drunk driven one thousand miles -

the learned behavior of those

raised in comfort of shadows

packing up the ferris wheel

on Sunday morning, still drunk,

four hour drive to Roxboro

once stole a wooden boxcar,

drove it wrong way through space-time

continuum, while drinking

May the Three

freestyle sonnet on bench seats (word to Matt C.)

smooth masculine maneuvers sideways in parked cars

were made easier across long leather bench seat,

but we live in a time of cupholders as change jars

not man and woman (or whatever) making sweet

beneath the stars; in fact where the fuck went the stars

clouded out by overcast reflections from street

lights clustered all civilized around homes and bars

and stores and shit and filth but cleaned to neon neat

beacons of sustenance but quickly falls apart,

much like the vehicles of today, buckets dumped

full of failed humanity, lacking unclogged heart

yet full of self-importance, flabby chests well-thumped

with pride for the slide into decline and despair,

in a clean plastic ride, where only eagles dare

freestyle sonnet on New Coke (word to David D.)

the old traditional ways are classic, never

forget them (nor end your support) but the greatest

thing ever created throughout our endeavor

to bring you some great shit is also the latest,

and it’s certainly mostly the same, so it seems,

but also totally different completely,

trust us, see we’re splitting one game into two teams,

and maybe more, so that any choice discreetly

goes back to one source, one sole provider of shit,

and you’ll be so stoked to ingest our crap you’ll brand

yourself unable to accept alternates, lit

in the brain with identity attached to stand

proudly with one debilitating choice above

another, two (or more) the same, one hate, one love

freestyle sonnet on Grampage (word to Chelsea M.)

old man of Chernobyl, after eating homegrown

vegetables for twenty years, developed powers

magnified by internal fission of his own

molecules, altered by the iodine showers,

thyroid devoid of standard man limitations

until he stormed like a tornado through locales

across east Europe, creating devastations

across multiple borders, destroying morales,

disgusted by modern morals, or lack thereof,

waving his radioactive cane he’d hand-hewn

from a twisted juniper bush his life-long love

had planted, before tumors took her far too soon

for his liking; in his anguish, he decided

to smash all cultures where atoms are collided

freestyle sonnet on moonflower vines/luna moths (word to Nathan S. & Sean T.)

moonflower vines intertwined with wrought iron where

I recline as sunshine goes dark while the earth turns;

moonrises are less regular, I sit and stare

at stars’ bright light, which through “heavenly” fabric burns

navigational maps for both man’s heart and mind,

whether crossing oceans or making decisions

of more personal natures, yet also inclined

to follow lunar calls once the moon has risen

is the perfect white blooms of the vines on my porch,

attracting the attentions of magic, large-eyed

moths flocking to these blossoms as if a fire’s torch;

the scene pollinates my thoughts, with truth I commune;

glorious vine, moth, and I, all slaves to the moon

freestyle sonnet on M.C. learning to drive a stick shift (word to Matt C.)

restricted license afternoon crawl in Datsun

late model, longhaired driver not wearing seat belt,

fuck that, tortured rock-n-roll genius rides shotgun,

they pass fat-gut cop fishing for citations dealt,

blue lights flashing, pull over into loose gravel,

“license and registration,” “sure, here you go sir,”

cruiser snitchbot reports back that driver’s travel

is legally limited to work and back, “your

aware of blah blah blah Mr. Mack?” “yes, of course,

can my friend drive us home?” “well... I guess that’s okay,

but if I catch you again, you’re fucked with full force,

get out of here, consider this your lucky day;”

I’m back in passenger seat, saying, “let’s go... quick,”

my friend looks to me and says, “I can’t drive a stick.”

bonus freestyle sonnet on self-publishing I guess I don't know (word to Raven Mack)

self-published sucker existing on the edges

of respectable decisions, not knowing when

to clutch at safety’s comfort, pull back from ledges,

“you don’t what’s too far ‘til you’ve gone there,” I’ve been

motivated by madmen, both by blood as well

as environment, born cheap beer-bent and hell-bound

except hell ain’t real, just fairy tales old folks tell

to keep my wild ass in order, calm the sound

of fury internal, I’d burn the whole world down

if I could - scorched earth, start over, reset caveman

molecules back to the essence, when life was brown

not green, not a falsely sustainable gameplan

where “righteous” fuckers decide what constitutes health;

y’all can wait to be told, I’m doing it for self.

r n g r l

drinking alcohol, watching
the human cockfights, wishing
hell's last call would never come

t r k a q

once flipped a powder blue ford
f-150 over a
guard rail riding with jim beam

c o p a a

blue lights shine through blurred vision;

trying to stifle slurred speech,

but that flashlight’s fucking bright

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - August '10 #9: "Jack of Diamonds" by Uncle Sinner

