For Christmas, my uncle received a .22 rifle to shoot squirrels off of his bird feeder. God bless the U.S.A.

repatriation

My transcontinental flight home for the holidays was littered with epiphanies and observations, some positive some negative.

1. Flying sucks. At best, I felt like a peasant in a tyrannical monarchy. At worst, I felt like a pack animal. Upon check-in, there were two lines. Each had equal staffing and equal capacity. But one had 200 people in it, and the other had at most 2. The economy line was atrocious, snaking back and forth across the terminal in a formation that bore explicit resemblence to a cattle run. Dub over the chatter of aggravated passengers with mooing and you'd think you were in a slaughterhouse. There was even an attendent herding passengers in an effort to keep the vacant line for Priority Plus and Business class unobscured. I honestly wondered if she was going to require us peons to bow before the "royalty" strolling up the red carpet to the VIP counter. Let's hear it for socioeconomic stratification.

Even more disheartening is passenger behavior. When the flight attendants roll the service carts up the aisle, everybody lowers their traytable. I did it myself, and was instantly disgusted. Pavlov taught dogs to salivate at the sound of a bell. Delta taught humans to lower traytables at the sight of a food vessel. What's the difference?

2. I live a long, long way from home. Somehow, my transatlanticism had never really sunk in. I stared at my customs form and read "Country of Residence:" I hesitated and finally wrote "Denmark." I have no clue why, but it took that fact a solid few seconds to register.

Being back in the States is proving to be a great time. I've eaten the hell out of some food at every Mexican restaurant in the greater Chapel Hill area, rekindled my romantic flair with sweet tea, and caught a couple UNC games. There's been a recent dearth of blog-worthy material, but hopefully that changes soon. Until then...

snowpenhagen

Congratulations, climate demonstrators, your effort to stave off global warming appears to be remarkably successful. Either that, or Mother Nature smote you with a blanket of the powdery white stuff. Though highly unusual for December, snow is in the forecast for 7 of the next 10 days. And the city is already laden with grotesque, infinitely refrozen sludge patches and other vestiges of last week's accumulation.
Thirty-six percent of Copenhagen's 1.2 million people commute to work by bike, and watching the otherwise immaculate and effortlessly confident Danes totter and tumble in the snow is proving immensely entertaining. Slightly less entertaining is the way I've spent the last two weeks...battered and bruised by body blows from business heavyweights Corporate Finance and Financial Markets and Instruments. Since I've been hunkered down in a study bunker most of the month, not a whole lot has happened worthy of mention. Jeppe's exasperated expression pretty much encapsulates December:

fmi? fml.

Oh Financial Markets and Instruments, your unceasing, unyielding barrage of betas, covariances, correlations and matrices was a source of perplexity and agony over the last 12 weeks. You could safely assert that my happiness and the end of this god-forsaken class have a correlation of 1. Coming into today's exam, I felt like Rocky running up the steps of the Philadelphia museum of art, shadowboxing my numerical foes to the tune of Eye of the Tiger. I received my test paper and feverishly leafed through the pages. Then this happened:

Question 6 (weight 20%)

You have estimated the Single Index model for two oil companies, Exxon Mobil Corp. (XOM) and Chevron Corp. (CVX), using monthly data of excess returns over the past five years. You have obtained the following results:

R(cvx) = .72% + .56R(m)+e(cvx) R^2(cvx) = .19
R(xom) = .58% + .57R(m) + e(xom) R^2(xom) = .22

The standard deviation of monthly excess market returns is estimated at 4.5%. Recall that the Single Index model assumes that Cov(e(cvx),e(xom)) = 0.

1. What are the standard deviations of the monthly excess returns of CVX and XOM?
2. In the Single Index model, how much of the variance in CVX is due to its systematic component, and how much is due to its firm-specific component?
3. Find the correlation between the excess returns of CVX and XOM implied by the Single Index model
4. You have also directly estimated the correlation coefficient between the excess returns of CVX and XOM to be .78. Briefly explain in words what might account for the difference between the .78 and your answer in 3, and briefly describe how you might improve on the Single Index model to obtain a more precise correlation estimate between the two stocks.

Now, I had put more than 40 hours into studying for this 4-hour exam, and felt my knowledge of the subject matter unequivocally thorough. That having been said, here's an excerpt from my internal monologue upon reading this question:

Is this &*å@ in Danish or what? @$#*. Ok, let's analyze this. The ankle bone's connected to the...thigh bone. No wait, wrong subject. And that's not even correct! Thank God you didn't go into medicine. Although that's an interesting evolutionary proposition. What would people look like if ankles connected to thighs? Squat, undoubtedly, and no way our savanna-dwelling ancestors could have outrun cheetahs and other exotic creatures to survive and reproduce. Great job, Ben, your anatomical supposition would have led to the extinction of mankind. Ok, right, exam, focus...you're being retarded. Well, retarded actually wouldn't be all that bad...Rain Man could probably figure out this crap. And he could just go to Vegas and make a fortune anyways, no need for advanced financial degrees. Just Vegas, fish sticks, and K-mart underwear. No need to deviate from that. Deviate. Standard deviations of the monthly excess returns...you need the derivation of the R^2 formula to solve for that. R-squared. Finance is truly for squares. Heh, that's a pretty good one. Blanking on the formula derivation, so blanking it is.

