Cottage Couture

I woke up thinking about dirt.

Well not really but almost. I realized I had been extrapolatin' on the White G views about money and all kinds of things but had not put the finest point on it.

So off to the races.

How a culture looks at dirt, it seems to me is like how it looks at sex, or love, or fate. One of the defining attitudes.

The mainstream, as clearly shown on Wife Swap last night, seeks to banish dirt as if it were Satan itself. Dirt is the potential fly in the ointment, the crack in the armor that threatens to bring everything to its knees. The nail that lost the kingdom.

The counterculture--knowing this--said "well, fine", if you hate it, we love it. If you can't handle it, that's what we do best. They promptly went to Woodstock, got down in the mud and haven't really given it up to this day, the norm's standards of cleanliness being kinda square. And beards being somewhat more "natural".

[e. Coli is natural too, but that's a different story.]

Things are much more convoluted than this--for example, the checkers at Whole Foods routinely refuse to touch my packages of chicken--so afraid of germs they are--even though I wouldn't say that they are among the more uptight regarding cleanliness.

And most of us have both sides represented within us usually, but it's pretty easy to figure, usually which camp we fall into. If we're grunge or not.

Dirt is also very closely connected to sex in our culture. Sexual dancing called dirty. Porn called dirt.

So we can see that a culture's take on dirt, and on sex--on chaos and the "nature of things"--is very important indeed. How much "naturalness" do we allow, do we champion? And how much "control" do we exert to clean it up? Improve it.

Do we shave? How often? Should women shave? Etc. Etc.

As I've mentioned before I came from a pretty straight or mainstream background and took a long sojourn in the world of grunge. Before it was even called grunge. I was so grunge that I actually lived in an apartment complex exactly like the one in Singles. :)

What's the quickest way I can give you a sense of my oneness with the epicenter of the zeitgeist--without seeming self-serving? Uh--had my nipples pierced? No, too prosaic. Too mall of America these days.

I had silverfish, mice and rats in my apartment. How about that for a start. The guy who lived there before me had a space in the back he used for satanic rituals. The floor was falling in in the kitchen. There was a constant murky puddle in the fridge (which had a plastic milk crate serving as the shelves).

I had my heat turned off--nah too boring.

I had the Nirvana fan club data base on my computer before it was turned over to a big company to run. How's that? I stage-dived at their shows before Nevermind came out? Boy that sounds lame now, but it's true. I even made it into a book about them.

This is dumb, but please take my word for it, I was there, on the scene before it blew, in the middle of it, backstage, knew the guys, whatever. Knew everyone who was running it, etc. I probably wouldn't mention it but I know large segments of the population confer huge amounts of credibility thusly.

And I was firmly committed to dirt. I bathed infrequently, cut my own hair and shaved sporadically. My housecleaning skills were next to none.

I smoked, drank, took drugs, rode my skateboard, had casual sex, was a bike messenger--whatever. To me dirt was homey. Reassuring. Made me feel comfortable. Taking a shower and shaving actually made me feel a bit strange. Especially if I had a "store bought" haircut (which I almost never did).

To me dirt was real, and a fear of it--an inability to deal with it--was highly suspect. And most likely symptomatic of a deep and awkward inability to get the fuck down! And probably meant you didn't own any Bootsy albums.

Forget about Unwound, The Undisputable Truth, The Beginning of the End, or Swiz.

Anyway. I was in it. And committed. Even though it never felt completely like me. (And I didn't know how I was going to find a suitable mate--especially as I lusted after clean, upright women with poise and grace).

But I figured if I was a good enough artist--if I did dirt well enough, that they would come to me. I hadn't quite figured out how they would remain unsullied, but I hadn't though that far ahead yet.

And then I got sick. Or my illnesses became manifest. And dirt became, very obviously, the cause of a lot of it. It doesn't take too many nights of uncontrollable coughing from 2-4am to get you up and cleaning: dust, dander, rabbit feces, cat hair, unwashed sheets.

I'll spare you but you get the idea. I went to the doctor and he told me I had asthma and prescribed me an inhaler. A healthy, productive (depressed) 26 year-old. I had never had a problem breathing before in my life.

I don't really feel like going all the way into it but suffice it to say that my relationship to dirt was radically reconfigured without any conscious involvement from me. It was stripped from me. Imagine if you liked nothing better than basketball--dribbling, shooting, watching it, jerseys, etc.--and the found out slowly that you were allergic to each and every aspect. And that even seeing a ref's striped jersey started mucus buildup and sneezing.

I didn't get it at the time but what could I do? I cleaned involuntarily--against my will. It was that or illness.

