For the parents: A husband and wife were driving on a vacation with their three boys, who were acting up and fighting in the backseat of the car. The mom turns around and with one big swoop, whacks all three boys to shape up. The middle one complains to the mom, saying, “I didn’t do anything.”

The mom responds, “I’m here to execute order, not justice.”

For the car buyers: According to my negotiation class professor, this is the best way to buy a car.
1. Test drive/determine which car you are interested in buying.
2. Go to the website www.fightingchance.com and order the info on your car, which helps reduce the asymmetry of information that gives car dealers the advantage in normal negotiations. You get the vehicle’s true cost, MSRP, dealer invoice, options packages, advertising costs per car, etc to get a true base price.
3. Wait till the month is ending and dealers need to boost sales/inventory purposes.
4. Write a letter to all the dealers in the area that carry your vehicle, delivering it on a Monday, saying you will be carrying out a silent auction with bids due by Thursday COB. Write that you’ll be purchasing the vehicle that Friday from the dealer with the lowest bid and plan to do all servicing at their dealership as well. Include real costs as you know for the vehicle as listed in FightingChance and ask for their best offer.
5. This changes the structure of the negotiation in your favor. My professor has done this successfully for three vehicles, writing to about 8 dealerships each time and hearing back with bids from four on average.

Good luck.

I’m taking a negotiation class over at the law school and today we had a guest speaker, Bob Barnett. He is a “legendary” negotiator/lawyer in DC and he was here to talk to the class about his experiences. We enter the room, which has tight squeezing stadium seating. I’m talking to a friend while navigating the rows and turn around, accidentally knocking a person, an older gentleman, in the head with my backpack. I quickly apologize, pass, and take my seat two seats down, not noticing who it was.

Mr. Barnett is introduced, gets up to speak, and immediately introduces and thanks his close and even more legendary friend for joining him today in the class, the man I knocked in the head…CEO extraordinaire, Jack Welch.

Doh.

Buckle your seat belts, we’re off across the pond on a quick getaway to London for a Tour du Rugby. A tour last weekend that hurt, in so many ways, so good. As I’ve mentioned previously, I took up this brutally invasive sport, primarily for camaraderie, fitness, and release, but I also can’t deny I secretly miss wearing small shorts in public.

As with any good trip, this one started out with raised eyebrows. I sat down in my seat on my flight and a US Marshall escorted a person to the seat next to me, see’s him sit, then walks off the plane right before the bay doors close. Turns out my seatmate was in the US illegally for the last four years, was in jail the last four months of them, and was being deported back to the UK. I didn’t ask how he was caught or what his crime was, but I did get a chance to inspect with him the returned personal items that were confiscated upon incarceration. Didn’t get much sleep on the way over.

No problem. We touch down the next morning and meet up with the rest of the crew who had arrived a day earlier. They were all, not surprisingly, hung over and were passing pictures around of the shenanigans from the previous night before. We had a free day on Friday and half the group decided to tread on an old stomping ground of a couple of guys on the team. We had a tour of Oxford planned, interspersed with a pub-crawl.

Our team is student led but we have a few founders from back when that like to tag along on trips like this. As we head to the train station, the old men of the team, still tipsey from the night before, shout racy slogans to the group inspired from their war days that simultaneously make fun of us while keeping us together in double step.

The hard part about traveling with a group like this is that getting started is rough. Until things settle and roles are established, group-think overwhelms and the levels of assertiveness and aggression are as over the top as you might expect from a bunch of rugby players from a business school from Harvard. I remember passing a couple of girls on the street and asking them a question, but in t-minus two seconds five guys from my group were surrounding them like Hyena’s. I almost felt sorry for the girls that would pass. Group serenading, impromptu dance offs, and pithy comments from our guys like…

Guy: “What are you doing here?”
Girl: “I’m here on a model shoot.”
Guy: “Oh, are you a hand model?”,

kept them on their heels.

We were on the 5th pub by 3pm and before long, we would walk up to the next pub, see the manager standing outside shaking his head, saying, “we’ve received phone calls from the last place boys…not welcome today.” So much for diplomacy…

Oxford was a cool place. We toured a number of the colleges and went into the Harry Potter dining room and on a number of the various grounds around town, all in between fish and chips and pints and songs.

As the night approached, most of us headed back to London as we had a big game vs. Cambridge the next day. Those who didn’t ventured into the dark and icy waters, withstanding Oxford nightlife and returning in time for the game the next day, of which inevitably, a few guys missed. I was royally beat and headed back, only to awake early unable to sleep.

I went for a jog the next morning in Hyde Park, which was conveniently located near our hotel. It was an eerie but goodie 6am dark sky’d run. There’s something magnificent about getting lost in the park’s pathing array of trees, whose wintery branches arch leafless blankets of long bony fingers over the trails that hold the frosty mist close at bay.

I remember taking a rest on the icy bench by the pond, watching the ducks and geese slowly rise with the sun. While the majority of the them kept their bills nuzzled in a 180 in their back feathers, one or two geese were assigned to keep a close eye on me. We stared at each other for a long time. I swore at one point one of them hissed the dueling whistle from “the good, the bad and the ugly” at me as he waddled closer. Geese are dangerous.

