Recent Publications
The Softer Side

Artist: Tomoko Ikeda
Title: Pensive Traveler
Owner: moi

I'm a total fan of her work. I even made it to one of her Exhibitions in Ginza, Tokyo—I was the only dude who didn't speak Japanese (well, I speak some, but not enough). Check out her website. 


In 2009, she published a beautiful photographic book of her doll art collection, Scenery of Time.

DEBTOR NATION

National Debt 1960-2011

MY NEW BOOK....

How I lost my moorings in Tokyo. Read Chapters 1 & 2.

@Ronnie_Baker: Genuinely funny, entertaining & well written. Highly recommended.

@lothisoft: Great read, got very sad towards the end but what a fantastic finish. Are you writing a sequel?

Buy it at Amazon.com

 

 

Chapter 1 ♦ AIRMAIL FROM AFTERLIFE

1976

One rainy summer day, I packed my backpack and went to America. I was seventeen. I knew what I was doing: I was escaping from the debacle at home. And I was looking for something. For what exactly, I didn’t know, but I’d go look for it in America. There, the heat burned in my nostrils. Lawns were brown. Cars were big and air-conditioned. Girls went gaga over my accent. Guys thought I was cool. And I fell in love with it all.
          Three years later, I was paying my way through college in Texas when the notion of home, distant and convoluted as it had become, blew up with gratuitous violence. A Boeing had crashed into a mountain in Turkey, killing all 155 people aboard. I heard about it on the radio. But I didn’t connect the dots.
          A few days later, I found a message from the operator in my campus PO Box. Telegram, call Western Union, it said. I called from one of the pay phones. My heart was pounding in my temples, and I had trouble hearing the lady on the other end.
          “I’d read it to you,” she said. “But it’s in German. I think you better come by and get it.”
          “I’m fixing to go to work. Can’t you try to read it to me?”
          “Oh dear.”
          “Is it long?”
          “Two lines.”
          “Can you spell it?”
          “Well, I guess I could. Are you ready?”
          I pulled out a notepad and pen. “Ready,” I said, though I knew that I wasn’t ready, that I’d never be ready for whatever she was about to spell.
          “E-L-T-E-R-N new word,” she said, “A-M new word M-O-N-T-A-G new word M-I-T new word F-L-U-G-Z-E-U-G new word I-N new word D-E-R new word T-U-R-K-E-I—”
          “Stop! Please.” I couldn’t write anymore. Parents on Monday with plane in Turkey.... German sentences, even in abbreviated telegram style, had the main verb at the end, but I didn’t want to hear the main verb, didn’t want to hear it spelled out letter by torturous letter. “Thank you. That’s enough.”
          I’d escaped the debacle at home and had gone as far away as possible. But this wasn’t what I’d had in mind. I stood there in a daze, brain deadlocked, numb, clutching the receiver, drowning in abysmal emotions.
          Then I went to work. It was just a part-time job, but now I needed the money more than ever. Afterward, I drove to the Western Union office and picked up the yellow slip of paper with twelve lines of all-caps alphanumeric gibberish and two lines of readable text. It was from my sister, sent from the town where she was staying with friends. But it didn’t include their phone number. And my brother was on vacation somewhere. So there was no way to reach him either.

Next....

TESTOSTERONE PIT, the novel

Wolf Richter

Chapter 1    Circle Jerk

It was Saturday, the biggest day of the week, and everyone was working bell to bell, over forty salesmen, though Ferronickel didn’t know exactly how many he had because some hadn’t shown up and might have started selling cars some other place, and because he’d hired a bunch of new guys an hour ago.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he sang in a basso profundo voice as he marched across the showroom in his asymmetric gait. He was the general sales manager at the Ford Superstore. His Tabasco Sauce tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned. His gut that hung over his belt strained his shirt. He had puffy eyes and was full of mean energy, ready to explode, ready to force things to happen. He blew out the door, came to a halt on the porch that surrounded the showroom on three sides, and lit a cigarette.

Al Millikin, one of his four sales managers and perhaps the best closer in town, was watching Mad Boxer work a customer on the truck lot. Potential deal.

“Why can’t he bring that guy inside and write him up?” Ferronickel said.

“He ought to tell him we got free pussy on the showroom,” Millikin said.

“Don’t give me any ideas for our next live remote.”

“Come to think of it, that would be a hell of a lot more effective than the classical rock-and-roll shit we’ve been doing.”

“For our male customers.”

“We could alternate. Free pussy one day, free Godiva chocolates the next. We’d have both ends of the spectrum covered.”

“You’re a fucking Einstein, Millikin.”

Reginald Pierce, another sales manager, a big guy with a shortish Afro, was jumpy and his eyes darted about. He fretted about Whacker Packer, Hackman Jones, JoAnn Delouche, and several other salesmen who’d formed a dope ring by the plate-glass window. If left alone, they’d make up rumors, complain about dealership coffee, and infect each other with morale problems. He singled out a young guy.

“Freddie T, are you going to participate in a circle jerk?” he growled. They called him Freddie T because of his unpronounceable Greek last name. “Or are you going to sell something?”

It startled them; they’d forgotten all about selling. And they drifted apart.

