Ye gods, the world is truly spinning weirdly lately, no? I will (at a later time) sing the song -- a dirge, sadly -- of the once-mighty Merrill Lynch a/k/a "We, The People," the firm of Charlie Merrill, the man who saw 1929 coming; the firm of Irish Catholics -- Fordham boys and Marine Corps veterans, eager to show the WASPs on the Street a thing or two; the firm who epitomized the term "wire house" and brought capitalism from Wall Street to Main Street by opening branches in towns big and small; the firm of Don Regan and his "fuck you" money; the firm of Win Smith and Don Komansky and the culture of "Mother Merrill"; and, finally and sadly, the firm of Stan O'Neal and the quarterly profit numbers. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Uh, where was I? Ah, yes, weirdly spinning world. The biggest financial crisis in a long time. The political season, with the rise and fall and rise again of poll numbers -- like a high-scoring college football game, it seems like the candidate with the ball at the end will win in a squeaker. My case load, with the fierce urgency interspersed with slackness. My imaginary friend Philalawyer, and his book (Happy Hour is for Amateurs: A Lost Decade in the World's Worst Profession, coming soon to used bookstores and garage sales near you) coming closer and closer to actual release. (That fucker has a book deal? It is a weirdly spinning world, indeed.)
And, so, on this Friday afternoon, I plan to skip out a bit early, and slow things down a bit. Try to restore a bit of balance to the gyrations, and find some inner calm and sense. I think that some Bushmills is called for, maybe sipped in a comfortably quiet bar filled with dark woods and polished brass. The kind of place with the Easter Proclamation on the wall and old photographs, and a friendly yet reticent bartender who will pour it neat (without waiting to be told) into a heavy rocks glass.
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4 comments:
Not only did I get a book deal, I just got bailed out of my mortgage.
I called the bank and told them, "Look man, I can't cover the note anymore. I was up to my ass in Chinese pharmaceuticals and AIG and, well... selah." They said they'd foreclose. That's when I got my buddy, the econ professor, to come in and explain what would happen to the value of all the other houses on my street on which the bank held mortgages. He told them up straight, "You foreclose on my friend here and your whole portfolio goes down... Your portfolio goes down and then then you go down, the region goes down and man, the whole country goes down. I know it's tough to think about, but my guy here, his house is too big to go to auction. And really, man, didn't you think that jumbo for his pool house was a little dicey?"
They bit. We all agreed to restructure the loan as an ARM so I could start paying ASAP. Wachovia agreed to take it in a flip if I prepaid three months and gave them liens on my jet skis.
You bastard. I knew that the fall of WaMu was all your fault. "Oh, yes, Banker Bill -- as you can see from these unverified photocopies of last year's 1040, I can clearly afford the increased payment when I yank all possible equity out of this rot-infested McMansion to double down on Bear Stearns. Jimmy Cayne is a genius. And maybe pick up reel to reel of the Dead's '74 show in Butte that's on eBay. The 84 minute drum solo in the middle of "Casey Jones" is musical gold, Bill, I tell you, musical fucking gold."
Christ. I shudder in fear at the thought that your tome og filth will be sold at the Costco next month.
Jimmy Cayne was a genius.
At Bridge.
How can you sleep ripping on a many who lost a billion dollars in 24 hours?
I just worked out my car loan as well. I told the repo man she was just too damn customized to be repossessed:
"Let me tell you what Melba Toast is packing right here. I've got four-eleven positrack out back. Seven-fifty double pumper. Edelbrock intake, bored over thirty, eleven to one pop up pistons. Turbo jet, three ninety horse power. We're talking some fucking muscle."
That's the nice thing about repo men. They always listen to reason.
Did you say "watch the leather" to the repo man, you self-hating Irish bastard?
Oh, I can't believe that some schmoe dropped HST's name in his blurb for you -- how much did *that* cost you?
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