Two bulls – a father and a son, are up on a ridge, where they observe a herd of cows below. “Hey dad, let’s
run down and f@ck a couple of those cows” suggests the son.
“I’ve got a better idea, son. Let’s WALK down. And f@ck ‘em all”. He responded.
— Paraphrased from an episode of “The Sopranos” I once saw
Whilst we’re on this whole movie thing, I might as well tell you that I recently re-watched Marty’s “Raging Bull”. Most everyone agrees on one thing: it’s one helluva a picture. The American Film Institute (AFI) places it at Number 24 of all time, 17 slots below “The Graduate”. AFI has “Citizen Kane” at #1.
I want you to know that I’m OK with this. “Kane”, though entertaining, is a bit too clinical for my tastes. However, I respectfully defer to The Experts here.
“Raging Bull”, for the uninitiated, is based on the life story of Middleweight Champion Jake LaMotta. Insofar as: a) LaMotta himself consulted on the film; and b) much of it is, shall we say, less than flattering, we can presume the portrayal bears a measure of authenticity.
LaMotta’s persona is not overly nuanced; none of Marty’s best characters are. He’s a bonehead from The Bronx, who (for whatever other flaws he possessed) was a Raging Bull in the ring. He both dished out and took his lumps — in galactic proportions, as though they were his due.
He drew no grand lessons from any of it.
I wish there were more guys like him hanging around today; guys who go out, do what they do, and live with the consequences. More Raging Bulls are needed. Especially now.
So, where are they? You certainly don’t see them in the ring, and if you doubt this, I defy anybody – even myself – to name more than three currently active professional fighters in the world.
I can’t. Can you?
In other arenas, whatever bulls remain appear to be rather tame. It doesn’t matter if they walk or run; they ain’t f@cking all the cows. Or even one of them. Maybe that’s by design, particularly given the purported contribution of the species to carbon emissions. Because if bulls ain’t f@cking cows, there soon won’t be any cows left to f@ck.
Or bulls to f@ck them.
There are certainly all forms of raging going on, but from my perspective, they manifest in light, one might say, effete, motifs. We rage against ourselves. We apologize — in advance – often for transgressions of which we were either previously unaware, or never had committed in the first place. We recast our founding and all ensuing events in terms of crimes against history. We invent new genders for ourselves, and filter virtually all our enterprises through the prism of racism.
To wit: just this past week, our Secretary of State invited the United Nations – that noble body of statesmen and women from more “enlightened” countries such as Iran, Russia, China, Venezuela, Cuba and Haiti, who, when not lecturing their Half Moon Bay Hosts on morality, spend most of their time clogging up traffic by double parking in front of Manhattan Strip Clubs – to evaluate Human Rights in the United States. They will then energetically give us notes. And we will apologize, promise to do better. Again.
If I didn’t know better (and I don’t), I’d wonder if we – all of us – haven’t fallen victim to the same anatomical procedure that converts bulls into steers.
Plainly, though, we no longer stomp around, stampede, seek alpha status in the herd. Instead, we meekly follow where we are led. Of course, we derive some comforts from this. No reason in the world to lock horns/risk injury or humiliation from others in the corral. Plenty of grass to munch – all day long if we wish it. When it rains, they shuffle us indoors. It’s a pretty easy ride – so long as we don’t kick up a fuss.
And, for the moment, there’s plenty of cud to chew – with more promised a little further down the road. It’s coming, so long as we don’t recover our god given anatomy and charge towards the China Shop.
Our schoolmarm/paymasters at the Fed are falling all over themselves to reward us for our docility. On that side of town, they’re printing $4B/day of new, leafy-green currency, and using it to buy the creamy paper — issuing from the lactating udders of their neighbors down the block — in volumes sufficient to place our entire bovine economy into a milk coma. The action, for the geographically impaired, all transpires in the following narrow segment of the Lower 48:
The whole area in question is < 10 square miles, and, if one wants to start at Capitol Hill, take a minor detour to the White House and end up at the Fed, it only requires about 7,000 steps, or less than 3/4ths of the average daily walking distance recommended by, well, whoever it is that recommends these things.
