Tag Archives: investments

The Strip Down – How to Examine Yourself & Still Have the Guts to Leave the House.

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There’s a point, a crossroad, a series of moments that lead to peace; when you feel nothing much is left to take. There’s nothing more to lose. You’re naked, so naked, it’s almost like you’re see through. It’s like nude-squared. X-ray naked?

Oh, you get the picture.

xray

I’m staring into the reflection of pure humility and seeing the other side. The transition. Saggy gut, disappointing genitals. Hair growing out of places I didn’t realize could grow hair.. That’s something, right? I wince. It’s all for a reason: I’m beginning to understand.

As I lay flat on my back, “fed”,  thread through the rotating disk of an MRI machine, wearing one of those flimsy hospital gowns, ass hanging out, unable to tie the thing to make me at least appear decent, I feel oddly, at peace. Deep.

I allow the calculated movement of the mechanism, the delicate whir of science, embrace me. Take over. A moment of raw acknowledgement.  A revelation of sorts. An exposed butt meeting the road of human.

Whatever it was, whatever it is, whatever it was going to be, was what it was going to be. And there was not a damn thing I could do about it. So?

I smiled. Genuine. Best in years.

Closed my eyes. Allowed the present moment to swallow me like one of those strong undertows that lurk in the waters off Coney Island.

Humbled. Stripped down. Like the Winter Warlock (just call me Winter) of the vintage Rankin/Bass campy claymation Christmas pop-culture hit – “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

There’s a point where “winter” loses his blustery, icy facade. Warmth releases. A simple gift triggers a  positive reaction. Suddenly, the frozen image melts away, he’s transformed into a white-bearded, frail old man with a Dowager’s hump and pigeon toes. Actually, he’s sort of hideous physically once his menace dies off.

How will you look when your menace melts?

winter warlock before Winter before.

Not good. I’m fucking sure of it.

Some people will indeed experience enlightenment in a lifetime, others will eternally walk a path, their minds chained within a constant prison forged of intimidating bars of webbed, thick ego. They’re not as blessed, I guess. I  can just feel bad for them now.

Random Thoughts:

1). How will you re-define yourself? When all that held you together from the past is stripped away -how will you re-emerge? If done  wisely, you’ll blossom – smarter and stronger than ever. Most important, you will have enhanced the present to the point where the world stops spinning, mental fog lifts and thoughts begin to make sense. Empower you. For the first time in a long time.

2). Find the right words to get you through. Kamal Ravikant in his new book “Live Your Truth” have provided the right word triggers for me. His wisdom allays the tensions of what I call “the transition” mind – a boundary between the present road and a path to inner peace.

He writes:

Somewhere along the way, you do your best, and then, you surrender. Let go. Of attachments to outcomes. Attachments to what you desire. Like a paper lantern you light and then release into the night sky.

Create those triggers that return you to the present, the moment. Because when you think about it, that’s all you got. This moment. The right now. For me it’s 5:03pm. Sunday.

Letting go is not powerlessness. It is freedom. It’s not giving up, it’s accepting. And the light will enter. Always does.

Use music to form the rope that pulls you back to focus. To the present.

3). Understand how behavior affects your investment performance. Making investment decisions out of fear or greed can dramatically long-term portfolio returns. When in the present, before you seek to make a portfolio change,emotion is removed from the process.  And that’s not easy. To be an astute investor, you must get a handle on your emotional makeup.

According to Michael Pompian in his book, “Behavioral Finance and Wealth Management,” you most likely fall into one of the following psychological camps. Each has its own pitfalls or “money traps” as I call them.

Are you the “Adventurer?” Impetuous, overconfident, volatile. A real gambler type. You drool to financial media porn. All over the board when it comes to investment ideas, and usually with no homework. It’s fire, ready, aim. You won’t face it – but your returns are probably downright embarrassing.

What about the “Celebrity?” Well, you’re afraid of being left out. Celebrities follow the herd; they do not possess an original idea. They’re prone to fall for “hot tips” which rarely work out.

