I know. It’s foolish, it’s consensus, it’s foolish consensus. It’s trite. It’s glib. It’s glibly trite.

But I’m going with it.

Truly, I don’t see any alternative (other, of course, than unspeakable doom).

I’ll use this week’s space to defend this neo annum hypothesis, but we’ve a few matters with which to attend first, so bear with me.

Sharp-eyed readers (of which there is at least one) will recognize that I slipped our title into the body of last week’s musings. There’s even one soul out there with enough game to have recognized that the line is lifted from the early strains of “Tommy” by The Who. The specific setup is one that involves a WWI soldier, missing and declared dead, who comes home to find his (blameless – she thought he was gone for good) wife in another man’s arms, and then blows the dude away – Gail Collins style.

The penultimate words of the misanthropic lover boy are captured in our heading.

But all of this is mere prelude to the main storyline of Townshend’s wandering libretto. The title character/son of the original couple witnesses the whole episode, and is rendered psychologically blind, deaf and dumb by the experience. His sole obsessions are staring in the mirror and “playing the silver ball” — the latter at which he excels to such a degree that a pinball wizard cult forms around him.

The narrative devolves from there.

But god oh mighty, what a great record it is. The same can be said about the musically magnificent Quadrophenia, the storyline of which cannot, even in mixed company, be cogently unpacked. I had the bizarre experience of seeing “Tommy” on Broadway in the mid-nineties (imagine horrible Brit accents singing “come ooon the amoizing juuuhney….”), and reckon I came out no worse for the wear. On a happier note, a couple of years later, I was able to see The Who perform Quadrophenia live, at Madison Square Garden, no less. So, at least there’s that.

One way or another, I find myself grappling with eerie verisimilitude to the Tommy vibe — a century later. As 1921 dawned, the world was still contending with the after-effects of not one, but two, global pandemics. Polio was on the wane by then, but not completely eradicated (case IN point: FDR contracted the disease in ’21). And then there was that whole Spanish Flu thing, which faded to oblivion in the diminishing days of 1920.

Of those plagues, I cannot bring myself to write more.

There are, of course, differences between now and then. 1921 ushered in something of a depression on these shores, with record deflation of 18%, and a GDP that contracted to the tune of nearly 7%. We entered the year with General Dow (the Gallant 500 would not muster in for another four decades) having suffered a rather ignominious retreat — on the order of 6.7% (dropped in 1920 from ~92 to ~86; compare this to the 2020 ride from 28,538 to 30,606) — a cycle which perhaps may be forgiven in the wake of the above-mentioned pandemics and prolonged WWI battle fatigue.

The Presidential Election of 1920 was a rather dull affair, rendered particularly so by the involuntary withdrawal of two previous winners: Woodrow Wilson (whose vainglorious desire for a third term was nipped in the bud by his sponsors) and Theodore Roosevelt (who wanted to run but died instead).

So, we were left with two obscure persons from Ohio: Warren G. Harding and James M. Cox. I’m not even sure who won, and (I ask you), one hundred years later, does it even matter?

On the whole though, I find more similarities with, than differences from, the vibe of a century ago. We are dealing with what (hopefully) is the back end of a worldwide health crisis. The global economy is in recession, most certainly suffering from myriad ills, and being propped up by the artifices of politically driven policy manipulation. We’re not experiencing the major after-effects of a world war, but (like then) everyone is weary, on edge, and very troubled as to what happens next.

Somewhere, some poor heat-packing schlub is walking in on his wife in a compromising position with her lover, with his son looking on. Don’t ask me for further details on this, because: a) I don’t know much; and b) what I do know, I’m not at liberty to divulge.

The markets, from my vantage point, are an easier read. Everybody is all in and can’t fold now. Normally, the mad bull sentiment would be the surest sign available that we are at or near a retrospective top (that we are at contemporaneous time record highs is indisputable), but I just don’t see how this frenzy of incremental asset/financial instrument ownership demand possibly abates in the near term.

The Gallant 500 closed out the year at an historic, frothy 3756, and, as I am describing it to my clients, I can’t envision a pullback to, say 3000, 3200 or even 3400.

1200? Yes; piece of cake.

Because unless the investment universe continues to generate massive incremental demand, everything crashes, and I mean crashes. In the middle of a pandemic. With an amount of indebtedness heretofore unimaginable during our lifetimes. Policy makers are aware of this and acting accordingly. I think they’re terrified of a collapse and taking desperate measures to avoid one.

And they have some tail winds, because another similarity between now and a hundred years ago is the presence of deflationary forces. The CPI may not read -18% but in real (inflation adjusted terms), goods and services are actually cheaper now. The purchasing power of the dollar was about 13x its current level a century in the past. A gallon of milk in 1920 cost 35 cents or ~$4.50 inflation adjusted.

Today? $3.60. Gas? 30 cents in 1920 or $3.90 in current cash. Average price per gallon right now? $2.60. Rents are higher today, but who, at the current moment, rationally pays rent? Wages are about flat (actually down a bit) over the last hundred years, but, objectively, purchasing power has increased dramatically.

I could go on, but the point here is that all of the above has miraculously enabled our care givers to expand the money supply, with impunity, like drunken sailors.

I’ve written a great deal about this, but the manner in which this is continues to unfold absolutely blows my mind. Earlier this past week, I stumbled upon the following graph — of something that us economist types refer to as M1 – defined as the combination of aggregate currency in circulation plus demand deposits, and widely viewed to be the most visible measure of money supply:

Now, I’d like to be able to report that I don’t know who this FRED person is, but I do. It’s the St. Louis Fed crew, who (perhaps needing a sense of purpose) are tasked with keeping track of such things.

And, as the graph clearly shows, FRED has had his hands full counting all that new money. So be it. But what gets me is the big spike that has apparently transpired over the last six or so weeks. Tell me that M1 surged this past spring and I’m like, whatever, of course it did. But what gives with this retro-rocket boost in Q4?

Well, it’s not new currency, and I am unaware of any recent, frantic, nationwide push to beef up checking account totals. Yes, the Fed and Treasury balances are creeping up, but at a measured pace. PPP subsidies were actually disrupted during this interval, so it wasn’t that.

I think it was the Fed stuffing the channel surreptitiously — saving for an anticipated rainy day (kind of like the biblical, clairvoyant Joseph with that Egyptian grain). But it almost doesn’t matter. One way or another, the money supply nearly doubled in 2020, with much of the increase at year end.

And where is this money gonna go? Into investable assets is where. Here, the market is acting with rationality, because, as the monetary base expands, its value against everything else should be going down. Hate to be a broken record, but one way to look at the big surge in stocks, bonds, real estate, crypto, etc. is that it is an adjustment to the oversupply of USD. Heck, even commodities, until recently on a thirty-year slide to oblivion, seem to have gotten the memo.

The Great Commodity Rally of 2020:

And the thing of it is, all of this is taking place before the big monetary-expanding giveaways that are certain to take place in the first half of ’21.

So, you wanna hold dollars here, or anything that is not a dollar instead?

Risk, of course, abides. Don’t really wanna talk about Georgia, but it is on my mind. Can the Dems really take both seats? And, if so, would they dare spoil the party with buzz killing stunts like tax increases? The first is possible; the second, in my judgment, unlikely. I just think that even if they win, they’ll have their hands too full to mess much with the tax code.

But if I’m wrong here, if: a) the Dems win both seats; b) eliminate the filibuster (layup); and c) jack up taxes with the new VP casting the deciding vote, then, yes, it could be “lookout below”. For a time. But I believe that even if this “unthinkable” happens, it’s simply adds to the fuel that fires the engines of the Magic Money Machine. Ultimately, stocks resume their surge. Lots of folks will lose their jobs (collateral damage) and likely suffer other unspeakable indignities, but investors (bless their hearts) will find a way to turn this to their advantage.

There’s also every chance that the pandemic worsens and our mitigants are found wanting. If so, what will they do in Washington? (Say it with me) Print more money. And give it away. Nobody will be able to spend much, but they can and will invest.

One way or another, a big fiscal cash drop is a near sure thing. And there is (in my judgment) an even more plausible scenario under which the public health situation, at minimum, renormalizes come spring, and that economic agents (commercial and consumer), flush with funds, go on a major spending bender that could push stocks and bonds much higher into the stratosphere than even now. Corporations, stuffed with liquidity and the bloated currency of their valuations, will further the goosing with acquisitions.

Could all of this actually catalyze the re-animation of inflation? Of course it could. It already should’ve. Based upon everything we’ve done in these realms since the ’08 crash, we should already be the (hyperinflation plagued) Weimar Republic (which, by the way, was just getting off the ground in 1921, when Warren G. Harding replaced Woodrow Wilson in the White House). But I just don’t see it taking off any time soon – particularly on the (in my view, essential) wage side. Too big a supply of labor is why, and it’s global. And commoditized. And, every day, a bunch of poor souls’ jobs are being replaced by technology.

All of which means that the Fed (including FRED) has a free hand to keep interest rates at microscopic levels, and to take them negative if something goes wrong. All these stock bulls are expecting a spike in yields, but I’m just not there. Too much riding on keeping them submerged at all costs. Over longer intervals, inflation (and attendant higher interest rates) may indeed be found to be the foreign object floating in the proverbial punch bowl. But for now, I think we can fill our cups and chugalug.

And if the unexpected happens and assets start to sell off, well, that’s when the real money machine kicks into high gear (and rates execute a Pavlovian Plunge). I do expect some vol in the coming weeks, but I can’t get past my belief that we’ll gather ourselves after not too much damage and push ahead from there. We have to honey; there’s simply no alternative (other than, of course, unspeakable doom).

