Mine, Mine, Mine

I may have dreams of trotting the world making popular culture real (and scads of money in the process), but today, Thursday the 10th, I'm scooping out sewer water in my mom's basement with a dustpan and doing my laundry.

Then I'm off to the hardware store to get some hooks to put by the stairs. Winter brings a lot of coat use here in the windy city. Tomorrow, if it's warm enough, I'll install the lattice that's missing where the old tree used to be in the backyard. A good use of my time? Who knows, but there are plenty of love artists of various levels of manifestation just plain 'ole taking care of business today. A brother's got to eat (and pay his credit card bill that holds the balance for the video camera he's shooting the documentary with and computer he's mixing his album on). I've been at this 10 years with no regular income and no trust fund.

My shit's not on Oprah yet. But it will be, I guarantee. 100% back end.
(Later comment: I might be a bit high-brow for Oprah, I don't know. Plus, I don't even regularly watch her and I've heard about the decoration of her new guest house from 4 different places. It seems like she's slipping. You know she has meetings about this stuff. Maybe I'll just leapfrog her.)

So what does an astronaut do the day before he straps himself to a couple thousand tons of liquid nitrogen and scrams? Putters around the house. I'll do a little filming on the doc. today and talk to the printer about the new proofs for my book. Work on selling my other laptop.

$120 a pop. The Love Artist. Which will bring a shot to the culture industry like it's never had. To culture itself. Imagine a feeding frenzy for real culture. Because it fucking pays! Oh, glory be, that will be a beautiful day. A search for the next Nirvana times 2,000. But grown-ups. That kid stuff was pennies on the dollar.

Not that I can find anyone really dropping it unsigned. A few years and massive inspiration in the form of cold, hard cash oughta change that. Get thirty to fifty thousand of our best and brightest working on it. Instead of the reluctant leftovers that currently do. It really does take five to ten years to change your mine. You can drop it straight out the box, but probably won't believe your tender, loving, unedited, fetid truth for at least as long as it takes to write and publish a book. And if you try to keep your day job that's a couple more years. Ten years in my case (almost), more like five after that. Eventually, kids will just be brought up with the expectation that they be real people and all the handwringing and crockodile tears will be ghost.

Mine, mine, mine.