W1SH1NG 1 C0VLD R34D P3RS14N...

wishing I could read Persian;

hard to trust translations to

capture the utmost essence

Aki Basho 2017 Honour Tanka Day 2: TAKAYASU (1-1)

(Takayasu going for a ride... WHEEE!)

with hurt rikishi 

galore, I thought it might be 

Takayasu’s time 

but day two Tamawashi 

bout was double injury 

earlier in day, 

my man Ura got fucked up, 

hobbled his way back 

but Takayasu against 

Tamawashi fucked both dudes 

Takayasu slid 

back like sled push training drill, 

but tried to hold edge 

Tamawashi pushed further, 

ankle going the wrong way 

contemplate the low 

center of gravity plus 

all that weight carried 

human ankles not designed 

to handle that level strain 

and yet still, Tamawashi 

was able to finish bout 

adrenaline surge 

with final push, and down 

went Takayasu 

down on floor, Takayasu 

showed lack of mobility 

proper post-bout bows, 

but Takayasu could not 

carry his own weight 

down the hanamichi 

came wheelchair/shopping cart thing 

up hanamichi 

they rolled Takayasu, not 

likely to return 

afterwards, Tamawashi 

also hobbled horribly 

he won the extra 

pay envelopes, but also 

looks done for basho 

who the fuck’s gonna be left 

in battle royal basho? 

did yokozuna 

withdrawing establish bad 

energies with gods? 

will the sumo gods reward 

us before two weeks are done? 

Nagoya Basho 2017 Honour Tanka Day 1: YOSHIKAZE (1-0)

when banzuke scroll 

unfurls, mid-makuuchi 

is poised for struggle 

high maegashira (plus the 

sanyaku ranks) face the top 

this means thrown in to 

freshly-ranked ozeki and 

aged yokozuna 

and yet opening 

day of Nagoya Basho 

saw ozeki fall 

all three, in fact, suffered loss 

to lower maegashira 

Tochinoshin, with 

his eternal bandaged knee 

fought off ozeki 

and noble Takayasu 

lost first bout as ozeki 

but in next-to-last 

bout of day, Yoshikaze 

had today’s moment 

that grizzled yokozuna 

Harumafuji waited 

Harumafuji appears 

somewhat mean of spirits most 

of the time (it seems) 

not easily kinboshi’d, 

but quickly put on back heels 

the yokozuna’s 

balance is impeccable - 

resist on one foot 

Yoshikaze does not quit, 

locking in spinning embrace 

Harumafuji 

attempts to lock uplifted 

leg, to no avail 

Yoshikaze attempts to 

throw him off balance… no luck 

they reach the ring’s edge, 

and even then it appears 

either man could win 

perhaps Harumafuji 

would spin Yoshikaze out 

but Yoshikaze 

roots himself just long enough, 

wide feet gripping sand 

Harumafuji on edge, 

nowhere left to spin, steps out 

on opening day, 

Yoshikaze scores bonus 

pay for kinboshi 

opening day - ozeki 

and yokozuna lose big 

seven bouts, they win 

only two, the lower ranks 

hungry to move up 

Yoshikaze, however, 

got biggest gold star of all 

just opening day - 

there’s two full weeks left for this 

Nagoya Basho 

but Yoshikaze came out 

the gates strong as fuck (for now) 

Sgt. Slaughter cobra clutched

while the Iron Sheik camel

clutched - cultural differences

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - February '11 #10: "Out In The Woods" by Leon Russell

Look, I could go off into one of my goddamned long-winded things that's kind of metaphysical, kind of full of shit, very real, and impresses in introspective moments but is pestersome when you're just looking for lulz inside the interwebz, but the fact of the matter is this song is fucking awesome. The beginning will eventually be looped by some shitty rapper who does some stupid fucking allegedly intelligently lyrical song, and I will hate the guy for it. This shit is on point as it is. The live version off of Leon Live, Russell explains how he asked a Zulu friend what's the Zulu word for being lost. His friend said there was no Zulu word for lost. That's why there's all that "shoo buhla hamma, shaba lah hema" Zulu singing in the song. I guess it means something important. Honestly, the only thing on my mind is sex today, so to me it's just naked women singing on a song, and the words are something about "Come in, sure, let's play cards, and no, we never wear shirts."
STEAL "Out In The Woods"
NEXT: funky jesus!