“I have no reason to be over-optimistic. But somehow when you smile, I can brave bad weather”. These are the last words spoken by Tommy’s mom’s paramour. And this is true – applies to me and you. Lots of twists and turns await us in the coming months and beyond, baby.

But I got a feeling ’21 is gonna be a good year.

Like I said a while back, I’m going with it. Will you?

TIMSHEL

Fly your willow branches

Wrap your body round my soul

Lay down your reeds and drums on my soft sheets

There are years behind us reaching

To the place where hearts are beating

And I know you’re the last true love I’ll ever meet

— Pappalardi/Collins

So, Merry Christmas, y’all. Strange holiday. Strange year. Strange brew – kill what’s inside of you.

And mad props to anyone who gets the reference attendant to the last of this Outlandish Trio. For the rest of you – the uninitiated, it’s a quote from a song by another triumvirate (a magnificent one at that): The Cream. But it was written by the husband/wife team of Felix Pappalardi and Gail Collins, who made beautiful music right up until the moment that the latter shot the former dead — for cheating on her ass.

For what it’s worth, writing songs (and producing records) for The Cream was actually a side gig for Felix, whose day job was bassist/vocalist for the splendid, under-appreciated ensemble: Mountain. My holiday edition goes out to them, because this past Tuesday, we lost their front man – fat Jew supershredder Leslie West (ne Weinstein). And, as a (formerly) fat, Jew (wannabe) super-shredder, it falls to my lot to remind everyone that his is at least the second demise of a fat, Jew super-shredder (the other one being Peter Green – ne Greenbaum) this godforsaken year.

Here’s hoping I’m not the third. Meantime, please join me in saying a brucha for my main man Leslie West, ne Weinstein – inarguably the greatest fat Jew super shredder of ‘em all.

There’s really not much more that needs to be said about him — other than what is captured in the hook line of his most famous song:

“While the rest of them dudes were getting their kicks, lord I beg your pardon I was getting mine”.

Indeed.

But our titular reference and quote derive from one of their lesser hits: the haunting, whimsically tragic Nantucket Sleighride. Written by Felix Pappalardi and Gail Collins. About a decade before the latter did the former, with a derringer which he had bought her as a gift, just a couple of miles from where I myself was at that very moment cooling my heels, in New York City.

Know, though, that the concept of a Nantucket sleighride dates back for centuries, as a “term of art” for the journey that occupants of a whaling ship typically take when under the conduction of a harpooned whale.

The most famous of these expeditions, of course, is that of the fictional Pequod, vessel of Melville’s “Moby Dick” — a trip that didn’t end too well.

Meantime, I stumbled upon the following old-timey picture of a Nantucket sleighride, which, in the spirit of the holiday season, I thought I’d share with y’all:

It looks pretty cool in this drawing, but I reckon it’s a different story on the quarterdeck. I mean, you got this enormous, wounded fish dragging you around the ocean for f%cks sake! And that is to say nothing of weather conditions, positioning of the masts, size of swells, and other factors.

Still and all, under certain circumstances, it might be an enjoyable ride. You just don’t know until it’s over. And I got to thinking about all this, in the wind-down of 2020, as an analogue to modern times.

Specifically, it strikes me that the world might be in the midst of an extended, unpleasant Nantucket sleighride. Carried forward through the tides by a harpooned whale, not knowing how, where, or when it ends. Work with me here on this one, OK? I’ve got a number of plausible angles.

The virus, for instance, is like the whale (only smaller), right? And maybe the vaccine is the harpoon.

Or, perhaps more precisely, it’s the global economic disruption catalyzed by the covid that is the whale, and the harpoon is the myriad, diverse Saint Vitus dances that we are doing to mitigate the damage. I ask you, if neither analogue floats your boat, to consider the following.

Covid didn’t kill the Rose Bowl this year. They’ll be playing it after all (Notre Dame vs. Clemson). But not in the Rose Bowl. Not even in the greater Pasadena area. Rather, the contest is to be held inside AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas.

So, from my vantage point, that we are currently being driven by forces seemingly beyond our control is not really up for dispute. Moreover, said forces appear to be both injured and angry. And the most we can do is hang on and hope for the best. Meanwhile, our good ship lurches forward into the seas of 2021, without much focus on direction, speed or ultimate destination. We do, however, enter these waters knowing a few things.

Market valuations are at or near all-time highs.

We’ve got some form of new government arriving from the visible horizon in approximately four weeks.

As everything shut down for Christmas, the United Kingdom managed to finally cut the cord from the leviathan corpus of Europe, and now can set its own course of affairs across the channel. Took 4.5 years to pull that off, though.

Biden was Vice President when the Brits first bounced into Brexit. Think about that.

But on these here shores, the images that come to mind are of multiple harpoon-stuck whales, pulling us in different directions across choppy waters — ones perhaps more appropriately illustrated by the following image than the one presented above:

Yup, that’s more like it. So, what to do? Well, I think that the biggest harpooned fish out there to guide us is economic stimulus – both fiscal and monetary. This force carries forward come what may. If you’re worried that it won’t materialize, set your mind at ease. The current impasse, after all, came about because Trump didn’t think it was a big enough handout. Once he’s gone, my belief is that we can anticipate a “see and raise”/Texas Hold ‘Em sequence of entitlements and giveaways sufficiently galactic to bring tears of joy to the heart of this fat Jew super-shredder himself.

I’m not sure it’s good economics (I’d rather see these resources applied to job creation and sustenance), but it’s good politics.

And, while I have my doubts as to how much succor it is to supply to the bandied about masses, it should propel further riches for the investment class.

Got a feeling 21 is gonna be a good year (especially if you and me, see it in together), but please bear in mind that even if it is, we will have gotten there by riding the whale.

Just like Ahab. Just like Ishmael: the only one to have survived the tale. The ride won’t last forever, and who emerges (and in what state) is unknowable at the moment. I advise you to stay cool (like Ishmael), keep your wits about you (unlike Ahab), and trust the rest in God.

And if you are jonesing for a Nantucket sleighride, I suggest you begin with the title track of the Mountain album bearing the same name. Think of Leslie. And Felix. And (if the spirit moves you) save a prayer for Gail. But if that doesn’t float your boat, I can only add the following.

The Pequod set sail from New Bedford, MA: a 3.5 hour ferry ride from Nantucket. One can always also, though, take a detour to Martha’s Vineyard. This, of course, is up to you.

My call would be to go with the flow, because you never know where it might take you, and what you might find when you get there. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even be there to greet you when you arrive.

Just please don’t ask me to go on a Nantucket sleighride, because, to that invite, I only have one answer.

I’m already on one.

And so are you.

TIMSHEL

Dope’ll get you through times of no money better’n money will get you through times of no dope.

— Fat Freddy Freak

I begin with two observations respecting this week’s theme. First, our title is based upon logic so acute that it pushes to the threshold of redundancy. I mean, what else ya gonna do with ‘em? Drink ‘em? Leave ‘em on the coffee table to mold or rot?

No y’all. You gonna smoke em. Yet, somehow, not everyone gets it. Hence the need for the slogan.

Secondly, I am aware that over the decades since this wisdom first reached my consciousness, the phrase has been contorted into the less elegant “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” – in my judgment a pale substitute for the original. There is, for instance, a song bearing the latter title (with which I am not familiar) — recorded by an outfit called Parkway Drive. There is also movie of the same name. Which I haven’t seen. Both works emanate from Australia, which ought to tell you something.

(Maybe this is because Australia looks like a smaller version of the United States turned upside down? It’s a little fatter than us on the ocean fronts, but other than that… …oh, never mind).

But I learned this phrase in its original form, back in my days of surreptitiously consuming underground comix. Most prominently The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, pictured in all their glory, below:

Presumably, it is not difficult – even for the uninitiated – to identify Fat Freddy (whose life motto is immortalized as this week’s quote). He’s in the one in middle, flanked by Freewheeling Frank (flipping the bird on the left), and Phineas on the right.

Freddy’s ubiquitous, precocious, perpetually intoxicated and never-named cat is depicted in the lower left-hand corner.

The Brothers led the kind of life that represented the totality of my own ambition, back in, say, ’73. But things change. Oh Lord how they change.

Case and point: for most of my young adult life, not only were you not encouraged to smoke ‘em but having even gotten ‘em was deeply frowned upon as well. At some point (contemporaneous, of course to the moment where getting ‘em and smoking ‘em became a lesser priority for me), we did a 180, and now our titular phrase is taken as a universal given.

And of course, IYGE/SE has recently risen to the dignity of defining much broader swaths of our existence than ever it did — even in the early seventies.

Take me, for example. I don’t remember getting ‘em or smoking ‘em lately, but I must’ve, because – entering my 17th year of pumping out this nonsense – week in and week out – I find that the content has devolved — from probing insights into money flows, earnings, macro trends, investor risk appetite, etc. — into tributes to Fabulous, Furry Freak Brothers.

But whatever I got (and smoked) appears to have been available in abundance, because the market simply no longer cares about the niceties set forth immediately above. Time-honored valuation protocols have been rendered disremembered like high school algebra lessons. Instead, investors are looking at risk assets like a newly baked stoner gazes at a couple of quarts of ice cream staring back at them in the freezer; they hoover them up, wonder where they went, and then wants more.

The whole show, of course, is run out of Washington, D.C., where copping and distributing has transformed from a religion into a cult. Down in those parts, whatever they don’t got, they simply make. All the green that money can buy. All the money that green can conjure up. They don’t live by Fat Freddy’s motto, because they never run out of either (money or dope).

As we trailed off from Friday’s action, with our equity indices still in kite-flying ascendancy to all-time highs, investors were lounging about — waiting for the Congressional delivery guys to show up with ~$900B in reinforcing refreshments. While they were a bit tardy in their arrival, it now appears that it is imminent. Hopefully, it will tide us over through the holidays, because the promised big shipment is almost certain to arrive in the first part of next year.

