"We are all worms, but I do believe that I am a glowworm"
- Winston Churchill
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Holiday Observations - Part 2
As you may have realised by now, one of my greatest foibles is the insatiable desire for books. Led by one of these urges, I walked into my neighbourhood book store this afternoon, and paused. It looked like a gathering of the Stepford Wives. I was the only man in the whole place. Now I knew what office aunties did after a long day of doing fuck all.
It turns out that professional women love to read, read crap, but read nevertheless. Suddenly, the success (and for fuck's sake, sequels) of "The true stories of a London Call Girl" made a whole lot of sense. Publishers have realised that the only people who still read by holding ink and pulp for hours are women, and have instructed their minions (writers) to produce books accordingly. In addition to the incessant drivel pumped out by romance/susepense/soft-porn/travel/cookery/"hot guy autobiography"/"brave/abused woman autobiography" writers, serious literature is also adjusting to the changing demographics of its readership. Rushdie's newest book is about love, not Shaitan falling from the sky into a British Pastoral. A woman, a bloody feminist at that, has won the Nobel Prize for Literature, and she had the balls (sic) to refuse.
I'm not Talib, and welcome the development of a race of women who actually know more about the world than the latest on Britney's tit flashings but I mourn for my fellow brothers. Please start reading, before we have to start those fucking gay book clubs.
It turns out that professional women love to read, read crap, but read nevertheless. Suddenly, the success (and for fuck's sake, sequels) of "The true stories of a London Call Girl" made a whole lot of sense. Publishers have realised that the only people who still read by holding ink and pulp for hours are women, and have instructed their minions (writers) to produce books accordingly. In addition to the incessant drivel pumped out by romance/susepense/soft-porn/travel/cookery/"hot guy autobiography"/"brave/abused woman autobiography" writers, serious literature is also adjusting to the changing demographics of its readership. Rushdie's newest book is about love, not Shaitan falling from the sky into a British Pastoral. A woman, a bloody feminist at that, has won the Nobel Prize for Literature, and she had the balls (sic) to refuse.
I'm not Talib, and welcome the development of a race of women who actually know more about the world than the latest on Britney's tit flashings but I mourn for my fellow brothers. Please start reading, before we have to start those fucking gay book clubs.
Holiday Observations - Part 1
I've finally been granted a break from my 4-screened toils, for an entire blessed week. It might come as a shock to you that I will spend the whole week in Hong Kong. Why? Well, firstly I have punched quite a hole in my bank balance with my home-bound remittances, clothes, books, food and booze spending. Secondly, I find international travel on my passport so stressful and humiliating that it rather defeats the purpose. Lastly, my definition of de-stressing is sitting in a quiet cafe with a great book and a sickly sweet cuppa.
Besides acting like a retired old white man, I have also been wandering around the movie theatres and shopping malls of Hong Kong trying to burn some time. In the process, I have proved to myself a seemingly biased piece of ancient wisdom: "having a wife and kids is fucking expensive". I used to think that fathers made too much of a fuss about the ball and chain and her progeny. Until I saw IFC Mall on a Monday afternoon. As their men were being tossed about by the waves of incomprenhensible stagflationary markets worldwide and being drenched in red ink, women and children were taking safe refuge in this giant Ark of consumerism, full of designer clothing, sensual perfume and ever-tackier sunglasses. As the cash machines rang, I realised the inevitability of the "shirts sleeves to shirts sleeves" rule. It might take three or five generations, but as long as you give your woman a credit card, it WILL happen.
It occured to me: when men finally get their permanent vacation, would they be able to afford the same retail therapy? I hope that our wives atleast buy us a book and some skinny lattes.
Besides acting like a retired old white man, I have also been wandering around the movie theatres and shopping malls of Hong Kong trying to burn some time. In the process, I have proved to myself a seemingly biased piece of ancient wisdom: "having a wife and kids is fucking expensive". I used to think that fathers made too much of a fuss about the ball and chain and her progeny. Until I saw IFC Mall on a Monday afternoon. As their men were being tossed about by the waves of incomprenhensible stagflationary markets worldwide and being drenched in red ink, women and children were taking safe refuge in this giant Ark of consumerism, full of designer clothing, sensual perfume and ever-tackier sunglasses. As the cash machines rang, I realised the inevitability of the "shirts sleeves to shirts sleeves" rule. It might take three or five generations, but as long as you give your woman a credit card, it WILL happen.
It occured to me: when men finally get their permanent vacation, would they be able to afford the same retail therapy? I hope that our wives atleast buy us a book and some skinny lattes.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Bust a Cap in your Ass
Trader 1: "Dude, did you come in strapped today?"
Trader 2: "Yo, I never leave home without my glock homie, I like the respect it gives me"
Trader 1: "Left mine at home bro, you think I can make do with just my fingers looking like a gun"
Trader 2: "Yeah dude,just keep your hands in your pocket at the next meeting, make them feel the fear"
Together: "Respecttttah"
Trader 2: "Yo, I never leave home without my glock homie, I like the respect it gives me"
Trader 1: "Left mine at home bro, you think I can make do with just my fingers looking like a gun"
Trader 2: "Yeah dude,just keep your hands in your pocket at the next meeting, make them feel the fear"
Together: "Respecttttah"
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The White Stripes
I have seen a few too many young Asian tigers fail to get within mauling range of the great-white-hunters only because they approach them wrong. What follows is a rough guide to the types of white people found on a trading floor that hopefully make the difference between Republic Day and the Sepoy Mutiny:
1. Steven Seagal
This tough son of a bitch thinks he's Asian. Not Asian as in a lover of chinese food, women and culture. No, I mean he thinks he's slit-eyed, small-cocked, straight-haired proper Asian. This guy wants nothing more than to be told the secrets of your culture and language. Indulge him in his moronic quest for Eastern enlightenment and you will soon find yourself a VP. Then get together with the other Desis and the Triads and send him into retirement in Tibet.
