Merry Christmas?

Christmas in the childhood home with the family I've grown to love and be irritated by in a town plagued by deep rooted ice sheets and formidable winds is really one of the best days of the year. The fighting interests of contrived American and Greek cultural traditions at Christmas time in my home is something to be appreciated. The morning liturgy blared on the television thanks to a 1980's style satellite dish that may or may not be illegally attached to the roof of the house fought the middle sister's persistent attempts at playing Christmas jingles on the piano she touches only in late December. An awkward combination of foods was worked on all day, including crab legs, an opaque green jell-o with red spots (a perfect depiction of an Ebola victim in the first stages of bleeding out), spinach pie, terrible wine (ooh this year, we had terrible mulled wine), and an assortment of attempts at vegetarian side and main dishes. Most of the food inevitably goes uneaten and provides the parts and pieces for future meals of dissonant flavors.

The lunchtime banter is the usual mix. Each person ends up telling a story, not on purpose, we're totally not one of those families that sits patiently around the table passing around the "talking stick". First one sister will say something, then the other (she'll share a personally funny story that doesn't translate well into humor to a public audience, but she will cry in hysteria regardless), then Ma will get a bit freaked out that 2nd sister is choking, then Dad will tell a slightly related story (this story will be completely unrelated but may have taken place in the same hemisphere as the previous story, maybe the same season, maybe both stories had a young person as the main character). I tend to not tell stories, I don't think. My role at the table has consistently been to make fun of everything that came out of each of my family member's mouths and to regulate my dad's food consumption (this year, I got to sit at the head of the table because he couldn't comfortably fit between the table and the wall behind the chair).

The presents come next. We each get a few, I get the most. I have hobbies and interests that go beyond feeding squirrels, trimming my bangs, painting my apartment, and doing laundry (these being the interest of the rest of my family). I got a few pretty boss pairs of socks - they were those cotton-free socks that don't absorb the mysterious moisture your foot produces during the day but rather create an environment allowing the liquids to be released into your shoe....I guess they may be a bad idea....maybe they quicken the whole throw-my-shoe-away-because-it-smells process.

The best gift had to have been the over sized cold weather running gear my mom bought me. I'm not the tallest guy in the world and I weigh a fierce 167 pounds. I had asked for some UnderArmor so that I could keep on running outside when the temperature drops. This stuff is supposed to be tight, like, skin tight. I totally intended to wear shorts and a t-shirt over this second layer of flesh as without it I would look like I was trying to hard, like I was a complete tool. My mother thought it looked too tight and bought me XXL shirts and shorts. I think the only thing more embarrassing than skin tight athletic gear, is baggy skin tight athletic gear. The tight stuff keeps everything in place, this stuff sort of exaggerates the wearer's spots of vulnerability allowing love handles, beer guts, and genitalia to visually flail for the passing pedestrians to tell their friends about.

Other gift highlights included a bottle of Sriracha hot sauce, a rolling pin, a plastic tin of pickled fish, more socks, slippers all around, um ... The gift giving typically ends with my dad going to the Lay-Z Boy and falling asleep, my sisters going to their respective ends of the house and making a mess of things (they're in their 30's), my mom is usually on the phone at this point, and I sit in the corner hugging my knees, rocking back and forth, singing silent night as I stare at the mounds of wrapping paper and ribbon, dirty plates and mugs, receipts and half open boxes. Eventually I get the motivation I need to stack everyone's gifts in neat piles, separate the recyclable waste from the unsalvagable rubbish, etc.

