ah, the breakers hotel - grand, isnβt it, the citadel of palm beach. the first time i dared to present in sunny florida, it was at the breakers, back in 2005 or 2006. iβd just birthed my hedge fund resurrection in the heart of london, a global macro oddity, born in October 2002 but split from another manager in 2005.
my first full calendar year, 2003, i nailed 50% returns. i was the shiny new breed of gold bull. these days, everyone reckons iβm just full of bull, but back then, it was genuine gold mania. the outfit i sprang from was soros-seeded, and i got my backing from the very moguls who funded him. et cetera, et cetera - i was red-hot.
morgan stanley prime brokerage rolled out the red carpet, inviting me to pontificate at the breakers. and that place? itβs the temple of hedge fund dreams. if youβre in hedge fund sales, youβd sell your soul - or worse - for a slot on that stage.
but hereβs the rub: money is conservative with a small βc,β and my act bombed spectacularly. iβd come straight from paris, where iβd coaxed 300 french sophisticates to pause and recall their last earth-shattering, orgasmic romp. my gallic mates got it, letting the silence stretch like a delicious tension.
i was wielding fornication as a godawful metaphor to argue that scoring a five-bagger - or hell, ten times your money - trumps any bedroom ecstasy. measures my shallowness, doesnβt it?
it landed like a lead balloon at the breakers. and now, here i am again.
irony and paradox are the touchstones of my existence.
