SONG OF THE DAY: Basquiat

Hi. Do you need an angry but positive fuck you anthem after too much extended family and unrelenting consumer capitalism beating on your fucking brain? Good. Relatedly, a couple months back I was in the outlet store and they had Basquiat socks, which I got, because I have a job where I wear fake nice clothes and act like I'm a decent and upstanding member of society instead of the mental degenerate who wants everything to crumble into a fresh progressive apocalypse that I am. So I bought these Basquiat socks for like $3, and it feels pretend resistant, but it's actually just somebody got a licensing agreement for dead Basquiat's art, and I bought some fucking socks, which apparently not enough people bought at the regular overinflated price, so I got them at the outlet store. Trickle down identity, lol, a lower class boy that's done come up in the world, WEARING A MOTHERFUCKIN' THREE DOLLAR PAIR OF SOCKS, LIKE A GODDAMN FAUNTLEROY.

TH3 M1RR0R 0F CH1LDR3N'S 3Y3S...

the mirror of children's eyes

motivating you to break

generational patterns

TOP TEN SYMPTOMS OF DIGITAL FRAUD SYNDROME

f33l1ng fr4VdVl3nt
4s fVck 4s 1f 4ll 1s l0st
w4st3 0f fVck1ng l1f3#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/AgcYJGGggT

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

n0 s4t1sf4ct10n
t0 th1s tr34d w4t3r w0rk l1f3
(th4nkfVl n0t dr0wn1ng)#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/npfDtnv3Ml

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

d0m3st1c4t3d
frVstr4t3d plVs p4r4lYz3d
bY l34rn3d s3lf-h4tr3d#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/Stl2iYDwf7

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

wh0 th3 fVck's f33l1ng
g00d 4b0Vt th1s cr00k3d w0rld?
sh3lt3r3d sh1n3f4c3s#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/NlOvCAzwIf

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

th3 strVggl3 1s r34l
- strVggl3 n0t t0 h0ll0w p01nt
s3lf-l0b0t0mY#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/RU2cSPFgDN

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

4nd 1 h4v3 1t g00d
- "1t c0Vld b3 w0rs3!" f4ls3 s0l4c3
4s pr3c10Vs l1f3 w4st3s#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/Dvgk6RH3UD

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

s0m3 d4ys sVIc1d3
b0mb1ng c1v1l1z4t10n
m4k3s 4 l0t 0f s3ns3#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/mTlk8dq7S1

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

sl0wlY k1ll1ng s3lf
w1th th1s c4rc1n0g3n1c
mVnd4n3 3x1st3nc3#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/5Ctptjdpsc

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

s0Vl st3r1l1z3d 0Vt
p4ss10n p4st3Vr1z3d 4w4y
f0g l0b0t0m1z3d#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/ipb9DymIGL

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

m0nk3ywr3nch mY m1nd
1nj3ct m1cr0fl0r4 hop3
1nt0 mY j4d3 h34rt#h41kV #r0j0n3kkV pic.twitter.com/N3N5TouFvi

— Tha Dirt-God (@rojonekku) June 18, 2016

#1: f33l1ng fr4VdVl3nt/4s fVck 4s 1f 4ll 1s l0st/w4st3 0f fVck1ng l1f3

#2: n0 s4t1sf4ct10n/t0 th1s tr34d w4t3r w0rk l1f3/(th4nkfVl n0t dr0wn1ng)

#3: d0m3st1c4t3d/frVstr4t3d plVs p4r4lYz3d/bY l34rn3d s3lf-h4tr3d

#4: wh0 th3 fVck's f33l1ng/g00d 4b0Vt th1s cr00k3d w0rld?/sh3lt3r3d sh1n3f4c3s

#5: th3 strVggl3 1s r34l/- strVggl3 n0t t0 h0ll0w p01nt/s3lf-l0b0t0mY

#6: 4nd 1 h4v3 1t g00d/- "1t c0Vld b3 w0rs3!" f4ls3 s0l4c3/4s pr3c10Vs l1f3 w4st3s

