Bag of Blood & Bones. A Baggage Story.

Posted on June 12, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

I knew something was up. She was acting weird. I could tell. I was six years-old but I could tell. She was unhappy, troubled. Mostly anxious. It was July and she wasn’t stuffing me into totally inappropriate dress for summer. Like corduroy. I recall a flee from our apartment complex that day – 10AM – dressed only in my huge, white-whale Fruit-Of-The-Loom underpants. Man boobs sloppy-free in the humidity. I escaped! Four blocks away before I realized I was running loosey/whitey-wild in the city.

Mom was normal, well let’s just agree that she was indeed “engaged” for a a period of my life. From like ages 0-10. She was super overprotective, strict disciplinarian, forced me to read multiple books by the age of 5, study everything. For this period, I remain grateful, outside of the fact she lost her mind by the time I reached eleven. She taught discipline and the lesson still comes in handy decades later.

But today, this July day she was aloof, disengaged, distant. Sick. Talking a lot to her friends. From what I recall, anyone willing to listen.

Mom was a slight hypochondriac.Well, she started out that way. Actually, anything she focused on grew from the size of a pin top to the circumference of a circus tent, because she analyzed shit to the point of sublime. From every angle. She was an Italian housewife, 5’3″ 95-pound Sherlock Holmes. I’m sure her strong focus (on every damn thing) was one of the personality traits which eventually drove her insane.

Anyway, at age six she would read real strange shit to me. One tome I recall was some Good Housekeeping or AMA volume on medical ailments, complete with rich color illustrations of tumors, oozing wounds, deformities, clots, female private parts (scariest of all – like Jaws with no teeth).

The book was as massive thick as mom’s meatloaf and my complete fear of it (and her meatloaf) eventually blossomed into a morbid curiosity. I remember the blood. The bones (not in the meatloaf). There were at least two chapters devoted to amputation. For weeks I woke up in the middle of the night, in a haze, believing I lost a foot or a hand. I kept a red and white flashlight underneath the covers to repeatedly check on my appendages (and read comic books).

I wondered: What the hell happened to all those severed body parts? I asked. Mom said they were placed in bags. Then what? No answer.

And..

What kind of bags were they? Hefty? Gym? Body? Space? What?

What kind of science was this?

The book sort of changed my world view. I began to think about the human condition, my condition, my flab. I realized: We’re just bags of blood & bones. In the beginning, middle, that’s what it it comes down to.

And, at the end, all I am is a bag of blood & bones which eventually rots fancy in an overpriced, ornate encasement, deep in the earth. Or would loved ones (if any) stuff me in a lawn bag and leave me out front for trash pickup? It’s possible.

Bag of blood and bones. That’s all we are. In the end. Maybe some little worms too, not sure. I read Elvis had worms in his colon when he died, I mean that’s what I heard. I think.

Random Thoughts:

1). What separates you/us from a bag of blood & bones? Is it perseverance, your attitude, a smile, your words, treatment of friends, family, pets. List those traits good and bad (and there will be bad, very bad) which comprise your triple-b (bag of blood and bones, silly). Does the bad outweigh the good? Yep. You’re blood & bones material. Does the good outnumber the bad? You’re still a bag of blood & bones however people may remember you for your contributions. Try to be remembered for your contributions.

2). How many other bags you carry around with you? I have a good friend. Something happened in another place and she won’t share (I tried) – I see the baggage in her eyes. I see how she carries that bag around. She’s tiny – the bag looks like it weighs a thousand pounds. May be healthy to air out the mental luggage on occasion. At least to someone who won’t judge (possibly laugh). Everyone has a bag or two, or three. Just know when to open them, know when to keep them closed. Felix the Cat always knew when to open the bag o’ tricks!! Sometimes baggage keeps your bag of blood and bones alive like a survival mechanism.

NOT Fritz the Cat (FELIX the CAT).

3). What’s your financial bag of blood and bones? What kind of imprint remains as you observed your parents struggle with money? Or save too much, or misuse credit, or lose a business? Or perhaps you know the parents are going to leave a fortune so you decide to check out on accomplishing anything. Sit around. Wait for them to die. Like a lumpy bag of blood and bones. Don’t believe your parents’ relationship with money affects you? Think again. You’re splattered full of financial blood and bone matter.

For my dad, his parents’ frugal nature morphed him into a spendthrift. For me, watching dad blow every dollar he earned made me appreciate the value of a buck. A generation of kids observed their family deal with the devastating effects of the worse financial crisis since the Great Depression. The end result is many younger folk are more risk aware/averse, less engaged with the stock market and believe they’ll be worse off than their parents. Perception is reality. These sentiments tend to stick around a bit. Perhaps for an entire generation.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

She finally told me. It was a miscarriage. Not the first but for some reason this one hit her hard. I didn’t understand what that meant but I answered:

“Where is the bag of blood and bones?”

I wore that bruise from the smack in the face, for a week.

And to this day I wonder.

What the hell happened to that book?

The Bond Markets are Downright Spooky! Don’t Panic! (Slight Panic).

Posted on June 10, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

Richard Rosso.

The bond markets are downright spooked. Or are they??

It all depends on your perspective.

How much media hype can you absorb (and believe me there’s a feeding frenzy going on in the financial media) without running from bonds like victim trying to fruitlessly escape from “Leatherface,” the psycho killer in “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

You cannot escape!

What is a bond? Well, boys and girls a bond is a debt. You loan money to a corporation, a government, a municipality and for that you privilege you receive interest payments (income) and eventually, if the borrower is high quality, you’ll receive your original investment back (no this not like lending to your brother-in-law). And when interest rates go up, your bond may be worth less (if you try to sell it before it matures). Most important, when interest rates rise…..

IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD FOR BONDS!!!!

Look! A bonderoid just hit!!!

You would think we’re smack in the middle of the zombie apocalypse and bonds are biting and infecting portfolios. It’s World War B! (Sorry Brad Pitt I stole your cinema thunder for WWZ, coming to a theatre near you, soon).

Look there’s a zombie cat in World War Z!!!

So, let’s take a breath and examine this situation with level heads, shall we? Master Blogger, best-selling author, friend James Altucher advises readers, followers, to take deep breaths and hold for 4 seconds (or 4 ticks in the 10-year Treasury note yield).

Ok. Are we relaxed? Let’s get excited again!

Because..

OMG OMG OMG OMG!!! (MEDIA UNCUT INTERPRETATION).

Yes, is the short-term whoosh a bit unnerving in treasury yields? Sure. Most troubling, as bond prices were falling (due to rising interest rates), stocks were faltering too, especially the more “interest-rate” sensitive groups like utilities, MLPs, REITs. Overall, every asset class experienced a respectable pummeling.

The positive connection was a bit scary as I have diversification phobia. Based on research and observation, true diversification has become a challenge, especially since the financial crisis. As I’m paid to help clients reach personal financial benchmarks and manage portfolio risks, I’m a forever student on this topic.

Despite what you hear from the financial services industry, diversification is not some form of panacea. Yes, it’s important, however true diversification is becoming tougher to achieve these days. So, when bonds don’t provide diversification to the movements in stocks, it brings back night sweats circa 2008.

Some of my research for my second book leads me to the mysterious topic of diversification. Reading takes me back to the 1920’s: 1920-1929. From the writings of stock market sages long dust in the ground. From the defunct but once iconic “The Magazine of Wall Street.” Featured briefly in the recent remake of “The Great Gatsby.” Those movie people sure do their homework! I was shocked by the authenticity.

Here’s a meaty excerpt from October 23, 1926 I thought you’d enjoy:

“Diversification in securities is an art understood only by a few (comment: nice to know nothing’s changed) but remains prime necessity if the investor is to gain the greatest degree of safety without sacrificing the possibility of profit. To spread one’s cash among a number of different issues is not necessarily diversification.”

Strange. I’ve asked a few brokers what they believed diversification was and received the response: “To spread one’s cash among a number of different issues.” Hmm.

I miss you, 1926.

Stay with me. Hold the line.

“To diversify properly, it is necessary that a certain portion be allotted for safe-keeping and another portion for income and profit producing.”

I like that. So when bonds and stocks begin to move in the same direction, it causes me to sweat just a bit, become more aware of the macro conditions (mostly sweat).

Oh, where were we? Oh right: The move in bond yields.

And we have been deep-breathing, correct?

So. Oh yeah.

OMG OMG OMG OMG! Let’s think a bit longer term, shall we?

Yields are still lower than 2012, and even lower than 2011. Whew. Perhaps the sell-off was/is an overreaction. You mean we overreact in the bond markets now too? Sheesh!

I can hear the cry now: Has Ben Bernanke abandoned us?

Awww, heck no!!!

Now, now dry your eyes. Let’s review why BB is still supportive of risk assets and bonds are not as terrifying as everybody seems to believe:

1). First unemployment is nowhere near the Fed’s target of 6.5%. And based on past interest rate action higher or lower, we know that the Fed moves like an aged Fed Governor’s gait on ice. My favorite chart by Bill McBride shows how far the economy still needs to go before we even reach peak employment (pre-financial crisis). It’s like 62 months already. Is the situation improving? Yes. Slowly. However, the bond market is reacting like the economy is ready to reach escape velocity and we’re going to see major hiring right around the corner. It’s all about aggregate demand, stupid. And speaking of such.

According to the BLS (the Bureau of Labor Statistics):

Within leisure and hospitality, employment in food services and drinking places continued to expand, increasing by 38,000 in May and by 337,000 over the past year.

Retail trade employment increased by 28,000 in May. The industry added an average of 20,000 jobs per month over the prior 12 months. In May, general merchandise stores continued to add jobs (+10,000).

Health care employment continued to trend up in May (+11,000). Job gains in home health care services (+7,000) and outpatient care centers (+4,000) more than offset a loss in hospitals (-6,000). Over the prior 12 months, job growth in health care averaged 24,000 per month.

So, if my math is correct 94,000 out of the 175,000 jobs created in May were in lower-paying industries of the economy.

My favorite waitress at Cracker Barrel restaurant, Jessie Lou, does a great job. I’m certain she consumes. I know I’m a good tipper too. That doesn’t mean Jessie Lou has a lot of spending power. I’m thinking Ben Bernanke is examining the quality of the underlying jobs too before he decides to alter his actions.

2). Households are still deleveraging. A fancy way of saying they’re paying down debts. They’re not maxing out credit cards or using their houses as ATMs anymore. You see, corporations can shore up their balance sheets relatively quick, in a few quarters. It’s not the same for households. It takes time for household balance sheets to heal. Progress is happening. We’re just not there yet. I mean what are you gonna do? Fire the kids to lower expenses? No. You spend less (see below).

3).Nobody rings a bell, blows a whistle, no Paul Revere stuff happens when it comes to the reduction of a bond buying program. A metric doesn’t exist which helps markets gauge when the Federal Reserve decides to “taper” or stop their grand experiment so markets attempt to decipher what Bernanke says and then overreact to the overreaction.

Even when BB is crystal clear about his intentions, traders, investors, the media are seeking the meaning behind the meaning and taking out their guesses on stock and bond prices. Tell me if you heard this – If the economic news is bad that means the stock market will like it and head higher. If the news is really good that’s good too because that’s a signal that the Fed can unwind gracefully. Huh? Frankly, all of us involved with investments are guessing at best.

