Had this beyond wicked dream last night.

You know those dreams that are lucid and powerful and so believable that you wake wondering how you got back to your own bed?

Yeah, one of those.

I'll spare you most of the details, although if you're interested later, please feel free to ask, but the crux of the dream was me sitting in a grand hotel, with a package of high quality products in my lap and listening to a man at a podium talking about wealth and free enterprise.

It was a pitch for a Pyramid Scheme.

Tall men with good hair, and expensive suits who talked nothing but Hawaiian vacations and Mercedes interior.

As per my usual MO, I don't dislike capitalists, if I could, I too would be sipping very old scotch and playing more than my fair share of golf. And you gotta kinda pity the unsuccessful capitalists, pacing like vultures in their used cars lots or doing their best to interest people in life insurance.

And I'm no socialist either. I'll fight to the death for my children, but if it ever came down to it, I would have no compunction about eating yours.

Lets just say that I am having steak and kale tonight for dinner.

But there was this moment, just like in every sales pitch, a moment where you are on the "fully couldn"t care less" side of the pitch and all you can think about is how to get away, get home, and catch up on Game of Thrones.

I got roped into attending an Amway meeting back when I was a much much much younger self and I remember being almost sold. Older successful looking gentlemen talking about big houses and cool cars.

Cools cars are incredibly important when you're 18.

The only reason I drive an Echo now is because it's the best car ever built, and married at 37, there simply is nothing on four wheels that is going to increase my chances of a sexual encounter.

What I also remember is how ugly the severance conversation got when I finally had to put my foot down and walked away.

I think about it now and get angry, like "How dare you try to shame me into buying into your twaddle."

I feel, pretty much, the same now as I did then, so lets all let the record show, I have no need for make-up, jesus, pest control, life insurance, cookies, extended warranties, or products that erase the scratches on my headlights.

Ask me again if I want a club card and I will fucking cut you.

Point is is that I've grown to dislike being sold to, and feel pity for the people doing the selling.

But as a content provider myself, one with a product to sell, I think about "selling" a lot.

A lot a lot.

In the beginning I had this naivete that all I needed was a good product, one that I beleived in, and then I could just find people who liked it, and then you know, ask for some money, or food in trade.

But art doesn't work like that. So much of it comes to us free of charge (not really, but very little of that check you sent to Comcast goes to the guy who wrote the theme song for the Simpsons)

(Danny Elfman is doing just fine BTW)

Art is not only subjective, but subjective in an open market, an open market that is saturated with content providers, all of them dreaming about big houses and cool cars.

I've been trying to employ a lot of capitalist practices, into what essentially, is a very socialist endeavor, with varying degrees of failure and success, and I've been feeling a bit annoyed with myself for not being more aggresive.

I could make a lot more money going door to door selling my album than I could writing this blog.

A lot a lot.

But I could also make a ton by standing out on a street corner in a firemen's uniform.

So, you know, there's gotta be a line drawn.

But the modern world is ALL about sales, and if you dissagree, good luck with the hunting and gathering thing.

Yet, no matter how much mulling I've been doing on the subject, I gotta be honest this time, I really don't have an answer.

There are, in fact, far more rock stars on the streets than there are Mary Kay Cadillacs, so that Pyramid Scheme that sounds so reasonable, has about as much chance of making you rich as your highschool garage band.

I can say this though, try not to make yourself feel bad for not becoming something you don't really want to become. Big houses, cool cars, more than three "likes" on a post that took you hours to write, these things are okay, i guess, but I'll take a good cuddle and a cheap bottle of wine over those any day.

Not everyone who writes a song becomes a star, just as not everyone with a carpet bag gets to own a Yacht.

In fact, most of it is dumb luck.

A lot of dumb luck.

like, a lot a lot.

Yay for dumb luck.

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