"Make It Rain" Economics

“If you got money, and you know it
Take it out your pocket and show it
Then throw it like
This a way (uh huh)
That a way (uh huh)...”

Those were the words that I heard blaring from the stereo of a late model Chevy Impala on my drive home one day. The car had two distinguishable characteristics. It had huge wheels with spinning rims, and a paint job that depicted an epic battle between the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and their main nemesis Shredder (seriously, you can't make that shit up). The wheels were so large in comparison to the size of the car that it looked like a giant roller skate.

Once I got past the aesthetics of the vehicle, I started to think about the lyrics of the song that I heard. They were contrasted with what was emitting from the speakers in my car. I was listening to “All Things Considered” on National Public Radio. The story was about the Republican primary election. The two front runners, Mitt Romney and Rick Santorum, were debating the practice of trickle-down economics during the Reagan administration in the 1980's. They both took turns giving a metaphorical hand job to “The Gipper” (a literal one would be deplorable and really hard to do without access to a backhoe). They also shot many a verbal arrow toward Barack Obama and his 2008 campaign comments about how the “old trickle-down theory has failed us."

A quick explanation of the the trickle-down theory is as follows: It is an economic theory which states that investing money in companies and giving them tax breaks is the best way to stimulate the economy (www.investopedia.com). In the 1980's, “Reaganomics” was born. It took that theory and expanded it to include decreased social spending, increased military spending and the deregulation of domestic markets. Basically, it said that if you lower the taxes for corporations and the higher income earners that run them, eventually the money will “trickle-down” to the consumers and other people with lower incomes.

The opinion of Barack Obama and many other Democrats is that the theory is flawed and is only “thinly veiled social Darwinism.” This being NPR, they showed a thinly veiled bias toward the Obama camp on the subject. Obama went on to aim his comments at Rep. Paul Ryan (R-Wis) by saying, "For much of the last century, we have been having the same argument with folks who keep peddling some version of trickle-down economics," He said, "They keep telling us that if we'd convert more of our investments in education and research and health care into tax cuts, especially for the wealthy, our economy will grow stronger." That being said, I don't really have anything to say about the discussion or rhetoric. However, I do have an idea of my own.

I call it the “Make it Rain” theory of economics. Instead of giving tax breaks to corporations or on the capital gains that investors have received since the 1980's, I propose we give tax breaks to monies earned from rap record sales. No other subset of American multimillionaires has shown a similar affinity for spending money on goods and services with reckless abandon. I return to the words of Lil' Wayne in his song “Got Money.” If he has more money, he will most surely know it, and he will in turn take it out of his pocket and show it. It will “trickle-down” as he “makes it rain” this a way and that a way (uh huh).

Once the “make it rain” tax policy is enacted, a satisfied young gentleman named Soulja Boy will wake up the next morning, hop up out of his bed, turn his “swag on”, take a look in the mirror, say “what's up” and announce to his accountant, “Yeah, I'm getting money!”

The industries that would see the quickest jump in consumer activity would be jewelry stores, strip clubs and car dealerships. “Big timers” will fill their closets with Gucci suits, gator boots and Coogi sweaters (ironically, the Big Tymers will have moved on to more expensive brands). More precious gems and metals will be invented by alchemists. Their funding will come from the likes of Jay-Z and Kanye West. They might have “99 Problems”, but a luxury tax wouldn't be one. Sales of Escalades and Hummers will skyrocket, and the American companies that make them will need to hire new employees to keep up with the demand.

The economic effect will be immediate and sustained. That is, until we experience a downturn in the country's interest in rap music. At that time, we may have to expand it to include the earnings of boy bands. Hopefully that cycle is at least another fifteen to twenty years away. I'm still getting those N'Sync songs out of my head from the last great musical depression.

I just solved the economic crisis, you're welcome. Vote D3P in 2012!

April Fools... You're Adopted!

Alcohol is like a slow working truth serum. It gets the same effect as sodium pentathol, but with less than guaranteed results. I have seen it work wonders though. One such occurrence was a year ago today; when a group of people came into the bar where I was sitting, enjoying a quiet drink. They were already pretty well saturated with what smelled like whiskey-based truth serum. They were close enough to me that I could identify the alcohol they were drinking, and therefore they were also close enough for me to hear their conversations. The combination was sure to bear fruit.

