In Chapter 9 of Should I Stay or Should I Go?, Efraín Ochoa reflects on his early days at UCLA’s business school—morning walks through Westwood, the whirlwind of new faces, and the unforgettable Marketing 101 course led by the eccentric Professor Andrew Ainsle. Between mixtape clubs, concert mailing lists, and legendary nights out in LA, he discovers that MBA life is more than just lectures and case studies—it’s a crash course in community, culture, and chaos.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 9  “Marketing 101”

The daily routine of walking to class through Westwood quickly became one of the simple joys of my time at UCLA. With its classic diners, movie theaters, and palm-lined streets, the neighborhood carried a charming, nostalgic feel. Most days, I’d take a leisurely half-hour stroll to campus, headphones in, letting music carry me through the bustle of the morning. The campus itself, with its elegant building, foliage, and lush greenery, often felt like a scene plucked straight from a Harry Potter movie.

Only when I was running late—or on those rare, rainy LA days—did I allow myself the indulgence of driving and forking over the dreaded $20 parking fee.

Those walks were more than just a commute. They became a quiet space to clear my mind, soak in the scenery, and remind myself of how fortunate I was to study in such an iconic setting.

Once classes began, the whirlwind of new teachers and coursework quickly replaced that tranquility. One of the most memorable was Marketing, taught by Professor Andrew Ainsle. He was an unforgettable character, a maverick—cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and an unfiltered personality that clashed amusingly with the polished business school environment.

Beyond his eccentric wardrobe, his knowledge of marketing was unparalleled. He filled lectures with insights that were as practical as they were fascinating. But it wasn’t just marketing that Professor Ainsle felt passionate about.

He had strong—and often controversial—opinions on family life. His stance on children was particularly striking. To him, spending money on scuba diving, travel, or any experience that enriched life was far more sensible than wasting it on having kids. His unapologetic candor sparked more than a few debates in class.

Tragically, Professor Ainsle passed away in a scuba diving accident not long ago. His views on family may have raised eyebrows, but his avidity for teaching and the profound impact he had on his students will always stay with me.

The first days of our MBA journey felt like a whirlwind of faces—over 300 strangers converging on campus, each trying to make sense of the chaotic new environment. Names were quickly forgotten, mispronounced, or hilariously confused.

I still remember the awkward moment I mistook two Chinese classmates for one another. Seconds later, they repaid the favor by mixing up two of our American classmates—Chris and Ed—who bore a striking resemblance to one another. Laughter erupted, and the shared embarrassment eased the tension. It was clear that we were all just doing our best to navigate this sea of new people.

Cultural differences were part of the fun. The Japanese students’ laptops looked like they had been plucked from the future, filled with codes and features that baffled the rest of us. My Chinese classmates were quick to offer me a Chinese name, an initiation of sorts into their circle. Meanwhile, the Thai alphabet seemed straight out of a sci-fi novel, leaving me mesmerized every time CK and Manita, my Thai friends, wrote in it.

One conference during those early weeks immediately caught my attention. I had always been skeptical of business jargon—the buzzwords, the obsession with “synergy” and “disruption.” Still, I attended the inaugural Dean’s series, eager to hear from the guest speaker: none other than David Geffen, the entertainment mogul behind some of the biggest names in music.

I imagined an inspiring dialogue on the intersection of art and commerce. But as the Dean led the conversation, my excitement quickly waned. Her questions felt surface-level—platitudes and clichés that left little room for meaningful insight. I winced as she asked Geffen about his “secret sauce” for success, and the phrase “thinking outside the box” made more appearances than I could count.

The experience was underwhelming. After the event, I discovered I wasn’t alone in my disappointment. Many of my classmates shared the sentiment. The Dean’s lack of charisma and curiosity left much to be desired. It became clear that she was great at fundraising and that´s why she got the gig.

One of the more curious discoveries during those early days was the existence of unofficial clubs, like the mixtape club. A delightful throwback to another era, the club operated under simple rules: each participant curated and distributed a mixtape at least once a quarter. It was a small, nostalgic tradition that reconnected us with the simpler joys of sharing music.

I decided to build on this by creating a mailing list for concert lovers. What began with just my close Mexican friends soon expanded to include classmates from all over. Each week, I sent out newsletters highlighting upcoming shows and ticket releases. Over time, the list grew to nearly seventy people. I’m proud to say I attended at least one concert with almost every single one of them.

Through those experiences, I learned that even in the rigid, structured world of business school, passion projects had a place.

Not everything in MBA life was as leisurely as mixtapes and concerts. Our section’s misfortune became legendary—Monday classes at 7 AM, the bane of our existence. It obliterated any hope of late Sunday nights and forced us to embrace a level of discipline we hadn’t anticipated.

The first quarter was relentless—marketing, finance, accounting, statistics. Each class demanded nearly 30 hours of study every week. Breaks between classes were brief, just 15 minutes before the next onslaught began.

Even in those fleeting moments, we gravitated toward familiar faces. I always sought out the other Mexicans in my section. Our quick exchanges provided a brief escape—small reminders that we weren’t in this alone.

The end of the first week brought something we’d been planning for months—our inaugural night out as the Mexican crew. We gathered at Bardot, one of LA’s swankier clubs, but not before pre-gaming at a classmate’s house in Beverly Hills.

At the club, the guys split the bill for a bottle. I wasn’t about to let the couples off too easily, though. I made sure to invite a few of the women I liked over to our table, slyly redistributing the tab in the process.

The night spiraled into predictable chaos. By the end, a couple of classmates passed out on the street near a trash bin. One lost his wallet, but in a twist that could only happen in LA, a stranger called two days later to return it—with all the cash still inside.

Beyond the parties, our group became a support system. We studied together, shared notes from different sections, and filled in each other’s gaps before exams.

The wives of our group, many of whom got married during the MBA program, built their own community. They attended UCLA’s special courses—painting, horseback riding, and even Oprah tapings. The support system they formed strengthened their relationships and kept them engaged, even when the demands of the MBA threatened to pull us apart.

Looking back, those early days were a blur of bonding, late nights, and unexpected connections that laid the foundation for the unforgettable years that followed.