SONG OF THE DAY: Some Woman's Bedroom (kudzu'd)

An interesting (to me) aspect of U.S. American culture is how the path becomes off the beaten path which then becomes forgotten and perhaps demolished and renewed in an attempt to regain that euphoric newness. Downtown Norfolk, and Norfolk itself, gets lost in the larger bubblings of “The 757”. But a lot of sub-culturally historic shit went on down there. In terms of tattooing, Cap Coleman came to Norfolk around 1918, the downtown Main Street of Norfolk was one of the more wild and wide opened places in the country, and definitely state of Virginia. His tattooing shop set up and was a mainstay there for decades, spreading tattooing worldwide through the sailors that would (and still do) get stationed in Norfolk.
Not far from there, first up Church Street, but later right around the corner on Granby, Frank Guida operated a booming record store, specializing in all music. A Sicilian who grew up in The Bronx, he had history singing in Harlem night clubs before coming to Norfolk, so he was an avid supporter of jazz and R&B music, and in fact, got involved in the music scene, and helped grow what would become known as the Norfolk Sound. Primary creative force behind that sound was Lenis Guess, who started his own label and began promoting and managing his own work as well as others. He had his hand in a bunch of great music, either as songwriter, performer, or recording engineer. Eventually, he moved to New York City, as most folks building scenes “off the beaten path” are tempted to do, trying to find the fame they seek in life. But Guess never got the props he should’ve gotten. A couple retrospectives have come out in recent years, including a 45 box set called The Norfolk Sound, put out Soul Jazz Records in the U.K. This is not from that box set, but an independent single, seemingly released as part of Guida’s label Legrand Records, back around 2000. The copy I got (can’t remember where, but it was in physical person, and I remember being stoked as fuck to find it) had plenty of scribbles, with some Xes on the B-side, “Some Woman’s Bedroom” with a note saying to not play on the air. That made me think it was older than it likely was, but who knows? Who the fuck knows? Lenis Guess passed away in 2021.
U.S. highway 460 begins down in Norfolk, and these downtown spaces used to be the eastern terminus of this formerly major highway, long before the interstate system was built. I know much of 460 well, to this day, from The 757, up through where I grew up Southside Virginia, with a bunch of my family including my dad and grandparents buried in a cemetery right along it near Rice. And I’ve driven that road slowly but happily avoiding the interstates, down to Roanoke and Southwest Virginia, on into West Virginia, many many times over recent decades. 460 still goes all the way to Kentucky, almost to Indiana, and before a 1976 decommissioning, used to go through the crazy spaces of southern Indiana and Illinois, all the way to East St. Louis, before terminating at the Mississippi River.
Conceivably, you could still piece together that path, from the Mississippi at East St. Louis, looking across at the Arch from the casino they built that’s supposed to resurrect that particular dying space (but hasn’t yet). And you could plod your way along these forgotten and abandoned paths, all the way through the southern Midwest (a strange place, for sure… the land of death matches), on through the heart of Appalachia, into Virginia, through all the less glamorous and non-prestigious parts of my home state, all the way back to Norfolk, not quite to the Atlantic, but right there at Ocean View Avenue, where the Chesapeake Bay serves as a poor man’s Atlantic Ocean anyways. I’d actually love to do that trip, slow as molasses, to allow the deep vibrations of all that remains, despite us calling much of it abandoned. It’s never abandoned, so much as what’s left behind ain’t what the people in charge believe is important. Fuck them.
When I play this song slowed down, those vibes start to buzz in unseen ways, like cicadas of the soul, and the Born to Lose Thunderfoot tattoo on my shoulder starts to throb, spreading into my chest, I guess where the heart would be since it leans that way a little in actual physiology. Humans ain’t ever been wholly symmetrical. But when I’m playing it in the right conditions, I get to throbbing in my Born to Lose heart zone, and I remember how much has been forgotten, in the name of keeping everything bright and shiny and new. And I remember how much all that old shit is way more important than whatever is being trended into my consciousness right now. There’s far more truth in dust than shine. That’s always been true.

SONG OF THE DAY: Evil Ways (kudzu'd)

I came upon an abandoned warehouse full of thick wood scraps, a few miles off the beaten path but still along the iron path, which don't run quite so much these days. I figured this was a sign from the church of level track, so I been making signs with them scraps. I can only haul so much off during each pilgrimage, but I been bringing 'em home, priming 'em up with scrap can paint from my Manifesting Wilderness Spirit homies, then painting Mark 10:25 on each of 'em, and nailing them to trees here or there, where it feels important to remind folks, but also where ain't nobody with a legal eyeball bearing down on me. John 3:16 gets all the roadside attention, and it's definitely a great line. But what with all the prosperity gospels proliferating like kudzu through the foundation of American institutions right now, as a society, we definitely done lost sight of Mark 10:25. And I don't wanna spell out the verse's words, make it too obvious, because really it's like a hint left for the seeker, who then searches it out and finds the ancient lesson that's always allegedly been part of our cultural foundation, but ain't nobody paid attention to this bezel of wisdom since the days of Reagan. That warehouse in the middle of nowhere ain't gonna run out of wood no time soon, and I ain't gonna run out of fingers willing to applicate paint, and inshallah I hope to scatter many many more along familiar 434 roads, and more and more in 540, 804, 276, 304, 681, 252, 301, and 336 forays, as my life conditions permit. I don't dare wander too close to the 202 heart of false idolatry; I ain't strong enough. But the more Mark 10:25 marks I can leave can hopefully cause reflection by folks headed in that direction. We all do what we can, when living right, to try and help the world be as beautiful as it is supposed to be.

