Done.

I don't even need the $2 mil to tip it. It would be a better story if it went itself. As it's planted smack in the middle of most current economic and cultural trends, it shouldn't require any movement at all.

If the quantum really is the higher power, all it would really need is my complete faith. Which would likely have me just go on to the next thing.

And let the market come to me.

White G Designs the World--The Five Year Plan

My book is selling at least 500 copies a week. ($220,000/month)

The mass media, having nothing else to chew on, can't restrain itself. A million and a half in ads has sparked a fifty year storm feeding frenzy.

Everybody knows White Gold.

They love it! Finally a loving, honest deep culture! A place to go. Room to grow. Something to aspire to. Something that inspires! Culture without ironic brats in the way.

They hate it! What an elitist fuck! How will high school dropouts ever afford it? He thinks he's better than us. Delusional, hateful, pretentious sell-out. Combining love with money--what is he, crazy?

How dare he?!!

(Then they read it, but that's another post).

With overhead that's very conservatively $2 mil the first year. (It'll likely sell at least 1000 books a week). Not much, but certainly enough to secure what I'll need to build.

And what will I build, you ask?

First the basics.

Good men's clothing. Like big money, good mens clothing tends to fall into two camps: paunchy, golfy and skinny, mini.

The first could be found at Marios in Seattle. 50s guys who made their money. And you can't find a straight cut sweater to save your life. Pants all have pleats--even the 32s. The colors are muted and boring and everything looks like its someone uptight trying to relax. Oversized to hide the paunch, and maybe for golfing? Who knows.

The second was found at Barneys. Very heeip. Graphics on suitcoats, "distressed" (read very precisely ripped) hems, poorly knit sweaters (poorly knit on purpose of course). Intentionally ugly colors. Stuff trying to look like it came from a thrift store. Dark, morose stuff trying to help rich kids look punky. Or, more likely, trying to help gay men look like straight rich kids trying to look nonchalant.

Everything here was tight and stingy. Slim cut. For those too loose who want to look put together.

Two strikes and you're out.

The huge market, and where all the growth is is straight down the middle. Where is the love for a normal, well adjusted, happy, reasonably relaxed person? Someone who's not trying to make a statement or "relax" with his clothes?

Who is doing what he wants already? Who doesn't want to change with the times. Who knows who he is already. Who isn't going to buy into either square toe or bulb toe shoes but wants exactly what he got the last time he bought shoes--the right ones.

Cut right down the middle.

Straightforward. No baggy, floppy and no stingy, hyper cuts. Just normal stuff. No zig, no zag. --Eternal.

And beautiful, vibrant, rich, bright, warm colors; exquisite fabrics and spot-on detailing. And the basics of course.

I didn't mention in my historical post the other day that I built a very successful graphic design firm during my punk dayz. (I say punk more to communicate my dedication to a specific set of ideals, I never considered myself a "punk rocker" or "grunge" but a person doing what he wanted to and thought what was best).

I thought up, directed and executed multi-million dollar ad campaigns worldwide.

And rode my skateboard to lunch. And played pool and guitar in my filthy 10,000 SF co-op warehouse in downtown Seattle.

That was pretty good. We were paying $120/month apiece in rent and doing work for Microsoft, Hewlett-Packard, The David Letterman Show, NBC, VW, a bunch of other national and international clients and a million bands and record labels. Nirvana, Sub Pop, Atlantic, sunglass and snowboard companies.

It's fun to get a $20,000 check when your overhead is closer to $1300 a month--including food. More Faith/Void splits and deep soul 45s for me.

I also had a clothing company. T hree. It folded (poor price points and punkish clientele do not a good business plan make).

I mention it just to let y'all know that I know what I'm doing. Cause I know one of you out there is considering dropping the 2 millie even as a lark. And why not? There's nothing else the fuck going on.

I've had patterns made, overseen production and the whole nine. I was even briefly commissioned to design garments for an action sports retailer.

My own shit's gonna be right down the middle. All this extreme nonsense has messed everyone up. Communicate with cut and color. As few logos, labels and nonsense as possible. We wear it not the other way around.

Just make the damn thing and enjoy the long tail of sales. :) If it doesn't sell well enough for the White G Boutiques, just carry a few online. Or have them made to order.

No limited editions--that's all manipulation and devalues the brand long term (yes, it does). Once you get cool enough to want warmth again, you'll know that instinctually.

As long as we can make it, it's available. If you're lucky enough to see someone else in the same thing, you probably have a lot to talk about anyway.

So that's the clothes, I can do that off the side while recording the album. I imagine my wife will want to do the women's side. Have Borrelli manufacture so we don't have to ride them like a sweatshop. Jeans cut in every fabric. Casual suits with jean cut pants? Who knows. No worn or dirty stuff though, and likely very few graphics beyond logo Ts--straight cuts for straight men.

For shoes, maybe Churches--no they're not comfortable enough. It's gonna have to feel like going barefoot on a white sand beach. Some classic tan bucks. Some bluchers. (Have LL Bean do those). And Nike for the sneaks. Maybe classic re-issues with our own colorways. Sans swoosh? Though a pair of original K Swiss in white with gold stripes would be dope as well. Might as well contract them both. It's not like there are any rules. White G designs the world.

Oh--and my kingdom for a pair of decent brown oxfords. Why can't anyone cut it straight? Not too much sole, perfect round toe, probably cordovan. Re-soleable.

A pair of Jack Purcells too. In natural canvas. And maybe blue or red if you're nice.

Sportjackets I'm not sure yet. I haven't found one I can't do without. I'll try local tailors Oxxford when I have more scrilla. It'd be fun to use some US makers, but only if they're the best. I'm not going to make anything I wouldn't wear myself.

I'll do polo shirts too--no logo but you'll know just looking at it--and maybe dress shirts as well. Who knows.

Socks and undergarments for sure. Right off the bat. I feel like I'm fighting for air with my Calvins. He has a better waistband than Ralph Lauren, but even wearing the XL it's too tight. Relax people. You need blood flow up and down. Nothing bunches up your chi like a too tight belt.

