October 31, 2017 | 1 Comment
My son and I took up table tennis last year and started taking lessons in July. One thing I found interesting was the body structure required in order to strike the ball with consistency, and actually it was highly reminiscent of tai chi. The upper body needs to keep structural integrity whilst most of the movement is generated by using the waist and groin.
It occurred to me that table tennis could probably borrow a training approach used by tai chi players and other internal martial artists, that of holding standing postures (known as zhan zhuang). This form of training is regarded as a major key to making progress, though needless to say it is not very popular. I wondered if standing postures had ever been used to train tennis players, the closest thing I've ever heard of being the training done at the Spartak Tennis Club in Moscow, where the young students practice shots without hitting a ball for the first three months.
We use key structures to master chess, with certain typical positions (characterized by their pawn structures) being regarded as the most important. Many moons ago the chair pointed out to me that this had similarities to the countist's approach to markets, that certain typical situations could be identified and that when they arose they were favorable.
Anyway, my question is this: Do other spheres also have sets of key structures to work on and do these represent a cornerstone to mastery? And if they are not widely recognized in a particular pursuit, can they represent a way of gaining an edge?
Karl Rove comments:
Certainly in guitar playing this is the case, but it would be boring to explain to non-players. But it is similar to your positioning concept in table tennis, with completely different configurations of course.
(No groin action unless you are imitating Elvis, which is generally uncool.)
About the only thing that hasn't been stolen around here is the honesty to thieve with good judgment. The town is a circle of theft, like a bucket brigade out one shore and into the other. You would think it an infinite zero game, but new goods roll in faster than new hands to grab them.
Their methods are varied and creative.I'm going to write them down as I learned them – with a smile – as a victim and from other victims.
• The most common technique is door-to-door knocking. If you're not there, he goes in and takes something. If you're home, he says 'Hello', and comes back later.
• The second most common technique is shop and steal. This is a walking town, and the rows or trailers and shelters are like Walmart aisles. See something you like, put it in a basket. It is done primarily at night since neighbors tend to form neighborhood watches.
• Campfire thefts are the third most common. A thief walks from fire to fire, observing the participants, and visits each in turn's camp to rob.
• The hot pool is another tipoff to the burglar who phones a comrade to make the heist as the victim frolics.
• Thieves love Saturday night at the Music Range. They bop by, listen to a song, watch the dancers and audience, and go rob their camps. They return to the Range to substantiate their whereabouts, and at last call pickpocket the sleeping drunks.
• Arsons are timed to cause occupants to flee, so those who arrive to extinguish may plunder.
• Dog theft is rife to draw an owner from his camp to be robbed.
• It's not easy to steal where the landlord is a thief, but the man I rented from kept a key and stole from me.
• The most lucrative housebreaks occur weekly when someone is carted to jail, and the early bird gets the worm.
• Each summer people pass from heatstroke, and the thieves invade like maggots. They tear apart the walls for jewelry, marijuana, weapons, cash, and ID.
• The opportunist is a walking lookout, with eyes open and ears open and hands open every ticking minute of the day and night.
• The thief thinks, and is right, that the most conspicuous is the least obvious. Every bystander thinks the other bystanders would catch a wrongdoing.
The boldness of thieves is not surprising if you put yourself in their shoes. No one is going to notice if you train long and hard to act natural. Some actually prefer to break into the front door, and explain that they had been hired to work on it by the owner. I caught one burglar doing this, and called the owner, as he made his empty-handed getaway. Most thieves labor hard to make it so obvious that nobody notices.
Big city thieves use cars. You gotta have a car to burglar to carry the stuff and get away. You can't use a car in Slab because it would be one of the few running ones, likely to break down, and the cops would intercept it pulling out of town. So, crime is always afoot, making it more interesting for the spectators. The action scenes are contained and in slower motion, and you can take part if you choose by stepping up and tackling somebody running down the street, chased by someone else screaming 'Bloody thief!' It's guesswork to figure who's in the wrong. It could be a distraction while your own place is being plucked.
Since the robbers have only fast feet and ATV's, they must commission a pickup to haul big booty from the adjacent valleys and gunnery range. There is about one case per year, including my mine three years ago, where the burglars 'borrow' a truck from a silent partner who does not report it stolen. He is protected because, if the truck turns up, he can say it was 'stolen' and the cops will reclaim it for him. If it's not implicated, the robbers return it with a commission in the truck bed. That's what happened at my camp, where the Slab thieves hauled off about eight loads over the course of three days, and slept in my bed, and cooked on my stove. That's why I have to smile.
Another cunning ruse is circular thievery. One crime has to be concealed by another, and so others will hire you. It goes like this: A accuses B of a burglary he has committed to victim C. C hires A to beat B up, rob, or burn him out. A tells B that C was the culprit, and C turns around and hires A to perform the same crime on B. Usually, B and C end up at each other's throats, while A gloats over the ashes that have covered the evidence of his crimes. For good measure A broadcasts the circle throughout town, omitting himself, but should be the primary suspect per Shakespeare's Hamlet, 'Thou doth protest too much.'
When the enterprising burglar is not burglaring, he is planning the next one. Who has the tidiest camp, the greenest cacti, the darkest yards, dearth of dogs, or the shades pulled? A search for original simplification begins. The basic burglar MO is to get in the easiest way, avoid confrontation, and make the unnoticed getaway.
Crime is terribly revealing. Try and vary your methods as you will, your tastes, your habits, your attitude of mind, and your soul is revealed by your methods. Sooner or later you will get caught, and may think it was all worth it.
Slab City is a well-equipped laboratory to study theft, and the instruments and strategies that have been invented to thwart them. Since this may be the town with the highest per capita burglary in the nation, at the rate of about two nightly among 200 residents, it makes sense that some of the best thieves, methods, and defenses here have been fashioned here, that may be applied throughout the US.
There is a hierarchal triangle of theft in this outlaw town, where the smallest thieves are stolen from by the fewer larger thieves, until the apex is reached that is an omniscient eye. That eye does exist, high atop a hillside by Siphon #8 of the Coachella Canal. It is a 5-foot wood sculpture like the all-seeing eye of the 1" logo on the George Washingtons in your pocket. Here the smart thieves climb and perch with binoculars, telescopes, or night vision goggles, depending on the hour, to case their board in the everyday game of Slab City theft.
Almost everyone steals.
I'm about to develop a new theory of the structure of criminal activity in Slab City. Most people who do well at crime are called Slab businessmen. Just because it is illegal doesn't change the economics of a town.
Their booty is their status. If you take small things frequently without planning throughout the day you are a petty thief. However, if you steal something grand like arms from the adjacent military range you are a gentleman of society, and everyone stops by to visit. I've arrived at this by knowing many of them, from the bottom to the top of the robbing heap.
The bare bones of the skeletal structure with the omniscient eye on top are occupied by the zombie like meth junkies who rattle throughout the night sifting camps for nickel-dime stuff to exchange at two all-night drug houses for methamphetamine. Fifty percent of this town's occupants are these Jekyll – Hydes. They are creatures of habit and action who, by second nature and so without want for a design, see something they need or might need and pluck it as a normal person might take a four-leaf clover on a lawn of green grass. Living hand to mouth, their fate is to move on when they become too conspicuous, get run out of town, or thrown in the hoosegow.
The flesh of Slab, however, the fewer and best, are the lone wolves. They have a greater range, riding Mad-Max ATV's and stolen vehicles to larger jobs, utilize some planning, and sell their loot for cash to the drug houses or townspeople. They also take custom orders from the locals, as the town's mobile Sears and Roebuck catalogue. Since they have no reported income, they get the least strung out molls. They are marijuana stoners, save no money, collect welfare, and live out their final days on medication provided by the state slabbering tales of yore in depreciated trailers to their old cronies.
There are no organized thieving rings here, except catch-as-catch can. The people are just too damn independent. They are physically robust and mentally sharp to not need, and in fact, to ward off, any organization that attempts to cajole them. Those crime rings are reserved for the tiny fractions of specialists of meth manufacture, gun assembly, scrapping the military range, and smuggling illegal aliens.
Down these mean streets a man must walk who himself is not mean, who has a sharp stroke of kindness in his heart, or he would not be tolerated in Slab City. The two types of thieves – Jekyll-Hydes and Sears and Roebuck boosters – are not heroes to anyone, but neither are they villains. They are, as stated, businessmen. They are so common as to be called the common man of Slab. Each must be a complete man and yet an unusual man. He must be, in the weathered sense, a man of personal honor.
The peace of mind of these crooks is remarkable. Outside a criminal world, a guilty conscience is the emotion as a result of some action that we've labeled or perceived as being bad or wrong. However, this is trumped in this outlaw town by the idea that every resident has been so wronged in the past by a third party – authority – that he cannot be held representable for nearly everything he does. He is merely acting out against past injustices. That anyone might think he or she can do wrong proves his moral inferiority. It's a topsy-turvy world. I have yet to encounter a guilty conscience in town, which makes them all the more light-fingered, quick thinking, and fleet of foot.
None is an intellectual, and instead it seems these common men were given the weapons of light fingers to battle the intellectual man. I find petty and grand theft here like door-to-door selling: it seems easy, requiring little talent, yet few people ever will do it well, and few manage to stick with it for very long.