SONG OF THE DAY: I'm Just Your Clown (kudzu'd)

When I attempt to calculate where I’m at standing next to the pyramid of abstract numbers stored inside Yakub’s fingerprints, to contemplate if my class transition was strong enough in two-thirds of a generation to be able to “retire” like they do on the TV shows, it looks iffy at best, which to be honest, is much better than most of my folks have known. When you become the first generation seemingly with some work and paycheck stability, America reminds you it’s a carnival game, and the carney lenders and zero percent interest havers and all them types start yelling at you, because capitalism desperately wants to break us all down to zero before we die. But I’ve known sleeping outside normal walls, and I ain’t gonna live what’s left of my life afraid of what could go wrong, even if the con is set up to go exactly that way. I never did get a chance to ride trains, and though our American world ain’t really geared the same ways it was a century ago, I can stand at a busy intersection around a big town’s skirt, and cast those cardboard sign trotlines, to panhandle my way through a day. It ain’t nothing new. People like me been waiting for nothing for as long as they sewed white stars into a blue fabric sky that was far more mythology than reality. Sleeping on the ground is just getting back to the Earth and returning a dust a little ahead of the reaper showing up, making that transition a little easier. If need be, I can be that funny little futuristic hobo clown with the sad face, camping in the woods behind the big box store that survived these conditions better than me, because the railroad tracks became interstates, and the town depot is a Wal-Mart. I wonder if the carnival game will become so abstract that they have historic strip malls as tourist destinations for folks to swim through the romanticized nostalgia of how easy life used to be, when all they had to do was drive their supersized vehicles through metastasizing suburbs to their favorite chains? Could the con possibly last that long? Maybe. There’s a whole lotta marks out here still.

SONG OF THE DAY: Lonely Tramp (kudzu'd)

I have been lazy about wearing deodorant every day, and now I’ve got a natural funk too strong for deodorant it seems. Like even if I clean my dirty ass up, and put on deodorant like I’m about to go to court or a job interview, an hour or so later, the funk starts to seep through. It’s also hot as fuck, plus wildfire smoke blowing in, so I’m sure it’s all connected. Who the fuck cares though? We live in a dystopia. Am I expected to smell like cyborg lavender sprouts during a dystopia? That seems unreasonable. But even if I’m assimilated by the false civilization of society to be ashamed of it, when I walk a good couple miles along railroad tracks in the soaring climate done changed heat, and get all extra stanky, and am carrying a great metal bucket I found along the tracks from them doing work, and have it filled up with exactly 8 clasps and 13 spikes (the magic number of both), that stank I have when I get back to wherever I started, I personally find it a pleasant stank. And when you read enough about the science of pheromones, you realize that’s probably not an unnatural thing at all. And yet, ultimately I am assimilated into society, so I rub the cyborg lavender sprouts under my arms even longer and harder, and hope nobody notices my raw humanity.

SONG OF THE DAY: Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get (kudzu'd)

Cut some grass today, for the first time in over a month. I know that’s so because the last time I cut it was the first time this year, and it was the end of May, because I was mad at global warming and the world in general that I had to cut grass before June got here. But the combination of it being an extreme drought and my own general laziness allowed me to not having cut it since, until earlier today. Even then, I only cut the back and one side because I didn’t feel like moving my railroad spike spray painting station (which is the leftover hulking frame of a patio table that a tree limb fell on and busted the top and all the glass) and the spray paint milk crate, nor did I feel like wrestling with the heavy ass entertainment stand that I put in the front yard, meaning to use as a shelf on the back porch (which is actually the front porch), but then I just left it out in the weather and it’s all fucked up now and probably even heavier, just standing on its side in abandonment. The cats use it as an outdoors scratching post though, and it helped me not feel obligated to cut the front yard today, too, which again, could be called laziness, although I also posit the theory that nature and Earth itself is kinda lazy, and if humans were lazier, the Earth would be in way better condition. Being productive is not natural, and in fact, we attempt to make the Earth be productive at a rate that far exceeds its natural cycles. We don’t even do this out of some moral imperative to feed everybody either; we do it for profit, and whatever can’t be sold is tossed into the trash, because it’s not profitable to risk any liability by giving it away for free to those in need. There’s an old book I love called The Right to Be Lazy, by a French socialist Paul Lafargue, who says in his opening salvo, “A strange delusion possesses the working classes of the nations where capitalist civilization holds its sway. This delusion drags in its train the individual and social woes which for two centuries have tortured sad humanity. This delusion is the love of work, the furious passion for work, pushed even to the exhaustion of the vital force of the individual and his progeny. Instead of opposing this mental aberration, the priests, the economists and the moralists have cast a sacred halo over work.” I’ve got this book somewhere upstairs, and I hope my eyeballs magically find it, going up there to fuck around on the turntables at some point the next few days. I’d like to put this in the bathroom, where all my best reading is still done (like any truly philosophically lazy person). Anyways, there’s more grass to be cut, always, just like there’s more dishes to be washed, and clothes to be folded, and bills to be paid, and lackadaisical hopes to be put on the backburner of life until you have run out of time and find out you have squandered all your idle moments chasing the carrot on a stick called productivity, hustle and ground to death, into the black flecks of pepper that flavor the inheritances of leisure lifestyles of the wealthy. Our wasted lives of labor allow them their leisure, and all we get is promises of an eternity we can’t touch while here on Earth to enjoy it. In other words, I’m not cutting the front yard today.

