SONG OF THE DAY: Alegria Verde

Obviously, I am a purveyor of cumbia rebajada. But if I were to go back to classic original cumbia, I gotta say nobody does it quite like the jungles of Peru. There’s just a wild happiness to that realm of cumbia, and good fuckin’ lord we all need a whole lot more wild happiness in our lives.

TH3 3Y3S 0F C4R1C4TVR3S...

the eyes of caricatures 
drawn on abandoned house’s 
walls staring at me, smiling 

0V3R-D0M3ST1C4T3D...

 

over-domesticated 
spirits suddenly become 
feral, as revolution 

TOP TEN NUMBERS NEVER ADD UP NO MATTER THE ORDER OF OPERATIONS

making absolute
most of abstract least - trained to
feel like lesser than#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/gbZLypKxb5

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

identity built
off dollars spent, off dollars
known, off dollars waste#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/MWy6ukS7ZF

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

scribbling gibberish
to keep the failure demons
from conquering heart#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/3frAHbtZjI

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

I am idiot
- beautiful, ridiculous,
perfect idiot#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/VUCvHldBgp

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

finance is foreign
language - I'm learning slowly
but not that fluent#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/SqFOL36t56

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

the Shit Talk of Earth
Folk is my native language
easily spoken#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/SeeSSvkFgV

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

never understood
numbers; never understood
civilized abstracts#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/nM808NBHZI

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

give me the perfect
chaos of woods, rust, mud, river,
decay, abandon#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/qL2xzf5OaL

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017 

wild and wonderful
Greater Appalachian free
bird psychology#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/q6e0xYPR8G

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

when I die, numbers
won't change - still just one useless
halfway-feral fuck#haiku#latecapitalism pic.twitter.com/4lO1PTwtEO

— JVST DIRT-GOD oxoxo (@rojonekku) August 31, 2017

#1: making absolute/most of abstract least - trained to/feel like lesser than

#2: identity built/off dollars spent, off dollars/known, off dollars waste

#3: scribbling gibberish/to keep the failure demons/from conquering heart

#4: I am idiot/- beautiful, ridiculous,/perfect idiot

#5: finance is foreign/language - I'm learning slowly/but not that fluent

#6: the Shit Talk of Earth/Folk is my native language/easily spoken

#7: never understood/numbers; never understood/civilized abstracts

#8: give me the perfect/chaos of woods, rust, mud, river,/decay, abandon

#9: wild and wonderful/Greater Appalachian free/bird psychology

#10: when I die, numbers/won't change - still just one useless/halfway-feral fuck

how many memories were

lost for my own benefit,

in order to breathe easy

stubborn children refusing

bedtime in dawdling acts of

civil disobedience

withered apple tree branches 

creepy crawl after children's 

shoulders as they’re running past

extension cord to camper

runs through uninhabited

lands not waste but feral

45s on 33 – #9: “Down on the Corner”

Some records still remind me strongly of childhood, which wasn’t a picture perfect one but not one that I remember as unpleasant either. I think few of us remember childhood as unpleasant because those mental defense mechanisms kick in where the brain compartmentalizes experience as it happens, so that the body can continue to move without becoming paralyzed by blinding darkness emanating from inside.

I’ve recently (ever since vacation) been playing dominoes. It was hard to piece together a full set because my youngest is a toy hoarder freak who takes little bits of this and that and puts them in bags and then stashes the bags. I think she may be part raccoon or some shit. But we had like four sets of dominoes but they’re all missing pieces. One of them’s a really nice thick vintage butterscotch set, but there’s two pieces missing forever it seems. But I did piece together two of the other sets which were same thickness/style into a full set (still need a pimp ass butterscotch set again though, just because anything butterscotch you do for leisure is goodness for the soul). But thinking on my youngest and her domino bullshit reminded me of my memory of dominoes as a kid. I set them up on this little broken ass organ thing I had in my room, which had been my dad’s chainsaw fixing shop (inside the house) but became my bedroom when a baby sister was born. The dominoes were set up along the organ’s top, and on the windowsill because the window on the back porch was right there. We came home from shopping or some shit one time, I can’t remember, but I went in and my dominoes were messed up. I went and told my mom, who told my dad. They both looked, and freaked because it meant somebody had broken in as the dominoes sort of worked as a line across the window. Dad disappeared into another room, and then was like, “we got ripped off.”

