The sun came up this morning. The coffee percolated and we breathed a sigh of relief. Our golf clubs were still with us. Phew! We had awoken from a dream in which some rascal stole our gear out of the cart when we were sauntering down the fairway looking for our ball. He left us our wedge and putter in the correct belief that we had used up all the good shots God had granted them.
When we gathered all the suspects at a dinner table in the grill room, it became obvious who the culprit was. Too obvious. It wasn’t the mustachioed sandbagger with a sly sneer on his lips. It turned out the club pro, resplendent in Nike logos, had swiped them because he wanted us to buy another set from him and take another lesson.
Aha! we exclaimed, as we petted Asta, kissed Nora, mixed a martini and watched the flat-footed detective take the son of a gun away in handcuffs.
Essentially, didn’t certain Wall Street banks sell us certain sets of clubs with the expectation that we would lose them to a purloiner and thus have to pay for another? It was a contract in which the golfer finds that the seller has collected the insurance because he had another contract predicting with assurance you would lose the shiny Titleist blades. Heads I win, tails you lose, and you are left with two clubs that have spent their usefulness.
President Obama is slated to speak today at Cooper Union in New York, the same venue at which Lincoln argued that the republic had the power granted by the founding fathers to prevent extension of slavery into the western territories.
But Mr. Obama’s address will be pointed at a different kind of plantation owner asserting his “rights” – not the Southern demand that an owner of human chattel be assured the privilege of taking his slaves into whatever jurisdiction he chose, but the Wall Street clamor to indiscriminately create trading opportunities for its own benefit at the expense of the public contract.
Blankfein and Dimon must yield. Tea Partiers and latte-sipping Park Slopers at least agree on this: “Break up the Yankees!”
Meanwhile, take the Phillies every time Roy Halladay is on the mound.
Showing posts with label Wall Street. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wall Street. Show all posts
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Unhorsed
We can almost hear the Indianapolis Colts’ President Bill Polian shouting “An ankle, an ankle, my kingdom for an ankle!” His remarkable right defensive end, Dwight Freeney, like Richard III, has been unhorsed. A torn ligament in the crucial joint just before the battle with the New Orleans Saints in Miami has apparently pushed the spread down a point to minus 5 in favor of the horseshoes.
The news must have made the saintly quarterback Drew Brees draw a breath of hope that his blind side might be less vulnerable with Freeney possibly out of action.
Our national economy had a blind side, too. Wall Street, oblivious to its own hubris, pummeled pedestrian quarterbacks with pass rushing techniques that defied chip blocks. Exotic mortgage securities and credit default swaps eventually swamped the credit markets and the pass rushers themselves. No flags were thrown.
After dusting themselves off with the help of taxpayers, the game resumed, the pass rushers doing God’s work in directing capital to its most efficient use, which meant outsized bonuses for the saints of capitalism while unemployment stayed at 10%. “Kezar Stadium, Roman Gabriel back to pass…but no! from out of nowhere, it’s Paul Volcker to intercept!”
The lion-hearted Volcker, the first and last Fed chairman to use money supply as a target and let interest rates roam where they may, has become the left tackle protecting our blind side, essentially urging a return to Glass-Steagall, the 1930s legislation that separated commercial banking from investment banking to prevent conflicts of interest. Of course, the Goldman Sachses and Morgan Stanleys, now officially bank holding companies but retaining proprietary trading desks, do not wish to be fettered.
“Yeah. That’s it. More. That’s right! I want more!” Edward G. Robinson confessed in a bathtub to Humphrey Bogart. (Name that movie, sports fans).
But in fairness, bashing Wall Street is tantamount to bashing New York. Let’s face it; the pinstriped bankers buy lots of goods and services with those checks. Folks in Detroit similarly would love to see GM, Ford and Chrysler flourish.
But there have to be rules. It reminds us of Phil Mickelson’s use of grandfathered Ping wedges with square grooves. The United States Golf Association has banned such wedges, but a successful lawsuit allowed the Ping clubs to be used. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em was the outcome. Those without an old wedge in the garage are at a disadvantage. Those who use them may not be technically cheating, but they are akin to Judge Smails invoking winter rules on a sunny summer day. How about a Fresca?
There may not be a God, as Bishop Pickering said after being struck by lightning just as he was about to break the course record at Bushwood, but down here we need someone – the Fed, the SEC , whomever – to keep the sky from falling on the weekend duffer and the blind side safe for the Central Park quarterback. Manning, Brees, Mickelson and Wall Street can take care of themselves. They get paid plenty for it.
