16 October 2009

Bonus bonzai



Banks, and billions of bonuses, baby: the uncomprehending indignation manifested by the public, towards these unique financial system employees, is justified, and yet...



Another message from the ZENmud FireWatchTower


What the public has misjudged, is the nature of the game, which allows the 'system' to reward these 'traders'... massively. Most people, who watch a story on the TV news, or read related web or press articles, are indignant to read that Goldman Sachs or another enterprise has awarded its 'traders' with billions of bonus bucks. For them, these obscene amounts represent a system (and they are not wrong to think this) that has gone amok, which siphons out of the economy gross sums to reward its players: players who may have brought great profits to their clients.


A common thread woven throughout the stories relating to these bonus–babies, recounts the positions taken by CEOs of these financial institutions (which, we recall below, have been greatly aided directly or indirectly, by infusions of State Aid to survive the Catastrophe 2008), whose uniform responses offer their variant of 'panic': “... if we don't offer bonuses, the traders will leave and go (to the competition) where they can receive such compensation...”


Most readers are then left thinking that the banking system itself is putrefied, stagnating the rest of the economy (and they are not wrong to think this) by this siphoning off of 'our capital', to line the pockets of a selected few. What is not commonly known, is the true source of the imbalance, because of the nature of that industry: clients.


The ignored implicit denominator underlining these generic responses, transmitted through the fear–mongering media (FMM) regarding bonuses, is the liaison that exists between traders (or fortune managers) and clients: accumulated personal wealth.


And thus the numerator is this, making a simple equation: if a bank doesn't pay the traders for the profits generated through the fortunes they manage, the financial manager/trader would walk from that bank
with their clients. The bonus system, therefore, can be 'diagnosed' as a means of rewarding these traders for their social and professional connections, which reunite the personal fortunes of the ultra–rich into large investment consortia, who (towards their trusted bankers) are loyal beyond measure, during good times.


Clients of bankers in personal fortune management often demand a plethora of services, and whether some of these pass beyond the legal is not within the scope of this article. If someone calls, a banker could spend his or her time (or that of their staff) in chartering airplanes for cargo transfers, arranging important contacts with other clients with similar business interests, or finding a reputable yacht broker. While the purchase and sale of investment instruments (stocks, bonds, mutual funds, notes, whole companies, etc.) occupies a great amount of a banker's day, the cultivation of these relationships can also require (or offer) extensive 'vacation time' on the yachts or seashore mansions, and ski lodges of these super–rich clients.


Clients with personal fortunes are more loyal to their chosen banker, than to the bank which has engaged such professionals. Any trader that has made profits for his 'family' of clients, will have accumulated substantial financial leverage, for which the payment of the annual year–end bonus is one of the most pre–eminent liens to staying with that bank.


So, while reading about traders and bonuses, don't forget who holds the power.


A bank that diminishes traders' bonuses is going to be losing those clients, whose fortunes are shepherded through good financial times and bad, as the traders 'threaten' to vacate any bank paying under–market bonuses. Confirmation of this comes from a hard–hitting French newspaper, Le Canard Enchainé (translated as: the Enchained Duck), whose translated comment would read:


Bonuses are calculated as a function of performances, those of [the trader's] desk and bank... but especially as a function of the minimal price to which [their] boss thinks [he or she] would be able to keep [them].


Rich clients, one could say, do not trust the bank, per se... they trust he or she that comes to play on their yacht... and offers advice or follows orders, with the panache that the rich pride themselves for receiving.


If we want to add 'morals' to the 'equation', and if citizens are perturbed by the perceived injustices of 'bail–outs' and taxpayer indebtedness, then the thought du jour should be projected on to those rich clients, whose 'friends in the firms' are reaping millions in bonuses for having recommended (some) bogus investment vehicles (especially in markets such as
derivatives and credit default swaps).


It should be the rich clients who are upset with the
rewards given for bad investment advice.


And how a bank justifies rewards to their über–staff, who've reduced the confidence of (and in) the market regarding their offered counselling and advice, is totally unZEN...


This is pertinent to the global situation today, after the announcement by President de la République N. Sarkozy, and his Ministre de la Finance C. Lagarde, of their concept for regulation of French banks, to which they'd given the name 'bonus–malus', requiring the retention of fifty per cent of the bonuses paid out annually, to be retained for three years, and then judged against the performance of the bank in that period.


A rational concept, in sum...