Some are “Individualists.” These types forge their own paths. They’re typified by the small business pros or independent professionals. They’re careful, pragmatic and methodical. This is a level-headed bunch who most likely experience the greatest investment returns since they rarely make knee-jerk reactions based on short-term stock market movements or news.

“Guardians” are older and careful. They seek to preserve their investment assets and lack confidence when it comes to investing decisions. They’re also prone to be so conservative they have the potential to miss out on gains because to them, risk is narrowly defined to fluctuation of principal. The slightest price movement may be too much for a “Guardian”.

“Straight Arrows” are gifted at being well balanced. They fall nearer the center. A composite of the other investor types. If you’re a Straight Arrow” then you’re a rare breed – a truly rational investor.

4). Relish the accomplishments along the way. Don’t rush. Take your time. This shit is tough. A small step towards living in the present can wreak big havoc to the creator of illusion – your egotistical mind. It abhors your past, discounts your present, and fools you into believing that happiness exists somewhere in the future (good luck ever getting there).

winter melted Winter after – Stripped of his cold.

“You can get dressed now, Richard,” the MRI tech said. You’re done. With that she walked out, closing the thick wooden door behind her.

I was grateful to remain on my back a few more seconds. Looking up at the ceiling. I thought I heard something I never experienced before.

Quiet.

In the pain.

In the frailty.

I saw the paper lantern ignite.

Fly away in the wind of a whisper.

A deep breath.

I smiled again.

Twice in one day.

And I was thankful.

Just call me “Winter.”

Five Lessons from an Urban Supermarket.

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Damn you Google Maps, Google Earth, Google Detectives: Damn you all to hell!

heston damn you

The first/best “DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!” ever. The original “Planet of the Apes.” I believe Hollywood has had the balls to remake this film like three times. 

Eckhart Tolle, known as the “father of inner peace” should be arch nemesis of this Google invasion of privacy, but I’m thinking he’s way too self-actualized to even sweat the effort. I can hear him – “who needs this Google you speak of?”

To arrest a mind troubled by the lambasting of ego, an individual must seize the now, the present. Today. This moment.

I’m sorry ET – I’m a work in progress. Always evolving. BUT THAT DAMN GOOGLE.

Tolle ego

Allows me, so easily, to scope out the physical landmarks from my history. It tempts me to unlock doors I prefer remain closed. Behind that granite-like barrier in my mind is a location I refer to as “deep past.” Thoughts, wispy remnants of a world I knew, longer than 15 years ago. An intellectual shelter cordoned off and dark. There’s much mental mist surrounding this space in my brain. It’s unfortunate I can still dig so deep with a shovel Google provides.

Structural artifacts for the most part, still stand: The apartment complex in Brooklyn where I was raised (allowed to run free), even looks better than the shithole it was when I was a kid.

A sycamore tree that I loved, in the front courtyard of misty memories of urban home, is now three times the size it stood in the 1970s. I recall how focused my stare toward the top of that tree, its beautiful colors in fall, robust leaves in summer. I’d imagine I was somewhere else, anywhere else – clean, less populated, not drowning in dog shit. Quiet. Surrounded by blue sky and leaves. I’m glad the tree is still there, healthier than ever. I wonder if anyone else used it/uses it as a symbol of freedom or release. A living monument to better futures.

The businesses, restaurants I frequented have different names, yet the outlines of these structures haven’t changed much. Businesses have new paint, different tenants, yet the memories remain entrenched.

Several buildings have been razed, making way for high-rise, condo progress and it makes me sad. My grandparent’s house on Kings Highway is gone. In it’s place a multi-story brick and smoked glass monster tower. Cold. The family warmth has been replaced by business, but not in my heart or a place deeper. Warmth lives. I can still smell nana’s cooking. How her recipes took the edge off cold NY winters.  I’ll never lose that aroma. It stays with me. In times of stress I seek to inhale the garlic, robust spices in her rich tomato sauce.

And the damn epic-center of my childhood pain and embarrassment once located on East 4th Street and Avenue U in Gravesend Brooklyn, is nothing but memory. The structure built on its dust is now a multiple family residence. The supermarket from hell can probably raise itself from construction death, overtaking the residence. I wouldn’t be surprised.

