If I Feel Like It—Rational Proof that the Universe Is Perfect

What about this:

Every calculation science has ever made pointed to one thing.

That the universe must be contracting.

Then Hubble discovered it was expanding.

And not only expanding but expanding at an ever increasing rate.

How do you like them apples.

So literally everything we think we know is as wrong as the day is long.

But do we admit it? Re-evaluate our methods and assumptions?

No, we don't.

What Hubble discovered was that the universe is primarily--and most powerfully--a rapidly growing consciousness. Scientists call it dark energy or imaginary energy--because they could neither see, smell, measure or capture this thing.

This thing that was moving every iota of energy and every ounce of matter in a manner completely contrary to the laws of science.

This whatever that violated the laws of thermodynamics, E=mcsquared, the laws of the conservation of matter and energy, the laws of gravity--you know, the laws of science.

And this is radical enough to say again. There is something in this universe that science knows nothing about that is more essential AND more powerful than all the energy and matter combined.

Which means that there are blades of grass that hold more concrete knowledge and power than all the colleges, universities and institutions combined.

For those who know how to access it.

This was after 100 years of thinking that the universe was primarily a closed system with energy as it's main component.

Remember Einstein? He told us that even matter was really energy.

So now we're being told that even energy is really imagination. Or consciousness.

Or magic. Or voodoo. Something.

And--most importantly--we're being told that this consciousness is growing and expanding no matter what we do!!

Let's back up for one moment.

When everyone was running around hitting each other on the head with sticks (a couple thousand years ago, not when you were 12)--back then, we assumed that sticks were more real than emotions, or energy or thought. Getting hit controlled the emotion, not the other way around.

More tangible equals more real, right? Stick and rock--or Hummer if you like--more tangible and more real--more powerful--than contentment and safety.

Quantum physics changed all that. And those with great sticks sat up and took notice when the creative geeks exploded a bomb that went boom bigge than anything anyone could have previously imagined.

And it's no mistake that that discovery came first in a relatively free country. Consciousness, like any learning, thrives in free circumstances and wilts rapidly under sticks and rock--even cultural ones (maybe especially cultural ones).

So, where as the masters of crafts had ruled the material age, masters of energy came to rule the quantum age. Wizards like Tesla, Edison and Oppenheimer.

But it was precisely these wizard's quantum measurements--their spells--that told us the universe should be contracting.

Just like quantum physics' cultural counterpart--posst-modernism--tells us that everything has been done. And that there are no messages, just mediums.

A bit arrogant, but hey, it looks cool.

Then came Hubble.

Ka-blewie!

And blew that shit to kingdom come.

Only this realization hasn't gone anywhere in the ten years it's been around.

Neither science nor popular culture has become more optimistic.

Or even really expanded?

If the nature of the universe was growth--and our calculations' accuracy had nothing to do with the rate of growth, then why weren't we getting inevitable happier? Richer?

Better?

Why?

In the material age, nothing could save your ass. You worked until you die and if you had crossed every t and dotted every i maybe--maybe--there'd be a spot in Heaven for you.

If that is, you worshipped the right god.

In the quantum age, our gurus told us it was our intention. That if we thought the right things and acted with a relatively pure heart, we had a shot to--get this--enjoy ourselves right here on earth.

The path was narrow (as a razor's edge to be exact), but with all the energetic assistance one could muster it was thought possible to become enlightened right here on earth. Or retire at least.

After paying copious dues of course.

And if--big if--you chose the right guru, corporation and college.

Otherwise you were duped, and had traded all your worldly possessions for a cheap beaded necklace (that's what the Bagwan Rashneesh's followers did before he fled the country being pursued by federal agents--in a plane I believe).

Or a lame IRA invested in the wrong mutual fund. (They do invest IRA in mutual funds, don't they? I've never had one--or even a real income while I've figured this shit out.)

Somehow, somewhere, we promised ourselves, this equation equaled out to unconditional love, but no one really knew the math.

Actually, it had equaled unconditional love for a couple thousand years. It just got revoked for your own good--or something--if you murdered, thought impure thoughts, were mean, or had the wrong intention.

Or didn't know the answer to some half-drunk Zen master's koan. (Ikkyu's the only zen cat I believe--mostly because he wrote poems about getting his dick sucked and closing up the abbey and blowing off his paperwork so he could go hang out with the fishermen.)

So it was unconditional--but no fun. However that made sense.

More work and eventually really more fun, but not more fun now.

And it was always now and never eventually.

But Hubble seems to have crushed all this with one fell observation.

Look at it this way.

Each time we've had a paradigm shift, we've come to understand the universe's true power as less tangible and easier to manipulate.

We've also come to understand it as more enjoyable, with more leisure time and with better relationships and intimacy.

The quantum age gurus will tell you that it's relatively easy to be happy--or have anything you want. But they'll still make your ass adhere to a system.

--Usually theirs.

Management gurus are no different.

Prosperity--profits--are easier, but you still must toe the easier line. (You can end that with boy--or bitch--if you like.)

Which means they're all still dealing with a conditional universe. Conditional gods. Conditional relationships and impermanent and inefficient solutions.

Which, just like Einstein's quantum understandings, will eventually be proven wrong.

Why?

Because the universe is unconditional. It's a consciousness--or something--that's expanding in every direction and in every way despite what we do, feel or think--good or bad.

And the rate at which it's expanding is increasing as well.

In a very real sense, every religion and guru has always told us that we were powerful--that the nature of the universe was completely decentralized--but the means by which they sought to bring that condition about fell short.

Because their plans were implemented with the mistaken understanding that it wasn't already true.

If someone tells you you're powerful and you believe it because of them, then the best you can get is a better heirarchy.

To really be powerful, you must believe yourself--despite what everyone else says.

No guru can set you free. And no book can show you the right way to live.

If we are powerful--if the nature of the universe is decentralized and omnipotent--then we are ALREADY so.

And anyone who addresses us as if we need something will likely only confuse the very consciousness that serves our energetic and material growth.

Which means that every school, every test, every mentor and therapist, every training session--every bit of doubt--helps us only in that we are forced to confront and dismiss greater temporary outside sources to gain greater access to our permanent inner certainty.

Which seems like a whole lot of work to me.

But makes complete sense if you realize that even our most efficient systems are estimated to be running at around 15% efficiency.

But..

Most importantly..

This means that we don't need ANYTHING to be saved, enlightened, rich, beautiful, or anything else.

Both the material and the quantum ages were based on an assumption that the world was limited. A closed set for you math folks out there.

The rules of energy conservation means that nothing can be gained or lost ever.

And that entropy rules.

But this is obviously false if the universe if growing in every way.

Look at it this way. If the universe is primarily consciousness, then the LAST way in which it's growing is the one that Hubble discovered--the physical, dimensional way.

The first way in which it's growing is in consciousness. (The second probably energetically).

And a consciousness growing in every way, at an increasingly rapid rate—that started out complete and in control itself--must be a beautiful thing indeed.

God is literally getting bigger and more powerful.

And more decentralized.

But I still haven't gotten to the best part of this.

If the universe is primarily consciousness, interested in growing, and all matter and energy is literally a byproduct of this process, then there literally is no pain.

And there is no hurt.

There is no loss, or damage, or death.

These are all illusions--again, just like the best gurus told us at their best times.

Illusions we've freely chosen to explore in order to learn and grow even more powerful.

Which means that once we've learned, we're free to discard them.

Or anything else we so desire.

And, again, this isn't some airy-fairy stuff. This is what our top scientists have discovered through methodical research.

This is the cutting edge not of metaphysics, but of reason. (As if Hubble's discovery didn't also prove that reason was just another branch of loosy-goosy metaphysics).

All of which means, that our natural state is prosperity, love, health, wholeness, happiness, joy, contentment, relaxation, calm, purposefulness--and every other superlative we can think of.

And becoming more so every moment.

ONLY.

Only growing.

We are literally already perfect and getting more so.

Period.

Nothing else.

Not only do we never shrink, but the rate at which we grow is constantly growing.

Just like the universe.

But here's the kicker--as we are part of this consciousness, we can choose to ally ourselves with our true nature or fight against it.

None of which will slow us down, of course.

All the conflict and friction in the world serves no purpose but to speed our growth and understanding.

And the only way to speed it is to realize our true nature as imaginative, free, powerful, loving beings.

--To ally ourselves with the unified nature of the uni-verse.

We don't call it the dispar-verse.

We call it the uni-verse.

Because it's all one.

Which means that we don't need to wait for politicians, or the end of global warming--or to stop kicking the dog when we want to get through the damn door--before we're perfectly, perfectly happy.

But may mean that by being perfectly happy we'll naturally and easily solve every other problem we have.

On the way to doing what we want and being who we feel like.

Put it this way.

What's the solution to a traffic jam caused by a car crash?

To ban car crashes?

To set up curtains around them and have extra lanes everywhere? (Portable curtains or screens are my idea, by the way--send me royalties and you can have a multi-million dollar business.)

To work longer hours at driver education?

No--the solution is not to do more but to do less..

Global warming doesn't require concerts and reports and campaigns and fund-raising t-shirts. In fact, those may just speed the problem.

Our biggest problems are now ones that must be approached through easier means.

By doing less--which incidentally, is exactly what we want.

And we've gotten so turned around that we can't allow ourselves to do what we want.

Because now every damn concert is for a good cause.

And we just want to stay home.

The West's greatest challenge.

To stay home and chill.

How could we possibly be more valuable doing less?

Simple..

You just don't look at the car crash.