There’s no way to judge how the Fed extracts from this zero/low interest rate experiment but believe me the world is watching. It’s like taking a shower with the curtain open and having all the heads of global central banks sitting on the bathroom floor watching, waiting.

It all reminds me of one of my favorite games as a child – The Milton Bradley classic – “Operation.”

With a skilled hand you use tweezers to reach into “patient Sam” and extract all types of hilarious body parts – Adam’s Apple, Butterflies in the Stomach (a plastic butterfly), Spare Ribs.

Now the challenge is the plastic ailments are tiny. The openings within “Sam” are slim, so you must go in and extract without touching the metal edges of the openings with the tweezers, otherwise a loud buzz goes off and Sam’s red nose lights up like a Christmas bulb.

Right now, Bernanke has the tweezer on the Funny Bone and if he doesn’t use a steady grip to extract, he’s going to set off the buzzer on panic and stock, bond markets will light up red. Not an easy feat (and it won’t be funny). Appears BB has a real dilemma on his hands.

Markets will remain volatile and trade off headlines as we go through summer.

What to do?

FIRST, DON’T PANIC!!

Now..

1). Decrease your bond durations to 3-5 years. In other words, speak to your broker, adviser and have them decrease the interest rate sensitivity in your bond portfolio. Investors are not going to totally abandon bonds but we are going through a re-evaluation of bond yields which will drive you crazy.

4). Dividend-based and interest-rate sensitive stocks are beginning to look attractive again. For example, the exchange-traded fund XLU, which holds, well, S&P utility stocks, has worked off an overbought condition. I’m waiting for a positive MACD crossover before I enter. As of the close of business on Friday, June 7, the twelve month yield is 3.86% according to Morningstar.

Overall, we live in interesting times and our grand interest rate suppression experiment will make history.

For now, all we can do is breathe.

Waking up A: Living the JA Life.

Posted on June 2, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

It was the birth of Occupy Wall Street. Well, pre-birth. A genesis, that’s all I know. For me too. The start of an uprising. I was going to have lunch with my idol, new friend, a mentor. Any minute. Little did I realize, from this connection, this spark, the friendship that would ignite. The life-changing guidance I was about to receive at the foot of a muse. A master muse.

We were in the vicinity of Wall Street. On the concrete fringe. Lunch meeting at a sushi place. I was nervous. Couldn’t breathe (even though this muse advises thousands to breathe – Breathe deep). Feverishly texting a former friend about how I was about to pass out. Pacing. Pace. Pace. Pace. Dizzy.

For me, it was like meeting Superman, or some other bigger-than-life hero. I know for a fact when JA was in first grade, donning a red cape blanket, leapt from his bed, attempting to fly like Superman and almost broke his ass.

When I was in first grade I wore a blue blanket cape, a Ben Cooper Halloween Batman (plastic death) mask which cut like glass shards around my eyes, and ran around my parents’ Brooklyn apartment like a sugar-crazed, Drake’s cake-induced pudgy, Dark Knight. I’m sort of honored because JA appears to believe Batman was the true super hero – I have a tough time with this revelation.

I also as my mother scolded: “rubbed myself too much” to Julie Newmar who appeared as Cat Woman on the iconic 1966 Batman series (televised daily in afternoon re-run format I believe on New York’s WPIX Channel 11).

Here kitty, kitty.

There was this girl who lived next door. Linda. She was in Kindergarten. She portrayed a convincing Robin the Boy Wonder. Actually, she was gifted at playing a young boy from what I can piece together. I spoke to her six months ago and she’s a happily-partnered lesbian in Schenectady, New York. All makes sense now.

Although, as I ponder, I’m not really sure how happy anyone can be in Schenectady.

Supposedly, she remembered our antics and told me how badly I wanted Batman to fly (I never understood why he couldn’t, it was like a disability). She proceeded to describe how I jumped from a park bench on Ocean Parkway and twisted my ankle. Frankly, I don’t remember. She also told me my mother beat my ass for rubbing too much. Linda chuckled. I don’t recall that wonderful memory either. Either way, I’m glad I left such a lasting impression on her. Although I could have gone a lifetime without the rubbing commentary. Oh well.

You never truly know the imprint you’re going to leave on someone, do you?

Ben Cooper’s Halloween creations are/were the ultimate costumes of pop culture.

Back to JA.

A man who traveled so far through mind and body, an old soul, to get where he is today. And yet constantly learning. He is always fine tuning himself. He was, still is:

Endlessly. Evolving.

As I got to know him better, I realized how close in personality we were. After lunch we walked, I think 25 city blocks. In the heat, quick shuffling feet, of an urban summer.

JA said: “I like to walk.”

Well then: “I like to walk, too.”

I wondered: “If JA asks me to jump off a building in Times Square would I do it?”

Let’s say “no” wouldn’t have been my initial response.

As we discussed this new Wall Street protest, he provided color, texture to the situation as we moved, passed the masses shuffling lives on city streets.

“See all these people? They’re sad. They still think the financial crisis is here. Look at their faces.” Naturally, he won’t recall this but I do. And he was spot on.

We discussed women, philosophy, concepts, out-of-the-box ideas, the book I was writing, how I was unhappy dying a slow death at my job, his trials, tribulations, his death(s), resurrection(s), his failures, his beautiful wife C, my childhood, his upbringing. All the while, I wanted to know everything he did. From then on (aw hell, even before then)..

I wanted to be JA. Live the JA life.

Here I go.. Where would I pass, where would I fail? How am I most like/unlike this amazing person?

Random Thoughts:

1). James/Rich: PASS: Hair. Lord, our hair styles are the same. We always look like we just rolled out of bed. That makes us appear smart, yes?

Look we even wear matching vests!

2). Rich FAIL/James PASS – Being self-actualized as he is, JA appears to be funny, self-effacing about his curls – I abhor mine. JA writes – anger is unhealthy (it’s is a form of dishonesty to yourself). He describes how a brain loses intelligence, almost like it becomes oxygen-deprived if it bulks up on hate and anger. I sleep angry. I wake up several times a week, my pillow drenched in blood, because I bite my own tongue at 1 AM out of hate, regret, and every other dark lord that circles the blackness of my bedroom.

Usually, before the bloodletting, I’m dreaming of beheading someone from my past (usually a female), or I’m ten years-old again and my mother is nagging me to pick up cheap beer and tampons and pay for them with her ill-gotten food stamps. And food stamps in the 70’s were DOUBLE the size of personal checks you receive from the bank, which made them incredibly, exponentially, obvious and shameful.

The other night I was thrashing the bed covers as I pondered creative ways to slash the tires on a former corporate middle manager’s truck. Sometimes anger makes me happy. The end result is I bite myself. Bite others (don’t ask). Plasma-drench the goose down.

I’M WORKING ON THIS FAIL, LORD KNOWS. AND I’M PISSED OFF DOING IT.

3). Rich PASS/James PASS – I’m a relatively lukewarm father (and reminded of it on a regular basis). Sometimes my kid looks at me like I oozed out of some form of primordial vagina. I have no idea what to do. How to relate. I try out of sheer, blinding love but occasionally the actions to teach, guide, and provide fatherly advice to my daughter fail miserably.

JA consistently laments how he’s not geared up to be a dad. My thought is we beat ourselves up quite a bit psychologically over this – there are occasions I think we look at our girls wondering how the hell they got here and why. Are they supposed to teach us, break us? What exactly am I doing being a father? Fuck this.

From what I read, men are no longer important anyway. There’s a recent study circulating out there how all men are morphing into flesh and blood iterations of Homer Simpson. We’re stupid oafs. Insignificant. Is this how my daughter sees me? I think so.

My girl is interested in photography (thanks to me), I am encouraging her to be gay because I remind her daily how men, well, are indeed dumb, smell bad, are usually sticky and act mature briefly between the ages of 28-43. After that, the Low T kicks in, drives us insane and we do incredibly stupid, narcissistic shit. Before 28, we appear to be living in our parents’ basements masturbating to internet porn and playing X-Box (perhaps at the same time, not sure). We blame the financial crisis for this. And we get away with it!

4). Rich PASS/James PASS – JA writes in his new tome “Choose Yourself” – “Be the source. If you are the source of ideas, then you are ALWAYS the source. People come to the fountain and make wishes and throw money in. Don’t be a trickle of of dirty water. Be the fountain and let people know it by giving away all credit and rewards.”

I have always loved sharing my creativity, helping others and observing those people flourish due to concepts, ideas I provided. To me, it’s still one of the greatest sources of internal reward. In turn, I learn from those who acted upon my advice. On occasion I assist JA without realizing, until he tells me. Thanks me. And I’m on Cloud 9 for days. I do regret (JA says regret is unhealthy) providing ideas to former employers who utilized them only to fuck me over later which segues nicely to..

5). Rich FAIL/James PASS – JA flashed dogma-destroying death rays at me over the last few years. Corporate America is a sham, the “American Dream” of owning a house was a fabrication of the mortgage industry designed to enslave us, college was/is a waste of time. I was reeling, trying to repel, while at the same time, absorbing uncomfortably, his messages. There are components of all his ideas I fully believe – fortunately I realize every day how right he is. How mainstream JA’s ideas are becoming due to his relentless, important messages and his gift to communicate to/with the masses.

“Corporations don’t like you. This is not a surprise to capitalists and entrepreneurs or even artists. The entire idea behind a corporation is to set up a legal structure that takes advantage of cheap labor.” JA.

I’m also discovering through my own experience, how corporate bullies, after years of employee loyalty, seek to destroy – Physical health, financial well being. All at risk.

“Your former employer is trying to kill you,” JA said.

I believe him. He’s right. Yet, there are times I yearn to return to The Matrix. It’s scary out here working your own deal, especially as corporate behemoths try to create a financially, mentally, physically-breaking fairy tale designed to obliterate you.

I’m ashamed how, on occasion, I want to be plugged in again, returned to a system that minimized my talents, my potential, tried to “dumb me down,” for reasons I still don’t understand. There’s a comfort in this mechanism society has allowed to flourish. Sort of like a cancer gone ignored. So many lost, shareholder-owned souls with blank eyes, living dead or dying in cubicles. No need to improve. Afraid to speak up about what’s going on in Corporate America. How the employee no longer counts. Live a drone. Die a drone.

I want corporate board meetings televised on C-Span! Who’s with me?

“Stay the course, you’re doing great. I’ll help you get healthy again,” he advises. JA.

His words of encouragement, guidance keep me motivated. Steadfast. My health is improving, my self-esteem returning. I’m thinking clearer because of JA. One day I’ll document my saga with the assistance of a bestselling author.

6). Rich FAIL/James PASS – JA always walks, talks his “Daily Practice.” Like if we meet for dinner or lunch I know it’s going to be early, because he eats only two meals a day (and the last one is at two in the afternoon). I’ve learned to respect the “Daily Practice,” and his ongoing discipline to stick it out, but lord, I just can’t achieve his level. I strive each day, which should count for something. JA owns it, masters this stuff. I’m slowly getting there. Print the following. Read daily. And don’t be pissed off if you perpetually fail. One day some of these actions are going to stick and you’re going to be better for them.

JA writes: “Abundance only comes when you are moving along your themes. When you are truly enhancing the lives of the people around you. When every day you wake up with the motive of enhancement. Enhance your family, your friends, your colleagues, your clients, potential customers, readers, people you don’t know yet but would like to know. Become a beacon of enhancement, and then when the night is gray, all of the boats will move toward you, bringing their bountiful riches.”

