Fifty years ago this past Thursday, Richard Nixon climbed up the steps of Marine One, issued an awkward, sweeping wave at nobody in particular, and helicoptered out of the world’s most important job. And into History’s Purgatory. I feel as if the anniversary merits some modern-day attention, if for no other reason than for the parallels it has evoked to our current trials and triumphs.
I spent the Summer of ’74, working at a record store in the Newtown neighborhood of Chicago. “Too Much Too Soon” by the New York Dolls and Mott the Hoople’s “The Hoople” had just dropped, drawing much of my energy and attention. Each, as matters unfolded, was to become the swansong for the bands in question.
While not slamming to these fine records as we unpacked seemingly endless crates of vinyl, we spent much of the summer debating the prospects for the bouncing of Tricky Dick. It was, to us youngbloods, a dream too to truly expect its manifestation.
Because Nixon exemplified everything we: a) disdained; and b) wished to avoid becoming. He was old and wrinkly, with a big nose and a set of jowls that are still unmatched in bio-history.
Nobody has ever accused me of being overly elegant – either sartorially or with respect to my movements. But I believe that even I could have managed to unbutton my suit coat prior to issuing my farewell gesture to the American public that had so rudely rid themselves of me.
It was all so culturally confusing. The hippie movement was ossifying, and we didn’t know what vibe with which we wished to replace it. But we knew what we didn’t want to become: Nixon. At all costs.
Two anecdotes come to mind to illustrate the point. I remember him, during the ultimately ill-fated 1972 election campaign, finding himself on the stage at the Reiman Theater/Grand Ole Opry. For reasons unknown, the great Roy Acuff handed him a yoyo, which he took in his hand and examined as though it was a Jupiter moon rock. He ultimately encountered the string, held it while letting go of the disc, and watched in amazement as it rolled down the twine and bounded up (not that it bounded far).
Now, never have I demanded or even expected the leader(s) of this great nation to possess the yoyo dexterity of masters such as Dale Oliver or Dennis McBride. But FFS (!), they should at least have gained enough awareness to understand the basic functionality of the plastic Duncan sphere.
The other, which I didn’t find out about until years later, was related, I believe, by Greg Norman. Apparently, he was part of a baller Nixonian foursome, and, during one round, the latter shanked one into an adjacent wooded area. Eschewing a penalty stroke and refusing accompaniment from his Secret Service detail, he strode to where the ball landed – in a thicket of trees, whereupon, and immediately thereafter, the other players observed the errant ball sailing majestically back onto the fairway.
Everybody knew, but nobody said anything. Suffice to state that no combination of Palmer, Nicklaus or Woods could’ve made that shot to save his life.
Shady and sus he surely was, and so, as the summer of ’74 unfolded, we was all hoping against hope that he would be gone. It looked iffy up until the last moment and what ultimately did him in was a visit by his party’s Elder Statesman – Barry Goldwater. Who told him, mob style, that it was time for him to, you know, to peace. And peace he did – in his own, singularly creepy way.
All of which is relevant for a couple of reasons. I’ve read some analysis lately offering plausible arguments that he was railroaded. His main transgression was using one government agency (in this instance the CIA) to impede some pain in the ass project undertaken by another (then the FBI). That sort of thing had been transpiring for thousands of years, but since Watergate, the mottled manufacture of inter-agency squabbles to mask bureaucratic naughtiness has become Standard Operating Procedure.
Perhaps more pertinently, it is now beyond all doubt that the Biden Bounce was orchestrated by his, er, allies in the Democratic Party. To be fair, it was them that shoehorned him into office in 2020. So, arguably, it was their call to make. It is also them who decided amongst themselves who his replacement would be, as well as, presumably, selected her running mate.
None of which is cause for overmuch complaint by the electorate. We get the governmental leadership we deserve. And — just as was the case before Ol’ Joe was disappeared, we are confronted with depressingly suboptimal choices – two candidates neither of which (or so it seems to me) would fall into the top 500,000 of ideal applicants for the job.
