The filing appeared on February 13th, which, naturally, I immediately associated with bad luck. It’s irrational, I know, but try telling that to my amygdala. Apparently, Divisadero owned about 2.4% of the firm’s assets in Stride. That’s a significant chunk of gnome-sized investments. As of December 31st, though, the position was…well, let’s just say it had taken a long walk off a short pier.
A report surfaced, a familiar tactic. Accusations flung like stones – routing equipment through shadowy channels, into the hands of those who build walls and wage distant wars. The usual dance. It always begins with suspicion, a tightening of the fist before the blow. The shorts circled, smelling weakness. They rarely account for the stubbornness of a well-built machine.
The quarterly reports, at first glance, were rather jolly – all smiles and shiny numbers. But lurking beneath the surface, a rather nasty little suspicion began to wiggle its way into the brains of the investors. It seems their new lending doodads might not be quite as profitable as they’d hoped. And then, as if things weren’t messy enough, the Head Honcho, Dave Girouard, decided to hand over the reins to his co-founder, Paul Gu. A perfectly sensible move, perhaps, but it gave the market jitters, like a sudden sneeze in a quiet library.
It is a tale, alas, too common in the annals of commerce: a company blessed with expansion, yet haunted by the specter of diminishing returns. Investors, those ever-fickle patrons of the marketplace, grow uneasy, fearing that the pursuit of volume has eclipsed the reverence for profit. The stock, once soaring to unprecedented heights, now languishes thirty-two percent below its zenith – a misfortune rarely witnessed in recent years.
February saw a particular fondness for stocks from Developed Economies, excluding our own. The Vanguard FTSE Developed Markets Index Fund ETF (VEA 2.36%) climbed a respectable 6.1%, and is currently boasting a 7.5% gain for the year. A solid performance, though one suspects the numbers are being massaged by highly-trained accountants and a liberal application of wishful thinking.
The initial euphoria, it seems, was sparked by whispers of Intercontinental Exchange (ICE) casting its august gaze upon OKX. The masses, ever so credulous, interpreted this as a divine endorsement, sending OKB into a frenzied ascent. Yet, as with all fleeting passions, the ardor cooled, and reality-that most unforgiving of critics-reasserted itself.
Joby, at present, is mostly a collection of very clever engineers and a rather substantial burn rate. They’re spending a lot of money trying to build something that, until recently, existed primarily in science fiction. There are other companies chasing this dream – the sky, it seems, is becoming rather crowded with hopeful aircraft designers – but they’re all, at this stage, largely preoccupied with getting their machines approved by regulators, a process that can take longer than building the aircraft itself. It’s a bit like trying to launch a rocket while simultaneously writing a 500-page environmental impact statement.
Everyone’s talking about AI stocks being under pressure. AI. Honestly. It’s a buzzword. A very irritating buzzword. And AMD’s valuation took a hit because of it. Meanwhile, they’re actually doing things. Delivering results. But no, let’s focus on what might happen. It’s exhausting.
The company’s ambition – to harvest mineral wealth from the abyssal plains of the ocean – is, to say the least, unconventional. Rather than excavating the earth, a practice fraught with both expense and social disruption, they propose to gather polymetallic nodules, those curious formations lying upon the seabed, containing a concentration of nickel, copper, cobalt, and manganese most gratifying to the modern industrialist. It is a scheme promising, should it succeed, to diminish our dependence upon foreign suppliers – a circumstance ever desirable, and increasingly so in these unsettled times.
The company, you see, began by crafting these curious devices for forklifts – mechanical beasts employed in the endless shuffling of goods within vast warehouses. But the true peculiarity lay in the fuel itself. They would supply the hydrogen, purchased from others at a considerable cost, and then sell it to their customers, accepting a loss with the solemnity of a funeral procession. It was a business model built on the principle of cheerfully throwing money into a bonfire, a spectacle that attracted the attention of investors with a particular fondness for self-inflicted wounds.