Or any so-called problem, lack or issue.

You don't need to address is, fix it or study it.

Just ignore it.

Keep doing what you do.

Maintain an unbroken line of faith.

There isn't even anything to be learned.

What's to be learned?

The only thing you could learn from a car crash is to pay more attention to your driving.

And you'll only learn that by looking at it and running into the car ahead of you.

So why not just do what you wanted to in the first place.

And continue on to where you originally set off to?

You're not going to stop and start a relationship with the crashees are you?

You're not going to see if the cops need help are you?

So why?

Why look?

Is your life really so barren that some blood and pain and wrenched metal would make it better?

Because if you believe it so, then you've already eliminated your own ability to make it so.

And you are already imagining more car crashes would teach you that you really don't need them.

Fine if you like work and errands, I'll be at home with my feet up.

Or doing whatever else I feel like.

I've done ten years of research--rational, emotional and physical--and ignoring it is the only thing that makes sense.

Given that we live in an unconditional world.

And already are everything we're ever going to be.

Everything we want is coming for us already.

Unavoidably--inexplicabaly.

Because it's what we want.

We don't need to pray, do the math, figure it out or get a better education.

Unless, of course, that's what we want.

We don't need to do anything.

It's coming for us.

Being delivered.

And the rate at which it's coming is increasing every day.

Constantly.

No matter what we do, think, believe, feel or imagine.

So what would you do if even greater prosperity, love, enjoyment and better sex was coming for you?

If your life had been getting better every day and would continue to do so?

NO matter what you did!

Would you stay home?

Blow some cash?

Jack off?

Would you get more porn?

Take more walks?

Eat out more?

Rent a few movies you'd been ashamed to rent?

Tell the truth to your boss?

Or do nothing?

And remember, you don't have to do anything.

There is literally no pressure.

Just desire.

Would you wait for your dreams to show up on your doorstep?

Or did you want to feel what it's like to actually write a song?

Pitch a screenplay?

Did you want to be an artist in practice and not just theory?

Would you knock out a few pieces of low hanging fruit while you waited?

Or stand firm until exactly what you wanted showed up?

The big stuff.

The mansion, the supermodel and the world-wide adulation?

The permanent intimate contentment and eubulient well-being?

Would you even bother to spell check?

Because it's coming faster than you can imagine.

Oh, you've been waiting forever, you say.

It must be waiting that's part of the problem!

Not at all.

Check it out.

The material age lasted approximately 700,000 years.

It was all of human history before Einstein.

It took us that long to master matter and get to learning about energy--or in human terms--mastering basic health and nutrition and getting to emotion.

And emotion--or energy--took us a hundred years to master.

Not a bad rate of increase.

Which means, that conservatively, we can project that mastering our imagination will take, what, ten years?

One year?

A month?

So wait or whatever--the MOST important part is to do WHATEVER you think, feel, guess or imagine important whenever--at the moment or yesterday.

You do not need to be present, clear or informed.

That's the most important thing you can do or be.

What you feel like.

In the previous ages, we were conditioned to believe that we were flawed--and that our ideosynchrasies were proof.

Therefore, if we're waiters, or hyper, or slow, or concerned, or neurotic, or lazy--or whatever--that's where we were most wrong. --Where we deviated from the norm.

But, if we're all perfect for what we're here to be and do.

For what we're already bo-ing.

Then if we do it slowly, or tiredly, or with a lisp--or whatever--then that's how we're supposed to boing it.

Unless of course, we don't feel like it.

In which case it's already on it's way out anyway.

And, in fact, cannot be maintained as we, and the universe, grow naturally.

I know it's hard to believe.

Writing it I'm shaking my head in disbelief as well.

But this is where I got rationally. By giving up on what I wanted to believe and applying what I could find to be truest in the outside world.

Believe me, I've gone kicking and screaming.

All I wanted was my design business, to DJ a couple nights a week, a banging wife, some action a couple times a week and a plate of pasta primavera.

If there was anything I had given up on it was saving the world.

And to chuck my findings now, after going through every step of the very concrete math fourteen times, would be insanity itself.

Science has disproven itself. Our assumptions on which we've built every institution, society, culture and corporation are wrong.

Not wrong as in bad, just entirely inefficient.

And we're more than welcome to keep at it.

If we feel like working harder for diminishing returns.

But why not just skate to easy street?

That's what I'm doing.

This is what every religion, prophet, guru and child has taught us at their best.

That nothing is required.

That the world is absolutely unconditional.

So what if it's taken us 700,000 years of car crashes to figure it out.

What else would 700,000 years of car crashes--and war, rape, torture, genocide and famine--be worth?

And to get to this point, I've lived a highly conditional life.

I've eaten a highly restricted diet, spent over 1500 hours at the gym in the last 5 years.

None of which I "wanted to do" by any stretch of any imagination.

I stopped drinking and smoking, drinking caffeine and eating almost all sugar--including from fruit.

I've walked certain ways and worn certain clothes--etc., etc. Dated certain people, not dated certain people.

And I can almost guarantee that I won't be smoshing a piece of blackberry pie with ice cream tonight.

Which is what I'd likely do if I believed the world unconditional in every manner and sense always and permanently.

And maybe it's exactly that belief--holding on to itself in the quantum realm--that makes itself true.

So maybe I'll have to go get that pie.

But either way it shouldn't slow anything down ultimately (though if it slows me down temporally, I might pass next time--which is why I don't eat it in the first place).

It's an interesting prospect--total freedom.

And our imaginations being in closest harmony with what's really going on in the universe.

And preceding everything else--both emotional and physical..

Both energetic and material.

It's obvious from a corporate standpoint that our imagination precedes every product--or even every deadly boring report--and every single dollar of value added.

And it's getting more and more obvious from a personal standpoint that our mind precedes our emotions and health..

(If you've ever suffered from depression, you may know that they go straight to work on your ideas--The Feeling Good Handbook, which is a minor miracle, simply has one write out reasonably how things are. With the negative imagination thus disabled, feeling better is immediate and often lasting..)

And this was one of the places I originally started.

I was depressed and doing these exercises at the behest of my shrink.

And didn't see rationally why going from -4 to -1 or zero on the emotional scale should be any different than going from zero to +24.

And staying there.

If movement was possible, that is.

If our imagination was in charge, then let it be so.

And if "doing the work" when I felt broken made me a bit better, though not fixed, then why not just start from better and work to get ecstatic?

And as soon as I figured this out, I realized I didn't really need to do the exercises.

Because I had cracked the code.

And just learned to let the thoughts that were crashing me to -4 in the first place go like the car crashes they were.

Instead of paying attention to them and starting a feedback loop.

--An inefficient traffic jam that served--at best--only to teach me not to look at car crashes.

It was less work, but initially more of a challenge.

I had put a lot of emphasis on focusing on what I didn't want. What the world wasn't. What I wasn't.

And to ignore all that I needed some new cud to chew.

To admit my desires and get into--way into--what I wanted.

And leaving all my critiques of society, myself and others behind felt like just what it was--death.

And getting into what I wanted made me feel like just what it made me--a baby.

A beginner.

An amateur.

Powerless.

Vulnerable.

With book, directions, and exercises involved in avoiding the negative it had been easy.

Now I set off on my own, pathless and alone.

I tried to become an expert of myself, but that was short-lived.

Maybe taking responsibility is what we're avoiding with our gurus and consultants and self-help?

Maybe it's control itself we're up against.

Only we can't control it, we've got to love and support it into relaxation.

From there, it became clear that it wasn't the work that was working but that getting rid of clutter allowed a natural bounty to be enjoyed with greater clarity and duration.

And from there it became clear that my baseline mood--or state--whatever, was as pleasurable as I allowed it to be.

Kind of a radical thought.

So right now I have the same thought that I would imagine an ever growing universal consciousness has almost permanently:

What's not possible?

And the answer MUST be: nothing.

To which I follow, with my very human concern:

What do I need to do?

And the answer must be:

NOthing.

Who must I be?

What must I change?

Who must I tell?

Nothing.

Nothing.

No one.

Unless, of course, I feel like it.

Content as Loss Leader

I had a dream last night where I described content as a loss leader.

Which is pretty darn accurate.

A loss leader to sell T-shirts, happy meals and concert tickets.

And popcorn and soda, of course.

You know what a loss leader is, right? When they price something at below cost in the hopes that it'll get people in the store and they'll then buy something else, on which a profit will be made.

But at least those products were MADE and developed with profits in mind.

Which means they'll likely continue to achieve their goal.

Our artists all work with near-certain failure in mind.

In fact, we've glorified losing money in art so well that we now see not making money as a badge of honor.

That you should lose money in direct proportion to your integrity!

As if impotence resulted from great fucking.

Or nausea from great cooking.

As if our highest values and others highest values were ALL, somehow, inexplicity and permanently dissonant!

Gee—I can't imagine how we get a combative, loveless culture from that? I can't imagine why we don't have more friends with that kind of core value.

As if we all hated each other and everything we have to say. Especially if we're smart, talented and/or have guts.

Yeah, we really hate those people. We definitely don't revere them in history books or popular culture or talk about them in locker rooms.

Fucking pussies.

And forget the money, that's a pretty cold-assed, starvation method to build the culture in which we, the richest people in the history of the world, force ourselves to live.

I can't imagine why Muslim radicals don't believe in our way of life.

And if you think that our majestic artistes are somehow above feeding themselves, paying the rent, or otherwise earthly, material concerns, then you definitely ain't one.

