SONG OF THE DAY: Love is the Way (kudzu'd)

I’d like to imagine one day I could get to a place in life where me and my partner was on vacation in matching tracksuits, preferably Sergio Tacchini, maybe velour but maybe crinkle nylon. They don’t ever really seem to drop purple velour in the shades I’d prefer… too earth toned and not space brained enough. But that’s a serious ass relationship goal there, matching tracksuits, riding the train through like Turkey or Texas or some shit, sitting in the café car casually just enjoying some train coffee and talking with each other, drawing folks in to our bullshit.
I made matching shirts one time, silver iron-on letters, one that said SUPER FREAK and the other said SUPER FREAKY, because it played on that phrase in suggestive ways. I let my girl pick first, to see which way she wanted to go in rocking those. She chose SUPER FREAK, true Leo power bottom style, so I got the SUPER FREAKY. We only wore them out once, to the fuckin’ Barbie movie, which is like the only new release movie I’ve seen since one of the Planet of the Apes reboots, maybe the 2011 one. In other words, I don’t be going to the movie theater all that much.
But my girl don’t even wear that shirt no more. She put it on a mannequin in a rustic studio cabin on her compound, which to be fair, is a big sign of respect. But she don’t ever wear it, and squirrels fuck around in that cabin more than humans do. I pulled my SUPER FREAKY out last night, but it just made me sad. Not because my girlfriend doesn’t wear the matching one, but because they don’t make silver velour that sparkles iridescently that could be made into a really nice tracksuit. All this artificial intelligence bullshit, and pompous cyber-Yakub dipshits with too much money to be scheming, and I still gotta buy tracksuits from 30 years ago off Ebay because the technology and color schemes have gone backwards. Having a society almost entirely run by boring ass wealthy white dudes is a mistake in the all obvious ways, but there’s a vast multitude of overlooked reasons this has failed us all.
I try not to get angry about it in a reactionary way, though. Gotta let my heart lead the way, not my disgruntled brain. It’s hard some days though. But that’s why I put glittery silver and gold iron-on letters onto t-shirts. You can’t wear SUPER FREAKY in sparkle letters and not feel a little bit lighter about the dystopia. Try it. You don’t have to put SUPER FREAKY, but just get you a big box of iron-on letters, and buy up all the half-priced quality cotton t-shirts you can at the Goodwill on the Sunday markdown, and do it up. You’ll feel better. Trust me.

SONG OF THE DAY: Girls, I Got 'Em Locked (kudzu'd)

I’m looking for someone who can airbrush overalls. If you are skilled at airbrushing and already have the equipment, get in touch with me, because I need about 8 pairs of airbrushed overalls. It’ll be a collaborative process, for the right person. No Earth signs (Zodiac) please. I don’t collaborate well with Earth signs.

TH3 D3V1L T34S3S VS W1TH...

the devil teases us with 
dreams lit with an unreal shine... 
my twinkle is stained by smoke 

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.

SONG OF THE DAY: Black Hole Bop (kudzu'd)

There is a meticulous form of avoiding doing something that is involved in digging through two baskets of unfolded clean laundry, to specifically find a certain colored pair of socks, of which the first one comes easy, but the second is a stubborn trick from the Universe, and you sort through sheets and towels and track pants and shirts and a thousand other socks that easily pair themselves but in the wrong perfect color for today, as a test to your ability to avoid folding the goddamned clothes that have been accumulating here in the living room in your last two laundry baskets for the past couple weeks. The first time through is a rough sort, because you know the sediments, and which layer of load the sock should be in. But it hides, and the initial search turns into a more meticulous second search, where everything is piled into one basket and moved haphazardly into the second, on top of that little pile of clothes you actually have folded but not put away. But it still doesn’t show up, and you contemplate just wearing a different pair of socks, except you’re already wearing a garishly orange t-shirt, and your garishly orange socks are really the only correct choice here. So you go back in for a third deep dive, touching each piece of clean laundry, which at this point is already accumulating a stray animal hair or two, and testing the definition of “clean” before it even got folded and put away. Not only do you touch each piece, but you shake it, to make sure the perfect missing sock is not tucked into a crevice of sheet or ankle zipper of track pant. And still nothing. But just as you are about to give up, there it is, a sliver of blaze orange salvation, which you tug, and surprisingly this time is not the same Adidas GK top you thought might be the sock 17 times before, but is the actual sock. So you are finally set, and you promise the piles of laundry you have neglected, which serves you so well, and makes you appear fresh when out in public even though they know the secrets of your dilapidated raggediness you hide within your home, so you promise those piles of laundry you will fold them tomorrow, in nice ordered stacks, and return them to their beds in your dresser drawers and closets. But secretly you are also thinking about going for a drive tomorrow and taking pictures of the half-abandoned downtown storefronts of nearby towns, since it’s going to be a beautiful day. That would be pretty fucked up though. So I hope you get up early enough to give the unfolded laundry its due.

