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They’re due to report earnings on February 26th, after the markets close. A ritual. Like sacrificing a goat to appease the gods of quarterly revenue. Let’s look at what’s been pushing this particular bird down.

But it’s not just the money, is it? It’s the transition. Greg Abel is at the helm now. I remember when the succession plan was announced. It was so… orderly. Like a well-behaved family passing down the silver. My own family’s transitions usually involve shouting and passive-aggressive gift-giving. So, a smooth handover felt almost unsettling. And now, we wait to see if Abel will steer the ship with the same quiet competence, or if he’ll suddenly decide to paint the whole thing neon pink.

RSV vaccines, CMV failures…it’s a goddamn rollercoaster designed by a sadist. One minute they’re soaring, the next they’re plummeting into the abyss of clinical trial disappointments. And the whole thing reeks of…well, of the frantic energy of a company desperately trying to become something it’s not.

Now, the engine sputters. A slowdown is predicted, a crawl even. They claim it’s temporary, a pause before the next surge. A slight increase in EBITDA is forecast, but offset by ‘higher corporate costs’ – a polite way of saying more goes to those already well-fed. They offer promises of savings, of expansion projects – the Medford NGL Fractionator, the Bighorn Processing Plant – grand designs etched on paper while the foundations beneath shift and crack. These expansions, they say, will deliver prosperity. But to whom? The engineers? The managers? Or merely another layer of profit for those who already possess more than they need?

The potential, as it is invariably described, is vast. A reshaping of daily life, they promise. Processing speeds exceeding anything currently conceivable. Yet, one is compelled to wonder if this potential is not merely a phantom, a bureaucratic necessity to justify the continued allocation of resources. The very notion of “orders of magnitude greater” feels less like a statement of fact and more like a desperate attempt to ward off the inevitable questions regarding return on investment.

The filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission, dated February 4th, confirms the transaction. It appears Alpine sees something… promising. Or, perhaps, they simply enjoy a flutter. One never quite knows with these funds. The holding now represents 5.9% of their 13F reportable AUM as of December 31st, 2025. A rather significant commitment, wouldn’t you say?

A considerable portion of our investing public—some 37%, if the latest surveys are to be believed—now anticipate a decline. A most curious sentiment, is it not? To fear prosperity, to predict ruin where, for a decade past, only gains have blossomed! It is as if they expect the sun to suddenly take offense at their good fortune and withdraw its warmth. The optimists, alas, number only a modest 34%—a pitifully small chorus of cheer in a theatre rapidly filling with apprehension.

The pursuit of quick riches in the blossoming marijuana industry, a fever dream of green leaves and inflated valuations, has left many investors with little more than ashes in their hands. Even the pronouncements of presidents, those fleeting attempts to reshape reality, proved powerless against the immutable laws of market gravity. Canopy Growth, once heralded as a titan, now stands as a cautionary tale, a testament to the perils of chasing phantom profits. The air, thick with disappointment, carries the scent of burned capital. It is a scent Altria knows well, yet has somehow managed to avoid.

Buffett, bless his heart, admitted as much. And now Greg Abel is at the helm. A perfectly nice man, I’m sure. I once spent an entire flight next to someone who managed a mid-sized paperclip factory, and he seemed equally competent. The question isn’t competence, it’s scale. It’s the quiet desperation of having so much money that even good investments feel… underwhelming.

The banks offer about 1.5%, maybe 1.6%, these days. A pittance. Enough to maybe offset the rising cost of regret. They’ll tell you it’s safe. And technically, it is. Safe from a lot of things. Not safe from time, or inflation, or the general absurdity of existence. But insured. That’s something.