Thursday, September 25, 2008

How the experts determine whether we’re in a recession, depression, or even a humiliating rap session, nobody really knows, though I suspect there’s a giant plastic spinner sitting in a prestigious think tank somewhere, and it’s click-click-clicking to a stop. Analysts and economists “congregating,” it turns out, is really code for picking which lucky schlub gets to give the ol’ plastic sonuvabitch a whirl. Most recently, it looks like it’s settling on the dreaded “D” word.

When I think of the Great Depression, two things promptly come to mind: first, there’s the iconic photograph of the double-wide soup line, an orderly mass of gaunt, grim men in bowler hats. The other imagery comes from a scene in Seabiscuit, during which a ringing phone interrupts a dinner party to herald the coming of economic catastrophe. Sorry, should’ve left it at the photo. That second reference probably cut off my line of street cred considerably.

While neither scene should happen these days, primarily because I didn’t name my racehorse something equally stupid like Oceancracka, there’s a kind of panic in the air. Do you withdraw all your cash, hide it under your bed? Will your bed actually be worth more than the cash sitting under it? Will you have a job six months from now to pay off the combination bed-safe? Why are gas stations dry? This is milk I’m buying, right, and not liquid gold? Now, more than ever, the best policy seems to be to tune out the media noise and just cruise. Sometimes, when there’s a rough patch, I like to set a future beacon for myself: this same time next year, it’ll all be over. I’ll look back and wonder why I ever worried. Right?