Friday Love/Hate

Can’t really outright say I hate anything, as having had a lingering illness the past month yet still feeling pretty positive about the way things are going, I am obviously blindly optimistic. But being within the hospital three times in two weeks, seeing the rapid mood swings in care you get depending on the individual, seeing (and hearing through curtains) the mentally weak who use emergency rooms as psychological crutches, having to fill out paperwork or wait for paperwork to be filled out by someone else as I am stifled by pain – the entire bureaucracy of it all makes me sick that the health care reform thing of last year was supposed to be some sort of grand achievement. Health care and more importantly health insurance (since it is the beast that has perverted health care) has absolutely nothing to do with being healthy. And yet everyone is either up-in-arms about how ridiculous the reform thing is, or how great it is. We are such a deluded populace here in America. The things we are pointed at to think are important have nothing to do with actual importance in our lives. I hate that. Although I am also thankful for Obama’s Presidency because he used up the “I’m different than those other guys” card harder than anybody else, so hopefully next time some political “maverick” comes out acting like they are somehow different, that loud crying of “WOLF!” by that faux revolutionary leader won’t be met with such naïve joy. Also what the fuck people? There is no such thing as a revolution when you are using the established system and network to change things. That’s why they call it an “establishment” because the shit is deeply entrenched and designed to keep out the rabble rousers, much less actual visionaries.

I love my family, meaning my wife and daughters. I am a blessed ass dude. The core nucleus of my life is far more stable and loving than my chaos brain and delusional writings/ramblings would give off probably. But the fact of the matter is this is a twisted ass world. I feel that twist and crook of axis, as I’m sensitive to that type of nonsense going on beneath my feet. I am thankful to have the family I have that can allow me to focus on channeling the Universal Magnetics word flows into Earth patterns, and try to give some sense to the crookedness for those of us who feel it. Without them, who knows what type of dirtbag life I’d be clouded within.

s u z z y

sometimes, when my wife is mad

at me, I ride a freight train

for nineteen years and five months

x m a s o

creative light bulbs going

off above my head looking

like the nineteen seventies

x m a s p

alligator skin porch posts

wrapped in gaudy lights, drop cord

snaked through crooked front window

x m a s f

piano blasts muffled through

farmhouse siding, some sort of

wild throwdown concealed inside

p i g z s

blessed are those that struggle –

the stunted of the earth shall

inherit whatever’s left

m e m a a

cold world seems worse inside of

heartless stacks of concrete with

mosaics of faded paint

g y p a a

firstborn offspring blossoms with

a blur from baby to young

lady, always so focused

Friday Love/Hate

I hate, absolutely hate being incapacitated like I have been. It has been nearly three weeks since I first bed-ridded myself, and my nature is not to sit still much at all. Today I was feeling better, and walked through the yard twice, plus stood around the house inside a lot. Tonight that made me feel like parts of my organs were falling south through my crotch. I am done with it. But I’m not. Frustration is a motherfucker, and I am a frustrated motherfucker.