I walked to the front of the class and joined about 65 other students in turning our papers in blank and leaving. Eye of the Tiger was replaced with a morose violin concerto. Denmark's re-exam system allows students who failed (or turned in blank) exams to try them again 2 months later, and I opted to take that route. I estimate I would have gotten a grade of 7 (average) had I completed the test, but I'm average in too many other respects (see: height, weight, hair color, eye color, etc.) to settle for average grades.

We shall meet again in February FM&I, and next time you won't be so fortunate.

can we kiwi?

Study abroad applications were due yesterday for the fall 2010 semester, and everybody I know from my program (and my roommate as well) planned to submit one. My choices were to either remain at CBS, further embedding myself in Danish culture, mastering the language, and boosting my GPA through hard work and dedication OR abdicate both the country and all scholarly responsibilities in the name of excitement, frivolity, and a pass/fail grading system.

New Zealand, I'm on my way.

There's something slightly amusing about being an American studying abroad from your overseas home university. There's something even more amusing about going back to UNC as a graduate exchange student, which I attempted. But, in a sizzlingly ironic twist, I didn't have the undergraduate grades to qualify.

I selected the University of Otago, on New Zealand's south island, as my preferred destination. Why this particular institution? Allow me to bestow a few nuggets upon you:

"Couch burning is a frequent, illegal problem with partying students in the student neighbourhood surrounding the campus. In 2007, a pub owner was charged with sedition over a pamphlet offering students the prize of a fuel-soaked couch."

"Large scale clashes between Otago and Canterbury University students and police took place in 2006, 2007, 2008 and 2009 related to events surrounding the Undie 500 car rally organised by students from Canterbury University. Other student social events during the year such as the Toga Parade and the Hyde Street Keg Race are also notable for attracting Police attention, but not to the scale of the Undie conflicts."

Otago is also the country's top-ranked research university and the 2nd best overall. But still, as you can tell from the quotes, the university sounds like a perennial riot. I just wish the campus were more aesthetically pleasing.

The university is in a vibrant college town, Dunedin, of 123,000 people. The cricket grounds are manicured, the music scene is flourishing, and the beaches contain as many penguins as people. The problem is how to get there. Kayak.com currently lists one-way fares at around $1800 (9000 DKK) from Copenhagen to Dunedin, and the shortest flight duration I can find takes 35 hours and over 12,000 miles (19000 km) to reach its destination. Copenhagen has a street called Istedgade I could probably patrol to make some money, but I think my parents, the University of North Carolina, and I would all be ashamed that my business degree led to the purchase of a leopard-print skirt and some clear high heels.

And here's the final crux in this grandiose globetrotting concoction: When I leave the US on January 18th, I might not be back for 18 months. Due to the reversal of seasons in the southern hemisphere, I'll go straight from spring semester at CBS (ends in June) to spring semester at Otago (starts in July) and attempt to get a "summer" internship in Australia from Nov-Feb before writing my thesis. Still, it's hard to say no to New Zealand...especially when it looks like this:

do you ever look at the sky and wonder what's looking back at you? I do.

the las vegas of europe

New Location- Amsterdam, The Netherlands

After an hour flight, I touched down in Amsterdam around noon on Friday. The first thing I noticed was English. Lots of it. It dawned on me slowly that Amsterdam was a mythical haven for 18-25 year old foreigners, a lawless land of decriminalized drugs and free-roaming dames de la nuit set against a background of European exoticism. I had 72 hours in this country, and my agenda contained only one item: Have a-dam good time. Mission accomplished, and with several interesting experiences.

1. Our hostel. The sign upon entering read "Currently under contracting, water may leak from ceilings." We're off to a good start. The 320 euros we owed upon check-in (cash only, of course) bypassed the register in favor of the desk clerk's front pocket. The 4 of us were placed in a 5-person room (complete with heinous decor) that contained 3 available beds and 2 duvets. I know marijuana is fair game in Holland, but it only takes 2 functioning brain cells to figure out this isn't going to add up. The hall bathroom also proved unconventional. I've never had to sit on the john side-saddle, but when the front of the bowl is 4 cm from the wall, I don't suppose there's much choice. I still can't figure out which I like better, the lime green walls or the sagging, musty curtains.

2. The red-light district. We saw the hookers, giggled/marvelled/speculated at the items in the sex shops, and inhaled the tangy synthesis of cannabis and syphilis wafting in the breeze. Though the city is gradually purchasing all the windows and shutting down the district, the selection is like standing in front of a Jelly Belly display. There are more colors and flavors than you can possibly imagine, some natural and others that activate your gag reflex. Note: Do not photograph the ladies in their windows. They will chase you down and douse you with a cup of liquid they've prepared earlier. And it isn't water.

