Long or Short Capital

There are many keys to getting a job in finance, an industry currently in the toilet, albeit a gilded one that does not stink. If you are failing to find a new job or Lehman let you go or Bear bade bye-bye or Goldman gave you a golden parachute or RBS rended you redundant or Credit Suisse cut you loose or you work at B of A, then read on to equip yourself with the paddles you will need in order to navigate shit creek.

The first key is nepotism, or any relationship that transcends logic and reason. If your desired employer is your father, your mother, or a blood relative, or your father is the head of a powerful financial firm, or the former President of the United States, or you are a member of the same secret society as your potential employer, these things will likely secure you a job. Kudos.

Barring nepotism, you may have to fallback to what we call “Actual qualifications” which include past quality work experience at a prestigious (but suitably similar) firm, outstanding marks in your education at a top ten institution and excellent demonstrable abilities (like the ability to jump seventeen feet into the air if you want to work for a basketball firm or the ability to devise opaque pyramidal trading strategies if you want to work for a market-making/investment advisory firm). These things are mostly out of your control at this point, and they are difficult to maximize ex post.

But you do control the next key, differentiation. Although mostly just a euphemism for “don’t be coastal white male from a top fifteen school”, other differentiation is achievable with the right combination of savvy, research and sticktuitiveness. Also gumption. With the economic backdrop of the Great Regression and a hugely competitive job search environment in finance, differentiation becomes all the more important.

One example of differentiation is to “be a woman”.

Another example of differentiation is to come to your interview dressed in a way that says you are an especially serious person who would become an especially serious employee. If a man, this means a well-fitted suit, a bold but elegant tie/shirt combination and a unifying theme that conveys assured sartorial command. If your expected interviewer is a woman, it’s ok to tell your tailor to tighten the fit in your lower mid-section — the woman would likely like to know just what kind of employment package she can expect from you.

If a woman and the expected interviewer suffers similarly, this means dressing in a way that is both smart and sexy. A Theory pantsuit with a crisp Pink shirt underneath, pearl earrings, and a bag & shoe combination that looks brand new is a combination that will put your best foot forward into that employment door. If the expected interviewer is a man, a tasteful teddy will ensure that they take you literally and a set of Prada glasses will make you seem smart. Smart and sexy.

Besides what you wear, you can differentiate yourself by what you are willing to do. Will you step into a boxing ring with a senior trader who is wearing brass knuckles, if asked? What about drink 4 gallons of milk in thirty minutes or eat 35 McDonald’s cheeseburgers? After the markets close, will you push a broom to help on facilities costs? If a woman, will you sleep with your boss? If an attractively girlish looking man with soft hands and features, will you sleep with your boss with the lights off? Increasing what you are willing to do is an out-of-the-box blank check that a potential employee can give their potential employers as incentive towards being hired.

The last key for you to be left with is to never put anything meaningful, or that you spent time on, or that is actually value-add, after the 600 word mark (or in resume terms, the first page), because frankly, there is little chance anyone is paying attention to you anymore. It’s a great time for a corny joke, or a non-sequitur, but little else. If you, or your idea, cannot fit within 600 words (or in resume terms, one page), than you, or your idea, are most likely preposterously awful.

In my family, it has been a masculine tradition to keep logs of economic thought and financial analysis since the days of Ancient Rome. I will from time to time share with you relevant passages from these Legacy records.

From my forefather, Tupac Huayna Madacagalu (relayed through our familial oral tradition):

Dealing with Inheritance

Death is a very tax inefficient occurrence. You die then your estate gets devoured by Quirsatec, The Great God of the Levy. This has been THE great financial planning quandary of my time as Emperor of the Inca Empire. And I think I solved it.

Bundled up on a crisp June night, a pan flute filling the air with its melodies, I drank chicha and pondered tax efficient solutions to the death problem — what can we do to best minimize estate taxes? And it hit me, like a great bolt from Apocatequil:

I will never die and thus never bequeath my estate and also never pay the taxman any goods.

This will likely require some alterations to our belief system, but as ruler, that is all in the game.

As I thought later, I realized the genius of my own genius. Not only would I minimize taxes and not die, but I would ensure that my offspring were properly incentivized to go out and conquer for themselves, for otherwise they would have nothing and they would likely be thrown off the cliffs into the depths below with nary a single coca chew to soften the blow when the state falls apart around them! Oral Note to self: This is also a great opportunity to create a post-mortem fashion and maintenance start-up and produce crazy profits.

I descend from a lineage that can be traced back to the Roman Empire, a time when men were men, women were women, and, sometimes, boys were women too. My forefather kept a meticulous journal on valuation of everything ancient Roman, knowing that such a journal would be a helpful guide the economic choices that his descendants would face over the next several millennia. In my family, it has been a masculine tradition to keep similar logs of economic thought and financial analysis. I will from time to time share with you relevant passages from these Legacy records.

From my forefather, Cornelius Scipio Flipio (translated from the original latin):

On Valuing The Plebs

You, plebs, I have need to ascribe upon you a value. This is the way I would do such a thing as that.

First Question: How are your teeth?
Second Question: Can you pull a plow?
Third: Salary

Add a 10% premium to your salary for good teeth; add a 15% premium for plow ability. Lastly, it is required that I then do a DCF on that number. That is your number. That is what I would pay for you. You are an asset, and I do not even have concern about your humanity, but I only have concern about what I would pay for you. That is the way in which I see you.

So while everyone in my state was voting HRC or Huckabee or whoever, I said, why don’t I do what’s best for the country? After I laughed, I concentrated on doing what was best for me. I voted for Obama. Why would a WASP do such a thing? The answer is simple — it is a get out of racism card.

Previously, I could only use the “Hey I can say that because I have a black friend (he’s really a mulatto but that counts, look it up)” when saying something that lacked racial discretion or oppressing people on a racial basis. Now I can say “It’s cool, brother, I voted for Obama” or “How can I be racist? I voted for Obama!” or “I’m practically your [n-word], since I voted for Obama.”

God.

You think you are so much WORSE than I am.

Just because I make all this money and have more flat screen displays on my desk than you have months in this country, you have this righteous feeling of inferiority, that you somehow get to stand below me. Well, I’m onto it and quite sick of it. El juego is up my dear and I will now fight back.

I have taken to deliberately throwing actual trash into the recycling bin below my desk. Non-confidential recycleables go into the shredding bin. Oh yes, your lovely order is completely messed up. You were so smug in your inferiority, slicing me with your covetous glances as you strolled in, and I strolled out. Now I strike down those furtive glares with my knowing insolence.

You may have noticed sometimes I put papers directly in between all three bins. This is no mistake. I know the panic it sets off in your core.

“Which bin¿” you whisper to yourself, very spanishly. That is a good question. Which bin, indeed.