The news must have made the saintly quarterback Drew Brees draw a breath of hope that his blind side might be less vulnerable with Freeney possibly out of action.
Our national economy had a blind side, too. Wall Street, oblivious to its own hubris, pummeled pedestrian quarterbacks with pass rushing techniques that defied chip blocks. Exotic mortgage securities and credit default swaps eventually swamped the credit markets and the pass rushers themselves. No flags were thrown.
After dusting themselves off with the help of taxpayers, the game resumed, the pass rushers doing God’s work in directing capital to its most efficient use, which meant outsized bonuses for the saints of capitalism while unemployment stayed at 10%. “Kezar Stadium, Roman Gabriel back to pass…but no! from out of nowhere, it’s Paul Volcker to intercept!”
The lion-hearted Volcker, the first and last Fed chairman to use money supply as a target and let interest rates roam where they may, has become the left tackle protecting our blind side, essentially urging a return to Glass-Steagall, the 1930s legislation that separated commercial banking from investment banking to prevent conflicts of interest. Of course, the Goldman Sachses and Morgan Stanleys, now officially bank holding companies but retaining proprietary trading desks, do not wish to be fettered.
“Yeah. That’s it. More. That’s right! I want more!” Edward G. Robinson confessed in a bathtub to Humphrey Bogart. (Name that movie, sports fans).
But in fairness, bashing Wall Street is tantamount to bashing New York. Let’s face it; the pinstriped bankers buy lots of goods and services with those checks. Folks in Detroit similarly would love to see GM, Ford and Chrysler flourish.
But there have to be rules. It reminds us of Phil Mickelson’s use of grandfathered Ping wedges with square grooves. The United States Golf Association has banned such wedges, but a successful lawsuit allowed the Ping clubs to be used. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em was the outcome. Those without an old wedge in the garage are at a disadvantage. Those who use them may not be technically cheating, but they are akin to Judge Smails invoking winter rules on a sunny summer day. How about a Fresca?
There may not be a God, as Bishop Pickering said after being struck by lightning just as he was about to break the course record at Bushwood, but down here we need someone – the Fed, the SEC , whomever – to keep the sky from falling on the weekend duffer and the blind side safe for the Central Park quarterback. Manning, Brees, Mickelson and Wall Street can take care of themselves. They get paid plenty for it.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Make Mine Rare
Blood and guts spilled on the first hole of Dyker Beach yesterday. And it wasn’t some poor soul committing hari kari after an exasperating three-putt.
As we trundled down the frozen fairway after a less-than-perfect tee shot, a bird of prey, wings spread imperiously, swooped down in front of us. Did it think the Titleist was an egg to be rescued from the five-iron about to smack it? No, the regal, stoic hawk, secure in its power over small mammals, had espied breakfast, a fat, furry protein source running for its life. The squirrel took to the nearest tree, grasping the trunk midway up, hidden from the view of the hunter.
Ah, but Mr. or Ms. Hawk is a patient stalker. He or she (how do you tell the gender of fowl?) stood motionless with what we swear was a satisfied smirk on its beak. Then in a flurry of action that can only be described as primeval, this descendant of velociraptors swung around to the other side of the trunk and tore the unfortunate fellow to pieces, gorging itself on a feast of raw flesh. Which made us put down our Danish and contemplate the cruel rule of the food chain and the suddenness with which we vanish from this vale of tears.
The squirrel, at the moment of leaving this sporting life, once filled by gleeful gathering of acorns and procreating with playful abandon, must have screamed in his squirrel brain, “There is no God!”
Yes, there is, Virginia. Indeed, there are several. Monotheism is overrated. Just as the Greco-Roman pantheon of immortals meddled mercilessly in human affairs, the hawks of high finance insist on eating filet mignon (squirrel meat is actually delicious rolled in flour or corn meal and fried) washed down with ambrosia.
The gods of Wall Street complain about the fettering of finance, while record profits and bonuses were made possible by making them whole at the taxpayer’s expense (see the pledge to back the liabilities of Bear Stearns and AIG, for example). We understand the argument that the need to make dough oils the wheels of commerce and that upper middle-class families organize their lives around the expected bonus. We also understand that it can’t be built on the backs of the squirrels.
As fun as it was to be out in the winter sunshine and watch the hawk fill its belly, we note that yet again life is not fair. Squirrels must be culled; hopes to break 100 must be dashed. Alas, a bogey on 18 put the final tally at 100 even.
