And if you’re a Merch Girl, at least let me flirt,
I wrote you this song, because you’re my friend,
Without any chords, so this is the end,
Can we please give some to Merch Guy? How ‘bout it kids? He travels from town to town with the band, sets up his table, and, of course, tries to move the Merch. It’s often a thankless job, and one that I don’t think I could perform myself – mostly out of a phobia I have involving a guy and his girlfriend walking up to my stand, buying matching tees from the latest tour, and immediately putting them on over the longsleeved tops in which they arrived. In fact, so horrified am I at the prospect, that I’m not even sure how I managed to bang a description of this outrage out on my keyboard.
There is one other aspect of the Merch game that we should recognize, nay, celebrate, specifically, the settled reality that the less popular the band, the cooler the Merch guy is likely to be. Conversely, the gigis not without its occupational hazards. Consider, for instance, the episode when Led Zeppelin’s beast of a manager, Peter (no relation) Grant, had to beat the stuffing out of a couple of Merch guys who he suspected of selling unauthorized Zep Merch in the lobby of a 1973 show.
However, irrespective of one’s viewpoint on the whole Merch thing, one cannot but feel for the Merch Guys in Istanbul (and if you doubt there are Merch Guys in Istanbul, then it’s pretty clear that you’ve never been to Istanbul, a town which may be the Merch capital of the galaxy). Their already beleaguered international biz took a major pounding on Friday, when, in the wake of (you guessed it) a Trump Turkey Tariff Tweet, their native currency got crushed to the tune of 20%. And the carnage wasn’t limited to financial conditions within the borders of that ancient, troubled land. Equity markets around the globe sold off in sympathy, and even our beloved lead-month Corn contract got pasted by over 3%. The news, however, was better in selected other asset classes. The USD touched its highest level in more than a year, and our dead Prez didn’t even claim the prize for top dog major currency – a title which for the moment belongs to the Japanese Yen. This, in part is evidenced by its dramatic rally against the EUR:
Dollar Strong but….
….Yen Stronger
The global interest rate complex was the beneficiary of considerable inflows, and here, as could only be expected, those inscrutable Swiss took home the honors. Lenders to the Swiss National Bank must now again pay 10 basis points per year for the privilege of placing their money in such capable hands.
In light of the foregoing, and as we try, with mixed success to undertake our August boot-down: so hardearned and so necessary to energize us for what promises to be a raucous last trimester of ’18, the questions are: a) should we care; and b) if so, why?
I’m inclined to answer path-dependent query by stating: a) yes; and b) for a number of reasons. For one thing, during a bad patch I vaguely remember from a decade or so ago, the savvy amongst us paid particularly close attention to JPYEUR, believing that the higher this currency pair climbed, the more risk-averse an attitude investors were embracing. Maybe the same can be said about the present day. To the extent that this is the case, it may just be owing to the sense that with each passing day, 45 is adding to a strategy that amounts to weaponization of the international trade complex. For all that I (or, for that matter, anyone else) knows, the strategy may work. But let me ask you: how aggressive do you wish to be in your portfolios while the saga unfolds?
But like it or not, I must return to Turkey, albeit briefly. Its GDP ranking cracks the Top 20, but it is falling, and is barely 5% of that of the U.S. It sports a respectable debt to GDP ratio in the 40s, but nearly half of these borrowings are dollar-denominated. And the lion’s share is owed to European banks. As has been the case with every currency crisis since mankind was still sporting tails, a significant currency devaluation increases the magnitude of the associated liabilities, and often renders it nigh-impossible for the obligors to make good.
So I suspect that if the current FX paradigms continue on their existing paths, we’re not far off from staring in the face of yet another round of bailouts. And here’s what you need to bear in mind in this respect. Every bailout you care to examine – from Mexico in 1994 to the U.S. bulge bracket in 2008, to Greece in the early part of this decade, is designed, first and foremost, to benefit the lending institutions themselves. Seldom, political rhetoric notwithstanding, does the general public get any help at all. And in this case, I suspect that as such nobody particularly cares of the hardships that may fall upon Merch guys from Ankara to Antalya, but you can rest easy that the global puppet masters will move heaven and earth to rescue the balance sheets of banks from Santander to Soc Gen to (of course) Deutsche Bank.
