I want money. I need money. I will have all the money I desire. I am a money mag­net. Money is my servant. This is a medita­tion, folks, don’t mind me, just keep read­ing. I’m trying to materialize $100 bills in the bush outside my door. I wouldn’t mind some new clothes, either, or some expen­sive health food instead of all this Wonder Bread and Spam. Please don’t think me crude and selfish. I’ll work on world peace, universal brotherhood, etc., just as soon as I summon up enough money to buy that $50 janitor suit I saw at Sears or that $27 aluminum baseball bat I’m going to use to bust up this dump I live in so I can start all over.

A new mantra: Om mani gimme sum. Or alternately: Oh money gimme some. Repeat a thousand times a day, ten thousand times, till death do us part. Chant along with me, friends, send some heavy materialistic prayers my way, some long green vibrations, some visions of new Pintos and meditation stools and negative ion generators and cases of bottled wheat grass and teakwood salad bowls and carved ivory candelabras and Yamaha power amps and ancient Egyptian amulets and $6 Spanish omelettes.

Help me out just this once and I’ll stop pestering you about money forever. I’ll move on to an exclusive, full-time concern with the affairs of the spirit. Do you realize what I can do for you if my needs are amply taken care of? Do you know anyone else, for instance, who has the power to defuse nuclear warheads using nothing more than psychokinesis?

I’m not interested in sponging off the welfare state. I’m sick of unmarked Vienna Sausages and rotten squash from the dumpster in back of A & P, I’m bored with five pounds of old men’s clothes for a dollar at the Goodwill Bargain Barn, I’m tired of beig deprived of my beloved little inanimate time-saving objects like hair dryers and electric can openers and electric garage openers and good pure psychotropic drugs. I’m not your run-of-the-mill slobbering hippie carrying around shattered Woodstockian ideals and damaged chromosomes. I do not nurture desires to bite the big brotherly hand that feeds me. I don’t even want to be fed by the big brotherly hand. I want classy food. I want to eat out once a day, twice on Saturdays and Sundays. If you want to know the truth, I’m a closet eugenicist. I have blue blood, rich and bitchy tastes, even if l have been a pauper all my adult life. It’s been very cool to take my dates to the health food store and buy extravagant dinners to-go with food stamps — food stamp stories always perk up a conversation — but I’m ready to evolve now, please.

I’ve hinted at these feelings before, but I really mean it this time, once and for all. I am too old to wash dishes. And I’ll swear on a stack of I Chings NEVER to wash another dish (except maybe my own) for the rest of my life, if someone will kindly send me the $66 or so to buy the six I Chings I’ll need to make a stack.

No compromises. I am driving a hard bargain with the Universal Life Flow because not only do I want money, I want the money to be free. That’s right, you heard me, I refuse to work for a living. The Indian prophet Smohalla, a distant ancestor of mine, once said, “My young men shall never work. Men who work cannot dream, and wisdom comes to us in dreams.” Therefore, I want free money. Free, clean, unfolded, crisp, no-strings-attached, beautiful money, money full of good, supernatural vibes, money in large denominations.

I will be a man of leisure. Never less than eight and a half hours of sweet dreamful sleep for the rest of my life. Long luxurious afternoons on my circular water-bed built into my custom-made orgone box. Drinking iced hibiscus tea, listening to the latest in sacred Balinese music, reading up on my sex magic texts. Maybe some servants, androgynous, dark-skinned, exotic-looking servants, bodies well-oiled, none less than 6’3”. Incense from ancient Babylon burning in the hand of a life-size likeness of the Egyptian cat-goddess. Mandatory daily meditation: Making love two, three or four times, depending on my location in my biorhythm cycle (calculated within seconds by my mini-home computer). Pleasure and wisdom. Sensual spirituality and spiritual sensuality.

Suffering is for Buddhists and sissies.

Do you hear me Dad? Do you hear me “God”? I’m warning you, “God,” if you don’t provide me with all the money I need by December 1, 1979, I’m going to call you “Bob” for five years. Not a very flattering title, eh? Think about it. It isn’t even “God” backwards.

And Dad, if you’re out there, if by chance you’re reading this, go get the money in the shoeboxes under Grandma’s bed and send it to me right away. This is my command. Keep 10% of it and donate it to your High Episcopalian Church if you like. I can be a generous guy when I’m getting all I deserve.

