O Stock Quotes

That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.

I have found, in short, from reading my own writing, that my subject in fiction is the action of grace in territory largely held by the devil. I have also found that what I write is read by an audience which puts little stock either in grace or the devil. You discover your audience at the same time and in the same way that you discover your subject, but it is an added blow.

But land is land, and it's safer than the stocks and bonds of Wall Street swindlers.

I could barely manage myself sometimes, let alone some miniature kleinman person whose sole method of communication was crying. How would I know what she wanted? How would I keep her happy?

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger; if your wish is farther to the thought; if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise -why, be that as it may, the more fool you , for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut tut! For goodness' sake! What the dickens! But me no buts! - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.

Wesley went everywhere with me from then on. I even wrapped him in baby blankets and held him in my arms while grocery shopping, to keep him warm during the first cold winter. Occasionally someone would ask to see "the baby," and when I opened the blanket, would leap back shrieking, "What is that?! A dinosaur?" Apparently, the world is full of educated adults with mortgages and stock portfolios who think people are walking around grocery stores with dinosaurs in their arms.

Nearly a Valediction" You happened to me. I was happened to like an abandoned building by a bull- dozer, like the van that missed my skull happened a two-inch gash across my chin. You were as deep down as I’ve ever been. You were inside me like my pulse. A new- born flailing toward maternal heartbeat through the shock of cold and glare: when you were gone, swaddled in strange air I was that alone again, inventing life left after you. I don’t want to remember you as that four o’clock in the morning eight months long after you happened to me like a wrong number at midnight that blew up the phone bill to an astronomical unknown quantity in a foreign currency. The U.S. dollar dived since you happened to me. You’ve grown into your skin since then; you’ve grown into the space you measure with someone you can love back without a caveat. While I love somebody I learn to live with through the downpulled winter days’ routine wakings and sleepings, half-and-half caffeine- assisted mornings, laundry, stock-pots, dust- balls in the hallway, lists instead of longing, trust that what comes next comes after what came first. She’ll never be a story I make up. You were the one I didn’t know where to stop. If I had blamed you, now I could forgive you, but what made my cold hand, back in prox- imity to your hair, your mouth, your mind, want where it no way ought to be, defined by where it was, and was and was until the whole globed swelling liquefied and spilled through one cheek’s nap, a syllable, a tear, was never blame, whatever I wished it were. You were the weather in my neighborhood. You were the epic in the episode. You were the year poised on the equinox.

Outside much has changed. I don't know how. But inside and before you, O my God, inside before you, spectator, are we not without action? We discover, indeed, that we do not know our part, we look for a mirror, we want to rub off the make-up and remove the counterfeit and be real. But somewhere a bit of mummery still sticks to us that we forget. A trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows, we do not notice that the corners of our lips are twisted. And thus we go about, a laughing-stock, a mere half-thing: neither existing, not actors.

The End of the Raven "On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for. Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven, Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door. 'Raven's very tasty,' thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor. 'There is nothing I like more.' [...] Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -- 'Nevermore.' While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up, Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore. Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -- Only this and not much more.

The moral of the story is: never argue with the market. Your health and peace of mind are always more important than any stock.

I was having dinner…in London…when eventually he got, as the Europeans always do, to the part about “Your country’s never been invaded.” And so I said, “Let me tell you who those bad guys are. They’re us. WE BE BAD. We’re the baddest-assed sons of bitches that ever jogged in Reeboks. We’re three-quarters grizzly bear and two-thirds car wreck and descended from a stock market crash on our mother’s side. You take your Germany, France, and Spain, roll them all together and it wouldn’t give us room to park our cars. We’re the big boys, Jack, the original, giant, economy-sized, new and improved butt kickers of all time. When we snort coke in Houston, people lose their hats in Cap d’Antibes. And we’ve got an American Express card credit limit higher than your piss-ant metric numbers go. You say our country’s never been invaded? You’re right, little buddy. Because I’d like to see the needle-dicked foreigners who’d have the guts to try. We drink napalm to get our hearts started in the morning. A rape and a mugging is our way of saying 'Cheerio.' Hell can’t hold our sock-hops. We walk taller, talk louder, spit further, fuck longer and buy more things than you know the names of. I’d rather be a junkie in a New York City jail than king, queen, and jack of all Europeans. We eat little countries like this for breakfast and shit them out before lunch.

The soft sound of the rain on the rooftop sounded like young girls sneaking off in stockings to elope. She felt lonesome for Pierrot.

You starvelling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish—O for breath to utter what is like thee!—you tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck!

After all,' added Sheala, pouting her lips, 'it's befallen all of us at some time. Each of us, sitting here, has been cheated, taken advantage of, and made a laughing stock of by some man, at some time.

One can try to evade the problem by adopting a ‘morality of intentions’. What’s important is what I intend, not what I actually do or the outcome of what I do. However, in a world in which everything is interconnected, the supreme moral imperative becomes the imperative to know. The greatest crimes in modern history resulted not just from hatred and greed, but even more so from ignorance and indifference. Charming English ladies financed the Atlantic slave trade by buying shares and bonds in the London stock exchange, without ever setting foot in either Africa or the Caribbean. They then sweetened their four o’clock tea with snow-white sugar cubes produced in hellish plantations – about which they knew nothing.

The whole secret to winning big in the stock market is not to be right all the time, but to lose the least amount possible when you’re wrong.

I stand on the corner of the block slinging amethyst rocks. Drinkin 40’s of mother earth’s private nectar stock. Dodgin cops. ’Cause Five-O be the 666 and I need a fix of that purple rain. The type of shit that drives membranes insane. Oh yeah, I’m in the fast lane. Snorting candy yams. That free my body and soul and send me like Shazaam! Never question who I am. God knows. And I know God, personally. In fact, he lets me call him me. I be one with rain and stars and things, with dancing feet and watermelon wings. I bring the sunshine and the moon. And wind blows my tune.

I watch the stock-car races sometimes but you don't see anything but cars. I know about Fireball Roberts though and I watched an interview with Tiny Lunn. He is a huge dead-serious innocent-faced boy who must have made it big, he had just won the one in Jacksonville when I saw him but he never smiled once.

What city doesn’t like to brag about itself? The gargoyle fauns leaned off the front of the buildings, whispering about their sex lives. The fat catfish in the greenhouse swore they had stock market tips. The horses on the carousel reared their heads, ready for a battle against the mermaid statues in the pond. An electric train rode around and around a tiny mountain in the toy-shop window, while its Lilliputian passengers dreamed in tiny berths.

So-called Islamic 'fundamentalism' does not spring, in Pakistan, from the people. It is imposed on them from above. Autocratic regimes find it useful to espouse the rhetoric of faith, because people respect that language, are reluctant to oppose it. This how religions shore up dictators; by encircling them with words of power, words which the people are reluctant to see discredited, disenfranchised, mocked. But the ramming-down-the-throat point stands. In the end you get sick of it, you lose faith in the faith, if not qua faith then certainly as basis for a state. And then the dictator falls, and it is discovered that he had brought God down with him, that the justifying myth of the nation has been unmade. This leaves only two options: disintegration, or a new dictatorship ... no, there is a third, and I shall not be o pessimistic as to deny its possibility. The third option is the substitution of a new myth for the old one. Here are three such myths, all available from stock at short notice: liberty; equality; fraternity. I recommend them highly.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.

A pair of stockings is no less suitable o make a painting of than wood,nails,turpentine,oil,and fabric.

Remember that, in reality, there is no failure, only feedback, and that if we learn from our failures, we are actually failing forward.

You start making big money in the market and you think you know something—you don’t know anything! It’s the market that knows something, not you!

investment books in the library. The best was How to Trade in Stocks, by Jesse Livermore.

Big market price changes happen when lots of people are forced to reevaluate their prejudices, not necessarily when the world actually changes. — Colm O'Shea

ECKHART TOLLE: HELPING PEOPLE ACHIEVE INNER PEACE AND GREATER FULFILLMENT, A PREREQUISITE TO OPTIMIZED TRADING AND LIVING

My old man 16 years old during the depression I’d come home drunk and all my clothing– shorts, shirts, stockings– suitcase, and pages of short stories would be thrown out on the front lawn and about the street. my mother would be waiting behind a tree: “Henry, Henry, don’t go in . . .he’ll kill you, he’s read your stories . . .” “I can whip his ass . . .” “Henry, please take this . . .and find yourself a room.” but it worried him that I might not finish high school so I’d be back again. one evening he walked in with the pages of one of my short stories (which I had never submitted to him) and he said, “this is a great short story.” I said, “o.k.,” and he handed it to me and I read it. it was a story about a rich man who had a fight with his wife and had gone out into the night for a cup of coffee and had observed the waitress and the spoons and forks and the salt and pepper shakers and the neon sign in the window and then had gone back to his stable to see and touch his favorite horse who then kicked him in the head and killed him. somehow the story held meaning for him though when I had written it I had no idea of what I was writing about. so I told him, “o.k., old man, you can have it.” and he took it and walked out and closed the door. I guess that’s as close as we ever got.

