Have you ever encountered someone you'd categorize as a "true numbers guy"? I've had the fortune of crossing paths with a few such individuals.
There were the card counters, roughed up and unceremoniously discarded into the depths of Las Vegas casino kitchen dumpsters. Then there was the school janitor who effortlessly engaged with unfathomable theoretical math predicaments, all while under the influence of pine-sol fumes. Let's not forget the agoraphobic mathematician, aided by thorazine doses, who embarked on a relentless quest to unveil the ultimate pattern within the stock market. He was relentlessly pursued by corporate enforcers and Talmudic underworld figures, ultimately culminating in an unsettling encounter involving a drill. Oh, and the toothpick-counting savant who held an unwavering belief that he was an exceptional dancer. And even C-3PO had a seat at this numbers-driven table.
And then there's Goichi Hosoda.
Hailing from Japan, Goichi was a newspaperman whose domain encompassed dutiful coverage of the country's age-old rice markets. During this tenure, he meticulously charted prices, gradually forming a distinctive concept of support and resistance.
However, Goichi's narrative took a unique twist in the late 1930s. Armed with determination, he constructed his very own version of a supercomputer. His tool of choice? A devoted squadron of students, tirelessly engaged in perpetual calculations and scenarios. While their desks might have seemed like incarceration at times, the students were bestowed with ample rations. All this was in pursuit of a systematic approach par excellence, aimed at deciphering market dynamics.
So wholeheartedly committed to his mission that his wife ultimately sought divorce due to "irreconcilable differences" linked to her unquenchable jealousy of the numbers 9, 26, and 52, Goichi and his tribe of human calculators dedicated over two decades to this numerical odyssey. Finally, in 1968, the culmination of Hosoda's efforts bore fruit: a system he aptly named Ichimoku Kinko Hyo.
Yes, you'll find him right over yonder. As you might discern, the wear and tear on his eyelids reached such an extent that they ceased to function. He harbored an inexplicable yet oddly charming affinity for silk vests, held a hearty affection for frothy beer, and exuded an undeniable sense of accomplishment.
There were the card counters, roughed up and unceremoniously discarded into the depths of Las Vegas casino kitchen dumpsters. Then there was the school janitor who effortlessly engaged with unfathomable theoretical math predicaments, all while under the influence of pine-sol fumes. Let's not forget the agoraphobic mathematician, aided by thorazine doses, who embarked on a relentless quest to unveil the ultimate pattern within the stock market. He was relentlessly pursued by corporate enforcers and Talmudic underworld figures, ultimately culminating in an unsettling encounter involving a drill. Oh, and the toothpick-counting savant who held an unwavering belief that he was an exceptional dancer. And even C-3PO had a seat at this numbers-driven table.
And then there's Goichi Hosoda.
Hailing from Japan, Goichi was a newspaperman whose domain encompassed dutiful coverage of the country's age-old rice markets. During this tenure, he meticulously charted prices, gradually forming a distinctive concept of support and resistance.
However, Goichi's narrative took a unique twist in the late 1930s. Armed with determination, he constructed his very own version of a supercomputer. His tool of choice? A devoted squadron of students, tirelessly engaged in perpetual calculations and scenarios. While their desks might have seemed like incarceration at times, the students were bestowed with ample rations. All this was in pursuit of a systematic approach par excellence, aimed at deciphering market dynamics.
So wholeheartedly committed to his mission that his wife ultimately sought divorce due to "irreconcilable differences" linked to her unquenchable jealousy of the numbers 9, 26, and 52, Goichi and his tribe of human calculators dedicated over two decades to this numerical odyssey. Finally, in 1968, the culmination of Hosoda's efforts bore fruit: a system he aptly named Ichimoku Kinko Hyo.
Yes, you'll find him right over yonder. As you might discern, the wear and tear on his eyelids reached such an extent that they ceased to function. He harbored an inexplicable yet oddly charming affinity for silk vests, held a hearty affection for frothy beer, and exuded an undeniable sense of accomplishment.