Lou Massago gesticulated on the phone in one of the closing booths. He wore a white button-down shirt, a red and blue tie, slacks, and ostrich-skin boots. A scar curved upward from the right corner of his mouth, giving him a lopsided grin even when he was serious. His eyes were set close together and peered out from under his bushy eyebrows with ferocious intensity. But he had a soft voice when he wanted to, and now he wanted to because he was talking to a customer about a 15-passenger van that had come out of the rental fleet. There were ten of them. They were scratched and dented and had too many miles on them, and they were overpriced, and no one could sell them, but he was king of sales, and if he could sell them, it would prove he could sell anything.

He hated working the phone. He needed his customers in front of him, needed to stare into the whites of their eyes. But no one had sold any of those vans yet, and to prove he was king of sales and could sell anything, he’d decided to sell them all. Besides, the Saturday rush hadn’t begun yet, and calling old customers was more productive than standing around waiting for something to happen.

Next....

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Friday
Sep302011

Deflation In Japan and its Chances in the US

Deflation phobia has broken out again. James Bullard, president of the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, grumbled in San Diego about inflation expectations being too low and threatened to print more money, while QEx mongers are once again pointing at the Japanese "deflation spiral" as a horrid event that we have to avoid at all cost.

In 1996, seven years after the Japanese bubble burst, I arrived in Tokyo for the first time and saw a shockingly expensive country (though the exchange rate was good, $1 = ¥110). It wasn't just me. One day, I was looking at Italian wines at a department store. The bottle of Chianti Classico in my hand was a global brand that sold for $8 in the U.S. In Tokyo, it was $53. I sucked in air and put it back down. As I drifted away, another gaijin wandered along and picked up the same bottle. He grunted in Italian. We started talking. Turns out, that Chianti cost less than $4 in Rome.

Item after item. Plain white T-shirts made in Japan, $30. Rent for a dingy 200 sq. ft. apartment in a lousy area, $1,500 a month (plus 3 months key money, plus 2 months deposit, plus 1 month rent up front, for a total upfront payment of $9,000). Public transportation, food, fuel, hotels (except love hotels), coffee, you name it. Everything was shockingly expensive.

There were reasons. During the bubble, pricing didn't matter. The more expensive an item was, the better it sold. The insular Japanese market was protected by insurmountable administrative barriers. When a company was actually able to import something, it wasn't to offer a better deal, but to offer a prestige product at a premium. A jungle of regulations, restrictions, knotty transportation issues, inefficiencies, and other hurdles made doing business expensive. But during the bubble, it didn't matter because everyone was making money, and everything kept going up.

In 1989, the hot air began to hiss out of real estate and equities. A lot of money went up in smoke. Buyers lost their exuberance. Attitudes changed. People began to look for cheaper alternatives. Some businesses figured out that they could gain market share by lowering prices. Price competition started. Import restrictions were softened. Certain aspects of the economy were deregulated in tiny and still incomplete micro steps. Year after year, the Japanese market became more competitive. Pressure to lower prices filtered into supply chains and made them efficient and cost conscious.

Now the $53 bottle of Chianti costs $8, and a Chinese-made T-shirt cost $5. Rents have come down, and new apartments are bigger and nicer. Food is cheaper, and so are meals at restaurants. Unemployment is under 5%. Wages have come down too, but not much. Infrastructure has improved. Subway and train lines have been added, extended, or four-tracked, and rush-hour trains are less crowded. Trees have been planted. Tokyo is cleaner and greener. Savers and bond investors haven't gotten ripped off by inflation. Reason has returned to Japanese prices.

In the U.S., too, the bubbles in equities, real estate, and credit blew up. But none of the other conditions that contributed to deflation in Japan exists in the US.

The massive U.S. trade deficit is proof that protectionism à la Japanese hasn't occurred in the U.S. (well, there are bizarre exceptions, like sugar). Price pressures from overseas have become even stronger during the process of globalization. Supply chains are highly efficient and integrated worldwide. In the US, that bottle of Chianti cannot drop from $53 to $8 because it already costs $8. Plus, China and other developing nations have begun to ship their red-hot inflation to the U.S.

Alas, in one category, the deflationistas have been right all along: real wages. Down nearly 9% since their peak in 1999. It is one of the reasons for the current economic malaise. Worse, without increases in real wages, servicing the growing mountain of debt will become ever more difficult.

Yet in its twisted way, the Fed favors deflation in real wages, inflation in goods and services, and negative real yields. Financial repression at its best. And while we may occasionally get a highly welcome quarter or two of deflation in goods and services, the conditions in the U.S. are unlike the conditions in Japan, and long-term deflation in goods and services is not in the cards.

But not everything is hunky-dory in Japan: How Long Can Japan Play The Endgame?

Reader Comments (2)

Great article, Wolf, particulary in conjunction with the article linked at the bottom, which dives into their financial nightmare. Love your blog.
October 1, 2011 | Unregistered CommenterRon
Still unconvinced by your ode to deflation.

There is a reason central banks target a slight inflation. If your cash gets more valuable year after year, why take a chance on investing? Just sit on it and you'll get richer and richer without lifting a finger. Woohoo! Why spend your hard-earned cash on anything? Money is precious! Tomorrow, it will be cheaper. Wait.

No one wants inflation to get out of control, but otherwise... 1945-1975 had steady inflation. Dollar destruction and misery all around, right? Not really. Wages more than made up for it. When did the US last experience deflation? Oh yeah, the great depression. Good times for all!

Japan, as you say yourself, is not doing that great. Unemployment though low by European standards, has actually doubled, and the economy is propped up by staggering deficit spending.
October 3, 2011 | Unregistered Commenternickel

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