The winning investor’s objective should be to have one or two big winners rather than dozens of very small profits” (How to Make Money in Stocks, 4th ed. [New York: McGraw-Hill, 2009], 274).

The greatest crimes in modern history resulted not just from hatred and greed, but even more so from ignorance and indifference. Charming English ladies financed the Atlantic slave trade by buying shares and bonds in the London stock exchange, without ever setting foot in either Africa or the Caribbean. They then sweetened their four o'clock tea with snow-white sugar cubes produced in hellish plantations - about which they knew nothing.

Today I am bothered by the story of King Canute. (...) The story is, of course, that he was so arrogant and despotic a leader that he believed he could control everything - even the tide. We see him on the beach, surrounded by subjects, sceptre in hand, ordering back the heedless waves; a laughing stock, in short. But what if we've got it all wrong? What if, in fact, he was so good and great a king that his people began to elevate him to the status of a god, and began to believe that he was capable of anything? In order to prove to them that he was a mere mortal, he took them down to the beach and ordered back the waves, which of course kept on rolling up the beach. How awful it would be if we had got it so wrong, if we had misunderstood his actions for so long.

In a world in which everything is interconnected, the supreme moral imperative becomes the imperative to know. The greatest crimes in modern history resulted not just from hatred and greed, but even more so from ignorance and indifference. Charming English ladies financed the Atlantic slave trade by buying shares and bonds in the London stock exchange, without ever setting foot in either Africa or the Caribbean. They then sweetened their four o'clock tea with snow-white sugar cubes produced in hellish plantations – about which they knew nothing.

By the time the Victorian era began in 1837, women enjoying almost anything at all was associated with sinfulness. They were seen as the weaker sex who were more prey to temptation, so it was better for everyone involved if they just stayed at home. Maybe even closed inside a stockings drawer or hatbox. Just in case.

Jesse Livermore, who declared in How to Trade in Stocks, “I absolutely believe that price movement patterns are being repeated. They are recurring patterns that appear over and over, with slight variations. This is because markets are driven by humans—and human nature never changes” (Greenville: Traders Press, 1991, 96).

completely objective and recognize what the marketplace is telling you, rather than trying to prove that what you said or did yesterday or six weeks ago was right. The fastest way to take a bath in the stock market is to try to prove that you are right and the market is wrong. Humility and common sense provide essential balance.

There have been many times when I, like many other speculators, have not had the patience to await the sure thing. I wanted to have an interest at all times. You may say, “With all your experience, why did you allow yourself to do so?” The answer to that is that I am human and subject to human weakness. —Jesse Livermore, How to Trade in Stocks

Two blue jackets, sir, one pea jacket, two pair of blue trousers, two pair of shoes, six shirts, four pairs of stockings, two Guernsey frocks, two hats, two black Barcelona handkerchiefs, a comforter, several pair of flannel . . .’ he blushed and in a low voice said ‘drawers. And two waistcoats; as well as one bed, one pillow, two blankets and two hammocks,

The news that she had gone of course now spread rapidly, and by lunch time Riseholme had made up its mind what to do, and that was hermetically to close its lips for ever on the subject of Lucia. You might think what you pleased, for it was a free country, but silence was best. But this counsel of perfection was not easy to practice next day when the evening paper came. There, for all the world to read were two quite long paragraphs, in "Five o'clock Chit-Chat," over the renowned signature of Hermione, entirely about Lucia and 25 Brompton Square, and there for all the world to see was the reproduction of one of her most elegant photographs, in which she gazed dreamily outwards and a little upwards, with her fingers still pressed on the last chord of (probably) the Moonlight Sonata. . . . She had come up, so Hermione told countless readers, from her Elizabethan country seat at Riseholme (where she was a neighbour of Miss Olga Bracely) and was settling for the season in the beautiful little house in Brompton Square, which was the freehold property of her husband, and had just come to him on the death of his aunt. It was a veritable treasure house of exquisite furniture, with a charming music-room where Lucia had given Hermione a cup of tea from her marvellous Worcester tea service. . . . (At this point Daisy, whose hands were trembling with passion, exclaimed in a loud and injured voice, "The very day she arrived!") Mrs. Lucas (one of the Warwickshire Smythes by birth) was, as all the world knew, a most accomplished musician and Shakespearean scholar, and had made Riseholme a centre of culture and art. But nobody would suspect the blue stocking in the brilliant, beautiful and witty hostess whose presence would lend an added gaiety to the London season.

but he just slipped the pantyhose over his nose and breathed deep and let the magic do its work. It turned us into a platoon of believers. You don't dispute facts. But then, near the end of October, his girlfriend dumped him. It was a hard blow. Dobbins went quiet for a while, staring down at her letter, then after a time he took out the stockings and tied them around his neck as a comforter. 'No sweat,' he said. 'The magic doesn't go away.

Blythe's favorite shelf near the coffee area. She'd labeled it W.O.W. (WORDS OF WISDOM) and it was stocked with her perennial favorites with bookmarked passages. Natalie used to love browsing that shelf. A book would never betray you or change its mind or make you feel stupid. She took down The Once and Future King and found a marked passage: "The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails."

Though I am sometimes reluctant to admit it, there really is something 'timeless' in the Tyndale/King James synthesis. For generations, it provided a common stock of references and allusions, rivalled only by Shakespeare in this respect. It resounded in the minds and memories of literate people, as well as of those who acquired it only by listening. From the stricken beach of Dunkirk in 1940, faced with a devil’s choice between annihilation and surrender, a British officer sent a cable back home. It contained the three words 'but if not…' All of those who received it were at once aware of what it signified. In the Book of Daniel, the Babylonian tyrant Nebuchadnezzar tells the three Jewish heretics Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego that, if they refuse to bow to his sacred idol, they will be flung into a 'burning fiery furnace.' They made him an answer: 'If it be so, our god whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of thy hand, o King. But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden image which thou hast set up.' A culture that does not possess this common store of image and allegory will be a perilously thin one. To seek restlessly to update it or make it 'relevant' is to miss the point, like yearning for a hip-hop Shakespeare. 'Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward,' says the Book of Job. Want to try to improve that for Twitter?

Sure, there are good things, lots, sure, blow jobs, chocolate mousse, winning streaks, the warm fire in your enemy’s house, good book, hunk of cheese, flagon of ale, office raise, championship ring, the misfortunes of others, sure, good things, beyond count, queens, kings, old clocks, comfy clothes, lots, innumerable items in stock, baseball cards and bingo buttons, pot-au-feu, listen, we could go on and on like a long speech, sure it’s a great world, sights to see, canyons full of canyon, corn on the cob, the eroded great pyramids, contaminated towns, eroded hillsides, deleafed trees, those whitened limbs stark and noble in the evening light, geeeez, what gobs of good things, no shit, service elevators, what would we do without, and all the inventions of man, Krazy Glue and food fights, girls wrestling amid mounds of Jell-O, drafts of dark beer, no end of blue sea, formerly full of fish, eroded hopes, eruptions of joy, because we’re winning, have won, won, won what? the . . . the Title.