Athletic shorts and sweatsuits are a slam dunk. They only make them for gang-bangers and geeks. Don't rich folks work out? Huge gap right down the middle.

Socks--so help me god this is a spiritual problem. They are all too tight. I have skinny feet and it takes me considerable effort to get the suckers on. They are all machine made, which is fine, but adjust the sucker. Make bigger ones. They're cutting off my circulation. Compensate for shrinkage in your wool ones.

Gloves and jackets--a brown leather car-ish coat. A fake fur college-style old time raccoon coat if I can find a loving enough fur source or substitute. Regular coats are surprisingly hard to find. A Gortex one that isn't turbo and zing, zang hyper. A down one without the North Face logo and a better quilting pattern (though they can make it). Better colors too. Who cares about black anymore? It was played in the 80s.

And a fleece cardigan. And a flax or linen work coat. (I've got a vintage model for that one.)

All with better colors, organic fabrics, non-toxic dyes, made by craftspeople with healthcare in developed economies, a brand that means something real and likely isn't even mentioned except for a tag pinned to the garment when you first get it. (If you're the only one without labels, everyone knows it's you, right?)

If it's shipped in plastic, which it likely won't be, it'll be the kind made out of corn. The boxes will be recycled cardboard and re-used whenever possible. And recycled thereafter. Soy ink and recycled paper are a given. As are whatever we can do to save energy.

[We won't go crazy, we're not hippies--and can't handle florescent light--but suffice it to say that we won't feel comfortable unless we're ahead of all but the lunatic fringe. About 90% pure. Low VOC paint, double-paned windows, and renewable wood flooring are a given. Minimal to no packaging will be standard and presentation will be decidedly low-key. If we did a beauty line, it would likely be re-fillable at stores (but not by the customer--the person there would take it, clean it out, refill it and wipe it down while you were hanging out--with a cup of tea and a copy of The Love Artist.)]

What else? A Lexus LS 460h with recycled leather and plastic inside. As eco groovy and beautiful as possible. And they'll buy a pre-catalytic converter car off the streets and scrap it for every one sold. Which will save multiple times the carbon that you'll create over the lifetime of the car. Now that's progress.

That should give my staff enough to start work on while a few dead men walking take meetings on the movie. (I have ideas for a series of three--more the making of The Love Artist than a re-do--possibly to be shot together. Fast and loose). I'd also be open to having other folks shoot The Love Artist from different angles.

Why tie yourself down with exclusives? Let them compete. All it takes to film a movie these days is a couple $5K cameras and some computers. They'll go straight to DVD and theaters and download and rental. However you want it. I don't manipulate or play games, just deliver, deliver, deliver.

There should be a TV show as well. I'll see if the Entourage guys have a single spiritual bone in their bodies. This I just want to produce. No acting or writing. The method should have enough legs by them that it could stand on its own. A good deal of it will be training people to take enough risks to even give it a chance to happen.

The failures should be just as interesting as the successes, because they won't be pasturized or homoginized. They'll still be real.

With all that percolating--remember, no timelines, certainly no dead-lines--I should have five to seven songs out, my corporate structure defined (lots of independent contractors and partnerships), and key allies identified. And will likely be interested in a bit of re-couping.

Also, if I don't have my house by then, I'll be highly interested in moving, getting settled, etc. But it's not like any of this will take more than 20-30 hours a week. If it does, I'm not doing it right. I'm not inspiring but controlling. Not playing but working. And I've already done that.

And we already have unlimited cultural artifacts resulting from that process. And they're all worth less than having fun and expressing who you are.

I know I want to start a magazine. That'll be dope. Stories about Krishnamurti's sex life. John the Baptist's secret history (that's that DaVinci Code stuff), reviews of books like Art and Physics, Lov-o-nomics, etc. Plus, what stars really think about getting enlightened. It's like shooting fish in a barrel--how could you not beat our current best--Vanity Fair doesn't even have stories anymore and The New Yorker doesn't even believe in photographs (what are they Muslim?).

Communicate with the image, yo. It's not unholy.

And then how could I grow. Movies with real sex that aren't dumb or art films. That would be radical. A reality series about artists working to bring the next big thing. It kind of writes itself.

By that time I'll have people submitting demos, books, movies and business proposals by the scores. And will have some very astute businessfolks executing the best.

This culture is built to grow. I maybe haven't emphasized that enough yet. From my experience with the reluctant heros of the counterculture I learned that one loud and clear--if you want to make the world a more loving place, you MUST have a clear vision of success.

My vision is cities across the world populated by increasing numbers of artists and businessfolks interested in human growth making more applying their passions than anyone in the economy working with conflicts.

The most powerful artists get the best houses and first pick of most other stuff. CEOs of Fortune 500 companies aspire to create content--get in front of the content pipeline. Grow the balls necessary to be human in public. To engage with vulnerability--take risks instead of controlling them.

Within ten years, my decidedly artistic mind estimates it should be the largest industry on the planet. Not to mention the greenest, the funnest, the sexiest and the most relaxed. Two hour lunches are mandatory. Go home and see your wife, all you have is one call today.

How could you compete favorably at love without constantly enjoying it?

[Then there are the WG un-branded cell phones, the home line and video games (start your own global art movement, pick colors, instruments, logos, artists, partners, theory, influences, etc. Then paint the pictures, take the meetings, find your muse, convince the parents, tell your friends who you really are etc.]

That Shit is Crazy

I think the Imus flap is pretty funny. In a very real sense, the mass media has nothing else to talk about. With no room to grow upward it MUST bitch about others.

The number of viewers is fixed, and the amount of time they have to consume media is limited. With fixed prices--set by either ad rates or fixed content charges--media either creates car wreck drama or dies. There's no other way to reach enough people otherwise.

Even ostensibly "good" shows like Oprah and Extreme Makeover Home Edition have to go out of their way to create victims to hold enough peoples attention to turn a profit.

Which is why I felt sorry for those poor women of the Rutgers basketball team. Not for what Imus said--he's so spiritually compromised that he even looks like the walking dead--but for what all the people closer to them who ran in to make points insisting they were victims.

I was fine until someone said (after Imus' firing); "Now the healing can begin."

Good lord help us.

