Birthday Number 32 – Great Society

I have 13 days to put everything in storage and get my life down to one suitcase, plan an overseas trip that may be my last for some time, find and move to a new place, plan a book tour, make sure the book printer doesn’t, you know, fuck up, work 12 hours a day every day at my normal shit swilling job and my weekend job in a frenzied attempt to make money, and conquer Iowa.

I sat at a bar the other day for a liquid lunch with a couple of friends and shared my woe. One of my friends bristled, announcing that he was in the final stages of completing his MFA and, upon completion, planned to upgrade his life. Get a real job, make real money, and get girls. The type of girls who like money. Man, he had it just as hard.

I was one pitcher deep and considering another, so I didn’t bother telling him that an MFA is the equivalent of scarring your face and entering the fourth year of a criminal tax trial.

But it got me thinking.

Not in a “change my life” way. I’ve stopped that. It got me thinking, mainly, about how whoever thought of the MFA degree has an imaginative, albeit cruel, wit. It also got me thinking how, once again, I’ve been exposed to the “life-wife-settle down” philosophy that is so ruinous to the very rare and precious artistic mind which leads one to piss away life-wife-money on an MFA in the first place. My friends are all artistic types. Those who don’t fit in the box. But, in two distinct waves, they suddenly found themselves regretting the world outside of the box. The first wave fell when they hit 25. They married, they found god, they bought million dollar town homes, they had kids, they drifted out of touch with the misfits like me. They are, 100%, unhappy and in dire straights these days.

The second wave came at 30. Those final stragglers saw that mile marker as the last chance to settle down. Two years ago, and at that venerable age, it made even more sense to buy million dollar townhomes. I consider it a divine punishment that, now, the DC real estate bubble has defied historical leveling-out behavior with a good and proper bust. I like driving past mcmansions and getting the feeling that there’s another Dust Bowl on. I especially like it when my friends who forced the settle down hand are now broken down into a screaming frenzy and crying into their beer at the Royal Mile while I smugly order from the rare scotches list.

I’m not a fool. I know that some people are made for the settled world. I have friends who married well and live happily. People who are immune to the winds of change and will always be secure. But I, you see, can tell the difference. You can spot it a mile away.

Living the artist’s life is difficult. It’s inevitable that, at some point, the need to find some sort of anchor will become overwhelming. It’s fortunate that, long ago, I gave up on life. I’m satisfied renting – unless you sell me some self sufficient hardship cabin in the woods. I hate women – at least, the ones that cost money. I’m a huge fan of hoodrats and Zoloft-addled hippie chicks who paint by day and wait tables by night and suffer from debilitating panic attacks. I find them amusing as well as attractive and, hell, if a woman can’t entertain you, what’s the point? It’s like owning a pet. Forget about dogs and cats – go right for the monkey. Is it PMS or are you just hanging out in the rafters for the hell of it?

To be a true artist – to embrace what you do and believe in as a writer, painter, actor, whatever – is to admit to yourself one sad and terrible fact: Nobody will pay you. Not at first. Eventually, you’ll make money. Or commit suicide. Eventually, you could make a million. Or just 30k a year. Either way, doing what you do, anything is a victory. If you can simply live well, pay for modest vices, and have enough left over to take the train to the city for an all night party at Fat Bertha’s Bathhouse, then that is what it was all for. Forget the million. I’m sorry I even mentioned that. Nobody makes millions working on art. Danielle Steele’s work is not art. That’s a different path, though I don’t discount or condemn it. It’s an entirely different decision that you must make at a point well down the road from first embracing your poverty-stricken, insane, horrifying choice to Love Art. I mean, seriously, you’re so fucked that it’s not even cute and endearing.

Let’s break it down. We’ve briefly visited the MFA problem – which, I suppose, is the ultimate way to embrace the life of a true artist short of cutting off an ear or playing knife games with your 14 year old lover – and hit the money side of things. For the job, the true artist must be prepared to swallow some shit. My rule is to never make less than your age.

For example, I’m up to 33k now, a bit more when you throw in my hideous weekend job where I’m frequently drunk and occasionally high.

The problem is, now that I’ve passed the 30 marker, making my age or more will get increasingly difficult. The level of jobs that the slacker/artist/hopeless monster can maintain will start to peter out around the 40k mark, and won’t exist at all past 40k for most people. This leads into my new rule – if you haven’t achieved what your “true artist” plans are by the time you turn 40, go ahead and see if you can overdose on something. Or marry rich. Or really and truly give up and buy an Airstream, park it in the Mojave, and raise rattlesnakes. (I frequently tout the latter plan because I know people who have done that sort of thing and they are happy. Big time happy. M-O-O-N spells happy. And they even have more stuff than I do. You visit and it’s all satellite TV and would you like this coffee, the beans are grown from the distended bellies of Ethiopian children, and my buddy from LA sent me this movie, it won’t be in theaters for five years though because the Earth isn’t ready for actual evidence of a race of super beings and horny perfect women from Titan, one of which is my wife, be sure to flush twice the handle sticks and this is how you work the light, it’s tricky, damn trailer.)

I figure 40 is old enough to know where you are. It’s the new 17 and a half, which is when my grandfather was fighting brutal Japanese warriors with two hands tied behind his back and my uncle was stomping on the faces of 12 year old Vietnamese girls with an armful of stolen Buddha statues and homemade rice liquor.

Next up is the big no-no, the statement that really made me want to order that second pitcher (see, I’m keeping the thread of this article). My friend’s statement that he wants girls that come with the privilege of “making money.” Dude. Dude, dude, dude. You can’t see it now, but I was shaking my head right then. I was thinking: I love you, but I really have to kill you. I have to take you and gently put pressure on your throat, your dying gaze failing to meet my shifty, wicked eyes.

It’s not about the girls! I mean, sure, it is. But you don’t win chicks with money. The True Artist, the one who has embraced their artistic soul, must thrive on those hoodrats and Zoloft-addled day painters. You’re not going to get the delicate, three hours in makeup, cocktail dress super girl. You don’t want that, either, because I’m going to tell you a secret. This is big – you should make note of this somewhere. Those types of girls don’t know how to use their pussies.

And here’s another big secret – the downhome chicks who have also embraced the life of the True Artist are the only ones who will know how to love you, in the end. No matter how much you make, or conform, or attempt to shake off the curse of the artist, they’re the only path to happiness.

But don’t worry! That’s the problem. Folks drift around after the big three-oh and they think, my god, there’s nothing here. I’m dry, I’m alone. Why?

Because, presumably, you’re at home writing or doing whatever it is you’re doing.

I’ve achieved a state of zen this year. My own drift seems to have stabilized. I’ve stopped looking for love and, instead, am looking for reliable sex, like a healthy male. I talk to my plants and drink in the shower till the water runs cold. I’ve begun exploring the abuse of pills and have started to get kicked out of bars. I’ve –

Oh my god.

Well…my friend from the bar (I ordered that second pitcher) has good looks, talent, and a good attitude. But he’s worried. He’s over 30 and has a new degree to flaunt. He’s realizing the Terrible Truth. He’s realizing that it’s going to be Art or Death, and that there are many deaths out there. Not the least of which is living.