Another Recruit into the Hall of Shame


This picture says so much about the times in which we live. A young professional guy, partying hard probably after having worked equally strenuously. The women are not dressed as professionally. And no, I won’t even count the one on the left, who absconded with some trader or investment banker’s shirt and tie. Perhaps they are just some arm candy along for the ride? Future trophy wives? Either way, it’s a scenario that represents excess and shallowness. That it appears on a Web site/blog dedicated to women dating investment bankers makes it so much more ridiculous. To the hall of shame with that blog, a thoroughly stupid waste of time and energy.

This Web site is a place where the gold diggers gather to talk about how the depressed mortgage finance market has affected their relationships with the men involved in that sector of investment banking. They whine about the disappearance of bottle service from their lives. Talk about having to cook at home and chop their own vegetables. One had the shamelessness to brag about being one banker’s mistress while having the freedom to tart around — I mean, date — with other bankers. Yes, readers, this Web site underscores how materialistic, banal and exhibitionist human beings can be. The incredible part is that the people who operate the blog invites these vapid airheads to air their grievances “free from the scrutiny of feminists”, and yet agreed to talk about the blog and the pseudo-support group meetings (yes, they meet over drinks to complain about fortunes lost) in The New York Times. Hey ladies, here’s one way to go about your business “free from the scrutiny of feminists”: don’t agree to be interviewed by The New York Times!!!

I know my friend Karl isn’t that way. Karl is as eligible as they come. Educated, gainfully employed, ambitious, handsome, nice build and very responsible. He owns his own home and is involved with the community around him. He works as a networking specialist for a financial firm headquartered in Manhattan’s financial district, a stone’s throw from the New York Stock Exchange. Aside from his day job, Karl is an avid trader—currencies, securities, etc. The only day he doesn’t work is probably Saturday, the one day when no exchanges are open anywhere on Earth. (If it’s Sunday, please excuse my error. I think the Asian exchanges are open on our Sunday, their Monday morning.) Karl is any woman’s Ideal Black Man, or IBM. Anyway, Karl doesn’t want any romantic entanglements right now, because he’s wary of gold diggers taking all his money. I told him that was silly, because a guy like him was too smart to get involved with a bimbo who wants him to subsidize her extravagances. And anyway, that’s why we have pre-nups!  (Don’t tell him I said this, but Karl’s a bit of a grouch, who probably wouldn’t notice if the right woman came along because he’s busy thinking about the next trading session. Or complaining.)

Seriously, if I were a guy and was as keenly aware as Karl is of the fortune hunters out there, I’d have some pretty firm rules in place for dating as well! Pick up the tab every now and then, sister!

Here’s a funny story about him: Karl is also a neighbor. I invited him to our house for a cookout and a much-needed break from staring at charts, indices and other trading-related material. He pulled his black Mercedes into our driveway, and before I could put a plate in his hand, my cousin Madelyn (Mary’s daughter) pounced! She started talking about a single friend of hers whom he needed to meet. I blushed! Right after I shushed her.

So I understand why some black women get exasperated from time to time at the sight of this reveler about to plunk his millions down for a woman who can’t tell the difference between a pot and a pan, while sober-minded guys like Karl choose to stay out of the game altogether.


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