resurfacing from under

earth for first time in five years;

a cameraman awaits

TOP TEN ALAN WATTS HERDING PARABLES FOR OX BAKER FANS

#1: searching for goddamned/ox somewhere in this cluster/of fuck and man shit
#2: FOOTPRINTS! high along/mountain paths where ravens roost/obvious ox prints
#3: the beast becomes clear/ass end sticking out tangled/thicket of madness
#4: I wrestle the beast/grasping at his massiveness/an exhausting fight
#5: finally roped in/my commands and his actions/become unified
#6: straddling his muscled/back I ride him home, back down/into man’s valleys
#7: home again peaceful/ox rests I rest no ropes whips/none necessary
#8: all-encompassing/nothing becomes as immense/as ox-ternity
#9: this world continues/spinning full circle constant/while my beard’s gone grey
#10: wandering man’s streets/a boy just a boy walks past/looking for ox prints

kitchen medicine

the Manchurian tea beast

in primitive bottling state,

used to quell inner demons

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - August '10 #1: "Marriage of the Outlaw to the Straight and Narrow" by Blue Globe Beats

Another Boogie Brown beat, and I sit here wondering why I ain’t wearing a t-shirt with my own stupid phrase printed on the front? Why ain’t got a microphone plugged into the computer sitting underneath a baby doll on the kitchen floor? Why ain’t I got graffiti on the ceiling and why ain’t I got a tattoo on my left forearm to match the one on my right forearm but different? Why ain’t I got rims on my truck? Why I ain’t got a machine gun with an Oscar Zeta Acosta quote scratched into the side? Why ain’t I seen Boogie Brown in like a year, and why ain’t we play bones tonight at Deric’s house? Why ain’t I getting wild with the ol’ lady at the Wyndham in Lynchburg all weekend long? Why ain’t I trying harder to stop trying so hard? Life is real as fuck, but I’m a fresh-dipped soul warrior from SS Va. and we shall survive. My dad always said that, “Son, we’re survivors.” He also taught me of the special psychic powers we have, that I think my grandfather brought back from Korea. Seriously. That shit is in my aura beam, and if you see me in real life, it’ll shine at you. Nothing non-humble about it, because it’s as much a burden as a blessing, because the shining aura attracts the man-moths. No worries. Most of them folks got things to say that you can infuse yourself with. Too many folks expect the world to get sterilized and be biodynamically and environmentally and organically perfect. But life is too real for most people. It’s sex, trash, and making psychic lemonade all goddamn day/week/year long out of chronic lemonitis. Do it to it real world. We got these fake motherfuckers held by their attention span.
STEAL "Marriage of the Outlaw to the Straight and Narrow"
NEXT MONTH: It would be the September Krupert countdown, when I moved my Itunes to a new computadora, so it will be the last hurrah of my originoo song clappaz!