But I was also aware that I couldn't go all the way back. I knew from deep--likely genetic--experience that the uptight part of white was killing me as well. That cleaning for cleaning's sake--or for the benefit of what the neighbors might say--would leave me just as unhappy as being sick did.

Just sweeping left me unhappy.

And a lot of this wasn't conscious. I don't know when I started to see dirt as symbolic of a lot of things (or everything as symbolic--allegoric--for everything else might be a better way to put it)--but it unfurled slowly. I certainly didn't connect my allergies to anything like how I was editing my book until much later. (I don' think?).

But it was--in fact it was exactly the same struggle. As I wrote The Love Artist I fought with editing like I fought with being uptight and too clean. But how clean was clean? How healthy was healthy? How happy was happy?

(I also didn't know it then but my love of dirt was also aligned with a love of drama and unhappiness--or maybe just covering up a belief that I didn't really deserve to be happy--that my people had been too much the oppressors for me not to spend a life or so atoning. --But all that was somewhat hidden at the time as well.)

Somehow it all fit together but where? And how? What guidelines should I use? The macho, clean, rational, hyperedited and aggressive traditional world felt corny as hell to me. And here was the female, passive, intuitive, free associative, "naturally" dirty one spitting me out like expired milk.

So where was a well-intentioned, well educated but unashamed and horny white boy from Capitol Hill to go to do his thAng? how could I get down? Was there anyone I could get down with? Was I even supposed to be getting down?

And what would she look like when I met her?

And would finding all this out make me a man?

Back to White Gold (if you want the story, buy the book).

So what is the correct relationship to dirt? To sex? How to best order my priorities to match those of the universe itself. (Assuming that god/the universe really had my best interests at heart--another one that it took me years to discern).

What was love and what was hate?

To slice it right down the middle let me just hand over what came to me when I had my aha moment: an immaculately tailored shirt or jacket--with one stray thread.

By this time I knew I wanted it beautiful. Which meant that someone who was passionate about it would have to put their concentrated attention to it--assertedly. But they would also have to have the TIME to do it lovingly. Relaxedly. They would have to have time to go see their daughter's soccer game.

Or pick up their wife from the airport.

And of course, they would have to have soccer leagues for little girls and wives at airports--so they'd have to live in a developed, Western economy or the like.

And, if you were really loving, they would have to have the time and consciousness to ride their bike to their daughter's game and maybe even public transport to the airport.

Whoa. And then instead of $40 for a shirt from an Indonesian factory we were talking even better and more loving that traditional Italian craftspeople. Or at least as loving (expensive) as traditional Italian (or English, or French) craftspeople but with a competitive enough economy under it that a 25 year-old could have their own place in the middle of the city. (Cause in Italy, France, and London they can't).

So now we're talking several hundred for a shirt. But it also shouldn't have to be shipped so far--so there's an environmental savings there. But we're also talking about buying from people like us.

And all of a sudden couches started at $3K. And cars at forty.

And boom, just like that, cottage couture was born. (And don't use that shit without attributing me, yo, cause you know you didn't think it up. --And they'll find me eventually anyway.)

And where did the stray thread come from? Why was that so important? [Or, more directly--WHY THE HELL CAN"T I HAVE A PPPEEERRRRFFFEEEECCCCCCTTTTTTT!!!!??)((*&^ SHIRT, BOOK, MOVIE, MAGAZINE, CHINA SET WHEN I"M PAYING ALL THIS GOD DAMNED MONEY????!!!!!!]

That my brothers and sisters, my fellow love artists, is so that you can live.

Live without fear. Without ISO 9000 (though I hear that's on the way out these days anyway--pas mal).

Live without screaming football coaches. Live without nagging doubt.

So that you can live with your own love. Your lover. Your kids. yourself.

Because I know you know that the perfect is the enemy of the good.

The uptight the enemy (enema?) of the right.

These trees, this love, our lives, aren't perfect because every branch goes off at the proper angle; or because every tip holds the right color leaf; but because there's a huge empty section from where that branch fell off in the storm two years ago.

And if you need shade right there you just put up an umbrella.

Perfect is not perfect. Nor should it be. We do our best without fear or obsession. Without absessing. And then we let it go, with full confidence that if it ain't riht enough, it'll likely come back and we'll get an opportunity to learn and grow some more.

What's perfect is having strong enough individuals, relaxed enough individuals that they can each speak their own truth. And have enough faith to say: I really love this shirt, the color in off the hook, could you please cut this thread or re-sew this part.

