CIOs—you know ’em when you see ’em. Sure, maybe to the untrained eye all middle-aged white guys in jackets look the same. But a savvy observer can spot an imposter a mile off—or from the distance between the raw bar at the Harvard Club to the open bar. I mean, seriously: Who wears a golf shirt to CIO Summit?
But as the crusty old journalism saying goes, “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.”
So I tested my theory about a certain potbellied man in a too-tight polo as he pounded vodka-vodka and eavesdropped on me, BMW’s mustachioed retirement plan manager, and YMCA’s boy-wonder investment associate.
“How did you enjoy today’s panels?” An innocent enough inquiry after long day of debating smart beta (“No, it’s dumb and it’s not beta”), the implications of Janet Yellen’s breakfast choices for Fed policy, and so on. (Spoiler alert: The ultimate answer is always ‘governance’, after which panelists sagely nod, exit the stage, then make way to repeat with new panelists.)
But our cocktail-guzzling friend seemed to have missed the memo.
Art by Josh Cochran“I didn’t go the panels.”—No! I’m shocked—“But
you can get into any private club in Manhattan by walking right in with a pin
on your jacket. Just make sure you don’t order anything, because then they ask
for a member number.” I do hope he puts a tad more effort into his performance
on the golf course than he does as an undercover operative.
Boy Wonder looked at BMW. BMW looked at the Moron in Disguise. All three looked at me: What is she going to do about it?
So I did what any self-respecting conference host would do: Snuck away to find our events team and try to make them deal with it.
Alas, no such luck. Bouncer duty apparently falls under the ‘Managing Editor’ job description, along with after-party promoter, team travel agent, and personal shopper for the editor-in-chief. But I digress.
“Sir, I’ve just checked with our organizers, and confirmed that this is in fact a closed event. Do enjoy your cocktail, but please make your way to one of the public areas.” The point that no areas of the Harvard Club of New York are, in fact, public did not seem worth laboring.
My mother has often described how, after a toddler falls down, there is a momentary silence while the child fills its lungs with air, readying a full-on tantrum. Drunken party crashers do the same thing.
Deep inhale… “What gives YOU the MORAL AUTHORITY to dictate to ME where I can and cannot go in this institution??!?!” Heads began to swivel in our direction.
“Sir, I am going to have to ask you”—and by ‘ask’, I meant threaten—“to Lower. Your. Voice,” I hissed. Spending the prior afternoon with the baddest females in the business at our inaugural Missing Women of Asset Management event had apparently done wonders for my attitude. “Sir, we have rented this space for a private event.”
“MONEY? That’s what makes you better than me?!?”
All I could see were potential weapons. Oysters on the half shell? Ninja throwing stars. Candelabra? Bayonet. Glistening beef roast?
Hot oil grenade.So on the downside, I’d managed to fully piss off our gatecrasher while making him no closer to leaving. On the upside, I can now
check ‘Call Security’ off my bucket list. The two asset owners—now in
Batman and Robin save-the-day mode—mollified Mr. Class Warfare. I combed the
crowd for those spiral-cord earpieces that I’ve learned from movies indicate
someone’s either A) a security guard for fancy people or B) about to get owned
by James Bond. No one would mistake our interloper for Daniel Craig, but I soon
learned he does have some fight in him.
Security located, I pointed out the problem from across a roast beef station. “The man in the black jacket and the white shirt?” the guard asked. Yes, I confirmed, praying the Harvard Club muscle wouldn’t haul out the UPS CIO or a Goldman managing director by mistake.
“I’m going to have to call for backup: He’s gotten physical in the past.” Uh oh. Suddenly, all I could see were potential weapons. Oysters on the half shell? Ninja throwing stars. Candelabra? Bayonet. Glistening beef roast? Hot oil grenade.
Yet the (real) asset owners and managers remained blissfully unaware, chattering away despite the madman in their midst. I guess all that rhetoric about “tuning out market noise” and “staying focused on the long-term goals of the institution” really is true.
Still awaiting the promised backup security, I rifled through my mental Rolodex for in-house options. Who is the toughest person here? Carol McFate of Xerox, obviously. But I wanted the crasher to leave, not psychologically crumble and start to cry. Russell Investments’ Marty Jaugietis? Maybe—if the problem was an ultra long-term unhedged corporate pension liability. Tim McCusker from NEPC is reasonably brawny, but there’s no way that nose has ever taken a punch. Mental note: Standing invitation for Guggenheim’s Scott Minerd at every future event.
CIO Boss Kip McDaniel had been more hardcore (many used the word ‘ruthless’, or more vivid phrases) about the guest list for CIO Summit 2015 than for any other past event. A whole swath of ‘consultants’ and outsourced-CIOs-masquerading-as-family-offices received a kindly “thanks but no thanks” to their invitation requests. And as their persistent, outraged email and telephone campaigns attested to, wannabe attendees have trouble taking a hint.
Asset owners are used to dealing with hangers-on. Even so, BMW and the YMCA Retirement Fund must include negotiating with hostage-takers in their investment training programs. This pair had talked our drunken gatecrasher down from the irate frenzy I’d whipped him into, lulling him with small talk and likely a few more vodkas for what seemed like hours.
Until reinforcements arrived. Target secured. Crasher booted.
A word of warning to future pretenders: Many have been lured by the bounty of institutional asset owners, be it their access to billions in capital or open bar cocktail parties. You might get ahold of their email addresses; you may even get in the room.
But CIOs? They know a crasher when they see one.