Everybody’s smoking and no one’s getting high
Everybody’s flying and never touch the sky
There’s UFO’s over New York and I ain’t too surprised
Nobody told me there’d be days like these
John Winston Ono Lennon
Strange days have found us. Strange days have dragged us down.
James Douglas Morrison
In an environment dominated by exploding pagers and other such dainties, I find myself increasingly unable to recapture the thread, any thread, all of which I seem to have lost years ago.
A brief inventory of the doings that most mystify me is provided below.
First, Puff, about whom I have little to say. Other than this. He was born ten years to the day after me. Which is the sole reason that I, and nobody else, am allowed to call him Puff.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
I also read with interest that after more than a decade of it languishing on the market, MJ has finally received an accepted bid for his Highland Park, IL manse – complete, as it is, with a deluxe basketball court and cigar lounge — at a fraction of its original listing price. Sadly, I have neither the wallet nor the hops to have bought the place myself. Those who know me will, however, agree that I could’ve rocked that cigar bar.
It was never to be. I did, however, take the virtual tour, but is no longer accessible online. Which is a pity for you. Because it was a hella show.
Congrats are also owing to His Air-ness’s baseball squad – the Chicago White Sox, who, featuring common ownership with his roundball paymasters, are about to accomplish the near-impossible: losing 125 games in a 162-game season. Statistically, this is as nigh-improbable as the feat of the ‘95-’96 Chicago Bulls, who went 72-10 in the regular season, 15-3 in the playoffs, and settled the argument once and for all as to the best squad in NBA history.
And, of course, Washington, that epicenter of odd behavior, joined in the hijinks, as perhaps best exemplified by Old Joe, now rendered as irrelevant as any public figure in recent memory, having turned the gavel, in what might very well be his last-ever cabinet meeting (the one preceding took place in October of 2023) over to his better half. The First Lady. Dr. Jill.
Having performed a cursory check, I find that this is unprecedented in United States History. Mary Lincoln performed no séances in official conferences with Seward, Chase, Stanton, Blair and the rest. Didn’t happen when Edith Wilson took over all presidential duties as her husband Woodrow recovered from a stroke. Eleanor Roosevelt, she of the mammoth stones, and equipped, as she was, with enough dirt on her husband to hang him, never pulled it off. Heck, even Lucretia Garfield, her husband dying slowly from a bullet wound which doctors insisted on prodding with unwashed hands and poking with unsterilized probes, never presided over the latter’s cabinet.
I think we can all agree, though, that Dr. Jill is cut from a different cloth, and I will cop to digging her in her leathers.
But at overseeing a formal confab of Mayor Pete, Secretary Yell, General Gar and the rest, I draw the line.
However, the strongest evidence that Strange Days (indeed) prevail comes from the marble halls of The Fed, which, for nonce in a lifetime, made good on a prognostication of mine, by reducing overnight rates by a baller 50 bp.
And for this I am grateful.
Everyone is asking me, in the wake of this miracle, the same question: what happens now? Investors, not pausing for me to weigh in, have thus far responded to Central Bank largesse (that is, to all but those schmucks like yours truly that continue to maintain large portions of their wealth in Savings Accounts) with giddy appreciation. General Dow and the Gallant 500 now reside at proximate all-time highs.
I don’t reckon that this is either surprising or, per se, problematic. Whether it is sustainable is a different matter. Given the behavioral free for all unfolding before our eyes, nearly anything could happen between now and the end of the month. But the calendar is largely bereft of scheduled shenanigans.
Then we come to October, a month in which it’s all up for grabs. We can anticipate, must endure, monthly economic data, quarterly economic data, and quarterly earnings. The Middle East is on the brink of an expanded war footing.
Oh yeah. And the wind down of the presidential election, about which I am beginning to fret more with each passing day. I needn’t say much about the core of the Progressive agenda and its potential impact on the Capital Markets. It won’t prevail – even if they win – because of the patent disfunction of the process. However, it remains a matter of dire concern.
