Don't be alarmed, the lack of posts in recent months has nothing to do with the global credit crisis. We just had better things to do. But we do realize that your lives just are not the same if you can't live vicariously through us so we will resume posting about our lavish lifestyles and extravagant soirees. After all, we're already carrying the global economy our backs, so what's a little extra weight for us?
I know, how selfless of us.
So here is a collection of events and thoughts from the past months...
REMEMBER THAT TIME WE WANTED TO BUY A HORSE?
Once upon a time, a small group of young financiers were joking about owning a race horse one day.
Done, no big deal. Next challenge.
Indeed, five of us are now owners of Brahm's Opus, a two year old thoroughbred form Florida. Brahm's has a bright future and has been training at Woodbine for several months now. Without getting into the specifics, we expect his winnings to finance the equity portion of our LBO of Ford next year.
To be frank, we do question Brahm's ability to generate alpha, considering that over the past four months he's had shin splints, his testicles surgically removed (to be clear here, we don't care about what this means for him - we're concerned that he lost half his value because he can't be used for breeding once his illousrious racing career is over), is now referred to as "Opie" by our trainer, and wears blinders to prance around the practice track. Not exactly the Hidalgo we were hoping for but who cares? Have you ever heard of a better opening line at a board meeting then "yeah, i don't know... I'm a little nervous because my thoroughbred has shin splints and has fallen behind on his training regiment"? I didn't think so. I guess we'll have to dig into our bowl of change for the Ford LBO.
So here we are, impatiently waiting for Brahm's to compete in his first race. We won't update you on what's happening with him though: Just look for the Winners' Circle picture with 5 drunk idiots clad in searsucker from head to toe with ascots and canes in any of your favorite thoroughbred periodicals.
Oh, and we'll also be carrying a small Brazilan man in tight pants and knee boots.
I'M SO HAPPY
Those are the only words my roommate (note to self: I don't think I should be using that word anymore as it's not very accurate. Too working class. Look into something like luxurycondominiummate) was able to utter after he informed me that Brooks Brothers was opening it's first store in Toronto. Sure, the store isn't slatted to open before 2010, but the anticipation is already palpable amongst Bay Street's finest.
See, Brooks Brothers is by no means an egregiously expensive store, but it has managed to lodge itself at the very center of the pompous and chauvinistic style financiers of all ages have come to embrace. When you put on a pair of their Nantucket red flat front chinos which you complement perfectly with a pastel oxford shirt, a thin novelty tie, and a country club navy blazer, it doesn't matter what your actual name is: you become Chester Willingham IV, descendant of a legion of wealthy American industrialists.
When wearing Brooks Brothers, you belong to an elite group of fine gentleman who enjoy polo and falconry, not basketball and poker.
When appropriately attired, it doesn't matter if you're stuck on the 115 on your way to your parents' cabin in Peterborough, or if you're in line to get shawarma while you wait for Dunbar to finish printing off your impeccably formatted deck. You feel as though you're sipping whisky (single malt) poured from an assuming, yet surprisingly heavy, decanter into a thick-rimmed glass, sitting on your yatch, sharing stories about your eye opening voyages to North Africa with your colleagues.
Of course, some will go over the top, and they will be laughed at like non-for-profits at a Wharton MBA information session but, just like an arbitrage opportunity, those will quickly vanish as they get pushed out by the BSD's of the Street.
It might take a quarter or two, but the financial district will look better once Brooks Brothers gets here.
I HAVEN'T GONE SLUMMIN' IN A WHILE
Ever wanted to go out so hard, and go to such sketchy places, that you find out the next day that you're half naked on Merlin Bronques' site? I'm so f'n urban that most of you probably don't know what I'm talking about here, but don't worry too much: I knew about Facebook before ICQ took off.
Recently, I've had the urge not to shave or shower for two weeks, put on my skinny jeans and slightly clashing jean jacket, come up with provocative rethoric on what it means to be independant in today's society and go out with a vengeance:
I want to do shots while riding a donkey.
I want to drink foreign beer with a Kiss cover band comprised of midgets only.
I want to be at a foam party where you have to drink the foam to avoid drowning.
I want to party with bearded women.
I want my pareto efficiency decision to be between using my right arm to fight off a cobra or using it to shake hands with Damien Hirst (go ahead, look him up).
I want to drink absinth with a pack or Turkish nomads.
I want to make Andrew W. K's parties feel like elementary school dances.
I want to, just for once, wake during the night and be in a DSquared ad.
And then, I want to wake up in the morning in an ever weirder high fashion ad.
I also want to ask what country I'm in when I wake up, and then have never heard of it when I finally find someone who speaks one of the six languages and nine dialects I'm fluent in.
Is that too much to ask?
I guess so, because when I go out, none of this happens. Without fail, I end up in respectable establishments where buying bottles is more important that smashing them on your head. Places that people have heard of and where woman all look the same, down to the tattoos.
