Now that we are at war, competitively speaking, let us consider the meaning of it all. As Clausewitz, a metaphorically promiscuous dead German, wrote: "War is the continuation of politics by other means," or even better, "Politics is the womb in which war develops." Cool. Competitiveness, agree generally everyone but a few economists, is a zero-sum game. We are being tested, like contestants on "The Biggest Loser" or rats in a maze. Who hid the cheese? Families, parents, infants must step up to master electrical engineering. Do your math. Study foreign languages. Build bridges by the swings and code killer apps during healthy snack time before your Suzuki method piano lessons. Music is math; math is an expressway to engineering, which is to competitiveness what dating apps are to social media. Sports is a form of war, which explains fighter jets overhead at the Superbowl (alas, they closed the hole in the roof). Let us consult Lombardi, Vincent: "Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing." (He's a DWM, but big on Broadway, and he has a rest stop.) Competitiveness means eternal self-improvement. We, as a nation, require Tiger Moms as much as killer apps. As Sherman said: "War is hell." No sleepovers.

The odd thing here -- and there is much that is strange, if familiar, like reincarnation -- is that for all the ways to boost competitiveness after we overindulged on real estate, some economists fail to appreciate the link between investing in solar power and squashing Chinese revanchists like bedbugs. Economists talk up David Ricardo, who is not only a DWM, but a Brit to boot, and who baffles us with a brainteaser called comparative advantage. Ricardo, like his predecessor, Adam Smith, who, even worse, was Scottish and once abducted by gypsies, battled against the dark forces of mercantilism, which, in a world of scarcity, pitted man against man, household against household and, most importantly, state against state. Zero sum, baby. In the end, it came down to gold (always does): who had it, who, through complacency or the inability to add, lost it. The moral calculus of mercantilism was metaphorically straightforward: If I wanted more loot, I took it from you, thus the analogies to warfare. Ricardo (and Smith) saw it differently. Their world was dynamic, expanding, win-win. Everybody could get rich, relatively speaking, if they tended to their knitting or to the production of high-value-added products. They just had to be good at something, like spinning textiles or consulting: economics for winners.

That was two centuries ago; Ricardo (who, fun fact, was a successful speculator like Keynes) died in 1823. And the debate over trade, free or mercantilist, and its popular outrider, competitiveness, has continued ever since. There's little doubt that comparative advantage is enriching over the long term. But getting from here to there is a bitch, and the trip may be speeded along by touches of strategic mercantilism. And there's the rub. Both theories are right and wrong, depending on time frame and goal. It's like the notion that markets will eventually reach optimal, even virtuous, equilibria. While you're waiting, the guy next to you is making a fortune day trading. The good thing about competitiveness is that, like dieting, it may trigger a temporary spasm of self-improvement that makes the nation more productive. The bad thing (besides its temporariness) is that it may as easily lead to aggressive metaphors, beggar-thy-neighbor policies, a renewed avidity for Clausewitz; it's easier to demonize foreigners than suffer through more Suzuki lessons. And, in the end, when that competitive magic mountain has been scaled, Davos-like, we may pause to look around and wonder: What the hell was that all about? And why do we resemble a bunch of zombies?