I wish I was a Headlight...

Grand Central Terminal (not station you f*cking Rubes. What are you, from f*cking Iowa?)

OK, so apparently Puerto Rican Speedballs* on the way to the train don't cure every hangover, but I'm willing to gamble that this morning's little episode was really the exception to prove the rule. Just bad luck really. After fifteen Goombay Smashes, the shot of Sauza right before catching a puddle jumper back to Westchester Airport probably wasn't a great idea, but how often do you get to salute the men and women who serve our country with liquor from the country they fled a mere couple of weeks ago? The cans on that waitress will ensure that she won't have to learn the language until those things are around her knees, and by then she will have been working in the Schwarzenegger household for at least one full term.

Honestly, though it really wasn't my fault. My freaking New England Puritan roots sneak up on me at the strangest of times. Purely subconscious. I've learned my lesson- there really is no excuse for not flying in the morning of. I certainly hope the Fupa-riffic young lady who had the audacity to sit across from a six- foot- twelve Norse God in a $9000 suit (with a custom ticket pocket just the right size of the dugout he picked up from the Afghani Freedom Fighters behind the counter at the Optimo Store next to The Blarney Stone on Third Avenue) leaned her lesson, too.

Did she not notice that my eyes were pink as a f*cking pet store bunny's or that my skin was the color of window putty? No? The cold sweat sopping my brow like pi$$ in a diaper that has spent the last 3 hours in an air conditioned baby seat stuck in traffic on 95? No? The constant shifting in my seat, trying to find a position that will free my Hefty-sized nutsack from the impenetrable seal it had formed with half of my inner thigh? Really? Today's FT fluttering in my ink- stained hand like a moth in a spider web? Nothin'?

Well then. Lady: I can't be responsible for drowning your pantsuit with every last centiliter of bile from the depths of my (some say over-) privileged gullet, now, can I? The fact that you dumped a keg of Charlie on yourself this morning to cover up the menthol 1000s you had on the platform in Bridgeport really didn't help your cause there, sister. I'm sure Glen likes it and that's why he chose it for you at Sears when he took your little darlings on a shopping excursion for a new George Forman Grill and realized it was Valentine's day, but stick to the pulse points honey. A little Febreze will get you through your day I'm sure.

*One- hitters and coffee

Where the Figawi?

Midtown-

Alright you proles, I staying fifteen minutes past the open and then I gotta jump on a bird to Nantucket for Figawi. No I'm not sailing in it- that's for chumps. Yes I have a boat (have we met? Hi, I'm Charles. Don't fiddle with the radio and try not to scratch it.), but bobbing around for hours upon hours in the fog with a bunch of sausages with no more sailing experience than blowing off a gut course in celestial navigation 20 years ago really isn't as fun as it sounds. Trust me- there's always some a$$hole who insists they have a chance of winning the f*cking thing and wants everyone to remain sober. Screw that- I can barely get my sea legs without a stiff Dark n' Stormy for ballast. And none of that crappy ginger beer neither. Gotta be Barritt's- something else you learn when your pledge father is Bermudian.

Speaking of which, Rottencrotch: Dude- you have to stop calling me "dude" in the office. HR is completely up my a$$ for not hiring that black chick, who was hot and better qualified than you by the way. They have no idea we were fraternity brothers, much less that you were my pledge son. Now I appreciate the fact that you always show up, even if you looking like you just came from from f*cking Burning Man. While you may not be useful puking in a waste basket, and you tend to leave some residue from your morning, erm, "coffee", on the toilet paper holder, it is good for morale and builds teamwork. Eventually you'll get the idea of what it is like to actually add value to a firm beyond winning the longest drive contest at the client outing so we don;t have to pay out on the prize. Kinda crappy we have to have it at a public course, even if it is Bethpage, but limiting your pool of investors to those who would be welcome at some of the nicer clubs is tantamount to suicide. The things we put up with, right?

So here's the drill for today: DON'T. F*CK. IT. UP. Sit on your hands, play defense, only close positions, only with VWAP algos. Do that, and with any luck you'll make the Cannonball out to that decrepit share house in effing Montauk you keep blathering on about. Trust me- the place isn't new. It's been there for generations for people who know what the f*ck they are doing on the water- not for a bunch of jackasses who can't get into the Maidstone or Shinnecock.

Spring Fever

May 25, 2011
Midtown-
Alright you pudwhacks, whichever one of you Kentucky Glue Gunned the idle stall in the executive men’s  needs to just learn some common decency. I mean, I understand, on a day like today, the need to excuse yourself to do a number three in the first semi-private space you come across but, for the love of all that is sordid and evil in the world, clean up after yourself! This is what I get for hiring a bunch of pricks who spent their formative years locked up in all- male mental institutions like Deerfield and Lawrenceville with nothing better to hump than their roommate's goalie pads.

Come 1:30, guy finds himself standing in line at Mangia next to a simian looking creature that happens to be wearing a sun dress and he can barely make it into the elevator with his Tuna Nicoise.  Shoulda stuck with the Pomfret and Brooks kids- at least they have the common sense and balls to just pay off the concierge for an hour in an empty room at the W. Leave a couple nugs of Durban Poison on the dresser and he’ll give you a late checkout next time.

Anyway, apparently spring has freakin sprung like a birfday present delivered to Wile E. Coyote from Acme Toy Company. When you go from March to August within twenty four hours it’s pretty damn clear who’s been sticking to the honk- and- Marlboro Lights- Miami Beach Diet and who’s been lip wrestling chicken wings and self loathing like they’ve been living in Canton, New York since November. Makes you want to slap the ice cream right outta their hands and replace it with a subscription to Shape and a coupon for a high colonic. And they wonder if they’re getting away with it at 230 Fifth on the first sunny afternoon since the proceedings on Raj Raj went down. Not unless they got some Danille Chiesi quality scoops and an affection for middle managers in suits from Century 21 they ain’t.
              
Speaking of 230 Fifth, I really don’t mind paying top dollar for a cocktail but keep it in a glass- if I’m drinking from a plastic cup it better be a Solo and in a place where you don’t have to bother to hide the wunnies, preferably near water. You gotta make a pretty damn good argument why I’m not jumping on the 4:07 and hopping on the Naughty by Nature for an evening’s cast on the Sound. They’ve been catching stripers off Nantucket for two weeks at this point and I’ve been sitting here with you dweebs speculating on the implications of Dodd-Frank like it’s going to make any difference in the long- term trajectory of our lives. We are hurtling through time towards unarguably questionable fourth civil ceremony on a dock in the Caribbean somewhere while the offspring from our first marriages try to figure out if they slept with their step-mom at the Head of the Charles, the Far Hills Hunt or both.

Don’t fight it people- just make sure you have a bottle of penicillin handy and know the way from Silver Hill to the Train Station in the pitch dark. The rest will take care of itself.