Where's Danny?

A question I get asked more than just about any other when chatting with family and old friends is some variation of the following: What is Danny up to? What’s he doing now? Where is he living? Where is that lovable loud-mouth? That manic maniac? That multi-dimensional, multi-disciplined, dynamo? Have you seen that charismatic Casanova cousin of yours around? The high-octane, high-testosterone, high-energy hedonist? That passionate, pugnacious, pugilistic pioneer? That bombastic, blasphemous, brazen, ball-breaking, bravado-filled bulldog? That demanding, commanding, free-standing, free-thinking, free spirit? That unconventional, unpredictable, unforgettable, unstoppable bolt of lightning? The crazy kickboxing king; the insatiable, indefatigable, intrepid Italian Stallion? That wily, wild-eyed weekend warrior? That self-empowered, self-actualized, self-enlightened, sinfully successful semi-retired secretive celebrity? The precocious pupil turned golden boy arbitrageur turned Wall Street Wizard turned eccentric Renaissance Man—please tell me where exactly is that international man of mystery, that jet-setting genius, that fascinating flighty financier, the ephemeral facebook-less phenomenon, the freaky fashion forward funnyman with the force of nature personality? You know who I’m talking about, yeah Cardella! Have you heard from him? How can I find him? What continent is he living on? Is he still taking those tennis lessons with naked nymphs at night in New Zealand? Playing backgammon and bongos in Belgium with Branson and the billionaires? Planning a colony of cognoscenti in Croatia? Perhaps.