Have you seen this kid?
(There's no flick, so bear with me...)
Anyway, he was last spotted in a fourth grade classroom, kickin’ it with his homies. Geeked with enthusiasm, he spoke of his intended lot in life with wide-eyed imagination. And because them cancerous lil’ microbes of doubt that grown folks are so fond of spreadin’ had yet to be planted in his mind, his list of career choices was damn near limitless.
Runnin’ the gamut from artist to ballplayer to chemist to detective, lil’ dude’s hat rack was filled with more lids than there are bricks in a prison wall. And he still had room to spare. Not logical, you say, but shorty knew back then what 85% of alleged adults have obviously forgotten: The World is Yours…
Forget Scarface, grasshopper; good ol’ Tony only skimmed the surface. This is bigger than any kingpin fantasy, bigger than any platinum-VISAs or weekends-in-St.-Barts type wishes. Naaah, lil’ man was on to something with all that daydreamin’. And what made it all so dope was that he wasn’t alone. Not by far.
Man, to hear all them lil’ kids goin’ on about bein’ the first Latino President, or bein’ the first woman on Mars, fuck the moon. Oh, and don’t let ’em get to tellin’ you their predictions—for themselves, their families, friends, the world, you name it—for the year 2000.
Music, y’all. Gospel out the mouths of babes.
“Wow! 2000! I’ll be [thirty-something] years-old and I’ll be married to [somebody in the class, or better yet, somebody famous!] and I’ll have two kids—a boy and a girl—and I’ll have my own house and I’ma buy a house for my mother and one for my big sister and by then cars are gonna fly so we all gonna have flyin’ cars and I’ma be a [doctor, lawyer, baker, fireman, astronaut, basketball star, singer, actress, baseball player, hairdresser, construction worker, race-car driver…] …”
But something went wrong. Somewhere along the way, their imagined nations started gettin’ smaller and smaller. By the time they hit high school, a good number of ’em couldn’t see themselves outside The Bronx anymore. And only two or three of ’em who stuck through to the 12th grade could see the world beyond the block.
Lil’ shorty with the bucktoothed smile wasn’t one of ’em.
See, by then he ain’t have no time to be bullshittin’ with silly-ass dreams and whatnot. Not him. He was too busy bein’ an adult. And like he had learned from the more “mature” people around him, bein’ grown is as real as shit gets. Ain’t no grown-ups got time for dreamin’.
Right?
Besides, he knew a lot of people over 21, and not one of ’em was a doctor or a lawyer, let alone a fuckin’ astronaut.
Coupla years into the 20s, and lil’ man finally disappeared.
Ghost.
Never to be seen again.
But there is hope.
Some say he was seen hangin’ around with the cats who brought Station Zero to MTV some years ago. Others say he’s been puttin’ pen to paper, crafting stories based on his own experience, as well as on those around him. Others have placed him hard at work, daydreaming.
If you do happen to see him, tell him that it’s aiight to come back now. Tell him we were dead wrong, that ain’t nothin’ wrong with dreams—especially the ones that all those grown-ups said are the most out of reach.
And remember: He’s not alone. Like you read above, lil’ shorty’s just one out of millions.
Dig around a little bit. There's a lot of lil' kids gone missing. Here's how you can help.
Do something you haven’t done in eons, like catch a flick by yourself or take a walk through the ‘hood and just watch people.
Jump on a train or bus and see your hometown—for the first time.
Cop an ice cream cone and go stretch out on a park bench for no apparent reason whatsoever.
Start a journal and just black out with it. Write down anything you want.
Ask the kind of “why not?” questions you haven’t asked since you were eight or nine.
Daydream.
With a little bit of effort, you’ll fuck around and run into some lil’ kid you haven’t seen in a while.