There were two rather tall members of the group that were perched directly to my right. One was a skinny fellow who was wearing a Foxy Shazaam t-shirt and skinny jeans. He was extremely demonstrative with his hands and his facial expressions followed suit. The other was a more burly type, who stood about 6'5” tall. His hands stayed still on the table, and his thick black beard hid any smile or frown that he could conjure up.

The skinny guy's name was Tom, and he was the more visibly intoxicated of the two. He was also the one doing most of the talking. He was discussing his recent failed relationships, his disgust with his current job, and pretty much just complaining about his entire life at that moment. The odd thing was that he was making all of these sad comments and observations with an ear-to-ear smile pasted on his face. The bearded gentleman was like a hairy statue, whose sole purpose in the “conversation” was to listen and occasionally nod his head to show he was still awake.

Tom continued to express his loathing for his boss at work. He talked about how he was simultaneously an arrogant prick and a know-nothing micro manager. Tom spoke about the women who had left him for other men in the recent months. One girl broke up with him because he was “too clingy” and the other said he “never wanted to spend time with her.”

I thought to myself, “Either he went from one side of the spectrum in women he dated, or he over compensated in his approach to being a boyfriend.” Either way, I felt like this conversation was building up to something worth hearing. I was right.

Tom quickly changed course, and became exponentially more adamant about his new line of verbal assault on the ever listening ears of his bearded friend. They shared a round of Jagermeister shots, and Tom got to his new point. He said, “And today is my birthday. God damn it, it really sucks having April 1^st as a birthday!”

His bearded brother said, “Oh yeah, I knew that. Is that why you called me to meet you up here?”

Tom interrupted him, “Yep, but that is only part of the story. Today my parents told me I was adopted. I thought it was yet another April Fools joke for my birthday. Unfortunately, it was not.”

His friend could only say, “Wow, dude. That sucks.” His friend was good at growing a beard, but really not so skilled in the art of empathy.

Tom jumped back in, “Yeah, they basically just said, 'Happy birthday son, your biological parents didn't want you. Have some cake.' I didn't know how to respond.”

I wished I had some sort of way to interrupt their conversation and supply Tom with some support, or maybe act as his friend's empathetic Cyrano de Bergerac. Alas, it was only my job to listen. And so I did.

Tom went on to explain how his parents had actually always wanted a son, and his adoption was planned shortly after conception. Luckily neither his adopted or biological parents gave him any details on the conception. That would be rather awkward for all involved.

What I couldn't get over was the fact that he initially thought it was an April Fools prank. Were his adoptive parents really big jokesters, or did he have to question everything that ever occurred on his birthday? What a horrible set of affairs that would be. Most people just get to enjoy their birthdays by eating cake and hanging out with friends and family. Tom had to stay on his toes and wonder what trickery was in store for him that year.

I imagined an eight year-old Tom waking up on his birthday to find a saddle in the living room sitting next to a book about how to care for a pony. His parents would blindfold him, buckle him into the minivan, and head east to the farm where his birthday pony was waiting for him. They would drive in circles for twenty minutes or so, stop the van, open the sliding door ceremoniously, and have him remove his blindfold only to find out he was standing in front of his own house. His parents would be rolling on the ground laughing after shouting “April Fools!” and then lead him inside so he could open up a Lego set or G.I. Joe action figure. Most kids just got the set of blocks or action figure without the emotional roller coaster. Not Tom; he got the full treatment.

Did a sixteen year-old Tom find a cherry red Ford Mustang waiting for him in the driveway, only to later find out they had just taken it for a test drive with the sole intention of tormenting their son? Was he subjected to this kind of torture every year, or did his parents have to wait a few years in between the cruel practice of dashing his hopes and dreams on the anniversary of his birth?

I wondered what kind of effect that would have on my psyche. I quickly realized, I would probably end up just like Tom. Not knowing what the next birthday would bring. Not knowing how my next personal or work relationship would pan out. And probably not be able to trust anyone to whom I grew close.

