If Dan Brown wrote about phynance

[urnash]

Ehh, kaehler, i do not think that bloodninja needed google...

[bloodninja]

kaehler,



As I said, it's a good essay. Infact, it's fascinating in the topics considered; given certain data about the situation. Bottom line, it's well done as everyone has said.



In terms of your id, word to the wise: I'd be careful with that if I were you. There are reasons why some folks stay under the radar. As it stands now, there's only one point that connects you to your id. If you took that point down, or manipulated it by, say, pulling off the title and just pasting the content it might make a difference.



HIH

[Nonius]

Heisenberg's Ghost and Efficient Markets:  the Nonius Remix



My name is Max Dropov. Some people call me Max, others call me Dropov, others call me Dr. Dropov, others call me Max Dropov, some call me Mr. Dropov J.S.P.S., some call me Maxime, some call me Dude, some call me loser, fuck those people by the way, some people call me shithead, some people call me the Doc, whilst others call me the Cod, but Dog knows why those people call me that, unless they are simply dyslexics who belong in the Doc-calling camp and are confused about calling me Doc, or, maybe they are correct in calling me Cod, I really am a dyslexic Cod, and I inadvertently think I'm a Doc, but really I'm a Cod swimming in the exceedingly saline sea somewhere in an obscure fiord gingerly tucked away near Tromso, Norway, which, by the way, is in SCANDINAVIA.



Anyway, so, I've five things with which I'm obsessed. No, seven things. Actually, it's more like around four things. Actually, make that...no. Make that, eight things. Fuck. Come to think of it, I'm obsessed with lots of things. I'm obsessed with one....million...things. No. One....BILLION.....THINGS. Ok, maybe not that many things. Actually, I'm sure it's much more than that. I think I'm obsessed with infinitely many things. Uncountably many things. I think I'm obsessed with a continuum of things. But, let's be practical and water it down to a Polytechnician's practical view of the world. Something on which you can bank.



What are the reduced equivalence classes of things with which I'm obsessed? I'd say it boils down to three things- Pussy, Money, and Image. Make that Self-Image, however deluded that may be. In fact, we may say that the delusion is wrapped in a trefoil knot of deception that is embedded in unorientable manifold of falsehoods that is, in turn of course, a mere cog in one vertical slice of a multiverse and that slice has one quantum-scaled insignifcant point in multiverse-space-time that is this. It is the reality of a pink elephant's thoughts whilst he/she/it is taking a smelly, large, peanut-laden shit in Universe 1048577, which, in case you don't know, is one in which "Trrrrrr is baking spooo".



Enough of the terse Entree.



On the pussy front, I've got my squeeze, named Sachiko. She's hot. I mean white hot. I mean hotter than the fryin' pan of a ravenously hungry psychotic pyromaniac equipped with a nuclear powered blow torch. I mean hotter than the interior of a Star in Universe 1048577 that is about to explode after fucking a pussy-assed Star in Universe 1078524. (that's why stars explode by the way, they blow their wads during interstellar intercourse).



So, right now, Sachiko is sitting on the couch in the small, smoky, steamy living room of Steve, my thesis advisor. One year ago, I wanted to drink her essense. The properly and naturally bee-stung lips, the supple body, the playful glance through those eyes, those almond eyes, those fucking eyes, the cocoa skin, the midsection, the shiny sparkling scintillating hair, the muscular legs, the toes with the red nail polish, the teeth, the walk, the shoes, the skin that I want to bite, the way in which I imagine having sex with her whilst under the influence of a hallucinacenic drug capable of making existence in the Base Universe look like one large, throbbing, beckoning pouty erogenous zone . Is that a sentence? Well, it all pretty much sums up Sachiko. Problem is, my mind knows she's hot right now, but, contemporaneously, simaltaneously if you will, (at the same time I mean), right now I'm obssesed with the other two aformentioned components. Plus, you know. I'm a guy. So, I was willing to drink her menstruel fluids as a sort of homage of multiversal worship in order to "score her", as it were, but, hey, now we live together and I've a PHD thesis to complete. That brings me to the third thing. Not the first thing. Not the second. Not the 2.5 thing. Not the aforementioned thing divided by two. a=a etc until you get the point. The third thing, which is Image. So, the thing is that I need to complete this thesis because, well, I need to complete this thesis. a=a etc. And, in order to accelerate the thesis, I am currently near Sachiko, but not looking at Sachiko, but, rather, looking at Steve askance whilst I snort a line of uncut Bolivian cocaine. I cough, and feel my lower intestines commencing into an odd convulsive organic dance that is sending messages to my nervous system. The message is this: go to the bathroom. But, I can't. I'm thinking about the last thoughts that Steve told me with regards to the aforementioned and very important component of my image. the thesis. he tells me to stop snorting lines of coke that are laid out on Whitehead's Homotopy Theory, but, to actually READ the book and prove what is obvious to him. But, the mofo is also hoovering the coke, that, by the way, I SCORED for him, Sachiko, and me. So, I get pissed. Not in the English sense. Well, that too. But, I mean in the good ole Cracker, Jock, Jack sense of Americana...I was livid. Mofo Steve, who is guiding me through an obvious proof that was obvious.



