GOOG, Bushmills, and Purple Prose

There is so much to catch you up on on life around The Manor.



This socialist no longer owns any GOOG, having managed to dump it a few minutes after trading resumed shortly after 3:20 PM on that fateful day when the firm's publisher "somehow" released earnings data during the day trading period, versus the usual after-market magic time of 4:30.  I made it out at $700, which stemmed the losses a bit, but did nothing to refresh my sour breath.  I found the whole process unfair -- beginning with GOOG's backstabbing report itself, then the cessation of trading (with nary a hint to yer average bear as to when the halt would be lifted), and even including mine own investment company requiring that I give 'em a call at that calm, carefree time to garner their "permission" to trade after hours, despite having done it a good half-dozen times before.  Believe it or not, I terminated that phone call at 3:17 and only by the happest of haphazards learned that I had a whole three minutes to figure stop losses and whether Bushmills or a box of Cabernet was more appropriate to the fleeting moment.

I plugged in $700 and went with Bushmills.

Since then, I decided to put my money where my mouth is -- oh, the terrible jokes aching to be told! -- and no, I won't yet divulge what lucky sector now bulges with my invested wealth.  All I know for sure is that Fred better appreciate the nasty sweat that went into leaving him some sort of inheritance.

What else?

Oh, we lost an entire booking of retreatants who turned left instead of right and ended up in Canada instead of Tête de Hergé.  It's not the first time we have lost 3-day weekend guests in search of elusive repose.  The Haddock parent company even held a troubleshooting skype session that included the top brothers and Abbot Truffatore, the crack-addicted organic pig farmer across the road, plus the hippies down the road (whose cows are giving sweet frothy warm milk once again, thanks to intervention by Local Antiquated and Beloved Authoritarian, Tante Louise, and also thanks to the spirit behind Robert Frost's Mending Wall, a spirit brought to tangible fruition by The Manor Domestic Staff and The Cistercian's 2012 Probies, thereby cutting off the multi-chemical piggy runoff that had been overstimulating the mellow moo cows).  Um... where was I?  Ah!  Yes!  The frustration of losing money and visitors due to a basic ignorance of world geography.

Fred and I joined with the majority to suggest that a link to Google Maps be included in the multimedia materials sent in advance to our over-the-sea or across-the-continent pilgrims.  (If that first link to Google Maps doesn't help you -- you poor map-challenged you, you -- then try THIS ONE, but remember that the results must be rotated NNE by 17 degrees °F to adjust for satellite mendacity.)

Ergo, we hope to no longer be confused with our brethren and sistren Canadians, Français, or Old Earth Saxons.  And we fervently pray for an improvement in the public and parochial school systems of The World, else our revenue is gonna continue to drop off, precipitously, with each graduating, mortarboard-tossing class.

We never let our painstaking preparations for guests go to waste, however.  The Abbott continues to flee to Marlinspike Hall on occasional weekends, especially those dedicated to the tuning of the monastery bells, organs, and guitars -- even on occasional weekdays, when there is the threat of a papal bull.  We also give Ease-Them-Into-Rehab Upgrades to the more haughty circus and freak show addicts before ceremoniously removing them to the barn catty-cornered to the Computer Turret, now home to the Haddock Family Enterprises Addiction Center -- an entity briefly explained in a previous post, "Passing the Duck Test."

If I were allowed to divulge top secret information, I'd be able to suggest that The Captain himself, plus whomever is traveling with him in the pink submarine fleet -- often the Miniature Badminton Team -- are parties whose unexpectedness no longer causes a commotion.  In these uncertain times, who doesn't want to go home now and then?

I am managing to manage things pretty well, despite seeing the world as a visual echo (my terminology for having not quite double vision) and clinging to my trundle bed in an effort to hide out beneath the "real" feather mattress (a humility-inducing thing, as sometimes it is the head that will not quite disappear, sometimes the derrière).  The medicos and I had harbored concern about my liver as I tried out three new medications, but surprise!  It turned out to be my kidneys that are registering their unhappiness.  Whatever -- I am coming off one of the drugs, anyway, the one that enabled not just the visual echo but the mental one, and my hope is that this will calm those spongy filters down.  I've dabbled in kidney failure before, due to lupus, and recovered nicely, and so fully expect to do the same now.  Why not, eh?

I've gone 24 hours without spasms, except for the two hours with.  Monday through Thursday were Hell on Earth, spent writhing and screaming.  I'm sure that I came close to death by overdose or mixing-oopsies as I was so frequently driven to take enough of anything to lose my consciousness.  You can call me "stupid," you can call me "unenlightened," you can also go straight to "The Dickens" -- directions available on Google Maps.