(7s) Recent Force Battles For Control Of My Soul #7 - White Trash Genetical Heritage vs. Strange Electronic Musics

Look, I will be honest, this is not even a fair battle. No amount of musical expression, no amount of electronic clutter inside my mind, no amount of nothing from everywhere could ever trump my goddamned insides. Not like my pockmarked liver and cluttered intestines and hop-skipping heart and grey matter gone black from broken axons brain type of insides, but my straight up deep down inside every molecule type insides. I was born this man I am, and the new job has been strange, because I am navigating a world of responsibility and pretending I know what I'm doing. I actually flew to Florida related to work and we had a big Sunday dinner at fancy restaurant sponsored by our hosts, collaborators in a ginormous fucked up project, where entrees were $25 on the low end, and they had multiple forks laid out, and everybody who knew what they were doing was laying a cloth napkin across their lap in different manners. I will not front... I do not understand all this. But at the other end of the table was a Ukrainian lady who was my parallel counterpart at the Florida research lab doing what we do in Virginia, and she spoke broken English and was mostly quiet. As was I, although I guess my English is more warped than broken. But I had a very valuable moment of lucidity sitting there waiting for my $28 bison strips with grilled squashes and sautéed wild mushrooms... even though I am no other country immigrant, this world I am trying to navigate is very foreign to me. I do not know its customs or mannerisms or anything really. I mean, I guess I could know them, from seeing it in movies or on PBS cooking shows about manners or something, but I don't deep down in my molecules know them. I am of the earth, which is, if you haven't been paying attention, full of trash for the last hundred years. I am born of the light-skinned wretched of the earth, more inclined to get drunk as hell, be hungover the next day, and the only thing that keeps me from passing out under a table from the sweats is the delusional perverted thoughts that run wild through my brain during that moment of intense wet dehydration. I was born to somehow get brand new pairs of pants hung on barbed wire, or accidentally hit the concrete barrier at the gas station in a new ride, which isn't even "new" so to speak so much as new to me. Hell, I'm lucky to have a car from this decade most years of my life (for the record, three of my 37 years, I've rocked a ride from the same decade I'm driving through at the time).
Yet this has helped me immensely. Because even though I don't know how to act right in those prim and proper situations, or remember to cut my hair more than once every two months, being I'm not from that world, I am hungry, and full of a pitbull work ethic. I can do 17 things that would be menial to someone who knows how to swirl red wine around in a paper thin glass goblet, and in a third of the time it would take them to get started. I was born hungry, and those small high dollar portions of the good life will never satisfy that deep down in my molecules hunger. So as long as I can channel my immigrant thinking into a positive direction, to hold down the button-down job, then I can live the American Dream.
But at the same time, that hunger inside of me from birth... from before birth really, often times it needs to be fed with reckless nomadic wanders into shithole territories, sleeping on hotel mattresses that would look like disco balls underneath one of those exposé news shows black lights, and burn down all the bridges I’m sick of looking at, crossing back and forth for too long a stretch of my life. This is how I’m wired. Nothing can ever change that, and nothing can ever block that.
On my right forefinger is a crude, splotchy ahnk I gave myself when I was 17, sitting in my dad’s trailer living room. And there are times when I am navigating this brave new world I’m trying to belong to, at least during the work day, and I catch people’s eyes trying to figure that out. Why is it there? It is a leak of my inside molecular structure, right there in the opening, that no long-sleeved shirts or hair clippers can hide. And being to the rest of the upwardly slanted American world, I am not a bonafide foreigner of obvious immigrant status, I’m sure they question my presence in their world. As do I. But whatever. Civilization’s stacked enough bricks and paved enough paths through the wilderness that a man can burn a hell of a lot of bridges and still not be stuck on an island. Or in a prison. All that other electronic new-fangled cluttery is just prison bars or electrified fences trying to keep me penned up. But I’m too wild inside to stay still forever, plus I can’t ever have nice shit, always breaking it or busting it or half-assedly fixing it back together, so my type of stuff doesn’t properly transmit all that new age fencing charges like it’s supposed to anyways. My internal structure trumps outward controls. You can take the boy out of the cursed yet somehow perfect genetics, but you can’t take the cursed yet somehow perfect genetics out of the boy.

