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!

Leadership

Coupla interesting things I thunk:

1) The difference may be intimacy. With the "mainstream" being perfectly comfortable with physical intimacy, and physical vulnerability--very evident at my gym--and the counterculture being very comfortable with an emotional intimacy and vulnerability--being creative, baring one's soul in small settings, etc.

And feeling like a fish out of water in each other's world--and sometimes disparaging it. The beauties calling the geeks losers and the geeks (the self-proclaimed losers) calling the beauties losers. Because for each group the other is lacking on what they consider a priority.

At my gym today, I realized that people there are making themselves as physically vulnerable as any poets would be doing emotionally at a reading.

But I don't want to decry beauty or emotional truth. Even though each side is relatively certain that the two are mutually incompatable.

They're not. And maybe that's the best way I can describe what White Gold and The Love Artist are about. They want it all. I, we, demand it all. I refuse to be insecure just because I bare my soul and I refuse to be overly proud just because I work out.

Each side has the gaps it has written off as unimportant and each side has things at which it excels and each side has payoffs--and each side has social credentials. Very well negotiated social credentials. And each side is convinced that life is 2-D.

And that having it all is a fairy tale.

But it's not of course. We just haven't gotten there (en masse) yet.

White Gold figures to be the lynchpin. The cornerstone. As this new 3-D culture--both beautiful and honest goes worldwide in a few short years. And for the first time we'll have a culture that is both aspirational and inspirational.

And, forget all that money hoopla, we'll get to be--ourselves--both emotionally straight--present--and physically straight--healthy and stand up: happy.

Oh yeah, and it'll pay at a rate that makes everything 2-D look like the low energy work it is. Cause if you think you're life is currently hard (or easy), peep this: even Tiger Woods feels harried! Even Oprah and Martha have an inner workaholic.

And none other than The Rolling Stones have to tour incessantly--at 65(?)--to maintain their lifestyles and continue to grow financially as artists.

Makes me tired just thinking about it.

[BTW, if you think that the norms go by appearances--what looks good--and the freaks go by emotions--what feels good--then you probably haven't really seen or felt the true "winners" yet. If my choices are Jack Welch tight or Keith Richards loose--and I'm not just talking about the skin on their faces here--please mark my ballot "any other way at all"!]

2) I can see now why I haven't gotten to the next level yet. I'm was considering a few compromises. Still thinking that it was THEM that I'd need to put my undiscovered ass on. I should have listened to my friend TG last year when he asked why I thought I needed thems.

The truth of the matter is, that even if I allow Random House's name on the inside title page as a distributor, it will devalue my book. Make it just another homoginized THANG. Like a really good Griffin & Sabine. No, no no no no.

NO! Eben, stop trying to please people. And please yourself.

It's not that you haven't compromised enough, but that you haven't yet become uncompromising enough to last on their turf. Because if I know you, you'll at least take their meetings. And their meme, their doubt, their sickness is thick.

And so deep it has nothing to do with intentions. Or even being nice. Or likely even kind. They just aren't there. God bless them.

Better just to pay them an extra dollar to distribute it silently. Or just distribute it myself. It's not like I don't have people who run multinationals. It's not like I don't have lawyers who are already negotiating huge whatevers. Techs who are already building multi-million hit web pages.

The back end is simple these days. Just outsource and manage it.

What no one's got is content. Fresh, lovely, real, shining, overfloweth content. Which is why they have to continually reassure us that what we're buying is "authentic". (Now that's a 7 year old comment).

Actually now they skip the "authentic" label unless they're middlin'--the smarter ones assure us they're ironic and sarcastic, which is supposed to connote that they "get it" or actually have a heart of gold and have been wronged by this cruel world just like us.

This would be all but the most stand up "creative" bands. Freudian slip--I mean brands.

HA!

Re-do your math. The world ain't cruel unless you demand it so.

And whether you live in the material/financial world or the cultural/spiritual world--that, my friend is a flawed business plan. (If you cheerfully inhabit both, please let me know! --Let's get some money!)

3) Saw an article about supermarkets in India worrying folks about all the "wonderful" small shops. Lord help me if I even think about glorifying the chaos that passes for India's system of manufacturing and distribution.

I'm all for local and private and personal ownership. And all for organized labor and decentralization. And absolutely love ideosynchra-see. But to have 40% spoilage of perishable goods in a country where people routinely go to bed hungry--and where you can see the ribs on even dogs with owners--seems to me more of a crime than development.

I guess management would be the physically vulnerable lot that I work out with. Great business folks. And can keep their cool in a meeting, during a strike, or in the Super Bowl.

And being from that myself, I always thought I wanted less of it as well. But to scrap what we have learned, what WE ARE here in the West seems to me such a teenage answer. (And one that can only be delivered while in some way shape or form living at home?) And it seems to me to get us little more, at it's apex, then punk rockers killing themselves off--after having succeeded--and Charles Manson.

