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.

White G Designs the World--The Five Year Plan

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

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

Everybody knows White Gold.

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

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

How dare he?!!

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

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

And what will I build, you ask?

First the basics.

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

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

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

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

Two strikes and you're out.

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

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

Cut right down the middle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Thing Else To Do

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which led to a lot of lengthy searches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was like everything.

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

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

All day every day.

Spoken like a true addict.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And took a job as a bike messenger.

Boy that sucked.

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

But the tolls were getting louder.

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

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

And then everything blew up.

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

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

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

And I definitely wanted to win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plus I wasn't really feeling the women.

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

Which meant I was soft.

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

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

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

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

And then it started spitting me out.

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

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

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

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

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

To question everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No dice.

What I got was $38,000 in debt.

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

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

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

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

But that's what I was prepared to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What matters is to do it.

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

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

And she was calm, cool and collected.

She was organized.

And ready.

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

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

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

I though not.

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

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

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

Just so you can't take a single breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just didn't have anything else to do.

Welcome to White Gold

It may be even more simple than I thought:

Consumers demand premium products.

Business delivers everywhere BUT culture, where its rational methods sully the true love a culture requires and fixed price points discourage a solution.

Economic development creates more premium consumers and erodes traditional culture.

The result is modern mass frustration. A longing for mature, warm, playful, inventive, intimate, relaxed, rested culture.

The only cure for this frustration without crashing the economy is the creation and consumption of a premium mass culture. Which requires both economic and artistic imagination--inspiration.

Enter White Gold.

White Gold is the premium, conscious, mass culture that scratches the unscratchable itch.

Honest and direct, mature and warm. Raw and loving. Sex. Supportive. Real.

The Love Artist is the first blossom of this new premium culture. The prototype.

The current, second, printing is just a couple hundred books. (Maybe even 100). That will launch a golden age.

Songs, movies, and magazines are on the way. As are the most loving clothes and consumer goods you've ever seen. If you'd like them now, just buy the book. If you'd like them later, just wait. Even if you can do without, others can't. Or won't.

Your kids will think it normal like email. And say "Da-aad" when you try to tell them about various Scandinavian Death Metal factions and $10 t-shirts.

And they'll inspire you. To do what you want. What you really want--not what you scene want. Not what you art world want, not what you economically viable want. What you really want.

Yeah, that.

So relax if you'd like. It's a great career move.

What's that you say? Sacrilege? Paying for love!!?

Yes, I say. Exactly.

That's the way it's always been. And always will be. I didn't make it up--just figured it out. At significant risk to my personal, financial and mental well-being I might add.

But every faith tradition says the same thing: put faith--put love--before money.

Have faith.

Pay for love.

And if you get that--deeply--then you probably don't even need the book. Though you'd likely want it.

My favorite line in the bible is the one where Jesus says it's harder to ride a camel through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven. (That's going to be my first magazine cover. Dressed like 'Aurence.)

Forget for a moment that that was two thousand years ago, before the masses had money to support vrai artistes. And that all the successful artists of the time practiced at the whim--and within the subject matter--of the controlling classes.

And instead read what comes next, when an astute bystander (Paul?), asks essentially: So we're all screwed?

Jesus' reply: "With God all things are possible."

Replace "God" with "love" if you like, but don't miss the good stuff. A couple thousand years of misunderstanding, slaughter, maiming and misery is literally nothing to the happy ending that's guaranteed!

Guaranteed.

Because all things are possible.

With love.

And you wouldn't want it any other way. That I can guarantee--from personal experience.

Ask and you shall receive.

Welcome to White G.

The Golden Era

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exactly what I want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me put it another way:

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

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

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

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

But it will appear "real".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a crock of shit.

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

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

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

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

Or trying to be nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just make it easy and ask for the damn money.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not unless you got the serious checkbook out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love.

White Gold Worth Billions

I believe I'm feeling what the new age folks called "magnetizing". After a million years of writing my book (with no job) and almost ten years of financial instability (to put it mildly) and a couple years of sporadic, often manual labor type work; a bit of selling on eBay; roughly five years of looking for work; a couple no-start businesses; and almost a year of working hand to mouth on a new business, I've either given up on caring, worked my way into faith about money, learned how to keep going or plain ole done the work, cause I don't have that dread about money any more.