SONG OF THE DAY: Slow Down (kudzu'd)

I prefer slowed down music not just for aesthetic tastes, but as resistance to the business as usual status quo operational status of civilization, that has poisoned us all to believe we must “hustle and grind” ourselves like gears, and be as efficient as machines. Humans were never meant to be no fuckin’ machines, and we all got music innate to our heart, but we’re taught that it has to be commodity to be sold, but even then it was record labels or now streaming oligarchs who make the fattest slice of the pie, never the artist. And of course, because we are all fighting the riptides of capitalism that are always ready to tear us from whatever precarious stability we’ve managed to cobble together, at the first medical emergency or legal issue or really anything, and dump us outside of the system, penniless and hopeless, regardless of the efficiency with which we lived our life, and blame it on us – that it is our own fault we could not swim against the unforgiving riptides channeled against us. It’s all a pretty disgusting and slimy way to have built a civilization, so keep up whatever appearances you have to – make the devil and his supervisory staff believe you are hustling and grinding away, but fuck off at every chance. Don’t just embezzle back the minutes, STEAL BACK YEARS, and move slow as possible so that one lifetime feels like the benefit of three. And sure, I can already hear somebody complaining that why would they want to extend the horrors of existence, why would you slow time down to suffer the indignities of having to work within a system that doesn’t value you? Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Slow down, forever, and smash a motherfuckin’ clock whenever you can, especially one folks have had to clock into. One should never have to clock into anything. What a horrible phrase to have become part of our shared lexicon. So we slow it down to usher in Southern Gothicc Futurism, which moves as slow as kudzu, and invades the devilish master plans of the lords of the land with a thick contrary nature that says, “Fuck y’all, I ain’t doing shit.”

SONG OF THE DAY: Drums of Steel (kudzu'd)

My pops was a wizard of a small engine mechanic, cobbling things together that others couldn’t comprehend. His work truck (the truck from his work) was magical because it had a lift gate, and I used to be excited on the occasional times he brought it home, riding that hydraulic lift up like the little hick I was in the back yard. That truck always had ramps too, for the loading and unloading of riding mowers, to take back to the shop for repairs. I was thinking about this the other day, riding down the road, contemplating my neighbor, who can afford anything his brain desires, as he is the son of a banker, not the son of a small engine mechanic, though he portrays himself as a Working Man now, whereas I am a remote office worker who can’t afford shit it seems. (One time, when I explained an issue I was facing with a dead tree and hovering branches, his solution was simple – “Just pay somebody to come take care of it!”) I guess that’s the path – the son of a poor man hopes to transition classes and not have to work his fingers to the bone and break his body for paychecks; and the son of a rich man wants to occupy his idle life with seemingly meaningful work, so he cosplays as a blue collar workingman, running his own business(es). Nonetheless, I was getting myself mad at how the neighbor cut his half a acre yard with his zero turn mower like twice in a week, even though we’re in a drought, and he was just torturing that grass. Sure, mine is tall and clumpy and feral, and aesthetically displeasing to HOA ass hoes, but it is not dying from torturous manicuring during extreme dryness.
But I also got to thinking about the size of his mower – ridiculously oversized for his yard, even when you factor in the second home he has down the road a few miles, which operates as an event space. Similarly, he has a big truck, like many pretend workingmen of these days. But somehow, despite these trucks being twice as big as the ones from my memories of my pops, the bed is far less. You can’t fit a fuckin’ regular-sized riding mower in them anymore. So men justify to themselves bigger and bigger mowers, which can’t fit in smaller and smaller truck beds, but they are bigger and bigger trucks, which require trailers to move a fuckin’ riding mower around. It always clown car comical to watch some big ass modern existence truck hauling along a trailer with nothing on it but a little ass lawn tractor, albeit too big for the truck bed. So we have this false and unnecessary size thing going on, all of which just feeds the feeble psychology of all these little men who are struggling to find justification for themselves. And not only is it ridiculous, with the supersized truck payments that come with those vehicles (read somewhere about average new truck payment being like $1200 a month? Wtf?), not to mention the additional payments for whatever fuckin’ power equipment you’re cutting your little ass yard with, which probably is why dudes like my neighbor cut it twice a week, because they’re trying to get their money’s worth out of a bad financial decision, which doesn’t matter because they’ve got credit to burn.
And for clarity’s sake, I did experience class transition, so I have a car payment on a new car (2024 Corolla Hybrid) which I will pay until it’s paid off, and then drive until it dies. It’s only the second bank-secured car loan on a brand new car I’ve ever had in my life (and hopefully the last). It is one of the cheaper new hybrid cars you could possibly get. I also used my burgeoning fake ass credit rating carnival game allowance a couple years back to get a good riding mower, which I paid off early when a couple four-digit side hustles here or there came through. But I “worked” the system which ultimately works me.
I don’t really have anything important to point out here, other than we seem to be doing less actual things (like physical work, or moving actual objects with a truck itself, not requiring trailer add-ons and shit) with more monstrously sized mechanisms, all of which are way more expensive, and give us a false sense of dominating our environment. It’s all very feeble-dicked, in my opinion. A real man drives a piece of shit, and can cut grass with a borrowed scythe, or just doesn’t bother cutting it because goddamn it’s hot, and gonna be a desert here in a decade anyways. I often feel unnecessarily angry at these weird men who worship big things of false power, but there is no need in confronting them. You can’t reason with a poisoned brain.

