The September Issue

I finally got around to seeing “The September Issue”, a documentary on the inner workings of producing and publishing the monthly Vogue. However, for those who are not familiar, the September issue of Vogue is generally the largest issue in weight and content that the magazine produces throughout the year. Why? “September is our January. The calendar start of the year for fashion.” While I’ve had a few bouts with the fashion world in the past, I’ve discounted 90% of the people who I’ve met as complete idiots, one shallower and stupider than the next. The Vogue documentary does a pretty decent job in clearing up a few misconceptions (either that or the remaining 10% of the fashion world who is actually somewhat intelligent, these people work at Vogue).

A few blunt observations, if I may:
- If Vogue were to blow up tomorrow, the fashion industry would be seriously screwed. It’s clear that Dame Anna Wintour has her aging hand in almost everything related to fashion and haute couture: from the runway shows, mentoring young designers, ‘attainable’ clothing outlets such as Gap and Macys, Ms. Wintour’s vision permeates every crevice of the fashion world. It’s extremely impressive yet daunting at the same time. I think there’s a word for this: Communism? I will give her credit though: she is a very effective leader and visionary. Like Stalin.

- Like all other viewers before me, I fell a little bit in love with Grace Coddington, Creative Director. She is an absolute genius and I’m glad she received her due credit. Watching her piece together photo shoots and storyboards was astounding. Her passion for style and art is truly inspiring and somewhat depressing knowing that I have never exuded any undying passion for anything as much as Grace exudes for fashion.

- Vogue is not full of pretty young things. I’m not sure if the director was attempting to portray this, but there are definitely some scary people running around in those sacred Vogue hallways. It might have to do with the fact that all the pretty young ones run off and marry bankers or blue bloods and become their ascent into society (Hi Tinsley Mortimer!) In any case, I’d be afraid to see some of those people after dark. Gaunt faces, sunken eyes, sallow skin..eek!

- Why is Andre Leon Talley relevant? He is a gentle giant and a very nice man, but what sort of value does he add to the magazine? And why can he afford all those designer duds? What am I missing here?

- Who was that putzy kiss ass running around in the white suit? In fact, why were all the straight guys in the film so douchey?

All in all, a nice way to spend a rainy evening. I will update this post as I remember other things. Hopefully back to some more of the analyst tale as I find some time to write something witty and coherent.

Douchebags and Gold Diggers

Oh, New York Times, how you never seek to disappoint me. Look, I get it: meeting guys and/or girls in the City is very difficult. You want some standards and, frankly, there is nothing wrong with that. Girls want guys with money and guys want trophy wives. However, methinks that this event is attracting the D-side of the Manhattan social set (yes, D-side. This does not even warrant a B-side call out). Getting the heavy-set guy who works in back office at Jefferies matched up with the anorexic assistant at Laura Ashley is not exactly translatable into getting a shoutout in Weddings & Celebrations in the Sunday Styles.

1. Does anyone notice that all the ‘men’ interviewed here are between the ages of 24 and 26? They are all analysts and MAYBE 1st year associates (in private equity or otherwise) at the most. What possible sort of ‘banker bombs’ could you be dropping right now? Last I checked, 1st years were just shy of the 6-figure mark.

2. Who are these ‘girls in fashion’? Why do they work for brands that only my grandmother would wear?

3. Ms. Lesya Yanush: In case you haven’t heard, the 30 and over age set is a bit too geriatric for the tastes of these finance guys. Especially when you’re dealing with the rainmaking 1st/2nd/3rd year analysts.

“From my experience, I’ve dated lawyers and doctors and they’re nice; I just prefer finance,” Ms. Yanush said, before applying a fresh gloss of candy-apple-red lipstick in the ladies room. “My girlfriends who are in long-term relationships with finance guys are very happy.”

I think the stumbling block lies in the fact Ms. Yanush still thinks that she’s a 15-year old girl with her BonneBell lipgloss. How much of your friends’ happiness is measured by money?

As for the coveted guest list of said party, I refer my loyal readers to all things Dealbreaker on the matter. Some very interesting discoveries and snarky commentary that should brighten up everyone’s Monday.