JA’s Daily Practice.

7). Rich PASS/James PASS – JA is possibly one of the most empathetic human beings I have ever met. When he hosts his weekly Twitter Q&A, answers questions from lost or anguished souls, you can tell how passionately he seeks to advise and encourage. Since JA has blown through ten lives in 45 years, he pretty much has “been there and done that.”

He provides priceless content from his own experiences. Due to my own upbringing, as I outline in my book “Random Thoughts of a Money Muse,” I take people’s issues to heart. On occasion it helps me, once in a while it weakens me. Either way, it’s all good. It’s the ugly beauty of the human thread. JA gets it. I love him for it.

Follow JA on Twitter here: JA’s Twitter.

My book. Back cover commentary courtesy of who else? JA: Random Thoughts of a Money Muse. I would have never found my true voice without him.

8). Rich PASS/James PASS – I write daily. At least 1,000 words. Writing is therapy, and it’s a skill you must continue to hone or you lose it. Quick. It’s a bitch goddess monkey on my back to write every damn day. I don’t feel complete unless I document something or think of writing something for media, a blog, to myself, to brunettes I stalk. Whatever.

Damn him for getting me hooked on this writing crap. JA says you need to “bleed” in the written. In other words, you must share a bit of your inner most self with readers, even if it’s embarrassing. Goodness I have bled some strange, awkward material. Re-opened wounds. What else do you people want from me?

9). Rich FAIL/James PASS – JA recommends every day to read/skim chapters from books on at least four different topics. I can’t. I’m consumed with financial topics, non-fiction. I feel icky about myself if I venture into fiction. I do enjoy a good Maxim cover but hey, that’s non-fiction, right? Right? I must advance to areas that make me uncomfortable.

I love Eliza Dushku. No I mean I really, really, really (really).

10). Rich FAIL/James PASS – JA has found enriching ways to “choose himself.” I remain a work in progress. I’ve been programmed since I’m a kid – been told I was a dumb ass by the people closest to me. After a few years of brainwashing I began to believe it! Plus, I was afflicted with a horrible case of man boobs as a young boy and I was never selected to play dodge ball. Thanks to JA’s writings over the years, the empowering messages, I have altered my thinking. Re-programmed. Through exercise (a Daily Practice) I have conquered the man boobs too.

JA’s new book is available for pre-order here: Choose Yourself.

He practically gives his work away. I mean really. $4.99?

That’s who he is. Spreading the message. He’s like a Jewish Jesus. Oh wait.

I mentioned to JA I was writing this piece (he didn’t think this piece was about him). He’s so humble, he laughed.

I still have an e-mail from JA, dated 11/19/2012 after he read my first shot at writing a book.

Best. book. ever: With many thanks to you, James.

So creative. You have to be a writer: Nah, I’m just a money manager with stories to tell. Plus, I so like to share my most embarrassing moments – it humbles a person.

What’s the story now? Shit, I’m not sure. All I know is I’ll remain a friend and nothing you’re going to write will ever offend me enough to drop the connection (leave the denial over my man boobs out of it).

How are you promoting this? For now, I’ll promote you. Your new book. It’s a game-changer.

JA is indeed a super hero. Available in comic book form.

I just accomplished letter “T” of “The Daily Practice.”

Tell someone every day that you love them.

James Altucher: I just did?

Tomorrow is a new day to master the teachings.

And choose myself.

For that (and you) I remain grateful.

The Pop-Culture Frustration of Demographics.

Posted on May 26, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

All this stuff on Japan and aging and productivity from the Socrates of money, John Mauldin (the king) got me thinking. Naturally, I’m not an intellectual so right away I revert back to the comfy tub I feel best soaking in: POP CULTURE.

I’ll add my poppy, fluffy spin to his intellectual arguments (because then they’ll be interesting).

Let’s face it: Demographics are an economy slayer: The kids of the 1960’s & ‘70’s are experiencing enlarged prostates and menopause. Marsha Brady is menopausal?

OOPS I’m sorry. This is my “new” Marsha – Marissa Mayer President & CEO of Yahoo! If I had a cool name like Yaloo or Rumbler she’d buy me and I’d let her.

This ain’t good, folks.

“Sanford & Son,” starring the late, irreverent Redd Foxx as an elderly junk dealer living with his ambitious (when it comes to peddling junk and get-rich-quick schemes), adult son Lamont, was one of the funniest television shows of the 1970’s. It had a successful run from 1972-1977.

In 2007, Time Magazine placed the show on their list of the “100 Best Shows of All Time.” As Fred Sanford, Redd Foxx delivered some of the most memorable, wittiest lines on television. I thought Fred was old then. Now I look around and everyone appears to shuffle along lead footed, like him. Our population is indeed aging. Usually, that’s not good because demographics are everything to an economy.

When Fred was stressed out or in a predicament he would fake a heart attack for sympathy. He’d look up to the heavens, raise one arm, place a hand over his heart, go unsteady on his feet and moan to his dearly departed wife, Elizabeth: “This is the big one, I’m comin’ to join ya honey!” Now, heart attacks and other afflictions plague even the late baby boomers. I can get real gassy.

The 70’s celebrities are dropping like flies. We’ve lost Don Cornelius of “Soul Train,” Robert Hegyes who played Juan Epstein in the program “Welcome Back, Kotter,” and Bob Weston, musician and songwriter for the iconic 1970’s band “Fleetwood Mac.” Come to think of it TV’s beloved Horshack has bitten the dust too. I refuse to tell you who Horshack was. Look him up.

Here’ssss Horshack. NO, it’s not Anthony Weiner in high school. Don’t be silly.

As a kid, I was a ghoul-incessantly curious over celebrity deaths. In the early to mid-70’s, I couldn’t wait for the latest edition of the “The World Almanac® & Book of Facts,” to hit the racks at the local convenience stores. I was anxious to investigate celebrities who died that year.

The chunkiest book around contained everything you wanted to know about everything, published annually. The almanac was the printed version of the internet-an extensive source of data. Actually, the book is still produced and remains one of the best desktop reference books available. You can purchase at http://www.worldalmanac.com. The latest edition is over a thousand pages. It’s not boring and presented well.

In the 70’s, I had a habit of sneaking into the creepy, overgrown old (I mean old, dating back to the 1600’s), cemetery in my Brooklyn neighborhood and do my best to read faded tombstone epitaphs.

Today, there’s http://www.findagrave.com. I’ve been a big fan since 2006. An extensive web zone of 76 million dead, including the famous (and infamous) along with photos, biographies, and the ability for visitors to leave sympathy messages for the dearly departed. Not only the well-heeled are electronically interred here. I found my precious nana Rose’s grave record by searching her name.

Being on the wrong side of the demographic slide compels my mind to dance with the macabre. I begin to wonder what it’s like not to breathe anymore or release my bowels for no reason or without realizing it. You don’t need to be an academic to comprehend how as you age, your ability or willingness to contribute to economic growth decreases. Speaking for me personally I plan to be an overall drag to U.S. economic activity if by chance I get old. I’m not optimistic as some of you know.

What’s all the fuss? What is this thing called demographics? Well, demographics are the makeup of the people. Demographics are a deep analysis of the herd. Everything about how the masses live, move, age, die.

It’s the population and its pulse.

So, what’s your position in the herd behind the fence in a place called the United States?

For example, I’m a late baby boomer among the herd. Studies remind me how I’m ill-prepared for retirement, my hair line is receding, I’m afflicted with “low T,” whatever that is, I watch a disproportionate amount of television and control half of all U.S. consumer spending. For extensive analysis of social and demographic trends, check out http://www.pewresearch.org.

Television blares at me, advises I’m ready at a moment’s notice to take off on a motorcycle before or after I swallow the pill that magically drops the “dys” from the function of my erectile. Note to self: No motorcycle just yet (next year, maybe)

It’s tough when your function doesn’t function. That’s going to be the bumper sticker of my generation.

John Mauldin (Yoda) says:

“There are two, and only two, ways that you can grow your economy. You can either increase your (working-age) population or increase your productivity. That‘s it. There is no magic fairy dust you can sprinkle on an economy to make it grow.”

It’s not that difficult. You need more bodies to work, pay taxes, buy more stuff. Remember, our economy is dependent upon society’s ability to purchase and use services.

Robert D. Arnott a money manager, cutting-edge thinker and academic along with co-author Denis B. Chavis in a study titled “Demographic Changes, Financial Markets, and the Economy,” in the “Financial Analysts Journal,” using a large sample of countries and 60 years of data, outlines why a majority of us should be concerned.

The ominous conclusions of aging demographics have been in circulation awhile. This study identifies several key points that intuitively, without all the rigorous analysis behind it, make sense. Not only do the outcomes make sense, they will (do) have a material effect on how the herd lives, works and invests.

From the study:

Large populations of retirees (65+) seem to erode financial markets performance as well as economic growth. Retirees are liquidating investments to buy goods and services they no longer produce, and they’re no longer contributing goods and services into the macro economy.

Stocks perform best when the roster of people age 35-59 is particularly large, and when the roster of people age 45-64 is fast growing. Bonds prosper when the roster of people age 50-69 is growing quickly.

Per capita (each individual) GDP growth is strongest in populations dominated by young adults and in populations in which the young adult population is growing quickly.

If the working-age population (people between 20-60) is growing faster than the broader population, that should provide a tail-wind to per capita real (inflation-adjusted) GDP.

It’s finally time for me to reveal my lifelong frustration with David Cassidy.

All the adolescent girls in the neighborhood adored the genderless David Cassidy. He was a mega teen sensation rising to stardom in ABC Television’s “The Partridge Family.” I mock his existence, call him genderless, clearly out of sheer jealousy. He made me look and feel like “Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp,” from said named Saturday morning television program which ran in the early 1970’s.

Lancelot was the coolest chimp EVER. James Bond with back hair.

Candidly, David Cassidy was beautiful and I was disturbed over the pretty. I wanted to be pretty. What a flowing mane, what a nose, what a voice. He was everything I’m not (still is). Damn.

Do you realize David Cassidy aka Keith Partridge, as of this writing is 63 years old? The lionized former teen idol is now eligible for social security (although I wouldn’t advise him to take it until he’s much older).

By the way, if you go to http://www.davidcassidy.com, it appears his hair hasn’t aged at all. Hate him.

I’m secure enough in my manhood to say: DAVID CASSIDY WAS PRETTY.

When Keith Partridge celebrates his 72nd birthday, he’ll be one of ten senior citizens for each new working-age person. So things are going in the wrong direction as the working-age population shrinks. Again, what’s the significance to you? (Some info is repetitive but worth it).

Random Thoughts:

1). Overall long-term returns for popular asset classes like stocks and bonds will be muted. Saving more, working longer and smarter debt management are tactics that are going to result in greater financial reward. David Cassidy is still performing so he’s wealthy. He doesn’t need to worry. (Damn again).

2). Don’t be a big dummy like Fred Sanford’s, you know – Lamont. If you’re in good health, long life expectancies exist in your immediate family and you can postpone it without obliterating your lifestyle, wait to take social security for as long as financially possible. For the majority of us it’s the only “pension,” we’ll ever have so I understand if waiting isn’t advisable for you. Want an estimate of how long you’ll maintain the mortal coil? Check out http://www.livingto100.com.

