DAYTRADING: The Highs and the Woes
I was in crisis. Usually when I’m in crisis I call doc Kronkite, my shrink. He calms me down. He’s a specialist you know.
But the nexus of this crisis was trading related. I wavered, waffled and wobbled before picking up the phone at 3:00 a.m.
The doc was probably ensconced in the midst of a dream. He is a Freudian analyst, [I know this because he has a photo of the bearded fellow, as many shrinks do, on his office wall.] Dreams are very important to him. As he often reminds me, “All can be found, all can be solved, by interpreting dreams. Dream boobeleh, dream. And don’t forget to remember your dreams.”
“I will doc, I will,” I always assure him.
But as my hand hovered over the phone I was struck with an inspiration. Dortmunder, my trading partner, could solve my crisis. But would the little guy deem to help?
I tip-toed quietly into his bedroom. He was deep asleep. I tapped him gently on the shoulder. Nothing. I tapped again. Still nothing. So I did what one must when in crisis. I hollered “Wake up Dorty, wake up. I’m in CRISIS!!!”
He opened an eye, looked at me, said “Sod you,” in his clipped British accent, “Perhaps you observed that I was sleeping?” whereupon he closed his eye and ignored me.
I hollered again. He sat up.
“Nixon had his six crises. You have six crises per week. Go see Kronkite, directly,” he intoned.
“But I don’t want Kronkite. I want you. I need you. You are brilliant! It’s about the market, about trading, and you are a trading connoisseur,” I said in my best British accent. I had him.
He snorted. “You shant move me with your nonsense.
Mmm. So I tried bribery. “Dortmunder, I shall warm up a plate of raspberry scones, a pot of your favorite tea flown in at my cost from Britain. And I’ve purchased a new bumbershoot for you.” [I keep several in hiding for such occasions.]
He harrumphed, but shrugged into his bathrobe; the one with his family coat-of-arms in prominent display.
He followed me in to the kitchen. I prepared the scones, the tea and handed him the $3.95 bumbershoot. He looked at it, sneered, and tossed it into the waste basket.
He began working on his scones while reading the London Times.
He ate more scones, maddingly slowly.
I paced some more.
When done he said “Describe if you must, the salient feature of your latest crisis.”
“I fear that I’ve missed the train,” I replied, wringing my hands.
“The train? Patience my dear chap, another train will be along shortly,” he said.
“No. I mean that I’ve missed the New Bull Market. Stocks are flying;
I’m still sitting on my cash,” I cried. “I missed YHOO, I missed AMZN, I missed BLUD, COH, EMC and LF. Woe is me.”
”So what should I do? Help me,” I beseeched the little guy.
“You are a day-trader, are you not?” he asked.
“Sure.” I said.
“Well, do you think the market will rise faster than Jack’s Beanstalk?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“No, it will not,” he said.
“Will too,” I screamed.
“It will not,” he replied. “Look at your charts. Sure, those stocks you mentioned ran hard and fast. You missed your trains, as you put it rather poorly. Wait for the consolidations: the bull flags, the pennants, the pullbacks to the 10 and 20 period moving averages. Wait. And short the weak charts. There are trading opportunities every day. Find them and trade.”
“Quite. Trade. And with your profits acquire for me a proper bumbershoot.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said. ”What should I trade on Monday?” I asked.
“We shall wait until Monday. I will assist you,” he said, leaving table and heading for his bedroom.
“Dortmunder,” I said, “You are a genius. I am no longer in crisis.”
He looked over his shoulder. Mumbled something. I think I heard “Bully, Bully.”