[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfgXV3G9l2s&feature=related 450 300]

Whatta fuggin’ movie.   It’s a Wonderful Life

Filmed with such clarity, so ahead of it’s time from a shot making and lighting perspective, never mind the eggsellent story-telling.

For gawd’s sake, watch this movie at least once a year.  Have a couple of egg-nogs too.  With bourbon.

Weller’s or better.   You don’t want to mix the Pappy with the nog, but don’t be ashamed to use Maker’s.

As for the market, I like [[TBT]] here, as it’s busted over the 200 day EMA after a long while.  It’s a bit overbought here, but I think we’re looking at higher rates going into 2010.  

 

You know what it means when the rates are rising, and the dollar is getting fat.   It’s a Wonderful Life.  Let’s not screw it up, eh?

Be sure to move to Bedford Falls, and soon.

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Oh, no Tiger… not that too!??
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If you think perhaps you are having a bad time of it this Christmas, keep some of that holiday cheer sparking by embracing the relativity of your situation.  Almost nobody is having a more miserable Yule season than the world’s greatest golfer.

Now memorialized in verse, with apologies to Clement Moore:

Twas the night of Thanksgiving and out of the house

Tiger Woods came a flyin’ . . . chased by his spouse.

She wielded a nine iron and wasn’t too merry,

Cause a bimbo’s phone number was in his Blackberry.

He’d been cheatin’ on Elin, and the story progressed.

Woman after woman stepped up and confessed.

He’d been cheatin’ with Holly, and Jaimee, and Cori,

With Joselyn, and Kalika . . . the world had the story.

From the top of the Tour to the basement of blues,

Tiger’s sad sordid tale was all over the news.

With hostesses, waitresses, he had lots of sex,

When not in their pants, he was sendin’ them texts.

Despite all his cryin’ and beggin’ and pleadin’,

Tiger’s wife went investin’ . . . a new home in Sweden.

And I heard her exclaim from her white Escalade,

“If you’re gettin’ laid then I’m gettin’ paid.”

She’s not pouting, in fact, she is of jolly good cheer,

Her prenup made Christmas come early this year!

(poem parody attributed to Mr. William Oster)

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(to “Up on the Roof Top“)

Ho ho ho, who would know?

Ho ho ho, all those hoes!

Get in the Caddy, quick quick quick!

Down through the windshield comes Eee-lin’s brick!

(this quickee is by me)

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Dieu bénissent le Fly
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Let me just say that I’m grateful this day for my good friend, Monsieur Le Fly.  

Before tonight’s market discussion, however, let me tell you a brief story, not altogether “out of school.”    This summer, my wife and I dined with Monsieur et Madame Le Fly. 

By dint of fast L.I.R.R train out of Atlantic Beach, we arrived at le restaurant (downtown NYC) first, and were able to have a quick cocktail while we awaited our dinner companions.   Since the restaurant was bayed and glass fronted, and our maitre d’ was kind enough to seat us in front of said bay glass front, I was able to steal a first glance at madame and monsieur even before he first laid eyes upon me.

Therefore I was immediately able to take the measure of his character, and let me tell you why.   No, it was not the solicitous manner in which he comported himself with madame (although that was certainly nice).   Nor was it his clean appearance, or even his upright posture, however positive those fixtures might be.

No, it goes back to something my father taught me as a wee lad, no more than 13 and approaching the narrowing straits of manhood. 

“Jake,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulder in an almost conspiratorial fashion,

 “Always be wary of a man who is better looking than his wife, as  it’s a sign of a weak character.”

Let it be said that it’s further credit to Madame Le Fly that Monsieur is by no means an ugly man.  It is merely that she is le soleil to his la lune — the gender nominatives notwithstanding.

Second hint — La Lune insisted on picking up the tab.   So it goes with my friend, Monsieur Le Fly.

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But let me not soften tonight’s “a la recherche de temps perdu,” etc., with too much overt sentimentality.   Tonight I laud my bon ami for keeping the rubes, stupes and tin pot bangers continuing to chew the gristle of regret and bitter grapes with regard to the most obvious bull market of the millenium.