I love the strange world we live though. I have a friend dumpster diving for my pigs tomorrow. That’s really the only thing I could think of. People are bringing us food, which is really great and I appreciate it, but I am craving all the bad things in life. I want to wander back roads to weird defunct steel mining towns and eat at shitty Chinese buffets and take pictures of railroad tracks beside smokestacks. Shit man, I’ve started taking pictures of things from my bed, which is a very difficult canvas to continue to find inspiration. At least my narcotic prescription ran out so I have my brain back to full functionality, though this boring as fuck love/hate probably is not a testament to it. Oh well… I thought I would’ve wrote 9 novels by now while laid up, but it’s been physically impossible to stay comfortable for more than an hour or two on the best days of the past three weeks. I ain’t bitching, because most all the world has it worse than me. And this whole thing had kinda been a test for me to make sure the path I’ve chosen to switch up on in the past three or four months is the path I really want… and it is. Fuck you World. I’m gonna take your ass down. Bully me all you want, but I got you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my water bottle is empty, so I’m going to take four minutes to wiggle my way upright off the couch, take four minutes to walk the twelve or so normal steps around the corner into the next room to the refrigerator, think how I want something to eat but not be able to bend down to open the bottom crisper with baby carrots in it, so I’ll eat a cheese stick, take four minutes back to my couch aka nighttime bed, position myself to be barely comfortable, click the button on the remote to see what time it is and how long it’s been since I took Advil or Tylenol, focus on whatever Iron Chef episode is now on my TV screen… (By the way, BIG motherfuckin’ UPS to Russ Mac in Georgia for sending all those DVDs a while back. I never actually watched too much of the Iron Chefs, but have been working my way through them all this week. I want to have that book out too, to full-on nerd out, but I only remember at night when everyone’s asleep and it’s in the peach crate by the toilet below where I can reach. Yeah, I can’t even put socks on right now.) Then I’ll sleep uncomfortably for a little while, wake up, let the internet make me a little stupider for a few minutes, click the Iron Chef back to whatever episode I fell asleep on, and repeat it all, in a slightly different order. In the morning, I’ll be really afraid the toddler is gonna come running in and Superfly Snuka me (like she has done already) so I’ll wake up with the light outside the window and uncomfortable wait for everybody to wake up, when I’ll relocate to the bedroom bed, read a few short stories, think about how awesome this short story I’ve been planning in my head is about someone doing asemic writing in an abandoned school, think about how I’d like to just do that in that old hospital in Staunton by the Frontier Culture Museum rather than write a story, then I’ll think about the hospital and how awesome old abandoned mental institutions are and why they intrigue me so much, which is probably because in the olden days they would’ve just put me there, which would probably be cool because then I could just draw pictures with soot like James Castle or actually do asemic writing all over my walls except I’d be restrained physically so they’d give me paper and probably an electric pencil and I’d make weird drawings like that instead. I actually filled about ten pages of a notebook trying to work up a new personal graffiti font because I don’t like the one I naturally have developed as it’s not cholo enough. I got some good things going on early, but was having trouble with the second row of letters (H-N) from that toy I learned my alphabet from as a kid, which I still divide the alphabet up by (A-G, H-N, O-T, U-Z). And I really didn’t want to skip rows, so I just worked on A through G a whole fucking lot because I just couldn’t wrap my head around a good way to do an H. That’s part of the problem right there, trying to “wrap my head” around something instead of letting my head unleash itself upon the dilemma. We are too filled with false knowledges about minor things to really allow ourselves to unleash anymore. I am not sure where I am going with this – probably nowhere, just rambling, like always, but without a point, like often. But my ass is starting to hurt so I’m going to shut down the laptop and shift myself painfully about two inches one way, an inch back the other, and see how Hiroyuki Sakai and this French dude do in this lamb battle. I’ll probably fall asleep and wake up craving Aladdin’s from Richmond circa 1996, but hey, my mind, it’s a fucking thing, what which lets things in and shakes around like Boggle and then things come back out and I just go, “Hmmm, intriguing idea,” and then worry about work because there’s so much to do when I get back.

t i p i a

paleface spend seven hundred

pictures of first president

on archaic pointy house

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 #9: “Lonely Woman” by Ornette Coleman