Grolsch

AFFORDABILITY: Being from a house of homebrewing and herbal tincturing and Ethiopian honey t’ej making, I thoughted Grolsch only came in the cap top doohickey bottles with the rubber gaskets and all, but apparently they be making normal sized six-pack bottles of the pop top variety as well. It wasn’t back breaking moneywise, but for something that didn’t look like I expected it to look like, there’s a pre-judgement charge involved, so it cost the Grolsch its financial positioning. Plus, if you rock green bottles, you shouldn’t rock big white labels, but that’s for a later category I guess. Still, I didn’t feel proud with this on the checkout aisle conveyor belt, and if you can’t feel proud buying a beer, what the fuck are you doing with a dick, know what I’m saying? 1 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: Grolsch was disgusting. Fucking disgusting. They should be ashamed of pretending to be a good beer, and probably no one would give a shit about them if they didn’t make those awesome pop top bottles that college age drunkards leave on their mantle like it’s a fine wine or some shit. 0 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: Grolsch is stupid. Stupid label, stupid taste, and it looks like a softball jersey font. I would abandon the rest of this stupid Grolsch beer review, but I’m halfway into it already, so I’ll force myself to complain about Grolsch a little longer. Green is a great color though. 1 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: I think Grolsch is Germans or something, but I can't rightly care because the beer was not so, how you say, good. I don't know if Grolsch is German but I think I remember reading that, and usually anything that sucks that's definitely European I blame on the Germans when it doesn't sound French. 0 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Terrible. Worse than getting oral sex from what you think is a woman but find out is a man in that half second between feeling your orgasm about to happen and having it actually ejaculate. Not that I'm anti-gay. Is not liking trannies actually being anti-gay though? Man, this fucking modern world has too many blurry lines for my nearsighted moral vision. 1 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 3/5 STARS!

Cuvee Du 8eme

AFFORDABILITY: This was mailed to me by my broken legged homeboy Ten Dollar David, so it was free, but it was only one bottle, and I had to drink it, and my time is worth something. Isn’t it? 2 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: There was only one in the package, and it was tiny, and French. I drank it and it left me feeling unfulfilled and wishing for more. But it magically appeared inside my PO Box, so I guess that counts for something. 1 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: Looks like the label was printed on white linen paper like you would've used for your resume back in 1999, before 9/11 changed everything and you started emailing your resume to HR@youfuckfaceyoullbestuckinconstructiontilyoudie.com and you worried more about fonts than the type of paper. But then what if they didn’t have your perfect font? Do you include the font so they can look at your resume in all its glory? Of course not; that’s pretentious as fuck of you, and who the hell is gonna unzip and plug in a font for somebody’s random resume, especially when it’s a fat lady at the human resources office looking at it and she’s thinking more about if she can eat one of those donuts in the break room and not trigger her diabeetus by lunch time. The very uppermost left-sided thing on the label says, “be smart, say it in French: ((Q-V-DUE-WHEATY-M))”. That’s what it says. This is the stupidest fucking beer ever. If we lived ten years in the future, this beer would include a font file when you downloaded it so that you could properly see just how clever its label really was. 0 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Cuvee Du 8eme is made by a Switzerland company but written with some French bullshit and imported by Connecticut people. Do the Switzerlese speak francais? I do not know. Whoever makes it does so with a nice looking bottle, so they have a flair for style. Yet the label looks like somebody printed it on their computer, so they cut corners in cost, and still charge the astronomical realm of prices, I’m sure. They are confused people obviously, which is understandable. European culture is so entrenched and so old that the cellular memories probably cross wires internally, not to mention the thousands and thousands of years of history and the pollutants and buried environmental scars from all that. Somewhere a couple sediments down, the Plague is still kicking it over there. Still though, I cannot give a beermaker credit because of the poor upbringing they might have had that left them confused and needing therapy. There comes a time when a beermaker should be old enough to know better. 1 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: How could a gift from an old friend be so disappointing? I think I was reading about this beer on the internet at some point and people were all like talking about the year or some bullshit like that. I don’t understand. I don’t care about beer, good or bad, to become a historian. I like to drink things that make my brain wonky, and I like them to have interesting tastes, which is funny since beer, good or bad, is an acquired taste. Cuvee Du 8eme will never cross my lips again. 0 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 4/5 STAR!