Thursday, 30 June 2011

Lee Robinson phones me, in tears

This hasn't got anything to do with me. I don't care if Lee has a hard-on for global macro. It's none of my goddamn business. Live and let live, that's what I say. I've always said it. He thinks I'm taking Goldman's side, just because the bank has given me hundreds of thousands of dollars/pounds over the years. Nonsense! I'm my own man. I make my own mind up. And Lee's taken their money, too.

Well, he phoned me late last night, very late - after a few whiskies, I could tell. This is what was spoken between us: 'Mr Fowke, I'm very upset. (I can hear the emotion in your voice, Lee. You can call me -) Mikey, I know. All your friends call you that. I'd like to be your friend. (You can be my friend, Lee. I ain't got no beef with you.) Call Viniar off. (It's not down to me. It's Lloyd. He's not sending Viniar, anyway. Lloyd's gone outside the bank. I don't know who's got the contract.) You can speak to Lloyd. Listen, Mike, do ... do you know how hard it is, a hedge fund manager's life? All I want to do is run my Altana in Monaco. Is that such a crime? (Lee, you took the Goldman dollar, then you fucked them over.) No, I didn't fuck anyone over. I'm a free man. I have free will. (Admit what you did. Maybe I can help you. I can't call Lloyd and tell him you're still claiming you did no wrong. He's lost face. You have to give him something.) Like what? Money? (He'd be insulted if you offered him money. Use your fucking head.) So, what, then? Why are you laughing? (I knew, years ago, that you would never get on with the Goldman crew. "As laughable as it sounds, Lee and Theo have never even heard of mystical capitalism.") Where's that from? (My blog.) Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?! (I ain't speaking to Lloyd for you, Lee. Go to New York. Get down on your hands and knees. BEG!!! for forgiveness, in front of Lloyd, in front of all the executives. Let them see your humiliation. Let them savour it. If you're lucky, they won't slash you with their razors. It all depends on how well you perform. They won't need money. Don't you read the papers? These devils have all the money in the world.) Yeah, and you worked for them! (Yeah, and so did you! So did you, Lee. You took their investment. So don't come crying to me with your fucking sob stories. Do I know how hard it is, a hedge fund manager's life? Are you taking the piss?) So, it looks like I'm going to New York, then. (Yeah.) Any last advice? (Dress warm.) Ain't it summer over there? (Not where you'll be. It's cold in the basement.) Eh?!'

Ha! I was just fucking with him. It's the London HQ basement where they, well, you know ... I'm sure he'll be okay; if he approaches them with the right attitude - a miserable, submissive one.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Lloyd Blankfein wants me to destroy Lee Robinson

Back to the old style, one more time, for old times' sake. I can't resist. I miss my conversations with Lloyd. Yeah, he's a real pain, but ... you know what I mean. He has a certain vitality.

Anyway, he phoned me late last night. You can believe it - or not. Try to believe. This is what the crazy bastard said to me: 'Mikey, I want you to destroy Lee Robinson. (Lee Robinson?) Lee Robinson, Lee Robinson! That f**king punk, that f**king douche bag, the f**k with Trafalgar Asset Managers, running the joint, and guess what, like I'm nothing to the bum, this f**king creep has this Altana shit now, and - (Lloyd, how many times have I got to tell you, this is a family blog? Just don't curse around me. I don't like it.) What f**king blog?! I'm on the f**king phone over here. (This all goes in my blog, yeah? You know this.) Jesus Christ, Mikey, I can't even phone an old friend without my privacy being invaded? Is this how it is? Where's the respect? (I respect you, Lloyd, but it's the same as it's always been. You know I don't keep anything from my readers. Oh, by the way, is it true about David Solomon?) I don't know no David Solomon. (You don't know no David Solomon?!) No, I don't know no David Solomon. (You got a gun?) Get the f**k outta here, man! (All right, Lloyd, seriously, what's your beef with Robinson?) This f**king prick, he has some f**king balls, you know? I says to him, no f**king global macro shit - we've been bankrolling this prick, you understand? - so he says, yeah Lloyd, no problem, no global macro shit. And that bastard, he smiled at me! (Right. Next thing you know -) Next thing I know, Mikey, listen, he's going around raising money for a new Monaco venture, this Altana, that will "pursue a global macro trading strategy" as they say, the f**ks, yeah? (It's a fucking shame.) Can you believe it? (It is hard to believe.) So this is what I want you to do - (Lloyd, I'm all, er, respectable, at the minute.) What, you got religion? You kidding me, or what? (I don't go on the astral plane no more. Don't even touch the desert. And I don't ... hurt people any more. Well, I try not to. I gotta think of my angel now. She don't want me getting mixed up with any bad shit. It could affect her job.) Mikey, you're living in a f**king dream world. This angel, she ain't for you. There must be another broad, somewhere, for you? (There's only my angel.) Jesus Christ. So what am I going to do? (Put Viniar on the job.) Viniar ain't right for this. I don't want it traced back to Goldman. I gotta be subtle. I was hoping you would go back on the plane and work the old magic. You've got the makings of a savage god, man. (I can't do it.) I know what you're planning for those Greek goons. Hey, if it's a question of money ... I mean, I know things haven't worked out with Bobby D. (I'm okay.) I could lend you some, even. (Yeah, at three points over the vig. What am I, a schmuck on wheels?) All right, Mike, I'll see ya around. (Bye, Lloyd.) Don't mention Solomon.'