The black women I have had the pleasure of knowing, and especially those who have achieved any measure of success, are pretty fucking strong. And took fewer shorts than most folks. And could easily hold their own in just about any discussion.

Where some old white codger (and god bless him, for I'm sure that if we knew his whole story, we'd have some serious compassion for him as well)--where some old white codger's poor sense of humor has any actual power over this obviously successful team of strong, straightforward women, I'll never know.

It was strange to see them sitting on stage looking downtrodden knowing that they had just achieved what must have been a highlight in many of their lives. They seemed suppressed.

As for all the people calling for Imus' firing.. Do you see them outside the offices of major label rap artists? Hell no you don't.

It's not a black and white thing: If you are for equality then you apply standards of conduct equally--without regard to race. If a white woman murders someone it's the same as if a black man does, right? This whole nonsense of Snoop saying that he's talking about low-class women in the hood and therefore his "ho, ho, hos" are better than Imus' is wack.

I'm not sure it's my place to say, but looks an awful lot like black folks have bought in to the white notion that playing the victim is their path to power. Certainly whites have been rewarding victimization through social programs for years.

I know the intentions are usually well meant, but it's awfully hard to reward something without stimulating and re-creating it. The guy at the stoplight looking for change--it he gets what he wants he'll be back the next day guaranteed.

And as the sorrier he feels for himself the more he gets, he's gonna be one sorry-assed motherfucker, guaranteed. His livelihood will rely upon his inner death--his spiritual depravity if you will.

If he does really well he'll have company. And franchisees.

Because it works. And what we pay attention to multiplies.

The same is true for heavy metal bands. Or indie rock. And hip-hop. And junk mail. And divorce. What we pay for with our attention and dollars, we get. Guaranteed.

What we don't pay for we don't get.

I haven't seen anyone link the Imus thing and the Duke case, so I'll take a crack. It's the same thing. This whole notion of a victim being holy and an oppressor being evil is so appealing that we're stuck on it like crack.

I imagine it's a white thing. I don't imagine that folks closer to physical and financial harm can afford to glorify such "woe is me"-ism. It seems to be an offspring of white self-disregard, magnified by outdated Christian notions of charity, perhaps.

Being a slightly arrogant lacrosse player isn't a sin. Nor is hiring a stripper and getting drunk. And working your way through college doesn't necessarily make you a better person than having it paid for by your folks. The world is bigger than that, my friends. Much, much bigger.

I've never seen a bigger rush to crucify than with those men--among whites especially. (Whites will give up anything but control, I think you'll find--even if it means they have to administer punishment on themselves.)

I imagine it's like the treatment blacks received from whites in the 50s and 60s--only they didn't have proper representation or as fair a legal system.

White men aren't victims, but we are fair game. I took entire classes on how fucked up we are as a specific race and gender in college. You couldn't do that to black people or women anywhere in our society. As witnessed by recent comments about "nappy-headed hos".

But all of this is nothing. no thing. Literally nothing happened in either of these cases. Nappy headed hos is a lame attempt at humor for a white guy. But it's spiritually no different than the Kelsey Grammer produced "Girlfriends" tv show that called one of its actors a "nappy-headed heifer" the other day. They routinely refer to each other as heifer on the show, by the way.

And our public conversation has gotten so guarded and afraid that we pay black people to say it on tv and fire white guys for mentioning it once on the radio.

That shit is crazy.

Less Tail, Better Face

I like to take on the newest econ gurus. The latest Blink / Tipping Point / WOW / Good To Great / Tom Peters / Peter Drucker darling is a guy who wrote about "The Long Tail".

While students of dream symbolism might recognize this idea as ass from the get-go, I gave him the benefit of the doubt long enough to read the dust cover and a few inside pages in an overstuffed chair at Borders.

"If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument." [Emerson]

As I still need to crack the publicity code, and could tip this puppy with downright minute amounts of cash (one and a half, two mil.), I went over to his website and extended his considerable tail for free (as his book suggests) with a comment showing my face. His original post suggested musicians give away their music and sell shows. (Lord help us all.)

Here's my response. I changed a few things, but it's 98.6% authentic. I thought it'd be fun to see how I'd do on a Larry King-like setting:

__________


Ouch.

I can only guess that there aren't any musicians around.

Give away the music to promote a show?

That's a horrible idea.

My issue with long tail stuff is that it's essentially a way to make money off of existent, aging goods and doesn't address how to create more (and more beautiful) faces. In this way it's anti-creativity and pro-business.

In a condition of true abundance, the solution is pro-creativity and pro-business. First, because it's not a zero-sum equation and second, because creativity is what's driving our current growth. Assuming we enjoy it, and the prosperity it brings, why on earth wouldn't we reward it?

It's our fear of money--premium priced content specifically--that stifles the real, honest, mature, and warm artifacts we crave in our mass culture. Why make them when it alienates the 18-34 year olds who pay your rent?

Would we be better off if Starbucks gave away coffee to sell cream and sugar?

If you like burnt 7-11 coffee in Styrofoam cups perhaps.

Having artists make money off of secondary pursuits puts culture at a distinct competitive disadvantage. Somewhat like breaking a finger for each song a pianist writes.

Better TVs, better movie theaters, better popcorn, more elaborate stage shows, bigger tour buses, more concert T-shirt designs to choose from and more infantile, more boring, more "extreme" songs, movies and tv shows is the result of lowering content prices. (Or allowing inflation to lower them relative to other goods and services). This we can clearly understand from our own experience.

Today's prices dictate tomorrow's quality. Even with millions of artists subsidizing their own production--and billions in government and non-profit subsidies--we haven't seen an increase in quality in most mediums since the late 70s. Call it cultural socialism—and it doesn’t work.

(Where we have seen advances they have usually come at the expense of production values and with the additional cost of more extreme and divisive content. It’s also worth noting that we lose our best artists at an incredible rate. To call it burnout would be to trivialize it, but it's an interesting question to ask why such a notoriously happy-go-lucky and lackadaisical bunch tends toward self-destruct upon entering the economy--ostensibly on their own terms.)

