in 89th Place off 89th Street. And be sure not to make a left, because then you're on 89th Lane. I shuddered, knowing I was driving into one of these black holes of American society. Up until that day, I always knew I had a low tolerance being outside the 694/494 ring. A threshold broken when I realized that I was still driving after twenty minutes in the car.
I had never quite assembled this distinctly American trend in my head until that moment. Scores of my friends lived in these residences. Each time I would go to their home to crash for a weekend, whether it be Sartell or North Branch or even Mankato, I was stunned at the vast space these homes contained. Vaulted ceilings seemed to be the most distinguishing architectural feature. American home builders clearly engineered these structures with cheap energy in mind. Hardwood floors, high-end carpeting, solid oak banisters all added to the aesthetic of an affluent middle class.
And now, people can't jettison these homes from their life fast enough. Whole neighborhoods lay vacant. Banks owning these structures after sucking down massive mortgage backed securities are far from their actual location. Letting them rot in their place, it's likely the most poignant metaphor for American culture at large. Tracts of beautiful new homes, sitting vacant, not a car in the street to answer the blitzkrieg of "For Sale" signs out front.
Gas has steadied over the last few months at four dollars a gallon, despite the recent historic drop of 12% last week in the price for a barrel of crude on the NYMEX, and it's now taking its toll on my social life. That same friend I came to visit, asked me out for a beer. He didn’t want to drive to Minneapolis from Maple Grove. I didn’t want to drive to Maple Grove because it’s expensive for gas and the edge of America’s cultural disintegration. So we didn’t meet. We’ll soon see each other again, likely in Chicago. But what if you live in Maple Grove and work in Minneapolis?
As I drive into these new housing developments, I can’t stop the feeling of emptiness that comes over me. It’s as if no one in these neighborhoods speaks to one another. All the homes look the same save a different bay window here, a different trim color there. It’s as if the Soviets inspired American homebuilders. There’s nothing organic about these homes and neighborhoods. They’re all a developer’s artificial dream believing that if you build it, friendly neighbors will come and all will be perfect. Human societies are simply not cultivated the same way corn is. Sure, you can add all the necessary elements, but the soul of the street will always be absent. That takes time. That’s why I live in Minneapolis.
Live richly, interpersonally.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
That sinking feeling...
Once again the Star-Tribune has published a feature piece assessing the value of higher education in this country (http://www.startribune.com/business/25130964.html). On a local level, the story plucks quotes from recent graduate of state institutions such as Carleton College, Gustavus Adolphus College, and the University of Minnesota. Their angle in the story is roughly paraphrased as kids going into volunteering service because they would like to postpone real world problems, search for graduate school, or are otherwise unmarketable in this environment with a liberal arts degree.
That upsets me. On more than one level. Firstly, I simply cannot fathom why volunteer service around the country or the world should be characterized as escapism. Military service is mandatory in many countries; in Germany you are allowed to select a civil service option if you do not desire serving in the armed forces. And it is surely not considered escapism. In fact, after discussions with several German students while I traveled, I found that it is a very popular option. So let’s proceed without the “escapism” factor. We’ll return though.
Secondly, it’s time to search for graduate school. That’s not very arguable because it makes sense.
Thirdly, and likely the most contentious point to me, liberal arts degrees have become “unmarketable” or in other terms, worthless in the job market. It’s a frustrating reality to deal with when you internalize the utter truth in this statement. It makes you feel worthless.
I have fought it for years though. Mainly because I refuse to believe that after spending considerable amounts of time studying language, art, literature, etc. all things constituting culture, the world only cares about your ability to add and subtract. Alas, this country is seemingly slipping down the slope of stupidity.
After graduating with my English major, I went to work at an insurance broker and quickly found myself saddled next to recent graduates in economics, business management, marketing, etc. Anxiety abounded. Had I made some terrible mistake? It was becoming clear that the internship I had completed at the firm a couple years before was clearly my only entrée to a full time position.
One of the benefits of working in insurance, ironically, is that you meet people from a variety of backgrounds if they are above the age of forty. Otherwise, most are the same cut-and-cured business Greek-life loving twenty-somethings. So I solicited the sage wisdom of a salesman who once ran the Minneapolis branch of a major broker.
He reported that he hired only liberal arts majors. He did this because they were, on par, more cultured, carried a conversation better, and generally brought up points of topical interest because they read current discourse. Secondly, he said that the academic business education received in undergraduate programs was so out of touch with current trends the “reprogramming” costs of a recent business degree hire far outweighed the “from-scratch” education of the liberal arts degree counterparts.