For ages, as long as I can remember, I've approached money with dread. There was never enough, I always had way too much to do and not enough to do it securely. And I always needed something: food, rent, gas, or, more recently, some nicer duds, a professional recording studio, loan payment money.

What I never realized until about a month ago, was that I always had enough. Somehow I came out of this mickey fickey smelling like a rose. After a ten year walk-about that included a book, months of roaming aimlessly, many, many "lost" days, thousands of half-starts and/or half-baked ideas (did I really apply to be a waiter, or to run that non-profit not so many months ago?)--after all that (and probably more that I have gratefully forgotten) I somehow pop up feeling great. Happy (I started out, employed and suffering from moderate to severe depression).

I even have a better car, nicer sweaters, better shoes and more gear. I have a loan balance to match, but I've lost that perma-hungry feeling that permeated me. So deep that I didn't even realize it was there. Like the smell of your own house.

When I signed up (with myself) to be a love artist, I didn't realize exactly what I was getting into. I thought it'd be cool (at the time I still believed in cool), and play to my strengths as a nice person. Little did I know it would break me down and rebuild me the way it wanted me to be.

I thought I knew and could pimp. I didn't know, and didn't want to pimp.

And the only way to lose that urge for control is to have it ripped from your grasp. I certainly couldn't drink enough herbal tea fast enough to relax it out of me. (And I drink a lot of herbal tea). Though I certainly tried.

It's a total cliche but I thought I knew what was going on. And not only didn't I, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to be in charge. Responsible. But it felt like death to mind my own business. Go after my own happiness. Leave it.

At the gym this morning I was reminded of a wise friend's assertation that love was the greatest addiction. And a corresponding dream that had him with his teeth falling out. Love isn't the greatest addiction, but what we most want, the only thing worth fighting or dying for, and so sacred that we'll do just about anything to keep from facing the real thing.

I wrote in The Love Artist that more men have sold out for women than money and power combined. I also wrote that the most dangerous thing is the woman who's 60% right (for you)--because you'll stay forever.

Our lives, in my view, are exactly calculated to make us men. If/when we dodge the truth we may escape some turmoil, some toil, some sweat, but we also remain that much more a boy until we go dredge that sucker up--or, more likely, it comes calling and we decide to dodge or face it again.

My other thought this morning is how to gauge which of the various images that we hold of ourselves are real and which ar to be overcome. I'm sure we've all had the feeling of looking in the mirror and saying--damn, it's happening. That's a good looking guy (physically but also metaphysically, career-wise, etc.--I believe all these views and how we view ourselves are related but that's another day).

And at other times, we're a piece of grunt.

So a huge question, then, is which one are we? Especially because both feel so real and our choosing--what we believe about the world--becomes solid over time. (And etched in our faces and lodged in our bones).

Personally, I had already figured out that I had to be the higher of my two people. That come hook or crook, I was here to write a book and make music. I was 40 and it hadn't "happened" commercially yet, but it would and the was jusst the process. And I saw that that was exactly what it took to be the person that I wanted to be. I didn't want to be professional at making youth culture. I wanted to be wonderfully fresh at making adult culture. But that meant I had to be an adult FIRST. Before I got the love of the crowd. That meant I had to do it for no reason (external) until I was doing it for ALL reasons. And once I was solid at all reasons, magic would be upon it, etc.

That I COULDN'T, by my own desires and standards, be one day earlier than I am.

But with love, the confusion felt even deeper. Because it related to the above, personal equasion.

If I had the woman I was more attracted to (and I've dated her in the past while writing), she challenged me. And at times, questioned what I was doing. This was years ago, when my discipline and will were much smaller, but it still felt like it would be hard to maintain that relationship were I creating full time.

The other type of woman I've dated (and may god bless them all), I was less "crazy" about, still attracted to, but less magnetically. These women were more supportive of what I was doing but also had less power in the relationship. And were less serious, so had less at stake.

So is real love easier but less fulfilling? Another friend once told me that my wife is NOT going to be the best sex that I ever had. Is this true? Does a cooler flame burn longer? Or is it that we can't find the guts to brave the warmth we crave until we find ourselves? Or are we not strong enough (or don't think ourselves strong enough--same thing) to have it all for an extended period of time.