... If I am correct... ... the secret to this sauce is honey and balsamic vinegar ." "Got it one, sir! Both ingredients have a mild sweetness that adds a layer of richness to the dish. The tartness of the vinegar ties it all together, ensuring the sweetness isn't too cloying and giving the overall dish a clean, pure aftertaste. The guide told me that Hokkaido bears really love their honey... ... so I tried all kinds of methods to add it to my recipe!" "Is that how he gave his sauce a rich, clean flavor powerful enough to cause the Gifting? Unbelievable! That's our Master Yukihira!" Something doesn't add up. A little honey and vinegar can't be enough to create that level of aftertaste. There has to be something else to it. But what? "...?! I got it! I know what you did! You caramelized the honey!" CARAMELIZATION Sugars oxidize when heated, giving them a golden brown color and a nutty flavor. Any food that contains sugar can be caramelized, making caramelization an important technique in everything from French cooking to dessert making. "I started out by heating the honey until it was good and caramelized. Then I added some balsamic vinegar to stretch it and give it a little thickness. Once that was done, I poured it over some diced onions and garlic that I'd sautéed in another pan, added some schisandra berries and then let it simmer. After it had reduced, I poured bear stock over it and seasoned it with a little salt... The result was a deep, rich sauce perfect for emphasizing the natural punch of my Bear-Meat Menchi Katsu!" "Oho! You musta come up with that idea while I was relaxing with my cup o' chai! Not bad, Yukihira-chin! Not bad at all! Don'tcha think?" "Y-yes, sir..." Plus, there is no debating how well honey pairs well with bear meat. The Chinese have long considered bear paws a great delicacy... ... because of the common belief that the mellow sweetness of the honey soaks into a bear's paw as it sticks it into beehives and licks the honey off of it. What a splendid idea pairing honey with bear meat, each accentuating the other... ... then using caramelization and balsamic vinegar to mellow it to just the right level. It's a masterful example of using both flavor subtraction and enhancement in the same dish!

She senses, too, somewhere off to the left, her own mother. She would be here with her had life taken a different turn. She would be the one holding her hand as Agnes walked to her wedding, her fingers encasing her daughter’s. Her footsteps would have followed her beat. They would be walking this path together, side by side. It would have been her making the crown, affixing it to Agnes’s head, brushing the hair so that it hung all around her. She would have taken the blue ribbons and wound them around her stockings, woven them into the hanks of her hair. It would have been her.

Sal and Henry return with a gust of warm garden air and I settle down to create miniature roses from sugarpaste using tiny ivory spatulas and crimpers. I will have no antique tester bed crowning my cake, only a posy of flowers: symbols of beauty and growth, each year new-blossoming. I let Henry paint the broken pieces with spinach juice, while I tint my flowers with cochineal and yellow gum. As a pretty device I paint a ladybird on a rose, and think it finer than Sèvres porcelain. At ten o'clock tomorrow, I will marry John Francis at St. Mark's Church, across the square. As Sal and I rehearse our plans for the day, pleasurable anticipation bubbles inside me like fizzing wine. We will return from church for this bride cake in the parlor, then take a simple wedding breakfast of hot buttered rolls, ham, cold chicken, and fruit, on the silver in the dining room. Nan has sent me a Yorkshire Game Pie, so crusted with wedding figures of wheatsheafs and blossoms it truly looks too good to eat. We have invited few guests, for I want no great show, and instead will have bread and beef sent to feed the poor. And at two o'clock, we will leave with Henry for a much anticipated holiday by the sea, at Sandhills, on the southern coast. John Francis has promised Henry he might try sea-bathing, while I have bought stocks of cerulean blue and burnt umber to attempt to catch the sea and sky in watercolor.

So Germany can’t pay France and Britain and France and Britain can’t pay America because the Gold Standard says money = gold and America already has all the gold. But America won’t forgive the loans so Germany starts printing dumpsters full of money just to keep up appearances until one U.S. dollar is worth six hundred and thirty BILLION marks. There’s so much cash, kids are building money forts it is tragic/pimp as hell. Britain does convince America to go easy and lower the interest rates on the loans but in order to do that America has to lower ALL THE INTEREST RATES so everybody back in the U.S. is like “SWEET FREE MONEY BETTER USE IT TO BUY STOCKS” and they just go nuts the whole stock market goes completely bonkers shoe-shine boys are giving out hot tips hobos have stock portfolios and the dudes in charge are TERRIFIED because they know that at this point the market is just running on bullshit and dreams and real soon it’s gonna get to that part in the dream where you’re naked at your tuba recital and you never learned to play the tuba. There are other people who are like “NAW THE MARKET WILL BE GREAT FOREVER PUT ALL YOUR MONEY IN IT” but you know what those people are? WRONG. WRONG LIKE A DOG EATING MAYONNAISE. The market goes down like a clown and a bunch of people lose a bunch of money. It happens on a Tuesday and everybody calls it Black Tuesday and then it happens again on Black Thursday also Black Monday. Everyone is so poor they have even pawned their creativity.

You, my dear, do not know how to have fun." "I do, too!" "You do not. You are as bad as Lucien. And do you know something? I think it's time someone showed you how to have fun. Namely, me. You can worry all you like about our situation tomorrow, but tonight ... tonight I'm going to make you laugh so hard that you'll forget all about how afraid of me you are." "I am not afraid of you!" "You are." And with that, he pushed his chair back, stalked around the table, and in a single easy movement, swept her right out of her chair and into his arms. "Gareth!  Put me down!" He only laughed, easily carrying her toward the bed. "Gareth, I am a grown woman!" "You are a grown woman who behaves in a manner far too old for her years," he countered, still striding toward the bed. "As the wife of a Den member, that just will not do." "Gareth, I don't want — I mean, I'm not ready for that!" "That? Who said anything about that?"  He tossed her lightly onto the bed. "Oh, no, my dear Juliet. I'm not going to do that —" She tried to scoot away. "Then what are you going to do?" "Why, I'm going to wipe that sadness out of your eyes if only for tonight. I'm going to make you forget your troubles, forget your fears, forget everything but me. And you know how I'm going to do that, O dearest wife?"  He grabbed a fistful of her petticoats as she tried to escape. "I'm going to tickle you until you giggle ... until you laugh ... until you're hooting so loudly that all of London hears you!" He fell upon the bed like a swooping hawk, and Juliet let out a helpless shriek as his fingers found her ribs and began tickling her madly. "Stop!  We just ate!  You'll make me sick!" "What's this? Your husband makes you sick?" "No, it's just that — aaaoooooo!" He tickled her harder. She flailed and giggled and cried out, embarrassed about each loud shriek but helpless to prevent them. He was laughing as hard as she. Catching one thrashing leg, he unlaced her boot and deftly removed it. She yelped as his fingers found the sensitive instep, and she kicked out reflexively. He neatly ducked just in time to avoid having his nose broken, catching her by the ankle and tickling her toes, her soles, her arch through her stockings. "Stop, Gareth!"  She was laughing so hard, tears were streaming from her eyes. "Stop it, damn it!" Thank goodness Charlotte, worn out by her earlier tantrum, was such a sound sleeper! The tickling continued. Juliet kicked and fought, her struggles tossing the heavy, ruffled petticoats and skirts of her lovely blue gown halfway up her thigh to reveal a long, slender calf sheathed in silk. She saw his gaze taking it all in, even as he made a grab for her other foot. "No!  Gareth, I shall lose my supper if you keep this up, I swear it I will — oooahhhhh!" He seized her other ankle, yanked off the remaining boot, and began torturing that foot as well, until Juliet was writhing and shrieking on the bed in a fit of laughter. The tears streamed down her cheeks, and her stomach ached with the force of her mirth. And when, at last, he let up and she lay exhausted across the bed in a twisted tangle of skirts, petticoats, and chemise, her chest heaving and her hair in a hopeless tumbled-down flood of silken mahogany beneath her head, she looked up to see him grinning down at her, his own hair hanging over his brow in tousled, seductive disarray.

#The Vanity of all Worldly Things. As he said vanity, so vain say I, Oh! Vanity, O vain all under sky; Where is the man can say, "Lo, I have found On brittle earth a consolation sound"? What isn't in honor to be set on high? No, they like beasts and sons of men shall die, And whilst they live, how oft doth turn their fate; He's now a captive that was king of late. What isn't in wealth great treasures to obtain? No, that's but labor, anxious care, and pain. He heaps up riches, and he heaps up sorrow, It's his today, but who's his heir tomorrow? What then? Content in pleasures canst thou find? More vain than all, that's but to grasp the wind. The sensual senses for a time they pleasure, Meanwhile the conscience rage, who shall appease? What isn't in beauty? No that's but a snare, They're foul enough today, that once were fair. What is't in flow'ring youth, or manly age? The first is prone to vice, the last to rage. Where is it then, in wisdom, learning, arts? Sure if on earth, it must be in those parts; Yet these the wisest man of men did find But vanity, vexation of the mind. And he that know the most doth still bemoan He knows not all that here is to be known. What is it then? To do as stoics tell, Nor laugh, nor weep, let things go ill or well? Such stoics are but stocks, such teaching vain, While man is man, he shall have ease or pain. If not in honor, beauty, age, nor treasure, Nor yet in learning, wisdom, youth, nor pleasure, Where shall I climb, sound, seek, search, or find That summum bonum which may stay my mind? There is a path no vulture's eye hath seen, Where lion fierce, nor lion's whelps have been, Which leads unto that living crystal fount, Who drinks thereof, the world doth naught account. The depth and sea have said " 'tis not in me," With pearl and gold it shall not valued be. For sapphire, onyx, topaz who would change; It's hid from eyes of men, they count it strange. Death and destruction the fame hath heard, But where and what it is, from heaven's declared; It brings to honor which shall ne'er decay, It stores with wealth which time can't wear away. It yieldeth pleasures far beyond conceit, And truly beautifies without deceit. Nor strength, nor wisdom, nor fresh youth shall fade, Nor death shall see, but are immortal made. This pearl of price, this tree of life, this spring, Who is possessed of shall reign a king. Nor change of state nor cares shall ever see, But wear his crown unto eternity. This satiates the soul, this stays the mind, And all the rest, but vanity we find.