That, in a walnut shell, is Christmas in my house. We usually have a couple of visitors who we treat to bizarre Greek cookies and coffee (I can see in their eyes that they are wondering, "where the fuck are the chocolate chips in this thing, why isn't this shaped like a Christmas tree or an angel or a bell, why don't any of these have peanut butter in them or a Hershey's Kiss on top"). We may go, as a family, to another family's home for a bit of dessert and coffee, to give us something to do, some other people to talk to as we've already exhausted most of our conversational options, skipping controversial issues such as the Gaza Strip, my budding alcoholism, issues involving gay people, and the definition of family (my dad has become overly dependent on a pristine image of family unity which he didn't really care about when he had a job, but now that he's retired, uses as a concrete crutch to fill his day with organizational tasks that end up hindering the daily flow of the rest of our lives - but yes, Dad, thanks for the car insurance).

Reason for Optimism

On second thought, with billions of people around the world, I'm surely better than at least 1 of them in nearly all aspects of my ability. So, at least I'm not the worst at anything.

The World's Just Getting Too Big.

So there are 6.7 billion people currently carrying out their daily business on Earth's surface. By 2042, wikipedia tells me there will be upwards of around 9 billion given current growth patterns. While most of the press revolving around this topic of human proliferation pressuring the coping mechanisms of various regional ecosystems, I'm more worried about what it's going to do on my ego.

I'm not sure about you, or the drunk at the end of the bar, or the bus driver that wouldn't let me off the bus while stopped in gridlock traffic for a 2 minute time span that felt as long as the 2 minutes one ponders through prior to attempting a drunken kiss, but I really want to be the best at something at some point in my life. When I write "best" I don't mean, like, beating a bunch of children in a footrace despite being in what researchers would consider the prime of my physical ability. I mean, like, no one in the world could possibly do something that I do better than I do it. I want to actually be the best in the world at something. One out of 6.7 billion. The 100th percentile.

What I'm worried about, then, with this rampant population growth is that with every second that passes, more than 2 babies are born into this world. That's 2 more people that could potentially be better than me at everything I try to put my hands to (sure one of them is currently broken leaving me at a slight disadvantage but I should have it's previously mediocre assistance back within a few weeks). So what's it going to be? Will I start staying up till dawn forcing the jargon of economic theory into my brain? Will I somehow single-handedly (ha! that's sort of a joke to go along with the broken arm) stop global warming in its melting path? Will my name be in Rolling Stone in 30 years just as Mitch Mitchell's was last month, followed by praise for my innovative and technically immaculate drumming? Will I even make a meaningless last second shot while playing basketball with myself in which the seconds that are winding down are nothing more than an internal monologue created to serve as an arena for my own accomplishment?

Ambition, I've decided, totally blows. Statistics just aren't going to let me be the best at anything. I'll be lucky to even be really good at something. I mean really good, like Dicky Simpkins good. Sure the guy got drafted into the NBA and played for the championship winning Bulls, but there were still thousands of people better than him at playing basketball. You would think, then, that with this realization that infinite accomplishment in any single activity or area is a certain impossibility, I would give up hope and accept the mediocre life that I likely have ahead of me. Unfortunately, I don't know if that's going to be the case. Anxiety has infected my blood. I wake up in the morning, not able to go back to sleep because I could be using the time trying to get good at something. I don't travel, because it take too much time. I could get a little better at something in the time, for example, that it takes for me to go to the store for more cheese. I'm satisfied eating a grilled bread sandwich rather than a grilled cheese sandwich and sitting while eating it, thinking of things that I could be doing to try to get slightly better at something.

Clearly the anxiety over the attempted achievement of unachievable goals stem from my own, deep, nearly unconscious hopes of immortality, but I'm going to go ahead and blame it on the increasing population. Feels better already. I might even hit the snooze button tomorrow morning, on the alarm clock that I am setting despite having absolutely nowhere to be for 4 days.

How To Lose a Girl in 10 Days

HA! Ten? Try 1! It's really easy, it really is. Just act interested in a truly sincere way.

