Golf is a perverse pastime. It requires concentration and nonchalance in equal parts. You have to care and not care at the same time. It is the blend that those of us not blessed with a carefree mind and natural athletic grace attempt to concoct to approximate the real thing.
It is our superstitious opinion that a putter contains only so many true rolls and that practice depletes that number. After all, why do so many sluggers forgo the home-run derby the night before the All-Star game?
And it is a truism, not a superstition, that a good big man will beat a good little man every day. Remember the look on Michael Spinks’ face when he saw Mike Tyson charge out from his corner? That visage of terror haunts us to this day. It wasn’t quite that bad with good little old man Tom Watson on Sunday at Turnberry, but you could tell when he pulled the putter back for an eight-footer that would have won The Open Championship that fear had conquered him.
Carrying the torch for us 50-somethings, he cared too much and then the wheels came off in the playoff. He was simply one stroke too old. As Vince Lombardi said, fatigue makes cowards of us all. And fatigue strikes the aging with much more frequency than it does the younger. This is the way God planned it and we must accept it
Now Stewart Cink, the fellow with a golfer’s tan that includes his pale pate when unhatted, a jarring sight, is no teen-age phenom, but his assertion that he felt no nervousness rings true. Doubt afflicts the older man as he grows tired. We must again go to the young genius Keats when he addressed the nightingale thusly:
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Notice the modifiers preceding “man” – good, big and little. By taking one more club, the little man swinging with confidence can carry the water and set himself up for a birdie putt, while the big man with a grandiose opinion of his talent will take a pitching wedge and shank it into the wildlife clustering at the edge of the pond.
Similarly, the good young man will beat the good old man more often than not. Again, this is God’s plan. The Bishop in Caddyshack who “theoretically” could have beaten the course record in a thunderstorm missed the point when he declared in the bar at Bushwood that there is no God.
Of course there is, your eminence. He made Watson take the eight-iron instead of the nine.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
They Don't Write 'em Like That Anymore
“Green grass ‘round my window
Young leaves that the wind blows…” (Green Grass, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, 1966).
Oh fuggedaboutit. Kev’s trash-strewn Brooklyn thoroughfare sprouts nothing but vile rap lyrics at decibels that make us want to join the NRA, secure a shotgun and blast several engine blocks while blaring Petula Clark from our cute little Sony boom box. “Don’t sleep in the subway, darling,” would be our “hasta la vista, baby.”
But we realize it’s a free country. We ended our popular music infatuation around 1969, extended by a Steely Dan and Allman Brothers habit in the 1970s, and so acknowledge we have become a cranky old man standing athwart history and yelling, Stop! Yeah, I’m feelin’ groovy all right.
Let’s be clear. We’re usually an optimistic sort, and will return to that sunny clime soon enough. For now, we slog through a slough of despond, imploring Miss Market and our zen-like putting stroke to return. Anthony Kim and Hunter Mahan must be going through the same thing, watching the red-shirted master of the universe roll in a 20-foot putt on 16 for the winning margin. Not to mention Andy Roddick, whose serve wasn’t broken until the 30th and final game of the fifth set at the All England Club. As a wise friend of mine has noted, guys like Eldrick Woods and Roger Federer “command the elements.” The rest of us must live with our imperfections. They are legion. Roddick’s defeat was foreshadowed as early as the second set, when he flubbed away a 6-2 advantage in the tiebreaker. Mahan’s 62 was only a tease. He foolishly warmed up on the range for a playoff.
The “green shoots” rally now must face the earnings reporting season beginning this week. And the employment data – not only the payroll losses but the shrinking workweek – point to a different kind of recovery. “Broke, disgusted, agents can’t be trusted,” as the Mamas and Papas intoned (told you we are trapped in the sixties), the American consumer isn’t going on a spending spree this time around. Don’t buy the market. Stick with what we used to call on Wall Street, “special situations.” PALM, NVAX, F, and consider airlines now that oil prices are fading. We’ll be looking for others and will report back.
Luckily, the Hess station next door saves us 45 cents on cigarettes. But we think we’ll soon have to start rolling our own.
Young leaves that the wind blows…” (Green Grass, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, 1966).
Oh fuggedaboutit. Kev’s trash-strewn Brooklyn thoroughfare sprouts nothing but vile rap lyrics at decibels that make us want to join the NRA, secure a shotgun and blast several engine blocks while blaring Petula Clark from our cute little Sony boom box. “Don’t sleep in the subway, darling,” would be our “hasta la vista, baby.”