Meantime, everyone still appears to be holding. A pertinent, recent example is the crew at Tesla, which is scheduled, on Monday, to be the object of the biggest welcoming into the exalted host of the Gallant 500, in, well, in like, forever. Investors get particularly wigged on this sort of thing, which involves adding the new unit, while unceremoniously dumping the disgraced, forsaken company whose spot it’s taking (in this case the ubiquitously fabulous but currently pressed upon Apartment Investment and Management Co.). Really smart guys often judge that, post-add, the new component is a raging short, and from what I am able to discern, this stratagem is indeed at play, in certain quarters, with respect to Monday’s sequence.

Well, you wouldn’t know it from last week’s price action, which sent TSLA shares soaring, and increased stoner Musk’s fortune by about $9B on Friday alone. At its current valuation levels, and by my own back-of-the-envelope calculations, investors deem it to be worth more than the entire rest of the global auto industry, combined. Yes, mes amigos, it could currently buy out all of those Japanese, German, Korean, Italian and Slavic outfits in one shot – and still have enough jack left over to acquire all of that newly-introduced and still-high-flying Airbnb outfit everyone is raging about.

And why not go for it? Because, after you’ve acquired the entire world’s rides (except for yours, because I am your ride), you might want to take a spin. After which, it would certainly be handy to have the keys to cool your heels at every available dwelling on the face of the planet.

Right?

Like the man said: if you got ‘em, smoke ‘em. And as for Elon, well, check and check.

Of course, the biggest buzz kill region on the planet remains in the realms of the Dead Prez. As I’m wearying to point out, not only is the USD continuing to get crushed against its fellow fiats, it is pancaking with respect to just about everything it can be used to purchase, including equities, debt, real estate, commodities, crypto and (from what my sources tell me) cannibas.

It’s not easy being a Dead Prez these days. Particularly in jurisdictions such as San Francisco. Where the current focus of righteous governance is fixed on removing names such as Washington and Lincoln from the front of school buildings. Not to worry, though. Substantially all the schools in the city are closed, so the kids are stuck at home, and thus rendered oblivious to modified academic nomenclature. There, as pointed out a couple of weeks ago, if they got ‘em, they are free to smoke ‘em with impunity from local authorities.

But hey, it’s Christmas, and shame on me for failing to acknowledge the season. Next week features a holiday-shortened schedule, during which, apart from the TSLA add and the extended drama about the lame duck money drop, not much is likely to transpire.

We’re now down to eight skinny trading sessions in the acid trip of the 2020 markets, but my guess is that we’ll still feel the effects well after the calendar turns. The New Year arrives with in much the same condition that the old one will bequeath it. And even though there’s a valid school of thought that the transition between years is no different from any other earthly spin on its axis, I hasten to remind you that every year tells its own market story. 2020 was certainly different from 2019, etc. I suspect, a year from now, that ‘21 will have had its own, unique stamp to place on the world – one that has yet to even begin to have been formed. So, let’s not be too quick to jump into the sack with any specific narratives, alright?

And I reckon that’s about it. I won’t be reasoning with you again until after Christmas. I hope it’s a joyful one for you and yours. Next year, I plan on us celebrating together. In fact, I’m rolling up a few fatties right now — in anticipation of these divine tidings.

My guess is that Fat Freddy, Phineas and Free-wheeling Frank are where we last encountered them – chilled, oblivious, well-nourished and (of course) joyfully stoned. And god bless them for that. Because, we need some things, no matter how transient they be, to provide us with the illusion of permanence.

I hear tell that Musk, though, is on the move. Rolled up his battery powered fleet and pointed it towards Texas. Presumably, the Lone Star State still enforces its narcotics possession laws, but I’m guessing that they may just look the other way if (when) Elon decides it’s time to pull out his glass two-footer and light it up. I feel it’s the least they can do by way of welcome

And as for the rest of us, I revert to our title. “If you got ‘em, smoke ‘em”. This may not always be true, but it certainly appears to be the right course of action for the moment.

I suggest you apply this to your investment strategies.

And, because it is Christmas, I’ll even throw in a heartfelt “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em”, as they say Down Under.

Because at this point, I’m really too wasted to care.

TIMSHEL

Old lady judges watch people in pairs, limited in sex, they dare

To push fake morals, insult and stare, money doesn’t talk, it swears

Obscenity, who really cares, propaganda, all is phony

— Bob Dylan (brought to you without first checking with The Universal Music Group)

Shame on those who have actually asked me whether I would write about this. Have I not a duty, a solemn obligation, to weigh in on this thing?

So, Bob done went and sold off his entire catalogue – some 600 songs – to Universal Music Group – now a wholly owned subsidiary of Vivendi, SA, but with history that is arguably relevant to this digressive, wit-wandering narrative. It draws its origins from the formation of Decca Records, the first recording label of The Rolling Stones. Signing the Stones was a lucky break for Decca — insofar as it occurred just months after their having rejected, yes, The Beatles.

These trades went down in late 1962, and one wonders, 58 year later, whether Dylan recognizes the irony of the announcement of the sale of his songs transpiring on the day prior to the 40th anniversary of the murder of John Lennon. I suspect he does.

I want y’all to know that I’m down with this transaction. There was a time, not too many years ago, when it might have disturbed me. But that time is not now. Because if 2020 has taught us anything, it’s that our most deeply held assumptions and convictions do not rest on as strong a foundation as we have, heretofore, assumed they did. This does not mean that they are wrong/inappropriate; only that they might not stand, Gibraltar-like against the tides, as we had previously surmised.

Or, as Bob put it in our theme song (It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)):

Disillusioned words like bullets bark, as human gods aim for their mark

Made everything from toy guns that spark, to flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark

It’s easy to see without looking too far, that not much is really sacred

No, not much is really sacred, but is nothing sacred? Not even “Rainy Day Women #12 and 35”? The subsequent ~$300M question is as follows. Why would he do such a thing? Well, first off, one must bear in mind that if there was a Mount Rushmore for “no f_cks given about what anyone thinks”, Dylan’s image might occupy all four spots. So, the answer, my friends, may not even be blowing in the wind.

I’m pretty convinced, though, he didn’t do it out of a need for the filthy lucre. From everything I have been able to discern, he has coined a maharajah’s fortune across his career, and banked almost all of it. Stevie Nicks needed that trade; David Crosby still needs it. Bob does not.

My guess is that it has more to do with estate and tax planning. He currently pays the government 39% (ordinary income) for the privilege of collecting his royalties; selling them outright only costs him only 23.7% (capital gains). And that presupposes the geniuses in Washington don’t decide to jack tax rates in the middle of a global economic crisis. For additional reasons, the timing is right. He’s gonna be eighty in May. He’s got six children and five grandchildren and probably doesn’t want them squabbling.

To wit, he has no doubt watched in horror as his buddy/(lesser) bandmate Petty’s progeny have fought over the economics of his catalogue and wanted to avoid that pig circus. And Petty was not alone. It was worse with Zappa, so bad in fact that his poor son Dweezil (quite a shredder in his own right) was once forbidden by his brother and his mama to even use his own last name while touring or recording.

Why not instead just punt the songbook to the guys with the spreadsheets at Universal?

And, in terms of the latter, I have two observations. First, I think that UMG got a helluva deal. And beyond this, I will allocate some prayerful moments to the hope that the Company treats the material with the respect it so richly deserves. I suspect that Bob put in some guardrail clauses to ensure this.

I should also state that this here transaction went down somewhere in the midst of what will certainly be remembered as a deal season for the ages. And, like most affairs of this nature, it features winners and losers. The former group includes just about anybody who bought anything this last little while – stocks, bonds, Bitcoin, Real Estate. Heck, even commodities have had their best run since the ’08 crash.

But special recognition must certainly go out to high profile IPOs, most notably Airbnb, whose (let’s just say) generously priced offering set off a public market trading frenzy that caused the new stock to double on the first day of trading. In the first 24 hours of its existence, and before backing off rather ignominiously on Friday, ABNB reached the (you gotta admit) impressive market cap threshold of $100B. Not to worry, though, Airheads, your company – with $6.6B of assets and $3.7 B of liabilities – currently sports a valuation of $84B. As such, it’s worth more than Hyatt, Hilton, Marriott combined; could buy these chains – lock stock and barrel, and still have about $40B of market cap (enough to acquire all of Vivendi – including UMG) with which to play around.

The patrons of the European Central Bank, particularly the Treasury Departments of constituent countries such as Italy and Germany, must also be counted among the winners. The ECB just expanded its moneyswearing pot to the tune of €500B to €1,000B, depending upon how you count your €s, with which it will buy the bonds of member jurisdictions. The program unfolds in such a way that by the end of 2021, the ECB will own more than 40% of the debt issued by the former Axis allies named above. This must be a great comfort to the monetary custodians in Berlin and Rome, who need not now sweat the prospect of finding a home for the gargantuan amount of new paper they are certain to soon issue.

If money doesn’t talk but swears, this suggest that frenzied printing machine operators swear to do their all to induce investors to buy the remaining store of investible securities, while (dwindling) supplies last.

And as for the losers? Well, small businesses – particularly restaurants in large cities – come to mind. Gonna be brutal for them folks; many won’t survive.

I feel that this is a loss for us as well. I love taking you to fancy city restaurants, and who knows when (if ever) that privilege will be restored to us? Oh well, we’ve always enjoyed ordering in anyway.

Been a tough month also for 45 and his backers. Rudy came down with the covid. He’s losing court challenges right, left and center. We can count ourselves victors on that score.

