Global Inflation!

Global inflation is a major downer. Yield curves have flattened globally. Those Europeans are really making a show of their upcoming rate hikes. The US is not nearly in the same position, yet the US curve has flattened more than any other! I like the US yield curve being flat as much as I like my women being flat. That being said, I like inflation about as much as I like my women inflated. I'd rather have flat than inflationary, I suppose. . . Really, when it comes down to it, we just need natural, full and shapely curves with very low inflation. Why can't we just have it all?

New Year's Eve

New year's eve has always struck me as a rather arbitrary holiday. Just because it's arbitrary, however, does not mean you can't take advantage of it. Every lonely skank is looking for someone with whom to "bring in the new year." As I like to remind girls as I speak to them on NYE, "how you spend new year's eve is how you'll spend the rest of the year. "

2pm rolled around, early close for new year's. I saw my boss pick up his bag and go, of course his bag was already packed by the time the clock struck 2. I leaned back in my chair and used my mini-baseball bat to hit a line on my turret.

"Lehman." Some guy picked up.

"Put Emily on the line." I ordered. A brief pause followed.

"This is Emily."

"How're you doing? You sound like you just sprinted the length of your floor."

"I'm building the last few trades from our swaps desk and ran around the desk to pick you up."

"Put that guy back on the line."

"This is John."

"John, go build those trades that Emily was building and put her back on"

"Uh. . . okay."

"What'd you say to him?" Emily got back on the line.

"Nothing, so what's the plan tonight? Pre-game at my buddy's, new year's eve at Socialista and new year's day at my place?" I figured we might as well cut to the chase.

"You didn't say nothing." Emily retorted. Why do girls get so caught up in the details and miss the important parts?

"I told him if he didn't build the trades for you that you'd start stripping on the trading floor. He got so scared he jumped off the line and asked to build your trades. At least I assume that's what happened."

"Haha, very funny."

"He did ask to build your trades, right?"

"Yea, but. . ." She hesitated just a moment too long.

"See, he did get scared. No matter, I'd welcome your stripping at my place after Socialista tonight. You coming?"

"You're going to Socialista?" She asked. Hadn't I already mentioned this twice? You sometimes have to wonder how many times they need to confirm to get things through their head.

"Yes, pre-game at my buddy's, Socialista for New year's eve and new year's day at my place. You in?"

"Of course!"

"Good, I'll have a car pick you up at 10. See you then." I tapped the release button with my bat. Looking around at the floor, people were emptying out quickly. The fixed income side was nearly empty although the equity side was still full. Those equity schmucks don't get early closes. How sad. Entirely too bad, but you can't help but laugh at them for having chosen equity as their profession. At least it's not as bad as FX though--they never get days off for all practicality. I pulled up my blotter for the day to make sure everything was entered correctly and walked it over to my TA.

"You got New Year's plans, rookie?" I asked.

"Yea, a few of my friends are having a rooftop party." He answered. Doubtlessly some analyst at a bank was throwing together something on top of his Gold st apartment or something. Either that or he has some hipster friend in Brooklyn who are going to be drinking Korbel at midnight thinking they're being classy. They doubtlessly wouldn't be able to afford heat-lamps for said party. . .

"In this freezing cold? Seriously? A rooftop party?"

"Yea, it should be fun. Lots of people. You can come if you want." The eager analyst smiled, probably to try to gain a few extra points.

"Not my thing. I like my New Year's parties warm, indoors, brimming with Dom,Krug and with models looking to get lucky."

"What's Krug?"

"Google it, kid. And have fun at your party tonight. Don't forget, you're a trader now. You get your shit done when you're at that party. Take risk and take home the reward." The kid responded with a shit-eating grin. They love it when you call them traders. The TAs all walk the street saying they're traders anyway. Only after they actually start taking risk on their own book do they finally realize the stark difference between a trader and a TA. Oh well, let him live his fantasy for a night. It could only help him.




10pm rolled around and my friend Dave's place already looked like they were ready to host the after-party. His loft had cocktail waitresses wandering around in skin-tight black tube-tops that left little to the imagination pouring champagne into any empty glass that wasn't on someone's lips. Dave walked over with his arms draped over a couple of them. Apparently they weren't just hired to serve drinks.

"Hey, you made it." He greeted me. "You need a drink and a lady." He snapped his fingers at one of the girls with a bottle and a glass found my hand within seconds. I roamed the room a bit. The usual crowd was there. Many traders and salespeople from the street. Some standouts: Rick, the ambiguously gay salesperson who swears he's straight (but has never had a girlfriend). John, the guy who regularly dates strippers with large fake boobs. Alice, the first stripper John "befriended." Roger who has filtered through his third nickname--I think the latest was 'Skippy.' I did the usual meet and greets and then ran into her.