And while I’m at it: Patti Smith, if you’re out there, send me a check for $10,000 for that song of mine you stole, you know which one I mean. Just send me the money and I won’t say another word about it.

And you, Alice R., why haven’t I heard from you? I won the love of you-know-who for you with my drink of you-know-what. Where’s the $400 you promised?

And you, California poets everywhere with your stable social security disability incomes from the benevolent state: Support the rest of us poets (like me) who couldn’t prove we were crazy like you. You were lucky that the state assigned a lenient shrink to review your cases, whereas mine was too dull to recognize an aesthetically-brilliant insanity and turned me down. But admit it: I’m just as weird as you. So why don’t you all just chip in and send me a slice of the pie?

And Michael H: Send me $140 for the windshields you broke or I’ll make you act like a groundhog. And Dawn F: Send me $5 or I’ll tell what I found in your garbage.

And Helen, don’t send me any money, just fall in love with me. But if you won’t fall in love with me, send me $5 a week for the rest of my life to compensate me for the barren emotional world I live in without you.

Benefactors, step forward. Patrons, patronesses, welcome. Prosperity gurus, how about some free advice? I am now available for any and all donations. I’m ready to begin my spiritual and artistic careers in earnest. Money is the root of all evil in my life because I don’t have enough of it. Oh money gimme some. Oh money gimme some. I deserve large amounts of money. Money flows to me easily and effortlessly. All the limitless resources of the universe are at my command. Spare change?

(Send all contributions to me, Rob Brezsny, P.O. Box 1612, Santa Cruz, CA 95061.)

Copyright Rob Brezsny


Rob Brezsny is a columnist for the Santa Cruz Good Times, where this piece originally appeared.

Rob used to live in North Carolina and wrote regularly for THE SUN, under such pen names as Lamellicorn the Clone and Medea. His last story to appear here was “Californications” in November 1977. We asked him what’s happened to him since. He writes:

“I’ll let you choose:

“I’ve fallen in love with my female Jungian analyst who is not old enough to be my mother.

“I’ve accidentally become the most widely-known astrologer in Santa Cruz, which is not the same as being the best astrologer in Santa Cruz. People approach me in bars (sometimes while I’m in the middle of a song (oh yeah, back into rock and roll, only we call it something different now)) and ask me advice just exactly as if I were a hip Ann Landers. I think that means I have a lot of power, but it might mean the reverse.

“Other than a jet set party where I punched Gordon Lightfoot in the mouth, and a backstage get-together where I rolled on the floor and looked up Grace Slick’s skirt, and some of the Halloween bashes at Monkey Top in Durham, I’ve always been bitterly disappointed at parties, which I feel should always last all night and end up with piles of people rolling on the floor at dawn. So recently I rented a restaurant for a night and threw a party which was the best and wildest party I’ve ever been to in my life. It was called a Zen Burger Party. The newspaper said “Chic Dada Event of the Month” but it was most certainly the chic Dada event of the year, if not the decade, in Santa Cruz.

“I was the lead vocalist and chief boohoo in the so-called Mystery Spot Band which was featured at the Zen Burger Party. Only now we’ve dissolved Mystery Spot and formed a new band called Youth In Asia, completely reformulating the concept of music and show, under the title “Post-Punk Music and Medicine for the Lumpen Proletariat.”

“Let’s see what else:

“For a year and a half, in addition to writing an astrology column, I wrote a kind of mock-spiritual column for the Good Times (which was, by the way, completely out of step with their editorial policy) and this won me many fans and followers, some of whom figured out my phone number clairvoyantly and still call me regularly in the middle of the night to keep me posted on current events on the astral plane, hell, the atmosphere five miles up, Venus, and the fields and abandoned buildings of Santa Cruz where the (hundreds of) street people sleep. I think of myself as a gossip columnist who reports only on the comings and goings of the collective unconscious.

“I work sometimes at the Post Office, just like Charles Bukowski, and wrap my hair (which is still long, split-ended, vintage 1969) in a little French bun, not because the Post Office supervisor would care, but just so I can re-arouse in myself those old Woodstockian ideas by feeling I have to hide my hip-ness. Complex alchemy, n’est-ce pas?

“I still want to be a poet, but probably won’t have time to do it until I’m 45.”