Carry, after all, represents a deal partner’s position in a company. And for ages, the loophole has allowed P.E. executives to have their liquidity taxed as capital gains (23.8 percent) rather than income, which is probably around 41 percent for this crowd. Having spent a couple years in the higher calling of P.E., I appreciate how this incentivization structure works: The lower tax consequences encourage general partners to put money at risk, to invest or buy into companies, when they could divert it elsewhere. Regardless, the carried interest loophole remains as unpopular politically as it is sacred on 57th Street. So when I heard that Trump was considering closing it, I asked my partner
Bill Cohan to call his friends and sources at the top of the industry and take their temperature. Did Trump’s donors and pals view this as a fatwa?
After rolling calls with eminences across the industry, Bill delivered his latest masterpiece:
Trump’s Carried Interest Insurrection, which artfully conveyed the complexity of the situation. Indeed, the vibes were mixed, but a number of investors actually championed Trump’s decision—these dealmakers were betting that Trump was trying to placate his base, but would never
actually push to sew up the loophole. Revealingly, the whole scenario reminded Bill of a conversation he’d had with Apollo C.E.O.
Marc Rowan a couple years earlier. “Why do you think the carried interest tax comes up every time there’s an election?” Rowan asked Bill, rhetorically, at the time. “Because the Dems know it’s good for the unions and the Republicans know it’s good for squeezing money out of private equity. And the last thing they want to do is actually solve the issue because, God forbid, they wouldn’t be able to fundraise off of it. Why solve anything? Why not just have emotional issues that you can perpetuate?” Perhaps not
everything in the culture is changing as we speak.
But if you have time to read only one piece this weekend, I’d turn your attention to
Peter Hamby’s excellent story on
Rick Caruso’s post-fires political awakening in Los Angeles. The developer, who lost the ’22 mayoral race to Bass, is apparently deciding whether he wants a rematch—or to try his hand at the governor’s mansion, which would put him squarely in the crosshairs of Harris, who is ostensibly eyeing that seat. In
Caruso, Kamala, and the Battle for L.A., Peter gracefully articulates the endless and intractable nuances of the political situation. Caruso, of course, has been portrayed as a Trumpian figure, but he also projects a kind of can-do aplomb that’s currently appealing in the Democratic diaspora of L.A. (As a lifelong New Yorker, I’m reminded of
Giuliani’s appeal to citydwellers after the
Koch–
Dinkins era.
That story, of course, took a weird twist.)
Caruso also seems to define himself as a post-partisan bullshit assassin—the kind of guy made for a new era when old political fault lines seem outdated. You may not agree with his politics, but I have to admit I found his worldview at least a little refreshing—a positive development, as it were, amid a cavalcade of disturbing regressions. “I think we’ve got to get out of the business of, if you have an R behind your name or a D behind your name, you’re either right or you’re wrong, or you’re not allowed to talk to each other,” Caruso told Peter. “It’s just such a foolish way to try to manage this country. Donald Trump is the president of the United States, period. End of story. And we need his help and we need federal dollars. And I was grateful that he was actually pushing the elected officials,
Get this done. Now we need more of that. So of course I would work with Trump. I would have worked with Joe Biden. That doesn’t matter, and it shouldn’t matter to anybody.”
Indeed, more than anything else, this realignment is the story of our time—and it’s one with endless applications across our economy. It’s also precisely what you should expect to read about in Puck.