After some recent unexpected reverses in the market, I've "upgraded" to a MITS Altair, which uses the cutting-edge chip of the 1970s, the Intel 8080 microprocessor. I was fortunate enough to find this dream machine in a trash bin near my new "home," a park bench. With a little tinkering, I was able to connect a rudimentary modulator/demodulator and a teleprinter -- both salvaged from the depths of a dumpster -- to my not-quite-state-of-the-art machine. With some wire from the corks of champagne bottles -- discarded in the park by holiday revelers -- I managed to tap into a nearby lamppost and telephone booth. To what do I attribute these changed circumstances in my life?
Perhaps it was my failure to pay full heed to some of the lessons learned in New Jersey this summer. When I returned home -- my former home, now the property of the bank -- I availed myself of all the new trading systems so generously shared in the hermetically sealed seminar rooms in New Jersey. (You must excuse the long, wordy sentences. During the recent shakeup in my life, I also lost my editor, accountant, chef, psychologist, massage therapist, and past-life-regression facilitator -- all conveniently embodied in my former husband. His ultimate betrayal was representing the bank in its recent foreclosure actions against me.)
With minimal effort -- and virtually no understanding of the systems whatsoever -- I was reaping extraordinary profits in no time at all. My sister -- who now maintains that she has bailed me out for "positively the last time," warned me that a psychic had predicted a market collapse in October. A newsletter writer repeatedly warned me about the importance of stops. My former accountant warned me about the volatility of low-cap stocks. I dismissed all these concerns, smiling knowingly, and one memorable day, "support levels were penetrated," with a sharp pin, in fact. In a matter of weeks, I was wiped out.
I'm slowly accustoming myself to my new lifestyle. I'm up with the pigeons most days -- if I'm not, I'm usually roused by a park official -- who seems to regret not qualifying for a career in law enforcement. I share my living quarters, a bench bolted to a concrete walkway, with several new friends, including a bag lady who feeds the birds each day and enjoys free-associating on diverse subjects -- many relating to colorful incidents involving mental-health professionals. There's "Bear," too, who wanders by from time to time. Curiously enough, he's a former technical analyst. Unfortunately, he's not very communicative; the mere mention of a trading system seems to stun him into a bewildered silence. I made the mistake of broaching the topic of the 200-day moving average the other day, and he regarded me with an odd, quizzical expression, scratched himself as if covered with lice, then pushed off in a daze.
Well, I'm being pushed along by the park official again. The swells want to enjoy this bench on New Year's Day, it seems. Perhaps I'll be welcome in their polite, scrubbed circle again one day. There's always the January rally.
Brooke |