I pulled out my i-phone and tried to capture the moment in my notes but I missed it apparently, writing about trees when I had a bonefied animal fight brewing right in front of me at one false move….

Reality check with a British breakfast and we were off to Cambridge to play. These gents were true first class professionals in every sense. They deemed this the inaugural game between the two schools complete with a victors cup and fan brochures and afterparty’s at centuries old private sport clubs.

Their team happened to have seven or so varsity players, who would equal to big D1 college football athletes. We held our own and actually took the lead by halftime but were trampled in the end. Grinding rugby.

Lifting in the throw-in.

Tackling off a kick off

Barreling through a couple of Cambridge Blokes…

The following day we had a full game with the London Business School (LBS). We beat them in the final of their own tournament last year so they were out for vengeance. We knew that immediately after arriving and seeing that the only water they provided for us to drink at the game was sparkling. Bastards. We found the real stuff to compensate.

I’m in the front line on the other side, feeling the squeeze.

At the same time of our game, the LBS girls 7-person touch rugby team had the Columbia Business School’s girls touch rugby team over to play so it was really just one big party. The funny accolade for the woman’s game went to a British guy, who won player of the game for the LBS girls team (who won) for shagging Columbia’s team ringer the night before and preventing her from showing up at the championship.

The weekend was not without its faults. The same guy forgot the team’s jerseys both days at the hotel. I don’t know what’s worse, him doing that or the team giving him the same responsibility after his first failure. There were a few broken bones over the weekend. For me, just soreness. Need some TLC.

I have a group of college friends who have started their own town. Fair enough, they’re mostly lawyers and horsemen and politicians and thieves so I think it was only a matter of time. I don’t know if this town is officially on the map or if there are even any written bylaws governing its charter, but I know it exists. I’ve heard the story of the establishment of this town told many times, and each time it gets taller and more respected. No one permanently lives there, but once or twice a year, a call-to-arms is made and a strange and honorable sense obligates its members to reprioritize and take to the frontier.

This town is called Slurryville, located somewhere in dark quarter dime streets of New Orleans. There are 10 founding councilmen and I have yet to be invited as permanent councilship, but one day it will become of me. I was, although, invited as a visitor last weekend. Visit I did.

Now Slurryville was named after the red drink that many a people have come to know and few to respect. That Pat Obrien’s Hurricane or Slurricane or Slurryville or look at that lipstick on my shirt and stain on my lips, aren’t they pretty?

Now without going into too much detail, this town has caused its members to do some craazy things. One actually found a wife, right there in Slurryville, and she is a respectable southern belle I do attest. One member has sold his household possessions, to a thrift store, a respectable southern thrift store, just to afford the trip.

I could go on. This trip had its charm but it lacked a few ingredients of which I will forgo expa-laining. But I will say I did have the honorable blessings of hitting my lucky number at the roulette table there at the city’s lone casino, splashed up against the river, sending silent signals of SOS through the downtown and late into the night, calling revelers, like a banshee, to stop on by before they hit they sack, shirt stained red and all.

I can still see the powdered sugar from the sweet doughy beignets, splotched upon my face like bad make-up, smiling at the passer-bys as they shake their head and then ask, “Where can I get some of those?”

Ah the council, the town, and the city, I do respect. One day, Population 11.

I always admired a good multitasker. I had a colleague who could type an email, talk on the phone to someone important who needed something urgent, and at the same time, mouth, with a smile, the word “no” to her boss who had just walked into her office with a request. I always looked up to her for having this ability to think clearly while simultaneously performing more than one task.

I am the complete opposite and anyone who knows me can instantly tell when my attention has exited the premises. I like to say I’m just keeping sharp, as studies have shown (as noted in this Atlantic Monthly article) that multitasking dumbs us down.

But the truth is I still wish I had this skill. I can chart the progression of my interest over the lifespan of my courses last semester. Despite my sincere desire to be here and learn the material, there are simply times that class wears. When that happens, I find alternative means of interest.

When I first started I remember thinking, ‘In this place, students couldn’t possibly doodle in their notebook.’ That idea shot down quick, at least for me. I found myself puzzled about the paradox of how I could be intentionally obtaining a first class education and still allow my hand to wistfully draw childhood playground scenes.

And if I really break down the labor and opportunity costs of creating this drawing versus tuition paid per course hour, I should try to sell this pen on paper masterpiece for a pretty penny to compensate.

Focus Matt. I realized I had other things to keep me busy if the material of the day wasn’t grabbing and my doodles were drab. I had an i-phone…that golden i-phone! I could check mail, scan Facebook, or read the NY Times. And if that became old or inappropriate, curiosity can always trigger tangents of thought, particularly when people watching. I could just look around the class at everyone and wonder about their stories, get angry with dudes wearing scarves indoors, or count the number of girls whose hair roots were begging for a re-die.