So yeah, some records strongly remind me of childhood, in good ways, and we try to sit at the kitchen table and play dominoes more often lately, which also is a good thing. Life is always gonna be fucked up, regardless of where you start, regardless of where you go. It is human nature to make life fucked up somehow. Thus it become imperative to try and find some fuckin’ chill.

March the Four

 

I have been crazy lately, unfocused and scatter-brained, and it's completely technology (aka tricknology) related, and the presence of constant wave bombardments at work and in my own home through wi-fi router/satellite receiver/etc. But here's the thing I realized this week: my brain is not being re-wired, as I've said before and is often suggested with regards to modern tech toys/tools. Saying your brain is being "re-wired" follows that tricknological philosophy that man is a machine, made of parts that can be replaced and improved. We are not a machine; we are a holistic entity. Sure, you can pinpoint one part of the brain that lights up when someone looks at pornography or reads Jane Austen or whatever, but that does not mean that one part of the brain does that one thing. It is spread out throughout the entire mind, through the entire body, through everything. We are not fucking machines, and that's the biggest mistake we've made in the past thousand years as a western culture is assuming - even when liberal and all crazified with the philosophies - that man is machine-like and a collection of organic cogs and wheels and bells and whistles and shit like that.

 

So if I don't find "re-wired" as appropriate, what would be the best way to describe it. Very easy - polluted. Our bodies, our minds, our holistic existence is being polluted, which on the grand scale can be attributed to "humans" but on a more direct level is corporate entities acting on behalf of collection of financial wealth. This has nothing to do with improving the human condition, and no explanation of economic theory will every justify that any form of finance - capitalist or communist or otherwise - is going to benefit every human being. If there is finite wealth, if one 0.1% section accumulates a large amount, then the other 99.9% to varying degrees will have less. If there is finite resources, if one little 0.1% group utilizes those resources, then the other 99.9% will suffer the lesser. You can suggest that reasonable, intelligent people be put in charge to decide how those resources can best serve the larger population, but you won't be able to show me where that's successfully happening, in America, in Russia, China, anywhere. Because it's false.

Here's the thing I've come to painfully realize lately - there is no freedom, no grand protection of inalienable human rights. Our world governments are run by individual interest groups, and even those groups don't represent the entire nation they represent. If men, acting as corporate entities or government bodies, can justify the poisoning of segments of the environment, or exploitation of resources that destroy segments of the environment, they are obviously not using the holistic approach. Nature is a machine too, with pieces and parts, and you might mess up these 9 parts over here, but that's to benefit this one part here, where everything is peaches and cream. If these men think that way about nature, why would you assume they'd think any differently about humans? We're sort of pimped by this belief still that man is somehow special and more developed than everything else, and that there's some sort of inalienable kinship between fellow members of humanity. Not so, bro. If men who make decisions for the larger population have no qualms about strip-mining West Virginia mountains, they most likely have no qualms about strip-mining West Virginia minds. So even by saying "re-wiring" with regards to our brain, we are falling prey to that industrial overlord's thinking, to where people actually exist that are like, "Hey man, I'm stoked to be having my brain re-wired, can't wait for Google glass to come out, I'm gonna be right on the front edge of this." You, effectively to these decision makers, are not a human being with rights, but a tool or a resource. You literally are a tool in a box, that as long as you are useful, will be kept somewhat polished and stored nicely. If you become less useful, but might be needed again at some point in the near future, you will be stored and kept on the fringes of things. If you become no longer deemed beneficial, you are then expendable. You can live where expendable parts of nature are left, and maybe they'll eventually find a new resource underneath of you or inside your brain and you'll be re-introduced or gentrified back into the "civilized" world.

I'm sort of rambling here (as usual), but my point is this - you are being polluted, right fucking now. And you are probably like, "lol I know" because what the fuck else can we do about it? Who the fuck knows? But we are not cogs and wheels that sit around until the larger "civilization" finds need for our tiny little fucking usefulness, and that's how we earn money, and that's how we buy sustenance, but the money has less and less value and is harder to come by, and the food has less and less sustenance and is harder to trust. You know why safely grown food is so expensive? That's the design. You are expendable.

If you think you can change this system, you are wrong. This system is perverted and always will be. If new people took over the entire system, within 40 years they too would be perverted. That's just how it is. But you can change your life. I can change mine. I am not a tool, not a machine, so I'm not going to act like one. I'm not doing shit today, not as a tool, not as a resource. I am going to sit here, in my little windowless work spot, and fucking doodle haiku all day. Fuck work. Fuck being a tool. I will never merit wealth, I will never be hired for a dream job. That's just what I was born into, namely being outside those walls. I was born expendable, and have tried to pretend I could weasel my way with intelligence and problem-solving and good people skills into being part of that 0.1%. It's not going to happen though. I am painfully expendable.