The brain of a Slab thief is straightforward. He has a grid in front of his mind, and for anything in the visual world to reach him it first has to squeeze through the bars. A shovel, book, bicycle, or can of beans might enter. That information has to be broken into small cubes, and then packaged in two dimensional squares which are preferable. They take up less space in his mind, and encourage him more to steal from the outside world.
Strangely, it cannot be exaggerated how important property is to the people of Slab City. For many of them, this is the first patch of dirt they have owned in their lives by right of squat on State land. The things they put on it – their trailer, shed, and belongings – are their first possessions. At the same time, there is no one but the owner to defend what is his. This is what makes the town interesting and dangerous.
For, by nature, these people who have not had are covetous of those who do. The love of property and consciousness of right and wrong have conflicting places here. The sparks fly daily! Private property was the original source of freedom. It is still the bulwark here. The Slabs they build their lives on is a broad foundation on which nearly all of their psyche rests. And then, with one match, or one large raid, the footing is gone. It happened to me, and I've watched it happen to a dozen others. The residents fall back into two groups: The fewer socialists with an idea that there is no private property, who are fond to say, 'We would live exceedingly quiet if these two words – mine and thine – were taken away.' And, the defenders who believe that property is everything, our sole guarantee of freedom, and who like to say, 'You will not rob me even for the greater good of the community.' I think that every person's property is an extension of his mind, that nobody else has a right to, but himself.
As much as property theft is a regrettable element of the human experience, this dream destination has become a University of Slabs. Like other branches of learning, its reputation spreads far and wide, drawing learners from the Atlantic to Pacific. The campus rests snugly on State property between the Salton Sea and Coachella Canal. It is a self-governed oasis where outside laws are supposed to apply at the University, but are unenforceable.
The dorms are what you bring or build from scrap. Meals and groceries are served weekly as pocket or need affords. There are cafes of old spools and tire seats, movies thrown on sheets, wide-screen cable TV at an Internet, a distinctive anarchist library, weekly concerts, an international shrine at Salvation Mountain, and frequent tourist visitors who inject a cosmopolitan sense to the campus.
The streets are safe, but absolutely crime ridden. Crime hides elsewhere, and by far the most terrifying things out there, but in Slab City it is in the open to be studied.
A monk in his cloister, a fish in the water, a thief in Slab City.Even a thief takes ten years to learn his trade, except in Slab on the accelerated program of so many teachers the program is compressed into one year. Most newcomers apprentice under an instructor and pay a 50% commission on all swag in the initial months, before a partnership often develops. Graduates of outside institutions – jails, prisons, and reform schools - may select to start alone, working steadily toward an advanced degree of education. For now, the majority of freshmen are simple observers on their lawn chairs and through astonished windows during the early months.
The instructors are among the slickest operators I've met, and I know most of them. The only ones who interest me must be things of power, handled with cat mittens, and wicked enough to inspire protest, but kind enough to forgive. I must fear him, and then triumph over the fear, and parallel his career in harmony with all of his previous developments. I am a sort of alter ego trustee.
One step into Slab University, and you will look down to see if your shoes are missing. Come, and learn from the best. And their defenses. If you're not inclined to burgle, thieve, pickpocket, or plunder, then this will be a character building experience. The study of crime at the U begins with the knowledge of oneself. All that you despise, all that you loathe, whatever that you reject, all that you presumably condemn and seek to convert springs from you.
Why am I here? Learning is treasure no thief can touch. Every single Slab shadow spells adventure. I would rather scramble around them, and right to their top and watch the criminals turn profits in a microcosm than languish on the outside. The most practical defense against the world of burglars and thieves is a thorough knowledge of it.
Normal people can have extraordinary abilities. Prof. Haier writes about a non-savant who used memory techniques to memorize 67,890 digits of π! He also notes that chess grandmasters have an average IQ of 100; they seem to have a highly specialized ability that is different from normal intelligence. Prof. Haier asks whether we will eventually understand the brain well enough to endow anyone with special abilities of that kind.
The Neuroscience of Intelligence also includes a good introduction to the history of intelligence research, beginning with the development of the first IQ tests. Prof. Haier notes that a significant turning point was Arthur Jensen's famous 1969 article in Harvard Educational Review. Jensen wrote that genetic limits on intelligence meant that there were limits to what could be achieved through early education, and that there was a significant genetic contribution to the black/white gap in IQ. This so horrified liberals that for the 1970s, 80s, and part of the 90s, it was impossible to get grant money to study IQ. Even today, most research on the brain ignores intelligence, and instead concentrates on such things as schizophrenia, Alzheimer's, and other mental disorders. The Jensen article set in motion what Prof. Haier calls "a decades-old concerted effort to undercut, deny, and impugn any and all genetic studies of intelligence."
This campaign was a success. Despite the enormous body of evidence to the contrary, many people still think that no person has any inherent limitations, and that with the right role models, cultural sensitivity, and other mumbo jumbo, anyone can become a lawyer or scientist. Prof. Haier writes that one reason for this is that people who make policy are usually fairly smart and don't know anyone who isn't. They have no idea what life is like for stupid people. Prof. Haier adds that the other reason is that denying genetics is an attempt to explain away race differences in IQ.
Bill Rafter writes:
Did Will Haier suffer the same fate as Jensen?
Another money quote:
"As Prof. Haier notes, there are 51 million people in the United States with IQs of 85 or lower. Their poverty and social failure are not their fault. After 50 years of "programs" that do nothing, we should recognize that a huge part of the problem is stupidity and try to cure it."
Red Notice by Bill Browder is a true life story of present day Russian capitalism and the murder of Magnitski. The author's father was chair of the mathematics department at Chicago, and the two sons were chair of math at Princeton and Brown. Bill Browder inherited the parents intelligence and applied it to becoming the biggest investor in Russia. He found that Russian assets were being sold at 5% of their value and got Salomon to invest 25 big at the lows. The funniest part is how all his colleagues approached the news. "What's the spread between bid and asked?" "What are the advisory fees we can get out of it". He describes the market where the chits to buy the properties were sold and it's like an early version of the commodity exchanges with armed guards every where since all the transactions had to be in cash.
There are many intelligent observations he makes- eg Russians love children and it's the only place in world where you can bring a crying child into a restaurant and people will smile. That led to the importance of the adoption restriction we've heard so much about. When Magniski was murdered, Kerry refused to sign off on a bill to censure Russia but Browder put so much of a full court press on that finally it passed after the election when Kerry was going to become secretary of state anyway. So Putin in retaliation banned the adoption of Russian kids by US families.
It wasn't such a innocuous thing that the kids were involved in when they met with the Russian Prime minister but a cause celebre in Russia. It was amazing to see that Browder gave up his business to get vengeance for his lawyer Magniski who was beaten with a rubber hose shortly before he died. Above all, it the story of a very smart businessman and how he became a billionaire by buying headlong into an undervalue assets.
Anatoly Veltman comments:
I assume Browder took a lot of profits out of Russia. And he lived, too.
Look, something had to be paid. He didn't. His employee did…
Vic started this thread with an ode to the wonderful risk taker/capitalist. Part of the truth was that privatization drive resulted in the wealth of the populace ending up in just a few hands. Browder included. Many a babushka in the vastness of Siberia have taken a cut in their $60 social security to buttress Browder's retirement. Browder's brand of capitalism was a lil' too much for the majority rank and file in that land. Yes, he did pay for that nation's former assets 5c on the dollar.
An interesting aspect of baseball is that top competitive athletes fail 70% of the time and they are considered good and are paid millions. They play 160 games a year, and no team or player no matter how good can win them all. There are too many variables. They learn to think statistically, and go for percentages. Its a different way of thinking than normal. Specs also fail 40% of the time, at least statistically and that is considered good. Winning and losing tends to be overemphasized in conventional thinking. I wonder what kind of training for youth might change that.
Stefan Jovanovich comments:
Baseball is about losing most of the/your time; for all the audience cheering and TV noise its natural pace is laconic. So is work. The game outlasts your skills if you are really good or great; it defeats most of us almost immediately. That is why its home has been the parts of "America" that have never had the pretense of being "winners" - the grain farms, the mill towns, the small city (NOT the Large) ghettoes and hoods. The people always knew that the real odds in life are never far from 50/50.
I've been looking at the Internet of Things from the perspective of security. In medicine, this has become a concern—as it is everywhere else IoT is rearing its head, which is to say everywhere. The process of providing information from one node in a network to another is a transaction, and blockchains provide a means for securely effecting/tracking transactions. Why wouldn't one simply frame the transmissions from an IoT node, then, for an IoT system to assure a secure system (an oxymoron, I know)? I must be misunderstanding a bunch of concepts here, and thought someone might provide some insights that I'm lacking.
October 20, 2017 | 1 Comment
Memory enhancement is an area apparently in need of further research–the recent statement highlighted below by one in the field is surprising to read.
1. "Working memory and distractions were the subjects of the second speaker, Fiona McNab, a Wellcome Trust Research Career Development Fellow at the University of York (UK). McNab explained that working memory is important for decision making, reasoning, language, and mathematical processing.