The Aftermath

The attempts of Hot VP to allay our concerns were feeble, to say the least. The group left his cramped office dejected, everyone worried for his/her own well-being. Not a moment after, Evil Incarnate and Douchebag Associate disappeared. Smelly Homeless Kid and I gave each other a look. What could we do? No head hunter would take us with so little experience. We were sitting ducks. (If FML had existed back then..this would be one of those moments). Whipping open my rolodex of contacts at Investment-Bank-Formerly-in-Existence, I quickly shot off an e-mail to one of my sorority sisters who was finishing up her analyst years in another group. She was the perfect advice giver: smart, already secured a job in PE and one of the nicest people I’ve met. Yes, even cold-hearted bitches need friends. My note was cryptic and straight to the point:

—–Original Message—–
From: Fashion Financier(e)
Sent: Thursday, January 25, 2008 2:32 PM
To: Confidante
Subject:

Hey,
How’s it going? Do you have time to grab coffee sometime either today or tomorrow? I wanted to ask you a few ‘life’ questions…

- Fashion Financier(e)

The response was immediate and I was on my way to coffee. Meeting in our expansive lobby, we sidled down the block to the nearest Starbucks. I explained the situation thoroughly, including my displeasure with both the office politics of my group and the whole cloak and dagger nature of the situation.

“Well. That sucks.” She responded sagely.

“Thanks friend. Helpful.” I sarcastically remarked to her.

“I think you need to stick it out for at least a year. No headhunter will be able to market you otherwise. Former Investment Bank is not in the business of laying off first years (famous last words!). Just keep your head down, start reaching out to people, update your resume and you’ll be fine.” It was very easy for Confidante to muster such advice. She had been at the bank for the golden years when the pockets of bankers brimmed with Benjamins and nights at Nobu and Del Posto were a normal affair. Everyone turned out fine because everyone made enough money to hold them over. The worst position you could be in, especially a year out of college, is jobless and covering exorbitantly high rent. Many of my former colleagues found this out the hard way and subsequently moved back home as merely another victim which the City chewed up and spit out.

I heeded her advice and began drafting a list of things I needed to do in terms of preparing myself. In my own psyche, it felt like some sort of guerrilla trench warfare. Returning to my cube, I flipped open my trusty Black n’ Red and listed out action items. It sort of looked like this:
- Revise resume
- Find a new job
- Stalk alums

Smelly Homeless Kid had disappeared again, to the gym probably. The flashing window popped up quickly on my screen as I went from idle to active.

Mr. Burrito (15:11:42 pm): This is ridiculous.
Fashion Financier (15:12:01 pm): What?
Mr. Burrito (15:12:15 pm): Douchebag Associate just told me that the Evil Incarnate has been running around to all the people we work with in other groups. The whole fucking world knows about our ’situation’.
Fashion Financier (15:12:30 pm): Er…why?
Mr. Burrito (15:13:04 pm): Because she wants to switch groups. She’s trying to worm her way into one of the coverage groups or another product group.

At least I wasn’t the only paranoid one who jumped the gun. My hatred of the Evil Incarnate boiled up again. I was convinced that slapping her was the only way I could feel better.

The next few days were slow. Sure, I had plenty of Project California work to do. The rating agencies came back with a preliminary BB-/Ba3 rating which meant they were high-yield. Apathetic Associate and I were to work on a Commitment Committee memo while concurrently taking on credit agreement editing duties. Mind you, I had no idea regarding the latter. That’s what lawyers were for. During my first year, I had one of the greatest revelations: no matter how bad you had it, there was always some poor corporate law associate drafting and editing inane language pertaining to covenant trips, equity cures, events of default and blah blah blah.

In the early evenings, when the rest of my crack group left, I pulled up my resume. My credentials still reeked of college and I needed to adultify and bankerize it. While I tapped away one night, Michael Kors called over. “Come over. Our order’s here.” Seamless Web has a nifty function in which you can pool your allocated dinner money and order with a group. I shuffled 5 feet over and rolled up a chair to sit between Mom Jeans, the Raccoon and Michael Kors. Debt Debt and the Hillbilly were nowhere to be found.