**originally published (minus slices and dices dictated by time and space) a long-ass time ago, at a plantation, far, far away…**
Sunday, August 28, 2005
King, Pinned
You remember the scene:
The soothing Miami-sunset-and-silhouetted-palm-tree wallpaper counterbalances the pressure-cooked atmosphere and the equally tense interaction between two men. Cocaine kingpin Frank Lopez berates his lieutenant, Tony Montana, for negotiating a new distribution deal without his approval. And in a role so convincing that it earned him “honorary member” status amongst Latinos (as well as a barrage of criticism from the Cuban community) a tanned and heavily accented Pacino reassures his boss that he can cover any incidental dips in revenue by going “on the street… Make a coupla moves. A mil here, a mil there…”
The cavalier attitude with which Pacino—Montana, really, for those of you who can’t seem to separate reality from fiction—delivered that declaration has not only helped elevate Scarface and the character of Antonio “Tony” Montana to icon level, but has also become the philosophy of many a kingpin-lite.
Never mind that our favorite Marielito’s stellar career in the coca trade was abruptly and permanently interrupted when a close-range shotgun blast blew an ugly hole in the back of his thousand-dollar suit.
And never mind that the overwhelming majority of people involved in drug trafficking don’t have stellar careers, let alone can afford such GQ trappings and Robb Report digs as our boy Tony. The subsequent veneration of Brian DePalma’s cult classic has transformed the fictional achievements of Mr. Montana and his colorful entourage (who can forget Chi-Chi?) into actual goals for narco-neophytes everywhere.
As scores of Montana 2.0's chant their adopted “world is mine” mantras in a mad scramble to amass the ducats, they visualize nirvana as none other than their patron saint’s peak economic position. After all, Antonio was living well.
Alas, the truth hits harder than a federal judge. Like the very substances from which these clandestine pharmacists hope to carve their respective slices of the American Pie, the realities of the drug game are seldom pure and uncut. Granted, the enormous earning potential does exist, and you can become extremely wealthy—theoretically. But for every Tony Montana and Alejandro Sosa (the Bolivian gentleman in the flick who owned a cocaine-processing factory, no less), there are thousands upon thousands of knuckleheads on street corners across America barely hustling enough for sneakers and blunts.
Not at all the champagne lifestyle you may have envisioned, is it? Well, before your MTV-tainted imagination weaves any more wild fantasies involving yacht cruises on Biscayne Bay with a six-pack of sun bunnies wearing nothing but Coppertone, we’ve decided to inject a little knowledge into your veins. Call this Intro to Game Economics 101.
Let’s begin by establishing a basic understanding of economics.
In simplest terms, economics is best defined as the science that deals with the production, distribution and consumption of commodities. A commodity is any product that is grown or manufactured, like poppy plants in Asia or dime-bags in the South Bronx. Classical economic theory says that the price of a commodity is determined by supply and demand; as supply increases, price drops, and vice versa. Modern economic theory dictates that many other factors, including marketing, government regulations and monopolizing, also influence price. As you’ll soon see, when applied to the business of get-high, Modern economic theory carries a lot more weight than its Classical counterpart.
Next, let’s examine the various commodities available for our hypothetical entry into the world of Tony Montana and his like-minded ilk.
At one end of the spectrum sit opium and its direct and indirect derivatives like morphine and the All-Pro of the illegal drug big-leagues, heroin, a.k.a. “heron," a.k.a. "D,” a.k.a. “diesel,” a.k.a. “boy,” a.k.a… Well, you know what we mean.
At the other end we have the assorted pills, acid tabs and other such goodies more closely associated with club-hoppin’ kids hell-bent on rebelling against Mommy, Daddy and everybody born before 1980.
In between, we have the three staple substances—coke, crack, and weed—found in barrios across the U.S. (Though the first two are pre- and post- versions of the same thing, decidedly different circumstances exist between how they’re marketed, distributed, and even perceived, particularly by federal, state and local agencies).
Some of you more worldly types will probably come up with a few more choices of your own, but you get the idea.
Now that we’ve identified our goods, let’s take a look at our markets. Unlike most other commodites, whose trading environments may fluctuate with a relatively high frequency, controlled substances—as the government likes to call them—almost always find themselves in a seller’s market. Suppliers sleep soundly knowing that multitudes of buyers abound.
“But wait a sec,” you say. “If that’s the case, doesn’t that mean that once I jump in the pit, I’ll come away with a nice-sized bag of chips, too?”
