Showing posts with label David Stockman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label David Stockman. Show all posts

Thursday, May 2, 2019

The Knave New World

In 2007, Alan Greenspan published a fascinating book that chronicled not only his own life, but the life of the monetary world in which he grew up,  and in which he ultimately played a major role as Chairman of the Federal Reserve.

Mr. Greenspan’s keen observation of contemporary monetary history is demonstrated throughout the book. On page 92, Alan had this to report about the legendary Reagan tax cuts of the 1980’s:
“The cornerstone of the Reagan tax cuts was a bill that had been proposed by Congressman Jack Kemp and Senator William Roth. It called for a dramatic three-year, 30 percent rollback of taxes on both businesses and individuals and was designed to jolt the economy out of its slump, which was now entering its second year. I (Greenspan) believed that if spending was restrained as much as Reagan proposed, and as long as the Federal Reserve continued to enforce strict control of the money supply, the plan was credible, though it would be a hard sell. This was the consensus of the rest of the economic board as well.
But (David) Stockman (Reagan’s Budget Director) and Don Regan, the incoming treasury secretary, were having doubts. They were leary of the growing federal deficit, already more than $50 billion a year, and they began quietly telling the President he ought to hold off on tax cuts. Instead, they wanted him to try getting Congress to cut spending first, then see whether the resulting savings would allow for tax reductions.”

Well good luck with that!
And gollee, that was about 39 years ago, and about 20 trillion $$ of federal deficit ago. . .
Ronald Reagan, God bless ‘im, was the last of the Mohicans of old-style let’s-try-to-balance-the-budget school.
Yet we still pay lip-service to that principle.
But--let's face it-- those days are gone forever. They went out with with saddle oxfords and gumball machines and  Archie Bunker and 1-cent lollipops and debits on the left with credits on the right that balanced each other out.

Now Reagan, God rest his soul,  is no longer with us, nor Kemp,  and the world is a totally different place. Ronald Reagan was the last of a balancing breed that has vanished into fiscal history.
The cowboy hero has ridden into the sunset.
David Stockman is, however, still with us, and still living in the past,  still harping, God bless ‘im, on old-hat financial and fiscal responsibility. Good luck with that, Dave!

In his most recent newsletter, David Stockman posted this assessment of our present situation:
“The Main Street economy is failing. But the Wall Street fantasy is thriving. You can lay responsibility for this dangerous disconnect at the doorstep of the Eccles Building.
The Federal Reserve’s extreme monetary central planning regime long ago disabled capital markets and destroyed price discovery.
Bubble Finance has euthanized workers and savers and lobotomized traders and speculators.
And our monetary central planners know it.”
While Mr. Stockman’s assessment may very well be true, it may also be irrelevant.
The world . . . as it always does and always has, has changed.
Tap your ruby slippers together, David.

RubySlippers

and close your eyes and realize: We’re not in Kansas any more. All the rules have changed. Take off your rose-colored glasses.
We’re not wheelin’ and dealin’ in ole Wall Street any more, or Peoria or Pittsburgh or Palm Springs. Now we are in, as Aldous Huxley once said, a Brave New World. . .
A world in which monetary markets and price discovery are no longer the primary determinants in the money game. . . a world that has, yes Virginia, yes Alice and yes Dorothy, been commandeered by a thunderous consumerist horde who have no wish to be bound by these old financial fuddy-duddy obsolete principles, a world that has been fundamentally transformed by Keyneseian realpolitic and by the pragmatic keep-bailing-this-boat central bankers of the world with their legions of yassah data-crunching technocrats to maintain the welfare of us all.

And we will never go back.
Because money itself is, and always has been, truth be told, worthless, being nothing more than klinky coins that can get you a wad of chewing gum, or paper bills that can get you a sugar-high from a vending machine, or electrons that can get you a charged-up night on the town, or a day in the sun, a week at Disney if you’re lucky, and a health-insured, social-security certified lifetime in this knave new world.
The “Capitalism” of Adam Smith and John Stuart Mill and Jacob Marley and JP Morgan and even Warren Buffet has . . . gone the way of the buffalo.

Now it’s just benevolent electrons whirling around the world taking care of everybody.
And when you finally see the writing on the wall, Dave, look at those deficits and . . . read ‘em and weep. Nobody cares about deficits any more.
The central bankers of the world will never have to face the music of fiscal responsibility that keeps ringing in your ears.

We’re never going back to the old balancing acts. Where we’re headed is. . . everybody gets a meal-ticket as long as all’s quiet on the Western front and the red sun still rises in the east. Welcome to the knave new world.


