Man I had to take the second half of the week off from trading. I kept feeling an odd vibration in my bones that something was amiss. Recall that two Thursdays ago I “panicked first” and raised some cash—even selling a piece of my coveted Tesla position. When Tesla had that big down day a few days ago, what was it down like -18% or something? At one point? The temptation was to re-buy and claim a dazzling victory over the gods of speculation, flip-flopping about the most holy-of-holy ticker symbols T-S-L-A.
I did not re-buy.
Now I am not saying we’ve topped. But I will state that topping is a process, and it looks like we may have taken the first motions to begin. If this is a swing top there will be plenty of time to gird our loins and/or seek the safety of the sidelines. Why? Because topping takes time.
There have been warnings abound. These talented Instagram influencers, jesters of the court who consistently dazzle the smart-phone-addicted dullard with jokes or big old juicy asses suddenly became stock market gurus like a month ago. Even Amanda Cerny, who I feel confident labeling the Sarah Palin of Instagram, got in on the act by announcing to her million followers that she bought 15 shares of Tesla (pre-split):
Nothing ruins a party quite like a bunch of god damned influencers showing up and blowing up your spot.
Speaking of party, daddy-o I finally found one last night. I haven’t had me a rousing jaunt across the anarchic roads of Detroit all summer. Like a squirrel sensing winter coming, I got all gussied up, sprayed my high bun with a bonding agent and set out into the city night. As I left Mothership, I said au’revoir to the constant rumble of idiots toiling to keep their precious grass lawns rank and file and headed into the kill zone.
As soon as I crossed 8 Mile that wonderful feeling washed over me, that great sense of relief that I was back in a place where I was safe from all the walking mozzarella sticks and their dumb assed “this house backs the blue” pathetic-ness. I cracked open a 24-ounce can of malt hooch and made the rounds, checking in with all the usual suspects to see if anyone knew where I could find an orgy of song and drink.
Well I found it. North-west side. A party promoted under the guise of “Sexual Tension” or something of that salacious nature. I picked up a couple ride-or-die homies and we headed to the fashion mile, a hotbed for hellcat street racing and other lawlessness. My happy place. We had to fill out a questionnaire to enter the patio and have our temperatures checked. It was mask required but my goodness the mamacitas.
Like some shit I’d imagine most of you will never experience during your milquetoast life. Blonde lady, skinny as a rail and 6’5 dunking on any jabroni trying to spit some game. Except for yours truly, of course, humble Raul. I’m too pretty and my charisma is contagious. Maybe she loved me. Maybe she wanted to kill me. A four hundred pound Black transvestite QUEEN with an assembled court and all. Loud, thumping techno, house music, to wash away the wretched memory of all those idiots and their internal combustion grass trimmers and whips and fucking blowers. I was safe.
We stayed until last call, some honeys invited us up to their 20th story rooftop for a knight cap, etc. etc. You know how these things go in the city…
The rooftop terrace was nice and all but I couldn’t stop looking at the walls that led another eight or so stories higher. I wanted the top. So I slipped into the shadows, threw one leg over the steel fencing, then the other, and I was on the service end of the roof. You know, with the loose gravel and lots of cables running every which way and giant HVAC systems…
I found a sturdy aluminum ladder back there that could reach about two stories high. Not quite enough to easily claim the next ledge without standing on the top rung, of a relatively straight up ladder, then getting my armpit onto the ledge and carefully lifting my yoga-sturdied limber ass up, but I made it. Then I hoisted the ladder up to me and took it to the next wall, then the next wall, and voila! I was at the top. Just me and the American flag whipping in the wind.
Finally, a peaceful perch to sit and contemplate all things life and otherwise.
And that was when I realized two things—nothing really matters, and that topping is a process. I made my way back down, but not before first doing my old tight walk routine to startle some life into the after-party-goers some seven stories below. Came back down, drank some cranberry juice chaser, no alcohol, until it started pouring rain. Then I returned to Mothership, woke up at 9am and did a.m. yoga in the whipping wind. Made some food, took a nap, and here we are.
Models are neutral lads. The only trade I will be taking is the trade that has allowed me to survive on my own for these last seven years—the bread and the butter—the open gap inside the prior day’s range. I wake up, I work that trade, then I go about my day, no one’s master, no one’s slave.
There are some clear places on a few charts to watch over these coming weeks to confirm (or deny) that the top is in. Remember: we have an FOMC rate decision this upcoming Wednesday, we rolled forward to the December futures last Thursday, and we are about 50-some days away from the big vote.
There is no shame in going to the sidelines. Our job is to survive first, then thrive when conditions allow it. Maybe those conditions are now, maybe there not. I dunno I might be a madman, but I am dead set on l-i-v-i-n.
Raul Santos, September 13th, 2020
Exodus members, all you need to see in this week’s report is the NASDAQ transportation index. It is telling a huge story. Go check it out now!