As we trundled down the frozen fairway after a less-than-perfect tee shot, a bird of prey, wings spread imperiously, swooped down in front of us. Did it think the Titleist was an egg to be rescued from the five-iron about to smack it? No, the regal, stoic hawk, secure in its power over small mammals, had espied breakfast, a fat, furry protein source running for its life. The squirrel took to the nearest tree, grasping the trunk midway up, hidden from the view of the hunter.
Ah, but Mr. or Ms. Hawk is a patient stalker. He or she (how do you tell the gender of fowl?) stood motionless with what we swear was a satisfied smirk on its beak. Then in a flurry of action that can only be described as primeval, this descendant of velociraptors swung around to the other side of the trunk and tore the unfortunate fellow to pieces, gorging itself on a feast of raw flesh. Which made us put down our Danish and contemplate the cruel rule of the food chain and the suddenness with which we vanish from this vale of tears.
The squirrel, at the moment of leaving this sporting life, once filled by gleeful gathering of acorns and procreating with playful abandon, must have screamed in his squirrel brain, “There is no God!”
Yes, there is, Virginia. Indeed, there are several. Monotheism is overrated. Just as the Greco-Roman pantheon of immortals meddled mercilessly in human affairs, the hawks of high finance insist on eating filet mignon (squirrel meat is actually delicious rolled in flour or corn meal and fried) washed down with ambrosia.
The gods of Wall Street complain about the fettering of finance, while record profits and bonuses were made possible by making them whole at the taxpayer’s expense (see the pledge to back the liabilities of Bear Stearns and AIG, for example). We understand the argument that the need to make dough oils the wheels of commerce and that upper middle-class families organize their lives around the expected bonus. We also understand that it can’t be built on the backs of the squirrels.
As fun as it was to be out in the winter sunshine and watch the hawk fill its belly, we note that yet again life is not fair. Squirrels must be culled; hopes to break 100 must be dashed. Alas, a bogey on 18 put the final tally at 100 even.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Screenplay
I’m writing a three-chord song, “The Left Wing Blues,” which will accompany an epic moving picture that has even more than the health care debate and Wall Street bonuses to keep audiences riveted.
In one scene, for instance, our hero thinks he is squared up perfectly with his target and strikes the ball flush, yet it rockets sharply to the sinister side instead of straight down the fairway. His buddy immediately places a club at his feet, which revealed that his perception of the landscape before him was severely skewed. The obvious correction is to aim at what he perceives to be the right of his target. But the mind’s eye is a terrible thing to lose, to paraphrase Dan Quayle (the Sarah Palin of his time).
Later, our hero (let’s call him the Marlboro Man) finds that rivals on the rodeo circuit are flinging their lariats with much better effect when it comes to capturing calves and tying their hooves together. The loop keeps missing the young bovine’s head to the left, falling limply to the dust of the arena. Is human growth hormone the answer? No, MM, solid citizen that he is, insists he will only take over-the-counter supplements and protein shakes.
In the middle plot point, MM confronts big government, which is trying to turn him into – gasp! – a Western European. He escapes with the help of a comely pharma/HMO lobbyist (our Bond girl). “They seek him here. They seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That damned elusive Pimpernel.”
The climax finds MM and lobbyist (think Claudine Auger in Thunderball), guns blazing, rescuing derivatives traders clinging to George Washington’s statue at Federal Hall on Wall Street from the clutches of Mr. Big’s socialists who would confiscate well-deserved wealth made possible by fiscal deficits and taxpayer largesse. They fly to the sports books in Las Vegas and parlay their way into even more-deserved riches by correctly betting the over-under in a Hamilton Tiger Cats - Montreal Alouettes game.
The dénouement: Back on the golf course, our Bond girl points MM to the right and his ball effortlessly soars in a Ruthian blast to the far reaches of the short grass.
The sequel: if she can only correct the putting stroke and save us all from the yips and the evils Mr. Big is plotting.
In one scene, for instance, our hero thinks he is squared up perfectly with his target and strikes the ball flush, yet it rockets sharply to the sinister side instead of straight down the fairway. His buddy immediately places a club at his feet, which revealed that his perception of the landscape before him was severely skewed. The obvious correction is to aim at what he perceives to be the right of his target. But the mind’s eye is a terrible thing to lose, to paraphrase Dan Quayle (the Sarah Palin of his time).
Later, our hero (let’s call him the Marlboro Man) finds that rivals on the rodeo circuit are flinging their lariats with much better effect when it comes to capturing calves and tying their hooves together. The loop keeps missing the young bovine’s head to the left, falling limply to the dust of the arena. Is human growth hormone the answer? No, MM, solid citizen that he is, insists he will only take over-the-counter supplements and protein shakes.