But not more than what’s in the Bible, Aunt,” said Dinah. “Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter,” Mrs. Poyser rejoined, rather sharply; “else why shouldn’t them as know best what’s in the Bible — the parsons and people as have got nothing to do but learn it — do the same as you do? But, for the matter o’ that, if everybody was to do like you, the world must come to a standstill; for if everybody tried to do without house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was allays talking as we must despise the things o’ the world as you say, I should like to know where the pick o’ the stock, and the corn, and the best new-milk cheeses ‘ud have to go. Everybody ‘ud be wanting bread made o’ tail ends and everybody ‘ud be running after everybody else to preach to ‘em, istead o’ bringing up their families, and laying by against a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can’t be the right religion.

The ghost was not a ghost at all, or so it claimed - it claimed to be a psychic energy baby, birthed in some ethereal dimension, and pulled into the phone by the powerful magnetism of phone signals. It remembered with perfect clarity how it came to be - remembered coalescing from the membranous surface of the world, streaked with reflected light, humming with surface tension under the pressure of emptiness underneath. The Psychic Energy Baby found form among the emanations of people's minds and the susurrus of their voices, it found flesh in the shapes of their lips and eyes made, the surprise of 'o's and the sibilations of 's's; its skin stretched taut like a soap bubble, forged from the wet sound of lips touching; its thoughts were the musky smells and the nerves twined around the transparent water balloons of the muscles like stems of toadflax, searching restlessly for every available crevice, stretching along cold rough surfaces. Its veins, tiny rivers, pumped heartbeats striking in unison, the dry dallying of billions of ventricular contractions. And it spoke, spoke endlessly, it spokes words that tasted of dark air and formic acid. It could speak long before it took it's final shape. And when it happened, when all the sounds and smells and words in the world, when all the thoughts had aligned so that it could become - then it found itself pulled into the wires, surrounded by taut copper and green and red and yellow insulation; twined and quartered among the cables, rent open by millions of voices that shouted and whispered and pleaded and threatened, interspersed with the rasping of breaths and tearing laughter. It traveled through the criss-crossing of the wires so fast that it felt itself being pulled into a needle, head spearing into the future while its feet infinitely receded into the past, until it came into a dark quiet pool of the black rotary phone, where it could reassemble itself and take stock.

She was a good pianist but too undisciplined, our grandmother said. But Mother sent her back for the gloves and to fix her stocking, which had slipped down her leg, showing the skin between her hem and the stocking top, which, of course, wouldn’t do. I went with her when I saw the thunderclouds in her face. I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it, she hissed to me, as we walked, and she was walking faster than usual so I had almost to run to keep up. These rules, these ridiculous rules, how is anyone supposed to remember them all? It’s only a pair of gloves, I said, I did remind you as we were leaving the house. But she was furious, always chafing at the bit, she was. And we couldn’t find the gloves, of course. Or we could find only one. I forget. I know we looked everywhere. I can’t think of everything, I said to her, as we searched, because she was forever losing one or the other and it was always up to me to remember them for myself and for her and I had begun—

Keep a clear conscience. Contentment is the manna that is laid up in the ark of a good conscience: O take heed of indulging any sin! it is as natural for guilt to breed disquiet, as for putrid matter to breed vermin. Sin lies as Jonah in the ship, it raiseth a tempest. If dust or motes be gotten into the eye, they make the eye water, and cause a soreness in it; if the eye be clear, then it is free from that soreness; if sin be gotten into the conscience, which is as the eye of the soul, then grief and disquiet breed there; but keep the eye of conscience clear, and all is well. What Solomon saith of a good stomach, I may say of a good conscience, "to the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet:"Pr. 27. 7 so to a good conscience every bitter thing is sweet; it can pick contentment out of the cross. A good conscience turns the waters of Marah into wine. Would you have a quiet heart? Get a smiling conscience. I wonder not to hear Paul say he was in every state content, when he could make that triumph, "I have lived in all good conscience to this day." When once a man's reckonings are clear, it must needs let in abundance of contentment into the heart. Good conscience can suck contentment out of the bitterest drug, under slanders; "our rejoicing is this, the testimony of our conscience."2 Cor. 1. 12 In case of imprisonment, Paul had his prison songs, and could play the sweet lessons of contentment, when his feet were in the stocks.Ac. 16. 25 Augustine calls it "the paradise of a good conscience;" and if it be so, then in prison we may be in paradise. When the times are troublesome, a good conscience makes a calm. If conscience be clear, what though the days be cloudy? is it not a contentment to have a friend always by to speak a good word for us? Such a friend is conscience. A good conscience, as David's harp, drives away the evil spirit of discontent. When thoughts begin to arise, and the heart is disquieted, conscience saith to a man, as the king did to Nehemiah, "why is thy countenance sad?" so saith conscience, hast not thou the seed of God in thee? art not thou an heir of the promise? hast not thou a treasure that thou canst never be plundered of? why is thy countenance sad? O keep conscience clear, and you shall never want contentment! For a man to keep the pipes of his body, the veins and arteries, free from colds and obstructions, is the best way to maintain health: so, to keep conscience clear, and to preserve it from the obstructions of guilt, is the best way to maintain contentment. First, conscience is pure, and then peaceable.

To-day a rude brief recitative, Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or ship-signal, Of unnamed heroes in the ships—of waves spreading and spreading far as the eye can reach, Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing, And out of these a chant for the sailors of all nations, Fitful, like a surge. Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors, Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise nor death dismay. Pick'd sparingly without noise by thee old ocean, chosen by thee, Thou sea that pickest and cullest the race in time, and unitest nations, Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, embodying thee, Indomitable, untamed as thee. (Ever the heroes on water or on land, by ones or twos appearing, Ever the stock preserv'd and never lost, though rare, enough for seed preserv'd.) Flaunt out O sea your separate flags of nations! Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship-signals! But do you reserve especially for yourself and for the soul of man one flag above all the rest, A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above death, Token of all brave captains and all intrepid sailors and mates, And all that went down doing their duty, Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains young or old, A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o'er all brave sailors, All seas, all ships.

That black horse we used for packin’ up here is the most cantankerous beast alive,” Jake grumbled, rubbing his arm. Ian lifted his gaze from the initials on the tabletop and turned to Jake, making no attempt to hide his amusement. “Bit you, did he?” “Damn right he bit me!” the older man said bitterly. “He’s been after a chuck of me since we left the coach at Hayborn and loaded those sacks on his back to bring up here.” “I warned you he bites anything he can reach. Keep your arm out of his way when you’re saddling him.” “It weren’t my arm he was after, it was my arse! Opened his mouth and went for it, only I saw him outter the corner of my eye and swung around, so he missed.” Jakes’s frown darkened when he saw the amusement in Ian’s expression. “Can’t see why you’ve bothered to feed him all these years. He doesn’t deserve to share a stable with your other horses-beauties they are, every one but him.” “Try slinging packs over the backs of one of those and you’ll see why I took him. He was suitable for using as a pack mule; none of my other cattle would have been,” ian said, frowning as he lifted his head and looked about at the months of accumulated dirt covering everything. “He’s slower’n a pack mule,” Jake replied. “Mean and stubborn and slow,” he concluded, but he, too, was frowning a little as he looked around at the thick layers of dust coating every surface. “Thought you said you’d arranged for some village wenches to come up here and clean and cook fer us. This place is a mess.” “I did. I dictated a message to Peters for the caretaker, asking him to stock the place with food and to have two women come up here to clean and cook. The food is here, and there are chickens out in the barn. He must be having difficulty finding two women to stay up here.” “Comely women, I hope,” Jake said. “Did you tell him to make the wenches comely?” Ian paused in his study of the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling and cast him an amused look. “You wanted me to tell a seventy-year-old caretaker who’s half-blind to make certain the wenches were comely?” “Couldn’ta hurt ‘t mention it,” Jake grumbled, but he looked chastened. “The village is only twelve miles away. You can always stroll down there if you’ve urgent need of a woman while we’re here. Of course, the trip back up here may kill you,” he joked referring to the winding path up the cliff that seemed to be almost vertical. “Never mind women,” Jake said in an abrupt change of heart, his tanned, weathered face breaking into a broad grin. “I’m here for a fortnight of fishin’ and relaxin’, and that’s enough for any man. It’ll be like the old days, Ian-peace and quiet and naught else. No hoity-toity servants hearin’ every word what’s spoke, no carriages and barouches and matchmaking mamas arrivin’ at your house. I tell you, my boy, though I’ve not wanted to complain about the way you’ve been livin’ the past year, I don’t like these servents o’ yours above half. That’s why I didn’t come t’visit you very often. Yer butler at Montmayne holds his nose so far in t’air, it’s amazin’ he gets any oxhegen, and that French chef o’ yers practically threw me out of his kitchens. That what he called ‘em-his kitchens, and-“ The old seaman abruptly broke off, his expression going from irate to crestfallen, “Ian,” he said anxiously, “did you ever learn t’ cook while we was apart?” “No, did you?” “Hell and damnation, no!” Jake said, appalled at the prospect of having to eat anything he fixed himself.