Heck, maybe even the only bull market of the millenium.  

Please credit him with Svengali-like powers.   Only mon bon ami could so easily have the five figure account guys gamboling and capering with glee today about the ridiculousness of owning gold with these data readily available:

Know that he is doing the Lord’s work for you and your family by casting doubt on the gold-sound money thesis.   This spells “O-P-P-O-R-T-U-N-I-T-Y” for those of you who may have yet to participate.   Thank m’Lord le Fly and thank those who readily take his word with nary a thought toward logical analysis, or even limpid thought.

For they shall be the bearers of your wealth, well into the next decade.   God bless.

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There should be something of a bounce tomorrow, as we fast approach my mentioned $440 level on the $HUI.  We are also quite oversold on gold in the near term.    That said, I don’t think this pullback is over, and may only cover some shorted calls into tomorrow’s sell off.   Be nimble, be quick, etc.

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          Nothing is random, nor will anything every be, whether a long string of perfectly blue days that begin and end in golden dimness, the most seemingly chaotic political acts, the rise of a great city, the crystalline structure of a gem that has never seen the light, the distribution of fortune, what time the milkman gets up, the position of the electron, or the occurrence of one astonishingly frigid winter after another...

        And yet there is a wonderful anarchy, in that the milkman chooses when to arise, the rat picks the tunnel into which he will dive when the subway comes rushing down the track from Borough Hall, and the snowflake will fall as it will.  How can this be? If nothing is random, and everything is predetermined, how can there be free will?

The answer to that is simple. Nothing is predetermined; it is determined, or was determined, or will be determined.  No matter, it all happened at once, in less than an instant, and time was invented because we cannot comprehend in one glance the enormous and detailed canvas that we have been given– so we track it, in linear fashion, piece by piece.

Time, however, can easily be overcome; not by chasing the light, but by standing back far enough to see it all at once.  The universe is still and complete.  Everything that ever was, is; everything that ever will be, is — and so one, in all possible combinations.   Though in perceiving it we imagine that it is in motion, it is quite finished and quite astonishingly beautiful.

In the end, or, rather, as things really are, any event, no matter how small is intimately and sensibly tied to all the others.  All rivers run full to the sea; those who are apart are brought together; the lost ones are redeemed; the dead come back to life; the perfectly blue days that have begun and ended in golden dimness continue, immobile and accessible; and when all is perceived in such a way as to obviate time; justice becomes apparent not as something that will be, but as something that is.

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The above passage is excerpted from the “Nothing is Random” chapter of Winter’s Tale (Harcourt Books, copywrite 1983 by Mark Helprin, pp. 401-402), without specific permission, though I’m hoping my undying respect for his work, and our mutual respect for the works of Flannery O’Connor will earn me a one-time pass, and he will not subsequently IDF my ass. 

The above mentioned work was recommended to be by my freshman year English professor, Benjamin DeMott, via a glowing review written in the  New York Times Book Review long before I ever sat in DeMott’s class.   Interestingly, I am only reading the book now, long after I ceased sitting in Professor DeMott’s class.   How’s that for time traveling?

For the record, I recommend everything Mark Helprin ever wrote and ever will write, down to his laundry list.  

Salud.

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                                                                             Oy! My freakin’ head!

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This is no game for Windmill-Tilters, my friends.   The Market (with a capital “M”) does not care much for your chest pounding or your Tarzan yodeling.  You might get Jane this weekend, but you will lose your long sleeve of bananas and your thatch hut in the prospect. 

I’ve mentioned already that I took time today to sell calls against my large Monsanto Company [[MON]] position.  I sold 30  January $85 calls for $3.20 a piece.  That marks the last of my hedging of my large holdings.   That’s called “battening down the hatches,” for you Captains Courageous’s at home.