She said there was no scientific evidence to show current brain training games could improve working memory; while games might improve the performance of a specific task intrinsic to the game, they do not have a transfer effect to other tasks. Instead, McNab highlighted the use of functional magnetic resonance imaging and behavioural studies to explore working memory and distraction. She also referred to the Great Brain Experiment, an app that allows users to play games to test their memories and provide data for neuroscience research."
2. There is certainly an interesting history to the idea of memory improvement though. Pelaminism was a popular subject in Victorian England.
It is interesting to consider what combinations of games and training would be most synergistic to improving memory. There are activities like climbing a tree or balance-related exercises that are thought to be helpful in this regard too. Link 2 suggests an IQ increase of 10-20 points over time–that's quite a claim. Further research needed though.
3. "The biggest lesson here was that — yes — intensive training strengthens cognition and the brain, but we still don't understand why and how," Courtney said. "We can't just jump onto a video game and expect that's going to cure all of our cognitive problems. We need more targeted interventions."
It's where we get the saying "All I need is a chip and a seat".
Jeff Watson writes:
Some degenerates have been known to say, "All she needed was another furlong and she would have won."
TRUMP, YELLEN MEETING LASTED FROM 2:00 TO 2:30 - WH OFFICIAL: FOX NEWS
Odds on her staying? I believe she is not long for the Chair.
The best Sunday alarm clock is sunshine on chrome. That's what the motorcycle is, a system of concepts worked out in steel.
My 1979 Honda Enduro XL 185 is cherry red with 9,000 original miles. It was produced for the highway and off-road as a specialist dual sport from 1979-83. It's a single cylinder, 180cc, four-stroke, five-speed, chain driven, air cooled, and with a top speed of 60 mph that I mean to reach before noon on a smooth stretch of desert pavement.
I began, paused in the black saddle, looking over the handlebars at the expanse of desert east of Slab City. Six distinct terrains appeared before me: dirt tracks, rutted tracks, washes, black pavement, overland, and sand. I would develop the best riding style for each by testing the two forces the desert would decree on the bike: center of gravity and angular momentum.
This was a tall order, because the last time I rode was a decade ago. My neighbor had rescued it from the mitts of Slab City thieves who had loaded it onto a trailer and were about to pull away. The neighbor had kept the bike in storage at his camp until I was ready to tackle it. I had obtained a DMV one-day 'Permit to Move' that was good for the Sunday ride.
I began like a baby, hardly able to crawl. Rather than try to be a natural on it, I took it in steps, gradually advancing toward the more difficult and speedier.
I experimented with each of the terrains, and the effect of the two forces over them, to arrive at the best riding style. The terrains were:
• Dirt track – Undulating with some sand, but free of ruts and stones.
• Rutted dirt tracks – Trickier with old tire or water cuts.
• Washes – Dry streambeds, except during flashflood.
• Desert pavement – Smooth worn surfaces of interlocking rocks that has a glassy appearance.
• Overland – Open desert.
• Sand – Includes sandy spots, and deep sand like dunes.
Most people just get on and ride, but I prefer a scientific approach of identifying variables, quickly testing each, saving the best, and then ride relaxed for the rest of my longer life. The two primary factors in dirt bike riding are center of gravity and angular momentum. These in combination keep the bike upright over rough land. Center of gravity is self-explanatory, but angular momentum is not. Each wheel acts as a gyroscope to hold the bike in the same plane that it is spinning. The faster the wheels turn, the stronger the effect; if you go fast enough, theoretically, your wheels need not touch the ground to stay upright.
Knowing that the Honda functioned entirely in accordance with the laws of reason was a comfort, and I loosened up on the saddle. I didn't study books for this … The best techniques for each of the landscapes were:
• Dirt tracks - The bike may be brought up to its near maximum of 60 mph. The science that keeps it upright on 21" front knobby and 18" rear tires is astonishing. It 'drifts' above the ground surface touching it as little as possible and using solely the angular momentum of the wheels for balance. The bike cannot tip over since it is essentially floating through space on two vertical gyroscopes. I put a mental governor at 50 mph to honor my common sense of the voices of thousands of ghosts of survival.
• Rutted dirt tracks – The technique uses the ground surface for traction in an odd way. The tires are 'shrunk' like a sports ball for greater density by the bounces to provide greater angular momentum. It is palpable. I could do 40 mph on these roads, slowing for ruts not by breaking but by downshifting.
• Washes - These are an all-out blast using ground traction with twists and sudden waffle iron cracking from drying past sweeping Palo Verde branches. The wash races uphill in a wind for miles at 25 mph, until it narrows to a stenosis. It's like riding a pinball in a busy machine with many natural 'bumpers', and the usual speed is an interrupted 25 mph.
• Desert Pavement - The runway of black pavement of volcanic rock may stretch for a quarter-mile into the foothills. I took off like the road runner cartoon. The technique is to float along with little traction, relying on angular velocity to keep the bike stable. If you start to skid, give it a little gas, as angular acceleration increases the stability by the square of the increase of mph. I kept the sprints to 30 mph to not kick up rocks to preserve the beautiful smooth canvas.
• Overland – The stage is a march of changing terrain at the front tire. The recurrent surprises are bushes, rocks, trees, Ironwood stumps, sand traps, dips and rises, dust devils, cacti, and rattlesnakes. The faster you go, the more you have to be on your toes. I felt like a midget operating a sledgehammer, constantly being bullied around over rough ground, and tossed out of the seat like a raggedy Andy.
• Sand - I mastered last sand. The normal technique is to deflate the tires from 25 psi to about 10 psi to spread the surface area of the tire, until the tire is so flattened it is able to ride on the sand itself. However, deflating was not practical on alternating sand and hard patches, so in 10" or deeper sand on stretches of a quarter-mile or longer, I used a Frankenstein technique where I sat in the saddle at 5mph, and took looping 10' steps with either foot on the cycle sides.
I hadn't ridden in ten years, and there was only one spill per annum – always at slow speed in surprise sand traps, and the bike came tumbling after. A computer generated model of the bike and its rider on an uncontrolled turn shows only his helmet, and his conscious taking the shape inside the frame, hoping beyond hope. It got to be like leaving an animal scent: the bike left a little oil, and I a little blood. I just pulled out the toilet paper and duct tape to make compression bandages to stop the bleeding.
Once I tumbled into a red ant hill, and got stung about twenty times, which was more memorable than any of the falls. The fascinating sequence of pain is twenty minutes each of sting, as the venom streaks up the lymphatics, followed by ache, as it enters the muscles, concluding with a burning of the skin, and final relief. Each time the 260 lb. bike fell, it was a clean-and-jerk effort to upright it again, shaking the ants off before they clogged my air filter.
Once I developed a satisfactory ride for all six terrains, I slowed, and cruised. The six now had to be blended into each other to meet head-on the quick changing pattern of the desert. It was like orchestrating a band to suit the audience. I mentally rehearsed as I cruised blending one into the next, with all combinations, and solved the Sunday ride mentally before applying it physically. Now in my mind, like the parts of the Honda, there was a working mobile synergy.
With the short learning of two hours out of the way, now I could ride any surface and enjoy the sightseeing. Heading overland on the fringe of the Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range, my eyes lifted to three helicopters approaching low from the south. I pulled instinctively before being spotted like a chased animal under an Ironwood. The fat copters looked like Mil-17's, pregnant with troops, as they swooped overhead so even the Ironwood branches rustled. They landed a scant half-mile away on a black pavement. The rascal in me took hold, and I shut the engine, and started walking up a draw to toward them. As I neared, the choppers rose lighter, it seemed, and took flight. When this happens, a dust cloud is thrown a quarter-mile out in all directions, and several stories into the sky.
In that cover, I walked another few minutes, guessing they had deployed about sixty US Marines for desert training. I would be a good object for them, but knowing a little of their bureaucracy, thought that they might mistake me for an official observer in a camouflage tank top, sunglasses, and black boots. Abruptly, I rounded a bend and spotted fifty yards away the first group of ten Marines in field dress, scrambling to their feet with weapons at ready. I raised my sunglass, waved nonchalantly, and did an about face. They didn't follow, but wouldn't have mattered because it was unclear if I was on the unsigned range or not; the US military makes mistakes, and so do I.
I rode the Honda thirty minutes away, and stumbled on a 30-foot military dumpster with 8-foot sides and a ladder leading to the top. I climbed, and peeked over like Kilroy. The floor was littered with dozens of unopened MRE (Made Ready to Eat) rations. MRE's are self-contained complete meals packaged for the US Armed Forces. I knew each contains an entrée, side dish, crackers and spread, drink, and desert. Just looking at them made me hungry. They are coveted by Slabbers, and I could have opened an MRE stand, selling packets for $3 while they lasted. I greedily teetered, but noticed there was no inside ladder leading out. I could have survived for about a month down there, and would have expired before the packages, that have no expiration date. Instead, I used a length of rope to lasso one Beef Stew, which took a dozen throws for five minutes, and decided that one was enough.
Besides, the sun was setting. It closes fast in the desert. My camp drew near on the Coachella Canal. I squinted, my face wrinkled up like a chipmunk under the baseball helmet. I arrived at sunset back at the Slab Camp, on a near empty two-gallon tank. At about 50 mpg, I had gone nearly 100 miles over rough terrain on this Sunday drive. Beef Stew is nearly as important as petro at the end of a Sunday ride.
