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.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Calling Paul Wolfowitz
...and all the other neocons to whom God spake about His Divine Plan for a world in the image of Peoria, Illinois:
Isn't it about time you guys started agitating to arm the Turkish rebels? Or at least declare Ankara a no-fly zone?
With the promised wind-down of Afghanistan adventuring, the prospect of minding our own business portends a period of boredom, and we could use the stimulation of training a fresh batch of American kids to get themselves shot while adjudicating tribal and cult snit-fits in the Stans.
i understand that this one gets a little complicated. We love the boss poltician, but the kids in the square seem to favor preserving a pretty workable constitution and not tinkering with a culture which tries to temper Islamist excess.
So what? A nice fresh little war always reminds foreigners how cool we can be about projecting our power.
Besides, it is a great way to give American teevee something to report instead of all this blather about the IRS cheating and NSA spying and Eric Holder running guns and eyeballing reporters, right down to their indictable skivvies.
i understand that this one gets a little complicated. We love the boss poltician, but the kids in the square seem to favor preserving a pretty workable constitution and not tinkering with a culture which tries to temper Islamist excess.
So what? A nice fresh little war always reminds foreigners how cool we can be about projecting our power.
Besides, it is a great way to give American teevee something to report instead of all this blather about the IRS cheating and NSA spying and Eric Holder running guns and eyeballing reporters, right down to their indictable skivvies.
Jun 10, 2013
Tinfoil hattery; why we bother
Some times I wonder why I should care. I'm an Older American. No matter what is taken from me, I can reflect on a life more interesting than ordinary, probably even "happier" than ordinary although that point is impossible to investigate. You see, I lack the talent to know the state of happiness of any of my fellows, not one.
Certainly I'm as adept as anyone else at identifying and classifying apparent happiness as measured by the the usual standards, the wherewithal to consume, the crude wit to identify current fashion and conform, the appearance of intensely satisfying personal relationships, and so forth. Just like Richard Cory who on that calm summer night went home and put a bullet through his happy head.
So, no. Any man's opinion on the pattern of activity in another's neurons is as suspect as a politician's promise. I can know -- and probably only imperfectly -- the state of my own synaptic patterns which produce the range of contentment from a heartfelt smile when I am alone to the ugliest possible frown, also in solitude.
New Dog Libby knows when she's happy. Well-fed, fresh from a Frisbee romp, ears scratched, she is satisfied in the deepest sense of that term. Only a magical Disney epic could endow her with care for what sort of life her grandpuppies would have. This reveals a defining difference between Libby and the man who fills her bowl. He thinks of his posterity. Like any beast, she would find that preposterous. She is a prisoner of the instant moment. Her master and all his fellows are cursed with a notion of foresight, the belief that they can observe current patterns and extrapolate into the future.
It is the curse of despair and hope when I, at least, would often prefer a stick to chase, a banana split, and a sound ear-scratching as I drift into dreamless sleep.
---
In this motley internet neighborhood of disorganized (and unorganizable) libertarians and ancaps, no one is surprised at the staccato new reports of universal spying. Most are on record as simply assuming it exists, that it is destined to exist by the very nature of coercive power, that is, the Power of the drones and command control over the 82nd Airborne, all the Marines, and millions of spies you never heard of, all charged with identifying Crimethink by invading private human thought.
I have no great-grandpuppies yet, but I probably will. With a bit of luck I'll cuddle them, and I'll certainly hope (the curse, again) they have choices in a world neither too brave nor too new, nor ruled by other Controllers of an Inner Party.
Certainly I'm as adept as anyone else at identifying and classifying apparent happiness as measured by the the usual standards, the wherewithal to consume, the crude wit to identify current fashion and conform, the appearance of intensely satisfying personal relationships, and so forth. Just like Richard Cory who on that calm summer night went home and put a bullet through his happy head.
So, no. Any man's opinion on the pattern of activity in another's neurons is as suspect as a politician's promise. I can know -- and probably only imperfectly -- the state of my own synaptic patterns which produce the range of contentment from a heartfelt smile when I am alone to the ugliest possible frown, also in solitude.
New Dog Libby knows when she's happy. Well-fed, fresh from a Frisbee romp, ears scratched, she is satisfied in the deepest sense of that term. Only a magical Disney epic could endow her with care for what sort of life her grandpuppies would have. This reveals a defining difference between Libby and the man who fills her bowl. He thinks of his posterity. Like any beast, she would find that preposterous. She is a prisoner of the instant moment. Her master and all his fellows are cursed with a notion of foresight, the belief that they can observe current patterns and extrapolate into the future.
It is the curse of despair and hope when I, at least, would often prefer a stick to chase, a banana split, and a sound ear-scratching as I drift into dreamless sleep.
---
In this motley internet neighborhood of disorganized (and unorganizable) libertarians and ancaps, no one is surprised at the staccato new reports of universal spying. Most are on record as simply assuming it exists, that it is destined to exist by the very nature of coercive power, that is, the Power of the drones and command control over the 82nd Airborne, all the Marines, and millions of spies you never heard of, all charged with identifying Crimethink by invading private human thought.
I have no great-grandpuppies yet, but I probably will. With a bit of luck I'll cuddle them, and I'll certainly hope (the curse, again) they have choices in a world neither too brave nor too new, nor ruled by other Controllers of an Inner Party.
Jun 7, 2013
Data Mining ("And, While You're At It...")