I forget where it's from, but the best quote about artists was that they talk about everything BUT paint. Everything but brushes and guitars and amp settings—everything but art.

i.e. Getting laid and money.

(And if you think that the NEA or some nouveau riche millionaire is going to make something for your hungry ass—when's the last time you went to a new opera? Or watched Annie Sprinkle's greatest hits video? —Didn't think so, pussy. But you stopped listening to Modest Mouse a couple years back didn't you? Except that one song where they got happy by accident—what's it called, oh yeah, Float On.)

The other interesting think I thunk was about the trade deficit and social security.

Allowing the market to value content would put developed nations back on equal footing with nations like China trade-wise. What we have to offer right now is creativity and freedom—applied imagination.

And as long as we restrict the growth and profits of a free culture's imagination, we'll have not only slavery, genocide, war and environmental tragedy but also a trade deficit.

BECAUSE IT PAYS!

And we're no longer willing to do it just for money.

Ain't that a bitch. We invented it, promoted it, exported it and advertised it and we don't even get to live off the royalties.

Cause we don't want to work in the mines anymore (and I've never done it but I'm not sure writing code is any different—or getting old any less fast).

A premium culture is also much less likely to be pirated as well—as its audience wants the real thing.

On the flip side: once a truly free culture pays what it's actually worth, a fucked up and repressive culture like China couldn't even get out of bed in the morning, profit-wise. Let the fake drug-making punks over there (you know they sell poor folks in smaller countries fake malaria pills, right? And you know it's the poorest and most vulnerable in those countries who's kids usually end up taking them, right?) —let them know what money there is to be made once they decide to clear up their hearts. Why not let them know? Let everyone in China know just what price they're paying by allowing their corrupt leaders to play daddy.

Let every two-bit corny military suit-wearing dictator and banana boat initially elected socialist takeover wannabe know exactly what they give up to wear their Che t-shirt. (There are still Maoist rebels in India, by the way. They killed 24 cops just the other day. And, by the way, who gets the royalties for all that Che swag?)

(Sounds like a bunch of religions doesn't it—where only the leaders know what's in the best interests of the laity?)

The point is that authoritarianism, in any form—in every form—costs money and retards growth. And as long as we prevent the proper valuation and growth of what freedom allows—that is imagination and creativity—then we will continue to fuel it.

Make the west twice as rich and the work one fourteenth as easy and it'll make the cold war seem slow compared to how quick folks in fundamental religions and interested in big daddy politics snap to it about the relative joys of freedom.

Put some pressure on 'em.

Make em feel it.

Are you still afraid of the market mechanism? After everything it's done for your family? Do you still think it might be best—or even quickest—if freedom was implemented with American authority?

You can't spread freedom with conrtrol.

And if we're smart, that's what we're learning right now.

Freedom is ONLY, ONLY, ONLY spread through inspiration.

And ain't no better way to let inspiration run wild than to make easy money; enjoy a robust, mature, relaxing culture; and enjoy access to the most beautiful women in the world.

Nothing quite cuts through the bureaucracy like that now does it?

Fight folks to accept what they—what everyone—can see is a stunted culture and largely ineffectual and uncompetitive spirituality—and they'll fight forever.

Have we ever won a guerrilla war?

Shit we learned that in college.

So why do we think we can win a guerrilla cultural war?

Oh ye crusaders?

Why not just stay your ass home, get four hundred times as rich and let 'em come a knocking?

Is that a sin?

Not to change someone?

Not to prostheletise?

Not to advertise and push and expand?

Is that a sin?

Maintaining restrictive prices on content allows corruption, torture and manipulation in all it's various guises to stick around financially.

Think that one over.

Even here in Chicago, it could be argued, the patronage and all the family bullshit puts us at a distinct competitive disadvantage culture-wise. As some corrupt-assed cops can still break you down and get away with it, you can be the greatest artist in the world but if you're still afraid of arbitrary discrimination it's going to show up in your work.

Any and all fear shows up at work. All PCness, all ten commandments, all new age intentions and right-mindedness.

And ain't nothing free but freedom.

Ain't nothing unconditional but a complete lack of conditions.

And it's time to make true love—unconditional love—pay.

Instead of repeatedly punishing and punishing what we consider "bad", why not just reward what we consider good so well that being bad is as boring and poverty inducing as it really is?

Properly valuing freedom is a much more efficient means to bring about financial, cultural, personal and even environmental growth than properly punishing "wrong".

And we'll never do that until we get way into WHAT WE WANT! Which for white people—oh, I forgot, you're sensitive—which for those of us in the productive classes of developed western nations, means GIVING UP CONTROL!

The one thing we are loathe to do.

We'll work overtime, start non-profits, make money or give it away. Even go to therapy and blame ourselves.

Anything but give up control.

Anything but stop being in charge of both the problems and solutions.

Anything but do what we want.

What if doing what we wanted was the only way to save the world?

Would you consider it then?

For social security: if ten percent of our population became forty times more productive, I can't imagine that the boomer's medical bills would be that big of a deal.

Everyone's looking at how to shrink spending into what we can afford.

Why not just grow earnings?

Hello?

Oh, and confidential to Shiek _________: I know you may have some moral questions about my oh-so western methods. You're afraid. That's okay. Because I also know you're in touch with what you want. You want money. So let's get down!

You ain't never been afraid of making money before. Here's your chance to be involved in a Prada/Time Warner/Martha Stewart Omniliving at the ground floor. We'll need financing for years, enjoy the highest margins available, and the access alone should double your net worth. If it doesn't then you're not doing your job.

You have desires to set you free from fear and bondage. All our desires are intended to do just that. The only way fear and bondage remain is when we crush our own desires.

Oh Me of Little Faith

In my rush to produce a better motorcycle in my life, as bitched about in a pervious post, I recently sold one of the 3 guitars that ever made me sound better--my own personal yardstick of which to keep.

Today, I got an email from the guy who got it--he hates it and wants to return it.

Ha!!

Oh, and I got an offer for a bit of a windfall that would otherwise cover the bike I was thinking of then.

The more I learn, the more it seems to be a question of how much I can consume--how much I can belive and take.

That the feeling or state of wealth truly does proceed the actual material condition.

And when I feel I have to produce--sell something, make something happen, blow my wad (and it is sexual--that's maybe the more important component than cash)--that's when I find I've sold myself short.

Bigger questions immediately arise--will I possibly get the now $15+ grand that I want for the new, new bike? (As pictured to the right). Can results deliver as fast as desires grow?

I've been looking for an apartment with the same results--getting tired of everything I can even remotely currently afford. (And that's with generous augmentation).

But I'm undaunted.

It either is or it ain't.

I can't go back.

The places I can afford look like the shoeboxes I holed up in while editing/releasing The Love Artist.

I belive that was under 400 square feet.

Lord, here's the deal.

If you give me even the room to make the down payment, I'm off to the races. Can I count on you for the rest?

How high can I shoot? Do I go for what I "could do with" or what I want, want?

How perfect is perfect?

[Ed Note/Reality Check: he never returned it.}

White Gold Business Plan—Executive Summary

Intention: To capture the global market for premium culture—by creating and licensing unique content in the film, music, publishing, periodical, clothing and consumer goods industries.

Current Market: Fixed pricing for mass cultural content gives us childish content producers. frustrates mature, sophisticated and wealthy consumers, and arbitrarily limits growth in co-branded consumer goods.

Clientele: The market is increasing comprised of creatives, editors, and wealthy sophisticates. White Gold will offer unique, branded content unavailable at current price points and license industry leading manufacturers to offer the same.

Strategy: Improving the model of the most successful artists, White Gold will demonstrate cultural value with the release of premium literature and music, which will then be leveraged with premium film, television and magazine offerings and maximized with licensed premium consumer goods.

Cornerstone: White Gold’s first offering is a book currently available entitled The Love Artist. Priced at $120, The Love Artist is a book that American culture must reckon with to move on, but also offers what no recent novel has: a way out for both artists and connoisseurs.

Walking the Line: The sole occupation of White Gold is to create premium creative content and license it's use to top manufacturers and distributors. Specifically, those who have demonstrated superior manufacturing capabilities, an advanced design sense, and enlightened cultural and social values. The market—and especially ROI—is moving premium by every measure, it is our intention to create a new model for personal, financial, cultural, environmental, spiritual and social success.

Focus: As the launch of White Gold will literally ignite a powderkeg of consumer desire, our focus will be relaxed, intentional, spontaneous brand management. Premium mass culture is the most—and perhaps the last—underserved and lucrative market on the planet. Once ignited, White Gold will likely enjoy eponymic recognition similar to Xerox, Band-Aid, Chapstick, Styrofoam, and Q-Tips.

A Permanent Edge: Creating the sector will give White Gold a distinct head start, especially as others rely on our products to compete. However, it is important to note, that this is no ordinary business proposition, but rather a turning point in the understanding of economic growth and human culture.

Put simply: anyone who tries to position premium culture as exclusive is fighting a losing battle. Material goods skew exclusive, cultural goods skew inclusive. Our pricing is merely a reflection of what it costs, in real terms, to achieve the conditions necessary to ensure a clear voice.

Assets: White Gold currently owns the exclusive rights to the first and only existent expressions of premium culture. If punk, country, rock and hip-hop are diverse sub-genres, then premium is the single, unified sur-genre. White Gold also owns significant brand bandwidth and internet domain real estate.


White Gold is currently seeking allies with at least $2 million to launch what will be the globe’s most lucrative and efficient business.

It is estimated that an ad campaign of $10 million, with personnel and overhead of $6 million, would be sufficient to capture this market worldwide. As this undertaking is likely to be noteworthy, if not controversial, a significant portion of the publicity should be free.