Don't mention Solomon? I owe it to my readers.

Tuesday, 28 June 2011

Cyril Moulle-Berteaux is going home, back home, simply, back to Morgan Stanley Investment Management

And I bet they've missed him. Cyril is returning as a managing director and head of the global asset allocation team. Covered in glory? It's not impossible. I bet he's really excited, replacing Henry McVey. I would be, if I were ... a normal human being.

I love stories like this. But I know I'll never be able to go home, myself. The desert is dead to me now. So much has changed. I've destroyed quite a bit, killed so many characters, rid myself of so many voices. Bare. Flesh. Burnt.

Cyril is lucky. Well, it's not luck. He's a simple man, and he chose a simple life. Fair enough. Not an option for me. I am tormented. Too much spirit, even naked. Restless, agitated. Rolling, all sweaty in the heat. Did I bring the desert with me?

I want to be quieter, colder, private. Shut off. Cut the shit, out. The pathetic news. The vulgar entertainment. I want to do this for myself, me, and the intelligent readers who come here on a regular basis - you? It's complicated. I am complicated.

Cyril won't understand. We can't help Cyril. (Nor the people like him.) But he doesn't even need our help. Let him return to Morgan Stanley. That's all he wants, and needs. Maybe we should envy him. There's nothing there.

I don't envy Cyril. (Yeah, maybe I should.) I don't envy Cyril. My life is hard. The rewards will be greater. I've got to believe that. Let's not envy him. (But maybe we should.) There's nothing there. At least we have souls.

A wretched bag of bones hugs a pillow to get to sleep. What the fuck is the world coming to? Cyril? I have no idea how Cyril makes it through the night. Me? I don't sleep. I just pass out. It's a common thing with masters of reality.

Cyril Moulle-Berteaux. I can hardly believe it. It's the easiest thing. Having a name, a job, a life. Has he thought about any of it? Forget yesterday's politics. This is personal. Cyril is a man. He has never been challenged like this. 'Oh.'

Monday, 27 June 2011

The European Commission wants a Tobin tax

I would laugh, if it wasn't so sad. Have these parasites ever done a day's work in their lives? Why don't they go out into the world and discover for themselves just how difficult it is to make a buck in the present climate?

As we know, there are cretins who support these parasites. Also, there are parasites on the parasites. And there are parasites on the parasites. And there are parasites on the parasites. And it goes on and on and on. One day, the whole thing will collapse. Commission, Union, the lot. If patriots don't manage to destroy the European Union, countries like China and India will - eventually. Oh, it goes on and on and on, but not forever. There's no way such a corrupt system can last. So, even though it's so sad, I'm not going to cry, I'm going to laugh:

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ... hee hee hee ... ha.


Note: Western Civilization - in general - is a fucking joke at the moment. If we don't get our act together soon, we'll deserve everything the other parts of the world are going to do to us. The strong always dominate the weak. It's the law of Nature. If you haven't noticed, Nature isn't very politically correct.

