Political Asylum — September 25, 2012, 3:18 pm

Wall Street Places Its Election Bets

Has Wall Street made up its mind on this election? One analyst, Jeffrey Kleintop, has divined just who the investment class believes will be president by developing one of those magic election-year metrics. (Double the price of a bag of groceries in St. Louis, divide by each candidate’s favorability rating in the Rust Belt, and voilà—the winner!) Kleintop’s Wall Street Election Year Index (.pdf) looks at specific stocks that are enjoying an uptick. The theory goes that a certain basket of stocks traditionally does better under Democratic presidents and a different basket does better under Republican presidents. Check to see which basket is doing better in the run-up to the election, and you know who Wall Street thinks will win.

This year’s mix is revealing. Kleintop believes a good hedge fund, confident in a win for Mitt Romney, would move its portfolios toward major segments of the energy sector. Conversely, since an unrepealed Affordable Care Act promises to bring in millions of new customers to the health care industry, one might expect a rise in stocks specializing in “health care facilities” and “health care services” in anticipation of an Obama win.

Kleintop says he not only looks at the top stocks, but also employs an algorithm that will “strip out and balance out the cyclicality,” as he told CNBC’s Jeff Macke earlier this summer. Checking the top five or ten health care and energy stocks on an anecdotal basis (and thus surrendering to the evils of cyclicality) reveals no demonstrable prediction from Wall Street. But according to Kleintop’s algorithm, another class of investments is also set to grow if Obama wins reelection—the one that encompasses “construction materials,” “homebuilding,” and “construction and farm machinery.” And here, the big portfolio managers seem to have shaken their Magic 8 balls and come up “Obama.”

I googled the top stocks in the category of construction materials, and what I saw was fascinating. Not only does Wall Street seem to be betting its portfolios on Obama, it would appear that its collective realization occurred during the ramp-up to the conventions, sometime in July. At that time, Wall Street started to see a rosy future in the construction sector—a view that seems to be prevailing, with the top stocks there surging from 20 to 50 percent a few weeks ago. Below are charts showing trends for the top ten construction-materials stocks. The jump is unmistakable—you don’t find a loser until you get to the tenth, Clarcor.

pallcorp
donaldson
robbinsmyers
crane
rbc
pentair
middleby
gardner
eastern
clarcor

In Connecticut, where I live, there’s no hiding the fact that while the state at large might prefer Obama, the money—i.e., Fairfield County: Greenwich, Stamford, Cos Cob, suburban Bridgeport—has abandoned him this time around. In 2008, in the part of Bridgeport where the big funders live, Obama raised nearly $4.5 million, compared with $2.8 million for John McCain. This time, Obama has come away with just over $1 million, while Romney has gathered about $4 million.

A friend of mine recounted for me a luncheon for equity-fund managers a few days ago in New York, at which the host asked some 500 of Wall Street’s finest to use a private voting device to answer a few questions. “The MC asked us to vote on who we WANT to win the election,” my friend wrote. “53% of the room said they wanted Romney to win. Obama got 47%.”

Perhaps that vote by itself is news—47 percent of equity-fund managers prefer Obama? But then the MC asked who they thought would actually win. “Over 70% said Obama would,” said my friend.

So, while the leaders of our financial sector are betting their personal funds on Romney, they’re betting their portfolios on Obama. I guess they don’t call it hedging for nothing.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

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"She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. 'Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.'"
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