SONG OF THE DAY: Danger Zone (kudzu'd)

I was watching old wrestling, and the Midnight Express version of Loverboy Dennis and Beautiful Bobby were coming out, and I noticed that Loverboy Dennis does this ridiculous thing where he’s got a bandana around his neck when he enters the ring, takes it off, and ties it around his leg for the match. And if you’ve ever seen a picture of Loverboy Dennis, he definitely looks like the type of dude whose brain would work that way. Anyways, I wanted to incorporate this into my lifestyle now, but unfortunately, I don’t wear bandanas. This leads me to believe I took a wrong turn somewhere along the way.

SONG OF THE DAY: Tico Tico (kudzu'd)

They should make an old school throwback flannel jersey, but in the San Diego Padres vaporwave colors that they had that one season, except a black away version, and it says CUMBIA. It should be embroidered. The Corpus Christi minor league baseball team made a Cumbias “Hispanic Heritage” jersey a while back, but minor league jerseys are screen printed, and the plural of cumbia is still just cumbia, because it is a supreme entity that can’t be quantified. Thus the Corpus Christi baseball team will forever be cursed for attempting to co-opt a supreme entity for cheap pandering marketing purposes. Folks always think they’re justified in anything because it’s capitalism covered by entrepreneurialism, but nah, your Yakubian actions have Universal consequences.

SONG OF THE DAY: Make You Sweat (kudzu'd)

Never really jammed Keith Sweat back in the day because I was too cool for R&B. But damn if Keith Sweat don't go hard as fuck slowed down. All that New Jack Swing stuff does. If I can fix my time machine, I'm gonna go back and tell 1991 Raven that it's okay to rock this shit, and also ask him for something from downstairs, and then I'm gonna steal a bunch of his old metalhead and Grateful Dead shirts to bring back to now and sell to these vintage vultures. Oh yeah, speaking of fashion, I'm gonna let 1991 Raven know everything is going to turn out okay (inner child work) and also get a couple pairs of airbrushed overalls, even though that feels like something out of his fashion sense back then. "Trust me, young me, you're gonna be glad you did it. But size 'em up. There's a lot of Chinese buffets in your future."

SONG OF THE DAY: Poison (kudzu'd)

When I was a kid, they fed us poison through a garden hose then offered their cures in the bed of a pick-up truck with no seat belts. And even though it flipped over because drunk driving was still legal or at least acceptable or at least neither but got did anyways, I turned out okay, because I was wearing my standard issue country boy overalls, with one strap flopped sexily off my shoulder, and "yung dirtgod" airbrushed on the left leg. I never would've gotten that airbrushed on the right leg. I mean, no offense to people who airbrush nicknames on their right leg, I'm open minded and know times have changed. But I never would've done that. Just wasn't raised that way I guess.

SONG OF THE DAY: Saturno 2000

I’ve seen a couple baseball jerseys that say CUMBIA which ultimately is a good idea. But also if you look it up, some minor league baseball team in Corpus Christi, Texas, changed their name to the Cumbias for a period last summer, to celebrate diversity but also to sell weird jerseys to dorks like me. Looks like folks have made bootleg CUMBIA baseball jerseys to look like the San Francisco Giants as well as the Dodgers, but sadly, I do not see a San Diego Padres City Connect neon vaporwave color scheme, but in away black instead of home white, with CUMBIA on it. Make that shit flannel too, so it’s thick and scratchy and I have to wonder to myself how they even found hot pink flannel material. I want it to be completely old school authentic as well as futuristic as fuck. But then don’t make it for sale on the internet, instead just let some weird ass old cumbia veterano or ruca make them, and distribute them like a bizarre Dungeon Master where they don’t even entertain you getting a jersey unless you can talk about Celso Piña but ultimately will start expecting you to know about Joaquín Bedoya. Anyways, I was once in love with a Colombian woman, as she was with me, but it was not meant to be, and when I listen to cumbia music, I dance joyfully, but there is melancholy within my motion.