Civilized nightlife sucks, but at least I have all my limbs and a decent shot at making it past 30.
I know, how selfless of us.
So here is a collection of events and thoughts from the past months...
REMEMBER THAT TIME WE WANTED TO BUY A HORSE?
Once upon a time, a small group of young financiers were joking about owning a race horse one day.
Done, no big deal. Next challenge.
Indeed, five of us are now owners of Brahm's Opus, a two year old thoroughbred form Florida. Brahm's has a bright future and has been training at Woodbine for several months now. Without getting into the specifics, we expect his winnings to finance the equity portion of our LBO of Ford next year.
To be frank, we do question Brahm's ability to generate alpha, considering that over the past four months he's had shin splints, his testicles surgically removed (to be clear here, we don't care about what this means for him - we're concerned that he lost half his value because he can't be used for breeding once his illousrious racing career is over), is now referred to as "Opie" by our trainer, and wears blinders to prance around the practice track. Not exactly the Hidalgo we were hoping for but who cares? Have you ever heard of a better opening line at a board meeting then "yeah, i don't know... I'm a little nervous because my thoroughbred has shin splints and has fallen behind on his training regiment"? I didn't think so. I guess we'll have to dig into our bowl of change for the Ford LBO.
So here we are, impatiently waiting for Brahm's to compete in his first race. We won't update you on what's happening with him though: Just look for the Winners' Circle picture with 5 drunk idiots clad in searsucker from head to toe with ascots and canes in any of your favorite thoroughbred periodicals.
Oh, and we'll also be carrying a small Brazilan man in tight pants and knee boots.
I'M SO HAPPY
Those are the only words my roommate (note to self: I don't think I should be using that word anymore as it's not very accurate. Too working class. Look into something like luxurycondominiummate) was able to utter after he informed me that Brooks Brothers was opening it's first store in Toronto. Sure, the store isn't slatted to open before 2010, but the anticipation is already palpable amongst Bay Street's finest.
See, Brooks Brothers is by no means an egregiously expensive store, but it has managed to lodge itself at the very center of the pompous and chauvinistic style financiers of all ages have come to embrace. When you put on a pair of their Nantucket red flat front chinos which you complement perfectly with a pastel oxford shirt, a thin novelty tie, and a country club navy blazer, it doesn't matter what your actual name is: you become Chester Willingham IV, descendant of a legion of wealthy American industrialists.
When wearing Brooks Brothers, you belong to an elite group of fine gentleman who enjoy polo and falconry, not basketball and poker.
When appropriately attired, it doesn't matter if you're stuck on the 115 on your way to your parents' cabin in Peterborough, or if you're in line to get shawarma while you wait for Dunbar to finish printing off your impeccably formatted deck. You feel as though you're sipping whisky (single malt) poured from an assuming, yet surprisingly heavy, decanter into a thick-rimmed glass, sitting on your yatch, sharing stories about your eye opening voyages to North Africa with your colleagues.
Of course, some will go over the top, and they will be laughed at like non-for-profits at a Wharton MBA information session but, just like an arbitrage opportunity, those will quickly vanish as they get pushed out by the BSD's of the Street.
It might take a quarter or two, but the financial district will look better once Brooks Brothers gets here.
I HAVEN'T GONE SLUMMIN' IN A WHILE
Ever wanted to go out so hard, and go to such sketchy places, that you find out the next day that you're half naked on Merlin Bronques' site? I'm so f'n urban that most of you probably don't know what I'm talking about here, but don't worry too much: I knew about Facebook before ICQ took off.
Recently, I've had the urge not to shave or shower for two weeks, put on my skinny jeans and slightly clashing jean jacket, come up with provocative rethoric on what it means to be independant in today's society and go out with a vengeance:
I want to do shots while riding a donkey.
I want to drink foreign beer with a Kiss cover band comprised of midgets only.
I want to be at a foam party where you have to drink the foam to avoid drowning.
I want to party with bearded women.
I want my pareto efficiency decision to be between using my right arm to fight off a cobra or using it to shake hands with Damien Hirst (go ahead, look him up).
I want to drink absinth with a pack or Turkish nomads.
I want to make Andrew W. K's parties feel like elementary school dances.
I want to, just for once, wake during the night and be in a DSquared ad.
And then, I want to wake up in the morning in an ever weirder high fashion ad.
I also want to ask what country I'm in when I wake up, and then have never heard of it when I finally find someone who speaks one of the six languages and nine dialects I'm fluent in.
Is that too much to ask?
I guess so, because when I go out, none of this happens. Without fail, I end up in respectable establishments where buying bottles is more important that smashing them on your head. Places that people have heard of and where woman all look the same, down to the tattoos.
Civilized nightlife sucks, but at least I have all my limbs and a decent shot at making it past 30.