There are thoughts that take ten years to think. And there are unlimited numbers of songs, books, tv shows and movies that take longer to create than our current economy allows. Love, kindness, clarity and most other sophisticated attributes are simply beyond the scope of our current lowest common denominator.

Making artists sell shows to make music is like making scientists sell pies to do research. They may or may not enjoy baking, but it's wasteful, inefficient and humiliating enough to discourage the best and brightest.

It goes without saying that any industry or institution that treated its best minds that way would not be long for this world.

If we want a culture--values--as rich and mature as our material goods, we have to pay going rates. If we want an educated, relaxed, mature, loving, deep, fun and enlightened culture, it will cost significantly more than a depressed, violent, escapist, shallow, hateful, confused one. It's no different than hiring a nanny.

Being influenced by money is distinct from being dependent upon it. Culture does not rely on reward--folks are going to sing regardless--but it certainly is influenced by it. In fact, as culture is influenced by everything, how could the cornerstone of modern life--the economy--not have an enormous impact on it?

Personally, I don’ t trust artists who never talk about money. It’s right up there with sex and god as who, what and how we are.

Where the market has been allowed to work, choice and quality has exploded. We have hundreds of premium jeans to choose from. $50,000 mattress sets, $120 vodkas, $10 million dollar space tourism explorations. People pay $200,000 for four minutes of weightlessness.

And no premium popular culture.

We have more and more sophisticated, caring and well-rounded individuals and an increasingly stunted culture. How could the solution not be systematic?

Fixed pricing for content can't hold out long. It's getting hit from every side. If nothing else, once digital delivery does to network television, movie studios and publishing houses what it’s presently doing to the music industry, premium pricing will become so appealing that sub-standard artists will use it just to stand out. Happens in every other industry.

Put more interestingly, the richest people have the least time and energy for the 85 me-singing-in-the-bathroom Youtube videos it takes to find four minutes of fun. And this knowledge will become increasingly valuable until--bling, bling--someone decides to execute.

We pay Nordstrom, Saks and Barneys (and Wal-Mart and Target and the Gap) to assemble clothes we might like at certain price points, we'll pay to assemble content the same way.

It’s not a sin--though it is taboo. Which just means more money for whoever has the cahones to bring it to market.

Yes, the .$99 song market is saturated--as is the $14.95 book, and $34.99 DVD market. But it's a mistake to think that the future--either culturally or economically--is downmarket at a time when consumers are so demanding that even Wal-mart is trying to rebrand itself upmarket. Why pay for more garbage when increasingly it’s free?

Interestingly, the first example of this premium mass culture is already available. It's a book called The Love Artist. A paperback selling for $120.

How do I know?

I wrote it.


_________


That's my response. If I'm wrong, write a comment. If I'm right, buy my book and beat the entire world (but me) to the next trillion dollar economy. Do something.

No Thing Else To Do

The reason I'm starting a mature mass culture is not because I dislike the culture we have, quite the opposite.

WHen I was a kid I jonesed for Neil Young like it was crack. Every day I'd go home and put on "Everyone Knows the is Nowhere". Usually followed by Quadrophenia and if I was lucky (meaning if my neighbor had let me borrow his picture disk), Metallica's Creeping Death.

I was so relieved to have someone who knew that this WAS nowhere, because it really was at the time.

There were very few kids who skateboarded. Everything shut down at 5pm. There wasn't anything downtown. And even when an album like The Ramones first one came out, you were lucky if you could even find it new.

Finding it used, which I could barely afford, required constant searching in the record stores along the University District's Ave.

If it was a hip-hop song, forget about it. One kid I knew had The Message. I have no idea where he got it. Schooly D, The Fila Fresh Crew, or Luke? Forget about it. You could hear it at a party if you partied with the right people (who likely had it on a mix tape--meaning they were or had dated one of the two DJs at school), but otherwise you were SOL, my friend.

Remember the time before the internet? Before computers. Before cell phones, CD players, and magazines?

I was lucky in Seattle, at least I knew the one place you could find a Thrasher skateboard magazine if they hadn't already sold out of the latest issue (in which case you probably bought an old one and read it anyway). When I moved to Chicago I couldn't find it anywhere.

Which led to a lot of lengthy searches.

And even waiting a month to find out if Danny Way had done another McTwist seemed like cruel and unusual punishment.

Cause no one had ever done anything even remotely like that before.

And just the simple act skateboarding could easily incur the wrath of otherwise god-fearing citizens.

But it was worth it. Who ever thought that you could do an activity that was a) fun, b) creative, c) had it's own music, and d) had its own style.

And the magazine that did come out was so much more delicious because of that hunger. Because there was nothing else. Because it was a Teenage Wasteland. And it was only teenage wasteland. (It was likely adult wasteland too, but that was their own fault--more on that later).

And when Devo hit--whoo-whee. How could it get any better? The excitement was palpable. From nothing to everything.

I spent my days drawing designs for the bottom of boards. I thought Ray "Bones" Rodriguez was the coolest, even though I had never seen him skate. (Twenty years later he showed up at a party at my house--how's that for making your own reality?)

In a sense, getting my first pop culture was like copping my first feel. Since my life had been, up to that point, almost exclusively defined by what it had lacked, when that thing showed up, it was like a flash flood, a snowstorm, hail, a drought, going broke and hitting the lottery all at once.

It was like everything.

And for a long time I just sat around wondering why we did all this other nonsense?

Why go to school? Why do sports? Why even wear clothes or move around? Why didn't we just do THAT!!??

All day every day.

Spoken like a true addict.

(And I was pretty clear about this at the time. I loved coffee so much when I was in college because I thought it was the drug you could be addicted to forever without getting messed up--ha!)

But I was a good boy and so I went to school, went and did sports, and reserved my fun for the weekends, which usually meant eating, a twelve pack, trying to get some and, if failing, running the streets with similarly positioned friends, going for hamburgers, sneaking into places and/or jumping off of bridges, boats and buildings into various bodies of water (called "jumping", as in "Hey, let's go jumping).

But that only lasted through college. After that I was burnt. I wanted to chuck it all and live. So while my then Republican girlfriend hit the career center, I plotted how to drop out.