2. Chuck Norris
This badly dressed, weather beaten monstrosity is from some obscure part of a Western country. All his millions have not changed his outlook on life or on personal hygiene. Despite management pressure and the racial integration guidebooks, he still thinks of Vietnam when he sees Orientals and Apu when he sees Indians. The best way to play Mr. American-History-X is to behave like the Asian manservant that he thinks you are. Eventually you'll find yourself doing so much of his work that you can fit seamlessly into his role when he retires to fuck cowboys down in Montana.
3. The White Chris Tucker
This harmless Westerner's only view of Asians are as comic fodder. There is no real racism in his mind, its just that we look/smell/sound fucking hilarious. He has no objection to working with Asians, eating Asian food or boning Asian women. In short, he is the perfect boss or teammate and you will eventually use him as the investor front man for your hedge fund.
1. Steven Seagal
This tough son of a bitch thinks he's Asian. Not Asian as in a lover of chinese food, women and culture. No, I mean he thinks he's slit-eyed, small-cocked, straight-haired proper Asian. This guy wants nothing more than to be told the secrets of your culture and language. Indulge him in his moronic quest for Eastern enlightenment and you will soon find yourself a VP. Then get together with the other Desis and the Triads and send him into retirement in Tibet.
2. Chuck Norris
This badly dressed, weather beaten monstrosity is from some obscure part of a Western country. All his millions have not changed his outlook on life or on personal hygiene. Despite management pressure and the racial integration guidebooks, he still thinks of Vietnam when he sees Orientals and Apu when he sees Indians. The best way to play Mr. American-History-X is to behave like the Asian manservant that he thinks you are. Eventually you'll find yourself doing so much of his work that you can fit seamlessly into his role when he retires to fuck cowboys down in Montana.
3. The White Chris Tucker
This harmless Westerner's only view of Asians are as comic fodder. There is no real racism in his mind, its just that we look/smell/sound fucking hilarious. He has no objection to working with Asians, eating Asian food or boning Asian women. In short, he is the perfect boss or teammate and you will eventually use him as the investor front man for your hedge fund.
Quote of the Day
Me: "Dude, why is Japan up 3% on no news?"
Director, in wise tone: "More buyers than sellers son".
Director, in wise tone: "More buyers than sellers son".
Monday, May 26, 2008
Buying Self-Worth at IFC Mall
Once a month, atleast, the shocking truth of a trader's sole purpose on earth hits him/her/it in the head. We ask a simple, yet terrifying question of ourselves: why do I do this shitty job?
Well, its obvious. We work, and thus live, for the acquistion, storage and spending of money. The last of these three phases is the most important. Without this vital release, we are angry Monarchs, potent with pent-up purchasing power, straining at our emotions and our fears. Occasionally, we roar in fury and buckle the knees of the plebians and patricians of retail alike. We ride towards the city, our chariots kicking up the dust in the face of those who meekly follow.
The grand palace of the Hong Kong retail experience is the IFC Mall in the centre of the city. All the brands conceived in the minds of cynical style-mongers, genius homosexuals and every combination in between, is housed in this elegant intersection of glass, marble and steel. Housing thousands of people at any one time, it still exudes a reverent hush. For good reason. It is here that lives are given meaning.
My first visit was to my trusty Brooks Brothers store. I had noticed that every second managing director had checked shirts. Not the ones you can buy on the streets of Madras, but rather creations sculpted by warrior gnobes in the forests of Sweden. I settled for the non-iron, poplin produce of dexterous Filipino hands. Two window-pane shirts and HKD 1500 later, I was feeling the first head rush of retail emancipation.
In search of further freedom from mental slavery (didja catch the Marley reference), I entered the home of an old friend, Armani Exchange. I had not bought a whisper-thin, peruvian cotton, brazen be-logoed T-shirt since college and I picked up two just for old time's sake. I will wear them when I feel good about my body as well as my soul. I had fulfilled my quest, my heart was lighter and my spirit soared.
My last purchase was a pair of D&G aviator sunglasses. They were something I really did need. The sun shines much brighter up above the clouds.
Well, its obvious. We work, and thus live, for the acquistion, storage and spending of money. The last of these three phases is the most important. Without this vital release, we are angry Monarchs, potent with pent-up purchasing power, straining at our emotions and our fears. Occasionally, we roar in fury and buckle the knees of the plebians and patricians of retail alike. We ride towards the city, our chariots kicking up the dust in the face of those who meekly follow.
The grand palace of the Hong Kong retail experience is the IFC Mall in the centre of the city. All the brands conceived in the minds of cynical style-mongers, genius homosexuals and every combination in between, is housed in this elegant intersection of glass, marble and steel. Housing thousands of people at any one time, it still exudes a reverent hush. For good reason. It is here that lives are given meaning.
My first visit was to my trusty Brooks Brothers store. I had noticed that every second managing director had checked shirts. Not the ones you can buy on the streets of Madras, but rather creations sculpted by warrior gnobes in the forests of Sweden. I settled for the non-iron, poplin produce of dexterous Filipino hands. Two window-pane shirts and HKD 1500 later, I was feeling the first head rush of retail emancipation.
In search of further freedom from mental slavery (didja catch the Marley reference), I entered the home of an old friend, Armani Exchange. I had not bought a whisper-thin, peruvian cotton, brazen be-logoed T-shirt since college and I picked up two just for old time's sake. I will wear them when I feel good about my body as well as my soul. I had fulfilled my quest, my heart was lighter and my spirit soared.
My last purchase was a pair of D&G aviator sunglasses. They were something I really did need. The sun shines much brighter up above the clouds.
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