White Gold is literally delivering content for the massive and essentially empty pipeline to mediate.

We’re giving both consumers and industry what it wants.

Please contact White Gold Owner and Chief Executive Artist Eben Carlson at 773 655-6100 or visit our web site at www.whiteg.com for more details.

Eben has founded and grown numerous businesses including a design house producing creative for international brands like NBC, Safilo, and Warner Brothers. A founding member of liberation capitalists T hree and micro non-profit The Puny League, he was also in the pit when grunge broke. With photos to prove it.

Eben is an accomplished multi-disciplinary artist with a degree in Intellectual History/The History of Change and Studio Art from Hamilton College. White Gold is the result of ten uninterrupted years of economic, artistic and cultural research.

Eben was chosen as a Future Watch Cultural Visionary by Yes Magazine along with Ram Dass in 1996.

He currently resides in Chicago.

Be White and Die

I had a bit of a realization after last night's post.

It's not the money y'all are most afraid of.

It's not even premium art, higher prices or even the appearance of arrogance.

It's being white.

I've been so white for so long, and so enjoyably, that I completely forgot that even the name of my undertaking is heresy.

"Racist".

Inappropriate. (Maybe white folks most loaded term.)

Or, as they say it now, cause they don't even call you the thing itself..

Wouldn't some people see that as racist?

It's not even fear but the fear of fear.

Whoo--

We're some ab-stract motherfuckers. That's for sure.

I was just as surprised when the first guy I asked for money ($7 mil for 1/3 the company—and you'll never see those terms again) couldn't get past it.

Before I even said what it was—and this was a guy who knew me and had seen how I roll for years—he asked what the name was.

I replied White Gold and it was all downhill from there.

He wasn't white, he insisted.

White people don't even exist! (Which may be true, but for different reasons than he insisted, I'd suggest).

There is not ethnic or racial catagory called white people was his reasoning.

Oh yes there motherfucking is, was mine.

And it's one of the—if not the—most entrenched, certain and exactly enforced realities on this planet.

Just ask anyone who's not.

They'll tell you.

As long as you don't seem too white.

Ask Tiger Woods if white people exist.

Well, he claims he's not black, so maybe he wouldn't be the best.

But I'd still be he believes in white people.

Playing on the PGA tour?

If he wouldn't say it in public, I'll bet he would in the gym.

And if he wouldn't...

No, his dad is black.

He may be able to insist that he's not black—and may even be right..

That has nothing to do with me.

But I'll be he wouldn't deny that white people exist.

Barack either.

In fact, ask anyone you like.

Except white people, of course.

One of the great strengths of white people is insisting that they don't exist.

(Which, unfortunately, makes them somewhat like the Klan in that respect).

It's something of an extension of Protestant pre-destination:

If we rich, then god must have wanted it so.

Or—since we're in charge, we get to call everyone else what we want, African-American, Pakistani, European, rich, poor, needy, worthless, important, whatever..

Yet we defy classification altogether.

Smashing, Bif, would you like another Compari?!

And that might even be the most accurate definition of white people:

Those who, by their own insistance, defy classification.

(Does that mean Tiger is getting closer?)

Now these days, being white certainly doesn't mean you're a certain skin color, even I'll admit that.

But that doesn't mean the term or designation is any less powerful.

There are plenty of folks insisting they're not black actors, or Arab comics, or Asian painters, or even female bankers..

All striving to get into that arena of non-classification that white men created and then excluded just about everyone from.

And that's their right.

And why deny them?

Everyone should get a chance to be white for a while.

For as long as they can handle it.

But if you're already white..

And whiteness IS an aspirational thing..

Maybe the most aspirational thing..

All sorts of Italians, Germans, Jews, French, and even Irish have worked their asses off becoming white.

And lots more folks are doing the same now: Indians, Chinese, blacks, etc..

And there's nothing wrong with it..

It's just that there's no there there.

There's no magic portal that opens when you get accepted to the Harvard Club (or is Princeton more white?).

In fact, what most folks on their way to being white—and this includes a whole lot of white people themselves—don't know, is that these men created the designation precisely because they DIDN'T feel special.

Not because they did and wanted to protect it.

Put it this way: nothing happens when you make your first four hundred mill.

When you get asked to sit on the board of GM.

When you finally get into the country club.

Nothing happens.

Except that you realize that you've given up a whole lot of yourself in the search for acceptance by some mysterious other.

Some group or judge you've never met.

And why does nothing happen?

Because whiteness is completely defined by otherness.

It's just people who have completely dissociated.

To the point that they don't even believe themselves.

(How they then get an intricate set of rules pertaining to even using salad forks—with no authority in sight—is anyone's guess.)

And both of the two last statements bring us to perhaps the clearest fact about white folks:

They will snap on your ass!

Guaranteed.

When push comes to shove and most likely just when you need it most.

Because what it's really about is control.

I was born in control.

It was etched in my frontal lobe.

And most other lobes as well.

Self-control, management, other control, discernment, and a whole bunch of other controls that I didn't even recognize.

And for ages, I tried what most other self-respecting white young people do:

I tried to become even more other.

I tried to be down with black people.

I associated with the poor, artists, minorities, women—anyone who was more other than me.

There the truth must lie, I was sure.

With other folks.

Folks who aren't in control.

If being white, male and in control was so wrong..

As my history books described and even my mother, father, and sisters knew..

Then being female, black and out of control—or feeling it—or punk, ashamed, guilty, remorseful, angry, whatever, must be right.

Ah, to be other!

How relaxing and authentic it must be!

How real!

I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that that didn't work either.

And then, one day..

I got far enough in to see.

It wasn't that I needed to be other..

But rather that I wanted to do what I felt other folks were doing.

Which was being them motherfucking selves.

WHAT?

BE A MOTHERFUCKING WHITE MAN WITH MONEY??!!

Are you fucking crazy?

Be a well-educated, soo-fist-icated, tight lipped, white-ass bitch?

And do it proudly?

Happily?!

Are you stupid?

And if that sounds like at least a challenge, coming from where I did—which was a solidly progressive white background, then you are right.

And if that sounds like career suicide coming from anywhere, then you may be partially right—but only very short term.

Cause life is long, and the tides of change swift.

And there's literally no where else to go.

Who would have thought in 1957, with the whole world laughing at the four fey, ostracized, unpopular Beats, that their way would soon rule the world.

And we'd be paying $900 for a pair of jeans that had been taken from their original new state—and destructed according to what was seen as an authentic Beat manner.

And that we'd laugh at the people wearing $90, less Beat jeans as posers, pretenders and fakes?

When all they had was each other and some sorry-assed San Francisco real estate—fucking pussies—and what everyone else had was the entire economy, and the rest of the real estate in the western hemisphere?

Go ahead and drop out you losers!

It just means more room at Harvard, in the management training program, in the crisp new suburb with everything I ever wanted for me.

But they flipped the script.

Just like Luther, Robert Johnson, the punks, our founding fathers, and a whole bunch of others.

And the value, and the money, and the love and the women and the work and the rewards and just about everything else went one way:

With the fucking truth!

It didn't matter how big anyone's bank account was, how many titles motherfuckers had, or how solid the aristocracy thought the army's allegiance was.

Nothing mattered but the truth.

And still who alligns themselves with the truth?

Who?

Who doesn't kiss ass at work.

Or defer to the jackass in traffic?

Who doesn't go along to get along?

And hope to high heaven that someone, somewhere is watching him be "good", or paying more attention to what's in his heart than what he does and will reward and love him some day.

Despite how he feels about himself and what he continues to do on a daily basis.

If there is one certainty that I can find in today's landscape, it's that us white folks have made ourselves white.

And we're either that or nothing.

We're not going back.

And we can't go black.

Sure, go visit the homeland—but you don't live there. You don't know the dances or like the traditions enough to stay.

So—what's left to do?

Be your freaky-ass, uptight and all-right white self.

And get into it, baby.

There is no other route to the self discovery that so many seek today.

Yoga won't do it, Chi Gong won't do it, not Tai Chi, Kabbalah, or anything else—no matter how foreign, fancy or high fallutin.

How could a foreign movie—with subtitles—tell us more about ourselves than one of our own?

Even if it wasn't what we wanted to hear.

Maybe that's it—our own shit isn't telling us anything we want to hear.

It's time to pay some dues and what's happening in France, or Istanbul, or Fiji suddenly looks mighty appealing.

Hmmm.

And it's not that they have no value. Foreign stuff may inspire, inform, or even help..

But ultimately what are you going to do besides be your white-ass self?

Where can a guru point but ultimately back at yourself?

What can any god say but YOU ARE?

And so why not just skip em?

And go straight to it?

And then go guruing, or to the movies or wherever you were going to go anyway..


AS Y-O-U-R S-E-L-F !!!!!

How are you going to get to just be without just being white—or male, or tall or 143 pounds, or blue-eyed or born in Des Moines —or whatever you are the fuck right now first?

You gonna skip that part?

Try to be cute?

Get an exemption?

You going to try to sneak in with a levatating Indian guru?

Or take enough classes with a Yanni'd goddess worshipper that you might receive an exemption?

Are yo going to feed enough other people that you won't have to admit your own copious hungers?

You gonna read more Krishnamurti?

Get more New Age?

Fix the political system?

Reduce your carbon footprint?

Just what conditions are necessary for you to be yourself?

—Do you have to read White Gold? :)

And even if any of that WERE helpful—how can you doing something—anything—that you are completely in charge of—make you anything but exactly more of who you already are?