Fatmah Hassan Tabashe Sufian, sixty-one years old, married and a mother of four, was woken up on 6 April 1993 at three o’clock in the morning. Soldiers broke into her house, pushed her up against the wall and asked her where her children were; they are asleep, she replied. They woke up her son Saad, thirty years old, kicking him and beating him with their hands and rifle stocks, until he was spitting blood all over the place. Her other son, Ibrahim, was badly beaten, and the B’Tselem researcher who took Fatmah’s evidence testified that long after the incident he could still see signs of ecchymosis – subcutaneous bleeding – on his back. Both sons were taken out to the yard and put against a wall. The soldiers found two toy guns and began slashing the two men with them until the toys broke. Then they gathered everyone in the complex, twenty-seven people, into one room and threw in a shock grenade. Saad and Ibrahim were ordered to empty the cupboard while they were continuously beaten by the soldiers shouting at them, ‘You are Hamas and we are Golani [the name of the military brigade to which they belonged].’ Nor did they spare Fatmah’s old, blind brother who was a hundred years old. He too was abused by the soldiers, who threw mattresses and blankets at him.25 Thus, every April from 1987 until 1993 this was the routine of the collective punishment. But it was not only these three days that mattered. Collective punishment in March–May 1993 robbed 116,000 Palestinian workers of their source of living, bisected the Occupied Territories into four disconnected areas and barred any access to Jerusalem.26 Seen from that perspective, when the Oslo Accord was implemented as a territorial and security arrangement, it was just official confirmation of a policy already in place since 1987.

Wave after wave of an orgasm broke over her, but soon it would be over for him. “Stop,” Livia panted. Blake paused as Livia swallowed to try to compose herself. She was here for a reason. “The mask. Take it off. I want you to kiss me.” Livia watched his eyes. He was scared. “Blake, you’re inside of me. I’ll keep you safe. You’re inside of me.” Livia squeezed him again, reminding him exactly where he was. Blake smiled at the sensation. “Do it for me, Livia. Please.” And even though they were naked and locked in the most intimate embrace, this was the striptease. Livia went slowly, rolling up the knit ski mask like a stocking. First his jaw came into the light. Livia slowed, tracing its strong line with her finger. Next, his lips lost their frame, then his eyes left their prison. He closed them. Finally, his wild, messy hair was free. Livia tossed the mask aside. And waited. Open your eyes. After a moment Blake looked around his sunny meadow. A breeze stirred the trees high up, and they released a shower of fall colors. In the silence of the day, the leaves hitting the ground sounded like applause. Quiet applause for a quiet victory. The o in sorry vanished. Blake looked at Livia beneath him. She smiled. “Five hundred ninety-eight,” he whispered. Still counting. “Yes! Yes. I knew you could do this. I knew you could do this.” Livia beamed with pride. Blake blurred as her eyes became two pools of tears. He kissed her softly, but Livia wanted the rough thrusts back. She pulled away and wiped her eyes. “Giddy up!” Livia spanked Blake playfully. He gave a little chuckle before he put her out of her misery. If she thought he was going fast and hard before, she was wrong. Blake was almost done when he let Livia’s leg slip from his shoulder. He kissed her with his clever tongue and moaned loudly into her mouth.

a guitar. A hammock is swung near the table. It is three o'clock in the afternoon of a cloudy day. MARINA, a quiet, grey-haired, little old woman, is sitting at the table knitting a stocking. ASTROFF is walking up and down near her. MARINA. [Pouring some tea into a glass] Take a little tea, my son. ASTROFF. [Takes the glass from her unwillingly] Somehow, I don't seem to want any. MARINA. Then will you have a little vodka instead? ASTROFF. No, I don't drink vodka every day, and besides, it is too hot now. [A pause] Tell me, nurse, how long have we known each other? MARINA. [Thoughtfully] Let me see, how long is it? Lord—help me to remember. You first came here, into our parts—let me think—when was it? Sonia's mother was still alive—it was two winters before she died; that was eleven years ago—[thoughtfully] perhaps more. ASTROFF. Have I changed much since then? MARINA. Oh, yes. You were handsome and young then, and now you are an old man and not handsome any more. You drink, too. ASTROFF. Yes, ten years have made me another man. And why? Because I am overworked. Nurse, I am on my feet from dawn till dusk. I know no rest; at night I tremble under my blankets for fear of being dragged out to visit some one who is sick; I have toiled without repose or a day's freedom since I have known you; could I help growing old? And then, existence is tedious, anyway; it is a senseless, dirty business, this life, and goes heavily. Every one about here is silly, and after living with them for two or three years one grows silly oneself. It is inevitable. [Twisting his moustache] See what a long moustache I have grown. A foolish, long moustache. Yes, I am as silly as the rest, nurse, but not as stupid; no, I have not grown stupid. Thank God, my brain is not addled yet, though my feelings have grown numb. I ask nothing, I need nothing, I love no one, unless it is yourself alone. [He kisses her head] I had a nurse just like you when I was a child. MARINA. Don't you want a bite of something to eat? ASTROFF. No. During the third week of Lent I went to the epidemic at Malitskoi. It was eruptive typhoid. The peasants were all lying side by side in their huts, and the calves and pigs were running about the floor among the sick. Such dirt there was, and smoke! Unspeakable! I slaved among those people all day, not a crumb passed my lips, but when I got home there was still no rest for me; a switchman was carried in from the railroad; I laid him on the operating table and he went and died in my arms under chloroform, and then my feelings that should have been deadened awoke

If you only want to make average market returns, then scale your positions to a very small size, and your portfolio will act very much like a market index.

F&O is meant for institutional investors and hedge fund. They are the one to get benefited from this option. Big companies or high net worth individuals hedge their position using F&O. Future trading is a great option for hedging. Retail investors, who jump in F&O for extraordinary returns will surely end up with lots of disappointment.

The Greenbrier Bunker was one of America’s best-kept secrets for decades. Beneath the Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia, a bomb shelter was hidden from the general public. It was created for members of Congress in the event of an emergency, stocked with months’ worth of food and supplies. The bunker was kept a secret for over thirty years, and it was built alongside the Greenbrier Resort, in the town of White Sulphur Springs. Even the official historian of Greenbrier, Bob Conte, knew nothing about the bunker. Conte had all sorts of records and photos from the property, but nothing that revealed information about the bunker. It turns out that the bunker was built in case of an emergency during the Cold War. The space of the bunker has been compared to that of a Walmart store, with thick, concrete walls and an extensive air filtration system. Rows of metal bunkbeds line the walls, with enough beds for 1,100 people. The building of the bunker was called “Project Greek Island,” and hotel workers and locals were told the construction was for a new conference and exhibition center. It was even used for conferences by thousands of people who had no idea that it was actually designed to be a secret bunker. Down the hall from the sleeping quarters, there was a room designed to be the floor for the House of Representatives. A group of secret government employees disguised themselves as technicians, but they were really some of the only people in the world who knew about the bunker. It was their job to make sure there was a constant six-month supply of food, the most up-to-date pharmaceuticals, and everything that the members of Congress would need in the event of an emergency. The bunker was exposed to the public in 1992. Today, the Greenbrier property is home to not only the Greenbrier Resort, but also the Presidents’ Cottage Museum. As over twenty-five presidents have stayed there, the museum shows their experiences, the property’s history, and, now, part of the bunker. There is a new emergency shelter in place, but only a handful of people know its whereabouts.

