Market volatility is just goddamn exciting, for the same reason people go on roller coasters.
It’s also educational, for the same reason people stop going on roller coasters when a rider gets decapitated.
Wall Street was the last refuge for a lot of our so-called money, propping up the facade of our so-called economy and fueling our so-called recovery gliding inches above the ground. Many in the financial analysis game assume that, at the very worst, there isn’t very much more down to go.
Maybe they’re right.
But they’re not.
This so-called “money” is getting pulled out for a reason, and I reckon that reason will find us all sooner than later. Handle your business and check it twice – while this won’t be the end of the world, it will feel like it to a whole lot of people who won’t know what hit ’em, but that kind of panic won’t last too long. Two weeks from now the DOW will shoot up 2,500 points, the GDP will be upward revised by 30% over the past 50 quarters, and Our Simple Affirmative Action President will take a much-deserved victory lap around The Fed, spiking a bust of FA Hayek right before breaking out a six-minute touchdown dance routine to put Randy Moss to shame.
We get the world we deserve sometimes.
It’s Friday again, but it always seems as that is so.
It’s a weird day, where I’m trying to shake off the oddest dream, a dream where I was a part of an elaborate plot to take out Millard Fillmore for some reason, and neither myself nor my co-conspirators could say why Fillmore had to die, just that it had to be done. It involved staging a fake 4H Club awards banquet where we would present the 13th president with a lifetime service award, but the award presentation would be like the hand grenade from Death Race 2000 – exactly like it, in fact – but I woke up before it was Go Time.
I wonder how it went.
I’m thankful I don’t remember my dreams much, or hardly ever. Because the few that I do remember haunt me forever. When I was six, I had a horrifying dream where the entire world was black and violet polka dots; when I was a 14, I had an even more horrifying dream where I was trapped in an episode of Perfect Strangers; and when I was 22 I had a dream where I saw my own funeral. Other than that, I don’t remember a single one, and I question really whether I dream at all most nights, because I don’t think I do. Just about every night I tumble to black eventually at some point, then wake up a second later even though a few hours manage to twirl past on the nightstand clock.
Out in the world it’s been a weird week as well. An angry gay black man shot a bunch of people live on TV for a mixed bag of reasons; the Alex Jones weed-dwellers seem pretty sure the whole thing was rigged on a fix, given that the Go Pro view the angry gay black man uploaded to the Twatter seems to show a white hand wearing a blue plaid shirt, while the shot from the dying camera man shows something that much more closely resembles Grimace from the old Ronald McDonald kids cartoon crap. There’s also apparently a weird oddity where the boyfriend of the lady reporter immediately took to twitter to eulogize here, and the timestamps suggest that those tweets took place more than 10 minutes before the shooting. That both things are easily explained away by 1) white balancing and 2) time zones hasn’t slowed this down in the slightest, so I’m excited to see where it goes from here.
A uselessly early reading of the Election 2016 tea leaves suggests that Trump is headed to the White House, Biden is headed to the Fun House, Clinton to the Big House. People in the know sure seem to think she’s going to be indicted on something, incredulously wondering how given that she’s a Democrat and everything. I think it’s simple – Our Simple Affirmative Action President doesn’t like her one bit, and has no interest in calling off the dogs for her. Between the threat of pending indictment on multiple felonies, the loud whispers of cash-for-favors surrounding everything she does, the fact that she’s an insufferable muppet of a woman who barely tolerates anyone but the most sycophantic, and that she doesn’t seem to have a natural constituency at all beyond Wellesely graduates from the classes of 1966-1974, I don’t see how she’s even still in this.
Yet she is.
And no worries about the economic state of the world ; we’ve had two straight days of RALLY, and the US Government just re-revised the earlier revisions to the estimates of our quarterly economic health, and it turns out they found a bunch of positive stuff that must have just slipped through the cracks, with the previous three quarters of GDP “revised” upward significantly, which can only mean one thing.
WE’RE BACK, MOFOS.
Eh, on the home front it’s still hotter than the flopsweat between a fat woman’s folds in August in the Everglades, and just about as humid. So it should be a perfect time to head outside and build out an addition to the back deck.
I can hardly wait.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em in.
Born To Be Bad
Born To Be Bad
George Thorogood & The Destroyers
EMI Records | 1988
A common refrain in the wake of events like this questions what the world is coming to, but this is incorrect.
The world is always like this:
A reporter and photographer from a news station in Virginia were shot to death during a live news interview Wednesday morning. During a live interview around 5:45 a.m., approximately eight gunshots are heard as a WDBJ reporter is seen interviewing someone on-screen. The camera then drops to the ground and the broadcast cuts back to the anchor desk.
This always exists, because we’re talking about people here, it just lays in stark contrast to the recent past because that past was papered over with the facade of wealth and plenty; just enough to bleed the pressure out of the machine to mitigate short time preferences and focus interests beyond the immediate.
Say what you will about the veil of civilization, but at its core, its essentially convincing all stratas of a civic order that the future is boundless, even if all it involes is EBT recharges every two weeks for the rest of your life.