But, as we know, there's no reason not to use just as much structure--just as much heirarchy and management as you'd like. And leave the rest open for actual true fun. Because having parents that are more like friends doesn't really leave one able to have any fun.

Even though no one ever says no.

------

A bit reaching at points, but that's where I am today. Oh--the second part of the India thing--we must not be afraid when the economy signs the hit on our jobs. We must not face the increased pass rush with a single quiver of trepidation.

For the lord giveth and the lord taketh away. And Spring growth requires FIRST winter's death. So we'll be even alive enough to feel the warm sun-lit moss under our feet. NOT because we've been bad and are subject to 4 months of chilly house arrest.

Because we grew so much last year that we started to get ahead of ourselves--thought we'd just pack it in a live in the future--when we have that even bigger house. When the sex is even juicier. Our TV bigger and movies twenty times better. And able to afford eating out every night.

Even though we want and like to cook.

So, unless we are absolutely sure that we are here to be a shop owner, a middle manager, a factory worker, a frustrated graphic designer--whatever it is exactly that you are--then we must not flinch when it all comes crashing down around us.

We might even enjoy it if that doesn't get too masochistic--too kinky.

For growth--LOVE--is on the way. Being delivered ahead of schedule. I mean right on time. But before we think or expect. --Without the work we dread is necessary. Success is near. What we really, really want replacing what we really wanted.

Happens every year, and every decade. And every century. And every millenium. You can figure where we are right now.

And our job is just to say thank you. And be who we want.

Cause in five minutes we'll largely be highly skilled, autonomous, creative and intelligent AND RELAXED members of the world's economy. Third millenium folks. Third dimension folks. Leaders even, though our jobs will be more inspirational (3-D) than motivational (2-D) and so will not have much of the overt "control" that current leadership relies upon.

How do I know this? I watched the Super Bowl. And two loving spiritual, upright men coached like warriors and accepted the outcome like angels. In the most violent sport we have--they have risen to the top of the game--despite ALL odds (and that's a big all)--to inspire the least reachable, most physically-minded, most competitive men in the US. As determined by brute force.

So I know it's coming like gangbusters to business. And will make the last 2000 years of history look like little more than a "gentlemen start your engines!".

But we've got to let it happen.

Which requires what?

Making what you want and buying what you want.

Knowing that it's inevitable.

Even when you don't believe.

That it's possible.

That's the definition of leadership.

Anyone can believe when it looks possible.

That's why that's not called leadership.

Plain Ole Love

Okay. I feel like I've detailed the reasoning behind premium pricing pretty convincingly in the past few days. But there's still a small but persistent bee in my bonnet. So let's continue.

On my way down to dinner yesterday evening someone cut me off--or I should say cut around me at a stop sign. As I was a bit tired, a bit hungry, a bit put out (we've been having our house worked on and can't put any water down the drains), and a bit off my center, I got pissed.

I recognized I was pissed and so tried to just let it go, but I was mad. Close to get out in the street and fight, road rage mad.

But no big, I just swallowed it. Even though I then had to follow the person while they drove left and right--they seemed to be looking for parking or something.

Either way, they were annoying me.

Then someone came up on my right trying to squeeze between me and the parked cars.

Thinking they were trying to do the same thing, I gunned it and turned into them, forcing them into the parked cars. They performed remarkably well and made it through unscathed--they were in fact making a right hand turn and just looking for a bit of an angle--but it left me wondering what the hell was going on.

I looked at my usual suspects. Yes, there was a full moon, yes I was in Wrigleyville on a Friday evening before a Bears Superbowl (high possibility of drunk drivers), yes I had played some basketball yesterday at the gym when I shouldn't have, yes I was still getting over a chest cold, yes I had been spending a lot of faith by doing what I wanted to first all week and my work second (a challenge even though it seemed to be paying off).

But whatever list of "reasons" I came up with didn't quite cut it. Or matter. I didn't want to be playing Road Warrior on my way to Bul Go Gi regardless.

Eating always helps but I didn't figure it all the way out until last night at around 4am.

I don't know if your body wakes you up for quiet time in the middle of the night, but mine does. Since I've started watching my dreams regularly I sometimes wake up after each cycle of dreams, as if to take note of them.

Laying there, still trying to relax, it hit me: I'm pissed. (I had actually just had a dream where I literally pissed on a guy. He was being a jerk--but I had still let him get to me.)

And when I asked why I was pissed, my answer was that I'm hurt.

I learned a lot of what I know from new age sources, and I still try to hedge my bets very slightly liberal, but I still pretty categorically deny that anyone can be a victim, a status to which both movements traditionally confer special status.

