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“The reason the UK isn’t polar is the Gulf Stream,” he said, on a dreary, drizzling London evening. In mid-March. While any other city at 51.5 degrees latitude was freezing. Frozen. “Imagine if anything were to disrupt that flow.” And a tribe of shivering, kilted Scotsmen, with ice-cold stones, flashed through my mind. “Well, it feels like something’s changing,” said the CIO, one of Britain’s coolest cats, a saber-to

A simple poem sits, framed on my desk. Called the Road Not Taken. It’s a Robert Frost masterpiece. Dad gave it to me back in 1996. A year later I ditched Credit Suisse’s shiny Canary Wharf tower. For a shack in the French Alps. To climb mountains. And knowing how way leads on to way, doubted if I should ever go back. Naturally, I didn’t. Which is not to say that was a great call. Or the most lucrative one. In fact, I

They got no grand entry. No art collections. No mahogany boardroom. No twenty-foot ceilings. They don’t need ’em. ’Cause they got no investors. They just got hundreds of millions of dollars of capital. All their own. Accumulated by trading options, through a tumultuous decade. And they got an army of young kids; Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, Columbia, MIT. Dressed in baseball caps, frat-house wear, and mathematics di

“Yours,” I yelled, amidst chaos. And the closing bell rang, surprising me. Frightening me. Leaving me short 100 wheat contracts. Which may not sound scary. But in 1990, I was a pit trader. Trading my own money. Which wasn’t much, but was everything. And 100 contracts was 80 too many – to hold overnight anyway. Naturally, news hit the tape that Egypt purchased wheat. So I raced to call my roommate, who assisted

“We held 40% of the outstanding dealer holdings of treasuries one month,” admitted the founder/CIO of one of the world’s biggest hedge funds, in a tone that combined pride, amazement, and concern. “The street is stepping away from making markets, spreads are widening, liquidity’s disappearing.” So he’s hiring flow traders to fill that void. “When rates inevitably go higher there will be no one to buy — 10yr bon

“You know what impressed me most?” I asked Jackson, my 11yr-old, tears welling up in his eyes, unable to speak, as we sat in the car, looking across the empty field. “You played hard, kept your cool under pressure, and even in those couple games when you guys had no hope, you never lost yours.” He plays goalie. Very well. And got pulled up in post-season play, to scrimmage with older kids. A few of whom hiss insults

“Fair enough, he had a point, guess I deserved it,” said my buddy, over a beer. “I’d been calling for the move, and well, just missed it,” admitted the CIO, humbly. You see, one of his investors had just called, pretty upset. Which is to be expected. After all, he gets well paid to get it right. We all do. “I quite like speaking with investors about what I’m thinking, but here’s the thing, I look at 200 markets, each

I need a f’in gun. High caliber. Short muzzle. One bullet. In my mouth. “Maybe if you hold him, comfort him, he’ll calm down,” she suggested, neatly tucking condescension into a sexy French accent. You see, my 3yr old was in full tantrum. He wasn’t alone. The room swarmed with spoiled, angry hornets, sweating in parka’s, waiting for ski school. Mara and our three oldest saw this coming and fled. Outside. Leaving me a

“Follow me, do what I do, move how I move, exactly, or he’ll see you, sense us, and be gone,” he hushed, slithering across the steep mountain face, amongst jagged rocks, heather. Gracefully, beautifully. We lay flat. Clothed in tweed. Loading the high-powered rifle. With a single bullet. The muscular 11-point stag stood 100 meters ahead, alert, surveying the terrain. I slowed my breath, smoothed it,

“Daddy gave me an amazing day,” announced Olivia, beaming, sparkling. As we walked through the front door, returning from our adventure. Mara snuck me a wink, and gave her a big hug. You see, our children celebrate their birthdays by choosing an adventure. Olivia chose to climb Dragon’s Back – a steep ascent, along a remote, jagged ridge, high above Santa Barbara. The eagerly awaited day had at last arrived, an