It has occurred to our masters that one coin of the realm still carries intrinsic value, the nickel, of course.
A five-cent piece is still worth almost five cents. At 75 per cent copper and the rest nickel, it is a slug of highly-desirable metal which is worth something all by itself, no matter what Janet Yellen decrees next month when she takes over from Ben as the official decree-er of value.
Can't have that. Mommiedotguv is trying to figure out a way to debase it without irritating the nickelodeon industry too much.
Some preppers have been tucking away nickels for years, just as other skeptics squirrel away the pre-1982 pennies (the poor man's Krugerrand) from their pocket change. Any bets on who gets the last laugh?
Showing posts with label The Tinkerbelle Economy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Tinkerbelle Economy. Show all posts
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 17, 2014
Skinny Amends
I keep putting off a moral obligation: apologizing to Ben Bernanke. The tanked United States economy is not totally his fault. He's a tool, a dupe if you will, like some guy who tugs his forelock and says yassah Master when ordered to modify gravity.
The job of the Fed boss for a century has been to palpate the money supply to promote (a) full employment and (b) stable prices.
Ben, like every other Federal Reserve chairman, is too smart to believe that a doable proposition. But, also like his predecessors, he's perfectly willing to play the game in order to be one of the most powerful men in the world, a status which gets a guy invited to all the best parties with super models and single malt. I'd be tempted myself. So consider this a hemi-semi-demi apology, really tiny.
One trouble is that Ben is personally likable and seems so sincere, even when being more than a little dissimulative. For instance:
Last month, hard money hawks (so to speak) finally persuaded him to reduce the Kwee 3 production of thin-air money a bit -- from $85 billion a month to $75 billion.
He took a deep breath and pronounced that good, but before he could exhale, his inner Keynes leaped forth.
"But don't worry Mr. President and all you vote-buying thugs in Congress. We're still going to be easy, perhaps even easier. So go cheerfully about your business. Spend away. Bike trails and ag subsidies and roads to no where; idiotic billions to political buddies with a solar dream: farting around in the Third World pretending that we know how to build other nations; creating regulations costing ten bucks to administer for every 37 cents in benefits, if that much. Whatever will make the unwashed voter love you."
(How? HIs Fed promises to keep fiat money gushing by some level of Kweeing, plus interest rates effectively zero for a long, long time -- probably through the first Chelsea administration, at least.)
Would it help if more of us became a little more focused on Econ 101 as presented by someone other than Paul Samuelson?
Price stability depends on many things, but above all on money stability; that is, a person should have reasonable confidence that the five-dollar bill in his pocket today will also buy a pound of bacon next year. Lacking that belief, he'll go immediately to Starbucks and piss it away while studying food stamp eligibility rules on his G4 phone.
Full employment depends on a population making, buying, and selling things. Their ability to do so depends in large part on greedy capitalists who somehow get some money and gamble it on factories, drug stores, farms, distilleries, and gas stations. Every man and woman in the mix must have an ordinarily decent character and diligence -- plus an expectation that his wages and profits as measured in money will hold their value, or nearly so.
Excessive taxes discourage that sort of diligence and willingness to take risks, but currency inflation can make confiscatory taxes seem like a comparative angel kiss.
Ben won't publicly address basics like that, but, as I say, the perks of being a perceived Midas are compelling, so on a strictly personal level, I understand, Sir. Therefore I formally offer my apology for five years of verbally abusing you, an apology heart felt but so wee and flat as to be almost imperceptible.
The job of the Fed boss for a century has been to palpate the money supply to promote (a) full employment and (b) stable prices.
Ben, like every other Federal Reserve chairman, is too smart to believe that a doable proposition. But, also like his predecessors, he's perfectly willing to play the game in order to be one of the most powerful men in the world, a status which gets a guy invited to all the best parties with super models and single malt. I'd be tempted myself. So consider this a hemi-semi-demi apology, really tiny.
One trouble is that Ben is personally likable and seems so sincere, even when being more than a little dissimulative. For instance:
Last month, hard money hawks (so to speak) finally persuaded him to reduce the Kwee 3 production of thin-air money a bit -- from $85 billion a month to $75 billion.
He took a deep breath and pronounced that good, but before he could exhale, his inner Keynes leaped forth.
"But don't worry Mr. President and all you vote-buying thugs in Congress. We're still going to be easy, perhaps even easier. So go cheerfully about your business. Spend away. Bike trails and ag subsidies and roads to no where; idiotic billions to political buddies with a solar dream: farting around in the Third World pretending that we know how to build other nations; creating regulations costing ten bucks to administer for every 37 cents in benefits, if that much. Whatever will make the unwashed voter love you."
(How? HIs Fed promises to keep fiat money gushing by some level of Kweeing, plus interest rates effectively zero for a long, long time -- probably through the first Chelsea administration, at least.)
Would it help if more of us became a little more focused on Econ 101 as presented by someone other than Paul Samuelson?
Price stability depends on many things, but above all on money stability; that is, a person should have reasonable confidence that the five-dollar bill in his pocket today will also buy a pound of bacon next year. Lacking that belief, he'll go immediately to Starbucks and piss it away while studying food stamp eligibility rules on his G4 phone.
Full employment depends on a population making, buying, and selling things. Their ability to do so depends in large part on greedy capitalists who somehow get some money and gamble it on factories, drug stores, farms, distilleries, and gas stations. Every man and woman in the mix must have an ordinarily decent character and diligence -- plus an expectation that his wages and profits as measured in money will hold their value, or nearly so.
Excessive taxes discourage that sort of diligence and willingness to take risks, but currency inflation can make confiscatory taxes seem like a comparative angel kiss.
Ben won't publicly address basics like that, but, as I say, the perks of being a perceived Midas are compelling, so on a strictly personal level, I understand, Sir. Therefore I formally offer my apology for five years of verbally abusing you, an apology heart felt but so wee and flat as to be almost imperceptible.
Dec 18, 2013
Woof! Speaking of great ideas...
As previously reported in these pages, Federal Reserve Board Chairman Ben Bernanke is retiring soon. Traditionally, we present gifts to fellows and gals who hang up their Armanis.
It is a fine tradition, and I think we should take up a collection and buy Ben a Weimariner.
.
It is a fine tradition, and I think we should take up a collection and buy Ben a Weimariner.
.
When I was rich
For a glimmering moment around mid-morning I was a stock market mogul. My net worth soared by $7.53 as traders speculated that Ben and the Feds would keep on printing $85 billion* brand new Federal Reserve Cartoons a month.
