Clarion Call
There is some nonsense happening back up inside the Beltway- I am listening to the traffic-and-weather-on-the-eights with a sense of schadenfruede this morning as the light spreads over Refuge Farm, deep in the heart of Culpeper. Not that I am going to escape the capital entirely this week- there is a ceremony in Maryland this afternoon I need to attend, though I am starting to forget just why.
I found some things in the garage yesterday as I was adding to the pile of debris of my life, and realizing I am actually on the verge of getting organized. The Russians did a drive-by to confirm our bell signals- “one ring” means “yes,” two means “I’m here,” three means, “coming over for a drink.” A bunch of ringing means come soon and bring the shotgun.
Natasha dropped off some exotic-looking purple peppers that I will turn into some exotic stew later in the week. I made a cranberry juice cocktail for Sasha, the Russian Princess, and she performed a skit that had been performed at her new school.
Her English is now colloquial, after only a few months immersion. It is astonishing how quickly the young can learn things.
It feels like October already- I wandered down to the barn as the sun was coming up to check the trickle-charger on the Turf Tiger and figure out where to park the JG’s hulking Ford Explorer while he is out of the country.
Back in the house, I searched around for a sweatshirt and poured a mug of steaming hot Dazbog coffee, sweetened with the local Culpeper unrefined honey that Andrew sells at Croftburn Farms market. There is speculation in the older generation that there could be a romantic connection between the Market Magnate and the Russian clan, which can only be good for solid discounts on wine-by-the-case and assorted organic produce.
I am thinking about what to stock up on, since I managed to move some of the stock of perishable food while entertaining Saturday and Sunday. The two cars pulled out of the gravel drive a little before lunch, and I had been outlining some of the things to do in the country, since there is much more to do than just eating great local food on the deck and drinking wine.
Well, I think there is. I have not completely got beyond that part. In the sudden silence, I cleaned up, washed sheets and tidied the little house up. It is much more fun when it is full, and filled with music and the sound of voices- so I was looking for excuses to entertain again.
I may have beaten Mrs. Mouse- my copy of the Calrion-Bugle weekly was un-shredded, and no new nesting material had been produced by the Mouse in the Mailbox.
I sat out on the deck and scanned the paper. Above the fold were politics and religion: The Rev. Wendell Reed Grant has preached the Word of God for 50 years, having received the Call in June 1963 in Fort Poke, Louisiana. I assume he was drafted, meaning the Army, not the Lord.
The challenger in the County Board of Supervisors Jefferson District filed his campaign contributions, and has out raised the longtime incumbent by a factor of fourteen. Charles VanSant “Chuck” Duncan III reported $2,800 in donations while incumbent Supervisor Brad Rosenberger reported a single contribution totaling $200.
I tried to do the math but gave up. The total spent for this race would not amount to a drumstick on the rubber chicken circuit for the Carpetbagger Terry McAuliff or the GOP candidate for Governor, Ken Cuchinelli.
Supervisor Rosenberger is a fifth generation farmer and has been on the job 28 years, so maybe it is time for a change. I will have to do my homework on that race. Mid-term elections are important in the country.
Below the fold was news that a Cadillac crashed into a house on Wine Street Sunday morning downtown. According to a witness, the vehicle left Fairfax Street and entered Wine Street before crashing around 2 a.m. I assume someone was driving, but that element of information was lacking from the story.
Inside the paper was a parade of information, and I wished I had read it before the guests departed to make suggestions.
Culpeper’s two art deco movie theaters are partnering to provide myriad opportunities for viewing classic cinema in October. The Library of Congress Packard Campus Theater just up the hill on Mount Pony announced that it will continue showing classic and restored prints of the 100 greatest American films during the week, and will expand to provide copies to the recently restored 580-seat State Theater on Main Street.
They are going to kick things off with a screening of the iconic Bogie and Bergman film “Casablanca.” According to the Clarion-Bugle, these showings “will highlight the National Film Registry and celebrate our rich cinematic heritage with titles from the Library’s collections.”
It is six bucks at the State and free at Mt. Pony, so it is a great opportunity for folks on a restricted budget. First come, first serve of course at the Packard Campus, which in the bad old days was a bomb shelter that protected $8 Billion in small bills to restart the economy after the nuclear exchange.
(Back in the Cold War, these cages deep in Mt. Pony were filled with pallets of cold cash.)
Next weekend is the Farm Tour, when 17 local operations will throw open their gates to show us where our food comes from- if you eat locally, anyway. Clarion staff writers informed me that the tour will “provide a wonderful educational experience and includes a variety of hands on activities and demonstrations… (and) reflect our agricultural heritage and the millions of dollars in production, wages, and salaries generated by the agricultural industry in our county and state.”
It is the Sesquicentennial of the Civil War, which swirled through these very fields and the Farm Tour has added a few new farms that offer a glimpse of how farming has evolved through the years.
The weekend after that is a knock-out. Saturday is the Air Fest, which is going to showcase the 75th anniversary of the first flight of the venerable AT-6 Texan, a propeller-driven trainer that Dad qualified in down in Pensacola, where a student pilot a day died in accidents. There will be restored warbirds, and the Bealeton Flying Circus will perform, along with Dr. Smoke in his Marchetti “emiting red, white and blue smoke,” Sean Carroll in his Russian YAK-9, and a special appearance of the only harrier jump-jet in private hands, piloted by Art Nalls.
The Cruisin’ For Heroes car show will be also be held at the T. I. Martin regional airport, right on the Brandy Station battlefield. I ought to clean up the World’s Fastest Production Pick-up Truck and cruise over.
Then on Sunday the ninth annual “Taste of Culpeper – a Wine, Food, and Arts Festival” on Sunday, in the Depot District on Davis and Commerce Streets. The Clarion tells me “This event is sure to please wine enthusiasts, foodies and followers of unique arts and crafts. Experience the very best in Virginia wines, local cuisine and even a few micro-brews will be available for purchase….”
They go on to tell me we will have the opportunity to sample more than 40 different wines and visit with several new participating wineries at this year’s festival, so I need to talk to the Russians and see who will drive.
14-20 October is Restaurant week downtown: the 27th is the Kelly’s Ford Canoe/Kayak Wine Run. The last of the equestrian shows will happen down the road at Summerduck Run Farm, so there will be plenty of things to occupy the weekends.
It is the Clarion Call of the country. I think I will start ignoring what is happening back up north and see what happens.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Country Living
Gentle Readers,
The trees are on the verge of changing at Refuge Farm. We were huddled around the First Fire of Fall last night, terrified. The temperature on the deck had dropped, and the last salmon and chicken and steak morsel was being mopped up with good red wine. We were almost paralyzed by the Debt Crisis….