My thought is if you’re 55 and older social security is going to be there, relatively intact. David Cassidy would benefit financially by waiting until he’s 70 years old to begin collecting social security benefits. For every month you delay social security benefits after “full retirement age,” whether it’s 65, 66 or 67, you receive a credit or an increase in benefits which is equal to two-thirds of 1 percent per month or 8 percent a year.

Anson Williams from the smash hit 70’s television show “Happy Days,” played a sort-of-goofy character named Potsie Weber. Potsie is 64. I’d advise him NOT to take social security yet.

I mean goofy is one thing, dumb is another.

3). The superstars of the 1970’s now require walkers. And when they fall they can’t get up without assistance. However, most are probably set for life and can make the social security payout decision easy enough because they don’t need to depend on the benefits to survive. You can’t be so dismissive.

I just read that the Scooter Store got raided by the Feds. Can this be possible? It’s a nightmare. I was truly upset. The Scooter Store, one of the nation’s largest suppliers of power wheelchairs and scooters, had about 1,800 workers. You ever see that Hoveround Power Chair? Jesus, it’s like a Harley to me.

I mean this Hoveround is a work of art.

Social Security is probably the only pension you’re ever going to receive. Be smart and labored with the decision. Work with a financial professional who can help you clarify your thinking and run the numbers for your unique situation.

4). Create your own pension. I vacuum when I’m stressed. I got that from my mother. No matter what shape mom was in, she always appeared ordinary, felt better when employing the vacuum cleaner. Perhaps she believed, in some way, it cleansed the personal psycho dirt she shed. Not sure. She had the most expensive vacuum on the block, I’m certain. And it was always a canister type. Never an upright model. Mom had her standards.

I’ll never forget. It was a 1974 turquoise “Model L, Electrolux” metal elongated baby with white trim. I must admit it was a pretty sight to behold (remember I grew up when the Ford Pinto was popular). I never thought a household appliance could be pretty, but it was. It was a loud sucking, rolling apex of normal in an abnormal household. Vacuuming gives me piece of mind and has absolutely nothing to do with annuities,

But…

There are a series of annuities called deferred-income annuities which are funded now for a lifetime income later on, preferably ten years or later. Best to purchase around age 50 or older. Generally, they’re less expensive than variable annuity options and you pretty much know how much income you or you and a spouse are going to receive for life. Bad part is you generally need to “annuitize” or have the insurance company have complete control of the money. In return, you’ll receive a check in the mailbox for as long as you or you and spouse will live.

A financial planner, adviser, consultant or qualified whatever can run the numbers and show you how or if an annuity structure is necessary.

All the strange talk I remember overhearing back in the 70’s: Pension, pension, pension. The word made me envious and I had no idea why. The “regular” older kids would talk about how their dads or granddads at a ripe old age like 55, would collect a check forever and never need to work again. They were excited about vacations. Imagine. What the hell is a vacation?

Even several episodes of “The Little Rascals,” referenced old people and their precious
pensions. The word got stuck in my head. I was sensitive to the sound of it. Those reruns
ran constantly in the 1970’s, too. They were considered antique even then.

Side note: Mrs. Crabtree from “The Little Rascals” was so hot. Sorta reminds me of Mayer.

As John Mauldin (God) wrote in the following, and he’s been writing about Japan for years:

Japan is on the Brink of Disaster.

Demographics are not on their side.

Let’s face it.

We’re all getting older.

Did you hear that?

It was my knee.

Great. Just great.

Nap time.

A Sign of the Times: Ten Reasons to Envy the Undead.

Posted on May 25, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

Zombies are overwhelming your metropolis. No, no, not politicians and bankers.

Real live (dead) zombies!

Ok, not as spooky as politicians or bankers (especially the central banking types), but you get the picture.

Someone I admire, he’s like a Socrates for our times,suggests that zombies represent a world of pervasive loneliness. I love this man to death but I sat there puzzled, thinking: I still don’t comprehend the zombie loneliness theory as they do tend to stagger together in groups. In the blockbuster TV show “The Walking Dead,” the living “living” coins this behavior as “herding.” The living dead herd. Who knew. That’s a form of bonding, no?

Good enough reasons to keep your doors locked, people!

Not that locked doors work for long. After all, a mere few zombies can turn over cars; bolted doors and flimsy plywood nailed over windows buys you just enough time to say goodbye to loved ones. Let’s face it: Sooner or later you’re a food source. I was told that by a senior-level executive at one of those big box home improvement stores that most plywood is now exported from China. Chinese plywood = balsa wood? I don’t trust it.

Zombies are so white hot-popular right now; these decaying, staggering masses or the deadest of “us,” easily steal attention away from the likes of a Kim Kardashian or the pinkish-hue of a Lindsay Lohan. I could be a bit off base about Lindsay. Her antics can easily draw attention away from zombies depending on the severity of the wardrobe misfire or an occasional sexy bikini wedgie (thank you, TMZ).

The living dead have risen in prominence. And this time the uprising could be permanent. For decades their popularity has ebbed and flowed yet their presence has never truly decayed. Now they’re everywhere you turn. It’s the zombie time to shine!

I’ll occasionally catch myself darting an eye over my left shoulder when in a public place because I’ve grown downright zombie paranoid. In this economy, I should be more concerned about the living seeking to steal my wallet but since I believe a zombie apocalypse is now imminent, I continue to be increasingly living-dead aware.

I’ll list the rationale behind my deep-seated zombie fever and why I so envy them:

Random Thoughts:

1). They don’t fret over making ends meet. As a matter of fact, their ends are sort of decomposing, falling apart. Zombies don’t fret to pay the cable bills, meet mortgage payments or deal with brain-rotting college tuition costs. The days of anguish over the daily money monkeyshines of the living are gone! Surviving takes on a totally different perspective. How I relish those with reckless abandon who can just chase and bite, stagger and gnash like rabid animals.

The Federal Government has even been known to send dead people unemployment and social security checks but they have no need to cash them. I’m jealous. The very mortal coils of everyday fiscal obligations are broken. We are envious of the financial freedom. Who wouldn’t be?

2). There’s a thrilling bon vivant nature about the undead I admire. Zombies are brazenly wasteful and they just don’t care! Again, I’m envious. If the living dead are so hungry why do they take no more than two bites of prey and move on? It’s not like there’s endless supply of warm bodies to nosh on. Humans don’t grow on trees. Has anyone seen what’s happening to global demographics? We’re all aging. It’s only a matter of time before there are more living dead than living.

The undead must do better with food handling. What about all the starving zombies in China? Even when they decide to dig hard and tear deep through a victim, zombies don’t appear to be eating. Looks like they’re playing with their food (in this case elbow-deep in intestines, organs and other nondescript red slimy entrails). If I played with my food with such passion as a kid, I would have been in enormous trouble.

Again I reference the best cable show out there – In the AMC hit television series “The Walking Dead,” a believable explanation for the genesis of said program title emerges. At least it allays some of my frustrations over the deliberate waste of the fresh, walking food supply.

In the Season One finale “TS-19,” the sole remaining doctor at the Center for Disease Control (gingerly insane yet very sage from a lethal combination of: Isolation underground for an extended period, shooting his wife, test-subject 19, in the head once-her usefulness as an infected under observation concludes, and conceding to the awful truth that there is no cure for the afflicted,) outlines findings I find plausible.

Doc Jenner explains:

The disease invades the brain like meningitis (OK – I heard that’s bad).

The brain stem is restarted. Gets them up and moving (makes sense to me).

Most of the brain is dark: Dark, lifeless, dead. The frontal lobe, the “you,” the human part is gone (it does appear that way).

TWD writers are so damn smart.

I have concluded (I think), animated dead folk are indeed ravenous. They just don’t possess the human or humanity (what’s left is a tiny spark of light at the base of the brain) to make the most of preserving the food source.

I’m cutting the dead some slack. Although I’m sure if they cornered me I wouldn’t be shown mercy. My physical trainer says I’m very “fatty,” so my succulence would be too much for all those walking brain stems.

Dr. Steven Schlozman, a psychiatrist, Assistant Professor at Harvard Medical School and author of the book “The Zombie Autopsies,” would agree with Dr. Jenner’s conclusions and sizes up zombie appetites in a further professional manner perhaps because he never lost a loved one to a zombie nibble:

“The ventromedial hypothalamus (in the brain), which tells humans whether they’ve had enough to eat, is likely to be on the fritz in zombies, who have an insatiable appetite.”

It’s clear to me now.

3). Zombies don’t require exercise and it’s inevitable they’re going to lose weight without much effort. I so hate them for this. As a matter of fact, even though Hollywood never seems to get it, if survivors can survive long enough, hunker down, the dead are literally going to rot. It’s not like they’re embalmed. Well I guess some are – I’m sure, even preserved, staggering corpses ostensibly succumb to harsh weather elements.

I sort of admire how “walkers” (what zombies are called in “The Walking Dead,”) can be wasteful (and eat whomever they want) without any repercussions. Damn them. Damn them all even more than they’re already damned.

Give it time: The weight loss will be deadly. Zombies should be dragging around close to the ground like clumps of fermenting flesh if you’re patient and resourceful enough to stay alive. Then go ahead. Leave your hiding place, brazenly walk up and do a step and squash on what’s left of a head. Simple. My boots are ready! Although stomping on zombie cranium “feels” too much like exercise to me.

And what about those quick sort of disturbing athletic zombies in movie director Zack Snyder’s respectable remake of “Dawn of The Dead?” I stubbornly refuse to relent to running zombies. These primal hollows of our living selves just cannot (should not) sprint.

From Doc Schlozman’s book “The Zombie Autopsies,” the wisdom flows freely like blood from a gaping bite wound:

“Slower degenerative processes in the cerebellum explain the initially intact gait of the infected, even though they all become increasingly unbalanced with time. That’s why they hold their arms out in front of their bodies: for balance and increased coordination. They just want to remain upright, on their feet. But the process continues, the cerebellum degrades, liquefies. Virtually all late-stage ANSD humanoids ambulate via crawling.”

AH-HA! See? Running zombies are an abomination! Listen up movie-makers!

I prefer my zombies slow, staggering and overwhelmingly off kilter. Like me on a Friday night. Hey, call me a purist. AMC’s “The Walking Dead,” gets it right. Again!!

FYI – ANSD stands for: Ataxie Neurodegenerative Satiety Deficiency Syndrome. The internationally accepted diagnostic term for zombiism. Thanks again Dr. S. Feel free to steal this for your next cocktail party.

4). Zombies don’t seek to bathe. And the living don’t seem to care! C’mon – Zombies should stink to high heaven. So, why don’t victims smell them coming from at least half a mile away? I once went an entire week without bathing in 1989. That’s after parent-basement sex with two women, eating several boxes of Entenmann’s orange-swirled icing and chocolate Halloween cupcakes, ten Big Macs and washing it all down with large cups of coffee overwhelmed with heavy cream. I recall plenty of female grimaces followed by waves of disgust. Good thing I barely left the house back then.

You rarely see disgusted looks on the faces of the living who meet up with the rotting side of us.

How many times have you heard the following lines in zombie flicks?

“I can’t handle the smell of these walking maggot bags.”

“My eyes are watering from the stench of these fuckers.”

