Back in the Saddle — My Journey Back to Princeton

We started the day with a hankering for some southern breakfast — so we took a sojourn into the engine of the confederacy at Raleigh. It was a local hipster coffee shoppe, with outdoor seating — hipster lights swinging from the establishment — hipsters with tattoos manning the tables outside. Every two or three tables was an elderly couple, or middled age, all dressed finely and speaking with a slow drawl and a gentile southern cadence. I ordered a fucking Italian sandwich with a cappuccino — savaged it down my gullet — and then got the hell out of there. Before I left, however, my wild coyote picked a fight with a baby pitbull who was also there enjoying a hard bone and the southern climes. My coyote, it should be noted, is extremely anti-social.

We took a local road on our way back, the Jefferson Davis highway — a mangled zig zag of hard molasses broken up by a rural landscape dotted with trailer homes and small ranches. As I sped down this road in my fancy Mercedes truck, sticking out like a soar Yankee thumb, I was certain a Tom Sawyer type lad would jump out barefooted with dirt on his face to throw a turnip at me as I traveled heavily throughout the area. I was disappointed to find ZERO confederate flags, just a collection of front lawn junk yards and American flags idling in the dead humid heat of dust and boredom.

I quickly sped up and through Virginia — again on local roads — a local highway shaped like a madman was twisting sweet water taffy — incongruent with the town planning. Roads split in two suddenly. Small houses were dotted across high velocity roads with old broken down gas station throw rugs splayed out across 19th century shacks. I passed a place of no significance called Pepper Mill Creek and it stood out only because the area reminded me of something that might’ve been ground out of a pepper mill by God and forgotten for a thousand years.

We decided to take a pit stop at Fredericksburg — probably my favorite southern city — the apex of southern pride and accomplishment — the place that defined what it meant to repel northern aggression and massacre thousands at a ridiculous wall because of idiotic union command. We parked right next to George Washington’s mother’s house and my coyote took a dump right in front of it. It’s a lowly shack, likely domiciled by an insane woman and I didn’t want to pick up the excrement — but my wife insisted upon it. I grabbed an iced latte at Hyperion Espresso — the only coffee house of note there and enjoyed the views, interrupted only every 2 minutes by my coyote who attempted to lunge at people on motorcycles or random strangers passing by. Whenever a dog happened to sojourn our way — the coyote lost her mind and acted like she was infected with the rabies.

My wife and kids went to an Italian restaurant, but I wanted to roam the streets and ended up in an olde bookstore, small, but comfortable — decorated with walls of books, English styled furniture and old rugs atop of very ancient wood that creaked and bowed and felt like I’d step on the wrong piece that would soon give way and drop me into a cob-webbed cellar. I spied a Hemingway book about his letters, opened the book midway and saw one addressed to F. Scott Fitzgerald — instantly closed it and then bought it.

I then joined my family at the Italian restaurant — but before that I was accosted by immoral youths acting terribly — and then I saw run down southern men with thick accents smoking cigarettes and baking in the sun without cause.

At the eatery I sat next to a cosmopolitan couple who harangued the waitress over their wine selection.

“Should we get the Il Morono white or perhaps the Vincenziorioao rose?”

“I don’t know hon — what do you think? So hard.”

“Excuse me, waitress — we’re not sure if we want the Igliomrani Chardonnay — we were just at the Vineyard — so good — but not that much of a fan.”

“Oh, ok — but we do have the Rose too, if you want to try.”

“What do you think hon?”

“Not sure. I don’t think I want to take the risk. Let’s just get the Chianti by Gaboulianai”

“Perfect, right, ok.”

“Great.”

“So good.”

“I know…right.”

“Good call.”

“Thanks hon. Perfect. So good. We learned so much in Italy — so epic.”

I wanted to grab a knife and execute both of them — but my wife kept looking at me in a nervous way as if to tell me “don’t you dare pick up that knife and kill those people in front of your children”, so I refrained.

The rest of the trip was mostly uneventful — I-95 droning action with bad music and nonsensical chatter, interrupted by wonderful songs that you hear only once every 10 years or so and incoherent laughter and quick stops for snacks and urination disposal.

I’m back now — ready to drive a dagger into the heart of this bull market — but fully prepared and positioned for a continuation of this glorious bull market.

I see markets are doing just fine without me — edge-lording higher and what not. Now I have the horrible task of driving back home — 8 hours of non-stop grueling repetition, only interrupted by the occasional traffic jam. When I enter DC, I am pretty sure I’ll hate life — since that God forsaken place is always jammed tight with cars.

