Perhaps, after all, there is hope yet for my home state of California. Maybe, this most beautifully diverse spot in these here parts, featuring, as it does, an endless oceanfront, mountains, lakes, rivers, breathtaking vistas, and other amenities too numerous to, well, enumerate, can somehow restore its grip on reality.
It is also a center, if not the center of artistic, technological and commercial innovation. And a goodly portion of the populous is comprised of stone-cold smoke shows. So, there’s that.
But in a tale as old as time, the state has long been a victim of its own hubris, with Beverly Hills and Pacific Heights overlords, shielded both economically and politically from experiencing any associated consequence, uttering diktats to the rest of us folks as to what we should do. Where droughts and wildfires occur in the middle of historic floods (a sin against humanity if there ever was one) due to criminal resource mismanagement. Where the big shots throw money at the poor (rendering them no better off), and at an ever-burgeoning bureaucracy – all at the expense of the hard-pressed, rapidly vanishing Middle Class.
Somebody ought to wake them up. I’m not gonna do it, and I don’t hold out much hope from indigenous policymakers, who benefit from the system as disproportionately as those other groups named above.
I was certainly pleased to learn that recently deposed Vice President Harris has decided to give the ’26 gubernatorial race a miss. But only mildly so. Because I’ve no doubt they’ll replace their term-limited, hair gelled Sacramento Skater Boy with someone just as bad. Perhaps even worse.
Nope. That ain’t my good news. Rather, I am delighted to report that the iconic journalistic enterprise known as the New York Post is expanding operations to the Golden State.
Those on the opposite side of myself on too many issues to name have often derided The Post, which lord knows has given them ample ammunition for so doing. It was founded at the beginning of the 19th Century, by one Alexander Hamilton, whose handsome visage (though I doubt that he would approve of its current content) still graces the masthead. In the intervening 2 ¼ centuries, it has emerged as the epitome of what is pejoratively referred to as a rag, with those pointing such fingers taking great delight in such hardcore stories as that which engulfed the front cover on April 15, 1983, and from which we derive this week’s theme:
I bought this issue, hot off the presses, at a bodega in Morningside Heights, a few months after my arrival in this Metropolis. I also remember (but cannot locate) the headline proclaiming, after John Bobbitt’s, er, successful member re-attachment surgery and his testing of same, the paper’s simple leader:
“It Works”!
It’s hard to take this stuff seriously. But I didn’t laugh too hard. Or for too long.
Instead, I quickly discerned that The Post is perhaps the best daily periodical around. Set aside the hyperbole (and the depressingly bad crossword puzzle/scant comics section) and what’s left is a pesky news organization that breaks important stories all over the world, that puts out thoughtful (if somewhat slanted but who’s isn’t?), editorials, and (most important of all) boasts the best Sports Section in America.
They seldom pull punches, as evidenced by their in-your-face attitude toward 47, which stands in sharp contrast to their Trumpie-loving rep. Because the ties between them and Big Orange run deep. Contemporaneous to the gruesome discovery immortalized on those pages on 15 April, 1983 was the emergence of the Big Guy into the global awareness – in no small part owing to the generous coverage of him by the paper. He seemed to emerge from a sea of faceless NY developers into ubiquity, as catalyzed by the 1984 purchase of the ill-fated New Jersey Generals, local representatives in the long-defunct USFL. It was then that the whirlwind courtship between The Post and The Donald was fully consummated, and the latter has never had the grace to lay low ever since, even for a brief respite.
And as for The Post, say what you will of them, they call it like they see it, and nothing is more needed, or in shorter supply, in Cali, than this sort of attitude. Thus, in sending an expeditionary force there, I believe they are doing the Lord’s work.
I suspect that there will be considerable content overlap between the two broadsheets, much of it complaining about the current goings on. Maybe they’ll find more headless bodies in topless bars (of which the latter, so I am informed, exist in abundance out there). But that riff is sooooo New York. So, while I will not wish that a decapitated humanoid washes up on the Pacific, I will hope and expect that if this does transpire, The Post will know exactly how to capture these tidings in front page large print.
I also presume that the Cali Post won’t be any more of a tariff fan than is the flagship paper. Here, the action is fast and furious. We dictate terms and the other side signs. Then the two leaders shake hands. After which, the Administration crows about what a great trade they just pulled off. Next comes the gratuitous reading of the latest macro data, along with claims that the new deal came at zero cost.
Well, we’ll see. In part through this week’s CPI/PPI drops. Meantime, doomy predictions of economic cliff diving combined with rising inflation are scoffed at. This line of argument may be politically justifiable – unless and/or until the above-mentioned digits take a turn for the worse. But I’m not buying it as a reality. Consider, for instance, last week’s whimsical announcement of a 100% levy on imported microchips. This, of course, is a boon to those who produce those little buggers domestically, and many tech firms are indeed reshoring these critical components. But at what cost? A fancy gadget can perhaps run effectively on AMD circuits as on those manufactured by Taiwan Semi. But as efficiently? I rather doubt it; otherwise, these critical components would’ve never been offshored at all. More likely, rather than focus their R&D dollars on innovation, companies will be compelled to figure out how to build existing products using parts, which, absent government coercion, they would not be purchasing.
Slap me, but I think that this sort of thing – sooner or later – catches up with us. Especially because microchips are only one of the endless number of products that economic agents – so much Trump’s inferior in wisdom and understanding of all things – have made the foolish decision to purchase from venues beyond our borders. They stand corrected. And chastened.
But I will state this: if International Trade disrupts my efficient receipt of my Chinese-manufactured, mind-relaxing meds, well, I won’t be responsible for the outcomes.
Meantime, as sourced from Matthew 6:34 and purloined in this space: sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. On the sunnier side of the ledger, there is gathering momentum for rate cuts – so much so that the infallible futures market now rates the possibility of a September slash at nearly 90%:
Fed Vice Chair Michelle Bowman has joined the hacking chorus – one-upping her colleagues by calling for three such action in what remains of 2025.
OK; she’s Vice Chair for Supervision, not Monetary Policy. But I highly doubt that she would’ve stuck her nose in this extra-departmental business if the thing weren’t close to being in the bag.
This will be accretive to valuations, but the real action, which will take place over the next year, will be at the longer end of the curve. The very freedoms, not of ourselves but of our capo di tutti capi and his crew, are at stake in the midterms. They will do what is needed to suppress borrowing costs — at durations where voters actually borrow (e.g. mortgage rates).
All of which has me rather chipper about short-term market prospects, which will improve as the above- mentioned important election emerges onto the visible horizon. Because not the Fed, but the Treasury will ensure that this is the case.
I’d also add that the action on Gerrymandering King’s Highway between Austin and Chicago may further tilt the odds. But the King’s Highway runs in ALL directions. And us average wretches will be treated to the entertaining spectacle of Congressional Districts across the country being further carved up, to the extent that they are still in any way recognizable, beyond any recognition. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.
Meantime, I urge all to be of good cheer. The NFL season has, at long last, arrived. And, for me, not a moment too soon. The USFL shuttered decades ago.
Cat Stevens (aka Yusif Islam) is playing at the Beacon in a few weeks, and with all our troubles behind us by then, we’ll be there. Together. We’ll build our house, of barley rice, green pepper walls and water ice. With tables of paper wood, windows of light. And everything emptying into whi-hite.
And we’ll buy a subscription to the Cali Post. We will take it to the beach and do its sucky crossword puzzle. I don’t think they’ll find us headless on the sand, but if they do, let ‘em write about it. Because we won’t be able to read about it anyway.
And that, I reckon, is good enough for me.
TIMSHEL