I’m particularly pleased that the Supreme Court refused to take up the case of Texas (and 17 other states) suing Pennsylvania for November 3rd shenanigans. There’s little doubt that some very shady stuff went down that day – in the Keystone State and beyond. But do we really want to set a precedent where every time one of the stars on the flag is displeased with the electoral doings of one of its fellows, the matter is settled in court? Didn’t think so.

And nothing for nothing, but I would appreciate it if all of those breathless voices warning us that Trump’s Supreme Court picks would go into the tank for him on the 2020 election would kindly shut their pieholes. None of them did: not Garland, not Kavanaugh, not Coney-Barrett. They all voted on the basis of the Constitution as they (which is their job) interpret it. Like they said they would.

It thus appears that the inauguration is gonna go down, as scheduled, on 1/20. It will be virtual, but maybe that, too, is a good thing, because, as Dylan reminds us:

Even the President of the United States must sometime have to stand naked.

And now there’s two weeks left in a year that no one will be particularly sorry to kiss goodbye. Not a great deal of particular market import is likely to transpire in what remains. Congress will pass a Continuing Resolution to fund our fabulous government. The calendar will turn. The pandemic will carry on. We will be forced to wait it out and hope those phama companies and the FDA don’t bitch up the rollout of these here vaccines. Washington will gin up a galactic helicopter drop of newly minted cash, which consumers and commercial enterprises will mostly bank rather than spend. And as long as hibernating inflation doesn’t materialize – hungry and angry (which it probably will eventually but not just yet) – there’ll be plenty of cash to go around for investors to hoover up available securities.

Yes, there are risks out there. There are folks in my universe working themselves into some sort of frenzy about looming Brexit resolution. But do investors really care? I mean, the first referendum passed 4.5 years ago. But across the Atlantic, on these here shores, the Gallant 500 is up >70% since that rather unsettling episode, and Captain Naz is a triple.

True, the FTSE is dead flat over this interval, but as the great playwright, Mr. Bernard Shaw, is reported to have said: “England and America are two countries separated by a common language”.

In my experience, he has a point – which brings us back to our original theme. The first widely institutional distributed sale of a music catalogue I can remember was done by the Thin White Duke, who securitized his royalties back in the nineties. I was working for a large hedge fund at the time and begged them to buy a slice of Bowie Bonds. They dinged me, perhaps owing to an English-speaking peoples’ culture clash, but I’ve never fully forgiven them for doing so.

Nobody other than UMG got a shot at the Dylan catalogue – unless, of course, one wants to buy some shares of Vivendi SA, which one is certainly free to do.

As a risk manager, I’m pretty indifferent on this. Buy what you want; sell what you want. Probably won’t matter much – for now. This applies even to Dylan, who never needed a weatherman to determine wind direction. To wit, he concludes our thematic, musical opus with the following observation:

“It’s alright ma, it’s just life and life only”.

You know what kind of life we want. It falls to us – mostly me – to go out and get it.

Because a few verses back, Dylan reminds us that he who’s not busy being born is busy dying. And, operating on this premise, as the dwindling embers of this difficult year burn themselves out, is the best risk management advice I can offer for the moment.

TIMSHEL

Our titular protocol certainly simplifies matters, now, doesn’t it? If (insert discretionary action) is allowed, you must do it; if it is prohibited, you cannot do it. Get it? Got it? Good.

I stumbled upon this divine commandment while reading T.H. White’s “The Once and Future King” (recommended to me by someone I love). A book that (thus far into my reading) describes the adventures of a boy who was to become King Arthur, and his inestimably talented but perpetually confused wizard/mentor: Merlin. The statement itself derives from a sequence where young Arthur (then called Wart) is transformed into an ant, whereupon he immediately encounters a sign containing the abovesupplied slogan. And appropriately so, because it seems to me that the whole Forbidden/Compulsory rubric works well for that sober, humorless, industrious species. But we’ll attend more to that later.

First, it is my solemn duty to pay tribute, yet again, to John Lennon, who fell cruel victim to an assassin’s bullet, forty years ago this coming Tuesday. Gunned down in cold blood. In front of his home. With his wife looking on. With his five-year-old son sleeping upstairs.

I think Lennon knew it was coming. It’s in his songs: “Come Together”, “Strawberry Fields”, “The Ballad of John and Yoko”, “Instant Karma”…

It always seemed that he knew he was playing with primordial forces, and understood the price he would, or might, pay, for doing so. He routinely did that which was forbidden; often failed to undertake what was compulsory. Paid for it with several hollow bullets, fired at point blank range, into his back.

John Lennon would not have made a very good ant.

But the rest of us are, at least arguably, embracing the change, if not enthusiastically, at any rate with equanimity. We are growing antennae, increasingly, monotonously, hauling grains of sand to build anthills, and never asking ourselves the reason why.

In parts of California and elsewhere, going out is forbidden; staying home is compulsory. Will we someday see an Orwellian 180, where everyone is forced out of doors, and entering one’s private place of shelter is not allowed? Well, consider this: the San Francisco City Council just voted 10-1 to approve an ordinance that prohibits smoking inside one’s residence – unless the substance consumed is the ganja blood. Burning a fattie in your North Beach flat is AOK. Lighting up a Newport, Cowboy Stick or (my personal preference) a JFR Maduro 770? Prohibited. Is getting stoned at your Haight Ashbury crash pad now a requirement? Let’s just say that at this point, it wouldn’t astonish me.

It all may change someday, in ways that surprise us all. Forbidden may become compulsory and vice versa. But for now, the message, at least in the markets, is clear: buying risk assets is mandatory; selling them is prohibited. At least that’s how I read the tape, as I bear witness to the Compulsory 500 and other indices in our arsenal of investable securities lurching from one all-time high to the next.

Special recognition for performance goes to out the lowly foot soldiers in our ant army: the Russell 2000, which has doubled since the virus made its presence known, and high yield debt, which rose in price to nearly the lowest yields in American lending history:

Quite impressive when you consider the circumstances. A surging global pandemic with no end in sight. Lockdowns accelerating at an accelerated pace. Tens, hundreds, of thousands of businesses either toetagged, or, at minimum, zombified. Untold of millions of poor souls anything but all dressed up. But with no place to go anyway.

And against this backdrop, the markets have built the biggest valuation anthill, out of the flimsiest grains of sand, in market history.

I believe this is because the greatest ants of all time, the GOAT ants, all reside in Washington DC. They always follow our titular protocols. Unless they don’t. And that’s only because they find something that has heretofore been compulsory, has now, suddenly and without notice, become (yes) forbidden.

While barely drawing any notice of late, the GOAT of all GOAT ants cool their ant heels at the Fed. It is these ants that are tasked with the fearful responsibility of making sure that the hill’s foundation, under no circumstances, be allowed to crumble. My take on this is as follows.

Since the Big Crash of the decade before the last (amazing!), the Fed money machines have been cranking out new units of the USD, without even pausing for a breath. Come covid, and they shoved the crank to full throttle. The outcomes have included, featured, interest rates so low that borrowing has become irresistible. As a result, we are now in the midst of the biggest credit bubble in perhaps a century or more, and there’s no path towards normalization. If credit markets are allowed to function as the Good Lord intended them, the bubble bursts. It’s lights out. There are no down buttons on the debt elevator; only a release hatch that will cause the capsule to crash to the basement.

The politically fed ants at the Fed know this, understand that if the market imposes normal supply/demand dynamics on the credit complex, the whole hill crumbles. Mark-to-market losses on existing paper would catalyze inexorable waves of selling, which would beget more selling. Economic agents would be destroyed, forcing the already-weary ants to carry their carcasses to wherever it is that they are compelled to deposit them. The whole hill is pancaked as though it were stomped upon by the sneaker of a ten-year-old boy.

So, propping up the dubiously rendered foundation is the perpetual duty of the Federal Reserve Bank of the United States. And they’re not alone. Among other allies are Central Banks with similar jobs in other anthill/jurisdictions. You don’t have to do this, but if you dare to, just compare our Treasury ratww (10- year yield: 0.97%) to those of formidable Formicidae foundations created in jurisdictions such as Spain (0.07%), Portugal (0.03%), or Greecw/Italy (both 0.62%).

And all of this is transpiring while our forbidden/compulsory paradigm is applying, in reverse cadence, to our currency, the USD. Which came down with an early case of corona and has been in free fall since Middlemarch:

Among the top beneficiaries of this dollar debacle is the EUR, the unit of account in which the above named countries issue their debt.

As such, one way to look at recent FX/government bond action is to infer that investors are selling dollars, buying euros, and using the proceeds to invest in the long-term debentures, at higher prices/lower yields, of counties depleted or bereft of assets, revenue streams, direct currency issuance prerogatives, or any path out of the economic wasteland that they face – pandemic or otherwise.

None of this makes sense — unless we apply our thematic axiom to the proceedings. In terms of the global capital economy, accumulating the Dead Prez is forbidden; divesting of them is compulsory.

And beyond this, we are witnessing the forming of the foundation of yet another sandy hill of fiscal stimulus. Look like we could cop another tril in the lame duck session, but that’s likely just the beginning. Come the turn of the year and the ushering in of the new Congress/Administration, that weakly constructed hill is likely to rise up to the heavens. Our elected ants tend to run out of steam pretty quickly, but while they are active, they work at a frenetic pace.

And their sandy construction efforts will be greatly enabled/empowered by the increasingly alarming tidings in public health. Current weather and policy trends – particularly as a winter that doesn’t even officially begin for another couple of weeks approaches — suggest that we will be spending a great deal of time at home (smoking weed?), but that they’re gonna pay us to do so. With feeble units of grainy, ever devaluing currency emerging out of the thin air in the Fed building in D.C. Winter won’t last forever, they will remind us, and a vaccine is coming, so just remain at your posts until further instructions are issued.