Tucking this nodule comfort in my hat, I began soliciting advice on this matter from other successful professionals I knew. A former mergers and acquisitions attorney said undergraduate education is for your personal interests and should be a time of interpersonal exploration and growth. Graduate school is where education meets practicality. Another shot of comfort as I was considering business school.
The most comforting yet disheartening blow arrived when I contacted an industry colleague in the business school I now attend. His email was compassionate but jaded: this is no longer a meritocracy, or even a system based on your knowledge. This is entirely a narcissistic self-driven networking-based economy where people get jobs on a good looking smile, a few jokes, and the promise of another business card for your rolodex. Best advice? Be nice to everyone and keep meeting new people. Have drinks, socialize, and above all else, don’t talk about actual work.
That’s where undergraduate business school has become very popular. First, parents of good intentions tell their new undergraduate to study something of pragmatic application. The student diligently learns some skill such as marketing and in the process meets several students also working in marketing. Then, a network is built and sustaining for the student.
This network easily proliferates into business relationships. These relationships are then traded as commodity on a social network.
So what’s the redemption in a liberal arts degree? Perhaps it’s the fact that I can write this entry in my web log and articulate a series of thoughts without the profligate use of “you know”, “like”, “um”, “kind of”, “in all actuality’, etc.
Perhaps it’s in my ability to reference some of the chapters in American history that would have illustrated why Iraq was not the brightest idea. Or why spending huge amounts of government capital while slashing taxes simultaneously is perhaps a bad decision.
But as in life, things are cyclical. I guess we’ll have to wait for the next article to come out impugning the virtue of a liberal arts education to carry this discussion forward.
That upsets me. On more than one level. Firstly, I simply cannot fathom why volunteer service around the country or the world should be characterized as escapism. Military service is mandatory in many countries; in Germany you are allowed to select a civil service option if you do not desire serving in the armed forces. And it is surely not considered escapism. In fact, after discussions with several German students while I traveled, I found that it is a very popular option. So let’s proceed without the “escapism” factor. We’ll return though.
Secondly, it’s time to search for graduate school. That’s not very arguable because it makes sense.
Thirdly, and likely the most contentious point to me, liberal arts degrees have become “unmarketable” or in other terms, worthless in the job market. It’s a frustrating reality to deal with when you internalize the utter truth in this statement. It makes you feel worthless.
I have fought it for years though. Mainly because I refuse to believe that after spending considerable amounts of time studying language, art, literature, etc. all things constituting culture, the world only cares about your ability to add and subtract. Alas, this country is seemingly slipping down the slope of stupidity.
After graduating with my English major, I went to work at an insurance broker and quickly found myself saddled next to recent graduates in economics, business management, marketing, etc. Anxiety abounded. Had I made some terrible mistake? It was becoming clear that the internship I had completed at the firm a couple years before was clearly my only entrée to a full time position.
One of the benefits of working in insurance, ironically, is that you meet people from a variety of backgrounds if they are above the age of forty. Otherwise, most are the same cut-and-cured business Greek-life loving twenty-somethings. So I solicited the sage wisdom of a salesman who once ran the Minneapolis branch of a major broker.
He reported that he hired only liberal arts majors. He did this because they were, on par, more cultured, carried a conversation better, and generally brought up points of topical interest because they read current discourse. Secondly, he said that the academic business education received in undergraduate programs was so out of touch with current trends the “reprogramming” costs of a recent business degree hire far outweighed the “from-scratch” education of the liberal arts degree counterparts.
Tucking this nodule comfort in my hat, I began soliciting advice on this matter from other successful professionals I knew. A former mergers and acquisitions attorney said undergraduate education is for your personal interests and should be a time of interpersonal exploration and growth. Graduate school is where education meets practicality. Another shot of comfort as I was considering business school.
The most comforting yet disheartening blow arrived when I contacted an industry colleague in the business school I now attend. His email was compassionate but jaded: this is no longer a meritocracy, or even a system based on your knowledge. This is entirely a narcissistic self-driven networking-based economy where people get jobs on a good looking smile, a few jokes, and the promise of another business card for your rolodex. Best advice? Be nice to everyone and keep meeting new people. Have drinks, socialize, and above all else, don’t talk about actual work.
That’s where undergraduate business school has become very popular. First, parents of good intentions tell their new undergraduate to study something of pragmatic application. The student diligently learns some skill such as marketing and in the process meets several students also working in marketing. Then, a network is built and sustaining for the student.
This network easily proliferates into business relationships. These relationships are then traded as commodity on a social network.
So what’s the redemption in a liberal arts degree? Perhaps it’s the fact that I can write this entry in my web log and articulate a series of thoughts without the profligate use of “you know”, “like”, “um”, “kind of”, “in all actuality’, etc.