I’m not gonna lie: I find all of this mind-numbingly wearying. But that’s not gonna stop any of this nonsense. And, as a result, the risks cut both ways. An extended ratcheting up of the trade battles is likely to take bigger bites out of valuations as they unfold. On the other hand (and as I suspect is entirely plausible), if the big dogs in Washington start rolling out optically pleasing trade deals over the next several weeks, then we could be looking at a pretty serious melt-up.
I think it wise to keep it tight for the time being, but as for the Merch guys, I reckon that they’ll just have to take what’s coming to them. Most of them anyway. As part of the week’s festivities, the Russian Ruble took a major pounding as well. But believe me, Russian Merch guys know how to take care of themselves. And, in closing, my best risk management advice is that you avoid at all costs the testing of this hypothesis on your own.
So here it is: as I get older, I feel a growing conviction that Potter got a bad rap. Yes, I’m referring to one Henry F. Potter of Bedford Falls, PA, played to cinematic perfection by the Lionel Barrymore. Since time immemorial, we’ve been pre-conditioned to be hating on Potter: the aged, wheel-chaired, bloodless capitalist who would have, save for Jimmy Stewart’s/George Bailey’s Bailey Building and Loan (BBL), run his quaint little town as tyrannically as anyone this side of Manuel Noriega. Please understand, I don’t much like Potter; doubt I’d want to hang out with him. In addition, I must admit that his theft of that $8 Large from the whiskey-drenched, imbecilic Uncle Billy was not exactly a Major League move.
But let’s face it: when he scoffed at the Baileys, suggesting that shooting pool with a BBL loan officer was, absent other risk assessment methods, an inadequate underwriting policy, he was right. When the ‘29 crash transpired (which, in a touch of Frank Capra-esque flair, emerged on George’s wedding night) and Bailey Building and Loan – inevitably – faced de facto insolvency, Potter made his move. He offered buy up all of the town’s dubious-but-collateralized paper — at pennies on dollar.
If we’re to be truly honest with ourselves, we should admit that many of us would try to do the same.
But Baily stopped him – mostly by begging his depositors to leave their hard earned cash in a failing Savings and Loan – in the process forcing these good folks into incremental hardships at the precise point when the Great Depression was beginning to unfold. And Potter, recognizing the talent of one who had bested him, then very generously offered Bailey a big fat job, a proposal to which, as is well known, the latter responded by telling the former to pound sand.
And isn’t it just possible that the unconditioned love we throw George’s way is less than fully earned? I know: he pulled his brother out of that pond, saved the druggist from poisoning a customer, and shelved his big plans – first to see the world and then put his mark on it — all to take care of business at home. But he employed an African American mammy/maid right out of Central Casting, and treated her like the Uncle Tom character she was. And while we’re at it, 4F in WWII because of a bad ear? C’mon. History shows that hundreds of visibly crippled teens begged and lied their way into active duty. And, when the war ended (by which time the economy had recovered dramatically, and a well-managed BBL should have been on sounder financial footing) 8 skinny thousand dollars of misplaced cash nearly brought his whole business crashing down on its ears, to say nothing of potentially landing Georgie in the Pennsylvania State Penitentiary.
But here George lost his trademark cool. It was Christmas Eve, and, after telling Uncle Billy he wasn’t about to take the rap for him, he went home and actually yelled at Zuzu! He then pondered suicide, but an extended hallucination caused him to rethink his plans. He gathered himself and went back to face the music. When he returned, the whole town has pooled its money together to bail him out, as topped off by that Wainwright dude (from whom he stole his future wife) extending him an unlimited line of credit.
I’ve often wondered how much of that yuletide bounty Georgie boy shoved into his own pocket. Maybe just a little bit off the top for that blondie side piece to whom he gave cash right in front of the bank examiner?