Oh hell, we didn’t care. I am not sure the topic even came up, except that Jon-without and I had agreed to meet John-with at Willow for lunch on Tuesday if the Government shuts down. We ate and drank and generally made merry over a night that cleared and revealed all the stars in the Virginia heavens.
At some point the dog pushed Jim out of the bed and he crashed to the floor. It was the biggest event of the evening and I slept through it on the couch.
In the morning we shot semi-automatic rifles, since some of the visitors had never done that. Nice to be down in the country, and nice to have a big affectionate dog around. I need to remember to bring the water and food bowls back up north with me, since the dog forgot to pack them.
Maybe they will do something about the government tomorrow. If that happens, maybe the traffic will be better. I will have a lunch to go to.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
EMP and EOS
(Hillbilly rockers Jumpin’ Jupiter belt it out in the courtyard next to Willow)
I have been trying to get back to the fascinating article by a design engineer named Dennis Feucht. It seemed important at the time, and it is worth an examination to see what our pipsqueak impending nuclear-armed rivals are up to. The article explained a lot about what the point is of the nuclear weapons program in North Korea.
The whole thing has mystified me- I mean, having five bombs or even ten doesn’t get you much, except a suicide pact if they used one. Dennis points out- quite rightly- that the point of the device might not be the first step on a ruinously expensive program to try to have a comprehensive nuclear exchange capability, but just to have the capability to lob something into low earth orbit and detonate it over- say, Kansas. It is abut Electro Magnetic Pulse, or EMP.
Then he went on to describe the practical effect on dental implants, which might surprise you. The title of the article was so captivating that I thought I would borrow it. But I am tired of finding new things to worry about, and I won’t do it this morning. There is so much weirdness going on. I mean, the President just spent more time talking to the President of Iran than he did with the Speaker of the House as we approach the ultimate dysfunction of our Constitutional government.
But hey, if the people downtown don’t seem to be worried about it, why should we? I decided not to worry about EMP and instead, concentrate on EOS.
I mentioned the End of Summer bash at Willow yesterday, and it actually serves as a sort of New Year’s Eve festival, if you go by the Federal Fiscal Year. The reason we are having a budget crisis at the moment is the fact that the appropriations for FY-13 run out at midnight on the 30th- and technically, without a budget, we are going to start shutting stuff down.
Not that there is a budget, nor has there been one for almost four years. It is funny- when you get used to the unthinkable as being business as usual- all things are possible. In fact, it seems quite possible that the people on the other side of the Potomac actually like this: no one has to actually debate anything, or justify policy or the expenditure of taxpayer dollars. The Continuing Resolution we have been operating under has transformed the Federal budget into a gigantic slush fund.
(John-With samples the bratwurst on conventional home-made torpedo roll)
John-with-an-H was moaning about the QFR’s his office was required to answer to Congress about the confirmation hearings of some of his political seniors at Foggy Bottom. He got a bratwurst to eat there to get his mind off of it, since he had been informed he was a non-essential person and would not be working the weekend. Then he asked Tex for two sandwiches to go.
I told him we used to get hundreds of congressional questions on the intelligence budget, and sweated bullets about. “Now no one has to do anything. It all seems optional. I remember when Don Rumsfeld didn’t submit a DoD budget because he said it was just too hard with all the changes he wanted to make, and Congress let him get away with it. It is like the House and Senate have given up their only real Constitutional duty.”
“Power of the Purse,” growled Jim, “It got picked.” He was waving his long-neck Budweiser in a vane attempt to get Tex’s attention. Did I mention that Willow was jammed? Or that Brenna was sent home sick to avoid contaminating the customers at the EOS bash, and that the poor harried wait-staff and bartenders were hopping. “Gates Brown, the famous Tiger DH died today,” he said.
“Damn. He was a star in the greatest decade of Detroit baseball.”
Jon-without displayed his new bumper sticker. “I went to the gun show out at Chantilly this afternoon. Unemployment isn’t so bad.”
“Yeah, enjoy it. But you have another job to look forward to.”
“We all do. It just might not be what you think.” I had to ponder that one for a moment.
Mary was interested in one of the Stachowski hand-crafted bratwursts, and was curious about how things were going to work. Tex stopped briefly behind the new beer cooler and explained it: “we are grilling the sausages outside, and you can get them from Kate Jansen and Heather at the grill.”
“Can I get one on a Weck roll?” she asked.
“This isn’t Alice’s, but you can get anything you want.”
(Stachowski hand-crafted bratwurst on Kate Jansen’s kemmelweck roll.)
Jon-without and the Lovely Bea were having none of that. It was the last Friday of the month and they were interested in the legendary Beef on Kemmelwck roll with horseradish, sautéed onions and sour cream. “Can we order from here?” they asked.
(Tex in a brief moment before his bar began to really start jumping).
Tex shook his head. “Too hard. Cash sales outside for grilled brats, but I can get the Beef on Wecks for you here and put it on your tab.” Then he bustled off, amazingly agile despite his size.
(Jerry the Barrister enjoys hard cider and a signature sandwhich.)
It was a fair enough arrangement, since the place was growing more chaotic by the moment. Jerry the Barrister arrived, as the crowd mounted, jostling for positions by the bar. So did the cognoscenti who know what the last Friday of the month signified, some opting for the Buffalo-style dip or the pommes frites with Lake Erie-style brown gravy.
(Jon-without and The Lovely Bea opted for the Beef on Weck)
I was more interested in the circus, and like placid Jamie, did not have much of an appetite. Still, the food was oriented toward the “comfort” place, a modern take on the meals that used to draw the family to the dinner table when the terrors of the world seemed a little more manageable.
I said as much, and Jim glowered at me. “You are saying the Good Old Days of mutually assured destruction were relaxed? Bombers on seven minute alert and the moles down in the missile silos ready to turn their keys and usher in the end of the world.”
“I suppose you are right. But things seem a little more personal, like 9/11 or the mall in Kenya. I think it seems like we have traded the surreal for the immediate.”
“Relax. Have a glass of wine. It will all sort itself out.”
(Old Jim and The Lovely Bea)
The strains of hillbilly rock crafted by an authentically seedy Jumpin’ Jupier wafted through the open door, bringing us the last gasp of a strange, unsettled but lovely summer. Jim has decided to quit combing his hair, and in his all-black ensemble looked a little like the conductor of an intricate symphony as he waved his beer to try to get someone’s attention. “Goddamn it! Who do I have to assault to get another beer?” he shouted.
