SONG OF THE DAY: Mulungelo

Thinking about serenity prayers tattooed on women’s torsos again, as one does when confronted with the judgmental yet hypocritical nature of this civilization we’ve built here in what is called the west, even though if you keep going, it all circles back around. Life is always cycles – ebbs and flow which are impossible to control with our tiny little simian brains. But damned if we don’t try all the fuckin’ time. But not me, at least not today. I’m sure tomorrow, or the next day, I’ll be forced to accept trying to put some sort of strange ass order to the world, just to maintain the sand castles built up all around me, which I’ve come to expect to be permanent, tricked once again into mark thinking, buying the angle, sitting in my seat I paid for, cheering wildly for things that ain’t even real.

C0VNT1NG TH3 M4RKS 0N3 M4K3S 1S...

counting the marks one makes is 
an impossible task if 
one makes marks everywhere 

W3 S4Y "1C0N1C" F0R BR4NDS...

 

we say "iconic" for brands 
etched into our consciousness 
by relentless marketing 

SONG OF THE DAY: Qualified

I am highly qualified to sit around listening to the river, or waiting for a train to pass in the middle of nowhere, probably passing a little time by walking a few miles, snagging a few cool railroad spikes laying around, but then my cargo shorts pocket got too heavy so I throw them back out, and then sit down again. Lot of cool rocks for sitting around on out here on this planet. I saw some shit where they said there’s probably life on other planets nearby. Hahaha, could you imagine being so self-important that you thought there wasn’t life on other planets? Like you just think, “well I’m the most special shit that just happened to come together in the universe, and there couldn’t possibly be anything like me. In fact, whatever created everything probably created ME to be like HIM.” Haha, it’s some foolish people out here thinking CRAZY SHIT to hype themselves up. Sit down by the river for a little while, and listen to a real player spit game.

PR1C3 P41D T0 4CH13V3 PVBL1C...

price paid to achieve public

glories rarely worth what's lost -

victims of our own ego

P30PL3 PR3T3ND1NG C0VNTRY...

people pretending country

so long that pretend country

now regarded as real shit

SONG OF THE DAY: Wrestlemania 20

The wrestling storylines today are mostly just the WWE storylines, and that storyline’s largest manufactured arc is that somehow the Royal Rumble leads up to Wrestlemania season. This of course is all trash storylines compared to back when wrestling was a myriad of regional promotions ran like degenerate improv theater, where the writers were basically outliners and the ridiculous characters who fell through the cracks into the wrestling business fleshed out the details, often times outlandishly. What I’m saying is despite the resurgence in digital appreciation for the wrestling arts, the WWE is fucking boring. And it always has been. But if you tell somebody that, they get mad at you, if they are a wrestling fan. But being a wrestling fan and thinking the WWE is great is akin to saying you love having sex but all you’ve ever had is straight missionary. You have barely even explored what it means, and to be honest, haven’t even gotten to the good stuff.

But we are also America, a prudish culture that has built this myth that we are bold because of our freedoms. Yet most people are afraid to express themselves in any true fashion, and thus the repressive expression of the WWE is perfect as a performative act of quirkiness. But in actuality, it is no coincidence that Vince McMahon’s wife Linda is part of Donald Trump’s governing team. The WWE and Donald Trump are fraternal brothers, and the pretend change “drain the swamp” antics of Trump which have given us open fascism are the result of years of social conditioning that the WWE’s professional wrestling has given us. All this didn’t happen overnight – we were primed for decades.

Anyways, it’s Royal Rumble weekend, which is a buffet of boring chemically enhanced performers, mixed in with faded stars of yesteryear, meant to create a nostalgic pop in the greater markdom, in order to spark a desire to give half a fuck about the upcoming Wrestlemania, which pretends to be a Super Bowl of sorts, thus tying the Royal Rumble to Wrestlemania build-up into Super Bowl weekend, and the twin sports entertainment arms of American fascism (football and wrestling, neither of which is actually what it claims to be).

We are not doomed, but we’re way more fucked than anybody seems willing to admit. There will be a period of nihilistic degeneracy, as exemplified by this Westside Gunn (and Griselda Records crew) track named after Wrestlemania 20. I am too old now to look forward to this period, but fuck it, you play the hand you’re dealt, even if the dealer is dealing from the bottom of the deck, your entire life.