But back to Potter. On the whole, perhaps Bedford Falls should’ve given him more props. Exhibit A: the charming downtown of this quaint little village:
I’ve seen worse town centers. But I doubt that BBL financed all of the construction. In all probability, Potter himself provided most of the funding, and the results speak for themselves. While the Baileys were lighting up their friends with home loans, Potter was busy building up as quaint a little slice of Americana as one could wish free enterprise to underwrite.
Had the Baileys held the paper on this turf, it is likely that they would’ve had to call it in. Who knows if the borrowers could’ve paid? I envision a fire sale and all of High Street falling into rot.
*********************************************
It seems like eons ago, but in fact it is less than 10 trading sessions since the markets manifested the same look and feel as they must’ve back in ’29, when Potter was ready to make his play. No particular need to regurgitate that unappetizing sequence; suffice to say that investors have since regained a large measure of their equanimity. In fact, the > 4% gains mustered up by our favorite equity indices represents the best weekly showing since (depending upon the index you cite) late 2016 (Trump Bump) early 2013 (Bernanke/QE3 Bump), or late 2011 (the “I don’t remember why” Bump). For a blessed handful of pre-holiday sessions (and bearing in mind that this is President’s Day), it appears that our valuation heartburn has indeed subsided. I’ve read some published reports that attributed the upswing to an enthusiastic round of nut-squeezing, and there is some plausibility to this hypothesis. But my response is: who cares?
Besides, I think there was more at play here than a good old fashion short squeeze. Specifically, with the benefit of contemplation over the intervening couple of weeks, a couple of dynamics emerge with greater clarity. First, after setting multiple records as to the number of trading sessions between 3%, 5% and 10% drops, equities were by some measures overbought. OK; fair enough. But I also believe that – particularly in light of the subsequent recovery, a large measure of the carnage was either catalyzed, or, at minimum, exacerbated, by the unwind of those diabolical short-volatility instruments that were all the rage as recently as Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
But investors who for some time previous had been breaking the bank by riding a vol train that was a one-way journey to the underworld don’t simply jump out of their sleeper cars, en masse, for no reason at all. So we’d be remiss if our post-mortem didn’t include an examination of the fundamental catalysts that set the whole episode in motion in the first instance.
My main recollection (though 2 weeks ago is a long time for me to visualize) is that the confluence of some inflation appearing on the horizon, and its potential impacts on borrowing costs were the factor(s) that set this train wreck in motion in the first place. Well, a portion of this hypothesis achieved corroboration when, earlier in the week, the CPI/PPI numbers were released. Both clocked in higher than expected, in the process providing incremental evidence that maybe, just maybe, some upward pricing pressure has presented itself in sustainable fashion. But, reviewing these metrics, did investors resume their fear-induced fire sale of stock holdings? They did not. Instead, they bought, and managed to bring flagging indices back into solid positive territory for what thus far has been an interesting start to 2018.
Thus, if we accept our stated hypothesis that the recent blow-off, while much-needed, was not necessarily an indication of aggravation to come, then we are left to contemplate what’s really going on here, which, in my judgment, comes down to a handful of related issues:
1) Are recent trends sufficient to embed higher inflationary expectations into the investment ethos?
2) Whatever the ultimate answer may be to 1), is the longer end of the yield curve truly headed for higher elevations?
3) If the answer to 2) is yes, can equity valuations survive and/or thrive at higher yields?
For better or worse, I have no useful opinions to convey with respect to 1). Inflation is a tricky thing, rendered all the more confusing because (as those who suffered through the indignities of economics training are painfully aware) it is inflationary expectations, not inflation itself, that drives economic outcomes. I won’t lie, this distinction has always confused me – often to the point of distraction. Moreover, in eerie parallel to the current unhinged national political debate, I can find any number of intelligent, well-trained and otherwise reasonable fellows and gals that will passionately argue that we are headed towards a Weimar-like cycle of intensifying price increases, while other such worthies are convinced that we are still in the early innings of a deflationary death spiral. So I don’t know, and for what it’s worth, I give up on 1).