Alter that in any way, and the pressure builds; time preferences grow short and immediate. Impluse then rules all, so why not just off your enemies while you can, right now, because fuck tomorrow.
This is the dark space of man, the base state, the default setting.
It takes incredible effort to mitigate this on either an individual or a societal level.
There’s a reason the great religions of the world focus around the tough work of the redemption of man.
Every spiritual order that celebrates man as he is, in his default state, is simply a paen to hedonistic mediocrity.
The cultutes that so adulate the base state of man will wallow in their dung huts, fungulating on their beds of sticks, well past forever, because that’s all it has to offer.
That is the world.
That’s all it is.
A flock of two dozen mad-as-hell supporters of Donald Trump agreed to assemble on Monday night in a political consultant’s office to explain their passion for the Republican frontrunner
Let me get a drink.
Okay. Let’s roll.
“You guys understand how significant this is?” Luntz asked the press breathlessly when he came back into the room behind the glass. “This is real. I’m having trouble processing it. Like, my legs are shaking. I want to put the Republican leadership behind this mirror and let them see. They need to wake up. They don’t realize how the grassroots have abandoned them,” Luntz continued. “Donald Trump is punishment to a Republican elite that wasn’t listening to their grassroots.”
While excellent, this is mostly so for the one simple lesson that only Luntz seems to sense – plainspoken candidates who care nothing for messagecraft and other arts of the milquetoast are to Luntz’ class what automated ordering kiosks at McDonald’s are for the Occupy Wall Street cohort – a grim glimpse into a forsaken future, a most-desvered fate of their own design.
“We know his goal is to make America great again,” a woman said. “It’s on his hat.”
That surely has to be the moment when Luntz knew the jig was up and his continued existance in occupational terms was superfluous at best, thoroughly exhausted at worst.
Multiple explosions and a large fire damaged a U.S. Army depot in a suburb of Tokyo early Monday, but no injuries were reported. The blast happened after midnight (11 a.m. Sunday EDT) at the Sagami General Depot in Sagamihara, a city about 25 miles southwest of Tokyo, said Navy Commander Bill Urban, a Pentagon press officer.
It’s not like the Koreas are at each other’s throats right now or anything.
Can’t speak for y’all but I’m loving the 21st century so far.
Dow plunges 1,000+ immediately upon opening bell, despite this:
Wall Street authorities have invoked a rarely-used regulation called Rule 48, in an effort to speed up and smooth trading when trading begins in a few minutes. CNBC explains: The rule allows NYSE to open stocks without indications. “It was set up for situations like this,” said Art Hogan, chief market strategist at Wunderich Securities. It was last used in the financial crisis.
The Dow has “miraculously” rebounded since though, and is at the time of this writing down ~415 points. Because as El Borak notes, someone had $400M burning a hole in their pocket.
Meanwhile, The Independent UK has the best analysis I’ve seen yet this morning:
A former advisor to Gordon Brown has urged people to stock up on canned goods and bottled water as stock markets around the world slide.
Not the worst idea.
Also, not so good of a Friday if your stock-in-trade is in the trading of stocks.
Monday should be fun – could be another 400+ point freefall, could be a 1000+ rally or anything in between.
This is what happens when software does the heavy lifting for you.
But 530 points, on top of all the other great news the past couple of weeks, well, get your party hats on.
It’s nearly time to go.
The week that was turns out to be nearly indistinguishable from the week prior; the walls are closing in on Clinton, and the only thing I’m curious to see is if she slithers out of it or if she actually faces some semblance of consequences from her manifold malfeasances. If yes, she’s not a protected brand and maybe everything is as random as the physicists prattle on about. If she still manages to run her campaign, than the fix is more than “in”; it’s a fait accompli of the highest order, which will make the precipitous fall that much more enjoyable to watch.
Despite the best laid plans of the GOP Braintrust, immigration will be a front-and-center topic of discussion for the 2016 election, and the whole thing could easily be set up as a referendum on this insane push for widespread amnesty/open-door-to-the-dregs-of-the-world policy. I imagine if I were bought and paid-for by megalomaniacs interested in replacing the indigenous population with an imported one more known for accepting low-class status, the current fiasco would chap my ass some.
Thank God I’m not.
Beyond that, crime is up, weird crime is even more up, the Great Sweater of Western Civilization is nearly threadbare, but these should be the most impressive ruins the world has ever known.
Check back in a thousand years.
It should be a site to see.
On the homefront, it should be a more mellow weekend. The heatwave has broken, it’s supposed to be a fine 82 degrees with low humidity and plenty of sunshine. I’ve got the fantasy football drafts for the VP alum leagues tomorrow morning, and that’s always a good time. A good group of guys that only get together (however virtually) and shoot the shit, pick some players and forget all of the other garbage of the wider world. The hammock will also get a workout this weekend, I imagine, maybe as soon as this evening. The Wife’s got some beers on ice already, just waiting for my arrival home.
That’s not nothing, friends.
Anyway, that’s the lay of the land. Have a good one, and get ‘em the Hell in.
This is not a culture.
Bohemian Rhapsody (Cover)
Seeking Major Tom
Cleopatra Records | 2011