18 years in Wall Street, left after finding out it was all horseshit. Founder/ Master and Commander: iBankCoin, finance news and commentary from the future.
I am here for another two days, then it’s back to the confines of New York, dealing with the caprices of my tax attorney, who, no matter how much I pay him per annum, works at his own drum, according to his schedule. See, I have a deadline, as I am trying to close on a house. For those of you who think paying cash for a house is a preferred course of action, need I remind you that real estate is a depreciating asset? I will put the minimum 20% down and have the bank finance the rest. For this to be done, I need my paperwork in order; but that won’t get done until I threaten to rattle bones and commit arson, will it?
Looking at today’s tape, it looked like a wash. Feel free to let me know if you saw any trends.
Inevitably, the market has to trade lower, based upon the laws of gravity. Dare I say, these are dangerous levels to be a buyer. I’d like nothing more than a catastrophic drop in all indices, starting with the fucking Chinese, them and their empty skyscrapers. However, as of now, the market is rich with excess and pomp with circumstance. Cigar smoke imbues the chambers of fine establishments near Wall, as brokers and traders alike ham it up over lines of blow, atop the bodies of escorts.
As for me, a simple man with modest needs and desires, I continue to spoil my kids and let their imaginations run wild. I indulge them because life is short and adulthood is rotten to the core. I will do my duty to prepare and protect them for the harsh world that awaits them. But, while they are young, I will let them believe the world is a giant ball of cotton candy, sweet and fluffy–just like Woodshedder.
If there is one word that summed up today, that word would be “BUTTERBEER.” Whilst my wife, daughter and two sons made their way to some lunatic air swing ride thing, I made my way to the BUTTERBEER line. To be honest, I had no fucking idea what BUTTERBEER was, nor do I know why I keep capitalizing the word each and every time I write it. Nevertheless, I wanted to drink it because I am a purveyor of butter and I’ve been known to quench my thirst with select artisan beers. Granted, both butter and beer in the same sentence makes as little sense as China loosening bank reserve requirements while dealing with $119 Brent crude; I wanted it nonetheless.
As fate would have it, my family ended up scrapping their plans to partake in aerial lunacy, specifically due to the long line. They had no idea where I could have drifted off to, as I was supposed to meet them in exactly 1 hour. However, my reputation tends to precede myself in the most egregious way, helping them pinpoint my locale without equivocation: THE BUTTERBEER line.
Ashamed to be seen on such a line, I wore a hat and pulled it close to my eyes, so that no one could see me (please note, this same hat was later eaten or lost or knocked off my head–gone forever– done in by a T-rex/rapidly falling boat combination); but it was of no use. I drank up the BUTTERBEER and felt disgusted by the whole ordeal. I tossed it into a trash bin after drinking just 5/6th’s of it, then headed off in search of a disgusting and absolutely grotesque turkey leg–unnatural in both elephantine size and brackish taste.
I hope you realize, we’re just giving money away here. Back in the old days, these contests were open to everyone, even the miscreants who plagued me in the comments section. However, as the ranks in our membership swelled, it was only right for me to reward my people with a form of lottery.
After the March madness contest, I intend to do two more contests in 2012: one in the summer and another around X-Mas. I already know what sort of contest it’s going to be. But if you have any ideas worth sharing, feel free to jot them the fuck down in the comments section. We’ll be giving away about $3,000, one open to The PPT club and another exclusive to the fine Pelicans inside 12631.
I’m here in Orlando, Florida, readying to help create some long lasting memories with my little ones. As usual, my flight was idiotic and the fucking olives given to me on the plane made me sick. Nevertheless, I am now in a 5 star hotel and feel at ease. Tomorrow is an off day for me; but I will be sure to post a blog or two, perhaps poolside (as you know, the pools are heated at 86 degrees).
Futures are sharply higher because China feels it makes sense to battle inflation and create inflation at the same time. It makes sense, if you think about it. The whole world is inside out stupid. We might as well just start doing shit that makes no sense, whatsoever, just to throw the cynics off. If I was Bernanke, I’d cut rates to -0.5% and tell everyone “get out their and buy a fucking home, assholes,” just after I loaded the fuck up with $1 trilly in index call options. Hell, the Fed can make all of the money back by just partaking in a little insider trading. If Congress can do it, why can’t Ben?