Be completely normal, say what you're thinking. Ask her questions about herself, things you want to know about her. Your responses need not be faked, you actually are interested in her, so just respond how you see fit. You know, a little touch on the arm, a coy giggle, whatever. During that night, go ahead and drink, but don't get so completely drunk that you wake up the next morning with mysterious bloody scratch wounds on your back and her vomit all over your freshly shaved chest. End the night like a normal person would, walk her to some adequate mode of transport. Say goodnight. Make some tentative plans to see each other again.

You know what? You've nearly done it. So long as you are less attractive than the non-existent but surely drop-dead gorgeous/handsome love child of Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey, I can guarantee you that she's been lost. You are now completely dead to her and will most likely not be responded to regardless of how Zach Braff-Love Actually genius your text or voicemail may be. If, on the other hand, you want to attempt a long-lasting, meaningful relationship with her, then I guess you need to go for the mysterious bloody scratch wounds route.

Expatriated Thanksgiving

There's nothing like a genuine bit of cynicism to get one through the overly thankful Thanksgiving holiday weekend. Being in London makes unthankfulness all the easier to obtain. Try to make cornbread? Well good luck finding corn flour. Without a Native American or Hispanic population to provide sufficient year round demand for the stuff, it's basically missing from all major supermarkets. Luckily, I thought outside the box during my search and located a small packet of it which was marketed as "raw polenta". It was in the pasta section. Weird.

God forbid I want a can of pumpkin stuff. That's just impossible. Pumpkin pie was outlawed, I think, in the entirety of the UK sometime in the 1960s when several cans of pumpkin puree fell off the shelf at a supermarket and landed on a previously cheery young boy. Within the year he had begun wearing mascara, he died his blond hair black, and started wearing leather. This incident began the first wave of Goth culture. To avoid any future unfortunate fashion/music trends, the country discontinued its imports of pumpkin puree, thus making pumpkin pie a dessert too laborious to make.

I can't really complain, though. I'm unemployed, thousands of miles from home, and broke. I have a broken hand and my bedroom suffers from a relatively severe condensation problem. AND I have an unpaid internship which requires me to fill my days with tasks of manual labor that would usually be accompanied by a union wage. In this season of thanks, I guess I'm thankful for life. I'd be thankful for family, friends, health and what not, but I think my own actions are responsible for those things, and I don't really like thanking myself.

I am thankful for my second attempt at baking jalapeno cheddar cornbread turned out better than the first. I am not thankful that my first attempt at making cranberry orange jello came out better than the second. The best part, though, is that the entire holiday is completely unobserved by everyone other then American expats. There's something about being in a celebratory minority that makes the entire experience of the holiday itself that much better. Thanksgiving day expanded into a 4-day long gluttony bender leaving my colon in shambles and sending my blood sugar through the capillary roof.

The lesson, I guess, is that while there is seldom anything to be thankful for during these times of global calamity and cynicism, there is always an opportunity for the human imagination to conger something worse. I could be unemployed and unemployable. I could have a broken hand and a broken heart. Britain could outlaw pumpkin puree and pistachios. Terrorists could have hit Mumbai and Delhi. At the end of the day, it is what it is, and we should be thankful it's not any worse and I guess try harder to enhance our current lives for next year, so as to lengthen our list of ways things could be worse. While this may sound like a pessimistic interpretation of this day of over-consumptive days, it can't be because right now I feel totally psyched about repeating Thanksgiving festivities in a year's time.

I Fought a Volkswagon and the Volkswagon Won

You know those times when the worst thing that could possibly happen actually happens? These incidents are usually prefaced with a handful of miniature stupid actions. And if you were to not do one of those mini actions, the big stupid incident would most likely never materialize. The thing is, you never know what, in life, constitutes a stupid mini action that may gather its surrounding stupid mini actions thus culminating in said big stupid incident. Ohhh, how do I say what I'm trying to say?

On Saturday night, I got totally smoked by a Volkswagon Passat while riding my bicycle home. In the blink of an eye, I went from fantasizing about chips with ketchup and the warmth of my evening's rest to peeling my body off the surprisingly hard street. The thing is, my mind immediately began considering the events of the day, the events that, if changed, would have put me in a different place at that moment, somewhere other than the middle of the fucking street with blood running down my arm and unprecedented pain running up.

