Five Tips for Improving Your LinkedIn Profile

Introduction

“There is no better way than LinkedIn to curate your personal brand,” says the blogger Dana Albert, “though I can’t tell you how tired I am of the word ‘curate’ and the phrase ‘personal brand.’” Do you like how I referred to myself in the third person just now? That was to sound more important. Speaking of which, here are five surefire tips to improve your LinkedIn profile, whether you’re looking to change jobs or just want to impress people.

Tip #1: Post a better profile photo

Ageism is real, and unless you’re literally a twelve-year-old who has somehow infiltrated corporate America, it’s time you started looking younger. No, I’m not hawking lotion or plastic surgery; you only need to look younger on your LinkedIn profile. The easy way to do this is with a really outdated photo, but that’s bound to backfire. Either your hairstyle will be outdated, or you’ll be wearing an “Alf” t-shirt or something. As with every problem these days, the real solution is A.I. Just take your existing profile picture and have ChatGPT enhance it for you.

Case in point: I did this myself today. And while I was at it, I modernized the picture to bring it in line with our new, angry, ultra-masculine America, following the lead of major league rabble-rousers like Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg. Here’s how I did it. First, I uploaded this photo to ChatGPT today as the baseline to work from:

I told the chatbot, “The attached photo above is not right for my profile photo because it’s too friendly and nerdy. I need a photo that shows me as a strong man who can handle tough decisions, and who maybe isn’t too happy about how things are going in corporate America and wants to fix it. Kind of a bad boy who moves fast and breaks stuff.” Note that I didn’t even have to ask ChatGPT to make me look younger. As detailed here, it always does that.

The chatbot (version ChatGPT-4 Turbo, and no, I am not making that up) replied, “Got it! I’ll generate an enhanced version of your photo with a stronger, more decisive expression, giving off a ‘moves fast and breaks things’ energy while keeping it professional.” To be clear, ChatGPT didn’t produce the perfect picture right off the bat, and I had to coach it a bit, but eventually it announced, “Here’s the latest version—lighter blond hair, a thick goatee with no sideburns, and a much angrier, more intense expression,” and served up this excellent picture:

Granted, it still needs a bit more work, such as making me look even younger, but you get the idea. One more thing: if you’re a woman you obviously don’t want to look more masculine, and you certainly don’t want to look angry. Instead, ask for something like a mashup of yourself, the girl next door, and a younger Lauren Boebert.

Tip #2: Rework your “Headline” section

It is now considered a rookie move to put only your job title in the LinkedIn “Headline” section. A brief description of your current and past roles frankly isn’t much better. Nowadays, LinkedIn CVs are almost never seen by a human; instead they’re scanned by A.I. bots on behalf of the hiring companies. Thus, it’s not enough to highlight your skills—you need to present the kind of idealized employee that recruiters are actually looking for, and basically graft that description to your own profile. Pro tip: use the “pipe” symbol (|) in between items because it looks really cool. Here is an example of a good Headline:

Growth | Digital | Generative AI | Culture Cultivator | Mentor | Advocate |Outside the Box | Clarity Bringer | AI/ML | Driving Innovation | Flawless Executation| Podcaster | Olympian | Frontends | Evangelist | Stakeholdering | C++ | pDOOH | Rainmaker |Delivering Scalability| Solutionist

I’m not just supplying that as an example of what a tech worker would list; I’m telling you to literally copy and paste the above into your Headline (except “Executation” which was to make sure you’re paying attention). What’s that, you say? You don’t do anything with Generative AI? You don’t even work in tech? Look, you’re missing the point. Nobody is hiring outside of tech, and if you don’t have “Generative AI” in your Headline, your CV will never get past the bots. It doesn’t matter if your Headline entirely misrepresents you. You can clear that up during the interview.

Still skeptical? Let me explain how this works. The bot reads all the LinkedIn profiles in existence—which is over a billion of them—and when it finds a profile with all the right keywords, etc. it forwards it to the human who launched the query. That human will then read your entire CV and—so long as you’ve acted on all five tips presented here—will be totally impressed and invite you in for an interview! On the other hand, if the bot doesn’t find what it’s looking for, no human will ever see your CV. True story: none other than Albert Einstein filled out a LinkedIn profile and for his Headline put, “Creator, General Theory of Relativity” and yet never got a job. The bot didn’t know to look for “General Theory of Relativity,” because that obviously didn’t exist yet. (This was in 1914.)