“What gives?” I asked, motioning to their empty cubes.

“They’re at a Women in Business-sponsored wine tasting. In the cafeteria.” The Raccoon began to open all the bags and took out the plastic containers one by one.

“What? Why wasn’t I invited?” I responded, feigning indignation.

“Pft. Cause you’re not a girl.” Michael Kors snorted. Mom Jeans and the Raccoon burst out laughing. We sat down, picking at our assortment of salads and pastas. I updated them on the gossip in my group, my rising disdain for Evil Associate and Smelly Homeless Kid, and other juicy tidbits I heard here and there. We had moved onto dessert by the time Debt Debt and the Hillbilly came back. The Hillbilly was clearly inebriated as she giggled effortlessly at our not-so-funny conversation on business school. Michael Kors and I gave each other a look that said ’she’s WASTED’.

“Well. I think the best thing about some business schools…is..the fact that you could go with like a boyfriend or girlfriend or spouse…” She looked over to Michael Kors. “…or partner.” She awkwardly finished her statement, trailing off. Mystery Solved! We all had an inkling but no evidence. A silent hush fell over the cube row. Outing your coworker in front of his/her colleagues is a definite no-no in your first year. Glancing over to Michael Kors, his facial expression changed from bright to anger.

“Thanks for that.” Michael Kors sarcastically responded. I watched as the Hillbilly slinked back into her cube and dropped her stuff.

“I don’t see what the big deal is.” She mumbled.

“No. Of course you don’t understand the big deal. You don’t get it.” Michael Kors furiously retorted. The Hillbilly came back out of her cube into our sight lines.

“I mean, it’s who you are. There’s no reason you’d need to hide it.”

“It’s not about hiding it or denying it or anything! God. It’s just not other people’s business and it’s not your place to tell people!” His voice rose exponentially with every word.

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry.” The Hillbilly’s voice rose to match his.

“You…are SUCH a hillbilly! You have no regard for things that people tell you in confidence. You can’t even fathom the slightest notion of social etiquette or corporate behavior! It’s hard for me to even wonder why you can’t grasp what I’m telling you.” Michael Kors stood up, wildly gesticulating to hammer his points home. At this point, the awkwardness of the situation was palpable. Unfortunately, I was stuck and the only pathway out of the cube row was between the Hillbilly and Michael Kors who were both now at arms. I shifted over into the Raccoon’s cube space so I could continue to watch this trainwreck of a confrontation without being too ‘in the way’.

Who said there are no good soap operas at night?

Previews

I promise I’m not dead. Honestly. Just on life support. I started this blog in the hopes of attracting people to read about a true analyst story with all the glamour and grime attached. Above all, it was really a way for me to capture that awkward transitional period between college and adulthood. Working in an industry which in the past has been portrayed in both flattering and dark lighting, it is really a social experiment of the inhabitants of said investment banking world. Interestingly enough, in order to compose a well thought-out, coherent and sometimes humorous post, it requires wit, a smidgen of passion and time.

However, I will tell you this:
- The next installment of the Analyst Tale will include the fall of Bear Stearns, more colleague drama, the hatchet (wo)man, the worst months of my life, and the scramble to safety.

- On a lighter note, look for a second Facebook post (real sketchy shit going on these days) and perhaps a personal account of the trials and tribulations of online dating.

- Per a few of the comments, I have left an e-mail for ‘personal’ questions/comments/rants. Check out the “Moi” section.

New Year Hangover

The first and sometimes second week of the new year tends to be dead. It doesn’t matter what industry you work in. In our digitally connected world, people can afford to take extended ski/beach vacations during the holiday season but can still order around their lowly minions with the touch of a minute blackberry button. Expect responses like “yes. thx” and other one-line gems. The shortest e-mail I have ever received was from an MD in our bank’s Natural Resources group. I was attempting to organize some times to meet with him and my boss. The response I received went something like this: “y, tk. ofc.” An Ivy League education does not prepare you for the inane responses you receive over bberry, especially not those of 50-something year old MDs who invent their own cyber language. (No, they cannot figure out what “:)” means but coming up with their own abbreviations and assuming it’s the ‘norm’ is all in a day’s work.) Reading the e-mail over and over, it took me about 20 minutes to understand what he was saying. “Yes, thanks. Office.” The office being the place we should call him. Awesome.

