Riding the dot.Comstock bull market

Yee Hah!

Riding the dot.Comstock bull market

By Kit Miller

A weird thing happened to me the other day in Virginia City. This guy on the bar stool next to me leaned over, cigarette dangling, and said in a growly voice. "If ye have any extry cash I got a great investment opportunity."

I took the bait. "What is it? Silver? Gold? A share in the Chollar? A piece of the Ponderosa? Speak, man!"

"Hit's a new hole. The deepest dug yet. And maybe," he winked, "the richest." He glanced around cautiously, his eyebrows working, then whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "Hit's the dot.Comstock Lode!"

I gasped. I had heard of the dot.Comstock Lode. Shoot, who hasn't? Every schoolboy, adventurer and divorcee east of the Missouri dreams of striking it rich at the Lode, cashing in their chips and hightailing it for a life of golf and gated communities.

Everyone seems to know someone who knows someone who did it. Gotten in on the ground floor as a secretary in a little bitty company with nothing but prospects. Been paid in dot.Comstock she figured was maybe good for papering the walls with. And then one day. One Day!

The thing goes public and she hits the Big Bonanza. She's a dot.Millionaire. Trading her Honda in for a Humvee. Buying a gallery on C Street for her aging penniless hippy artist parents. Getting herself a pe-da-terre in SF.

Sure, some are skeptical of the Lode. They call it a house of cards. A mirage. A pipe dream. The emperor's new clothes. After all, does anyone really know what those companies make?

Every now and then you hear a rumor that the dot.Comstock Lode ripped off some poor devil. Last week he was boasting he's worth half a billion virtual silver shares. This week he's twisting in the wind.

This old timer next to me had to be a big manipulator panning for suckers. Probably a no account who salts the outcropping ten minutes before selling it to someone like me. I knew I should turn away. But the lure of the Big Bonanza kept my tongue wagging. "Is it certified? What's the assay? Let's see the paper."

"Not here, my friend," said the old guy cagily. "It's all on my Excel program. You'll have to come to my office."

Of course! He would lure me to his computer. Then when I was brain-dead from assault by electronic business prospecti, he would sell me some worthless piece of barren cyber-desert. "I don't have time," I lied, forcing back my excitement.

"All right then. Here's a printout of our stock , it's got big losses, but it's a big opportunity. Everyone dreams of it but only a few are chosen." His voice became singsong. "Sign right here."

My eyes began to glaze. I nodded to the rhythm of his voice. My hand involuntarily reached for the pen. Suddenly I jerked back to my senses. What was I thinking? I had a family, a reputation. Besides, I'm too old. You have to be under 35 for that sort of thing. And I remember the last time I fell for a boomer.

"Sorry pal," I said sadly. "You'll have to find another customer. That thing's too high risk for my blood." As I left he was ambushing a young couple with a baby in arms and an SUV with California plates parked outside.

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