Spinner’s Supermarket:  It was all the rage. It was all we had. Aged but clean. Wide aisles, well stocked. I can still see as clear as yesterday, the florescent gleam off shiny floors so strong, the smell of wax in the air.

More on Spinner’s later but what about that damn Google again? It’s disruptive to the progress of a human mind.

Who knows what this Google is really up to as it infiltrates neighborhoods. It’s too easy to scope out locations, utilize technology to puncture the present, the NOW and go back even though you shouldn’t.

The house where a father died, the first lesson about the value of hard work, the Italian restaurant frequented in high school. All so tempting to discover how these locations have weathered the decades.

Now..

I was happy and sad that Spinner’s was gone. Like it was yesterday, I can remember walking up to the electronic door entrance, placing the soles of my Pro-Keds on the black-ribbed rubber mat which triggered entry. I can still see the tan brick structure and the name SPINNER’S, outlined in blood-red large block letters across the front, above six large plate glass windows.

It was the place “the list,” from mom came to life. Along with the food stamps to purchase what was on that list. I was so incredibly embarrassed to use food stamps. I’d wait, sometimes up to an hour, for a check-out line to clear out so I can use them without anyone behind me.

On the list. Standard fare – milk, Italian bread.  Necessities. Then there was the horrifying stuff, written in the bowel of the list  – the mental strain part. The beer and tampons part.

Bread – check.

Kotex – check.

Old Milwaukee – check check. 

Wishing I was dead – check check check.

Bucky the manager always felt bad for me. Tough to see a nine year-old give up pride at such an early age, I guess. 

“You know kid, we can’t take food stamps for dose items,” he would say in his heaviest, authoritative Brooklyn accent.

Then he’d nod his head once toward the cashier. A store manager’s blessing. An act of permission for the inappropriate use of government assistance. A ghetto “let the kid pass,” executive decision as store manager.

I understand he was being kind but I wish, just once, he would have been less of a “softy.” Stood his ground – “NO kid. And tell your mother, we can’t take food stamps for beer and shit that absorbs body fluids.” At least the blood, beer monkey would have been off my back. I could have healed. Not in the cards. It’s now just Spinner mist below the foundation of an urban high rise.

So Spinner’s? Center point of shame. I’m glad you’re gone. Bygones. Ashes to ashes, Frankenberry to dust. 

Frankenberry

Yea Bucky, you were so thoughtful. I know you died in 1982. I’m glad I say, glad.

Random Thoughts:

1). How does your past help you or inhibit you now – in the present? I created a handwritten list. In blood-red ink. Past Helps, Past Hurts. My list totals about even – help vs. hurt. I’ve got work to do. Don’t mess with me, Google!

Now I’m working on crossing off items on the Past Hurts list. I’m mentally building the bridges, sweating the textures that connects long then to right now. Then burning those bridges, ripping the textures. And it’s working. The exercise is helping me understand who I am, why I make mistakes.

I do the same for investments I’ve sold too soon that turned out to be big winners. What kind of past financial/investment mistake patterns do I take ownership for? How can I change those behaviors. Already, being aware of the shortcomings has helped me achieve greater performance for me and clients I’m responsible.

2). Is the soul you own, the essence of who you are in the present, been improved from what it was in the past? I call this seasoning. As you age, sharp edges dull a bit. Sometimes out of empathy, on occasion, illness. Shit, you mellow out. There’s nothing wrong. Do you see your own weaknesses in others? Are the people you’re attracted to mere projections of the past, a way to make peace with what once was or never came to fruition? People who remind you of your past represent the worst parts of yourself: Extract them, cut them, remove them from your life. Today.

3). Who was/is your Bucky? Are you bucked-up? You know Bucky. An adult from your past who was just trying to be nice but should have been more forceful to teach you or others a lesson. Passive Bucky. Or perhaps your Bucky was an adult, close to you, who just didn’t get involved even though they knew you were hurting. Insensitive Bucky. Or your Bucky was a jerk who threatened you like a Bully Bucky.

