... or off the world altogether!
Yes, Lloyd Blankfein is concerned about all the tough banking regulations that may be coming down like a ton of bricks on Goldman heads in certain jurisdictions (like Europe). He told no one in particular: 'Operations can be moved globally and capital can be accessed globally.' Well, that's true. But is there more? Does Lloyd have a cunning plan?
Well, I have been speaking to Lloyd. Actually, he was speaking to me, and I was trying to get a word in edgeways. These are the edited highlights (and yet again, I have had to censor Mr Blankfein's foul language): 'Mikey, you don't mind me phoning you all the time, do ya, Mikey? (No, Lloyd, it's fine.) I know you don't work for me no more, but I kinda miss you, you know what I mean? It ain't the same, you know, trying to have a conversation with a mindless thug like Viniar. You're more ... (Civilized?) That's it, Mikey! You're civilized. And cultured. All this f**king s**t you know about the great French poets, it's quite impressive, man. (Lloyd, what do you want?) I thought you would never ask, you ****! (Yes, very amusing, but I am actually trying to cut down on the amount of swearing in my blog. So I'm afraid that won't make it. Tell me what you want. I'm a busy man, Lloyd.) I want some advice. Do you think I should move Goldman Sachs into the desert - lock, stock and barrel? (The physical desert or the astral desert?) Probably a combination of the two. Maybe just the astral. I don't know. (No, Lloyd. You don't want to leave the City or Wall Street. You need a physical presence in these locations.) But I want to get away, Mikey. It's not just the regulations, and all the commie ***** in Europe. I need ... (You need to escape, Lloyd. I know how you feel.) Do you? Do you really? Sometimes I feel so alone. (Lloyd, you have a Romantic longing for escape: to eternity or to exotic climes.) I also have a Romantic interest in violence. (Let's focus on your longing for escape, shall we? I'll work a bit of violence in, if you behave yourself.) All right. (Lloyd, there's blood coming out of your nose!) What?! (Now, focus on that. Wipe a finger under your nose.) Okay. Can you see me? (Put the finger in your mouth. Taste the blood.) Are you sure about this, Mike? (Just do what I say!) You're the expert. Right, I've tasted my own blood. What now? (Let it carry you away, the taste of your own blood. NOW! Imagine you are a shark in the astral sea. You love the taste of blood!) Surely not my own?! (Stick with it! You keep moving forward. Your eyes are dead. Everyone thinks you're evil. You're a killer! How do you feel?) Not great, Mikey. Is this some kind of sick f**king motivational bulls**t pathworking nonsense you've dreamed up? (Yes.) And will you be sending me an invoice for this? (It won't cost you more than $10,000, I swear.) Michael, you're not Tony Robbins. Stick to what you know. (Don't you feel empowered?) No, I don't. I feel stupid and humiliated, and I've got blood all over my f**king shirt. How did you make my nose bleed? (An old shaman's trick.) Whatever. What should I do about Goldman, the desert? (Forget about the desert, for the time being. You're a shark, Lloyd. You're a shark in the astral sea. Go for that blood, boy!) Goodbye, Michael. You f**king nut!'
Well, I got rid of him, didn't I? It'll put him off phoning me for a while. Result!
Yes, Lloyd Blankfein is concerned about all the tough banking regulations that may be coming down like a ton of bricks on Goldman heads in certain jurisdictions (like Europe). He told no one in particular: 'Operations can be moved globally and capital can be accessed globally.' Well, that's true. But is there more? Does Lloyd have a cunning plan?
Well, I have been speaking to Lloyd. Actually, he was speaking to me, and I was trying to get a word in edgeways. These are the edited highlights (and yet again, I have had to censor Mr Blankfein's foul language): 'Mikey, you don't mind me phoning you all the time, do ya, Mikey? (No, Lloyd, it's fine.) I know you don't work for me no more, but I kinda miss you, you know what I mean? It ain't the same, you know, trying to have a conversation with a mindless thug like Viniar. You're more ... (Civilized?) That's it, Mikey! You're civilized. And cultured. All this f**king s**t you know about the great French poets, it's quite impressive, man. (Lloyd, what do you want?) I thought you would never ask, you ****! (Yes, very amusing, but I am actually trying to cut down on the amount of swearing in my blog. So I'm afraid that won't make it. Tell me what you want. I'm a busy man, Lloyd.) I want some advice. Do you think I should move Goldman Sachs into the desert - lock, stock and barrel? (The physical desert or the astral desert?) Probably a combination of the two. Maybe just the astral. I don't know. (No, Lloyd. You don't want to leave the City or Wall Street. You need a physical presence in these locations.) But I want to get away, Mikey. It's not just the regulations, and all the commie ***** in Europe. I need ... (You need to escape, Lloyd. I know how you feel.) Do you? Do you really? Sometimes I feel so alone. (Lloyd, you have a Romantic longing for escape: to eternity or to exotic climes.) I also have a Romantic interest in violence. (Let's focus on your longing for escape, shall we? I'll work a bit of violence in, if you behave yourself.) All right. (Lloyd, there's blood coming out of your nose!) What?! (Now, focus on that. Wipe a finger under your nose.) Okay. Can you see me? (Put the finger in your mouth. Taste the blood.) Are you sure about this, Mike? (Just do what I say!) You're the expert. Right, I've tasted my own blood. What now? (Let it carry you away, the taste of your own blood. NOW! Imagine you are a shark in the astral sea. You love the taste of blood!) Surely not my own?! (Stick with it! You keep moving forward. Your eyes are dead. Everyone thinks you're evil. You're a killer! How do you feel?) Not great, Mikey. Is this some kind of sick f**king motivational bulls**t pathworking nonsense you've dreamed up? (Yes.) And will you be sending me an invoice for this? (It won't cost you more than $10,000, I swear.) Michael, you're not Tony Robbins. Stick to what you know. (Don't you feel empowered?) No, I don't. I feel stupid and humiliated, and I've got blood all over my f**king shirt. How did you make my nose bleed? (An old shaman's trick.) Whatever. What should I do about Goldman, the desert? (Forget about the desert, for the time being. You're a shark, Lloyd. You're a shark in the astral sea. Go for that blood, boy!) Goodbye, Michael. You f**king nut!'
Well, I got rid of him, didn't I? It'll put him off phoning me for a while. Result!
