Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Modern Poetry-->Apocalyptic literature-->Options Trading
A chronology of my obsessions over the past three years. Check it out.
Fortunately, each interest complements the other. In the event of apocalypse ushered in by a global societal meltdown due to financial collapse, I'll be well-prepared after having listened to The Road on audiobook, like, seven times. My Army Field Survival manual and backpack of non-perishable food are all ready to go. While I'm hiking through a deserted nuclear winter wasteland, I can recite to myself poems from a world whose riches are forever lost. Poetry is a hedge to currency.
Fortunately, each interest complements the other. In the event of apocalypse ushered in by a global societal meltdown due to financial collapse, I'll be well-prepared after having listened to The Road on audiobook, like, seven times. My Army Field Survival manual and backpack of non-perishable food are all ready to go. While I'm hiking through a deserted nuclear winter wasteland, I can recite to myself poems from a world whose riches are forever lost. Poetry is a hedge to currency.
Monday, March 23, 2009
It Still Feels Good to be a Gangster
I wonder what it feels like to do the exact opposite of a good job and know that the U.S. Government is on the hook for every single one of your missteps. Meritocracy is gone. Irrationally, I want to blame the Dems for pushing the bailout through, but after the way John McCain let politicos trash his legacy in the span of one campaign, I'd be surprised if he would've handled this any better.
Goldman Sachs will not return the $13 billion "bonus bailout" funneled to it via AIG because some of its investors pay taxes to the U.S. Government, just like every law-abiding investor in every single other publicly and privately traded company in the history of the stock market.
"We also have taxpayer money at Goldman Sachs and it's part of our responsibility to protect that money and not lose it."
Since the government can't even prevent $260 million of its own money from going to the financiers who hand-crafted the toxic assets that triggered this crisis, how could anyone possibly imagine that the taxpayers will have one iota of influence over any of the banks AIG is giving our money to? Even Eliot Spitzer has crawled out of his dank, sex-addled haze to damn the transaction.
Ron Paul 2012, people. Seriously.
Goldman Sachs will not return the $13 billion "bonus bailout" funneled to it via AIG because some of its investors pay taxes to the U.S. Government, just like every law-abiding investor in every single other publicly and privately traded company in the history of the stock market.
"We also have taxpayer money at Goldman Sachs and it's part of our responsibility to protect that money and not lose it."
Since the government can't even prevent $260 million of its own money from going to the financiers who hand-crafted the toxic assets that triggered this crisis, how could anyone possibly imagine that the taxpayers will have one iota of influence over any of the banks AIG is giving our money to? Even Eliot Spitzer has crawled out of his dank, sex-addled haze to damn the transaction.
Ron Paul 2012, people. Seriously.
Like a Mackerel in a Maelstrom, or a Tadpole in a Tidal Wave
Good Monday, World of Commerce that I love so much,
I want you to know that today I suffered an 8% loss gambling on a 3x leveraged short Dow ETF and paid the price this afternoon.
More important than the cash was the lesson I learned regarding the volatility and unpredictability of leveraged shorts, which some detractors argued against on moral grounds.
While I uphold my dispute as to the nature of my detractors' aspersions, perhaps somewhere deep in the snowbank of a their memories, an ember of vindication might be fanned by my small defeat during this first foray into exotic financial instruments.
Please recognize this missive as a gesture toward humility.
Yours,
Cameron
Note: This letter will be distributed via email to the appropriate parties.
I want you to know that today I suffered an 8% loss gambling on a 3x leveraged short Dow ETF and paid the price this afternoon.
More important than the cash was the lesson I learned regarding the volatility and unpredictability of leveraged shorts, which some detractors argued against on moral grounds.
While I uphold my dispute as to the nature of my detractors' aspersions, perhaps somewhere deep in the snowbank of a their memories, an ember of vindication might be fanned by my small defeat during this first foray into exotic financial instruments.
Please recognize this missive as a gesture toward humility.
Yours,
Cameron
Note: This letter will be distributed via email to the appropriate parties.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
People, People. We have work to do.
Jessica Simpson's systemically terrible taste has finally cemented her role as stripper fashion magnate.Ahem:
And ahoo:
This DVF "scarf dress" is extra ugnificent. It looks like a thirteen year old designed it especially to wear on Johnson Middle School's Class of '99 trip to Six Flags celebrating the end of eighth grade. Nothing is right about it. Nothing.