I’m kidding of course. Ben and the Fed have been fucking with the market since Reagan signed executive order 12631.
At any rate, I have a pretty good idea what stocks are worth gambling on. If I buy, it will only betray everything I believe in, not a big deal. It’s the crack-cocaine, frankly. I smell its tantalizing aroma and it taunts me with its grandeur, as I lie here in the lonely tall grass.
Hold on a second, bucko. It appears the religion toting asshats from the east would like to see China’s 50bps bank reserve cut and raise them with a “fuck you, you’re dead, no oil for you” move out of the 1970’s “how to be a terrorist state handbook.”
They will no longer supply the UK or France with crude (insert sad face here).
This smells like good old fashioned war to me! If I were a 4 star general from ‘Merica, I’d strongly advise Obama to continue with his prolific use of the drone to remote control our way to success. I’d arm the drones with mustard gas or a concoction of uranium and dynamite, in order to light Iran’s oil fields on fire and extinguish any semblance of life in and around those “terrorist safe havens.”
If there is one thing I have learned over the past dozen years or so: two wars is simply not enough. Should we, as a nation, endeavor to open up another front in this glorious roadside bomb filled war on terror, I believe we can possibly open up another one or two fronts as a bonus (EXTRA CREDIT).
If I was a general, I’d dress myself in the finest military garments, perhaps even go retro donning WW2 style costumes. I’d wear helmets to the grocery store, with my stars on them, being chauffeured around town by a lowly Colonel. When walking throughout the garrison, I’d order Sgt. Majors to partake in menial tasks, such as cleaning toilets and changing the ropes on the little obstacle courses in the training fields. Then I’d head over to my “battle-station” (the good old “HQ”) and order some Lieutenant to “initiate drone sequence” and “take out some enemy.” Ah, the life of a 4 star general; one could only dream.
Back to reality, I might find myself in the tall grass again on Tuesday, clamoring for fresh meat, should weakness hit the tape due to this Iranian hogwash. As of now, I am roaming on the outskirts of the tall grass, loitering near some highway, roaring at the tractor trailers speeding by.
NOTE: GOOD NEWS for Bernanke lovers. He just released a new rap video. I think you will like this one.
Well fuck me running sideways, racing against a gay giraffe driving an ice cream truck.
China eased bank reserve requirements by 50bps. This will likely toss gasoline onto the bullish fiery fire on Tuesday. However, it’s worth remembering, their fucking requirements are still 20%. In the big scheme of things, this is child’s play.
Nevertheless, I will most likely buy something, immediately, upon the opening of trade on Tuesday.
I just got my series 7 license, working at some boutique firm filled with nefarious figures. It wasn’t a bucket shop because they were pitching real stocks and didn’t underwrite scams. Nevertheless, between the cigarette filled boardrooms and shifty criminals (a story for a later date) roaming around the office, it wasn’t exactly the place where I wanted to stay long term, if you know what I mean.
Starting out, my job was to get new accounts through cold calling. More often than not, people hung up on me; but it never bothered me because human behavior always fascinated me. If you say certain words to people, in a specific cadence, you can literally control them. I experienced this salesman mastery on several occasions, when the words flowed off my tongue perfectly, allowing me to address all concerns with ease and confidence. But it was impossible for me to maintain, consistently, due to the variables of the personalities I had to deal with.
“First one to talk loses”: that’s what I was taught when closing someone. Ask for the order and shut the fuck up. There were times when I’d be on the phone with a prospective client for minutes in total silence (it felt like hours), a game of discipline and will. I shit you not, if he uttered a word before me, 9 out of 10 times he was buying. But cold calling is a hard business. Most men can’t hack it and quit inside of 3 months, after running into walls–fact.
In comes “Ed Motta.”
The seat adjacent to me was idled, apparently reserved for a “professional” account opener. As always, I was skeptical, especially after learning he was getting paid 3x my $200 per week salary–a great sum of money for a piker like me back then.
