Steve Abramowitz

I HAVE LONG HELD a grudge against Los Angeles, and not just because they stole the Dodgers from Brooklyn when I was a kid. It’s a city where too much value is placed on how you look, a metric where I don’t score particularly high. By contrast, New York City—my old stomping ground—is principled more on what you know, and on that score I feel I deserve at least a gentleman’s C.
That said,

WHEN WAS THE LAST time you got scammed? Mine was about a year ago, when I threw more than chump change into a red-hot newfangled exchange-traded fund called the JPMorgan Equity Premium Income ETF (symbol: JEPI).
Now, JEPI could be the name of someone’s pet poodle, but it’s actually one of the more misunderstood high-income products in the burgeoning world of actively managed exchange-traded funds (ETFs). Just how red hot is the fund? Around for only four years,

I’M DUMB MONEY, as are all so-called recreational gamblers. That’s why, during the recent basketball playoffs, we sports spectators were bombarded with wildly seductive commercials glamorizing sports betting.
Fortunately, I learned my limits early on. My last notable gamble ended badly more than four decades ago, when some IBM options I bought expired worthless.
But I’ve also come to appreciate that not all individual gamblers are dumb money. I’ve lately been serving as the sounding board for my 36-year-old son Ryan,

“IS THAT INDIA or something? Where was that picture taken, Richie?”
“You’ll never guess, Stevie. Remember 266 Washington Avenue?”
“That brown brick, 114-unit apartment building in Brooklyn that Grandpa bought 75 years ago? Mommy said he saved for the down payment with money from the kosher butcher shop he opened after he got here from Poland. But didn’t we sell it in the 1970s? It looks like the Taj Mahal now.”
“Yeah, it’s obviously been spectacularly upgraded over the years.”
“How did you get the picture?”
“Robin and I were in New York last month and went to see it.

RETURNING TO NEW YORK for the summer was out of the question. It was spring of my freshman year, and I wasn’t about to acquiesce to my parents’ wishes, not after the whirlwind of college life that included an introduction to pot and dating non-Jewish girls from small Midwestern towns. I didn’t give much thought to what I’d actually do. Maybe meeting girls taking summer school in The Grill or driving all the way to Miami and party,

“YOU’LL STILL HAVE a retirement. It just won’t be the one you planned on.”
I’ve had to share this sobering assessment with many patients who were hoping to be rewarded for a lifetime of hard work and responsible saving, only to have those hopes dashed by an unforeseen health crisis. The culprit may be an external event like a disabling car accident or crippling fall, or an internal one like stage-four cancer or early onset dementia.

“I CAN’T GET DIVORCED.”
“But Randy, I thought you guys were moving toward one.”
“I mean, I can’t afford to. I just went to see my accountant and a lawyer.”
“And?”
“Remember, California is a community property state. Even though I made almost all our money, Sarah’s entitled to half of it. I know she was dedicated to raising Harris all those years, but wow, Steve, I’m cooked.”
“But you were such a sought-after internist.

YOGI BERRA IS MY favorite guru. His quip, “It ain’t over till it’s over,” pretty much sums up my losing battle with technology stocks.
The saga all began with an upbringing that bred a need for achievement that could never be satisfied, coupled with a prohibitive anxiety over risk-taking and failure. This family tape has played over and over again in my head as I’ve struggled to steer a course as a mutual and exchange-traded fund investor.

IN 1954, THE SPANIELS sang, “Goodnight, sweetheart, well, it’s time to go.”
It may not be time for me to go, but it is time to hand over the keys to our rental properties to my wife, Alberta. Since 1983, I’ve had primary oversight over our family’s residential real estate. At age 79, I’m dogged by heart disease and cancer, and weary of scrimmaging with delinquent renters and dishonorable service people. After assisting me and grooming for the role,

MARCH MADNESS HAS descended on my family. I’m not just referring to the hoopla surrounding the annual NCAA college basketball tournament that runs from late March through early April. I mean the reckoning for our 36-year-old son, and his decision to switch careers and pursue his dream of becoming a professional sports bettor.   
For the 10 years after college graduation, Ryan taught high school math and coached basketball. But in between planning lectures,

OUR COURTSHIP WAS both ripe with joy and fraught with tumult. One scene is emblazoned in my memory. Alberta and I had just finished lunch on the grass in front of the campus cafeteria. I was slumped over, exhausted by the frantic academic scramble to get published and disillusioned by the political intrigues.
Alberta read my mood and rested my head in her lap, as she ran her hand softly through my hair. Schooled by my parents to keep an eye out for retirement and advancing age,

WHEN I WAS YOUNG, my parents converted our basement into an indoor playground for the neighborhood kids.
My friends could listen to Elvis belt out Hound Dog or croon Love Me Tender on the Seeburg jukebox. Some chose instead to light up the Bally pinball machine. Others would challenge my father to a game of pool. Meanwhile, my mother would create mini-pizzas for everyone, with a slice of Swiss cheese drenched in tomato sauce on half an English muffin.

“SO STEVE, WHAT BRINGS you to therapy?”
“I’ve been moody, sluggish and short-tempered lately. I think I’m depressed.”
“Any guesses what might be going on?”
“I do, but it’s so silly. My wife Alberta needs to make her first required minimum distribution in a few months. You know, when you reach that point in your 70s where they make you withdraw from your retirement accounts. I don’t think it’s about the tax liability. We’ve planned for that.”
“Then?”
“This is going to sound strange.

FLAPJACKS IS LITERALLY on the other side of the tracks. The place is a throwback to the diners of the 1950s, when waitresses wore white aprons and took orders on little green pads, and where the red vinyl seats were cracked.
Charlie and me. I’ve been meeting Charlie at Flapjacks for weekly pancake breakfasts since I partially retired seven years ago. I spot him in our back booth and slide in across from him.

HEY GUYS, DO YOU carry a rifle like Clint Eastwood when you invest—or are you a vulnerable romantic like Hugh Grant? My contention: Most of us lean toward a traditionally masculine or feminine orientation when building our portfolio, similar to how we handle many other life choices, from career to sports preferences.
This gender orientation is, I believe, a pervasive bias when buying and selling mutual funds and exchange-traded funds (ETFs), not unlike the behavioral-finance biases you’ve likely read about,