I believe the definition of par is the number of strokes an expert golfer requires to complete a hole. The par for a 72-hole tournament’s completion is four days, which may have to succumb to Mother Nature’s par for the skies of New York lo these many days.
Instead of delivering buttery bucketsful of sunshine, she has deemed it necessary to strap kegs of Poland Spring to the gray clouds. Our promising tan is fading, and the makers of sunblock lotion must be laying off thousands.
In the meantime, Mother Nature’s niece, Miss Market, must be obeyed as well. We cannot bend them to our will. Even Tiger Woods, 11 strokes off the lead after 36 holes as we write, must bow every now and then to the vagaries of nature.
Miss Market will increasingly inflict pain or rain riches according to the broad-brush data released every week. That’s because stock prices will more and more respond to news about the general health of the economy than the efforts at political jockeying on legislation. Change in financial sector regulation is a given, as is health care reform, deficit spending and money supply growth. Barking about reforms being too much or too little is quibbling. Too often, we seek the perfect at the expense of the possible. Recovery is baked in the cake.
Last week, the Conference Board reported that its index of leading economic indicators rose 1.2% in May, the second straight monthly increase. And the Philly Fed index rose to negative 2.2 in June from negative 22.6 in May, the best business condition in the Philadelphia region since September. New orders and shipments improved, as employment remained very weak. Those who still have jobs are running faster on the treadmill.
We will have to run a little faster this week to make up for the baseball picks last week. We picked the wrong day to take the Floridian fish over the pinstripers, the same day we foolishly believed the Coors Field tall boys would turn chilly against the plucky Bucs. Earlier, we put our faith again in young Vin Mazzaro of the Elephant patches against the old Brooklynites in southern California.
Mother Nature and Miss Market can be obstinate, but patience will bring them around. Stay long equities and oil, short bonds. The U.S. Open will crown a champion sooner or later. Here’s hoping it’s later, as Kev has a Thursday ticket good for Monday if they can’t finish today. Long shot investment tip of the week: Go long Duval, short Barnes.
Showing posts with label investing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label investing. Show all posts
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Are We Not Men?
The stress test of dating Miss Market is getting the best of me. I have passed the midterm but worry about the final. This mischievous minx has been keeping me up beyond what my late years can stand. As I crush another cigarette into my 22-year-old crimson OU Sooners ash tray, pour another diet coke, ponder my winning line to the New Yorker’s cartoon caption contest, uncap my pen to do a week’s worth of crossword puzzles and struggle to meet a Monday deadline, the sporting life beckons.
In one’s fifties, the best, the definition of which is up for debate, is behind you, but more subtle pleasures resonate with a tang that the impatient young can only laugh at – for now. My golfing buddies and I pulled into the parking lot with trepidation. The course was chock-a-block with men seeking a spring day in the sun, a hotdog at the turn and a chance at glory before the weekend duties of family, laundry, gardens and a spouse’s “honey do” list descended.
Almost an hour and a half transpired between the first tee shot and completing the second hole. Two of my harried partners were making phone calls and thumbing Blackberries to keep the commercial world at bay, yet they managed to engineer heroic shots – one with a cigar clenched in his teeth, another after taking a munch of his apple. It takes all kinds. Banter of awry domestic life, wayward business deals, tips on wayward swings (siblings and friends were probably bemoaning us, errant drives and Miss Market on golf courses of their own) and the futility of pleasing our cruel mistresses, Miss Market and three-putts among them, filled the interstices.
For my part, didn’t slice all day, which I consider a victory, though I hit my usual score of 104. I say victory because I can see the possibility of cratering my handicap. It lies just beyond the swale of the 18th hole at Dyker Beach. One crisp approach shot and I could have two-putted for par. It was not to be this glorious Friday, but it awaits me on Fridays or Mondays or Thursdays to come. I chunked it and cursed, but I could see the future as surely as Cotton Mather, Thomas Paine and Al Capone sensed the exceptionalism of the New World. It’s just a seven-iron away.
For a few hours, the Taliban were retreating to their caves, all our children were above average (like the banks, all of which I predict somehow passed Geithner’s stress test) and significant others were cheerful helpmeets while the lords of the manor frolicked after finding an entry on to the Gowanus.