This viewpoint does raise some issues, however. Was Emmett Till not a victim? What about a child accidentally bombed in Iraq? Native Americans lied to, given disease infested blankets and relocated? I'm all for open and vigorous negotiations but what about when people are manipulated, coerced, or even worse--killed or tortured?

Part of my answer came from the Emmett Till documentary I watched the other day. His mother told the camera that god came to her and told her that Emmett had been selected--or had chosen (is there any difference in that world?) to do what he did. To be that person.

[If you don't know, Emmett Till was the black Chicago boy who was tortured and killed in Money, Mississippi for whistling at a white woman. His accused killers were acquitted and later admitted their guilt to a magazine for $4000. The 1955 case sparked outrage and was a major catalyst for the civil rights movement. Race, sex and murder in Money, Mississippi--it doesn't get any clearer than that.]

But while Emmett had not been a spiritual victim he certainly had been a material one. Just because there are bigger things than this life doesn't mean that this life isn't sacred. It is.

Lying in bed thinking about all of this, I realized two things. First, my male side, my right side, when it feels it has been wronged, wants to fight. As I used to be so depressed that it never got above being a b-iotch and wanting to run, I consider this progress, but surely there is a state beyond this. My right side is tight and has had trouble relaxing.

My female side, my left side, when it feels it has been wronged, wants to go away. Zone out. Disappear. Give up. Conform. This is a bit of progress as well as it used to be non-existent, energetically speaking, but certainly there must be something beyond this as well.

And lying there, I wondered, if I was such not a victim, if nothing could actually touch the real part of me without my consent--and the outside world just a reflection of my inner state--then why was I so angry? And why did I feel it necessary to cover up the hurt I felt with anger?

And why did I feel hurt in the first place.

And then, in what felt like a static charge to exactly the right place in my brain, I thunk it: I feel hurt because no one will buy my book.

And I feel hurt because no one will buy it not because they don't want to read it, or because it's not good, but because of their own issues around money--and what they're used to books (that they don't much enjoy) costing.

Because it's too weird--the whole thing. I don't know why people don't buy my book, just that they don't. Maybe they're intimidated--and it's my own fault--but all I know is I wrote what was asked of me. I wrote what I wanted more than anything to see written. I wrote what had to be said--at great personal risk.

And I made a bet with god: either it works or it doesn't. Either the truth works--on this planet and on this plane--or bullshit works. One of them has to rule--be primary. I was done with the latter and so clung to the former like it was my only teddy bear in a concentration camp. Not because I believed in it--as I've mentioned I didn't have any faith--but because I had nothing else. Had gone all the way the other way.

Had tried and lived sarcasm riffing on sarcasm. Postmoderning post-modernisme. Doing what I hated. Living cool and detached. Knowing everything already.

And I never thought it would work until long after I was done. I never sat down to write a $120 book. I sat down thinking I could maybe sketch an outline of a decent $14 book. And I will put that on everything that I love. I didn't even think I could finish it.

But I had nothing else to do. And so plunged ahead a million times. With scanty resources. Without any resources but with available credit. With belief and understanding. Without belief and completely blind.

Happy as a clam and in mortal terror for both myself and my mental stability.

And I'm still not a victim. I did it all freely. Every step. And I'd do every single one of them again. Likely the same way. And I'll be doing the exact same thing when I'm 65 if nothing ever happens.

But I still felt hurt. It hurt when my family didn't believe me, it hurt when my friends didn't believe me. It hurt when I didn't believe me. (And I was grateful when I did find support and supporters.)

And let me say this so I can let it go the way of the dodo: the economy is the primary way we support each other. Our purchases. And when we deny ourselves what we want, we also deny someone else the pleasure of making it.

That's the whole thing.

I could go into how one lost purchase means so much more to a mom and pop/craftsman type operation than it does to an overseas factory. How profit is really the only place we find love and leisure--and how we're going to have to get into being leaders with our purchases to get a comprehensive, sustainable, enviro, loving economy and city. But whatever. I'll just tell you that it hurts.

It wouldn't hurt if I hadn't done a good job. I don't care for a second that my basement if full of 70% half cooked paintings. Or that my efforts at singing and guitar so far haven't yielded what I want. (Though I'm confident they will).

I don't care that no one bought my chapbook of borderline juvenalila poetry (though some of them have their moments). Or even that people don't gobble up my non-fiction blog--I freely give that away, and although I think it's somewhat valuable, I realize it's as much a marketing tool as anything. If you've read here much, you'll know that I feel that most opining and theories about living are worth about what they get: $14.95 a book.

Which may be why we have thousands of people competing ruthlessly to be the next Dr. Phil, Deepak Chopra or Krishnamurti (Ken Wilber?)--and NONE competing to make any decent art. So what the hell are we supposed to do once we've imbibed all these wonderful methods?

