Is it just my imagination or are there loads of new hedge funds being launched at the moment, I mean, more than any reasonable person would normally expect?
Steve Eisman is at it now, with his friends: Jon Kalikow, Ed Cabral, and Mark Weiner. It's going to be a long-short fund, this Emrys Partners, that will invest in all kinds of stocks and bonds. In January, in January, next year, next year, not now, not right at this moment.
[Oh, by the way, it's two in the morning and I can't get to sleep, so I'm going to work on this post until about five. I might go off at a few tangents, even more than abnormal, because the night affects me in strange ways. Not in Broadmoor. No, in strange ways.]
Anyone remember Chip Skowron? I'm sure Steve Eisman does, though he may want to forget. This is from November last year: 'O my child, your research is worthless! He manages health care hedge funds - so what?! FrontPoint has placed him on leave - who cares?! And there is a rabbi involved. But these are just[[?!]] mere facts. What is a man? A quintessence of dust? No! He must be something more than that, something that is beyond the intellect [intellect, ha!] of a mystical child.' Remember him now? Steve won't thank me for bringing Chip up from the depths of his subconscious - and ours, our subconscious ness nesses, eh? Maybe we should all forget. Let's forget Chip! I should imagine even Chip wants to forget Chip. And that's what the French Foreign Legion is for. I see Chip marching through the desert, with the devil marching alongside him. However, we don't mention the desert any more, do we? So let's forget the desert too. In fact, let's forget everything. Let ...
Let us lose ourselves in the night. Or will it be the morning, when you get around to reading it - this? I hope not. Join me, now, now, now. Let's dance, our faces against the sky, or in the sky, or on the moon. Moon-faced lovers for all eternity! It'll be so much fun, we'll never want the days again. Those sickening days. Days for slaves! Not for free men and women. You'll be in the office, a few hours from now, now, now. Then you'll be sick, wondering: 'What did I miss?' Hating yourself, your life. 'Mikey was out there, in the night sky. And I was in my bed, dead to the world. Damn!'
What would Lord Byron say?
So, dear reader, we'll go no more a-roving, so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a-roving, by the light of the moon.
Yes, very romantic, but not the positive attitude I'm looking for.
Steve Eisman is at it now, with his friends: Jon Kalikow, Ed Cabral, and Mark Weiner. It's going to be a long-short fund, this Emrys Partners, that will invest in all kinds of stocks and bonds. In January, in January, next year, next year, not now, not right at this moment.
[Oh, by the way, it's two in the morning and I can't get to sleep, so I'm going to work on this post until about five. I might go off at a few tangents, even more than abnormal, because the night affects me in strange ways. Not in Broadmoor. No, in strange ways.]
Anyone remember Chip Skowron? I'm sure Steve Eisman does, though he may want to forget. This is from November last year: 'O my child, your research is worthless! He manages health care hedge funds - so what?! FrontPoint has placed him on leave - who cares?! And there is a rabbi involved. But these are just[[?!]] mere facts. What is a man? A quintessence of dust? No! He must be something more than that, something that is beyond the intellect [intellect, ha!] of a mystical child.' Remember him now? Steve won't thank me for bringing Chip up from the depths of his subconscious - and ours, our subconscious ness nesses, eh? Maybe we should all forget. Let's forget Chip! I should imagine even Chip wants to forget Chip. And that's what the French Foreign Legion is for. I see Chip marching through the desert, with the devil marching alongside him. However, we don't mention the desert any more, do we? So let's forget the desert too. In fact, let's forget everything. Let ...
Let us lose ourselves in the night. Or will it be the morning, when you get around to reading it - this? I hope not. Join me, now, now, now. Let's dance, our faces against the sky, or in the sky, or on the moon. Moon-faced lovers for all eternity! It'll be so much fun, we'll never want the days again. Those sickening days. Days for slaves! Not for free men and women. You'll be in the office, a few hours from now, now, now. Then you'll be sick, wondering: 'What did I miss?' Hating yourself, your life. 'Mikey was out there, in the night sky. And I was in my bed, dead to the world. Damn!'
What would Lord Byron say?
So, dear reader, we'll go no more a-roving, so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a-roving, by the light of the moon.
Yes, very romantic, but not the positive attitude I'm looking for.
