Hope all goes well… “Obama’s a bad trader, simple as that,” explained the political insider, breezing through Santa Barbara. “He adds and adds to losing positions, trades without stops.” Apparently, Summers was never ever going to get the votes he needed. And no votes equals no confirmation. Then we moved on to matters of political intrigue, Yellen, exit options, timetables, the difficulty in trading this thing. “Wel
Ben sank his toes deep in the mud. Wiggled ’em around. Picked up a dirty oval stone. Rubbed it clean. Skipped it. Drifting back to his youth. Glorious youth. Without a care in the world; long before he made his big splash, launched his experiment, bought time for the kids in DC. “One could cut monthly purchases for each further 10bp decline in unemployment,” suggested Fed Governor Stein, secretly hoping the pre
“The bond bubble may burst sooner than expected,” said a top-ten portfolio manager, from his Greenwich bunker, with no positions, atop a pile of dry powder. “God help us all,” he continued, chronicling the 20yr serial string of bubbles blown by loose Fed governors. “The bond bubble is the mother of ’em all, 35yrs in the making.” And when something persists for decades, it’s impossible to fully grasp the insidious way
Hope all goes well… Back from the bush. With all sorts of wild animal tales. You know, they have the most wonderful collective names for beasts in Kruger Park. Of course, there’s a pride of lions; a parade of elephants. Dazzle of zebra. Parliament of wise old owls. A kettle of vultures, circling upward like steam. Crash of rhino. Leap of leopards. An obstinacy of buffalo; back away slowly mate. We chased a pack
“So you Eric are a white man, I am a black man, and imagine he is a colored woman,” instructed the policy maker, pointing to my host (a brilliant young white economist, looking puzzled). “Let us say that being a white man in Johannesburg you earn $100k, being a black man I earn $10k, and being a colored woman she has no job and lives beneath a sheet of plastic – tell me, what do you do?” he asked, turning to me. Now
Helicopters raced across Kazakhstan. To the scene. Carrying medics. Who leapt out, ducked low, ran across the swirling grass, and gently pulled three men from the crash. One American, two Russians; Cassidy, Misurkin, Vinogradov. Gently placing their weakened bodies into reclining chairs, for swift evacuation, evaluation. You see, in outer space there’s no gravity. And these boys had been orbiting 258 miles above eart
Hope all goes well… “So what did you think of Cape Town Mr. Peters?” asked Emraan, my driver, extra early, whisking me off to the airport. We’d spent two-days together, zipping from meeting to meeting, sneaking off to see mountains, beaches, seals, his son’s school. And naturally, I’d ferried out to Mandela’s jail cell. District 6’s desolation. But one stop remained. “It’s like Santa Barbara with barbed wire and bigg
Who doesn’t love surprises? Particularly the predictable ones. Which is why Putin is so utterly boring. I mean, of course he was going to support Assad. Face it, with each escalation in Syria, the prospect for Middle-East stability falls in direct proportion to the rise in oil prices (Knightsbridge property too). And the only thing that makes Putin happier than semi-nude fly-fishing with his posse of paparazzi, is a
“They came first for the Communists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist,” whispered the bold black letters, engraved in granite. And recognizing the quote, I reached for Jackson’s shoulder, drew him near. You see we were in Boston, wandering. And had happened upon what appeared to be an artistic installation of unusual beauty. Grace. “Then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak u