Blog

Posted on

Bear Stearns: Bare, Stern

This NYTimes article provides the most detailed account of a firing I’ve ever read in a paper. Warren J. Spector at Bear Stearns got the boot because his unit controlled the hedge funds that imploded a few weeks back. The first hint that it’s a weird article is the description of the firing:

Sitting behind his half moon desk on which stood computer terminals and a large metal-box lighter, Mr. Cayne broke the news to Mr. Spector that he wanted his resignation.

Seemed like a little more info than we needed. Then it began exploring the two men’s history with the game of bridge:

Indeed, with Mr. Spector’s own talent for bridge — he achieved the rank of life master at age 16 in 1974 — and his expertise in all varieties of bonds, it was widely assumed that Mr. Cayne would pass on the reins to Mr. Spector. (The two men’s devotion to bridge is highlighted by the fact that they both attended the North American bridge championship in Nashville late last July, at a time of increasing turmoil in the credit markets.)

But while bridge might have functioned as a bonding agent between Mr. Cayne and his predecessor, Alan C. Greenberg, it could not do the same for Mr. Spector — especially in the wake of the hedge fund meltdown at the firm’s asset management division.

Did I mention there’s too much detail?

In part this was a function of their sharply different personalities. Mr. Cayne is a raw, cigar-chomping man who embraces the scrappy, street-fighting ethos of the firm. Mr. Spector, who wears his thick head of hair longer than that of the standard banker, has more of suave, relaxed affect.

I guess the big question is: which guy’s the better bridge partner?

(Update: The WSJ article on Spector’s firing adds even more details, including the facts that he “wears black-rimmed glasses and maintains a trim physique”. . . and that he attended St. John’s College, where I got my master’s degree)

Posted on

Go, fish

I return to A River Runs Through It every so often. The exploration of art, grace and family has become a touchstone for me, even though I’m not Presbyterian, have never fished, and have no plans to visit Montana. I find the writing beautiful and always get teary in the final pages.

I just finished re-reading it this morning. Here’s a piece:

As the heat mirages on the river in front of me danced with and through each other, I could feel patterns from my own life joining with them. It was here, while waiting for my brother, that I started this story, although of course at the time I did not know that stories of life are often more like rivers than books. But I knew a story had begun, perhaps long ago near the sound of water. And I sensed that ahead I would meet something that would never erode so there would be a sharp turn, deep circles, a deposit, and quietness.

The fisherman even has a phrase to describe what he does when he studies the patterns of a river. He says he is “reading the water,” and perhaps to tell his stories he has to do much the same thing. Then one of his biggest problems is to guess where and at what time of day life lies ready to be taken as a joke. And to guess whether it is going to be a little or a big joke.

For all of us, though, it is much easier to read the waters of tragedy.

–Norman Maclean

It’s funny but, as I look over that passage now, it lies flat and seems kinda preachy. I suppose you really need to read the whole thing.

Posted on

Be mindful

Our friends John & Liz hosted a pool party yesterday, so Amy & I took her Mini for a spin up the NYThruway and had a lovely, relaxing time — surprising given the amount of small children present — meeting old friends and making new ones.

Oh, and we took pictures. I know you’ll be surprised to read that.

look up sometimes

Here’s my photoset from the day. Amy’s should be posted soon are over here!

Posted on

The final frontier

When asked what I drink, I usually respond, “Gin! Gin is my rocket fuel! Vodka, on the other hand, makes me explode on the launch pad.”

In that spirit, I’m pleased that Charles Krauthammer has joined me in celebrating astronauts who tip a few back before liftoff:

Have you ever been to the shuttle launch pad? Have you ever seen that beautiful and preposterous thing the astronauts ride? Imagine it’s you sitting on top of a 12-story winged tube bolted to a gigantic canister filled with 2 million liters of liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen. Then picture your own buddies — the “closeout crew” — who met you at the pad, fastened your emergency chute, strapped you into your launch seat, sealed the hatch and waved smiling to you through the window. Having left you lashed to what is the largest bomb on planet Earth, they then proceed 200 feet down the elevator and drive not one, not two, but three miles away to watch as the button is pressed that lights the candle that ignites the fuel that blows you into space.

Three miles! That’s how far they calculate they must go to be beyond the radius of incineration should anything go awry on the launch pad on which, I remind you, these insanely brave people are sitting. Would you not want to be a bit soused?

Posted on

Gore Smash!

At City Journal, Harry Stein has an entertaining review of Al Gore’s aptly titled Assault on Reason:

But Al Gore is like one of those guys at a party with whom, once you get a few drinks in him, you never know what’s coming. He’s liable to strip to his underwear or start spewing expletives or waddle over with an outstretched hand and ingratiating smile and suddenly go for your ear like Mike Tyson. For just beneath that aging prep-boy facade, there’s an unmistakable anger and bitterness; where Bill Clinton has always seemed too comfortable in his skin, Gore has often seemed inclined to burst out of his, like some demented political version of the Incredible Hulk.

I don’t think “It is less an argument than an extended tantrum. Reading it is often like being locked in a room with a madman” is going to end up on the back cover of the paperback.

