Park Bench Review: 40° 44' 7.8792", -73° 59' 27.2904"

This is an official dirtgod park bench review. I did this a few years back, but only did one park bench in Charlottesville (which was pretty loungin’). I realized a man shouldn’t have LOUNGIN’ tattooed on his belly if he’s not dedicating his life at least partially to cultivating the pursuit of lounge So we’re going back to this. Above in title are the latitude/longitude coordinates. I choose to use the stars for navigation though.

IMMEDIATE LOUNGE-ABILITY: Spent a few days in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, NYC, last week, with my ol’ lady, and we are the types who do a lot of walking, a lot of vibing, and very little Official Sight Seeing. We both tend to prefer the randomized sights of chance wandering to Must See Destinations. Though we did purposefully begin our wander this one day (can’t even remember which day) going over to Freeman Alley. From there we ended up going roughly northwest up Bowery eventually getting on Broadway, for further escapades higher. I think my girlfriend went to get a fancy cup of coffee or something, I can’t really remember why we separated this particular time, but I lounged in Union Square Park, behind the George Washington Statue, with my back to all the damn dogs in the dog run. As we walked into the park, a dude in bright orange outfit was shadowboxing with pigeons, and moving with the smooth erratic style of a guy with mystical musics inside his mind at all times. The tinges of oppression of city dog-havers behind my back was slight affect on this one, but mystical pigeon shadowboxing plus standard city park people chillin’ while getting casually blunted held the score up. Immediate Lounge-ability was a 18 (out of 23 possible).

RIPPLES OF AMBIANCE: I’m just a simple country boy from Schuyler, Virginia, so all the bustle and hustle and grind and nevermind of the city, seemingly, is a lot. But in actuality, a lot of city types who lounge in public are pretty much the same cut of cloth as country loungers sitting in their yard. Don’t get me wrong; there are hella worried ass city dwellers nosey about who that stranger might be walking past too slowly, just as there are country folks peeking through the curtains worried about them brown people that moved down the road a half mile away. There was plenty of chill going on. Plus the Farmer’s Market was happening, and the stuff there was remarkably good looking and affordable. Like, lolol, how the fuck is a farmer’s market in the middle of New York City cheaper than the shit in Charlottesville? I didn’t see all that until my ol’ lady came back to me and we left the park heading further upwards, but the ripples of ambiance don’t follow chronological linear thought. I guess at one point my oldest kid had dreamed about doing grad school at The New School, and I saw a building for it right there. There was honking, and reggaeton sneaking out of bluetooths, and general beautiful chaos. But also there was still snow on the ground. Ripples of Ambiance was a 16 (out of 23 possible).

CULTURE OF BENCH: One could not possibly quantify the culture of bench in a place like this. I would imagine the actual physical bench I sat upon hadn’t been there forever, but surely, it’d been in that spot for years. But beyond that, people had sat in this park for over a century, through waves of economic revitalization and decline, nearby mansions converted to tenements then back to expensive townhouses. Lords of industry chilled in this park, as did broke ass immigrants who never once had an English thought. So many people skipping out of work on a pretty day, or meeting a romantic interest for a cheap date. One thing I really love is old spaces that are not redone entirely, but slowly absorb the sediments of time, so that the human energy that has been expended there soaks into the environment as well. In America, we are way too apt to tear shit down and rebuilt something new, which is disrespectful to all that came before us. Sitting in a place in the middle of Manhattan like that, your mind can really wander with the depths and varieties of humanity that had scattered thoughts in that same spot. Culture of Bench was a 23 (out of 23 possible).

IMMEDIATE LOUNGE-ABILITY: 18

RIPPLES OF AMBIANCE: 16

CULTURE OF BENCH: 23

TOTAL SCORE: 57 (out of possible 69). Well, this is technically only the second time I’ve gone through a full official park bench review write-up, so that’s the new high watermark. I hope to go sit there again someday.

SONG OF THE DAY: Terminator (kudzu'd)

The Original Terminator. Man, I love this era of West Coast Electrofunk so hard. I got to see Egyptian Lover the other week, and what a blast that was. We need more “just have fun” shit in this world.