Then speculators of contrary opinion took over, and erased every cent of the gain on my eye-dropper full of a little ETF, a leveraged bond fund which is "interest sensitive." It pays a humongus dividend, but the price of the stock itself goes up and down as often as Bill Clinton's shorts. Up when the market thinks Ben will keep printing free FRCs, down when it worries that he may cut back a little.
Fortunately, this doesn't signal complete financial disaster here at Camp Jiggleview, because The Commandant, yours truly, has just received a bonanza from the federal government led by President Obama.
He informed me that I have done such a wonderful job of retiring -- that is, becoming a lazy tax-sucking parisitical slob -- that I am to be awarded a raise in my monthly salary. It comes to $19 net, after allowing for deducts to Medicare. You've probably heard of Medicare. It's a gift from cuddly ol' Lyndon Johnson allowing me to be sick for free. "Y'all just go ahead and stay in that hospital a while longer, Jim. We gone send the bill to your kids."
We had no money then --1965 -- either. We were financing a lot bullets to kill wogs -- mostly, but not exclusively, Vietnamese -- and on wonderful urban utopias such as Cabrini Green in President Obama's neighborhood.
Someone asked how we would pay for all that plus Jim's doctor bills. Lyndon said, "Why Hell, boy, we ain't actually gonna pay with real money or nothin'. We gone find a bunch of smart (ethnic slur deleted) boys who went to Harvard and Yale and them places and learned how to make make up money just by saying so. Y'all quit frettin'."
---
Hey! You in the back. Stop singing whle I'm talking, dammit! Besides, you got it wrong. The song goes "Marching to Pretoria. Not Weimaria."
---
*More, actually. The 85 billion is just what they admit to.
Then speculators of contrary opinion took over, and erased every cent of the gain on my eye-dropper full of a little ETF, a leveraged bond fund which is "interest sensitive." It pays a humongus dividend, but the price of the stock itself goes up and down as often as Bill Clinton's shorts. Up when the market thinks Ben will keep printing free FRCs, down when it worries that he may cut back a little.
Fortunately, this doesn't signal complete financial disaster here at Camp Jiggleview, because The Commandant, yours truly, has just received a bonanza from the federal government led by President Obama.
He informed me that I have done such a wonderful job of retiring -- that is, becoming a lazy tax-sucking parisitical slob -- that I am to be awarded a raise in my monthly salary. It comes to $19 net, after allowing for deducts to Medicare. You've probably heard of Medicare. It's a gift from cuddly ol' Lyndon Johnson allowing me to be sick for free. "Y'all just go ahead and stay in that hospital a while longer, Jim. We gone send the bill to your kids."
We had no money then --1965 -- either. We were financing a lot bullets to kill wogs -- mostly, but not exclusively, Vietnamese -- and on wonderful urban utopias such as Cabrini Green in President Obama's neighborhood.
Someone asked how we would pay for all that plus Jim's doctor bills. Lyndon said, "Why Hell, boy, we ain't actually gonna pay with real money or nothin'. We gone find a bunch of smart (ethnic slur deleted) boys who went to Harvard and Yale and them places and learned how to make make up money just by saying so. Y'all quit frettin'."
---
Hey! You in the back. Stop singing whle I'm talking, dammit! Besides, you got it wrong. The song goes "Marching to Pretoria. Not Weimaria."
---
*More, actually. The 85 billion is just what they admit to.
Dec 16, 2013
Then there's the guy with the shovel and the wheelbarrow
The political class and journaloids can't seem to get over the Ryan-Murray "budget agreement." It not only "reduces the deficit," but also ushers in a new era of "bipartisanship."
I think we plebians are supposed to see a nice little Jewish girl,. She and her husband worry an ass to Bethlehem where she gives birth in a barn. And they called the baby Bipartisan. Kneel and praise.
My faith is weak, so I reviewed what I know of our Constitution and Amercan political history. No where can I find biprtisanship listed as a stated national ideal -- or even a very good idea.
It is not even very well defined.The closest you can figure it, the word means "We got caught doing something stupid as Hell, but they helped so it's their fault, too."
---
Jimmy Durante raises his eyebrows in mock amazement and asks the cop, "What Elephant?"
The pachyderm of the moment is Ben Bernanke, soon to be replaced by one Janet Yellen. For six long years, Ben has taught Janet the art of plopping flops along the parade route, then decreeing them to be "money" or even "weath."
She thinks she has the knack now, even finds the thought of being the head flopper and decree-er rather exalting. She campaigned to be ringmaster of the printing press, and His Ineptness bought it, as will his Senate, probably in a more or less bipartisan way.
Bringing us back to the Ryan-Murray deal which saves a few bucks here, spends a few more bucks there and, in the end, promises (fingers crossed) to reduce the federal deficit by $23 billion over two years, or ten, or something.
Every little bit helps, but there's that damned elephant again. Jumbo Ben has been creating Federal Reserve Cartoons at the rate of 85 billion a month. This arithmetic for avoiding bankruptcy does not appear promising to this obsrever.
And just how does Ben go about creating the money to pay Barack for those IOUs (to which, conveniently, the president is permitted to sign your name, and mine)?
Easy as pie, as I earlier suggested.
"Plop."
I think we plebians are supposed to see a nice little Jewish girl,. She and her husband worry an ass to Bethlehem where she gives birth in a barn. And they called the baby Bipartisan. Kneel and praise.
My faith is weak, so I reviewed what I know of our Constitution and Amercan political history. No where can I find biprtisanship listed as a stated national ideal -- or even a very good idea.
It is not even very well defined.The closest you can figure it, the word means "We got caught doing something stupid as Hell, but they helped so it's their fault, too."
---
Jimmy Durante raises his eyebrows in mock amazement and asks the cop, "What Elephant?"
The pachyderm of the moment is Ben Bernanke, soon to be replaced by one Janet Yellen. For six long years, Ben has taught Janet the art of plopping flops along the parade route, then decreeing them to be "money" or even "weath."
She thinks she has the knack now, even finds the thought of being the head flopper and decree-er rather exalting. She campaigned to be ringmaster of the printing press, and His Ineptness bought it, as will his Senate, probably in a more or less bipartisan way.
Bringing us back to the Ryan-Murray deal which saves a few bucks here, spends a few more bucks there and, in the end, promises (fingers crossed) to reduce the federal deficit by $23 billion over two years, or ten, or something.
Every little bit helps, but there's that damned elephant again. Jumbo Ben has been creating Federal Reserve Cartoons at the rate of 85 billion a month. This arithmetic for avoiding bankruptcy does not appear promising to this obsrever.
And just how does Ben go about creating the money to pay Barack for those IOUs (to which, conveniently, the president is permitted to sign your name, and mine)?
Easy as pie, as I earlier suggested.
"Plop."
Dec 9, 2013
Elsewhere at the gun auction...
I semi-promised a price log, but it just wasn't interesting enough to bother with. It was a consignment sale apparently built around a couple of small dealers who were reducing inventory or getting out of the business. Most of the offerings were junkish old shotguns and ho-hum NIB stuff, heavy on the Glockenpoppers and Fry Points. In general, these WalMart--ish pieces brought less money than we've come to expect. Several NIB Glockers went for pre-Obama prices --$400-$500.
The Garand, a little better than the average example, brought $1,000. The Rockola carbine brought $750, one bid better than my top; very, very nice but with a Blue Sky import stamp.
Yours truly still spent too damned much money. Foolishly. Why the heck does he want a Nagent? He has no sentimental ties to Tula. 'cuz it was cheap, that's why, and pretty as a Russian Lady Tractor Driver.
The nice 1953 Savage 99 was a little more defensible. Ever since his buddy in the GMA lucked into one, he' been beside himself with envy. (Fun fact: The .300 Savage round was built to match original .30-06 military ballistics.)
The other two were junkers, one Stevens Little Krag, complete and $20 and one non-shooting Mossberg, bought for the price of the magazine which was needed here for the 152 -- the Mossy .22 with the flip-down fore end to make a kid feel like John Wayne with a Thompson.
(If I don't watch myself I'm going to get seriously and expensively interested in collecting boys' rifle.)
Some other stuff, too, but not worth mentioning except as they affected the total day's tab, the size of which made me grateful for friends who fed me last night.
The Garand, a little better than the average example, brought $1,000. The Rockola carbine brought $750, one bid better than my top; very, very nice but with a Blue Sky import stamp.
Yours truly still spent too damned much money. Foolishly. Why the heck does he want a Nagent? He has no sentimental ties to Tula. 'cuz it was cheap, that's why, and pretty as a Russian Lady Tractor Driver.
The nice 1953 Savage 99 was a little more defensible. Ever since his buddy in the GMA lucked into one, he' been beside himself with envy. (Fun fact: The .300 Savage round was built to match original .30-06 military ballistics.)
The other two were junkers, one Stevens Little Krag, complete and $20 and one non-shooting Mossberg, bought for the price of the magazine which was needed here for the 152 -- the Mossy .22 with the flip-down fore end to make a kid feel like John Wayne with a Thompson.
(If I don't watch myself I'm going to get seriously and expensively interested in collecting boys' rifle.)
Some other stuff, too, but not worth mentioning except as they affected the total day's tab, the size of which made me grateful for friends who fed me last night.
Oct 29, 2013
Warm
The concrete picnic table on the Utulei beach was ugly and uncomfortable, so uncongenial that it simply had to be a relic of United States Navy rule over American Samoa. Nevertheless, I began my working days there, in company with island society, Governor Coleman; his indispensable sidekick and my best island friend, Pete Fanene (RIP); a few traditional chiefs; and assorted bureaucrats, hangers-on and suck-ups of high station and low. The caste system notwithstanding, traditional Polynesia presents itself as a rather egalitarian community.
Gossip circulated. Hangovers were nursed with canned papaya juice and styrofoam cups of lukewarm Nescafe. The governor would hint at what he was thinking about today. His listeners often enough responded with what he should be thinking about when he eases himself into the executive chair behind his acre of desk.
Further description is unnecessary for the reader familiar with the regular morning coffee-shop klatch in every small town and city neighborhood in America. Only the local color differed, palm trees instead of utility poles, coral sand under foot rather than potholed tar, and nearly all the men wearing skirts.
---
The main island of Tutuila lies a little more than 14 degrees south of the Equator, firmly in the realm of the southeast trade winds. Which is to report that it is year-around mild on the skin of a palagi who grew up in the continental roaring 40s, a thousand miles and more from any tempering ocean, where avoiding frostbite was a primary concern for months of every year.
So it took me a while to become accustomed to the occasional picnic-table observation, "cold this morning" as the Samoan man gathered his lava lava closer about his knees and buttoned his aloha shirt to the neck. Lord yes, it must be down to 67 or 68 degrees. Mighty unusual weather for July in the other hemisphere. But near the end of that year-long contract I did get used to it and would agree in classic Heartland understatement, "Yep. A bit nippy."
---
The pleasant recollections dropped full force on me this morning as I tempered the oak fire with a sprinkle of water and threw open some windows and doors to get the temperature of my quarters back down to something under 85.
(Friends complain that my place is often overheated, and perhaps it is. If I feel like defending myself I use the excuse that my blood was thinned by too many hundreds of mornings breakfasting in jungle shade to music of mynah birds.)
But 85 degrees in here is excessive, and even New Dog Libby got grouchy, abandoning the foot of my bed for the cooler wood floor of the kitchen.
I blame a new-found feeling of wealth, untold riches. You see:
The jury-rigged log splitter functions as designed! (A writer is allowed one exclamation point per 10,000 words, and I make no apology for employing this month's quota here.)
It works better, in fact, and in the remaining 10 minutes of daylight after beta testing was completed yesterday, I laid in perhaps four days worth of old cured burr oak, perfectly sized for my small firebox.
By hand, that would be the labor of a couple of hours or more at the added expense of an ibuprofen or two and the occasional wound dressing. The mechanical ease of letting Archimedes' thinking meet my fuel processing needs leads to the rich feeling that I have won a significant battle over the fossil-fuel thugs who enjoy impoverishing humans such as I, citizens who wish merely to retain an acceptable core body temperature even as the winter Alberta wind eyes our homes with evil intent.
---
And to think they laughed when I sat down to play the hydraulics.
Gossip circulated. Hangovers were nursed with canned papaya juice and styrofoam cups of lukewarm Nescafe. The governor would hint at what he was thinking about today. His listeners often enough responded with what he should be thinking about when he eases himself into the executive chair behind his acre of desk.
Further description is unnecessary for the reader familiar with the regular morning coffee-shop klatch in every small town and city neighborhood in America. Only the local color differed, palm trees instead of utility poles, coral sand under foot rather than potholed tar, and nearly all the men wearing skirts.