But we realize it’s a free country. We ended our popular music infatuation around 1969, extended by a Steely Dan and Allman Brothers habit in the 1970s, and so acknowledge we have become a cranky old man standing athwart history and yelling, Stop! Yeah, I’m feelin’ groovy all right.
Let’s be clear. We’re usually an optimistic sort, and will return to that sunny clime soon enough. For now, we slog through a slough of despond, imploring Miss Market and our zen-like putting stroke to return. Anthony Kim and Hunter Mahan must be going through the same thing, watching the red-shirted master of the universe roll in a 20-foot putt on 16 for the winning margin. Not to mention Andy Roddick, whose serve wasn’t broken until the 30th and final game of the fifth set at the All England Club. As a wise friend of mine has noted, guys like Eldrick Woods and Roger Federer “command the elements.” The rest of us must live with our imperfections. They are legion. Roddick’s defeat was foreshadowed as early as the second set, when he flubbed away a 6-2 advantage in the tiebreaker. Mahan’s 62 was only a tease. He foolishly warmed up on the range for a playoff.
The “green shoots” rally now must face the earnings reporting season beginning this week. And the employment data – not only the payroll losses but the shrinking workweek – point to a different kind of recovery. “Broke, disgusted, agents can’t be trusted,” as the Mamas and Papas intoned (told you we are trapped in the sixties), the American consumer isn’t going on a spending spree this time around. Don’t buy the market. Stick with what we used to call on Wall Street, “special situations.” PALM, NVAX, F, and consider airlines now that oil prices are fading. We’ll be looking for others and will report back.
Luckily, the Hess station next door saves us 45 cents on cigarettes. But we think we’ll soon have to start rolling our own.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Stitch It Up, Doc
Recall the metallic taste and smell of blood? Seldom do middle-aged urban, sedentary adults experience it, but it is one of those startling sensations of childhood, when we are fearless and the physical world abruptly slaps some sense into us and it’s off to the emergency room for a stitch here and there. Needless to say, we and our offspring have been sewn up multiple times, only to be surprised when it happens anew.
The United States Department of Labor reported that employers shed far more jobs than anticipated in June and stocks beat a hasty retreat to the ER, much like Kev and his fellow sissies on the golf course today, who heard the rumble of thunder on the 18th hole and picked up their well-struck balls plugged in the squishy sod of Split Rock where the family Bronks used to live and the Battle of Pelham was waged in October of 1776. The latter “saved the revolution” according to the hole markers. We’ll have to look it up.
Times being what they are, this patriot wished for a shotgun in his bag to bag a family of “wild” turkeys clucking around a tee box, oblivious to the swack of titanium on Titleist as they pecked the ground for their daily bread. Oh well, probably would have sprayed buckshot at the Acela train speeding by on the outskirts and missed the plucky fowl, much like missing the fairway most of the showery day, requiring the services of a savvy lawyer.
The jobs data need a fast-talking spinmeister, too. All of the components – jobs lost, wages, hours worked, average work week – were inescapably grim. We won’t bother you with the particulars, but the anticipated recovery in the second half is thrown into serious doubt.
We remain hopeful, though. Not to put lipstick on a pig, but we remain enamored of the glamour of filthy lucre. It is our opinion that the choice between God and mammon (that is, excruciating destruction of wealth vs. happy days are here again) is a false premise. Listening to Wall Street “economists” bloviate on facts that are apparent to all but the illiterate is the equivalent of reading yesterday’s newspaper. Money supply growth and fiscal stimulus (and more to come until it works) will kick in.
No one will be blamed for taking money off the table (Kev wishes he had done so with his baseball picks last week), but the jobs report makes stocks cheaper. Which means we’ll get back in when they look too cheap. Now, where’s our shotgun? Dinner, like youth, must be served.
The United States Department of Labor reported that employers shed far more jobs than anticipated in June and stocks beat a hasty retreat to the ER, much like Kev and his fellow sissies on the golf course today, who heard the rumble of thunder on the 18th hole and picked up their well-struck balls plugged in the squishy sod of Split Rock where the family Bronks used to live and the Battle of Pelham was waged in October of 1776. The latter “saved the revolution” according to the hole markers. We’ll have to look it up.