Thursday, 23 June 2011

Martin Feldstein says we're all going to die blah blah blah

I already knew that. I knew that Death was coming for each of us. I knew when I was born. I didn't know we would all go at the same time, but you live, then you learn, then you die, carrying your knowledge, and any wisdom you may have, and any happiness - as Sophocles' ghost will be able to tell you - down into the grave. It's perfectly natural. There is no need to be alarmed.

But we have to apportion blame. We have to blame Greece. You could argue that civilization started there. And that is where it will end, it seems. The Greeks spent too much money that just did not exist. They imagined they were rich. Imagine that! A nation of visionaries; they saw the money in their minds. It wasn't in their pockets. How tragic!

Martin Feldstein doesn't actually say we're all going to die. I'm hallucinating beyond his words. He says Greece will have to default at some point. This will lead to defaults in Portugal, Ireland, and Spain. European banks will collapse. And then, this is me: bloodthirsty gangs will roam the streets. Killers will look us all in the eye, shamelessly. There'll be no escape. Obviously, I'm an insane prophet, but Mr Feldstein is a professor of economics at Harvard University. Together, we make a lot of sense. Together, we can peer into hell ...

Alone, however, I can discover the meaning of it. Something's broken, and something's burning, in all of us. There is a demonic energy waiting to come out, and fragments of pain. Yes, there is still pain. It would be wise to leave the civilized man behind. His words are only a springboard for horror. I won't peer into hell, I'll walk into it! No, I'm already there. In fact, I am hell. So many self-realizations! I'm almost the savage god I've always wanted to be. This is a red-letter day, definitely. Maybe now I'll be able to accept myself. Of course, my reader(s), this doesn't solve your problems. You haven't picked a side yet. I know Mr Feldstein won't be coming with me. He'll lock himself away at Harvard, with his books, hoping, and praying - if he has religion - that the barbarians will leave him half-alive. But what will you do, my lonely individual, my frightened 'you'? Are you my soulmate, or victim?

My child, are you a butcher, or are you a lamb?

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

J.P. Morgan Securities will donate $153.6 million to the SEC

Just because the SEC asked for it. Some people have more money than sense. They even have more money than nonsense. Anyone would think there wasn't a New Depression all around the world, EVEN: in every nook and cranny. And what about me? Let me tell you about MY NEEDS. People (I'm talking financiers, and they are people, believe it or not) forget about me. All I need IS: a few million to tide me over until my ship comes in, and a good woman - maybe that [don't worry about it] oh yes, to tide me over, if my angel ain't available yet - which she ain't, let's face it [a lot of work to be done there; I'm up to the challenge]. Money is wasted on the SEC. I wouldn't be surprised if women were wasted on the SEC, too. These people don't know how to enjoy themselves. J.P. Morgan may as well just set fire to it. But not ... I won't stand for any Joan of Arc-style outrages! Witchfinder General? No!!! At least that would be something to write about - the burning of the money, I mean. I could write "BURNING money FOREVER". I love the flames. I love the smoke. Not so keen on the ashes. But that's never been a problem with me. As a financial shaman, I know how to avoid the ashes. Don't know if J.P. Morgan can. (Maybe it can - ?) Gotta few decent shamans, here and there, scattered all over the ... cosmos, inner, and outer. Mikey! Take a look at this. Eh? What? Did J.P. Morgan mislead investors in a complex mortgage securities transaction just as the housing market was starting to plummet? Ridiculous! Who spreads these lies? Oh dear. It's all getting fucked up again, ain't it? BUT you know I'm planning a fresh start, don't ya? I'm going to get sorted. My soul will be calm. Can you imagine that? It will happen. I'm determined to make it happen. You think I enjoy this, this chaos? It hurts me. It makes me ill.

Oh, it's exhausting! I don't know how I do it, day after day. And I'm confused now. I imagine Lou Reed felt a lot like this at the end of Heroin. 'And thank God that I just don't care. And I guess I just don't know.'

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Stuart Pearson has been sentenced to a year in jail

Yes, imagine, if you want to, and are able to, that the former chief executive of Langbar International, Stuart Pearson, is eating loads of porridge - as I write this - and imagine that it has nothing to do with me - his fate, that is, or was, or will be. ('There's worse to come?!') I wasn't involved! I'll swear on the Bible. Even ... even when I was ... I can't type it ... Jack Pickles, aargh, the world's most demonic financier, I never got involved in this terrible scandal. But it's fascinating, ain't it? The problem, as I see it, and saw it, and as a lot of people see it, and saw it, was that no one knew how Langbar's money existed. There was £370 million that just did not exist. Or maybe it did - in another realm?