Yet mistakes abound, such as my disastrous attempt to get out of a greenside bunker. Miss Market beckons with a smirk. Hey, big spender, she simpers, how about a smidgen of Viagra? No, thanks, darling. No leverage required in this environment. A scorecard with 90 at the end of 18 is all but assured. But wise men never fall in love so how are they to know.
Ford has enriched us with its $1.4 billion loss in the first quarter, less than expected, and refusal to take bailout dough. Palm continues to romance with the Pre smart phone. AMD is hanging in there. And this just in, Matthew Stafford will get gazillions in the NFL draft because he is young and strong.
But the old and weak can be winners, too, when they are misperceived as such. This is the due diligence or wishful thinking of the stock picker. Either it's cheap or cheap for a reason. Pessimism on real estate could be at a turning point. Adding Developers Diversifed Realty Corp. (DDR) at $3.90, up 11% on Friday.
After all, bogey golf would put me at 90, a milestone not to be sniffed at. Just a seven-iron away.
In one’s fifties, the best, the definition of which is up for debate, is behind you, but more subtle pleasures resonate with a tang that the impatient young can only laugh at – for now. My golfing buddies and I pulled into the parking lot with trepidation. The course was chock-a-block with men seeking a spring day in the sun, a hotdog at the turn and a chance at glory before the weekend duties of family, laundry, gardens and a spouse’s “honey do” list descended.
Almost an hour and a half transpired between the first tee shot and completing the second hole. Two of my harried partners were making phone calls and thumbing Blackberries to keep the commercial world at bay, yet they managed to engineer heroic shots – one with a cigar clenched in his teeth, another after taking a munch of his apple. It takes all kinds. Banter of awry domestic life, wayward business deals, tips on wayward swings (siblings and friends were probably bemoaning us, errant drives and Miss Market on golf courses of their own) and the futility of pleasing our cruel mistresses, Miss Market and three-putts among them, filled the interstices.
For my part, didn’t slice all day, which I consider a victory, though I hit my usual score of 104. I say victory because I can see the possibility of cratering my handicap. It lies just beyond the swale of the 18th hole at Dyker Beach. One crisp approach shot and I could have two-putted for par. It was not to be this glorious Friday, but it awaits me on Fridays or Mondays or Thursdays to come. I chunked it and cursed, but I could see the future as surely as Cotton Mather, Thomas Paine and Al Capone sensed the exceptionalism of the New World. It’s just a seven-iron away.
For a few hours, the Taliban were retreating to their caves, all our children were above average (like the banks, all of which I predict somehow passed Geithner’s stress test) and significant others were cheerful helpmeets while the lords of the manor frolicked after finding an entry on to the Gowanus.
Yet mistakes abound, such as my disastrous attempt to get out of a greenside bunker. Miss Market beckons with a smirk. Hey, big spender, she simpers, how about a smidgen of Viagra? No, thanks, darling. No leverage required in this environment. A scorecard with 90 at the end of 18 is all but assured. But wise men never fall in love so how are they to know.
Ford has enriched us with its $1.4 billion loss in the first quarter, less than expected, and refusal to take bailout dough. Palm continues to romance with the Pre smart phone. AMD is hanging in there. And this just in, Matthew Stafford will get gazillions in the NFL draft because he is young and strong.
But the old and weak can be winners, too, when they are misperceived as such. This is the due diligence or wishful thinking of the stock picker. Either it's cheap or cheap for a reason. Pessimism on real estate could be at a turning point. Adding Developers Diversifed Realty Corp. (DDR) at $3.90, up 11% on Friday.
After all, bogey golf would put me at 90, a milestone not to be sniffed at. Just a seven-iron away.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Saints and Sinners
Before there was a Joe Pa at Penn State there was a St. Bud at the University of Oklahoma.
Bud Wilkinson, the blond, debonair Minnesotan, father of the split-T offense and holder of a master's degree in English, reigned with gentlemanly grace as the Sooner coach 1947-1963. I watched his teams on Owen Field as a boy from a 40-yard line perch with my father, who had two season tickets as a graduate student from 1957-60.