3. The canals. I got to the city hours earlier than the rest of the group, and wound up walking along the canals quite a bit. Lanterns appear in the windows of the houseboats, streetlamps bathe everything in a dull, soft glow. Oddly, the red-light district's canals are home to bevies of swans, an odd juxtaposition to behold. To me, canals are the most enduring and identifiable element of the city. They're also quite handy for disposing of dissentors: the city used to execute troublemakers by putting them in a bag with a feral cat and tossing them in.

4. The van Gogh museum. I may have a new favorite ginger. I can't believe the museum managed to aggregate so many of his works. Despite missing The Starry Night (which is in MoMA), 12 euros still bought you views of The Potato Eaters, Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette, Bedroom in Arles, and The Yellow House. We caught the current exhibition, which chronicles van Gogh's life through letters he exchanged with his brother, with whom he was very close. Insanity and brilliance are truly 2 sides of the same coin. Van Gogh is evidence of that.

I'd been to Amsterdam before, but with a completely different group of people and in a completely different context when I was here during globe. The weekend was a microcosmic representation of this transatlantic experience: the places remain but the people and terms differ. Fun for sure, but bizarre indeed.

pyramid scheme

Why walk like an Egyptian when you can walk with them? My tickets are booked, my passport has an appetite for new ink, and yours truly will touch down in Cairo Thursday, January 21st. I'm thinking the trip is going to go something like this:

21st: Get in, settle down
22nd: Giza (pyramids+sphinx)
23rd: Either Cairo Egyptian history museum or day trip to Alexandria (library)
24th: Stroll about Cairo and take sleeper train to Luxor
25th: Luxor tombs and temples
26th: Valley of Kings (Tut's tomb)
27th: Nile river valley tour
28th: Day train back up to Cairo
29th: Fly out

In case you can't tell, I'm a little excited. I'm flying solo at this point but if anybody else wants to get in on my pyramid scheme you're more than welcome. Egypt 2010, counting down the days.

atypical tuesday

“Hey Ben, have you heard of Phoenix?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard one or two songs, why?”

“They’re playing at Vega tonight, I have an extra ticket if you’re interested. It’s 250 kroners.”

“Nah, that’s a lot of money for a band I’m not too familiar with, I think I’ll pass.”

I knew instantly I was making a mistake.

“Actually, I changed my mind. It could be fun, I’ll take the ticket. See you at 8!”

Phoenix rose from the ashes of the French dance-pop craze of the mid 90s, in the same vein as compatriots Daft Punk and Air. They actually began as Air’s backing band before spinning off, acquiring a new vocalist, and inking new material. I spent Tuesday afternoon listening to them, trying to gain some familiarity, and I wasn’t entirely enamored. Besides the delightfully infectious 1901, other songs were mired in mediocrity. My expectations were tempered.

After an enjoyable but forgettable set by opener Noah and the Whale, Phoenix was due up. The house lights went down, the stage lights came up, and I was instantly atomized by a sensory barrage. Strobe lights, flood lights and spotlights meshed together in an ecstatically disorienting array. Blinding light interchanged with sheer darkness to emulate still-frame animation. The drummer appeared silhouetted, a primal creature bludgeoning an assortment of metal and animal skins in mach 4/4 overdrive. Thomas Mars' thin, swooping voice drifted from pitch to pitch as the songs themselves slurred together. This was a 90 minute mutualistic symbiosis between band and crowd, each feeding off the other’s energy in an emotional crescendo that climaxed with the performance seen in the video below. I came away exhausted but elated. My expectations were thoroughly exceeded and I was left with a singular thought: tonight Phoenix soared.

Futility is the greatest instigator of solitude.

danish delicacies

I would smack up and inject Taco Bell intravenously if I could. Why am I addicted to this American bastardization of Mexican cuisine? I identify with it. Taking a Cheesy Gordita Crunch to the face is as American as wrap-around porches, morbid obesity, and the fascinating meat amalgamation known as "Turducken."

Most every country has a distinct food culture. Spain has tapas, Italy has lasagna, and Laos has venomous snake blood. I would face little opposition in asserting that food accounts for a significant portion of a country's culture. Thus, I find it necessary to provide an (admittedly skewed) overview of Danish cuisine. Here we go.

Rugbrød med leverpostej
English: rye bread with liver paté.
Tastes like: Home Depot's finest plywood slathered with Fancy Feast.A staple element of any Danish lunch, this "delicacy" consists of bread denser than diamond and darker than Darth Vader. Smother it in pig liver and voila! And if this amount of pig product doesn't satiate your Scandinavian palate, you can purchase the paté imbued with bacon bits.