Not so fast, we say. True, the proliferation of illegal substances in the ’hood has resulted in the emergence of what often appears a bustling open market, where buyers and sellers haggle over price while competition is encouraged. But a quick look at the pyramid flow of a distribution network reveals just who’s filling up the most bags with the most chips.
With cocaine, for example, the flow begins at a processing plant somewhere in South America. Remember the aforementioned Alejandro Sosa? Great, we’ll use him in our model.
As you may assume, good ol’ Señor Sosa does not waste time nickel-and-diming a paltry, one-shot, ten kilo shipment to the States. Instead, his people—we’ll call them a marketing research team—will identify potential customers in major distribution hubs throughout the U.S. and Mexico, and subsequently negotiate and arrange for the sale and delivery of somewhere between 200 to 250 keys a month to each of those customers.
One of those enterprising types—what the hell, we’ll use Tony himself—agrees to buy those 200 bricks (pies, birds, thangs, cakes, et cetera) from Sosa, and will in turn sell them to... oh, say five or ten of his own customers.
Marisela, one of Tony’s customers (the drug biz wholeheartedly complies with equal opportunity laws, and so will we), will most probably “step on” or add cut to her stock in order to increase her twenty bricks by five or so.
Along come Darryl, Domingo and Diana to replenish their respective supplies. Any one of these three might be proprietors of a spot or two on your block, or may turn around and hit off other smaller, local punto owners.
By the time Hammerhead Joe gets his little bundle of twenty-dollar bags to hawk, Sosa’s fine product has been stepped on so many times it’s got bunions. Not to mention that simple multiplication will show that Joe’s $500 take from the sales of his 20s (a bundle=100 bags) is a crumb at the bottom of Sosa’s multi-layered cake.
And lest you forget our earlier endorsement of modern economic theory, consider factors like government regulations and monopolizing. Because cocaine and its compatriots are illegal, government regulations are pretty simple: Just Say No.
Uncle Sam having said that, no other laws exist in order to maintain some semblance of order in the buying and selling—wholesale and retail—of narcotics. This lack of regulations, if you will, leaves the door wide open for all kinds of unfair business practices to come in and make themselves comfortable. Enter that most-feared and loathed entity of honest, hardworking consumers everywhere: the monopoly.
“But I ain’t only see Hammerhead Joe out there pitchin’! Rotten Mouth Mikey and Dookey Stain was out there, too! How’s that a monopoly?”
Slow down, junior. That healthy competition may get a little hectic yet. Hammerhead Joe starts offering 2-for-35 deals in order to outsell Dookey Stain, resulting in customers flocking by the truckloads. All that price-cutting is too much for Rotten Mouth, who can’t afford to lower his prices—he’s got kids to feed, after all. Well, a couple of hammers to Joe’s head puts a quick stop to that madness. We’ll even give you ten-to-one odds that all three of those cats were all working for Darryll. If not, then they all got their work from him… or Domingo… or Diana. Point being: After following the pyramid all the way up to its top, you’ll see Señor Sosa, sitting sky-high on his stacks of surreal sums, smiling.
As you can see, the economics of the game are not at all what popular culture will have you believe. Let some of today’s rappers tell it, Scarface is a true story, and the idea of going on the street to get “a mil here, a mil there” is seen as not only realistic, but easy. Theoretically, yes, you too can one day live the same lavish lifestyle of Tony Montana, “the world is mine” fountain and all. Theoretically, you can suck an elephant through a straw, too.
But hey, who are we to tell you what career path to take, right? Do you, homeboy. Sheeeee-it, you might be that one shining star that rises above the Hammerhead Joes of the world. Who knows? With a little determination, you might even knock Sosa off his perch.
But be advised, like Tony learned almost immediately after a disagreement with his benefactor, all it takes to end a stellar career in this business is someone blowing a hole in your Sean John Purple Label—especially while you’re wearing it.
Class dismissed.
