Wanna catch a fish? Don’t cast in the desert. Wanna bag a bad guy? Don’t listen to phone calls. Nope. Look for the dude without one. A phone that is. Don’t believe me? Go ask bin Laden. So what’s this fuss about then? Well, nothing’s ever as it seems. They say Snowden’s a traitor. For saying 4=2+2. For calling the sky blue. That he’s probably hiding in Hong Kong, but they’re unsure. ’Cause he ditched his phone. Natur

“Whoa! Hold up fellas,” I said, excited. And they halted, abruptly. I grabbed a long stick. To scare the serpent from our path. Wolfie heeled. Obediently. As the garter snake lay still, stretched across the trail. Then slithered away. Harmlessly. Which sucked. You see, I needed a good story. Somethin’ funny. Somethin’ scary. Stupid. Sentimental. Somethin’ anything. An anecdote. And Sunday approached. Of course, the o

Hope all goes well. “They’re praying, ‘Oh dear god, please get me back to even and I swear I’ll never do this again,’” laughed the PM, one of Greenwich’s biggest. “If you help me just this once, I’ll follow every stop-loss on every position for the rest of my life,” he continued. You see, he took profit on nearly everything a few wks ago, days from the highs, and has listened with great amusement, as the Nikkei colla

My name is Eric Peters. I’m an alcoholic. I’m a looter. And I’m evil. So says Turkey’s Prime Minister. You see, in Erdogan’s book, all drinkers are alcoholics. All protesters are looters. And tweeters, well, us tweeters are evil. Anyhow, thank god Turkey has lots. It’d be a dry, dark, dense nation without ’em. Ankara’s politicians and media moguls spooned in bed, censoring riot reports, while broadcasting inane docum

Every breath you take. Don’t stand so close to me. Roxanne. And as Mara and I watched Sting rock the stage, beneath the stars, at the Santa Barbara Bowl, we drifted back to our late teens. Twenties. You see, like most artists, his greatest work wasn’t his first. Nor was it his last. But it came early, toward the middle. And Sting wrote lots. So the 61yr old star fills 2hr shows, ferrying his Baby Boomers and Gen Xers

“Volker killed the bond market,” said the CIO, calmly, definitively, high in his glass corner, as storm clouds rolled across NY harbor. “A year ago Wall Street banks held $275bln in treasuries, today it’s more like $50bln.” Plus, foreign banks now have to capitalize their US subsidiaries, amplifying the contraction in risk-taking. “In any given day, we own $15bln of bonds,” he continued, and let out a little laugh. “

Hope all goes well. “NY, Kansas, Chicago, LA – you know what I hear from all our biggest clients?” he asked. And I sipped my VT, three limes, muddled, imagining the infinite possibilities. You see my pal ran mountains of money, hosts TV, and Vice Chairs nearly $2trln. So I gave it a guess: Can you lower my commissions? “They’ve woken up to the fact that their savings are being destroyed.” Which we agreed seems

I got a thing for flags. The more colors the better. Naturally, I love diversity. Stars and stripes. Red, white, blue. I despise solids flags. They’re so definite. Black in particular. Yeah, that’s the color of the tall dude on dialysis. Solid red sucks. It’s bloody soul destroying. Saudi Royalty pumps and prophets, chanting green is great, so naturally, their flag is solid emerald. Anyhow, hundreds of thousands stor

“Wasabi Abe?” asked Ben, answering his bat phone, in a groggy growl, at 2 AM. “I’ll tell you wasabi,” slurred Japan’s Prime Minister from his smoky situation room, hysterical. “Nikkei down 7.3%, that’s wasabi!” screamed Abe into his mobile, waking Mrs Bernanke. “Gimme the phone,” ordered Anna, taking charge. “So wasabi Abe?” she asked, annoyed by the Prime Minister’s incessant late-night booty calls. “Ah, konnichiwa

Hope all goes well. Swung through NYC. Without a moment to myself. The Big Apple’s booming. Cranes are swinging. Clubs thumping. And of all the stories that swirled, the one that made the biggest impression, was the one I never heard. You see it’s May. And not a single person told me that they sold. And went away. With their prodigious piles of paper profits. To play. Overall: “Wasabi Abe?” asked Ben, answering his b