SONG OF THE DAY: The World (Is Going Up In Flames) (kudzu'd)

I've now got 5 different Sergio Tacchini track suits and 5 pairs of overalls covered in different patch motifs. This properly covers a month full of Sundays, for both warm and cold weather, even if I practice Sunday loungin' on Saturdays, Mondays, and the occasional Friday. Friday is usually its own vibe, and Thursdays are universally recognized as Little Fridays, and sometimes a nice Wednesday can feel like a Thursday, so a midget Little Friday, and the hope is for a week just like that, where you have Sunday (Saturday), Sunday (proper), Sunday (slowed weekend Monday), and then a Tuesday (playing the role of Monday in such a week), then midget Little Friday (Wednesday), Little Friday (Thursday), and Friday (proper). That's a good week when it's 3 Fridays, 3 Sundays, and a Monday sandwiched between so much lounge it's hard to even consider it a burden. One track suit is purple and one has lots of pink, and one patch motif overalls is purple and one is blue and one is green (on brown overalls), so really I got all the shit covered, for whatever color my aura is feeling that day, regardless of the emotional shitstorms being forecast my way by the unloungers who I'm forced to interact with due to the responsibilities that accumulate in a society such as our's. I'm saying all this because the world can feel horrible, but a big part of that is how the world conditions you to view it, like with a calendar. But nothing is enforced, and you can screw and chop your views of a calendar's boxes as much as necessary to keep it synchronized with the power of lounge. No society that ever became a civilization didn't not take itself too goddamned serious, and thus ruin all the lounge aka destroyed the possibility of a month full of Sundays by trying to justify a month full of Mondays. No right-minded, light-hearted human being actually trying to be a being by having all their habitual be's buzz towards the lighter side of life would ever want that. And yet civilization acts like that shit is normal. That's why I consider myself uncivilized, and also why my brown overalls with the orange patches smells like fire smoke because I been standing around the barrel fire a lot lately burning old worthless books and papers and yard debris. Those overalls match the fire barrel best, so that's why they smell like smoke now, good healthy fire smoke with traces of plastic and the smell of magazine dyes mixed in, not just straight up hardwood smoke like I heat my house that way, or cigarette smoke or nothing. Burn barrel smoke is its own perfect incense, and it sparks the power of lounge as well. Anyways, these are some thoughts as the world likes to act like it's going up in flames when actually it's spinning the same as ever, just with a lot more tiny lit-up screens. They can be distracting.

SONG OF THE DAY: I Pity The Fool

I AM WEARING OVERALLS BLASTING BOBBY BLUE BLAND TYPING IN ALL CAPS TRYING TO PRETEND IT DIDN'T GET COLD AND HEATING OIL IS TOO FUCKIN EXPENSIVE. BOBBY BLUE BLAND IS PERFECT FOR THIS TYPE OF ENVIRONMENT TO BE HONEST. SADLY AS A YOUNG WHITEBOY EVEN A RURAL WHITEBOY I DIDN'T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ZZ HILL AND BOBBY BLUE BLAND, BUT I'VE RECTIFIED THAT SITUATION. WHITE PEOPLE HAVE TO DO A BETTER JOB OF REDEFINING WHAT WHITE PEOPLE MEANS.

SONG OF THE DAY: Red Garter Strut

Honestly at this point we should replace the internet with fishnets. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Cajun Moon

I've got an array of Dr. Bronner's flavors in the shower, which I select like pairing a fine wine with dinner as I get power showered up for whatever awaits. Am I gonna be wearing purple in the night time underneath outdoor lights? Probably lavender is best. Do I gotta be hype and hyper-vigilant but still feel fresh to death? Definitely gonna go peppermint zing. Am I gonna be wearing satin boxers in the jacuzzi room at a hotel somewhere before midnight? Rose soap. Sometimes you even gotta mix and match, where you soap the rest of your body with lavender but go peppermint on the nether lands, with tea tree oil on the face. But what I'm saying is I appreciate what Dr. Bronner's mad science has added to our lives.

