Jerome Powell probably can’t even fix a flat tire

Flat tire.  Stubbed toe.  Speeding ticket.

Problems happen fast.

It is feast and famine at the house of RAUL, I’ve always said that.

When I was young twenties, a jovial lad full of unfounded optimism and pomp it would be some kind of mistake, the regular injustices subjected upon yours truly.

Then I realized mistakes were the day-to-day.  That life was one struggle after another.  And that it was a matter of how you handled yourself during the shit storm that defined you.  That it was either accept cubicle life and bi-weekly stipends or nut up and make something of yourself.

I had a flat tire tonight.  I had a flat tire after an important business meeting in the city.

I do not live in the city.

Are you kidding me?

Live in Detroit?  For what?   The restaurants?  Maybe…but is it worth the exorbitant taxes and potential murder?

At best, maybe, I rent a small space.  A small pad strategically positioned for foolishness.  But to own…they have a long way to come…the Gilberts and Illiches…before Detroit becomes a respectable place to own land.

I left my important meeting.  LISTEN I TAKE MANY IMPORTANT MEETINGS OK?  I am cultivating greatness.  They want to build a SOHO house here.

It takes more than buying SANGAMO at $3 to make a respectable nut in this world.  You have to pander…and kiss..and joke…and rip…and bla bla bla…convince people to sign checks in your direction.

This is something you have to do…otherwise you will end up a pathetic desk jockey earning 75k with 2 maybe three weeks of freedom a year.

Servatude.

Is that what you want?  To help J.P. Morgan earn another 2-3 hundred million a year?

Go ahead.

Live is short.  Real short.  A blip if you are hopeful.  A twitch if we are being realistic.

So I want my twitch to be filled with thrills.

Maybe in the meantime I can convince a few others that it isn’t worth it to shape yourself into the the proverbial ‘productive member of society’.

Into faggotry.

Oh yes, that word…so offensive, with the hard -g.

Funny how humans can take a sound and make it so hurtful…if you let them.

I cannot stand humans.  There I said it.  The smell…the panic and rush they have when racing through Whole Foods.  Pathetic.

Whatever.  Listen.  I had a flat tire tonight deep down in the hood.  In a place where a lesser man, like a Jerome Powell, would freak out and call an Uber Black…a place where a Jerome Powell would worry about being shot.  Deep down in the hoods of Detroit.

Which is ironic.  Because since I arrived back home here in the murder mitten I have been lining up this joke—that anyone making fun of the pot holes hasn’t played enough video games.  Because video games sharpen your ability to react to obstructions.

Anyhow my tire went flat on the east side in a place famed to be the most violent in town.  Jerome Powell would have dialed 9-1-1 and stayed inside his locked car until police officers—-women and men who have much more important things to do—arrived and carted him to safety.

Which is fine.  Lifes been good to Jerome so far.  But I had to handle that shit on my own.  Tire iron in fist, heater on hip, come at me.  The tire was fixed manually.  The ride home uninterrupted.

Whatever.  It doesn’t make me a better citizen then Jerome Powell.

I am home now and still bearish. It will take a spring miracle to make me bullish.

Or two weeks of nothing…like sideways nothing.  Then I will be bullish again.  Hopefully  between then and now Jerome Powell can learn to stop spilling Federal Reserve secrets and start behaving like Queen Yellen bitch slayer so all us open market investors can continue making money.

Hopefully Jerome Powell stops catering to the money market account crowd.  The private equity crooks.

Doubtful.

But maybe.

We have to stay objective even if we have no real way of trusting our leadership.

Worst case we flea to Canada and commit to snowboarding.

Which is honestly totally cool.

TBD

 

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