Like maybe now that he’s got all this free time on his hands, he should lace up his skates and whip the New York Islanders into shape? With his afternoons unoccupied for the next four years and his old Harvard game plans already dug out of the attic, the three-time Ivy League hockey champion is ready to teach these NHL underachievers a thing or two about working a puck. As for his consigliere Wilbur, she wouldn’t be caught dead in Minneapolis, but is happy to entertain offers to tickle the ivories in Brookklyn as Barclays Center organist. See Phil for dressing room demands. Read more »
Two years ago, like a modern day Noah, Nicholas Jacinto arrived at the townhouse of billionaire Phillip Falcone with a menagerie of exotic animals. He carted a sloth, a king snake, a lemur, a marmocet, a hedgehog and a Brazilian aardvark into the hedge fund king’s $50 million Upper East Side home to set up for a birthday party. Jacinto had been hired to provide the entertainment, displaying the rare critters to gawking guests. But before the show could start, city Health Department inspectors swooped in. They ticketed Jacinto, a state and federally licensed wildlife expert, for not having a city permit for the animals, and sent him packing back to his Long Island farm with his tail between his legs. “It was a huge embarrassment what the department did to me,” he recalled. –DNAinfo New York, January 21, 2014
Wilbur adjusted the towel around her head. She took a long drag off her Lucky Strike and stared out onto East 67th Street. Phil hated when she smoked in the house, so she’d cracked the bathroom window and had the fan going. But honestly, she didn’t much care what Phil thought right now.
Had she wanted to perform at the children’s birthday? No. Of course not. She wasn’t their monkey and she didn’t do children’s birthdays. But the fact that he’d made the call immediately after their fight felt especially cruel. Things weren’t great with them but she never thought he’d go out of his way to hurt her.
She flicked the rest of her cigarette out the window and stared at her pores in the mirror. Phil used to tease her for spending hours scrutinizing her skin. Lately, though, he hadn’t said anything. Maybe he was no longer paying attention. Maybe he’d noticed the fine lines where things were once smooth, and hoped she would, too. She knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help but feeling like he was trading her in for a new model.
There was a knock at the door. “Wilbur, can I come in?” Phil asked from the other side.
After all of their fights, the big ones and the small ones, no matter what had been said, no matter how many objects were thrown (Wilbur) or how many tears were shed (Phil), they’d always found their way back to each other eventually. Wilbur was still hurting, but she was ready to hear what Phil had to say, ready to move on. In a couple hours the guests would be arriving, and a little while after that they’d sing Happy Birthday and eat cake, and Wilbur would do her standard, “Are you one, are you two, are you three…” In spite of herself, she was actually looking a little bit forward to the animal display.
She opened the door, ready to reconcile. But Phil didn’t come in. He stood at the threshold, without a hint on contrition on his face or in his bearing. There was no sign that he’d been crying at all. Read more »
The light streaming into the hotel room blinded Wilbur. Or at least she thought it was a hotel room. She didn’t actually know where she was, or what time it was, or who the guy passed out next to her was. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had a pounding headache and that there was something sticking to the back of her knee. She reached down and peeled it off– a greasy crumpled up wrapper that judging by the smell once held a Taco Bell Gordita. Not that she could remember eating one, let alone doing so laying in bed next to a guy with a barbed wired tattoo inked around his arm, and then writing “If found call 555-9768 and ask for Phil” down his back with a tube of lipstick, though it was clearly her handwriting, her color, and her artistic sensibility in the stick figure drawings next to the note.
The phone on the nightstand lit up. Wilbur let it ring through. It lit up again. Who could possibly calling? Who knew she or man-of-unknown-origin were here? It lit up again. On the third ring she picked up.
“Good afternoon!” a too chipper voice said on the other line. “This is your wake-up call.”
“I asked for a wake-up call?” From the looks of things she knew she certainly needed a wake up call, but not the kind that phoned you from the front desk, the kind that said splashed cold water on your face and said, “Wake up and take stock of your life lady you are in a hotel room with a guy with a barbed wire tattoo laying in a bed surrounded, literally, by trash, from Taco Bell. You don’t know what city or state you’re in and while you’re mercifully fully clothed and don’t have to contemplate what the spawn of this night of wrongs might look like, it appears somewhere in your travels you acquired a Credence Clearwater shirt that you turned into a crop top.”
“Why yes ma’am you did.”
“What time is it?”
“12:37PM on the dot, the exact time you asked us to call.”
“Do you know why I asked for that time?”
“I wasn’t working when you checked in ma’am but let me check the notes. Let me see, it says here you told Bobby ‘Must be up by 12:37, no earlier, not later, have business to tend to. Do not fuck me on this Bobert. Are you writing this down Bobert? Make sure you’re writing this down.'”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Wilbur muttered under her breath.
“Sorry ma’m I didn’t catch that.”
24 hours earlier Read more »
Remember Phil Falcone? Hedge fund manager about yea high? Cuts his hair like he’s still playing professional hockey? Is betting the farm on a company called LightSquared that “seeks to create connectivity for all” but in doing so might “cost 794 lives in aviation accidents over 10 years with disruptions to satellite-aided navigation” and filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy last May? Anyway, LightSquared’s creditors were in court today asking for the right to go after Big Phil/Harbinger, who they believe screwed them big time. Read more »
It’s no secret that one of our favorite hedge fund wives is Lisa Maria Falcone. Whether she’s imploring bitches to throw their hands in air, hiring little people for her twin daughters’ birthday party, spooning her pet pig, or simply flitting about town in outfits that go from gladiator chic to deconstructed “Like A Virgin,” the woman is her own special brand of fabulous. LMF started keeping a considerably lower profile once her husband Phil’s hedge fund hit a streak of bad luck last year, though we always knew she’d be back. Unfortunately, we’d hoped the woman who does what she wants, haters of the Upper East Side be damned, would return to us with the news her production company was putting the finishing touches on Wilbur Falcone’s debut album or that she was launching a line of evening wear inspired by Merpeople and not this: Read more »
To put it lightly, the last couple years have been a rather dark time for Phil Falcone. Though his woes are too numerous to mention in full, they include: the adversity he’s faced in getting people to believe in LightSquared; his unbelievably pissy investors, who still aren’t over the time he borrowed $113 million from a gated fund to pay personal taxes, or offered to pay out redemptions in illiquid LightSquared equity; the Securities and Exchange Commission, which wants him barred from the industry; the woman who once offered a respite from it all, who now won’t even come out of her room when she knows he’s home; and, of course, the plunging returns in his once highly profitable hedge fund. It would be enough to make a grown man say ‘Fuck, it. I’m done.’ Put a few things in a sack, tie it to the blade of a hockey stick, and hitchhike back to Minnesota. But Phil didn’t do that and now? After a merciless storm of shit that felt like it would never ease up? After long days of investors and regulators breathing down his neck and nights of having to pound on the front door because he was accidentally purposely locked out of the house? The tide feels like it’s turning for Philip Falcone. Read more »
Can't nobody hold me down
Harbinger Global Corp is coming to an exchange near you. Read more »