And they knew that it was much more than a hunch…
Sherwood Schwartz (Creator, The Brady Bunch)
I thought I might take the opportunity to offer some bona fide investment advice, apologizing for some tardiness here, as the catalyst is more than a week old. With the passing of Turner, Brown and the two Chi-U Bobs, I got a bit distracted.
At any rate, the opportunity is still fully ripe, so, all good.
Here’s the story. The iconic Brady House is for sale. The property – 11222 Dilling Street in Studio City, CA — is listed by Compass Realty, at the sacrificial price of $5.5M. It is not known why its current owner – HGTV — has decided to part with it. They bought it 5 years ago for $3.5 Mil, and sunk some significant cash into it — in joint venture with those fabulous Property Bros. The all-in cost to HG is thus approximately equivalent to the current offer price, but – trust me here – they made a killing – if nothing else by what they netted when they, along with the above-mentioned Bros, AND all 6 Brady Kids (both parents and the fetching Alice are dead, Tiger disappeared after Season 1, and, apparently, the misbegotten Cousin Oliver failed to make the cut) created a 4-part series called (what else?) A Very Brady Renovation.
As a public service, I am supplying the listing link below:
Oh wait, that’s the link to my new book, co-authored with former Majority Leader Richard Gephardt. It’s officially available now, and you should certainly buy it. You will no doubt earn a creditable return on your time for doing so, taking the form of a material broadening of your intellectual horizons. But it is NOT, I fear, an Investment Full House. But this is:
https://www.compass.com/listing/11222-dilling-street-studio-city-ca-91602/1318113637205466977/
Thus, for a mere five and a half sticks, it can be yours. Formica tabletops, single bathroom for nine humans, stockade fenced backyard, Johnny Bravo’s groovy attic, the never-seen-on-TV Mike Brady BSDM dungeon, the miniskirt peekaboo slat staircase, and so much more.
By hitting the bid, you will not only have sealed your place in history but will have locked in an IRR not available this side of NVDA.
You will also have earned my undying admiration, because, you see, I am all about the Brady Bunch — always have been, since its premier nearly 55 years ago. Like all young males of my generation, I had a thing for both Marcia and Jan (and, of course, the luscious Mrs. B.). But for me it went further. About a decade ago, I took a Buzzfeed quiz to see which one of the older sisters I was, and I came out Jan. I wasn’t sure about this, so I published the results widely on social media. Most everyone agreed. I am, indeed, Jan.
In case you’ve spent the last two plus generations in some non-terrestrial portion of the solar system, The Brady Bunch was the campy saga of two single-gendered families merging into a combined domestic unit, as catalyzed by the nuptials of the unattached mom and dad. It is the creation of TV genius Sherwood Schwartz, fresh off his amazing success with another improbably stupid but somehow compelling hit: Gilligan’s Island. He not only created that series but wrote the theme song – AND ruined the lives of the entire cast. He then went on to conceive The Bunch, also here writing its annoyingly unforgettable theme song. Zany Hijinx and Hilarity (inevitably) ensued. Cindy lost her doll. Jan got a wig. Peter channeled Bogie. Mom may (or may not) have tapped Joe Namath. Greg may (or may not) have tapped mom.
This much is certain, though: Greg def tapped Marcia. Peter did Jan. This bit of small-screen incest should probably be forgiven, though, as hormones, at the time, were raging everywhere.
The main challenge, however, was successfully met. The disparate group somehow formed a family. And, nearly 50 years after the last episode aired (something about Greg’s hair turning orange – a plot so absurd that dad Robert Reed refused to participate and was written out of the script) we have a highly heterogeneous group converging towards domestic bliss.
Here, of course, I’m referring to the lightening quick passing of a debt ceiling expansion — a bill which, in a turn of linguistics few this side of the demented genius of Sherwood Schwartz could appreciate, was dubbed the Fiscal Responsibility Act. There had of course been much hand wringing in the leadup to this officious journey into further fiscal insanity. The parties involved are currently so hostile to one another that the thought of them coming together to even share a bathroom – let alone authorize a cool (groovy?) additional ~$4 Tril in borrowing capacity, was, heretofore, unthinkable.