(ok, I'll take a break now, but, I'll converge to HUT and EMH).

[Martingale]

it's like reading porn to me, me likes, which reminds me still to get to listen to the mixes you got on other thread

[bloodninja]

ROFL. really awesome. The last paragraph particularly, but the whole thing is awesome.  



[i]'Mofo Steve, who is guiding me through an obvious proof that was obvious.'[/i]



That's a classic.

[Nonius]

seriously BN, since I pray to you, that was a homage to you....

[wolf0564]

Sachico rulz

[bloodninja]

noted.

[Nonius]

Anyway, Sachiko and Steve surmise that I'm pissed and so they decide to play a trick on me.  I'm sure it is a trick.  Sachiko glances at Steve coyly, seemingly anticipating the coup de grace remark from the obnoxious prick.  And of course, here it comes.  He plugs his left nostril, leans his head back and snorts the lingering, glutinous solution of uncut Bolivian cocaine dissolved in his mucous down the right side of his nasal passage.  He looks at the ceiling, searching for a fleeting thought, whilst Sachiko is smiling, leaning forward towards him and waiting for Steve's imminent disparaging remark that will surely be directed towards me, Otto Von Schmidt.  Seconds pass.  Mofo. 



Then, he stands up as if on the verge of a profound thought, a thought commensurate with revealing the mysteries of the universe in the form of a rhetorical question, and asks, "Sachiko, who's more attractive?  Otto or Isadore Singer?" Ok, now, most of you probably don't know Isadore Singer.  But some of you do.  So, for those of you who do know them, skip the next few sentences.  For those of you who don't know him, well, he's a world class mathematician.  He proved lots of very deep theorems that mix topology, geometry, analysis, and algebra all together in a grand mathematical soup comprised of seemingly unrelated ingredients and, when the soup was ready, voila! brilliance! Shear Brilliance!  For math geeks, it was like creating a soup with lamb, mangoes, garlic, and tobacco and that, somehow, it all fit together and tasted like Ambrosia for the Gods.  Anyway, so, he's brilliant.  One of the most brilliant men on the planet. BUT. But but but but.  He ain't no looker.  Trust me on that one.  As for me, I'm not nearly in his class of mathematical genius.  In fact, sometimes whilst reading some of his proofs, I can't kick my neurons up a few notches and his brilliance fades beyond me, leaving only a vague luminescence behind the horizon of mental capacity.  Ok, I sort of stole that from Henry James.  Sorry.  So, he's smarter.  But, I AM DEFINITELY MORE ATTRACTIVE THAN HE.  DEFINITELY.  I am to him as Brad Pitt is to me.  Or something like that. 



Wouldn't you know it, Sachiko laughs, putting her hand in front of her mouth in that annoying Japanese false pretense of modesty and humility, and says "I betta not answa zat question."



Fuck me!  Better not answer that question?  Who does she think she is, insulting me like that? I am livid and start clenching my teeth.  Steve tells me to calm down and commences into a long winded theory that Sachiko is nothing more than a Survival Machine encasing the real insult culprit- her genes.  According to Steve, whilst I may be better looking than Isadore, it it not clear that all women Survival Machines have the same genetic proclivity to value physical beauty as the best measure of attraction.  Each survival machine just wants to make sure that it, or more precisely, that the collection of genes inside of it, can survive.  So, Sachiko will die, but before she dies, she will have an urge to copulate with a man, mix her genes up with that man, and produce another survival machine that carries some of her genes.  Of course, her genes will have to share the ride into the future with the lucky prick's genes as well.  Anyway, I've copulated with Sachiko.  I've copulated with her all the way to Sunday! Why, I've....never mind.  Maybe she has a sequence of genes from some distant ancestor that values my looks and will copulate with me, thinking somehow that looks are a good sign of health, a=a etc.  And this is why she's inclined to fuck men like me.  But, maybe in the end, she has another sequence of more powerful genes that will, at the end of the day, fuck Isadore Singer AND produce a child with Isadore Singer.  Maybe those genes have a code that values intelligence over looks!  I'm fucked!  but, what I'm I saying, do I really want a child with her?  Probably not. So, I guess a good riposte to her at this point would be something along the lines of, "na,na, na, na, na, I ALSO have sequences of genes inherited from a distant ape-like creature that are hinting that I shouldn't produce a child with you, but, I'll fuck you nevertheless!"  Ok, stole that from Richard Dawkins. Sorry.