With love, my question again, is is it what we want when we're strong?, when we look in the mirror and say "damn, baby, yo got it going on; she's gonna feel you for real"? Or is it what we want when we want to be taken care of? Feel like we need protection? Want help but are feeling shy about asking for it, or have decided for whate4ver reason not to just give it to ourselves?

My current thinking is that we make ourselves men and become ourselves so that we can enjoy the first. And that the places where we felt it too hard or scary fall away as we muster the courage to confront them. That what we really, really want is actually safe--the only thing that is safe.

And that all the nonsense we surround ourselves with because we feel insecure, because we WANT to feel safe--be it security-minded relationships, careers, clothes, furniture, art, food, business, whatever--are actually the things that do us in and break us down.

I'm not saying that it won't take our whole life. In fact, that may be the whole thing. I'm not saying that it shows up immediately the first time you gather the courage to want it. But I am saying that it will make men of us, and it will result in a never even imagined sense of well-being and calm, provide the foundation on which immeasurable joy is not only possible but probable, and give us the tools to rock it all night: in the bedroom, in the boardroom, in the studio, walking downtown--wherever you do your thang!

Beeep.

Oh--and to finish my original thought, having gotten rid of 99% of this omni-present dread--the last Monday morning, right before the gym and awake alone in the middle of the night bits--I feel like there's a whole world that I can pull toward me with one two-hundred-and-ninety-third the energy it would take to try to chase it all down. I feel like I could get the love I want without becoming some sort of used car salesman (god bless them).

And it was hiding right here in front of my nose, right here inside me, the whole time. Waiting for me to fully integrate. Not as some sort of random, mean test, but so I'd be relaxed enough, strong enough, and happy enough to enjoy the mo-fo.

Cause it's gonna be bangin!

Enjoy that Love

I'm always surprised how much better my life can get. How much better it can feel. Remember when you used to build forts when you were a kid? Or maybe you still pull the covers up over your head sometimes.

That's what we're supposed to feel like walking around. It takes some doing, of course, and some maintenance, but it's like having coffee, heroin, sleeping pills, andt-depressants and anti-anxiety medication naturally at your disposal. And unlike many I am certain that nothing needs to change politically or socially before this is widely available. In fact, I understand it as our birth right.

In fact of fact, I don't think our politics or social situations, or even our relationships get much better before we do. We're leading the way, not Washington, not the middle east, not Hamas, not anyone--we are. And they respond to us.

And it can/will/is turning on a dime.

I had a great dream last night that Will and Grace were having sex in a church--to show the congregation that that was holy. I stepped up to the front and put a few things on the altar and everyone was aghast--sacrelidge!

I started saying that at one point every thing on earth--every group of people, ethnicity, sex, economic status, education level, race and age had been told they were unholy. That every one of us in the church knew what it felt like to be told that, but that it wasn't true. That everything was holy. Even the things that person x, y, or z thought were unholy.

I like that image of Will and Grace. Not the tv show, but the western world as will--it's uses and abuses (still holy, just perhaps not as enjoyable), and the east as grace--beautiful and also horrifying at times. And them getting down right in front of everyone.

I'm not going to lie, I didn't even want to particularly see it. I have my own unholy catagories like anyone else.

But I have also seen first-hand. Felt. How hold union is. And how crucial a part of what we are doing it is. It's no mistake that the most popular artists of the last 100 years, world wide, have been charged with bringing sex out of the dark into the light. Often using holy, church rhythms. And getting kicked out of their homes proverbial and literal for it. Ray Charles, very overtly, Al Green, and just about everyone else.

Sex is also the most powerful of powers, so it didn't come easily. Many of these artists were burned by it. Some consumed. It takes a radical discipline to enjoy the freedom that we have available to us. And a radical freedom to keep the discipline from making us so uptight that we loose our groove thing in trying to moderate it.

That's pretty much the history of white folks right there. And probably speaks to a lot of why we love black folks so much, but often can't admit it. We've got the will, but need some grace. Which requires the relaxing and slowing we so desperately crave, buy magazines about daily, but find so elusive in practice. (As if we weren't going to be here every moment anyway).