---
The main island of Tutuila lies a little more than 14 degrees south of the Equator, firmly in the realm of the southeast trade winds. Which is to report that it is year-around mild on the skin of a palagi who grew up in the continental roaring 40s, a thousand miles and more from any tempering ocean, where avoiding frostbite was a primary concern for months of every year.
So it took me a while to become accustomed to the occasional picnic-table observation, "cold this morning" as the Samoan man gathered his lava lava closer about his knees and buttoned his aloha shirt to the neck. Lord yes, it must be down to 67 or 68 degrees. Mighty unusual weather for July in the other hemisphere. But near the end of that year-long contract I did get used to it and would agree in classic Heartland understatement, "Yep. A bit nippy."
---
The pleasant recollections dropped full force on me this morning as I tempered the oak fire with a sprinkle of water and threw open some windows and doors to get the temperature of my quarters back down to something under 85.
(Friends complain that my place is often overheated, and perhaps it is. If I feel like defending myself I use the excuse that my blood was thinned by too many hundreds of mornings breakfasting in jungle shade to music of mynah birds.)
But 85 degrees in here is excessive, and even New Dog Libby got grouchy, abandoning the foot of my bed for the cooler wood floor of the kitchen.
I blame a new-found feeling of wealth, untold riches. You see:
The jury-rigged log splitter functions as designed! (A writer is allowed one exclamation point per 10,000 words, and I make no apology for employing this month's quota here.)
It works better, in fact, and in the remaining 10 minutes of daylight after beta testing was completed yesterday, I laid in perhaps four days worth of old cured burr oak, perfectly sized for my small firebox.
By hand, that would be the labor of a couple of hours or more at the added expense of an ibuprofen or two and the occasional wound dressing. The mechanical ease of letting Archimedes' thinking meet my fuel processing needs leads to the rich feeling that I have won a significant battle over the fossil-fuel thugs who enjoy impoverishing humans such as I, citizens who wish merely to retain an acceptable core body temperature even as the winter Alberta wind eyes our homes with evil intent.
---
And to think they laughed when I sat down to play the hydraulics.
Oct 14, 2013
It's not shut down enough
Washington creatures of the green paycheck are supposed to be home playing canasta and and writing indignant letters to the editor of the New York Times.
(The Tea Party won't let me keep on doing good for my fellow Americans and, besides, I haven't been able to afford any Nouvelle Beaujolaise ever since Paul Ryan laid me off.") Or some variation on that theme.
There must be a loophole though, and I don't mean the one for gun shows.
We've just learned that Washington, approaching its third closed week, is still taxing you and announcing more free money for farmers. Specifically, the Potomac Powers are forking over a quarter-million to help pay for alcohol pumps for our private gas stations.They'll let you -- and in time force you -- to run 30 per cent corn squeezings through your Honda.
Quarter-Million? "Peanuts," you say. Well, maybe you're right. Chicken feed like that wouldn't even pay for the first five minutes of Michelle's next vacation.
---
"Free money?" Sure. If Klem makes a product and Barack tells his potential customers they *must" buy it, an artificially high price is set. The difference between that price and what the customers would willingly pay constitutes free money for the producer. Sorry to seem condescending, but a number of people don't seem to grasp the point. c.f.:"ethanol mandate."
EDIT TO CLARIFY: The quarter-million is for Iowa only; other states will be similarly blessed, so maybe the total will be enough to get Michelle to Hawaii, although it probably won't cover her greens fees.
(The Tea Party won't let me keep on doing good for my fellow Americans and, besides, I haven't been able to afford any Nouvelle Beaujolaise ever since Paul Ryan laid me off.") Or some variation on that theme.
There must be a loophole though, and I don't mean the one for gun shows.
We've just learned that Washington, approaching its third closed week, is still taxing you and announcing more free money for farmers. Specifically, the Potomac Powers are forking over a quarter-million to help pay for alcohol pumps for our private gas stations.They'll let you -- and in time force you -- to run 30 per cent corn squeezings through your Honda.
Quarter-Million? "Peanuts," you say. Well, maybe you're right. Chicken feed like that wouldn't even pay for the first five minutes of Michelle's next vacation.
---
"Free money?" Sure. If Klem makes a product and Barack tells his potential customers they *must" buy it, an artificially high price is set. The difference between that price and what the customers would willingly pay constitutes free money for the producer. Sorry to seem condescending, but a number of people don't seem to grasp the point. c.f.:"ethanol mandate."
EDIT TO CLARIFY: The quarter-million is for Iowa only; other states will be similarly blessed, so maybe the total will be enough to get Michelle to Hawaii, although it probably won't cover her greens fees.
Oct 9, 2013
Welcome, Janet
I see by the news His Ineptness is anointing you as the new Ben Bernanke. Savor it. I am Janet Yellin Chairman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System of the United States of America.
Rolls trippingly from the tongue and carries a nice salary, $199,700 per annum, about a 20 grand raise from your current gig as second banana to Ben. Plus, I hear, the servant will wheel a silver service of fresh orange juice into your office each morning promptly at ten.
So I'm happy for you. It is much more promising than your rumored backup ambition to be corporate spokeswoman for Victoria's Secret.
TBC on a more serious note, but I wanted to lose no time at all in tendering congratulations and wishing you every success.
Rolls trippingly from the tongue and carries a nice salary, $199,700 per annum, about a 20 grand raise from your current gig as second banana to Ben. Plus, I hear, the servant will wheel a silver service of fresh orange juice into your office each morning promptly at ten.
So I'm happy for you. It is much more promising than your rumored backup ambition to be corporate spokeswoman for Victoria's Secret.
TBC on a more serious note, but I wanted to lose no time at all in tendering congratulations and wishing you every success.
Oct 8, 2013
I'm gonna take your ball and go home
It is the soul-sliming pettiness of the thing, the "shutdown."
A paid vacation for a million bureaucrats has consequences, some of them probably bad, some perhaps good, but most as unremarkable as that bland tan paint you slap on the wall because you can't decide on a real color.
Beige is too neutral for fun television, so you have to create drama.
"No, goddammit, you may not walk up to the Vietnam wall and shed a tear for your dad who died there because the Tea Party closed America."
"And stop whining about all the black dot.gov sites. Can you fools not see that permitting access to historical data bought and paid for years ago corrupts the nation?"
When a national administration spends hugely to erect steel barriers long the sidewalks meandering through open-air memorials, you know you are being governed by snit-fits. The teevee loves it. So do grandstanding politicians from the left, right, and muddle.