Times being what they are, this patriot wished for a shotgun in his bag to bag a family of “wild” turkeys clucking around a tee box, oblivious to the swack of titanium on Titleist as they pecked the ground for their daily bread. Oh well, probably would have sprayed buckshot at the Acela train speeding by on the outskirts and missed the plucky fowl, much like missing the fairway most of the showery day, requiring the services of a savvy lawyer.
The jobs data need a fast-talking spinmeister, too. All of the components – jobs lost, wages, hours worked, average work week – were inescapably grim. We won’t bother you with the particulars, but the anticipated recovery in the second half is thrown into serious doubt.
We remain hopeful, though. Not to put lipstick on a pig, but we remain enamored of the glamour of filthy lucre. It is our opinion that the choice between God and mammon (that is, excruciating destruction of wealth vs. happy days are here again) is a false premise. Listening to Wall Street “economists” bloviate on facts that are apparent to all but the illiterate is the equivalent of reading yesterday’s newspaper. Money supply growth and fiscal stimulus (and more to come until it works) will kick in.
No one will be blamed for taking money off the table (Kev wishes he had done so with his baseball picks last week), but the jobs report makes stocks cheaper. Which means we’ll get back in when they look too cheap. Now, where’s our shotgun? Dinner, like youth, must be served.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Mortality
“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?” (W.B. Yeats, the Second Coming). Something stalks us, fellow boomers, and it isn't tryng to give us the comeback player of the year award. Popular culture contemporaries are checking out at a frightening clip.
Farrah Fawcett’s high point was as the pin-up girl at her most come-hitherest, despite her best efforts to grow into a serious actress. Michael Jackson’s impressive oeuvre came to be overshadowed by the bizarre personal life. Only Billy Mays’ entertaining sales pitches remain an authentic legacy, in our view. That’s all he did or apparently aspired to do. Here was a guy who could take his work, but not himself, seriously. Aged 62, 50, and 50, respectively.
“What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.” (Ecclesiastes, King James version).
(We are big on quoting better writers than ourselves today, one an Anglo-Irish poet contemplating the post-Great War world, the other some anonymous Israelite who concluded wisely that all is vanity).
We think these thinkers have something to offer the living who are still toiling, or playing, in Kev’s case, in the vineyards of this sporting life. Catastrophe and other minor setbacks lurk at every corner. Miss Market can look like Farrah Fawcett one day and Phyllis Diller the next, can do the moon walk then retreat to Neverland, can promise stain removal from your favorite shirt with OxiClean and you believe her.
We think this immortal is still on the side of the living. Durable goods orders and personal income data point to recovery, though the savings rate has soared compared to consumption. That transition could be wrenching, but is to be expected. Kev’s transition from genius to nitwit in baseball picks is similarly a shock, but not fatal. At least PALM keeps rewarding (forecasts of positive cash flow by year-end). F will survive. Still with NVAX but looking to take profits soon.
In the meantime, life treats us well. A beloved girl is a softball champion. The U.S. soccer team acquitted itself well in a valiant effort against the Brazilian juggernaut (though whoever passed out those plastic horns to the crowd should be brought up on charges)and Albert Pujols continues to amaze fans of the stumbling Redbirds.
It is hard enough to accept love handles as a fact of getting on in years when, in our heads, we remain 25, rich, witty and irresistible to all women, but the prospect of demise unsettles all but the sunniest of men. Saw a funny poster the other day: “My goal is to live forever. So far, so good.”
Farrah Fawcett’s high point was as the pin-up girl at her most come-hitherest, despite her best efforts to grow into a serious actress. Michael Jackson’s impressive oeuvre came to be overshadowed by the bizarre personal life. Only Billy Mays’ entertaining sales pitches remain an authentic legacy, in our view. That’s all he did or apparently aspired to do. Here was a guy who could take his work, but not himself, seriously. Aged 62, 50, and 50, respectively.
“What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.” (Ecclesiastes, King James version).
(We are big on quoting better writers than ourselves today, one an Anglo-Irish poet contemplating the post-Great War world, the other some anonymous Israelite who concluded wisely that all is vanity).
We think these thinkers have something to offer the living who are still toiling, or playing, in Kev’s case, in the vineyards of this sporting life. Catastrophe and other minor setbacks lurk at every corner. Miss Market can look like Farrah Fawcett one day and Phyllis Diller the next, can do the moon walk then retreat to Neverland, can promise stain removal from your favorite shirt with OxiClean and you believe her.
