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Chapter 3, verses 6-9

As the sun reached it's zenith on the seventh day the mountains did quake and Rob crieth out, 'Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani'?

But help cometh not from above, nor from the right or left. Cometh it not from the fires of Sheol. It cometh not from the Rockerfeller Foundation. Neither from the Ford. It cometh not from grass roots funding agencies nor from the National Endowment for the Arts. It cometh not from PBS, NBC, CNN nor from the Disney channel. And as the silence of the grants filled the heavens with emptiness the prophet became sorely vexed. Robin wept.

And as day became night the Dark Knight of the Soul turned and said to the multitude, "I'm not paid to do it but I do it anyway".

But they heareth him not so he said, "Well, we go on at The Thing, Inc without nearly the support".

But they began to turn away so he digressed and said, "We're sort of at that point when Dylan went electric, maybe?"

But still they heareth not his words but the Lord heard his cry and answered, 'Whom dost thou think thou art? Art thou not a Mid-West cowboy, an MIT old boy, a gardener? Dost thou think the Lord of Art, the Giver of Grants, the Framer of Fame careth about the feathers on a tiny bird hoping along the ground merrily poking it's cute little beak under the autumn leaves? So what? Maybe I do. But I careth not for the bitter, self-righteous bleating of another New York artist whining about cash flow. If money be the root of your desire fret not, neither be afraid. Maketh thou a sound business case, based on a 3 year cost recovery model. Engageth financial consultants and followeth thou their advice to the letter. Yeildeth not to the temptations of artistic integrity nor dwelleth on the romance of the discotheque for the paths therein lead to death. Hear my words, young Robin, and follow my ways or shut the fuck up and get a real job.'

Here endeth the first reading.

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