Move to San Francisco and skateboard was #1, but I didn't have the guts. So I moved to Burlington, VT and worked menial jobs while living in a very artistically minded group house. And wore the wackest clothes I could find.

(Which was hard back then--as they weren't even making any yet. Usually it was ill-fitting thrift store chef's pants combined with some kind of paisley dress shirt mistake, either Cons or Patrick Ewing high-tops, and a thirty pound Swedish motorcycle cop leather jacket I had talked off a friend from NYC at school. [Warning: it did not look as glamorous as it may sound.]

And had scraggily long blonde hair. (Again, more Jenna Elfman than Fabio.)

It was all good fun until a roomate started dealing drugs out of the house. Oh, and another roommate invited a young woman I had called to ask out to come live with us--what a first date: her moving in.

And so the experiment in communal living ended. And I got the hell out like I had the chicken pox.

Returning to Seattle, what would later become the grunge thing was in full swing. I knew a bunch of the people from high school, and it was hands down the best thing going, so I signed up, lock, stock and barrel.

I was actually already following it all from school--and having friends secure availables like the first Mudhoney record on a trip to NYC, and through snagging mix-tapes on visits back home.

From there is was only a matter of throwing out the tie-dies and Dead tapes for a few "Ride the Fucking Six-Pack" Green River Ts with the bottom cut off--grunge was glam you'll remember until it split into the Mudhoney vs. Pearl Jam, underground vs. mainstream thing. (A split which was eventually overcome by Nirvana.)

After a brief stint as a waiter (and getting fired for having two earrings, long hair and wearing Doc Martens), I relocated to grunge ground zero: a Single's-like four plex just off Broadway that had not only housed hordes of musicians but also the man many called the Seattle Scene's mayor.

And took a job as a bike messenger.

Boy that sucked.

But the parties were good. And the drugs relatively plentiful. Rent was cheap and there was often free food, BBQs, and when people started getting bigger, lots of everything backstage at shows for free. All you had to do was get there. (Which usually involved walking).

But the tolls were getting louder.

I had lost a few friends to drugs and alcohol in college but now it got amplified. This wasn't something that was being entertained to blow off steam on the weekends, but a way of life. If I drank twice a week in high school, by college it was three or four times.

During the rock years I don't even remember, not because I was blacked out but just because it wasn't anything distinct. The question wasn't if you wanted to it was did you have the $1.89 for a forty, another $2.10 for smokes and was anyone around?

And then everything blew up.

I thought Nirvana on Saturday Night Live was success. I thought Elliott Smith on the Grammies and gold records and the whole world coming to visit was us winning. (Plus, the foreign and out-of-town journalists were always good for drinks and meals--none of the actual stars wanted to see them so us hangers (on and out) were only too happy to oblige.)

Sure I thought that Ralph Lauren's line of flannels, and Sears' Doc Marten knock-offs were dumb, but more because you could get the real thing easily enough, not because I didn't think everyone shouldn't dress like that.

I was in it TO have everyone dress like that. I thought that's what winning was.

And I definitely wanted to win.

I had wanted to win since I was a pimple-faced high school kid.

I wasn't a punk rocker in high school, I was one of the popular kids. Voted class muncher and biggest preppy (a new fashion on the West Coast--similar to being "GQ" but more relaxed).

But I was short. And had horrible skin. And was skinny. And obnoxious. So I fell on the "aspirational" side of popular. It's not that I was ever not invited to a party, I was probably invited to most of them (or was throwing them, or securing the kegs and taps through some money-making schemula), it's more that I never quite felt like I was whatever I felt I should be.

And I'm not sure this isn't omnipresent among the "popular" classes. I hung out with basically East Coast landed gentry in college and they sure looked like they had it together, but I can't say I ever felt any of the sense of entitlement rub off.

I could SEE it everywhere. But scratch here or there and I'm not sure any of us weren't just running.

Which is why I ran back to punk rock in Seattle.

And there I tried my got-damnest to fit in as well--as hard as it was to shake the feeling that I wasn't "true". That I wasn't really down for the count. That I wasn't just slumming. (When I bought my chain wallet--probably in 1990 or so, I promised myself I would wear it forever.)

Plus I wasn't really feeling the women.

And that I took as my greatest failing as a human. I wasn't down, I wasn't real because I liked things, none the least my women, clean, beautiful, kind, relaxing--soft.

Which meant I was soft.

This was, of course, a blasphemy for which I had to pay. Surely I would paint no great paintings (which is what I ostensibly did back then) until I was hard, until I was one with the people.

And the people, of course, were unafraid of dirt, of life's callouses, of really living.

So I washed less. All my clothes were already thrift store (a movement pioneered in my life by my parents) but now even fit made you suspect.

I cut my own hair, lived in a condemned building, and drove a car that I had traded a six-pack for (that the guy I got it from was dating my ex didn't seem to phase me).

And then it started spitting me out.

None of the women I was trying hard to like because I should (even though I wasn't attracted to them) were working. (In fact one even wondered if I was gay after too many nights of me sleeping over and not doing enough. Hell--soon enough I was wondering if I was gay--after second guessing my natural inclinations for so long).

And the ones I was attracted to wouldn't sit still long enough for me to even get a fix. Too much drama.

And I didn't leave quickly. And I didn't leave willingly. I left kicking and screaming.

I had voluntarily left the "norms". They were all square, didn't know what was going on.

But at least then I had a place to go. It was easy--and felt natural--to leave because I was just following what I wanted. Even if what I wanted was to question what I wanted. And to question what others wanted.

To question everything.

But leaving that process of questioning, leaving my efforts to be "more sensitive" (interesting that that is what I was inwardly concentrating on while trying to protect myself with steel toed boots, be tough with nipple rings, and whatever else I was doing)--that was more like getting spit out.

Neutral Milk Hotel and Leonard Cohen were all I had. It's not like leaving Lawrence Welk for the first Pavement 10".

It's like leaving Pavement for nothing. No thing.

And of course, once I was alone with no thing, I was with myself.

And eventually I learned to just do the damn work. And eventually I passed the 50% mark, before which doing the right thing doesn't even seem to work very well. (After 50% the feelings build and multiply--using each other for reference).