Originally obtained this on an Atlantic Jazz: The Avant-Garde LP I bought at Plan 9 in Richmond’s Carytown. Just recently heard that that record store was shutting down, which ends an era. I mean not continuous, because the orginal Plan 9 I knew was a few doors up the street, but it’s all connected. The place I fantasize about digging through albums or 7-inches is always the basement of Plan 9, because you can always stay ahead of the record store dork curve and find awesome shit for cheap. Last time I was in there (over a couple of years now), I got 12-inch singles of “Life is Too Short” by Too Short and “Cell Therapy” by Goodie Mobb and “Cadillac on 22s” by David Banner, all for a buck. I can’t even begin to imagine all the wonderful pieces of vinyl I got from Plan 9 over the years. I actually was busted one time, because of Plan 9, when me and a guy stole a bunch of CDs from a guy back home who we didn’t like, split up the CDs, and I sold a bunch of them to Plan 9, carefully taking apart the CDs to mark out where the dude had discreetly placed his initials inside the CD jewel case (obviously a paranoid fuck). Still though, they found CDs at the other dude I did it with’s house, he snitched on me, and Richmond Police found records of me selling CDs to Plan 9 that partially matched the list of what was stolen. That was enough to arrest me, and Richmond PD had a warrant for my arrest about to get faxed to them, to arrest me coming out my freshmen dorms, or perhaps at the room, I don’t fucking know, when a local detective who had gone straight and narrow after drinking a lot and racing hot rods with one of my uncles as teenagers, he intercepted the warrant, said he was a friend of the family, and would handle the arrest. I plead down to misdemeanors, took the full fall (being I wasn’t gonna snitch out my friend, even if he did me… In fact, my dad said that was something he was proud of, and I matter-of-factly told the cop, “You know who did it.” And he said, “But you have to say it.” But I didn’t.), had to pay restitution which involved me borrowing a lot of money from my grandfather, and taking a good chunk out of my financial aid reimbursements each semester for the following three years to pay him back.
Even before then though, we would skip high school, get high, and go to Richmond to find some sort of adventure. I would always want that to involve going to Plan 9 to buy music we’d never find in Farmville, because the first time I ever skipped school after getting my driver’s license, me and this dude Dave took my ’69 Ford Future, beat-up beige beauty it was with the speakers that rattled like tambourines all the time, and rode up to Plan 9 specifically. Richmond was this insane city to me at the time, a simple-assed country kid who thought the one elevator in town was an amazing thing when he was five years old.
Richmond still is an insane place to me, bred a lot of my creativity into me, and I was surrounded by a lot of similar types who seem destined for things. There’s a lot of people who formed cliques and seem like some sort of alternative fraternal organization to this day, and I’m an outsider because I didn’t just have kids and buy a house in a gentrified southside neighborhood and support my local Waldorf school or whatever. But Richmond is a special fucking place in my life, and it’s had that effect on a lot of people, and Plan 9 was one of its Power Sites, for sure.
Shit man, I go to Richmond now and hardly recognize places I knew so well. The VCU area has been pretty heavily commercialized/sterilized, which I guess is good for the big business of going to college. Oregon Hill seems like it wants to be a better place, but seems like it’s half empty still, and the crackheads and miscreants and 14-year-old mamas with weasel faces will take it back over soon enough. Downtown doesn’t seem as vibrant as it once was, and I don’t mean businesses, but people. Used to be people around, and activity. Seems slower now, or more geared towards something else. I’m not sure. I think Church Hill’s natural flow was disrupted by all the new stop signs, but that’s probably a good thing because parts of Church Hill were something else, like The Wire but with different architecture using lots of asbestos siding shingles that looked like fake bricks.
Anyways, the song “Lonely Woman” is fucking amazing. I am not a huge jazz fan by any means, but I dig some stuff. Honestly, this song is one of the two that are all-time faves of mine, because they transcend music into just pure emotion. This Ornette Coleman song is such a truly sad song, so deeply and painfully sad, that I just can’t help but gone drawn into it, every fucking time. I have listened and tried other Ornette Coleman things, and a lot of it sounds like normal jazz – kind of annoying and the type of thing that makes me feel white as fuck to be listening to. But “Lonely Woman” – this is a fucking real deal song. It is the fucking truth.
STEAL “Lonely Woman”
NEXT UP: Happy rap!

