DAYTRADING: The Highs and the Woes
I ran two stop signs, eluded three police cars and narrowly missed a deer a moose and an order of Elks on the way to see my shrink, the stolid but never sophistic Doc Kronkite.
I was in crisis. The market sometimes does this to me. This week the market was schizophrenic...up and down more times than a yo-yo. The doc was a specialist in schizophrenia. He'd fix me right up. So you can understand why I was eager to get to my Saturday appointment early.
As I slammed my car door and headed for the doc's office you can imagine my surprise when I saw a line of people extending from the doc's office door, down his sidewalk and around the block. It looked like a line you'd see waiting for the ticket-window to open for a Santana concert.
This would not do. I'm a day-trader and as you know day-traders detest standing in line. So I walked around back where the doc had a secret egress for his special patients. I climbed the stairs and suddenly the door flew open knocking me off balance. Next thing I knew I was tumbling down the stairs.
Dazed, I looked up to see a hand reaching to help me up. I grabbed, the hand pulled.
"Are you ok?" said a familiar voice. My vision was a bit blurry but it looked like someone I'd seen before.
I stood, shook my head a few times, clearing my vision. It was Regis Philbin.
"I'm awfully sorry" he said, "I didn't see you."
"Is that your Final Comment" I asked.
"Yes, yes. Final Comment." he said.
"You're a patient of the doc's, huh?"
"Of course. He's a specialist you know. I had a rough week in the market. But the doc fixed me right up. I can't wait for the market to open on Monday" he told me with an excited smile.
He helped me up the stairs, said good-bye and I walked into the doc's office.
"Say doc, who are all those people lined up waiting to see you?" I asked.
"Day-traders like you, all worried about the market and needing to see me. I specialize in day-traders you know."
"I know doc."
"You're late boobeleh. And you don't look so good. On the couch lie down already." said Kronkite.
"So what is it this week? he asked. "Insomnia? Premature congratulations in the bedroom again? You worried that the election mess in Florida will result in a tapestry of justice? (The doc was a major-league malapropist).
"No doc, nothing like that. It's the market. It's been a crazy week doc. They go up, they go down. When I go long I lose. When I go short I lose. Heck, I got whipsawed in JUNIPER three times yesterday. Worst week I've ever had. You gotta help me doc." I cried.
"I'll help. I'm a specialist you know."
"I know doc."
"Talk on me about your dreams. Dreams tell all. Talk on me boobeleh, talk already."
"Gee doc, I had this dream but if I tell you you'll think I'm crazy."
"I already know you're crazy. Talk."
"Well doc, in my dream I was down in Florida with my boyhood chum and golfing buddy Chet Chad. We had a 9:00 tee-time but figured we'd go vote in the presidential election early. We get to the voting place and they give me a ballot. Now doc, we're dressed for golf, both of us wearing our golf shoes. As I'm walking to the voting booth my ballot slips on the floor and Chet steps on it, poking a few holes in it. Doc, do I have to go on?"
"Absolutely. Continue."
"Anyway, I take my ballot back and ask for a new one. The lady looks at my ballot then hands it to another lady. She looks at it, holds it up to the light and hands it to the fellow sitting next to her. He looks at it with a magnifying glass. Then they all huddle, confer in whispers. They tell me that my chad may be pregnant but my vote for Pat Buchanan is valid and will be counted. Pat Buchanan! I snatched the ballot, ripped it in half and Chet Chad and I ran out, jumped into our rental car and made our 9:00 tee-time.
"We play for money doc, $1,000 a round. It was a tight match, and we were tied going to the 18th hole. I bounced my third shot off a tree and it richocheted onto the green, landing 3-feet from the cup. It's a "gimme" putt doc. I sink it and I win $1,000. So I line it up and as I'm about to putt I hear a voice holler, "Kramer! Kramer!...where's Kramer?" Well doc, my concentration was shattered.
"I turned my head to see a Police Officer heading toward me with a document in his hand.
"What's this?" I snarled.
"It's a subpoena" he said, "From the Palm Beach court. A little matter of ballot tampering."
I ignored him and lined up my putt again. Just before my putter tapped the ball the officer yelled "NOW PAL!" I missed the put doc. I turned and the officer was grinning. So I walked over and gave him a stout poke on the schnoz. Next thing I know my hands are cuffed behind my back and he's saying "You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney...and so on."
"Mmmm," said doc Kronkite.
"Doc, it was awful. I'm not a violent man. What does it all mean?"
"It's not good boobeleh. You've got some pent up distilleries. Lot's work we have to do with you. I'll have to consult with my analyst Sy Gzeundt. He's a specialist you know."
"You have a shrink doc?" I asked, shaken.
"Of course, he's a very extinguished analyst. Deciphers my dreams."
"But doc, what about the market. What should I do. I'm a day-trader you know."
"Call Regis Philbin. He's all straightened out now. And he's going to have a great week day-trading. Do exactly what he does. A bundle you'll make, a bundle."
"Thanks doc, you're great!" I cried. "See You next week."
Out the back door I went. The door slammed into Dan Rather who lost his balance and hit every step on the way down to the bottom of the stairs. I extended a hand of course.
Lee Kramer |