Recognizing that this Anna Sui dress could be categorized similarly, I defy your intepretation but confess that my attraction to all that is Anna Sui can only be mitigated in the most dire of circumstances. When I saw her Spring '06 collection floating in the windows of my favorite boutique in the world, El Savadeboda in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, instantly it was love. How fun is this? Super fun:
And a Catherine Malandrino top that's hard to feel bad about. 
And ahoo:This DVF "scarf dress" is extra ugnificent. It looks like a thirteen year old designed it especially to wear on Johnson Middle School's Class of '99 trip to Six Flags celebrating the end of eighth grade. Nothing is right about it. Nothing. Recognizing that this Anna Sui dress could be categorized similarly, I defy your intepretation but confess that my attraction to all that is Anna Sui can only be mitigated in the most dire of circumstances. When I saw her Spring '06 collection floating in the windows of my favorite boutique in the world, El Savadeboda in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, instantly it was love. How fun is this? Super fun:And a Catherine Malandrino top that's hard to feel bad about. All I hear when I see this shell is the phrase "unabashedly appropriate", copyrighted forever by J. Crew. DVF? Make up your mind.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Weight of Horses
My mother's cousin, Kurth, was the only other literary type in our family. We didn't have much in common until I went to college to study English, but then we had so much to talk about. The fall before he died he sent me advice on how to extricate myself from a term paper on deconstructionism and Cormac McCarthy. Jaws of Life couldn't have pulled me from that mess, but Kurth's loving eloquence ushered me through some long, bleary nights in the library.
I miss him all the time. I wish I'd had more time with him. My last memory of him before the funeral is this: Kurth, Andy and I sitting at a dining table outside at his country house, Newbold Revel. No sounds, just the wind in the new lavender. No smells, just the perfume of the new lavender and heavy, unfiltered cigarette smoke. We were full of rare roast lamb and mashed potatoes made by a man who lived by himself. I can't remember anything he said. We talked about poetry.
I'm thinking of him now because of a Linda Gregg poem I read yesterday called The Weight. Kurth had a stable named Blackacre out in Austin; he loved horses.
The Weight
Two horses were put together in the same paddock.
Night and day. In the night and in the day
wet from heat and the chill of the wind
on it. Muzzle to water, snorting, head swinging
and the taste of bay in the shadowed air.
The dignity of being. They slept that way,
knowing each other always.
Withers quivering for a moment,
fetlock and the proud rise at the base of the tail,
width of back. The volume of them, and each other's weight.
Fences were nothing compared to that.
People were nothing. They slept standing,
their throats curved against the other's rump.
They breathed against each other,
whinnied and stomped.
There are things they did that I do not know.
The privacy of them had a river in it.
Had our universe in it. And the way
its border looks back at us with its light.
This was finally their freedom.
The freedom an oak tree knows.
That is built at night by stars.
I miss him all the time. I wish I'd had more time with him. My last memory of him before the funeral is this: Kurth, Andy and I sitting at a dining table outside at his country house, Newbold Revel. No sounds, just the wind in the new lavender. No smells, just the perfume of the new lavender and heavy, unfiltered cigarette smoke. We were full of rare roast lamb and mashed potatoes made by a man who lived by himself. I can't remember anything he said. We talked about poetry.
I'm thinking of him now because of a Linda Gregg poem I read yesterday called The Weight. Kurth had a stable named Blackacre out in Austin; he loved horses.
The Weight
Two horses were put together in the same paddock.
Night and day. In the night and in the day
wet from heat and the chill of the wind
on it. Muzzle to water, snorting, head swinging
and the taste of bay in the shadowed air.
The dignity of being. They slept that way,
knowing each other always.
Withers quivering for a moment,
fetlock and the proud rise at the base of the tail,
width of back. The volume of them, and each other's weight.
Fences were nothing compared to that.
People were nothing. They slept standing,
their throats curved against the other's rump.
They breathed against each other,
whinnied and stomped.
There are things they did that I do not know.
The privacy of them had a river in it.
Had our universe in it. And the way
its border looks back at us with its light.
This was finally their freedom.
The freedom an oak tree knows.
That is built at night by stars.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
They say that 'Time assuages' ...
They say that 'Time assuages' ...
They say that "Time assuages"—
Time never did assuage—
An actual suffering strengthens
As Sinews do, with age—
Time is a Test of Trouble—
But not a Remedy—
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no Malady—
by Emily Dickinson
They say that "Time assuages"—
Time never did assuage—
An actual suffering strengthens
As Sinews do, with age—
Time is a Test of Trouble—
But not a Remedy—
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no Malady—
by Emily Dickinson
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