I also bot another 50 [[SPY]] January 110 puts @ $2.79.    Listen up, Dragon Chasers.  I’ve made a lot of dough since March, and I’ll be diggedy-dogged if I’m going to let it get snatched away in a clandestine Grinch Raid into Whoville.     Retail’s getting tired, and December is about retail.   As goes Saks Incorporated [[SKS]] so goes yonder Christmas rally.

But do as you will.   Keep stretching that win streak out with large Roulette bets on Red #27.   Keep laughing at that strengthening dollar and pay no attention to that Bernanke Shoppe-Vac sucking away in the corner.  

Keep saying: Liquidity has NOTHING to do with this rally. 

Keep chanting:  This is a fundamentally driven market. 

Keep praying:  Let us break the 1,122 ceiling, much like the little blue puffer-belly that could. 

May these intercessions to the Turkey Gods bring you safety.  I shall not rely upon them.

Know this — [[DZZ]] is your reverse canary in a coal mine.   It strengthens and becomes a great black vulture, deep in the carbon dust, and soon it will unfurl it’s noisome wings… and eat your liver out.

With that, have a very nice weekend, do!

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The Gentle Artisan Hard at Work at His Craft

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I know I don’t usually do these “day in the life” blog posts, but I figured I owed you all an explanation of why I wasn’t blogging like the wind today, promoting the most excellent “on fiah” aspects of The PPT, and generally contributing to the greater wisdom of iBC.com…

Or at least letting some of the Gore defenders have it on that previous posting.  Seriously people, focus like a laser here… loving one’s children and one’s environment and taking it hard to the global authoritarian hypocrites who attempt to manipulate those values for power and profit ends are not mutually exclusive concepts…. sheesh.  

But we’ll continue that discussion at a later date.   First,  my day in hell…

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It actually started last night whilst I was clutching my tooth brush betwixt my teeth whilst simultaneously helping the wee one with some pajama misalignment he had orchestrated.   A faint “click” in the front of my mouth told me something was wrong, and sure enough, one of two crowns I’d had placed on my rabbit chompers after a tragic rugby-game collision-excision had somehow broken loose from it’s mooring, leaving me with a gap in my face that had me looking like an extra on Deliverance, sans classy banjo and bowl haircut.

Not exactly the “captain of industry” look I wanted to work for my Monday morning meeting, however.

 Luckily, my extremely attactive and efficient –if retardedly expensive —Lady Dentist was able fit me into her earliest slot at 7:30 am this morning.  I figured I’d be in and out with a repair before market open.   I thought horribly wrong.

After being ushered into her warmly lit and well appointed rooms, I was quickly and efficiently seated, x-rayed (twice) and tucked in with a descending flat screen and cosy neck pillow rigging by her equally comely Eastern European dental assistant, while I awaited the return of Lady Dentifrice, Lip-Glossed Queen of the latte-set tooth crowd.

She returned all frowny faced, my vexxing x-rays clutched against her charcoal gray cashmere-sweatered bosom, and a gleam of concern nesting behind her au currant steel framed specs.   The news was bad, and I won’t bore you with it, but it did not come out of the “bloodless, pain-free and inexpensive” box from which I’d pulled so many previous procedures in my incredibly lucky 40 year dental track-record.    No this one started with minor oral surgery and ended with expensive cosmetic sturm and drang.

Luckily, she felt she could get most of it done today, and in about two or so hours.   Big deal,  I thought, so I have to watch Kudlow with that weird haircut and Erin suck up to Dubai money men for two more hours… I’ll live…

Two quarts of lidocaine and probably a good pint and a half of my blood later, it was nearing two o’clock and my back was beggining to spasm on me.   While my sturdy and still impeccably lip-glossed Lady Dentite had managed to take care of all the complicated prepping, modeling, whittling, etc., that came with fixing not one, but two of my damaged teeth (turns out the second one was showing similar fractious inclinations, so…), she still had not managed to extricate the last bit of “root” from aforesaid canal…

And it wasn’t for want of trying, either, let me tell you.   The woman has forearms like coiled springs of moly-carbon steel.   But I can only assume she was getting tired of the jets of arterial blood just missing her custom-cut snow white Armani lab coat, because she finally sent me to the oral surgeon to have the final piece removed.

