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Bloodlust and Boozing During Trump's Wall Street Beatdown - The American Prospect
11 WALL ST., 8:00 AM
One hour before Monday’s opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange, a group of oily college juniors wait hungrily outside, suited and bespectacled. They seek a front-row seat for what commentators warn will be the worst stock crash in recent memory. The kids are holding Nvidia, and they all voted for Trump. They are here for a class trip. They say that despite the market implosion, they believe in the cause.
“Don’t be a panicat,” one says sheepishly. “Panican,” another corrects. This is a new derogatory term for anyone worried about the dwindling contents of their retirement accounts.
The kids are standing feet from the century-old blast marks of the 1920 Wall Street bombing, when anarchists, determined to kill the market—literally and figuratively—murdered 30 people with 100 pounds of dynamite and a quarter-ton of cast-iron shrapnel. The irony is lost on the college kids. They say anyone afraid of the stock market is “gay.”
An NYSE compliance manager smokes outside wearily. He too believes that people are maybe a bit too nervous, but volume is high. And on Wall Street proper, on the actual cobblestone road, volume is all that matters, because the real decisions are all happening uptown, where Wall Street has long since moved.
200 WEST ST., 9:21 AM (Dow Jones Industrial Average premarket -1,203.72)
I’m on the train as Twitter’s armchair analysts forecast doom and hellfire. This is our Pearl Harbor, they say, our Nagasaki, our Woodstock ’99.
One hour before Monday’s opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange, a group of oily college juniors wait hungrily outside, suited and bespectacled. They seek a front-row seat for what commentators warn will be the worst stock crash in recent memory. The kids are holding Nvidia, and they all voted for Trump. They are here for a class trip. They say that despite the market implosion, they believe in the cause.
“Don’t be a panicat,” one says sheepishly. “Panican,” another corrects. This is a new derogatory term for anyone worried about the dwindling contents of their retirement accounts.
The kids are standing feet from the century-old blast marks of the 1920 Wall Street bombing, when anarchists, determined to kill the market—literally and figuratively—murdered 30 people with 100 pounds of dynamite and a quarter-ton of cast-iron shrapnel. The irony is lost on the college kids. They say anyone afraid of the stock market is “gay.”
An NYSE compliance manager smokes outside wearily. He too believes that people are maybe a bit too nervous, but volume is high. And on Wall Street proper, on the actual cobblestone road, volume is all that matters, because the real decisions are all happening uptown, where Wall Street has long since moved.
200 WEST ST., 9:21 AM (Dow Jones Industrial Average premarket -1,203.72)
I’m on the train as Twitter’s armchair analysts forecast doom and hellfire. This is our Pearl Harbor, they say, our Nagasaki, our Woodstock ’99.
https://prospect.org/power/2025-04-08-bloodlust-boozing-trumps-wall-street-beatdown/
