Listen lads, it is finally summer up here in the murder mitten and it has all the trimming of a maddening one. There has been a major uptick in the amount of neck tattoos listlessly wandering through Trump county, their brain tissues inflamed by the same histamines responsible for their itchy noses and bloodshot eyes. They pose little risk, inebriated by the oppressive sun heat and their own choices, they’re just a clear indication it’s summer in July.
There was a hostage situation a few blocks down from Mothership, with some crazed lunatic locking himself and ‘lover’ in his basement, barricaded in with a wide array of assault weapons. Again, not caring so much, more signs of the summer.
Up north word got out through various social media channels that the place to inebriate was a small state park beach in an otherwise hokey small town. Authorities in the area claimed they’ve never seen anything like it, youths by the 100s descending like gulls, beer bongs and injection needles in tote. The beach was eventually shut down, and as the police chased away the flock, an image emerged of a wonderfully bleak field of unconscious party fiends littered across the sand—some from opiates others from chaotic brawling. I really do not care, these are all signs of summer up here in the murder mitten.
I took solace in the city, which has been receiving isolated rainstorms. The usual crazies haven’t been filing into their desk jobs. The highways are nearly empty. The sidewalks don’t have their usual confetti of adderall pills and extinguished cigarettes. I’d imagine most of those loons took time away from the mortgage servicing complex to go up north. Only the hardened locals are left; calmer loons, content with the groceried-cart lifestyle.
From my small garden oasis it all seems rather meaningless, except a few things:
- the urgency to acquire gratuitous sums of wealth via independent pursuit
- placing two middle fingers firmly in the faces of outside investors/vultures
- keeping my best cards in my own hand
- playing them when the time is right
- spinning all these plates while I dig holes
On Monday, the quant strategy I use to diversify fiat american dollars into stocks made its quarterly adjustment. It picked ridiculous stocks. I’m hands off, stock picking is a robots job, not mine. I can only pick real investments like TSLA or TWTR or MTCH, and build massive 10-year holds, but quarterly stock picking? Or even shorter time frames? For the robots. Are you a simulation or a human? What makes you so sure? Even if I wanted to pick stocks, I don’t have the mental bandwidth right now, it’s hotter than Haiti, and I am busy playing offense while all these jacked asses fart around on pontoon boats.
The roaring ’20s kicks off in six short months. Will you let your little start-up project sit on the back burner until then? Back to work.
RAUL SANTOS, July 7th, 2019
Exodus members, the 242nd edition of strategy session is live. Semiconductors are starting to tell a story here, see Section IV. At a minimum, log in and read the executive summary so this week’s events don’t catch you flat footed.
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