But – Not Gonna Lie – Trump is beginning to worry me. Even more than usual. As days go by, he moves further away from a free-market agenda and towards a control economy. Some of this is not new. Punitive, free-trade destroying tariffs for instance. But lately, as he bust outs more hair-brained ideas such as honeycombing the tax code to engineer carve outs for revenue sources such as Overtime Pay, as he utters platitudes about suicidal policies capping interest rates on debt, I begin to be squicked.
Every one of these constructs points toward redistribution of resources. Placing limits on interest rate on debt will do little beyond denying credit to many who rely upon it. Exempt overtime pay from taxable income, and watch millionaires and billionaires put themselves on hourly wage regimes, and claim the lion’s share of their comp as a deduction.
Meantime, the National Debt, now well above $35T, is growing by $200B a month.
And, of course, we are galaxies away from a stopgap measure to avoid breaching the debt ceiling.
Meantime, not only are these ideas as bad as the subsidizing of new homeowners and home builders, but they suggest to me a hint of panic down in Mar a Lago. It’s simply not an encouraging sign when, a month and a half prior to the election, a Republican candidate is energetically seeking to bribe large elements of the electorate. He’s now even talking about removing the SALT caps – a move which, as a resident of a high tax state, would accrue to my benefit. But c’mon. In the first instance, the main impact here will be to render the inexorable climb of state and local levies in high tax jurisdictions an easier task. Also, does our boy really think he has a prayer in New York? Or California? Or Massachusetts? Or Hawaii? Not. A. Chance. And somebody ought to remind him of this reality.
This much is certain. The whole election – including the down ballot contests – is likely to come down to the wire, and the markets are apt to be a bit jittery with each new sound bite. I don’t look forward to the action that awaits us as the fatal date approaches.
But I reckon we’ll just have to punch through. And it may not be too early to take a terrifying glimpse as to what awaits us, once these matters are settled, and 2025 beckons.
It’s hard for me not to be concerned about the markets next year. For one thing, the current action reminds me of 2021, when everyone in my range of encounter believed they had the game beat. Then came ’22, which was an absolute car wreck.
I also have difficulty identifying an electoral outcome that won’t be problematic for the Capital Markets. If Trump wins and takes Congress, he may move forward with some of his above-mentioned stupid ideas. In addition, those who believe him, somehow, to be the evilest person in human history (and there are many) will stop at nothing to visit terrible retribution on an electorate that dared to vote him in.
If it’s Harris, with a similar mandate, it might well be time for all of us to seek another profession altogether. I can’t bear to even contemplate the carnage associated with a reversion to a 28% Corporate Tax Rate, or, worse yet, a big fat levy on yet-to-be-realized capital gains.
I’ll be 65 in exactly 6 weeks and the thought of professional reinvention is beyond what I can contemplate.
But I reckon I may as well look on the bright side. Puff will be 55 on the same day, and it will probably be even harder for him to transform himself from music/cultural empresario into laundry folder at Rikers. Plus, as indicated above, the overwhelming likelihood, for which I fervently pray, is a split government which can do little other than jawbone their whacky ideas.
Shortly before he died, John Lennon sang of UFOs over New York, which failed to surprise him. They may be back. And soon, in Highland Park, some sweaty local lawyers and investment bankers may be huffing their way up and down a court that was once graced by MJ, Magic, Charles and even Isaiah.
There are still five games left in the 2024 baseball season, and perhaps even the White Sox could win two of them, sparing themselves the ignominy of that 125th loss. I’m not optimistic about this, but given what I observe, it is not out of the question.
Strange days have found us, Morrison said. And he was right. He was born 37 years to the day before Lennon was murdered, but only made it through 27 of these. Shortly before he died, Lennon resurrected this sentiment. Perhaps in a nod to the Lizard King, he modified it a bit, and at least this week, I prefer his take:
Strange days indeed.
TIMSHEL