Who you think I am when you say "anyone else
Well, let's be real, we know that after your day job of investing capital in promising going-concerns, your real job starts.
Typical Bobi post 9-5 evening:
A trip to the Upper Eastside for a dinner with monied well-connected patricians whose surnames have become brands within the market of influence. You beguile them with your erudition-with how you seamless knit together a tapestry of early 20th century Icelandic literature, Bantu philosophy (who even knew such existed), the effects of Polynesian economic policy on the common fruit fly population in the Pacific, and the octatonic scale used by Russian composers of tonal music.
After the upper crusted have been properly seduced, you excuse yourself and make your way down to the Village to a small warehouse flat owned by the former Tom Schmidt who now goes by GLOM to meet up with post-modern and anarchist artists from Bushwick and DUMBO. Here you explore and strategize how their talents can be used for certain political means.
It's about 9:15 pm now, so you hail a taxi and make your way to the Financial District to have a drink or two with your heavily intoxicated banking contacts. This is the part of the evening you hate most as these guys lack the remotest hint of elan.
You purify yourself by heading over to Alphabet City to listen to poetry and plant ideas. The underground has ears in the Alphabet.
On your way home, you stroll the John Finley not just to soak in the East River, but to retrieve a tightly wrapped inconspicuous package.
You arrive home tired. Rub your eyes. Open the laptop tucked in the floorboard in your closet. Enter your vpn password. Write and send your daily dispatch to your Kremlin handlers.
So, considering the above, I thought maybe, just maybe, every now-and-again you receive a dispatch coming the other way.