When we all returned from our respective breaks, Hot VP had us assemble in his office. I was the first in there, natch, and watched him as he methodically threw a stress ball against his wall. Well, this was fun. We shot the shit for a little, making small talk about the weather, the markets, etc. The rest of our motley crew straggled in: Douchebag Associate took the only seat next to me while Evil Associate and Apathetic Associate leaned against the wall. Mr. Burrito and Smelly Homeless Kid stood at the outskirts of the office, towards the door.

“Hey, guys, close the door behind you.” Hot VP called out. We waited quietly, nervous almost, wondering what led to this impromptu group meeting. “So, how was everyone’s Christmas break?” He began squeezing the stressball, asking his question absent-mindedly.

“It was great. I got this for Christmas!” Evil Associate shook her rail-thin wrist, a shiny new Rolex dangling from it. I looked behind me at Mr. Burrito, rolling my eyes. Way to be an independent, self-reliant adult, Evil Associate! Her jovial announcement was met with silence.

“Seriously, hot VP. What the fuck? What’s with this Skull and Bones secrecy shit?” Douchebag Associate leaned forward, giving his ol’ buddy (aka his boss) a look.

“Er, so, I have some news.” He stopped, placing the ball onto his desk. “So, you know how our MD left for vacation in St. Barth’s, right before Christmas?” We all nodded slowly, glancing at each other. “Uh, so, he’s not coming back.” He still got nothing from us. “He was offered a group head position in Buyside Arm of now defunct Investment Bank. He took SVP with him.”

“Uh, so, does this mean we’re completely fucked?” Apathetic Associate broke the silence easily. He was usually good at diffusing tense situations.

“Well, I sat down with the head of our division. Nothing is going to happen to our group. We’re profitable in a space that’s pretty hot right now. I think the first option is going to try and find a new group head. We already have some good leads that we like. Otherwise, we’ll probably get moved to another group.”

“Any chance we’ll move back to Old Group [we spun out from]?” Mr. Burrito called out from the back.

“Doubtful.” I felt like I was at some pathetic press conference, cramped in Hot VP’s office, raising our hands to ask questions. “Guys, I wanted to let you know. But seriously, don’t worry. Your jobs are not in danger. We’ll be okay.” Hot VP was not convincing in anyway shape or form, from his voice down to his body language.

“So, he just left.” Apathetic Associate stated. I’ve never heard him so talkative before. Hot VP nodded. “And no one knew. Before we left.” After pausing for a second and trying to gauge everybody else’s reaction, he spoke again. “Awesome. What a slimey fucker. Who the fuck does that? Slinky out like some shady convict under the guise of the holidays. It seems like we should be sending out resumes. Forgive me for not really trusting our idiot division head to make sure we all don’t get fired.” Apathetic Associate’s rant almost made me drop the front end of his nickname. I was surprised. Smelly Homeless Kid gave me one of those “Van Wilder” looks: head leaned back, eyes wide open, bottom row of teeth showing. AA’s reasoning resonated with the rest of us. He did have a point: better be safe than sorry. The economy was already circling the drain by early 2008 with the demise of Bear Stearns right around the corner.

“Guys, c’mon. This is going to take time. We’ve already started contacting potential people to head up this group. We have a meeting with the head of the division at the end of this week and he can speak to all that i’ve told you. We’ll be okay.” Hot VP’s brow furrowed yet he did not look that worried which I took to be a good sign. The conversation ended with no resolution as we tumbled out of his cramped office. Silently, we headed back to our respective work stations.

Start the clock on one month.

Obama Creepy

It’s no surprise that I had/have misgivings about Obama. I’m not sure how much this photo affects that notion (better / worse?).

This blog is getting further and further away from it’s initial intent. I’m working on a new Analyst Tale post. Should be up soon.