On a Wednesday morning, around 11:30 am Mr. Motta staggers into work and introduces himself to me “Ed Motta, nice to meet you.” He was in his early 30’s and had an unusually large jug-head, short legs and stocky build. He was a Ray Liotta look alike–to the tee. His arrangement with his senior broker was straightforward: $600 per week salary and an additional $100 per new account opened. He didn’t manage a book or ever speak to a client after opening him. His job was to get clients and move on–like a locust.
He picked up the phone and started to “dial for dollars” as he liked to call it. He made a contact and started to pitch some rich guy out of 0hio some bullshit biotech stock. Ed’s voice was built for radio: it was stentorian, with perfect enunciation and he had an extensive vocabulary to boot. To my amazement, on his first contact he opened a new account. Flabbergasted by his showmanship, I put down the phone and watched him for a next three hours. No one ever hung up on him, literally. He could keep anyone on the phone, for hours if he wanted them to. To test this, I gave him leads of people who “slammed” me on contact and he was able to hypnotize them with his voice and make them buy something. He had the ability to open accounts, almost (some people will never buy), at will. He was a great talent, the best I’ve ever seen.
After his first week at work, Ed invited me out one night “for some drinks.” We hopped in a cab and he told the driver to take him somewhere. At the moment, I was drifting off into outerspace, wondering how this singular man was able to control people like elephants under a stiff whip, so I didn’t hear the address. When we arrived at his “spot,” I was taken aback, finding myself in the middle of Washington Heights (shitty area, like you wouldn’t believe), outside some seedy building. He told me, “Fly, I’ll be right back, just stay here.”
Okay.
After 10 minutes, Ed came running down and said, “okay, let’s go have some drinks.” We hopped in a cab and headed to midtown NYC. After getting out of the cab, some homeless fucker approached us for money. Instead of giving this bum money, to my astonishment, Ed gave him his fucking business card and told the homeless guy “call me Monday, I’ll give you a job.” I queried “are you out of your fucking mind?” That guy’s a crackhead.” His reply was “nah, he has a good voice. I’ll throw him on the phone and he will be a killer.”
Okay.
So we’re at the bar and I have no idea what to do there, as it was my first time in a real NYC bar. I was barely the legal age to drink, by the way. Ed was chatting it up with just about everyone he encountered, jovially having a blast. He told me, “hey, I’ll be right back bud, I need to go do something.”
Forty five minutes later and Ed is nowhere to be found. It was getting late and my wife and baby were at home waiting for me. Actually, my wife thought I was working late and had no idea I was out having drinks (thank God she never reads my blog). I paid the tab and left, thinking “crazy Ed” met a girl and left somewhere with her. No big deal.
As I turned the corner, an ambulance stopped in front of me. I turn to my right and it’s Ed Motta sprawled out on the fucking street, knocked out from an overdose of cocaine. From what I understand, he survived the ordeal; but I never saw him again. Rumor had it that he went to another firm to continue his illustrious career as a “professional account opener.” He could have made millions if he used his unbelievable talents of persuasion to build his own business. Instead, because of character flaws and drugs, he’s probably dead or working as a janitor at some shopping mall right now.
When markets trade against its victims, bad feelings tend to rise to the surface. Contrary to what you may believe, I harbor no ill feelings towards the market. Just because I’m not milking it for every single cent doesn’t mean I’m “missing out.” It’s gonna be a long, long year–trust me when I say that. It makes no difference to me, whatsoever, since I know exactly what I am looking to do.
My biggest mistake in 2011 was calling the massive correction and missing it by just two days. I was about 70% cash a few days before the summer crash, loaded to the balls with TLT, but went long because the smell of crack cocaine was too tantalizing to resist. I went long names like DECK, LULU and WNR and got my balls handed to me while on vacation, losing 100’s of thousands in my personal aggressive account in short term dated call contracts. In about two weeks, I went from being +16% to -8%, only to make it all back shortly thereafter. Considering I barely made 5% last year, that was the error that trucked my year, tossing me under the axles, grinding me into dust.
Poof.