It must have been really hard to get the crop in before the winter came. And really scary. For a long time.

I was raised, not necessarily overtly, but almost absolutely, to believe that what you wanted was a sin. That what you wanted would leave you penniless. That a Plan B could provide a decent life. That it was possible to work a Plan B while somehow committing enough to Plan A (that's what I'm going to name my magazine, btw) to make it happen. That Plan B was safe.

And I certainly accept that I may have taken this advice more deeply to heart than many. Even most. But i took it. I swallowed the whole thing.

And I wanted to on many levels. It was safe. It could be moderated. It meant that I wouldn't have to live real time, be wrong (gasp), take chances, put it all on the line and reliant on who I was to pull it off. Plan B meant I didn't have to bet on myself.

This post isn't about sex yet. Maybe money is foreplay.

My greatest fear in life was that I didn't love the right people. That my physical attraction wouldn't lead me, couldn't lead me, to my highest self--to god.

It's almost a cliche, but in a very real way I thought the male sex was backward. That our "way" didn't work. That physical attractin, assertiveness, and being clean were all (I read the term in a story about a feminist yesterday or I never would have remembered it) military-industrial constructions.

What the fuck does that even mean?

I can still remember very clearly being made fun of when at the age of 11, or 13 or something, coming across a bra ad in a newspaper and saying, very naturally, almost involuntarily "Focus, Focus". Whoever was in the room, or in the next room made fun of me and what had been a normal appreciation went straight to shame. I took me another 25 years and two-thirds the way through my book to write "I like fucking". A bit crude out of context, but a real expression nonetheless.

I have no idea where I got the actual idea that desire was a dead end inhabited by moping romantics deemed "hopeless" but I definitely did.

I can also tell you where I got the idea that this whole thing could work if done properly. That life could be just about perfect if approached in the right way.

It was while I was fucking.

I was also making love, because I was in love, but the fucking aspect was not absent at all. It was not necessarily tender, although its lack of Halmark type sentiment, it's lack of premeditation and affectation made it even more love-ing and love-ly. And not just from my side, although I didn't really know that I didn't have to check at the time, my sentiments were very strongly corroberated.

It was a coming together without falling into each other. (At least from my side, I don't know what she was doing). And it wsa then that I realized that love could be done by one's self. Not by one's self as in alone, but from one side. That if I was completely willing to be myself as long and as hard as I humanly could, then that would naturally result in a radical, identical opportunity for the other person as well.

But I couldn't ask for permission. I just had to do it.

And that that was what the other person wanted me to do (as long as I was being myself)--even if she said something else. Sometimes especially when she said something else.

It was in that relationship that I also realized that it was possible to remain yourself in a relationship. Necessary even. And that that would almost necessarily cause some thrashing and drama from the other person. As their lower, "I want someone to save me, I think I'm tired of being myself" viewpoint did battle with their higher self.

My friend Leonard once told me that love was the most powerful and supreme addiction. Essentially that it needed to be conquered.

And I took some brilliant insights from Leonard (and fought some epic battles on the basketball court with him). His notion that we much give and be willing to give ourselves the attention that we so desire from other people is spot on. And a beautiful way to feel the attention we desire--both from ourselves and from others.

But I don't agree that love is an addiction. Notions surrounding love may be our greatest barrier, but the love at the center is as pure as it gets. That's the real thing that all the other addictions--soft and hard--are both trying to emulate and keeping us from!

Love is the greatest teacher. And the purest form of knowledge. One that surpasses head knowledge. Makes certainty and routine spontaneous. Makes us love staying home--with ourselves. Brings us back to ourselves. And god.

But you've got to keep going. If you stop at the marriage and declining sex you're done for. The greatest knowledge is in the sex act itself. And it takes your whole body. And training.

And I don't believe you can just do it THROUGH SEX. YOU CAN'T, for example, skip yourself, skip doing what you are craving to do with your life every day and jump into bed and fix stuff no matter how good you are. Or maybe "in tune" is a better word.

But doing what you most want to do every day--being yourself without fear--and this includes the fear of losing your mate, or being ridiculed by your mate--is just about perfect practice for the power you need to approach the loveli-est of all lovlies without fear.

