Bucky Beaver on salt petre

David E. Jackson would have understood why the pretty alpine park on the Snake River bears his name.

In quest of beaver for the high hats of London and Paris, he roamed the place for a few years. He may even have wintered there among the Crow and Shoshone in 1829. He would have talked to other white folks about the  high valley, and that's often all it took to attach a name to a place in the Rocky Mountain fur trade era.

He would not have understood why Jackson Hole, Wyoming, is the center of the universe this week.

Dave trapped beaver. He traded pelts to other businessmen from St. Louis and Taos. A prime pelt bought  him eight ounces of whisky diluted with creek water to 25 proof.  Or four pounds of black powder. Or enuogh vermillion and other squaw foofooraw to guarantee warm companionship in his winter lodge.

The plews he didn't need to buy mountain fixin's were traded for drafts on St.Louis banks -- drafts freely convertible to dollars which, in turn, were literally as good as gold. Such were the days before political piracy evolved into its only logical outcome, the Nixon Shock.

Now, suppose another Jackson -- President Andrew -- had sent an emissary to Jackson Hole. Maybe his treasury secretary Sam Ingham. Sam  would relay word that Washington had decreed that a beaver skin was worth only a half-pint of whiskey in this winter of 1829. And next winter it might be worth only a couple ounces. Or maybe a pint again. It depended  on a lot of things the old fur trapper wouldn't understand.

You just go ahead and picture Davie Jackson getting red in the face and reaching for his Hawken. It's a pretty vision, and I won't interrupt you for a second or two...

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A serious omission occurs two paragraphs back. Sam wouldn't have really understood what he was talking about either. Was he just a particularly clueless public titter? Was he a victim of an historical time when no one really understood economic theory and practice?

Nope. Direct your attention to the current hero of Jackson Hole, one Ben Shalom Bernanke, chairman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System. He's scheduled to make his  annual speech to big bankers gathered at Jackson Hole day after tomorrow. Anticipation holds world market gamblers in thrall. They await his answer to the over riding question:

How many imaginary beaver skins will Ben create?


Now, why would Ben want to do that, push a computer key or two and make the pixie dust whirl, eventually resolving  itself into rodent fur existing only as 101010101010101010s in Ben's laptop?

Because the real beaver aren't fucking fast enough. That's why.

So the bankers and other plutocrats are hoping and praying that Ben will foretell, via hint and nudge, another economic Viagra dose. Just like he did last year at Jackson Hole when his coy words presaging QE2 sent all the Warren Buffet wannabes into orgasm.

The general view is that he won't stand in the shadow of the Grand Tetons and actually announce another slurp of free mother's milk*, but we can probably count on another hint-nudge.

(N.B. The term "Weimar" has been strictly outlawed in the entire mountain west until Ben and his entourage are safely back in the sanctuary of Never Never Beltway Province.)

It isn't time to use it yet, but a handy Hawkens can be a comforting thing.
---



*It's my little essay and I can mix salacious metaphors all I want.

Victoria's Other Secret

Ashley in her undies strips a Glock.

It's in a group of three videos, all more or less idiotic, but if you're bored enough you might like the eye candy.

Confession

For about 30 seconds a sarcastic post appeared here. Something made me double-check a fact, and I discovered I had badly misread a line the source material.   So, for the first time ever, I dumped a post down the memory hole. I owe special apologies to readers who may find it on one of the  blog-feeding services.

Going Nuts in Burt, Iowa

It will pass, but for about 16 hours I've had the feeling that I am too smart for this world and should spend the day knocking off a few IQ points by watching television.

The hubris results from a huge gun auction in thriving Burt yesterday. When typical opening bids are at retail and escalate from there, you feel pretty damned brilliant for the simple act of keeping your hands in your pockets.

For instance: Kimber .45 Pro Carry, MSRP  $888 NIB, hammers down at $1,050. This happened early, letting us know we were in the wrong place.

The feeling was confirmed. A rattle-trap Winchester 1897, haphazardly polished and reblued,   stock varnished, generic butt plate, brought  $625.  Other sells followed suit.

But, well, you don't  drive 175 miles and come home empty handed. That would be against nature. So I laid in 12 new magazines for a Mini-14 -- $73.42 with the tax, or about six bucks per. The details, just in case Congresswoman Pelosi is keeping track:  Four 20s from Ruger, still bubbled, and eight after-markets,  including three more 20s, three 30s and, yum-yum, two 40s. Vive la revolucion! 


'course, my pardner Jeff the gunsmith had to go and ruin even that by grinning, "What's it going to cost you to fill those up?"  The answer, if you go by the price of .223 sold at the same time and place, is about 65 cents a bang.

Ahh, the gun game. Maybe all of us who play it are the real dummies.

... (pause to ponder) ...  No, come to think of it. Ths kind of thing may actually reflect the  popular view that the Federal Reserve Cartoons we trade for shootin' arn  would  be worth more if they were soft enough to wipe with.