Hope all goes well. My brother Craig called, to announce a miracle. You see, he’d waited his whole life. To create another. And marveled at the little boy in his palms. The infinite possibility. Of course, we’re both old enough now to know we can’t predict the future. We just pray that no matter what it holds, our little ones can live their lives to the fullest. With liberty. Dignity. For themselves. For others. And

“Big money organizes itself somewhat like feral hogs,” announced my favorite Federal Reserve President, from Dallas. “If they detect a weakness or a bad scent, they’ll go after it,” continued Richard Fisher. “I don’t want to go from Wild Turkey to cold turkey overnight,” he drawled, sending us boars off the scent laid by the Princeton Professor’s sterile taper-talk. But Fisher was just revvin’ up his redneck rhetoric

Hope all goes well. “If gold was your hedge, well, you just got bent over,” said Yoda, standing upright, high in the Rockies. “There’s usually one time per year when everything goes wrong at once.” The S&P 500 topped at 1669 on May 21, and is now down 4.6%, while gold is -7.1% and 10yr yields are +57bps. “This is what happens after a Fed Chairman signals that you can buy any asset in the world without taking risk

Beijing sparked it up just in time, 2yrs ahead of schedule, leapfrogging America. The Tianhe-2 supercomputer (Milky Way 2 for those of you without children learning Mandarin) runs at 54.9 petaflops (54,900trln calculations/second for those of you without Mandarin children). The massive military machine runs on 3.12mm Intel chips, which we apparently redesign too quickly to copy. So the first thing they asked Tianhe-2

Hope all goes well. It’s Summertime. Our four little terrorists are home. Subversive. Restless. Commitin’ thought crime. Jack the Ripper, Olivia Hearst, Teddy Kaczynski and of course, Osama bin Charlie. Naturally we love them. Want to create a utopia for ’em. But what’s utopia without a little dystopia? Anyhow, I’d like to say that I read 1984 this wk in response to the PRISM revelations. But truth is, I re-read it c

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