I was on record as being more or less certain that they’d overcome these differences — in the righteous cause of expanded insolvency. And it turned out I was right. But I will cop to being surprised at the celerity with which this all came together.
The markets were positively giddy at these tidings, but had, arguably, other causes for celebration. Consider, for instance, the extended afterglow from NVDA’s earnings blowout. Perhaps more pertinently, the May Jobs Report was superficially a blockbuster but, upon closer inspection, contained some underlying ambiguities:
The Payroll and Household Surveys diverged like the Brady House of Cards War over trading stamps. And even in the former, wage gains eased back while employers cut back hours.
Perhaps this is why the market reacted with such glee at the outcomes. The Jobs economy is solid, but maybe not overheating. In somewhat Pavlovian fashion, equity investors swooned with delight, while bond traders held the line at ~3.7%. Vixen VIX – too R-Rated to every guest on TBB — collapsed to her most supine position in 18 months.
No, it’s not all “poak cchsops and apple schass” out there, but for an economy expected at every turn to plunge headlong into stagflation, conditions, for the moment, are eerily tidy. Inflation trends, if stubborn, are at least directionally encouraging. The widely prophesied recession does not appear to be imminent. The most visible part of the earnings matrix is flashing green.
In result, those who bailed into stocks will escape my immediate wrath. And, as for incremental investment opportunities, while I do prefer the Dilling Street real estate play, I suspect that others will continue to seek their fortunes through more liquid, entirely financial investments.
It all has the rather unsettling feel of an early ‘70s sitcom, though. Plot, subplot, and happy resolution (combined with the obligatory moral lesson) all jammed into a compact 22 minutes, with toothpaste commercials inserted at strategic intervals throughout.
In other words, it’s kind of like The Bunch, which could neither be filmed nor put into production today, among other reasons because Hollywood writers are on strike, and – horror of horrors – may soon be joined on the picket line by the actors and directors. Though I digress – the Haymarket Riots this ain’t. Mother Jones is dead nearly a century. The opposition, far from assuming the demeanor of blood thirsty, child abusing industrialists, is comprised of movie producers, most of whom share the same political sensibilities as the strikers. And, in addition to the moral ambiguities associated with these most pampered of professionals seeking redress for the abuse purportedly reaped on them by filthy capitalists, there’s the small problem that they can probably hold this job action for at least a decade before anyone notices (I, for one, will happily substitute Brady Bunch reruns).
It certainly won’t impact the broader markets, but I’m not sure what will. On paper, the next focus of obsession should be the June FOMC meeting, still more than a week away. There’s talk out there of a pause in the recent string of rate hikes, and were I a betting man, I’d say that’s the way I’d play it. But I don’t think investors care. Raise or stick, it just doesn’t mean what it used to. Or ought.
In any event, I remain a bit skeptical about the sustainability of this here rally. I don’t feel it’s all a mirage, but neither do I believe it can much extend itself.
So, load in if you will; stay in if you must. You’ll get no complaint from this quarter. Or, alternatively, you can buy the Bunch house. Under whose porchlight Sam the Butcher wooed the lovely Alice. Within which Greg and Marcia prepared their opposing campaigns for Student Body President. Where dunk tanks and potato sack relay races dominated the lawn.
Just remember of that if you hit this bid, you are acquiring not just a house, but a shrine.
We all had a gas there, even if, as was the case with Gilligan’s Island a few years earlier, the place ruined if not the lives, then the subsequent careers of the entire cast. But that’s show biz. And as a last bit of risk management advice, I’d say it’s better to acquire 11222 Dill as an investment property than as a primary residence.
It is, after all, a full house: Deuces over Aces. If you happen to be playing Acey Deucey versions of poker, this is as good as it gets. But, with a single bathroom, there are perhaps better places to rest your weary heads.
TIMSHEL