Once we're more enlightened than Oprah? --Sorry, I'm getting pissy again. What I'd like to suggest is that we are improving and we need a new price point for books, CDs, DVDs, movies and magazines. Probably many.

And that you should consider paying the $120 you'd drop for one of these workshops in a heartbeat on the real thing. What you can expect to see once these workshops actually work.

That still sounds a bit pissy but what can I do? Should I tell you that it's not frustrating to make the best thing possible and have no one be interested in it? After already having been a respected member of the economy making highly valuable things and having chucked all that? Should I lie? Would that be more enlightened?

What I am doing, and figured out last night, is giving it all up to god. And he can have it. I wrote the sucker on his instructions, I priced it and did the cover art on his suggestion--it was what I wanted as well--but trying to stuff it down people's throats is not me. Lord knows I've tried.

I've also tried the nice way--suggesting, inspiring. I thought I would just magnetize like-minded people. You'll notice the first ton of this blog doesn't even mention my book.

I've tried advertising, I've tried readings. I've tried press releases and email lists.

I've tried moving on--forgetting about the damn book. I've considered pricing it at $16. I tried pricing it at $40.

I sent query letters, I queried agents. I sent chapters, I sent books, I sent two pages. I bought the Writer's Market book, I put it out myself, I set up a business for it.

I raised venture capital, I lost venture capital, I asked for venture capital. I read it for my family, I read it for friends, I read it for strangers.

I made cold calls, I met with people in the industry. I gave copies to writers, I gave copies to press, I sent out copies to be reviewed.

I followed up.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

And I insist that I'm not a victim, but it's been 10 years. And I don't even believe in fighting anymore. What am I doing? Fighting to let you love me? Fighting to be granted membership by a fraternity that doesn't believe?

And maybe now I'm getting somewhere. As the layers peel away (this is exactly what happens in the book, btw).

What hurt the most was that she didn't believe. Was that she thought I was worthless. Was that she was five minutes away from telling me to get a damn job (when she left me). Was that she didn't think I'd ever have a waterfront house because I wasn't a sell-out punk investment banker networking frat boy who didn't give a fuck about her.

(No offense and may god bless them, btw--it just wasn't for me.)

Even though she could feel that I already was. That I was real. And I know she could feel. And she was supposed to be the feeling one. And I the rational one.

So if anyone asks, that's how I really know how much it hurts to be disbelieved. That's why I'm so adamantly clear about the cost of doubt and $14.99 CDs that artists have to tour incessantly behind in our society.

And, conversely, why I'm so crystal clear on the value of belief. How rare and precious it is in our advanced critical-method-doggedly-applied late capitalism.

How much it costs to produce, maintain and distribute in the face of all else that is out there. And will go on record talking with anyone who says that love doesn't cost a thing in the West.

My family, relatives, friends--in a sense they're supposed to disbelieve, keep me on track. Make sure I have dental insurance. (Which I don't).

But my woman--she was supposed to be the one who could feel the difference. Who knew implicitly what I was talking about--and that I'd deliver huge. Who got it without even having to hear the boring explanation or read the shit.

Would just sit there and even watch tv and say: warm! Even though cool was in vogue. What everyone else was doing that millenium.

And I know that this was all a set-up. That I wanted to be a man first--and unflappable. To believe even beyond her belief or capacity to believe. But it still hurt.

And if I would have let her doubt--possibly fleeting--stop me, then what kind of a love artist was I? Not much.

And what kind of confidence did I have if when she doubted, I agreed?

Not much.

I never thought it would take 10 years. But here I am. And I don't even know all the details--you can search the blog for whatever you feel important. The rest you can find, 3-D, in the book.

But I can't go on feeling hurt. Or waiting. Waiting for it to sell or waiting for "her" to believe. And I won't go on feeling angry or detached.

So god, I lay this all at your feet. If I did it just to get here and start over, then thank you for the opportunity. It seems to have worked. If you ask me what I want, it's still the exact same as when I wrote it: for The Love Artist to go worldwide and inspire a mature, warm, vulnerable, sustainable, and real spiritual culture effortlessly.

Have kids in Calcutta certain about what they want to do when they grow up. How they want to feel.

And be the person who wrote it. Who figured it out. And to eventually be bested by the next generation--who took it in stride like the kickflip, like DaVinci, like the transistor, like Tesla or Bowie. And have my flaws, shortcomings and blinds of my time revealed and thrown out--like Newton.

And get to be an old man pleased by what was being done. And comfortable with his place.

And be done.

Like Henry Miller said: if I'm a tree, then any work is dropped fruit. And why would a tree care about dropped fruit.

Some gets eaten, some gets planted and some falls on inhospitable soil. But you can't aim it. And why try? You can't aim the rain, or know where they're going to clear for that next subdivision.