The planet is full of too many fucking Buckys. Forget this global warming, let’s talk about containing the Buckys.  If I see an injustice against another, I’m going to speak up. If witness an organization abusing its authority, I’m going to call them out. I don’t care how powerful the Bucky is either. The internet, social media empowers one person to communicate a message to the masses. Fuck off, Bucky society. Although, if you do decide to fight be prepared for war, otherwise don’t bother. Also be prepared for self-inflicted damage. Think of injury as battle scar.

4). The past is a behavioral drag but a great teacher. Do you know most retirement plan investors lost money through the greatest stock bull market in history? Why? Because humans are recency animals. Long term perspective for most is clearly impossible. So, when the media hype began to frenzy about technology being the new “paradigm” in 1998, investors began to pile in to tech stocks at the top of the market cycle, driving up price/earnings to impossible levels. They basically ignored stocks from 1982 (the beginning of the bull market) until 1998 (close to the top/end of the bull market) thus suffering great losses in 2000. Professionals also got fooled, so don’t feel so bad.

When it comes to investing, it’s actually worthwhile to study history. The nature of our beast doesn’t change. Fear, greed, boom, bust. What goes up dramatically in price will eventually return to earth. What looks beat up should be bought. Good luck doing that on your own.

“The perennial refrain from critics is: You just don’t get it. Internet stocks / housing / energy prices / financial stocks / gold / silver / bonds / high-yield stocks / you-name-it can’t go down. This time is different, and here’s why.

But this time is never different. History always rhymes. Human nature never changes. You should always become more skeptical of any investment that has recently soared in price, and you should always become more enthusiastic about any asset that has recently fallen in price. That’s what it means to be an investor.” Jason Zwieg, columnist. Wall Street Journal.

Cut out the above and tape it to your bathroom mirror. Kill the portfolio underperformance Bucky. 

5). Don’t sell (yourself) what’s expired. Bucky was a master of merchandise rotation. I remember purchasing expired Boo-Berry on numerous occasions because it was moved to the front of the line of cereal boxes. Who would have thought this manufactured, chemical breakfast mix could expire? And who checked? He was an inventory management king.

boo berry

Are you selling yourself stale thoughts? Are imprints of your past interrupting your present? And who created those thoughts? You did, dummy. Your ego can’t let go of what came before. Release the Boo Berry! The ghost that haunts. Camouflaged by sweet, marshmallow goodness designed to seduce. I know you Boo Berry. Bucky sent you.

Spinner’s – you’re history.

Bucky  – you’re worm food for close to thirty years now.

Mom – you and your lists are long gone.

Me – I continue to stock up on lessons. From new supermarkets, bigger aisles, fresher merchandise.

Just ring me up.

No beer and tampons for me today.

Or ever.

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

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

F train

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.

seven ups

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.

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

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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.

atom bomb 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?

old_lady_phone

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.

golden showers 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 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.

gold

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.

God Knows Where You Belong (Even When You Don’t).

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September 1970: “Shut the fuck up back there!”

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It was a cavernous black-on-black metal beast out of Detroit. A 1969 Cadillac Convertible with slick leather seats. With each turn, lane change, interchange between brake and acceleration, my little body was slung from side to side in the backseat (we weren’t fans of seatbelts back then) like an amusement ride just for me.

Every year, it was an adventure I looked forward to. A chance to escape the urban filth, the smell of incinerated used Kotex pads, the endless mounds of dog shit. A daddy/son adventure.

To upstate New York.

Where trees survived in packs and the air smelled sweet. The Catskills, specifically. The plan was always the same: First, the Catskill Game Farm (now gone), then Carson City (gone too), and last, a small retail establishment named “Roy’s,” which only sold stuffed animals.

Hundreds of them. I’ll never forget behind the front plate-glass window sat a monstrous black stuffed gorilla with a five-foot yellow banana. And I mean huge. With arms open wide, this cloth beast spanned the entire length of the store.

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I couldn’t sit still for the entire trip. I loved to read the billboards, especially the quirky homespun wooden relics as we traveled farther north. It was only a matter of time before the iconic Catskill Game Farm billboard appeared. I mean it was “America’s Greatest Zoological Playground,” for God’s sake.

