HOW I GOT HERE

Every business plan starts somewhere, and this one starts in a bathroom when I was sixteen years old. Not writing a business plan — writing a poem on the wall about a Spanish teacher I didn't like. I'm gonna be honest: her name was Miss Frada, and she looked like a pig. I didn't like her. She was a prick, I was a prick. So I wrote a terrible hate-crimes-speech-of-a-poem on the bathroom wall. Don't tell anybody. It was probably pretty bad and pretty good at the same time. But that was the first thing. Before the system, before the catalog, before any of it — that was the origin. That was the first poem.

Around the same time, my father drove me to the laundromat in Danversport and Bob Dylan's “Like a Rolling Stone” came on the radio. I heard that and thought: that's what I wanna do. I came home, found the album upstairs in a stack of cassette tapes, and started listening to everything — Dylan, Beatles, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Jimi Hendrix, Canned Heat, America, Rolling Stones. I found all the sixties greats. And then at the same time, I was a rap kid. NWA, Tupac, Ice Cube, Ice T.

Those two worlds — the literary side of rock and the raw directness of hip-hop — became the DNA of everything I would write. I was rooted in the historical greats of sixties rock, straight tied into the fundamental best rock and roll music ever fucking made. But at the same time I had this new edge — the holy shit, you can say anything, you can write anything, nothing is off limits. Back in the sixties there were limits. The Beatles said we're bigger than Jesus and got their shit stomped. Today? Say whatever you want.

That's where it started. A bathroom wall and a laundromat. Sixteen years old. Wired for life.

If you look at my life, I had maybe ten, twelve years where I was really fucking awesome — cool, one of the best dudes in the world. That was roughly eighteen to thirty. That's it. All the rest of the time, I've been a fucking loser. I want to be real about that.

Middle school: I went to the same school for nine years with thirty kids in my class. Very sheltered. The school was in Salem, Mass, I was from Linfield and Swampscott — so even in my own school I was an outsider. I never played baseball with the Salem kids. I never played baseball at all. That's a huge problem — if I had played baseball as a young kid, I would have been a professional, because I'm left-handed. But anyway. In middle school I didn't get picked on, but I was a loser. More of a bully than anything in seventh and eighth grade. I'll own that.

Freshman year: all my friends went to Bishop Fenwick in Peabody. Me and one other kid from my grade went to Saint John's Prep in Danvers. Great school, but I didn't know anybody there. It was very cliquey, and I was the second biggest loser in my entire grade — next to a kid nicknamed Bilbo, because we had to read Tolkien's Fellowship of the Rings and he just looked like he loved it. Me and Bilbo basically had to fight each other to not be the biggest loser in the whole grade. That was my freshman year.

Sophomore year, I transferred to Linfield High School. That's when I had no identity. I was overweight, chubby, definitely a loser, searching for who I was. And then one morning I woke up, weighed two hundred and eighteen pounds, and said: that's it. It's over. For the next year and a half, all I did was eat rice cakes, quit smoking cigarettes, started dipping chewing tobacco, got in shape. Lost the weight. Ran cross country. Played JV basketball. Joined the wrestling team. Started to get my shit together.

And I met this amazing girl — one year younger than me, after school. Beautiful blonde, blue-eyed, German and something else. Absolutely the nicest person you ever met. Absolutely stunning, way out of my league, but an amazing person. Religious. National Honor Society. Just a sweetheart. And I said to myself: whoever I have to be — who does she want to be with? That's who I want to be. At sixteen and a half years old, that's when I started to not become a complete cunt. That's when I got my head on straight.

She ended up dating a guy who was just fucking like me — Mark, no offense, buddy, but come on. And her father was just like me too. That's what it was. She loved her father but didn't know she was marrying him. So I never had a chance at long-term happiness with her. She'd look at me and see a bigger version of her father, and that was never going to work. Her mom, though — what a peach. What an absolutely lovely woman.