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 #10: “River” by David Allan Coe

River is the name of my youngest daughter, and she is the wide open spirit amongst our children, most reminding me of myself when I was little, both in wacky style and looks. Her name and mine, in fact, I have noted in my nerd brain are 60% exact replicas of each other (R-x-V-E-x). All of our children have copied what my parents did with me by giving me the name Raven – we have a Gypsy, a Phoenix, and a River. Thus, they can tattoo their names on themselves graphically when they are older (though my oldest has already said she’s never going to drink or get a tattoo because she doesn’t want to “pollute my body”). The go-to name for a son was going to be Nation, which would’ve been fine, but I’m kinda glad it never happened. That’s a heavy fucking name to be saddled with. I know my life has probably been altered plenty by carrying the name of “Raven” on my birth certificate, and being known as that from birth. The name was inherited from a friend of my folks’ who had a sort of infamous ’57 Chevy muscle car back in Cumberland County in the late ‘60s. He suffered a mysterious death involving wrecking his car along a road he had driven blind a million times before. He had previously upset some people from up north in a money race, so the theory I heard most growing up was he had been ran off the road.
I feel that some of their names have automatically influenced all of my children in similar manners. Gypsy is quiet and artistic and a truly beautiful and cerebral person. Phoenix is young and struggles to find comfort in her self, and even wants to be called Charlotte at times (her first name). We have not said no, but instead said if she still feels that way in two weeks, we’ll start. She never does. She is Phoenix, and will eventually find her rebirth from whatever internal struggle she was born with as the center child in this family. River just goes. More than any of other children, she leaps before she looks, and if she lands head first on hardwood troubles, tends to find laughter in that as often as tears. As a parent, this can be distressing, because you’d like for your child to protect her skull. But at the same time, with such a seriously psychically powerful household with multiple fifty-foot auras crowding around each other, it’s nice to have that “don’t give a fuck” youthful goofiness shine into the mix with a little bit of purple to mellow out all the lime greens.
I just found the Heartworn Highways this version of “River” comes from, and every time I play it, I go, “Hey River, here’s a song about you,” and she’ll take her wooden noisemaker thing she uses for a microphone and sashay around the kitchen singing barely intelligible 3-year-old songs from her pure little golden head. In-laws who respect money more than aura bought her some high dollar record-your-own-voice doohickey microphone for Christmas, nice enough to leave the price tag on it as well (how tacky – and what a waste at $75). That sits in a moldy basket on the bathroom floor with some dollar store mermaids. When she is singing her soul out, River uses that same wooden noisemaker thing as her microphone. And if she’s really getting into something, she pushes this purple turtle footstool we have into the middle of the kitchen floor and stands on top that to get everyone’s best attention.
STEAL “River”
NEXT UP: One of my two favorite jazz songs of forever!

s h e d g

sunshine beacons of freedom

betray the barbed wire outside;

one day, I’ll maul my master

p r t a b

having three daughters has made

me a master of twisting

and taping colored streamers

f e n c b

safety-minded embraces

from civilization’s lights

dull the stars to a pink blur

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 #11: “Live Free Or Die” by Hayes Carll

