"How many copies of my record will I have

"How many copies of my record will I have to sell to actually make money?" "Oh you're still hung up on money? I though you were an artist."

"Yes, but I need things to keep my creativity flowing. Expensive things." BubbaB looked pointedly at my watch. "Give that to me now & I will sing my next hit for you." Artists!

Once you find a person who - with his whole demeanour - instructs you on fame being only accessible through him, you know that

you've found a good one and you should cling as hard as you can to make it to the top. Best part is, you can get him drunk and he'll start spilling trade secrets. "It's all in the

hips," he'll say in his stupor. Take notes - climbing the ladder in the cutthroat world of cha-cha-cha is hips-centric. "Buy stock in rumba," he'll say next, you clinger you.

But what he meant was "Buy stock in Roomba." She however invested all her mother's earnings and her father's "mad money" in dancing. At the end of three months she was broke, but

god could she dance! She danced when the Mazda was repossessed, she danced when she was evicted, she danced as her fellow indigents begged for change along the Santa Monica pier.

She danced for many years in many, many, different places, with many different people, in many different styles. It wasn't until she danced the mamushka that her talent was

recognized by quantum physicists everywhere at once. She had succeeded in being both unknown and popular, awkward and graceful, ordinary and extraordinary, simultaneously and in

sync with nothing. She was the collective dream of little girls and science peeps, dashed.