Senior year: me and my clique got in a fight, everybody chose sides, and I ended up at the loser table at senior prom. I created the loser table. Normally I wouldn't have been at the cool table, but I wouldn't have been at the loser table either. So senior year kind of flubbed out. But that gave me the opportunity — from the end of senior year through to freshman September at Framingham State University — to turn it around. And I did.

When I got to Framingham State University, I had big broccoli hair. I was just starting to go bald, but you couldn't tell yet. I got a lot of pussy. I was cool. I didn't do that good in school — flunked out of all the classes — but I was drinking like a fish and smoking pot like a motherfucker. I had the time of my life.

Then I lost my license for drinking and driving. And the girl I was into was going away to the University of New England in Biddeford, Maine. So I'm sitting there thinking: how the hell am I gonna get to see her? How am I gonna get to Maine?

So from that point on — eighteen to twenty-five, roughly — I started really writing. I was working construction, going to night school at Salem State. I'd cut grass in the landscaping truck with my book of poetry and an empty notebook, fill it up, study for my quizzes and tests. I graduated college at twenty-five going nights and working days, after failing out a few times. That shift got me to being somebody positive, somebody who wanted good things. I was surrounded by good influences and inspiring people. I was either fucking a lot of girls or around a lot of girls. By nineteen and twenty, things started to move differently. By twenty-one, twenty-two — holy shit. I was a rocket.

That's when I started doing drugs. The first time I ever did ecstasy, I did a bump of coke. As soon as I hit that coke I said: oh, I get it now. I'm gonna quit smoking cigarettes, quit drinking, quit smoking pot — maybe I'll smoke a little pot, but I'm gonna save all my money for coke. That was my first thought. For a while I'd go to school, go to work, be straight — maybe smoke a joint — and then after school I'd get drunk and get high and do coke sometimes. I did that for a while. Then I got off the coke.

Then I started writing for the Peabody-Linfield Weekly Times covering sports. And then something happened — I had an article due on a deadline, and I had a poem in my head, and I had to make a choice.

I chose poetry. I stopped writing for them.

That was the fork in the road. That's when I committed to being a poet and lyricist for real.

Then when I was twenty-seven, I met a Belarusian girl — twenty years old, amazingly amazing. She was a ten, ten, ten. I was a five, five, six. She was on a work-travel visa and we hung out for a week or two or three and didn't want it to end. So I said: how can you stay? We could get married. So we got married. My plan was to make sure she graduated from college and then we'd split up. I'd send her out on the weekends with her hot Asian girlfriend to go clubbing while I stayed home and made songs over the internet with Justin Justice and Tyler Thompson, building my arsenal. Eventually she graduated, I got a bunch of songs and a big catalog of lyrics, and we split up. I realized she was way out of my league. For her to be happy I would've had to be somebody different, or for me to be happy she would've had to be somebody different. So I got her through school, and then we went our separate ways.

Then here I am — thirty years old, on YouTube, turning my words into songs.

When YouTube first came out it was human-friendly. You could direct message every artist. I had the idea to use YouTube to find the best musicians in the world, because I thought I was one of the greatest lyricists in the world. I'd make a video about my lyrics — say “this is a poem called Dead End — I know who you are and who you wanna be, I know you're entrapped and you wanna be free” — and somebody would find it and say, I can make a song out of that. Those are good words. I'll make it into music.

I was doing that a lot. Attracting good musicians from around the world. I built up to ten thousand subscribers on YouTube. I was making music, making songs, well on my way. I was making a song with a dude named Justin Olszewski called “Dead Silence,” and he said: hey, you gotta check out this Lady Weaver channel. She's amazing.

I checked it out.

As soon as I found that stuff — maybe she'd just come out with Reconcile, or Faith Back, or May We — the greatest fucking songs I had ever heard. I went from being obsessed with finding musicians to speak my words to stumbling across this fucking rock god. This absolutely stunning unit of a fucking person. Think Susanna Hoffs in her musical and physical prime. Think the female John Lennon. That's what I'm talking about.