About mid-way, I’ll stop at Richmond for more BBQ and stuff my gills with meats of dead animals, recharge, and then continue. But before I can do any of that, mind you, I’ll need to make a few quick stops around here — placate the masses, and get a bite to eat. One of the great things about living in a densely populated area, like The Research Triangle, is the amount of quality restaurants one could visit. Where I live now, there are only a handful of reliable places and the high end spots are a good distance away. I know that living to eat is awfully stupid — but while driving around and sight seeing — there’s not much else to do to past the time.

As for stocks — they’re trending higher and nothing can stop them. All you have to do is place money into a diversified basket of stocks and then sit back and watch them increase in value. As long as oil is grinding higher, edging towards $70 WTI — all is well and good. I suspect, however, oil could start to harangue the consumer at around $85. But by that time, we’ll all be so rich and fat here, none of it will matter anymore. Our oil stocks will careen higher and all of the other ancillary plays, your little distractions and river boat gambles, will soar towards levels not thought possible.

Ok…heading out now. Wish me luck.

Good day.

Today I wore a bespoke blue stripes on white business shirt — crossed with light khakis. I was all about business today and I didn’t bother removing my sunglasses for the entire day — even indoors. The southern folks here were milling about their day — eating grits, slabs of pork, having a general time about their existence here — calm and poised.

Over at the local golf course, I spied several dozen well cigar’d gets swinging wildly and flagrantly into the wind — not really trying to do well, but instead crush the ball with every fiber of their existence. We once again frequented the college towns of UNC and Duke, for reason which now escape me. I am beginning to think I don’t have much say in the matter and just drive to wherever people want to go. While in Chapel Hill, my son ate a grease filled chicken cheese and biscuit from a placed called “Time-Out.” It’s a 24/7 greasy spoon that has served college idiots in the area for generations. In Princeton, we have a similar greasy spoon called “Hoagie Haven.” Painting a broad brush, I can tell you that Chapel Hill is a disgraceful and degenerate place to live. It’s a pure college town, minus the dignity, history, and honor of a town like Princeton. Over at Durham, where Duke is located, it’s a mixed bag of sea-shells. Not for me.

My favorite parts of this area are in North West Cary and part of Apex. The builders have gone absolutely fucking nuts down here and are building houses faster than people can fill them. I don’t quite understand what the fuck is going on here, really. I’ve never seen entire communities being built like this, all without land — just large well built homes with beautiful mill work at very low prices. One of the developments I visited near Apex, which has a brand new HS opening this September, was so perfect I didn’t exactly feel comfortable with it. It was a scene out of Mayberry — stepford wives with strollers, men with lawnmowers, and kids playing in the streets, amidst a backdrop of perfectly manicured lawns and brand new homes — all affordable and connected to the city sewer. I kept thinking to myself “something isn’t right here”, but I couldn’t find anything with the time available to me.

The area is brimming with well healed folks who are employed in tech and biotech — many from India and China — which is rapidly changing the demographics of the area. Quite honestly, and this could be me being aspirational and possibly naive, this does look like the very best place to possibly live in America. Naturally, you can find a more aesthetically pleasing geographic location on the coasts, but you’ll pay $700-2,000 per sq ft for that. Here you can get 4,000 sq ft at less than $150 per sq ft. I’d say roughly 70% of the homes in West Cary are new — which is astonishing when considering the scale of homes there — well into the thousands. The fucking builders have just about run out of land in Cary and are now continuing their rampage up north in Morrisville and down south in Apex and Holly Springs.

Tomorrow I’ll be forced against my will to frequent the local fucking mall and I’m hoping to get back on the road by 1pm. Every single trip I’ve taken before — took much longer than planned. I do not want to get home at 3am — but something tells me it’ll happen anyway.

Dinner will be served early in the land of Jefferson Davis — BBQ brisket naturally alongside a banana pudding and perhaps a side of collared greens and sweet potatoes. I’ve been eating like a complete barrel ass and that will not change during tomorrow’s parlay and exit from the south — en route to the cold gray lands of the frigid and austere north.

I’m out and about — sporting a very rustic look today — bright beige chinos with dark beige sweater — gray stripes. If you should see me and approach me for an autograph, I will punch your jaw loose.

My TUFN and DAVA trades are working exactly as planned. Early this morning a lad named “Index Joe” decided to take profits on these calls I made last week. This of course was a cowardly course of action and he was chastised thricely over it.

While these types of transgressions might’ve been glossed over or ignored when I was a union man — I shall not turn my cheeks and shy away from these sins in the future, once settled below the Mason Dixon. I think you should all know about that and how this blog might change, quite dramatically actually, in the not too distant future.

I bid you good day.

Greetings from the South!

I will not be trading today — but I will be popping in Exodus from time to time.