The thing is, I'm only expendable to the machine industrial mind. As part of the holistic whole, I'm neither expendable nor necessary. I just am. I am going to daydream aka manifest in my mind all day long how all of us who are expendable realize we are not even part of that, we are not being re-wired, we are not a tool for industry or should ever consider ourselves "industrious" even fucking slightly. We just are.

There's a lot of shit being deemed expendable nowadays, as the western system slowly crumbles. They are almost out of freedom duct tape, and the freedom duct tape factory is closed. I know; I passed it the other weekend, just south of Roanoke. There's a COMMERCIAL SPACE FOR RENT sign out front, and packs of hobos building pallet fires behind the place, where the delivery docks used to be filled with freight trucks, loading up on the freedom duct tape to hold this system all together. It will all get swallowed back up by the wild if no one finds use for it. And that's the beauty of accepting yourself as expendable, and removing yourself from the industrial psychology where you are a machine to be industrious or re-wired - we all very easily get swallowed back up by the over-ruling all-encompassing holistic nature of all shit. All we have to do is nothing. Fuck changing a broken system and replacing one corrupt pervert with another corrupt pervert. I'm doing nothing. I suggest you do nothing. At work, don't do shit. Fuck work. And eventually if all the do-nothing expendable aspects of our world - both human and land mass and buildings and plants and animals and really all of nature including man because fuck we are not separate from it please stop fucking putting that in your head - it all goes wild again, goes feral. And the feral will swallow up "civilization" little by little, and eventually instead of "civilization" controlling the wild, the wild will control "civilization", except it won't be controlling it all because it won't even be concerned with the concept of "control" as that's not what true wild is about. Wild just takes over.

So dear friends and random internet eyeballs and spambots and DHS monitors and everyone else, don't do more, do less. Don't try to force broken things to start working again, and don't think switching parts out of a broken thing like government or civilization is going to fix it. You'll be jamming new philosophical cogs into broken machines for the rest of your family tree's existence. Do less, warp back into the wild. Stop pretending you are a machine. Stop pretending you are anything at all necessary or expendable to this civilization. Embrace the wild, and remember that nothing is also everything once you shake that "civilized" industrial psychology. The wild nothing looks like nothing to civilized mind because it has to be mined and harvested and re-manufactured and improved upon. That's the pollution of civilized thought. It pollutes mountains and roadsides, very obviously, but it also pollutes you. It pollutes me. The pollution is thick inside all of us, and we will start to get wilder and wilder thoughts. That's good. Embrace those wild thoughts, because they might very well be more right than all that "civilization" promises.

freestyle sonnet #1

Cyber-syllable sonnets dribble from the dome

Through the electrosmognetic haze thick like thigh

Muscles, and causing similar sex thoughts to roam

Through the dullard corridors of internal sky.

Keep telling my children the universal stars

Seen in dead winter dark through loose windows rattling

Is mirrored within, confined loose in skull-like jars

Where caveman molecules built by fire are battling

With cybertron special effects, buzzing, sealing

The perimeter of lime green auras, free born,

But the mental illness ain’t ailment – you’re feeling

what’s real in the rhythm of caveman children torn
From uncarved block party wild style universe birth;

If you can’t hold it in your head, then what’s it worth?

x m a s q

you never hear about how

hansel and gretel had stole
that weird old lady's x-box

r i n g e

my animal nature springs

forth in chaotic outbursts,

leaping at my leash’s end

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – September '10 #2: “Carmelita” by G.G. Allin

