Hello recession, my old friend

I'd braced myself for a wild ride. The collapse of Lehman Bros., the shotgun sale of Merrill Lynch and the bailout of insurance colossus AIG made a week of vertiginous Wall Street trading inevitable. On Friday, the Dow was down a mere 0.3% on the week -- but to get there, the Fed and the Treasury had to pump hundreds of billions into the global financial system. It's pretty clear that the seizure isn't over and that recession denial is no longer a growth profession.

I took this last week as an opportunity to mistily review all my past recessions. They say you never forget your first, and for me, that initial demoralizing downturn happened when I was 6, as the OPEC oil embargo of 1973 ushered in the so-called Malaise Era of stagflation. I have a vague recollection of sitting in the back seat of my parents' Buick on the way to Florida as we waited in line for a precious fill-up. The Old Man was a three-pack-a-day guy back then; we might as well have been in a coal-fired locomotive. My brother and I still break out coughing when we talk about that vacation.

A few years later, when we lived in suburban Chicago, our local bank failed. I recall an intense desire to see "Star Wars" while my father -- whose deposits were restored by the FDIC -- defiantly asserted that he'd always known the bank was a feeble excuse for a financial institution. (The Force was with him.) Then he lit up and, a few years later, voted Republican for the first time in his life. My family enjoyed the 1980 Reagan recession all the more knowing that we had dispensed with malaise in favor of voodoo economics.

My college years brought 1987's Black Monday, along with a gloomy pall that put a serious damper on tailgating and the spring break beer budget. I too started smoking.

When the next recession rolled around, in the early 1990s, Dad had cut back to a pack a day. I had left home and was doing nicely in New York on my $12,000-a-year publishing salary in the worst job market in decades. My father, who never officially quit smoking, died before the dot-com meltdown/Sept. 11 recession, although I suspect he observed the whole thing through a nicotine haze from the Great Beyond. On Earth, every single person I knew lost a job. And then we were attacked by terrorists.

The way I add it up, recessions are the signature pattern of my lifetime to date. And so I have developed a perverse fondness for them: the sky-is-falling hysteria, the gnashing mandibles on CNBC, the broad excuse to return to myriad recessionary survival tactics, otherwise referred to as vices.