And I said: you're the one. I don't know what this means, but we're gonna find out.

She was the entire musical package. Best singer I'd ever heard. Best songwriter I'd ever heard. Nobody writes songs better than she does — some people tie, nobody's fucking better. I said to myself: how does she write these songs? I wanted to know her process. We spent hours and hours on it. She'd tell me how each song was like a baby — she'd get the melody in her head, start getting some lyrics, hold onto it while it marinated, until she felt it was ready. She had Mr. Loopy — her looper — and a computer program, and her guitar. She was the whole thing.

And then I found out she was Danish. I found out she was Denmark Girl.

Imagine you're best friends with Beyoncé. That's how I would explain it to people. Because Beyoncé is super fucking talented and super fucking hot, and as long as she's not a complete fucking cunt, you say yes please — what do I gotta do to keep that? That's what it was. I found that, and I was like: this is the best thing in the world.

I started messaging her — I'm like, you're the one. I don't know what this means, but you're the one. A little stalkery at first, I'll admit it. But I called my shot. We started messaging. Then emailing. Then Skyping, talking on the phone. After two or three years I went there and lived there for three months.

I watched her videos and I said: that floor. I'm going to touch that floor. That's what I decided. That's what I wanted to do. I love this woman. This woman is amazing.

I dedicated my life to her. Not in a demanding way — in an altruistic way. The premise of me going to Denmark was: look, honey, I love you. I know you're going through a rough time. I'm gonna go there, do my best to take care of you. Your son is there, I'll give him a role model. I love you and I'm always going to do what's best for you.

We had been best friends for probably three years already. I'd send her money when she needed it — I was making nine or ten bucks an hour in retail, but if she needs something, I'm sending it. I always tried to be there for her.

I went to Denmark and we lived together for three months. It didn't work out romantically. What ended up happening was we had this situation where I would fill a lot of her emotional and connection needs, and someone else would fill some of her physical needs. We were too emotionally connected for either of us to really be fully with anyone else. Whatever she was lacking with her baby's father, she'd get from me. And that put her in a weird spot.

Listen — women, if you're reading this: you have a man, a solo man. Once you start letting something else take some percentage of that, once you go from a hundred-zero to an eighty-twenty where you're shifting emotional allegiances to somebody else, finding someone else to fill the voids your partner leaves — that is dangerous. That, generally speaking, leads to the bullets.

I always knew going into this: this girl can get me killed. What I had to make sure was that I didn't kill this girl — and that was real, real shit. Look at Jerry Remy, the beloved Red Sox announcer — his son couldn't handle a breakup and killed his girlfriend. That happens. And Denmark Girl is the type who elicits those kinds of reactions. She's been attacked multiple times by people who couldn't handle her trying to remove herself from their lives. People flip the fuck out. I've seen it a hundred times. I know some things that happened to her that I won't say here — but I've seen the pictures she emailed me. So I always came at her from a place of: I'm not trying to manipulate her into what I want her to be to me. I'm trying to manipulate myself to best fit her life.

But there's a rule I didn't follow: don't go more than three numbers above yourself. If you're a five — average looks, decent dick, some special talents, some flaws — your special talents and your dick might get you to a six, maybe a seven. If you get rich you could be an eight. You're never getting higher than an eight. And if you go after a ten who's really a twelve? Everyone's gonna die. Bullets, stabs, beatings, cluster fuck. One in twenty shot of it working out. I thought I was the one in twenty.

I wasn't.

In a best-case scenario, we moved the couch together, I had the top, she had the bottom, and I accidentally got squished. The most important thing is I didn't drop it on her. In a bad-case scenario, I went after a twelve as a five-to-eight, it didn't work out, and my life went to shit for fifteen years.

But here's the truth about what we were: we maybe had three or four fights in five, six, seven years — I don't even remember exactly how long it was. We both cried a few times. But I never did anything terrible to her, and she never did anything that terrible to me. In the grand scheme of things, it's love all the way down. I know that. She knows that. The intentions were always right.

