The ole firmer walked around the backside of the barn. His wearied eyes took a moment to focus on the horizon; dark clouds appeared to dominate that distant line; they'd been hanging there for quite a long while now. The immediate vicinity was clear, however, if BLS numbers are to be believed. Mixed signals here there and yon. The times they are a-changin', thought he, and things ain't
The rules of the game have changed; the old computations are no longer working, with the ole firmer and his firm being blindsided by all the new manipulations, robo-washed sterile by robo-driven arbitragers as if someone behind the sprays and fluff were cleaning the clocks of commerce, wiping away the profits, constantly leveling the playing field and rendering the firmer high but not dry, now eyeless in nasdaq, then dumb in the dow, spooked by the S&P, then suddenly swept up again in a flood of liquidity, floating on Fed flotsam, pummeled by day trade dealers punting buyback fluff up and down the field. The firmer pondered all this while studying the broad side of his barn. Need to fix that roof-- the thought crossed his mind for the umpteenth time.
Then without warning, his step coincides with a pile of BLS. Oh shit, exclaimed he. Up on the rooftop, the ever-vigilant barnyard blackbirds squawked loudly, as if trumpeting their amusement at his misfortune. Caw! Buyback! Caw! Quoth the raven: Evermore! Now and evermore! So shall your ascending P/E path be: driving under the influence of BLS, monitored by SEC, checked with OMB, hog-tied with Dodd-Frank, frothing high in P/E ratios, fearless Fannie and fawning Freddie sharpening pencils in the background, consuming FOMC reports, leaning on Fed puts, flummoxed at SEC stops, disgusted with IRS farts and bewildered by WTF surprises.
LOL . . . not.
The ole firmer's labor participation rate was, and had been for awhile, after 89 months of zero-bound interest rates on the downward trajectory--headed south, as some folks say, although he wasn't comfortable with the phrase. And out there on what used to be the open prairie of Price discovery--that old crossroads of supply and demand-- well, it has become well-nigh impossible to determine where, when, how and why, it seemed to the ole firmer.
This is what it felt like, he surmised, to be on Main Street in a Kmart world, then at Kmart in a Walmart world, now being disoriented in an Amazon jungle, no way out, with the Fed ham-stringin all the supply lines so's to simulate demand on a rising level. How this gmo steady-state staid new world of post-capital never-everland came about he'd never understand.
The old firmer would never understand. He felt like the onslaught of old-timers' disease was gnawing away at his youthful entrepeneural sensibilities.
The obnoxious ravens on the roof calmed down, their screechy cawing now lapsing into a low zirping. Quoth the raven--Nevermore! There's no real investment any more. No more frontier, no more exceptional expansion, no more manifest destiny, where do we go from here, caught between rocknroll and a hard face.
They say casinos are big now.
Where's the high-flyin' high-multiplyin' authentic productivity? Inventories high, sales low. Slow go. What would Rockefeller do? Where's JP Morgan when you need him? Carnegie's steel has all been laid; Edison's taking a nap and Bell won't answer the phone. No Ford nor Chevy on the horizon that I can see, thought he. Watson's now a programmed response. Fairchild's been implanted in a solid state econ. Gates is creaky; Jobs is gone-- out there somewhere on that musky dark cloud horizon. What's everybody doing?
Tappin' on chinky glass, devolving in devices vices, sippin' Singapore slings, all sound and futility signifying no-growth, thought he, hobbling along on a programmed 2% inflation path. Old-timers like me can no longer hit the broad side of a barn with our antiquarian projections based on old-school free-market dynamics, rallies and hog bellies, bushels, widgets and gadgets, buy and sell orders 'til the bears come home, might as well lay bricks in mortars with all these start-up farters.
Out on the horizon, big dust-storm coming up. Bulls are at it again, trying to stampede their way out of the Everything's OK corral, but Uncle Fed and Aunt Fannie shut 'em down every time.