We think this immortal is still on the side of the living. Durable goods orders and personal income data point to recovery, though the savings rate has soared compared to consumption. That transition could be wrenching, but is to be expected. Kev’s transition from genius to nitwit in baseball picks is similarly a shock, but not fatal. At least PALM keeps rewarding (forecasts of positive cash flow by year-end). F will survive. Still with NVAX but looking to take profits soon.
In the meantime, life treats us well. A beloved girl is a softball champion. The U.S. soccer team acquitted itself well in a valiant effort against the Brazilian juggernaut (though whoever passed out those plastic horns to the crowd should be brought up on charges)and Albert Pujols continues to amaze fans of the stumbling Redbirds.
It is hard enough to accept love handles as a fact of getting on in years when, in our heads, we remain 25, rich, witty and irresistible to all women, but the prospect of demise unsettles all but the sunniest of men. Saw a funny poster the other day: “My goal is to live forever. So far, so good.”
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Here's Johnny
“I hold in my hands the envelopes. My 4 ½ year-old daughter Katherine Mary could tell that these envelopes are hermetically sealed. They’ve been kept in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnalls’ porch since noon today. NO ONE knows the answers inside these envelopes, but you, in your mystical and borderline divine way, will ascertain the answers without even knowing heretofore the questions. Isn’t that correct, sir?” (Ed McMahon, courtesy of a CNN video).
“May an incontinent yak spray your poppy fields with ayatollahs.” OK, I made that one up, mixing up all sorts of mysterious visitors from the mysterious East while channeling Johnny Carson.
Mr. McMahon has gone onto his eternal reward, another sign that we baby boomers are limping to the finish line. Seems like yesterday that Leno slid behind the desk, only to yield it to O’Brien. When will St. Peter welcome the rest of us? It is certain he will, hopefully far into the future.
Just as certain is failure on the golf course. Fan-favorite Mickelson, Come-back kid Duval and Ricky Bobby (nee Barnes) had a chance to claim the United States Open Championship at waterlogged Bethpage, only to fall short on a Monday blessed with sunshine now and then. At least they replenished their Vitamin D requirement, in short supply these days in old New York.
Rather than conquest, failure was the motif at the public course in Nassau County, or is it Suffolk? I live in Kings County, on the same sliver of turf jutting into the Atlantic, and, as insular as I am, remain ignorant of political boundaries. Mr. Glover, hitting fairways and making putts, was far more much in touch with the ground beneath him than Kev, whose muddy, horse-barn smelling sneakers are still drying out.
‘Twas a day to remember. Saw Tiger Woods, not that big of a guy really, in all his glory. If he hadn’t teed off early on Thursday, he probably would have won. We shouted Boomer Sooner to fellow son of old OU and British Open champion Todd Hamilton, who responded with the Tuck Fexas gesture that is treasured on Commerce and Elm Streets in Dallas in October while the swells live it up in the Adolphus Hotel and throw TVs out the windows. Saw the ferocious, yet calibrated, swing of Bubba. And from merrye olde England, Mr. Fisher acquitted himself well.
All of this meant a day away from Miss Market, who refuses to be charmed. Our delicate relationship is, well, delicate. As is Kev’s baseball picking ability. Blew three games last night, one on a walk-off home-run. Oh, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts! We will bounce back, of this Kev is sure.
More importantly, there’s a softball game tonight in Prospect Park. We’ll laugh if we triumph and do the same if we smell the camel breath. Kind of like McMahon.
“May an incontinent yak spray your poppy fields with ayatollahs.” OK, I made that one up, mixing up all sorts of mysterious visitors from the mysterious East while channeling Johnny Carson.
Mr. McMahon has gone onto his eternal reward, another sign that we baby boomers are limping to the finish line. Seems like yesterday that Leno slid behind the desk, only to yield it to O’Brien. When will St. Peter welcome the rest of us? It is certain he will, hopefully far into the future.
Just as certain is failure on the golf course. Fan-favorite Mickelson, Come-back kid Duval and Ricky Bobby (nee Barnes) had a chance to claim the United States Open Championship at waterlogged Bethpage, only to fall short on a Monday blessed with sunshine now and then. At least they replenished their Vitamin D requirement, in short supply these days in old New York.
Rather than conquest, failure was the motif at the public course in Nassau County, or is it Suffolk? I live in Kings County, on the same sliver of turf jutting into the Atlantic, and, as insular as I am, remain ignorant of political boundaries. Mr. Glover, hitting fairways and making putts, was far more much in touch with the ground beneath him than Kev, whose muddy, horse-barn smelling sneakers are still drying out.