I'm gonna blame my blogging sloth on kidney failure -- maybe folks will fall for that, as they don't seem to have a heck of a lot of sympathy for the CRPS sanity-shattering pain I live with, or the pus-filled mush that are my bones.  Whaddaya think?  Oh, my kidneys are limping along, I'm sooooo tired, just cannot write.

Heh heh.  Purple prose!

"It takes a certain amount of sass to speak up for prose that's rich, succulent and full of novelty. Purple is immoral, undemocratic and insincere; at best artsy, at worst the exterminating angel of depravity. So long as originality and lexical precision prevail, the sentient writer has a right to immerse himself or herself in phenomena and come up with as personal a version as can be. A writer who can't do purple is missing a trick. A writer who does purple all the time ought to have more tricks."
(Paul West, "In Defense of Purple Prose." The New York Times, Dec. 15, 1985)

For those of you who have inquired about Fred, Bianca (and, therefore, Sven)?

Fred is a bit tired, as he is leading a tone deaf group of militant lesbian existential feminists in the formation of a ukulele band.  I could share many a humorous anecdote with you, but will limit myself to just one.  The woman whose illuminating idea this was cannot comprehend how to "strum." They spend an inordinate amount of time discussing what "strum" means, how "strumming" might be achieved, as well as using the questionable guidance of a piano with metronome. My contribution to the conundrum has been to shout, midst writhe and vulgar vocalization, "relax, relax, just tell her to relax her wrist." But no one listens to me.

Sven is somewhat stymied, and yes, that is a sight, a stymied Sven!  College basketball utterly transforms our
Castafiore, an unrepentant Duke fan, and Sven is just... lost.

I guess that pretty much sums up this post -- the theme of Lost.  And, sadly, I must sign off, as a large Maine Coon is amorously eyeing my lap, and making lovey-dovey eyes that are simply irresistible.  Yes, I'm off to nuggle with Buddy, the Freakishly Large Kitten.

Driving Around With No Pants On

If I try to direct blog traffic away from elle::est::belle:la:seine:la:seine:elle::est::belle and toward something I find noteworthy, there aren't going to be any resultant traffic jams.  Still, from time to time I fall in love with a blog that appeared out of the blue, some place I landed by accident on one of my crazy-ass searches.

Like:  How can I apply Bob Dylan's The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll in a way to express my contempt for the Weeper of the House, John "Crybaby" Boehner?





Like:  Cure for moat algae infestation, kind of a muted aubergine with bright red moving specks.  That won't harm the finish on The Captain's submarine.


Like:  naked women xxx  [My blog usually turns up on the first or second page of a Google search using these terms.  Also, if you plug in "red," and do a Google image search, my use of a very red graphic is now featured toward the top of page two.  It was used to illustrate a very important post that culminated in a group sing-along of De colores.  Funny, Fred and I were just a-warblin' away, putting our unusual vocal stylings all over that perky classic the other night.  It's the only song besides  I Dreamed I Saw Joe Hill Last Night that he and the Militant Lesbian Feminist Existentialists can agree is appropriate music for Sunday services.]


Umm.  I've been awake for a long time now.  Going on 40 hours.  Okay, I took two naps totalling 1.5 hours 
-- both were achieved by judicious overdose.  I share this information because of how dangerous it is to start talking about blog discoveries and being ostentatious enough to start giving recommendations.


Yeah, well, whose blog is it, anyway? 


But, please, Lord, don't let all 51 of my subscribers** rush over to New Nurse in the Hood's place, just because an insomniac in a ShitFest of Pain recommends it -- lest the internet tip over.

** Plus the naked women xxx crowd from Israel, Dubai, Wisconsin, and Tajikistan [plus virtually all of the former Soviet Socialist Republics and every nationalized islamic society].

I ran into her as most of us run into new people in the blogosphere (it being such a small and cozy place 'n all):  via one of her comments.  She exuded Good Snark.  She made me laugh out loud, and I like that.

Why read ER blogs at all if you are not in the health care profession?  I am health-obsessed, obviously, as I don't have any.  But aside from that, they serve as an excellent reminder of two things:
1.  These are intelligent, spirited people with unique insights into what makes people do, say, and think the things that they do, say, and think.  If the nurse/doctor/tech writes well, also, that's just a dandy combination of talent that shouldn't be ignored.
2.  When I am considering going to the ER, I only need to spend 5 minutes on an ER blog for complete dissuasion of the notion.  I figure medical bloggers have done more to keep me out of the hospital and emergency department (nod to WhiteCoat***) than the combined efforts of the best medical team in the world and the complete ingested products of Big Pharma.

