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“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

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. “

Grabbed all four. The dog too. Packed up, headed to the water. Real early. And as my clowns spilled out, tumbling across the sand, a smile slipped. You see, like most everyone, I want the best for our little ones. Especially my own. And here in Cali, they got it good. But I spent my early years in NYC, getting schooled at PS 158. And later, worked on the Street. Trained to look over my shoulder. To avoid the madness

“What’s up?” I asked, dressed in my frat-boy finest. “Makin’ shoes,” he answered, perfectly assembled, in designer-distressed. And I smiled, nodded, “Yeah, me too.” It’s our ritual greeting. Saturday mornings we man the sidelines, watching our sons play lax. Talking trends; last season, today, tomorrow. We’re Right Coast boys who turned Left, building young firms, with piles of miles. Crisscrossing continents. Scribb

Swung by the Dakota, back in 1988, to visit a buddy. Met his doorman. A wounded man, gentle, sad, tragic. You see, one afternoon in 1980 a fan approached, asked when Lennon would return. The doorman dropped a hint. Then watched the guy cross 72nd street, to wait quietly, patiently. John arrived, the fella drew a gun, and did the unimaginable, shooting Lennon dead. Anyhow, I often visit the spot, considering gunshots

“Can you believe how universally despised this guy is?” asked the CIO, not waiting for a reply. “CNBC, Republicans, Democrats, economists, strategists, nearly everyone hates him,” he continued. “His biggest supporters are at best ambivalent, and it goes down from there.” You see, we were discussing central bankers. “Maybe ten people in the world understand central banking, and by the way, most of them are not running

Strutted down Avenue of the America’s. Like John Travolta. Humming with puzzles, riddles, inspirations. You see, I’d been moving and shaking. With my boys. NY Titans. Devising solutions to finance’s biggest problems: overspending, entitlements. Relax bro, we cracked the code, got it covered. My phone shook. “We got a bunny Daddy! Mommy said you’d just love it!” shrieked Olivia. “Hershey’s so cute, she loo

“Poker’s a metaphor for life,” explained the gambler. Over drinks/dinner at Bouchon Bistro, Beverly Hills. “A game of math, people-skills, luck.” And this fella played his hand well. Amassing a fortune. Betting on people. Stacking the deck. Filling his hand with Queens. Kings. Aces. “Ok, this guy walking over here photographs more of the world’s most beautiful naked women than anyone in the industry.” And the photogr

Rolled past Santa Barbara’s ancient Mission. Headed north. On the historic Camino Real. Built by Franciscan Monks. To connect their 21 western Missions, spaced one day’s journey apart by horse. Of course today’s drive up the Camino Real takes 21hrs, not 21 days. ’Cause the Real is now Highway 101. Running from LA to Oregon. And standing alongside the 101 are historic bells. Reminding travelers of a distant time. But