About my first foray into politics occurred just after I left the Navy and started college in my home town. It was scut work for Sonja Egnes, a female Republican trying for a congressional seat held by a semi-felonious lefty preacher named Myrwin.
The local GOP organization was manned by lame and lazy socialites to whom it had never occurred that a list of eligible voters was a right handy thing to have. The most convenient way to get a partial one was from the local police file of driver licenses, actual carbon copies in file drawers.
I had a decent relationship with the cops. Being a veteran helped. (Sure, a couple of them hated me for being a f------g college puke, but they didn't have the horses to do anything about it.) I asked the chief and he said, "Sure." So I assembled a team of coeds and we went to work on a file of about 15,000 paper licenses, copying by hand names and address of people 21 and up.
(That was the voting age in those days. It was later we decided that barely post-pubes were qualified to act officially on their well-considered opinions about recognizing Red China, containing Communism, supporting farm prices at 90 per cent of parity, and the need for a true two-ocean Navy. But I digress.)
A couple of days into the project, a senior cop got to thinking "my statistics...". Dangerous then, dangerous now. He asked me into his office, poured coffee and, in effect, said" "Y'know, we never go through those things, so there are probably a lot of guys out there driving around on expired licenses. How 'bout you and the girls make a note of them...".
That was cop-think then and it is cop-think now, which we might want to keep in mind as His Ineptness and the Royal Chorus chant the old songs about universal spying for anti-terrorism only!
It's an especially realistic frame of mind when you and the family are at O'Hare, getting ready to fly off to Grandma's for Christmas, and you think you notice the guy in a white shirt and badge let his hand linger an instant too long on your little boy's weenie. He's pretty sure the tyke himself is innocent, but he has to make sure you didn't pack a half-pound of C4 around it.
Of course the perv and his supervisors trot out the security talking point. Purely professional. And only to nab Abdul of Al Queda.
Right. So why do we remember one of the official responses to criticisms of Great Airport Grope? Why, besides foiling (N) airplane explosions, we found (N) marijuana mules/possessors/users and (N) people with warrants out and even one guy with a half-pint of Jim Beam!
Mr. President, do you actually expect us to believe that your 100 per cent lock on citizen's' most private communications can not be re-purposed in less time than it takes for Weiner to unzip? Or will not because of the high honor and respect all federal employees pay to the Fourth Amendment? That you and yours would never, ever, even think of eavesdropping on our phone and email content?
Errr. I know it is ancient history to a politician's attention span, having happened almost two months ago, but what's this about the IRS reading our email, just for shits and grins and to avoid the inconvenience of asking a judge for permission?
---
Oh, the license check requests?
I didn't do it, but I was not heroic, not even noble. I waffled and made excuses, counting on sheer bureaucratic sloth to make the request go away in time, which it did.
Sonja lost.
The local GOP organization was manned by lame and lazy socialites to whom it had never occurred that a list of eligible voters was a right handy thing to have. The most convenient way to get a partial one was from the local police file of driver licenses, actual carbon copies in file drawers.
I had a decent relationship with the cops. Being a veteran helped. (Sure, a couple of them hated me for being a f------g college puke, but they didn't have the horses to do anything about it.) I asked the chief and he said, "Sure." So I assembled a team of coeds and we went to work on a file of about 15,000 paper licenses, copying by hand names and address of people 21 and up.
(That was the voting age in those days. It was later we decided that barely post-pubes were qualified to act officially on their well-considered opinions about recognizing Red China, containing Communism, supporting farm prices at 90 per cent of parity, and the need for a true two-ocean Navy. But I digress.)
A couple of days into the project, a senior cop got to thinking "my statistics...". Dangerous then, dangerous now. He asked me into his office, poured coffee and, in effect, said" "Y'know, we never go through those things, so there are probably a lot of guys out there driving around on expired licenses. How 'bout you and the girls make a note of them...".
That was cop-think then and it is cop-think now, which we might want to keep in mind as His Ineptness and the Royal Chorus chant the old songs about universal spying for anti-terrorism only!
It's an especially realistic frame of mind when you and the family are at O'Hare, getting ready to fly off to Grandma's for Christmas, and you think you notice the guy in a white shirt and badge let his hand linger an instant too long on your little boy's weenie. He's pretty sure the tyke himself is innocent, but he has to make sure you didn't pack a half-pound of C4 around it.
Of course the perv and his supervisors trot out the security talking point. Purely professional. And only to nab Abdul of Al Queda.
Right. So why do we remember one of the official responses to criticisms of Great Airport Grope? Why, besides foiling (N) airplane explosions, we found (N) marijuana mules/possessors/users and (N) people with warrants out and even one guy with a half-pint of Jim Beam!
Mr. President, do you actually expect us to believe that your 100 per cent lock on citizen's' most private communications can not be re-purposed in less time than it takes for Weiner to unzip? Or will not because of the high honor and respect all federal employees pay to the Fourth Amendment? That you and yours would never, ever, even think of eavesdropping on our phone and email content?
Errr. I know it is ancient history to a politician's attention span, having happened almost two months ago, but what's this about the IRS reading our email, just for shits and grins and to avoid the inconvenience of asking a judge for permission?
---
Oh, the license check requests?
I didn't do it, but I was not heroic, not even noble. I waffled and made excuses, counting on sheer bureaucratic sloth to make the request go away in time, which it did.
Sonja lost.
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