Like Proust's bite of the madeleine cake, recalling the aroma of hot dog mustard and cigar smoke as we entered the stadium, shafts of light shooting through the ramps that led to the seats above, summons a whole world, as alive as if it were yesterday. We would buy a program and two cardboard visors to keep the powerful early autumn sunshine at bay. Hey, I still see the lonesome end offense of Army's Red Blaik in 1959.
Bud was many things -- a Pericles of the Athens of the Plains, innovative offensive football mind (the split-T presaged today's spread formations with its wider than normal splits on the offensive line), a scratch golfer and an astute appraiser of young men. Bud stood up against the Jim Crow pressure of the 1950s' South to recruit the first black schoolboy to play for OU -- the bruising academic All-American halfback Prentice Gautt.
The point of this stroll back to childhood is that Bud was convinced that free substitution had made the game less noble. He felt a crucial criterion in recruiting in the era of two-way players was character, found in fellows like Darrell Royal (OU quarterback and defensive back before he settled under the eyes of Texas as legendary coach) who had the discipline and steel to play 60 minutes on both sides of the ball with equal determination.
Yes, I think Bud would probably contend that two-platoon football has led directly to me-firsters like Terrell Owens (could you imagine his pout as a cornerback getting burned?) and hangers-on like Bret Favre (a hard-hitting safety in Wrangler jeans?). I think he would be right.
But enough of the churlish curmudgeon I've become. Happy days lie ahead for bulls, I believe. Miss Market is winking at us.
Given the coming stimulus plan and the Fed printing press, reflation, the gift that keeps on giving to debtors and commodity investors, is around the corner.
When times are beyond tough, as they are now, there seems to be a silly glee among the survivalist set. They think they'll finally get to eat all those cans of pork 'n beans in their basements, but they're going to be truly irked when they get through the first course and realize all those above are digging into filet mignon. Reflation is coming. If you're long pork 'n beans futures, liquidate and buy oil, copper and real estate if you have the dough.
Christmas message to come.
Bud Wilkinson, the blond, debonair Minnesotan, father of the split-T offense and holder of a master's degree in English, reigned with gentlemanly grace as the Sooner coach 1947-1963. I watched his teams on Owen Field as a boy from a 40-yard line perch with my father, who had two season tickets as a graduate student from 1957-60.
Like Proust's bite of the madeleine cake, recalling the aroma of hot dog mustard and cigar smoke as we entered the stadium, shafts of light shooting through the ramps that led to the seats above, summons a whole world, as alive as if it were yesterday. We would buy a program and two cardboard visors to keep the powerful early autumn sunshine at bay. Hey, I still see the lonesome end offense of Army's Red Blaik in 1959.
Bud was many things -- a Pericles of the Athens of the Plains, innovative offensive football mind (the split-T presaged today's spread formations with its wider than normal splits on the offensive line), a scratch golfer and an astute appraiser of young men. Bud stood up against the Jim Crow pressure of the 1950s' South to recruit the first black schoolboy to play for OU -- the bruising academic All-American halfback Prentice Gautt.
The point of this stroll back to childhood is that Bud was convinced that free substitution had made the game less noble. He felt a crucial criterion in recruiting in the era of two-way players was character, found in fellows like Darrell Royal (OU quarterback and defensive back before he settled under the eyes of Texas as legendary coach) who had the discipline and steel to play 60 minutes on both sides of the ball with equal determination.
Yes, I think Bud would probably contend that two-platoon football has led directly to me-firsters like Terrell Owens (could you imagine his pout as a cornerback getting burned?) and hangers-on like Bret Favre (a hard-hitting safety in Wrangler jeans?). I think he would be right.
But enough of the churlish curmudgeon I've become. Happy days lie ahead for bulls, I believe. Miss Market is winking at us.
Given the coming stimulus plan and the Fed printing press, reflation, the gift that keeps on giving to debtors and commodity investors, is around the corner.
When times are beyond tough, as they are now, there seems to be a silly glee among the survivalist set. They think they'll finally get to eat all those cans of pork 'n beans in their basements, but they're going to be truly irked when they get through the first course and realize all those above are digging into filet mignon. Reflation is coming. If you're long pork 'n beans futures, liquidate and buy oil, copper and real estate if you have the dough.
Christmas message to come.
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