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In the late 80s, Michael Lewis traveled to Japan on assignment for an article that would appear in a 1989 issue of the now defunct Manhattan, Inc. magazine. 

In two years, MySpace has become the most popular social-networking site on the Web, a virtual city of sex and youth culture, with its own celebrities, Casanovas, and con artists. 

Lynn Tilton is one of the wealthiest financiers on Wall Street. She’s also on a spiritual journey to save America’s manufacturing base. But she’s having trouble getting the respect she believes she deserves.

Tony hsieh, chief executive of Zappos.com, the online shoe and clothing retailer, was sitting in an office he rarely uses at the company’s headquarters here, recollecting the high and low points of his childhood. He had just finished putting a roomful of corporate managers through the same exercise, and now it was Mr. Hsieh’s turn.

The smart money says the U.S. economy will splinter, with some states thriving, some states not, and all eyes are on California as the nightmare scenario.

Iceland’s de facto bankruptcy—its currency (the krona) is kaput, its debt is 850 percent of G.D.P., its people are hoarding food and cash and blowing up their new Range Rovers for the insurance—resulted from a stunning collective madness.

How much time should Raj Rajaratnam spend in prison? Rajaratnam is the hedge fund founder who was convicted in May of trading on illegal stock tips — tips that produced fantastic results for his Galleon Group

Quarterly GDP data don’t, on the whole, tend to make the person studying them laugh out loud. The most recent set, however, are an exception, despite the fact that the general picture is of unrelieved and spreading economic gloom.

TEN years and a lifetime ago, Howard W. Lutnick was a prince of Wall Street. Forty years old, and already the head of a powerful financial house, he could peer down on rivals from his office on the 105th floor of One World Trade Center.

In late July, the untended, bean-shaped swimming pool at Ken Robinson's Flower Mound home — that is, the house in which he lives — was a stew pot of viscous green slime. On a stifling midsummer evening, when he walked out the back door to vacuum one of many layers of filth, the water level was nearly at the lip of the concrete. 

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