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Hope all goes well. Spring Break in Santa Barbara. Loaded our kiddies into the Prius; Jackson packed Lacrosse sticks, Olivia her violin, Teddy his hamster Harriott. Osama bin Charlie smuggled his coveted collection of Darth Vader Lego guys. And Mara and I flashed a glance at one another, suppressing a joy beyond expression. As the jam-packed circus car pulled out the driveway. With Grandma at the steering wheel. Taki

Hope all goes well. “How’s the weather there?” asked my buddy. So I explained spring arrived in Santa Barbara. You see, I planted an acorn and it just sprouted. “Good news mate, well, here in London my PM’s are all sun-bathing,” he continued. “The Yen move put sunshine in an otherwise grey sky.” But being both British and one of the City’s top CIO’s he’s not quite conditioned to bask in the rays. “The more relaxed th

Hope all goes well. “Sorry I’m late for our call amigo,” I said to my buddy. “Got caught up in the mountains after dark,” I continued. “Misjudged the light, and raced down as quick as I could, but you know what it’s like, trail-running in the dark can get pretty hairy.” No matter how well you know the terrain, you’re bumping into boulders, stumbling over sticks. Which of course he could appreciate. ’Cause that’s what

Hope all goes well. “Please don’t ask what I think,” sighed my buddy, atop his prodigious pile of paper. “Every single call I make is wrong.” Which of course is just as rare, and as valuable, as its inverse. “But tell me what you see,” he continued. And I explained it feels we’re entering the most exciting trading environment for years. Maybe a decade. “Why?” he asked, surprised. And truth is, I don’t know exactly wh

Hope all goes well. We breezed through Denver airport. Mara and I exchanging glances, in silent celebration, of how far we’ve come. You see, all four kids carried their backpacks. And walked on their own. They’re growing up. They’re real people. Curious creatures. Colorful personalities. And at security, a monochrome guard asked for my stack of tickets. Interrogating each of us in turn. And ended with our youngest. “

Hope all goes well. “Happy V day baby,” I texted my Valentine, from Chicago O’Hare. Which ain’t exactly a pro move, in case you wondered. And to make matters worse, Mara read my note while packing our bags. You see, I’d left her on her own, back in Santa Barbara. To spend the Day of Love schlepping four kids and ski gear to the Rockies. Which is a scene that never found its way into Romeo and Juliet. So at our rendez

Hope all goes well. Ushered in the Year of the Snake at a local Chinese joint. You see, Mara and I make every effort to educate our kiddies. Open their eyes. To a bigger world. Plus our boys study Mandarin (Olivia studies French). And we got math tutors that’d make a Beijing Tiger mom turn green. Anyhow, we waited for chow mein, chatting politely, practicing good manners. And Jackson asks, “Dad, why do Chinese babies

Hope all goes well. Santa Barbara film festival continues. And Daniel Day-Lewis arrived. To discuss Lincoln. For which he’ll win an unprecedented 3rd Oscar for Best Actor. Yet despite such towering talent, he rarely takes a role. So the soft-spoken artist explained, “There is a right a time for everything, for a film to be made, for a writer to write, a director to direct, and for me, there’s a right time for me to a

Hope all goes well. Ben Affleck arrived in Santa Barbara. For our famous film festival. And told great stories. Of his bumpy rise. The Bennifer years. That Pearl Harbor bomb. His retreat. Comeback. Directorial debut. And now today’s triumph – Argo. Anyhow, the audience asked how, from such a tough spot, he’d found the confidence to strike out on his own. Ben smiled, remembering the moment, “You know, Warren Bea

Hope all goes well. Been a while. Missed you. Missed this. Anyhow, what’s my status? Happily married, sexy wife, four kids, a dog, hamster, fish and frog. Skiing more. Climbing. Riding too. Professionally? I’m single. Dating around. Perfect dimes. Some racy nines. A few eights with lots of personality. And one frisky fiver that I swear to god looked like a nine after eight vodka tonics – never again. Of course