She was six-foot two, blonde and gorgeous. While she was tall, she was dwarfed by her six-foot four friend. Both were wearing heels. Now while most guys might be intimidated by this, I found it stunning. Now I'm not a tall guy. I'm five-foot ten, rather geeky looking and a scrawny frame. I am, however, a trader. Good traders have taught themselves to separate emotion from action, and above all that they have the ability to get anything right. The greatest thing about being a trader is that things like approaching women no longer qualify as risk. Risk is flinging billions of dollars in the face of a market blow-up. Approaching a couple women with legs that go on forever--a mere diversion.

"Hey, are you two strippers?" Always keep them on their toes.

"What? What makes you think we're strippers?"

"Sorry, wasn't sure. My friend John over there only dates strippers, I thought you had come here with him." It was obvious they weren't strippers. They didn't have huge fake boobs the way John would have liked them. I carried on the conversation for a while. The highlights were that they were both models in for the holidays. I waved over one of my salesepeople and introduced him. "Matt! Hey, Matt, good to see you. Meet Allison and Christie. They're lesbian."

"No we're not!" They both exclaimed at once.

"Okay, they're not, but they should be." I continued and leaned over to Matt's ear, "give me a hand and pull Christie's attention away for a while, will you?" It's always good to have a wing-mate. After a bit more conversation I managed to isolate Allison to one of the couches as she talked about her dreams and goals--none of which I remember. Finally she got around to asking,

"So what do you do?"

"I train monkeys." Eh, it might as well have been true.

"No you don't."

"Are you mocking my profession?"

"You obviously don't train monkeys." She giggled as she gave me a light shove.

"What's wrong with training monkeys? I love training monkeys."

"What do you really do?"

"I'm a male stripper." She giggled more.

"No you're not. Tell me what you really do." At this point she had her arm around me and was basically begging for it.

"I'm a trader. I trade prop for a bank." She let out a moan that I imagined she would give as she reached orgasm. "Whoa, there. Try to contain yourself." I gave her a light push away as if I was going to get up.

"Wait, don't go. That world fascinates me. You know, I'm all in fashion and such, so I love it when I meet guys who are all into math and do that stuff." She obviously had no clue what she was talking about, but her blonde hair brushing by my face reminded me that it really didn't matter. I decided I was ready for the night to end. She put her hand on my shoulder, "so what do you think of the market? Long or short?" Apparently she was ready for the night to end too.

We took a cab back to my place. Right as my clock struck midnight she let out a moan, as if to celebrate the new year.

It was the same moan she let out earlier that night.

Got Rice Bitch?

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We are what we say

Some semi-recent conversations and quotes:

Boss1: "The best time to leave the party is when you're having the most fun."
Me: "You only say that because when you're having the most fun is when you finally convince some chick to go home with you."
Boss1: "That is a pretty good time to leave the party."
Me: "Aren't you married?"
Boss1: "Only when I'm home."

Me: "Yea that guy's an idiot, I'm short his pay two years forward."
Dude: "You can talk, I'd be short your pay now. There are so many people ready to fire you."
Chick: "You know, that's probably dangerous. If I were to place a bet on his career, I'd buy a straddle."
Me: "You mean you'd like to straddle me. That's not the same as buying a straddle."
Chick: giggles "very funny, I mean I'd buy vol on your pay."
Me: "I like the straddle idea better."
Chick: "You're either going to get fired for saying things like that or you're going to end up very rich."
Me: "And if you straddle me you can take part in the upside."

Chick: "Make love to me."
Me: "Uh. . . no."
. . . silence. . .
Chick: "Sometimes I think you turn down sex just to be different."
Me: "Sometimes, yes. But sometimes there are better reasons."
Chick: "What's that supposed to mean?"
Me: "I just said that to be different."

Chick: "You could get so much more ass if you weren't such an ass."
Me: "Really."
Chick: "Yes, and you know it too! That's what's so frustrating!"
Me: "I dont think I want more ass. I tend to like my girls asses quite small. More is not better."
Chick: "You know what I mean."
Me: "You're just trying to convince me not to be an ass so that I would sleep with your big ass."
Chick: "I'm never talking to you agian."
Me: "That's a lie."
Chick: "No! It's not!"
Me: "See, you just talked to me again."
--I haven't heard from this girl since--

Boss2: "It's contageous like the clap!"

Me: "We should buy the spread."
Boss3: "Which spread?"
silence
Boss3: "hey, which spread?"
Me: ". . . That one." pointing to a girl
Boss3: "You know she's lesbian, right?" (whispering)
Me: "Really? No way! No wonder there's no offer. I'd so overpay for that spread." (Not whispering)

Me: "I'd like three jack and diets and your number."
Bartender: "Three jack and diets. My number's on the back of the receipt."
Me: "Wow, I can't believe that worked."