Spend your time online? Compulsory. Go to work or a restaurant? Forbidden. Buy stocks and bonds? Compulsory. Sell USD? Compulsory.

Get it? Got it? Good.

There’s only one problem. I miss you so much I’m not sure if I can make it. I know I’m supposed to stay away, and I know why, but what’s a poor ant supposed to do? Please. Tell. Me.

I know. As Forest Ant’s mom once said: “ants is what ants does”. But there are exceptions. Wart completed the anthropomorphic 360 back to human form and went on to become the most famous king in all of western folk legend. But he had Merlin’s help, and we don’t. John Lennon refused to be an ant and look what his refusal got him.

But in the end, what is not forbidden is compulsory. Until it’s not. I dream of the latter and hope that you’ll wait with me for that day to come.

In the meanwhile, if you want to find me, I’ll be slaving on the sandcastle hill with the rest of the drones in my unit. Until I’m told such work is forbidden, and something else is deemed compulsory.

TIMSHEL

By: K(en(neth Louis) G(rant)

When we were young and green, we shared our dreams, together, and you were my friend,

We had our good times, PAL, we thought they’d last… …forever, but nothing lasts forever,

Nothing lasts forever,

Time goes by, and people change, it’s best we go our separate ways,

And it was wrong to think that we would always be, you see? Nothing lasts forever,

Nothing lasts forever,

Time goes by, it takes us all, and nations crumble and empires fall,

And who were we to think our love would never end, my friend, nothing lasts forever,

Nothing lasts forever…

— Ray Davies, Kinks, Preservation Act II (dedicated to Pal on the 29th anniversary of his birth)

Pity so few of you are hip to Pres I/Pres II. They’re great records. Plus, it would save me some splainin’.

Anyway, check them out.

And please join me in hoping that the long-rumored Kinks reunion actually goes down. But let’s keep it real here: it ain’t easy holding a band together when there are brothers involved. Sometimes it lasts, forever (Van Halen); sometimes not (Oasis, Credence).

So, “Preservation” is a 3-disk rock opera about a corporate-controlled society (run by that fabulous, outlandish degenerate: Mr. Flash) replaced by a totalitarian one, headed up by the dour, humorless Mr. Black. The narrative kind of ambles around, albeit with magnificent hooks throughout. But the storyline, like those of most rock operas (Tommy, Quadrophenia, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway) is confusing and (arguably) just as well left untold.

Until, that is, the present day, because, in addition to that (pie crust) promise of a Kinks reunion, if ever there was a time that we were in preservation mode, it is indeed upon us.

So welcome to Preservation Act III. How y’all preserving about now? Never mind, I don’t want to know.

As for me, well, the following sort of sums it up. I did indeed catch the Macy’s Parade, but it kind of creeped me out. Too Zoomy for my tastes. What, with crudely recorded images of the Grinch balloon piped in over what clearly wasn’t contemporaneous time. Kind of reminded me of those unnerving, infomercial-like Democratic and Republican National Conventions, held remotely this past summer.

But anybody who knows me will understand my belief any parade is better than no parade at all, and we can leave it at that.

In the meanwhile, I want to take this opportunity to give a long-overdue shout out to Mr. Flash, the villain of Preservation Acts I and II. He rose, from the humble origins as a “second-hand car spiv”, to head up an entire nation, corruptly hoovering up all the cash along the way. Yes, they called him the scum of the earth, they said he was a rogue and a villain. But deep inside of him, he was only human, just an ordinary man, with ordinary plans…

That Flash was the quintessential corporate operator, a filthy capitalist out of central casting is beyond dispute. And I say God bless him and his good works. He built (scrapheap) cities, sent all the people into factories, complete with their cloth caps and trilbies. No, they got no style, but at least they had jobs. He’s not somebody I would particularly want to hang out with, but I think the feeling is mutual.

His latter day, virtue-signaling, political correctness-kowtowing equivalents give off a different vibe; of this there is no doubt. They only flaunt their wealth in private, while paying perpetual public obeisance to widely distributed cultural protocols.

I don’t wanna hang out with them, either.

I’m just glad they came around is all. Particularly the Big Pharma guys and girls. They are on the receiving end of a never-ending stream of shade throwing, but they and their minions have been working around the clock on vaccines and therapeutics for this here pandemic virus, and it appears that a number of them are on the verge of cracking the code. God bless them, too. Even if they meet with failure, or tarry/test our (long-taxed) patience, it won’t be for lack of effort. More importantly, they’re our best hope for actually, finally, emerging from this mess, even as they are caricatured as wild-eyed money grubbers, bent on exploiting the masses at every turn.

Let’s pray for them, shall we? Because, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather back them horses than rely on solutions emanating from the bureaucratic realms of the CDC, WHO, or any occupant of executive houses located in jurisdictions such as Albany, Sacramento, Harrisburg or (of course) Washington.

And hats off also to that dubious crowd that oversees the production of smart phones, manages the pipes of the internet, administers limitless pushbutton commerce, or provides us with communication platforms — to spout out whatever nonsense pops into our brains at any given moment. Can you imagine what 2020 would have looked and felt like had they not done what they did? Created what they created?

Well, it would’ve sucked is what. Not that it didn’t suck bad enough as it was, but it certainly would’ve sucked worse without the profit-driven efforts of companies like Pfizer, Moderna, Astrazeneca, GlazoSmithKline, Apple, Amazon, Gooooooogle, etc. Not everyone agrees with this, but many who don’t will nonetheless impatiently wait for the vaccine, while doing all of their business, consuming all their entertainment, sourcing all their information, and pontificating to their hearts content — on platforms provided by these presumably villainous corporate enterprises.

As we wind down ’20 and stumble into ’21, it will be fascinating to witness the desperate waltz between corporate colossus and rising woke consensus. Ultimately, these hosts are on a collision course, as our tech titans in particular rise to a level of commercial power not seen since the days of John D. Rockefeller, Sr. They have danced a détente dance with the progressives for a couple of decades, but it can’t last forever (nothing does). Both groups must ultimately awaken to the reality that they are on opposite sides of a pitched political struggle. I know who I will be rooting for, and, by any fair rules of engagement, who is likely to win.

Mad props are also owed to the custodians of professional sports. Virtually all are billionaires, featuring decidedly unfashionable demographics (gender, race, ethnicity, socioeconomic status, etc.). But I’ll be switched if they didn’t pull off their seasons. The bubble-bound NBA was a somewhat depressing blurb. The World Series looked like a Salvador Dali painting, or perhaps more appropriately (especially when one set one’s eyes on the cardboard cutouts they put in the stands) Munch’s masterpiece “The Scream”:

But they strapped in and played anyway. And as for the NFL, it has been about the only thing that has saved me this fall from inserting my head into an oven, gas on; burners off. The smart money said that they wouldn’t snap the ball. But they did. For the love of the game? Probably. But also because there was too much capital at risk not to.

And what about my man Satoshi (if he ever indeed existed) and his crew? Figured out a way for economic agents to transfer units of value between one another without a financial intermediary intermediating. It followed on that these value units didn’t even need to be paper issued at the whims of governments and their banking agents. Newfangled dollops of worth became all the rage about three years ago, but then everybody sort of forgot about them, and nobody can say for sure why. My theory? It was the cannabis. Yes, it must’ve been the cannabis. Now, where were we?

Oh yeah, now I remember. They’re back. Setting aside a rather ignominious selloff that traversed the most recent holiday, Bitcoin, Ethereum, Ripple and those other whacky cryptos are on a rocket ride to new all-time highs. Technically, there’s no upper bound to where they might climb, and I suspect they are destined to soar to higher elevations — ere they – yet again – do that whole Icarus inversion thing.

And what’s to sink them? Well, at some point, I think the latter-day Mr. Blacks and their buzz-killing thugs are gonna step in and clip their wings. The hard fact is that currency issuance and control is (perhaps apart from military) the most powerful element of societal governance, and governments are not likely to allow their paper to roll over and get stiffed by a bunch flashy upstarts. There’s simply too much freedom embedded in the concept of crypto to abide in a world, where, increasingly, the appropriate ways to think and act are not a fit subject for polite difference of opinion. Everybody’s business is now everybody’s business. And crypto flies in the face of that reality.

Their day of reckoning, too, is coming ever closer. Take a look at the USD of late, as it plunges to threeyear lows against its peers, and soon, its overseers are likely to take action. But then again, the Dead Prez also don’t buy you as much these days in terms of stocks, bonds, soybeans or (again) crypto.

Oh well; the dollar had a good run for a couple of hundred years and may yet rise again.

But nothing lasts forever.

We had our good times, though, didn’t we, PAL?

But as for now, as for me, I’m gonna go into preservation mode. The curtain has risen on Act III, and if I have to specify what I most wish to preserve, then I have failed, we have failed.

And we haven’t. And won’t. Fail, that is.

Time goes by, it takes us all. And nations crumble. And empires fall. And who were we to think that we would always be?

Well, we were us. And it was enough. Still is.

Why?

Because it HAS to be. Because some things. Last. Forever.

TIMSHEL

By: K(en(neth Louis) G(rant)

They all said Louise was not that bad, it was written on the walls and window shades,

And how she’d act the little girl, a deceiver, don’t believe her, that’s her trade,

Sometimes, a bottle of perfume, flowers and maybe some lace,

They bought Louise ten cent trinkets, their intentions were easily traced,

Still everybody thought it kind of sad, when they found Louise in her room,

They always put her down below her kind,

Still some cried when she died this afternoon,

— Paul Siebel

I walked alone down the miracle mile, I met my baby by the shrine of the martyr,

She stole my heart with her Cajun smile, singing “Voulez voulez voulez vous?”

She loved the million-dollar words I say, she loved the candy and the flowers that I bought her,

She said she loved me and then she went away, singing “Voulez voulez voulez vous?”