And if you're a white man..

Or even a white woman..

How you gonna get past that?

Without saying it?

Without being it?

Without accepting it.

Ever?

You've got to go through it—at some point.

And the sooner the better as far as I'm concerned—though there's no rush.

Unless you want to be yourself while yo go about all this other stuff.

And what this involves is exactly why the name White Gold works so perfectly well..

What this involves is giving up the control and being in charge to which we white folks have always held fast.

We make the money then control how we give it away to poor folks.

We didn't just make less in the first place, or relax from the start so that others would have a fighting chance.

No, we competed ruthlessly and then make everyone else compete to receive a handout.

They compete in pity of course, but we try to make them avoid that as well.

Anything but give up control.

Anything but give up labeling ourselves as rich and others as poor.

Even though we haven't been able to use those terms for a long time.

The career path is well-worn now:

Make stupid retirement money guiltily doing something arbitrary and then redeem yourself by opening a non-profit.

Which includes telling others that they should no longer refer to themselves as poor—because they're now economically challenged, or differently abled, or otherly gifted or whatever new spin we put on fucked.

Or whatever.

Anything but give up control.

The truth is you can't get into White Gold without getting past white.

And paying to do so.

If manual gold miners had to get down in the mire and muck—the shit—to reach tangible gold..

Then emotional and creative miners have to get past their greatest fears to get their gold.

And for white folks—the richest market on the planet..

The richest market in the history of the planet..

One currently starving for culture of any sort—real, imagined, corny or great..

Our motherfucking fears are:

In order:

Fucking.

Money.

Being white.

Feeling it.

And probably some form of reaping what we've sown.

Call it payback.

After a couple thousand years of crusades, colonialism, atomic bombs, mideast interventions, determined economic competition, slavery, witheld votes, etc.

And that doesn't even scratch the emotional and energetic dalliances.

The icy looks, the disappointed glances, the withheld recognition, the false enthusiasm.

And the crazy thing is that no one else even seems to care.

It's us that's keeping score.

Holding ourselves to it.

Prodding ourselves guiltily on.

Other folks, I imagine, get mad as hell when it drops on their shit..

Who wouldn't.

But the nature of the universe is one of instant letting go.

And life itself—the loving and relaxed present—eternally re-asserts itself over the past.

As long as you've yourself let it go.

But first you've got to admit it.

Get real.

Or—maybe all that is still karma and the fear of retribution..

After all, we've achieved glorious greatness as well.

We've built power plants around the world, installed trains, roads, clean water.

Designed and given away entire social and economic systems, manufacturing processes and educational curriculi.

We figured out a good portion of the world's infectious diseases.

No, we haven't solved all of them yet, but hey, we get to do what we want as well.

That's how it works.

So maybe the forgiveness, the letting go has already happened.

Is dependent on nothing.

And we can sink into it any time we want?

Or was always permanently available?

I still don't see how we'll get to where or who we want to be without being who we are..

But I don't imagine the universe holds it against us.

Like we do.

Anyway..

The gold is in the white.

Just like the gold used to be in the shit.

And I'm not saying that the white is any less fearsome than the shit once was.

It's just where the considerable gold is.

And realize this:

The term shit is now bandied about routinely and casually.

Just 40 years after it was even allowed to be uttered publicly.

Same with fuck and cock and pussy.

And there was a huge, huge, huge amount of money to be made in the mining of those "inappropriate" fears.

And an enormous amount of fun that had never even crossed "decent" folk's minds.

Along with a gang of movies, music, books, magazines and conversations that were better than anything Leave it to Beaver had ever even dreamed of.

And it all became real almost overnight.

So,

Assuming that things are speeding up..

And knowing that the internet moves culture faster than the carrier pigeons of the Woodstock age..

We can expect the remaining vestiges of social and personal fear to yield even larger benefits in an even shorter amount of time with even greater—and less anticipated—cultural benefits than any previous cultural revolution.

More and quicker than Modernism, post-modernism—anything ever.

And with even more beautiful results.

And even greater effect.

This is what the fuck White Gold is about.

Applying all the hard core science and economic acumen that us white folks—us mainstream westerners—have..

And blinging shit out like never before.

By cracking the code.

And flipping the script.

Making what we actually WANT for once.

Putting our own shit on the line like countless bluesmen, outsiders, African tribes, and artists have done for centuries.

And getting to feel it as a result.

Getting to live INSIDE of a culture, instead of living outside and always feeling like the god damned Jonses have figured it out.

(Even though Jones Sr. is on meds and the Mrs. is OCD.)

And taking that love global for anyone who wants to create or participate fruitfully.

Or even unfruitfully.

Quite literally anything that people even think they love will thrive and find support.

And, since we're some rich motherfuckers, we won't have to starve a day.

no frustrated or starving artist.

What about well financed artists?

What about Venture Artists?

What about the suits tracking down the freaks like their summer houses depended on it?

The walkabout will be fully catered.

It will still require the SAME DEGREE of FAITH!

But no one's gonna cut off your heat.

You couldn't fail if you tried.

You're too well networked, my friend.

Way too well loved by too many people with way too much money.

All you have to do is take responsibility.

Full responsibility.

Start leveraging all the privilege into something someone actually wants.

Be a leader.

Which, at this point, means taking people where they are BOTH deathly afraid of AND dying to go.

And all you've got to do to do that—is go there yourself.

Which is exactly what you want anyway.

And I can guarantee..

It's way more fun.

Feels way better.

Is much more relaxing.

Tastier.

It's everything you want.

But you've got to admit it first.

You're white.

You were born white and you're going to die white.

Or, translating a black saying:

There ain't nothing you gotta to do but be white and die.

All Things Being the Same

You motherfuckers are fools.

If I had $16 mil, I'd be banging down my door for the pussy alone.

Let alone how much you'd make even having my personal number after this shit blows.

After all, how many times does an entire new premium sector come along in the most desirable industry in the world?

If the future of auto manufacturing above $32.5K were available would you bite?

Movies above $40 Mil?

Crystal encrusted cell phone dongles?

That's where the fucking profit is dingbat—didn't you read Trading Up?

You feel some sort of allegiance to the middle class?

What the fuck are you doing now?

Mass mailings?

Actuarial audits?

Writing code?

Negotiating leveraged buyouts of Sunbeam and Ronco?

What the fuck are you doing that you couldn't get $16 mil in loans and at the very least go out like a fucking stud?

As if anyone ever went broke manning up.

You're not really in that love with Wal-Mart and thrift stores are you?

The Barney's Co-op brand? (That's some cheap-ass shit, too.)

Are you really that afraid of the tattooed checker at the co-op?

Feel that insecure around punk rockers?

Think bikers are that "authentic"?

That indebted to Journey and The Stones?

Well, let's put it this way--

They ever going to pay your motherfucking rent?

Are they ever gonna put braces on your kid?

Afford you the time to take four weeks off a year and ENJOY IT?!!

Forget seeing Cannes, or Sundance, or floating the Ganges at dawn.

Are they even going to pay your heat bill when you have that heart attack at 55 and your kid's only 15?

The one due because your new $750,000 mortgage is still on an ARM.

You think you're making real money?

You aren't making shit.

And you'll see that very clearly over an extended period of time.

While you work your fucking ass off and watch everything you love float off into a frozen soup of stress you can't even see the bottom of anymore.

What got you—a $400,000 loft? (You can't even get a house for that anymore).

A two bedroom until the other kid comes?

Some $50,000 mid-level Acura?

Three $2,000 suits?

Please don't tell me it was $200 shoes.

I know you didn't go out like that, player.

Can you even afford one painting you really want?

Did you even buy the heated garage space with the condo?

Do you even have a Harley to ride if it was sunny, there was little or no traffic, and your wife would let you?

No, I'm not talking about a studio where you could sit and consider applying oil paint to canvas like you always dreamed of.

Or even the time to learn about different laquers.

I'm not talking about writing a screenplay and then going out to LA for a week to shop it.

Can you even afford a decent bottle of wine on the French Riviera?

Can you even afford for your wife to stay home?

Or to pay cash for the kids college—anywhere?

It all cost money.

And it's more all the time.

And they're going to take for everything you want.

Plus 10%.

I guarantee.

How long you been doing this?

20 years?

Did it ever get better?

has it improved even one year?

It's not your dad's world anymore—where it's kinda cute and you bar-b-que with the kids on the weekend.

They mean it now.

You're in competition with the half-starved millionaires in Bangalore.

The Chinese.

Everyone.

And they just let the lid off over there.

They'll work 7 days—what do they care?

There is no club anymore.

You think they'll even invite your sorry ass backstage?

Do they give a fuck about you?

No, they don't.

So you might as well teach their sold-out, neurotic, frozen chest asses how to make money.

What that shit they're giving up is really worth.

I consider it a public service, myself.

Stupid-ass shit.

Go ahead, go slave away and feel proud when your wife pats you on the back for bringing home an extra $200 grand after working four years without a bonus.

After missing seventy two soccer games and virtually three years of your children's lives.

Maybe that will deliver the proper mix of whatever it takes to inspire within you something resembling a power move.

Fight with God

Okay, let's go.

I've been fucking around and being way too nice here.

Either I'm right or I'm wrong.

And I've spent ten to fifteen years of my life doing the considerable math.

So fuck it.

Either the universe works or it doesn't.

Which means, god, that either you are presiding over a loving and unconditional environment.

Or you don't exist.

Or—even worse, you're presiding over a less than loving and conditional environment.

