Winter in Pakistan

My studio is in the basement and there's snow on the ground outside. So my feet are usually cold. Which sucks, but this is the season to realize that if you lived in the mountains in India or Pakistan and an earthquake not only leveled your home but also wiped out the mountain roads connecting it to your sources of fuel, food, blankets, etc. it would be significantly worse than sucks.

I'm as tired of giving as anyone. I've gotten taken a time or two at the front door by hustlers recently (they're pretty good here in Chicago); I gave what I could for Katrina; I'm doing what I can on a personal level with some folks I know; I haven't had a regular income in 7 years; I'm putting out a book, working on an album and financing a documentary; and I'm $40K in debt, BUT, I've still live in heaven on earth compared to the folks on the India/Pakistan border. Even before the earthquake.

So I just dropped some coinage off at CARE Crisis Response. This page is for a one time only donation, though it's a little misleading (they're trying to get you to donate monthly). I did a little research and they seem to get a good percentage of the $$ (91%) into the field. Make sure to unclick the button at the bottom if you don't want to get on their mailing list.

God promises that we have no reason to worry about eating tomorrow, for just as he feeds even the lowliest of his beasts every day (I believe crows are mentioned--sorry guys), so shall he feed his favorite. Yeah, you're his favorite. Soak it up a little. Go ahead and gloat. You are the recipient of a permanent beam of love. That's why we can't replicate you. And you run on your own (just add ground beef). And you have the power to heal yourself.

Try finding an car that does that!

(I actually had a self-healing car for a short while, but the thing was in such ridiculous disrepair that it probably attracted the big guy's mercy. Or maybe he was helping out a serious salad days artiste. Either that or some rust developed on the clutch plate and it stopped slipping for a minute after having left it for three months to rot.

A pretty remarkable car--one of a long line of 70s and 80s Datsuns that attached themselves to our family for a while in the 90s. You had to be half-enlightened and happy just to drive it. It had lost its shift-plate and so required the force to drive. Every piece of glass in it was broken, it leaked water on both drivers and passenger's sides floors--in Seattle, the seats were ripped beyond sitability and covered with fake sheepskin, the clutch slipped, the radio had been disconnected with a hammer and screwdriver and then re-inserted (the first pull-out?), the trunk could only be opened by putting your finger into a hole where the lock had been and turning right, and, by the end, after it had been stolen and rescued, you had to hotwire it to start it. Keyless entry and ignition!

Before that, it had had a boat key and push-button start installed by my friend Mark Morrison, who gave it to me on the condition that I pay the $111 in tickets it had on it in collections.

See how glamorous it is to be an artist, kids! I still got laid with it, though. That's almost the whole thing. If you can tell the whole, dirty, poor-ass, struggling, trying-to-figure-it-out-but-not-even-close-yet, got wet feet truth with a smile on your face and enough confidence to still pull the women you want, it's just a matter of time. I still have the Lion of Judah that Mark brought from JA, where he was a record producer in my current ride--an Acura. I still haven't "made it" materially, but I feel so good that it barely matters. Even if I died today, it would have been worth every shitty meal, doubt and tear. If you can be happy poor, you can be happy rich. And being happy rich is no small ting.)