I spent three to six months of my life — when you add up the hours — actively writing to her, typing to her. An hour here, an hour there. The best things I've ever written are in her email inbox, and nobody has ever seen them except maybe her mother. Unconditional fucking love pouring off every page. If you ever want to get to her mom and access those letters — the letters to Denmark Girl — that would be my best writing ever. It would be the anti-editing files. It would make your heart melt. How could somebody care about somebody so much? That's what you'd say.

Here's my honest self-assessment of Denmark: even though I did everything in my power not to be demanding or bossy or fight for her time like other people did — and I really didn't do that — just me being such a big part of her life limited her opportunity to find somebody who could've been better for her. The person she ended up with — I'm not a big fan of, I'll put it that way. And in that sense it's sad I didn't just step back and take myself out of the equation to give her more of an opportunity.

Either that, or the night she came on to me when she was hammered — I should have ran the shit out of her and gotten her pregnant. That would've worked. Because if I'd had a kid with Denmark Girl, I would've gotten my head out of my ass and done whatever it took. That's what I wish would've happened. If I had to do it over again, that's what I'd do. But I was a man of my word and I didn't do it — which I already told you — and so here we are.

I came back from Denmark at thirty-one, thirty-two, and I was crushed. I was never the same again. I lost my passion for most of the next fifteen years.

I had periods where I'd be artistic and write and capture ideas. But basically, everything in my life went to shit for a good ten, fifteen years. I didn't hang out with a lot of people. Just me and my cats, smoking weed all the time. I probably drank too, a little bit. I deleted my YouTube channels — ten thousand subscribers, all the music, all the songs, gone. I just went down the drain.

I wanted to watch the world burn for a while. I wasn't invested in it. I didn't give a fuck what happened. I'll be honest — I'm still a little that way. But I'm getting better.

Then — two and a half years ago, 2022 or 2023 — I got an email. Not from Lady Weaver. From her mother.

She had died of cancer.

She left a young adult son and babies with her fiancé. She left behind a fiancé and some children with him. She left quietly, without nearly enough notice.

That fucked me up for a while. That's the biggest travesty of my lifetime. She was the greatest person I've ever met, and it's not even close. That's the truth.

Now I'm at a point where I've healed from that emotionally, and I don't have hindrances and hang-ups from it anymore. But I want the world to hear her music. That's part of why I'm doing all of this. This whole free lyric, blockchain, profit-from-the-bottom-up idea was cemented in her honor — taking the most devastating thing that ever happened and building something hugely positive out of it. If one thing comes from all of this, let it be that the world finally hears her music.

During the lost years, I had two people I had real feelings for. Both of them were trans. One was a Puerto Rican girl, twenty-one or twenty-two when we started, passable, very cute, a little heavy, really nice — but very immature. We were fuck friends, and every time I said let's take it to the next level, it was epic failure, epic failure, epic failure. She'd disappear for a week, come back, disappear for a month, come back. Finally I said: you need to give me some time, we need to see if this is gonna be anything. She said yes, agreed, said things were changing — and then never followed through. After enough time I said: that's it.

Then about two years ago, I met a nineteen-year-old female-to-male who was extremely feminine, little and cute, but wanted to be a boy. I found them on a gay dating app — I'm on the gay sites, because a lot of the profiles on those apps are FTM. When I see an eighteen or nineteen year old FTM one mile away I say what's up, and they say what's up, and I say come over. Every time I set up a rendezvous with someone new I give it a percentage — ninety-nine percent, fifty percent, whatever — how likely is this person to actually show up. This time I said forty percent. Forty percent chance this is real. Didn't even ask for a picture because I didn't think it was real. But I opened the door and ding ding ding. Oh my fucking goodness. What a cute fucking thing. One night turned into two, turned into three, turned into a steady friends-with-benefits situation for eight or nine months, three nights a week.