SONG OF THE DAY: Casanova (kudzu'd)

Honestly, I think bringing back airbrushed overalls, which was an urban fashion trend from the early '90s, might be the most Southern Gothicc Futuristic fashion aesthetic possible. It is what we will wear on the work communities of Jupiter's Io moon. I have seen it in visions, many times over. My bloodline cleans the bottom 20 feet or so of the glass of the bubble, to keep the view out clear of space mildew from the intense humidity outside the dome due to volcanic nature of that satellite. They use drones to clean anything higher than 20 feet, but the drones don't do the same level of work as a hand washer, though it takes my bloodline I see these visions through a lot longer, because humans like to sit on futuristic metal boxes and stare off into space, contemplating the horrors of existing in the future, just like we do now. Io is Jupiter's closest moon, which actually is caught in orbit between Jupiter and two other moons of Jupiter, so has a crazy lunar effect, which you can feel living inside the workdome, hence all the sitting around contemplating shit while at work. You can read more about this 7th Workdome biosphere on the surface of Io in the handwritten manuscripts I dream read each night when I remember to wear my CPAP mask. I try to write as much of what I dream read as possible, but it's incredibly difficult for the conscious mind - tethered to this physical reality - to keep up with the sub/unconscious mind, freely exploring the infinite spaces of the innerverse. I do the best I can with the humble human existence I am given. I am thankful to the Creator for access to the visions. I recognize it as a blessing, though it weighs heavy on my conscious mind much of the time. That might be why I "zoned out" while you were talking to me the other day. I wish it was already the future and when I zoned out, I was wearing the airbrushed overalls I see my reverse ancestors wearing, in Io. Sitting there, staring off into space in those overalls looks pretty great, aesthetically.

SONG OF THE DAY: Say No Go (kudzu'd)

Back in the day, tapes were physical objects, and not necessarily as easy to get as folks today might think. And actually, when it came to hip hop, I remember when going to Plan 9 in Richmond back in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s, all their hip hop was locked up in a segregated case that you had to ask someone to open. But the first copy of 3 Feet High & Rising I bought happened to just be beside the checkout at the truck stop in Simplicity when I stopped to get gas in high school one time. It was obviously a bootleg, because the cover was grainy, and once I bought it and opened it, there was nothing printed on the inside of the cover. Tape still worked though. I played the fuck out of that tape.
It’s interesting in retrospect that I bought a bootleg, which allegedly stole profits from the artists, but more likely stole from the record label, who stole from the artists. De La had a long, complicated process of regaining control of their masters and being able to reissue their stuff, including that debut album. But because of sample clearance, and who was going to pay for it – the label or the artist – there’s a lot of samples that have been altered or created in a different way than the original version. I honestly haven’t heard the reissue, at least not that I know, nor would I want to. Why would you willingly accept a remade version like that? And I know it profits the artists now, which is a good thing, but that overlooks the whole fact that sampling got fucked with by legal definitions of intellectual property, and an art form that was way ahead of the times in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s got permanently set back to where the collage technique of making beats has been deemed an economic risk. You can’t do it for commercial purposes, and sure, you could do it at home at your own risk, but if you ever blew up, the intellectual property masters would sick their legal bloodhounds on your ass.
I say all this because for some fucked up reason, even creative types now think in terms of getting paid and monetizing shit. Fuck that. Art should be for art’s sake. And I know we all gotta survive capitalism (what the fuck you think I’m trying to do over here?), but that doesn’t change the fact that a reconstituted not-the-original work recreation by the artist so they own the rights is not an improvement of actual art just because they reclaimed ownership from the shady ass record label.
Anyways, I hope you are still pirating shit, and buying bootlegs, and do not have some bullshit cultural supremacist attitude that “authentic” copies are somehow better than the weird illegal recreations that folks living a truly wild style life out here are pumping out. And this now has spilled into fuckin’ thrift store culture to where you got bougie ass “vintage” markets selling an old ass goddamn wrestling or biker t-shirt for $200. I saw some fake beard shithead defend this by saying, “Y’all said I was charging too much, but I can get it!” Yeah, fuck that shit, bro. Just because you can do something don’t mean you should. But only people with a heart full of real morals feel that. I ain’t living that way. Bootleg everything, pirate even more. Fuck intellectual property. I’m gonna steal some arts shit this evening just on general principle. And I got a whole pile of old vintage wrestling t-shirts on the back porch, just waiting to give away for free to the right person, who’s soul is not poisoned by what we call “culture” in dying ass empire America.