And if you hear from my Louise, please tell her that I say hello…

— Donald Fagen and Walter Becker

Louise she’s alright, she’s just near, she’s delicate, built like veneer,

But it makes it all too concise and to clear that Johanna’s not here,

The ghost of ‘lectricity howls in the bones of her face,

While these visions, of Johanna, have now taken my place

— Bob Dylan

I actually don’t have that much to convey about theft — of whatever form it might assume. But whatever itis, we’ll attend to it in a bit.

First, I must offer my tribute to Louise, who flew off like a little bird this past week.

The lyrics presented above are for my musical Louises, whom I have loved for ages (almost, in aggregate, as much as I have loved you). One might call them my muse-ises, and I continue, even now, to follow their sirens’ song. They never managed to fare too well across the lines of verse, and maybe this is why I love them as I do.

A good-hearted (if recently departed) woman of the town, a lovely New Orleans street walker, an accessible lover to a man whose mind is on someone else. In addition to shared nomenclature, these ladies have the following in common: not a great deal of good fortune ever comes their way.

The history of the real Louise is told in more uplifting tones, sung in major, rather than minor, keys.

She lived something of a charmed life. Achieved respect and success in everything she tried. Travelled the world; arguably changed it. Met thousands of people, and I never heard her utter an unkind word – to or about anyone.

We haven’t been in regular contact in recent years, but she was my friend, nonetheless. And yes, you count me among those who cried when she died that afternoon.

Her death seems to have been a quiet one (no, the covid didn’t get her; it was the cancer). I (as the saying goes) did not even know she was sick. And there has been a surprising absence, given her widely distributed profile, of public tribute in the wake of her passing.

I’m assuming that the silence is in accordance with her final wishes. I think she would have wanted it that way.

Louise did not make it to the milestone of the Certification of the 2020 Presidential Election. Maybe none of us will. Though she was dying, I’m sure she made a point of voting – albeit in New Jersey, where (one can argue) voting is an exercise in futility.

And I, the living, will cop to running out of patience with this whole “contest-the-outcome” charade. It needs to wind down immediately (as the saying goes), if not sooner. I truly hate to plague you with political analysis on this pre-holiday weekend, but there’s not much else going on, so here goes.

Regular readers will know that I have been, and for the time being, remain, sympathetic to Trump. I have not failed to notice his myriad pathologies but have liked many of his policies. I have disagreed with him on a number of matters where he turned out to be right – historically right, and I turned out to be wrong. The two most prominent examples of this are Immigration and Free Trade. I’m trained to embrace Woodstockian/big tent approaches on these issues. But let’s be honest here: does anyone really think that it’s a particularly good time to open up our borders?

I believe the same sort of, er, re-imagining applies to International Trade. And all you need, to understand why, is the following factoid:

China manufactures over 90% of our computer components and > 95% of our antibiotics.

Whatever else happens, we have to find a way to repatriate this sh!t.

Trump knew this and was moving in the right direction. Had he been re-elected (which he was not) further progress was likely. I’m not guessing that the repatriation of products vital to our existence is a particularly prominent element of Biden’s policy agenda.

I also think that though it may take some time to manifest, history will give Trump due credit for mobilizing the private sector/regulatory bureaucracy and cranking out what looks to be an effective vaccine in record time. If this stuff actually works, then there’s light at the end of the corona tunnel. It might’ve happened anyway, but that’s beside the point. Trump pushed and pulled it off.

A quick word about the politicization of vaccine development efforts. Did Pfizer delay the announcement of its successes until after the election? Almost certainly. Was this decision politically motivated? Of course. Could an earlier disclosure have altered the outcome of the election? It’s entirely possible.

But I think Pfizer made the right call. Imagine, by contrast, that they released the results of their latest trials on, say, November 1st. Further envision a scenario where the good news tipped the voting outcomes in key states, in such a way as to have altered the tally. Now, consider the entirely feasible scenario under which the progress of vaccine development hit some sort of snag this winter (which still could happen). The public outcry, the accusations that the company misrepresented itself for political reasons, would have been deafening. The company would have faced an existential threat. My belief is that this is the reason their lawyers delayed spreading of the good news. And I think they made the right call.

Trump’s pissed, and maybe rightfully so. But politics (as the saying which Trump lives by goes) ain’t beanbag. Again, history will credit him for his work on this breakthrough, but only if he doesn’t allow the worst of his instincts to overtake him now. Because, if he doesn’t straighten out, he stands to lose what might otherwise be a much kinder legacy than is currently, by the casual observer, assigned to him.

Was there a lot of shady stuff going on before and around 11/3? Of course. I voted on Long Island and then bounced into Manhattan. Up till about 10:30 p.m. (more than two hours after the polls closed), poll workers were begging me to come in and vote. I’m pretty convinced that I could have cast up to a half dozen ballots that evening — with nothing more than my driver’s license (which expired the next day) and utility bill in hand.

But this kind of stuff has gone down since we were living in caves and counting ballots in the form of stones. When they added them all up, Joe Bag of Doughnuts was ahead. That’s not gonna change.

So, when my crew asks me whether Biden stole the election, my answer is as follows:

Maybe, probably, but he stole it fair and square.

And now it’s time to move on, because otherwise, we will have a real problem on our hands. There is simply no path for Trump to cop the electoral votes he needs to flip this bitch, and if he manages to invalidate electors and throw the outcome into the House of Representatives, all hell will break loose.

It’s just not worth it. Better for him and his acolytes to set an example of withdrawing with a (microscopic) shred of dignity. Maybe focus on those Georgia Senate races, to ensure that the progressives don’t run the table, because if they do, it could be (fossil fuel-powered) lights out.

But absent this act of discretion and grace, I think we’re about two weeks away from the Nixon/Watergate/Goldwater Moment, when respected members of a toe-tagged president’s party take a solemn trek up to the White House, to tell their man that his race has been run.

All eyes are on December 15th, when the Electoral College is scheduled to meet, and, more importantly, vote. My hopes and expectations are that the drama will over by then. The 15th, of course, is a Tuesday, but I’m focused upon the preceding Friday – December 11th. This is the deadline by which Congress must pass, and the President must sign, a Continuing Resolution to fund a federal government that will otherwise run out of money to wisely spend. There’s not a titch of doubt that Congress will act, but will Trump act out? This is a moment to watch closely, because he may view his signature as surrender. On the other hand, if he doesn’t sign (veto over-ride, anyone?), it might be tantamount to treason.

We probably don’t get there, and the hard fact is that the entire topic bores me to tears. But there’s really very little else about which to ruminate in terms of market matters. It’s quiet, and, outside of Washington, will remain so probably through the remainder of this “can’t-end-fast-enough” year.

It’s a good a time for a holiday respite, hard-earned this year as any I can remember. Then we can get back to business.

The most likely scenario I can conjure, over, say, the next rolling quarter, features the following components:

• Covid surges continue to plague us.
• Further economic disruptions ensue – particularly if, as is possible, continued vaccine progressprovides political cover for lockdowns.
• The new Congress (inaugurated on January 4) passes an enormous fiscal stimulus.
• Biden (inaugurated January 20) signs it.
• Everyone drawing a paycheck for doing so is relatively pleased to spend the winter at home.
• The economy ambles through, and then explodes as the covid circus leaves town (when theweather warms up and/or the vaccine is widely distributed).
• The Fed remains at its post, ready and willing to supply reinforcements as needed.
• Investors show their gratitude by hoovering up available securities.

No, my children, I don’t expect any of this to end well. As measured against the Gospel According to Saint Milton (Friedman) or Saint Friedrich (Hayek), it’s unholy; positively parasitic. But like Dylan’s Louise once said: “name me someone who’s not a parasite, and I’ll go out and say a prayer for him”.

And, holy or not, it’s the most likely scenario.

Unless Trump b!tches it up, by refusing to snarf off. Which he might, but I don’t think he will.

So, I think we have a plan, are connected, and are on our way towards our desired paradise.

But enough is enough. This note is about Louise, whose journey is over. They brought her home on the mail train. Somewhere to the south I heard them say. Too bad it ended so ugly. Too bad, she had to go that way.

And yes, the wind, is blowing cold tonight. So, all there’s left to say is “Goodnight, Louise, Goodnight”, and, as always…

TIMSHEL

By: K(en(neth Louis) G(rant)

Now that the hubbub has died down, it’s time to review the milestone with a more objective eye.

Please know that I have no issue with any of the frenzy. We came by it honestly, and lord knows the wait was long enough. Yes, we violated all prevailing public health protocols, and it must be acknowledged (I fear) that other elements of longstanding decorum were sacrificed as well. I hope everyone got what they needed out of it, and, more importantly, got it out of their systems.

It’s not every day, after all, that we celebrate the quadricentennial of the Mayflower landing at Plymouth Rock, but after the party is over, the time arrives for clear-eyed assessment.

Upon this we can hopefully agree: those four hundred years sure went fast. It doesn’t seem that long ago that the Good Ship (captained by famous forsaken lover Myles Standish) set sail from that Dutch port, pledged to form a new civilization — in the name of God, Country, King and “convenience to the general Good of the Colony”(Mayflower Compact – Plymouth Rock/New World – November 11, 1620), and alit on what is now the unique metropolis of Provincetown, MA.

But the fact is that a great deal of water has flowed, over the last four centuries, under the bridge that brought European settlers to the terra firma of this continent. That some of the streams boded ill there is little cause for debate. Native Americans got a lot of land stole from under them. Buncha them got killed. We created, with decidedly mixed results, the rubric of Social Media. But there were also some heavenly tides. Woodstock, for instance. And the advent of air conditioning.

