Enormous buildings stand tall on both sides of the narrow street, pretentiously looking down on the tourists that come to take photos in front of doorways that lead to a world they will never be a part of. Behind the gates, guard booths, and armed police, the engine that is Wall St. burns fuel at an alarming rate. Like a run away freight train, traders on the floor of the NYSE can only guess at what lies around the next bend, and with that much horsepower screaming along a narrow track, well…  They don't call it a train wreck for nothing. Oblivious to all this is the average working person. Too concerned with paying rent, buying food, and just simply surviving, we trust that these "business men" who exist behind closed doors of leering skyscrapers have our backs. It's a staggering trust that is constantly broken and then forgiven. As I wander around Wall St. on my lunch break, I run across a 1.6 million dollar Ferrari parked near the steps of the NYSE, along with a handful of other extremely high-end cars. I'm very happy when I see a vehicle like this with a race car driver behind the wheel, using every ounce of driving expertise he has to keep the massive amount of power on the road, but in the hands of a banker, its just perverse. Like a pure bred Weimaraner in a dog fight at Michael Vick's house. Who knows? Perhaps I'm jaded. Perhaps I've made too many mistakes and now I'm bitter that this world of fast cars, luxury suites, and more money than should be legal is not my reality. Truth be told, I'd be happy with just a living wage, a reliable car, and enough money for a few pints and dinner with my lady. That just sounds like crazy talk these days. 

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