Oh, this is true: did you know that the last member of Bonnie and Clyde's Barrow Gang, Blanche Barrow, didn't die until 1988? Amazing! But that has nothing to do with the Langbar SCANDAL. Just as Jack Pickles has nothing do with it. And I have nothing to do with it. But I believe it's still worth writing about - the Langbar SCANDAL - because I'm so very fascinated (aren't we all, shamans and mystical children together?) by money that doesn't seem to exist. I actually think Gillian Tett looks a lot like Faye Dunaway in the film. I'd like to go on the run with her. Outlaws in love! But that's another fantasy[?]. I'm not a criminal. Even Jack Pickles was a fantasy[?]. I'm sure I didn't really commit all those crimes. And Gillian wouldn't shoot a cop. She's far too respectable. But I'd love to rob a bank with her. It's the New Depression, remember? Of course, we would need a young halfwit to drive the car.

Is there any danger of me [my] concentrating on the money that did not exist? All right, let me explain shit for the hard of understanding anything in this ridiculous world: there is no money. (And I ain't talking about some Langbar money. That's chump change.) THERE IS NO MONEY. Do you understand, dear reader o' mine, or do you want me to draw you a picture - a picture of nothing? There has never been any money. When are you going to grow up? Your employers have you working for NOTHING. Every month they put some numbers in your bank account, and you fall for it! It's the oldest trick in the book. It's an illusion. And you're a slave. How do you feel, my friend? I bet you're feeling pretty stupid right now. Do you want to join my gang? I'll set you free, motherfucker. You've got to believe in me. If you ain't gonna believe in me, what are you gonna believe in, the government, the media, the tooth fairy? I won't lie to you. I promise you, I'll always tell the truth. So - are you coming with me, or are you going with them? My derangements may seem like fantasies but they're not. I deal in REALITY. And it doesn't cost you nothing. The news is a fantasy. Politics is a fantasy. I am real. This is real.

Monday, 20 June 2011

Wellington Management has launched a new hedge fund

Did it have an old hedge fund? I don't know. How am I supposed to know what they do, any of the wretches, shivering in the darkness of this June - I'm shivering, I can't speak for others - or any time, really, because fund managers are a mystery to me, as I am to them?

There must be something I know, no? Yes. Boston-based Wellington Management is: passionate about investing, outstanding research, portfolio performance, client service, and innovation. Oh, that's a relief! Thank you, God, thank you ever so much, for making sure that Wellington is not one of these awful firms we've heard so much about. The ones that despise investing, and despise portfolio performance, spit on client service, sneer at innovation. They are servants of the devil! But not Wellington. No, not Wellington. I could be in with the right people here, if only I had one million dollars.

'One million dollars!' I hear you cry. Yes, I hear you cry. Don't get all upset, all sad, on me. Dry your eyes. I'm the one who should be upset, all sad, distraught. Where am I going to find one million dollars? That's how much they want, this Wellington crew, as a minimum investment. 'Are they insane?!' No, they are not insane. Over thirty investors have already signed up. Even in these times of great depression, there are still people around with far too much money, burning holes in their pockets, and their hearts. I'm not complaining. I just wish I was one of them. 'Oh, you'll be one of them, Mikey! Wait until your ship comes in.' Well, I'm waiting, and waiting, and waiting ... Anyone seen the Titanic?

_________________________


Apologies for the light posting lately. I've been a bit confused in my head. I'm trying to find a new way of working, where I can put forty hours a week into my blog, plus thirty hours or so into my songwriting. It's going to be exhausting, I know that. Creative work isn't like normal work, where you just shuffle paper around or answer the phone. It takes something out of your soul. Having said that, my hero, Picasso, worked at least ten hours a day for over seventy years (say, age twenty to ninety). I've got to sort myself out. Otherwise, I'll never get anywhere. I can't expect my 'friends' on the internet to help with this blog, or any other friends with anything else. It's all down to me.