I have my own experience with these keyword triggers. As you can well imagine, I get far too many comments on this blog to read them all, but of course I want to be made aware of the important ones. Some time ago, the Blogger platform zeroed in on a particular comment and emailed it directly to me. It was from jianbino311 and read, “nike air max michael kors outlet 2024 rolex watches camisetas futbol baratas giuseppe zanotti outlet wallet sale kobi 9 tods outlet.” Even though this comment was obviously generated by a bot, I was duly impressed and hired the bot on the spot. It’s been my albertnet fact checker ever since!

Tip #3: Create an entrepreneurial vibe

Let’s face it: rank-and-file employees, be they wretched “individual contributors” or pathetic “middle managers,” just don’t get any respect. They’re as despised as tourists. But people love entrepreneurs. The trouble is, we can’t all be entrepreneurs, and if we were, we probably wouldn’t bother to fine-tune our LinkedIn profiles … we’d be whispering right into the ears of angel investors. But there’s another way forward: figure out what other type of –preneur you might be. Choose from the following or invent your own:

• Intrapreneur – has the attitude of an entrepreneur but works for an established company (i.e., is basically in denial)
• Solopreneur – entrepreneurial, yes, but apparently never dreams bigger than a sole proprietorship; still, has that -preneur cachet
• Hellapreneur – like an entrepreneur but better
• Contrapreneur – has a startup that bucks current trends; for example, launches a new flip phone to corner the digital detox market
• Epipeneur – this person is launching a startup despite having a severe peanut allergy
• Codependepreneur – spins his wheels on yet another doomed startup because between him and his partner they’ve convinced themselves this thing is viable
• Omnipreneur – has a startup specializing in EVERYTHING
• Retropreneur – has bold idea for a startup manufacturing fax machines
• Saagpaneur – wants to open an Indian restaurant

Just add your –preneur to the Headline section, and watch your inbox fill up with interview requests!

Tip #4: Refine your Experience section and make it data-driven

All too often, the Experience section of a LinkedIn profile simply lists the duties you carried out at this or that job, without emphasizing the achievements you can rightly claim credit for. Just listing duties isn’t nearly as impactful. (By the way, you should try to use the word “impactful” in your profile. It’s perfectly attuned to our modern business zeitgeist.) Whenever possible, make your achievement descriptions data-driven. There’s no room for subjective opinions on how you did; you need to be extremely specific.

For example, instead of just saying, “Performed software QA testing,” put, “Via disruptive and visionary software QA testing, reduced operating costs by 37%, saving $2.3 million in one year while improving CSAT scores by 24%.” The recruiter reading this, whose BS detectors will be lighting up like crazy, will think, “Oh, good, he’s also a storyteller! We can always use more of those.”

Tip #5: Revise all the dates

I cannot emphasize it enough: ageism is real. Nobody wants to hire anyone over the age of, like, thirty. It’s widely known that anyone over that age is basically falling apart completely—physically, mentally, and emotionally—not to mention is totally out of touch with every industry. Never mind that the person who would be your boss is oven older than you are … that person is grandfathered. (And why do you think they call it “grandfathered”? QED!)

Some career counselors therefore advise that you remove all the dates from your LinkedIn profile. Then nobody can tell your age, so they’ll automatically assume you’re really young … right? Of course not! They’ll figure you’re older than George Burns! Plus, there’s something inherently suspicious about simply removing dates.

Other counselors will say just jettison all mention of the first ten or twenty years of your career, and then delete the dates from your Education section. Alas, this is no silver bullet either. If there’s no date listed for your college, the recruiter will assume you dropped out … or worse, that you only went on campus to party and were never even enrolled. Besides, what if you did really impressive stuff long ago, like founding America Online? Who would want to leave that off?

The solution, my friend, is as simple as it is ingenious: just change the dates. There’s a basic formula you can apply: subtract 30 from your current age to produce the “required delta” (RD for short). For example, if you’re 50, your RD would be 20. Then, for the first role listed on your profile, add 20. As you approach the present day, adjust the dates more granularly, compressing the span of your various roles as needed. This will bring your chronology in line with what recruiters want.

Here’s a real life example. Steve Case is 66 years old. From a career standpoint he might as well be dead. He has the unusually high RD of 36. Applying that to his CV, he founded AoL in 2021. So he gets credit for launching one of the most important Internet companies in history, but still reads as young. (Would the recruiter remember that AoL was actually founded in the ‘80s? Not important. Mr. Case could clear that up during the interview.)