This semester will be different though. No distractions, no games. It would really be more tolerable if the 80-minute classes would interject periodic 30-second commercials. But that’s unlikely. My attention span will need a little conditioning or I’m just going to have to learn to multitask.

It’s a cold and quiet Saturday afternoon in Boston. The semester has just begun and it’s a period I would call the calm before the storm. When I first started my program in the fall, I went to the doc for a check up and they said, “wow, you have a low heart rate.” I thought to myself, well that must be good, an athlete’s beat, no stress. The doc quickly dispelled that thought and said, “Don’t worry, school hasn’t started yet. That will soon change.” And it did.

On the dawn of a busy semester, I’m already reflecting on what’s to come. My pace of life has fluctuated in wild swings over the last few years, reflected in my dating life. I’m not sure what to think of it all.

I had a pretty crazy request towards the middle of last semester, where a friend of mine introduced me to an editor at Cosmo, the mag. She said they had an opening for a blogger and were considering me. They were looking for a single male blogger with an active dating life to write for their website. Their previous blogger, a guy in NYC, ‘Joe the Hottie’, couldn’t write any longer for whatever reason, and they wanted a replacement. I thought about it for a while. Hey, it could be fun.

I emailed her all sorts of things I could write about and said tell me more. It turns out this blog has a significant following, almost half a million hits a month from their loyal readers. Cool opportunity.

I wanted to spin it in a cocky funny style, discussing the various ups and downs through stories. She liked the idea, but wanted it more to read as a window into my world, introducing people in my life, using dialog and character development. It would be anonymous. It would also require a serious time commitment, not only trying to live for the blog but processing and writing it in an interesting way.

I decided to turn it down for a lot of reasons, but it’s left me thinking, what do I make of all this? I’ve chosen a path for which I have no (or very few) regrets. But the decisions we make have consequences. I work hard to keep my friends close, as those of you who still read know, but along the path I’ve pushed people away. I still very much feel like I’m missing some of the grander, deeper, and more meaningful experiences in life. They are bound to happen. In the mean time, I’ll just keep my head down, plow forward, and enjoy the journey.

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Bam, let’s take off again. After a semester full of graduate school that ended in poetic justice, a paper on torture, and a long and event-filled holiday, my writing batteries are recharged. There will be a lot to write about this spring, so I hope you tune back in.

First and foremost, I’m tromping through the sleet, the snow, and the kids who claim to know up at the Kennedy School of Government. It’s been a lot of fun and fulfilling so far, finding my voice amongst a sea of voices, sponging in the atmosphere here in the politically charged People’s Republic of Cambridge, where. everyone. is. on. obama’s. jock. Not that I’m against our new pres, I am a fan, but it has been kind of absurdly entertaining witnessing the love affair between the media, generation x’ers, and the man.

Republicans are few and far between up here, but you can still occasionally find them if you look hard enough. It’s a rare sighting to see one wearing the Harvard Republican’s t-shirt, which is camouflage and brands the slogan “Behind Enemy Lines Since 1890” across the back in Military Courier New. After Rush has further polarized the party with his tragic “I hope he fails” comment, the Republicans have an uphill climb to return mainstream. I will try to keep this spring’s writing’s politically unbiased though.

Overall school has been a lot of fun and really too much to write backwards about so I’ll refrain, other than to say I’ve taken on a new extracurricular this year which has proved painfully masculine. It’s a new hobby for me, one where all the day’s inner demons can combust away as you beat up on your fellow rugger. Rugby it is. I’m playing with the business school team, facing up against run away freight trains with tree trunks for legs. Despite my [lack of] size, my first fall season garnered me the honors of rookie of the year, but not without the spoils that come with a full contact sport: a separated shoulder, a hyper-extended elbow, a broken fingernail, and a pulled hammy, etc. I still can’t wait for the spring season to arise. We will tromp on to far away places like London, Brazil, and North Carolina for various tournaments, where all the other teams want to kick the living poop out of “those Harvard boys.” More to come on that.

The holiday break was fun. My cousin married over New Years in Texas in one of the most eclectic, creative, and need I say, different wedding ceremonies I’ve ever seen, where a joint firecracker helmet (for the first dance) and a Twinkie wedding cake stole the show.

I also turned thirty over the break which seems more of a social milestone than a personal one, since I’m still living young and utterly void of real responsibility. I spent a weekend with my high school crew in NYC, (who are musically disinclined) enjoying that city in a continual jam fest that produced freestyle songs like “New York City Town”, and “Vamos on my Knob”.

To keep things interesting, I tried out a very corny pick up line my friends and I in Texas spoke of some time ago. We were in this upscale bar in West Village and a group of girls were chatting near my group of guys.

I head over, say “hello”, then say “my friend over there in that group, he’s a little shy and a little afraid of rejection. I’m going to go over, point to him, and if you think he’s cute, wave him over for a chat for a few minutes. It’ll boost his ego for the night.”

They say ok. So I walk back to my group, turn around, look at the girls, and point to myself with a big smile.

Totally worked…they laughed and waved me over for a chat. Anyway, it’s a new year. I’ve got some big trips planned and a lot to talk about. Stay tuned.