***See the end of this post by Nurse K for an explanation of ER versus ED.  And yes, I DO see similarities between "New Nurse" and the inimitable Nurse K... but I also see more soul and less asking-readers-for-money to buy a freaking refrigerator (or *whatever*).  I'm just sayin'.

Honestly picked at random from my Google Reader is this piece, from July 31:

I Just Had to Know
So, after a couple of years working in the ER I for the most part have learned to stop asking why. Why? Because what does it really matter, most of the time?
Why did you insert that particular object in that particular place? Does the answer make a difference as to how you remove it? Why did you continue to eat sloppy joes after you had been vomiting? Is there a good answer to this question? Why did you choose to get on the roof to get drunk? It doesn't really change the big ass head laceration at this point, so what the hell do I care?
Yup, now I'm like, "Oh, the old flashlight in the butthole, eh? Cool. Well, let's get that taken out for you. Next please."
Until tonight, when we got the drunk driver found in the car by EMS wearing a shirt, but no pants. We're clearing him from the backboard and without even thinking, I just blurted out, "What happened to your pants, bro?" Everyone in the room started laughing hysterically, because they all know, as I do, that it's pointless to ask- they all thought I was just screwing with the dude. But no, I was just really curious what was going on that he was driving around with no pants on. But alas, there was not a good answer.
Oh well.

So go visit.  You'll bust a gut.  And probably end up in the ER.  Uhh, ED.  Whatever.

Always remember and never forget:

"If you never did you should. These things are fun and fun is good." 

— Dr. Seuss

Man, I sure am using "Google" at the drop of a hat.  Hmm.  I wonder if that could be because I am scared of losing my current 27% profit on GOOG come Monday at about, ohhhh,  9.31 am, Wall Street time?  Ya think?

the monks are deep in GOOG

Thank you, Larry Page.     

Thank you, GOOGLE.

It may just be a fleeting thing, this 12.49% after hours hike... But it will keep Marlinspike Manor's Feline Remnant in kibble for another month.

The monks are deep in GOOG, so we're getting ready to jump the orchard wall so as to get to the Cistercian's Celebratory Mass in time for the Second Quarter Earnings Processional -- the best incense wafting is right there at the beginning.    Abbot Truffatore left a garbled message, saying something about "good times" and breaking open the 2010 beaujolais nouveau... 

I'll probably hang out at the monastery after the party, for Compline. I love that haunting lullaby but hate having to make the return trek to The Manor afterward, all alone.  (I don't want to be caught in the back orchard after dark.  Who would?!) Thank God for air-conditioned tunnels and quiet-loving Postulants as escorts.

"May the almighty Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end...

and not let today's gain be sucked up by tomorrow's losses."  AMEN

The Personal: Our Last Bastion

I am determined to trump my search engine.

I use Google, and, in general, love Google.  Being an investor, the health and happiness of Google is very important to my own wellbeing, and to that of my household, fond as we all are of shelter and regular meals, as well as to my persnickety creditors, insistent as they are on timely and complete payments. 

The interconnectedness we evidence shall serve as witness to the wondrousness of God's faithful creation!  Or something.

Sorry.  It's Sunday morning and I left the television on during my last nap session, which allowed Joel Osteen and other Smarty-Panted Religious Folk to tiptoe around my brain unsupervised.

Dangerous stuff, leading to weird wakeful convictions, like how Google may well be omnipotent.  Well, at least three-in-one.

It's become nigh*   unto impossible

[*  I suffered one of my usual distractions with the word "nigh," but can report that the most interesting return on my curiousity was learning that the oft-used comparative -- yes, that'd be nigher -- has been in force since the 1400s.  Mysteriously, The Erudite are convinced that there is no etymological relationship between the adjective in its evolved form (near) and that form's comparative, nearer.  Crazy stuff, huh?]

Okay, so it's getting hard to enter any search term without Google cracking wise and "suggesting" it before I finish pecking the letters out.  I fear that, eventually, out of self-defense, the lacunae of my vocabulary will be filled with short words and small expressions.

Challenged at such an elementary level of my ontological being, I am now engaged in a challenge: 

Rather than seeking to be as concise as possible in my search requests, I am now wordy.  Early frustrations have even prompted my wordiness to contain misspellings.  Most of which Holy Google manages to catch.  And for which, frequently, feigning indifference, Godly Google suggests corrections!  Oy.