I know, this might sound like a drastic measure, but believe me, it’s important. Do you know how Daniel Craig got hired to be the new James Bond for “Casino Royale” at age 38? He lied! He said he was only 28! What’s more, his portfolio photo wasn’t even of him … it was of Jude Law’s head grafted onto Chris Hemsworth’s body! (It’s a good thing actors don’t use LinkedIn … so many movies just wouldn’t get made!)

A final thought…

I really, truly hope you understand that this post is 100% facetious. (Well … maybe 90% facetious.) I had a little fun here, and of course I would never recommend that you lie about anything on your LinkedIn profile (or anywhere else). Meanwhile, some of the information presented herein is just plain inaccurate. What can I say? My fact checker is a bot! (And that’s not even true … I fired my actual fact checker for lying on his LinkedIn profile! Which is also a lie! Stop reading this, I’ve gone completely off the rails! Besides, you’ve reached the end!)

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HAZOP Blues III: The Final Insult

Introduction

In two recent from-the-archives posts (here and here) I described my old job, decades ago, scribing HAZOPs for a consulting firm. While discussing those posts with an avid albertnet reader, I happened to tell the rest of the story: how I came to my senses and bailed on that job, going out in a blaze of … well, if not glory, at least a fireball.

As I recounted all this I realized the story of my departure made a pretty good yarn. Thus, I’m providing here the world premier of the rest of the story. (What follows is as true as memory permits.)

HAZOP Blues III: The Final Insult –December 1995

Eventually it dawned on me that my job wasn’t going to get any better. I was never going to finish a workday at a reasonable hour; our reports, comprising reams of paper in giant binders, were always going to be FedEx’d at the last minute, and I was always going to be sprinting down the sidewalk to the FedEx office mere minutes before they closed. We were always going to be facing a workforce shortage, and the entire staff would always be disgruntled. The cush local contracts were always going to be snapped up by a competitor or done in-house (in fact, we’d just bid on a job in Korea that, if we won it, would have me living in a hotel for several months). And perhaps worst of all, none of this would ever end, no matter how dicey things got, because petroleum companies have deep pockets, lots of things to HAZOP, and seemingly infinite patience for flaky consulting firms that overrun their budgets. It was time for me to look for a new job.

Actually, I’d already started looking, months before; the recruitment process (at the firm that still employs me) took over six months. This was awkward because my employer had switched to a business casual dress code but I needed to continually slip out at lunch for interviews, in a shirt and tie of course. I solved the problem by simply continuing to wear a suit, every day, while the rest of the staff wore khakis and polo shirts. When questioned by my incredulous colleagues, I replied, “I just think a suit is more professional.” To my great surprise, one of the engineers followed suit (no pun intended). This all worked out fine until I had an interview on a Friday, as I’d always observed my company’s “casual Friday” policy. I solved that one by packing casual clothes in my bag, changing into them in the bathroom after the interview, and dropping the suit off at the dry cleaners on my way back to the office. BAM!

Finally, the recruitment process (which included, bizarrely enough, a Computer Programming Aptitude Battery Test), finally completed and I was offered the new job, at an up-and-coming company that all the cool kids wanted to work for. Oddly enough, the very same day I received the offer letter, a colleague of mine (the receptionist) walked into my office, asked if I had a minute, closed the door behind her, and asked, “Do you have low self-esteem or something?!”

Bemused, I stammered, “Why would you think that?” She replied, “Because you’re still here! What the hell! You appear to have a pulse … why would you continue to put up with all the bullshit they pile on you?” I grinned and said, “Well, believe it or not, I have just received an offer at another company, after months of interviewing, and I’m outta here!”

“Thank God,” she said, clearly relieved. Now the only chore remaining for me (besides my regular workload, of course) was giving notice to the boss.

This would be difficult. For one thing, my boss was always on the road and barely ever had time to talk, so this would happen over the phone at his earliest convenience. Plus, he was the kind of guy who views everything that ever happens in the entire world as a series of win/lose propositions, and he couldn’t stand losing. Thus, I know he’d try to talk me out of leaving, even though I’d already accepted the new position. Fortunately, this would be our last real dialogue. History had shown that once an employee gave notice, the boss would basically never talk to that traitor again. The grudge was swiftly formed and never relaxed.