Tom's parents could not be trusted. I had only know about them for a few minutes, but I questioned their motives and parenting skills at every corner. I even wondered if this was actually their April Fools opus. Were they going to let this joke go for an entire year before revealing the elaborate gag?

Tom would spend the next 365 days asking questions about his “real” parents, and they would answer all of them with vague and political responses. Tom would slip into deep depression, but his parents wouldn't let him on to their clever ruse. Each day they would greet him with smiles and comforting hugs. He would lose weight from not eating. He would quit his job, and become a recluse. His skin would grow pale, and his face would lose any semblance of vibrancy.

A year later, Tom would emerge from his basement lair to see his parents sitting in the living room with another pair of adults. They would introduce them as "Mr. and Mrs. Jones."  They would call him to sit down on the couch between them. He would slowly come to realize that these were not just house guests. These were the two people who gave him life, then gave him up. They were his biological parents!

The morning would be one of the most eye-opening experiences of his life. He would learn about how his father was a classically-trained guitarist, and his mother was a ER nurse who saved the lives of hundreds of people every year. If they would have kept him, then their lives would have been more ordinary, and he would not have gotten the support and love he deserved.

His being adopted was not something that he needed to think about ever again. It was a great thing for everyone involved. His biological parents got to live their lives and make their mark on society, while his adoptive parents got the son they always wanted, and most importantly he was the recipient of love and admiration from those parents. Tom would finally feel like he knew his place in the universe.

Tom would rush to go get the poetry notebook in which he had written his every thought and feeling over the last twelve months. It would be his final act of cleansing. This was going to be the cathartic moment he had been waiting for, not just in the past year, but his entire life!

Upon his return to the living room, notebook in hand, his smiling face would be greeted by the puffed cheeks of all four adults in the room waiting for him. Their cheeks would deflate and a loud roar of laughter would fill the room, fingers pointed in his direction. His father would stand up to walk over to him. Tom, standing bewildered and wondering what was so damn funny, wold begin to speak. His father would interrupt him before he could get a word out, and scream, “April Fools!”

The whole thing was an elaborate hoax, with the sole purpose to further push Tom into solitude and distrust for the entire human race. It was at this moment that he would come to the realization that it was not the entire human race that was to be distrusted.  His parents were just assholes. The rest of the world knows how to just say, “Happy Birthday” and take you out to dinner or to the bar for a drink.  Luckily, Tom eventually found a bearded friend who could be there for him. And even more lucky was that on the day where he first told that story to another person, I was there to hear.

Happy birthday Tom!

If Your Facial Hair Could Talk...

If facial hair could talk, what would it say? I believe I know the answer to what should have just been a rhetorical question. This is not a beard chart or just a list of facial hair types with silly names. No, this is what the beard says about the man (or woman) on whose face it resides.

I will use Wooly Willy as a model to provide visual representation to my arguments herein. These views are strictly the opinions of the author and in no way reflect the views of the bearded community as a whole. However, you can feel free to take these views and claim them as your own. I will not sue you.

Let’s start with the shortest beards first, then we’ll get into the standard types, and eventually we’ll work our way into the more intricate face garden types.

Clean shaven face, “I am either in sales, or I haven’t learned that I can grow a beard yet. There is no other excuse to leave my chin bare. I am a blank canvas that needs to be painted with fuzz. I am a patch of land just waiting to be cultivated into a follicle farm. I am kind of cold; can you pop your collar to block the breeze? Ah, that’s better.”

The 5 O’clock Shadow (at 5:00 pm), “I shaved either last night or this morning. I am not sure if I will make that terrible decision again tonight or tomorrow. I don’t want to, but I heard that 70% of women prefer clean shaven men. I care too much about what other people think.”

The 5 O’clock Shadow (all day, every day), “I trim my beard 3-4 times a week, but only down to stubble. I read an article in GQ or Esquire that said that this was fashionable. I also care too much about what other people think. However, I don’t much care for women.”

Full beard #1 (beyond stubble to 1” in length), “I am not afraid to be a man, but I may be afraid of razors. I have a job that allows some facial hair, but nothing out of control. If that were not the case, my beard would be a force the likes that have never been seen this side of the Mississippi.”