The Evil Empire

An interesting read on the Evil Empire (aka Goldman Sachs). It’s fitting that a Russian was caught stealing trading algorithms/codes from GS, no?

I realize the article comes off pretty doomsday-ish and conspiracy theory-esque but an interesting read nonetheless.

GS_Rolling_Stone

*Note, this is an excerpt from the Rolling Stones article dated for circulation for July 9 – 23, 2009. i take no credit for it, just merely wanted to share with the public.

Poor Branding

Fail!

Welcome to the Dark Side

A week after the Holiday party, I was allowed to partake in my first ever client meeting off-site on Project California. With the holidays right around the corner, the deal team wanted to assemble a game plan for the start of 2008. What were market conditions like for a debt financing? Would our syndicate group be able to market the debt? The morning of the Meeting, I donned my favorite power suit (Black, Theory – Max Basic pants, Gabe fitted blazer) which screamed “don’t mess with the corporate bitch”. Adding to this persona, I slipped into patent leather black Prada pumps which vaulted my 5′9″ stature into the 6′ category. Not wanting to be too big of a ball buster, I added some pearls to soften the look. I met my team in the lobby of our building at 9am sharp, holding onto copies of a 2-page overview we had put together for the client. The Hot VP and Apathetic Associate clutched their Starbucks coffees, both rocking out silk printed Hermes ties. Our MD shuffled slowly behind as we assembled in the lobby, making sure we had all the necessary papers and notes on the deal. (I’ll note here that this is the same MD who left for his Holiday vacation and never came back to the group. Instead, he was tapped to head up the buy-side arm of now defunct Investment Bank. To add insult to injury, he never told anyone where he was going or what he was doing. There was not even so much as an e-mail to notify the group. He simply never showed up again).

The cab ride down to Tribeca was particularly uneventful as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic.
“We’re taking the fucking subway back. This is ridiculous.” The MD muttered. After checking in at the front desk, we stuffed ourselves into a small vintage elevator and rode up to the 8th floor. The senior vice president of the Private Equity Firm met us as the elevator doors opened. His hair was slightly disheveled while he wore a relaxed button down with rolled up sleeves and slacks.

“Hey guys. Glad you could make it.” Introductions were made all around before he escorted us into the actual office. Glancing to the left of reception, lush dark green carpets were laid down from wall to wall. Old school oak tables with gilded designs gave every person of the 15-person private equity shop an ample amount of space but no real privacy. The windows spanned from floor to ceiling, showing a very clear view of the bustling downtown streets. A separate space had been carved out for an in-the-office gym area which was encased in a glass rectangle. It was frankly bizarre. Sure, you could work out…but the rest of the firm would watch you do so.

“Welcome to the buy-side.” Apathetic Associate quipped as we all took in the sights.

“Hello. Vat vould you like to drinks?” The blonde receptionist strode up to the group, her English heavily accented with some sort of Eastern European affection. She wore a tight, form fitting dress (think Dolce and Gabbana) which pushed up her bosom and cut off thigh-high and teetered on 4-in stilettos, Evil Associate-style.

“Water with lemon is fine, [Anya].” (I’ll leave this up to your imagination. Just fill in with some stereotypical eastern european name). The SVP motioned for us to continue moving right as a large, black labrador bounded into the group with no signs of a stopping.

“What the..” Hot VP turned around and looked at me. “..are you touching my ass?”

“What!” I crinkled my nose at him. As if he would be so lucky. Pointing down, I exclaimed “It’s the dog!” His eyes followed the direction of my hand just in time to see the dog dart away ready to molest its next victim.

“Sorry..you were right behind me. I didn’t even see that thing.” Shaking my head, we continued walking. “Who’s dog is that anyway?” Hot VP called up to the SVP.

“Oh, it’s the partner’s dog. He lives right around the corner from here so he brings his dog in a lot.” Stopping briefly before we entered their conference room, he indicated to the right half of the office. “This is the partner’s side.” The ’side’ was more like a kingdom. The same ugly green carpeting was used with one large wooden desk sitting in the middle of the room. A collection of paintings and photographs were hung around the space with a particularly large piece hanging in the center of the wall facing the desk. The oil painting was of a blonde lady in a relaxed pose sitting by the beach in a bikini. His wife, I assumed, which later on I verified as being the correct assumption. What a freak.

