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?