I felt exhilarated. I felt I had achieved a rare distinction. I had driven a vehicle in a way that would terrify a New York cab driver, and felt safe. The dirt bike is the most versatile machine out there, except for the life form. You look at where you're going and where you are and it never makes sense, but on looking back at where I had been a pattern seemed to emerge. Slowly, by nuts and bolts, I had built a mental manual for open desert riding and life.
The lessons are: Never hesitate to ride past the last stop sign at the edge of town. Don't hesitate to practice on the roughest ground. Well-trained reflexes are better than luck. The more you look around, the more you see. You don't stop riding because you're getting old, but you get old when you stop riding.And, the real cycle you're working on is yourself. I filed everything away in the back of my mind, to use next week.
Not everyone has a cherry red motorcycle, but everybody has different theaters of life. The goal is to develop the best character in each, and then to meld them into one whole self. In this way, one Sunday ride can last your whole life.
I am asked, "what were you doing 30 years ago Oct 19th, 1987".
I got very long bonds and stocks at the close. And had a huge profit in bonds at 5 pm. But then I hedged it in the cash market. I walked home with the palindrome that afternoon and asked him if he wanted to borrow some money from me. He sold all his stocks Thursday at the opening and made fortunes for all the guys who took the other side. We played tennis on Saturday at the columbus racket club with the head bond guy at Morgan Stanley. He had a good overhead. And Susan said, "at least we won't have to truncate the prices when we put them in the trs 80 again. The German market rallied Thursday at noon, when everything was down the limit, and that fixed things. A big options trader bought 2 S&P futures and held them for 10 years, and made a million bucks on it. Jim Lorie had been short from 200 pts lower in SPU and covered at breakeven on the limit down open. My broker on the floor was filling orders for a fee for others during the crash and I fired her because she could have been hit with an out and bankrupted us. I did not get much sleep that week as I often don't now, 30 years later. I didn't realize that prices were locked limit in the morning with a big overhang to sell at the limit. And I bought at the limit when it reopened around noon, to find myself holding a huge immediate loss as the real price was much lower. Baker did it by saying we had to weaken the dollar which caused bond prices to fall. I met his daughter and showed her an article about King Canute realizing he couldn't control the waves, and told her that's what her father should have done. She kept calling him Daddy and she called me up afterwards to chat but I hung up on her because I thought she was a salesman.
October 17, 2017 | Leave a Comment
On my way with Aubrey on Grand street at 4:00 pm, I notice a line of 100 people waiting at the entrance of a store.
What were they selling—- pickles.
I believe they were the Pickle People store.
Right adjacent to a bagel store in China town with about 25 people waiting outside.
Also noted, I had Penguin ice cream and it was the second or third best banana ice cream I've had in 50 years.
The process and speed of Weinstein's demise is an excellent example of the "critical angle of repose." Weinstein's angle of repose was very steep–any number of his widely-known misdeeds could have triggered an avalanche–but his personality, relationships and business acumen resulted in a morphology that had a very steep angle.
One can find numerous analogies in markets and individual companies–John Gutfreund is one example that comes to mind. An astute investor might claim to be able to exit a position/relationship before the angle of repose is reached, but it is nearly impossible to discern luck from brains in this regard.
The all-leather executioner's trench coat is a classic seen riding around Slab on the wide shoulders and bowed legs of a man who was gifted the coat by Sonny Barger of the Hells Angels.
From burnt-out detectives to comic book heroes, countless tough guys through the ages have worn trench coats to add mystery, intrigue, and gravity to their character and actions.
Famous people who have worn trench coats are Winston Churchill, Dwight Eisenhower, Adolf Hitler, Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, Steve McQueen, Rock Hudson, Ali MacGraw, and the Blade Runner.
The Slab City executioner is in step with the Marlboro Man. He is college educated, a champion athletic, and swift to strike for justice.
The trench coat wasn't exactly invented for use during the war that gave it its name. The WWI officers were mired in muddy, bloody trenches across Europe. No other ranks were permitted to wear them. But there was a tragic consequence of officers' distinctive dress: it made them easier targets for snipers, especially as they led the charge over the top of the trench. By Christmas 1914, officers were dying at a higher rate than soldiers. Since the combat strategies of WWII were less trench focused than WWI, shorter multi-functional field jackets replaced them in the military. Thirdly, however, Hollywood stars showcased the trench coat in films across the US, and continue to be the cultural treasures of he-men and she-women on the silver screen.
The trench coat is also the style that west coast hobos wear called a 'California Overcoat'. For soldiers and hoboes to be able to move quickly, every trench coat has a vent, storm flaps, and maybe a dozen pockets. Everything one owns in life on the road is carried in it. I wore one through an autumn on the rails in lieu of a backpack or bindle, and found it kept me warm, dry, protected from scrapes, offered enough pockets to hold everything I needed to carry, and left my hands free to climb up and down ladders.
That's why I inspected the executioner in his shining jacket whenever he walked by in Slab City. But it is not why I began seeing his daughter.
A call went out … the executioner's coat had been stolen! That's like stepping on King Kong's toes. The owner told me it was priceless because of the Hells Angels history of being passed from executioner to executioner. A $1000 reward was offered. I made the rounds, and someone knew who had taken it. This was relayed to the owner, and he recovered it.
Now he owed me $50 that I had given an informant to get the coat. Business must have been off, because the executioner was broke. Weeks passed, until he sided me on a special Saturday night at the Music Range.
It was prom night, and he had a pretty blonde on his leather sleeve. On this special annual night under the stars, a photographer snaps Polaroids for all of the contestants running for King and Queen of the Slab Prom. When the date couldn't take the crooked elbow of her man because of the jacket, the photographer suggested he take it off and lay it down. He did remove the jacket, but draped it over the crook of his other elbow, for the flash.
Now, 'Here comes old Flat top, he come grovin' up slowly…' in his long black trench coat. He sided me, stage left, brushing my elbow. He reached deep down into one pocket … and withdrew nothing. Then the next pocket, and the next … taking out and holding open palms of air.
He pulled no money, but no weapon either!
Then he turned his face out of the amplifier shadow, and looked at me for the first time. I'll say it again, for the first time. His right eye was glass. It stared at me with a fixed pupil, neither dilating nor contracting. Then it winked!
I like to think that I turned the executioner's coat inside out that night, to make a friend.
Sure enough, one week later, he charged me with a Louisville slugger baseball bat on a slab over a bad pitch of misinformation. The bat stopped short of my nose for my last home run. The following week, he rushed up with a foot-long Rambo knife, and I carefully drew his attention to its sheath. He holstered it, and chuckled.
A black trench coat over a gold heart is the best of fashion that has given me a tranquility that no religion can bestow.
I was called Shoeless Steve in some hobo jungles because I would walk in barefoot. There is no way anyone is going to rob, or even bum cigarettes off a man without shoes. In fact, it brings out the goodness that, although not innate in every man, lurks in every dark heart. I get offered wine. I have walked into a shoe store barefoot and gotten a discount.
So, the other day at Walmart when a shoeless man asked me for mine, I gave them to him. He whined that they were too small. I told him to put them on the opposite feet, which is also my habit. It feels good with the arch on the outside, gives greater space for the small toes to uncurl, widens the shoe with walking, and wears on the opposites for a longer life. You have to learn to think outside the shoe.
October 13, 2017 | Leave a Comment
Here in Shangri-La, aka the SF Bay area, the air is full of the smell of oak. Burned oak. What you might smell if you're downwind of your neighbor burning oak logs in the fireplace to warm a house in winter (the few times one needs to do so in these environs) as I do. It can be a pleasant enough smell. Except in this instance, it's the smell of communities dying. Or at least undergoing significant body blows. The concentration of particulates in the air south of San Francisco is high—among the highest recorded in the SF Bay area. Ever. My wife tells me that trying to run in it is at best challenging. She gave up after a half mile. I don't run, but I can attest to the effects based on how sore my eyes have felt when I've been outside for more than an incidental period for the better part of the week.
This invasion of particulates has its origins in the North Bay, with those particulates noted (and impactful) 80-90 miles to the south in the South Bay. In the North Bay, the area is known as Wine Country. One of the tourist Meccas of California. Fire. Lots of fire. We have such fires on a regular basis across the state. When I lived in San Diego a few years back, we had such fires just northeast of the city. At their height, the fires were moving a football field every 5-10 minutes. We were about 7-8 miles from them—you could smell the burning wood but no vision of the fire. That didn't mean there wasn't concern. Sometime one afternoon, the local authorities concluded that with the breezes would push the flames across I-15, where a last ditch effort was being mounted to staunch the spread of the burn. Evacuations were ordered.
It's one thing to see an evacuation like that in New Orleans in the wake of Katrina. It's another to be part of one. In this case, 750,000 plus persons evacuated. Going up I-5 near Camp Pendleton. Something I can't recommend as one of those life experiences to be savored.