In terms of 2), I do see signs that the rates will indeed rise to higher levels than many of you have experienced in your lifetimes. Just to put matters in perspective, when I applied for student loans to finance that graduate education referenced above – the one which left me so confused about this whole inflation/expectations thing, the rate was 9%. I was encouraged at the time borrow as much as I could, because, let’s face it, rates would never be that low again.
It hardly bears mention that I enthusiastically embraced this advice.
But in terms of the near-term glide-path of yields, my views are as much influenced by supply trends as they are for demand for debt instruments. Every time I check, our Treasury is upping the size of its auctions, and I don’t see that particular pattern changing. As mentioned last week, their friends at the Fed are selling their paper just as the Treasury G-men are issuing more of it. Next week, for instance, >$250B of new bills, bonds and notes hit the market – all in the space of 3 days. If that long-since repaid, debt-financed grad school extravaganza was worth anything, it means that in a market where demand may be decreasing, and supply is flooding the markets, prices should go down. Further, in the perverse world of Fixed Income, this means yields rise.
So count me as a “yes” on 2).
What remains, therefore, is an examination of 3): whether or not our capital markets can operate effectively at higher yield thresholds. While this remains to be seen, I’m patriotic enough to believe that a nation that endured, just in the last 100 years, two World Wars, a Great Depression, a Great Recession, not one, but two, Justin Timberlake Super Bowl appearances, and Fergie’s dubious NBA All-Star Game Anthem rendition, can weather the hardship of elevated rates on debt instruments. Heck, like many of my advanced age, I might even welcome such a change. I’ve no mortgage debt and don’t own a credit card. I do, however, have some money in the bank that is thirsting for the blessings of a return above microscopic levels.
Thus, I’m inclined to believe that within reasonable ranges, equity market participants should not be overly fearful of higher rates in the debt complex. And thus far, recent selloff notwithstanding, Corporate America appears to be on something of a roll. Q4 earnings, now 4/5ths complete, are projecting out at a 15% increase – highest in nearly 7 years. Guidance for the remainder of ’18 looks to be the strongest in more than 2 decades. Small Business Optimism, after flagging for a few months, is again on the rise:
I do remain flummoxed by the flagging fortunes of the United States dollar, which continue to wither – irrespective of what happens with either equity or interest rate markets:
Now, I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I am wondering if there might not just be a titch of politics embedded in this chart. While a lower value on the Dead Prez might increase the bite out of your wallet taken in association with your purchase of Lederhosen, Saki or Cornish Hens, it will undoubtedly offer an export boost to our heroic but often oppressed corporations.
And after all, what are we here for if not to support the intrepid efforts of the guys in the suits that occupy the C-Suites?
In general, I expect that risks, if not returning to their unobservable levels that characterized most of the last 18 months, are unlikely at any rate to rise again to the levels experienced in early February. As such, I sanction any incremental exposure you may wish to assume, provided that you have done your homework, thought carefully, and execute with due attention allotted to the details.
And as for Potter, I suspect he might be a buyer here. But I doubt he would “go whole hog” as he attempted to do on George’s wedding night. Instead, he’d be keeping his eye out for some bargains, and, finding them, would be quietly adding to his asset inventories. But here I’m just speculating, because the clear inference to be drawn at the end of our feature film is that he was run out of town.
George Bailey and his heirs are now the presumptive big dogs in Bedford Falls, PA. Lending standards at BBL have also presumably tightened up, and none of that would’ve happened had not Potter been there to bring some rationality to the otherwise goofy proceedings. In the future, if we are indeed to have wonderful lives, we may not wish to precisely emulate his methods, but we may do well to that the maxim of by low/sell high remains a virtue, and that flawed men like George Bailey don’t rise to the level of heroism without the elevating presence of those of Potter’s ilk.
“Long ago, and oh so far away, I fell in love with you, before the second show”
— from “Superstar” (by Leon Russell and Bonnie Bramlett)
Don’tcha remember you told me you loved me, baby? ‘Course you do. How could you forget?
