Wyoming

"Billionaires have been flocking to Wyoming, attracted by its outdoor lifestyle and low taxes." - New York Times.

Oh snap, how much do I love my outdoor lifestyle in Wyoming?
Sometimes, during the 357 days a year I happen to be in New York, I'll literally stop right in the middle of a trade and then I'll finish the trade and think, "My outdoor lifestyle is crushing it!"
I mean, the way they set things up in Wyoming knocks it out of the park. Get this: Every single-family spec house was purposefully placed outdoors. Literally, at the end of the day, all you have to do is open your front door and boom! you're outdoors. I swear, my Wyoming house is minimum -minimum! - 8.73% better than any purchase I'd ever made.
No lie: since becoming a permanent resident of Wyoming, at some point during every summer weekend, I look around my house in Sagaponack and think to myself, "Thank God this isn't my lifestyle."
Now, I know what you're thinking: twelve years at Dalton and an agoraphobic speed-freak mother with three ex-husbands doesn't exactly turn a man into Grizzly Adams. So how did I come around to investing/partaking/whatever in an outdoor lifestyle?
Well, my eyes literally opened four years ago. I remember the date, April 14th, I was in the second or maybe third-floor study of my place in The Dakota. My wife and kids were at the house in Pound Ridge so it was literally quiet as shit. I was icing my right hand after writing a mongo check to Cuomo's dopey kid when a thought hit me like a lightning bolt from the outdoors: I'm 48 and don't have a lifestyle.
I went on-line not knowing exactly or precisely what I was looking for when a word popped into my head: Ambien. Then, out of nowhere, another word popped into my head: Haven. I Googled "Haven/lifestyle/money/no, serious money" and boom! Wyoming popped up like a marlin to a fly fisherman wearing boots up to his ass in an outdoor stream because there's no Citarella for 2,000 miles.
By literally 1:15 or maybe 3:30 PM the next day, I'd shorted three anti-deforestation eco-losers, did a Milken-ization on some bonds, moved a boatload of Yuans into my totally dead grandmother's portfolio, ended it with the nanny, sold off her place in the San Remo, called a Tribeca broker who's killing it on Wyoming real estate and boom! I was all in as a Wyoming-ite before the ink on my divorce was even dry, which explains the smudges. Shit...
By the way, you know what I hate? When people say, "That's billion... with a B." I mean, what other letter are you going to spell it with?
Anyway, last August, literally five months and four years to the day after the day I bought the house, I went to Wyoming to see my lifestyle. I didn't take my kids because the house is in Teton County and they've never been in a county before and they hate new experiences and they don't know I bought the place. I figure when they settle on gender IDs and enter their Wyoming U dorm rooms with all the other in-state residents, they'll get up to speed big time.
I gotta say, the airport in Wyoming isn't killing it. It's got two runways with one airline flying four daily non-stops to Grand Cayman and that is literally it.
Another thing not shredding it is the infrastructure. After I'd spent my first day out there watching Serena kill it at the Open (she ate it in the semis costing me 850 large but that's a story for another day), I went outdoors to experience my lifestyle and make sure there was no satellite SEC office in town. Well, maybe they don't have the tax base for decent sidewalks out there, but my Balenciaga Pythons wound up on a totally whack variety of plants and what I took to be soil.
I was lost.
Big time lost.
After what felt like maybe 25 seconds, I picked my head up from WAZE and boom! standing upright on all fours was -- are you sitting? -- a bear. Yes, that's bear... with a B. Talk about reflux, I'm mano-a-mano, maybe 2,000 square feet away from this mammal who's staring at me like I have no business rocking Canali. I go for my selfie-stick and... well, that was a mistake: The bear let out a growl like nothing I'd heard since Lehman ate it so right there, I'm thinking this un-bald Blankfein-looking motherfucker is playing hardball.
Long story short, my security guy turned him into the rug now lying 58 floors over Shake Shack on Lexington. Sometimes, right in the middle of printing money, I'll look down at that bear just to remind me that, at the end of the day, my office is not my lifestyle.
Because it's indoors.