In the middle plot point, MM confronts big government, which is trying to turn him into – gasp! – a Western European. He escapes with the help of a comely pharma/HMO lobbyist (our Bond girl). “They seek him here. They seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That damned elusive Pimpernel.”
The climax finds MM and lobbyist (think Claudine Auger in Thunderball), guns blazing, rescuing derivatives traders clinging to George Washington’s statue at Federal Hall on Wall Street from the clutches of Mr. Big’s socialists who would confiscate well-deserved wealth made possible by fiscal deficits and taxpayer largesse. They fly to the sports books in Las Vegas and parlay their way into even more-deserved riches by correctly betting the over-under in a Hamilton Tiger Cats - Montreal Alouettes game.
The dénouement: Back on the golf course, our Bond girl points MM to the right and his ball effortlessly soars in a Ruthian blast to the far reaches of the short grass.
The sequel: if she can only correct the putting stroke and save us all from the yips and the evils Mr. Big is plotting.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
I'll take my bonus in okra
Bankers rank right up there with politicians, lawyers, journalists, serial killers and know-it-all bloggers (like me) as a species to be reviled. But, like it or not, they are essential to the maintenance of commerce.
Vikram Pandit and his carefully coiffed, sleekly suited and over perfumed brothers and sisters in the paneled walls of finance at Citigroup realize who butters their bread (the United States) and have manfully refused bonuses for 2008. What a blow for egalitarianism. They could take bonuses only at the risk, nay, certainty, of opprobrium at the hands of shareowners (again, the United States).
But to retain talent, as oxymoronic as that may sound in view of the train wreck that C, MS, GS, LEH, JPM and BSC are part and parcel of, requires some dough to be passed around. Fair? No. But life is unfair and if you want the bank to open for business in the morning and not lose your dough ya gotta pay up.
It's a free country, so you don't have to like it, and I'm sure you won't. Be comforted, though, that the bonus-less Mr. Pandit and his ilk will not miss any meals or be forced to ride the subway to whatever they call work these days, which I suspect is buying Treasury paper at zero percent interest with TARP funds and laughing at the guy or gal who wants to buy a house or start a business. Nice work if you can get it.
Whoa! Now I'm riled up. Can't wait for the bowl games to begin.
I expect Penn State to give USC a battle today, but then I expected the ACC's Georgia Tech to beat the SEC's LSU last night and woke up this morning to find the bayou tigers had romped over the ramblin' wrecks 38-3. I guess Les Miles had too much time to prepare for Paul Johnson's potent option offense.
This does not bode well for loyal sons and daughters of old OU against SEC opponent Florida in a week. I think Sam Bradford and the valiant Sooners will have to score on every possession to have a chance against Tim Tebow and his direct line to God.
Remember to eat salt pork and black-eyed peas today for good luck. It's a southern, hillbilly thing. I'm also fixing fried okra (rolled generously in corn meal). Y'all will be assured of a great 2009.
Vikram Pandit and his carefully coiffed, sleekly suited and over perfumed brothers and sisters in the paneled walls of finance at Citigroup realize who butters their bread (the United States) and have manfully refused bonuses for 2008. What a blow for egalitarianism. They could take bonuses only at the risk, nay, certainty, of opprobrium at the hands of shareowners (again, the United States).
But to retain talent, as oxymoronic as that may sound in view of the train wreck that C, MS, GS, LEH, JPM and BSC are part and parcel of, requires some dough to be passed around. Fair? No. But life is unfair and if you want the bank to open for business in the morning and not lose your dough ya gotta pay up.
It's a free country, so you don't have to like it, and I'm sure you won't. Be comforted, though, that the bonus-less Mr. Pandit and his ilk will not miss any meals or be forced to ride the subway to whatever they call work these days, which I suspect is buying Treasury paper at zero percent interest with TARP funds and laughing at the guy or gal who wants to buy a house or start a business. Nice work if you can get it.
Whoa! Now I'm riled up. Can't wait for the bowl games to begin.
I expect Penn State to give USC a battle today, but then I expected the ACC's Georgia Tech to beat the SEC's LSU last night and woke up this morning to find the bayou tigers had romped over the ramblin' wrecks 38-3. I guess Les Miles had too much time to prepare for Paul Johnson's potent option offense.
This does not bode well for loyal sons and daughters of old OU against SEC opponent Florida in a week. I think Sam Bradford and the valiant Sooners will have to score on every possession to have a chance against Tim Tebow and his direct line to God.
Remember to eat salt pork and black-eyed peas today for good luck. It's a southern, hillbilly thing. I'm also fixing fried okra (rolled generously in corn meal). Y'all will be assured of a great 2009.
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