Frikadeller
English: Modified Meatballs
Tastes like: a meaty basis with unrecognizable overtonesAn enlarged and culturally adapted version of Swedish meatballs, frikadeller are typically a pork composite, a ball of ground swine mixed with onions, spices, and bits of other unidentified yet unquestioned foodstuffs. Individual recipes probably exceed danish individuals, and each recipe is a carefully kept secret. It's like your mother's banana puddin' recipe: ain't nobody getting it.

Wienerbrød
English: Danish
Tastes like: The fluffiest croissant with fresh fruitDanish danish isn't danish. It's wienerbrød, but it's just as good. Actually better, since it's only sold by specialized bakers and made fresh the same hour it's purchased. Pick your pastry, pick your filling, enjoy immediately and repeatedly.

Lakrids
English: Salt licorice
Tastes like: Salted shit

Undoubtedly created to be a menace to foreigners, these "candies" are loved by Danes and hated by anyone with sensible tastebuds. A perfect example of Danish dark humor, these are included in packs of gummy candy and serve as a gastronomic land mine to the unsuspecting snacking foreigner.

There you have it. I'll be passing on most traditional Danish food and Americanizing most everything I purchase in the grocery store. I'm of the opinion that one develops taste early in life, and finds familiar flavors favorable. Though I'm trying to assimilate, I'll stick with my Whopper. The liver's all theirs.

I relish the ride home, my music a solitary serenade to a city soundly sleeping.

letters to my critics

Regarding my disastrous Milestone interview:

Hi Ben,
Thank you for the meeting last week. I have chosen to offer the positions to two other applicants which fitted the needs we have better.

Having said that I am impressed with you, your studies, experience and results and hope we will get a chance to work together one day. I will hand over your papers to our HR Department in case a student worker is needed elsewhere in the organization.

Good luck with your studies.

Best regards,
Martin Kaufmann


Dear Martin,
I assure you the pleasure was all mine. I'm a bit disappointed, I thought I fitted your needs like the finest pair of fitted slacks. You've certainly demonstrated throughout our correspondance that your organization has plenty of people which have flawless English grammar. No need for me.

Having said that, I'm impressed with your company's ability to overlook prime talent. Thanks for flushing my papers into your HR black hole, I'll hold my breath waiting for their call.

Best,
Ben

Regarding a dinner with Morgan Stanley:

Dear Ben,
Thank you for application to join Morgan Stanley for our "Danish Summer Internship Dinner" at Restaurant FIAT. There was a high level of interest from students with many applications received for a limited number of slots and on this occasion, we regret to inform you that we are unable to take your application further.

Please be assured that your application to this event will not affect any future applications you make to Morgan Stanley should you wish to apply and we encourage you to consider Morgan Stanley's programmes that you are eligible for. For further information about Internship programmes please visit our website at www.morganstanley.com/careers/recruiting.

May we thank you for your interest in Morgan Stanley and wish you every success in your future studies.

Best Regards,
Henrik Brodsgaard


Dear Henrik,
I'm glad you undertook the arduous task of reviewing my credentials. Sorry you are "unable to take my application further," but though I may not have the intellect to join your ranks in battle, I do have the fortitude to withstand straight talk. Your euphemistic tone is condescending and insulting.

One peculiarity about your letter, the invitation to apply for a Morgan Stanley internship, provoked a question: If you've deemed me unqualified to join you for dinner, why the hell would you consider putting me on your company's payroll? I think I'll save us both some effort and assume I'm just not as elite as your organization. Time is irreplaceable, and you may be certain that I will waste none further pursuing a position with your company.

Warm regards,
Ben

Regarding a position with ATP Real Estate:

Dear Ben Jones,

Thank you very much for your application for the job as Student Analyst at ATP Real Estate. I am sorry to tell you, that we have chosen not to continue with your application.

We wish you good luck with your further job search and thank you for the interest you have shown to ATP Real Estate.

Best Regards,
Katrine Mørch

Dear Katrine,
Sorry I'm not good enough, but thanks for offering the most straight-forward and professional rejection letter I've received to date. I'm becoming quite the connoiseur in analyzing these and yours was about an 8.5. Thanks for being direct, sincere, and effective.

Cheers,
Ben




I can take rejection.
But how many times does someone have to say you're not good enough before you start to believe it?

ben jones on interviews

Let's get hypothetical. Suppose you'd like a job in Denmark since paying for anything is like getting a mule-kick to your manhood. Suppose that you meticulously craft your resume and cover letter, and your temporal investment has yielded your desired return: the interview. Suppose further (and this is, of course, just supposition) that you've been granted an interview by a company called Milestone systems that makes software to run internet-based surveillance systems. All you need to do is ace the interview and the job is yours. Suppose you were Ben Jones. You should probably:

1. Arrive on time, perhaps even a bit early
2. Dress professionally
3. Check in at reception
4. Remember your belongings as you depart
5. Write a nifty follow-up to your interviewer

Now imagine it all went horribly, horribly wrong. Instead:

