Our economy, it turns out, is bipolar. Boom and bust, faith and doubt, sweet zeal and tortured skepticism. Nonetheless, the deal-maker architects--the bankers-- in the belly (or should we say brain?) of the beast don't want any regulations. Governmental interference would limit their highs.
Oh but the lows. Yes, they want some help then. Money pumped in from the Fed like a quick prescription of Vicodiin or Oxycontin. Yes, they love Uncle Sam then. Could someone please do a quick revision of Bob Dylan's "Talkin Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues" as "Talkin Bear Stearns Picnic Massacre Blues"?
Can we end this twisted joyride of denial? Bipolar economy, heal thyself! Get some antidepressants--some regulations--that is. A nice little cocktail of pills, taken twice daily. Yes, you will no longer see those delirious highs. Stockroom running boys might not sweat so profusely. But we will not all be out of a job and at the mercy of your mood when you hit those lows. Smooth the peaks, even the valleys.
Get to a shrink (oh, we're shrinking all right--all of our portfolios...) Get a prescription--a fix. Then to CVS. Quick.
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