“Buy the rumor, sell the news” is an adage that refers to a trading strategy where a trader buys a security based on speculation about an upcoming news announcement or data, and then sells the security once the news is made public. 

The Balance

6:30 a.m.

Wednesday aboard Scruffy.

I’m eating my microwaved instant oatmeal with a cup of that real good San Francisco Blend French Roast coffee.

My buddy Thom clued me to this brand a few years back. I’ve been drinking it ever since. Three pound bag of whole bean at Costco only 17.50. What’s that? Five eighty a pound? Shit. Try beating that at suck ass Safeway. Even the generic brand at Target (along with Grocery Outlet my food shopping center of choice) runs you seven bucks a pound…

This stuff’s good as Peets. Better even. Trust me, I know. I’m a coffee holic….

The instant micro wave oatmeal?

Gut fill. Enough said.

What the hell

Damn Bird got here early.

I’ll toss him a humongous glob of suck ass Safeway fresh baked stale bread.

That’ll keep him occupied.

Bloomberg radio is on a roll

Got some “expert” ranting about the current state of affairs.

Keene says, “Whatdaya think of so-and-so when he still had a golf swing?”

“Yeah well,” says the expert, “You need to keep your head with a market held up by four or five stocks. What I do, I stick with the rule Buy the rumor, sell the news. I go with essentials. I mean, in this environment, what’s the point in…” etcetera, etcetera, and so on….

Keene blurts out, “ARE YOU SELLING YOUR NVIDIA?”

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”

laughter’s ringing in my ears

Staring out my port window.

I’m trying to think.

The old lady is gone.

I haven’t seen her lately. I mean I almost never see her. But I know she’s in there when the light shines through the tiny porthole.

She’s not in there. She’s laid up in the hospital maybe. I checked the grey mailbox at the sail school office the other day. See if any stray hate mail found its way through the cracks in my identity firewall. Nothing for me. Found a half dozen emergency medical bills addressed to Betty Eubanks. That’s her. The old lady. The bills were very recent. Somethings not good with her.

I suspect she’s history.

Shit.

We’re all history.

We’re not all Failing

My Great Aunt lived alone in this old house

Going on fifty years ago.

Took a trip to see the whole damned country. Along the way, I stopped in to visit my Grandma.

My Grandma on Pop’s side. She lived right there in good old Pratt, Kansas. Born, lived and died there. Never went anywhere. Why go anywhere? You’re in the vastness of the prairies. At sea on the ground. You’re everywhere. God’s country, they say.

She took me around to visit relatives I’d never met and would never again meet.

“Now,” she said, after I’d met a couple dozen relatives, “We’re a gonna stop in on Annabelle Lee. She’s your dad’s auntie on his father’s side.”

I’m thinking, okay…

She used a saying. Used it to refer to my great aunt.

“She’s failing, poor thing.”

It was a term used often.

A term for certain old folks.

“Failing,” means you’ve entered that stage in your life when health improvements are negligible and even pointless.

You’re not regenerative.

You’re failing. You’re just waiting around.

My great Aunt Annabelle Lee was a very tall very thin woman of impressive appearance.

She never smiled the whole time we were there.

My grandmother had this to say as we drove away.

“She’s failing poor thing. We look in on her every day. One or another of us does.”

She said it cheerfully.

The old lady on the boat. She’s a tough one.

She’s been failing for over a year now.

The office

I got here early and set up at the big table in the rear.

Loud Talker has the other big table.

She’s talking on the phone.

“I had to leave! I don’t see the point, Jane! It’s so sad! I mean it’s really really sad!”

I’m thinking, would you please be quiet please…

“I just can’t watch her sink away! I can’t. It tears me apart!”

Is there no way to tone this woman down?

“It’s just when I see her I remember the good times! We used to play together! She was so energetic all the time! Now she just lays there! I’ve given up! I don’t know what to do!”

Christ. Another one failing.

“I might call somebody in! Do you know anybody?”

Maybe I’ll move.

“It’s just…I CAN’T GO BACK THERE. I MEAN, IT’S DISGUSTING. SHE WONT USE THE LITTER BOX!!!!

Van Life videos

Loud talker went home to her failing cat.

Or somewhere. Who cares? Long as she’s gone.

Nothing to do now but some blogging.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll watch a few Nomad YouTube videos.

Rumor has it I’ll be one myself….a Nomad, that is….or, more precisely, an Urban Camper, since I won’t be moving around much.

I’m buying that Rumor.

My buddy Mitch

It’s rarely quiet at Starbucks. Unless it’s empty. When it’s empty, it’s quiet.

Eerie quiet.

At the moment, it’s crowded and noisy.

Especially now a pack of loud-talking ladies arrived.

I’m trying to think.

My buddy Mitch is on my mind.

One of a small group of people…old pals from high school.

He’s failing.

That’s the rumor. It’s a damned good rumor.

Buy the Rumor.

I’ve known this guy most of my life.

I don’t want him to fail.

I want him to get better.

He’s stuck in a rest home.

Buy the rumor.

I’m rooting for him. Get better. Get back on your feet.

Do the nomad thing.

That way, he can live on his social security.

Urban Camping is not for everybody.

I know I can do it because I’ve done it before.

Shit…

I’m breaking the rule here.

I’m not buying the Rumor.

Good old Mitch.

Sometimes you go with wishful thinking.