1. You give yourself an hour to get to the company, knowing that it's a ways away. You take your bike with you on the suburban train because the company is at least 3 km away from the train stop. After exiting the train, you become horribly lost in a suburban labyrinth, asking 8-9 people in a languish you don't speak for directions. Ultimately, you arrive at the company 5 minutes late.
2. You have on a suit and overcoat, minus a belt since you forgot to bring one from the United States. You hope the interviewer doesn't notice. However, since Lance Armstrong would be envious of the blistering speed you've undertaken to arrive on time, you are panting like a St. Bernard and your shirt looks like your armpits are hiding geysers.
3. You can't find the main entrance and, in desperation, go through an open door with the company logo on it. This places you in the bowels of the office, where you are eventually found by employees and escorted to the front desk. Your interviewer is there waiting for you. He'll make jokes about this little mishap throughout the course of your converstaion.
4. After the interview, you decide to bike the 15 km home. Fifteen minutes into your ride, you realize that your folio is missing. In it is your passport. You bike back to the site of your already disastrous interview and, entering through the correct entrance this time, have the secretary summon your interviewer to let you back into the conference room to fetch it.
5. You don't even know what to write. Or even if you should write anything.

So instead of feeling jubilant and relieved after your interview, you get a kebab and stand outside feeling sorry for yourself. You hear back Monday. What do you think the answer will be?

P.s. No pictures this time, I'm in the process of taking a whole bunch and will upload them all at once.

football and fractures

Imagine you've just installed a new underground dog fence for your Shih Tzu, Fifi. The mechanism works by shocking Fifi as she attempts to traverse the invisible boundary. Fifi learns from these painful encounters not to try that again and harmony is eventually acheived.

That Shih Tzu is smarter than me.

The evening was Saturday, the city crackling with energy and nervous anticipation. Denmark was playing fierce rival Sweden in a pivotal match. If Denmark won, they were assured qualification for the 2010 World Cup. The security was tighter than the Danes' abs, the pubs more packed than their muscle tees. The stage was set for a memorable evening.

The match was ultimately decided in the 78th minute by a lone goal from Denmark's Jakub Poulson. With gamefaces already on, everybody headed to the bars. We picked a particularly industral venue called Karriere Bar located in the meat-packing district to spend our evening. There was dancing, there was drinking. There was more drinking. I made the dance floor so hot my shoes melted (hey, always room for some embellishment in a blog). By 3:30, I'd had enough and decided it was time to bike home. If you've read my previous entries, you know that I've had a low to moderate success rate in escaping these impaired jaunts unscathed.

I actually made it all the way to my apartment before disaster struck. Hopefully this picture of the crime scene (the theft of my pride and dignity) is an adequate visual aid, but basically I was riding parallel to the curb and needed to hop it in order to reach the gate to my apartment complex. I failed to lift my front tire up high enough to clear the curb and, due to the angle, my bike toppled over sideways. I slammed onto the asphalt with the grace of a three-legged tipped cow, removing all the skin on my elbow and, I'm 95% sure, cracking my pelvis in the process.

So Denmark won. Yay. In other news, fall has come to Copenhagen. I still haven't found a job. And I've been mostly confined to my apartment since Saturday, feeling better but still entirely unpleasant. Even a stupid dog learns from pain not to replicate an action. Yet this reasonably intelligent human being can't seem to learn that drinking+driving=disaster. Maybe CBS should think about rescinding my academic scholarship...

Diversion #4- Emotion? Aberration.

This is a long and dense post so I'll offer the executive summary: I believe emotions are temporary aberrations from a normalized state of existence. Disturbingly, it seems like antonyms serve as our only basis for sensational description. Take this for example: if there were no sun and no lights, would darkness exist? Could you define the word "red" to a person blind since birth?

Ok, here's the backstory:

I get 13 television channels. Of these, there are 4 in Danish, 4 in Norwegian, 3 in Swedish and 2 in German. Decisions, decisions. So when The Thomas Crown Affair came on 2 nights ago (in English!) I was riveted. I know the directors and writers didn't bill the film as a thinker, that much was evident in their decision to cast ex-James Bond Pierce Brosnan in the title role. Yet some things about this particular take on the suave-thief-meets-sexy-detective genre kept it on my mind long after the credits rolled, and I finally identified them.

1. The Thomas Crown character is my picture of success. We have a lot in common: hedging our monetary prosperity on the finance industry, a love of fine art, and the desire to live impeccably well. And he has a lot of qualities I desire: unfailing confidence, thorough foresight, and the belief that the world works for him. He can also salsa dance, but that's just icing on the cake at this point. Basically, he lives the playboy lifestyle to which I aspire. That jealousy eats at me.

2. It is almost impossible for him to be happy. Consider this: I wake up in a soft bed in my heated apartment feeling, well, normal. In Africa, a slumdweller wakes up in the cot in his hut and goes outside to use the bathroom. He feels, well, normal. Is he any sadder than me? Am I any happier than him? I really doubt it. But what about this: Give him my apartment for a night, and he'd be happy. But let him stay in it for a year, and I'd be willing to bet that by night 364 he's become normalized to this new standard and feels the same as he did going to sleep in his hut. To me, emotions are felt like this:

It's nauseatingly mathematical but surprisingly relevant.