It was after the first, but before the second, show.
And as for me, your words are burned into my brain. In fact, as I also distinctly recall, you said you’d be coming back this way again, baby.
And you never did.
Well, at least I still have the song, but at this point, the singer could’ve been anybody. Perhaps it was Delores O’Riordan, the fabulous, fetching lead singer of the Cranberries, who left us so tragically and unexpectedly last week.
Or maybe, reaching back further, it was the even more fabulous and (to me) more fetching Janis Joplin. I mean, after all, Friday marked the 75th anniversary of her birth. Yes, on the whole, I think we’ll go with Janis, because, after all, there was only one Janis.
As part of her vast legacy, Janis, along with Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Robert Johnson, Amy Winehouse and so many others, is a charter member of the 27 Club – Superstars that shed their mortal coils during their 27th year. On the brighter side of the ledger, we still can hear her voice.
Or maybe it’s just the radio.
In any event, we can also take comfort, this winter weekend, that one of our most stalwart companions managed to escape the fate of the other 27ers listed above. And here, of course, I am referring to our old buddy, Mr. Spoo, who not only survived 27, but in fact breezed through it, unphased, in little more than two weeks. To wit: he blasted for the first time into the XXVII handle on the first trading day of the New Year, and never looked back. Instead, like the precocious elementary school student who finds his grade’s current class load to be somewhat redundant to his erudition, he skipped right into the 28th parallel — without breaking a sweat.
Visually, this sort of thing looks like this:
SPX 27: We hardly knew ye!!!
But Mr. S is not alone in terms of his precocity. Yes, he’s up an impressive 511 basis points in a 2018 that is still in its infancy, but he’s actually trailing his main frenemies General Dow (+547) and Captain Naz (+627) in terms of his scores.
Perhaps all of this is getting a little bit silly. The recently reconstituted propeller heads at General Risk Advisors Jet Propulsion Laboratory (located in the shopping mall next to the train station in Wilton, CT) have calculated that year-to-date, the annualized return for the Gallant 500 exceeds 136%. We tried to do the same calcs for the Dow and the Naz, but the propellers on our hats flew right through the ceiling and are now following the Jetstream over Greenland.
Now, my loves, there are very few specific prognostications that I am willing to make in these troubled times, but one of them is as follows: across the fullness of 2018, the SPX will have difficulty generating a return of 136%, or even 130%. In fact, my own models indicate that it will do well to hit 120%. As such, I am recommending against the purchase of 2018 SPX calls with a strike price above 6,000 (unless, of course, you can buy them at a cheap vol).
And after all, it’s not like there aren’t a few things that could go wrong in the ~11.5 months left to this year. If you’re like me, you awoke this morning to the tragic, unthinkable news that the big D.C. dogs were still unable to come to a budget deal, and that as such, the custodians of that galactic, precision engine known as the United States Federal Government will begin, like Dave did to HAL in the movie “2001: A Space Odyssey”, the solemn process of shutting it down. For most of us, this pantomime has long since passed its “sell-by” date. And yes, for what it’s worth, I do believe that Chuck and Nancy have overplayed their hands (and probably know it) by shoe horning a resolution of this DACA drama into what should be an entirely mechanical proceeding. You can’t really blame them much, though. We do have an important election looming, and, dating back to the Paleoanthropic Era of the Clinton White House/Gingrich Congress, these shutdown affairs have redounded to the political detriment of the Republican Party, and to the benefit of their opposite numbers.
My guess is that we’ll quickly get past this crisis, only to relive it again in a matter of weeks. And even if the debate lingers unresolved, about the only inconvenience this is likely to evoke is a possible delay in the release of economic data – particularly the first look at Q4 GDP, currently scheduled to be announced on Thursday. A postponement of the distribution of this report would be, however, somewhat disappointing, because: a) the models are perking up; and b) the markets should sure use a shot in the arm (couldn’t they?).
