As the American economy deflates like a weary balloon in the waning moments of a child's birthday party - 401K plans become "not-okay" plans - and the long cherished dream of comfy retirement joins the "in-person customer support representative" on the endangered species list - I am torn by conflicting emotions.  On the one hand, while food riots would certainly provide much needed entertainment in my sleepy hamlet, the resultant inconvenience and traffic delays would outweigh the benefit - so I am concerned.  On the other hand, I am experiencing the smug self-satisfaction that only a trendsetter can feel, because I was poor long before it was cool to be poor.  Indeed, fate seemed downright determined to make certain that poverty would find its way to my door and place its feet, threadbare socks and all, on what I laughingly refer to as my "coffee table."  For one, I was determined from the start to be a writer, an occupation celebrated far and wide for its dependable uselessness to generate income.  And then, Manic Depression undermined my modest advances in life not once, or twice, but thrice - reducing my existence to a bad impression of Dresden in 1945.  To characterize my life today as "modest" is to call Catherine Deneuve "easy on the eyes" - say John Coltrane "knew his way around a horn" - or - describe the W. Bush Presidency as "somewhat disappointing."  Suffice it to say that, on months when I am shamelessly flush, I might throw caution to the wind and indulge in the frivolous purchase of a music CD.  And so, when I hear stories of Wall Street stockbrokers and bankers weeping voluminously and trembling like children in the face of a monster as they confront the prospect of losing that highly prized beach house, Masserati, and collection of Faberge eggs - I hope you will not judge me too harshly if I yawn a bit, chuckle up my sleeve, and whisper sotto voce, "Amateurs!"