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

I try not to ever hit animals when driving, not even squirrels being all glitchy, not quite clear on which direction they’re gonna dash. It ain’t their fault somebody built a road smack dab through the middle of where they live naturally. I used to think this was a strange affliction that humans have put upon deer and squirrels and other critters habitattooing their lives near our roads of expediency. But then I’m now experiencing it, too, as the Upper Humans have paved artificial intelligence responses into everything. I look something up online, and I have to navigate around artificial intelligence; same thing when I type an email or go to a work meeting in Zoom. There’s artificial intelligence bullshit in all of it now, and I kinda zig zag zig, not sure how to negate it, not sure if I’m even allowed (terms and conditions). But it’s everywhere now, and I don’t need it, want it, or see the point.
But everywhere across the state I live in, localities are shitting themselves trying to turn empty industrial parks in warehouse data centers, hooking ‘em up via extension cords, which somehow means the meter on the outside my house is now spinning itself twice as fast, because in the process of localities shitting themselves, they promise those warehouses beneficial rates which are then spread across the rest of us who are actually seemingly real and human and not just a vague idea pattern machine that sucks up energy worse than growing weed in an aluminum foil trailer in 1994. All this is to say, I am currently zig zag zigging, trying to get out the way, but I don’t know which direction to go, and maybe I already got crushed. Not sure. Do I still exist? Am I real? Am I just a hallucination of slop? Subhanallah subhanallah subhanallah…

SONG OF THE DAY: Two of Hearts (kudzu'd)

Updated songs about cards from standard deck rankings: This has moved into the number one spot, moving John Lee Hooker’s version of “Jack of Diamonds” down to number two, and I guess Blind Lemon Jefferson’s version is number two-b, because it doesn’t make sense for it to take up more than one spot since it’s one song. And I guess Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” holds onto third, though I’ve never really been able to come to terms with Lemmy’s racism, though I don’t really have to. I’m tempted sometimes to arbitrarily put Juice Newton’s “Queen of Hearts” ahead of “Ace of Spades”, but that’s not realistic, even if I was playing the 45 slowed. And this is just keeping it to titles as standard playing cards, because “Mr. Mudd and Mr. Gold” by Townes Van Zandt would be top dog if I went with cards as theme instead. And I’d probably include “Loser” by Grateful Dead, just because I love that song a whole lot (highly relatable). But keeping it limited, that’s the rankings, and slowed down “Two of Hearts” is untouchable. There’s a lot of distance between number one and number two. And it’s a great choice. Ace of Spades is obvious, like that’s almost a cliché pick for a song. Of course, cliches come from consensus thinking, so that likely also explains the racism. It’s easy to forget that despite everything, human culture has mostly propped up basic shit forever. The people love basic. They worship it. If you can make some basic ass shit, that just barely has a touch of “haha, I’m a tiny pinch of quirkiness applied to basic”, then you’ll be wildly successful. Beyond belief successful. Anyways, I hate earthlings.

NEW BOOK RELEASE: Just Another Mark

It’s been about a month since I released my new book of haiku, called Just Another Mark. These are selections culled from writing five haiku a day over the course of an entire year. It’s a pretty great collection, of haiku written from both a natural and chaotic perspective, along the edge of the Blue Ridge mountains. There are three ways you can get it:
NUMBER ONE – Go to MY WEB SHOP and get a signed copy directly from me. I’ve got other books there, as well as art and zines and all sorts of stuff.
NUMBER TWO – Go to your favorite local independent bookstore, and get them to order it. It is set up through proper distribution channels so that indy stores can acquire it directly for you. You can also use bookshop.org.
NUMBER THREE – Go to Amazon, the evil place, and get it there.

SONG OF THE DAY: Shakedown Street (kudzu'd)

I have a stick and poke tattoo that says SHAKEDOWN STREET, in honor of the two time I set up vintage markets, called Shakedown Street, in three different places (for obvious reasons), simply as a means to robbing the asshole vendors. Vintage markets are so punk rock (derogatory). Good signs of the asshole types are they have $250 wrestling t-shirts (“because I can get that price”) or they actually say “unique colorway” out loud, or their vintage style overtakes actually matching your shit (like they’ll have powder blue Jordans with black jeans and a green Nascar shirt or some shit). We’ve somehow made culture vulture a consumer identity and respectable small business option. That’s why I don’t regret the vendors I robbed at knifepoint, with my classic USMC issue Ka-bar blade. Fuck them. Too good for bad tattoos, but not too good to mark-up some shit they found at a small town Christian thrift store by 1000%.

SONG OF THE DAY: Duke of Earl (kudzu'd)

Sometimes I dream of having some sort of public space that I could just spin slowed oldies like this, one Sunday afternoon a month, and there be a big ass cookout going on at the same time, maybe fry up some fish, and just create a vibe. Then I also think I need some sort of mobile sound system, with lasers and DIRTGOD in bright garish letters that cause the hard of seeing to cover their eyes. But there’s nobody to show me how to cobble this together, and most of those I encounter, like me, seem more channeled into finding things to buy to create this type of thing rather than build it from junk. And if you “google” anything at this point, you get sponsored results, even when you don’t. So maybe I should just take my battery powered speaker and battery powered mini turntable set-up, and just go play these oldies slow for the frogs in the big pit of the old canal along the river where the railroad yard is near Bremo, by the 69th mile marker. That’s where I’ll go when I’m dead and gone and my life has been archived in ash, so it makes sense to glorify the spot now, and get the amphibians hype enough to grow legs and jump up out the water and walk on mud.