So long as the drinks kept coming, I assumed everything was going to be OK. I decided to go out and listen to the music, embrace the disorder, and say goodbye to the strangest summer of my life. Job, national dysfunction, family matters and friendship, everything from great to little, all happening at once. The noise was great, and the crowd seemed not to have a care in the world.
When I got back inside, I discovered that Jamie had decided that the idea of all that meat, was making her claustrophobic. She would just get a slice of Kate Jansen’s famous layer cake. Really, that was the thing that made the most sense.
(Despite the continuing crisis, there is always time for a nice dessert.)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
End of Summer
(End of Summer, 2013, promo flyer for this evening’s festivities. Be there, or be square!)
I was going to talk with you about what those whacky North Koreans are up to with their weapons of mass destruction this morning, but that is in the realm of speculative geo-politics. The whole Carrington Event thing is illustrative about the implications of what the Northerners are up to, and maybe the Iranians, too.
It makes a lot of sense, for those mass destruction programs aimed at us on a shoe-string budget, but there are more important things on the agenda this fine Friday.
No, I won’t comment on the report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, except to note that the UN bureaucrats have taken the input of the scientists and determined they are even more confident than ever before that their jobs are on the line, even if the models they base their belief system on were a little…well, alarmist. They actually admit it, which is sort of refreshing.
This is getting to be farcical, and I am betting the report- a contradiction- sinks like a stone once the media reports that “things are getting warmer, even if it is not the way we have been telling you, and We Still Need To Do Something Right Away.”
I promise I will get back to the subject of Electromagnetic Pulse, and the potential for real trouble, unlike the IPCC, but I really need to tell you something important.
It had been a busy afternoon. A security investigator, a contractor, of course, had stopped by Big Pink to ask me some pointed questions about a former co-worker who had listed me as a reference on his clearance update. I knew him only professionally, though we did work fairly closely for a few years, but never hung out as buddies.
I ask you, if someone provides you the list of people to talk to about your patriotism, alcohol and drug use, how many of those people are going to dime you out to some contractor who asks the usual questions, the same ones every time every five years?
I was happy to help. After all, every five years I have to provide a list of reliable people, too. Anyway, I got through that with a smile and took a Red Top Cab out to Seven Corners to contribute a grand to the Koon’s Ford enterprise and get the JG’s car back. It ran just fine, and the quickest way home was to jump on I-66, rush hour be damned.
That dumped me off near Willow, and what the hell. I may have to be cutting back to “sustainable” levels of “renewable” cash expenditure, but think of the savings in taking a cab back, not to mention the electricity and fossil fuels required to power the big screen TV I would not watch, right?
Anyway, I found a decent place to park and maneuvered the hulking Explorer to the curve with a certain panache. It felt good to be alive, and the end-of-day foot traffic on Fairfax Drive was moving with spirit and many smiles. Passing Uncle Julio’s, the patio was full, and I saw Tracy O’Grady and her husband Brian surveying the courtyard with concern.
“Hi, Tracy!” I said as I came abeam and stopped. “Looking at the scene of tomorrow’s End of Summer Party?”
She nodded gravely. “I hope we don’t bomb out,” she said.
(Famed local Hillybilly band, Jumping Jupiter, doing it outside.)
“I am telling everyone I know that the whole courtyard will be filled with the aroma of fabulous food and plenty of bargains on beverages and live music by Jumpin’ Jupiter, that fabulous hillbilly band. You are going to have the Grill King with Stachowski grilled brats and dogs, and the World Famous Willow Beef-on-Weck sandwiches.”
(Last month’s Beef On Weck with Barrister Jerry)
“I hope people come out for it,” she said doubtfully.
Brian gave a grin of encouragement. “You always feel this way the first time you do something.”
“I know,” she said. “But I am still nervous every time.”
“The anxiety is what puts you at the top of your game,” I said with a wink. “I told the homeless guy in front of the Seven Eleven on the way over. I will make it the topic of tomorrow’s story, which goes to an exclusive audience of the most discerning readers, world wide. It is going to be fine.”
“Wait until you see what has changed inside,” she said, mysteriously, and I gave her a salute, and headed on toward the patio and the cool refreshing dimness of the bar.
Old Jim was presiding at the apex of the Amen Corner. Jon-without was sitting next to him wearing a jacket and open-collar dress shirt. He looked crisp but casual, and I asked what the deal was.
“Since I got laid off by my old company and hired by Mitsubishi the same day, I have a few days of unemployment between gigs,” he said, gesturing down. “Hence a less formal presence.”
“I am with you,” I said, gesturing at my jeans. “I envy you the opportunity to represent the Mitsubishi Heavy Bomber Works. I am sort of between paying performances at the moment. So what is up? Tracy said there was something new to be seen in here.”
Jim’s formidable eyebrows went up. “Don’t you look around?”
I did a quick scan of the Amen Corner and there it was, big as life: a keg cooler with six taps, but no handles yet. “Holy crap. Draft Beer at Willow? Do we have to bring our own handles?”
“That would be a real innovation, but duh. Tracy bought the unit from the Cowboy Bar over on Lee Highway- you know, the place next to the old Alpine restaurant.”
“My God, this changes everything,” I said, dumbstruck. “I may have to rethink the whole no-carbohydrate thing.”
Jasper slid a glass of Happy Hour White in front of me. “Or maybe not.”
Tex appeared to show off his new bar toy. “I intend to have the very best hand-crafted brews on tap,” He said. “An IPA, for sure, something seasonal, and then a dark and a couple other things.”
“How come you didn’t always have draft beer?” I asked. “What was the name of this bar before it was Willow? They had draft beer, I remember. No one was ever here.”
“Ancient history,” growled Jim. “Willow opened and sold a thousand glasses of wine a week, and few suds. They had excess capacity and the beer went flat and there were fruit flies and crap. So Tracy yanked the taps and went with bottled beer.”
“This is a tremendous step,” I said. “It makes the place complete.”
Tex positively beamed. “Just wait until the End of Summer Party, Friday, 27 September in the courtyard next to Willow. It is going to be dynamite, six to nine pm.”
“I would not miss it for the world,” I said. “I will see you there.”
(End of Summer Shortcake at Willow.)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
The Wednesday Grab Bag
I had a list of things that are making us run in circles this morning and was puzzling over which strand I might pull on. I got to critical point “H” and had not even drudged up “Benghazi,” when I decided that I was full enough of it, and decided to finish the repairs to the JG’s big Ford Explorer. I was sitting in the repairee’s longue at Koon’s Ford for about forty minutes, and the nice technician came out and told me they were able to program the key fobs to operate the remote locks just fine.