The radio stations would ebb and flow in on crackles and frequency farts. Most important was dad to turn up the volume when my favorite song hit the airwaves. It was a song my dad hated. It was a song Brooklyn hated.

“Beneath this snowy mantle, cold and clean.”

“What the fuck is this kid listening to?” Dad.

Anne Murray sings again in that memorable, soothing tone:

“The unborn grass lies waiting, for it’s coat to turn to green.”

“Oh, I’m changing this shit!” Dad again.

It was a song my friends hated. It just didn’t belong in an urban setting. But to me, it represented something clean, natural, open.

Like when I watched my favorite early Saturday morning television program, “Agriculture USA,” a show about farming that unnaturally appeared on New York City 6AM television.

“The snowbird sings the song he always sings…”

“What the f**k is this snowbird?”

And now we’re swerving. In a tank. On a dysfunctional family adventure.

Dad was always up early. He sought to be out the door before mom. He’d walk into the living room. See me sitting cross legged, staring up at the old black and white TV screen, watching the farm report.

                                       “Who the hell are you? You don’t belong here.”

He never meant anything bad by it. I sort of knew that. And he was correct. I never felt like I belonged in a dirty city. I hated people living on top of people. I longed for something more quite, desolate. Even at six years old I sought escape. Dad was indeed correct. I often wondered if God misplaced me. Must have been some celestial joke.

Oh, the song:  It was “Snowbird.” Lovingly recorded by Anne Murray in 1970. Written by some dude in Canada (where I always believed there were lots of trees).

The opening was distinct. Later I discovered it was an electric sitar. Soothing.

The first lyrics. Hopeful. Let’s play it again. Or as a DJ on WABC radio in New York would coo in a broadcast – “Let’s hit the instant replay!” Exciting.

Beneath it’s snowy mantle cold and clean,
The unborn grass lies waiting for its coat to turn to green.

Cold and clean. Not dirty and hot like the grime on a New York City street. No dog crap in “cold and clean.”

More refreshment. Get me out of here:

Spread your tiny wings and fly away.

And take the snow back with you where it came from on that day.

Yes, spreading my tiny wings would have worked.

Flying away would have been terrific.

Random Thoughts:

1). Our  souls must be from somewhere else and occasionally dropped into the wrong vessel. It took 40 years for me to be comfortable in my own skin even though I believe (still) it was not my own. Who has mine? Please contact me. I’d really like it for my second half.

When your country spirit is placed into a city kid or vice versa, shit is gonna happen. Your self esteem is going to be battered. You’re going to be on the outside looking in most of the time. And then it happens. You’re grateful that you’re a square dropped into a circle.

The experience formed something unique, a way to interpret life different from everyone else’s. It gave you the appreciation of people’s faults, to see the beauty in them. If you were “misallocated,” have you become aware of your gifts, yet?

2). You’ll be a better investor. If you’re comfortable in your own or someone else’s skin – you’ll better understand your very human pitfalls and realize how they will kill your investment returns. Turn your clean virgin snowbird into yellow and black snow; nature’s afterbirth stuck to the bottom of a NYC taxi.

Individual investors aren’t “dumb,” just humans not equipped to handle the skin of investments. Morningstar, the mutual fund “gurus,” completed a study  that fund investors are indeed good at selecting funds (imagine that). They just are not “in their own skins,” when they allocate. In other words, they consistently buy HOT categories and sell  COLD ones. Can you believe it?

We like hot and sexy instead of cold and sterile? When it comes to investing some of your best returns come from COLD. And cold is cleansing.

3). Your home is your home. And that home is in you. Until you’re comfortable with who you are in the housing you’re given, you’ll never feel secure, confident or stand for the people you love or the convictions you hold dear.

Never.

Those Catskill locations are long gone.

Carson City, a simulated wild west town, is now home to a bunch of condos.

Yet somewhere in a room, in my store of memories in whoever’s skin I’m in, those places are as real as they ever were.

And even if the rightful owner of my shell comes to return it, there are some things I refuse to give back.

Because for now and going forward, I’m home.

Are you?

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