Woke up this morning, feeling good had to thank god, because yesterday was funky. Funky inside my mind, in my heart, and outside was drizzle cold rains all day long, constant. Heart has been racing sometimes at night, like it’s going to explode, and I have to close my eyes and concentrate on settling my pulse. Mind was stuck in the muck all day, about what has not come to be and what seems like it never will. But this morning, riding in to work, it was bright and clouds were layered across the sky, had that dark blue bottom shading to them, white on top, none of it puffy so much as fresh smears of non-rain across a crisp soft blue background. Trees are flashing color right now, and I’ve been making it out of bed early as fuck to catch the newborn edge of the day, and sitting around at home at night trying to force a few thousand words out even when fatigue is hammerlocking my eyebrows together.
I realized riding in to work this morning though, that what I need more than anything is shelter from the shelter. Looking at the tree colors in the distance, panty shot skyline wide open, I didn’t want to be in no buildings or cities or towns or not even inside fences that barely barbed wire wrapped around immense acreages of semi-wildness. We build all these shelters from the outside world, create air conditioned creature comfort for ourselves, have hyberboosted the technological distractions of our lives in the past decade, and really at the end of all that braided copper wires like a noose around our necks, all we fucking need is to be outside of it all again.
I was explaining to the oldest kid tonight about feral children, and Oxana Malaya who still prefers to run with the dogs than stay with the humans, and my kid was like, “If I found a kid in the wild, I’d leave them, so that they could be happy.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that you’d get in trouble for doing even that, just leaving it all alone and degenerate back into perfect wildness. She’s only 11, and full of all those idealistic views of the world that any pre-teen girl would be. You can’t be wild anymore, or it’s hard as fuck. So many goddamned shelters sheltering ourselves from us. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when I’m not seeing the sky and mountains and semi-wild horizon to run off into like a naked penis, and I look around and see the complexes and interstate on-ramps and all the other cars, I can understand how pyromania starts. De-sterilize it all with raw fire.
When G.G. Allin went acoustic, that’s about all I can stomach from him. The outlaw scumfuck stuff was shock value, trying to scream at the bricks stacked into imprisoning shelters. It’s his acoustic shit that sounds to me like the true feral music, to be played beside pallet fires along railroad tracks. Too much music that is supposed to be crazy as fuck is just more bricks and mortar and stifling ass premeditated orderliness. Wild feels good, not angry. Angry is smashing your head against all the walls hoping to see a glimpse of what I saw this morning.
And still I just went to work and sat around, “working”. Should’ve left all this shit behind me, carving idle words into underpass concrete with railroad spikes. But here I am, tethered to myself, talking some bullshit inside the robots.
STEAL “Carmelita”
NEXT UP: Tapdancing on plywood!

L.E.o.R. - Fall ’10 - 40 to 20 - 2 of 4

Let us resume this nonsense with very little explanation, so as to work my way closer to finishing up the fall class of Learned Elders of Rojonekku.
CHAZ BOJORQUEZ vs. ROBERT CRUMB
I looked at a bunch of gang graffiti online the other day, yet did not masturbate to muscle worship videos.
Advantage: Chaz Bojorquez.
OXANA MALAYA vs. PHYLLIS LIGHT
My wife is taking another class under Phyllis Light at some point this fall, and she's an awesome old herbal lady, but there is something that warms my heart about a 20-something chick who loves to tend animals on a mental hospital farm because she is considered mentally retarded or undeveloped or handicapped or whatever because she was raised by wild dogs. I am very much on a kick lately about how science and religion are both religions of course, and they differ on so much. Yet for some reason science has wholeheartedly taken the Dominion over the Earth thing and still attempts to point out constantly how superior humans are, when really how do you judge superior? Superior by our standards of what makes something better? Wouldn't that be biased? I love Oxana Malaya and wish they'd let her just hang with the dogs and stop trying to force her into some super role of reformed beast child.
Advantage: Oxana Malaya.
ATSUSHI ONITA vs. MIKE TYSON
Tyson is a wonderful story, especially if you work in all the strange superstitions and processes of boxing culture. But Onita blew himself up in fake fighting matches, got elected to Japanese Congress, and helped the children of Afghanistan somehow. My daughter just joined Facebook and her first status update was "I am sad about Afghanistan."
Advantage: Atsushi Onita.
TED KACZYNSKI vs. VINCENTE PIERRE
Pierre is a local hero of militant anti-governmentality gone to jail, while Kaczynski is a living legend of such affairs. There are only two people I'd like to initiate a prison/not-in-prison letter-writing relationship with - Kaczynski and Charles Manson. Of course, we all use laptops nowadays so I'm not sure I even know how to write with my hand. My signature has become swirly squigs with a couple of humps. I don't even get the number of humps right anymore.
Advantage: Ted Kaczynski.
DIEGO MARADONA vs. FIDEL CASTRO
Diego Maradona is a soccer player who went to coach soccer. Fidel Castro is a baseball player who went on to overthrow a corrupt government. Now he is old and hangs out watching dolphins. Che Guevara's daughter is a marine veterinarian. I read it on the internet last week, so it has to be true.
Advantage: Fidel Castro.