The same occurs when the world's greatest wire service defines the impact by caterwauling with a Kansas farmer who doesn't know what to do because he isn't getting the latest breathless crop-yield predictions from the USDA. Should he go short or long on wheat futures? He doesn't know because his vacuum head has no mental resources other than the federal government's guess about how much grain will be grown in America, Argentina, Greece, and Tierra del Fuego.
It has gone beyond the silliness of the absent park tour guide -- the kid in the Smokey hat in front of Lincoln's statue, explaining that cuddly ol' Abe freed the slaves.
It has become the dangerous confluence of a leader's snake-handling pentecostal oratory wedded to power on a national stage populated by chanting citizenoids massed in front of the Department of Treasure edifice. "Whadda we want? MORE. When do we want it. "NOW." And forevermore.
---
Making all necessary allowances for "studies," does this help explain it?
A paid vacation for a million bureaucrats has consequences, some of them probably bad, some perhaps good, but most as unremarkable as that bland tan paint you slap on the wall because you can't decide on a real color.
Beige is too neutral for fun television, so you have to create drama.
"No, goddammit, you may not walk up to the Vietnam wall and shed a tear for your dad who died there because the Tea Party closed America."
"And stop whining about all the black dot.gov sites. Can you fools not see that permitting access to historical data bought and paid for years ago corrupts the nation?"
When a national administration spends hugely to erect steel barriers long the sidewalks meandering through open-air memorials, you know you are being governed by snit-fits. The teevee loves it. So do grandstanding politicians from the left, right, and muddle.
The same occurs when the world's greatest wire service defines the impact by caterwauling with a Kansas farmer who doesn't know what to do because he isn't getting the latest breathless crop-yield predictions from the USDA. Should he go short or long on wheat futures? He doesn't know because his vacuum head has no mental resources other than the federal government's guess about how much grain will be grown in America, Argentina, Greece, and Tierra del Fuego.
It has gone beyond the silliness of the absent park tour guide -- the kid in the Smokey hat in front of Lincoln's statue, explaining that cuddly ol' Abe freed the slaves.
It has become the dangerous confluence of a leader's snake-handling pentecostal oratory wedded to power on a national stage populated by chanting citizenoids massed in front of the Department of Treasure edifice. "Whadda we want? MORE. When do we want it. "NOW." And forevermore.
---
Making all necessary allowances for "studies," does this help explain it?
Sep 30, 2013
I'm ruined.
The markets have been open for merely 17 minutes, and already my net worth has plunged by $117.59. There go my life necessities such as ammunition, nicotine, and Twinkies. Only a half-quart of Jim Beam and a 33-ounce can of Folgers stand between me and utter destitution.
It's all because at 0001 tomorrow the United States becomes an autopsy photo. Without a supply of Federal Reserve Cartoons, my president will no longer have the means to sustain my happiness. Puppies will die, the Washington Monument will be locked up, and all the pretty ballerinas financed by the National Endowment for the Arts will fall prone, to dance no more.
Dang that mean old George Bush, anyway.
It's all because at 0001 tomorrow the United States becomes an autopsy photo. Without a supply of Federal Reserve Cartoons, my president will no longer have the means to sustain my happiness. Puppies will die, the Washington Monument will be locked up, and all the pretty ballerinas financed by the National Endowment for the Arts will fall prone, to dance no more.
Dang that mean old George Bush, anyway.
Sep 18, 2013
Whee, we get to stay on the Tilt-a-Whirl
The Kwee* ride continues and Wall Street orders up another container load of silk skivvies scented with tulip bulbs.
Since the money is to remain free -- if you already have some in mega-billion quantities -- why not buy a zillion shares of the latest Lehman Bros. iteration and send the Dow up another 150-plus points? The ball is ever so much fun. Do not worry your pretty little head about the guy in the masque.
While there's not much to grin about on Wiemar Road, at least the CNBC report produces a wry grimace. It says Pope Bernanke will keep floating $85 billion a year of hot checks to buy the bills run up by President Clinton Bush Obama. For that pittance I'd hardly bother to bitch. It is 85 bill a month, Sidney.
----
*"Quantitative Easing," -- Fed Geek-Speak for turning pixie dust into money to buy loans which can never be repaid.
Since the money is to remain free -- if you already have some in mega-billion quantities -- why not buy a zillion shares of the latest Lehman Bros. iteration and send the Dow up another 150-plus points? The ball is ever so much fun. Do not worry your pretty little head about the guy in the masque.
While there's not much to grin about on Wiemar Road, at least the CNBC report produces a wry grimace. It says Pope Bernanke will keep floating $85 billion a year of hot checks to buy the bills run up by President Clinton Bush Obama. For that pittance I'd hardly bother to bitch. It is 85 bill a month, Sidney.
----
*"Quantitative Easing," -- Fed Geek-Speak for turning pixie dust into money to buy loans which can never be repaid.
Aug 25, 2013
But first, an ammo check, et al.
1 -- Discounting shotgun shells, I own more ammunition than the local WalMart. Quite a lot more.
2. -- The "value packs" of 100 cheap 12-gauge shells are back at just under $27, about 25 per cent more than the the early 2012 price.
3. -- The variety of shotgun ammunition is staggering. You can have your bird meat flavored with lead, steel, bismuth, copper, and probably a few other compounds I didn't notice. The marketing psychology is apparent. The closer you get to one dollar per round, the better your chances of consistently splashing Canadas at 235 yards.
4. -- Chairman Bernanke's "tame" inflation to the contrary notwithstanding, a pound of Milk Bones for New Dog Libby costs $5.35 with the tax. Or would have had I not recalled that this was the price of prime beef about 18 months ago. Sorry, Sweetheart. Generics.
Jun 20, 2013
Ben Bernanke, or, The Prehensile Snout
Ben probably chose unwisely in calling his new Fed policy a "taper." Careless teevee watchers are likely to think he meant "tapir," like a pig, sort of, only uglier, and with a grasping snout and crocodile-resistant hide.
Popular confusion is understandable because Chairman Bernanke is the money part of government. His job is to print enough Federal Reserve Cartoons so presidents and congresspersons can fling great batches of them at voting blocks, mostly around election time. Voters wiggle their snouts in the air, suck up all they can and make an ex by the guy on the ballot who pomises even more.
(Every now and then some spoilsport wlll crack wise about the worth of anything available in infinite quantity. Ben and his bosses will ignore that, proving that this tapir hide also resists logic. Irony, too.)