Profits from better risk assessment will allow the retained bonus to be issued to the employee at the end of the three–year period, and losses from poor risk assessment allow the bank to retain those funds held (more or less) in escrow. We watch with bated breath, to see how Sarkozy's proposal is introduced at the upcoming G8 meeting to be held near Pittsburgh. As of the weekend, Germany's government announced 'support' for the concept, without detailing the width of any base of support within the entire country.



SIDEBAR: Wouldn't it have been nice to see President Obama place last month's G8 meeting at Bretton Woods, New Hampshire? The resort lodge and town in which the world witnessed the birth of the post–World War financial system, Bretton Woods could have been a symbol of the renewal for good of the capitalist financial system(s), as it once was seen to be many years ago.


Take the Goldman Sachs bonanza of bonus–bounty to its upper staff: this is the company who 'offered' its CEO, Henry Paulson, as Secretary of the Treasury, he who negotiated a 'NO–conflict–of–interest' (sarcasm mode OFF) bail–out to AIG and the others (all but its main competitor Lehman Brothers... hmmmm). His generosity with the future tax obligations of America's children, produced the last major Act of the Bush misAdministration: AIG received over one hundred Billion dollars, while the classic excuse was produced (as for Chrysler nearly twenty years ago) of its being Too Large To Fail. With this bailout, AIG was 'covered', and in a position to handle its outstanding obligations to clients. These included Goldman Sachs, who received something near eighteen Billio dollars.


Someone probably sent a sweet little memento to Mr Paulson in return for his persuasive response to a financial crisis (from both AIG and Goldman?)... Goldman Sachs didn't tarry, in rewarding its management with some
(??) Billion in bonuses, announced earlier in mid–summer.


Somehow,
conflict–of–interest has lost its impact in Financial America.


We, the Bankers from the United States,
in order to screw taxpayers, for
a more perfect Bonus
...



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© 2009




06 October 2009

To a friend, our friends...


(Hi, thanks for breaking my 'writer's block', you...!)


This week has turned inward and 'past-word', thinking of nine fully-remembered years in the rolling, beautifully-wooded hillsides of western New Jersey, the friends that I'd left behind, extracted from a 'volatile' household, a pressure-cooker stirred by one person's alcohol and drug(s) abuse, emotional rages and, as the French say: 'conneries' (or 'idiotic behaviour')


That's enough on the negative...



Our neighbourhoods were safe, wooded, wet and wild: deer roamed throughout our woods, riders crossed boys' and girls' excursions through wooded paths, we romped through a National Historic Park featuring Revolutionary War cabins...


And, of course, we were 'Born in the Fifties'... (Police)


So many memories, of lakes, sports... we were a group of 20 boys, who used to go to Harding Township school before SIX AM, in the lovely months of April, May and June, to play baseball for two or three hours before school started... Touch football, soccer, and cycling to the 'Girls' Lake'... Mt Kemble.


Who said once, long ago: "Home - is somewhere to which you can never return..."?


This ain't home... a short, four++ minute opportunity for 'friends' and readers to sit back and let their ears enjoy the calm images taken from the bank of Lac Léman (Lake Geneva to the English world)...

moon dock clock and WAVES

2
009 (C) zenmud productions




Some of us were young rebels: this boy, 12 or so in 1969 or 70, was brought by Mom with a brother to see President Nixon leaving the local Morristown Airport... and she caught me flipping him off (a 'middle-finger' salute...): "You should respect the Office, even if you can't respect the man that holds it..."


Momma, I've tried, but some of them have made it so hard... Mr 'Evil Empire'... Mr. 'Jobs Jobs Jobs', Mr. 'Terr-wrist suiciders'... All drove me further away, once I'd left our happy hollows and gladed woods... our integrated High School,
MUCH different from a 'homogenous' primary school, where our basketball team lost (nearly always), our soccer team won (nearly always), and our baseball team batted .500... (in the standings, not in the box!).


1973, the summer of Watergate Hearings and the Watkins Glen concert, to which I hitchhiked with lost friend Eric... four weeks to the day before I abandoned my parents and became a one-boy 'Liberation Army', ready to wage war against antiquated Denver High School hierarchies.




We grew up between the Bay of Pigs and Disco, or between the Deaths of John, then Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, and the ending loss in the Vietnam War, which fortunately ended within days/weeks/months of this writer's perilous 18th birthday...