“I’m going to vomit from the ungodly odors these dead things throw off.”

Not many.

Well, to give further credit (yet again) to the writers of “The Walking Dead,” there have been various references to puke, puking and zombie dead-body odor peppered throughout episodes. They’re passionate about authenticity unlike most who cater to us zombie zealots. I salute them.

5). Zombies don’t discriminate. They’re equal opportunity biters, infiltrate all races and cut a bloody swath across political lines. They gain greater attention when economic conditions deteriorate or improvement is anemic. Sure, they seem to pop up during times of social unrest. Since the last recession, the most severe in decades, zombies have been in a downright frenzy to take over the world.

6). The undead have been around longer than you have. I envy the staying power. Although, I don’t recall them as relevant and so overwhelmingly popular. And I’ve been keeping track of their ebb and flow since I first bug-eyed watched the groundbreaking black and white cult classic “Night of the Living Dead,” by zombie Master Movie Maker George A. Romero, on a yellow plastic thirteen inch black & white TV in 1973.

In 1968, the year “Night” was released, the Vietnam War was raging, civil rights protests were grabbing headlines and Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. It cost a grandiose $114,000 to make which even then for a movie was a pittance of a budget. It had grossed over $30 million worldwide.

Romero created a controversial stir by featuring a black man, unknown stage actor Duane Jones, as the brave and resourceful hero while most of the men in the cast were blowhard, wishy-washy or backwoods white folk.

Romero also played up the contemporary theme of government distrust as dead body brains are “activated” (allegedly) by radiation expelled from the explosion of a space satellite, the “Venus Probe.” Throughout the film, there are shots of military/government officials (actors) fleeing from television news cameras all the while denying the connection between the radiation and the returning dead who make a meal out of the living. For gosh sake I thought I saw Eric Holder running from a reporter.

The bitter irony of the movie is how Ben (Duane Jones) solely survives the night of ghoul attacks by locking himself in the basement of an abandoned farm house only to be shot in the head the next morning by a white member of a sheriff’s posse as he’s mistaken for one of the remaining zombies roaming the countryside.

I remember watching: Scared to death, frozen. Shocked. I recall muttering the words: “This really sucks.” I hated the ending but I understood the point Romero was trying to make. Well, I think I do. Back then I interpreted the messages through a warped mental pre-teen siphon. Actually, I still believe my interpretations hold up.

I wondered:

First, why even bother to survive a zombie hoard if you’re going to be shot in the head by your own people (the living kind) anyway? What a waste.

Second, make more noise and scream actual words like the living (not guttural grunts like the dead) if you see a posse out a window! Ben, Ben, Ben. You were too quiet. I understand you just went through hell and you’re bit dazed but if it’s me I’m screaming like a sissy living, defecating human who just soiled his Fruit of the Looms!

Third, based on the social turmoil of the 60’s, I think Romero sought to use the film to convey messages about the futility of the Vietnam War (conflict) and the tragic assassination of MLK, Jr.

In other words: Go ahead fight the good fight, be honorable, stick to your convictions, but understand there is still a great risk. The hero can indeed fail or die.

I hated how Romero sacrificed Ben at the end (I know I mentioned that, already).

Fourth, an interracial couple holed up in a farm house (even when the female is young, blonde and completely unresponsive) doesn’t mean sex is definitely gonna happen. Huh? Not when Ben is around!

I was wondering when he was going to rip off Barbara’s (played by a very blonde actress named Judith O’Dea), clothes but all he did was comfort and protect her. Well, he did knock her out with a hit in the face but it was perfectly understandable. She was unhinged after watching her brother become zombie brunch.

Even after she clawed at her scarf – “it’s hot in here, hot.” NOTHING. Ben, you helped me understand what being a gentleman really means. Can you imagine if Romero had Ben have his way with Barbara? Talk about controversy in 1968! Today, Ben would be in hot water for placing a slipper on a white woman. DID YOU SEE WHAT HE DID? A MINORITY WITH A FOOT FETISH LIVES AMONG US.

You sure do get to see the best (and worst) in people during times of disaster. THAT was the true message in Romero’s classic to me.

I still vividly remember the first time I watched “Night” on the ABC Saturday evening late show. The idea of zombies was sort of goofy to me before then. I believe I watched Scooby Doo trip one up on morning television. To me they were clunky comedy relief. In black and white, late at night and thirsty for blood, zombies gained more of my respect. Scooby Doo was either brave or just a big dumb dog.

It was that dead woman at the top of the stairs. It was that devoured face. It was the eyeball staring, piercing me through an old rabbit-eared RCA television screen. My perception of zombies had changed. Forever. They haunted me from that moment. If I would have known how popular they were to become I would have given up on this money management business a long time ago. There was a fortune still yet to be made exploiting the undead.

OK, enough of that. Next.

7). These ghouls laugh at our complacency with money. Actually I believe it’s a gaping, black-mouthed sort of bloody drool they mock us with. If they could, walkers would indeed chuckle at the jaw-dropping (and on occasion zombies are missing a jaw) willingness for many investors to remain with financial firms that don’t treat them as they deserve to be treated. Not enough communication, too much conflict of interest, high fees which eat up returns. I hear the complaints consistently and then inquire about or suggest a course of action.

All I receive is a zombie-like glazed over milky-white pupil stare. Fight the zombie of complacency!! Seek an objective, fee-based registered investment adviser. Check out the following blog entry from Clarityfinancial, LLC on the right questions to ask your current or prospective financial adviser.

How to Grill a Current or Prospective Financial Partner

Read more. Perfect segue to push my book, but I don’t want to appear self serving. It’s too ghoulish. However, order Reformed Broker Josh Brown’s tome “Backstage Wall Street.” There’s lots of meat in this (for the living). Josh’s has a gift to communicate. His writing so sharp, the information delivered so lethal, it’ll slay the evilest of complacency corpses. Want the true story about what motivates your broker? Then..

Order Josh’s Book!

8). Zombies seem to get along just fine without technology. It’s like when they die, then eventually rise again, they have a keen sense of where the next two-legged meal happens to be hiding. No GPS required. No Google Maps. I also like how the living dead don’t feel the pressure to create some retweetable bon mot along with clever hashtags for it – #holdinginmyliver #thatguytastedlikechicken #wheredidIleavemyseveredhand #birdnestineyesocket.

9).The ultimate revenge: Zombies may eventually be hired by large corporations. The time is almost near. Employees of large publicly-traded organizations are burning out, dealing with lowest wage increases (if any) in decades in the face of some of the fattest profit margins in years. It’s all about the shareholders now. As a money manager I love it. As an employee I abhorred it. So it’s only a matter of time before you as an employee are replaced by the living dead. Makes perfect sense. They won’t need to be paid, just fed entrails.

No benefits, no vacations, no sick days. No more being pissed off over hiring workers in emerging and frontier markets as they no way could compete with a zombie workforce. Hey, you no longer need an HR department either (hell I don’t even know why they exist as they appear to be human and resourceful exclusively to the executive level).

In Romero’s classic “Dawn of The Dead,” the zany scientist was making progress teaching “Bub” the zombie how to perform simple tasks. And that was over thirty years ago. Imagine the progress we would make with today’s technology. Stick ’em in a cubicle. When they desiccate, just scoop what’s left, discard. Replace. And no 401(k) rollovers to worry about either. Or pensions. Oh wait, what’s a “pension?” I’m thinking corporate R&D spending will be focused toward “Bub Projects.” Don’t laugh. You’re a bub away from replacement.

It’s all about the profits and share prices. You’re an expense to corporate America. Don’t think so? Read on:

Shareholder value is ruining America

10). Zombies compel me to examine the fate of the human condition. Why do they fascinate some of us? Do they represent how primal we can become? Why did the first nude zombie turn me on? I’m just not intellectually gifted enough to interpret all this. Truth is I just want to enjoy being afraid.

Leave it to George Romero to feature living dead butt. In 1968. Not bad, right? Admit it.

Perhaps my smart friend was right. Maybe zombies do represent loneliness, our lost ability to communicate, the hunger for human warmth, the need to fortify when conditions feel out of control.

Or perhaps, we just plain like to be scared.

Don’t overthink.

Just go with it.

Gatsby’s Greatest Mistake – Avoid Death Through Eternal Hope.

Posted on May 15, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

“I never met a man with such hope. I doubt I ever will again.” Nick Carraway.

Mr. Jay Gatsby clearly didn’t thrive on this plane. He was bigger than life, above earth, to many who knew him. Knew of him. Men, women, actors, senators, commissioners, vagabonds, freaks, all ages, all shapes, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the pimple-faced kid who delivered the freshest produce every mid and end of week who stuck around a bit too long to catch a glimpse of mystery.

Clearly, everyone was aware of Gatsby, or at the least, the image of the man formed over years of discipline, sacrifice, study, focus. Amazing, blinding focus. The thousands who entered the masterful iron gates of his 40,000 square-foot mansion on weekends, who took advantage of the endless flow of hospitality, each one, had a story. To Nick, Gatsby seemed like a soul ready to dance on the edge of tragedy. Stripped of protective barrier, Gatsby was a mere boy playing adult games. There was a story which circulated, cut deep through the heat of party goers and the lights. So much light. It blinded Nick.

“I heard he even killed a man.”

Gatsby never belonged in the present. His closest friend, if Gatsby held a real friendship, observed the inner distraction, perhaps a bordering on obsession.

Nick was convinced: Something outside this world was eating Gatsby alive. At least that’s what he believed.

Looking down, Nick observed Gatsby’s rich leather shoes. Always polished. He laughed. It was his way of knowing Gatsby existed in the physical realm. One day Nick would imagine, he’d look down and Gatsby’s feet would be hovering about a foot off blue lawn, like a spirit ready to speed off to another planet. A Godly mission perhaps?

Nick wondered: Where did Gatsby’s heart rest? Standing majestic, always dressed for perfection, looking into him, Nick would observe, feel the distance, beyond the deep blue of Gatsby’s eyes. Who was Jay Gatsby anyway?

A spy? A killer? A hero? Did he even remember?

Nick asked himself repeatedly – “Who owns and chains Jay Gatsby’s soul?”

Nick noticed how Gatsby would uncomfortably shift to and from the current. He was much like the white water which ebbed and flowed along a lush, personal beach.

Nick was fascinated. There existed a beautiful sadness, a breathless longing, a waiting in a smile that caught itself before completion. There was true genius here. An honesty, a passion locked deep. He knew things you didn’t. You didn’t want to know.

Depending on the conversation, Nick could release the child-like innocence who was Gatsby. Gatsby before all the trappings. The hungry one. The one who felt.

Behind wispy delicate beauty purchased from wealth, lived a man awaiting release. Or redemption. A better life. Completion. Forgiveness, perhaps. Nick would write feverishly in his journal – “Heartbroken. Distracted. Innocent. Mysterious spirit. Dangerous.”

“Yet hopeful. Always amazingly hopeful.”

Immersed in overly decadent trappings of the richest mahogany and purple-blue carpet which felt like crushed velvet under foot, Gatsby was a polished, preserved shell draped in the finest light linens and deep silk vests designed solely to fit his swimmer’s body, snug. From the calloused fingers of artist-immigrant tailors at Herbinger’s of New York City.