Here's what I learned: I always make sure the power dynamic is safe. I'm six-two, two hundred and twenty-five pounds. If I get mad, they're gonna be scared. So I make sure I don't get mad. I lay down the ground rules from day one: completely drama-free, never going to pressure you to do anything against your will. The only time anything ever went sideways was when I got mad about something — not at them, about something else — and punched a TV. My poor little trans friend was shaking in the corner for two days. Not because of anything I did to them. Because of past shit someone else had done. The moral of the story is I've always been a safeguard of people I'm with. I'm not trying to take advantage of anyone.

What I learned from that relationship: I like being with someone. I get really, really good at pleasing the same person over and over. If I'm with you one or two times, that's gonna be good. If I'm with you thirty times — holy shit, you are going to be singing even if you can't sing. I also learned I can be around somebody and be normal, which I was genuinely worried about for a while.

That relationship was also a redeemability test for me. I can make the claim that I'm a motherfucker who doesn't give a fuck about anybody or anything except for maybe five or six things. Generally I'm not going looking for ways to be a hero. If there's a kid about to get hit by a bus in my range, I'm going. But I'm not running three blocks to go save Spider-Man. With this person though — every second we were together I wanted to do what was in their best interest, not manipulate them into what I wanted. I did that every time. That was the test. I passed it.

I'm also a seven to live with, on a scale of ten. That's not bad for someone as uncouth as me. The over-under on dick pics I've sent in the last five years — I'd go over three thousand. Face pics, probably four thousand. That sounds about right.

And there was one situation at Framingham State that I've never forgotten — a girl who blacked out on a beer and a half at three in the afternoon and woke up with her shirt half off. She drove a Mustang. I went running after her and said: how the fuck am I supposed to know someone gets incapacitated on under two beers? I might've touched her pubes — I don't even think I did, I don't remember — I had three beers, she had one and a half. We were listening to Oasis. I never forgot that. Dude, you don't come at me like that. I'm not that guy. There's no victims. Go find them. If there's no victims, there's no crime, and that's not something I am. I'm the victim if anything. Okay.

When it ended, it ended perfectly. Everyone was happy. No drama. I knew at that moment that my role for them was break-glass-in-case-of-emergency — they can find me if things go really sideways, and I'm there. But I know my place.

My mother died during this time too. So I'm free of that obligation now. I don't say that without feeling — but it's the truth, and it freed me to build.

I came back to life about four or five years ago. Got a job doing maintenance for a year or two — that was good. I've been a full-fledged pot head for years and years, but I don't drink anymore. No other drugs. Just weed. That's it.

I'm not really good at having friends. I have a tendency to use people when I'm not paying attention — when I'm conscious of it, I'm good. I've pretty much been a lone wolf my entire adult life. The only girl I ever truly loved was Lady Weaver, and she's gone. I actively avoided females for the better part of the last fifteen years.

But that's about to change.

I now have one real friend — my roommate. He's been in my life for a few years now. We are the complete opposite of each other in every possible way. I'm loud, he's not. I tell people where to go and how to get there, he doesn't. I wanna eat rich people, he's nice to them. I'm an animal person, he's a human person. He likes chunky construction guys. I like twinks and trans women, and I only stick my dick in guys who look like girls. We don't hook up. But we work together perfectly.

He's been at the same restaurant for twenty-five years, pays his taxes, and he is genuinely one of the nicest human beings you'll ever meet — right between my twenty-year-old trans friend and Denmark Girl on the niceness scale. Very compassionate. Very hospitable. The kind of person who will always help you.

He's my personal assistant, and I'm his. He does all the shit I hate doing, I do the shit he needs done. He knows camera, knows photography. He's half Martha Stewart, half Bob Vila — he can create pretty much anything. He likes to drive, so he can be my chauffeur. He can handle my dating apps. He can even pretend to be me and get me laid, if it comes to that. We'll train him like a monkey with an organ — whatever we need.

When my project expands and I have capital to work with, he's going to have an expanded role as an ambassador of Tom.