Anyway, Ben hinted in the vaguest possible way yesterday that he and the other Fed governors might lift he pedal from the metal a silly millimeter or so if the economy perks and if unemployment deperks and the good Lord willing and the creek don't rise and they find Jimmy Hoffa. That rosy result happening, he might print only 65 billion FRCs a month, down from the current funny money run of 85 billion.
Panic ensued. The Dow plunged and, this morning, crossed the 15,000 mark.
In truth, long tradition requires us to call it the psychologically important 15,000 mark because it ends in three zeros. At 14,999.99 is would have been psychologically insignificant.
If you think about it, that says a lot about how stock markets operate. They are designed to be more rational. They would be if it were not for the 2,000-pound white-bearded tapir in the room.
Popular confusion is understandable because Chairman Bernanke is the money part of government. His job is to print enough Federal Reserve Cartoons so presidents and congresspersons can fling great batches of them at voting blocks, mostly around election time. Voters wiggle their snouts in the air, suck up all they can and make an ex by the guy on the ballot who pomises even more.
(Every now and then some spoilsport wlll crack wise about the worth of anything available in infinite quantity. Ben and his bosses will ignore that, proving that this tapir hide also resists logic. Irony, too.)
Anyway, Ben hinted in the vaguest possible way yesterday that he and the other Fed governors might lift he pedal from the metal a silly millimeter or so if the economy perks and if unemployment deperks and the good Lord willing and the creek don't rise and they find Jimmy Hoffa. That rosy result happening, he might print only 65 billion FRCs a month, down from the current funny money run of 85 billion.
Panic ensued. The Dow plunged and, this morning, crossed the 15,000 mark.
In truth, long tradition requires us to call it the psychologically important 15,000 mark because it ends in three zeros. At 14,999.99 is would have been psychologically insignificant.
If you think about it, that says a lot about how stock markets operate. They are designed to be more rational. They would be if it were not for the 2,000-pound white-bearded tapir in the room.
Jun 13, 2013
Morning Madness; The Sky is Falling
Grab your bugout bag, we are doomed.
Global Shares Pummeled Dollar Slumps as Rout Gathers Pace
Reuters says stocks are Down this week after having been Up all year long so woe is me. The writer is to be commended for exceptional word choice. In a world where even the dullest list of numbers must convey drama, "Pummeled" and "Slumps" are exquisite verbs, but their magic is overtopped by the ultimate horror of a noun. "Rout." (!)
Cue the teevee footage. Grainy old black and white film of American bread lines in 1931. Starving babies in1969 Biafra. Malnourished Chinese peasants any time from 2,000 B.C. to yesterday. This is it, folks.
So, what happened?
People who trade stocks for a living decided to sell a few of the stocks they have been buying since 2009. They're pocketing some of the cash they've made. It is not much different from you taking a look at that extra Glock you bought during the Bush reign and deciding a $200 profit on a $400 investment is plenty. Sell that puppy. If enough people do it, of course, the later sellers will make less money. The headline would read "Glock Crap Pummeled Plastic Melts in Teutonic Brick Rout."
The actual pistols don't change (nor does the health of Glockenmakers). They go bang today in whatever caliber they used yesterday. Sort of like Pfizer (PFE, NYSE, $28.38 premarket, down about 1 per cent in three days), maker of Viagra. The market isn't saying Viagra won't work anymore. At worst it's saying that profits of the pill may not be as big as they thought yesterday, even though old goats will still keep popping for them, even at $20 a pop.
(A certain economic nostalgia comes to mind, recollection of a time when, I'm told, a double sawbuck would buy it all -- a pound of raw hamburger, two vitamin E tabs, a half-ounce of rhino horn, plus an evening of professional services. And the old dude didn't even have to worry about the dreaded four-hour buzzer. But I digress.)
It is normal to wonder why all the traders' opinions changed so fast, and here Reuters helps us out:
"...there has never been a period when the Fed has started to take back stimulus that has left the markets untouched," said Hans Peterson, global head of investment strategy at Swedish bank SEB. "And this time it is a bigger exercise. We have moved markets from 2009 to 2013 on stimulus and now we are trying to take a step into a world which is more driven by natural growth. That transition will not be easy."
Or: Traders and investors like to trade and invest with Santa Claus money. They're afraid Chairman Bernanke is about to shave off his beard. He won't, of course, but the market panics merely at any hint he might trim it by one or two basis points.
Global Shares Pummeled Dollar Slumps as Rout Gathers Pace
Reuters says stocks are Down this week after having been Up all year long so woe is me. The writer is to be commended for exceptional word choice. In a world where even the dullest list of numbers must convey drama, "Pummeled" and "Slumps" are exquisite verbs, but their magic is overtopped by the ultimate horror of a noun. "Rout." (!)
Cue the teevee footage. Grainy old black and white film of American bread lines in 1931. Starving babies in1969 Biafra. Malnourished Chinese peasants any time from 2,000 B.C. to yesterday. This is it, folks.
So, what happened?
People who trade stocks for a living decided to sell a few of the stocks they have been buying since 2009. They're pocketing some of the cash they've made. It is not much different from you taking a look at that extra Glock you bought during the Bush reign and deciding a $200 profit on a $400 investment is plenty. Sell that puppy. If enough people do it, of course, the later sellers will make less money. The headline would read "Glock Crap Pummeled Plastic Melts in Teutonic Brick Rout."
The actual pistols don't change (nor does the health of Glockenmakers). They go bang today in whatever caliber they used yesterday. Sort of like Pfizer (PFE, NYSE, $28.38 premarket, down about 1 per cent in three days), maker of Viagra. The market isn't saying Viagra won't work anymore. At worst it's saying that profits of the pill may not be as big as they thought yesterday, even though old goats will still keep popping for them, even at $20 a pop.
(A certain economic nostalgia comes to mind, recollection of a time when, I'm told, a double sawbuck would buy it all -- a pound of raw hamburger, two vitamin E tabs, a half-ounce of rhino horn, plus an evening of professional services. And the old dude didn't even have to worry about the dreaded four-hour buzzer. But I digress.)
It is normal to wonder why all the traders' opinions changed so fast, and here Reuters helps us out:
"...there has never been a period when the Fed has started to take back stimulus that has left the markets untouched," said Hans Peterson, global head of investment strategy at Swedish bank SEB. "And this time it is a bigger exercise. We have moved markets from 2009 to 2013 on stimulus and now we are trying to take a step into a world which is more driven by natural growth. That transition will not be easy."
Or: Traders and investors like to trade and invest with Santa Claus money. They're afraid Chairman Bernanke is about to shave off his beard. He won't, of course, but the market panics merely at any hint he might trim it by one or two basis points.