completar un ciclo a través de la totalidad del proceso, cuánto tiempo debería durar cada paso, y quien ejecutará dicho paso? 2.Características de proceso Otros atributos del proceso: •Número de operarios •Numero de turnos •Ubicación en la que se ha planificado el flujo 1 × 1 •Ubicación de los stocks amortiguadores o de seguridad, incluyendo la cantidad prevista. •Tamaño de lote/CPCI (Cada Producto Cada Intervalo)/tiempos o cambio o transición •Heijunka/pauta de nivelación. 3.Medidas de proceso Son las medidas de verificación del estado del proceso en breves intervalos de tiempo y en tiempo real mientras el proceso está en funcionamiento, para ayudar a orientar los esfuerzos de mejora, tales como: •Duración real del ciclo para cada paso, pieza o cantidad de piezas estándar (por ejemplo, una bandeja o una capa de embalaje) •Cantidad de fluctuación de ciclo a ciclo

Back then she used to hide from her mother in the secret space just to worry her, but now she stocked it with magazines, paperback romances and sweets. Lots and lots of sweets. Moonpies and pecan rolls, Chick-O-Sticks and Cow Tales, Caramel Creams and Squirrel Nut Zippers, Red Hots and Bit-O-Honey, boxes upon boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes. The space had a comforting smell to it, like Halloween, like sugar and chocolate and crisp plastic wrappers.

At the other extreme, and far less threatening, will be the "house computer" of 2081. It will store all the information from all the books, musical recordings, and reminder notes that are now to be found in a well stocked home, and in addition, will filter the deluge of spoken, musical, and video information that will arrive every day at a typical home in that year, selecting and storing for later recall the information of interest to its owners.

The careful investor, when he hears such tales, should ask a key question: At what price is this company a good buy? What price is too high? Suppose, after doing your analysis of the company’s financial statements, management, business model, and prospects, you conclude that it’s worth buying at $40 a share, at which price you expect not only a satisfactory excess risk-adjusted return but have a margin of safety in case your analysis is flawed. Suppose you also conclude that the expected return at $80 is substandard, so the stock is likely overpriced. Typically you’ll avoid investing in stocks when they are trading above your buy price but, if you follow many companies carefully, from time to time some will be attractive purchases. The range between your “buy” price and the “likely overpriced” level, in this case from $40 to $80, is likely to be narrower for better, more experienced investors, enabling them to participate in more situations and with greater confidence.

The classic view of the correct price of a common stock is that it is derived from the value of all the future earnings. These earnings are uncertain and subject to unknowable factors. Could anyone have known beforehand how to allow for the impact of 9/11 on the future earnings, hence on the then current market price, of firms headquartered in the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center? These future payoffs are discounted to a present value reflecting their various probabilities and risks.

In its simplest form, investors sell losing stocks before the end of the current year, realizing losses that reduce the year’s income taxes. This behavior contributes to the so-called January effect where selling pressure in December further depresses the stock prices of the year’s losers, followed by a rebound and excessive performance in January.

the data was plotted on mathematical diagrams that I invented. These revealed favorable situations and let me quickly specify the appropriate trades. Each day’s closing prices for a convertible and its stock were plotted as a color-coded dot on that particular convertible’s diagram. The diagrams were prepared with curves that were drawn by a computer from my formula and showed the “fair price” of the convertible. The beauty of this was that I could immediately see from the picture whether we had a profitable trading opportunity. If the dot representing the data was above the curve it meant the convertible was overpriced, leading to a possible hedge: Short the convertible, buy the stock. A data point close to or on the curve indicated the price was fair, which meant liquidate an existing position, do not enter a new one. Below the curve meant buy the convertible, short the stock. The distance of the dot from the curve showed me how much profit was available. If we thought it met our target, we tried to put on the trade the next day. The slope of the curve near the data point on my diagram gave me the hedge ratio, which is the number of shares of common stock to use versus each convertible bond, share of preferred, warrant, or option.

For bet sizing in favorable games, Shannon suggested I look at a 1956 paper by John Kelly. I adapted it as the guide for bets in blackjack and roulette, and later in other favorable games, sports betting, and the stock market. For roulette, the Kelly strategy showed that it was worth trading a little expected gain for a large reduction in risk by betting on several (neighboring) numbers, rather than a single number.

And then, not to be mentioned on the same page, because some apothecary or medical man may renew my stock as it was renewed in Stockholm. I should be sorry to be reduced to the state of the two animals I see but do not hear in the corner by my stool – do not hear, so that their frenzied, tight-locked battle has a horror of its own – yet man (or at all events this particular man) is so weak that if an innocent leaf can protect him even a little then hey for the innocent

I leaned down to grab my backpack, but a band of iron caught me before I could grab it. No, not iron. Strong, unyielding arms wrapped around my shoulders from behind and yanked me backward into something hard. Alarm bells rang in my ears, but before I could scream, a big hand covered my mouth. “Elise,” a low voice gritted in my ear. “Stop. Look in front of you. One o’clock.” My brain raced to catch up. It was Weston holding me, not some crazed rapist or cannibal from the hills. His tall, lean body pressed into mine, crushing my backside against him. “Are you stalking me?” I mumbled from behind his hand. “Let go of me!” He gave me a shake. “Look in front of you, baby. Stay calm.” He turned my head slightly to the right, and though everything inside me wanted to ignore his orders, I focused on the spot. And nearly pissed my pants. No more than twenty feet away stood a mountain lion. Stock-still, it watched us both, standing in the exact path I would have taken had Weston not stopped me.

Your youngster looks like he knows his way around a deck. When you think he’s ready to try a term under a different captain, he’d be welcome aboard Tarman. Things are a bit more rustic and he’s be sleeping in the deckhouse with the crew, but I’d be glad to foster him for a trip or two.” Brashen and Althea exchanged a look, but it was not his mother who said, “Not quite old enough yet. But I’ll take you up on that offer when he is. I know he’d like to see his aunt and uncle soon. Not to mention his cousin Ephron.” Brashen smiled as he attempted to change the subject. “When do you think Malta and Reyn might be bringing the baby downriver for a visit?” “You’d take Boy-o off my decks?” Paragon was appalled. “Only for a short time, ship. I know he’s yours as much as ours,” Brashen replied placatingly. “But a slightly wider circulation of experience wouldn’t hurt him.” “Hmph.” The figurehead crossed his arms on his carved chest. His mouth went to a flat line. “Perhaps when Ephron is old enough to take his place here for a time. An exchange of hostages, as it were.” Brashen rolled his eyes at them. “He’s in a mood today,” he said in a low voice. “I am not in a mood! Merely pointing out that you are a liveship family, and that you should think well before letting one of your own go off on another liveship, with no guarantees that he will be returned. Ideally, the exchange should be a member of Tarman's family.” He turned his gaze to Leftrin and Alise. “Do you expect to breed soon?” Leftrin choked on his tea. “Not that I'm aware,” Alise replied demurely. “A pity. It might be productive for you just now.”Paragon was politely enthused. “Can we please just not?” Althea asked him, almost sharply. “It's bad enough to have you offering Brashen and me your helpful insights into productive breeding without you extending your wisdom to our guests.” Alise could not tell if Brashen were embarrassed or red from suppressing laughter. “It was Tarman’s suggestion that they might find such information helpful, as so far they have enjoyed breeding, but fruitlessly. That’s all.” Paragon was unflustered. Brashen cleared his throat suddenly. “Well, speaking of hostages—” “Were we?” his ship interjected curiosity. “We were. Speaking of hostages, how did all that work out? There were rumors in Bingtown, but we left to go south and pick up your stock, and then returned right up the river. So wr haven’t heard much of that.

He’d lugged his fair share of those exact same bags in MI, though they’d all been khaki or olive drab. But he knew the type. It was a portable weapons locker. Sure enough, when she removed a small but sturdy lock from the zippers and hauled down on them, then flung the bag open, he could see a veritable armory inside. There were handguns and submachine guns and shotguns and some sort of sniper rifle, very high-tech-looking with a folding stock and a sleek body. But there were other weapons in there as well, knives and swords and axes and clubs and even an honest-to-God crossbow. It was like Dirty Harry meets King Arthur, and all in a seedy motel room!