After trading countless voicemails over a day or two, my boss, D—, finally called with time to talk. This was at about 5 p.m. my time; he was a couple time zones ahead on a HAZOP trip with one of our senior engineers, C—. Now, I need to pause for a moment to describe C—. He was a brusque, stuffy Englishman with little patience for incompetence … and this was a trait he ascribed to almost everybody. My own start with him had been rocky, as he’d had to interview me (along with the rest of the staff) before I was hired. I’d been coached by my wife on how to interview: at the end, you should ask the interviewer point-blank if he or she has any misgivings about hiring you, so you have the chance to address them. When I put this question to C—, he retorted sharply, “Well I can’t see that you have any experience or qualifications of any kind!” Over the time I worked with him, though, I managed to win him over. In fact, he became something of an ally: since he considered so few people competent, he valued those who passed muster.

Sure enough, when I gave notice, D— put up a big fight rather than simply accepting my resignation and wishing me well. “How can you leave?” he demanded. “I just gave you a ten percent raise!” This was true enough; since my interviews had been going well and I didn’t want to blindside my boss with my inevitable departure, I’d trotted out a laundry list of grievances during my last review, and he evidently felt desperate enough to keep me that he got pretty generous with the salary. (This was a lot easier than resolving my grievances, after all.) But money isn’t everything; I told D— now that my decision had to do with overall career prospects. “How can you say that when the sky is the limit here!” he cried. I mentioned my lack of an engineering credential and he boomed, “Just look at J—! Last week she was a junior engineer … now she’s Director of Software!” This didn’t make any sense in this context, because she did have an engineering degree. And “Director of Software” simply meant managing our HAZOP software vendor, which a rhesus monkey could have done.

We went around and around for something like 45 minutes, by which time I had ceased to bother explaining myself and simply restated, again and again, that I’d already made up my mind. Finally the dreaded call ended.

A couple days later, D— and C— returned to the office, their HAZOP over. D—, looking in at me, stood there in the doorway for at least ten seconds, clenching and unclenching his jaw, like he was trying to decide whether to even say hi. Finally he walked up and said, “I just gotta tell you something. When C— got the news you were leaving, he was—he was devastated. I’ve never seen anything like it. He was so upset, he had to leave the room.” I was, needless to say, totally taken aback. I mean, this was a company that simply couldn’t keep people. It seemed like every week someone left, and some new guy started, like a revolving door. Could C— really have been that surprised? And to be that upset didn’t make much sense anyway … it wasn’t like I was the backbone of the operation or anything (though I’m sure I had the fastest time of anyone on the run to FedEx). I didn’t know what to say, and D— left my office without another word.

I futzed around at my desk for a while and then C— came in. He said, in his starchy British accent, “I just want to say thank you.” I assumed he meant for all my hard work over the last couple years, but I wasn’t sure and didn’t want to assume. “Um … for what?” I asked. He replied, “For a really great evening. You see, when you gave notice, D— and I were at a restaurant, about to have dinner. We ordered a nice bottle of wine and a bunch of appetizers and then he stepped away to call you. Well, he was gone a good while and in the meantime the wine and appetizers arrived. I didn’t feel like waiting so I just tucked right in. I ate one appetizer, then another, had a glass of wine and then another, and still D— didn’t come back, so I just kept going, and before you know it, I’d eaten all the appetizers and drunk all the wine! Still D— didn’t come back, and after all that wine I had to piss like a racehorse! I couldn’t leave the table, though, because the waitress would think we’d skipped out on her. Finally D— came back and gave the bad news, but I couldn’t sit around and listen—I had to run to the bathroom! I barely made it in time! But other than that, it was great … all those appetizers and all that wine, all to myself, and I didn’t have to make conversation or anything. So anyway, I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening.” With that, he turned and strode out of my office. Ah, I thought. All is explained.

Epilogue

In those days, when you gave two weeks’ notice you actually did work for two more weeks, rather than being immediately escorted from the office by a security guard. Thus, I had a chance to help recruit and train my replacement. He seemed like a good guy and in fact held a law degree. He seemed to hit it off just fine with most of the office, though one colleague said, “Wait, that’s the new technical assistant? He doesn’t look anything like Dana!”

During my final two weeks I continued to wear a suit and tie, because I didn’t want D— to realize just how long I’d been interviewing (i.e., deviously planning my departure). The new guy wore a suit too, which I chalked up to his being new and wanting to make a good impression. But months later, I came back to the office to visit (and to buy one of their old computers), and this guy was still wearing a suit, despite the whole rest of the office being dressed business casual. I asked him why, and—looking confused—he said, “I just think it’s more professional. In fact … didn’t I get that from you?”

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From the Archives - The Shirt

Introduction

I had forgotten all about this little story until today, when memory of it popped into my head. All at once I remembered the night it chronicles, and I remember writing it, and I remember how I was initially pretty pleased with it, and I remember remembering it, years later, and wondering if it actually sucked. So this evening I found it, reread it, and decided it’s worthy of albertnet. Enjoy please enjoy.