The X axis here is the state of emotional normalization, where, excluding any external event, a person's mood usually is. You're not happy, not sad, not excited, not unexcited. You just are.

The Y axis is the intensity of the emotion.

The frequency of the waves depends on the commonality of abnormal events.

The wavelength is the duration of time the emotion lasts.

In this graph, for example, maybe you won a raffle for a free lunch, but then you lost $20. Positive emotional deviation followed by a negative one.

But here's the kicker: say your spouse dies. Huge negative deviation from normality, big negative downturn experienced as "sadness." But you won't be sad indefinitely, you'll acquire a new state of normalization as your emotions either return to the x-axis or the x-axis adjusts downward permanently.

Thomas Crown's level of emotional normalization was so perversely skewed that only the most magnificent, unfathomable event (like the theft of a $100 million painting) would have generated a positive deviation. I like playing golf. I'm not good at it, but I don't get to do it often and it makes me happy. When Mr. Crown hit the golf course, he bet $100,000 on a single shot simply because, as he said, "It's a beautiful Saturday morning, gentlemen. What else are we going to do?" Give him a yacht, give a 12-year old girl a Jonas Brothers ticket. Who gets the bigger emotional spike? My money's on the girl.

I want to be Thomas Crown, and he will never be happy. That realization is why this film continues to haunt me.

cloudy with a chance of perpetuity

With 251 dreary days per year, Copenhagen is Europe's rainiest city. It receives 1603 hours of sunlight per year, which comes to a shade above 4 per day. Sadly, even that rather dismal statistic is skewed since the vast majority of those hours occur over the 4.5 temperate months of summer, which appear to be coming to an abrubt end. Even London, where the skies are the only thing darker than the teeth, dishes out just 226 days of dampness annually. But Copenhagen doesn't crack the top 10 for annual rainfall total. So here's winter in a nutshell: it never pours, but it's always cloudy and just misting enough to make you wonder if it's worth getting out of bed.

All of these depressing numbers have got me asking some basic questions. Why the hell did I come here? And what do danes do for the vast majority of the year, when blustery, moist, dark, frigid weather confines them to life indoors? It's worth speculating.

As to why I came? Good question. Maybe I like feeling as though I'm being waterboarded every time I look at the sky. Maybe I'm a masochist who derives some subconscious glee from my gloomy surroundings. Maybe I didn't think this whole "living in Denmark" thing through enough before I left.

As to what the danes do? It, most likely. At least that's my educated guess based on "effectual observations." Seemingly every woman age 29-35 in this city is pushing around a pram come summertime. And there's a perfectly logical equation for this phenomenon: disgusting weather + nothing open on Sundays + cable tv packages limited to 13 low-budget channels = it.

So how am I going to handle the upcoming 8 months of winter? Unclear. But here, the future is a lot like the weather: The cloudiness leaves hope that tomorrow will be better.

The Anatomics and Economics of Drinking

I awoke in my bed Friday morning at 7:15 am and noticed a few things. The room was moving, I had to go to the bathroom and, for lack of a more sensical metaphor, my elbow hurt so bad I thought my arm had been amputated. Piecing together my previous evening at Nexus, it became clear that all these symptoms shared a root cause: I had overdone it a bit, as they say.

The second worst decision I made that night was to drink and drive (my bike, that is) home. Alcohol is a powerful balance inhibitor, and I had eaten it epically in what I'm sure was a comedic display of flailing limbs and alcohol-induced futility. But the worst decision, by far, was spending all 200 kroners I had in my wallet on 10 beverages over the course of 5 hours. The more I thought about it, the more troubled I became.

Those 200 kroners could have purchased not one, but two american-sized plates of mexican food at Taco Shop, complete with drink. Or, even sadder, a sweet new pair of Bjorn Borgs. Instead, I chose to disperse that unit of purchasing power on a bundle of goods that yielded dehydration, impaired judgment, and my right elbow the appearance of raw meat. For shame, Ben Jones, for shame.

I'm sure college professors frown on all of their students' weekend binge drinking tendencies, but at least my economics professor can rest easy knowing that I learned an important lesson about consumer preferences. I'm never drinking again. Well, at least until tonight anyways.

danish dribbles

I'm learning Danish. Well, that's a bit generous...I'm trying to learn Danish. The government actually offers free language classes for registered foreigners, and thus Ben Jones finds himself in Mette Hess's Module 2-3 Intermediate 1 class meeting Monday nights from 5:10 to 7:45. I learned during class introductions that people have different motivations for joining. For each and every girl, it's because they just moved to the country to be with their Danish (insert boyfriend/fiancee/husband). As for the gentlemen, it has to be masochism...this language is painful.

