Bonddad considers reports that Gross Domestic Product last quarter was down at an “annualized” rate of one percent, rather than the 4.5% that was forecast. His conclusions (follow the link for the full analysis):
What follows is real. President Obama is having a beer tonight with Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Sgt. James Crowley. But a flap has developed over what kind of beer should be served. Gates wants to drink Red Stripe. Crowley wants to drink Blue Moon. Obama intends to drink Bud Light. But one domestic beer-maker is upset with Obama because Bud Light’s corporate parent is not based in America (nor are the makers of Red Stripe or Blue Moon), and therefore insists that Obama should be serving something that’s all-American, like Sam Adams. What a quandary!
Personally, I don’t think that any domestic beer should be served until each and every brewery worker produces an American birth certificate.
Every ninth-grader knows the U.S. government has three branches. Goldman owns just one of these outright; the second we simply rent; and the third we have no interest in.
What small interest we maintain in the government is, we feel, in the public interest. The financial crisis has its roots in a single easily identifiable source: others’ envy of Goldman Sachs.
The bozos at Merrill Lynch, the dimwits at Citigroup, the nimrods at Lehman Brothers, the louts at Bear Stearns, and even that momentarily useful lunatic at AIG took risks that no non-Goldman person should take, in a pathetic attempt to replicate our returns.
Now we are working with Tim Geithner and Congress to ensure that we alone are allowed to take the sort of risks that might destroy the financial system.
It wasn’t until I arrived in England that I understood this completely. Thirteen weeks before my recent operation, I had given birth at the same London hospital. I was able to hold my daughter for maybe 20 minutes before the midwives and doctors discovered that I had a very serious and rare fourth-degree tear in my perineum. After the finding, I was immediately wheeled into surgery, where for the next three hours, I was stitched up by, I’m told, one of the best surgeons in the field.
Indeed there was nothing bureaucratic about any of it. Far from impersonal, I had repeated conversations with the surgeon himself about the injuries and the operations. The clinic’s nurse, a wonderful woman named Ann, held my hand through some seriously uncomfortable pre-operative exams. This Monday, her babysitter called in sick. I know because I talk to her all the time. Not once in any of these encounters did anyone bring up money. Not once was a politician present.