In the North Bay, there are a variety of fires with lots of evacuations. Some are for communities likely familiar to enophiles—particularly those of Napa and Sonoma wines. For instance, Calistoga, a quiet community of 5K or so persons. There are wineries all around it, some award-winning, most not. Lots of vineyards. Only 15 or so wineries are known to have burned to the ground, but it seems likely there are others still to be found. An energetic effort is being mounted to staunch the flames from jumping across State Route 29. With 40 mph winds expected tonight, I have my doubts about the chances of success.
A friend of mine lives (or at least lived) in Santa Rosa. She's at least 10 miles from any forested area. According to the last appraisal (about 3 years ago), she had an art collection worth $8-9 million. Past tense. One of her neighbors snuck back into the neighborhood before being noticed by the MPs and escorted out and told my friend that her house no longer exists. Her husband's prized XKE that he was restoring was still in what had been the garage, its tires melted into the concrete floor, the green body now covered with acidic ash. He doesn't know how disfiguring the ash might be, but he's hopeful that there's something left to work with. My friend is prepared to find otherwise. They left the house with about 5 minutes before the fire hit—and they weren't cavalier. But it's hard to know to evacuate to avoid a fire moving 3 football fields every 5 minutes. Or least thought to be moving that fast.
The areas of the fires are still off-limits because of concerns of re-burning or simmering embers. We'll see soon enough, I'm sure. As the number of wineries impacted goes up, so do the lost jobs. I guess the rebuilding will generate jobs too, just not those that the employment-displaced have the requisite training. Then there are the hotels and restaurants and the rest of the now no-longer functioning tourist industry. Gone. At least for a little while. Long enough that many of those in those communities living from paycheck to paycheck are already assessing where to move to be able to provide for their families.
Once the fires have been extinguished, the assessments of the damage will begin. Expect those estimates to rapidly climb. An estimated 5+ percent of the housing stock in Santa Rosa is now gone. Scenes of those neighborhoods look like pictures of Berlin after WW2 (or Hiroshima after the appearance of Little Boy). If the winds fulfill their feared effects, other parts of Santa Rosa will also cease to exist. The current estimate is that there's at least $1.5 billion of damage just in Santa Rosa, but an insurance adjuster who lives in the area opined on the radio this morning that that amount is "way low." How low? He paused and said that while it wasn't Harvey, it would be "significant just in Santa Rosa." He refused to speculate on other areas. Lest you think that the damage is limited to Calistoga, Santa Rosa, or Sonoma, consider: the eastern side of Napa (the city) has been progressively evacuated. There's still many residences between the fire and downtown, but the country fire chief said at a press conference this afternoon that if the 60 mph winds predicted for tonight, downtown Napa will be at risk. He's not sure how to stop the fire from moving west after that. There's too much wood housing stock available to burn on the west side of the city.
How will this end? Possibly over the weekend. Possibly not. While the winds are forecast to return tonight, the temperature is expected to warm into the upper 80s/lower 90s on Sunday/Monday. Perfect burning weather. Perfect for re-ignition. Maybe the firefighters will get at least enough of a respite to catch some sleep before again take on an earthly form of hell. So even if you hear that the fires have been controlled and the worst of it has now passed, don't be surprised if those statements turn out to be off the mark.
Jim Sogi writes:
My theory is the smoke and ash will block the sun, cooling the air down, and seeding the clouds resulting in more snow, and cooler temperatures this year. While its good for skiing, I wonder if it will affect agriculture and commodities in Western US?
Anecdotally, there have been early snow storms across the West this year. One ski area in Colorado is opening today.
October 12, 2017 | 1 Comment
I recently got conned also about my books which I love and are part of my soul. Out of clear blue sky like Mr. Grain's mom, I get a call from a letter dealer. He's been refraining from contacting me the past 25 years because he's such an ethical guy and didn't wish to compete with the other dealers he sells letters to and then I buy them.
He comes to my house. And he sees lots of rare books. Well he can recommend a great book dealer who can give me a great deal, a special deal. But because there is some mold on some books, and they can't tell the condition until they see them, I am recommended to ship all my books to the dealer.
"Okay, I say, but don't send any books worth 2,500 or less. I go to the book dealer and I'm thinking about my trades and Aubrey is there. They offer me 350,000 for 200 books and I say I'll reflect. They raise the offer to 400. I wasn't thinking and because the books are part of my heritage, I didn't look at the list of books they took. I like to do a deal, and since they're recommended by my letter dealer as special and I've done much business with the book seller before, I say yes.
Then I realize that I sold 200 books with min of 2,500 and max of 20,000 for about 1200 a book. I immediately write back that I'll pay them a 100 break up fee if they cancel the transaction. "You see, they can't do that because the books are already in play. The letter dealer then tells me that "how did you expect me to be compensated. Of course I was partners with the book seller".
Every day, I make a mistake like that in the market. But it doesn't hurt as much because the books were part of me as my parents had more books from the book sellers dump than I had and I loved the books. I still think about it every night, and haven't gone into my library in the 3 weeks since the con.
Aside from Mr. Grain's mol, I am the easiest to con in the world.
Another con is to involve the victim in some wrongful behavior so that he doesn't wish to bring in the police. Frank Perdaux was great at that in the railroad con where the confederate whispers to the mark that he can see the hole card and therefore they are sure to win. The confederate also shows empathy with the mark by joining him in fleecing the southern rube who is so brash and naïve and saw the women in scanty clothes.
One of the most reprehensible things to me in the recent con played on me is that the con man read my book and knew I loved and admired my dad. The con man sent me a video of his father who supposedly was a colleague of my dad, to show me how he respected his father just as much. To add icing on the cake, he told me how his son was a great basketball coach and had the integrity of Cato refusing to bow to the rough and tumble unethical behavior of the other coaches. It was a very nice touch but it still rankles.
Bo Keely writes:
I enjoyed your post on being conned. You have read as many books as I about getting conned, but the most important point they omit is that a smart person is conned when he is rushed or tired. I have tried to solve this in my daily transactions that are susceptible to cons at Slab City by mentally causing myself to pause before saying, or signing something. When money is flashing, I reinforce the pause by stepping back. I only make mistakes when I'm compromised, and imagine you are about the same. Regards to your rare letter man.
A call for preventative measures–less Lamotta, more De Niro?
"Based on our findings, professional traders, investment advisories, and hedge funds should limit the risk taken by young male traders," continued Nadler. "This is the first study to have shown that testosterone changes the way the brain calculates value and returns in the stock market and therefore- testosterone's neurologic influence will cause traders to make suboptimal decisions unless systems prevent them from occurring."
That paper fits in well with the overall plan to feminize males in the West. I'm sure this latest generation won't have to worry much about high T levels between the estrogenic impact of leftist culture, environmental toxins, and hormone treatments in youth.
October 11, 2017 | Leave a Comment
Recalling that the panic of 1907 was caused by insurance losses after the San Francisco earthquake, today I see an estimate that more than 11,000 homes in Santa Rosa and Napa with a value of more than $5 billion are at risk of fire damage.
Indeed whole sections of the city in Santa Rosa are burned to the ground (my nephew has been displaced as he was staying at a friend's house, and the house burned down).
October 11, 2017 | Leave a Comment
I was confronted on a public road outside Slab City by two men in a battered green truck with an old emblem on the side that was so scratched and dusty that it was obscured. The men's uniforms were so wrinkled that their names could not be read, until one at my demand smoothed it out to be legible.
The men harassed me for 30 minutes, or tried to.
They said they stopped me for not having a front license plate, and because I was on a private irrigation road. It was a properly plated Arizona car, and the road is public. They were also concerned that I was driving in underwear. They had zero knowledge of the area, laws, and admitted it was their first time to patrol here.
I would not let them search my vehicle.
One went for his gun, and I asked him to identify his home office.
They provided a Fish and Game office in Los Angeles that I've contacted, and been told they don't have officers by that name, nor that they cover this Imperial County.
There was an unoccupied old tow truck parked a mile off as I drove away.
I've written various authorities telling them of the unprofessional conduct and possibly masquerading officers. The thought is that they are 'trick or treating' in trying to search and steal from my car, and to be in cahoots with a tow truck to 'impound' new model cars to their own disposal.
There currently also are two men in old auctioned sheriff's cars with uniforms and badges who are canvassing the area who have been identified as bogus.
You should ask for identification in this season before trick or treating.
Publisher's Clearing House directs it's advertising towards the elderly. The advertising format of Publisher's Clearing House (PCH) attracts con men who piggyback on their message and try to extract as much cash as they can from the elderly and unsuspecting by declaring them winners of the big prize.
This hit close to home this week. A few weeks ago, my mother in law called my wife to tell her that Publisher's called to inform her that she won the grand prize of 70 million dollars and a new Mercedes. My wife, ever the skeptic, told her mother that she didn't believe the whole thing, and please don't send any money. Mother in law assured my wife that she didn't send any money.
She mentioned a lawyer/representative of PCH she spoke to who was named Dave Sayer (an actual prize patrol spokesman of PCH). My wife googled this name and got a zillion hits of this Dave Sayer/PCH scam and how to know it's a con. My wife called back and told her mother it was a scam but my MIL didn't believe her. My wife then reported it to the state Attorney General's office, and had one of the officers call my MIL to inform her that this was a total con.