Stuck rich between youth and maturity, estrangement and engagement. Waiting for a bridge to be built between past and future – One vital piece remained untethered for the polished yet raw of Jay Gatsby.

“Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.”

Every reserved step, each over-the-top party, the plethora of salt breeze which swirled over Long Island Sound direct through his open balcony door, sought to embrace him. It felt best not to touch. The salt-air felt thick, solid – yet it played teasingly gentle with billowed drapes. Silk flown in directly from Singapore, woven by hand, wrapped Gatsby in the future of a dream not yet realized. He raised a manicured finger. Lowered his head. Sandy hair once coiffed, now tussled by wind. Breathing in and out.

Pointed forward. Eyes closed. The pain of her. Her absence radiated from deep his chest.

Traveled on emerald bright.

A salvation: His salvation.

Where the woman, a human light, who held his soul captive like a seirene, for half a decade now.

Danced gleefully behind the green light. Where she lived.

Little did Daisy know when she spun on the dock like a little girl, with the green light as beacon, Gatsby felt her. He felt nothing deep except her presence.

The lights from his mansion across the water,most of the time launched in Technicolor, was designed to capture an elusive star. The music, the crowds, the fireworks. All for her attention. A tactic designed to push a love, Daisy, back to where they started. It was five years. To Gatsby, it was yesterday. Everything stopped unless Daisy was part of the equation.

Thought across the water, he would focus on the only shine that mattered to him. The green. The calm. The pure of color messaged him. It was code to his soul not yet released. His heart to join past and present rode on a wave of robust hope.

He created an elaborate stage – a world of players he observed but never touched. Except for Nick. There was a difference about him. He reminded Gatsby of a brother he left a life ago.

And for all Gatsby appeared to his those he played to, his foundation, his emotional as well as financial footing was shaky. Perhaps we love this timeless story because perfection is born from imperfection.

However, you can never run from who you truly are. As well as you dress, as elegant as you speak, there’s something tragic about all of us. Gatsby couldn’t touch the imperfect. It was a realization how truly flawed he was.

Daisy Buchanan was smart enough to accept her station. Her willingness to party, her vacuous nature, was truly who she was. Gatsby tried to acquire her. He created an inner image of her. An image he could control. And wanted so badly to believe. Who he loved wasn’t Daisy. It was his wish to save her, perhaps possess her. A projection. A feeling lost he needed returned.

“I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything…Sophisticated – God, I’m sophisticated.”

Writer’s note: Daisy was a pompous twit. But she knew it. Admit when you’re a pompous twit, people will hold a greater respect for you.

Everything Gatsby built, everything Gatsby sought, everything he had become, born of incredible focus. (Was. For. One. Person. And. It. Wasn’t. Him.)

Ostensibly it killed him. Death after going so deep, was the only answer. It was the only conclusion F. Scott could have come to. Gatsby was so mired in his dream, so far gone, only death could release.

So what can we learn from this classic?

Random Thoughts:

1). Gatsby’s parties and trappings were a horrible return on investment. If the elaborate wealth was bankrolled by Prohibition then what would happen when it all ended? And Prohibition did indeed, end. Gatsby surely spent more than he took in.Only a matter of time before Daisy being as spoiled as she was, would depart. As soon as the cash ran dry. I have no doubt Gatsby as a fighter, would have found another way to build a fortune. To recover. Unfortunately, his true focus for it would have long exited. And possession should never be every reason to acquire wealth, especially when it comes to the acquisition of a heart, love. A feeling. Gatsby loved how he felt around Daisy. He was willing to pay anything for that feeling. He was paying with his life and she really wasn’t concerned. If Gatsby was able to spend more time in the present, he probably would have figured this Prohibition thing was going to conclude. He held enough contacts to uncover this information and ostensibly work to protect his wealth.

2). Gatsby suffered from abhorrent emotional and cognitive biases. First, he lived in the past. Only the past. I’m sure hindsight bias troubled him. I’m sure he obsessed over past investment mistakes because in hindsight, he knew they were going to fail or do well. He needed to control so much of his projection, his journey, his capture of a love that died a long time ago, he could have never admitted he was wrong. As Nick wisely told Gatsby: “You can’t bring back the past.” Can’t repeat the past?…Why of course you can, old sport!”

“He wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was.”

Writer’s note: His love for Daisy was the love he lost for himself.”

Gatsby was inflicted by regret aversion. He held on to lots of “losers,” much longer than he should have. All his party goers, the people he provided a “respectable front” for business dealings, DAISY (biggest loser as it cost him his life). Don’t hold on to losing investments thinking the’ll recover. Forget holding on to feelings, or hope that someone you loved will return. A bullet in the chest and a float in the pool are the results.

“They are a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”
I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time.”

3). Find and then appreciate your Nick Carraways. The true alliances, the objective financial partners who will provide truth even when it hurts, those who make up your inner circle. The ones who listen, care, the ones who truly feel your pain. So much it changes them. And you. Those who embrace who you are now. Learn to love the Nick inside you, too. For some odd reason, Nick was Gatsby’s true salvation; he just couldn’t make the pieces fit. Your human outliers, the ones who think outside the box, but are pure of heart are worth more than any Gatsby-like fortune. Write down who those people are. Call them. Write. Tell them now what they mean to you. Cherish. Thank them for sharing the brutal, beautiful truth. These people provide clarity.

“Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.”

4). Understand Gatsby was dead before he hit the water. The bullet was merely release. A method to move on. Forced by the hand of another. We, on occasion, are moved forward by the force of another. Harsh realization from a past love, an illness that sets you back, a business failure (which is not a defeat), depression, an inner disappointment. Let’s face it. Daisy wasn’t going to return to Gatsby and for him, it meant all he built was false, mere illusion. It was time for him to deal with the demons. And they were powerful. He made them so. Death was a good way for Gatsby.Majestic. Full of story. Bigger than life. It’s not yours. Remember the bullet that caused you to move forward, bleed, then drown. Time to emerge. Remember what you’re made of. Some dreams are not fucking healthy. They hold you captive. Daisy wasn’t going to call. She was long gone. Years back. She knew how to work the Great Gatsby.

“He must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about…like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.”

5). Know when your light goes from green to red. To much hope will blind. The blinking beacon, your overwhelming focus, will trick you. The light you seek should always be green. The light inside you should be red. Somewhere between is where reason should flicker. You’ll then know when to change the path to the green light. Or perhaps you’re focused on the wrong dock. The wrong light. There’s more than one green light out there. Find them all. Know when to change the bulbs, change the focus, move to other docks.

The phone will ring. You’ll attempt to exit the pool, complete the illusion.

And that may be the worst possible outcome.

Gatsby died with hope, from eternal hope.

Create life through hope. It’s healthy in doses.

Realize when hope is not enough.

Run faster, stretch your mind, move past your comfort zone, stretch your arms.

Know when hope creates illusion, self denial.

Because then you’re in the pool.

And going under.

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter- tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning-“

How to get over, over. A Survival Guide for Riding Life Rails.

Posted on May 5, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

“If you keep crying, they’re going to mug us. Or worse!”

It was my good friend Michael. And Me. A duo. Buds. – in the grip of a humid, restless haze. Saturday morning at 11. August, 1974. Off to a Coney Island adventure. My idea.

Bad idea.

On an elevated subway. The “F” line. Nothing smelled Brooklyn summer like stale urine, heat and metal grinding as the train made its regular stop at the Avenue U station.

“This is going to be so great,” Michael said as we sat.

Then I noticed them. After a few seconds. It was too late.

The travelers.

Two cars down. Then one. Even though the yellowed, scratched Plexiglass of the exit doors between cars kept bouncing, turning, as we headed closer to the destination, I could see them. Trying to get over. Over other riders. Fear and intimidation were the first weapons of choice. And if they weren’t getting anywhere, most likely a weapon was waiting – ready to make an appearance. Usually a knife. Stiletto blade. Sharp. Sharpest.

I glanced over at boy wonder. Staring out the window. He could barely stay in his seat. Turning his head toward me, talking rapidly about all the cool things we would do in urban America’s (in)famous amusement park. Michael was younger. Two years. Unaware of the travelers. I chose not to alarm him – It was too late anyway. The psycho train had left the station. Next stop was an eternity away. Best now to figure a way to get over, over the travelers.

Two of them. On my fear radar. I felt panic rise and settle in my throat. I couldn’t swallow. No matter how many times the travelers find you there’s fear and panic. There’s a throat collapse.

Frequent riders had a sixth sense about this stuff. They always knew when travelers were closing in. After a few trips, you just felt when their cold shadows were near. They rode the rails at all hours. Young, angry, looking for prey. Money mostly. But if you set them off and god knows what set them off, they would hurt you. Urban train ghouls.

Michael kept squawking One long excite-ence. Strings of syllables peppered with exciting thoughts – rides, games, food, more rides, games. food! It all comforted me. Nobreathinbetweenwords. His energy was contagious. This morning I needed to catch it. His positive vibe was my strength.

“Where you kids headed?”

We looked up. Travelers above us. Facing us. Towering over, over our minds, our thoughts. Overwhelming. They were kids too – but old. Old, evil souls. Having the upper hand must age travelers. I kept a mental note.

Michael knew quick. I could see it in his face. Fast learner. His excitement stopped. It was there and gone. In a second. From chatty to quiet. Split-speed breathless. I thought I could hear his heartbeat. Or was it mine?

“We’re headed to Coney Island.” I threw in: “Our parents are meeting us at the station.”

I could see the parents commentary threw them off a bit. They weren’t expecting that. Time to throw another blow before they could continue their terror-sales pitch. You see, years ago, travelers would warm you up to a mugging. Feel you out a bit. You can detect them – mentally processing a next move. Go in for the take or travel on. To others. Was it worth it this time? Could I hold a poker face? Who would win the game in the tunnel shadows? I looked down casually. I could see the switchblade. Gleaming white, oyster-like handle. I slowly, casually, moved my eyes higher to meet theirs. The travelers.

“Yea, my father is a cop. He works Coney Island. Tough dude, too.”

I could see progress. It was working. I was calm, collected. Solid delivery. It was all in the delivery. The belief. The get over, over was in the belief. Then delivery.

But

Michael.

He can’t get over, over.

Shaking, sobbing. Slobbering. Strengthening the travelers. Crawly traveler fingers working toward the knife.

“So your daddy is a cop, huh,” Traveler #1 snickered.

I maintained my composure. Surprisingly calm. Living in the moment.

“Yes, a good one. For years. He’ll be waiting for us at the station.”

In my mind, “dad” became, he WAS: Roy Scheider in “The Seven-Ups.”

Bad ass.

Then it happened…

An over, over.

Random Thoughts:

1). Decide. Now. Right Now. Who Get’s Over, Over: – Life will overwhelm you. Ride over you. It’s a bitch traveler. We are travelers. You’re a traveler. Looking to get over. But who gets over, over? Who wins? You must. Size up your overs. They are in your life now. They’re there every day. A mindless boss is an over, a partner who saps your strength, a person who says they care, then they don’t, the guy who cuts you off in the parking lot. All travelers. Your mind is the ultimate traveler. Ready to knife you unless you can get over, over. Until you can convince it not to. True belief. Cool delivery. Think ahead. Work backwards.