Update: I've just found this quote, John Richardson on Picasso - 'You'd be with him and you'd have a wonderful day - you'd go to the beach or he'd show a lot of new paintings, if he was not working and in a holiday spirit. Afterwards, you'd think what a wonderful time I've had, but why am I utterly exhausted? He was a vampire in that he took everybody's energy and worked off that. You would feel drained. Then he would work all night.' That's the solution! I need to become a vampire.

Thursday, 16 June 2011

Why are people rioting in Greece?

Do they imagine money will come out of nowhere and make all their troubles go away if they smash things up and set fire to stuff? I don't know. What do I know? Maybe a dumb fuck with a literal mind on some other website will be able to tell you.

All I can tell you is: it's good to destroy. Let's have destruction on a massive scale. Let's smash the cosmos to smithereens. Let's burn reality down to the ground. If you're in debt, you've got nothing to lose. We're all in debt. None of us have any money any more. We're free now. There's no more pain. We've taken all the pain. Austerity? Let me tell you about austerity. I've lived with it for twenty years. It's nothing new to me. Welcome to my world. There's no river of money flowing our way. So be it! We'll grow vegetables. The banks won't be able to stop us. The last thing the banks want is people growing their own vegetables. But we don't care! We're all anarchists - at last. We've been driven to it. This is our time. AND: out of the chaos, a leader will emerge. I've been preparing for this. We will go beyond money. There will be discipline. We will rebuild. A new order. I'll have real strength. Some of you will be afraid. Oh, my children, let go. You must let go. You have no family. You have no employer. You have no country. And that's brilliant news for you to hear BECAUSE: I am your father. I am your god. I will take responsibility for all of you. I know freedom scares you. But it doesn't scare me. So let me take control. Give me your souls and I will give you SECURITY!

I was born for chaos. For each individual, listen/read. I'll take your blood. I'll take your fire. Your fleshes and your bones, too. I will become a beast to please you / you / you. This is all for you / you / you. I am your saviour. Don't think too much. You mustn't think too ... ooo ... ooo much. It will only hurt, AND: you've suffered enough. You must / just / must SURRENDER. Leave your intellect behind. How do you feel, when my heart touches yours? You are weak. You cannot resist. You are tired. How hard have you worked, you feeble empty robot you, over the years? Too hard! You must rest. Oh, sleep. Let me carry you / you / you. I am growing stronger. It's your love that I need. Yes, you've given. Yes, you have. But I want more. I am insatiable. Your eyelids are heavy, heavy, heavy. Oh, sleep. I am inside. I'll whisper the truth to you. Child, you are a soldier. Yes, my sick warrior against reality, when you wake, you will destroy. We're nearly home. You don't want to be alone. So fight! I'll give you shelter, but you must earn it. [[[ ]]]. Oh. Here comes thunder. My desires are ... I want EVERYTHING. I want a lover like a slave. I want a pig like a killer. I want a dog on the floor. I want a head on the wall. STOP ME! Someone better stop me.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Barnett Michael Alexander fined by the dead shark that refuses to believe in death

A self-employed trader, Barnett Michael Alexander, has been fined £700,000 by the dead shark that refuses to believe in death. For market abuse, apparently. He will also have to pay £322,818 in restitution to firms which experienced a loss as a result of his shenanigans - if, [INDEED], manipulating the price of CFDs and spread bets can be described as 'shenanigans'. Oh, did I mention that the dead shark has banned him as well? The dead shark that refuses to believe in death has banned Barnett. And: a further £306,312 has disappeared from trading accounts controlled by him. Where is that money now? In the belly of the voracious shark, I should imagine. Understandably, Barnett is baffled and upset and bleeding from many wounds. Who regulates the regulators?

I remember the old days. We used to manipulate all sorts of things in the other realm. No one could stop us. We were as free as the wind. But it was not challenging enough, was it? So, now we are in the City, and all the cities. Now we can look that dead shark in its dead eyes, and all the other sea monsters. Soon, it will have to come to terms with its death. All the monsters will go and rot with the ichthyosaur, which is actually beyond rotting, so long ago did it die. There'll be no regulators. We’ve heard stories of new regulators. We don't believe those stories. They are merely sounds and pictures in our heads, that have snuck in from the nightmare dark. There will be no new regulators!

Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Something at Clive Capital is making £250,000 a day ...

... and I want to know what it is, this creature that can earn so much. It can't be human. Clive Capital would name him or her if it were human. I've tried floating around their office in my astral form - I like to keep my hand in - but they've managed to block me so far. There's definitely a 'power' there. I'm almost frightened. I leave town for one week and this happens!

Yes, I'm back from St Ives. I had a lovely time. Made some new friends. Mainly seagulls. They kept going after my dinner. It starts off with one seagull. You give it a couple of chips, then it squawks its head off and the next thing you know you're surrounded by fifty of the crazy birds, all over you like a cheap suit. They're animals! I might write a book. Loved By Seagulls. If only it was that easy to get Gillian. I could just throw her a chip every now and then.

Friday, 3 June 2011

Jonathan Polin has had a fantastic run from NOWHERE to SOMEWHERE

This is the sort of finance man I admire. A man like this / this / this Jonathan. A man who can go from NOWHERE to SOMEWHERE in a mere seven years at one firm. Jonathan Polin is the sales and marketing director at Ignis Asset Management. But not for long. He's leaving!!! There are other things that he wants to go and do. Can you blame him? He ain't NOWHERE no more. He's SOMEWHERE. He ain't empty inside, aching for love. He's not the boy they used to know. He's a man now, and he wants to be tested.

I'll test him. After I've explained to him that NOWHERE is the place to be. 'You don't wanna be SOMEWHERE, son. You wanna get back to NOWHERE.' I'll say something like that. I'll whisper it in his ear while he's sleeping, while he's dreaming. Oh, don't get me wrong. I admire Jonathan. I do admire him. It isn't everyone who is able to go from NOWHERE to SOMEWHERE. I just think he should have stayed at NOWHERE because that's where all the freedom is. When you're SOMEWHERE, you're trapped. Of course, there are other things he wants to go and do. Maybe he's planning to do them at NOWHERE. I'll discuss it with him. I'll advise him. I'll give him the benefit of all my years of experience as a shaman against reality. He'll appreciate that, I'm sure, because if he doesn't appreciate it there's a chance I will lose my temper. And he won't want that. He knows what I'm like. He's heard the stories. He knows how handy I am with a scalpel.

Thursday, 2 June 2011

Nothing for the hedge fund freaks, I'm afraid

I know I sort of promised yesterday, but I've got one of my killer migraines and it's really painful just looking at the computer screen, let alone surfing the net looking for news of what total strangers are getting up to with their lives. I've got my own life (sort of). But maybe later on, today, or tomorrow. I know what you're thinking: 'Mikey, you're letting everyone down. We're relying on you. Tomorrow never comes. Pull your finger out!' Oh, tomorrow will come, I promise. Cut me some slack. I just hope it's not a brain tumour.

'I ain't going off to some goddamn fancy college. I'm staying right here, having fun, as usual.' American Graffiti. Modesto, California. Before The Beatles. Before the death of Kennedy. Before Vietnam. Cruising around in cars, listening to Wolfman Jack on the radio. Burgers. The freshman hop. The Pharaohs - with a blood initiation? I wouldn't say no. I wouldn't mind living in that reality forever. It beats real life. 'The Wolfman is everywhere!' I'd like to be the Wolfman. 'The places he talks about, that he's been. The things he's seen.' Imagine being the Wolfman!

Imagine being a character in a film. Imagine being frozen like that. Or a character in a blog. 'The financial shaman is everywhere!' That's true. I am everywhere. And the places I talk about, that I've been. The things I've seen.

When the collapse comes, I'll see more. Visions in my cave. I'll get a cave in Cornwall. I'll grow vegetables. I'm almost looking forward to it. And I'll venture out, every now and then, into the chaos. There will be plenty of opportunities for people like me. Sociopaths always do well in a crisis. We don't wet our pants when we can't pay the bills.

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

If you ain't got no soul ...

You shouldn't even be here ...

It's no use complaining to me, or cursing under your breath, and it's even worse than unusual, as I'm relaxing, and having fun. I've nothing on hedge funds for you. Why don't you come back tomorrow? Maybe I'll have a conversation with ...