This time in my life was a virtual hibernation. I lived in a tiny apartment across from a school, right by the corner of Summit and Union (fitting) and just thought (and felt).

I had already written The Love Artist and was working to promote it. And I had left my last roommate situation with the intent of getting a job while my book blew up.

I applied for just about everything. Bus driver. Waiter. I even tried to go back to old graphic design clients and start something up.

No dice.

What I got was $38,000 in debt.

It didn't help (my finances, that is, my soul it essentially saved) --it didn't help that I wad figured out half the equation. That I had to lock myself to my desires material, emotional and spiritual. And do it quickly.

For a while I thought I could spend my way to salvation. That was fun. I bought a Rolex. I remember my thinking quite clearly: "If I am in control of my own destiny and I make my own reality, then I just have to show this world that I've got the balls to be a rich artist."

That the jeweler dropper their no-return policy when the date-just wasn't working I consider complete proof of divine power on this planet. The universe, god, love--whatever--wanted me to both go through the experience of dropping $8 grand on a watch when I had only $8200 in the bank AND it wanted me to have $8200 in the bank so I wouldn't starve.

Plus, I didn't have the guts to wear it anyway. And my mom had given me the money. Bless her heart.

But that's what I was prepared to do.

And not to just have a watch. I don't even really use one (I do want a platinum Daytona, though--that's what it was).

I bought it because that's how firmly I believe in the sanctity of a world where people 1) make the absolute best they can make doing what they want 2) buy the absolute best they can buy with no regard to fear and 3) follow their deepest desires to discern both what they want to make and what they want to consume.

That's on my life. To this day I believe the exact same thing. I might not think that I can make this world by myself--no that's not true, I can make this world by myself. I am making this world by myself. I have made this world by myself.

And will be as richly rewarded for financially as I have been already emotionally.

What I didn't realize at the time--and why I didn't get to keep the watch--was that I had more to learn. That I was still afraid to wear it in front of my friends and family. That I still relinquished to them the setting of taboos for me--at least in part.

Hell, I had a hard enough time wearing my cashmere Donna Karan sportcoat. And that was black--the hipster color par excellence. I would never wear a black sportcoat now.

I also got guff for wearing pink. Still do, but I see it as a badge of honor now.

True pink (as opposed to ironic or hipster pink) is as unacceptable today as those damn chef's pants were back then. I can say that being an adult is as punk as beink a punk was back then--that being completely responsible for who I'm with, what I'm doing, what I want and how I live is just as powerful and just as forbidden as being completely irresponsible was back then--but it's not an intellectual exercise so it doesn't really matter.

Just like writing college papers about punk rock's influence on blah, blah, blah doesn't matter.

What matters is to do it.

I had a dream the other day that helped me understand my relationship to money, and why it has taken what feels to me like an eternity to solve it to my liking. (And how it is that I can go from utter and complete poverty, debt and lack of stability to being rich beyond even my [significant] dreams).

In this dream Martha Stewart was running a day care. There were kids running everywhere. Playing in the back yard, wilding out--just nuts.

And she was calm, cool and collected.

She was organized.

And ready.

You don't learn organization--real organization--in an organized setting. The Container Store is for organizational posers.

Dabblers. And as well it should be. Who wants to devote that much of their life to labeling clear plastic buckets and rearranging drawers? I firmly believe in the specialization of labor. And capitalism.

Which means let those who want to the most--who will pay the most to be allowed to do it--do it. Do you want to re-shingle your own roof?

I though not.

Where you learn real organization is in the absolute depths of chaos.

Where even the chaos is chaotic. Where even chaos theory appears patterned when you try to apply it--just so nothing will work or stick together.

Just so you can't get a leg up, a foothold, a grasp of what's happening.

Just so you can't take a single breath.

And if you survive that, you, my friend, will know the value of organization instincutually--it will be fused into the very core of your being.

You will radiate order. Bring order to dirt roads, unmarked graves and abandoned garbage dumps with a glance.

To really know the intersection of money and love, I have lived there forever. I have experienced most, if not all permutations. It's been easy, it's been brutal. I've had it given to me, I've had it snatched from my hands.

It's been magic, it's defied the laws of physics and common sense.

And this doesn't make me an expert. Or perfect. But it does make a good story.

And I can tell you, with every fiber in my being, that my book, sold for $120, from now until whenever I raise the price, will do more for the advancement of American literature specifically and global culture generally than any other single book ever written.

Not because I wrote it, I didn't even want to write it. I didn't want to stop bitching. I didn't want to stop believing that the audience was ignorant, deluded, and ruining the world just by living.

I didn't even want to stop believing that I was ignorant, deluded and ruining the world just by living my life as a privileged white man.

I just didn't have anything else to do.

Don't ever tell me that there's no market for $120 books.

People are spending $200,000 for a seven minute space trip. And there are at least two folks lined up to go around the moon on a Russian spaceship for $100 mil each.

And, like any tourism, they'll come back and feel exactly the same about their life after a short while.

Going farther out physically doesn't change anything. The world's best roller coaster isn't an adventure--because you don't even have to stand up to ride it.

No, the only frontiers left are internal. And they've been ignored so long you can't even glance in their direction without a pang of terror.

And White Gold owns the beach.

_______

And Apple raises the price for songs on iTunes? Do I smell a crack in the flat pricing structure? --It's for (of all things) audio quality!

And there are hundreds of thousands of young people combing the dying industrial towns for geezers with one undiscovered beat in his record collection that he's about to throw out. (Or at least they were ten years ago, my nostalgia may be stale).

In my youth, they'd go so far as to befriend these guys and work away at them slowly--knowing they had a garage full of vinyl that hadn't been picked over.

And now they raise the price for audio fidelity?

The 45s that we found, by the way--back in the day--were scratched and beat to hell. And we cranked 'em at the club, boy! Which just made our authenticity starved dance floor even more pumped. The worse they sounded, the more excited people got.

And we got a lot of people laid in an uptight ass town.

In fact it worked so well that people actually putting record scratches, crackles and pops in on purpose now.

And use purposefully outdated equipment to make things sound rough, rugged and raw!

--Yeah Bwoy!