(I can do that... :-)

Winters spent in ski trips to Pennsylvania or New York, and a yearly blessing: a Valentine Boy was the only of four brothers, who was roasted at annual birthday parties in Denver or Vail, Colorado, as our annual school vacation coincided with said birthday, and two young brothers flew 'Friendly skies' to two older brothers, emigrants from Minnesota to Denver. If I am fortunate, someone will say "I remember! You came back from your first trip Sunburned, on crutches (broken ankle) and with your thumb in a cast (broken thumb first day...), and smiling!"


If I hadn't skied there four times, or if I hadn't moved to Denver at 16, I probably wouldn't have spent 13 years there, rafting in the summers, skiing in the winters, working in the evenings, dancing until the Tank-n-Tonics were sweated away each evening...


But digression is a bad habit...


Some of us were 'in the Band', at school, were this one was 'famous' for a series of 'sore lips' that prevented trumpet practice. The only song I remember that we played, was 'Exodus'... why block the rest of our repertoire? I remember the boys' Drum solos... they rocked on their individual snares.


We laughed about Laugh-in, launched over STAR TREK, and were dispersed before Saturday Night Live re-united us 'from New York'...


We were crowds who'd met to talk, boys and girls, up at the high-jump mats, or on the swings... and (should I?) were learning to kiss... or were dedicated pre-teen 'BF and GF' as skating partners, on the Silver Lake or New Vernon Pond... knitted mittens were one of two reasons I stopped playing hockey in our unprotected youth... (violent hip checks being the other...).


Banana bikes? Abbie Hoffman's 'Steal This Book' and the Whole Earth Catalogue... and Ken Kesey's fabulous LSD-driven 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest'... which was so many light-years better as an Off-Broadway play, rather than a Hollywood movie that stole the plot and dropped half of the book's meaning in the editing-room trash... We were a crowd that went to the play, watching Chief Broom pushing his namesake across a non-dusty stage, while the speakers overhead 'told' us his biting pertinent thoughts...


How did the 'Machine' win? The world that began with the Summer of Love, Woodstock and the vibrant Vietnam War protest movement, died a soft and un-gentle death; Reaganism began the decade that followed deaths of Jimi, Janice and Jim, and Tommy Bolin, a fabulous Western guitarist that many never heard (but DID: His creativity dominated, for short periods of time, the music of Chick Corea, the James Gang (don't dwell on the hairstyles! heh heh) and Deep Purple, until he died shortly after producing his second solo album... after a post-concert party (fronting for Jeff Beck). As was 'heard' then, his autopsy showed 'traces' of six out of ten of the 'most popular' rec-drugs of the era.... it was evident from his music.


I first learned of him posthumously, although I'd probably not realized that I actually could have seen him many times in Denver... such is life. I found him through a close musician-friend from the Unirado of COLOVERSITY (our nickname for the Alma Mater). That was the year that I returned in a visit to my 'home'; it was hard to remember how the 'big roads' we cycled as children were actually scary narrow country lanes, the type that would make a Brit feel at home.


The exit, and the return, were painfully linked: I never really got over how the joys of 'privilege' were not strong enough to conquer the sad memories, of being a 'one-lad army' protecting Mom against a Big Man on alcohol, speed and barbiturates. A man who wouldn't hesitate to scream every filthy word on this Earth, if the garage wasn't swept, or the lawn un-mowed.



And v
isiting ZEN-filled friends was a most beautiful stroke to the ego, yet didn't quash the nausea that returned as I toured my 'grounds' the quite lane on which we lived, perched hillside between the Great Swamp of NJ and the tiny mountain ranges that ringed our villages: the Watchung 'Mountains' were some of those.... I only ever went 'home' once again, bringing my wife, to show her from whence I grew into the man she married (she took this shot, the year we met: that's STATE BRIDGE, the pilings of the first bridge built in Colorado over the mighty Colorado River: famous for being the railroad stop at which Teddy used to go bear hunting. Also famous are the dinosaur tracks that are 'up-river' about 7km from this location. The bridge united roads that led from Leadville or Glenwood Springs, to the north of the state, and especially Steamboat Springs. (The 'statute of limitations' is over, so I can tell you that what you cannot see in my hand is a zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz for sssssssssssssssss (some text missing).

:-)



This was a big weekend, full of memories and communion with a friend far away, while on my other blog, articles flew from the fingertips as a war re-emerges, between French anti-doping
Agency and lab chiefs, and the Union de Cyclisme Internationale, regarding the 2009 Tour de France.




Happily from the banks of Lac Léman,


a faithful writing friend....


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© 2009