If we were those glass half empty types, we’d probably be saying something like, “Fantastic. Not only is it a Monday but in light of the fact that we’ve theoretically signed on to cover anything and everything Wall Street Warriors-related, we’ve got to sit through nearly thirty minutes of this claptrap, waste a perfectly good Post-it every time Rich Taglianetti says something to Sandy Navidi that’s mildly leering but makes for a good “and you’ll never believe what Rich Tag said next!” and spend an hour of our lives that we’ll never get back—never!—writing this thing up like we have nothing better to do with our time,” right about now. If we were those glass half empty types. Well sorry, Schopenhauer, but you’re looking at a bunch of glass half full, Auschwitz was a bit of a bitch but at least we got some Oscars out of it type gals. So, instead, we’re sitting here saying to no one in particular (we don’t get many visitors in the DB Janitorial Closet, it’s sort of damp and noxious-fume smelling), “Fantastic. It’s a Monday and in light of the fact that we’ve theoretically signed on to cover anything and everything Wall Street Warriors related, we get to sit through nearly thirty minutes of this adorable little look at Dubya Street, use our really cute pink Post-its, and write up what was thirty minutes of our lives we’d pay good money to relive if things like that were possible. Plus, we can’t think of anything better to do with our time!” For those of you who’d like to stop by the DB JC after work and go through our Post-its in chorological order, you’re more than welcome. The password is ‘Ben Affleck.’ Everyone else (who’d misguidedly pass up such an opportunity)—read on. (Christian Slater-->)
Bob Nunn, AMEX specialist and D.Breaker favorite, is first at bat and he’s got something important he wants to get off his chest: “Wall Street gets a bad name. There are real people down here with real emotions and real passions.” Well said, Bobby. We couldn’t agree more. (Although, in the interest of full disclosure, Bob could tell us “I get my kicks beating up puppies” and we’d nod in blind agreement. So perhaps you shouldn’t look to us for Bob-related guidance, so to speak).
In another part of town, trader Tim Sykes is waiting for his mother to come “clean [my apartment] and replenish my water supplies.” She drives two and half to three hours several times a month to perform these tasks. We can’t help feeling a little bad about the fact that our mom doesn’t care about our hydration as much as Mrs. Sykes. “She’s kind of my personal slave,” he tells us. Christ did we get the raw end of the deal in the mom department; Paula doesn’t even let us refer to her as “the help.” Tim’s roommate prepares his meals, as his mommy is “not that good a cook.”
Meanwhile, fund manager Parker Quillen is hot on the trail of a jeans company that may be selling its $250 products in…the Bronx. Quillen thinks they have an inventory problem they won’t admit to and is headed north to see if any of the “B and C” list stores are carrying the denim in question. We suspect PQ’s really just trying to find a cheap tube top to go clubbing in tonight but we’ll go with his story for the time being (but if we’re right we’d suggest that you look no further than your local Strawberry’s, Quills).
Over at a restaurant that’s got to be Harry’s, Rich and Sandy are discussing R’s desire for a young short-biased trader in his/her twenties. Rich Tag is known for pairing wealthy investor with hot, undiscovered mangers, and he’s depending on Sandy to go wrangle him some of the latter. For example, he once found and reeled in a guy who developed a trading program based on the migratory routes of elephants in Africa. So basically you could walk into any Cosi in midtown and find one of these chaps.
Back at Tim’s, we’re informed by the man himself that the reason he works out of his apartment is that he’s “a cheap Jew.” Does the WSW’s editor have Machiavellian tendencies that cause him to string together damning out-of-context sound bytes from young Mr. Sykes or does Tim believe the stereotype that the chosen people land on the frugal side of the spectrum? These are questions we’re willing to use some elbow grease to get to the bottom of, but later. We’ve got a stack of coupons sitting in front of us and they’re not going to clip themselves.
Down the hall, Mother Sykes is cleaning the kitchen and finds a pair of handcuffs in a utensils drawer. Apparently not one to shy away from an awkward conversation with her son about his sex life, she walks into the living room/office and asks, “Um, what are these?”
“I won them at Dave & Buster’s, leave me alone, I’m down five grand!” Tims yells without making (what would obviously be) uncomfortable at best eye contact. If there’s one thing we’ve always said it’s “Never let the help help itself to your goody drawer.”
During the brief interlude that is “Street Talk,” Trader Monthly’s Andrew Barber informs: “The Gekko is a blue shirt with a white collar, popularized by Michael Douglas in the movie Wall Street.” No one wants to admit to owning one of these things, but “everyone’s got one in the back of their closet. As in, hey man, you gonna wear your Gekko?”
Back at (what we’re just going to say is) Harry’s, Rich tells Sandy that people are attracted to her initially and she’s got good follow-through. “Your biggest challenge is going to be to fend off the wedding proposals!” he says to a blushing Sands. We find this to be a particularly manipulative trick on the part of whoever’s in charge of splicing together scenes for “On the next episode of Wall Street Warriors,” because at the end of episode two we were made to believe that Sandy, who is looking to get married and have a family, will be proposed to at some point in the next show. So thanks for toying with our emotions, whoever’s in charge of splicing together scenes for “On the next episode of Wall Street Warriors.” Thanks a lot.
Up in the Bronx, Quillen finds that his instincts were not lying to him. “This is supposed to be an exclusive product, and there are at least a hundred of them in these stores,” he tells the cameraman with what seems like a little satisfaction for giving Nancy Drew a run for her money. “They’re right in the window!” he yells trying to hide his glee. We almost expect Quillen to say something to the effect of “Like shooting a fish in a barrel!” or exactly that. But he says neither.
A clean and handcuffed stocked apartment under his belt, Tim’s on his way to meeting his friends at the Waldorf-Astoria. They all work in finance and the average age at the table is 24. On making money, Tim muses, “It’s like hooking up with girls, when you’re not looking for it just happens.”
Around the salad course, a heated debate breaks out, in regards to the phrase “Fuck You, Money!” (As in, I can do whatever I want, I’ve got enough clams in the bank money).
Friend of Tim 1 thinks that: “$500,000 a year, is ‘Fuck You, Money’.”
Friend of Tim 2 disagrees: “No way, ‘Fuck You, Money’ is twenty million.”
Friend of Tim 1 counters: “Listen, at $500,000 a year you can send your kids to college, you can have a nice house, you can give your daughter braces.”
Friend of Tim 3 ups the ante (just for upping the ante’s sake, we think): “No, $200 million is ‘Fuck You, Money’.”
Friend of Tim 4 adds: "You can't get a jet at $20 million."
Friend of Tim 1, rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic quietly offers: “At $500,000 you’re leading a nice, good middle class life.”
Having had enough of this ludicrous discussion (and clearly trying to get the incompetent waitress’s attention so that he might order his crème brûlée), the Grand High Poobah at the table swoops in and shuts everyone up: “At $500,000 a year you can’t blow $20,000 on a stripper. Have fun with your daughter’s braces and your middle class Florida trailer home, [Friend of Tim 1].”