SONG OF THE DAY: Maximum Stimulation (kudzu'd)

The Mennonite grocery store was closed when I came home from the funky quonset thing last weekend, so I couldn’t get more halal turkey bologna. That entire sentence is real and a bezel of the beautiful life I have somehow been blessed with. Allahu akbar (for real).
Also weirdly enough, the frogs by the mucky murkland down the road have seemingly been building a mud statue of Jimmy Castor. I would play this song slowed down to them a lot when they were still tadpoles, in their ectoplasmic incubatory stage, so it makes sense. Still though, it's weird to see a little mud Jimmy Castor, like 2 inches tall, down there. And I just know one of the redneck kids on 4-wheelers is gonna run over it out of basic spite for the artful life. But so far they haven't. Maybe there's hope...

SONG OF THE DAY: Biological Equation (kudzu'd)

For every 7 bananas I buy, I only remember to eat 5. My general habit is I eat one in the car at some point when they are still relatively solid, and then they start going soft and the edge of bad so I frantically eat 4 in a 12-hour period, before giving up on the last two. The 4 I remember to eat in that wonderful soft sweet state, I always toss my peels in the front yard, to trip up ghosts. But actually my front yard is the historic back yard, and my back yard would’ve been the front yard, back when there was a functioning industry back there, and I’d guess most of the ghosts who might have malevolent feelings about the waywardness of my modern way of living might be coming from back there. So fuck, I just realized I been throwing all my banana peels on the wrong side of the house, on the new-fangled “road” side. That’s how they get us – they build physical infrastructure that obfuscates metaphysical reality, and leave us aching in our ancient heart. Damn.

SONG OF THE DAY: Do Your Thing (kudzu'd)

Whatever your thing is, I hope you were able to do it today. I hope that you didn’t have the mental roadblock of some material acquisition which stood in the way of doing your thing. I hope your thing somehow descends from this quote I found from George Clinton, interviewed in the Richmond Times-Dispatch in anticipation of his P-Funk tour opening at the Coliseum in 1978. Clinton said that, “Funk is the absence of – you take the best of what you don’t have, and make the most of it. It’s the ability to cope and be natural. It’s what comes to you naturally. Ok?” The Power of Lounge ain’t nothin’ new, it ain’t nothin’ fancy, it’s as ancient as spring peepers talkin’ shit from the muck. And it’s as southern gothicc futuristic as cicadas making a dope ass crescendo symphony, without practice, in the most humid ass moment you’ve ever known. Whatever your thing is, I hope it’s something along the lines of those things, which come easy and natural, yet seem to have more and more roadblocks put up in front of them by the consumer infrastructure installed everywhere we ain’t looking, at all times. But lounge shall always prevail. And the haters know this; that’s why they’re so panicked to do all their bastard shit so quickly. They’re poisoned by the clock, and the greed of accumulated pyramid scams. They ain’t shit, and they know it, because they wish they were. They just don’t realize, it ain’t about having and doing, it’s about not having and undoing. So do your thing, fellow human ass person poking your eyeballs into the cyberpool.

SONG OF THE DAY: Summer Breeze (kudzu'd)

The current horrors of existence can feel like a lot. Seemingly, from what we "know" - which, we all need to be reminded, has always been a curated flow of information, with the hand that curates sometimes heavier than others - hope can easily get lost in the fog of comprehension. But when you feel that smothering hopelessness descend from your brain into the edges of your heart, I'll remind you that there is never hopelessness in the croak of a frog from a murky swamp of earth and water. The cicadas, even in the heaviest most humid and insufferable heat, always build a crescendo of ancient (and futuristic) harmonies without a filter of hopelessness. What we have just is what it is. We are neither doomed nor blessed, necessarily. We just are. And salvation from our own mistakes always lingers in the shadows that are unseen. In fact, the shadow dwellers have more freedom than most, not just a freedom from the false capital letter Freedom that is now a highly sought after and well marketed brand of boot across your throat, but also from the ups and downs of doom and hope. The contrast is not as pronounced in the shadows, not nearly as exaggerated by the filters of algorithm and bias and mental unwellness that is foundational for the system of consumer exploitation we are living in.
So as the summer breeze blows in this week, seemingly hotter than ever (at least where I lay my head), with records being broken as far back as records have been kept, keep in mind that you are surviving it still, one day at a time. That does not mean it will get easier. But that also does not mean it will perpetually get harder. Whatever it is about the human mind that craves an unsustainable bar chart climbing or descending towards an impossible hope or doom, that is nowhere to be replicated in nature. Balance is always maintained by the Universe. And though humanity may put itself at risk, I take solace in the memory of Neanderthals, who co-existed and had relations with Homo sapiens for thousands of years. And there is absolutely no reason why we can't be some of the stubbornly existential humans who dwell happily in the shadows, for longer than humanly possible, according to all the bar charts ever drawn.