May 30, 2013
Ben Bernanke and the Magic of WD40
Your morning lecture today comes courtesy of our old friend Ben Bernanke, the power of applied mythology, and a big broken belt on a John Deere 318 hydrostatic lawn tractor.
The belt broke in mid-mowing yesterday morning, leaving the Camp Jiggleview parade grounds half beautifully clipped and half ugly, looking like an overgrown weed field in which Mary Poppins lurks, ever ready to burst forth singing schmaltz. (It has been wet, and mowing opportunities are infrequent.)
The result was determination to scrap all other plans, immediately replace the belt, and finish the job. Thirteen miles away, the nearest Deere outlet sadly reported no belt in stock. Thirteen miles and three auto parts stores further away, I found one at a marginal farm store, not an OEM product but usable.
While there, I decided to pick up a can of WD40. It was available and on sale! at $6.99 for 12 ounces, at which point I decided not to pick up a can of WD40, even though I like the stuff because (a) the spray can is handy and (b) colorful enough not to get lost in my shop clutter. Those perceived advantages fade at $74 per gallon, even if it really does contain fish oil you spray on a worm to outwit a six-pound bass. Even if has magic molecules to make your date amorous.
The magical stuff is magic because television and the teacher unions have combined to created a population which believes in mysterious potions since chemistry is even harder than math.
WD40 is about half "Stoddard Solvent" which is a geeky way to say "paint thinner." About 15 per cent of it is mineral oil and the rest is inert stuff and CO2 to get it out of the can.
(The figures do not add up to 100 per cent because, just in case I've missed something, one needs to leave a little room for the possible magic molecule which, theoretically, could make fish bite and Julie Andrews hot for your body.)
So, for so long as the miracle elixer goes for eighteen times the price of gasoline, I'll be concocting my own. Fill a pump spray bottle about two-thirds full of diesel. Top it off with SAE 10. The results mimic the magic of the bright blue and yellow can, and the savings can be applied to gray-market .22 ammo.
---
So what's Bernanke got to do with this? Think, Man, think. He's the witch doctor who creates a money-like substance out of thin air, making sure enough of it floats around to persuade Americans that paying $6.99 for about 50 cents worth of goop is a perfectly reasonable transaction. It stimulates the economy.
The belt broke in mid-mowing yesterday morning, leaving the Camp Jiggleview parade grounds half beautifully clipped and half ugly, looking like an overgrown weed field in which Mary Poppins lurks, ever ready to burst forth singing schmaltz. (It has been wet, and mowing opportunities are infrequent.)
The result was determination to scrap all other plans, immediately replace the belt, and finish the job. Thirteen miles away, the nearest Deere outlet sadly reported no belt in stock. Thirteen miles and three auto parts stores further away, I found one at a marginal farm store, not an OEM product but usable.
While there, I decided to pick up a can of WD40. It was available and on sale! at $6.99 for 12 ounces, at which point I decided not to pick up a can of WD40, even though I like the stuff because (a) the spray can is handy and (b) colorful enough not to get lost in my shop clutter. Those perceived advantages fade at $74 per gallon, even if it really does contain fish oil you spray on a worm to outwit a six-pound bass. Even if has magic molecules to make your date amorous.
The magical stuff is magic because television and the teacher unions have combined to created a population which believes in mysterious potions since chemistry is even harder than math.
WD40 is about half "Stoddard Solvent" which is a geeky way to say "paint thinner." About 15 per cent of it is mineral oil and the rest is inert stuff and CO2 to get it out of the can.
(The figures do not add up to 100 per cent because, just in case I've missed something, one needs to leave a little room for the possible magic molecule which, theoretically, could make fish bite and Julie Andrews hot for your body.)
So, for so long as the miracle elixer goes for eighteen times the price of gasoline, I'll be concocting my own. Fill a pump spray bottle about two-thirds full of diesel. Top it off with SAE 10. The results mimic the magic of the bright blue and yellow can, and the savings can be applied to gray-market .22 ammo.
---
So what's Bernanke got to do with this? Think, Man, think. He's the witch doctor who creates a money-like substance out of thin air, making sure enough of it floats around to persuade Americans that paying $6.99 for about 50 cents worth of goop is a perfectly reasonable transaction. It stimulates the economy.
May 28, 2013
Making the Underclass Rowdy
While I'm enduring the fourth straight day of rain, fog, and other symptoms of a world that needs to change its underwear, I'm occupying my time with electronical media.
It's mostly the internet where a little luck on the broker's site will help recoup the cost of those two recent loopholes. So far this morning, the realized Federal Reserve Cartoons compensate for just under 1 per cent of the Colt/Garand outlay, meaning about 120 straight days of such wild speculation will bring me back to even, FRC-wise, assuming Chairman Bernanke doesn't add more afterburners over at the Bureauof Printing and Engraving.
But with the other eye I'm occasionally glancing at C-Span where Brooks Brothers boxers are getting all knotted about the internet "radicalizing" (exclamation points and OMGs) people.
I am sure it does to one degree or another, just like every other mass-communication enhancer in history, going back to the papyrus megaphone. One of the better examples is our own penny press, born in the middle 19th Century (and haven't things gone to Hell since then?).
The internet mimics every other endeavor which makes it easier and easier to prate to more and more people. In other words, like television and public schools, it arms stupid people with information.*
Even Wiki agrees. The penny papers cost about one-fifth the price of the established rags and, to boot, offered a powerful selling point:
Simple vocabulary and diction allowed for lower-class and less educated readers to easily understand.
Now, if this way of thinking appeals to the C-Span hand wringers this morning, the logical debate must consider which to outlaw first, the National Enguirer or the Travis McGee Reader and its ilk. Those lower classes are downright dangerous when they learn about stuff happening over in the next block.
---
*Or words and pictures that seem like information. That's important, but it's a subject for another essay.
It's mostly the internet where a little luck on the broker's site will help recoup the cost of those two recent loopholes. So far this morning, the realized Federal Reserve Cartoons compensate for just under 1 per cent of the Colt/Garand outlay, meaning about 120 straight days of such wild speculation will bring me back to even, FRC-wise, assuming Chairman Bernanke doesn't add more afterburners over at the Bureauof Printing and Engraving.
But with the other eye I'm occasionally glancing at C-Span where Brooks Brothers boxers are getting all knotted about the internet "radicalizing" (exclamation points and OMGs) people.