The trees work is done. Drop your leaves and just sit for a few months. The soil, the sun and time are in charge now. The universe works on it's own schedule. And some seeds get lost like the gnostic gospels. Others start sprouting before they even get tapped into the ground. It's not up to me which tree grows for 200 years and which gets trampled underfoot as a sprout.

I'm getting a bit wistful, but my point is the same. I still want and fully expect it to go big. Premium pricing of mass market goods is inevitable. It is already commonplace in every sector EXCEPT culture. Where we feel perhaps the most impoverished.

I feel that this relationship is causal--co-dependent if you will--which is why I wrote and put out a $120 book which I feel transcends and heals the rift.

And I've already changed the way I consume--the way I shop. I wear $500 jeans and $800 cashmere sweaters even though I have to hunt and peck for them at bargain basements. I am proud to support the best this world has to offer, and I try to do it environmentally, lovingly and faithfully. (My $300 cashmere sweater--from Barneys--still in it's first year, is already pilling. And decimating various Chinese plains/planes).

I buy organic and wish the hippies made better clothes. And wish the designers made more loving ones. And am ready at the drop of a hat to put an almost entire culture into production--books, music, clothes, magazines. --A life instead of a lifestyle. As soon as the next round of funding is there.

And this will bring hundreds of people with me directly--and clear the path for thousands and millions more to enjoy a new energy level economy. Create a new shell on which higher energy (and more relaxed) electrons can thrive, can live, can love.

And there is no dogma or things to learn, just follow your instincts. Do what you want.

I also make the absolute best that I can. And I work a second job so I can. And I refuse to be a victim to time or money (or energy or love) when it comes to creating what I deem the most valuable product I can make. I train and eat a special diet for it. Stay in nights. Refrain from anything stronger than high glucose rice chips.

And I'll be at it for the rest of my life. And it's fun and fulfilling. And I expect that it will provide me with love, time, energy and money starting today. And understand that it has been doing just that to a certain extent for years. (And that when it hasn't that has been for a purpose).

And would I like to make more? Have the whole day? My own place? An office? A lawyer and manager? Would I like to make films and clothing lines? Talk to Newsweek and start my own magazine?

Absolutely. And I'm going to focus primarily on production--and not sales--to do that. Because that's what I want and believe that eventually that wins. I assume it will happen with the book but I'm not beholden to it. I intended for that to be the economic driver from the start but I put that detail in god's hands. I can't afford to be pissy anymore. It's showing up in my music, clouding my Friday evenings.

I want to take over the world, and I think I would be an excellent choice. I want to go to Davos and show the tight and cool how warm warm can be--and how profitable, but I'm at the point where standing outside telling whoever goes by is hurting my chances.

I don't know of another way in but I'll just start walking the other way.

It's worked every other time I've found the wherewithal to do it.

Or maybe that's even old school thinking that I'd want to go there. Maybe that's still my star-struck ego. I'd rather have the Sorroses and Gates stop by here if they're interested. After they've read the book and blog. Or even just call. I don't really like networking anyway.

And it does sound a lot more relaxing. And more magnetic--bring them here. Less work. Move the world with a more lovingly placed lever. (Or just show how much more easy--and profitable--it is to let the world move on it's own.)

And it's really hard to become powerful kissing people's ass. Believe me, I tried.

I also tried berating them and telling them what was up. I think I'll just head back toward the old classic--doing my own thing.

Love.

The Golden Era

A poll in the Chicago Tribune says that black kids think that rap should have more political content. Funny because they wouldn't watch it if it did.

I suppose no one is safe from the Judeo-Christian guilt that blankets our pleasure.

I'd suggest that we won't get what we want until we actually want it but you already know that, so let's move on.

I'm still on with subtle energies. And some of them are subtle indeed.

I'm getting into being alive--being happy--the whole day.

And I'm finding that I had a few left over, stale, time poverty beliefs.

I still start turning around before I close the cupboard all the way. What, am I hurrying to wash the dishes? And a very subtle panic sets in just before I eat. Maybe I should be eating earlier. Or more often. Or not letting myself go as far out into unhappiness while working.

That's the one I'm really working on. Staying right with it while I work, while I do my thing. My whole life I have told myself that it is not alright to be happy or loving if there is a deadline present. If I didn't have enough money in the bank.

But the more I take charge of it, the more I take complete responsibility for my own happiness and joy, (and that includes plenty of letting go), the more I see that this thing "out there" that I relate to as a separate world is, as so many physicists and new agers are now saying, determined by things as spurious as my whims.

And influenced strongly by my beliefs. Like I develop, maintain and protect the bandwith and as much as I can handle without flying off the handle is poured down the pipe.

Much different that what I formerly believed: that the way we got things we wanted was to run out and grab as many as we could as quickly as we could--sort of like a timed supermarket shopping spree. --Joy there being using a cart that you really, really liked.