The Shirt – January 13, 1992

This guy has got the Shirt. To say it’s nice is not enough, because this is not merely the kind of die‑hard, go-anywhere, versatile shirt that I’m wearing. I happen to think my own shirt is just fine, but that’s only because I know almost nothing about fashion. I know enough, though, to know that this guy has got the Shirt and I don’t. His Shirt isn’t practical, it isn’t versatile, it certainly isn’t economical—and so it is probably chic. (If a friend of mine came over to my place dressed chic like that, I’d call him a chick and send him home to change. But I’m on someone else’s turf ... I wasn’t even invited this party. I am here as someone’s date.)

With a strange reverence, I gaze at the Shirt, imagining the guy modeling it for himself in the full‑length mirror, deciding if it is to be the shirt for tonight. If he makes the slightest error in judgment, the evening is ruined. A shirt could as easily kill him as make him the center of attention. Before settling on this one he probably threw away—not just aside, but away forever—several shirts that have slipped quietly into fashion dysfunction (dysfashion?). And of course he never makes a mistake, anywhere in his outfit. He knows that the perfect Shirt requires the perfect pants, which begin with the perfect belt and descend lovingly down his legs, with perfect pleats and a perfect crease, down to crisp cuffs perfectly caressing the perfect shoes.

These shoes are the dope: the kind of extravagant Nigerian kid’s‑belly suede leather ones that you and I ignorantly laugh at in little shoe boutiques, whispering to one another, “What the hell are these shoes? And what are those tassels for?” until a salesperson approaches and says, with the most faintly masked disdain, “Can I help you?” We wish we had the nerve to say, “Yes, I was wondering how well these would hold up for bicycling. Would grease stains wash out easily?” but instead we apologize: “Just browsing. Well, see you later. Cheers!”

If I spoke the language of this party, I could perhaps bridge the cultural gap of my versatile shirt and strike up conversation, but alas I do not. The Shirt’s confident speech is laced with wonderful abbreviations like “CPA,” “MBA,” and “JD,” along with hybrid names like “Arthur Andersen” and “Deloitte & Touche.” As an outsider, I watch Rob, my date’s sister, try to parley his distinctive belt buckle, high heels, and earnest patter into an important business connection. That’s why he’s here; i.e., why my date did him the favor of letting him tag along.

(I do not ever wear high heels and am amazed that such a product exists for men. But then, there’s a lot about this world I do not grasp, so I know not to judge.)

“Do you know how I made my entrance?” the Shirt is saying. “I was at an important function, found a partner, and just tugged on his arm, just like this” (he tugs at the sleeve of Rob’s shirt) “and made my eye contact. I told him, look, I know what your company needs and I’ve got what it takes. Two weeks later, I was made an offer.”

Yeah, great, easy for you to say, you’ve got the Shirt! Rob fairly melts at this wonderful success story, his eyes probing the Shirt longingly, in real awe of his social prowess. The Shirt begins expounding the virtues of real conviction, not the assumed ambition that partners, recruiters, and personnel managers (the last resort) can see right through. Before my eyes, he is giving Rob an invaluable survival kit for the corporate world, and I only hope Rob can ingest it all at once. This is turning into an important party indeed! Two colleagues of the Shirt stand by, dressed very impressively but without that dear fashion perfection that would be so lucrative to their careers, their egos, their very beings.

As Rob begins the well-polished story of his own professional history, these colleagues fix their eyes on him as they would on a highway patrolman who just might be letting them off with a lecture: staring not at him, not through him, but towards him and at nothing. Rob deftly drops the hybrid name of his former employer, throws around some sophisticated business jargon, and then falls fatally into a crevasse by using some toxic phrase. I did not hear the phrase but it had something to do with phones. Rob realizes his mistake and abruptly stops talking. (He has been out of work for awhile and I sense that this isn’t the first time he’s cratered like this.) Unable to orchestrate an escape from the grave dug by his faux‑pas, he freezes up and almost seems to gasp for air.

The Shirt and his sidekicks deal humanely with Rob; soon the Shirt, after exposing for a moment his gold wristwatch, shrugs his shoulders, skillfully sending impressive ripples down the silk flowing over his chest, and says, “Well, fellows, I think it’s time to visit our favorite watering hole.” The sidekicks, who have long since stopped listening to anything said, shake slightly as if waking up from a light sleep, blink several times, and one of them says, “What?”