I saw Hayes Carll on the Jay Leno Show the other week, and actually tuned in to see it specifically, of course waiting until the end of the house, because who can tolerate fucking Jay Leno without wanting to stab America in the fucking throat with old railroad spikes? The song he did was off his new album coming out later this year, and it was a lot of song and I couldn’t get the real total feel for it, but I have faith in holmes. The fact he’s getting pre-release buzz and his record industry insider handlers are getting him onto the Jay Leno Show means something I guess (although it could just mean he’ll be deeper in debt to the record industry after this album).
This “Live Free Or Die” song is off of the Trouble In Mind CD, which if I was to be an opinionated asshole inside the internet, I’d tell you was the best americana/roots country album that’s come out since Car Wheels on a Gravel Road by Lucinda Williams. If I wanted to go all out and be a contrarian asshole about it, I’d say something like, “Trouble In Mind is what all those neighborhood gentrifiers lining up to eat whole wheat bagels at 11 in the morning at the same retro-kitschy hole in the wall they were drinking PBRs at at 1 in the morning last night want to think Car Wheels on a Gravel Road is. But what does it matter anyways? All they’re gonna be playing on the house speakers while you wait for your whole wheat chocolate chip pancakes or avocado and sour cream free range omelet is either Johnny Cash or some sort of bluegrass version of Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd.” But mostly I just want to say this is an awesome song about going to jail in New Hampshire, which has always seemed to me like one of the better places to go to jail. There’s a lot of biker types up there, and my immense fear of being man-raped seems less overbearing when in a state without a large black prison population. Not sure why that is. Perhaps the tossed salad guy from that one HBO special being so goddamned scary, or maybe just the general stereotypical mandingo sexual appetite mythology perpetuated everywhere I look. Or maybe I’m just racist. I mean, white guys would probably rape me just as easily as black guys.
This is a feel-good jail song though, about stamping out license plates after stabbing a guy who was cheating with your wife. There’s no man-rape involved whatsoever. Jail songs would not be so feel-good if they were all talking about man-rape, though I read a stat one time that said for every one rape of a woman in America, there’s four rapes of a man in jail in America. Jesus, no wonder I’m so freaked out by that shit. Why would I read something like that and then hold onto it as gospel fact? Sad thing is, I probably read it in a Loompanics Unlimited catalog or something anyways, which means it was probably a freestyled fact made up on the spot by some wackjob writer. But I tend to do that myself, so I can’t fault freestyle factmakers. To be honest with you, there’s no such person as Hayes Carll. And when you download this song, it’s just going to be a virus that sends pop-up ads for Season 3 of Sons of Anarchy into your computer.
STEAL “Live Free Or Die”
NEXT UP: A song that makes my sweet little brutarian daughter smile!

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 #12: “Blinded By The Light” by Jackie Chain

Jackie Chain is a great thing that exists – a longhaired weedhead Asian rapper from Alabama who pretty much raps about nothing other than banging chicks, getting high, and having diamonds. He also looks like my buddy Partin from RPG.
This is a recombobulation of that stupid fucking Manfred Mann song that you can still hear on classic rock radio every third hour to this day. That song sucks, and is mostly known as the song where it sounds like the dude says “wrapped up like a douche in the middle of the night.” Jackie Chain takes it, owns it, and makes it something far less annoying for truck rides back and forth to work. I imagine Jackie Chain is probably pretty good at shooting pool, but not obnoxious about it. Like he plays up or down to his competition, and could have a nice rousing game of partners where each side has one chick, but if some dude got all pool table alpha male trying to flex his gamesmanship muscles, Jackie Chain could play a serious game of 9-ball and fuck that dude up, and then go right back to shooting pool with chicks and barely winning. That is the ability to get along well with others, yet show and prove when necessary, but only when necessary. This is probably because he has magical Chinaman blood inside of him, the effects of which are further enhanced by heavy weed smoking.
Did you know most weed you buy nowadays is mad sprayed with pesticides and chemical enhancers? It’s not a common meme out there, but when possible you should really buy local and organic weed. Know your grower, which can be tough because growers are natural paranoids not wanting to get to know a lot of strange ass people. Still though, if you smoke a lot of weed, you owe it to your long-term health to do just that.
STEAL “Blinded By The Light”
NEXT UP: Another catchy ass Hayes Carll song!