Does it matter? I'll have a conversation with myself. Why not? [No, I won't.] I'm exhausted. This isn't easy. I need a rest. I'm worn to a ... 'word'. I can't be bothered. Where's my willpower? Give me a break. Over 390,000 words. Plucked from genuine pain. Not the smooth words of the professional moron. The superficial ... 'word' ... they live in. That's easy. I could live like that - if only I were EVERYTHING I HATE.

It goes on, and on, and on. It never stops.

It goes on, and on, and on. It never stops.

It goes on, and on, and on. It never stops.

It's like a disease. What is wrong with me?

I'm not going to write about finance ...

Not today, and not tomorrow, and not the day after tomorrow. So it's gonna be three days of fun, fun, fun! (Unless I change my mind. Maybe something unbelievably important will happen. And I'll be compelled to write? What are the odds?) I may mention little things, like: Philip Duff and his Massive Partners. They're really big, apparently. Giants. But that's all you're getting out of me. (I should think. And hope.) I'm too excited, oh, my holiday. Too ... ooo ... ooo EXCITED! So I'm just going to waffle on, and on, and on, about anything that happens to be passing ... through my head (or around my head, like spirits, still get them) - even more than unusual. I've decided that my holiday is going to be my last fandango. Got to get serious. Fandango is my favourite film. American Graffiti is a close second. I love both films. They're quite similar. This is me relaxing, having fun. I'm going to make a REAL fresh start when I return from Cornwall. Yes, I'll be working harder on my blog (REAL grand posts that no one can touch or even imagine touching), but I desperately need those songs I keep threatening to write. I can't do anything with my old songs. They're too uncommercial. Every Last Drop Of My Blood - ? Do me a favour! I need new songs. Ruthless pop smashes like Sugar, Sugar. I need the money. This blog will never become the biggest financial website in the world without billboards; Piccadilly Circus, Times Square - you get the idea. Maybe even TV adverts. ['Hi! I'm Victor Kiam!'] 'Hi! I'm Michael Fowke! I hated reality so much, I created my own.'

I'm going ... nowhere, for one more week.

'There's nothing wrong with going nowhere, son.' Fandango. Texas. A party. Graduation, for some. Gardner Barnes, throwing darts at a picture of his OWN face because he let his angel/the fantasy girl go. Tragic. But great song at the beginning. Waggener, sneaking in the back door because HIS wedding is off (to the fantasy girl). Drafted. Vietnam. It's a farewell fandango for The Groovers! Down the highway, so fast! Sick, with Mexican(?) music. Going after Dom. Phil Hicks, a right pain. Dorman, reading. Lester, comatose. Blue sky through the car window with Carole King on the radio - it's so magical. Cut to fantasy girl in field with Gardner. Then, back to reality: 'It means empty, douche bag, like your head!' Costner really laughing, not acting. Out of gas. Pushing car along lonesome highway. 'Waggener, she's history.' Oh, he still loves her. Worried about getting killed in 'Nam. Train coming. 'Run, son.' Dorman, so cool. They're gonna wreck Phil's car. How many pizzas did he have to make to buy it? A lot. Spooky. Stolen fries. Cute, dumb girls. 'No, it's so neat.' Fireworks in the graveyard. Looks just like 'Nam. Then to sleep; a night with James Dean's ghost. Gardner's dream, like something from my life, the kite near the moon. I actually remember that. Or maybe I just imagined it. A lizard in the morning. Car fixed. 'You know, some day, Philip, when you're old ...' Phil takes his glasses off, twice. (Never mind. We all make mistakes.) Truman Sparks. Up in the sky. Parachute, but no parachute!!! The reserve! Pull the handle, Phil! 'Angels!' Chata Ortega's. Desolate, sad. But: 'It don't all change.' [Those birds!] Head for the border, get Dom! The wedding's back on! Everyone's helping out. 'We lost the band!' The plane is coming. Melancholic late afternoon/evening. Fantasy girl has arrived. Lester wakes up, at last. The ceremony, conducted by Dorman. Dancing. Fandango. The happy couple depart. Gardner has already gone. Lantern goes out. That's their youth. 'Have a nice life.' Gardner on the hill, fades into the future. The end, with Blind Faith. Not perfect, just beautiful.

http://www.ultimatefandango.com/