SONG OF THE DAY: Left With a Broken Heart (kudzu'd)

Spinning records in the town I was born in tomorrow, and I’ll probably bring some brown-eyed soul jams like this, but we’ll see if the vibes are right to play ‘em or not. Was messaging with DJ Disco Cat about this today, as we both pulled records, and the difficulty of being a physical media person who is a believer of Universal Magnetics, and how you don’t wanna bring everything possible, but you do wanna have the ability to flow with the in-person tangents that arise. Anyways, it’ll be hot as fuck, so perfect day to come sweat in a quonset building to the olden funk and new boogie funk and whatever the fuck else we end up spinning. It’s June 27th, too, so you know I’ll be honoring DJ Screw. Or maybe you don’t know that. Who the fuck even reads this? Probably mostly bots, and then my sister and my girlfriend, but they usually see it after the fact. I think that covers it. Well okay bots, I look forward to seeing you IN REAL LIFE. If you are not my sister or my girlfriend, leave a comment. *tumbleweeds*

SONG OF THE DAY: Don't Stop the Music (kudzu'd)

I have been struggling to affix my mind upon the fixations just out of focus beyond the fuzz in front of my face. The fog seems thicker than usual, so much so it goes beyond just my brain and seems to have begun seeping into my heart as well. I’d like to see my doctor about this but my doctor is a nurse practitioner and she doesn’t have availability for a couple months. I get texts saying they can see me earlier, do I accept, but no matter how fast I click accept, it apologizes to me and says the visit is no longer available. I sat there, waiting for it one day, and it came and I clicked accept and it still apologized. I think it might be a cognitive test they are running on me before my actual appointment, to time my timeliness in response to the little technological devil I am forced to carry around as a compadre in this modern hellscape. I’ve been practicing not carrying that little devil more, but unfortunately, in order to log into my job, I have to poke the devil, and also to pay my bills, it requires poking the devil in a secondary manner to assure the demons that have built all our existential infrastructure that even though I’m on a different larger devil that sits on the desk in my bedroom, I can confirm it is actually me by clicking the little pocket devil. I do gotta say, I am at least thankful these are shitty Yakubian devils, who don’t actually talk to you and whisper horrible poor choices into your ear with sweet siren songs of temptation. They can trigger my addiction genetics, sure, but they lack supernatural powers, and always will, and that will ultimately help cause their failure. I think because I am aware of that, that’s likely why the fog is thicker, because they fluff up the algorithms at me, as they know my mind is an old Pangean mountain contrarian type, so I’m more resistant to the influence of influencering. But also, I am aging, with a beard as grey as trash barrel smoke with a healthy heaping of plastic Dr. Pepper bottles, so my neural pathways have more potholes than they used to. Oh well. There is a twisted music to the words that meander through my mind, and they won’t stop until the day I die, and perhaps they don’t stop then. I won’t know until then, when me and the reaper iron out all the details.

SONG OF THE DAY: That Body (kudzu'd)

If there were biodome colonies of working class types on the moons of Jupiter, and within the Io moon biodome number 7, a group of frustrated workers organized “pro wrestling-style” matches every other Saturday at the flea market (in the abandoned data center building), and I was the only guy there who would authentically play a heel, because nobody wanted to heel it up strongly enough to actually be hated by people, I’d wear a mask to at least conceal who I was, sort of, even though my bad tattoos would still give it away. But I’d wear a mask, probably something highly sequined, because I imagine even living in space on a Jupiter moon colony, I’d still have a girlfriend who loved to make shiny things. And my entrance music would be the 45 of The X-Man’s “That Body”, slowed down to 33 speed. And as I entered the ringside area, I’d make kissing motions at all the most handsome men and prettiest women, but picking them out of obvious partnerships, to rile as many folks as possible, and who knows, maybe even get laid.

first ever OPOSSUM Funk jam

June 27th is unofficially recognized as DJ Screw Day, due to the June 27th grey tape being his most famous one. That is the perfect day to launch a new (hopefully) series of funk jams called O.P.O.S.S.U.M. Funk, that me and my man DJ Disco Cat out of Richmond are putting together. In tandem with the folks at the Phunkadelic space in Farmville, Virginia, we shall be setting up in the quonset building, and funkifying the West End of Farmville. This is especially exciting for me because I was born a couple miles from there, so I get to return home as my fool ass self of now. We’ll be spinning records from 1 to 5 pm that day, alternating sets somehow. I’m sure I’ll play some 45s at 33 (in honor of Screw) but we’ll keep it funky enough you can shake your ass. Also, considering the ICE detention facility is just down the road, I am fairly certain I’m gonna spin a fat chunk of cumbia, to generate psychic waves of prison wall breakdown in that direction. So come on out on a warm ass Saturday afternoon, and let’s get on down!