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 #13: “Shorty The Pimp” by Don Julian & The Larks

I am currently in oxycodone zony land, so it’s hard to know where to start with things. I take my painkillers, sleep for two hours or so after they hit, wake up in excruciating pain, shift around for two hours to try and find positions that are not frustrating to be in, flip through crappy TV channels, think about writing on my wife’s laptop since my laptop is too heavy to sit on my lap, but don’t feel like logging out her accounts on her laptop to log mine in because that’s frustrating, and usually about that time, I’ve ate enough time up to go ahead and take another pair of painkillers and go back to sleep for two hours. The only real excitement is this next time-round will be one of the two times each day that I also take stool softener pills. Hooray.
This is old obscure soul song that was on one of those Crypt Records compilations of fucked up old obscure songs. Crypt mostly got famous for their Back From The Grave collections of ’60 garage rock smarminess, which are righteously good and deserve the infamy. But they put out a bunch of wacky comps, including country and soul. The one I first heard this of off was Cryptman or Shaftman or something and had a white dude dressed up in blackface on the cover with a giant fake afro and he was supposed to be a Shaft character and they had all these corny ass skits scattered throughout the album. It kinda sucked. But there was a bonus 7-inch included which had this song, so I guess the fact they wasted all those grooves with corny ass skits forced them to include an extra 7-inch, which separated the Don Julian & The Larks song from the rest of the comp, which gave it physical separation to match how it was such a supremely great song.
Also, this song is obvious to Too Short fans as the source for his intro to the Shorty The Pimp album, which is probably one of Short’s better albums, as it has the great combination of common man’s social consciousness (as opposed to college-educated consciousness, which can be pretentious at times, but I guess everybody has college degrees now or at least inside the interwebs, so that’s probably as common as it gets) and goofy yet groovy (as in “groove” not as in “Wavy Gravy”, yet it’s probably hard to avoid that type of connotation of that word) simplistic pimp rhymes. Plus, perhaps the most immense beat to ride to ever, stretching for a full 8 minutes or so at the end of the second half, creatively entitled “Something To Ride To”, which was probably the last peaceful co-existing that occurred between Too Short and MC Pooh-Man.
Finally, even though I have that Crypt Records comp, I never ripped this through my MP3 turntable into robot candy because I hate having that thing set up by my computer as the kids might bump it while I’m ripping, or it gets too much feedback from sitting on the wooden desk, and even if I set it up on a towel, it still has some hollow sound to it; plus I use the USB turntable as part of my jerry-rigged recording system of half-wittedness out in the camper. So I actually got my robot version of this that plays inside my robot translation aural device of tiny sizes from a dude named C.T. and his wonderful Wigger Mortis blog. (It should be in the sidebar to the right.) He is a dude who apparently used to go to high school in the same neighborhood where me and the ol’ lady homebirthed our firstborn, and used to get the stupid zines I did way back when. It is also of note that he is bi-racial, because that particular neighborhood, before it was sullied by gentrification, was a strange place of nothing but white people, who hated black people, yet mimicked black culture. There was one dude who had rims with spacers on his car, but he’d get flats on his tiny ass tires and couldn’t fix it for a few weeks, so you’d see him on his rims sometimes, weasel faced girlfriend in the passenger seat (all wigger white girl chicks who hated blacks from that neighborhood looked like weasels, like Sondra Locke women but with hoop earrings), or he’d have a pair of regular rims mixed in on either the front or back side. And there was one dude who looked a lot like my man Boogie Brown, but more jailhousey, who I’d see walking around the hood or coming out of Fine Foods of Oregon Hill with a couple of forties, and he was one of those dudes that put off this aura of insane chillness. I am not sure if everyone is attuned to that, but I’ve noticed a couple of people like that where I live now, and that dude was like this back then, but it’s a guy who seems like he might be the most chill and party guy ever to hang around, but there’s that trigger of chaos that lurks that you can’t really tell how it gets knocked on, but the dude is probably capable of doing mean and nasty things you don’t want to have on the inside of your brain’s memory chips, so you might give the dude a cigarette or say “what’s up” in passing, but you’d never willingly cross through thresholds of buildings together to hang out.
So yeah, C.T. used to get the old Confederate Mack zines, and now he’s a wonderful young aspiring writer, pushing short stories and trying to wrap up a first draft of a novel, and on one hand I beam with personal pride that perhaps my fucked up writings over the years could have somehow helped steer someone towards being a fucked up writer, though I would imagine he was born that way regardless. And then on the other hand, I get all “Man fuck this, he’s almost done with a novel draft. I need to stop going to work for three weeks and finish a novel draft.” And then I stay home for three weeks from work, but my brain is draped up and dripped out from pharmaceuticals, and I can’t even sit a goddamned laptop on my lap comfortably. And I also remember that between nonsense gibberish for this blog, guard rail poetry, and this project I’m working on for an April launch, I’m still finger tapping about 10 to 30 thousand words of mind devilry a week. Yet for the most part, it all seems unintelligible in book format. Perhaps I am more of a doomed obsessive compulsive soul than actual writer. Or perhaps that’s not doomed at all. Who the fuck knows?
Well, it’s time for oxycodone dosing. Talk to you later.
STEAL “Shorty The Pimp”
NEXT UP: Alabama rapper turns douchebag song into catchy ass banger!