Going into 2012, I was long idiot amounts of DECK, LULU, GSVC and others. My stocks were the best performers during the first three weeks of the year, leading to a +18% start for yours truly aka “gift horse.” You don’t look a gift horse in the face without looking at its mouth. The teeth are old and this fucker is about to break a leg. If I repeated the same errors from 2011, that would be an unforgivable crime, one deserving of egregious loss of business. I am in this game to win and win big. To do so, I need to trade my tape. Understand something, only pikers find it necessary to trade all the time. I’ve been bowling on you fuckers since 2005, so don’t step to me with criticisms. I’ll knock your mustache off your face and use your teeth as fertilizer for my plants.
I need a reprieve from dealing with the whimsical nature of investors. People who invest in stocks are not like other people. Investors are glorified gamblers, steered by emotions, delving into the deepest depths of depravity.
Everyone is right and there isn’t a single idiot amongst us. When things go terribly awry, it is simply a case of “bad luck” or being cursed by stock market magicians who control trading robots. I find myself dealing with the same vagrancies over and over again, with the lot of you now eagerly bullish to the point of mental retardation. It was as clear as the day was long, just two months ago, that the market was doomed for terminal failure. It was end game for the world, then the calendar flipped the script and ensnared the bears in a lethal choke hold, courtesy of the numbers 2-0-1-2.
To be clear, we’re going up only because we’re going up. Stop fucking overanalyzing it, trying to convince others that’s it’s based on something real– because it isn’t. It is all fantasy, a magical carpet that can be pulled from underneath you at any time. I know the feeling of not giving a shit about risk aversion, pushing the envelope to dangerous levels because it’s possible. I’ve been levered 250% to the upside, long short dated options, into overbought tapes, not giving a fuck about the consequences. Likewise, I know the feeling in my stomach, the feel of a knife twisting inside of my guts, when suffering from a -10% single day drawdowns–thanks to market “surprise sex.”
Have you ever lost more than a million inside of a single day? I know some of you have, most of you will never see that type of money.
It’s true, the very best traders, during upward surging markets, are young and ignorant. You can be very smart and a God damned idiot at the same time. Once you get older and conditioned to the eccentricities of the market, due to the battle scars, trading in momo names will never the same, unless of course you remain an ignorant fucker.
I’m only 35, but have been investing in one form or another since I was 13.
Don’t direct your fucking rancor at me because I decided to stay in cash. You fuckers need to catch up to me first, before you can take the fucking high road, bitches.
The ECB, with the help from Germany, will fund bankrupt countries, indefinitely. The EZ is in recession and cannot grow out of their debt burden. As a result, people clamour for stocks. They want them (stocks) all the time because, well, it’s a bull market.
If you think about it, literally, nothing can stop stocks from going higher. If growth slows, the central banks step in and print more money. If a country or two fails, someone else will step in and bail them out. The end result is the same: stocks trade higher, not because economies are robust, but because no one is permitted to fail. It simply isn’t an option.
Do you remember, back in 2011, when European indices were knifing lower by 5% per session and our basic material/financial stocks got cut in half? That was all fucking fear mongering horseshit. Like it or not, President Obama is getting reelected, via landslide, because he makes stocks go higher. Bush was a fucking gorilla who threw banana peels at the economy.
As an aside, I’ve booked a mini-vacation for next week, heading out to Florida. The kids want to visit Universal, maybe Disney, and I want to eat grotesquely large turkey legs. I was down 1.5% on 8% of my money today aka a big nothing burger. Despite all of the fun and excitement outside, Le Fly remains indoors, reading books, drinking tea, shutting the blinds to avoid seeing all of the depravity being committed by outright perverts.
Eagerly waiting in the tall grass, clamoring for the taste of meat, I find myself lazily lounging, spectating, awaiting a great event. As people pass by, I scowl and snarl, calling them names, whilst monitoring the winds for change.
Being a reformed greed-monster, purveyor of chinese burritos, gambler of the first order, captain of crack (spreads), I spectate the ham and eggers mixing it up. Knowing the feeling of unchecked rapacity, I wait for them to err, so that I can go in for the kill, biting their heads off with savage aggression.