If it's anything but the first, then you and me are going head to head.

Right now.

So let's get into it.

First of all, I've been pushing people here for a while, telling them that my book is the best on available. Telling them that even if it's a piece of shit that them buying it will change the world in a million ways for the better.

This assertion, and my development of the courage to assert it has gotten me just about everything you can imagine:

Called arrogant.

Left by women.

Ditched by friends.

Disbelieved by family.

Eating hamburger several times a week.

Living at my mom's house at age 40.

Over $80K in debt while all my friends and family of similar educational background who took the traditional route have houses, newer cars, relationships, friends, couches, extra tubes of toothpaste, can use their two week contacts for just two weeks, have dental insurance.

Have health insurance.

Take vacations.

Can shop without fear.

Can buy new sheets without thinking about their mother and how they still live at home.

Can think about fucking without without thinking about their mom.

Or at least can think about fucking without bringing said fuckee back his or her mother's house.

They're also married and likely get touched by other people in a kind manner on a semi-regular basis.

The list goes on, but I'm tired of it too.

And I don't want a fucking shred of pity.

Not a motherfucking second or iota.

Just my fucking money.

I don't need you for anything—either god or the public.

But I can't buy my own book.

And I don't want to live on credit for a day longer.

When I've done the fucking work.

In fact I've done more work.

Much, much more.

I don't want love, or acceptance, or enlightenment or sunshine.

I want the fucking money.

I want all of it.

And I want it right now.

My friends at Amazon, who consult, at wherever, even the artists haven't added the value to western society that I have at this point.

If this is arrogant, then beat it out of me.

If this viewpoint is what's causing my inability to make money from my produce, then starve me longer.

Pound me into niceness like a hammer pounds a nail.

If my success is dependent on happiness, or flow, or whatever—then keep it from me for as long as you want—or can.

But if not, then give me the fucking money.

And give it to me right the fuck now.

And don't just give me the fucking money, god, give me tons of fucking money.

Give me what these ideas are worth in today's dollars.

Let me feel the exact value of what I've done in economic, spiritual, artistic, personal, human and communal terms.

Where I save someone a shrink bill, let me wet my beak.

Where a inspire a yearly bonus, let them pay me like they do these corrupt Chicago crime boss low-life, no class fucks.

Let me feel the exact value in terms of all people currently alive and their offspring.

And their offspring's offspring.

Because as I see it, right now you're coddling them and letting it ride on me.

They're the ones who believe in disbelief.

In fear as a motivator.

In whipping in whatever form.

They're the ones that think that our dreams have anything to do with winning American Idol.

They're the ones who have sold your ass short a million fucking times.

And from what I can tell.

I'm the only one who said you're perfect.

And not just perfect, but perfectly perfect. Not having to be addressed suchly, or approached thusly.

Not having to be mollified this way or using certain language or thoughts that way.

Not having to take my workshop or read my book.

Just fucking perfect.

(What I have said is that a) you want to buy my book, you just haven't; and b) buying my book will reap untold and near-miraculous benefits to economies, people and cultures all over the globe.)

And from my research, I'm the only motherfucker who says that so much as cutting your toenails when you really want to brush your teeth is a greater sin than killing someone—if killing someone is what you really, really wanted to do at the time.

I'm the only one who says that this motherfucking life works.

Is perfect.

Always and forever.

Not overall, not in general.

Not after you retire or when viewed in hindsight.

Right the fuck now and always.

Permanemtly.

Guaranteed.

Inevitably.

Effectively.

Irrevokably.

So let's see the fucking money, baby.

Pay my broke ass out!

You don't think these crazy motherfuckers aren't waiting for some crazy internet fuckhead go first?

You don't think they've included in their math this wacko who wears pink constantly, considers jacking off a spiritual practice and lives with mommy?

Not even off in a long-forgotten side column?

Or don't you think they have the guts to go for it if this motherfucker does succeed?

In fact, what don't you think at all?

Or don't you think I have the guts to handle success and all the haters?

Or the gold diggers?

Fuck, I view haters and gold diggers as success.

I'm a gold digger myself, as you know.

And I tried living their way.

It's not as if I don't know what it feels like to go to bed every night as an accomplished graphic designer with a beautiful girlfriend and "stuff to do" and a trip in the next four weeks.

I know exactly what that feels like.

I remember perfectly.

And I wouldn't trade a second of it for right the fuck now.

Not even if you threw in that I'd never have to do any more manual labor.

(Well, maybe one second—and remember that shit before you start telling someone it's all process next time. Or that the journey is the destination. The journey is the journey and the destination is the fucking destination! The east ain't any more holy than we are over here in the west. We may be a bit shallow—and do drive-bys—but least we don't throw wives on funeral pyres, or practice honor killings.)

But still.

Still.

Prove your fucking self if you're really all the new agers say you are.

Proove yourself that the universe is one of plenty and perfection.

I've set the bitch up like the whole world of dominoes.

Knock the motherfucker over old man!

One news story on the cornball who thinks he can get $120 for a book he self-published should do it.

It could even be negative!

God, I say you're living in the past!

You've become soft and intrigued by violence—interested in pain and suffering.

You like the news, strangely, and feel strange relaxing, even more strangely yet.

You are starting to get off on being a victim.

It.

And how many of these people you have drop by this site and NOT buy my book promised themselves they'd do something after 9/11?

Huh?

How many?

How many gave you their word they'd do—with the same courage it took the terrorists to train, plan, rent the hotel rooms and wake up the next morning and get on the plane—how many of them swore that they'd do whatever it took with the same force of conviction to let love rule here on earth?

Hmmm?

How many?

And they still have their car note paid?

Good health?

And what did they do?

Read a book about radical Islam?

Try to relate?

How many watched a parent or loved one die—in the same room with the same sacred air—and swore that they'd never regret or waste a single day in fear or disbelief?

And how many went straight back to work and choked that motherfucking bigger than anything they've ever had feeling of certainty that it was all permanent love down with a six-pack and thirteen cups of coffee within a week?

Or the next day even?

How many, god?

How many have squandered every iota of inspiration and belief you've put their way?

That you delivered despite the fact that they won't take care of themselves?

Despite the fact that they eat and drink crap most days?

How many of these people you're taking care of?

How many started off doing design to pay for painting, as I did—and packed it in after MAKING TOO MUCH money to keep painting—as I did?

Not because they weren't successful, or because they couldn't afford the time.

Because they could and were fucking scared of everything.

Being alone.

Color.

Stretching the canvas.

Color.

Taking a walk after lunch.

More color!

Mistakes.

An orgy of silent and glorious color.

Fucking their wife instead of painting because they felt like it.

Silence.

Even though it was, oh my god---a Tuesday at 10 am.

Calm.

How could you fuck someone you loved in the middle of the work week?

What are you?

How could you take off all your clothes and feel the sunny breeze through the open window on your cock when you were supposed to be AT LEAST painting?

At least doing something productive!?

And really should be working, you piece of shit.

What their friends would think.

Their boss.

Their spouse.

Who were all exactly like them and waiting—no dying with every breath—for some motherfucker to go first.

To prove it!?

For someone to do something!!??

And the women are no better.

Who have they suggested go first?

Who have they rewarded for breaking new ground?

While it was still new ground!

Before it was the most fertile and productive thing going?

Hmm?

Which of them did that?

What adults have they unconditionally supported recently?

These who are supposed to more closely resemble your open hands?

Who have they supported?

When was the last time they loved without strings—when what they most wanted in the whole world a man who wasn't a puppet?

When did they take charge and make what they wanted to see on this planet?

When did that happen?

When was that?

When was the last time they didn't reward the fuckhead who's sell out was pre-packaged?

Or the nice guy who they knew they could control?

When's the last time that they didn't bitch and moan when a motherfucker tried to even keep a functioning cock and balls off to one side?

When was that god?

Huh?

And I don't even give a fuck.

Other people can do whatever the fuck they want.

But if you're holding back the results of their actions on them—financially, emotionally, mentally, physically or spiritually—and I'm paying for mine, or even paying for their extra leeway, if I'm even paying personally for their extra ability to "hold it all together" until the next paycheck so they can unhappily deposit it and unhappily go about all the things they don't like to do—then you're fucked up.

And every other direction as well.

If one shut down soul isn't getting the cancer it's praying for by joylessly smoking.

If one sure terrorist isn't having the car crash on the way to the bombing..

If one unhappy businessman isn't getting fired for not giving a fuck (or even being a kiss-ass)..

And I'm affected for one second for giving a fuck..

Then what kind of love is that?

Fucking punk.

Oh, and by the way, I'll consider it a failure—and on you—if I make less than five billion in the next several years.

If hating yourself and ruthlessly editing and critiquing other people's loving signals yields a maximum of two billion a year, then I will consider it a stark and blatant condemnation of all you've ever done if taking every possible control off my own signal isn't worth at least five times as much.

So that's ten billion a year.

I'll give you a year and a half to ramp up.

Two weeks to get it to a hundred thou.

Because here's what I really think.

That you were waiting for me to say just this.

All this shit.

So either this is the last test (in which case you're fucked anyway), or if I would have started mouthing more earlier I would have been done earlier.

Cause that's what I set up for myself.

To be sure.

So sure I'd take your sorry ass on.

Sorry in the manner by which humans had known it up until now, that is.

Conditional.

No one has ever said do whatever the fuck you want.

Whatever.

you cannot fail.

And left commas out just to fucking prove it.

Misspellings an dshit.

Blaahhblaoaeafosnl.

