Milieu Cyrus (cargo cults of the PMC, pt. II)

Meet the global cabal intern class of ‘23

We thought we were apart from all that; perhaps everyone thinks they’re apart from their milieu. — F. Scott Fitzgerald

What I want to tell you from last week’s party is the kind of people who were there.

There was the speech pathologist. The VP of a civil rights non-profit. Two management consultants, one of whom appears in my notes, hilariously, as “fella with the nice shoes.” There was an oncology nurse. A socialist architect. A tech bro. Alex. A teacher, I think. 

It was a Benetton catalog of 21st-century yuppies in a nice way. If colleges made brochures illustrating the adulthood that college is supposed to make possible, you could do worse than photos from this party.

Lots of people think the world is run by a secret cabal of sinister persons. What occurs to me now is that, to the extent that this conspiracy is true, I know a lot of future candidates for the cabal on a personal basis. Which is another way of saying that there might be a cabal, but it’s about as secret as taxes.

My friend’s roommate had a falling out with his bosses about whether the Euro was doomed or merely unwieldy. He decided to leave finance and take the LSAT. The plan was: if he got a perfect score, go to Yale Law and take his chances at becoming a Supreme Court justice. After getting a less than perfect score, he moved to San Francisco and taught himself to program computers. This worked out for him, obviously.

Ever think about how funny it is that our generation’s true pastime is bar trivia? Please, test our factual knowledge of the world. Please quiz us. It’s fun for us to do this, to be quizzed. Remembering the Gadsden Purchase is burning a hole in my mind; I need to either write it down inside of a bar or get it tattooed on my body, and only the former option holds the promise of a contest—any contest.

It’s strange to remember that the first slander of millennials was that we cherished participation trophies. In reality, participation trophies are our great spiritual enemy. It doesn’t matter if the contest is bar trivia, the bar exam, or rolling up mom & pop bars into monopolistic bar chains at our job in private equity. It doesn’t matter if the contest is meaningless. We know all about meaninglessness. Bred from birth for meritocratic bloodsport, the only thing that matters is a chance to win.

That’s how I feel, anyway. I’m certain several people from the party would take serious issue with the “we,” here. They’d say they hate bar trivia. They’d insist they aren’t driven by competitiveness. They “are women,” and girlboss nonsense is very last decade.

In reply I would say that they should try telling their resumes. Maybe it’s a coincidence that they’re achievement-spangled, lousy with raises, their LinkedIn profiles practically hissing at passerby. It could be happenstance that they’re setting high scores in the white-collar metaverse of real life. They could be perfectly content with a participation trophy. I doubt it. 

That said, I’ve been wrong before. The math section of the SAT comes to mind.

In a way, maybe it’s all about picking the right contest to lose at. That way you get better, or grow as a person and shit.

Thank God Substack has leaderboards. For me, at this point, it’s either blog for money or beg strangers to quiz me on Teapot Dome. The weirdest part, by far, is that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Consider buying a subscription or telling a pal about this blog. 💝

$30 too steep? You could always try negotiating. If you’re good at math, you have the advantage.

See you Friday, dear friends.