Or shall we say praise? Truly, I can’t decide. I do know that nepotism has a long history – arguably dating back to the Stone Age, or at least back to when Van Halen booted founding bassist Michael Anthony and wedged his zaftig son (Wolfgang, whose mother is the eternally fetching Valerie Bertinelli) into the slot.
Heck, I’m pretty sure that even the papacy was handed down from father to son for several generations during the Iron Age. Caesar’s grandnephew Augustus was arguably the better Emperor of the two, and like his Uncle J, earned himself an eponymous month. Richard M. Daley held the office of Mayor of Chicago for a longer period than his more famous father (Richard J.). And, the British Monarchy has passed down within the same line since the ascension of the fabulous Queen Victoria in 1820, all the way to the smarmy King Charles III. During which time they won two world wars, completed the final pillaging of India, and raised rock and roll to perhaps the highest art form under heaven.
200 years. One family. Lording over an empire upon which the sun never sets. God Oh Mighty.
All of this is rendered timely, of course, by the divine tidings that the Los Angeles Lakers used their second-round draft pick to select one LeBron (Bronny) James, Jr., son of the team’s (and the league’s) most famous player. Strong arguments can be made that this was an authentically meritorious decision; Bronny did manage to average an astonishing 4.8 points/3 rebounds a game (a skinny 27 ppg below Caitlin Clark’s output but placing him just ahead of Grambling’s Mikale Stevenson as 2,236th greatest scoring machine in last year’s college competition) during his single season with the (Hoop)men of Troy.
True, his efforts were annoyingly interrupted by having suffered full cardiac arrest in the early portions of the season. But what scouting department in any sport would take that trifle into consideration?
On the other hand, it’s just possible that LeBron engineered this whole thing for his own nepotistic gratification. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time. For instance, when he “took his talents to Miami” and stacked a team that won a couple of titles. He then bounced back to his home turf of Cleveland, where he (laudably) led them to a championship. But after that, being a billionaire businessman and all, and wanting to base his operations in Tinsel Town, he engineered a move out there. No, they haven’t won any titles with him in purple and gold, but he has made a pant load of money. And now, he can suit up in a locker next to his anointed heir.
And I say more power to him. In fact, in this simmering-to-a-boil political season, there’s a perfect opportunity for the aspiring leaders of the free world to emulate him and designate one of their progeny as their chosen successors. The obvious question is which one(s)? Trump, who has yet to announce his running mate, has five offspring from which to select, and Biden (stuck with an unpopular shrew as his number two) has two that remain alive. But more about that below.
Because I find it impossible to eschew comments about Thursday’s deba(cle)te. Normally, I am I get so annoyed that I cannot endure more than 5 minutes of these spectacles, but I watched the whole show on Thursday night, and am in no way ashamed to state that I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
As I predicted last week, the mission of both combatants was to make his opposite number lose his cool. This, in fact was the materialized strategy of both sides, but what I most relished was that in executing this tactic, both candidates showed themselves in their unadorned essence. Trump, as was written in the stars, was pompous, routinely inaccurate, and unfiltered in his remarks. He deflected the toughest questions by evading them. But. He. Did. Not. Lose. His. Composure.
Biden, on the other hand, well, y’all saw what happened. My own opinion is that his worst moments were those when his opponent was speaking, where he either stood mouth agape (call it his Resting 25th Amendment Face), or doing the Saint Vitus Dance.
If one wants to embrace the dark side, it was the wind up of the proceedings that were perhaps the most brutal element of the episode, when the argument between the two flawed nominees (both of whom, it must be remembered, have operated for several years with their fingers on the nuke button) devolved into the trading of insults about handicaps and golf scores. Then, after the official event concluded, we were treated to the sorry spectacle of Dr. Jill telling her husband, in her best “addressing a 5-year-old” voice: “Oh Joe, you did so good. You answered every question”.
So, my view isn’t so much that Trump won, but that Biden lost. Badly. And I couldn’t help thinking that a different opponent (say, even the odious Hillary) would have cleaned his Big Orange Clock.