Hollow-een

Five p.m. came around on Halloween and I hit a random direct line on my phone turret.
"So you dressed up today?" I asked when the twenty-something chick that picked up the phone. I figured she was probably blonde and coke-addict thin by the way her tone spiked up so high at the end of her sentences, like crude oil when Bush moves more warships into the Gulf. The green light lit up next to the "DB" button just beyond my foot told me this particular girl worked at Deutche Bank (correctly pronounced "douche bank").
"Of course, it's Halloween! I didn't know you guys dressed up too!" Of course we don't. No self-respecting trader would dress up, but only a losing trader would give up crucial information when on the phone with the sell-side. That's why we're buy side and they're sell side.
"What're you dressed as?"
"An angel." Ah, the clincher. Perfect.
"I knew I liked you. You going out tonight?"
"Yea, a couple friends and I were going to go out. Wanna join us?"
"How about you join me. I have a table reserved at the Box."
"You're done." It's so cute when salespeople emulate traders. I smiled--this could be a good Halloween after all. The CSFB line rang on my turret and I had my TA pick it up. He yelled over that it was Rob. Our CSFB salesperson, Rob, is an old guy who should have been retired if he were any good at his job. Then again, he probably wouldn't be at CSFB if he were any good at his job. I figured I had no interest in answering his line past 5pm unless he was going to offer his first daughter to me as soon as she turned eighteen next month.
"Tell him I'm busy trading away from him in size." Come tomorrow he'd be calling every ten minutes wondering why we didn't call him for our trades today. Good--he should have to work for his sales credits.

Slapped my TA on the back and wished him a happy Halloween. We really ought to pay these guys more I thought as my hand separated from his analyst-fresh Gap shirt. At least enough to buy himself some second-rate clothes at Brooks Brothers. Oh well, we need them to dream, I guess. I looked at my trading log for the day and smiled. Not too shabby for a day's work.

Some buddies and I were shooting some pool at around 9pm at a local bar while watching some overly slutty looking police officers and nurses walk by together.
"Quit watching the scenery and shoot some pool." My buddy complained.
"You're just irritated that you're down three grand already, oh wait make that four," as I sank the eight-ball yet again.
"You're getting lucky."
"Yea, that's why I get paid, cuz I'm lucky." I rolled my eyes again, having heard this a million times from all sorts of risk people, washed out traders and bankers. I chalked up my cue paying attention not to get any on my Charles Tyrwihht shirt hanging over my jeans as an oddly short visibly minority guy stood around a few feet away. His all-too-big off the rack suit and helmet-head gelled hair made him look far too obviously retail-banker posing as someone important. I shook my head, sad that such people were frequenting my bar of choice when he looked over and stuck his hand out importantly.
"I'm Sam." he said in surprisingly unaccented English--as if anyone cared who he was. "I can't believe everyone's dressed so casually here. I just got off work! You guys live around here?" I looked him up and down--mostly down. His pointy black shoes that looked like they were picked up at a Payless Shoes in Jersey looked almost as ridiculous as the giant moo moo of a suit he was wearing.
"No, people hang out on a Wednesday at a local pub shooting pool in Manhattan when they don't live here. Who the fuck are you." I responded, almost sickened that this little brown turd was talking to me.
"I work for a small bank, you might have heard of it." He said while using his index finger and thumb to depict what could only be the approximate length of his dick. "It's called Bank of America?" I almost burst out laughing. Apparently this guy didn't know that his job was the laughing stock of the street, only behind of UBS and Wachovia at this point in the laughing stock rankings although Citi is getting close. UBS guys were probably still on the train making it back from their ghetto in Connecticut and who knows what Wachovia guys do down in Charlotte--they probably attend bible study after work or something. So as far as jokes that walk into a bar, he was about as funny as they got. Probably some kid who grew up in the South and thought he was a big shot in the Big Apple now. I almost felt sorry for him, except I didn't. I did, however, refrain from pointing out how pathetic it was that his suit overemphasized his shortness, and how his being in i-banking but getting out before midnight emphasized that he worked for the least respected sweat-shop on the street. I can be so kind sometimes. . . I even amaze myself. I returned, polishing my cue as another set of scantily clad angels and devils walked into the bar and shed their jackets. I winked at one of the angels before turning toward the table to win my next thousand.

Half an hour and a couple grand later, I was looking to waive down a waitress dressed as a stripper or something (apparnetly the Halloween costume of choice this year was "stripper" followed by "skank" and "whore").
"Another round for us and a four. . . looks like cosmopolitans for those angels over there." I said looking over my Versace glasses at our neighbors dressed as divine entities. Unfortunately their angelic and devilish powers couldn't keep our short friend from BofA away from them. I figured I'd help out their cause a bit. Again, I can be so kind sometimes. . . sigh. . .

Time came around to go to the Box, so we had to bid our little angels good-bye (of course not before getting a few numbers--just in case my salesperson was up for a three-some later). We cabbed it down to the Box, where I met my salesperson and a couple of other girls also in various sales roles (although not all of them are my whor--I mean, not all of them cover me). The Box was the one place where you couldn't really tell if it was Halloween or if that was just the normal state of things. Girls dressed as strippers was pretty much the norm there.

I dropped my salesperson back off at the office at the end of the night. Not a bad night after all.