Full beard #2 (1” to 2” in length), “I could be any kind of person, but I am generally in a transitional period in my life. I could be taking a year off from school/work to ‘find myself’ or ‘write the great American novel.’ I could be just some dude who stopped caring about how the world views him, and decided to cultivate a wonderful face garden to show it.  I probably won’t ever be clean shaven. That’s ludicrous!”

Full beard #3 (2” to 6” in length), “I am either homeless or in a rock band. Offer me a dollar. If I say “thanks” and put it in my pocket, then I am probably in a rock band. If I dance around and thank Jesus, then I am homeless (unless I’m in a Christian rock band, then your guess is as good as mine).”

Full beard #4 (6”+), “I am either a homeless person or a wizard. Either way, I will be chanting random things. Whether that is the booze talking or not, will not always be immediately evident. I would run away, just to be safe.”

Quasi full beard (without beard-moustache connectors), “According to my genealogy, I am not to be trusted. I want to be real man, but God has forsaken me. If my beard is red, then it is probably hiding freckles, therefore I have no soul. Point me to the nearest hallway, so that I can eat my lunch in solitude.”

Mutton Chops, “I generally exude awesomeness, and the people who have jobs that do not allow them to grow mutton chops are jealous of my existence. If I also a have a mustache connecting my chops (aka 'Friendly Mutton Chops') be careful, I could be a time-traveling salesman. Would you like to buy any mustache wax or hair tonic, sir?”

Slim side burns, “I have either never seen how stupid all the tools on Beverly Hills 90210 looked in he 90’s, or I still have a poster of Luke Perry in the room I rent from my parents in their basement. I pay my rent by mowing the lawn, and giving foot rubs to my Nana. Someone please kill me.”

Chin Strap (with or without a wispy moustache), “I think I have a real beard, but I actually just have a stupid line of hair along my jaw line. My beard is high maintenance, and low reward. Women hate my chin strap, and I hate myself.”

Fu Manchu, “If I am Asian, I can probably kill you in over 1,000 different ways. If I am Caucasian and over 40 years old, I can probably quote the lyrics of any Queen song. If I am under 40 years old, please put a mirror in front of my face so I can see how crazy I look. From that point, I can either embrace my lunacy or grow a different beard. Either way, thank you citizen!”

Goatee, “I apparently didn’t realize that beards come in men's sizes too. I am a Fisher Price beard; a starter kit on which to build. Please provide me with feedback as to how I can improve. I need direction, because I started to be beard, but then decided to be ½ a beard after getting so close. If I don’t listen to you at first, please feel free to raise your voice or physically shake some sense into me.”

Soul Patch, “If I am not Bruce Springsteen, Billy Bob Thornton, or Howie Mandel; then I am a pretentious douche bag.  If I exist ironically or for some other type of political or creative purpose, tread lightly, there is a thin line between genius and douche. I would recommend discussing this with a licensed beard consultant before continuing on with this charade.”

Neck beard, “I am an enigma wrapped in a mystery, surrounded by a riddle. The fact that I exist has perplexed men and women alike. I am neither fashionable nor functional. I am basically a dust ruffle for your face; without accent pillows or matching drapes. I would rather just be side burns.”

Cop Stache, “If I am not a police officer, then I probably drive a Ford Crown Victoria or a Dodge Charger. If I am a police officer, then you are most likely not happy to see me. Feel free to compliment me on my moustache, but do not attempt to stroke it. Cop or not, you don’t stroke a man’s stache without an invite.”

Handlebar moustache, “I have either watched too many Spaghetti Westerns, or grew up in the 70’s as a big Rollie Fingers fan. I spend a lot of time making sure my ‘bars’ are trimmed neatly and waxed to perfection. Free moustache rides you say? Not on this work of art! If I did offer such a service, you couldn’t afford my rates.”

I am sure more than a few beard and moustache types were omitted from this exercise. I would be happy to read your addendums, corrections, and amendments as well. Please feel free to post them as comments or email them to me directly. Just please don’t take your facial hair decisions lightly. A good beard is a terrible thing to waste.