#7: s0m3 d4ys sV1c1d3/b0mb1ng c1v1l1z4t10n/m4k3s 4 l0t 0f s3ns3

#8: sl0wlY k1ll1ng s3lf/w1th th1s c4rc1n0g3n1c/mVnd4n3 3x1st3nc3

#9: s0Vl st3r1l1z3d 0Vt/p4ss10n p4st3Vr1z3d 4w4y/f0g l0b0t0m1z3d

#10: m0nk3Ywr3nch mY m1nd/1nj3ct m1cr0fl0r4 h0p3/1nt0 mY j4d3 h34rt

self-scientist planet rock 

altar with solar orgone 

theories pointed towards house

mycelium running things

out here in these dark forest

streets, reclaiming false deed lands

trapped on earth below the clouds,

we learn to make the best jokes

we can from this suffering

smiling ass motherfuckers

ignoring the inherent

suffering of existence

rojonekku t-shirt slogans

MORE LOOT AS A VERB, LESS LOOT AS A NOUN

s h e d g

sunshine beacons of freedom

betray the barbed wire outside;

one day, I’ll maul my master

Friday Love/Hate

I hate fighting upstream all the damned time. Hate it, but it’s what I’m driven to do. If I don’t, I could go with the flow and end up in the poison underneath the acid rain of the coal-fired power plant, growing my third eye shut, swollen from sties, and just raggedly swim around in circles with everybody else, waiting for that big fishhook in the sky to swing down and snatch me. I hate fighting upstream, but that’s what I do. Hell, I’m sitting in a cold ass camper with speakers pointed at my brain blaring music loud as fuck, making my inherited Macbook laptop struggle to handle the hobo weather. The trackpad doesn’t work right in the cold, to where I have to put one of the two stocking hats I’m wearing on it when I’m typing so that it’ll feel my fingers when I need to. Then the computer just froze up on me with a screen that said in four different languages that I had to power it off because it malfunctioned. On one hand that could be just the fact I’m typing in the freezing cold, but on the other hand it could be electronic cyberlords conspiring against me. The satellite internet reaches out here, so they know I’m here, and trying to write free of the confusion and deliberate chaos of the inside the house. So BLAM! malfunction, and I only don’t lose whatever it decides to autorecover. How do I know they don’t change what they recover rather than just pick an arbitrary stopping point? Are they going to take all my bad words out like that Huck Finn book the cybertalks are babbling about? Are they going to change my meanings?
This is a fucking war, and you have to fight upstream. My apologies to the seven kids out there who hopefully are still reading this blog, looking for the Rojonekku triggers. I got off track boys, realized I was fighting upstream and missed the proper tributary. I am currently hacking my way as quickly as possible through the brush to get back in the right water, but I’m still with you. I’m still your headwaters, so to speak. The triggers are gonna start coming this year. The flags of Alabama, New Hampshire, Tennessee, West Virginia, Oklahoma, Oregon, and Illinois, they are still planted out in the field on the bamboo poles. Our goals have not changed. If our latest benefactor comes through (or we get some enabling donations on the button on the site here, or sell some more t-shirts), all seven of you should be getting kindles, and we’ll start transmitting lessons for your seven branches. (Also, there is the very real possibility of two to three more branches sprouting this spring, now that I can focus properly again.)
So yeah. I hate fighting upstream, but it’s all we can do, isn’t it?

I love the ultimate purpose of this site/blog/background chatter. Sometimes my ego gets the best of me and I wish I could let everybody know what the deal is, but that wouldn’t serve anybody but those who are already well-served beyond their needs. But for those that know what’s going on, it’s going on. I love you all. May we all one day sit around the same fire together, laughing as it burns.

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – September '10 #10: “Dead Homiez” by Ice Cube