I went to the market at 11:30 am. That's acceptable. I often go to the market, that's part of the routine. It stays.

I went to a friend's place to help them cast on. The beginnings of a new scarf. Not part of the routine, but it's still early in the day. I'm a sucker for crafts.

I had to walk back past town to get my bicycle which I left at the market. Ran into some friends. Drank a couple beers at the pub. I hadn't seen them in a while, one of my beers was paid for. It stays. I'm a sucker for a free beer. It's 6:00 by now.

I ride back up to a friend's place for pizza, free pizza. I'm a sucker, it stays.

I go to a party of awkward adulthood in an apartment that's way too nice, with cheese that's way to pungent, meats that are way too specifically spiced, and crackers that are just too intricate. I could have ended the night here. I wouldn't have confronted the Passat, I would have been asleep by midnight.

I go to another bar searching for a couple Irish minxes staying with a friend of mine. Had I made it to this point, I had to try to find them. I have an annoyingly soft spot in my heart for absurdly adorable Irish girls. I dream about this sometimes, it involves Bailey's, a leprechaun, and, well, never mind.

I didn't find them. I had one more drink and headed home. A 20 minute walk at most, 5 minute bike ride. I had my jacket in my bag cuz it was warmish. Short sleeved I rode to my demise. I came up to my street, made a wide left turn and totally ran into the side of a fucking Volkswagon Passat that was stupidly trying to pass me. I went flying, woke up on the ground. I somehow see my glasses about 15 feet away on the street (this is shocking because it was dark and I have terrible vision, seriously this is like a miracle).

I walked home, got blood on the wall, walked to the emergency room (half an hour away) and had an amazingly free entertaining experience at the most blinged out emergency room encounter I've ever had.

Now that I think about it, I wouldn't really change much about my day. It was all pretty much worth it. Pretty much the ideal day of unplanned events flowing into one another with the efficiency of a planned day at camp, but the unpredictability of a gas oven. The one thing I would change is the jacket. If I had been wearing it, my arm would be in significantly better shape than it is. Its not so much the grossness of the road burn. It looks like I'm a frickin burn victim. Its the constant irritation cuz there are hairs there and what not all caught up in the scab. GROSS!!!! I can't complain, it could've been an absurd amount worse.

Now I take the bus.

Wow, Deflation Is Totally Perpetuating My Procrastination

I'm somewhat known for being the most frugal person to roam the streets of this planet ever since Jeff Smith died in 2004. I'm always holding out for a better deal. I pretty much only shop for food on Mondays. While the expiration dates on the food up for sale may dissuade some from participating in the global market, it is how I accumulate the caloric requirements to sustain my life. You would think, then, that I'd be happy about deflation. After all, while deflation is a complex issue of economics, what it pretty much means is that the costs of things are going down. Tomorrow, in theory, that bunch of bananas will cost me less.

Usually, that bunch of bananas will increase in price due to inflation, which symbolizes the growing costs of goods. That's why $50 could buy you some pretty crazy ass shit back in 1850, but is easily spent in a lame night out at the bar on the corner (if you get any sauces with your buffalo wings, ranch dressing or that blue cheese mixture, you may even break that $50 plateau).

With inflation in mind, I tend to purchase items in haste. With no inflow of income, I'm working on existing funds which are not increasing in value with my offensively low interest rate associated with my checking and savings accounts. Now, though, with the threat of deflation looming over our heads, I'm tempted to hold off making any purchases till later. They'll be cheaper later rather than more expensive. I know the fear of deflation is usually limited to major hypothetical factories that put off purchasing expensive new machinery because, as I said, they'll be cheaper next year. This could slow down the whole economy.