L.E.o.R. - Fall ’10 - 80 to 40 - 2 of 5

BIZ MARKIE vs. TOO SHORT
A pair of elder rap legends, who came from a different angle. The Biz (whom allegedly cannot be beat) was a big, goofy fucker and Too Short came from the wrong end of the country and was doing lower class anthropological dissertations on the culture of pimps and prostitutes. I met Biz Markie once, at the Marriott in Richmond, while Jay-Z was surrounded by a hundred Mennonite kids getting his autograph (no shit, one of the most surreal moments of my life) and Biz was over by the bathrooms so I said, "What's up," and he looked like he was pregnant with a watermelon in his belly.
Too Short, although not the cultural icon that Biz is, is definitely something I still listen to regularly. When he gets onto his "I'm gonna make a comment about some shit other than pussy" kicks, there really ain't nothing like a Too Short song. And I guess if I was forced to get high and play Mario Kart Wii with one of them, I'd pick Biz, but in every other way, life is Too Short.
Advantage: Too Short.
ANGELA DAVIS vs. LEONARD PELTIER
And now a pair of "I'm going to college and really like Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky a lot" legendary types. And being I don't want to waste my life writing long in-depth analysis of all these match-ups that ultimately don't mean anything, even within the retarded parameters of what I'm doing here in this little microcosmic corner of the interwebs, I will simply say frybread is fucking awesome.
Advantage: Leonard Peltier.
DIEGO MARADONA vs. GAYLORD PERRY
Cokehead world soccer star who did not lead his native Argentina to World Cup glory again as a coach like he did as a player, matching up against a wiley old baseball white dude who pretty much made his name off cheating, pitching baseballs with all sorts of imported illegal substances. And while the intriguing nature of being a spitball pitcher in Major League Baseball is one of the few wonderful snippets of baseball lore, and for me far different than dudes taking steroids, because there's so much more trickery and deceit involved in having vaseline hidden inside your zipper and somehow rubbing it on the baseball while nobody sees you while you are standing in the most obvious and watched place in the entire fucking stadium, it's hard not to appreciate Diego Maradona's eccentricity, which is what you call a stone cold crazy fucker when he's richer than everybody else around him.
Advantage: Diego Maradona.
PHYLLIS LIGHT vs. STEPHEN HARROD BUHNER
These are a pair of herbalist types that come through my brain via my wife's influence, who has studied under both of these people. I am sure if she were picking, it'd be Phyllis Light in a heartbeat. She is an older Alabama woman who practices the old mountain folklore ways of herbalism, and unlike a lot of modern new agey herbalist types, is not afraid to mix in some real world shit like, "Drink a Coke, just a regular old every day Coke." Her son is apparently an MMA fighter of some sort, and she has some crazy herbal farm in rural Alabama that we have apparently been invited to visit if we'd like. I'd like. I feel I haven't had a thick infusion of deep South craziness in my life for far too long, too mired down in this watered down pretend Virginia south where everybody loves bagels and lox and the New York Yankees.
Stephen Harrod Buhner has written a book called Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers, which is a must-have if you are into the homebrewing shit, because he can guide you into the realm of mildly psychotropic beers. Also, I met this dude one time, painting a lady's house, and we hit it off, and he told me how happy the house was to have a guy like me painting it. I was like, "No doubt," because all houses liked me. It's just their stupid owners that made it hard to survive self-employment, not to mention the overall decline of the American economy. Plus, Buhner cold kicks it with two partners, which I guess new agey types call "polyamorism" to make it sound more impossible to deny than just admitting you got two ol' ladies in the same house. On one hand, I can dig that, and it makes sense physiologically in a lot of ways, not to mention when it comes to the companionship make-up of men's and women's minds. But I also am pretty good with my one ol' lady, which, even as good as we have it, is hard to navigate at times. Having two ol' ladies, that I'm mentally saying I'm lifelong committed to, and them saying the same, and to each other, I don't know, I can see it getting oddball as hell emotionally and filling that hunk of soul right above my intestines with a clenched fist.
Advantage: Phyllis Light.
LOUIS FARRAKHAN vs. MIKE TYSON