And that the right rear axle seal was leaking and the front brake pads needed to be replaced. I sighed, realizing I was about to spend two thousand dollars before even getting close to lunch.
Damn. Car repairs had not even cracked the top ten irritants when I was pecking on the computer, and actually, that was the only thing that was going to mean much in the course of this wonderful Autumn day. Skies dotted with cirrus clouds, temperature just comfy-cool, and a wonderful morning for a stroll. Pity that the time and money equation never seems to balance quite the way one would like.
Anyway, by the time I managed to plod back to Big Pink I was about out of airspeed and good ideas. The idea of flogging any of the intellectual dead horses we have so thoroughly examined over the last few months was not that appealing. It was too late for a breakfast drink, and too early to start at lunch. I set the computer up on the new patio table and watched the chipmunks shuttling between their nest behind the decorative (and decaying) wooden border between the concrete and the mulch with their cheeks bulging with seeds to get them through the winter. Cute little things- not like the deranged squirrel that barked at me shrilly from the tree, clearly unhappy with my extended presence.
I scanned the Wall Street Journal article a pal sent me about the coming report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, which suggested that the political representatives were re-writing the Summary for Policy Makers to make sure there was enough alarm contained in the report to ensure they would continue to get paid.
I am not sure anyone gives a rat’s butt anymore, but like all knaves and mountebanks and politicians, they bear watching. But I am not going to go off on that, either. There will be plenty of time to examine why the distinguished body is even more confident they are right about climate whatever than ever before when they release the report, even if the surface temperatures have not risen since the beginning of the second Clinton Administration.
So, it occurred to me that I could write something folksy- maybe a nature vignette from the farm, like the discovery that the Mouse in the Mailbox was not Mr. Mouse, but Mamma Mouse. She had six little ones attached to her in the midst of last week’s shredded Clarion-Bugle. As was startled as I withdrew the paper and she scrambled back up the bottom fold of what was left of the front page and raced to the comforting darkness of the back of the mailbox.
Aw, too cute! I did not trouble her further, but left the flap down on front, so that if any hawks or feral cats came by at eye-level, she could contribute to the food chain without my direct intervention. I just wasn’t feeling that judgmental, though I think, on the whole, that I am opposed to mice as a general thing.
I felt bad about feeling that way for a while, so bad that Frank-the-lawn-guy called and said I had left the key turned on the new old tractor, and it was as dead as a doornail where I shut it down in the middle of the center aisle of the barn.
I wondered if I had budgeted for a new 12-vote battery, and how soon this was all going to result in shifting from Croftburn Farms organic produce to canned pet food, but, hey, it’s only money, right?
I was resigning myself to confronting all that with a firm dose of fiscal austerity, but that bores me too. Instead, I found out something new to worry about. Well, not worry, per se. It was more in the line of useful information that explained something without requiring any magical or hysterical thinking.
No, it is not a Carrington Event, the tongue of solar fire that licked out of the sun’s surface in 1859 and made the telegraphs click and clack all by themselves across North America. We just dodged one a few weeks ago; timing is indeed everything. You might want to look it up and imagine what the effects might be on our device-dependent society. But what I learned was sort of like that.
I will have to get around to that tomorrow, I imagine. Stay tuned.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Pick a Side
I was pecking away at something much safer- real life and death in human scale- but I saw a column the other day on the vast amount of out-of-state cash pouring into Virginia that made me sensitive to those insert ads that I saw on several sites as I scanned the morning rants. Here is one:
It is not strange to see these sorts of things on mainstream media outlets- the President was inviting me to dinner from a banner ad on AOL for months during the campaign, though I never actually got an invite- but I thought it was curious to see it also on some of the conservative websites. It appears to be part of a major campaign, a flood across the internet. The reason seems fairly clear: it is about painting the GOP candidate for Governor of Virginia as a know-nothing, pro-coal, anti-science Neanderthal, meaning no disrespect to our species former in-laws.
I am not a fan of some of Mr. Cuccinelli’s litigation as the Attorney General, and oppose his social agenda, though I have admired his energy. As far as I know, the only out-and-out crook in the race is carpetbagger and crony capitalist Terry McAulliffe, whose scams in renewable cars (or whatever) have produced no actual vehicles, but transferred millions from the public coffers for him and his pals.
Cuccinelli and McAuliffe have been running close in the polls, but McAuliffe, a former Democratic National Committee chairman, had $6 million in cash on hand as of June 30, to Cuccinelli’s nearly $2.7 million. Since then, millions more have flooded in from the Democrat and Republican Governor’s associations. According to NPR this morning, this is a first: both candidates are getting the majority of their campaign donations from out of state and both national political parties are investing heavily in our swing-state race.
The reason so many groups are spending big on Virginia is because we truly are the only game in town this year- The New Jersey race seems to be firmly in Chris Christy’s ample bag. Some wag yesterday said he was in the running to be the most popular Democrat in the country, just behind Mrs. Clinton.
Now, I am not completely sure what it is the Governor of Virginia has got to do with global climate change, exactly, except for taking a state position on supporting hydrocarbon extraction and perhaps endorsing nuclear power, but I think a reasonable person might suspect “not much.”
As best I can determine, one of the arguments is that the low-lying Tidewater region of Virginia is prone to flooding, that is as true today as it was in 1609. The implication, though, is that anyone skeptical of dramatic sea-level rise must be in favor of drowning the people of Norfolk. It seems sort of…well…loony.
OK, here is where we veer off into the religion of climate change. As a Green pal noted the other day, we are way beyond rational discourse on the subject. But I have to say that the “settled science” of massive sea level rise is anything but that. Here is the state of revealed truth: the National Geographic ran a cover with the Statue of Liberty immersed up to her waist in sea water; which would reflect an actual rise in the seas of about 214 feet. That is pretty shocking, and at a mean sea level trend of 2.77 millimeters per year, could happen in as little as 23,537.9 years.
I know, I know, the cover is intended to be a metaphor about why we have to Do Something Right Away, but forgive me if yawn a bit. Is it my imagination, but since the sea ice in the arctic is up 60% this year from last, and the antarctic expanse is at record high levels, the level of alarm has gotten a little strident?
And besides, since the Virginia governor is limited to only four years, I doubt that this election has much to do with sea-level rise, so it appears there is something else going on. Accordingly, I wanted to know who the the “NextGen Climate Action Committee” might be, and why they are so interested in Virginia.