My point isn't that pricing for different fidelities is shortsighted--quite the contrary--it's that the market has shown it will take just about anything if the damn beat is fresh!

Cause they're starving for music, not production techniques!

In fact, production techniques and editing are what many of them are dying to escape.

Why do you think they're wearing worn out jeans and mess theirr hairrr up on purpose.

Charge more for better music you idiots! Audio fidelity, better producer, better songs, better musicianship, better cinamatography, better feel, more love, smarter hate--charge for everything!

Otherwise, you're just another social realist. (And if you don't know what social realism is, check in to the cultural history of the Soviet Union. They went from some of the most interesting and progressive art in the world in the 1920s to the worst possible state sponsored political art in the 30s. Most of our popular art isn't state sponsored, but with a fixed price, it is market socialized.)

If it can't make money, you get dabblers or trust fund folks making it, not the best and brightest you'd want involved in a culture.

Put it this way: the baby is worth more than money could ever be, BUT, in this world, concretely and FOR SURE, if the baby can't find, get, or be given love, milk or it's mother no matter how it cries, sits still, laughs, crawls or fights--no matter what it does--the absolute best it can be is fucked up..

And that's if it even survives.

Turn this leaky faucet into what the Colorado looked like before we dammed it. When it routinely ripped rock from the canyon walls and changed the face of the land so completely that it now draws 5 million visitors a year.

Each of whom has paid significantly more than .99 (or even $14.95) to get there and look at it, be hot and live in the presence of glory for an hour or two.

That's the power we're sitting on as both artists--creators--and consumers.

And we're so afraid it'll kill us we won't even consider living.

It's a shame (it may even be shame itself).

Our economy could both harness and nurture that power.

It may even be enough untapped energy to solve both global warming and much of the world's chronic poverty.

But don't do it for that. Do it for yourself.

Because you want to live. Not just survive.

Do it because you want to.

White G Space

People lined up for 7 minute space flights at $200,000 a pop.

And trips around the moon on Russian spacecraft at $100 Million a pop.

Don't ever tell me there isn't a market for a $120 book. For a couple thousand titles.

And $140 CDs, $160 DVDs, $600 magazines.

And unlike a space shot, these deliver.

Can Ya Feel Me Now?

We have premium drinking water, premium gas, premium chips, software, jeans, socks, and even premium air now!

But still no premium art. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that the only sector of the economy that has failed to become more differentiated in the last 60 years is the creation of the values, ideas and inspiration that drives this whole motherfucker!

Art, my brothers and sisters.

Today's emo/goth hybrids aren't much more than dressed up 50s Beats. Or more hyper 60s hippies. Or very mental 70s punks. Read normal Mailer's "White Negro"--it's much more applicable today than it was when he wrote it. God bless the counterculture, but I go on results--and growth--not what's cool or seems right.

I'm a product of the lifestyle wars and I demand a life.

The Beat/Punk/Hippie ideal that everyone is or should be involved in the creation of a culture is outdated. That's like saying everyone should grind their own wheat. Even those who have no interest in doing so.

I understand that we are creative beings and will be doing what we want. But the reality is that person A, B or C is wearing square toed shoes with little or no understanding as to what they mean. They just liked them, or saw someone else wearing them and thought they were cool.

Nor should they. I have no interest in knowing every aspect about real estate law, I want to pay someone to do that for me. And our specialized market allows that. Thank god. We are infinitely more valuable and happier doing what appeals to us.

What we want.

And we have infinitely more free time.

But the thing about differentiation is that you have to let the market value quality.

Let me put it this way:

If you were dating a woman of Halle Barry's caliber you'd likely be happy about it.

And if she was interested in you, even if she wasn't your type, you'd probably take a second date anyway.

But imagine if this woman wouldn't step foot in your house. Even after you cleaned and got rid of all the nasty porn.

She'd become less appealing.

But you'd probably still be interested.

Now imagine she'd only meet you at one restaurant. And you had to order the same meal before she let you kiss her.

Ehh..

Now what if she only let you hit it on Thursdays--and then only if you had called on Sunday afternoon between 3 and 6 and on Tuesday after 4 but before 5:30.

On her cell phone but from your home number.

And may god bless all the beautiful women in the world--but if you have one half of one ball, you'd be out the door.

Or you're a pussy. And if you are she'd end up dumping your ass anyway. And after being played like you were it's gonna leave a mark like a mother.

Now apply that to the mass culture industry. A movie theater doesn't make much showing movies in theaters, but it's great publicity, and since they have no other way to make their product valuable besides stimulating demand by limiting availability, you have to see it in a theater or wait months, no matter how much you are willing to pay.

The same with books. You must buy the hardcover or wait maybe even a year--again, no matter how much you are willing to pay.

Both of these ploys are manipulative. And make the audience pussies. And we put up with them to the extent that we do because we have nothing else. There is no other delivery system. No other culture machine. No other source of inspiration and fuel.

This is so arbitrary--and such an incredible brake on the creation of such a delicate product--that it's lucky we even have the culture we do.

(And noting that it's the strongest in the world--while operating at maybe 15% efficiency, with both hands tied behind it's back--you can perhaps catch a glimpse of a) what is possible, and b) how unbelievably lucrative this industry will be.)

But also, we're a bit addicted to being manipulated. We like the attention. We're lonely.

And being messed with isn't being alone. Getting spam sucks, but at least it's not an empty mailbox.

And this attention is something we expect to be given--we demand--along with a purchase. --Be our friend.

Which is fine, the merchants and manufacturers just factor a good ass-kissing in and mark up the crap. (Or take the real thing and offshore the love out of it.)

But at least we don't have to make ourselves vulnerable by buying a product first and at least we still look and feel like we took a chance. (Phew.) It's called marketing. And fashion.

And everyone's happy.

But what happens to a society that matures spiritually. That no longer gets off on being dicked around? That no longer wants to pay for ads to be put between itself and the editorial?

That no longer fears being alone.

And instead values its own time and attention enough to pay what it takes to get the straight dope--what it wants--so it doesn't have to bitch about it ever. (Which makes what we have look a whole lot like a set up just so we can bitch, btw.)

