From The Desk of John Crudele (Within the Bada Bing)


Dear Hank (or as the boys from the neighborhood call you, The Medicine Man),
How ya doin’?
Over the last 9 or so months, give or take a few sleeping fishes*, you did good. Maybe a little too good, if you catch my drift.
I’ll just get right to it—the boys: Sil, Cue ball Corzine, The Liquidator, me—don’t trust ya. And there’s talk that we’re gonna have to do something about it, this lack of trust. Are you picking up what I’m throwing down?
You, Hank, and your friends over on Broad Street—you’re all suspect. There are just too many ways for you and the Goldsteinowitzes to cheat the financial market. You’re in cahoots and that’s starting to create problems for me and my own. You don’t want to create problems for me and my own, do ya, Hank?
I put some of my boys on the job a few months back—I said “Get some answers so I don’t have to take out no made men.” They asked for some documents shredderfuckshitshredder—sorry, Tourette’s—from the President’s Working Group on Financial Markets—around these parts we’ve got a name for it—the Plunge Protection Team (I won’t get into how that name came about but I can tell you it had nothing to do with the WaPo; and also, that she was a most unsavory woman).

But guess what Hanky-boy? My boys never heard back. No call back, nothing. Not even a lie. I don’t think I need to tell you that this was very insulting.
So my boys tried again. And nothing. And now my boys are getting frustrated. And when my boys get frustrated I get frustrated, you don’t want to know what happens then, Hanky.
I know you’re up to something. You and your group, you’re trying to cook the books and claim it’s to the nation’s benefit but really you’re just in it for an in-ground pool and a new car for that wife of yours. I don’t trust you and your Wall Street buddies and your hedge fund cronies and the days February 27 and 28 and any marinara sauce that comes from a can. You know why. You sick fuck.
And maybe you could tell me why some shmuck named Paul Tudor Jonsie is being consulted by the PPT. Maybe you could explain that. Because if I don’t get some answers soon, someone’s going to start missing some knee-caps-- and I'm not speaking in euphemism.
Do it,
*Their chosen unit of measure.


Your Dream Gig: Now Within Reach

Back in the day, as in 2007, Wall Street compensated its employees in a way that made them feel loved. In a way that made them feel special. In a way that made the long hours, the constant stress, the soaring highs and the crashing lows, the verbal and sometimes physical abuse bearable. Now, obviously, not so much. Combine that with suffocating regulation and you've got a bunch of financial services hacks who are saying "I want out." Some, like the Goldman partners who've already made enough money to not have to work again, are simply retiring. Others are waiting to get fired. Yet other are seeking out the warm embrace of hedge funds. A lesser number, though, are using the shift as an opportunity to finally leap for that dream, be it baking cupcakes or slapping bare asses with branches. But about your dream? You know the one. The one you've never shared with a soul. The one that's always in the back of your head. The one that keeps you up at night. The has you giving the side-eye to the dog-walkers you see your neighborhood-- because it's not fair. YOU should be the one wrangling the packs of pups, masterfully juggling dozens of leashes at a time that you'd never let get knotted.  Unfortunately, because this is the world we live in, no one would ever give you a chance. Something about being overqualified for the job, they said, looking you up and down in your dress pants and blue button-down, smirking, thinking "Like this guy can command the respect of a bunch of bitches." Plus, you had a lifestyle to maintain and the golden handcuffs were still a serious draw. Now though, you've been unshackled. And you know all those little plastic bags you've been subconsciously saving under the sink for years, waiting for your moment to come? It's here now.