Football Metaphysics for the World Cup

[click the image to go to the collection]

World Cup 2026 is underway, and I have been posting up daily World Cup Metaphysics previews at my Southern Gothicc Futurism patreon. I did not grow up with the world’s football, but took to it in the past couple decades, after giving up on American football (too much brain damage). But the amazing thing I have enjoyed about the world’s football is how much geopolitics and history and strange cultural sediments are woven throughout it – far more than any other sport and most other cultural phenomenons. So my daily write-ups are not the basic “quirky sportswriting” preview style  you see online. It’s about the metaphysics, and in fact, the posts are daily incantations of three things, from the foundation of football metaphysics, that we (the People, as it is actually the People’s game, not FIFA’s) would like to conjure up. You don’t have to subscribe to my Patreon, as I’ve made this particular collection only $4.69, for a whole World Cup’s worth of football metaphysical meandering text! You know how many esoteric tangents I can pack into this baby? A lot. Support your local dirtgod.

SONG OF THE DAY: Stellar Fungk (kudzu'd)

On a day if you come here hoping to see something new, and nothing new is here, treat it like an abandoned warehouse that the doors have been busted open on. Open up a post then roll the dice with the label labyrinth. On a desktop, you can see it automatically, but on a phone, it shows up if you’re on a specific post. Get lost in here. I’ll do a security check every night about 11:45, just a simple walk-through the entire site to make sure nobody is stuck anywhere. I found a guy from Malaysia stuck in some old beer reviews a few months ago, but other than that, usually folks find their way back out. But I’m just saying, as the internet gets ruined by more and more algorithms and channels forcing you to see certain things, enjoy the sediments of a fucked up place like this, that were built over decades by a simple fool, tiny piece by tiny piece. This is what the internet used to be. And I’m sure they’ll demolish this place at some point, too, and all this will go away, with no back-up. That’s how it goes. We the Born Losers squat where we can until they chase us off. But it’s a beautiful sort of nonsense we build while nobody’s looking.

SONG OF THE DAY: Danza de la Cabra (kudzu'd)

The World Cup starts tomorrow, and it will somehow simultaneously be wonderful and wretched, all at once. It begins in Mexico, so here is a cumbia song. You can also follow along with my daily Football Metaphysics analysis of the competition at my Patreon, for the low low price of $4.69, which will be spent entirely on non-alcoholic Stella Artois (true 0.0%).

SONG OF THE DAY: I'd Rather Be With You (kudzu'd)

I wish there was a way to psychically pluck a bootsy’s rubber band at the unloungers amongst us, so that they’d get hit with this thing and unexplainedly be a little bit more chill all of a sudden. This would work like a spiritual assassination of the dark parts of lost souls. We desperately need a civilization more based upon the Power of Lounge, and I think some sort of bootsy’s rubber band could help in achieving this goal.

SONG OF THE DAY: Don't Let It Go To Your Head (kudzu'd)

No lie, one of my all-time favorite snacks is peanut butter, preferably crunchy, straight out the jar. My house has for decades had one jar of peanut butter marked for me (because people will be like, “ooh, that’s nasty, you’re eating out the jar”) plus one for the mouse traps (gotta have a separate one for the traps, because that way you don’t have to use a clean knife between setting each one of 17 traps stacked up like country mouse, city mouse ninja warrior show obstacle course at the back of the cabinets). And as a high-level peanut butter connoisseur, it’s annoying how so many of the high profile brand name peanut butters got all kinds of other shit in them, especially sugar. What the fuck do I need sugar in some peanut butter for?
Well, just over the mountain, there’s a discount grocery store, a regional outfit called Sharp Shopper, which already is a plus-sized business operation. But it being located in Waynesboro – a somewhat bizarre small city itself, full of future ghosts – adds to the psychic draw. Plus, it’s directly beside a giant Amazon warehouse distribution center, which is of course the darkside of rampant capitalism. So I enjoy shopping at the Sharp Shopper, even though for some reason, a couple months back, I made the joke to my girlfriend of pronouncing Sharp Shopper like how Cheech Marin would comedically Hispanicize “shoes”, so I always call Charp Chopper now. I guess that’s not an “even now” phrase, because honestly it adds to the overall aesthetic enjoyment. Anyways, the Charp Chopper has all this about to expire or just expired or vague ass things in giant bulk amounts. The other day they had a whole huge cooler full of that nice ass Talenti Mediterranean Mint Gelato for like $1.50 each. And in this economy, the only way to afford nice treats is to be on the discount hunt, or rob the second homes of people that are down the road from you that have lapsed security systems even though the sign is still out front. But they, from time to time, have these wonderful peanut butter brands that I’ve never heard of, maybe they come from some tourist spot or are packaged for Mennonite stores or I don’t know. But they had one with these cheap ass paper labels that said The Perfect Peanut this past weekend, and it said, “INGREDIENTS: PEANUTS; CONTAINS: PEANUTS” and that was it for the list. That’s the peanut butter I seek in life.
But here’s the great thing about buying up a dozen jars of $1 peanut butter with nothing but peanuts as ingredients. It doesn’t remain congealed, so the cheap ass label tells you to stir it to reconstitute it. Except I instead chose to open all 12 jars, and pour out the peanut oil into a widemouth quart jar, which I can use for cooking now. And now I got 12 jars of concentrated ass crunchy peanut power, that type of shit that kept George Washington Carver up at night. And that’s how I prefer my peanut butter – just a pasty concentrated crunchy version that has trickled down through late stage capitalism, somehow accidentally devoid of the standard additives. And every time I spoon a globby chunk into my mouth, I wonder why we made all this so goddamn complicated and convoluted?