But even so, we’ll still have earnings reports upon which to obsess, and, with 10% of the precincts having reported, the numbers are thus far encouraging. True, the banks had to do a one-time set-aside, but virtually everywhere else, the bells be a-poppin’. It starts to get interesting over the next couple of weeks, and, as always, I’d pay as close attention to guidance as I would to profits and sales.
In particular, I’m looking for signs of what I believe to be shaping up as the biggest capex spend since before the crash.
Briefly, elsewhere, there appears to be welcome pressure on government bonds, commodities are showing signs of life, but that poor old dollar appears to lack the ability to source a bid for love or money.
DXY: Whistling Dixie
So maybe it’s our Dead Prez singing that line: “don’tcha remember you told me you loved me baby?”. Well, it says here that somewhere, some way, a bid on the greenback will materialize. And, while we’re on the subject, it is at least theoretically possible that Mr. Spoo will someday find himself “on offer”. At prevailing levels of 2810, this means if it happens soon, he could find himself back in the 27s.
And, in conclusion, if history has taught us anything, the 27 Club is not for the faint of heart, so take care, be forewarned, and, as always…
“Full count; runner on 2nd, 1 out. Cubs lead 3-0 in the top of the 8th. Prior delivers. Castillo swings. High fly drifting towards the left field wall. Alou reaches over. But wait! A fan knocks the ball out of his hand”.
The rest, of course, is history. It was the 8th inning of the 2003 NL Championship Series between the Cubs and the Marlins. Marlin Castillo drew a walk, Prior (who up to that point had been delivering a 3-hit shutout gem) fell apart, and when the dust settled for the inning, the Cubs (who were seeking to clinch the Pennant that night) were down 8-3. They lost the game, and then booted Game 7. The Billy Goat Curse, which had kept them out of the World Series since 1945 and denied them the Championship since 1908, remained intact.
Everyone blamed the misanthropic, over-reaching fan: one Steve Bartman. And he was an easy target, sitting in the front row, committing the unpardonable (for purists at any rate) sin of wearing big, honking head phones to a playoff game, and, through his unwitting actions, denying the Cubs their destiny. He became a pariah in Chicago – so much so that the Governor at the time: Philosopher/Moralist Rod Blagojevich, suggested he enter the Witness Protection Program. It would take another Baker’s Dozen-13 years, and 3 changes of ownership, before The Curse ended and the Cubs grabbed their rings. Bartman was persona non grata for the entire intervening period, but then, last week, the Chicago National League team did something classy: it awarded him a World Series ring.
Across these troubled times, the gesture was nothing if not a welcome act of Redemption, but it wasn’t the only one. Contemporaneously, a Nevada Parole Board granted to inmate 1027820: one Orenthal James Simpson, and I want everyone to be aware that I am OK with this. I mean, we all know that did Goldman and Brown, but way he was set up for the 8 year stretch he served was nothing short of epic. Some Vegas players take his memorabilia and let him know that the boodle is lying in an adjacent hotel room. They get him drunk, put a gun in his hand and break in. Within a matter of minutes, the cops arrive on the scene, and whammo! Open and shut case for armed robbery.
So Juice did his time, and now he can reorient his self-proclaimed “conflict-free life” to his solemn quest to find the “real” killer of his wife and the signally unlucky Goldman. Who knows? Maybe he’ll succeed. But one way or another, it’s time to move on. So let’s remember the Juice for his singular exploits on the gridiron.
Oh yeah, and for one more thing: in a very real sense, we owe O.J. a deep debt of gratitude for inadvertently giving us the Kardashians.
On the whole, we’re on something of a feel-good run, and nowhere is this more evident than in the investment universe. Our equity indices continue their climb to heretofore un-breached elevations, Q2 earnings have been, on balance, a blowout affair, and I’m assuming y’all saw (or in any event, read Trump’s Triumphant Tweets about) Friday’s Jobs Report. If one casts an eye beyond the Equity Complex, what is visible is a global bid on bonds, and even some love of the recently forsaken USD:
The recently “en fuego” grain markets have backed off, but let me ask you this: how bad is it if you pay a little bit less for that corn on the cob scheduled to grace the BBQs teed up as summer winds down?