This is BIG news from Trump, an attempt to kill Iran.

“President Donald J. Trump has decided not to reissue Significant Reduction Exceptions (SREs) when they expire in early May,” the White House said in a statement. “This decision is intended to bring Iran’s oil exports to zero, denying the regime its principal source of revenue.”

Brent is encroaching on $74, WTI $66. I see futures are down 100 — but from my vantage point this spike in oil supersedes any weakness the market might endure early on. I’d be a buyer of dips and an aggressive holder of crude stocks here.

I started off my day listening to Old Town Road and cooking some panned cakes in our hotel room. Shortly thereafter we visited the communities worth visiting and found them to be particularly non-southern — mostly Indian and Chinese in on H1-B visas — and I was pleased with this fact, not because I’m race hating on myself and the southern gents — but I’ve found my Asian friends to be disciplined and truth is born and enjoyed through said discipline.

Since it was Easter, we felt it’d be necessary to visit Church — but I didn’t get around to any of that. Instead I stumbled upon a fine neighborhood with a little shopping center — the most quaint place one could possible imagine living. I ate an avocado toast, fashioned myself a hipster, and enjoyed the southern climes.

By the way, it should be noted, I was adorned with a lambs wool sweater, glistening and feathering in the wind — topped with a hedge fund prick vest and dark shades. Don’t try to look into my eyes — fucker — it won’t work.

One side note on the area, I was pleasantly surprised to see alcohol splayed everywhere I went. Back in Princeton, it’s still a fucking dry town and the grocery stores aren’t permitted to sell spirits. Here, the local Whole Foods has a fucking beer draught station, which could be purchased for just $3 per glass on Thursdays, $5 every other day — getting drunk the entire time shopping. I made a funny at the lady who instructed me of their vagrancy, “Oh, yeah, I can just drink a few of these, go shopping, grab a growler to go, and then hop in the car and VROOM VROOM.”

My joke did not have the effect I desired.

Later on we went to Raleigh and there I got to enjoy some of the true historical confederate nonsense — statues and people of an extremely low caliber. My lambs wool sweater was fluttering in the wind, intimidating all of the manlets who felt it necessary to wear baseball hats and disgusting beards.

Now I’m back in the hotel and I’m eating ham and gruyere with champagne and readying to watch Games of Thrones and thinking about tomorrow and how I have zero interest in trading, but instead visiting local museums and absorbing the culture and judging it harshly for what it is and isn’t.

We’re in the midst of a total Exodus rebuild. Upon relaunch, FREE TRIALS will be eliminated, we’ll be focused on growing the platform, and prices will be going higher — I promise you that. To escape these horrible digital deaths, I strongly advise you to do several things now.

#1: Take a free trial this Easter Bunny Sunday and partake in the grandeur of the platform during the coming trading week.

#2: When said free trial is up, join the league of gentlemen and grandfather in your miserly prices. I know you’ve heard corny sales pitches before, such as “cheaper than a bowl of grits and half dozen egg breakfast” before — but it’s true.

Let me put it to you this way. Our annual rate is $499, or $42 per month. If you cannot extract value from me to match 42 fucking dollars per month — I might as well toss myself into a lit fireplace and get it over with now.

I AM A FUCKING MASTER in all things pertaining to high finance, a literal encyclopedia and depository of knowledge in all things, especially stocks and trading, an artisan sculptor of portfolios, and all around really great guy. Believe me, all of my best friends tell me this all the time.

Happy Easter — off to raze these southern fields with my style and panache.

My cashmere sweater didn’t have the desired effect I had intended. We started off the day in a very popular French bakery for some coffee and sandwiches. They quite honestly had some of the best bread I’ve ever had — a very busy and bustling place. We were seated outdoors — because I had my coyote with me and she was very angry — energetically growling and snarling at the nice southern gentry who took the opportune to acknowledge her grace and presence. Lucky for them I had an awfully tight grip on her metal leash, otherwise she’d snap their fingers clean off their inquisitive hands.

We then took upon the neighborhoods of Cary and found them to be of an advanced cookie cutter varietal. There is an artistic quality to them — but most are bereft of any meaningful amount of property — since land is valuable here — not in the sense per square foot in the real estate market — but in much needed demand for fuckheaded contractors who keep slapping up new communities for Yankee transplants.

Later on I visited the UNC campus at Chapel Hill and my dog took a gigantic dump in front of the old library. It’s a fine campus and my wife made sure to buy a plethora of meaningless garb. I, myself, only bought a shot glass — since I collect them wherever I go.