SONG OF THE DAY: El Sonido de Los Mirlos (kudzu'd)

Went to see a cumbia show the other night, Yeison Landeros, and it was a small venue and we had seats at a table right beside the stage to the side, which was great for vibing to the band. He had a five-piece band, and they wore matching outfits (naturally), and I'd guess it was the oldest dude in the band right in front of us, who did backing vocals and played the guira, which looks like a supersonic metal grater of sorts, but cylinder form, and good lord, my man was shimmying and scraping that guira hard all night. It POWERED my fuckin' soul. Anyways, I have often thunk that cumbia music is the perfect amalgamation of pre-colonial forces into post-colonial funk, with indigenous American and slave diaspora rhythms cross-pollinating into a type of resistance that says, "Fuck it, let's shake our asses, happily, and create joy!" The guira is the perfect example of that, an instrument that was born in the Caribbean, but made its way to the mountains of South America, where it became constant percussive backdrop ambiance to cumbia music, with regular down tempo and double scrape up tempo. It's fuckin' perfect. But after seeing cumbia up close, watching the band, and bandleader as well, all working group magic together in subtle and individual but collective ways, it became apparent (more than ever), that cumbia is the sound of the future, after the grid loses some of its power, and after all the data centers are long abandoned, when we bang on instruments together again to make music that will never be shared with strangers beyond walking distance, or marketed and sold online, because online will be off (naturally). I look forward to it, excitedly. A while back I got a few cumbia percussion instruments, including a guira, but to be honest, I was dazzled by the cowbell and agogo bell even more, so just walked around the house banging on them a lot of the time. But I been carrying my guira around this past week, just scraping a little 4/4 to try and synchronize my every step to that unacknowledged rhythm section that was metaphysically always there anyways. It's helping... my steps feel lighter for sure. But if you happen to be driving somewhere around Schuyler, Virginia, America, Earth, and you got your windows down, and you hear the frogs and crows and forest insects, all of which would be normal, but you also hear a rhythmic as fuck metal scraping chirping right alongside them, so smoothly that they're not shocked by it and keep chirping and cawwing themselves, if you hear any of that noice, that's just me and the nature boys, gettin' down. Hit me!

SONG OF THE DAY: Genius of Love (kudzu'd)

There is a local festival of establishment The Arts (capital letters of doom) types called The Tom Tom Fest, making a playful friendly name from Thomas Jefferson, who metaphysically hovers over everything locally, as a spiritual god of sorts. His home was built on a mountain overlooking the city as well, and the stupid university here was made by him, and has very self-important vibes to itself, like all Thomas Jefferson worshippers. It always bugs me though, because the most actual famous Tom Tom thing of the past half century is “Genius of Love”, which despite the Tom Tom Club being a couple of new wave white folks from the ‘80s, it happened during that cross-pollination with early hip hop in New York City, so “Genius of Love” has deep roots tied throughout hip hop’s history, as a classic breakbeat, and was one that DJ Screw spun often on his grey tapes. But another more recent landmark in Charlottesville, no pun intended, is a giant hotel that’s never been finished on the Downtown Mall, where the concrete and steel innards have been so long exposed to the elements that I’m sure it’ll have to be torn down and restarted should anybody ever have the money to waste on it. The well-to-do types who would willingly go to a Tom Tom Festival hate it, and decry it as a blight on the small city landscape. I see it as a wonderful testament to the avarice of capitalism, and a symbol of decay as warning for those who would trust the competence of white men with strong abstract numbers beneath their name (both the abstract numbers and surname inherited from their great grandfathers). I have secretly been filling this hotel with cheaply acquired PA systems and old stage speakers, and me and a couple co-conspirators have been wiring them all, to eventually run into a single generator, which… when the time is right and all the proper “we’re the good ones” type faux progressive wealthy white people are gathered in one of their big capitalized The Arts shindigs nearby, likely for that godforsaken Tom Tom Festival, we’re gonna hook up the generator and blast a slowed down “Genius of Love” at as close to infinite decibels as our ragged rig can get, hopefully blowing out all the storefront windows within a quarter mile. I’m sure all of this is illegal in a multitude of ways, but when wonderful whimsy like that is outlawed by a society that falsely assume it is civilized, then only outlaws will have wonder and whimsy (which is kinda where we are already, to be honest).