To the average person, this probably won't do anything, especially if you're not in a position to make any durable purchases (a car, an apartment, mail-order bride, etc.). I know that the recently expired smoked haddock fillets I buy this week will be pretty much the same price as they'll be next week, so I guess I can mark this up to stubbornness, but just the idea that I'm wasting money now and missing on the deals that will be around in the near future keeps me up at night, restlessly tossing around in my closet-come-bedroom, thinking of the massive theoretical clearances around the corner.

How To Attempt, Fail, And Live To Attempt Again

Every now and again, I venture off on my own. I'll leave a party or a pub where I'm talking with friends for no apparent reason, only to go down the street or across the nation in search of my own adventure. About half the time, I end up enjoying whatever calamity it is I fall into. Once it was a strip club in New Orleans where I met a lovely lady with my name tattooed on her back (Tommy happened to be her 3-year old son's name as well). Another time it was a Dunkin' Donuts 120 miles away for one of the tastiest powdered donut I've ever had.

The other night I sort of did the same thing, only there was a bit of planning involved. Despite having a surely fun birthday party to go to, I decided to attempt the impossible instead: to win the heart of a semi-successful and fully-gorgeous female rock star. To be honest, I had met said rock star before for a brief, somewhat meaningless, discussion following one of her past gigs. We're even friends on facebook. Anyway, she had a gig the other night not too far from my place in London. I decided to give it my ol' college try.

After an all to long deliberation with my wardrobe, I was on my way. I drank two beers on the road (I took public transport, don't worry) so as to both inflate my confidence and deflate the prominence of the several nervous twitches I have developed during my annoyingly itchy bout of celibacy. I arrived early, but they were nowhere to be found. I sat at the bar for what seemed like ages. I finished two entire pints of beer and reread the entire daily newspaper twice over, turns out that only 45 minutes had gone by, but still, they were due to appear on the stage just behind me soon. I became worried. I thought the worst, had their bus broken down? Maybe stopped by Stonehenge on their way to London and were subsequently attacked by Pagans preparing for the equinox (do Pagans celebrate the equinox? is there even an equinox about to happen?).

After plenty of anxiety built up around the possible demise of my evening's plans, I saw one of the other band members at the bar buying his ultra hip whiskey, neat. I approached him easy enough, began a bit of a conversation about nothing in particular. He was nice enough, seemed genuinely entertained by whatever bits of speech I had to offer, but still, he wasn't her. Finally she walked by. She was looking for him, actually, they were about to perform. She recognized me. In her rush she threw out a quick, "hello." I even got one of those arm squeezes that have become increasingly fashionable with the proliferation of How To manuals dictating what one needs to do to gain affection.

Needless to say, I melted like a VHS on the dashboard of a black car parked in the sun on a hot day, maintaining the majority of my physical structure but becoming increasingly elastic at the joints and no longer functional in any real sense. I watched the gig, going through the motions - tapping my feet a bit, looking interested but not too interested, attracting attention but not too much attention - and I drank at a fairly constant and slightly too rapid a rate. After the show she was no where to be found. I said, "good work" to the drummer I had been talking to before. We watched an old heroin addict (he is old, and he is a heroin addict) do a couple card tricks and listened to him say a couple jokes.

Finally she came around, actually intending to talk to me. At this point, I had nervously drunken myself to a nearly foolish state. For some reason, taking frequent sips of beer seems like a good idea when anxious, but always ends with a lack of balance and all too frequent trips to the bathroom which is always soaking wet, but that's an entirely different story.

All in all, I'd say we spoke for about 2 minutes. I can't at all say what it was we talked about (not that it was a bunch of secrets or anything, I just can't remember, not because I was too drunk, but because it was one of those things, you know, things moving very quickly and very slowly at the same time leaving you in a basically hypnotized state). I'm sure I said, "yes" several times. I probably rocked my head forward giggling while attempting to grasp her arm (feigning the need for physical support, also a demonstration of affection mentioned in those How To books). Before I knew it, though, some overweight d-bag from NME magazine had taken her attention at which point she gave up on me. I don't blame her, it's her job I guess, right? I stood awkwardly in the middle of the bar with an empty bottle of beer in my hand. I took a couple of sips, pretending there was beer left for some reason. I hoped that instinct would kick in, the one that told me what doughnut to choose at the Dunkin' Donuts, the one that got me talking to Tommy's mom, the stripper.