After speaking to my MIL, the officer then called my wife back and said that my MIL had indeed sent cash to this guy via Western Union. She sent $6,000 cash, at least that's what she admitted. The officer thinks it was probably much more as most victims won't ever admit the true damages. My wife confronted her mother to tell her to not send any more money. My MIL said that her money is her business, and to butt out. The problem is that she believes the guy and expects to have a brand new Mercedes delivered this afternoon (Oct 10) and her check for $70 million by the end of the week. Of course it won't show and she can kiss her 6K goodbye. She won't get her 70 million either.
Incidentally, the 6 grand was the tax and delivery charges for the Mercedes. Here's the deal, my MIL is in her early 80s and is quite aware of things. Her mental facilities are not diminished and she's quite bright. Her problem is that she does not believe that people would call on the phone and misrepresent themselves. She thinks she's streetwise enough to recognize a con. The MIL believes in the goodness of human nature and is also a old South Christian woman. She is quite naive and she's also $6K poorer.
My MIL does not think she has been the victim of a con at all, quite the opposite, she is ready to drive her new Mercedes and is ready to sell the Toyota I bought her last year. One thing she does have that all con victims share is an out sized sense of greed, of getting something for nothing. She was never a customer of Publisher's Clearing House. Needless to say, we are very heartbroken and also upset that despite being shown the truth, she is waiting at home for her new car and $70 million. Somehow, I feel that this is going to come out of my pocket.
Anecdotally, I've noticed that the elderly seem very susceptible to being catfished also by Nigerians and others, even if they don't otherwise appear gullible. I guess hope and loneliness are very powerful emotions to be exploited.
Sorry to hear about the MIL and the fact you'll probably being paying for it.
Everyone should be aware of this Phishing scam. It almost snagged me and I'm not "elderly" (in actuarial terms at least).
I received a text on my cell phone that says: Alert from CHASE Bank : Your Debit-Card is temporary Locked. Please call us now at 201-754-1565. Thank you for your time
There are two clues that this is bogus. (1) The word temporary is a typo. They meant temporarily. (2) The call back number is in New Jersey. If the text had no typo and an 800 number and perhaps the last 4 digits of my debit card, then I would have called them and been phished. Instead I blocked caller ID and called the number and heard a legitimate sounding Chase autoanswer voice, which detected my caller ID blocking and hung up on me.
I've heard of scams like this during which they record you saying the word "Yes" and then use your recorded voice to purchase goods/services/transfer money. Or it could just have been an attempt at identity theft. Regardless, I forwarded the text to Abuse@Chase.Com and Chase shut down the scammer….for now at least.
It's a jungle out there. Robo callers/texting/emailing makes the marginal cost of solicitation close to zero.
Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" turns 60 years old today.
I was around 12 years old when I first read it and can say that the book opened my eyes and changed my life.
I still look at people in the news and try to assign characters from the book to them.
One does not have to look very far to find a James Taggart or Wesley Mouch.
Finding a Hank Reardon or Dagny Taggart is a little tougher these days.
October 11, 2017 | 1 Comment
My friends in the nutritional supplement community tell me that you can enhance the metabolism of blood alcohol to acetate, carbon dioxide, and water and minimize the acetaldehyde molecular logjam by taking oral supplements. L-cysteine, vitamin C, and vitamin B1, which are purported to help.
At supplement doses, they are cheap and harmless at worst. At best: Goodbye, acetaldehyde toxicity; hello, restful sleep. About 200 mg of L-cysteine per ounce of alcohol consumed is sufficient to block a major portion of the toxic effect of acetaldehyde. But because alcohol is absorbed and metabolized rapidly, it may be necessary to take L-cysteine before and concurrently with consumption to maintain protection.
Also, an excess of vitamin C (perhaps 600 mg) can help keep the L-cysteine in its reduced state and "on the job" against acetaldehyde. Experts recommend these doses (with or without extra B1): one round before drinking, one with each additional drink, and one when finished. Some say that this regimen works very well.
October 10, 2017 | Leave a Comment
I stumbled upon this tool on the RA website. It's by far the best one I've seen (for free). It allows you to see historical risk/reward for different asset classes over different time periods, efficient horizons, expected future returns, various blends, mixes, blah blah blah. It really is superb.
The Columbo series showed a different kind of detective mystery.
Instead of starting out with uncertainty and finding the perp, it starts out with a carefully documented murder, and then the plot is "how to catch him" rather than "who did it".
For a linear difference equation there are only 9 shapes that the dynamic solution can take. Depending on the y(t) = b(y(t-1) + a how are these two paths to the solution related.
Right before I go to sleep I like to play with a good difference equation preferably second order. It's often a fibonacci.
They vet you in Stockholm to see if you're a fellow traveler before giving you the Nobel, and I guess this imposter passed the test.
Pitt T. Maner III writes:
Of possible interest–NNT has been very critical via tweets and made note in retweet feed of Swedish/Dr. Nudge affinity for a "cashless society". Perhaps risks/dangers of… With that it must be time for a Fika.
Fans of confidence games will thoroughly enjoy the ESPN 30 for 30 podcast called "A Queen of Sorts" detailing the elaborate con pulled off by "Kelly" Sun and her whale, poker star Phil Ivey, to fleece multiple casinos worldwide out of tens of millions of dollars. The play is revealed in elaborate detail by a panel of experts who have reviewed the surveillance tapes to peel back the layers behind their method– edge sorting.
All elements of the classic con are represented. First they must grease the wheels. Taking advantage of casino's bias that Asian women are "stupid and superstitious", they banter with purpose, seasoning each new dealer. Next come the small requests that they need granted in order and to a T. Little by little, they sort the deck without ever touching the cards. By the time the play is set, they have a 6% edge on each hand of baccarat - at $150,000 per hand. Huge winnings ensue.
But they encounter a new problem - how do you get out the door with $10 million of a casino's money? I made the wife and kids listen during dinner one night and while they protested like a pack of wild wolves in the beginning, by the end of the meal they had every deck of cards in the house out searching for irregularities. Tremendous. Enjoy.
Jeff Watson writes:
I followed this closely. Ivey did not cheat and was brilliant, that's all. It wasn't a con, just good gambling and he beat the house fair and square. Casinos always welcome you to come try out your "system." This is an example of what will happen when your system works well. The casino will cry foul and welsh.
Interesting paper (Capital Structure Dynamics and Stock Returns, 2006) on debt ratio as a predictor of stock returns relating to companies issuing equity reducing debt ratio when stocks too high and against signaling theory that companies issue debt when they are sure they can pay the interest back. Calls for an update.
The past summer @ Slab was the first 'indecent' period in anyone's recollection. Nobody could figure out why, so I did. The two strongest personalities in the area 1 year ago died of meth heart attacks. They were good, decent guys. One was the drug lord who I did medical & legal for. The other was the primary Slab strong arm and part-time arsonist. Each represented what the Godfather wanted to be. After they vacated, wanna-be enforcers quibbled for the alpha position and none possess the chutzpah to pull it off. Without limits, this outlaw town fueled by meth has gone haywire. The atrocities have been sad, interesting, and newsworthy.
Victor Niederhoffer writes to David Hand:
I am good friend of Steve Stigler and recently read and recommended your book. I came across an interesting coincidence in our mutual field. Every day I post a colored graph of 4 possible outcomes of directions of bond and stocks previous day. 11 of the last 16 occurrences have been yellow days with stocks up bonds down. The binomial prob of that is 1 in 10 million or so. I point out that events have to happen. And this is one of many billions of starting stopping pts and outcomes. Still it seems like an anomaly as I point out, the more important question is what does it portend for future. What's your view? Random or not?
David Hands replies:
Thanks for recommending my book!
Can I first check the basis for your calculations. (I may have misunderstood what you meant.) If we take a simple model in which the probability of each of the four types of up/down pairs is equal, and the days are independent, then the probability of getting 11 out of 16 having (stocks up; bonds down) is Choose(16,11)*(0.25^11)*(0.25^5) = about 1 in 4000?
But you presumably chose (to comment on) the pattern (stocks up; bonds down) after having seen the data. So if instead we say what about the probability of any one of the four patterns coming up 11 out of the 16 times, then we have four times the probability. So, now it's 1 in 1000.
That sort of calculation would be ok if we simply had a set of 16 days to look at. But, of course, we are scanning across time. The longer we go on, the more we should expect apparently anomalous sequences to crop up. For example, we should ask not 'what is the probability of getting 11 out of 16 the same?' but 'what's the probability of getting 11 out of 16 consecutive days the same over the past 1000 (or however many) days?'
I really liked your website, which I had not seen before.
All the best
Professor David J. Hand Imperial College, London
Pitt T. Maner III adds:
A 1 hour lecture by Prof. David Hand on this subject (2014) is available here.
I was watching Professor Hand's lecture and thought it amusing that he found himself in a situation where a man with his same name was staying at the same hotel at the same. This reminded me that at the University of Alabama about 39 years ago I had, if my memory is right, a Professor Hand for an advanced, introductory chemistry course who was a Harvard graduate. Ironically, the chemist Dr. Hand liked to grade on a curve and on his first test the grade for a "C" was 35% instead of the normal 70%! The first question on this first test involved multiplying/dividing two large numbers and determining the number of significant digits–this took about 15 minutes of the allotted 1 hour test time to do with a calculator but was only worth 5% out of the 100% perfect test score– such a tricky fellow. Now the professors get rated online by the students!