And it is within this slim corridor that the capital economy of the entire world is herded, gelded, housed, fed, watered, and made to do the bidding of its betters, who are calling all the shots for the rest of us.
This past week was an important one from a steerage perspective. On the one hand, inflation statistics, at both the Consumer and Producer level, popped up to levels which are problematic to the narrative. On the other Federal Reserve Chairsteer Powell reassured all of us rolling (Rawhide) little doggies that, nonetheless, he has no intention of reducing the $4B daily udder flow.
And down in the Southeast Corner of our map, the cattle ranchers that control fiscal appropriations settled on a new, new stimulus package to the tune of $3.5T – a bill so rich with cream that it will tax the capacity of our best-in-the-world skimmers, to separate. It contains what one would expect: massive expansion of entitlements (written into permanency so as to preclude future potential-pain-in-the-ass-with-their-own-ideas legislatures from messing with them), the creation of millions of public sector/unionized jobs, and of course, queenly amounts of creamery for climate preservation. The plan is to work it all out among the three ladies that run the joint: Pelosi, Harris and (yes) Schumer, and then shove a pen in Biden’s hand for signage.
We can’t say that we weren’t warned. That the scheme doesn’t roll out precisely as advertised. We pump money into the ecosystem, distribute it according to political prerogatives, acquire control of the voting processes across the country, enfranchise and redistribute to a new segment of the populace that will forever be beholden, and then, in result, lock up the corral and throw away the key.
Will it work? I don’t know. But it is a ballsy strategy — emanating from a crew with a thin majority, which has little in common beyond their absence of testicular matter, and their demonstrated disdain of same.
If it does come to pass, though, we can look forward to one last Rocky Mountain Oyster BBQ, and then revert to our vegan diets. Because there won’t be any more material left to produce Rocky Mountain Oysters.
But if any of you steers out there believe that the sponsors of this feast are not preparing an epic bill of fare for the rest of us to cover, think again. They ain’t handing out sh!t without taking back something they value out of our hides (i.e. our agency), in return.
Meantime, this Raging Steer of a market took a brief pause this past week – perhaps worried that, someday, investeers might have to fight for their own food, shelter and companionship. I will cop to feeling a bit uneasy myself – too many moving parts to fully embrace the continued swishy stampede in its entirety.
Among the concerns is the possibility that central banks may decide to park their ice cream trucks for a welldeserved rest. But I’m here to tell you that this won’t happen. Our bovine bankers will continue to print and buy, because, as illustrated in the following graphs, it is in the unambiguous interest of the political class to which they belong that they do so. Ergo, they will extend (and maybe even expand) this exercise:
Governments, in other words, are issuing debt at the cheapest rates in six generations (and maybe ever), so they’re borrowing at record levels, and using the proceeds to fulfill the agendas they have mapped out.
So, why on earth would these trendlines do anything but extend themselves? Are we about to grow back our gonads and impose some discipline on the proceedings?
Not in this world. Not in this time. So, as a bit of market commentary in this financial publication, I can fairly assure my readers that anything which passes for Taper Talk is little more than Table Talk. Which, according to the chivalric codes of the lordly game of bridge (at which I am aware you excel), is simply not allowed.
In my view, the market needs continued succor from the matriarchy, and will crumble into little pieces if it’s withdrawn. The matriarchy knows what it must do and will fulfill its motherly obligations.
Thus, while, on balance, I believe valuations will continue to rise, it probably will be more of a mincing amble than anything resembling a commanding charge down the ravine, where the untold delights of a passel of panting, virginal cows await. It’s anything but the latter. The Market Cap of the Gallant 500 is up about $10T since the lockdowns. The Fed has printed $4T, Congress is about to hand out an amount (including already approved payments) that totals to $6T. You can do the math yourself.
What it is not, is the fertile issuance from the loins of those Raging Bulls of yore. Like Jake LaMotta,
Thus, in summary, at least for the moment, you must consider me not bullish, but rather, steerish. Know, at any rate, that I’m not proud of this. But with you so far away, me missing you so, and my own flow of juices reduced to such a trickle, it’s about the best I can muster.
TIMSHEL