Analyze a situation from the conclusion you seek and work backwards to create steps to get over, over. Oh, you’re in for a mugging. You can’t avoid it. It’s ok to be Michael. To wobble. To sob. Until it’s time. To turn it over. In your mind build the over, over muscle. Keep fighting. You will die without the over, over. Or face a life worse than death. Always afraid of the travelers.

2). Someone is going to get hurt in the over, over. Blood will spill. Your blood will run because you ride both tracks. To and from your destination the travelers await. You must board the train knowing the over, over is a healer. You’ll live to ride again. More aware of travelers than ever before. Cold shadows – warm now. You’re behind the over. You’re strong enough to get over, over. What’s in store for you on your next trip? Your next business venture? Failure is an over. How do you get over, over to succeed? How will you climb the carcasses, ghosts of past travelers?

3). Get over, over your financial derail. A mistake you can’t get over. Because you make the same mistake consistently. You sit on losing investments thinking they’ll “come back.” You can’t get over, over. Intel was at 90 bucks a share in 1999 and it’ll over, over at 100 again. Your cost basis is a traveler. Anchoring in on the price you paid for an investment is a mugger. It robs you of money. Instead of experiencing the cut, the blood, you sit and wait. Forever. When the money could have been over, over in a winning investment.

Michael was crying. Still.

“And what about you fat ass? Is your dad a cop, too?” Traveler #2 laughed. Directed his question. In Michael’s face.

“No,” Michael said. My dad is in the army. And he taught me something.”

Suddenly, Michael was standing. He grabbed the knife handle sticking out of Traveler #1 pants. Out of nowhere. Suddenly. He had the blade exposed in a second. Moving it rapidly, slashing at the cold shadows.

Red. Traveler #1 – Cut. Shocked. An over, over.

More red. Traveler #2 cut. Slashed on the forearm. More over, over.

Even. More. Red. In the over, over I was cut. Below the right ear. Blood will indeed spill in the over, over.

The wounded travelers fled. Gone. Michael was shaking. He dropped the weapon. I didn’t know. His dad taught him how to fight. How to disarm. The crying was a tactic for Michael. He was working backwards, acting vulnerable. Until the over, over.

“Did I do good? Your talking gave me time to think.”

I hugged him until we reached our destination. The candy. The rides. The happiness in the over, over.

I remember.

I know.

We create fear.

In others.

In ourselves.

You can feel it coming.

We are the travelers.

You are the over.

Work backwards.

Disarm the travelers.

Surprise them.

Feel fear move on.

Watch it flee.

Embrace it on the next trip.

You’re now over the over.

There’s peace.

And a great ride ahead.

The Terrorists Within You (and Without You).

Posted on April 27, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

Can’t walk the streets, search my mind, read, write, eat, sleep, without thinking of them, sweating their existence. Cold sweat as they grip me. I know when their plan is successful. Sheer panic. Nothing else matters.

And when they release, I can’t help but constantly obsess over:

When will the bastards strike again? How long will they stay? Where are they now? How can I escape? Will the attack end? What if they all show up at once? How will I survive?

Respect. Fear them. When they draw first blood on your psyche, when you relent to the heinous acts, there will be suffering. And when they’re gone, damage remains. The aftershock will alter how you operate.

Understand why they thrive; they’re lethal. Even in small numbers they outnumber you. THEY galvanize – YOU dismantle. It’s the sheer power, the raw hate, the perseverance, the risings. The elements of surprise. Shock. The willingness to scare you so much in plain sight you can’t see anything. They block the sun. Damage you. Mentally. Physically. Hold you hostage. Place you in shackles. Infiltrate the air you breathe.

The Terrorists. They seek to kill. Slow. Fast. Pick the velocity of the impact, the explosion. Just know it’s coming. It’s the only certainty.

Some are outside your control. Always close.

The ones within are just as lethal (and still outside your control).

Inside & outside. They circle.

The ones within you. Without you. Waiting to pounce. Destroy.

One moment you’re fine. Next, you’re dazed, down, injured.

Random Thoughts:

1). Conquer The Terrorists Within: Negative thought, fear, stress, hopelessness, anger, rejection, in small doses can encourage, motivate you to jump obstacles you were convinced you never could. But when they overwhelm, when relentless attacks are successful, when the negative overrides, becomes extremist, then the terrorists within will steel to take you down, set you back. The hits will keep on comin’. And then you’re dead. Or worse: Apathetic, bitter, tired, reclusive, defeated. The more latitude you give the terrorists, the more they’ll take, until: You. Can’t. Escape. You have become one of them.

And the enriching life you once knew will be at risk. Gone. The person you knew and liked will be a memory.

Understand: Even when you fight, even if you win, there’s gonna be damage. So?

Hey, damaged goods can still operate. Push forth. Find a new road around evil, play defense. I see that now. You’re never 100% but you’re as close as you’re gonna get, kid.

It’ll require a jolt, a jump start. A counter shock. To win the fight. To set the terrorists back. You’ll need to feel something stronger than how they make you feel. The terrorists.

Make the shock-wave a positive force. Fight dark fire with light fire. The inner terrorists abhor and weaken when bombarded by a healthy, life-prolonging arsenal. Even a tiny step will work. Take a B vitamin, deep breathe, read a funny passage, converse with a person in your inner circle, write, hug a pet, a person, a stranger (don’t get arrested) will shake the inner enemies off your path. Subtle steps – they send a powerful message to your brain:

I’m here now. I plan to be here later. I’m not surrendering. F**k Off!!!

The more you fight to live, the more the terrorists cower. You’ll discover how quickly they weaken – even an action that at first feels insignificant, will turn out to be a major blow against them. The terrorists languish, the inner anguish ceases.

2). Strengthen Against The Terrorists Without. The ones without ethics, decency. The ones who seek to destroy everything you have to preserve record profit margins. Think of them as corporate. As an employee today, especially in a publicly-traded corporation, you are the enemy. You’re an expense. And they will drain your life, your health, your well-being, the time with your family, your entrepreneurial spirit, your spirit in general. Work for them but understand they’re not loyal to you. They’re loyal to shareholders and directors. Not you. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Save your money. Pay down your debts. Then go out there and do something your love and customers will find you, be loyal to you. They’ll help you defeat the terrorists. The ones without. Without souls.

3). Destroy the Terrorists Outside. Work hard to sever ties with those who weaken your resolve even if their intentions are good. Cast out forces that will influence your negatively, allow the outside terrorists in. Make a list. You know who and what they are. To live, to prosper, you must cut the lines, set them free. It’s going to be painful, you’re going to lose a bit of yourself in the process but it’s about survival.

You can never completely rid yourself of the terrorists.

They live among and within you.

All you can do is recognize them.

Fight them. Fight them hard.

Push ahead positive.

They can’t win.

Unless you allow them.

And you won’t.

You refuse.

Damage and all.

You press on.

Gold Is a Rock – James Altucher. And Continues to Be – Rich Rosso

Posted on April 20, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

I had lunch with a smartie last year.

A smart, giving, beautiful, industrious young woman with the entire world at her feet had something important on her mind. I attempt to solve the world’s problems in Truluck’s main dining room. Her world’s problems were my problems. I knew she’d pass on what I tell her to others.

“I’m thinking of selling my regular investments and putting all the money into gold.”

“Why?”

Now, I’ve heard this commentary so many times already it’s almost like my earwax is made of a precious metal. I don’t even know why I sought an answer. I could have guessed what she was going to say and I would have been right. I respect this young lady so much so I was prone to listening. My curiosity got the best of me. The answer was what I usually hear.

“Because I’m afraid,” she said.

“What are you afraid of?”

Again, I would have been shocked to hear anything new but I always keep an open mind.
Taking a mental bullet to gain knowledge should be part of your game plan. It’s how I roll.

Gold is at home here.

“Feast, famine, life, death, the dollar, the national debt, war, earthquake, Obama, congress,jobs, inflation, deflation, interest rates, certainty over uncertainty, death, recession, depression, global annihilation, the Olson Twins weight problems.”

Gold had become “mother investor’s little helper” there for a while. Like a decade.

Until. Said mother decided to detox.

Admittedly, gold and other metals have kicked the ass out of other avenues for money.
The greatest concern today is how to gain perspective as many are now fully enmeshed in the emotional whirlwind called “recency” bias. Gold has blossomed into a recency bias monster but now the monster is bleeding. And we’ll try to convince ourselves the bleeding is temporary, or is it? I’m not smart enough to know. I’ll take being lucky and unemotional at this stage.

It went from Godzilla to Mothra real quick. Or did it? Were there signs for a period that a faith in paper currency was beginning to re-emerge?

As investors we just can’t detect the changes until something dramatic happens. And as we know, everything is dramatic in stock, metals and bond markets now.

Jason Zweig in his book “Your Money and Your Brain,” writes:

“It is human tendency to estimate probabilities not on the basis of long-term experience
but rather on a handful of the latest outcomes.”

Recency bias dulls senses. It makes humans fuzzy and unaware. Even worse is how it
strokes the flames of overconfidence in the extrapolation of current events way into the
future.

It’s a hideous bitch of deception as it convinces your brain that a recent place will
always be tomorrow’s place. And the day after tomorrow’s place. I’m all for momentum, but one needs to understand when the direction of the wind changes.

The sun will come out tomorrow because it came out today.

Why again? (I ask why and why not, a lot). Don’t ask me why.

Storm clouds can overwhelm the horizon real quick. Have you noticed the weird shit going on with the weather lately?

The Earth is not as maternal as it used to be.

The Washington Monument was cracked due to a rare earthquake.The Washington Monument for God’s sake was CRACKED. This period too shall pass. (Or get worse.)

I have a job today. Tomorrow I will have the same job. This is plain silly to bank on in
today’s economy. Employers won’t even look at you if you’re not currently employed or
“recently” unemployed. After six months you might as well be invisible.

You’re that that valuable either. Companies (especially large, publicly-traded) will do whatever they must to preserve their precious margins and that includes quickly adding you to the unemployment or underemployment stats. This will eventually change too. Well, maybe not.

I’m thinking not. Part time is the new full time. Temporary is the new permanent. And gold is NOT the new medium of exchange.

Read on: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/20/business/part-time-work-becomes-full-time-wait-for-better-job.html?smid=pl-share

Gold always holds its value. Tis’ is true. Gold has never gone to ZERO in value. Tell me
how you feel though if you purchase it at $1,800 an ounce and it goes to $1,100. You indeed lost value. I know it’s not really a loss unless you sell it. It’s a paper loss. And this will never happen, right? Got it. Now wake up!

We’ve heard it all too many times. Still hearing it: Gold will continue to move higher.

Fine.

Even if this is possible based on the warranted lack of faith in global leaders, you must remain skeptical when various signs begin to literally throw themselves at you. No investment goes the way you expect it to indefinitely.

I don’t care if it’s stocks, bonds, metals, widgets, antique toys (in original packaging), nothing goes straight up forever. Nothing. And you know what I mean.

For example, back in the 1930’s we were convinced that radio stocks would never falter.

Radio was going to “change the world.” And it did. And the stock market got bored with it. Been there done that. Ostensibly, what was hot goes cold.

That’s a fact. Remember tech stocks? How you feeling about Apple stock these days?

Yes, Aunt Bev, I know. Buy gold. How about my favorite meatballs did you make them?

How do you sniff out a top in the shiny stuff (or anything else)?