I have no idea what Uncle Sinner is. It might be Kid Rock’s drummer for all I know. But somehow I ended up downloading a CD by these people (or person?) and of all their songs, all ended up on the deletion list except this one track, which persevered in the clusterfuck battle royal of my tiny gaypod shuffle for a long time, until I had listened to it enough it made this list.
Most ugh.alt.country sounds like a graduate thesis project to me. I grew up with too much hopelessness and frustration and plywood windows and dripping ceilings to really feel a lot of this music that pretends itself to be country-influenced. The perfect example of this is Ryan Adams, who is a huge critical darling. To me, he sounds like a bitch. I think about hanging at the Mahan’s junkyard, or sitting around the table at Tip’s house, and something like that would get laughed at. You can’t be country without having a healthy handful of hard dick alpha maleness. Being conscious is what you are when you wrap a guardrail around your hand-me-down vehicle at 3:30 on a Sunday morning, which is technically still a Saturday night to you, and you don’t pass out, so you can call your buddy to try and wench it out the ditch, or just run off into the woods along logging trails if authoritative headlights come shining your direction.
Uncle Sinner may be more of this. But it slipped under my radar. Or off my radar. Honestly, I don’t have radar, though I do have a CB radio, but my old satellite radio blew out all the cigarette lighter sockets in my truck, so I can’t power it up to use it. That is unfortunate, yes, but ultimately makes perfect sense. People like me – real country – we can’t have shit.
STEAL "Jack of Diamonds"
NEXT UP: Pioneer stoner rock, which unfortunately does not mean Pa Ingalls in a ching chong opium den!

L.E.o.R. - Fall ’10 - 40 to 20 - 1 of 4

This begins the second round of my retarded self-indulgent tournament of awesome living human beings, to create a Hall of 100 (eventually) Living Human Beings aka the Learned Elders of Rojonekku who would be the 100 dudes or ol' ladies I would pay all my money were I a bazillionaire, to teach the homeless teenagers I and my co-conspirators take in all the wonderful things they know in this world, and fill their heads with hopes and dreams and retardedness and wildernesses and double tough batshit crazy. So let us - meaning me - begin - meaning start.
AFRIKA BAMBAATAA vs. TOO SHORT
I could listen to Too Short all night long, driving westwardly under a new moon with a bloodstream full of THC, and an oil can of Foster's in my non-shifting hand, but when it comes to Learned Elders, Afrika Bambaataa is the epitome of that. A street thug turned new-fangled musical artist turned spaced out cult leader. He is Sun Ra for the hip hop generation, and it is a shame that rap music is so hung up on the latest shit so that there is no room for Bambaataa to stalk around and say crazy shit in more publicly accessible forums.
Advantage: Afrika Bambaataa.
BILLY GIBBONS vs. JIM "DANDY" MANGRUM
If I had to pick between these two ten days in a row, I'd probably change my mind every day. Billy Gibbons is a one of a kind type rock-n-roll blues legend. But there is an interview I had in a shitty magazine I used to write for with Jim "Dandy" Mangrum where, in his middle-aged days, he bragged that he's never had a real job and doesn't even know how to use a hammer, and also how much he loves women. Now, I would not pride myself in such things, but I am a man of the earth by birth. If I could trade it all in to waste my life with drugs, alcohol, and pussy, I probably would. Especially if you offered it to me at like 16.
Advantage: Jim "Dandy" Mangrum.
JOHN RIGGINS vs. TIGER WILLIAMS
Hockey is awesome, especially legendary enforcer types, but I am not Canadian or Swedish or whatever the fuck. I am American.
Advantage: John Riggins.
STEVE EARLE vs. SWAMP DOGG
Oh man, I bet Steve Earle could put together a really great two hour radio show about Swamp Dogg. And I bet Swamp Dogg, when presented with Steve Earle, would want to sing over top of Steve Earle's music. In alpha male hierarchical status, that means Swamp Dogg is the alpha. This is no slight on Steve Earle, just the way things are.
Advantage: Swamp Dogg.
BILL MURRAY vs. LARRY FLYNT
Bill Murray is a funny motherfucker, but a Kentucky hillbilly who took mass media pornographic magazining to a whole 'nother level of the game is a dude that I can be like, "Yeah, he has done a thing that impresses my rural stupid half-ignorant over-educated ass."
Advantage: Larry Flynt.

