The Last Are Now First

There's a lot of that sentiment around these days with the Sox having won the World Series. A number of columnists have asked, what will the South Side do with the chip on its shoulder now that it's not second class?

I'd ask the same thing of the artists out there. Now that even bad bands get plenty of airplay. Now that every painter shows in at least a coffee house and amateur knitters' creations are gracing the covers of albums and magazines alike.

How long are you going to hold on to your outsider, maligned, misunderstood pose? How long are you going to insist that it's the "man", the labels, big business, the Republicans, that's not delivering the life you want? When kids worldwide copy the bad moustache and 80s concert t-shirts you wore once as a joke. (You were joking weren't you?) How can you say no one's listening? How will you possibly maintain your victim status now? Green Day?

When will you just admit and make what you do want instead of railing against everything you don't want?

The world has changed so much under our very feet that we barely even realize what is going on. All we have to do it let the bullshit go and a world of joy and beauty is waiting to explode around us. Explode! Drop your fears. Do what you want. Get wicked. Do the math. But ignore money, your desire for stability, your sex drive, sobriety, and daily showers at your own peril.

I asked my friend Robert the other day if he was serious about charging $40 for a movie he's planning on making. He said yes. We broke down the numbers and if he sold 100,000 DVDs he'd still have to crawl to Hollywood for money to do his second one. Assuming he also wanted to live soomewhere besides the temporary shelter he's living in currently. And if he wanted to do it right. There are people circling the planet on planes because they're bored and no one will write the truth down (for any price!). If you do one thing, tell the fucking truth. Not the hipster truth (see where it got Kurt Cobain--and Cam'ron for that matter). Not the everything's fine mainstream truth (ditto Enron and G. W.--40% approval rating). Tell the fucking truth! The whole truth. That you're afraid AND an arrogant fuck. That you love babies and get blitzed out of your mind. That you want eveything and are afraid you're evil because of it. Just put it down.

Write what the fuck you want. What you really care about. God doens' t care. Don't you think he knows? That we all know? We not stupid you know. We know you woke up crying. And that you couldn't deal with that panhandler becasuse he was black and smelled. Put it down. That white people drive you crazy with their refusal to warm. With their inability to relax without beer or be happy without coffee.

That you want to fuck that woman you saw at the gym this morning but don't think you'd stay with her because of her butt. (I did too!) Put it down because that's the truth. And if that doesn't work, then nothing matters anyway. Because that's where we are and what we need more than anything is a place to start. Being present. Being human. And that that's progress. You can't get ahead of Jesus and if you try you're a liar anyway. Happy yogi. Always smiling healer. Tell the high school kids to stop throwing their pop cans on your sidewalk and see how it feels. It was driving you crazy anyway.

I'll start: You want the money. No reason to lie because you might not ever get it. But if you're an artist and you don't talk about money as much as you think about it (or fame for that matter, or sex, or god, or beauty or cleanliness), then what are you telling us? How are you informing us of the truth? If you're against--punk, counter-culture, whatever--it's a pose. And one that's been played for years anyway (and I was there). It's in fake museums now. And no one ever goes to see it. Teenagers are losinng teeth. Beating each other out of boredom.

A lot of books are $14.95 because that's what they're worth. We can tell what they're about from the cover. Same with most albums. And the kids care even less than us. They're not nostalgic for that great time when David Sedaris came to town and for a minute being liberal was cool. They don't care. They'll dismiss someone straight away. We're still trying to be nice like our hippy forefathers and mothers. Hipsters are hippies, you know. Punk rockers have beards now. That's all I have to say. Sorry guys. No vulnerability, no love. Failure to transcend. Abort, retry. Wash rinse, repeat.

Speaking of which.. On the White Gold front, things are looking lovely. The book's at the printer with $120 on the cover. Ka-POW!

The album's coming nicely. Got about 5 in the can and the computer fast enough to mix them. I also had to upgrade my music program. The one I was using before (Live) wasn't professional quality. So I got Logic. I'm not afraid of mistakes but I go ruthlessly for the absolute best in production values. This from a guy who just shot half a video he plans to sell for $160 a pop on a $100 cheapo DV camera.. (The second half made it to a $1500 one I put on my credit card and will sell when we're done. If I had any sense I'd charge a $3200 Panasonic DVX100a--maybe for my upcoming music video).

There's an interesting newsletter on the ultra-premium economy over at Trendwatching. I usually don't link to place with lower values but I respect your time enough to not have to copy and paste. They're stuck in the material, and a bit guiltily at that, but at least they accurately chronicle what's going on. Read the whole thing and they go from the very expensive to mass customization to what they call Generation C--who care about little more than what they can create. They, like most marketing people, fail to put the obvious together or come to a deeper understand of what's going on, but I give them props for being honest about what they're interested in. Thanks to my cousin Will for passing them along. And congrats on the new baby!

Trendsetter doesn't mention that all these rich people are hungry ghosts who, despite increasing wealth, parties and social contacts remain completely unable to actually shake a tailfeather. If you've got soul it's a seller market. If you've got money, good luck finding a wway to diffentiate yourself without putting it all on the line. Might as well just go straight for what you really want. You can't be reborn except naked, tender, alone and usually crying.

What else? I guess it's time to make some phone calls to people who owe me money (or results). I don't want to deal with people who don't do what they say. Luckily, the way I'm entering the market, I shouldn't have to worry about that much longer.

I'm sitting here wondering if I should put this half-bile out as usual and just realilzed that no one's given me a red cent for rent yet so why the hell not. One beautiful thing about the way I'm entering the market is that it really doesn't matter. If you don't give me "F*&! You"/David Chappelle money up front you don't even get to know me. (Unless you read my free blog wheree I give you the real deal of course.) I'm also forgetting America's love affair with bitterness. And that it's good to get it out so that my real creative creations are more loviling. Nothing but love, baby.

What am I going to do with this chip once I get on? I'll let the Gold Coast mansion with separate music and painting studios, dope guest house and White G offices next door, my delightful wife, the time and energy to get busy most nights, custom-made White Gold clothing line, full bank account, and Lexus with 18" rims and the WHite G vanity plate, and the knowledge that there is an army of young hustling artists who feel free to drop the real shit soothe my savage beast. My next album will be about sycophants.

Or I'll just vacuum my room, take a nap, and eat chicken and sweet potatoes for dinner.

God bless.