Gulp
If I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell.
I mean, it’s a beautiful day in Seattle and I didn’t see a single stockbroker leaping from a skyscraper window or anybody selling apples on the street corner.
I could sort of imagine that people in fancy cars were driving more aggressively than usual—there was a lady in a Lexus SUV who looked especially angry as she roared by me past the traffic circles in Montlake and then scowled mightily when I pulled up next to her at the light—but I might have been projecting since, after all, like lots of people, I was feeling kinda grouchy myself after seeing what the internet had to offer hour by hour in terms of stock market news.
One good thing: perhaps finally the big economic muckety-mucks can stop debating whether the country is entering a recession; now, I think, the question has to be whether we’re sliding into a full-blown 21st century version of the Great Depression.
Still, so far, everything seems pretty much the same: my checking account is still solvent; there’s food in the refrigerator; nobody is trying to repossess our car; and here I am, safe and sound at home in the house I don’t really own but which the bank isn’t yet trying to take away from me.
And I’ve yet to feel it’s necessary to sell any bikes, although I do have a sense that it might really be time to part with a couple just in the name of social responsibility—although maybe I’m going to wait until that guy whose house I pass on the Burke-Gilman trail with the four Porsches outside the garage sells one of his cars first.
What’s probably weirdest of all is that I’m probably more exercised emotionally about tonight’s Steelers game than I was about all the numbers jumping around and down in my overall net worth today. Roethisberger just threw an interception and I shouted “fuck!”—first time all day.
I mean, it’s a beautiful day in Seattle and I didn’t see a single stockbroker leaping from a skyscraper window or anybody selling apples on the street corner.
I could sort of imagine that people in fancy cars were driving more aggressively than usual—there was a lady in a Lexus SUV who looked especially angry as she roared by me past the traffic circles in Montlake and then scowled mightily when I pulled up next to her at the light—but I might have been projecting since, after all, like lots of people, I was feeling kinda grouchy myself after seeing what the internet had to offer hour by hour in terms of stock market news.
One good thing: perhaps finally the big economic muckety-mucks can stop debating whether the country is entering a recession; now, I think, the question has to be whether we’re sliding into a full-blown 21st century version of the Great Depression.
Still, so far, everything seems pretty much the same: my checking account is still solvent; there’s food in the refrigerator; nobody is trying to repossess our car; and here I am, safe and sound at home in the house I don’t really own but which the bank isn’t yet trying to take away from me.
And I’ve yet to feel it’s necessary to sell any bikes, although I do have a sense that it might really be time to part with a couple just in the name of social responsibility—although maybe I’m going to wait until that guy whose house I pass on the Burke-Gilman trail with the four Porsches outside the garage sells one of his cars first.
What’s probably weirdest of all is that I’m probably more exercised emotionally about tonight’s Steelers game than I was about all the numbers jumping around and down in my overall net worth today. Roethisberger just threw an interception and I shouted “fuck!”—first time all day.
posted by Professor Dave at 6:17 PM
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