SONG OF THE DAY: John They're Stealing Part 1

Over the winter, I was working on sewing patches on a few pairs of overalls, because I have southern gothicc futuristic visions of being a back roadside artist, wearing fucked up overalls, and selling haiku spikes, bottle poems, and clankyjangers to anyone who bothers to find me, either on purpose or by chance. I got a bunch of patches here or there, different varieties, but always cost conscious. Thirstin Howl III is a member of the underground legendary Lo-Life Crew, on top of being an infamous rapper. Lo-Lifes boosted Polo gear, and had a big part in spreading that labels popularity in hip hop music. I mean these dudes were rocking all Polo gear, all the time. It is no coincidence that perhaps me bumping Thirstin Howl III again is related to all that and my recent conversion to only wearing Polo crew socks for some reason, in about 19 different colors, in order to match the little Polo dude with literally any shirt I could possibly own (except purple… what the fuck Polo?). Anyways, Thirstin Howl’s website had black and white as well as color versions of a Lo-Life patch available, but fuck, he was asking $40 per patch, plus shipping. What the fuck? I never understand how street labels will print up shirts or clothes, and then just fleece the ever-living fuck out of anybody who might want to buy one, and then get mad that nobody supports them. $40 for a fuckin’ patch? Fuck that. So I sent Ralph Lauren an email seeing if he’d steal me one.

SONG OF THE DAY: Evil Ways

Willie Bobo is one of the all-time greatest stage names. In looking him up, I found out through Wikipedia that when Mongo Santamaria moved to America from Cuba, playing with both Tito Puentes and Cal Tjader, a young Willie Bobo was assigned to be Santamaria’s translator, and study under him. Both are so fuckin’ great, and it’s wild to learn that direct lineage. Anyways, I’m not a big cover song guy, but take a regular, well-known song and then spice it up with that New York City Latin jazz sound, and fuck man, I gotta admit I listen to this type of shit a whole lot the past few months. Even got a Fania All-Stars patch to put on some overalls.

SONG OF THE DAY: yamships, flaxseed

It’s winter but today was warm, except I didn’t know that entirely when I walked out the house with the dog to go down the road until we get to the crook in the gravel where some other dog gets all loud and obnoxious up at that dude’s compound, so we turn around. But this meant I got to rock one of the greatest styles known to man – the stocking hat barely on your head. Started with it over my years, but it was way too hot for all that, yet still enough chill to the day (“airish” as they say) that wasn’t no need to tuck it into my back pocket just yet. So I pulled the hat up so it was off my ears, higher on my head, barely holding on, like a condom receptacle. Such a lovely style, and one you can tinker with constantly, slightly tilted to one side (a classic), or even all the way up on your head so it’s not even like you’re still wearing the hat – it’s just floating along with you like an aura of a hat. That’s a top quality style, and I can actually think of a number of dudes I remember rocking an exceptionally floating stocking hat at one time or another throughout my life. A good stocking hat float really sticks in your mind, because it defies physics, and mainstream sensibilities perhaps. With my hat like this, found a bottle stash I’d made a while back, before the snow, which finally melted, and there was a pack of four bottles I must’ve dug out from further into the edge by the river. I walked over just in the off chance there were more, and found a raccoon skull, with a strip of pelt still decaying, so I stuck it in a tree to come back to later, just like the bottles. No rush on anything. You rush too much and you’re fuckin’ hat might fall off. It just ain’t worth it.

SONG OF THE DAY: Spanish Hustle

I refuse to hustle. It does no good. Look at Pete Rose.
Some people will say disco, and synths, and color coordinating all your clothes even though it's raining and you're home alone (except the cats), are weird behaviors. Luckily I don't know them people.

TRY1NG T0 K33P 1T G0LD3N...

trying to keep it golden 
in an environment born 
to rust and wither away 

 

4ND Y3T, TH3 D1ST4NT FVCKIN'...

and yet, the distant fuckin’ 
places we come from still lay claim 
to muddied identity