There's just one thing: we have to get him citizenship. He's not an American citizen and I am not losing my guy over that. If they try to boot him from the United States, I say: where are you going? Get my passport. I'm coming too. Wherever he ends up, the project goes. That is how non-negotiable this is — it is TOP OF THE LIST.

So now I've gone from an army of one to an army of two, plus a cat. A three-year-old black cat who is a real cunt to me when I go out of town. She saw me pack my computer, hid somewhere in the apartment, and I had to leave for fifty hours without knowing where she was. When I came back she was not happy with me, and she scratched the shit out of me. I love her, but she's on my shit list. Anyway.

The cat wants a yard.

This ends in ten days. This life of working alone, building in the dark — it's over. My new life starts in the middle of May, and what that means is going out to public venues, finding people, looking them in the face and saying: this is what I do. This is what I want to do.

I've done everything I could possibly do by myself. Alone, sitting in front of a computer, away from everyone. That section is done. I'm not going back.

I am a free agent until September 1st. That gives me May, June, July, and August to get people excited, start a bidding war, and have a deadline. September 1st is when the words open up — all 434 lyrics available for anyone to use, free, to make music. Whoever wants to do anything, start now. September 1st is when it goes into full effect.

I need an investor. I need someone who says: holy fuck, this is amazing, I'm dead serious about doing this — here's X, here's Y, here's Z. Sign here. Here's your healthcare. Here's your weekly check. Here's your bonus. I'll see you four nights a week.

I need a venue. A physical space — a bar, a coffeehouse, a music room — where musicians come to make songs in real time with a live audience and an online community participating through a moderator.

I need a CEO. Someone with operational skills who can build and run this thing while I focus on creative decisions. Someone who makes things happen. Takes the liability. Finds the venue. Raises or brings capital. Builds the team. Handles citizenship requirements. Manages the chaos. I want to be Tony Soprano — I only talk to Sal, and Sal tells everyone what to do. Ideally someone with talent and looks who can front the project while I sit in the back and write the next thing.

I need healthcare — a thousand dollars a month, non-negotiable. I currently have coverage through Maine but don't want to run this project in Maine.

The window is forty-eight to fifty-eight. Five years for sure. Ten years if I don't die. That's it. That's our window.

Thirty years of writing material.

Two thousand poems. Two thousand lines. Fifteen to twenty books in PDFs scattered across hard drives that need to be organized. Song ideas. Books of ideas. Sports writing. I've probably written a few actual books in there somewhere — I have miles and miles of shit. Just in the last two years alone I put together sixty or seventy new pieces. So it's not stopping.

What survived from the wreckage of my life became 434 core song ideas organized into 34 albums. Not random piles — structure. Each album is a mood, a direction, a different emotional weather system. Some are beautiful. Some are broken. Some are funny. Some are dangerous. Some are both.

Already, over 120 songs have been recorded from these words by musicians from all over the world. China, Denmark, everywhere. So this is not theory — this is already happening.

And then there's the letters. If you ever want to get to Denmark Girl's mom and access her fucking email — the letters to Denmark Girl would be my best writing ever. Unconditional love pouring off every page. It would make your heart melt. I probably spent three to six months of my life writing and typing to her over the years. Nobody's ever seen it except maybe her mother. That's the stuff that tells you who I am at my absolute core.

The 35th album I haven't written yet. The first 34 are the loss leader. The 35th is where the real money comes from. After the first 34 make my name known everywhere, the bidding begins. I retain writer credit and future rights. The check better be big, and it better clear.

Non-exploitative model. Scalable — from seventy-five people in a small room to tens of thousands online. Bottom-up profit. That is the rule.

My lyrics are the trees. The raw material. Free land that people can build on. Once you add anything to my words — melody, arrangement, vocals, production — that's yours. Whatever you build, you own. Whatever you earn, you keep a fair share of. The blockchain tracks every contribution, every contributor, every build on top of a build.

