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.
Thursday, July 9
Tuesday, July 7
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.”
Monday, July 6
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.
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.
Friday, July 3
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.
Thursday, July 2
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 1
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...
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...
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