Back to the story, this relationship ended just about the time my father passed away, and, although, as I mentioned before, I thought I was prettty good--overt--about processing emotions, I think I may have stuffed a bunch of it. Otherwise I most likely wouldn't revisit it here or anywhere else.

It was a powerful relationship. In many ways it felt like we fit. Although I also felt like it was a stretch for me at the time. She was in a number of ways, more powerful than I. Or I believed so and in so doing made it so.

The highs were unreal. And I'd been in love before. And the earlier stuff didn't even rate. And the lows were dead weight. It was my sense the whole time that if I could just even it out. If I could just maintain, it could be unbelievable. For a long time.

But I'm not trying to reminisce here. I just want the truth. If I could really do it all from my side, if by being myself I could be unleaveable, how did it end?

I let her crack me. Guys, you know you can't get left unless you get cracked, right? This is why the myth about women being attracted to assholes is so true. They don't want a push-over, no matter what they say. They certainly don't want to sleep with a push-over. That I can guarantee. But in this bi-frucated, polarized world, we men are taught that we have to choose between being a jerk and being nice. Not true. Not even close.

I was doing fine through the "break-up". I let her get mad and say all the stuff she wanted to say. I let her be in charge of her own destiny and call the shots. I didn't say "baby, please" once. I said okay, if that's what you want.

It was about two weeks later. (I told you she was strong). Right when her ego would have cracked for being aggressive and destroying instead of asking for what it really wanted and creating. I was dazed and confused, on the ropes if you will, and I came up with a reason. Beware the reason.

And armed with that "reason" I convinced myself that me "helping" her--my natural lower self, that also loves to put itself in control and know what's wrong with everyone--would somehow be able to fix stuff. It makes me wince just to admit it.

And from there I'm sure I got a whole bunch easier to leave very quickly. Having gone from a man to some sort of relationship facilitator. Having gone from 50% to 51 or 52%--a difference that under normal, relaxed levels of stress wouldn't have mattered. The more I learn, the more I think it's all in our ability to integrate energy/emotion. I couldn't integrate the fear of losing her fast enough. Probably because I was using her to plug some of my own holes. I was also afraid that she was eroding my ability to write. (At the time I was working on The Love Artist.)

If I could have swallowed the fear of losing her, I probably could have stayed in the relationship. Part of me maybe even knew that. And I don't think that what happened was wrong by any means. Or that w would, or should still be together by any means. But I did love her and I don't care to revisit any of that territory again if it's possible; by ignoring fears x, y, or z; to avoid it.

What if it took twenty years or preparation and training to enjoy thirty or forty years of near bliss? Would you do it? What if it only took ten? What if you had to risk it taking twenty but it might take as little as three before you began to generate serious results. Or it might start overnight and grow from there.

What if a life where you did what you wanted, when you wanted to and how you wanted was possible? Was the natural order of things. And we, adn the way we were raised was out of step? (How could it be any other way?)

What if you could work 20 to 30 hours a week producing things and managing your books, take an hour for a relaxed lunch, six hours a week at the gym and two to three in bed with the woman you love each night. Even with kids?

What if by doing so you could afford to live anywhere? Drie whatever car you wnated? What if the lord guaranteed to take care of you--even though the road to where you were going might include your greatest fears and heroic struggles?

What if when you died nothing changed? What if whatever you believed was true and you didn't get any magically closer to god? What if death just got boring after a while and you decided to come back--with a little quiet part of you still hungry for the feeling of that woman you once knew, that time you read that poem out loud, making that movie that noone believes you can (or maybe it's will) make, racing stock cars, bringing love to particle physics, helping clean up the oceans--whatever.

What if there was a way to do it and be rich? What if the only way to be rich was to do it? What if there was a way to enjoy full, radical, enduring, threatening, love while doing it? What if the only way to enjoy that love was to do it?

And what if, in doing whatever it took, we created a world where near bliss was possible, even probable for our children? Where fears were seen as signposts pointing to greater rewards and drama ignored?

And what if, then, the whole world caught wind of it. And wanted in? And flocked to jock, so to speak. But those who knew refused to become pimps. And instead just kept doing what they wanted? What if inspiration worked--was the only thing that worked? And that demanded of us to be ourselves all the way or endure the consequences?

If you were god, and loved us as your own, would you structure things any differently?