I'm doing less and my business is picking up, women look better (and look my way more often), and my art is improving.

I now realize that it is possible to make money, even in a traditional, left brain business and be alive and present at the same time. It may take some careful alignment and some start up work, but it is possible to work with faith, be yourself totally, and interface with the "outside world" in a business setting.

And do your art honestly and without any jade. Because you're already coming from a place that is enjoyed. You haven't made any sacrifices but possibly have put in a little extra work to orient things the way you want. The same as everyone else.

And that's perhaps the most radical aspect of the quantum reality: that we are ALL, ALREADY doing exactly what we want. Every moment of every day.

That we are actually free and have chosen freely every action and thought.

And that all our "have to"s are untested and unproven. I have to keep this job because I have to pay rent. I have to do this after work when I'm tired because I can't get it done any other way. I have to go to this party or no one will like me/invite me next time.

Love and money are two of the most challenging ideas to get free around. And often require the most liberal swings of the machete. And protection from the brambles for new plantings.

What has been most useful for me is a very strong discipling based completely on yes. I don't say no to myself but doggedly, repeatedly, boringly say yes to what I want.

Exactly what I want.

Most people wouldn't give a fuck if they gave up ice cream after dinner if they knew a Swedish supermodel was waiting for them. In a sense they're eating it because they've given up on a larger vision.

Most wouldn't even need a Swedish supermodel (or Algerian--take your pick)--if they had a couple hours with the energy and intimacy they enjoyed as a newlywed with their partner. They'd turn off the tube and head to bed. So they could still get to sleep by 10 to get up to take the kids to soccer or school.

But they think that's a forgone conclusion. Work was too hard today. The kids too out of hand. There's too much we haven't discussed since the move--whatever.

But what if we were all really close to exactly what we want. Be it greater intimacy or more time to work on that book?

And what if time, money, love and energy weren't elusive beasts at all, but naturally replenishing--overflowing wells that required nothing from us but to follow our appetites and pay fastidious attention to what we want? Both in the moment and overall.

What if it was our beliefs only--what we told ourselves in the privacy of our own minds--that was holding us back?

Would we let go? Would we accept relaxation and happiness? Would we live with a little uncertainty to have our lives more free? Would we forgo control to rediscover our appetite?

And what if it ALL worked? What if you could be the veterenarian, rock star, pilot, socialite that you imagined as a kid? What if that was what you were SUPPOSED to be? A golf pro, photographer, civic leader, philosopher?

Remember, kids a hundred years ago dreamed of being a fireman. A teacher. An explorer. One thing. Now we're renaissance. A couple specialties is no big deal.

BUT (and, baby, that's a nice big but)--we're going to have to afford it. We're going to have to pay for it! You and I are going to have to pay to create what we want and we are going to have to pay to consume what we want. Otherwise our pessimism, our "that's just eh way the world is" will be right.

Because we will not have made the world the way we want it!

Let me put it another way:

We are incredibly smart. We are incredibly sophisticated consumers. We are spiritually aware. We are environmentally conscious. We are culturally astute. We are materially complex.

And we have an economy that will support any one of those attributes at a time. We can find a book that is spiritually "aware". It will probably say on the front "This book is spiritually aware", which means it won't be that culturally sophisticated, adn the typesetting will likely be an amateur job, so it won't be materially complex, but it will be spiritually aware.

This book will say things like "let go and let god". Good advice, if a little corny. The book will be either non-fiction or thinly veiled expository fiction. Any symbolism or mystery will be forced and wince-invoking.

Or perhaps you'd like something culturally sophisticated and materially complex. you could buy a video iPod and watch Ghost Dog on it. But the killings and insistance that the world is best represented by a gangster metaphor will deeply offend your spiritual nature. And your mores as a parent.

But it will appear "real".

You could also buy an $800 cashmere sweater with a skull on it. Or in pea green. Materially sophisticated, and seemingly culturally complex, but lacking in an innate appeal that you long for long after it ceases to be cool.

It didn't get you any new friends. Or even more clout at the bar. You never felt it. Because getting more cool just makes more people fear and respect you--from a greater distance. And you want intimacy, closeness, warmth.

And forget sneakers--you can't find a pair that doesn't look like a 14th grade design final gone wrong. Zings and zows and she-bangs to make you look insane--excuse me, give you attitude--even when you're standing still.

Which brings us into mass marketed goods. The ones that they have to aim directly at the 18-34 demographic. The Van Helsings. The SPIN magazines. The Smokin' Aces. When you mass market a good it must have mass appeal. Which means you aim for the lowest common denominator every single time.

You would never put up $500,000 to introduce a line of shoes that sold for the same price as Nikes but appealed to a smaller audience. At least I hope you wouldn't. That would be stupid. Unless you weren't doing it for the money. In which case your enterprise would likely be unsustainable.