Ultimately what I had hoped for hadn't happened at all. I left this solo adventure just like I have left so many other outings in the past, no goodbyes, no hugs or kisses into the air off the side of cheeks. Could I have made some irresistibly witty comment that would have gotten me to the second round of social interviews with her? Sure, probably, but that's the sort of thing that either happens or doesn't. The other night it didn't happen. There's no real way to make it happen. There's no practicing in front of mirrors. Memorizing How To books. No point in watching how it's done in TV shows or in John Cusack movies.

When the right words, jokes, motions don't come to show, you've really just got to give up. After giving up though, you have to go to sleep and try again the next day. No trying to make things better with a poorly constructed text, facebook message, or voicemail (definitely not a voicemail....it always ends up being overly self-deprecating and unconvincingly emotional - sort of like this blog). Tomorrow's a new day, and with each new day comes a new chance to fool a rock star beauty into lowering her guard just enough to let my dry wit and cynicism get through the gates, stealing her heart and any other vital organs along the way, only to be returned in full upon the inevitable crushing to bits of my own blood pumping circulatory system.

"When I was 16, I wasn't afraid to die. These kids these days, they're not afraid to kill."
- Some guy that lived during the last Great Depression on how the current climate could end up getting us all dead.

No More Happy Hour? F That!

First of all, let's get things straight. I've been in London for the past 13 months and not only have I never purchased a drink for a discounted price during a "Happy Hour", I have been laughed at by bartenders on many a weekday afternoon upon asking if they had any happy hour specials. Well, apparently they exist somewhere in this, the windiest, rainiest, tabloid magazinist city this side of Kinsasha. All Happy Hour deals are going to be banned pretty soon because apparently they promote binge drinking. Really? Do they? I guess to some extent you may drink an extra beer if you're getting a bit of a discount, but it by no means I'm going to shotgun the thing into my face like a can of PBR on a summer holiday weekend.

The problem is clearly just part of lifestyle. It has nothing to do with the pricing of alcohol. On average, beer costs just over 3 times as much in the pub as it does in the supermarket. While just recently being disallowed to drink openly on public transport, you can still stroll down the side of the street with an open beer in your hand. Pubs close at about 11 pm or midnight on weeknights throughout much of the city. It gets dark at 4:00. Dinner is rarely something to look forward to. I really doubt that a 10% discount on beer for an hour or two a week is going to slow these people down. They've been drinking away their sorrows for.....well, forever. They will persevere.

No, I Should Not Be Used To This!

The best part about being from the Chicagoland area and living in a foreign location is that on absurdly windy days, people will say, "Aw mate, you should be used to this....windy city right?" NO! No one in the freaking world becomes "used" to offensively windy days like today. It's pouring down rain, and there's, like, 35 mile per hour gusts of wind rendering umbrellas completely useless, and white clothes completely transparent. Not only does Chicago's nickname not come from the intensity of its wind corridors, but even if it did, give me a brake jack ass. Do I make a stupid remark every time it rains? Every time I see a soccer hooligan punch an innocent 5 year old in the face?

Living in the cold doesn't make anyone handle cold better, they just appreciate soup and well insulated buildings a lot more. Similarly, wind is not something one grows defenses against. Windbreakers not only fail to break wind (hahahahahahahah get it?) but are also heinously unfashionable. The only way to handle windy days like this is to avoid leaving the house. And if you do leave the house, and happen to mention to someone that you're from Chicago, and happen to be told that you should be used to this, hit the Mofo in the face and tell him that the Jerk Store called and told you they were out of him!