**originally published in UrbanLatino magazine (minus a nip here, a tuck there) waaay back in the old millenium**
The soothing Miami-sunset-and-silhouetted-palm-tree wallpaper counterbalances the pressure-cooked atmosphere and the equally tense interaction between two men. Cocaine kingpin Frank Lopez berates his lieutenant, Tony Montana, for negotiating a new distribution deal without his approval. And in a role so convincing that it earned him “honorary member” status amongst Latinos (as well as a barrage of criticism from the Cuban community) a tanned and heavily accented Pacino reassures his boss that he can cover any incidental dips in revenue by going “on the street… Make a coupla moves. A mil here, a mil there…”
The cavalier attitude with which Pacino—Montana, really, for those of you who can’t seem to separate reality from fiction—delivered that declaration has not only helped elevate Scarface and the character of Antonio “Tony” Montana to icon level, but has also become the philosophy of many a kingpin-lite.
Never mind that our favorite Marielito’s stellar career in the coca trade was abruptly and permanently interrupted when a close-range shotgun blast blew an ugly hole in the back of his thousand-dollar suit.
And never mind that the overwhelming majority of people involved in drug trafficking don’t have stellar careers, let alone can afford such GQ trappings and Robb Report digs as our boy Tony. The subsequent veneration of Brian DePalma’s cult classic has transformed the fictional achievements of Mr. Montana and his colorful entourage (who can forget Chi-Chi?) into actual goals for narco-neophytes everywhere.
As scores of Montana 2.0's chant their adopted “world is mine” mantras in a mad scramble to amass the ducats, they visualize nirvana as none other than their patron saint’s peak economic position. After all, Antonio was living well.
Alas, the truth hits harder than a federal judge. Like the very substances from which these clandestine pharmacists hope to carve their respective slices of the American Pie, the realities of the drug game are seldom pure and uncut. Granted, the enormous earning potential does exist, and you can become extremely wealthy—theoretically. But for every Tony Montana and Alejandro Sosa (the Bolivian gentleman in the flick who owned a cocaine-processing factory, no less), there are thousands upon thousands of knuckleheads on street corners across America barely hustling enough for sneakers and blunts.
Not at all the champagne lifestyle you may have envisioned, is it? Well, before your MTV-tainted imagination weaves any more wild fantasies involving yacht cruises on Biscayne Bay with a six-pack of sun bunnies wearing nothing but Coppertone, we’ve decided to inject a little knowledge into your veins. Call this Intro to Game Economics 101.
Let’s begin by establishing a basic understanding of economics.
In simplest terms, economics is best defined as the science that deals with the production, distribution and consumption of commodities. A commodity is any product that is grown or manufactured, like poppy plants in Asia or dime-bags in the South Bronx. Classical economic theory says that the price of a commodity is determined by supply and demand; as supply increases, price drops, and vice versa. Modern economic theory dictates that many other factors, including marketing, government regulations and monopolizing, also influence price. As you’ll soon see, when applied to the business of get-high, Modern economic theory carries a lot more weight than its Classical counterpart.
Next, let’s examine the various commodities available for our hypothetical entry into the world of Tony Montana and his like-minded ilk.
At one end of the spectrum sit opium and its direct and indirect derivatives like morphine and the All-Pro of the illegal drug big-leagues, heroin, a.k.a. “heron," a.k.a. "D,” a.k.a. “diesel,” a.k.a. “boy,” a.k.a… Well, you know what we mean.
At the other end we have the assorted pills, acid tabs and other such goodies more closely associated with club-hoppin’ kids hell-bent on rebelling against Mommy, Daddy and everybody born before 1980.
In between, we have the three staple substances—coke, crack, and weed—found in barrios across the U.S. (Though the first two are pre- and post- versions of the same thing, decidedly different circumstances exist between how they’re marketed, distributed, and even perceived, particularly by federal, state and local agencies).
Some of you more worldly types will probably come up with a few more choices of your own, but you get the idea.
Now that we’ve identified our goods, let’s take a look at our markets. Unlike most other commodites, whose trading environments may fluctuate with a relatively high frequency, controlled substances—as the government likes to call them—almost always find themselves in a seller’s market. Suppliers sleep soundly knowing that multitudes of buyers abound.