x m a s h

extended orange cord powers

front yard tesla coil of lounge,

chasing away the haarp rays

p i g z u

pork holocaust happening –

genetic engineered food

slaves fit robot knives just right

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 Intro

It is January. Life is life. It is never easy but it’s better than the alternative, or at least that’s what I tell myself. Much like the world around me, I feel like something major is about to bust open and a new era is gonna dawn. But it’s fucking difficult to see through the haze of the day-to-day. But that doesn’t matter because music distracts your fucking dumb ass, and that’s why it’s for sale everywhere. That’s why I help you steal it. One morning we’ll all wake up and this blog will be gone because the Cybertronic Overlords will deem it a piracy endeavor. And it’ll all be gone, like it never existed.
This month there is old soul on the list, more Alabama rap of course, country and country-ish things, blasts from the past, and a few jazz tunes believe it or not. It is the same stuff I am always listening to, and if you have been following this long enough, it may be boring as you’ve probably seen my prejudices by now, or noticed how I repeat myself. If that is the case, then I suggest you suggest to me new musical directions to go in. I am bored as fuck. Life is boring, and not fulfilling. Unfortunately I have turned myself upside down by debt so I have to maintain my wage slavery. But when I am riding over the James River near New Canton, I always ride down to where Bremo Bluff is, and take that farm road on the right to where there’s the CSX passing zone where the Buckingham Branch line connects, and a lot of times there’s a train idling there. I see the open doors and think, “Man, fuck it.” But I know I’d get cold feet in a few hours. That stretch of double track railroad goes all the way to my Power Site at the end of the road near Shores. I always want to hike the tracks all the way to Bremo Bluff, but there’s a lot of activity there, and I don’t need to get hassled by some old ass white dude who’s worked for the railroads since 1967 and thinks everyone with hair longer than two fingernails is a nigger. But I have an inflatable boat now, and I think once it gets warm a couple good recon missions through that area are in order. Just have to make sure not to touch the toxic mercury water around the Bremo Bluff landing, due to the Dominion Power Plant right there. It is true, you can’t fight progress. But you can sneak around it, mark it up with spray paint, and take pictures of it.
FIRST UP: Old schoolery!

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – December ’10 #1: “Lucero Negro” by Chalino Sanchez