Posted on

“I didn’t even have to use my AK”

In honor of Cal Ripken’s induction into baseball’s Hall of Fame, I’ve taken a couple of days off in the last week. Today’s theme was laziness, or my version of it.

Before the heat got too intense (mid-90s right now), I moved some lumber in the back yard, then settled in to listen to Howard Stern, take care of bills, clean up our recycling area, update the Books on My Nightstand picture, read the first chapter of a short book on architecture, and learn how to use the espresso/cappuccino maker we got as a wedding gift, 16 months ago! Now I’m watching the Yankees lose to the White Sox.

Time for an espresso.

Posted on

Otto… parts?

(Oh, just go to the slideshow.)

I took the day off yesterday, so you know what that means, dear readers! Yup: I hustled around in traffic, walked all over the place, and sweated like Patrick Ewing! (I swear: I’m taking tomorrow off and have no plans on leaving the house. I might go all John & Yoko and not even get outta bed.)

I’d have written about it sooner, but I stupidly checked my work e-mail last night instead of waiting till this morning. I discovered that one of the eight speakers at our conference (7 weeks from tomorrow) has to cancel, which means I need to scramble to find a replacement. And, being a neurotic, I began to fear that every single speaker who hasn’t sent back his or her confirmation letter is going to cancel.

Which is to say, it should’ve been a Xanax night, but I stupidly decided to play it straight. So, I woke up at 4am this morning and began formulating backup plans. This should explain some of the following disjointedness.

Anyway, I spent yesterday in NYC and, while it wasn’t very humid, the 90-degree temps really sapped me. I probably started out on the wrong foot by heading over to the Strand Bookstore, which never has good air circulation. Roaming downstairs to look through review copies and the philosophy section, I thought I was going to pass out. Fortunately, I stayed conscious long enough to snap this pic:

it sure does

I’m lying about starting out at the Strand. I actually started at a parking lot on 17th St. and 5th Ave., around 11am. The attendant asked when I’d be back and I said, “Around 7 or 8,” figuring I’d take my wife out for dinner after she gets out of work. He proceeded to park the car, hand me the ticket, and then say to me, “We close at 7.” I stared for a moment, then just left for the bookstore.

Since I know you’re all dying to find out exactly what I bought at the bookstore, here’s the list:

From the Strand, I walked down to Otto, a restaurant just north of Washington Square and co-owned by Mario Batali, where I planned meet official VM buddy Elayne for lunch. Elayne was in charge of a pair of kids — early teenagers, I guess — who came down to NYC from Connecticut so they could see a concert at South Street Seaport by Korn. Elayne asked if I knew them. “Not really,” I said. “I think they did a cover of Word Up! by Cameo. And they spell their name with a K.”

“That would explain why I couldn’t find them online.”

On to lunch. It’s one of Elayne’s favorite places to eat. The menu had an amazing array of pizzas, and I felt bad about settling for the Quattro Formaggi, but I’m a boring man. With a camera:

They say quattro, they mean quattro

Elayne was more daring, ordering a pizza with potatoes and anchovies. At one point, she left for a smoke break, asking me to entertain the kids with a story about the time Dad handed me a shotgun “in case anything happens” during a business deal he was making.

When she returned, she said, “Mario Batali’s here! He’s in the other room and he’ll take a picture with the kids!” So the four of us got up and hurried to the front of the restaurant, even though the kids had no idea who Mario Batali is. We tried explaining the celebrity chef phenomenon, but they didn’t seem to know much beyond Rachael Ray. I, meanwhile, was holding out hope that Anthony Bourdain would be on hand, too.

Elayne made quick introductions, and I snapped a pic of Mario with the boys:

The camera does not add 10 lbs. in this case.

I wanted to take a second one, just to show that he really does walk around in bright orange Crocs, but thought it’d be rude.

Back at the table, I said to the kids, “You guys don’t like REM, right?” They made faces and shook their heads. I mentioned that Batali’s good friends with Michael Stipe, and they laughed.

Elayne proceeded to tell the story of her very first NYC celebrity sighting: Carrot Top. “Pre-steroids?” I asked.

There’s not much more to tell about the day. I meandered with Elayne & the kids for a bit, then headed out to my wife’s office. It was good to finally see it, since I find it so difficult to visualize other people’s spaces. Now that I have some idea of what her workplace is like, I think I’ll find it easier to send goofy e-mails and IMs.

Anyway, I headed back into the city till her workday ended. Having left my books at her office, I needed to pick up something else to read for a bit. I stopped in at Shakespeare & Co. on 23rd St., only to find that the main floor is gutted and there’s just a small store downstairs while renovations are done. I picked up a copy of Winter’s Tale (30% off everything in the store), read/sidewalk-gawked in an Au Bon Pain near Union Square, and then headed back to her office.

As it turned out, we were both too stuffed from our lunches to want any dinner, so the parking lot situation worked out. We grabbed the car, made a surprisingly quick dash to the Lincoln Tunnel, and got home with plenty of time for me to worry about the conference!

(The photoset has a bunch more pictures that I didn’t post.)