I am sure it does to one degree or another, just like every other mass-communication enhancer in history, going back to the papyrus megaphone. One of the better examples is our own penny press, born in the middle 19th Century (and haven't things gone to Hell since then?).
The internet mimics every other endeavor which makes it easier and easier to prate to more and more people. In other words, like television and public schools, it arms stupid people with information.*
Even Wiki agrees. The penny papers cost about one-fifth the price of the established rags and, to boot, offered a powerful selling point:
Simple vocabulary and diction allowed for lower-class and less educated readers to easily understand.
Now, if this way of thinking appeals to the C-Span hand wringers this morning, the logical debate must consider which to outlaw first, the National Enguirer or the Travis McGee Reader and its ilk. Those lower classes are downright dangerous when they learn about stuff happening over in the next block.
---
*Or words and pictures that seem like information. That's important, but it's a subject for another essay.
May 22, 2013
Dear Television,
Thank you. I get it. Everyone in Moore, Oklahoma, is brave and stalwart. Cops and firemen and ambulance drivers and so forth are braver and stalwarter than average. Politicians fighting their way through the rubble, deperately seeking a television camera, are bravest and stalwartest of all.
So it is unnecessary for you to keeping telling me. Shoot me an email when you have milked the last emo goop from the tragedy and developed some perspective on this story's place in the whole wide world of news.
(For instance, Ben Bernanke goes public today with all the reasons he should keep devaluing our currency because President Obama needs lots more Federal Reserve Cartoons to keep the recovery going. Gas at four FRCs and bacon at five is just minor collateral damage which we should ignore.)
---
An aside: Gretchen has her thighs covered this morning, so there's no reason to flip to Fox, no matter what they claim to be reporting about.
So it is unnecessary for you to keeping telling me. Shoot me an email when you have milked the last emo goop from the tragedy and developed some perspective on this story's place in the whole wide world of news.
(For instance, Ben Bernanke goes public today with all the reasons he should keep devaluing our currency because President Obama needs lots more Federal Reserve Cartoons to keep the recovery going. Gas at four FRCs and bacon at five is just minor collateral damage which we should ignore.)
---
An aside: Gretchen has her thighs covered this morning, so there's no reason to flip to Fox, no matter what they claim to be reporting about.
May 3, 2013
Whatcha been doin', Jim?
Most lately, processing a worn-out, red, cotton flannel shirt.
You probably remember that Travis McGee occasionally remarked on one of his "treasured old (garments)." I'm like that, but when this one came out of the washer last night I noticed that both elbows were out, so I decided not to treasure it anymore.
Fact: An XL Tall shirt will yield a half-dozen gun rags about the size of a handkerchief plus a quart zip-lock bag stuffed with cleaning patches.
It sounds tedious, but it really isn't if you do it during your early morning hour of disgust in front of the cable news channels. I found myself making most of the patches during the content periods and looking more carefully at the screen during the commercials, which are somewhat more coherent.
As a matter of social responsibility, repurposing the flannel is about a wash. I earn carbon credits for reducing the load on my local landfill, but, on the other hand, there is the guilt of unstimulating the economy. The Obama-Bernanke policy holds that I should do my part to alleviate unemployment; that is, take some Federal Reserve Cartoons to the store and purchase rags and patches to maintain my lethal weapons.
--
Then there are K and D, man and woman, traditionally married. They paid a visit yesterday, bearing gifts. D brought her incomparable caramel rolls untouched by shrink wrap. K provided the show and tell, a handful of scrap steel lathed into a complete and, IMO, elegant, system for sizing cast bullets in .355 and .356 for another friend's Helwan. Somewhere in America laid-off machinists and commercial bakers continue to starve.
---
Earlier in the week, just before global warming abated, a lady celebrated her birthday with a fine outdoor party. I didn't know many of the other guests well, so there was the possibility of striving to make conversation. That annoyance did not occur. About half of the men gather downwind from the tables (cigars were involved) and came to a consensus that firearms, archery, the ammunition drought, the deluge of white-tail deer, and the idiocy of politicians were all worthy of serious comment.
---
Besides, the summer machinery is up and running. Both chain saws, both little tractors. Not to mention that the dock is fixed. Holy Moly Mary Marvel. Don't know how much better life can get.
Well, maybe a little.
You probably remember that Travis McGee occasionally remarked on one of his "treasured old (garments)." I'm like that, but when this one came out of the washer last night I noticed that both elbows were out, so I decided not to treasure it anymore.
Fact: An XL Tall shirt will yield a half-dozen gun rags about the size of a handkerchief plus a quart zip-lock bag stuffed with cleaning patches.
It sounds tedious, but it really isn't if you do it during your early morning hour of disgust in front of the cable news channels. I found myself making most of the patches during the content periods and looking more carefully at the screen during the commercials, which are somewhat more coherent.
As a matter of social responsibility, repurposing the flannel is about a wash. I earn carbon credits for reducing the load on my local landfill, but, on the other hand, there is the guilt of unstimulating the economy. The Obama-Bernanke policy holds that I should do my part to alleviate unemployment; that is, take some Federal Reserve Cartoons to the store and purchase rags and patches to maintain my lethal weapons.
--
Then there are K and D, man and woman, traditionally married. They paid a visit yesterday, bearing gifts. D brought her incomparable caramel rolls untouched by shrink wrap. K provided the show and tell, a handful of scrap steel lathed into a complete and, IMO, elegant, system for sizing cast bullets in .355 and .356 for another friend's Helwan. Somewhere in America laid-off machinists and commercial bakers continue to starve.
---
Earlier in the week, just before global warming abated, a lady celebrated her birthday with a fine outdoor party. I didn't know many of the other guests well, so there was the possibility of striving to make conversation. That annoyance did not occur. About half of the men gather downwind from the tables (cigars were involved) and came to a consensus that firearms, archery, the ammunition drought, the deluge of white-tail deer, and the idiocy of politicians were all worthy of serious comment.
---
Besides, the summer machinery is up and running. Both chain saws, both little tractors. Not to mention that the dock is fixed. Holy Moly Mary Marvel. Don't know how much better life can get.
Well, maybe a little.
But I'm probably dreaming, eh? Back to Robert Ardrey so that someday maybe I can write usefully about applying his views on biological imperatives to the current disorder.
Apr 17, 2013
Why we're broke
We don't want to get too insular. Beyond the Second Amendment debate, the usual quota of federal idiocy continues, and Old NFO has a nice take plus a useful summary on Paul Ryan's suggestions for keeping America out of the Greek bath house.
H/T Tam
H/T Tam
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