SONG OF THE DAY: La Danza de Los Tigres (kudzu'd)

I went to Bread and Puppet Festival back in 1994 (I think), not knowing a thing about it. I’d quit my summer job because a dude I’d met once on a porch of some friends was going to Maine to rake blueberries, and wanted somebody to go with. So I went. Bread and Puppet was something he wanted to see one weekend while we were up there, and getting to upstate Vermont from east coast Maine, one Friday evening, with me and three other stank ass young hippie/loser/dropout/nomads stuffed into this dude’s tiny Mazda was a trip unto itself. Slept on the side of the road in a ditch, and then woke up and it was Bread and Puppets, the old full festival, a few years before the drugs and a stabbing or whatever got them to pare it down. And to be honest, it was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen, to this day. Blew my mind seventeen times over that day, probably compounded because I had no idea it existed when I was tossed onto a hillside and witnessed it. A wonderful blessing.
The woman who was part of our traveling foursome wrote me a few times afterwards, but I lost touch, mostly because I never wrote back. Classic Raven distance, even though in my mind there was none. My mind and the physical world don’t always line up real well. That’s probably why a giant freaky puppet show with schoolbuses creating a stage made so much sense to me.
Anyways, the dancing tiger for this video I slapped together is from an old Bread and Puppet Festival performance. These videos are never my music, but a 45 I’ve played enough to fall in love with it slowed to 33 and then ripped to cyberlord files, and then I dig up some sort of footage that connects to the song in my mind, and tweak it with some filters, glow it up, scribble a Southern Gothicc Futurism over it, and load into the internetz gutz, for whatever eternity this cyberlibertarian entity can actually hold out for before the digital crash. I own no part of this, yet the slapping of it all together, in the particular ways I do it, is a sort of art, like poking a rhinestone into your jacket. This is my bedazzling of the internet, and I will never go viral, but I never wanted to. I am from the old internet, where you just did all the weird ass shit you wanted to do, and threw it up inside the land of 0s and 1s, and maybe somebody else on the Earth was freaky like you, and enjoyed it. I hope you are freaky like me. If you are not, then why did you read this far?

SONG OF THE DAY: What I Am (kudzu'd)

This is a great one slowed down. Juggle that break for hours, in my opinion. As a young mark from the middle of nowhere, I loved this song and loved Edie Brickell. She married a thousand year old man, and I have a horrible headache today.

SONG OF THE DAY: Slow Hand (kudzu'd)

I used to have a radio show on the local community radio station associated with UVA, and this was my theme song. I really enjoyed that time, but didn’t last long because those realms are controlled by boring ass white people with the exact same type of quirky, and if anything outside of that is not actually quirky, but an assault on their own foundational quirkiness. Anyways, fuck WTJU; it is the perfect example of UVA’s creative contributions to local and regional arts (self-important, overrated, boring as fuck for the most part).

It's also somewhat painful to realize, after all these decades of being alive and doing dumb shit, that every little cool kids scene is the same type of cool kids scene, run by the same types of somewhat basic and boring people who have to gatekeep their little scenes militantly or else the charade blows apart. So incredibly tired of this shit. But guess what? That's America.

SONG OF THE DAY: It Doesn't Really Matter (kudzu'd)

I am forever confused as to how Dayton is in Ohio. If Ohio was a person, I would want to fight it. In fact, I often just think of J.D. Vance as anthropomorphic Ohio. But then I accidentally drive through Dayton, or even more easily listen to Zapp, and I’m like, “Damn, but Dayton.” I guess it’s like the Achilles heel, but opposite, so when you have a giant geographical lump of shit, you have to have this little reverse zone to confuse everybody, because the Universe is a Trickster, always and forever.

SONG OF THE DAY: The Devil Gives Me Everything (kudzu'd)

I’ve had a couple of conversations recently with folks about selling your soul. I guess it seems a feasible bargain to young folks whose minds haven’t developed fully enough. Probably felt that way to me too back in the day. Usually the type who is fine with compromising their soul for material wealth or superficial fame already has a compromised soul. I’ve never been able to do it. I was blessed as a young adult by being too rough around the edges to ever have great marketable value in the soul selling business. And as I’ve gotten older and learned to hone those edges into a more at peace mosaic that doesn’t cut into everybody I pass like it used to, I know there ain’t no real value in compromising myself. The Universe loves me how I am, and in fact wants me to be more like true me than I even am now. Why would I turn from that blessing and trade it in for momentary material comfort of minor fringe fame? Anyways, it’s Friday, and where I’m at, it’s abnormally warm. The demons love to come a-tempting a full on warm feelgood Fridays. We’ve been weakened by our seasonal long dark night of the soul. Stay strong, feel the sun, and maintain your soul.

