Alright you motherfuckers..

And I mean that in the most loving way possible.

Like Miles used it in his autobiography.

Anyway, I'll skip all the music wants to be free dreck circulating on ye olde internet these days and get straight to what the smartest guys in the room think.

(I saw a friend of mine from college in that movie Enron, Smartest Guys in the Room, btw. He was bragging about fucking the entire state of California, energy-wise. Not a pretty day for good old Ham Tech.)

Winning the Nobel Prize for Economics this year, from the University of Chicago, one Robert Meyerson (along with two compatriots).

His theory? Mechanism Design.

He basically looked at the market as a conduit for communication.

With efficiency allowing a greater number of people to have access to the information they need to make decisions.

Sounds pretty good to me.

(Insert dead horse here).

So how the hell could we still have fixed prices for our most vital sector of the economy? Our content?

Where the most valuable and flexible of our information lives.

If the market is a communication, then fixed prices for content are the equivalent of a gag order for those with means.

Not that we aren't doing it to ourselves.

But then again, we always have excelled in self-disdain.

If not downright self-hatred.

How else do you think we could be such good Christians? Puritans?

sSuch efficient and masterful worker bees and non-profit ninjas?

If we hadn't put other's desires entirely in front of our own.

And by in front of our own, I mean from sunrise Monday to sunset Friday. (If you're lucky).

If you're unlucky, or just a pussy, you're probably serving other after hours too.

And worst of all--because theoretically, if you're serving others then someone should be getting serviced..

It may be that those you're serving are serving others as well.

Like a train with no caboose.

Or would that be no engine?

Or a massive circle-jerk.

Where no one ever feels it.

I was in a relationship like that once.

Or twice.

Or three times, perhaps.

Anyway, I don't give a fuck.

here's all I have to say on the matter:

The cost of fixed content prices is a mediocre mass culture.

Teh nobel guys would probably tell you the costs were a lot higher, but hey, they haven't felt it yet. Which means that they don't know what the fuck anyone's communicating about anyway.

And I'm just a guy sitting on the North side in his mom's basement. (Yes, I'm back to the basement, unfortunately. I'm also older than the last time, but who's fucking counting. I'm progressing spiritually and that's what matters, right?)


And if you believe that last line, you can go fuck yourself.


And speaking of fucking yourself, Im writing another book.

This is basically my last gasp.

If this motherfucker doesn't go, I'm going to go pull espresso. Or do graphic design or something similarly worthless.

I know, I know, the rest of you already do bullshit--adn I shouldn't consider myself superior.

It's just that I figured it out. I figured how it works and (so far) no one cared.

Oh well. At least I'm growing spiritually. (Insert sit com laugh track here.)


What else? One of my exes contacted me.

A married ex, $500 and a high class hooker will get you decently laid.

Or at least jacked off after dinner with some semblance of feeling.

My inquiries into art and god have left me more certain than ever that fucking and money are most of what I want.

I want them the right way--I want to feel them--and I've given up most everything I've ever had just to gain them, but they're what I want.

Or maybe I've just gotten everything else and they're all that's left.

I've got a couple thou in the bank and I can't even feel it.

Five years ago--in my salad days, with that much gravy I'd be halfway to Antigua, walking the streets and writing poems--singing and shit.

I'd have a fire in my belly. I'd be scared shitless and hungry.

But not now.

Now I'm just 40 and tired and whatever.

A couple hundred thou isn't going to solve any of my problems.

A really cute two bedroom loft isn't going to do shit.

A couple mil might not even work.

And I don't give a fuck, but I also don't see any reason why it shouldn't work.

Which means that the only reason I can see for it not already existing is that I'm not relaxed, detached or wise enough for it to happen.

After all, I already wrote the fucking book.

And I hate that stupid-ass shit like the devil.

If love is conditional on any single part--if it's waiting, if I have to learn something--anything--you can keep that shit for yourself.

And fuck you.



The book is going well.

I'm on my third or fourth rewrite.

I toned it down for the squares.

I'll admit it--I'm writing for my audience.

I want money, and money must come from them understanding.

I don't give a fuck. I'm not going to lie about it either. I was inspired when I wrote it the first time. The fourth feels like yelling through jelly. Something opaque.

I don't even care about writing anymore.

I just want people to get it.

No--I don't even care about that. Not tonight.

Tonight I just want the money.

And to get laid.

In that order.

Other than that I just want time, to rest and do what I want.

Given a steady stream of serious money, I'd likely work on more music, maybe get around to some painting..

Whatever.

I'm still not convinced that anyone gives a fuck about true art these days.

All the shit I see it utter crap.

And people kiss it's ass anyway. Feel sorry for shitty artists.

Talk about it like it's nice. Or a hobby.

Lap up horrible, derivative ideas and run from clear, true ones.

We're on, what, our third generation of people wearing acid-washed jeans?

Our fourth decade of square-toed shoes?

Good lord help us.

It's all political and liberal and vaguely nice.

The fucking counter-culture is more fake and homoginous than the mainstream it was fighting ever was.

At least then, people didn't claim to be unique, separate, precious and unknowable.

While they walked around with.... ah fuck it.

I guess it defers. Kind of wish-washy group think.

Like we had back in college.

Ick.

AYO TEchnology and Kanye's "Wait til I get My Money Right" are dope. Kanye said he wrote that because he saw 50 get that Vitamin Water money and realized he hadn't got shit.

And with his contract, he probably doesn't.

Artist's don't make shit for making music as you know.

Here in Chicago it's kind of like a Pashke pastishe. Some kind of Brave New World, where the inmates are in control but keep insisting (and putting on plays about) their fictitious guards.

And, of course, wearing tha aforementioned acid wash 3.0.

And with that, I'm officially boring myself.

Pees out.

Buy my book you whore.

Uncle

Alright.

You got me.

I can't fight anymore.

I give up.

You win. You're in control.

I have no clue if this is some sort of spiritual surrender or just giving up.

I don't know what to do.

I'm tired of living at my mom's.

Of not being financially viable.

I used to think that working harder was the way out of that. (Which is why I looked for a job for about six years in Seattle and here in Chicago.)

It's also why I started my own business.

--Whatever, fuck it. I have zero interest in moping or trying to explain myself.

So what do I have an interest in?

Honestly?

Sleeping and being given money.