Perhaps it’s in my ability to reference some of the chapters in American history that would have illustrated why Iraq was not the brightest idea. Or why spending huge amounts of government capital while slashing taxes simultaneously is perhaps a bad decision.
But as in life, things are cyclical. I guess we’ll have to wait for the next article to come out impugning the virtue of a liberal arts education to carry this discussion forward.
Monday, July 7, 2008
New York, Boston, Chicago… and La Crosse
A little over a month ago I planned my summer vacation with several goals in mind. Collected, I was going attempt to visit a good friend, two cousins, and my newborn nephew all in different cities. It was logistically possible but costs were going to be out of control. Then I remembered Amtrak, America’s last surviving long-distance rail transportation provider.
I flew to New York to see my good friend Knudey (see link to right). We absorbed very good gin mixed with the finest tonic and cucumbers while grilling in his postage-stamp backyard in Brooklyn. We then stumbled to a free concert in Prospect Park featuring the Cold War Kids (and six dollar beers).
The next day we attacked the city, wandering lower Manhattan (Ground Zero is worth a look, but needless to say is simply an enormous construction site at this point). Returning to Brooklyn in the same day, we toured the Brooklyn Brewery and for twenty bucks, sampled over six varieties of brew.
The following day, we rested our legs a bit and after a breakfast in Tribeca where we spotted Harvey Keitel across the room, made our way to Central Park where we played catch for three minutes before getting dumped on by walls of rain.
As I entered Penn Station to pick up my train to Boston, I looked back on New York wondering how such a place could exist. With such overwhelming humanity thrown scattershot across streets and avenues, I was happy to change my scenery. And as the train pulled away, I felt the need to return.
Boston was smaller. Boston was cleaner. My cousin lives ten stops from downtown Boston. I woke up, ate a small breakfast, walked out the door and didn’t look back for another six or seven hours. The city is likely the most walk-able city I’ve visited. I took the freedom trail (demarcated by a red line on the sidewalk) to Paul Revere’s house, the original Boston City Hall, and Sam Adams’ grave.
Looking at the city through the windows at the top of the Prudential Tower was an eleven dollar treat, but laid the city out very well visually. I walked up and down Newbury Street twice soaking up all the retail shops and really the culture that was pouring out of midday Boston on a Monday.
Ending the day with some authentic Boston Sushi and a glass of Harpoon (local lager) rounded out my time in Beantown nicely.
Chicago looked spectacular from the plane. I’ve been there many times before, but this time excited me because my new nephew would be waiting for me in Hyde Park. The blue line from O’Hare left something to be desired as after fifty minutes of grinding and squealing I got to the Metra tracks for yet another train south to Hyde Park.
And there he was, Edison Christopher Hedberg. A seventeen pound ten-week old (I know, he’s enormous!). After Edison feel asleep, Eric and I were invited to listen to some proto-rock at a dingy bar in an industrial park aptly titled “The Hideout”.
With two-dollar PBRs and Old Style cans littering the ground around our feet, we listened to some of the classics as the three-man ensemble including a string bass showed us where Rock comes from. The best part was when the enchilada man came around. A lonely entrepreneur, he produced plastic bags each containing six enchiladas and hot sauce from two coolers he carried around. We consumed the authentic Mexican treats in short order.
After waking up, I decided Hyde Park was getting too cramped. I called a good friend of mine from college who lives in Chicago and we met up for breakfast three blocks off the Fullerton stop in an old carriage house. We decided to get our baseball gloves and regroup for a game of catch in Lincoln Park.
At the park, I needed something to eat. The local grocery store recommended a deli across the street. It was a good recommendation as the eight-dollar sixteen inch sandwich I ate was not a bit shy of perfect.
After an invigorating game of catch in the sun, my buddy and I strolled downtown and had a drink at the top of the John Hancock tower. Looking over an expansive skyline against the lake, I just couldn’t help but think: I feel at home here. I’d just seen three major American cities, and the one closest to my heart was the one geographically closest to Minneapolis.
The train ride to La Crosse to attend my cousin’s ridiculously large Fourth of July party was a long one. The announcements kept reassuring a grumpy, but relatively small, group of passengers that we’d arrive by seven fifteen.
I greeted my cousin at the station at eight and promptly drove to my aunt’s house for some pizza. Stepping off the train was a strange experience when I realized how clean it smelled. No exhaust, human waste, beer, nothing but prairie grass.
The next day started with the sun. Then the boat, the lake, and more sun. Then fireworks, a fire, and restful sleep. A perfect Fourth. My cousin’s husband let me use his motorcycle the next day and I rode it a hundred and fifty or two hundred miles up and down the Mississippi through Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota.