Grammatically, Danish is quite simple. There are no verb conjugations, no definite/indefinite articles, no declensions except for simple agreement in gender (of which there are 2) and the past tense and passive voice are all incredibly intuitive constructions. But may God have mercy on any foreigner trying to pronounce these words. I herniated a disk and nearly vomited just trying to pronounce "the brothers," which is spelled brødrene but pronounced more like...well, a choking special needs child. I've done my best to replicate the proper phonetic construction in this picture.

There are 6 modules (levels) of teaching. Pass level 6 and you're certified to register in Danish college classes. Being in the module 2-3 class, I would expect to at least be understood. However, at present, I'm understood only as a source of amusement for my Danish friends. Typical social exchanges go like this:

"Oh! Oh! Try to say 'rød grød med fløde'...no just try it, I won't laugh I swear. HAHA Oh my God that was SO bad...Hey, hey Klaus, come watch Ben try to say 'rød grød med fløde'..."

Hvad helvede, dude.

denmark- thursday night live

My school has a bar in it. Yep. I know. My thoughts exactly. Thursday nights it actually becomes a club, complete with security, the finest in techno music and more immaculate-looking Europeans than I'm comfortable with. It's called Nexus, aptly named for both the networking connections made between budding alcoholics of the business world and the literal connections that undoubtedly take place after a long night on the dance floor.

Perhaps the only thing more amazing to me than its existance is its extreme popularity. This picture was taken around 7:30, 3 full hours before the DJ was scheduled. People forewent dinner (I can't say I blame them, given how expensive food is) to arrive at 5 and avoid the hour line most people faced at the door. Here's the thing though, people consider Nexus pregaming because it only stays open until 2. Going clubbing until 6 am has to make that 8 o'clock Econometrics class a sordid, drunken affair.

Music: Enur- Calabria 2007

denmark- mass transit? no mas.

After a lot of packing and a 15 minute, $37 cab ride, I arrived at my new apartment. Aside from basic furniture, it contained pretty much nothing (not even an internet connection, which won't be available until Tuesday). Luckily, Denmark offers a solution at prices Cambodia would struggle to replicate.

Founded in 1943 by Sweden's Ingvar Kamprad, IKEA is the world's largest privately-owned company. It offers stylish yet affordable assemble-it-yourself home furnishings and a luxurious shopping experience including childcare and a cafeteria (which happens to serve a mean meatball platter). Their business model is predicated on establishing big-box style stores in suburban areas accessible primarily by car. There's only one problem: I know not one person in Denmark with a car.

So my roommate and I set out for Ikea. It's actually right off of the same road we live on, just 10 miles or so outside the city. And Copenhagen has an internationally reknown mass transit system, so how hard could it be to get there? Really effing hard.

On the way:
6A bus 3 stops and switch to
123 bus, 18 stops and (after a 30 minute wait) switch to
126 bus, 10 stops
Total transit time: 2 hours, 5 minutes

The way back, toting at least 100 pounds of merchandise:
119 bus (the 126 had stopped running) 8 stops and switch to
Suburban train, 9 stops and switch to
6A bus 12 stops
Total Transit time: 2 hours 10 minutes

Fun fact: the average male walks 3.5 miles per hour. If we had walked the 10 miles, it would have taken us 2 hours 51 minutes.

Note my roommate's exasperated look. We have to go back to Ikea tomorrow, but I'm taking a car if it costs me my firstborn child. Mass transit gave me a massive headache.

Music: Arcade Fire- Keep the Car Running

denmark- the cultural phenomenon

If you live in Denmark, if you've visited Denmark, you've undoubtedly heard of Nik & Jay. In fact, mentioning Nik & Jay to a Danish person illicits a very polarized response ("Oh man, they are SO bad" or "ZOMG i LUV Nik & JAY"). Some of my personal bias may show through in their description, but they're a talentless Danish rap duo with egos large enough to fill the arenas they grace with their presence. I vowed never to go see them on principle. Yet go I did, and I was astonished.

They were playing at Tivoli, the famed amusement park in the heart of downtown Copenhagen, as part of their summer concert series. I had been to see another band play there when I was in Copenhagen last spring, and it was pretty standard procedure. Go to park box office, purchase ticket, walk in. When I arrived 2 hours prior to showtime last night, a slightly different scenario greeted me.

The line for tickets seemed to extend in perpetuity down the sidewalk, 10 people wide. When we tried to identify the end, we were directed around the corner 2 city blocks down, where the line continued for at least half a block. I gave up, beaten and befuddled by the cultural phenomenon that is Nik & Jay. But, on a positive note, I think I may have learned why folks in Copenhagen are consistently dubbed the happiest people on Earth: when something goes wrong, you can always find solace in the fact that you live in one fantastic city.