At 2:15 today I drove approximately 1.5 miles to another dentist/M.D. office in the same neighborhood, but I might as well have been driving to the gates of hell.   As warm and inviting as my dentist’s offices were, these new rooms were like something out of a fifties-era Raymond Burr sci-fi movie.   The front office ladies were plump and over-makeuped, and their smiles!… Their smiles put the chill of the winter grave in me…

After filling out five(!) pages of insurance and disclaimer/disclosure errata, I was ushered into the pre-Roe v. Wade clincian’s “operating room” which looked nothing like the warm and modern offices from which I’d just travelled, and really not un-like a not so recently outfitted janitor’s closet.  

The tools of my imminent torture were laid out on a wooden bench that looked like it had been stolen from Jacob Marley.   They were wrapped in sterilized plastic, but they were no disposables… no, quite the opposite.   I was pretty sure that those ratchets, blades and sutures had seen as many summers as I had — if not more.   The drill was brass — I shit you not– as was the suction vacuum!  It was like something out of a steam-punk graphic novel.

At this point, I’m looking around for an escape route out of there, but I have another problem — my anaesthesia from the long hours previous had begun to wear off and the hole in my head was beginning to throb.   I flagged down a passing nurse and she nodded knowingly — “Can you take Vicoden okay?” she asked me. 

I’m like (WTF?) to myself, but then I realize she’s only getting my pain prescription ready for after the coming ordeal, and I make it clear, I need to be “re-Lido’d” post-haste.  (By this time, around 3 pm, I’ve got all the  lingo down cold.)   She ambles off to find the doctor.  

He finally comes in about fifteen minutes later (luckily, I’d brought a book, my friends at CNBC were NOT an option at this shoppe), and he’s lanky and athletic, wearing scrubs that had seen better days.   You ever have that feeling when you first meet someone who’s supposed to be a doctor and the first thing that pops into your head — unbidden — is “Is this guy really a doctor?”   That was my first impression.   

He looks at my x-rays (yes they had to take a third “full header” this time) and looks over at me and says “Number nine… well, you know that’s gonna come out right?”   I think I gulped in assent, because he proceeded to whip out another steam punk-device, a Jules Verne-looking plunger with about a four inch needle on the end of it.   The man could’ve started knitting with this thing it was so big.   He proceeds to do the “shake the lip” needle insertion thing my Dad’s dentist (who I was sentenced to as a kid) did 35 years ago.  

So far so good.   The old half gallon of numb-juice from the previous episode in what in contrast was clearly Ellisium held fast and I only felt about a quarter of the four inch spike he was inserting.   Then he threw me for a loop and said — sorry, we need to get the palette, too.  Gulping again, and praying to the Anaesthesia gods that my personal dentite had sufficiently benumbed the roof of my mouth as well I took a sharp intake of air and he went in…

No dice,  I thought, as I felt him trying to drive that instrument of Vulcan into my nasal cavity from below.   Yipe! I said… “Sorry” he said — very sympathetically, considering the circumstances.   His assistant grinned stoically.  Grimaced, really.    15 more minutes went by as they waited for all this new juice to “settle.”   I began to worry it would start wearing off, when he finally reappeared, smocked out and read for action…

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You know what… I am going to end this here, rather than get into the medieval-on-my-ass scene that followed.   I just realized I’m probably making quite a few of you ill with all this,  and it’s getting late and my Vikes are wearing off again…  Let it comfort your heart to know it all came out well in the end, and I’m halfway done with this “simple fix.”

Salud.

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On market stuff, nothing of major surprise today.  Well, Monsanto Company [[MON]] was a bit of a pleasant surprise, as was the continual holding of the PM markets in green territory.   I still think it’s a mirage however, and my “tell” stock United Parcel Service, Inc. [[UPS]] looks like it’s going to take Christmas break early.

Have cash on hand.   Pullback coming.   Best to you.

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