Let me tell you about Chalino Sanchez. Born to a poor Mexican family which was of course big, his sister was raped by a local mafioso type. Chalino killed the man, and fled to America to escape the Mexican authorities. Once in America, illegally of course, he got odd jobs in the fields, and wrote songs about the fucked up people he met in bars and swap meets and the like, including former drug dealers or runaway criminals hiding from their past, much like himself. His voice is all sorts of fucked up, and not what you’d expect from a famous musical type dude. Some dude who had a recording studio hooked Chalino up with a band, and the homemade cassettes that came from that sold by the thousands around L.A. Chalino became a music star, singing what would become known as narcocorridos, or norteno music celebrating the criminal underworld. But holmes really made his name during a concert in Coachella, California, at some rundown club. A would-be assassin rolled up on stage and shot Chalino in the side, only for Chalino to return fire with his own gun (perhaps his infamous gold-plated pistol he loved to show off), and a shootout erupted where five people got killed, including the would-be assassin, who was actually murdered with his own weapon, like a punk. Who knows if that’s true or not, the own weapon thing, but that’s how the story goes, and it only adds to the aura. So next time Chalino had a concert at another club, they had to stop admitting people five hours before the concert was gonna begin. He was an underground legend. This was all in the early ‘90s around the same time Death Row Records was firing up, and it’s interesting to think how Chalino was kind of the Mexican Tupac, except Tupac was a major entity in corporate America, regardless of his thug outlaw schtick. Chalino was the real deal, and the bright lights of the world hadn’t been shone upon him.
Of course, Chalino disappeared in Mexico while in a Cadillac at one point, and was found a few days later, dead as fuck. One of his sons took up the family tradition, but was also killed in 2004. This is because pretty much everybody in Mexico has either been killed or will be killed by narcoterrorists.
This song is “Lucero Negro” or Black Star, and I enjoy it, playing it loudly in my back yard as I tend to pigs and chickens and stand around like I’m up to things. I am sure it is annoying at times and perplexing at other times to my redneck neighbors, who all keep their grass cut and put out Republican voting signs every other year. Meanwhile I spray paint a giant piece of plywood that says FELONS CAN’T VOTE IN VA. WHY FOR? in drippy orange letters painted over yellow letters just like it just a little to the right and underneath, and I lean that against the cedar tree by the road. I am not a felon, strictly a misdemeanon historically, but sometimes it’s the information you offer that misleads those that think they know to believe the wrong thing. I mean fuck, that’s the whole point of the internet.
STEAL “Lucero Negro”
NEXT MONTH: Meaning later today, I will actually write about J.J. Krupert things in the month that is on the calendar!

p g s p b

old hard hat dude: “four barrel…

you know that sunvabitch moves” –

waddling towards apprentice

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – December ’10 #2: “The Baby Is Mine” by Swamp Dogg

I don’t know, I’ve written an awful lot about Swamp Dogg on this site in the past year, and I feel it’s unfair to August Moon of Richmond public access fame. Swamp Dogg is great and all, but I’ve not hyped up “Homeboy” by August Moon at all, or the Richmond fatback sound. Swamp Dogg bolted Virginia and made his soul name for himself in various other parts of the country. August Moon made the anthem for the Fatback sound, which was Richmond’s style of soul, as every city that had a soul music sound back in the day had to have a name for whatever it was they did. Can I make mention of how tribal black culture sometimes seems to this day, and wonder if there’s any connection to the African roots, and not come across as racist? Racism has ruined everything. My last name is Scottish, and the Scotches rolled in clans, not tribes, but it was pretty much the same thing, sort of. But a white dude can’t be like, “Yeah, I roll with this clan,” because of the whole Ku Klux Klan stigma. Speaking of which, I was looking at pictures of Klan outfits the other day, and honestly, those shiny green grand wizard outfits, those things were pimp as fuck. I mean, I’m not down with killing black people. I don’t even like raising my voice at black people to be honest with you. But you can’t deny the awesome style of the Klan higher-ups.
We didn’t keep the fatback from our previous two pigs. We cooked it down in a giant crock pot to make homemade lard, most of which my wife sold at like $10 a pint for people to make herbal tinctures with. It’s really hard to get nice healthy lard. Next pair of pigs, I’d like to keep some for cooking, because it can’t be as deathly for me as soybean oils, but most likely we’ll just sell it all again, because times is tight motherfucker. I am selling the fat of my former farm animals though, which is really funny to me, because it’s 2010 and both me and my wife have college degrees. Rise and grind, baby; rise and grind.
STEAL “The Baby Is Mine”
NEXT UP: Amo a las mujeres con culos grandes, y debemos llegar alto, asi qu puede poner a un bebe dentro de su vientre!