All of The Good that took a long while to manifest. First, we had to ditch “King”, and replace “Country” with a new one of our own. Wrote ourselves a Constitution. It’s not a perfect document (we have been compelled to amend it 27 times), but undeniably a functional one. Had an Industrial Revolution. Built highways, railroads and airplanes. Landed on moon. Fought (and won) two world wars.

After the second of these quaint skirmishes (WWII), we went on a pretty good run of about seventy-five years. But then came 2020, which caused us to question whether it has all been worth it. My guess is that most would answer in the affirmative (a pox on the 1619 crowd!), but another set of queries ensues: Have we shot out wad? Should we batten down the hatches/re-swab the deck of the old Mayflower and head back to the Netherlands?

Reasonable minds can disagree about this, but the market has certainly rendered a judgment. The Gallant 500, which closed at a proximate record on Friday, was nary a gleam in its forbears’ eyes in 1620, but backward extrapolation (through the confluence of accretion and inflation) would place its value back in them days at a fraction of a penny.

So, anyone who had the foresight to buy and hold — from the point of Mayflower dockage to the present day is looking at, by my rough calculation an aggregate return in excess of 3 Million percent.

Oh ye Ladies and Gentlemen of Foresightful Yore, I salute you.

The biggest question of all (at least insofar as it pertains to the primary matters with which this publication concerns itself) is as follows. Can it go on? Will the long-term investors in the year 2420 look back at this current moment and smile at their having recorded another multi-million percent return?

Sadly, my clairvoyance (to the extent that it resides anywhere outside of my own imagination) does not extend out that far into the future.

But over shorter time horizon, I’m feeling pretty constructive about the forward path for stock valuations.

My reasoning is not terribly nuanced. We got through the election without overmuch fuss (particularly considering what might have transpired) and ended up with a divinely-rendered, split government. Enough of the population was sufficiently motivated to dispatch The Big Orange to have accomplished this objective, but the electorate has wisely withheld bestowing upon them a free hand to do the worst of their bidding.

The economy is showing surprising vigor. I view a big fiscal stimulus to be a lock, perhaps choreographed to be signed by Biden on 1/20/21, in the immediate hours after he pulls his hand away from that bible (unless it happens sooner).

The biggest risk we face, rising in terrifying crescendo, is this blasted virus. And, from that angle, the market view ain’t so pleasing. We all knew that the cold weather would be problematic from this perspective, but the numbers, five full weeks before the official start of winter, are beyond depressing.

Further economic disruption is all but inevitable.

Looks like we’ve done little thus far other than grabbing this big corona cat by the tail.

So, what we gonna do? Print away the problem, of course. The folks in Washington are going to give out money they don’t have, which does not, in fact, exist (at present), and worry about the consequences somewhere down the road (maybe 2420).

I’m not, as a guy with an advanced degree in the dismal science, in a position to endorse the strategy from an economic policy perspective, but am pretty convinced it’s as good way as any to light up the longsuffering (not) investor class. In fact, I’m on the verge of busting out my careworn argument about the scarcity of investible securities (as measured against an increasingly infinite supply of fiat currency, they’re scarce and getting scarcer, so get ‘em while you can).

It’s not gonna be a smooth ride. Latter day market progeny of Captain Standish should anticipate some chop, perhaps rising to a full-on typhoon status by the time as we make our obligatory left turn in the vicinity of Greenland (a locus that has always fascinated and terrified me). This is the coldest spot of our journey, and none should be surprised if it transpires in or around the bitter month of February. By that point, the whole “all ashore that’s going ashore” trope will be rendered moot. Landlubbers like me will have no alternative other than to hang on tight and retch over the rails.

Market participants are currently trying to make sense of it all, and can be forgiven, as illustrated in the following chart, for acting out a bit:

Not gonna lie: this graph unsettles me – in part because I have no idea what it means. By my troth, I can’t even read it properly.

So, all I can rely upon is the Bloomberg annotation at the top. Because when, after all, has a Bloomberg annotation ever been misleading? This annotation informs us that factors have been unusually volatile this year. Should we be concerned about that? Sufficiently so to ask Captain Standish to reverse course?

Well, it’s probably too late for that. And, in general, I would guess that factors will indeed continue to be volatile, may, in fact bounce around like little covid buggers, for as far as I can see over the foggy horizon.

But I do not expect this dynamic to substantially disrupt our progress – at least in the short term – towards that glorious point of disembark — over on the other shore. I am less certain as to whether we reach our final destination, which, by forward extrapolation, would place the 2420 Galant 500 closing price (currently ~3585) to somewhere around 10,755,000,000.

We’re a long way from there, but let’s face it: we’ll all be pretty old by the year MMCDXX.

What’s important is that we take the journey together. You and me.

But first we gotta get through the last VI weeks of MMXX (the CD in the middle will have to wait it’s turn). From a market data perspective, there’s not a lot left on the calendar. The November Jobs Report drops on December 4th. Not many other numbers left to crunch. And before that, we must pass through the portal of Thanksgiving, on a bittersweet (for me) November 26th. To be held without the joyous diversion of watching a helium-filled Snoopy bounding between the buildings that line 6th Avenue.

This Thanksgiving will be a tough one – for me personally (some of you know why) and presumably for most of the rest of you. It’s possible to feel that there is little about which to give thanks this year. But I won’t choose to look at it that way.

I will be giving thanks for you. And all you are and all you do. And for the Mayflower, which kicked off this party in grand style on November 11, 1620. Readers are of course at (sweet) liberty to adopt different viewpoints. And, if they choose, to outfit a modern-day version of a vessel named for the blossoms of the fifth month on the calendar, to set their course towards a return to the Old World.

But when they issue that time-honored, titular command, I’ll be answering with my feet, by going (or, more appropriately, staying) ashore.

With you by my side, I’ll take my chances from there.

TIMSHEL

By: K(en(neth Louis) G(rant)

Somebody took the papers, and somebody stole the key,

And somebody nailed the door shut, tell me who do you think it could be?

— Lou Reed

At least we didn’t kill each other; there’s that. I’m unaware of a single election-related murder. Maybe I missed a few, but it sure seems like if any had gone down, I would’ve heard about them.

To me, it all boils down to the following: it appears that we managed to hold a national voting sequence without burning the whole joint to the ground.

And this, my friends, is what passes for good tidings in this Great/Once Great/Great Again/Not All That Great/Never Great nation.

Try fitting that on a baseball cap. Maybe a purple one.

The election is now over, and, arguably, we can agree on one thing:

The ending did not come a moment too soon. Blessedly (at least as I see it), the outcomes left everyone a bit frustrated, harboring beefs, carrying grudges, gob-smacked by the unfairness and insanity of it all.

Perhaps it was ever thus; maybe this was what the Good Lord intended.

So, my first piece of post-election risk management advice is as follows: Cool. It. Down. I know that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m going with Lou: ‘round the corner, looking for Miss Linda Lee. Because she (like you) got the power, to love me by the hour, give me double you L-O-V-E.

Hey baby you want it so fast. Don’t you know it ain’t gonna last?

Of course, it makes no difference to me.

Except it does. Make a difference to me, that is. I DO want us to cool it down. Because, really, there’s nothing worth getting all that hot and bothered about (except you, you are worth the heat).

Best of all – unless there are pending electoral Easter eggs (and who’s to say there won’t be?) – it looks like our governance will be played out in split screen (sort of like a big, bureaucratic Zoom video call), implying that not much overly dramatic is likely to transpire out of Washington for a while.

Allah be praised! Because I cannot imagine that there is a single godforsaken soul left in the Lower 48 that would rationally entrust any action or decision of even remote consequence to any current, former, or future denizen of that metropolis.

About the only truly political statement I make at this point is to express my joy that a critical segment of the electorate managed to rise above the deafening din, to roundly reject the dubious concepts of identity politics, and the casting of longstanding institutions as being conceived and rooted in such villainous paradigms that they needed to be dismantled, destroyed, or somehow discombobulated.

Inshallah.

I reckon, though, we’ll have to endure at least another couple of weeks; maybe more, of acting out some final scenes. Sadly, the psychodrama will extend into January, where: a) not one, but two Georgian Senate Seats will enter a runoff; which b) could decide control of the Senate.

NGL, people, I could live without that.

However, assuming that Big Orange stomps his way back to Mar a Lago without kicking up too much of a fuss, that the Speakership of the House does not devolve to the four-headed monster known as The Squad, that the Senate is configured in such a way as to preclude such egg-headed actions as raising taxes, adding states and Supreme Court seats, toe-tagging the Energy and Health Care sectors, etc., there’s cause for significant investor optimism.

Because, c’mon man: how insane is the notion of raising taxes here? Who on earth benefits from that? The Federal Government? Please. They’re going to spend like sailors, with borrowed money, and then instruct the Fed to print away the debt. States and municipalities want to raise taxes, too, and will compete with the federales for our indisputably limited and depressingly depleting supply of taxable income. All of which will cost jobs. Livelihoods. Lots of them.

And all in the midst of a plaguing pandemic. The only turnout more impressive than the national vote count was the truly astounding reproductive chops of them little covid buggers. Yes, my dears, virus counts are surging, and it looks like we’ll be battling this wearisome worm all winter, as the weather up north, if nothing else, cools it down. Laying aside the crippling prospects of a tax hike, we’re way better prepared now. Critical supply and delivery chains are in better order. We are much more proficient at identifying, isolating and eradicating breakouts. Businesses have made adjustments that were unthinkable in, say, February. As have consumers. Infection counts are mounting, but fewer are dying.

Forgive me for saying so, but I also believe that certain state governors (you know who you are) will act with more rationality and economic care in terms of their virus-mitigating measures under a Biden Administration, than they did under Trump I (to say nothing of what they might’ve done under Trump II).