And told all the well-meaning folks who came by to ask, in a concerned voice, are you okay—that my words fucking stand.

That this entire planet is under a dark cloud.

Not because of what god has done—or even what people are doing.

But because of what they won't do.

And the only thing they won't do—is what they fucking want.

And any even brief perusal of network television, or even your neighborhood—will relieve any doubt that there's something they've left out in their quest to avoid that.

They drink when they want to fuck, they work when they want to sleep—and sleep when they want to work.

They show when they want to stay home and stay home when they want to shop..

I can't figure it out.

They won't fuck her unabashedly and then never call back.

But that's not even what they wanted.

They wanted to fuck her and be human, enjoy themselves, be completely with her, and then be a fucking man enough to tell her straight up that they thought they had no future.

And then take it from there.

But that they'd be happy to do it a couple more times if it didn't mess with either of their heads.

That's what they really wanted to do.

What else didn't they do?

They didn't say "Jim, you're a fucking idiot" in that meeting.

Or even a nicer version: "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

Even though their boss was waiting for someone to show a fucking ounce of gut. Or balls.

Ready to drop an unseasonable raise for anything at all..

—You could have done anything, god.

You could have had some smack-addled blogger pick up the story and his NYTimes friend take it national.

Or just more druggies like the way it looked on the page.

You routinely discover models in malls.

One hit wonders at Wendy's.

All Kris Kross has to do was wear their clothes backwards.

The guys at my gym don't have to go before a board before they get buffed, they just lift the damn weight!

So what the fuck?

Where's the fucking love?

And if you tell me that money isn't love, then we're going to have the same discussion as if you're using conditions and tricks.

If I really do have to think positive, if I really do have to use NLP, if I really do have to honor my father and mother—in fact if any method I pick works better than another—then you can smoke a cock in hell.

If Zig Ziglar or Anthony Robbins is right..

If Ekhart Tolle's "pain body" is accurate..

If I should spend more time marketing myself..

If I should worry more about how I appear to others..

If it takes chakras, or chants or crystals..

Or is I should worry about if I come off as presentable..

If I should, as the lady at the gallery today inferred, take account for folks with a proven (read monied and or credentialled) sensibility..

Or even spend the fucking time it takes to unpack what an older WASP in an art gallery surrounded by intentionally and ridiculously crude and ugly $80,000 sculpture made on the cheap in Poland means by that (it's so iron curtain—so naif and AUThentICCCCCCCC. It feels so real in my pussy!!!)

If I should be paying more attention to signs..

If I should write down my dreams..

If I should use astrology..

If I should learn the Tarot..

If I should think positive..

If I should be grateful..

If I should work more, rest more, eat better, worry, stop worrying, consume or produce, follow the ten commandments, overturn the church, follow inspirational thinkers, make it non-profit, deny myself, emphasize myself, take more, give more—if I should do anything—then fuck you and let's go right now!

If I shouldn't read the paper while I'm eating.

Or watch tv.

I'll do anything —fight you —take the hit —live in pain —be poor forever —go undiscovered —never feel a minute of love —be alone for fourteen lifetimes —get hit by a car —crash my motorcycle —anything at all..

If you're love isn't perfect, if your understanding about what I want and how I do is not complete and absolute.

If what you really and truly want is also not my identical deepest desire—as I can determine at the time.

No, scratch that last part—if it's as I can determine it then, later, before or if it's what I think I want.

If you should be steering me at all.

Then bring on anything you want.

And bring it hard and fucking fast.

Right now.

Make it burn and rot on contact.

And I'll see you in the darkest, most disgusting pits of hell.

I did my part.

I do my part every day.

So what do you have to say?

Let's see it.

Come on—what, are results not holy?

Do you not support your chosen with earthly means?

Do you even have a chosen?

Do you deny them riches to build character?

Huh?

Then what is it exactly that you do?

IF you are like any religion or new age guru says?

Must we visualize what we want?

Must we work for it?

Must we abandon our ego?

Must we submit ourselves to teaching?

Must we enter a pathless land or follow a certain path?

Even our own?

Must we become warriors or children of the light?

Believe that we are all one?

Love our neighbor?

Refer to the earth in defferntial terms?

Must we repress a single desire or instinct?

Must we be quiet while on trains?

Sit still?

Stop chewing gum?

Must we not yell fire in a crowded theatre?

What exactly are the rules?

Must we get circumsized?

Not jack off?

Question or not question authority?

Vote Democratic and not Republican?

Refrain from bestiality?

Get in touch with our animal spirit?

Not criticize?

Be nice?

Be more childlike?

Enjoy it?

Follow our inspiration?

What the fuck must we actually do?

Do meet your will?

If it's not whatever the fuck I feel like doing, then—as previously mentioned—let's get it on.

If I shouldn't let myself go.

If I shouldn't go on..

If I shouldn't indulge my fears of hatreds..

If I shouldn't do anything, then what?

Huh?

What?

If I have to be nicer..

Or learn to be calm.

If I have to be a man.

Or perform under pressure.

If I should worship the goddess..

If I should cultivate my feminine side..

If I should with-hold production..

If I should consume more..

If I should relax into it..

If I should do, be, think, say, hear, smell, breathe or imagine anything..

Then fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it fuck it and fuck you.

Send some crows to eat my eyeballs out.

Right now.

Do me like Sisyphus.

Or Jesus.

If you have even a single requirement for salvation—then fuck it and you.

If I have to promise to be the last soul on earth.

If I'm supposed to be more punk or more preppy.

If I'm supposed to repeat koans.

Or read Ken Wilbur or that guy who writes What Is Enlightenment? Magazine.

If I'm supposed to be good.

Or even not bad.

If I'm supposed to care more about the Middle East.

If I'm supposed to not kill bugs, or run my car or throw out my garbage..

If I'm supposed to be safe, or protect children..

If I'm not supposed to write inflamitory things,

Or piss people off.

If I can't edit.

Or leave alone.

If I'm supposed to like black people more..

If I'm supposed to like white people..

If I'm supposed to like my family..

Like myself..

Love myself..

Like you..

Love you..


If I'm supposed to do anything at all then you're going to have to tell me in person and we're going to get into it on exactly this point:

THE NATURE OF MOTHERFUCKING LOVE.

Exactly what you profess to be an expert on.

Cause I don't see it the way your so-called chosen people have been preaching it.

I don't feel it at all.

And I'll go fucking pull espresso and never write another thing if that shit's the truth.

Or eat trash and live on the street.

I'll do exactly what I feel like and see you in hell.

Or I'll rip into it every fucking day.

Or I'll get the money and stop.

Or whore around, or go do business.

Or finish my album.

What the fuck ever.

Or make the movie.

Or raise the price of the book (maybe that's what motherfuckers need—they sure ain't doing shit where it's priced now.)

I'll make the distinction clearer.

Sharpen my tongue and sword.

I don't give a fuck.

And I haven't found a single other person who's doing what I'm doing.

So call me whatever you want.

But it either is or it ain't.

And either you know or you don't.

And can't nothing change any of that for a second.

I never felt my anger was justified.

Until now.

And in a perfect world, why not?

Why wouldn't fucking bullshit make you fucking mad?

Why wouldn't doing stupid shit make you livid?

And doing what you want draw you in?

And having to swallow other people's stupid shit make you even more so?

Why wouldn't it energize yo so say some shit?

Again and again and again and again?

Why wouldn't it?

I'll tell you exactly why it would—why pain exists.

So you'll get the fuck away!

And anger works very well to get others the fuck away—others who don't agree with you that is.

So let's call it like this.

Everyone who isn't with me—and this includes you—go away.

Go the fuck away.

Let's see exactly who and what is right.

Let's draw the line.

And where the reall balls lie.

Where the real love lies.

Cause all this contemplation and back and forth is killing my ass.

Let's flush out all the pimps and hos once and for all.

All the manipulators and petty hustlers.

Let's separate the wheat from the shaff.

I'm not strong like y'all.

I can't take it.

Can't swallow this shit every day.

Can't deal with another phone call from my mother saying that the work I've done around the house for the last five years is just what a responsible adult would have done—and not worth compensating me for despite the fact that she would have either paid for it or it would have gone undone and despite that this work will result in money being made by someone somewhere at some time.

Everything is valued by the market.

The market is us.

And we're either paying for it or paying for it—I can guarantee you that.

If you think you're out of the way of the market and somehow don't have to deal with scrilla—then you're fucked up.

And I've seen first hand what motherfuckers will take.

They'll take anything you don't make them pay for up front.

Anything you don't get in writing.

They may throw you a bone on the other end—but be forewarned—it ain't free and it ain't love.

No matter how they may try to wrap it.

It's pity or concern.

Which means that, just like a welfare recipient, you're going to pay it all back in extra belief. If not deal with outright strings.

When they eventually pull the plug.

When things eventually go conditional.

Get material.

When push comes to shove.

When it's life and death.

And like I said, if I'm wrong, or ungrateful, or not helpful or worthless..

Or even worth less..

If the work I've done is worth what I've been paid.

Then fuck me.

And do it anyway you like.

Get people mad at me.

Withhold love, sex, or even talking.

Starve me out.

Make my debts come due.

Ruin my credit.

Put the kibosh on.

Bring down el hammer.

Do whatever.

If I'm wrong—do anything.

Do everything.

Cause if I'm wrong we're all so fucked that we'll never even know.

And I'd tell you that the same goes for you but I'm mad at you at the moment.

Except that we already think we're fucked, so we know exactly and already.

That's original sin.

And fundamentalism, and secular humanism.

