The latest issue of the New Yorker has a lengthy piece on the Tan Man (more on hue in a sec), who apparently is not doing so well of late. He has very few friends left (Big Al is of course still pulling for the guy and vice versa, along with Stan O'Neal and Jimmy Cayne AKA the Circle Jerk of Doom, which meets monthly to fuck the corpse of Ayn Rand). He's received "numerous" death threats. He's been forced to cut off the New York Times, the LA Times, and the Wall Street Journal, on account of what he believes is unfair coverage. (In what must be the greatest rousing endorsement of all time, Mozilo continues to read the Financial Times, which we're thinking the Brits should incorporate into their tagline.) Most heartbreakingly, one former employee notes that Moz-y-boy rarely "flashes that $10,000 watt smile" anymore. Basically, all he really does these days is amble around his "large Spanish-style house in a guarded gated community at the Sherwood Country Club," where he reflects on the past. Like being mistaken for a black man.
As his sister, Lori, told me, "Angelo said, 'Nobody wants to work with you. Nobody wants to work with me. Let's do it to-gether.' He was always this Italian guy
people didn't want to accept." She went on, "When he tans he gets really dark. My mother told me that when he worked in Florida he was asked to sit in the back of the bus."