Random Thoughts:

1). Know the signs from relatives. People stay sharp! Watch for Aunt Beverly calling and demanding you own gold because the world is indeed over or at the minimum, going to hell. People at bingo told her the bible predicts the end of days! Vengeful gods accept gold as a medium of exchange for souls. Didn’t you know? Ok, not that accurate an indicator. But count it as a warning light. Please?

2). You notice consistent bantering about gold in elevators, on escalators. Or on rude, loud cell phone discussions at the supermarket or the movies or in public restrooms. I give you permission to eavesdrop on conversations. Listen carefully for bloviating. We all know privacy died a long time ago. Loud bragging about an investment is a bad, bad sign. Money loss is imminent.

Once you begin to overhear more about gold than the latest sexcapades on an episode
of Real Housewives of Whatever, demand Aunt Bev sell immediately! Trust me. She
can buy back if I’m wrong. Feel free to send me an e-mail calling me an asshole
(only if I’m wrong please). Have mercy. Something tells me she’ll still make your favorite
meal when you visit (have a friend take a bite first just to be sure.)

3). Metal detector sales are through the roof. It’s the latest, greatest craze! Now more popular than pretty girls selling their alleged used panties on eBay (not allowed anymore so don’t get any ideas). Top global retailers of such equipment are experiencing a revolutionary boom in volume. Minelab, a company out of Australia that sells high-end metal detectors (about $5,600 each, not a typo) moved $118 million worth in 2010. That’s more than twice the sales numbers achieved in 2009. In 2012, gross revenues for metal detection products was strong but beginning to tail off from the peak in 2010.

You’ve lost a spouse, significant other, or friend to metal detecting. If I’m out $5,600 not including shipping and handling you can bet I’m not getting naked with anyone anytime soon. I’m planning to be feverishly obsessed with uncovering precious jewelry you lost on the beach. Probably best you move on. I’m busy. This did happen to a female friend I know in 2011. She’s much happier now.

4). More people are wearing apparel professing their love of gold. I don’t care if it’s a hat, t-shirt, dress, doggie shirt, whatever. It’s a sure warning sign of a top. No need to explain further.

oops, wrong shirt.

According to ElvisBlog.net, a comprehensive authority on all things Elvis, the King
wore a gold lamé suit for a performance in March 1957.

At the International Amphitheater in Chicago.

The suit was designed by famous clothing artist to the country stars, Nudie
Cohn. Yes, Nudie (go ahead and laugh, it’s fine).

In 1957, gold was $34.95 per troy ounce.

A decade later in 1967 (Elvis was making embarrassing movies singing to racing cars by then) gold was $34.95 per troy ounce.

Is it a coincidence that you made zilch in gold for ten years? Maybe. Maybe not. Respect history because we do the same stupid things over and over again.

Elvis and Nudie Cohn.

4). Gold-related kiosks begin popping up in interesting or unusual places. You probably noticed more of them in your nearby mall. Oh and watch out for the gold bar vending machines and gold ATMs. They already exist overseas. And you’ve seen and heard the commercials, so many advertisements to buy gold.

5). You’re beginning to believe the stories how gold always goes up in recessions and depressions. Dr. Robert Prechter, author, financial analyst and founder of Elliot Wave International dulls the shine from this story using historical data. Excerpts from his research that appear in his E-book “Robert Prechter on Gold & Silver” are below.

In 1970, investors lost interest in stocks and preferred owning gold instead. For a period of ten years.

The same sentiment occurred again in 2001. We’re never really that different are we?

In most recessions, gold has been flat or negative in return. The recessions in 1973 and
2001 were good for gold. Only two out of eleven recessions were beneficial for gold.
Ten-year U.S. Treasury notes beat gold during every recession since 1945. T-note provided a capital gain in ten of the eleven recessions and also paid interest. The average
total return in Treasury notes per recession is a full 10 percent, beating both stocks
and gold.

5). Forty year-old nerds who live at home with their parents start blogs about gold.They’re out there. I’ve read them. They are plentiful. Nothing against nerds or blogs, I love both but there are way too many nerds on the same side of the argument.It’s what’s called on Wall Street, “a crowded trade.” It’s like a boat with everyone fishing off the same side. By then the game is about to change.

I’ve been asked my opinion on at least 50 gold blogs in 2010 and 2011 and it went real quiet in 2012. I know for a fact that a majority of those I purveyed are written by unemployed loners who live in their parents’ basements. If they own CB radios I envy them. I envy them a lot.

6). Gold can be hoarded, confiscated (it’s happened already), can’t be valued as an investment (although some get real creative), and doesn’t pay a dividend. You can only make money if you sell it. If you truly have a sell discipline for metal or anything else you own including investments, you’re in the top .1% club as most investors are notoriously lousy at selling or trimming anything of value.

If gold can be hoarded that means you can’t access it. If it backs a paper currency and
it’s hoarded by the few, that means you will have less money to spend on what you
want and need. Governments can come break down your door (figuratively but don’t
test them) and take your gold away which means you should begin investigating an adequate burial place like under a tree. Watch “Shawshank Redemption,” for guidance.

Gold pays you nothing along the way. No income.

You can redeem for liquidity but human nature tells me you’ll wait for a top or at least what you perceive as a top and wind up selling in a panic as it heads lower.

Believe me. You will. We all do it. Money managers are especially guilty.

Gold can’t be valued to indicate whether it’s cheap or expensive. Valuation is based on
fear and uncertainty. Measuring based on those metrics is anybody’s guess.

As master mentor James Altucher said on a segment of CNBC’s “Fast Money,”

“Gold is a rock.” Genius.

If your paper currency, whatever it is, say U.S. dollars, gets stronger, gold and other metals will indeed drop like rocks and dent your net worth. Big dent.

Notice how when dollar is strong UUP), gold is weak. Just keeping it real, here as I abhor charts.

7). You can’t use gold to buy toothpaste. Or anything else. I tried. I was tossed out of Walgreen’s. So those people telling you it’s a “currency” are wrong. I called to subscribe to a newsletter about gold and wanted to pay in gold. The operator and her “manager” told me they won’t accept gold to pay for the newsletter on gold.

8). It’s ok to hold some gold. Or other metals as part of a diversified portfolio. Two to five percent will work. And take your time. Examine GLD and IAU, the exchange-traded funds which actually hold gold bullion.

9). Expect “flash crashes.” In everything. Precipitous, explainable moves in asset prices higher or lower. Thank the Fed for what I call “freakish asset flows” as money strives to seek returns or rapidly avoid losses thus herding and creating big returns (or losses).

We like tangible things. Stuff we can touch and feel. I can intimately caress my house until the cops get called and take me away for indecent exposure. It doesn’t mean my home is increasing in value. Or that it’s an investment.

A house is wood, concrete, dust (sometimes a rabid raccoon in the attic – true story) and gold is indeed, a rock.

If you remember it.

You’ll be better off.

And richer for it.

Who the hell are you? 4 ways to rediscover the person you really are.

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Richard M. Rosso, CFP

All I remember were the wires – the strange form of apparatus attached to her head. Designed to send an electrical current through her sick brain to cure it. Or make it worse. An AC/DC frontal lobotomy for the disco era.

A temporary grasp on unreality. A last hope. When all else fails consider electricity.

I longed to push the button, pull the switch, thank the warden, increase the voltage, add water – whatever it would take for her to improve or just short-circuit the mortal coil. I was good with either direction this went. Where’s the bathtub and the plugged-in curling iron therapy?

“Hey doctor or whoever you are. What is this supposed to do?”

“It will ease her severe depression. But she may forget a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Who you are, where she is, who she is.”

“Oh, is that all?!”

I was wondering if this brutal treatment was going to fry the brain inside her skull. Fry it even more than it was fried, already. I never remember anything positive coming out of electricity going through a head. Now I realize, at ten years-old, I was absolutely correct.

My sordid frames of reference then:

Conquest of the Planet of the Apes (1972) – Electrical current “encouraging” Caesar the talking ape to utter a human word.

Electrodes = bad.

And what the hell was an electrode anyway? Who cares, actually. Sounded intimidating.

“The Brain that Wouldn’t Die.” Another freak of nature kept alive by electricity (and maple syrup I think).

And of course, we remember Frankenstein and his bride. Overall, this electricity meeting up with lobes didn’t appear to conclude on a good note.

Naturally, electroconvulsive therapy (fancy name for electroshock treatment) was first introduced by Italians – Ugo Cerletti and Lucio Bini in 1938. Almost anything that my ethnic brethren delivers outside of pizza and art fails miserably. Oh well. Another good point for things not looking so hot post shock treatment.

In the 70’s electro-shock was employed for severe depression, mania, nymphomania (kidding), and it appears women felt more comfortable than men undergoing this form of torture. From what I recall it was common in my neighborhood. Maybe it was fluoride in the water; perhaps it was me chasing girls with used Kotex pads on a stick that caused young moms in the area to be depressed. Not sure. I’d do it all over again. No regrets.

All I knew then. All I know now – electrical current and a brain are not a match made in heaven.

Random Thoughts

1). How far will you go to forget? The bad stuff. Those who wronged you. Those who fooled you, those who caused distress, the failures, the words you can’t take back, the actions that hurt others, the actions that hurt you, the deaths, the illnesses, the bad attitudes, your weariness, the negative thoughts, the self-sabotage, the wine you spill, tears, milk, guts. Never forget the bad. The bad adds perspective, wisdom. The mental path you’ve followed, the pain, the failures are a form of beauty. The setbacks blossom empathy, forgiveness, strength. Flaws make you beautiful. Human. The bad stuff is the blood which bonds us.

Who the hell are you? You’re bad. You make mistakes. Love yourself for your faults.

2). What do you do to remember? The good junk. When your world is in sync. The break in the clouds, the deep breaths, the relief that comes from tiny blessings, the friendships, the beauty around you. How do you share that good? How do you reach out to those who need a positive word? The human voice, encouragement, devotion, laughter, listening. The good stuff is the heartbeat that keeps us going.

Who the hell are you? You’re good. You make others feel worthy. Share your strength with others.

3). How do you deal with the regret? Of bad money decisions? The money you threw away on stupid things? The investment you sold too soon or never got around to buying and it would have changed your life. What if I bought Apple stock in 2003? Well, you wouldn’t have purchased it then. Why? You’re impatient. Most investors think long term is two weeks. Have you made a purchase just to realize it wasn’t as terrific as you thought? Have you given away that great sweater you had to have two years ago and wore once? Think three times before you buy. Think twice before you invest, think twice before you sell. Seek out opinions that differ from yours.

Who the hell are you? You’re human. You make strange purchase decisions, your brain is not wired to invest. Ask for help. Seek opinions that disagree with your own. Live with money mistakes. Revisit them often. You’ll avoid them in the future.

4). What doesn’t mix, doesn’t mix. Electricity & brains, you & her, you & chocolate, you & alcohol, you & fried foods. Don’t force it. Learn to make peace with doesn’t mix in your life. What doesn’t mix causes friction (also not good for the frontal lobe). Work to accept what doesn’t mix. Move on.

Who the hell are you? You understand what doesn’t mix is not your fault, it’s just the way it is. Learn to cherish the inner peace of acceptance.

“Who are you?”

“It’s your son, mom – Rich.”

“I have a son? I always wanted a son. I always wanted someone to love.”

“Me too, mom, me too.”

And for a brief moment.

There was electricity between us.