The Day Vampires Ruled the World

For the past 2 or 3 months, my inner self has been rife with hope and self doubt. This struggle of self awareness has arisen due to the new HBO series True Blood which is probably the best thing in my life while containing within it severely banal dialogue and forced nudity. Sure the show's negative aspects are what made shows like 90210 as well as any movie Alyssa Milano has ever been in appealing to myself and other closet Beverly Hills supporters, but I've come to expect more from HBO. After creating such amazing series as Sopranos and the first season (only the first season) of Entourage, the importance of fresh and creative dialogue along with meaningful plot development have become a must.

I started watching the show because Terry Gross hyped it on Fresh Air, and what Terry says is most often the truth. After the first couple episodes I was intrigued. Then came the lull in my relationship with True Blood. The same things kept on happening. The brother would F some woman he found somewhere who would later be killed by what appeared to be a vampire. Sookie's best friend would yell at someone about absolutely nothing. Lafayette would sell some drugs or dance in front of a camera. And finally Sookie would have some melodramatic melt down because she can read minds and is completely sexually frustrated.

I was bored with it, honestly I was about to throw in the the blood soaked towel until, at the very last possible moment, my girl, Lizzy Caplan, stepped in to save the day. You may call this childish, but yes, Lizzy, you had me at hello. Hell, I used to watch that absolute crap show you used to be in, The Class, not just because it was on between How I Met Your Mother and 24, but because of your theatrical genius.

Now that you've been in a couple episodes in a row, I'm back on the True Blood train. It seems very likely that you're about to get killed, though, in the show as you've become addicted to vampire blood and have taken some pretty dramatic steps to ensure your supply of it. If you die, I'll lose a bit of interest, but I'll keep on watching for a bit, because in all likelihood, you'll be transformed into a vampire and thus will remain on the show's cast.

Good luck Lizzy, and thanks for now forcing me to continue watching one of the genuinely worst guilty pleasures left in my overly pragmatic lifestyle.

The New Economic Paradigm

One day, thousands of years ago, when the a chicken was traded for a handful of seashells the nebulous discipline of economics was born. And ever since that day, problems have existed. Surely the original owner of the chicken got an earful when he went home as his wife explained to him how freakin useless a bunch of seashells is. Likewise, the proud new owner of the chicken, while initially receiving praise for his acquisition, proceeded to get reamed by his wife who explained that those seashells were blessed by the Goddess Demeter and were to bring the family prosperity in the coming agricultural season. Money and problems have been intertwined concepts ever since that unfortunate exchange.

The linear relationship suggested by The Notorious B.I.G. back in the 1990s was revolutionary for its time. Problems = a (Money), where a = a positive number indicating the relative impact of a change in money with a change in problems. The simplicity of this explanation of global socio-economic realities was unparallelled in explanatory prowess. For over a decade, most of us have accepted this paradigm as truth, but now that I have fallen well below the poverty line, it's totally clear that the relationship between money and problems is much more complex.

What Biggy neglected was his impoverished youth. The days when he had to brave the streets to sling rocks to earn just enough to fill that ginormous belly of his with nutrition. Clearly having no money at all comes with its own set of problems, and that to some extent, these problems will be solved with an increase in money. A threshold, then, must exist indicating when an increase in money rather than solving some of the problems associated with being broke creates an influx of problems associated with daily life. This relationship would look like a U shape. Problems = (Money - a)(Money - a) + b, where a=some positive number indicating the amount of money at which this threshold exists, and b=the fewest amount of problems possible.

Bottom line, if you don't have much money, you've likely got a ton of problems that would be solved with a slight increase in funds. Similarly, if you've got a ton of money, you've got a bunch of problems that would probably be alleviated by having not risen to that income level to begin with. With this new paradigm in mind, let us please start taxing the F out of people that make a ton of money. Please?