There was a weird yard sale a couple weeks ago with these people selling tons of old Easyrider magazines and weird railroad nails and awesome bullshit. Really, they had all types of nonsense that was interesting, and like 79 cats running around, and the lady of the couple was the same lady who cryptically tucked my receipt into my 12-pack of Old Milwaukee box a few years back at the IGA when it was still here when I bought Old Milwaukee and tomato juice on a Sunday morning and the total was $6.66. Can’t remember all we got, but I got a stack of biker mags, one single railroad nail (which I had just had a phone conversation about like three days before), some 5-gallon jugs for fermenting t’ej in, and other things. The wife went back the next day to try and talk them into selling us 3 of these woven oak chairs for $20, but she only came back with two. But they also had a kitten – all black – which they named Stella Crow. I had told the kids the day before no damn cats, and told the people, being we are dealing with two dogs now that are harshing our country livin’ buzz.
The kitten took to our house nicely though, and was the chillest cat I had ever met. We kinda realized the solution to our pet problem this weekend was the cat and the female dog we have, and get rid of the male one.
Well, it was getting cold at night, and when I tested the woodstove on Saturday, it was smoking some, so I had to tighten that up, clean out the chimney on Sunday morning and all. The kids had been fighting fevers, so we kept them on the couch all day to rest up for a little trick or treating at least, and we came home, and it was cold as fuck, so I hauled in wood and kindling and got ready to crank up the stove. Last trip out, I shut the chickens in and came running up the steps to the house, feeling something under my foot, and then it wobbled off without making a sound under the porch. Fuck.
Go inside and ask the ol’ lady to find Stella Crow. She ain’t around, which is a bad sign. I thought it might have been a possum, but they would’ve shrieked or something. Went back out, crawling under the porch, and eventually found Stella Crow, fucked up but alive. No wounds, but you could tell something was broke. Put the kids to bed, brought her out and me and the ol’ lady tried to help her out, feeling around to try and figure out what was wrong, using some mullein leaves as a hot compress because that’s supposed to set bones according to the mountains of yore, but damn, the kitten was fucked. She never really cried or anything though. We ain’t the affording a regular vet much less an emergency vet type people though.
Next morning, the ol’ lady and oldest kid, who was devastated, took the kid to the local country vet, luckily where a friend of our’s works, and the verdict was probably a broken neck, cat fucked, euthanasia.
It sucked. I have already been wrestling with some internal changes bullshit the past few days, but to step on a 2.5 pound black cat on Halloween night and ultimately kill it, shit sucks. I’m far too sensitive about animals too, far more than I care about people.
Anyways, the ol’ lady buried the cat outside next to a garden and built a mound of white quartz rocks over the spot using rocks I’d been hauling out of a hiking spot for a while now. I went out and took my single railroad nail, stamped “30”, and poked it into the ground in the middle of the quartz.
None of this has anything to do with “Dead Homiez” other than Stella Crow is dead. It was my fault, and I feel bad about it, but not all melodramatically or anything. Real life has plenty of bullshit in it, so fuck idealist people thinking everything is peaches and cream if you have your philosophies right.
STEAL “Dead Homiez”
NEXT UP: Garage punk epicness!

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - August '10 #2: "Cadillac Jack" by Andre Williams

I, like a lot of 30-something former opiate enthusiast white dudes, first ever heard of Andre Williams through the Crypt Records mail order catalog, where the asshole who ran that shit was like IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHO ANDRE WILLIAMS IS YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE AND YOU SUCK AND YOU SHOULD DIE THIS IS THE BEST GREATEST SHIT EVER TO BE RECORDED or something along those lines. But I didn’t buy nothing with the dude back then. However, at some point during the internet age in the past year of my life, I finally remembered the dude’s name (after mistakenly stealing some Nathaniel Mayer first), and snagged that ass off the interwebz. And it’s not THE GREATEST SHIT EVAR! or anything, but it’s pretty goddamned good. I’m a sucker for that ’60s era country R&B (kinda like I’m a sucker for country rap nowadays, meaning Alabama shit like G-Side and Jackie Chain, not Nashville crap like fucking Colt Ford) and there’s a ton of Andre Williams songs I can get down with, but this “Cadillac Jack” song hit me the mostest of them all. I love the concept of a dude being completely wrapped up in one single solitary material possession, because people do that. And I love the “goes up quick/comes down fast” karmic tale, not to mention the irony of the ending. But mostly, that fucking part at the end where Andre drawls out into a break, instead of just singing “Cadillac” like you’d expect from the rest of the song, where he’s all “long… looonnnng… black… blaaacccckkkkk… blaaaaaaaaacccccccckkkkkkkk… Cadillac,” and the back-up singers crank in as soon as he hits the Cadillac word, that’s some next level other level never again level shit. I actually was playing that song one day in the house and stopped it to explain to my oldest two kids how awesome it was and why it was an example of motherfucking musical song-making brilliance. It may not have sunk in that day, but I’m laying the groundwork for them to recognize the real. Life is real as fuck for most people on this world, so you’ve got to be able to recognize it, especially when some crazy old dude is flipping it on it’s ass and letting it run away then grabbing the world by the tail again, pulling it back, letting it run again, and then wrapping it up and making it feel just right on the proper axis like it wanted to go all along. That takes supreme psychologics, and that’s Andre’s thang more than any thang.
STEAL "Cadillac Jack"
NEXT UP: Finally wrapping up August!