Arriving home was bittersweet as I stepped off yet another delayed train in St. Paul. I was happy to be back, but all those things loomed like work, life, etc. I managed to complete all four goals though and with a day to spare to catch up. All travel was under five hundred bucks. I lucked out this time.
How do I top this trip!?
I flew to New York to see my good friend Knudey (see link to right). We absorbed very good gin mixed with the finest tonic and cucumbers while grilling in his postage-stamp backyard in Brooklyn. We then stumbled to a free concert in Prospect Park featuring the Cold War Kids (and six dollar beers).
The next day we attacked the city, wandering lower Manhattan (Ground Zero is worth a look, but needless to say is simply an enormous construction site at this point). Returning to Brooklyn in the same day, we toured the Brooklyn Brewery and for twenty bucks, sampled over six varieties of brew.
The following day, we rested our legs a bit and after a breakfast in Tribeca where we spotted Harvey Keitel across the room, made our way to Central Park where we played catch for three minutes before getting dumped on by walls of rain.
As I entered Penn Station to pick up my train to Boston, I looked back on New York wondering how such a place could exist. With such overwhelming humanity thrown scattershot across streets and avenues, I was happy to change my scenery. And as the train pulled away, I felt the need to return.
Boston was smaller. Boston was cleaner. My cousin lives ten stops from downtown Boston. I woke up, ate a small breakfast, walked out the door and didn’t look back for another six or seven hours. The city is likely the most walk-able city I’ve visited. I took the freedom trail (demarcated by a red line on the sidewalk) to Paul Revere’s house, the original Boston City Hall, and Sam Adams’ grave.
Looking at the city through the windows at the top of the Prudential Tower was an eleven dollar treat, but laid the city out very well visually. I walked up and down Newbury Street twice soaking up all the retail shops and really the culture that was pouring out of midday Boston on a Monday.
Ending the day with some authentic Boston Sushi and a glass of Harpoon (local lager) rounded out my time in Beantown nicely.
Chicago looked spectacular from the plane. I’ve been there many times before, but this time excited me because my new nephew would be waiting for me in Hyde Park. The blue line from O’Hare left something to be desired as after fifty minutes of grinding and squealing I got to the Metra tracks for yet another train south to Hyde Park.
And there he was, Edison Christopher Hedberg. A seventeen pound ten-week old (I know, he’s enormous!). After Edison feel asleep, Eric and I were invited to listen to some proto-rock at a dingy bar in an industrial park aptly titled “The Hideout”.
With two-dollar PBRs and Old Style cans littering the ground around our feet, we listened to some of the classics as the three-man ensemble including a string bass showed us where Rock comes from. The best part was when the enchilada man came around. A lonely entrepreneur, he produced plastic bags each containing six enchiladas and hot sauce from two coolers he carried around. We consumed the authentic Mexican treats in short order.
After waking up, I decided Hyde Park was getting too cramped. I called a good friend of mine from college who lives in Chicago and we met up for breakfast three blocks off the Fullerton stop in an old carriage house. We decided to get our baseball gloves and regroup for a game of catch in Lincoln Park.
At the park, I needed something to eat. The local grocery store recommended a deli across the street. It was a good recommendation as the eight-dollar sixteen inch sandwich I ate was not a bit shy of perfect.
After an invigorating game of catch in the sun, my buddy and I strolled downtown and had a drink at the top of the John Hancock tower. Looking over an expansive skyline against the lake, I just couldn’t help but think: I feel at home here. I’d just seen three major American cities, and the one closest to my heart was the one geographically closest to Minneapolis.
The train ride to La Crosse to attend my cousin’s ridiculously large Fourth of July party was a long one. The announcements kept reassuring a grumpy, but relatively small, group of passengers that we’d arrive by seven fifteen.
I greeted my cousin at the station at eight and promptly drove to my aunt’s house for some pizza. Stepping off the train was a strange experience when I realized how clean it smelled. No exhaust, human waste, beer, nothing but prairie grass.
The next day started with the sun. Then the boat, the lake, and more sun. Then fireworks, a fire, and restful sleep. A perfect Fourth. My cousin’s husband let me use his motorcycle the next day and I rode it a hundred and fifty or two hundred miles up and down the Mississippi through Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota.
Arriving home was bittersweet as I stepped off yet another delayed train in St. Paul. I was happy to be back, but all those things loomed like work, life, etc. I managed to complete all four goals though and with a day to spare to catch up. All travel was under five hundred bucks. I lucked out this time.
How do I top this trip!?
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