I can't be the only one to have noticed that The Personal has assumed a position of prominence in the face of technology.  We litter Facebook with our particulars, we stick our tongues out (nyah, nyah, na-na-na!), we're united in false friendships based on homonyms -- we rape proper nouns, forcing our intimate meanings upon them.  I tell Facebook to find my friend Joe Smith*   and what tops the list of "over 500" that it returns is one Joel-with-a-middle-initial, because this person is a mutual friend of someone completely unknown to me.

*  The first haphazard Joe Smith, as I know no actual Joe Smith, is represented by a photo of a person, face hooded and mostly blocked.  Blocked by a big handgun from Winston-Salem, North Carolina, the barrel of which is trained on all 1854 of its closest friends.  [All of which goes to support my ongoing suspicions about persons from that state.  See my editorial reflections introducing the blog post Shawnna's Con.]

The Personal is bound to become our Good News, bound to eventually so muck up the informational machinery that even Google's error rate at reading our minds will skyrocket.  My Mother's maiden name?  Your last four?  Her favorite erotica?  Joel-with-a-middle-initial's preferred handgun?  * Aunt Eugenia's taste in college roomies?

*  We hear this as we wake: Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir.
We hear this as we fall asleep: Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir.

The Personal, The Last Bastion!  I wanted to clue you in, Dearest Readers, to the Upcoming Paradigm
Shift.

Of course, the Upcoming Paradigm Shift will be delayed a few days.  Don't expect much in the way of movement from The People's Brigade before Thursday, October 14, 2010 -- when Google makes its earnings announcement.  We're thinking there should be a few days' allowance for additional fluctuations in the market, as well.

You and Your Breasts

Yoo hoo! Over here, over here!

You probably know this already. I didn't.

I was cruising around over at YouTube, watching very sober, intellectual-type videos that all involved, for some inexplicable reason, seriously cute kittens (my preferred sort of Talking Head: The Feline Pundit).

Then it happened. It happens a few times a day. For someone like me? That means daily surprise...

Directed-at-me advertising (also known as: targeted, customer-directed marketing).

I hate it. Rather than broadening my horizons, these ads do nothing but remind me of restrictions, limitations, foreshortening -- "the effect of perspective causes distortion." Do I want to be reminded that my browsing choices reflect an intense interest in things like low carb snack foods, veterinary anesthetics, neurological disease, Indonesian wedding cake decorating, kitty litter (and other human-oriented bowel regimens)?

In addition to holding the key to my personal financial future, Google just plain impresses me, which is, of course, why it remains my favorite bit of equity.

Anyway, I saw a link that I'd never noticed before that took me gently by the puffy hand and led me to: YouTube Interest-based Advertising and You.

This reminds me of one of The Fredster's favorite Early Job stories. He was working as an engineer for a smarmy doctor, T.R. Shantha, M.D., who owned a collection of rental properties and motels. (This guy was -- rather belatedly -- convicted of medical fraud just two years ago. He did things like infuse patients with hydrogen peroxide. His clinic laid claim to "safe and effective, nontoxic, scientifically-based alternative” medicine that could “cure or control most cancer and other chronic disease.") Shantha was incredibly money-hungry*. He authored several erudite monographs, of which Fred retains one exceedingly rare copy that we hope to be able to cash in for a small fortune some future rainy day: You and Your Breasts.

Until that time, it will remain one of our most consulted works of reference.

(Choo! Choo? Have you seen my train of thought?)

Back to YouTube. The next click led me to Google Ads Preferences which, in turn, led me through the steps necessary to opt out of interest-based advertising!

Then, loving my readership as I do, I rushed "here" to tell youse guys about it in my usual, straight-up, clear-as-crystal way.

If you are bugged by ads purporting to represent your burning interests, this is one way to blend back into the tepid sea of anonymity.

*Umm, Fred quit when approached to burn out a family behind in their rent. Not in the job description. (Not to worry, My Guy did the right thing...)

Earnings

GOOG announces tomorrow.

Let us pray...

graphic credit

For Today, At Least: Thank you, Google; Thank you, Milliken

At this moment -- 7:21 pm on Thursday, 16 October -- GOOG sits at 390 in after-hours trading. I am profoundly grateful that my inability to make a decision has not been met, for today, at least, with disaster.

I am also amazed at the antimicrobial silver dressing, specifically SelectSilver by Milliken, which is wicking, at an unbelievable rate, unwanted swampy microbes from a bad foot ulcer. It remains to be seen if it will bring healing or not but it is, without doubt, another very nifty gift to medicine from industry.

And so it is that I pray Google will hold its value, and maybe even hit the yearly target of my dreams, thereby paying for all the antimicrobial silver dressings by Milliken that I will have to use in the coming weeks and months.

Of these small, odd things I sing.