I visit New York City often, primarily for business purposes but also when I'm in need of spontaneous adventure that can only be found in the Big Apple.
Once, while strolling through Central Park, I watched the cast and crew of Law and Order film a pivotal scene. SPOILER ALERT: The bloody knife found behind the rock was NOT used in the murder.
On another visit, I stumbled on a line of patrons outside Broadway's Nederlander Theatre. Upon learning that a small amount of $20 tickets were awarded during a daily lottery, I joined the cue. My number was the last drawn for that evening's performance of Rent.
Other times I have discovered not experiences, but tangible objects. A $20 bill dropped near a subway platform; a working iPhone whose owner I never was able to locate; a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses left in a diner. However, they could have easily been knockoffs sold by vendors along Canal Street. I'm no expert when it comes to fashionable eyewear. My point is that people in New York City do tend to drop stuff, oblivious to their loss as they continue their hectic journeys to wherever.
I hope Martin Shkreli does exactly that with his day planner.
Depending on your view, Shkreli, the former head of Turing Pharmaceuticals, is either the "pharma bad boy" or an intelligent, hardworking businessman unfairly portrayed by the media. Vilified for unapologetically jacking up the price of the antiparasitic drug Daraprim more than 5,000 percent, Shkreli recently smirked his way through a House Committee hearing, convened to investigate the price increase. Shkreli repeatedly invoked his Fifth Amendment right, even declining to answer questions about his purchase of a singular Wu-Tang Clan album. Frustrated lawmakers eventually dismissed him.
Stripped of his title of CEO at Turing and now free on bond after being charged with federal securities fraud, I can only imagine what Shkreli does all day. Hence my desire to see his daily schedule in writing, which I assume includes the following action items:
7:30 a.m. Start day with brief moment of awesome-ness by standing naked in front of bedroom mirror.
8:00 a.m. Put finishing touches on The Bachelor audition video.
8:45 a.m. Refresh Twitter account while standing in front of mirror again. High five reflection of self after confirming personal account has three times the followers of @congressdotgov.
8:46 a.m. Tweet numbers to @congressdotgov.
10 a.m. Continue online learning in Berlitz virtual classroom. In multiple languages, repeatedly practice the phrase, "On the advice of counsel, I invoke my Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination and respectfully decline to answer your question."
12 p.m. Commute from Brooklyn apartment to Manhattan on hoverboard.
1:30 p.m. Spot downtrodden, homeless person huddled in doorway politely asking for spare change. Briefly consider dropping $100 bill into cup. Reconsider. Roll right by.
1:45 p.m. Give $100 bill to random financial trader on Wall Street.
3 p.m. Nearly get side swiped by taxi while filming oneself riding through congested Manhattan street.
3:15 p.m. Vow to purchase all New York cab companies and jack up price of standard fare to $85 per mile.
4 p.m. Return to Brooklyn apartment. Check voicemail to see if Taylor Swift or Katy Perry called.
4:15 p.m. Refine smirk.
5 p.m. Call Federal Bureau of Prisons. Ask if, hypothetically speaking, a prisoner could have a Wu-Tang Clan album in his cell. Ask if, hypothetically speaking, the album could be bartered among fellow prisoners in exchange for promises not to assault its original owner on a daily basis.
7:30 p.m. Order takeout from Taylor Swift's favorite restaurant. She could stop by. You never know.
10 p.m. Hit the sack, content in the knowledge that, provided one is a multi-millionaire businessperson, there is a drug available to combat rare, life-threatening parasitic infections.