Whether you're a professor with a warped Keynesian strut and a blunted beak ensconced safely in the bowels of academe or a media Talking Head hawking books, baseball caps and Stars-and-Strips coffee mugs, everybody has one.
The Fed has spoken.
Like Ground Hog Day it's set, another period of bond buying frenzy. For how long even Mr. G won't risk a guess. Such musings would surely fall beyond the ken of even the most rudimentary econometric paradigms.
That's really too sad because the furry one couldn't do much worse than the huge clutch of highly-paid economists struggling to unriddle the riddle that isn't, a seemingly birth defect of the dismal science clan.
As a Wall Street media wag recently noted: "These folks have accurately predicted six of the last two recessions, for which some have received a Nobel. " It reminds one of the metaphysical question and answer: How long's it going to take. However long it takes.
In the eyes of many it no longer matters. The real damage is loose, out there somewhere lurking in the shadows like a night stalker waiting and ready to pounce. And next year, according to many, Helicopter Ben will stately ride Amtrak back to his beloved Princeton, closing another chapter in the fabled history of the 100 year old Federal Reserve Bank, the future of the willfully uninformed and apologetic masses once again flat lined.
Pretend you're eavesdropping at a recent Minnesota Ice Fishing Festival around a group of well-bundled-up ice fishermen waiting for one of them to reel in a fish or fowl or large We-Love-Al Franken picnic cooler. They give away some odd prizes in the Land of 10,000 Lakes.
You overhear a guy two ice holes to the left, between a couple of loud belches, shout to three of his frozen-beer swigging buddies: "I don't know about you guys, but I just bought a shit-load of June SPY puts."
Some might think that's a contrarian indicator of the first degree. But only time and the best-looking-back-to-the-future econometric model will tell.
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