“But wait a sec,” you say. “If that’s the case, doesn’t that mean that once I jump in the pit, I’ll come away with a nice-sized bag of chips, too?”
Not so fast, we say. True, the proliferation of illegal substances in the ’hood has resulted in the emergence of what often appears a bustling open market, where buyers and sellers haggle over price while competition is encouraged. But a quick look at the pyramid flow of a distribution network reveals just who’s filling up the most bags with the most chips.
With cocaine, for example, the flow begins at a processing plant somewhere in South America. Remember the aforementioned Alejandro Sosa? Great, we’ll use him in our model.
As you may assume, good ol’ Señor Sosa does not waste time nickel-and-diming a paltry, one-shot, ten kilo shipment to the States. Instead, his people—we’ll call them a marketing research team—will identify potential customers in major distribution hubs throughout the U.S. and Mexico, and subsequently negotiate and arrange for the sale and delivery of somewhere between 200 to 250 keys a month to each of those customers.
One of those enterprising types—what the hell, we’ll use Tony himself—agrees to buy those 200 bricks (pies, birds, thangs, cakes, et cetera) from Sosa, and will in turn sell them to... oh, say five or ten of his own customers.
Marisela, one of Tony’s customers (the drug biz wholeheartedly complies with equal opportunity laws, and so will we), will most probably “step on” or add cut to her stock in order to increase her twenty bricks by five or so.
Along come Darryl, Domingo and Diana to replenish their respective supplies. Any one of these three might be proprietors of a spot or two on your block, or may turn around and hit off other smaller, local punto owners.
By the time Hammerhead Joe gets his little bundle of twenty-dollar bags to hawk, Sosa’s fine product has been stepped on so many times it’s got bunions. Not to mention that simple multiplication will show that Joe’s $500 take from the sales of his 20s (a bundle=100 bags) is a crumb at the bottom of Sosa’s multi-layered cake.
And lest you forget our earlier endorsement of modern economic theory, consider factors like government regulations and monopolizing. Because cocaine and its compatriots are illegal, government regulations are pretty simple: Just Say No.
Uncle Sam having said that, no other laws exist in order to maintain some semblance of order in the buying and selling—wholesale and retail—of narcotics. This lack of regulations, if you will, leaves the door wide open for all kinds of unfair business practices to come in and make themselves comfortable. Enter that most-feared and loathed entity of honest, hardworking consumers everywhere: the monopoly.
“But I ain’t only see Hammerhead Joe out there pitchin’! Rotten Mouth Mikey and Dookey Stain was out there, too! How’s that a monopoly?”
Slow down, junior. That healthy competition may get a little hectic yet. Hammerhead Joe starts offering 2-for-35 deals in order to outsell Dookey Stain, resulting in customers flocking by the truckloads. All that price-cutting is too much for Rotten Mouth, who can’t afford to lower his prices—he’s got kids to feed, after all. Well, a couple of hammers to Joe’s head puts a quick stop to that madness. We’ll even give you ten-to-one odds that all three of those cats were all working for Darryll. If not, then they all got their work from him… or Domingo… or Diana. Point being: After following the pyramid all the way up to its top, you’ll see Señor Sosa, sitting sky-high on his stacks of surreal sums, smiling.
As you can see, the economics of the game are not at all what popular culture will have you believe. Let some of today’s rappers tell it, Scarface is a true story, and the idea of going on the street to get “a mil here, a mil there” is seen as not only realistic, but easy. Theoretically, yes, you too can one day live the same lavish lifestyle of Tony Montana, “the world is mine” fountain and all. Theoretically, you can suck an elephant through a straw, too.
But hey, who are we to tell you what career path to take, right? Do you, homeboy. Sheeeee-it, you might be that one shining star that rises above the Hammerhead Joes of the world. Who knows? With a little determination, you might even knock Sosa off his perch.
But be advised, like Tony learned almost immediately after a disagreement with his benefactor, all it takes to end a stellar career in this business is someone blowing a hole in your Sean John Purple Label—especially while you’re wearing it.
Class dismissed.
**originally published in UrbanLatino magazine (minus a nip here, a tuck there) waaay back in the old millenium**
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