Here is what I found, and it connects directly to the exaggerated alarm in the once-respected National Geographic. There is a non-crisis in sea levels. But here are some of the talking points that come directly from the NextGen Climate Action Committee.
“Climate Change By the Numbers:
5 feet: Amount scientists expect sea levels to rise even if we take drastic and immediate measures to cut greenhouse gas emissions. (Source: Nature Climate Change, June 2012)
6 million: Number of Americans who live less than 5 feet above local high tide. (Source: The New York Times)
100 million: Number of people worldwide who live in areas below sea level or subject to storm surges. (Source: United Nations University)
10,000 square miles: Area of land that will be wiped out in the United States alone if sea levels rise 2 feet. (Source: U.S. Environmental Protection Agency)
2012: The hottest year in 117 years of recorded U.S. climate data. (Source: ClimateWatch Magazine, Nov. 2012)
19.2 million: Number of officially recognized “persons of concern,” who have already been displaced by environment-related disasters. (Source: United Nations University)
5: Number of climate-damaging greenhouse-gas emitting industries (agriculture, transportation, waste, building, and the energy sector) that must be scaled back dramatically “if the world is to have a running chance of keeping a global average temperature rise below 2 degrees Celsius [35.6 degrees Fahrenheit] this century.” (Source: United Nations Environment Programme, Nov. 2012)
150,000: Number of deaths per year worldwide that are related to climate change. (Source: World Health Organization)
Pretty alarming, right? And pretty imminent, I guess. I remember the Navy trying something like this in one of the eternal budget struggles with the Army and Air Force to demonstrate that most of the people on the earth live near navigable water. All true. The water is why we are there. If we are going to be inundated, maybe we ought to think about moving? We only have a few tens of thousands of years to prepare.
The problem is that once you get past the first bullet, you get to all sorts of idle conjecture and what-ifs. So, if the first bit of it is wrong, then the rest is nonsense.
Five feet in a century is a little more human scale, but there is a mass of information that refutes the estimate of “five feet” of sea level rise in some unspecified amount of time.
Let’s cut to the chase: the organization most invested in the idea of catastrophic climate change is the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), which is to issue it’s fifth comprehensive report in the next week or so. There are some real problems with the accuracy of their predictions, to wit, actual observed temperatures have remained well below ALL the computer models, and we are going to be forced to deal with it shortly. But here is what they say:
“The IPCC stated in 2007, “Global average sea level rose at an average rate of 1.8 mm per year over 1961 to 2003. The rate was faster over 1993 to 2003: about 3.1 mm per year.”
That is higher than the mean between the two rates, but fine. Let’s take their more alarming estimate. It translates to a 100-year rise of 12 inches at the most, far below the dire predictions of the five feet rise that will drown us all if we don’t elect the right Governor.
But come on. Three millimeters is about the thickness of two dimes. Do you think scientists really measure a change in sea level over the course of a year, averaged across the world, which is two dimes thick? I won’t cite the mass of information on continental uplift, tectonic shaft and all the rest of the things that affect sea level measurement. By any objective standard, nothing significant will happen in the course of our lifetimes, or that of our kids. Or theirs, for that matter.
This is a crisis now because….?
Well, Sharon Smith, North American Coordinator of NextGen Climate thinks we ought to just get on with it, whether it is true or not.
Sharon Smith is the human face of the NextGen Climate Action Committee, which naturally has links to the 350.org crowd. That is the organization that was founded by Bill McKibben to build a global grassroots movement to raise awareness of the coming really big crisis. The name is derived from the estimate of former NASA chief climate scientist James Hansen, who famously claimed in a 2007 paper that 350 parts-per-million of the trace greenhouse gas carbon dioxide represents the tipping point at which the climate would spin upward, out of control. That was 50PPM ago, if you take the readings at the Mauna Loa Observatory at face value.
Dr. Hansen is one of my favorites in the alarmist community, since he had control of NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS) temperature data base. One of his earnest efforts was to take the recorded temperatures from long ago and revise them, according to statistical norms he devised himself. The 1930s of the Dust Bowl days had hotter temperatures and more violent weather than we have today, or at least they used to, but Dr. Hansen decided that it wasn’t, and adjusted the historical record accordingly to more accurately reflect his convictions of doom.
But even Dr. Hansen is puzzled by what is going on. Earlier this year, the good Doctor had to admit: “The five-year mean global temperature has been flat for the last decade, which we interpret as a combination of natural variability and a slow down in the growth rate of net climate forcing.”
OK. I got it. Scientists test theories, and when they don’t work, they look for the reasons why. There are real problems with the simple (and much repeated) thesis that Carbon Dioxide Causes Warming, since apparently it can take a break for reasons no one fully understands. As I mentioned to my pal the other day, after he accused me of being a shill for Big Oil: “This is beyond a scientific argument, and we are now in the region of religion.”
That is true at NextGen. The masthead of the Action Committee features a number of pleasant and diverse faces, none of whom have any particular credentials on science or climate.
Sharon Smith’s bio cites numerous accomplishments: “author of The Young Activist’s Guide to Building a Green Movement and Changing the World and is an organizer and trainer active in social change movements for global justice, human rights, and environmental sustainability. Sharon has worked with student networks to achieve landmark environmental victories in the logging and finance sectors and has trained thousands of youth in advocacy for social change…..She completed her graduate studies at the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies, where she was selected as a Switzer Fellow and a Doris Duke Conservation Fellow. She is passionate about nurturing leadership at the heart of movements for social justice and environmental sustainability.”
Sharon is not a techie nor a scientist, but she does care. And she is bankrolled by this fellow:
Tom Steyer coughed up the cash that NextGen is flooding Virginia from his roost on the West Coast. Tom is the 56-year-old billionare and founder and co-managing partner of Farallon Capital Management, L.L.C., one of the country’s most successful investment firms.
Farallon® was founded in 1986 and has been “a registered investment adviser with the United States Securities and Exchange Commission since 1990. We invest globally across asset classes, seeking to achieve superior risk-adjusted returns through a process of bottom-up fundamental analysis that emphasizes capital preservation.”
You can see the natural link to….well, I don’t. I have pals who get apoplectic at the mention of the evil Koch Brothers, but Tom has them beat to hell. This is a rich guy who serves other rich people who have dined at the public trough in the great financial scam, the exclusive party to which only Wall Street and the revolving door bureaucrats were invited while all the rest of us picked up the tab.