You can't exploit fans. You can't exploit creative talent. Once this goes full corporate-push, once we become the bad guys — it's over. The model is: build a fan base that genuinely loves back, and the revenue follows naturally from trust rather than extraction. Jimmy Kimmel was great on The Man Show and became completely useless the moment he went mainstream — everybody knows that. That's the cautionary tale. Credibility is the whole ballgame.

The venue runs four nights a week. This is the entire engine. Everything else is built around this. Improv songwriting nights. Whose Line Is It Anyway but for music. Give two or three musicians twenty minutes on a topic, go around the circle, one person does the first line, the next does the second. Once you get me and some talented people in the same room, you could do anything.

Tickets run from free to a hundred dollars at the high end. The goal is ten thousand people at ten dollars, not a hundred people at a thousand dollars. The door stays open. That is the whole point.

No private equity. No board of directors. No shareholder ownership. I've spent thirty years critiquing the system. I do not want to become it. We can't be Sam Altman — establish ChatGPT as a public thing that's going to save the world, then privatize it and do bad things to the people who should trust you. Wink wink. Sad face emoji.

The fan model I'm aiming for is The Why Files on YouTube — the best channel on YouTube. Those people, once you've got them, you've got them. I'm not Hecklefish, but I could be Hecklefish. If we find a Hecklefish substitute, we're gonna be good. Build a fan base that genuinely loves back and the revenue follows naturally from that trust. That's the only version worth building.

As far as what I actually need to live: my cat wants a yard. I want a house with a fence where she can go outside. I don't need a mansion. I need healthcare, a weekly salary, a sign-on bonus, and a percentage of revenue from live appearances. I've been poor by choice for long enough.

I don't need billions. I need enough to not worry.

On Lady Weaver dying: I buried this. I shouldn't have. She died of cancer — I got an email from her mother in 2022 or 2023. She left behind a young adult son and babies with her fiancé. She left quietly and without anywhere near enough notice. That is the biggest loss of my lifetime. This entire project — the free lyrics, the blockchain, the bottom-up profit model — was cemented in her honor. Taking the most devastating thing that ever happened and building something hugely positive out of it. Do it for Lady Weaver. That's what the catalog is for.

On the ten thousand subscribers: I had ten thousand YouTube subscribers when YouTube first came out. I was making music, I was on my way. Then Denmark, then the lost years, and I deleted everything. The channels, the songs, the subscribers — gone. Two subscribers now. Ten views. That's the whole joke. That's why the business plan exists.

On the marriage: I married the Belarusian girl specifically so she could stay in the country and finish college. I knew going in what it was. I sent her out clubbing on weekends with her hot Asian girlfriend while I stayed home building my catalog on the internet. That's the truth and I'm not ashamed of it. We both knew the deal.

On bisexuality: I like what I like. I like twinks and trans women. I've said it out loud now. The album “Bi Ride or Die” is not an accident.

On the political stuff: The State of Israel warmonging on the world stage with blatant disregard for the lives of babies, children, animals, civilians, and even houseplants is a serious fucking problem. Democrats, it's been sixty years since you put out somebody worth voting for. Donald Trump blows goats. Joe Biden sucks ass. Tolerant people of the Jewish faith are not a problem to anybody. A president who has been infiltrated by foreign agents is not serving the will of the citizens of the United States and needs to be removed through the democratic process. That's where I stand.

On the list: I used to have a list of the top fifty people we should eliminate for the betterment of humanity. Steve Buscemi was in the top five. I don't have the list anymore — haven't had one in years. I kill people on paper now. I let the words do the fighting.

On the handwritten originals: Somewhere there's a box of handwritten material going back twenty-plus years. Original copies, handwritten, from over the last thirty years. If this ever blows up, that archive is memorabilia — auction items, collector pieces, historical artifacts. I know the box exists. Worth finding before it gets lost again.

On what I actually want: A live venue. Musicians. A CEO. Healthcare. A weekly salary. A sign-on bonus. A percentage of revenue. Citizenship for my roommate — TOP OF THE LIST. And to start dating women again. Wink.