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - July '10 #12: "Take It Easy" by Yelawolf

Man, ever since that Trunk Muzik mixtape came out, I've listened to way too much Yelawolf music, riding around in my fucked up truck with the two tone fenders from where I hit that deer last year and fixed it all myself using genuine fake ass Estonian parts I got off some sketchy car part website. Sometimes it just makes sense, riding around like a dirtbag piece of shit, listening to some dirtbag rapper, aiming it between the ditches, drunk as fuck riding home, hoping that goddamned state trooper ain't going out on some oddball shift while I'm creeping back to the compound.
Early Yelawolf, or at least this one tape he did with this song, uses a lot of classic rock samples, and some of it is great and some not so great. I wouldn't necessarily vouch for this song were you to ask me about it, but I enjoy it. It's kinda like a Kid Rock song, just without all the shitty feelings that come along with something being a Kid Rock song. I mean, that formula makes sense, because there's a ton of pieces of shit out there who grew up while their uncles were smoking joints and taking shots in the front yard with Skynyrd pumping, but they grew up under the spell of hip hop. I think music has moved too far away from catering to all the pieces of shit that tend to enjoy music all day long. The internet's fucked everything up where people think if blogs or full of shit music sites like Pitchfork or Fader love something, then it's like popular with real live human beings. Which it is, to an extent, because we be sheeple. But that new shit that turns the world on its ass, it tends to come from nowhere and get all the pieces of shit behind it in mass and then the safer fringe sheeple (aka college town types) get into it, and eventually cartoon Colonel Sanders is drinking syzzurp in commercials. That's how it's supposed to work, in a natural world. But this is no natural world no more.
STEAL "Take It Easy"
NEXT UP: Like most pieces of shit from crappy places, I've got a lot of pride in where I come from, even though no one has any choice in where they're born!

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - May ’10 Intro

Well, it is time to start this month’s countdown of songs that have been bouncing around my tiny little 2 gig gaypod in survival of the fittest mode. I will warn you, springtime with a new sort of soul-sucking job of a bureacratic nature has triggered in me a strong desire to ride around and get drunk, because a sweaty beer between my legs on the ride home makes those dress slacks and buttons not feel so tight, if only momentarily and misguidedly. This has meant screwed and chopped season has been set off early this year, and the ruralish hodgepodge of rock, country, and classics from my upbringing has been slapped back into J.J. Krupert as well. I have a longing for something, and I don’t know what it is but I know I ain’t feeling it, and it has caused a writer’s block in me that’s more lethargy for life than any sort of block. Bills must be paid, and usually there is only one way to pay them, so each day that becomes the order of business. The thing is, there are a pair of things I resent more than “order” and “business”. Luckily there is music, the soma for my withering soul. And these would be the songs for this month. No hipster posturing, no new music downloads to act like I’m ahead of the worldwide web curve for a day-and-a-half. This is my soundtrack, as I sit in a beat-up 2002 Nissan Frontier with matte black primer front end and silver/copper hard-to-tell factory ends, dented and paint-splotched, with river sand and the smell of river dogs inside the cab, plus it leaks rain from where I dented the fucking top carrying a load of 20 foot long cedar poles for a goddamned tipi one time, and we can sit on the tailgate and listen to this music for as long as my battery holds out, but the tailgate handle doesn’t work so I tore off the bedliner on the inside of the gate and removed the plate so you can reach inside and push down on the latch to put it down, and my battery terminal is not so tight because the beer can I had used to tighten the connection has disappeared, so if I’ve hit too many potholes on the commute to wherever the fuck we are, the connection might be loose at best. But if we were sitting there, this is what we’d be listening to, at least hopefully.
TOMORROW: Redneck mountain man bullshit stories that’ll make your foot tap!

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - April '10 #10: "Dancing in the Moonlight (It's Caught Me in the Spotlight)" by Thin Lizzy

I have in the past been known to accuse Thin Lizzy of immense overratedness, and my wife one time summed them up a little too perfectly to overcome, as sounding like Elton John and REO Speedwagon got drunk together. So as a whole, I do not necessarily enjoy Thin Lizzy. But there are times in my life where it is just starting to be fall with a slight nip in the air but you can keep the car window down and it is raining like a motherfucker, night has fallen, and you still have to drive two more hours to get to the couch you are going to sleep on, so you pull over at some shit ass convenience store in the middle of nowhere because you are riding back roads to hopefully minimize the reach of the long yet easily confused arm of the law, and buy yourself a couple of double deuces of Budweiser, or Bud Light, since that and Bud Light Lime and Coors Light are pretty much your only four choices at shit ass middle of nowhere convenience stores, and it is during stints of life like that where Thin Lizzy is the most perfect and glorious music that can be heard. Basically, if the world was full of degenerates who were openly degenerated, Thin Lizzy is music from that world, for the easy listening set, like John Denver music for a post-Apocalyptic world that somehow managed to piece back together an entire civilization.
Like this song... this is a stupid fucking song if you let yourself just notice it fresh. But somehow the weird warpedness of Thin Lizzy, again... only under proper mental conditions, makes it somehow a great thing, even though it seems like it would be some stupid hippie bullshit. It is not.
Thin Lizzy really is one of the most confusing musical acts of the rock variety to have ever existed. I would say most people who outright say they are the greatest shit are saying so because they think they are supposed to, but most thinking music fuckfaces vary wildly in their own personal opinion on Thin Lizzy, from year to year. And it is because of this, they survive on the fringes of music.
STEAL "Dancing in the Moonlight (It's Got Me in the Spotlight)"
NEXT UP: Road dog memory makers!