anyway, believe it or not, this brings us to MONEY.  Why?  Because I start ruminating over the idea that, since Sachiko is heading back to Japan to be a "stock bloka", that maybe she has some genes that value money over brilliance.  I'll show Isadore, hehehehee.  So, I suggest to Sachiko that maybe I'll just rush through my thesis and get a job as a trader at an international trading company.  International!  I muse out-loud how I'll make lot's of money using mathematical models to predict future prices!  She laughs hysterically, but this time she's not covering her mouth in that vile Japanese way.  This time, she's laughing and laughing and laughing.  See, she's still wet behind the ears on economics, having just finished her studies at Healds Institute of Technology.  She tells me about something called The Efficient Market Hypothesis, and how under rational expectations, that you can't beat the market because the current price of something captures all news up to that point in space-time, that the market's always right, and how it's impossible to beat the market.  What the fuck?  I bark back that if investors are rational, then why in the fuck do they choose to trade at all? If things were like a coin flip, why don't we see multi-billion dollar global markets in coin flipping bets????  Ok, stole that from Jim Simons. Sort of. Sorry.  Clearly, not all investors have the same mental capacity, just as I don't have the mental capacity of Isadore Singer.  If a dumb investor were rational, why in the fuck would he trade against a smart investor?  He shouldn't.  But, he does.  So, he's not rational. So the hypothesis that is required for the hypothesis is fucked up! Ok, so maybe the idea is that inefficiencies are only fleeting, but, fuck, that is my point.  I want to be amongst those survival machines that can survive in the markets because they eat the inefficiencies before the dumb fucks have a chance!  Yes, fleeting inefficiencies, it's like, it's like virtual particles- if you're dumber than God, you can't see them, and if you're dumber than a physicist you won't understand them.   Steve blurts out "Bad analogy, you certainly can't measure their energy and momentum and position with perfect certainty."  Or something like that.  fuck you steve, give me some slack.  I'm saying all this and getting very very angry.



Steve says calm down.  He then goes to the kitchen to fix himself a shake of ice cream, rum, and Hawaiian magic mushrooms.  I know I'm in for some weird thoughts coming out of his brain.  Whilst the blender is grinding away, I stare at Sachiko and lip the words "EMH is bullshit".  She continues to laugh and then snorts a line that is laid out on Whitehead's Homotopy Theory.  Minutes pass in silence interrupted by snorting sounds and laughter from my bitch girlfriend.  I brood. 



Then, Steve comes back and I can tell, from the glimmer in his eye, that the mushrooms are already taking their affect.  Seems like the laws of biochemistry have been violated and that information was communicated from mushroom to nervous system faster than upper limit of chemical processing speed. There is an upper limit, isn't there?  Is that like the upper limit to the speed of anything in the physical universe?  Who's smarter, Einstein or Darwin?  Dawkins would say, "Better not answer that question."  Anyway, so Steve, feeling a bit guilty I suppose, concedes that EMH is in fact bullshit! He slurs out that, whlst some might make analogies to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle (ie you can't know with precision the position and momentum of a particle with perfect accuracy...ie...that this obviously seems like it maps properly to the current price of something and the direction it's going), that a survival machine that encapsulates the financial equivalent of genes, let's call them FENES, doesn't need to know with precision the direction of a stock price.  What it needs is to estimate as accurately as possible the distribution of outcomes of prices.  So, fuck it. Fuck EMH and fuck HUP.  what are the survival machines that encapsulate FENES? they are the hedge funds and proprietary trading groups and international firms (international!) that mix up, cross pollinate, "fuck each other" through a process of exchanges of ideas, traders jumping ship, talkin to analysts, mathematicians, and so and and so forth and as time goes on, what survives are the fucking FENES..,.the FENES, not the traders, as they will die essentially at some point in the future!