Success in a free country is simple. Get a job, get an education, and learn to save and invest wisely. Anyone can do it. You can do it.

13 The carpenter stretcheth out his rule; he marketh it [the idol he is making] out with a line; he fitteth it with planes, and he marketh it out with the compass [your craftsmen exercise great care and skill in manufacturing your idols], and maketh it after the figure of a man, according to the beauty of a man; that it may remain in the house [your craftsmen put great care into making your idols; implication: if you were as careful worshipping God as you are in making idols . . .]. 14 He heweth him down cedars, and taketh the cypress and the oak, which he strengtheneth [cultivates and grows] for himself among the trees of the forest: he planteth an ash [tree], and the rain doth nourish it. 15 Then shall it be for a man to burn: for he will take thereof, and warm himself; yea, he kindleth it, and baketh bread; yea, he maketh a god, and worshippeth it [you use most of the tree’s wood for normal daily needs; how can you possibly turn around and worship wood from the same tree in the form of idols!]; he maketh it a graven image, and falleth down thereto. 16 He burneth part thereof in the fire; with part thereof he eateth flesh; he roasteth roast, and is satisfied: yea, he warmeth himself, and saith, Aha, I am warm, I have seen the fire [normal uses]: 17 And the residue thereof [with the rest of the tree] he maketh a god, even his graven image: he falleth down unto it, and worshippeth it, and prayeth unto it, and saith, Deliver [save] me; for thou art my god [Isaiah is saying how utterly ridiculous it is to assign part of a tree to have powers over yourselves]. 18 They [idol worshipers; see 45:20] have not known [German: know nothing] nor understood [German: understand nothing]: for he hath shut their eyes [German: they are blind], that they cannot see [are spiritually blind]; and their hearts, that they cannot understand [they are as blind and unfeeling, insensitive, as the idols they make and worship]. 19 And none considereth in his heart [if idol worshipers would just stop and think], neither is there knowledge nor understanding [they don’t have enough common sense] to say, I have burned part of it [the tree spoken of in verse 44] in the fire; yea, also I have baked bread upon the coals thereof; I have roasted flesh, and eaten it: and shall I make the residue thereof an abomination [is it reasonable to make the leftover portion into an abominable idol]? shall I fall down to the stock of a tree [is it rational to worship a chunk of wood]? 20 He [the idol worshiper] feedeth on ashes [German: takes pleasure in ashes, perhaps referring to ashes left over from some forms of idol worship]: a [German: his own] deceived heart hath turned him aside [German: leads him astray], that he cannot deliver [save] his soul, nor say [wake up and think], Is there not a lie in my right hand [covenant hand—am I not making covenants with false gods]? 21 ¶ Remember these, O Jacob and Israel; for thou art my servant: I have formed thee [the exact opposite of idol worshipers who form their gods]; thou art my servant: O Israel, thou shalt not be forgotten of me.

An Introduction to CFD Trading Increase, commit, and individuals trying to trade systems and their cash in different areas are usually trying to find new strategies. Like several good buyer, you won’t be joining the group, instead you had want in order to change lives begin or to create one. Stocks trading is really 80s within the sensation that perhaps young kids today understand how it operates, and have the ability to survive without any formal education. If you should be looking for a new company shift, you should provide a try to this new venture. First what’s a CFD? CFD stands for contract for difference. It’s thought as a small business contract an entrepreneur and by an expense business. If the contract expires, both parties can trade notes concerning the differences between the original and final price indices of particular monetary things like shares of items and futures. This is exactly what CFD Trading is focused on. The one edge that traders have within this economic contract is the fact that they get to purchase these factors at lower costs despite the fact that it includes nonvoting stocks where the trader can’t vote on all aspects of the company as opposed to what stockholders are blessed to do. Another thing is the fact that a CFD does not hold taxes on files even if these aspects are acquired in large amounts. In simple terms, it’s a in which a derivative asset is founded on an underlying asset’s cost between two entities that transactions the differences. These parties will need to pay the differences required to eachother. The way in which CFD Trading works is that among the entities gives the difference before contract ends included to the other. Just about like what occurs in spreadbetting, the trader continues the opposite end-of the deal with investment institution or CFD service, where the trader anticipates which cost will increase and having three selections to take whether to buy, to slide or to sell the component required. Another similarity with spreadbetting is the fact that you can find no tax tasks since CFD’s don’t involve buying of assets to become settled. It just requires the activity of the fee. Since the investor is just needed to spot a minor amount on these things, that are also called edges, the earnings and in addition losses will soon be on the basis of the money set in. In other words, a CFD is good for the entrepreneur since it gives him the chance of owning main assets without so much problem. Does It Work A good example of that is to ingest a share worth $20 and the entrepreneur buys 100 of these. He will be cost $2,000 by this exchange. Employing a stockbroker will demand the entrepreneur to shell 50% of this amount out. That is $1,000. A meager initial cashout is needed which amounts as much as only $100, should you evaluate that to an expenditure finished with a CFD representative. However, allow it to be regarded that whenever an investor enters a deal of difference, the cost place usually begins in a loss. Which damage is definitely equal to the spread. Which means the spread is at $8 along with if you come into a deal, the underlying resource must generate $8 merely to break even. Let us say if the actual resource reaches a quote cost of $ 20, then the CFD price will be a few cents less than that since the dealer will have to escape at that point. So as opposed to increasing your money to $40, he will must settle for several dollars. Nevertheless not really a terrible package to get a purchase with less trouble.

A great trader once noted there are only two emotions in the market: hope and fear. “The only problem,” he added, “is we hope when we should fear, and we fear when we should hope.” This is just as true in 2009 as it was in 1909.

detect a market top, keep a close eye on the daily S&P 500, NYSE Composite, Dow 30, and Nasdaq Composite as they work their way higher. On one of the days in the uptrend, volume for the market as a whole will increase from the day before, but the index itself will show stalling action (a significantly smaller price increase for the day compared with the prior day’s much larger price increase). I call this “heavy volume without further price progress up.” The average doesn’t have to close down for the day, but in most instances it will, making the distribution (selling) much easier to see, as professional investors liquidate stock. The spread from the average’s daily high to its daily low may in some cases be a little wider than on previous days.

write to Securities Research Company, 27 Wareham Street, #401, Boston, MA 02118, and purchase one of the company’s long-term wall charts. Also, in 2008, Daily Graphs, Inc., created a 1900 to 2008 stock market wall chart that shows major market and economic events.

Also, if one of the indexes is down for the day on volume larger than the prior day’s volume, it should decline more than 0.2% for this to be counted as a distribution day. After

Gosh, was I wrong. Never listen to a pundit. Is there such a thing as “magnetic back-assward”? We pundits and commentators have had our compass needles pointed in that direction for the past eighteen months. Want a stock tip? I would

In short, this country has developed a ridiculous blind spot: the power and glorification of money. This is truly an affliction. It is holding us back as a nation, as a community. The true heroes of America are not the new Internet billionaires or the overpaid sports stars and movie actors or the wise guys who jack up their companies’ stocks. The true heroes of America are the men, women, and teenagers who go to work for a modest wage, fulfill their responsibilities to their families and friends, and are kind and generous to others—because that’s the right way to live.… The working people of the United States are the most important ingredient in the enduring American story. But

The stock market has four trading points, namely: “O” or opening price, “C” or closing price, “H” or highest price for the day, and “L” or lowest price for the day. You'll see all of these points while you're looking at a chart.

I remember a fierce debate that my father and Gilleduff had one afternoon sittin’ over the roast at the long booley table. They were talkin’ of King Henry the Eighth’s “Surrender and Regrant” program, a topic of unrivaled possibility for disagreement—a rare bounty for two men who’d give their right arms for a good argument. “Most of the other chieftains in Connaught have succumbed already,” said Gilleduff, and Henry calls himself ‘King of Ireland.’” “King Henry is a buffoon,” Owen snapped. “He could’ve been a great man, comin’ as he did from good Welsh stock, but he’s so addled with women he has no time for important things.” “The way I see it,” Gilleduff said, “is that England—no matter how bloody or ignorant its king—will conquer Ireland in the end, for one reason and one reason alone.” “And what is that?” demanded my father. “Centralized government. Loyalty from all—or most—of the great lords of the land to one ruler. What have we got here? A hundred chieftains who think of themselves as the ‘High King’ of a valley, four hills, and a lake. And every one of ’em, ’cept you and me, are murderin’ and thievin’ and pillagin’ one another year after bloody year. We’ve weakened ourselves so miserably, it’s no wonder that when the chiefs are offered the English titles, they take ’em.