Tom and his wife Kat Taylor could not be more 1%, in fact, they epitomize it. They have nothing in common with the 99.9 percent of us below them on the food chain. They joined Warren Buffett, Bill and Melinda Gates, Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York and other high-wealth Americans in the “Giving Pledge,” a promise to donate the majority of their wealth to charitable and nonprofit activities during their lifetimes.
Tom and Kat are also the founders of the Oakland, California community development One PacificCoast Bank, the mission of which is “to build prosperity in our communities through beneficial banking services delivered in an economically and environmentally sustainable manner.” I think that is a swell goal and Oakland certainly needs it. I have not seen a branch in Culpeper, though. Tom graduated Summa Cum Laude and Phi Beta Kappa from Yale and received his MBA from Stanford’s Graduate School of Business.
Smart people, I grant, and committed to fundamentally changing the world that has blessed them so richly. I sort of like the one in which I live, which appears to have an astonishing variability and is much more complex than even the equally smart scientists really understand.
But like I say, this is about religion, not science. I think that If a theory has problems, you really ought to be challenged on the matter of the facts. That is something called the scientific method.The Oxford English Dictionary defines that process as: “a method or procedure that has characterized natural science since the 17th century, consisting in systematic observation, measurement, and experiment, and the formulation, testing, and modification of hypotheses.”
We are not doing much of that lately: like NextGen, we operate on Big Change based on Revealed Truth.
Ms. Smith and Tom both went to Yale. Are the Old Elis the link in the chain?
I don’t know. Beats me. Wake me up in 23,500 years and let’s see who was right. I think we have time.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Turf Tiger
I may have made another mistake yesterday, but if I did it was in a worthy cause.
The last time you were looking for a tractor, I imagine you went through the same thing I did. So tiresome. John Deere? Kubota? Buy new or used? Did you get the sticker shock I did, comparing even the higher end Sears lawn tractors with real solid agricultural machines?
Stop at one of those houses along the side of the road and make an inquiry to the person inside the little bungalow up the narrow lane?
I have been meaning to actually stop and check out one of those machines, have been for years. Now that I am a man of reduced means but lofty objectives, I thought one of the first places to impose fiscal discipline was on mowing the fields, a ritual that needs to be accomplished at least three or four times a season.
That and the lawn in front of the little farm-house.
Anyway, it has been a rainy and cool season and the grass has loved it. To keep it beat down and the place looking reasonable, Frank-the-Pasture-Guy was making a pretty good season off me, and the imperative of cutting that cost would go a long way to getting through the summer.
I was alarmed when I saw his number come up on my cell phone last week- I had just sent him a depressingly large check and wondered if there was some other expensive disaster with which he needed to acquaint me.
It wasn’t a disaster, at least not yet. He told me he had taken on another couple properties to manage, and some of them had big hills on them. His current tractor was not optimized to handle the incline- and does not have a roll cage to protect him should the machine run out of control and turn over and crush him.
Accordingly, he needed to sell his old mower and upgrade. “Would you be interested in buying the Turf Tiger? He named a price that was in line with what Sears would charge for an anemic lawn-tractor, and I made the decision on the spot.
“I have needed another powerful, dangerous machine to operate since I got rid of the Harley,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
Frank came by Sunday morning to deliver the orange beast. I had not known the brand- it is a proud 2003 SCAG TFF Turf Tiger. I had never seen it close up- I had only seen Frank scoot the porch by on it, using the opposable control levers with easy mastery, turning the 60-inch blade deck to trim the yard precisely to 3-1/2 inches in height, and the fields to 4.
We shot the shit as he explained the key controls. The foot pedal to drop the cutting deck, the notches to set of height, engine on, choke, blade engage and shut off. Then we did belts and engine stuff- hydraulic fluids, oil and lube points. “I just had her serviced, Buck is the Man. I used to drive all the way to Warrenton to have him work on her.”
“Buck,” I said, writing the name across the back cover of the owner’s manual.
“Twleve miles an hour, tops, he said. But look out for downhill.”
“What could go wrong?” I said, “Isn’t this the way country singer Buck Ownes used to get to the bar after they took his license away?”
Frank nodded as he demonstrated how the strange insect-like levers fold inward to control the left and right drive wheels, enabling precision cutting.
“Watch your rocks,” he said, gesturing toward the pasture. “If you hit them with the blades you can really screw yourself up.”
“I am looking forward to it,” I said., and handed him an envelope filled with cash. I assumed he wanted this off the books, and why not? What business does the government have with this anyway?
Frank drove away in his ancient Toyota truck with the empty trailer bouncing on the gravel drive. Crap, I thought. Now I need a trailer.
The Russians stopped by on their way back north to see the new toy. Matt climbed up on the seat and beamed. “Shit hot. Now I can cut that pasture between the properties!”
“From each according to their needs,” I said gravely, and thought about pouring one of the most Russian of beverages to celebrate.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Carpe Diem
It will be Fall this afternoon, officially, though driving through the Virginia countryside you can see that it has already arrived here. The hay-bales are stacked, some of them painted bright seasonal orange, and the advertising for the haunted hay-rides are sprinkled along Route 33 and the Zachary Taylor Highway that brought me, eventually, to Refuge Farm.
I was in a pensive mood that matched the sky and the gray paint of the Panzer. The day had started sunny and mild, and I had volunteered to go down to Williamsburg to help a pal with some chores. He is fighting something so big that it is almost overwhelming and anything his friends can do, we will do.
As a happy side benefit of our morning email exchanges, my pal Pete also agreed to come up from his place in Chesapeake, and a good, if sobering, time was held by all.
You can say that life has piled on him. I won’t be specific, except to say that he is fighting for his life on several fronts and he is fighting hard and with grace. He is my hero.
Anyway, he passes along a really important concept about how we should view life. “Carpe Diem,” he says. Live it while you can. Only when someone tells you the number of the days that remain does the reality really intrude, and if you decide to fight, that is all there is to do.
Anyway, we did yard work and some power washing on the nice house on the golf course, and after an ice tea to close out the working day, John wanted to give us a tour of the community.
Governor’s Land at Two Rivers is Williamsburg’s only private country club community. Physically, it is locate in the Historic Triangle of Williamsburg, Jamestown and Yorktown, and just minutes from the College of William & Mary.
If you wanted a place that is more historic in America, I am highly dubious that you can find one. The community is upscale; John and his wife bought a lot here years ago before they erected the marvelous open home with polished wood floors and well-selected appurtenances.
The Tom Fazio-designed course wanders through the development. There is a well-protected private marina and yacht club, secure but not gated, the community occupies a spectacular waterfront setting with awe-inspiring sunsets over the James and Chickahominy Rivers.