Or--GASP--cut it themselves!!!!! Withough-t bad-mouthing your brand to their friends. Or even W-I-t-h--holding judgement.

So you coughed during sex--big whoop. So you snorted and lost count. Big whoop.

In two weeks you'll be having more fun with the snort that you did with the sex. Gib Poohw.

Because that's how you fucking roll, baby! That's who you are. R. ARE>

And that's how you want to create, and that's how you want to consume. --THat's how you want to live.

Free! --Engaged, yes; structured, of course; passionate, naturally; self-conscious, not really--but no big; reflective, mais oui!; relaxed, yes; content, more than; responsible, natch; hyper, what?.

Will it be edited? Somewhat. Will it be coherent? Yes. Will it be perfect and non-threatening at all times? Fuck you asshole!

Will the customer service be..? Dude, get over it. Have a little faith. It's all working out.

Breathe.

But then why am I paying so much money! I demand to be coddled! I stood in line for...

There are things you can't buy fuckhead.

And if you are buying to be above other people, then there are millions of vendors who will oblige you: Michigan Avenue is full of them. You can buy your way to VIP status in Tokyo, London, Beijing, Moscow, New York, Dubai.

But not at White Gold.

Which is why I wanted to talk about dirt. This is not luxury to escape life. This is not expensive to filter out the hoi polloi or confer status or ensure safety.

This is expensiv because that's what it costs. Because that's how faith is communicated. Because that's what SUPPORT IS! That's what love is! That is supporting!

And it doesn't have any strings attached. Or you can have the damn money back. We don't owe you. Just like you don't owe us any sympathy, credibility or authenticity because we charged what we wanted to in the first place.

We're not victims and you're not a victim.

Can you imagine that in today's economy? Operating without pimps and hos? Without manipulation? Without lies about customer service and what other people's friends will think? How laid you'll get because of getting drunk with our booze?

All we can promise is that it'll be warm. Which means it can be manipulated. And if you do, or try, we'll take note. You didn't pay for that. We just delivered it. And you put up a good faith stake to show you were worth it. Ready to get down. Fun!

With even money no object!

And now we're ready to party. Without cigs, without booze, without Hooters girls, without porn. I mean really party.

[Note: and we're not going to be new best friends. We found each other in the marketplace so we exchange goods and fudiciary--money. And have real lives to go home to--safe in the knowledge that we're building a loving economy for those bambinos--for that family--to thrive in!]

Not idolizing dirt, but not fearing it either. Being real about it.

And it took me a while to get here. Years and years and years. When I first started wearing nice clothes, I thought I'd skateboard less (I do, but for other reasons), be a little more restrained. And at first I did. I was.

But then I realized what the hell is a $300 shirt without a decent life to live it in. And if the niece wants to climb up your legs and do a summersault, well, that's what washing machines are for.

And if you're re-doing your basement, and the guy has the sewer line dug up and you want to recycle the toilets that were down there and a young woman shows up by herself wondering if she can carry it (even if you asked her to bring people), you pick the damn thing up and trudge outside to her car.

Then you brush off your $400 linen jeans and your $480 Bergdorfs cashmere sweater. And deal with the stain on you suede shoes. Because that's how you wanted to look today and that's what today was about, evidently.

The lord has provided richly for his people, and likely will again.

And you not only look but feel the way you want. And not only feel the way but look the way you want.

Despite what everyone else would have you believe.

And that, my fellow love artists, is why your ultra-premium shirt may have a thread hanging off the side. And why your $120 book may--no will--MUST have some typos to be worth it. To be worth more.

Because the extra money wasn't spent going crazier, but loving more. Because the material and spiritual realms ARE ONE! And you can't be materially tight from 9 to 5 but spiritually loose before, after and on the weekends.

We cannot get enlightened during our free time. We must make it all free time. Be free all the time.

Get real. All over real.

And that's not out there real--b u t p l a i n o l d r e a l.

And once we figure that out, we will cheerfully pay dearly for that which gets us even close.

It is not that we tried to leave a thread there--I assure you. And I'm sure companies will spring up promising real hanging threads just as there ALL companies now promise real dirt and knee-holes in their pants. And real inside-out seams.

And you will be the sole determiner of the truth.

You'll have to feel your way along. Sniff out the fakes. Keep track of your deepening desires and sharpening tastes.

In a very real sense, this is now possible only because everything else has been done. Because the tightest of the tight and the loosest of the loose has already been both custom-made and mass-marketed.

Every marketing trick in the book has been played. And is now played.

So from here on out we get to discern what's real real and what's acid wash real.

And thank you Jesus for putting me right here!