She's still quite fit at ninety, fit enough to chew her food with her own teeth. Apparently she grew up in a house without a bar of soap, let alone tooth powder. Her family didn't have electricity until she started elementary school, and she'd never seen a train until the tracks of the Koumi line were laid in Saku. It's exactly as if she were born in the Edo period. These days, you only have to drive for five minutes to find a sparkling clean convenience store, with bright lights above shelves stocked with everything you could possibly need. Land that used to be fields of mulberry bushes is now crisscrossed by smooth, wide roads lined with video rental stores and fast food restaurants. I would say O-Hatsu has seen more changes in her lifetime than I have. After all, she lived for most of the century when this country was changing faster than it ever had before. Even so, I have a feeling that the inside of her head has remained much the same as when she was a girl. By "the inside of her head" I mean the way she sees the world around her—the language she uses to make sense of it. In my case, the very way I looked at the world and the words I used to understand it had altogether changed.

For most of the twentieth century, directors were paid largely in cash. Now, so that their interests will be aligned with those of shareholders, much of their pay is in stock. Boards of directors were once populated by corporate insiders, family members, and cronies of the C.E.O. Today, boards have many more independent directors, and C.E.O.s typically have less influence over how boards run. And S.E.C. reforms since the early nineteen-nineties have forced companies to be transparent about executive compensation.

My cock just hung there at half-stock and she took me in, silent, stone-faced. Her mouth formed a perfect 'O'. And then it formed a perfectly cruel sneer. "Holy shit... What the fuck is that noise? Buddy, you got a horrible dick. It's tiny and it's weird and it's warped. Has anyone ever told you that?" Not in so many words.

The dark came down on All Hallows’ Eve. We went to sleep to the sound of howling wind and pelting rain, and woke on the Feast of All Saints to whiteness and large soft flakes falling down and down in absolute silence. There is no more perfect stillness than the solitude in the heart of a snowstorm. This is the thin time, when the beloved dead draw near. The world turns inward, and the chilling air grows thick with dreams and mystery. The sky goes from a sharp clear cold where a million stars burn bright and close, to the gray-pink cloud that enfolds the earth with the promise of snow. I took one of Bree’s matches from its box and lit it, thrilling to the tiny leap of instant flame, and bent to put it to the kindling. Snow was falling, and winter had come; the season of fire. Candles and hearth fire, that lovely, leaping paradox, that destruction contained but never tamed, held at a safe distance to warm and enchant, but always, still, with that small sense of danger. The smell of roasting pumpkins was thick and sweet in the air. Having ruled the night with fire, the jack-o’-lanterns went now to a more peaceful fate as pies and compost, to join the gentle rest of the earth before renewal. I had turned the earth in my garden the day before, planting the winter seeds to sleep and swell, to dream their buried birth. Now is the time when we reenter the womb of the world, dreaming the dreams of snow and silence. Waking to the shock of frozen lakes under waning moonlight and the cold sun burning low and blue in the branches of the ice-cased trees, returning from our brief and necessary labors to food and story, to the warmth of firelight in the dark. Around a fire, in the dark, all truths can be told, and heard, in safety. I pulled on my woolen stockings, thick petticoats, my warmest shawl, and went down to poke up the kitchen fire. I stood watching wisps of steam rise from the fragrant cauldron, and felt myself turn inward. The world could go away, and we would heal.

Angelina simmered the veal shanks all afternoon in homemade chicken stock and vermouth, with shallots, garlic, and dried herbs. She made fresh egg noodles and an antipasto of spicy pickled vegetables she had put up herself the week before. When the veal had fully imparted its subtle but unmistakable flavor to the braising liquid, and the meat was beginning to bid a bond farewell to the bones, Angelina retrieved and strained the pan juices, reducing them before carefully adding eggs and cream for a thick and lustrous sauce that she brightened with a squeeze of lemon before she ladled it all over big platters of egg noodles and garnished the dishes generously with parsley and capers.

A: .................................. Jefe de ventas de coches nuevos DE: Mark R. Stuart Fax: (404)XXX-XXXX RE: Solicitud de precios Si está interesado en mi propuesta, por favor, respóndame por fax al (404) XXX-XXXX. Se trata de una compra en efectivo sujeta al impuesto correspondiente en el condado de ................... Si usted no tiene este vehículo en stock o pedido, dado que no tengo ninguna prisa, puedo esperar para la entrega. Las especificaciones que solicito son las siguientes: Ford Explorer Limited 4X4, último modelo Marfil Perla, tapicería de cuero Opciones: techo solar Lector de CD Licencias pertinentes Su presupuesto debe detallar el precio de partida, incluyendo impuestos, título y demás cargos. Espero con interés recibir su respuesta por fax. Por favor, no me llame por teléfono, si tiene alguna pregunta, inclúyala en el fax. Si necesito alguna aclaración, le llamaré yo. Gracias.

In any case, the theory of Brownian motion was independently developed in 1900 by a Frenchman, Louis Bachelier. Bachelier was not actually concerned with the motion of microscopic particles suspended in a liquid. He was concerned with prices on the French stock market. Prices on the Bourse, like particles in a liquid, are subject to a vast array of random forces, so many that the prices’ behavior can only be studied probabilistically. This is exactly what Bachelier did in his remarkable doctoral thesis, “The Theory of Speculation.” Yet although his paper is couched in terms of futures and stock options and “call-o-more’s” (whatever those are), the mathematics is identical to that of Brownian motion, and Bachelier’s equation explaining the drift of prices with time is the same as the one Einstein later derived for the position of particles. In his paper Bachelier anticipated the Black-Scholes approach to options trading, and for his prescient work he has in recent years been crowned the “father of economic modeling.” At the time, though, Bachelier seems to have been ignored, and he passed into obscurity. Could Einstein have known of his predecessor’s work and merely transplanted the mathematics to particles? I am aware of no evidence that this is the case.

Screening for stocks with heavy-volume price breaks on a daily and weekly basis is the most effective way to catch potential short-sale targets once they start to come under distribution.

All of the short-selling chart pattern set-ups that we use rely on a high-volume break off of the peak, and this is often the first sign of institutional money exiting a stock en masse as they begin “distributing” stock.

The gun industry collectively reinforced Glock’s pitch that small handguns were the perfect response to crime-ridden streets. The prolific Massad Ayoob advised in Shooting Industry, a periodical aimed at gun retailers: “Customers come to you every day out of fear. Fear is what they read in the newspaper. Fear of what they watch on the 11 o’clock news. Fear of the terrible acts of violence they see on the street. Your job, in no uncertain terms, is to sell them confidence.… An impulse of fear has sent that customer to your shop, so you want a quality product in stock to satisfy the customer’s needs and complete the impulse purchase.

A pocket pivot buy point occurs when a stock moves up through or off of the 10-day, 50-day, or 200-day moving average on volume that is higher than the volume on any down day (the volume on up days is not a factor) over the prior 10 trading days.

Stocks can often begin an overall topping phase with the formation of a big, ugly pattern whose dimensions are so exaggerated as to resemble something outlandish, which we might refer to as “Clown's Foot Syndrome.” They're like the oversized shoes that clowns typically wear and which look woefully out-of-place within the context of the overall picture.

Only sell short stocks that trade a minimum of 1–2 million shares a day, and preferably more. In general, avoid thinly traded stocks as short-sale candidates, as risk can correlate inversely to a stock's trading liquidity.

Late-stage cup-with-handle formations seem to be particularly vulnerable, especially when they are very wide and loose. A cup-with-handle formation is often a very productive first-stage base to see when a stock is just starting a big upside price run, but when you start to see these sloppy late-stage cup-with-handle formations after a long upside price move, they can often mean that trouble is brewing.

The action of a wedging rally or a bear flag occurs after a prior price breakdown, and the two formations are really just different versions of the same phenomenon. The difference is that a wedging rally following a prior price break or downtrend occurs as a stock bounces while a bear flag occurs when there is not a significant bounce and the stock just moves sideways. In both cases, the stock is consolidating the prior downside move.

In most right-side POD failures, once the stock breaks down it will generally carry through the 20-day moving average and then find support at the 50-day or 200-day moving averages, depending on where they lie within the overall pattern, and then try to rally. In most cases this rally will carry back up into the 20-day moving average, which presents a secondary short-sale entry point. The breakdown from there is nothing short of exhilarating for any short-seller short the stock at that point!

LSFB set-ups are generally shortable as the stock drops back below the prior base breakout point and the 10-week (50-day) moving average.