And your wife and kids would be put through some serious nonsense when it failed. (Not to mention you and your soul).

But hey man, it's cool, you weren't doing it for the money. You just wanted to be a part of the community. You were doing it for soul. What a crock of shit. If soul, or community requires you, or I to put up huge amounts of money to keep it going, what is it? Sustainable? Desirable? Wanted? Craved?

One challenge is that we've internalized the van Gogh thing so hard we now think that the best art IS the most incomprehensible. The most despised. The hardest to find.

And that that is a natural function of art. That at it's best, it is so challenging that we--the squares--can't understand it. And shouldn't be able to.

What a crock of shit.

That was one thing when culture moved at the speed of shipping printing presses. Was being delivered at the speed they could lay railroad track and only after uncle Ernie could afford a ticket to the World's Fair and then came back and told us stories we didn't even really believe.

But now culture moves fast enough that it consumes the all but the biggest ideas almost immediately. Internationally. It needs them. Economy is dependent on new ideas. Creativity. New memes. Curt Cobain, bless his soul, unheard of; famous, rich and huge and then dead and barely relevent in ten years.

The ten years that if van Gogh would have stayed alive he would have started to see his paintings sell. (--It wasn't moviing that slowly back then either.)

Mass markets. If you put out a CD at the same price as Brittany Spears but with a smaller audience you are either saying that your cultural ideas--and what your audience is capable of doing with them--are worth less than hers. Or you are a fool.

Or trying to be nice.

And if you're trying to be nice and an artist, I can guarantee that you are already running out of gas. And about to become a total raving b-iotch in your own special way. That kindness and true availability is leaving your repetoire. Because you think you have to give more than those you're giving to to be loved.

And that's not only not true, but a not only an unsustainable but also an unsupportable position. Meaning that we, your audience could support you at the level at which you ask--$14.99 for each album--AND YOU WOULD STILL FAIL!

Because there are not enough of us to provide you with sufficient profit to continue the process. (--So, even if you truly don't want my book, if you're an artist, at least charge what you think you're worth. Run the numbers and give yourself a snowball's chance in hell!)

Which is not to say don't be kind, don't be a good person, don't be honest--please do--but when you enter the public sector if you don't charge for everything you put into your work, you will fail.

I have seen this happen to numerous restaurants, cafes, and other businesses. Artists are usually smart enough to know the deal so they work in an ego payment up front. That the audience has to swallow silently to get close.

This is the shitty attitude that many artists appear to have. The ego that appears to coexist with great art. The depression, the enoui, the darkness. Indie rock has gotten so nice that it's essentially all of these: depressed, a bit bitchy and egocentric--and still slowly eating away at most of its practicioners.

Why not just charge what you're worth and skip the drama? Why not just say I saw Led Zepplin rip off Son House and include Zep's inspiration in the price of admission.

I know you'd have to give up the cultural and spiritual authority that you've gotten so used to lauding over the "norms", and have to admit that you're "knowable" (or at least comprehensible), but I promise you, you won't get the love you want living on that paycheck anyway.

Just make it easy and ask for the damn money.

Hell, at least then if you fail you fail going for the endzone. Instead of a quarterback sneak that wouldn't even get you the first down.

If the mass market is going to work for all of it's participants. If this is the way we're going to create and distribute culture--and I think it's a wonderful method, by the way--then we must, absolutely, develop the price points that allow other demographics to create and communicate.

In a very real sense (and those among you who still profess solidarity with whatever blue collar workers that still exist can start calling me elitist here)--we've cut off the most important and most valuable producers in our current economy.

The mechanical reproducers of culture have it okay. Print the old stuff, be square and antiquated but make decent coin. Reprint 60s concert posters.

The craftspeople have it darn good. The commercial illustrators and designers. At least as long as folks don't mind recycled motifs. They can work their butts off--translating the creative for mass consumption--and as long as they make it homogonized enough, and keep enough of their creative frustration out of the way, they can make six figures.

The maestros have it pretty good too. Pay your significant dues in the creative field and humble yourself to the powerbrokers and gatekeepers and you can make millions. It'll be quite a chore to keep your creativity alive while dealing with the uptight suits, but hey, you can take it out on your audience a little and you'll have plenty of hookers and drugs. Plus adulation and the spiritual authority of a god.

The true doers, though. If there are any yet--those who have forsaken the mope of the counterculture AND the vapidity of the mainstream--those are the people we have cut off. Those are the ideas we insist could not find any home--at any price.

The fresh, unpasteurized, organic, non-homoginized AND unironic, whole, non-deconstructed, unfiltered, uncredentialed--these are the ideas that we have denied any rewards. They still trickle in--like they were rare (HA!), like the nature of the universe were stingy--on the backs of tainted beats and the middle of otherwise dry passages.