John took us on a windshield tour before the rain came and the road beckoned for his volunteer labor force. We drove around the fine houses and manicured lawns that are mirrored by the magnificent green of the golf course. Pete was driving, and John directed him to stop put on the emergency flashers.
“You guys get out and walk over and read that plaque. That is why the clubhouse is not on the 18th Green.”
Pete and I clambered out and walked over to look at the raised metal words.
“Holy crap!” exclaimed Pete. I read along with him.
“The confluence of the James and Chickahominy rivers about six miles from where America’s first permanent English colony was founded in 1607 and within what was known after 1619 as the “Company Land,” whose income was intended to benefit the Virginia Company of London.”
Apparently during the initial site preparation for the course, artifacts were found that placed one of the first immigrant support barracks in English-speaking North America was directly under our feet. Nearby the remains of local Paspahegh people were reinterred after their graves were discovered in the dig.
A large Indian village had been located here as well, and first identified by none other than John Smith in his early explorations of the Middle Neck of Virginia. The Paspaheghs were part of the Powhatan paramount chiefdom and were the Powhatan group closest to Jamestown during the earliest years of English settlement.
The full spectrum of the Virginia experience was contained below the neatly trimmed fairway and green at the edge of the Chickahominy River, since it is also the location of possibly the earliest slave quarters found in Virginia.
(Several objects from this late-17th/early 18th-century slave site, including a brass buckle, brass spoon bowl, shark’s tooth and pipe. Photo Governor’s Land.)
We were filled with awe as we got back in the car. John directed us around to tour the marina and we did the suitable oohs and ahs over the house with all the glass, right at the mouth of the harbor and the Sag Harbor motor-yacht moored to the seawall alongside. Then presented us with commemorative shirts to remember the occasion.
“It won’t be the last time we are here,” I said when we shook hands in farewell.
“Not on your life, John,,” said Pete.
“Carpe Diem,” said John.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
The Kiplinger Letter
No, it is not like the Zimmerman Telegram.
Dad used to get the Kiplinger Letter, a weekly business and economic forecasting periodical for people in management. It was started in 1920 by a former AP economics reporter and is still around today as a closely held company managed for more than eight decades by three generations of the Kiplinger family. It came to the house on Hawthorne Street in Birmingham, MI, in a plain manila folder written in bullet format. It gave all sorts of tips for the small investor, and he used to plan his financial strategy, which as I recall was to “buy high” and wait for a while and then “sell low.”
He thought it was important, and I tried to read it without much effect. Dad even encouraged me to own a share of stock so that I would have some skin in the stock market and follow how things worked. The Kiplinger Letter recommended Continental Airlines stock, which he dutifully purchased for my twelfth birthday.
It zoomed to the heights- from thirty bucks to a hundred and twenty and then tripled, so that I suddenly had not one but three shares in the young airline. And then it collapsed and I had less than what Dad had started with.
That is pretty much the way I have handled my finances. Two key tips to security are obvious, so I will give them away free: pick your parents carefully. If you are married, stay that way.
Like Dad, I wasn’t very astute about those, but what can you say?
Unlike most other publishers, Kiplinger answers the queries of its readers as a regular feature of their subscriptions, filling requests for additional information on any subject its publications covers, by phone, mail or email. I am no broker, nor do I have any particular insight into the market, except to know that it is rigged, that the smart guys are playing with House money, and we are all going to get screwed when the artificial bubbles in real estate, stocks and bonds burst.
Those facts appear to be things that economists and market analysts across the political spectrum acknowledge, although the Keynesians insist that everything is fine, just relax and go with the flow.
My fellow middle class taxpaying citizens, many confronting retirement, are naturally suspicious. Since we know what is going to happen, we ought to prepare to cope with it. In honor of the traditions of the Kiplinger Letter, I will share what some of our readers think about how to get ready.
Mountain House says:
Vic, I have a lot of money in both stocks and bonds. Right now they’re doing great. If we hit the brick wall or slide into the ditch most or all of that money – something like a half mill- is gone. But absent more specific warning there isn’t much I can sensibly do. I’m diversified but I’m not safe. Absent knowledge of when the government bubble will pop (and what desperate measures they’ll take when that happens), here is all we can think of:
– hold some precious metals as a sort of insurance policy against currency collapse/inflation
– keep some money in cash and out of the banks
– consider keeping some money outside of the country in a foreign currency (in Canada?)
– have a full set of household stuff, replacing things that are old and on their last legs
– store basic supplies
– minimize your debt, recurring bills and tax exposure
There will be nothing you can do about your holdings in stocks and bonds (again, absent unambiguous warning).
“Unambiguous warning” is what we used to consider justification for going to a higher DEFCON and get ready to move nuclear weapons around. I will be looking for something unambiguous out there for sure- I mean where we are going is not the question, it is rather when we are going to get there.
My Coon-ass Cajun advisor contributed this:
Ever hear of a “707 account?” 707 stands for article 707 of the IRS code which authorizes these accounts. Most of the past Presidents of the last 105 years have had such an account. Many members of Congress have them and most of the big shots on Wall Street don’t invest in their own mutual funds but pack savings away in a 707.
I’m still trying to figure out exactly how they work and how you open one. I’m told you can actually start one for about $300. It is illegal for the organizations that offer these accounts to advertise them. They have consistently paid 5 to 9 % tax-free. There is no penalty for withdrawal at any time. No transactions are reportable to the IRS. If you know anything share it and I’ll do likewise as I learn more. They say these accounts are where the rich store the bulk of their wealth.
If anyone has a line on what this device may be, please let us know. The Canjun and I are also looking for large Bridges to purchase.
My associate gumshoe Marlow lit up a fine Cuban cigar and puffed pensively. In his view:
“The middle and lower middle classes (with their BS affordable care that they can’t afford) will bear the brunt of this slow gathering shit storm. The pols and talking heads will play the blame game, collect their pensions & book royalties, and sit on their board seats, while clucking away in the media.
The really smart guys in the money/currency markets for several months have started taking inexpensive intermediate term hedges just in case.
I had been fully invested in stock markets via value-oriented stocks and mutual funds since 1977. In 2007, I took more than 2/3’s of my gains out of emerging markets, small caps, etc, and redeployed the funds in large and middle cap value funds, high yield bond funds, etc.
This summer I have been thinking the unthinkable – going safe. With a cash stash and W’s ~60-70K in gold/silver under the bed, a soon to be paid off mortgage, my SS, mil and VA pensions, the SO’s business throwing off cash till she sells, we will likely dollar cost average her cash into the markets over several years until things become much clearer.