‘Twas a day to remember. Saw Tiger Woods, not that big of a guy really, in all his glory. If he hadn’t teed off early on Thursday, he probably would have won. We shouted Boomer Sooner to fellow son of old OU and British Open champion Todd Hamilton, who responded with the Tuck Fexas gesture that is treasured on Commerce and Elm Streets in Dallas in October while the swells live it up in the Adolphus Hotel and throw TVs out the windows. Saw the ferocious, yet calibrated, swing of Bubba. And from merrye olde England, Mr. Fisher acquitted himself well.
All of this meant a day away from Miss Market, who refuses to be charmed. Our delicate relationship is, well, delicate. As is Kev’s baseball picking ability. Blew three games last night, one on a walk-off home-run. Oh, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts! We will bounce back, of this Kev is sure.
More importantly, there’s a softball game tonight in Prospect Park. We’ll laugh if we triumph and do the same if we smell the camel breath. Kind of like McMahon.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Into Each Life
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.
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.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Young Girls They Do Get Weary
One lesson Kev thinks he has finally learned as he approaches the turn to the home stretch is that you can’t tell people how to feel. Least of all Miss Market. Our pouting paramour will not succumb to sunny encouragement, snapping her feral fangs at the hand on her shoulder, laughing maniacally at such bromides as: “Hey, it’s not so bad,” or “Remember all the good times,” or “There’ll be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover.”
You tell her that Pudge Rodriguez has now crouched behind the plate more times than Carlton Fisk and exhort her to do the same. You tell her that even the graceful, intricate – nay, beautiful – pitching motion of Tim Lincecum must lose a game now and then. To no avail. We must let her edge back to us in her own good time. Not helping her in this direction are the latest economic data.
Wholesale inflation was 0.2% in May. Higher energy prices offset a drop in food prices, according to the government. The core producer price index, which excludes food and energy prices, fell 0.1%. At the retail level, inflation also rose just 0.1% last month.
Industrial production fell 1.1% in May to the lowest level in 11 years and is down 13.4% in the past year, the largest year-over-year decline since 1946. And capacity utilization fell to a record-low 68.3% last month, down from 69%. The Krugmanites have a point. This indicates much slack to be taken up before inflation becomes a problem, a condition much to be wished for.
Inflation and interest rates must rise to convince her she has pricing power again, but the mills of the gods grind slowly. We can’t tell her or anyone else how to feel.
Meanwhile (our fallback transition), stay with PALM. Much chatter about a takeover by industry giants looking for an avenue into the smart phone market. F still has value. Wait for GMGMQ to slip. Hoping NVAX catches fire again.
Wish I had taken the underdog Nationals against the pinstripers last night. Long Islander John Lannan outpitched the suspect Chien-Ming Wang, who nevertheless showed some gumption against the new “first in war, first in peace, last in the American (now National) league” team.
You tell her that Pudge Rodriguez has now crouched behind the plate more times than Carlton Fisk and exhort her to do the same. You tell her that even the graceful, intricate – nay, beautiful – pitching motion of Tim Lincecum must lose a game now and then. To no avail. We must let her edge back to us in her own good time. Not helping her in this direction are the latest economic data.
Wholesale inflation was 0.2% in May. Higher energy prices offset a drop in food prices, according to the government. The core producer price index, which excludes food and energy prices, fell 0.1%. At the retail level, inflation also rose just 0.1% last month.
Industrial production fell 1.1% in May to the lowest level in 11 years and is down 13.4% in the past year, the largest year-over-year decline since 1946. And capacity utilization fell to a record-low 68.3% last month, down from 69%. The Krugmanites have a point. This indicates much slack to be taken up before inflation becomes a problem, a condition much to be wished for.
Inflation and interest rates must rise to convince her she has pricing power again, but the mills of the gods grind slowly. We can’t tell her or anyone else how to feel.
Meanwhile (our fallback transition), stay with PALM. Much chatter about a takeover by industry giants looking for an avenue into the smart phone market. F still has value. Wait for GMGMQ to slip. Hoping NVAX catches fire again.
Wish I had taken the underdog Nationals against the pinstripers last night. Long Islander John Lannan outpitched the suspect Chien-Ming Wang, who nevertheless showed some gumption against the new “first in war, first in peace, last in the American (now National) league” team.
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