(7s) Goals For 2010 #1 - Unabomber Shacks On Compound

Years ago, I still lived with my moms, sleeping on a mattress behind the living room couch with my dog Waylon. I worked the second shift over an hour away in Richmond, and everybody else in the house was normal daytime people, so I'd be home at like 1 in the morning, eat dinner, drink beer and write until like four or five in the morning, then go to sleep, dead to the world as my moms and my sisters got up and went to work or school. Usually on the weekends, I wouldn't make it home for a couple days, so we never crossed paths on that, and mostly I was out of the way, except on my days off which were like Tuesday and Wednesday I think. Well I ended up quitting that job to move to the beach, but then the guy I was going to move to the beach with, Boomer, disappeared on me, so I didn't move to the beach. Instead I got a job painting houses in stupid fucking Farmville, the real life shithole not the stupid Facebook game. At this point, I was in the house the same time everybody else was, and you could see the house wasn't big enough for such personalities.
Back then I used to go sit on my grandfather's porch to hear him unwind his bizarre and hobo-like past. Wrecking cars trying to see some girl, building irrigation ditches with Indians, falling in love with some crazy woman in New Orleans, marrying some crazy woman in Chicago (what up grandma, I know you reading this!), all that stuff. So I talked him up about helping me build a nice little simple shack, about 8 feet by 12 feet, which, as it came together, I affectionately dubbed the Unabomber shack. Once we had framed it all and put the roof on though, I ended up splitting a trailer with a dude I had worked with, and trailer park life swallowed me whole and I only went home the 8 miles away if there was a football game I couldn't see on my rabbit ears and to check my mail of all the strange shit people used to mail me when The Confederate Mack was going strong. (Actually, there was a brief period of time where the mailing address to the zine actually included "Trailer #7" in the address.) My first sister ended up living in the Unibomber shack for a while, called it something else of course, and then when my youngest sister moved back home with her 49 cats, the cats lived in the Unabomber shack, they put a cat door on it, and it has been called The Cathouse ever since. Most of the wood came from a hurricane that blew through and knocked down a bunch of trees on my grandpa's property that he had some dudes with a portable sawmill come mill up for him.
Anyways, in our current compound, my wife be seeing clients on the regular for herbalism treatments for what ails them. (Oddly enough, that is not a euphemism for drugs. She's actually a trained and certified herbalist, always making me take little droppers full of things in two fingers of well water.) As my wife sees more clients here at the house, it becomes hard to separate the kids from the house, because I'll have to rush home to take them to the library or something. It's not convenient.
And at the same time, some gypsy jewish lady left a camper here for me to use as a studio, and for her to conveniently store her camper, like six years ago. The camper is pretty stifling though, not to mention it's all fucked up from being in my possession for so long. I honestly don't know if the lady could get it out of here now. I've wanted to call and make an offer for it, but I know she thinks she has more than what she has, so she'd probably say something like $1500 when you couldn't get more than $300 for that thing in the local Bucksaver newspaper. I've wanted to call her and be like, "I'll give you $200 for it," and if she says no, tell her to come get it off my property. She's some sort of nomad based out Canada or some oddball set-up like that. Seriously, she's only come back to see her camper once, and the last time she called, she couldn't even remember my name.
Now what I plan on doing is laying out the building of a pair of Unabomber shacks, one in our pasture for my wife's herbal clinic, and the other back where the camper is for my studio. It'd be pretty easy to do step by step, get it all built and wired, and then have my uncle come out one Saturday to run power from the box on the house to each of those buildings, already wired up. Additionally, and I have to do the research on this, but if you are under a certain square footage, it doesn't fall under the domain of the building inspector so stringently. In fact, I could see building like 9 of these things on our property in various spots in a slow meandering "addition" to our main farmhouse.
Having just started work, and having dug a mighty hole for myself moneywise the past four months, I'm probably a good half a year away from having plenty of money for building materials. But I'm sure I could site scavenge enough foundation blocks to go ahead and dig the two foundations for both shacks. First though, I have to get rid of the camper, which is too full of stuff right now to even think about that, and I have to get the pasture chopped down a bit up front where it's grown kinda wild. Or I could just set fire to the camper and take the stupid old-fashioned scythe we have and get medieval on the area of the pasture where the herbal clinic will be. DIY, always the hardest way and just barely the cheapest way, once all is said and done.

