White Men Can't WHAT?!

I was just cleaning up a little and found a few of the myriad rejection letters that I got for The Love Artist. I probably queried 150 agencies and was looked at and rejected by ten or 15. So 150 soft rejections and 15 hard ones--yeah we looked closely.

I guess I've felt this way for a while, but I realized I just took that to mean that they were afraid and possibly unintelligent. It didn't hurt at all. I could get a million of them in the mail and it wouldn't change how I feel one way or the other.

Do you remember when you were working lame jobs and one of the dimmer bulbs on the string was always the manager? That's kind of how I feel now. To get into our bullshit economy you have to sell out. You shut up, cut your dick off, and just try to get your little pimp, little mack, on--try to get over when and where possible.

But a pimp ain't nothing but a ho with money. They eat with hos, think about hos, sing about hos, bitch at hos and fuck hos. And the only thing they've got in this world is that no one ever goes up to them and says, "You're a bitch ass ho!" And that's only because they've got a nice car and a royal blue pinstipe suit (actually saw this one yesterday--woulda been dope if it would have been nice fabric and cut right).

Kinda like Tiger Woods AmEx ad: "My life... "is hectic". And his best memories are when he had time to ride his skateboard and bike "all over". Even the king pimps is ho-ed out. Doing "what he wants", a millionaire many times over and doesn't even enjoy it. Other than the obvious. But no day to day, "what a great life" warmth? We think people who've got it better than us feel it. And those who have it worse don't. That's not true. And I say that as a mamber of a family that got a sizeable land grant from the King of England in Virginia (it went all the way West at the time--they didn't know where the other coast was)--has been pimpin' for a minute. But do the math. Who am I to say who's feeling it? If a cup of coffee is the high point of your day, what does it matter anyway? Why not go for absolutely anything else?

So in a sense, for me, the rejection slips are a badge of honor. But not just because I got them from the "establishment". It's not that simple anymore. I also got them from the hipsters. And that's crucial.

If I had been embraced by the hipsters--the indy publishers or weekly newspapers--that would mean that I had just succeeded in being a good teenager. In being hurt the right way. Even the hip-hop world is a ho to this shit. They predicate their existance in the fact that they're underdogs, victims who have made it. Had to sell drugs, couldn't have gone to college, couldn't have been a concert pianist, couldn't have not broken their mother's heart, couldn't have sung about loving a woman, god, raising their kids. The street's as big an addiction as is out there. Drama even bigger. And if you think you've got you a man cause he made money by telling "the truth", either in an indy/white way or a hip-hop/black way, you better make sure he's capable of loving the hurt child that he wasn't afraid of being. Cause when we artists brand ourselves, it's deep. And once we get love and money and recognition for that brand. it's beyond deep. It's real. The number of artists who can't feel shit are legion. Who would rather a ho than the real thing. From Peter Sellers to Curt Cobain to Anthony Keidis, check their biographies and see if you want to live with that shit. See if you want to still be a star in this cool sky.

I thank god that no one's known me until now. Because I probably would have started being the whack shit that I thought worked. When I didn't even love it.

I've been smarter than all the managers I ever had. But I've never had the guts it takes to build and run something essentially differently until now. Never knew what it takes to make something large, prosperous and growing without resorting to control and being a bitch. How to rely on inspiration and giving. I never knew how to be responsible and present. How to be compassionate and a man. Have fun and be resolute. Learning wasn't necessarily fun, but I can tell you from the bottom of my heart and the tip-top of my soul that it's entirely worth it. Even if you have to chuck your job in today and stike out into the wild unknown unprepared (and you most likely will, although there's nothing wrong with doing it calmly and gently), you will do nothing but thank yourself for years to come. After the tears, fights and long lonely walks, of course.

But when you find your woman, have something you love to do. Are fully committed and loving out the last bit of your fear to be happy in the vast unknown. When you are able to raise a young boy into a man. When you are able to impart feel to family and play to work. When you really feel how beautiful your wife is. And how much she loves you and how far she'd go for you. And are equally grateful! When you really feel how blessed you are to have kids, and what it means that these souls picked you to come be with.

When you are able to wake up Monday morning and the first thought you have is "I get to do exactly what I want today", and know what that is, and do it without fear of time, money, your kids, women, your friends, your boss, caffeine, the guys at the bar, your parents, or the bored sell-outs guarding the gates to literary purity (novels by foreign non-whites are hot, if you're white or local, you better be professional, homoginized and really fucking nice), or the board of directors, or the shareholders (what, you thought CEOs were free? with all that money are you crazy?!), the coach, your label head ("Now Jimmy Iovine's name on the bottom of my checks"), the guy who put you on (your Dre), your mom or the world's not yet as privledged as you--then, my friend, you will be free and happy as a mug. And able to deal with all those mo-fos. Lovingly. And inspire them. And build a world without pimps or hos in full sight of eveyone. Because you take full and absolute responsibility. And do so with full and absolute faith.

And it'll feel like a permanent, slow-motion, two-handed gorilla dunk, where you take over the whole league and re-do the logo the way you want just as the shit slaps the back of the net; inspire new and more lovely rules; let the players wear what the hell they want; let the coaches say what they want; let the players say what they want; and cash 432 checks while the most loving and gentle flashbulbs intimately illuminate that secret something you've always wanted illuminated; and pause to swing on the rim for a minute. With your dick hanging out.

And what a fucking relief it'll be. Ahhhhhhhhh!