From the Wall Street Journal: “The Bank of Japan on Friday joined a host of European peers in setting its key short-term interest rate below zero. The move, long denied as a possible course by the bank’s governor, came a week after the European Central Bank president indicated he was ready to launch additional monetary stimulus in March—and days after the Federal Reserve expressed new worries over market turbulence and sluggish growth overseas.”
The patient lay unconscious, breathing shallow, pulse so weak;
the economic doctors hardly knew what cures to seek!
Its markets were unsettled; paltry growth had slowed it down —
the central banks looked at it and could not suppress a frown.
They finally decided that the int’rest rate must fall
into the minus column to break free from fiscal thrall.
It would mean inflation and a weaker yen and euro
(meaning better sales for sake and the Spanish churro).
But still the pale economy did languish, invalid —
and economic health was still not quite up on the grid.
What’s next, you mountebanks of money — have you got the key
From the Wall Street Journal: Taking 15 or 20 minutes to write freely about emotions, secrets or upheaval can be a powerful tonic, says James Pennebaker, a psychology professor at the University of Texas and author of several books including “Writing to Heal.”
I keep a daily journal that’s the mirror of my soul.
In it I don’t worry about any self control.
I write my in-most thoughts and feelings, letting it hang out.
With my pen I whimper, grumble, sob, and sometimes shout.
The insight that I’ve gained from pouring out my private psyche
I’m selling to be put on running shoes produced by Nike.
“As blizzards and ice storms pummel cities from New York to Hangzhou, Hong Kong—a place where residents rarely need to break out the fleece—is thrilling over its own extreme-weather phenomenon: frost.
A cold front across east Asia has brought thousands of Hong Kong frost-hunters to the city’s peaks during recent nights. The chill-seekers are hoping to see ice-rimmed leaves, sleet or even snow—many for the first time ever.”
If you’d really like some chilblains, oh ye people of Hong Kong —
just come to Minnesota, where the winter’s nine months long!
You can thrill to wind chills that go down way past the zero,
and freeze your tuchus off as a bold ice fishing hero.
Watch icicles impale unwary walkers in a rush,
or stand upon a street corner and try to dodge the slush.
Your nose will turn to blue as you admire an ice palace;
if you survive you just might catch Aurora Borealis.
Or better yet, don’t bother coming out to this outpost —
I’ll send you a large snowball via U.S. parcel post.
The grass is always greener and the weather more extreme
here in Minnesota, where a thaw is just a dream . . .
Researchers at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston are wondering whether gut bacteria from skinny people could help curb obesity in others.
A new clinical trial — which is not yet open to participants — will study the effects of gut microbes from lean, metabolically healthy donors on the bodies of people with obesity and/or insulin sensitivity.
To get the microbes from one person to the other, scientists will freeze the feces from donors and case the material into pills, to be taken orally by the subjects.
I may be fat, with double chins that wobble when they’re wrung —
but there is not the slightest chance I’ll swallow any dung.
I don’t care if it can make me lighter than fine tulle —
Hell will welcome penguins long before I welcome stool.
It’s not that I don’t honor someone like the great Pasteur
as a fine researcher — but did he propose manure
to combat dread diseases like obesity or pox?
The very notion would produce abundant Gallic squawks!
The eggheads who propose this little gambit with our poop
have got the protozoa as their only true peer group . . .
The smartphone has become one of the world’s most powerful communications tools. That can be a bad thing if you’re drunk.
Ronnie Rocha learned that the hard way after texting a profanity-laced tirade, while drunk, to his boss. In the missive, he demanded to be paid more and given more responsibilities at his job as a computer programmer.
Mr. Rocha, 23 years old at the time, managed to keep his part-time gig. But he admits he had no recollection of sending the text.
“The devices of power and productivity become weapons of everything once you have some alcohol in you,” Mr. Rocha said.
I think I’ll write a little poem, soon as I finish up
this little teeny weeny bit of wine that’s in my cup.
I haven’t had a lot, you know; I’m feeling pretty fine.
And poets should be given lots of praise and good red wine.
The muse is sloshed but I am not — I’m simply in the zone,
and I could play my lays and rimes on flute or slide horn-thingy.
A poet celebrates the life around him all the time —
to neglect this duty is a literary, um, faux pas.
So here’s to drunken rhyming, and to comments on your piece
of journalism that is like old Jason’s Golden — rag or chamois or some kind of crap like that . . .
and hey . . . how come you never return my calls, huh? You think you ar sum king of big sot or wat? Im gunna . . . yeah, I’m gunna right now, son as I use the y’know the bathroom . . . be right back ~
From the Wall Street Journal: “This season, for the first time, Gasol and Mirotic both have been starters for the Chicago Bulls. But around town, they’ve become known as something else: the city’s biggest patrons of the arts. Gasol and Mirotic are regulars at the opera house. They have been backstage guests of the symphony orchestra. Officials from the city’s highbrow cultural institutions say they can’t remember professional athletes coming to any of their performances—let alone as many as these Bulls.”
Okay youse guys, now listen up — I think we caught a break,
if we can dribble with the ball like they do in Swan Lake.
Portis, try for bank shots — pop up like a freakin’ genie,
while the P.A. system plays us something by Rossini.
Now Gasol, bump the cutter ev’rytime you get the chance,
and Bairstow watch that pivot foot — this ain’t a morris dance!
Hey, Brooks and Jimmy Butler, you two open up a spot
for Zubin Mehta to come out and try a granny shot.
Take us all the way up on that great O’Brien route,
and management will take you down to see The Magic Flute.