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In Which The Reality Of The Financial Crisis Finally Penetrates Our Pysche

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I feel sick to my stomach and you will too approximately two seconds from now, twenty for the slower reading (but big hearted!) members of the audience. There's an almost unbearable sadness about this permeating the DBHQ. Here's why: Carl Icahn has been forced to put his yacht up for sale. The activist investor is seeking $37 million for what many have said he considers the fruit of his loins, the Starfire, which CityFile notes he'd started renting out for $250,000 week several months ago. Apparently, that just wasn't cutting it. I don't even know what to do here. I thought fund failure John Devaney was just an aberration but now Carl? Why, God? No, fuck that, I don't even believe in God anymore. No God would allow this sort of thing to happen. And in what I hope has got to be some sort of sick joke, CNN is running a photograph of Jordan Belfort posing in front of a picture of a yacht, as if to imply that the "The Wolf of Wall Street" can no longer afford an actual tug boat. I would pray it's not true but, like I said before, this morning's news has stripped me of my faith.


The Art Of The Farewell

Not everyone gets to write a New York Times Op-Ed when they quit their job, however disaffected. It’s also easier to quit a job after twelve years of cashing investment banking paychecks. No matter how “morally bankrupt” Goldman Sachs is, Greg Smith isn’t giving his bonuses back. Unlike Smith, who quit his job on his own terms and got to publish most of his resume in the Times, most of corporate America isn’t as lucky – and almost everyone in corporate America really wants to quit their job. So what are you supposed to do if you can’t get any above-the-fold space in a major newspaper? You have to burn bridges the old fashioned way – by writing a farewell email.


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