Music: Nik & Jay- I Love ya

diversion #2- money

My stipend: 7820 kroner ($1506)/month
My Danish taxes: 45% plus 25% VAT on all purchased items
US tax rate on same income: 15% plus 6.75% state sales tax

Now, common costs:
My half of the rent: ~5000 kroner ($975)/month
Beer at a bar/restaurant: $7-$9
Big Mac Meal: $13
Cafe Mocha, large: $7.50
16.9 oz coke at 7-11: $4.20
Used bike (fair condition): $180


In other news, I'm looking for a student job.

denmark- the dawn of FSM

Well introduction week began for my program on Friday, and through the events so far I've been able to discern a few things about my program:

1. I go to a modeling school. Everybody in this program looks like they jumped out of a Ralph Lauren catalogue. Names include: Magnus, Lars, Fabio, Christian, Cristian, Kristian, Fabian, Frederik and Ben.

2. Danes love to drink. Every social event includes alcohol...teambuilding exercises, dodgeball, sunbathing at the beach, even bowling.

3. I'm the only American. The American, as the Danes say. Let's hear it for preconceived socio-cultural stereotypes...

I found a place to live, although I can't move in until September 1st. As you can see, brand new, lots of space, clean. It works for me!

Music: Kanye- Good Life

diversion #1- ode to my fresh whip

Uh. Uhhh. Can I get a beat ch'all?

Turn my headphones up.

Go grab your lady, getcha fellas

I'm droppin a fly new joint gon' make Kanye jealous

See I love the CPH but y'all know what's whack?

170% on cars, yeah boy, that's the tax

But y'all ain't gotta worry, put away that frown

Ya boy here still got the freshest set of wheels in town

See you'll never hear me comin' and like that i'm gone

Pimpin up and down these streets on my Centurion

Come on.

7 speed transmission, seat's all leather

let's go y'all, put those hands together

front and rear fender

bask in its splendor

for 900 kroners in Danish legal tender...tender...tender

denmark- the grand arrival

NEW LOCATION: COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

Oh Copenhagen, how could I not love you? Your classic European architecture, immaculate harbor-fronts, grand opera house, and Bjorn Borg underwear hit me in all the right places. Coming out of the metro stop at Kongens Nytorv made me feel like I'd never left. There was still the opulent Hotel D'Angleterre right past the steps, with its 3 Danish flags bristling in the breeze. Jan's hot dog cart stood on its familiar corner, with the usual group of tourists around it wondering just how bad for you a bacon-wrapped bratwurst covered in mayo could be. Welcome home.

We arrived on Saturday, so Monday was spent walking around the city dealing with administrative matters and cleaning up after the abominable business school administration. The errands were far from golden, but at least the city provided a silver lining: every sidestreet, every wrong turn is unique and photogenic. Not to mention I've been trying for ages to find a restaurant that, in my opinion, truly encapsulates the Danish gastronomic experience. Thanks to my jaunt around the town, I found one.

iceland- on top of the world

8/16/09

It helps to know people. This morning our hostel desk clerk agreed (thanks, I'm sure, to our dashing good looks and American accents) to drive us to a nearby town to go hiking through volcanic fields. What an experience. Through an arduous and entirely uncharted hike we arrived at the peak of a nearby mountain, which offered almost unlimited visibility.

The bus to the airport arrived at 4:30 in the morning. The bars stayed open until 6. Savant I am not, but that math adds up favorably. The most important number of the evening, however, was 7, the number of dollars required to purchase a pint of beer. Economists studying the root of the country's financial collapse need look no further than here. Still, in many ways, the trip provided a very good picture of Iceland...

Music: Sigur Ros- Track 4 from ( )

iceland- where fond farewell meets new beginning

NEW LOCATION: REYKJAVIK, ICELAND

8/15/2009

Who knew a mere 4 1/2 hours on a plane bound from New York took you from temperate deciduous to volcanic void? I didn't. The barren feeling of a country the size of England with 1/200th of its population was underscored by our 11:50 pm arrival at an airport missing not only people, but all of my luggage. Who knew an Icelandic August could be colder than hell? I didn't, but I sure do now.

8/16/09

We spent the morning doing an unofficial self-guided walking tour of the city, witnessing several local attractions. Blondes, mostly. In all seriousness though, it's very easy and interesting to see how the modern city evolved from what I'm sure was at one time a small whaling outpost.
Though difficult to really articulate, the flat landscape and absence of buildings above 4-5 stories gives the impression that the sky is so much bigger than the city. I can't say I've felt that elsewhere. Of note: the local store for mature women, "sexy grandma," can turn flab and cellulite into covered flab and cellulite. Marked improvement!

That night, we went to Iceland's arguably most famous attraction, the blue lagoon. The water is actually runoff from a nearby geothermal power plant, and is a cloudy carolina blue. The minerals bleach the surrounding igneous rock chalky white. Since the water stays around 100 degrees (38 c) year-round, Icelanders spend the winter months bathing in both the water and perpetual darkness, staving off the bone-chilling cold and inclination to take their own lives.

Music: Death Cab- Transatlanticism