Anarchy is the absence or nonrecognition of authority. Once you pass the abandoned guardhouse into this village limit, you live outside normal laws. To be governed is to be watched over, spied on, inspected, directed, legislated over, regulated, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, censored, and ordered about by people who have no right, nor knowledge, nor capability to do so. There is no government in Slab City.
Most of the residents are avowed anarchists. They have asked themselves in the past, why should any of us bother to get up in the morning to work our asses off to produce goods and services that only make an America we no longer agree with? The ones who have honestly answered that packed up and moved to Slab City, establishing a new home in less time than it takes to read The Anarchist's Cookbook.
There is not a single uninteresting person in Slab City, which cannot be said of anywhere else in the USA. It is a village of uncommonplace people doing odd things at all times of the day and night. The arriving children think they have slid down a slide across America into the Mars McDonald's playhouse.
They slide in, the grinning sons and daughters of the storm of their parents' lives, from traveling many miles cross country. This is the childhood moment when the door opens and the future is let in. For one family I recall as typical, the kids were a mess: two rubber tramp parents, a rust bucket car, suitcases filled with souvenirs from ten states, a bag of dumpster food, and no plans. It felt fine. They hit the Slabs running barefoot and haven't quit.
Most of their cars break down soon after arrival, or there's no money for gas, or the wheels are stolen in a whirlwind economy. The families become shipwrecked passengers in an anarchist theme park where freedom rings.
Their words of mouth pass by Facebook and online forums. Even the poorest wreck of a straggler has a phone he texts on. The lemming like nature of humans never ceases to amaze me. They get the online green light, and just start walking, thumbing, carpooling, dogging it on Greyhound, or riding westbound boxcars.
They struggle into town, up a hill of hope, and looking for a slab.
Two kinds of misfits are cast upon the slabs: The first are driven, and the second drawn. The former are more interesting, crying about how lonely it was to be drowning in a society where everyone else could swim, and so they braved into this new world. The latter who are drawn, like me, walk the lonely streets in slow motion, as observers.
There is nothing quite as sensational as a collaboration of misfits. There is an initial segregation across the slabs, as puzzle pieces are divided on a table before the final picture, of the gregarious who camp along the main stems where you can hear your neighbors climax, and the introverts who occupy the outlying campsites where they may rise each morning out of eyesight. There is a continual shifting of camps, as individuals and groups grow trusting of one another, or are squeezed out, burned out, or robbed out.
I dip daily like bobbing for apples into town to scout for green pioneers whom society has designated as outcasts, and step up to learn from them. I've discovered there's a little anarchist in everyone, which just has to be recognized.
Market cap to annual unit sales
GM - $6,374
Ford - $7,384
VW - $8,276
Toyota - $11,864
Tesla - $1,158,741
At a market cap of $22,000 per unit sold, Tesla needs to sell 2.7 million units per year. Ain't gonna' happen!
Markets can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent.
Toria my 4th daughter's boyfriend is a dealer in the Bellagio. He was dealing there when the shooting started. As predicted, the poker did not stop, thereby replicating the situation on the titanic where the gentleman continued their backgammon game until they sunk and the band continued playing.
Stefan Jovanovich writes:
The White Star Line invoiced the heirs and family members of the ship's band–for the cost of the unreturned company uniforms.
The sinking of the Titanic was a harbinger of change — for some things. (Below is an excerpt from the book And the Band Played On by Christopher Ward. Ward's grandfather was the Titanic's Violinist.)
But the Titanic revealed changing social attitudes, as well as atavistic ones. Andrew Hume, for instance, did not pay the bill for his son's uniform. He forwarded it to the Amalgamated Musicians Union, which published it without comment in its newsletter. Public opinion was beginning to assert itself. More than 30,000 people lined the streets of Colne in Lancashire for the funeral of the liner's bandmaster, Wallace Hartley, who, with the rest of the band, had heroically played until the end to maintain calm.
If White Star learned nothing from the consequences of its recklessness, its employees did. A week after the sinking, 54 stokers and firemen, most of whom had lost a father, a son or a brother, walked off the White Star liner Olympic when they discovered there were insufficient lifeboats to accommodate the passengers and crew. They were arrested for mutiny, but the magistrates discharged them. They returned to the Olympic, whose departure had been delayed by a fortnight, to find 16 additional lifeboats.
The captain and crew of the Mackay-Bennett also discovered that the old order was changing. Having risked their lives sailing more than a thousand miles into ice fields, they might have expected to return to Halifax as heroes. Instead, they were the subjects of a public storm, for they had come back with only 190 corpses, having buried 116 at sea. What made the difference between a body being tipped overboard and one being brought ashore? The purser's conscientious descriptions provided the explanation: tattoos or a foreign-sounding name.
October 3, 2017 | 1 Comment
1. The moon moves slowly but it crosses the town
2. By the time the fool has learned the game, the players have dispersed
3. It is the calm and silent waters that drown you
4. The fools sheep break loose twice
5. Don't test the depth of water with both feet
6. You cannot build a house with last year's summer
7. Around a flowering tree one finds many insects
8. A white dog does not bite another white dog
9. If a dead tree falls it carries with it a live one
10. There is no cure that does not cost
11. An eel that was not caught is as big as your thigh
12. Cross the river in a crowd and the crocodiles won't eat you
13. He who wishes to barter does not like his own property
14. A wealthy man will always have followers
15. If you run from the white ant you may stumble upon the stinging ant
16. When the mouse laughs at a cat, there is a hole near by
17. If you rise too early the dew will wet you
18. If you climb up a tree you must climb down the same tree
19. Events follow one another like the days of a week
20. Everything has an end
21. Darkness conceals the hippopotamus
All from African Proverbs compiled by Charlotte and Wolf Leslau
Jefferey Hirsch writes:
When an old man dies, a library burns down. — African proverb
This is one of my favs. Wish I knew if it was from Kenya or Congo or Sudan or Somalia, but I don't.
I have a friend who lives in Colorado in a place called Ajax Canyon. A beautiful, inspiring place for sure. A few years ago he lay near death after being "attacked" by a rogue cow on his Montana ranch. Thankfully, his story had a happy ending. He told me that when he was being pummeled by the mad momma cow, with his wife watching in horror, his one thought was, "Is this how it ends"
I want to share a near fatal tragedy that my beautiful wife, Pam, had this week on the Yellowstone River. Maybe you can see yourself in this story or in a similar situation and it may help you or someone you know. I still haven't discussed with Pam if that were a question she had time to ask herself. Truth of the matter, there is a whole lot of gratitude in our hearts and minds today. It wasn't her time.
Life happens fast. It was an absolutely gorgeous day in a canoe on the mighty Yellowstone River. A big blue sky, fluffy clouds, slight breeze, old cottonwood trees doing what they do best this time of year, turning green to gold. The river was running a bit high for this time of year from a couple of feet of snow in the western Montana mountains days prior. Pam and a couple of girlfriends who go back a scant 30 years were enjoying a day on the river. One of her friends, Lisa, was in the kayak; Pam and her friend Laynne were in the canoe.
They were enjoying the trip, looking for good spots to hunt agates on the islands and river bank and letting the current make paddling easy for a few miles down to our beloved, Ghost Ranch. Lisa was ahead in the kayak and enjoyed a quick freefall as the kayak slipped over a submerged cottonwood limb. Pam and Laynne tried to veer and steer the canoe around the limb but the current was too swift and the canoe turned sideways briefly before ejecting them. It was such a close call. Pam was sucked down in the current under the log and thankfully there was no debris to grab her life jacket and drown her. Laynne was sucked under as well, both popped up unscathed.
The speed at which the canoe flipped and the speed at which the current suctioned both girls and the canoe down under the log were in near nanoseconds.
Thankfully all is okay. The waterproof bags protected camera gear, binoculars and some lunch. The only thing lost was a cell phone and a few credit cards; I doubt those Yellowstone catfish shop at Nordstrom or Macy's!
On the river of life the moral of this story is simple. Remain vigilant. If at all possible, steer clear of the rough spots ahead of time. Know what to look for. Don't allow complacency no matter how nice the day. For sure, get in the current to make things easy but keep your eyes open. Never stop looking for the rough spots. Many meals for a lifetime in this fall outing to remember.
I am blessed to be enjoying a beautiful October day in Dallas Texas instead of planning my bride's funeral. For her, it wasn't how it ends.
October 3, 2017 | Leave a Comment
It was a cool, crisp morning as I climbed into my black Toyota Tundra "Rock Warrior" pick-up. I was sporting my "Adrenaline" t-shirt and work jeans. My feet were shod in 8" Danner boots. I popped on the radio and quickly changed the station from conservative talk to country music, and took a gulp of a coffee from my thermos. I wasn't in any particular hurry, but once on the highway, I was quickly doing 80, and then 90 mph. After all, it was a beautiful day, I was riding high, and I was feeling good! And although, I have a perpetually heavy foot when driving my truck, I've never been stopped on the interstate. I believe the state troopers can relate to the blue collar working stiff, and will give them a pass, more often than not.