I may rearrange 50% of my 401K/IRA stuff into safer holdings in the next month or so. Better safe than sorry despite my staying fully invested in the markets through the last four crises (1987, S&L, dot.com, housing).
This time is very different. This worldwide (US, Asia, Europe)money printing bubble makes me uneasy. The markets look artificially inflated, so I may forgo a 10% uptick as a risk premium for a unexpected plunge (after which there will be quality buying opportunities).
Cash (say 5% of your net worth), a paid off mortgage, and 5% of your net worth in precious metals seem like prudent hedges.
Specifically look at energy stocks like Nextera, CVX & XOM, certain drug companies, and other S&P A quality stocks and diversified value mutual funds for the rest.
I may dump all my bond funds this fall or sooner if the idiots close the government, despite their returns after QE4ever’s extension yesterday.
If we don’t commence a better glide path to a soft economic worldwide landing, given the growing potential for an exogenous adverse event in Asia SE or SW, I may go even safer on hedges.
We are full time residents in an Idiocracy.”
I had to sigh over that one, since it appears to be the most factual assessment of the situation. We are in a speeding car and the driver isn’t paying much attention to where we are going at such great speed.
Damn. If only I had been better about picking parents. Oh well. The best advice came from one of my older friends, an academic who actually teaches economics:
“Vic. Dump stocks and get out of the Market now. Invest only in Guns and Ammo and canned food and Vodka and bottled water. And Slim Jims.”
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
One for the Ditch
My associates have been beating the frontier drums all morning, and it is making me more than a little nuts. Sorry. Not your fault.
The issues at hand include the drive-by shootings in Chicago, notably the one that produced 13 victims, including a three year old, in the Back of the Yards neighborhood where Mrs. Obama started out his career as a community organizer.
We won’t know the motive for the shooting- they may in Chi-town, of course, but this story will sink like a stone. There is little comparison with the horror of the incident at the Navy Yard, despite the numbers and the fact that the localities share the strictest gun control regulations in the country, blah blah, but I am not interested in getting into that this morning, or the implications of what Mr. Bernanke did with his startling decision to continue the “Quantitative Easing” money-printing thing.
Most analysts expected the “taper” be started, so the new Fed Cheif would inherit some flexibility. That the Fed didn’t makes we wonder. The implications of it are pretty stark, and add to my general sense of unease. Smarter folks than me have laid it out pretty clearly- Peter Schiff from Euro Pacific Capital is one of them- and he thinks the mainstream analysts have overestimated the strength of our current economy. He thinks the Fed understands, as the market seems not to, that the current “recovery” could not survive without continuation of massive monetary stimulus.
Which means it is not a recovery at all. The money flowing out of the Bureau of engraving is actually pumping up another housing bubble and making the Stock Market artificially healthy.
Since everything I have got is in those two places, that has me nervous.
I was talking to Old Jim about that last night. Jim is a Democrat of the Old School, and the Tea Party folks drive him nuts. He thinks they are engaged in the politics of self-destruction, and are opposed to everything the President wants to do just because they don’t like him.
“They are all fucked up,” he said, taking a pull on his long-neck Bud.
“Well, I think that about the Administration, too,” I said, looking at the people walking by the Willow patio. Nicely-dressed people sat on the metal patio chairs and looked back, sipping wine and nibbling on morsels cooked by Robert in the kitchen.
“Well then you are fucked up, too,” he growled.
“I certainly acknowledge that. But listen, the Tea Party drives me crazy, too, when they get off onto social issues that I don’t believe in. I may be a social progressive who supports gay marriage, legalized pot and individual liberty, but I also believe in a strong military, the rule of law, and sound fiscal management. I don’t see any of that going on these days. It is not personal and it is not about the President, at least not in the way you think it is.”
“Well, I do believe in paying the bills,” he said. “We have to do that, just like we have to pay our bar tab.”
“Right. The alternative is to have Tex and Brenna cut us off. I think we are in a speeding car and the driver can’t take their foot off the accelerator. We are either going to have to swerve off the road and hope the ditch slows us down or we are going to hit a wall going a hundred and twenty. If Gentle Ben had started to taper off the QE thing, the bond markets would have tanked. He couldn’t have that.”
“But stocks and houses are doing great.”
“Bubbles, Jim. There is no place else for all the money to go. We are being set up for something, I am convinced. I have never owned a bond in my life, so I don’t know jack-squat about how it all works, but the smart guys have got this thing rigged. If stock and home prices continue to rise, and if the unemployment picture appears to be improving, it is only because the workforce is shrinking. There are fewer of us working than any time since the Carter Administration. The Fed has painted itself into a corner the same way we did on Syria. How can Ben keep claiming that the money-printing has to go on when things are supposed to be improving every quarter?”
“Been there. I remember the S&L crisis and the dot-com bubble and all the rest of it. You know I used to drink with Jeff Skilling?”
“The Enron CEO? The smartest guy in the room? Where did you meet him?”
“A bar downtown, before the conviction. He was actually a pretty good guy, despite all the flak he got. They nailed him on conspiracy and racketeering and he is doing 24 years and some change in the pen at Littleton, Colorado.”
“I remember a quote he had from that time.”
“He had a bunch,” said Jim, waggling a finger at Brenna for another Bud. “Including the one that got him arrested up in New York.”
“Which one was that?”
“He was shit-faced and haranguing the pedestrians on the street, accusing them of being undercover FBI.”
“I assume some of them might have been.”
“Well you may not be wrong on that, given what we know now. But the one I was thinking of was the meeting before the collapse in which he joked about the California energy crisis. He said , “What is the difference between California and the Titanic? At least when the Titanic went down, the lights were on.” ”
“Hilarious,” I said. “Why do I get the feeling that we just hit an iceberg here, too?”
“You are going to drive yourself crazy if you keep fixating on all this stuff,” said Jim firmly. “All we need is another couple thousand a month and we are going to be fine.”
“Maybe,” I said, taking a sip of wine. It was crisp and cold and it made a good deal of sense, in its own way. “But like I said, this isn’t personal. There are some powerful things going on that I don’t understand. Fewer Americans are working at crappier jobs. Energy usage is down, the trade balance is weakening, savings are down, inflation is showing up in inconvenient places, debt is up, and wages are flat. So what the hell are we supposed to do?”
“Try to figure out when, I guess. But in the meantime, why don’t you have another glass of wine and relax?”
“You are right, Jim. Screw it.” I looked at Brenna hopefully. “One more for the ditch?”
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303