We thus find ourselves in a position where the nominees’ wing men/women loom larger than is normally the case. Because mostly no one cares about the VP. Washington, for instance, seemed indifferent to the selection of his deputy, and, when John Adams (whose son John Quincy ultimately copped the top job) got the nod, he ignored him for 8 years. After Booth did Lincoln, the latter’s successor, Andrew Johnson, finished out the term with the VP seat empty.
But, in 2025, we’re looking at an entirely different construct; this time, the choice might matter. Presumably, Biden is stuck with Harris, lest “the fury that Hell hath not” be unleashed. This is a shame. Because, from what I can tell, Hunter is available, as is a daughter named Ashley, who charmingly and wisely keeps to herself.
Trump, as in other realms, has an embarrassment of riches in this regard. There’s Don Jr. And Eric. And Ivanka. And this says nothing about the disqualified Tiffany (too unhinged) and Barron (too young).
The response of those paid to care about the debate was near-unanimous. Biden not only lost, but unilaterally proved the widely distributed hypothesis that he is unfit to run and should withdraw. You know that the amps are turned up to 11 on this one when the long-in-the-Dem-tank New York Times Editorial Board put it in writing on Friday.
I’ll take the under on these dynamics. In trademark contrarian fashion, I predict that: 1) Biden will stay in the race, which 2) will be a close contest come what may. Trump has a lotta wood to chop to return to 1.6K Penn, and it won’t be from a cherry tree.
Meantime, we’re precisely halfway through the investment proceedings of 2024, and what a time we’ve had thus far! Our equity indices are at all-time highs, non-avocado commodities are stable, rates are range-bound. Stocks and bonds backed off on Friday, but I ascribe that to quarter end window dressing.
Today commences Q3, and part of me wishes we were off and running. But no, we’ve a holiday to interrupt us.
Upon return, it promises to be volatile. And we’re not off to a great start, what, with sell side royalty from both Goldman Sachs and JP Morgan predicting dire outcomes and recommending the lightening of portfolio loads.
I must admit that I don’t see it. Sure, the market could sell off materially this summer, particularly if external conditions deteriorate from their current pristine state. But if they do, and the world hasn’t blown apart, any selloff will be a buying opportunity sufficiently compelling, in a world still drowning in excess liquidity, that it will be difficult for any down draft to gather steam.
We’ll no doubt confront problems down the road. A world awash in excess liquidity is also drowning in debt. The economic slowdown everyone has been predicting for longer than I can remember could manifest. I don’t think that it will anytime soon, but ya never know.
The June Jobs number will drop shortly after the fireworks embers fade to black. I doubt anyone will pay attention. We’ll all continue our patriotic party through the weekend, as is entirely fitting and proper.
But July 8th is looming. And then the action ignites. An interesting earnings season will be upon us, as will the prospect of newly rendered Inflation and GDP statistics.
By that Thursday, an unblinded judge will hand down a sentence on 45… ….for 34 convictions tied to a personal payoff of a paramour that, somehow, long past the expiring statute of limitations, have been deemed campaign finance violations. The following Monday, in the great city of Milwaukee, the joyful ritual of the Republican National Convention will commence.
By then, I suspect, that a steroid imbibed, oxygen pumped Biden will be growling behind his aviator glasses and spoiling for a rumble. His krew will have also recovered, accusing anyone who interpreted last Thursday’s knockdown as a sign to throw in the towel of being a fascist.
Still and all, with DJT potentially being remanded to a federal prison by then, and with the prospect of forlorn butterfly nets, at long last, coming to take Joe away to a happy house, it behooves them, and us, to think about the second slot. I considered Bronny, but, apparently, he has other career plans.
This country has, in addition to the John/John Quincy Adams sequence, endured two cycles of progenic White House occupancy. William Henry (Tippecanoe) Harrison’s grandson took office 58 years after his all-too-brief tenure. Then there’s Poppy Bush and W, whose terms were 18 years apart.
It shows that this country can survive nearly any trial, so, if you found Thursday night more depressing than entertaining, I suggest you take heart.
Because, this, too, shall pass.
TIMSHEL