We then went to Duke University, since my son might want to get his graduate degree there. It reminds me very much of Princeton University with its gothic architecture and obnoxious symbolism. We dined in Durham, just across the street from an old masonic temple, and everyone was overly pleasant, but I didn’t notice any heavy southern fried chicken accents or handlebar mustaches, which was disappointing. I expected more south in this Northern part of Carolina; but it seems everyone here is from up north — regular fuckheads who drive their cars like imbeciles and do not even eat grits in the morning. There are far more Southerners up north in Virginia, even in Pennsylvania than out here. Again, disappointing.

Tomorrow is easter, so we have some dining arrangements and I’ll be heading out towards Winston-Salem too, in search of southern gentry. My sweater was supposed to instill fear today — but it didn’t because no one even noticed what was going on. There is very little time and occasion for pageantry, as it seems the people from here just toil and drive their cars as violently as possible. There isn’t even a Main Street and I haven’t spied a single sidewalk in Cary.

Tomorrow I intend to wear my hedge fund styled vest with a Brooks Brother button down — very northeast prick attire. I have zero expectations of intimidating the folk down here, as it seems to me they’re all too stupid to understand what’s before them — so stupid I doubt most of these people know they’re alive.

It took me 11 hours to get here and oddly enough — it wasn’t really torturous. I got fucked in DC around 3 and was stuck in traffic in the rain. There was a group of, I don’t know, 10,000 Mexicans protesting something and they really fucked up my alternative route flow. I hope Trump sent them all back to Mexico. That shit really pissed me off.

When I got down to Richmond, I went to Mission BBQ — my favorite place for brisket and green beans. I ate an absurd amount of food and side dishes and didn’t even feel full afterwards. I’m here with my dogs, so I sat outside during a little drizzle eating meat after meat after meat — like an absolute barrel-ass.

While driving to Raleigh the fucking rain started to come down in sheets, so bad I had to put my hazards on and drive like an old man.Truck drivers were flashing their lights into my car, telling me to fuck off and get out of the way. I wanted to kill them.

Then I noticed my car was handling poorly and I felt like I was rolling on Flintstone rocks. I checked the PSI on my tires and they were motherfucking 55. I normally keep them at 35, like any normal human being. I had just took my car out from the shop for a routine oil change and I can only guess that the fucking geniuses in there filled up my tires without actually checking for PSI. I am going to skin them alive when I get back.

It should be noted, I am in a nice suite with a full kitchen and wonderful amenities — dark gray rugs, charcoal couches, white walls, flat teevees, several neatly made beds, and a stainless steel fridge — already stocked with champagne. Tomorrow I intend to make my debut in the south, even though I’ve been here before, donning my cashmere cardigan. The very site of this sweater will shock the southern folk here into a panicked retreat and submission. The idea that someone could cavort amongst them in a sweater of this magnitude and grandeur will assuredly put them into an immediate subordinate position.

More on this tomorrow.

Why do you fuckers argue with each other about politics? Just a few years ago when I made the grave mistake of delving into politics, driving traffic at the site to all time fresh record highs. Our Alexa ranking soared to 5,000 — ad revenues tripled, and I was miserable. I know it has said before, but never again. I might have to start banning you fuckers for talking about politics in the comments section.

Last night I ate a hammed burger with cheese and some grilled potatoes, very heavily salted and lightly peppered. This morning I intend to whip up some Frenched toast, drizzled with real maple’d syrup — not that Aunt Jemima horseshit. By this time tomorrow, I expect to be eating grits and chitlins for breakfast, as I whip my waiter into shape and inform them of the preferences of their northern masters.

I’ll be driving 8 hours down to Raleigh soon and it’ll be the longest drive of my illustrious career. When I first started driving, I was a complete faggot — couldn’t go more than 2-3 hours at a clip. Since I enjoyed traveling up north into the New England region of America, I’d plan my trips to be dotted with hotel stays along the way. Every 2-3 hours I’d rest and take up residency in a hotel — extending trips much longer than needed. Nowadays I can drive a solid 5 hours before seeing double and wanted to keel over and die due to boredom. Sometimes I’ll blast really bad rap music in the car, just to draw a negative response from Mrs. Fly, in order to keep the drive lively. But today I’ll do 8-9 hours straight — like a robot. I’ll likely stop in Richmond, cavort with other southern gentlemen and whip them into shape too, asking quite aggressively where I might find some good BBQ and corned bread.

I’ll take my laptop with me and I’ll be sure to inform ya’ll about my southern adventures over the next few days.

Oh, in case any of you FUCKERS intend to burglar my home when I’m away, just know a good friend of mine is staying over while I’m gone and he’s armed with a machine gun and grenades. Plus he’s a black belt in karate and bench presses 400lbs.