(You do know that our culture is just a bitch-fest, right? Why would Billie Joe even talk about GW if he had the answer? Wouldn't he just hit us with the ken?)

To pay what it costs to get less actual talk and more actual rock--instead of better DJs promising "Less ta-alllk and moore Roo-ckk!"?

But even if someone went and got the answer, how could they re-renter the market--bring it to you--without getting put off by the hand-job getting folks to check it requires?

How could they even re-enter this manipulative market without becoming sullied, getting confused, turning the love they were able to find on sabbatical to shit and becoming just another company that people can bitch about.

The problem is not the people, or the ideas, or the intentions, it's the structure of the market. All it can deliver is pimps and hos.

That's all that pays.

The answer is a new market--a "White Gold" market.

(And boy I wish I could copyright that--if you ever think that I'm in it for the money, remember that long after I'm dead and cold, my most valuable work--figuring this shit out--was available free the entire time --to any single person with access to a computer--or within shouting distance of my house. And that I paid ten years to introduce it to the aforementioned market before I ever saw a dime.)

What's a White Gold market? It's paying for people as smart, as caring, as educated and in tune as you to create and deliver the goods--or, if you want to grow--pay for people more smart, more caring, more educated and more real to do it.

The short answer is it's buying what you want. All of what you want.

With the guts and faith of The Godfather. All in. Every time. Every day. With every dollar. In every way.

--Bringing your highest values to market. And taking full responsibility for the economy--the world--you produce with your labor and consume with your bounty.

______

Speaking of growth. I've been thinking about the city and growth.

A city is essentially a petri dish. It's hell-bent on growth.

But there's no way to grow past Donald Trump. Or Bill Gates.

So our best and brightest--even if they start out to be the next Coletrane--end up the next upper-mid level manager.

Which is not bad. A couple mil a year. No gut. Beautiful family very well taken care of.

See if you can get the kids into a good enough Montessori school so that maybe they can fix it. Without spoiling them of course.

But the problem is systematic. So even if they start off to be the next Stella McCartney, they'll end up running a magazine about it. Lots of work

Peep this: even Jay-Z, one of our generation's most important artists--took a desk job. He's back, but what's up with that? What's up with the real money--and the real lives--being with the squares?

Doesn't he have anywhere to go? Isn't he enjoying making songs, his clothing line, and Beyonce?

Are the prisoners really so much the guards now that we willingly put on the cheap tie and take lunch with the snake? The weasel?

The answer will come in the city. From the market. From growth.

It will come from White Gold, but I can't tell you that because you're so tired of being manipulated that even though it's the truth, you literally can't hear it.

(What--the market demands it's heros be unambitious, backhanded and coy? It hates clearly stated intentions and those with command control? I can't believe it. --Did you see Curt Cobain's notebooks--he planned the whole thing. He just couldn't tell any of us in Seattle what was in his heart. Or admit what he really wanted to himself. Not hard to believe he was split down the middle. As good an artist as he was, imagine what he would have been capable of had he rid himself of these chains.)

You devalue the truth when someone brings it to you. As well you should. But--if you hear it and it resonates and you refuse it again--if you insist that there is no higher truth than what you are living unhappily--then you ensure that your children will search the world, at great risk. That they'll investigate drugs, Satanism, casual sex, doing it just for the money and everything else you discarded.

I can promise you this: they won't take meaninglessness for an answer as easily as you have. It's not the kids in the ghetto I worry about. At least they know what the fuck they want. At least they know their options.

It's the kids in the suburbs that are at real risk. The kids from money. Whose family has everything but happiness. And some huge percentage of college kids are on anti-depressants. Hell, it's estimated that half (50%) of Fortune 500 CEOs are depressed.

Those are the folks that are really lost. Cause they have it all. And no reasons. Or a million reasons--and no love left. Have no implied or suggested solution. And may god bless them.

And the answer will be so swift and easy--such a dam have we built. When we allow true growth to occur. (And it does so naturally, I assure you, just get out of the way.) Not channeled or contained growth like lucky bamboo--not mediated growth--or manipulated growth like the latest worn out, acid wash jeans (you do know those faux vintage jeans are acid wash, right?).

What we want is what we want. And it's never moved an inch. Not in a million years.

We can deny it all we want. Play games and be coy. Ignore it. Cry on Sundays and hate the wife for telling us we really should stick with the job until the braces and college is done.

But what we want won't move.

And as we grow--up and toward the truth--if we don't embrace it, we will have to carve an increasingly bigger hole out and re-fashion our blinders more and more often to ignore it.

Not because it hates us. Not because the truth is hard and scary and weird.

But because that's just what we want.

And putting the screws on must deliver greater neurosis.

or else the world wouldn't be love.

And the world is so much love.


Feel it? (I want to do an ad taking off the Verizon commercial saying "Can 'ya feel me now? ...Can Ya fel me now?")


That's all.

Not a bigger, better cum shot. Or longer, more intricate action sequence.

Just feelin it.

Cause nothing else is real.

[Oh, and by the way, the only way to grow past Bill and Donald--and Martha, Warren, Oprah and Ted--all of whom speak to EITHER premium OR mass markets--is to, yes, you've heard it before--communicate with BOTH essentially and simultaneously--to make, buy, and sell premium mass goods.

This is what the New Agers call moving from an either/or mindset (which is based upon a 100 years outdated mechanical understanding of physics and fears about scarcity) to an and/and mindset, which acknowledges the certainties of quantum physics and the undeniable knowledge that we have not only survived but have grown and thrived through every single challenge we feared.

However you want to slice it, the answer is a premium mass market. Which we currently enjoy for all products, goods and services except cultural content. (Non-fiction is on it's own--though it could very well benefit from the same strategy).

A global quantum culture. A sustainable, warm, economy. Consuming with as much faith and joy as we create. (For some this may be creating with as much faith and joy as they consume.)

And ignoring your fears about Mammon to maintain contact with how rich you already are.

And communicating that fact with numerous like-minded folks through the miracle of our modern marketplace.

Which will make you even more rich.

Spiritually, materially, emotionally, mentally, existentially.

Essentially.

How could it not?]