Settling down at the long table, I handed out the reference document to everyone at the table. Another petite woman joined us and later was introduced as their lead counsel. Anya returned with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of iced water with a plate of cookies. The dog returned as well, panting and resting his head in the lap of my MD. He quickly pushed the dog’s head away but not before the dog deposited a gift of drool onto my MD’s suit pant. Grimacing slightly, he reached for a napkin and tried to wipe away the dribble. If the SVP of Private Equity Firm noticed this, he sure as hell didn’t say anything.

“No! Bad boy!” The dog galloped off again as Anya scolded him. She waddled after him, constricted by the tightness of her dress and the instability of her heels and ultimately disappeared off the view.

Welcome to the shit show was a more appropriate sentiment.

Tis the Season – Part II(b)

The Holiday party was already in full swing by the time we arrived. Things were a bit more ’subdued’ this year, natch, which meant that the event space in question was at some ’swanky’ boutique hotel in Midtown West versus a more standard venue of the Rainbow Room or one of the ‘hip’ clubs downtown. Evil Associate, standing in her midget glory, stood in the middle of the crowd flipping her signature chemically-straightened-and-shined hair while speaking to one particularly slimy MD. (Sidenote: I’ve seen this MD get slapped at a club once for trying to grope a girl). The MD’s eyes were glazed over as the liquid courage worked through his system. He slowly began to sneak glances down to the non-existent rack of Evil Associate. I was bewildered. There was nothing to see — what could he possibly be looking at?!

Suppressing my urge to boot all over the cherry oak floors, I made a beeline to the bar with Mr. Burrito and enjoyed my first glass of perfectly dry and chilled champagne while I surveyed the scene. Before long, I saw Douchebag Associate and Apathetic Associate lurking about in a dark corner. Each of them double-fisted Heinekens and finally took setas. Apathetic Associate slumped back in the chair looking particularly soulful and morose. His hollow glance followed the almost flamboyant movements of Douchebag Associate as he mustered a small grin. My concentration was immediately broken by the flurry of hors d’oeuvres which flooded the party. Bankers, while making all the money in the world, are some of the cheapest mofos on earth. Free drinks are a given but free food? now that’s an instant crowd pleaser.

“What’s going on with Apathetic Associate?” I downed the last of my champagne and signaled for another one.

“Heard he got shafted on his bonus number. Apparently landed in the third bucket whereas the evil bitch from hell got first.” Mr. Burrito was already on his third beer. “C’mon let’s go over there.” We inserted ourselves into the middle of Douchebag Associate and Apathetic Associate’s tete-a-tete. Douchebag Associate was visibly annoyed. “What the fuck, guys! We were talking!” He tried to yell above the swell of chatter and music which permeated the scene. The Hot VP plopped down next to us as well.

“Well, the gang’s all here. Where’s Smelly Homeless Kid?” The Hot VP asked, completely oblivious to Apathetic Associate’s world of pain. Shrugging, I drained the last of my champagne and watched as the senior guys became more boisterous, the admins began falling over each other and subsequently, onto the Masters of the Universe, and everyone threw their inhibitions to the wind. The gyrating motions of 45-year old married men and their 20-something fake-blonde admins permeated the bar area which now became a dance floor.

Ew. “I’m out.” I stood up and delicately placed my champagne flute on the table. The scene was enough for me. Stopping outside of the hotel, I dug around for my blackberry while simultaneously trying to hail a cab. Hearing a familiar laugh, I looked up to find none other than Tila Tequila grabbing a smoke with her massively large bodyguard standing to her side.

“Hi!” She mused while taking a long drag on her cigarette. The walking VD princess smiled, her eyes twinkling with a drunken glow. She took an unsteady step forward and tripped, her bodyguard catching her easily. A cab rolled up to the curb and, looking back to the boutique hotel which held our holiday party and shifting my sights over to the booty bar which Tila Tequila ducked back into, I shook my head and sighed.

How’s that for classy?