However, in a widely reported and indisputably odd turn of events, perhaps the biggest recipient of heavenly and earthly Redemption is European High Yield debt complex. Continental “Junk” (apologies for descending into the decorum of the vernacular) bonds have been bid so strongly that somehow, improbably, they are trading at identical yields to those of the 10 year notes issued from our own gallant Treasury Department, for many generations considered the world’s most reliable borrower:
I will admit to having stared at this chart to the point of obsession. Among other matters, so desperate for this paper have investors become that from a point contemporaneous to the teeth of the crash till the present day, Euro Junk yields have dropped by an astounding 90%. Call me crazy (it’s been done before) but I have just the most sneaking hunch that these securities are a tad, shall we say, overvalued. This decade, we’ve been treated to multiple handwringing cycles of speculation about the prospects for an Uncle Sam default, but I’m here to tell you that: a) such an outcome is unlikely; and b) as a final line of defense, our paper is backed up not only by the full faith and credit of our federal custodians, but the considerable firepower of our military machine. By contrast, I’m pretty sure that some of these Euro obligors are living on little more than time that they borrowed as part of the lending package, and that when this precious but fleeting asset runs out, their lenders are likely to be left holding little more than an empty bag.
That strange days have found us is a matter of scant dispute; however, during this transient interval of Redemption, I am hesitant to press the point. Yes, market multiple metrics continue to soar to the arguably unsustainable elevations. In Washington, new Grand Juries are being convened at a point when the World’s Greatest Deliberative Body has adjourned to meet angry constituents, with little or nothing to show for its efforts. Our potential foes in Eurasia continue to join us in the language of brinksmanship. The domestic legislative agenda is stuck in either neutral or reverse, and we’re hurtling next month towards a debt ceiling/budget showdown that – come what may, is likely to please no one.
In short, there are many imponderables out there that threaten to kill our current buzz, and again, I believe that conventional risk measures of virtually every stripe are understating the true exposure — from a market and an economic perspective.
But on this bucolic summer weekend, as the sunny seasons slips inexorably away from us, I choose to focus instead on our Redemption theme. I hope Juice uses his freedom wisely, and I’m glad that the Cubs and the City of Chicago have, at long last, let Bartman off the hook. After all, he presumably paid for his ticket, and going for a foul ball that appears to be within your grasp is part of the decidedly limited appeal associated with the price of admission to a baseball game. He wasn’t looking at the left fielder; his eyes were squarely on the souvenir that gravity was sending directly towards him.
And there’s one other sin associated with this incident that wants atonement. On the following February 26th, amid much national (and indeed global) hype, the team gathered at Harry Carey’s downtown restaurant to ritualize the destruction of the offending baseball. They kept their precise methods a solemn secret, so, like everyone else, I tuned in to watch the spectacle. I had envisioned the launching of it from a cannon, to explode in mid-air, its debris scattered into the icy waters of Lake Michigan. Instead, they stuck it in a transparent box, pushed a button and it disintegrated. I found this disappointingly anti-climactic. Further, published reports (I’m not making this up) indicate that the restaurant then took a portion of the particlized remains and mixed it into the evening’s pasta sauce. Helluva shame. To my thinking at any rate, the infamous ball plainly deserved a more spectacular exit.
But that’s the way it goes – in baseball and in life. In more cases that we would wish, our hopes, dreams and even our nightmares end up dissolving into dust. There’s a lesson in there somewhere for the investor class, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to expend my energy attempting to ferret it out. Instead…
…I’ll leave this task to you. Give it some thought. You may come up with a suitable answer, and the exercise itself will do you no harm.
But Mr. S is not alone in terms of his precocity. Yes, he’s up an impressive 511 basis points in a 2018 that is still in its infancy, but he’s actually trailing his main frenemies General Dow (+547) and Captain Naz (+627) in terms of his scores.