And their infrequency--their rarity--we then use to justify the price cap we've put in place to stifle them. There's only ever one or two good songs an album. That magazine isn't even worth the $5 they charge. I think I'll wait for that movie on DVD.

And why not? As an audience, our rabid support never led to an increase in price! Unlike oil, unlike recyclables, unlike corn, unlike ancient forests, unlike water, unlike garbage, unlike even love in our realtionships--when we wanted more and loved more, when we lived an inspired life and interacted with full faith we got better products and more choice in every other sector. We were rewarded!

But not with culture. With culture, the more we love it the more we go without. The more we support it, the less new stuff we get. Why? When we get inspired by love and buy flowers, plan a romantic date, shave and let go of our insecurity, we get more love--EVEN IF WE HAVE TO PAY MORE.

The same with cell phones, cars, shoes, everything--when we love it more we get more love. More choice, re-issues, upgrades.

But not with music. With music we love it and get re-treads. With books we love it and get references to references. Post-modernism.

We have cut off the way to get more love. The only inteaction we have with artists is our payment. We go to more and much more expensive shows but that just gets us more expensive shows--NOT BETTER ALBUMS!

Not more artists. Not a broader range of creativity. Just more and more expensive shows. Larger VIP areas with better looking women serving better beer and nachos.

Note to Western Civ: it wasn't the nachos that we went to the concert for. It wasn't even the concert. It was the music.

When we watch more football we get arena football, frisbee football :), bigger defensive backs, harder hits, more color commentary--we get a football culture. And richer, more theatrical players. More capital looking for more NFL type avenues to invest in.

But buy more CDs? More iPods and iTunes? Go to more concerts? It gives us nothing--because the price is fixed based upon the cost of the materials that USED to be required to distribute the content. Which is like saying what's important and valuable about the bible is what kind of paper it's printed on. The ink used.

So, if you really want a Dance Dance Revolution. If you want new feelings, new perspectives--new fun--in your art, in your culture. In your music, in your movies, in your magazines, in your books, in your tv.

If you really want it--pay for it! And I guarantee you will get it. My book is available for $120--and may god bless those who have bought it already. So there's no reason to mope about the state of our culture unless you haven't heard of The Love Artist.

Now I know what you're thinking. Because I already thought it--repeatedly. But movies used to be good. Music used to be great at a fixed price point. Books were wonderful!

Yes, there was a "golden era" with fixed price points. Where the entry to the market was easier (no suits and ass tight number crunchers in Hollywood), where creative freedom was there for the macho taking (now you have to be established, or hugely popular--have to earn your creative freedom)--and very importantly--the alternatives to being an artist were four times as bad!

These mostly boomers got in early, before the market was saturated and made a good name for themselves, and some great culture. But things are different. And most of today's Brandos and Scorceses say fuck it--I'll just CEO Amazon--and maybe later do what I want. They get married, a few kids, make a few more connections to their job than they thought (and many more compromises), lose the spark, and boom, they're done. Working on wireless standards rather than cultural bandwidth.

Put it this way--the earliest racers in the Tour de France were coal miners, for whom a bike ride around the country seemed like a month with their feet up on the fucking Riviera. Throw in better food, a few bottles of wine and fourteen times the [female attention]--not to mention daylight and fresh air!--and not many of them considered going back to the mines.

But would a graphic designer today do the same? With a nice desk job, a great loft overlooking the Champs-Elysee, a smoking girlfriend, and a trip to Prague coming up?

Not unless you got the serious checkbook out.

In almost every industry you can likely find a time when it was done right because that was the right thing to do. I own a 1939 Schwinn that's beat like no body's business and still works beautifully. Because it was made bullet proof--at a mass market price.

Because China wasn't yet available. Because the unions weren't that strong, that corrupt or that entitled yet. Because people didn't expect weekends, or sick leave or pensions. Because steel was cheap and consumers not used to parting with their money for anything less than a food or a long term investment. (Which it turns out, the bike was).

If you think you can re-create ANY of these golden era attributes with regard to culture, please be my guest. And please contact me, as you must have several billion with absolutely no regard for what it took to put it together.

Otherwise, please consider either buying or making goods, services and content that are EXACTLY what you want. Preferably buying AND making.

You can't outsource culture and you can't get it cheap. What we're doing right now is essentially using child labor to produce it--having bands and artists start while still in school--and what we get is a very robust youth culture. No surprise there.

If we want an adult culture, it's very simple, we just pay what it costs for adults to do the work. (Or--just be adults and charge what it takes us to make it.) Either approach will work. Both will make it go like gangbusters.

(It'll bust a lot of gangs too--as they find that their considerable creativity and balls could be put to use being adequately compensated--but that's another story).

Love.