Carol Lloyd got an odd feeling at the recent real estate expo. "It is ecstasy. It is apoplexy. It is beyond believing and yet painfully familiar. It's an aging real estate mogul who has found a second career as a trash-talking, self-help guru. Welcome to Woodstock for the equity generation, headlined by none other than our own national real estate idol, Donald Trump."

"The Expos have gathered ever larger audiences, but San Francisco's first Expo, which took place last weekend at the Moscone Center, was the best attended yet. The theme song for Donald's keynote speech more or less sums up the Expo's raison d'etre: 'Money-money-money-money.' The marketing billboards plastered with Donald's smug mug up the ante with specific numbers: 'One weekend can make you a millionaire.'"

"But as I wandered the halls, visiting workshops on tax evasion (er, I mean, avoidance) and the wonders of pre-foreclosure fortunes and flipping luxury homes to Florida condos (some are still available, get them while hot (not!)), one question kept nagging at me: Why now?"

"Real estate has always been a national obsession. In the six years since the Nasdaq imploded, it's been floating the American economy. But why now in a moment when even the most maniacally optimistic of real estate agents is admitting that the market may be showing signs of decline? Why would over 61,000 people in one of the most overpriced housing markets in the world spend good money to learn about real estate investing?"

"The Learning Annex (press release) offered one possible explanation: 'Real Estate in San Francisco is now the drug of choice.' This metaphor, of course, suggests that it's a dependence that has grown to be as unhealthful as it is irresistible. Perhaps we're just hooked: We can't stop ourselves from indulging even when we see signs that the party is over."

"And perhaps the very success of the Expo is an ominous sign of the bubble popping, rather than a sign that the real estate boom is continuing."

"As the saying goes, When your taxi driver starts giving you stock tips, you know it's time to sell. Well, isn't a convention of this sort simply a collection of all the stragglers to the real estate boom? When dancers have 'fun' inscribed over their gyrating bosoms, isn't that a sign that the boom has reached its irrational peak?"

"As I sat in the front row and listened to Trump, who is paid $1.5 million for his talks, I couldn't help but feel this frenetic carnival of high-flown cash-flow churn uncomfortably in my gut. Trump is nothing if not an expression of our ids. As he regaled the audience with his own shameless candor, 'When I walked out here tonight I said to myself, it doesn't f--ing matter!' And as he dispensed hard-bitten business pointers (Be paranoid, get even and always, always get a prenuptial agreement). I felt the audience's visceral appreciation of his willingness to articulate what they wanted to say but didn't dare."

"Perhaps it was the perfect embodiment of this cultural moment. The masses had gathered and together they were learning to look out for No. 1."