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The
Armchair Economist The Armchair Economist is a retired, reclusive multi–trillionaire who lives in an abandoned Midwest farm to dodge his substantial following. Investors everywhere are still awaiting his definitive sentiments on the New Economy, among other critical issues. Many experts believe, in fact, that his reticence explains the ongoing lack of leadership in the markets. Decide for yourself after reading his story.
Episode #5: "2 Brandy Snifters" Although the last installment took us to his alleged farm–hideaway, the only clue to the Armchair Economist's whereabouts was a note taped to the door that read, "Off to Big Apple for brandy. Back soon. Feed cats." Two clandestine devotees have snuck into the exclusive Rob Roy Club in midtown Manhattan, whereupon they await the after–dinner remarks by "Special Guest TBA."Their gamble pays off. Their recorders flip on. Following is a transcription of that speech, as delivered to the Rob Roy Club Annual Meeting, fall 2000, when the Armchair Economist indeed turned out to be the "Special Guest." My Fellow Investors, I bring before you tonight not one, but two, snifters of fine brandy. One is half–empty. The other is half–full. I shall drink from the half–empty glass first. (Takes long sniff and sip, then savors the moment before bellowing...)
The half–empty glass... Have we all gone mad? Has our "attention span" turned into "attention spam?" Are we not more jittery than a newly minted webhead millionaire who can't find a decent place to park his Lexxus when he urgently needs a halfcafdoubleskinnylatte? Alas, just pondering the daily dollar pump–ups and pillage makes my heart pound. It's enough to send us one by one to Dr. Koop––or rather, to drkoop.com, before THAT venture flies the coop for the last time. Let us face the music and the mirror and say it: Trees don't grow to the skies. Skies fall. Bubbles burst. And fear grows relentlessly just under the thin skin on the face of greed. The days of triple–digit, dart–throw payoffs are over––and we must contemplate––nay! hope for!––historical averages instead of hysterical indulgences. Oh sure, we'll occasionally get to breathe in airs that smell suspiciously like late–nineteens spirit. But it won't be as intoxicating. We sold off the innocence. The euphoria. And the original, "new–era" recipe. (Long pause, sip from snifter.) It WAS fun while it lasted, though, wasn't it? (A few cheers arise above the dead silence.) NO! It was NUTS! "Irrational exuberance" was an understatement! "Ignorant fearlessness" is more like it! And when we all looked down, we realized that, yes, we really DO have acrophobia. And that it's a long way down from the top of a Ponzi–financed house of cards. Even No–Way Jose Feliciano knew it when he sang, "Girl, we couldn't get much higher; come on, baby, light my fire." We ALL knew the house would burn. So why all the histrionics? Why? Because the house got too big. Because baseball and apple pie have gone deep into the deep freeze. Because greed has become the national pastime. Our mantra. An obsession. But can greed win out? Can we really reinvent and recreate wealth? Can we simultaneously nurture "old" and "new" economies? Of course not! We are merely shuffling and redealing the very foundation of our house of cards. Until that foundation itself is soiled. And sticky. And sour. Like last night's half–empty brandy glass. My friends: Sell! Now! Before your half–empty glass evaporates and shatters. And leaves YOU nothing but a sticky, sour mess. (RAUCOUS, INVOLUNTARY APPLAUSE BREAKS OUT, ALONG WITH "HERE–HERE" AND "SELL–SELL" AND TABLE–POUNDING.) (Armchair Economist turns dramatically, grabs the half–full snifter, sniffs, and guzzles.) The half–full glass... Now, for the half–full glass. Funny, it looks just like the other glass! Or does it? Of course not, good people! It's not only half–full of fine brandy, but it also holds more than enough gluttony to go around. And to those grumpies who refuse gluttony, well, it seems they'd rather to pass the BLAME around! So they say we got trouble. Right here in every city! And they blame the media. They blame the internet. Blame the day–traders. Blame the boomers. Blame greed itself! But why? Why? Why all the unrighteous hurls at the new webs of our worlds? Why not just give up––give in––and give them credit? All the credit they want! It's only money we'll owe ourselves, and we can make lots more. Not to mention, some say the boomer–blow–hards' bubble–blowing ability likely won't even begin to wheeze until 2105 or so! 2015. THAT'S when the last dust from the baby boom begins to settle into early retirement. Or gets bought out by a new tidal wave of downsizing. Or, if they're really lucky, gets served their slice of the $40 trillion pie that may pass from the post–depression generation to the anti–depressant generation. So to those who are uneasy or queasy now, relax. Take a chill pill. There's still plenty of time to drink from your half–full glass. Anyway, wouldn't you really prefer a bigger glass? (Long pause, sip from snifter; a few cheers arise above the dead silence.) You'll get it––and more––by 2015. But beware THEN the march of tides. For I fear McMansions will be 1 billion served and on the market with free McFishes on Lent Fridays. I fear that all will want foot massages but will find only "Help Wanted" signs where Cathy's Classic NewAge Clinic used to be. I foresee shocking numbers beyond stock–indexes and gross debts––the simple shocking number of boomers on the streets foraging for new hair, new teeth, and expensive new elixirs that ensure longevity through age 120, wrinkle–free! THEN, the glass may be half–empty. But we've still got a lot of party to go. Dow 36,000? Dow 100,000? Why not? Do the math! We jumped from 1,000 to 10,000 between 1982 and 1998. That could put us at 100,000 by, say, 2014. Bring on a bigger glass! (RAUCOUS, INVOLUNTARY APPLAUSE BREAKS OUT, ALONG WITH "HERE–HERE" AND "BUY–BUY" AND TABLE–POUNDING.) (The Armchair Economist picks up both glasses, drinks from both. Silence returns.) The gripping conclusion Half–full? Or half–empty? The longest bull market in history? Or the longest "BULL" market in history? (Roars dramatically.) Will the REAL "bull" please stand up!?! (No one stands. Heads bow. The Armchair Economist holds both glasses before his audience, then scans the enraptured room.) My friends, you decide. Place your bets. The market's always open, you know. Good evening. The Armchair Economist, still carrying both snifters, is immediately escorted out by ex–Secret Service agents. As they surround and hustle him, he pours one snifter into the other and realizes––perhaps for the first time––that the glass is now full. It's just as he always suspected: Alone, both theories are incomplete; but when combined, the glass is perfectly full. He decides to ditch his bodyguards, catch a cab to Wall Street, and redefine modern investing yet again. But then, a thug in a blood–stained Rob Roy Staff uniform steps in his face and smiles, "Sorry, this isn't your glass. This glass can't leave the premises. Any questions?" The Armchair Economist pulls his gun, but it's too late. The thug knees him in the groin, grabs both gun and snifter, and flees. "STOP HIM! He's got the future of investing in his hands!" the Armchair Economist screams. He falls to the ground as his bodyguards chase the thug into the deep, dark night. TO BE CONTINUED... |