RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition who publishes zines & physical books & electronic books & music & photography & digital art & just generally whatever feels necessary to survive this deluded earth thru Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts survival systems (Version 69, establish 14 Feb 1973). Comments encouraged.

Saturday, June 18

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - May '11 #4: "Lounge Like You Mean It Freestyle Screwed & Chopped Song" by Prolo


I don't really remember when this happened, other than a vague Prolo recording session in the 18 foot camper trailer at one point, but the "lounge like you mean it" line must have been something I was enamored with because it ended up being a Solaris Earth Pipeline CD title. Don't really lose whole windows of things I did anymore now that I don't drink myself up into frenzies, which is good for the most part, but there was a twisted beauty in being as shocked and entertained at what I read as a stranger would be, even though I wrote it. Now I don't write much of anything that speaks to that person that would be that twisted up. Not quite sure whether I'm moving to a next phase or I'm a punk ass bitch that would get killed by my 1999 self in time machine wars or what. I feel like there's a certain impossibility in remaining anti-structure and anti-the way things are without the convenience of being fucked-up by substances, but that could just me trying to flaunt. Hard to say. Shit man, hard to say anything when you get self-aware, and hard to not be self-aware when everyone's got a video camera on their hip and there's cameras pointed in three directions on the corner of most big box commercial neighborhoods. Motherfuckers is facial recognizing me whether I'm self-aware or not.
Completely unrelated to anything, this morning flying in to work, fifteen minutes late, which seems to be my standard time for ten years now, I got stuck behind an old dude and his ol' lady in a faded white Ford Futura, probably a '69, because it looked just like the beige one I used to have in high school. My dad got that car for me from my grandpa for free by installing a new stereo in my aunt's car. I had some times in that car, speaking of fucked-up and twisted, and wrecked it or got it stuck in strange places multiple times, and it never gave up. Actually the biggest wreck I had in it was some other dude's fault down the road from me, and the insurance asshole came out and deemed the Futura totaled, so we got $400 for it (the blue blood value) and my dad and me took off the one busted up fender, hammered it into okay shape, and shit was all good, plus we had $400.
My dad has been dead for a while now, and he was a fucked-up dude in his own right, both bad and good, and caused me a lot of internal stress patterns that I could've done without. But he also taught me how to talk shit with swagger, which is one of my greatest skills, so props to that motherfucker, who was known as Tuna so much that it's on his grave marker, along with a chainsaw image. And when I think about a dude who had a 7th grade education (if that) who was known by street name and died with nothing more symbolic of his life than his ability to work on both two- and four-stroke small engines, and I see where I'm at, even if it ain't far to most, shit man, I done come some long ass soul miles on my pecking across the top of this earth rock. And with Father's Day on my mind because that's the made up holiday going on this weekend, I'm good with what I do with my genetic offsprung little humans, Plug One, Plug Two, and Plug Three. I still can't play an acoustic guitar, but I'm plug tunin' out some sweet sounds.
STEAL "Lounge Like You Mean It"
NEXT:
Drunken Irishman music, but hipster and shit!

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

My first car was a faded green 1976 Chrysler Cordoba bought for 300 bucks cash. Known to me and all my friends as simply "The Doba". It was a gas guzzling ($.79 cent gas guzzling since we are talking about 1989 or so), ugly, indestructable mother fucker that could just as easily plow through some mud as burn donuts into the cul-de sacs. I even had to spend about 45 minutes with the owner when I bought it to learn how all the shit worked. For example, it had power windows but they didnt work, no trunk key- but I could still get in, etc. I have always been proud of that car because in my mind it is testament to my faking not being as poor as I really was buy somehow wearing decent Nike's and t-shirts representing the high school sports teams I played on to school 4 days per week, but doing it with my 17 year old swagger. I somehow got mad pussy driving around in that piece of shit, and if you ever saw that car you would know that chicks were not into me for my hooptie. My friends had nice Pontiac Sunbirds and new Plymouth Chargers with 4 cylinder fuel injection and shit.

I like the De La Soul reference, and didn't you write that your girls are inventing a bird language just like the DeLa Soul dudes invented their own language?

RM