Friday, April 12, 2013

A Tale from Ole Uncle rOMBus

Ole Uncle rOMBus, he usa be de stockman down at d'gov.mnt sto, back in Uncle Ronnie days, so he gots a lot t'say from a qualified viewpoint. From time to time he tell us chilluns bout tales o' what be hap'nin down on d'plantation. Yest'dy, Uncle rOMBus he be done tole us bout d'time little ChiknHank and big BenBird a'most let the flo fall out from undneath our banking system. Oh, shut my mouth, an what a close call it was! Gatha roun' now chilluns, and you shall hear, how 'merican capitalism got turn'd on its ear.

Dis is how it hap'n:

One fine, zippity do-dah day back in September '08, when wan'at nobody lookin' and ev'body be kinda layback, not thinking' bout much o' nuthin, suddenly der be one big ruckus shenanigans whenz little ChiknHank come a runnin down d'road t'ween NewYawk an Wash'n, jez a whooping an a hollerin':

"D'flo be fallin'! D'flo be fallin' out from und'neaf us! We gotz to do sumpn now!"

Down inside d'beltway, Ole UnclePrez he turn 'roun quick, and pay close 'tention, cuz little ChiknHank he be d'wine some serious secretaryin' down at d'Treasur patch. "Whaddup now, bro?" Ole UnclePrez say.

Little ChiknHank, looking' all nervous on tv an sweat'n and discombobulated like, he say:

"We gotz to do sumpn now, or all dem MBSs and CDOs an CDSs, an AIG, dey be crashin' down in subprime und'neaf d'flo! and dat whole load o' low-grade unqualified drive-up receivables in cyberspace conduit, all sliced and diced for speculat'n obscurity conflummocks, wi' cooked-up SnP rat'ns an moody AAAs--dey be crash'n down befo yo can say overcollateralized leverage lickety-split, crash'n down on AIG an d'wallstreet flo! An d'mainstreet momnpops down und'neaf-- dey weel be crushed to smithereens! We gotz to do sumpn now, Uncle Prez! Quick, call big BenBird!"

Well, ole Uncle BenBird he come along and take one look at d'sitiation, an he say:

"I believe der be only one way out dis conflummucks. We gotz to t'row ChiknHank an' his barnyard wall street pals in de bailout patch, cuz dey bin in high cotton so long dey don' know dey's toxic assets from a hole in d'groun'."

But little ChiknHank, he be hoot'n n holler'n:

"Oh no, Uncle Ben! Please don' trow me in dat bailout patch! You can string me from d'highest leverage; you can tar me wi' regulat'n pitch 'til d'Feds come home; you can e'en trow me in d'bellerin wi d'bears, or wi' d'bulls in d'china shop, but please, please! Uncle Prez, don' let big Uncle Benbird trow me in dat bailout patch! I been a Uncle Miltie freedman free-market capper since I wuz Nehi to a moon pie, an ah jez can't take it if yu'z t'let Uncle Ben trow me in dat bailout patch."

But Uncle Prez n big BenBird, dey be confalootin sump'n serious, 'til finally Uncle Ben he be done trow ChiknHank right sho'nuf inz de middle o dat bailout patch.

Den, der be a long quietude, 'sept fo little rustlin' and rump'n and grunt'n somewheys down in dat bailout patch, and d'wind blow'n up a whistlin' dixie and tryin' d'be chawin bubblegum at d'same time, til at last,

By n' by, little ChiknHank, he drag hisself up on a hickory stump rot beside dat bailout patch, an he commenz to combin' briers outa his feathery backside wi a bluechip bonus blip. Den he strut up his bad self an go agin to hoot'n n holler'n, but dis time wi' a dif'rent margin call:

"Ah'uz bow'n an bred for dat bailout patch, Uncle Ben! bow'n and bred!"

An little ChiknHank commenz t'slipp'n n slidin' 'long d'muddy trail awhistlin zippity do dah, an direcly he an Bro Timmy dey be gett'n de wallstreet barnyard boyz back in high cotton agin, and momnpops down on mainstreet nev'a knew what hit 'em wi' d'bailout patch an all dat toobigtofail smokescreen conflummucks.

Now by n by, Ole Uncle rOMBus come along an tell us chilluns de tale, an he say d'momnpops down on mainstreet nevuh knew what hit 'em, cuz, i guess, day gotz d'bigscreen tv an 32-ounce bigchillum drink to keeps 'em feelin like dey's in high cotton fo sho.

But all dat whoopfiz woobieshoobie aside, now der be no joy in unemployed, underemployed Mudville today, cuz Ole Uncle rOMBus done struck out, but hey! we all gotz to go some time an at leaz he tried t'tell us what be goin on down on d'plantation. Thank you, Uncle rOMBus.

Y'all come back now, y'heah? Mo tall tales to come fo sho!

Glass Chimera