Bird Tribe Beltane Brown

AFFORDABILITY: A benefit of getting into homebrewing (this is a beer me and my wife made) is, if you relegate yourself to more expensive beers, you can make it yourself and get high quality, heavy alcohol content beers for under $2 per 22-24 ounce bottle. That’s a nice price. Plus, you can make whatever the fuck you want to make (I recommend the Beertools website’s huge list of recipes). Brain-buzzing beers for Budweiser double deuce prices, and all with the joy of doing it yourself, standing around the hot kitchen with your hot wife on a Saturday night, playing Parcheesi while your wort boils up, it’s family wholesomeness that involves beer. Plus the whole heritage of them old timey cats who used to make their own before there were stores with beer coolers to even pick from. It makes me feel like I’m moving in the right direction with my life, even if it is moving backwards. Fuck it though, we need more backwards ass people in this crooked world. 5 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: Homemade beer is the super destroyer. You can stop in the dark hallway where the bucket is percolating in the closet and stand there and wait and then that lovely BLOOP BLOOP BLOOP from the fermentation trap peps your step off to bed where you have wonderful dreams of vikings and celebrations around cities on fire where the world is full of buxom women like Russ Meyer was god and nobody shaves their devilish parts and in this world Black Sabbath did an album of Marvin Gaye and Al Green tunes and it is a wondrous thing that fills the nighttime sky to aurally complement the billions of stars. Homebrew changes too, because you bottle it up and it ferments in the bottle, and usually we bust that open after 2 weeks in the bottle, but there is added sugar to ferment and sometimes what you drink after 2 weeks is potent but not as buckwild as it is after four weeks. This Beltane Brown was a thick one, with a nice sludge at the bottom of every bottle, and it had kick. The bottle I drank the other night as I conjure manned up this reviewable report on my own home swill was our last bottle of the Beltane, and our other beer we had one bottle of - the Spring Chicken Ale - my wife drank up the last of that. We have got to hit up the homebrew supply store and get some more batches bubbling up in the hallway again, making the light pixies dance in the cobwebs. 5 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: Me and my wife sit around, bullshitting while bottling a batch of beer, and come up with a mutually agreeable name, Then I go inside my Tron machine and pick out a hype font, size it up just right, add any details necessary, including date bottled, and print it up straight black inkjet on white sticker paper. This gets cut with scissors and slapped on the bottle. But I also have a giant box full of vinyl scraps from a job I used to have where we did vehicle graphics and shit like that. We pick an appropriate color of vinyl as well, cut it into little shapes of some sort, nothing fancy, always block and basic. The Beltane Brown had a dark red vinyl in a long rectangular shape. I, since I am the one into weird little alien mathematical tributes in our househould, pick where we place the vinyl, always overlapping the paper label just slightly and then going out onto the bottle. The Beltane Brown red vinyl rectangle went parallel the label like an underline. The font was some medieval woodcut looking type shit. The great thing about our homebrew labelling method is when one of our bottles has been used for three or four batches. The labels peel off a bit from condensation or washing, but the vinyl is solid, and it sticks out in different directions, and we always put the new label over top where the old one was, to keep any confusion from arising as to what we might be about to be drinking. That creates a layered effect where the bottle has these vinyl indications of a sedimentary history. It is simple attention to details like this, that no one would ever suspect the entire mad science method behind it, that make me feel confident I am on a righteous path in life, and one day my madness will be rewarded with success. Or perhaps it has already been rewarded and I just have a perverted definition of what success means. 10 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: No corporation shall ever be my master. When my wife was pregnant with our first child, I worked at Kinko’s for like six months, for the bennies as people have said within my earshot the past six months, a far cry from what William S. Burroughs meant when he said “bennies”. Kinko’s sucked, second shift, on weekends, sometimes one of only two people working and the other person sucked, though she could catch an apple with her mouth if you threw it in the air, which always impressed me. I would clean up at the end of the night, stupid thrift store tie and stupid thrift store white button-down pretend dress shirt, it’d be night time behind a strip mall structure in southside Richmond, Virginia, USA, Earth, and the dumpster from behind Chichis or Chilis or whatever indiscriminate piece of shit chain restaurant was next door would stink of my slow death, and I’d stand back there, wishing I smoked so I’d have an excuse to stand still for four minutes, and I’d look up at the pink haze of light pollution blocking out my astrological guidance counselor’s advice, and sometimes I’d think, “What the fuck am I doing?” and wish some snipered out societal malcontent was on a nearby rooftop and would snipe me off this twisted mortal coil. I got another job though, quit Kinko’s, and never worked a shitty corporate type job again, retail office management or wage slave. I even used the old jailhouse sewing needle white thread india ink method to tattoo an ahnk on my left forefinger prominently to sabotage myself should I ever get dull-minded and want to walk that path again. I doubt it would really sabotage anything, but it was a nice personal ceremony of destiny for me, although calling it a “ceremony” makes it seem like I put a lot more thought into it than I really did. Actually I just sat down one night and did it, and honestly, I think I already had it when I worked at Kinko’s. 7 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Life is good. My ambiance, my aura, my soul glow, my heart flutter, my mojo, my offspringing, my get down, my whole world - it is laid back and it is wide open. (I was on a kick where I made iron-on messages on blank t-shirts for a while, and I have a brown t-shirt with glittery gold iron-on letters that say on the front “LAID BACK” and on the back “WIDE OPEN” and the shirt has visible white stitching to make it seem athletic that runs right above the iron-ons and I am wearing it tonight with overalls, so I am feeling my oats, and thankful I live in the middle of nowhere, for the obvious external clutter reasons, but also because I am limited by environment to simply feeling my oats instead of sowing them as well.) This home beer reflects all that. Actually, it’s not even a reflection so much as just another damn piece of it. 9 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 7 & 1/5 STARS!