The Shirt grins. “Drinks, gentleman, down at Thomas Glintcock’s.” He shakes hands with Rob, emphasizing vice-like grip and eye contact, and says, “Be in touch now. Good luck.” He turns to me, having been introduced sometime earlier, extends his hand, and says, “Nice meeting you Darnell.” I fight the urge to temporarily confound his internal connection register by saying, “Certainly. I’ll contact you about that interview.” Instead, I flash my best knowing grin and attempt to turn the tide of our handshake so as to crush his hand instead of mine. It’s no good. Is this why they call it “the upper hand”? In pain now, I struggle to fathom who is supposed to let go first. It’s all so awkward, but also kind of exciting. Is this my first power handshake?

When the Shirt and his lackeys are out of earshot, Rob approaches his sister and me as he’s if a pro ball player meeting the press in the locker room after the big game. I can’t predict whether he’ll say “It was a good ball game and I gotta hand it to those guys, they really got the job done,” or “Did you see me out there!?” His expression is a mixture of fear and pride. Sure, he wasn’t flawless, but there he was, right in the thick of it, right?

My gaze wanders, though: I find myself drinking in, for the final time, the unmistakable prowess of the Shirt as he shrugs off a few more ambitious junior businessmen, having no more time to spread his success around among the little people. Rob is frantically recounting to his sister what he learned, and what his next step needs to be, and how she must find him a few more good connections and a few more important functions to attend. She replies, with splendid offhandedness, that she went to a basketball game with such-and-such person, who brought along such‑and‑such important partner. Rob chases down the shirt and gleefully announces this connection.

“Oh yes, James Masterson is a splendid guy. Very approachable,” says the Shirt. “How did you say you knew of him?” Rob mentions the basketball game. Flourishing a game-show gesture towards Robs’ sister, the Shirt says, with oily precision, “Well there you are! Go set it up. And good luck!” Then he is out the door, and with him the fashion presence I’d found so tingly.

Rob returns, and begins speaking far too quickly for me to follow him. I fix my stare in appropriate sidekick fashion and nod occasionally. Finally, he puts it to me: “What do you think?” Realizing my social inadequacy and total lack of business sense, I decide to just go random on him. “You know what I think, Rob?” I ask. “I think you should completely reinvent yourself professionally, and teach junior high school.”

Two pairs of jaws drop, as if these siblings were in a cutesy movie about twins. After a great deal of gasping, they simultaneously express their incredulity: “A teacher? What the hell for?” “Where did you get that?” This time my grin is unharnessed, uncontrolled, uncalculated. (I hope nobody saw me.) I put it to Rob that he could no more convince an Arthur Andersen partner of his love of accounting than convince a school principal of his love for kids. “I hate kids!” he snarls.

“Well, how much exposure do you have to accounting?” I ask.

“Two classes in college,” he replies.

“Did you like it?”

“No, I hated it,” he concedes, “but that was just because of the crappy professors.” I ask him to explain his sudden craving for accounting, and beyond “business environment” and “social interchange with clients” he cannot. He leaves to get a drink, and I wander into the kitchen and read the cartoons posted on the refrigerator. Rob’s sister does not join me.

Ten minutes later Rob finds me, his sister trailing behind. “I have an answer! I have the answer!” he cries. His sister chides him for blurting this out so loudly, but I let it go, interested in his breakthrough. “I wanna learn!” he cries. “I wanna learn accounting and Arthur Andersen is the firm I want to teach it to me.” I am very disappointed with this shallow attempt at epiphany. “Sure, of course you want to learn,” I say slowly, “but why do you want to learn accounting? Why don’t you want to learn about, say, educating kids?”

We leave the party. During the drive our silence is broken by sirens. Three honking police cars weave through the traffic and disappear into the night. “I wonder what happened. Maybe there’s a riot!” Rob says brightly. I shake my head. “No, I’ll bet it’s something more routine. Just some cops doing normal cop things.” Rob says, “You know, if I hadn’t gone to college, I’d be a cop. That’s my second choice. Accountant, then cop. Well, maybe it’s not my second choice, but it’s definitely up there.”

I hold back a smirk: the evening may yet be young! “Well, you know—” I begin, but Rob’s sister cuts me off. “No more! Shut up! Just stop!” So we stop. It’s just as well: I’m suddenly exhausted, and I’ll bet Rob is too. I stare out the window and it occurs to me that, out there somewhere in this beautiful nighttime city, the Shirt is still going strong.