Hinduism and Judaism.

Gurus and streetcorner prophets.

Management experts.

And everything in between.

So—if I'm wrong, then how you feel right now is god's honest truth.

And the highest absolute state or being in the known and unknown universe.

And how you're feeling is conflicted.

That's what you've payed for.

That's what you've prayed for.

And the universe being perfect...

See how it works.

That's what you get.

But, on the other hand, if I'm right..

Then we are literally unlimited.

And utterly unified.

And I hate to end this motherfucker on a positive note.

I didn't start off trying to be nice for a fucking second.

But I really don't give a fuck.

ANd I even have to go box up and ship a guitar that I wanted to keep forever.

And I've already boxed up and shipped a piece of art glass (by Italian maestro Lino Tagliapietra) that meant a fuckload to me—both as a piece of work by someone I respect and as a yardstick that I had accumulated at least something of material importance during my salad days.

And I've already said goodbye to a couple amps and a couple guitars that I would have kept before just about anything.

And the rest of my studio equipment is next up on the block.

I've got half a mind to sell it just for my new Harley—put the universe to the test.

But I'm tired of that too.

I want the money first.

Give me the fucking money, bitch!

Because they were the only things valuable enough to pay my fucking rent without going deeper in debt and relying more on my family's credit.

Which I fucking hate.

I have two guitars left.

One electric and one acoustic.

Both picked from maybe hundreds that I've played.

And worn in just right.

And rare and individual to start with.

I'll sell off my business before either of them go, but that's where I am.

Mom wants me gone by the end of the year.

And I've got to get the fuck out of here one way or another.

The business that some dreams told me would allow me to eat shrimp and steak while I did the rest of what I needed to do...

Well, I did have some steak.

And there's one in the fridge right now.

Not that it wasn't bought on credit..

But it's not returning anywhere near what I need to live off monthly-wise.

And that's even with a generous offer from moms to continue to subsidize my real estate.

Lord, let me get my own fucking place.

And pay my fucking bills off.

Let me do it like a fucking man,

I've already tried like a worm.

I've already tried to give up, go back.

Plead and cajole and kiss ass.

I've got nothing left to do.

I'll probably send out the book I wrote—describing both The Love Artist and all this consumption/production shit.

But I can't see myself charging less than $120 for it without selling out it's inspiration— The Love Artist.

So whatever, folks.

Do what you fucking want.

Exactly what you fucking want.

And remember—I'm the only one who both told you and showed you to do just that.

And you let me twist in the wind.

And if you can show me another—if GG Allin in fact wanted to live in filth and smear shit all over himself, and that wasn't just a child's response to what he felt the available grown-up options were..

If rappers really want to live their life in a dark club with endless Crystal and perfectly stoned—if that truly is power and not exactly what the man wants from them..

(And, hey, I'm looking forward to at least a few video hos, myself..)

If The Rolling Stones really are happily living the good life even though there's someone else's name on the bottom of each check—and they don't set the prices for anything they make or sell..

And if the hundreds of thousands of indie rock kids really want to be sad and love-lorn and not make money, have a steady income, grow into adults and provide for their families...

Then don't give me another moment of consideration.

Cause I'm saying, with as much emphasis as I can muster—that they want more.

That you want more.

And not just a little more.

Not just another day off or $50 grand a year.

Those are all highly accomplishable.

In fact, are guaranteed in the general course of things.

Those are just history extrapolated into next month.

You want much more.

Much, much, much, much, much more.

And I'm' saying you can have it.

I'm saying it's your birth right.

No I'm saying fucking take it!

I'm saying it's floundering in front of you like low-hanging fruit.

Or a fish on the bank.

I'm saying it's the natural order of things.

I'm saying it's looking for you—hunting you down and banging on the door.

Haunting your every step.

What you want, what you want, what you want.

I'm also saying that it's not a scary what you want?

C'mon, what the fuck do you think this is?

This is what you want what you want.

That whole be careful of what you want thing?

Who the fuck do you think made that up?

And why do you think they did?

Duh!!!!!!!??

Masturbation will make you go blind.

Eating dinner with a man at a table with a white tablecloth will make him think of taking your virginity—fucking you.

This is what the devils have been up to.

It's just a matter of it you believe them or not.

I know you're scared.

That's why you shouldn't stay.

Or—here's an idea.

Think it over until you're not scared.

And then fucking execute!

With contempt.

Anything but sit around and noodle it a little bit, and maybe a little later or after another scoop of ice cream..

Do something!

Be someone!

I'm saying Plan Bs, concern, sensibility, restraint, pity and sorrrow are hatred—and self-hatred—itself.

And that ALL they can bring—EVER—is the eventual understanding that we don't want any of 'em.

And that people who practice them should be ignored or avoided when they do.

As should people who tell you it's hard, or that their method is best.

And to the degree that they do.

And that motherfuckers who practice true love..

Absolute support.

Undying faith.

Belief until the gory end (or perfect result).

In your methodology and way..

Should be paid until it literally hurts.

Until we start to worry about our own sources of nourishment and heat.

If you find one motherfucker who believes like that, pay the motherfucker.

Up front, despite results.

It cannot, will not, must not corrupt them.

It will feed them, strengthen them, love them!

You do not ruin things with your money but solidify them.

Money is NOT the root of all evil.

People who say that are.

On this planet anyway.

You vote and annoint with money.

I'd say annoint me at this point, but I'm done asking for your help.

Or anything.

I've brought it, just like I brought my paintings to that gallery guy two weeks ago.

If he doens't have a yes or no by now.

If he's not either hungry or done.

Then I'm not going to sit around and blow smoke up his ass.

Nor do I want him doing the same.

Tell me they fucking suck.

Or that they're brilliant.

All I want is money or no money.

Make it fucking easy.

I don't need rationalizatins, support, encouragement, concern, hellos, keep it ups or even "hey, bros"

I need motherfucking money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

And read them all individually.

Don't skip that shit.

It's the most important shit in here.

I know you're getting off on all the other shit and trying to avoid the..

Money.

Money.

Money..

He sounds so free..

La, la, laa.

It's the fucking money you reject.

You fucking pervert.

It's your money.

Your money.

your money.

And nothing else.

I don't want you to tell me anything.

Ignore me.

Hit me.

Tell me to beat it.

talk about me behind my back.

Organize to get people to belittle and fuck with me.

It doesn't matter.

And I honestly don't care.

I've lost faith in the lot of you.

I couldn't find one person who believes.

Which doesn't make me want to do anything to myself—quite the contrary.

It makes me want to fucking win.

To take the whole shit over.

To be Buffett, Gates and Sorros' boss.

To collect tax like a miser.

Well, not like a miser, too much work to stay cranky.

But at least run this whole shit until I get beat by some punk kid who learned how to kickflip watching my tapes.

Or ignoring me altogether.

Either money me or go away you cretin.

Yes or no.

Have I made it clear yet?

Maybe he'll give me the public crushing of the century.

I can't wait.

I can't fucking wait!

I can't wait.

But until then, I consider any money I make essentially laundered.

Because of how you made it.

Call me what you will—that's where I am at this moment:


Monday, July 2, 2007 at 4:18:43. CST.

In real time.

Without editing.

And either that will do or it doesn't matter.

I never wanted it to come to this—believe me.

Or maybe I've always wanted to get right here.

Either way, it's what is.

And what is, is.

$120 or go away.

I might even take the web site down just to tie up loose ends.

Money or no.

Money or no.

Money or no.

MOney.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Money.

It is holy, you know.

Money.

In the Paper

An ad for a major "Art Festival" sponsored by the Chicago Tribune.

Listed artists--none. (The picture may be a Picasso, but looks more likely like a 2nd rate knock off).

Listed sponsors: Zeller Realty, NBC5, American Laser Centers, Renewal(?), Dunkin Donuts, Saab, and another or two.

What a jack-off.

And it shows exactly how our society values art--which is not at all.

And who would ever go--it'll likely be attended bytourists stayin at local hotels and bored or possibly kids who think art is a currently career choice.

Oh, did I forget business folks so completely lacking mystery and meaning, so sold out, that they like even bad art they don't really like.

If you like things this way then enjoy cheap art. .99 songs, $14 books.

And stay mad at "the man".

Keep bitching about how "hard" it is.

HOW SOUL SUCKING your job is.

And keep paying for it to be that way.

But let him stay in charge.

Until he collapses from his own spiritual and creative corruption and rot.

If, on the other hand, you can imagine a world where the artists are in charge and running shit.

And the business folks would have to grovel to even get their name up at the show.

If you value what's real more than you do products or what's fake.

Then put your fucking money where your mouth is.

Skip the iPhone and buy my fucking book.

Even if it absolutely sucks, there is no quicker way to get the content you crave.

What are you going to do, watch American Idol 43--Dubuque on your 97" plasma with surround sound?

You'll pay anything for the material transmission and receiving devices and skimp and whine over a few bucks for content.

Because the charges are recurring.

This complete lack of faith determines the environment in which you live.

One with gadgets and nothing inside.

Just like the people.

Every one looking like he's got a personal stylist (yes, even the punks and goateed bohos) and none of em with anything interesting to say.

It won't take but a second to launch worldwide.

And, I promise, you'll get even more beautiful on the outside.

And you'll still have a plasma.

It's not an either/or world, folks.

It's and/and.

But you have to apply as much faith to your consumption of content as you do to material goods.

You have to fight the notion that you're not worth consuming what you want.

And that you therefore must stick to things that will either hold their value (you can re-sell a $120 book with decent demand for