Meanwhile, laying aside (again) the prospects of crippling tax hikes, by all accounts, the economy is roaring back with surprising vigor. GDP, jobs numbers (mad props to anyone, going back to, say, the summer, who had The Under on a 7% October unemployment number), frigging manufacturing PMIs? All blowouts.

Come what may, there’s also another whomping stimulus package in the offing, and, from a valuation perspective, whether it comes under the lame duck session or is deferred till after the new dawn of Joe Six Pack’s inauguration, shouldn’t matter much to investors. It’s coming, and markets should price it in.

While virtually no one noticed, the FOMC met at the end of the week, and announced — nothing. But y’all know what I think about this. They’re in. They will do whatever is necessary; whenever it becomes necessary. Because they have to. Investors should also feature this in their pricing considerations.

Arguably, they already have. Risk assets surged all week, and my guess is that this trend will continue – albeit unevenly.

Sadly, one way of viewing this is through the lens of the incremental shade we are throwing the Dead Prez, which have been sucking wind and continuing their fade with respect to almost everything against which they are measured – stocks, bonds, commodities, other currencies, crypto, etc.

But in a year when all four men whose faces grace the granite of Mount Rushmore (notably, all have their mugs on variants of the USD) have been re-imagined, in varying ways, as racist war criminals, what else could you expect?

I reckon we’ll survive even this.

In sum, we have, in all likelihood, a split government, a recovering economy, enormous tail winds in terms of fiscal and monetary policy, and tons of cash looking for a home. Most of the value-suppressing pressures of post-election quagmires have disappeared (note: my bad on prognosticating that we’d emerge with hundreds of races unresolved and in violent dispute. FWIW, I’m delighted to have been wrong). These are pretty encouraging conditions for our Great/Once Great/Great Again/Not All That Great/Never Great markets.

Meantime, I’m calling this note early. I won’t declare myself a winner, because that’s not how I roll.

I leave with the advice look for buying opportunities.

And to cool it down.

Yes, somebody’s got the time, time. And somebody’s got the right. And all of you other people, are trying to use up the night. I already told you, though, I’m going ‘round the corner. However, rather than Miss Linda Lee, I’ll be looking for you.

And I expect you to be there when I arrive, because anything else would be unthinkable.

Let’s cool it down together, shall we?

TIMSHEL

By: K(en(neth Louis) G(rant) and Nutlas

Kazakhstan, number one exporter of potassium

All other countries have inferior potassium

Kazakhstan, home of Tinshein swimming pool

It’s length thirty meter, width six meter

Filtration system a marvel to behold

It remove 80% of human solid waste

— “Oh Kazakhstan” Anthem of Recently Diminished Nation of Kaskhstan

Hello. My name Nutlas. Please don’t yourself worry about rest of name. It not important. I take over this blog to help my friend Borat, to make benefit of Recently Diminished Nation of Kazakhstan. He just make moving picture: “Subsequent Movie Film”, where he film try to give gift to Yankee Strong Man Vice Premier Mikael Penze, but it not work. He undercover now; don’t try find him. This not him:

He inform me to borrow Mr. Kenneth’s writing note.

Do not worry also about Mr. Kenneth. Mr. Kenneth safe.

I ask Mr. Kenneth readers to help find new Yankee Strong Man, so to grease his palm, for glorious benefit of Recently Diminished Nation of Kazakhstan, which offer reward of 30 dinars, along with bones of Johnny the Monkey, Kazakhstan most excellent Minister of Culture.

Kazakhstan in trouble. Kazakhstan no more sell its superior potassium to American Capitalists. Kazakhstan feel bad, can not more buy 8 track music making tape of Yankee minstrel Booker T. Jones.

Kazakhstan sad….

…OK, Nutlas, that’s enough. kg here. I was able to escape from that flimsy cage that Bilo rigged up. Maybe, next time, he should try to make it out of metal, or something other than that mountain of pure potassium piling up outside this village, which, by the way, I hardly find to be superior.

Listen up, y’all. I don’t have much time. There’s a goat-mounted policeman looking for me all over this hell hole, and I don’t know how long I can outrun him.

I’m pretty sure there’s serious market chaos on the horizon, mostly deriving from all this political madness. I just don’t see how hundreds of elections aren’t contested after Tuesday (and, unless you’re going to wind the clock back to 1861, when a sitting Vice President resigned to take up arms against the government he pledged to serve) there is no road map here.

I might be wrong, and lord knows I hope I am, but just in case I’m not…

I won’t make any election outcome predictions except the one set forth immediately above: we’re looking at weeks, maybe months of uncertainty as to the identity of our elected officials. This may or may not be true of the Presidency, but recent events there set the tone. The still-unresolved issue of post-11/3 votecounting in more than a half dozen states is almost certain to land back in the lap of the Supreme Court. But only after endless recounts and lawsuits in lower courts.

Now, think of the hundreds of close elections at every level of government wherein the loser is certain to dispute the result, and use all available means to nullify it. Tempers will flare. Everybody will be pissed off. What could possibly go wrong on the investment side when this sh!t goes down?

And I won’t make any market calls either, except this: volatility will spike. Particularly idiosyncratic volatility. The uncertain outcomes will goose or dilute valuation assessments for instruments in every asset class – perhaps at the same time. Nobody will have a clear idea of the going-forward rules of engagement, so fundamental analysis will be rendered entirely quixotic (yes, entirely quixotic, take that, Nutlas), if not Sisyphean (eat my rhetorical dust, you Kazakh crustacean!).

My guess is that one way or another, in its lame duck session, Congress will pass a bigger stimulus bill than has even been contemplated. Trump may (or may not) sign it, and, if it’s the latter, I think there’s a strong possibility that the veto will be over-ridden.

The markets, under these circumstances, may very well squeal with delight. However, under certain electoral outcomes, the benefits are likely to be transient. Consider, if you will, a scenario where a top policy goal is to dismantle the American Energy Sector over the next decade and a half. Companies will default on their gargantuan debt, and some in Washington, San Francisco and New York (well, maybe not New York) may weep with tears of joy and schadenfreude at these tidings. But what about the lenders? The bond holders? Will they gather themselves and smile through it? Will they extend payment plans? Will they lend more (to anyone)? Will they reissue?

In parallel attention, I’ve been keeping an eye on my peeps in Chicago. Their zaftig, billionaire governor just shut down indoor dining across the state, a move so blatant that even tree hugging Mayor Lori Lightfoot begged him not to do it. I figure it’s lights out – this time for good – for great institutions like Gibson’s, Nick’s Fish-market, R.J. Grunts, so many others. But here’s the thing: a lot of those establishments just completed the purchase of expensive safety equipment, such as plexiglass booths, industrial air purifiers and the like. Most borrowed to do so, and may, in addition to switching off their lights for the last time and hugging a final goodbye to their employees, leave their lenders holding the bag. The knock-on effects may be the financial equivalent of all those broken storefront windows on the Magnificent Mile.

Now, back to the Energy Patch. In similar vein, many energy companies have recently borrowed, in huge numbers, to purchase and install fracking equipment. You may hate fracking, but that’s not gonna pay back the lenders who shelled out capital to these enterprises. They will dump this debt on a market that won’t touch it. And lending – across the board — could seize up.

And it may bear mention that we are still dealing with a pandemic that appears to be gathering strength as the air gets colder. I’m going to have to assume this means further economic disruption, and incremental impediments to the flow of funds across the capital economy.

But then there’s the Fed, who will be impelled to buy everything in sight, or everything in sight will collapse. I think, therefore, that the Fed will blow out its balance sheet to >$10 Trillion before blossoms appear again in the District of Columbia (which may be granted statehood before any of this happens).

Because of this, I kind of reckon that there’s a buying opportunity in the wake of a risk off sequence that I believe is inevitable; I just don’t know when it happens. 2020 has been a tough read, and I acknowledge that I was wrong this Spring, when the market V bottom simply astounded me. It was clear, in retrospect, that I underestimated the impact of the walloping stimulus that our Central Bank laid on us in April, when, in six weeks, they printed as much new money as they did in the preceding six years. They can do more; much more. And they will. Don’t let anybody tell you they can’t. Or won’t. They will, the first time the equity, and even more so, the credit, complex feels the icy winds of what some are describing as the cold, dark winter immediately on our horizon.

And here, I offer a couple of points of additional perspective. First, I awoke yesterday morning to a nasty snowstorm outside my window. In addition, and as if out of some Stephen King/Halloween storyboard, the Federal Open Market Committee holds its next meeting on none other than November 4th, which happens to be my birthday, one where I expect to wake up not to a snowstorm, but to the most chaotic post-election sequence in at least six generations.

But I am currently fighting a losing battle to elude the single, remaining member of Kazak law enforcement, which is a helluva shame. Because his department is being defunded (sorry, re-imagined). It was a winnable war of attrition, but I am coming up short. So, I leave you with the sentiment that we are now facing a sequence of adult swim, like none we’ve ever encountered. I ask you to organize your investment affairs accordingly.

And how I take my leave, hoping to return someday. I have made a deal with Nutlas, who has agreed to my temporary release, on the condition that I award him the closing paragraph of this Subsequent Writingnote. But I cannot do so without first telling you how much I love you, how much I need you, how I long for the day of my escape from this prison, and hasten into your loving, welcoming embrace…

….OK Mr. Kenneth. That enough. We have deal. Deal is deal. This Nutlas. I pleased to announce winner to strongman contest: the Mayor of Yonkers in New York. He promise buy for his city all superior potassium that Newly Great Nation of Kazakhstan can produce.

Let us rejoicing begin, with a strongly boogie down on “Green Onion” by Yankee Minstel Booker T. and his slaves the MGs.

Мүмкін (Kazakh for TIMSHEL)