It all leaves a political muddle in its wake – at a rather inconvenient time. Perhaps in sympatico, the markets are muddled as well. Wicked selloffs followed by recoveries, which, while energetic, have thus far been insufficient to recover lost ground.
Early last week, somebody got to Vixen VIX. This much is clear. For a brief time on Monday, she had levitated above 60. By Friday’s close, she was back at a hardly demure but much more pristine 20.
On another obtuse note, the yield curve – as measured by 2s/10s, briefly recaptured its natural upward slope, but has since retreated yet again into inversion, with two-year rates now fixed at 4.055%, and ten-year yields declining to 3.941%.
And we won’t get through August without enduring a few more tiresome trials, the first of which, lord help us, is the Democratic National Convention. It promises to be high on glitter/hype, bereft of substance, and quite possibly subject to annoying disruption by thugs. It will be difficult to ignore. But as with the drunk’s relation to the proverbial lamppost, will serve more for support than illumination.
Immediately thereafter is the Jackson Hole Economic Policy Symposium, held high up in the Teton Mountains, and sponsored, in time-honored fashion, by the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City. I’m not sure what else the KC Fed does, so they tend to pull out all stops for J-Hole. And often, meaningful consequences ensue. It begins with a whole bunch of economic wonks droning on about God knows what, but all eyes will be on trained to the customary address by the Chairman of the Whole Damned Federal Reserve System. It’s his party after all, so we owe him our obeisance.
Plus, I have a hunch that J-Pow at J-Hole will be an address worth attending to, that he won’t leave us empty handed, as the timing is perfect from a political (if not economic) perspective to lay down a big ol’ bag of monetary easing tchotchkes on the masses.
Here, I am reminding my clients of the 2012 sequence, when Chair Bern used the occasion to announce QE3 – an intervention unparameterized in terms of duration and magnitude, rendering it large enough for me to have dubbed it QEoo. Though debatable, I believe it went a long way towards giftwrapping re- election to Obama, in a race that was closer than it appeared or that anyone remembers.
Then, ushering in the all-too-rapidly approaching Labor Day rituals, comes the earnings tidings of NVDA. I am not an equity analyst and have no formal opinion on the results for giant AI-job stealer. We do know that: a) it’s been the main driver of the extended rally; and b) it’s off 30% from its giddy mid-June highs. As such, the conveyance of its tidings may move the markets.
I don’t anticipate any of the above with much enthusiasm. I’m tired and it seems to me that everyone else is too. It all reminds me a bit of the Summer of ’74 – a time when the future looked opaque indeed.
There are other parallels. Inflation was stubbornly brewing up. The Middle East was a mess. We were justifiably terrified of Russia and China. An unpopular president was dispatched by insiders, not long after, for political reasons, having yielded to defeat in a foreign conflict (then ‘Nam; now Afghanistan).
The music was better back then, but this is not something within our control.
But somehow, we survived the departure of Nixon. Who was followed by the underappreciated Gerald Ford. Then came Carter, Reagan the two Bushes (two in the Bush?), Obama, Trump, Biden and now God only knows who.
The Gallant 500 is an approximate 80 bagger since then, so there’s no reason to lose heart.
Yes, my loves we have problems aplenty with which to contend. But I reiterate that on August 8, 1974, the G5 closed at 80.76. I just checked my charts and find that on Friday, it settled at 5344.16. If I had diverted what I spent that summer on glam rock records into the markets, it’d be worth like $5M.
In the last 50 years, we survived everything from disco to the twin towers to three impeachments to a global lockdown and other trials too gruesome (or at any rate too numerous) to inventory. Yet the rivers of equity valuation flow choppily but inexorably downstream – past every effort to gate them.
The above-mentioned waters are nothing if not troubled, but as I offer a heartfelt, jacket-buttoned farewell wave this week, I encourage y’all to remember that our boat has endured rougher seas these past two generations, and has, thus far, kept to its singular, God-given course. Invest accordingly.
TIMSHEL