This is in sharp contrast to the way I comport myself when driving the family SUV. I drive much more conservatively, even if the family isn't in the vehicle. And, the same phenomenon is present when I drive one of my children's (purposefully) under-powered vehicles. I've come to realize that my mood and demeanor while driving, is affected by my proximal environment, which includes the car I drive, the music I play, the lighting conditions and even my core beliefs. In the pick-up I'm the cowboy, and in the SUV I'm the family guy. I'll probably be doing the speed limit when listening to classical music in the Lexus, but be speeding along at +90 while listening to "Highway To Hell" in the truck, except on those days when it's raining or overcast and the light is flat as pancake; this cowboy is inevitably knocked-out of his emotional saddle.
Understandably then, it's wise to be aware of, and attentive to, one's environment, mood, and personal convictions - they may underlie inaccurate perceptions of oneself and others. This is directly applicative to how we organize and frame our perception(s) of the market, because a dialectical tension between Bayesian reasoning and the need to be right is constantly there. To simplify the process traders often use schemas to organize and interpret information. In psychology and cognitive science, a schema describes a pattern of thought or behavior that organizes categories of information and the relationships among them. The problem with these heuristic shortcuts, is traders who organize new perceptions into schema(s) have a tendency to leave them unchanged, even in the face of contradictory information. This can cause them to interpret situations incorrectly.
A trader's awareness of his physical trading environment can certainly have an effect on a traders performance, but nothing like the effect of his cognitive focused awareness. An attitude and approach that utilizes the concept of mindfulness, or being aware of and attentive to the current situation and personal moods; and the skills to control intense emotions, and reduce self-destructive behaviors, is always going to be best practice. Emotional predictability and the ability to reframe schemas may be just as important a step in problem solving as analyzing the market itself. In only this way, can one identify and change core beliefs and/or behaviors that underlie inaccurate perceptions of themselves and the markets.
People have a propensity and desire for a story to explain the events that occur. These often reflect spurious correlations. An extreme example would be the schizophrenia where a narrative is created from real or imagined facts that to most don't make sense. A similar thing occurs when humans create patterns out of random elements, for example star constellation showing pictures, or trends in random stochastic data. News often falls prey to this when they say stocks up on x or y occurring as if it is a story with causal links.
In large complex systems it is very difficult to accurately discern the causal chain of events, and even more difficult to predict. Simplification and reducing variables can help though.
I am rewarding my son for getting an after school job as a server in a popular nearby restaurant. He is making great tips and a bi-weekly check and promises me that the job will not be an excuse for a reduction in grades at school. He is in that exciting phase of life—drivers license, first car, first regular job, cash in pocket, etc. I opened a roth ira custodial account and learned that I could have done it sooner for him since he was already working around the house via chores and some other odd jobs that were not as regular as what he is doing now. My understanding was that his direct deposit regular paycheck had to be established that proved that he was employed to be able to have the ira. I also thought that funding of the account had to come from the income source. But no. Only I can fund the account, access the account (till he 18y/o), make trades for the account till he is 21y/o. There are no proof of income papers to sign, etc. So I want to harness the engine of compounding and unleash the power of the natural upward drift of the market for his time horizon.
So with the market up since 2009 –one of the longest bulls in history; how does one invest these beginning funds for the next two to three years. Obviously I would love to buy no load index funds during panics if possible. I offered my son a matching contribution from me to him for the next two years–making him understand that money put into the ira cannot be taken out till retirement to help get the fund started and some wise investing habits instilled. All ideas on funding would be appreciated.
This spring Las Vegas gave 14-to-1 odds on the San Francisco Giants winning the World Championship. They gave roughly the same odds to the Houston Astros and the Washington Nationals.
Here are the 3 teams records as of the end of the season:
Houston 101 wins, 61 losses, .623, won the American League West by 21 games
Washington 97 wins, 65 losses, .599, won the National League East by 20 games
San Francisco 64 wins, 98 losses, .395, finished in last place in the National League West, 40 games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers
The Major League Baseball Giants have won more games than any other team in the history of baseball. They have the most victories of any professional sports team in American history. There are more Giants players enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame than any other franchise in MLB history.
The last time the Giants were this bad was in 1984-1985 when they finished last in their division both years and were a combined 68 games under .500. In 1985 they hit bottom, winning 62 games and losing 100.
Steve Ellison writes:
Anybody thinking of taking such bets should follow the strategy outlined by Bacon to assess the probabilities implied by the odds and the resulting house edge. For example, if the Giants are at 14-1, the implied probability is 1/15 or about 7%. Now consider the odds on every other team and see what they add up to.
The last time I did this with the odds to win the Stanley Cup at a casino, the total percentages added up to 167%. That works out to about a 40% house edge! That seems an impossible level of vig for finding an overlay.
My image of a child is where teaching begins. For this, I need only remember myself as a kid. Children come into this world exquisitely designed, strongly motivated, and very capable of educating themselves. The art of teaching is assembling guideposts on their life paths. Every day, in a hundred small ways, children ask, 'Do you hear me?' Do you see me? What am I? Do I matter?' Teaching is about opening doors for them to places that they could not imagine. This is my bucket list of what they should find.
Think - It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.
Reason – Analysis is a knife applied to experience.
Act – Act whenever there is a choice to do nothing or to act.
Master yourself – No one is free who is not master of himself
Read – The well-read differ from the unread as much as the living from the dead.
Exercise – Exercise is to the body what reading is to the mind.
Travel – Develop perspective that is not found among friends.
Limits – Become aware of your physical and mental limitations; with those borders learn your total puzzle.
Know thyself – To know yourself completely is to know one's conscious and unconscious.
Edge – Repeated small advantages win large prizes.
Danger – The most dangerous man, in any group, is the man who is able to think for himself.
Individuality – The individual struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe is worth it.
Hard work – There are no shortcuts to any place worth going.
Pain - Pain makes you stronger, fear makes you braver, heartbreak makes you wiser.
Self-motivate – Start a fire under yourself, and create goals.
Mess up – Mistakes are stepping stones to success, and don't give up.
Habit – You are today because of yesterday's habits, that form tomorrow's patterns.
Thinking – Positive thinking is a crutch for the weak; stick to the facts.
Silence – Well done is better than well said.
Kindness - Help those who help themselves, but look out for #1.
Delay gratification – Little by little, through patience and repeated effort, the fruit grows sweeter.
Rehearse – Mentally and physically act out before leaping into it.
Comfort – The best things happen at the exit ramp of your comfort zone.
Leave it - What you cannot enforce, don't try to command.
Ask – To know the path ahead, ask those who are returning.
The road – Finding out who you are is the whole purpose of the human experience.
Goal – Finding your passion isn't about money and career, it's about supporting yourself doing something you like.
Parents – Model the kind of behavior you want your parents to exhibit.
Religion - Attempting to use religion as a nationalizing agent is bogus.
Children – Never help a child with a task he can go alone.
Now go out there and be authentic.
Teaching kids to count is fine, but teaching what counts is more important. One item a day is fast enough to empty this bucket. There are a month's worth, thirty days, 30 items.
It is easier to build strong children with this bucket than to repair broken men without it. When someone asks me about kids, I tell them two things: I was a sub-teacher with 30 children of my own, five changes a day, in all subjects at all grade levels, for seven years. And, there is a time to stop parenting; then I had a vasectomy.
I've come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom rather than the lessons. The teacher's personal approach and daily mood create the climate for learning. It is a powerful position being the weather in each of their days. I am the teacher who gives them something to take home to think about, besides homework.
Rest in peace Stanley Rumbough.
One of his ex-wives, Margaretha Rumbough, is Swedish, lives in Phipps Plaza, keeps a wonderful, wild garden and is a very nice lady I have met. In the small encircled Phipps Plaza "park", Margaretha has helped to save a strangler fig tree twice that was knocked down first by Hurricane Wilma and now Hurricane Irma; a tree that I climbed as boy and fell out of and broke my arm on one of its shallow, surface roots. She takes an interest in the empty shops that have remained empty along South County Rd. and Seaview Ave. in Palm Beach that front Phipps Plaza in Palm Beach and regrets that there are no art galleries or other fun businesses in them yet.
I did not know Mr. Rumbough but I do know he was one of the few people who author Larry Leamer wrote well of in his book, "Madness Under the Royal Palms". And Mr. Rumbough was especially nice to Leamer even though Larry was a political opposite and certainly not "Old Guard".
To quote Leamer in the 2009 book: " Despite his age and the fact he lost and eye on the golf course, there is still an exuberant impish quality to the man. He loves Palm Beach with passionate loyalty and devotion. He loves the island the way he loves women, the sheer lines of Palm Beach, the nuances, the subtleties, the grace."
October 3, 2017 | Leave a Comment
As a Las Vegas resident of the last 13 years, yesterday was devastating. The city has showed incredible resolve and fortitude. The combined efforts of first responders, police, and civil servants has been impressive. The city is also showing we are not a shallow transient town but a real community who has rallied behind the victims and each other. I ask for your thoughts and prayers.
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Resources & Links
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