When I still lived in Richmond, I used to love buying Final Calls, although a few of those dudes wouldn't even sell them to me, what with me being a white devil and all. The dietary column alone was worth the couple dollar donation. There are some really great philosophical aspects to the Nation of Islam, bus pigeons, which give him some meditative moments, and just generally tries to continue navigating his way through life, like we all do, with as little a clue as anybody, but a much thicker publicly known history. There are shady industries like boxing all over - pro wrestling, porn, the music industry - that create these pop cultural monsters, squeeze every dollar they can out of them, let them burn through their small cut of it, and then dump them on the side of the road as a celebrity has-been. I just can't help but feel like Tyson's story ain't over, and some pretty crazy (in both good and bad ways) shit is still gonna develop out of this man, especially now that he's older and realizes he can't knock out the world.
Advantage: Mike Tyson.
LARRY FLYNT vs. RON JEREMY
Larry Flynt made magazines, where you actually got to see an open vagina, plus a dick beside it. And he gave us the Chester the Molester cartoon, not to mention Beaver Hunt, which pretty much helped inspire a large corner of the interweb's naked parts.
Ron Jeremy is a porn dude who did it far longer than anybody else, and with a tongue-in-cheek style. Even as porn moved far away from having people actually act anymore, he still made a living at it. But that's about it.
Flynt fought, no matter how ridiculously his arguments were, the government. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for people who fight the government over their God-given right to express their retarded perversions publicly. Plus, he's a Kentucky hillbilly who became a millionaire. Ron Jeremy's probably from like Reno or Arizona or something.
Advantage: Larry Flynt.
CHAZ BOJORQUEZ vs. SEEN
A pair of graffiti legends, both of which I'd love to have a piece by hanging up in my living room. Seen is a NYC legend of the first order, and you can actually contact him through his website to deal straight with the guy about buying some art. He's straight graffiti style though. Chaz Bojorquez, being an L.A. legend, has this weird style of script that's very obviously cholo-influenced, yet artsy as fuck. And I don't want this to seem like an east coast vs. west coast thing, but the wild styles that NY graffiti developed into is cool to look at, but it doesn't speak to me like seeing actual letters that are just barely legible do. Bojorquez's stuff is crazy as fuck, like any wild style, but still there's something that keeps it a written word with a message, even if it buried behind stylistic bedazzlement. The thing that sets him apart, for me, is how just with black and white, he can make something strong. Most graffiti relies on an abundance of color, and I've always been attracted to simple black-and-white. That's why I never have and never will get any colored tattoos on my body. Basic is solid. And then you take that solid basicness and wild style the fuck out of it.
Advantage: Chaz Bojorquez.
GRADY STILES III vs. OXANA MALAYA
Kind of an odd pairing, in that Grady Stiles III is a seventh generation lobster boy, and the heir apparent to a living as a freak show superstar, except his dad was an abusive alcoholic, and got his self killed by a hitman hired by his then wife, and Grady the III's mom. Thus, the long run of playing the Lobster family in the carnivals ended, as Grady III didn't want to follow in those footsteps. So he's a stay-at-home lobster boy (technically, it's called ectrodactyly), and even though his fingers and toes are fused together into something resembling claws, he has that head full of a carnie ass family and living on the freak show circuit as a kid to get him through life. Last I heard, like many children of severely abusive alcoholics, he doesn't drink at all either, which means he will probably mire away in obscurity in Gibtown, Florida, where the freaks are dying off, and they are building condos in their place.
Oxana Malaya is the Ukrainian dog child. More so than carnival freaks, I have always been fascinated with feral children, because we have these grand notions of what it means to be human, even if we don't subscribe to Christian dogma, most scientifically-minded people still believe in man's dominion over the earth. So I find it interesting when a child who has not yet formed into a solid thing is left to the wild. Malaya's parents were also terrible alcoholics, and sort of just kicked her out when she was 3. So she started roaming the streets, and ended up tagging along with wild dogs, who took care of her and taught her basically everything she knew when she was discovered in 1991 at age 8. Ever since that point, she's been in a government joint for the mentally disabled, being she behaved and acted like a dog for the most part, and she's slowly learned many human things, most notably language and what is considered somewhat normal behavior. But she is not connected to humanity at all, and has expressed this, saying she is most comfortable when she is hanging out with dogs. She is now 26 and takes care of the cows at the clinic's she's been in since being found.
Honestly, I think looking up to something like that is a good thing, because it challenges the whole dominion over the earth thing anyways. To be a simple dog person who takes care of cows, what the fuck is wrong with that? Personally, I think we need more feral children, not less, and I am proud of the fact that I've abandoned two of my five children in the woods.
Advantage: Oxana Malaya.