SONG OF THE DAY: It's A New Day (kudzu'd)

This article is about the band. For the medical condition, see skull fracture.
(FYI, this is what the first line of the Wikipedia page for Skull Snaps said. I liked it and thought it good enough to leave by itself, but then added this. Not sure why. I was really stoked to get this 45 whenever I got it. Classic break beat, and sounds great slowed down. I love to spin this one live. I don’t really spin live all that much, lol. I should convert an old Toyota mini pick-up truck into a mobile sound system though. Or a shitty ‘90s era minivan.)

SONG OF THE DAY: Starlight (kudzu'd)

There’s an old saying among my people in my head that says, “If you are too focused on the stars overhead, you will stub your toe on a cinderblock in the yard.” What this saying means is, yes, we should aspire for Universal Magnetism. But we also must collect scrap rebar and old cinderblocks and build immersive art environments from junk here on Earth. Where else will the spaceships know to land when they finally come back to retrieve all the blessed ones inhabiting the Hollow Earth, as well as the chosen 144,000 of us on the surface who have shown our worth by acts, not promises?

SONG OF THE DAY: Tambura (kudzu'd)

Puppets are pretty cool actually. It kinda sucks not too many people learn or practice puppetry these days, and mostly our reference to “puppet” is a metaphor for an unthinking individual. The metaphor has taken prominence over the actual practice. Disgusting. That’s why when I win the lottery, I’m going to found a College of Puppetry, preferably in some dying Appalachian town. Maybe multiple ones, actually, like 8 of them, each in a different state, and we’ll have a team marionette competition instead of football and basketball, and keep it a perfect 8. Can you imagine the Dirtgod Appalachian Schooling Conference Marionette Tournament, every summer to wrap up on June 27th, international DJ Screw, because that’s the perfect in-between mini-holiday excuse to keep it chill between Juneteenth and 4th of July.

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: Numbers (kudzu'd)

8 is often my favorite number (singular digit), because it is an upright infinity, though I disagree with the human laws of civility being applied to infinity and making it upright. 7 is a good one as well, and 3, both have significant mythological reputations for good and even godliness. I was born in ’73, so I feel that’s a blessing. But often when I get to thinking about numbers too much, I get lost in the fact that so much of our numerology is all built on the Base 10 foundation, that we have 10 singular digits with which we count things. It’s not like this is any sort of higher reality that was discovered scientifically; it’s just a construct we created, and have so deeply taught everyone, that it’s nigh impossible to think outside the Base 10 box built around us. Going up, to say Base 11, is easier on first glimpse, because you just imagine a new character for the 11th singular digit, and start counting. But everything gets complicated because we don’t really think that way, and can only calculate the new Base 11 rolls and flexes and growth through a Base 10 relationship in our brain. Base 10 is so deeply entrenched in our collective psyche.
To an extent, that’s a lot of the civilizational psychic infrastructure built around us. It’s not a naturally occurring thing we are replicating. Squirrels don’t stack nuts in sets of 10. Tulips don’t have 10 petals. We just, as overthinking hominids, felt the need to apply some sort of order to everything. So we went all Base 10 on everything. And then, Base 10 allows human minds to quantify an abstraction like wealth, and in fact, hoard this abstraction and its physical representations, until the actual physical material reality of a bunch of other humans is compromised, just to maintain the abstract hoard. So as we feel stronger and stronger dissatisfaction with our psychic infrastructure, as it doesn’t allow for the natural blossom of hope and happiness as easily, I think it’s a good reminder to notice how far outside the box you can let your thinking go. Psychic infrastructure built upon social constructs that are fallacy, or contribute to manufacturing suffering, these things cannot be reformed. You can’t put a fresh coat of paint on mildewed rotten walls and expect the mildew to eat through the superficial fixes eventually. But seemingly, that’s what we are offered, to answer our growing dissatisfaction. Think outside the box, then hack the box with machetes, and even if you don’t have answers as to what should be next, you can still mock the ever living fuck out of anyone trying to put a new box around everything, as securely as possible. Telling a prisoner of circumstance they do not deserve freedom because they can’t envision how the prison could be better is a fucked up expectation to put on folks.

SONG OF THE DAY: Person to Person (kudzu'd)

If I won the lottery, first thing I’d do is commission a new luchador movie where Psycho Clown and Pagano are superheroes fighting evil ICE agents. But I wouldn’t want it to be all goofy new blockbuster style, plus I couldn’t really afford that, even if I won the lottery, because I’d also want to buy the old grocery store and turn it into an illegitimate arts emporium. Plus turn the old K-mart into an international flea market, which would be a great setting for the luchadors fighting ICE movie. Seems like it would make sense to try and get John Waters to direct the movie, but he seems like the kinda guy that would want to only make his own movies, and not work well with others. I’d want to involve La Hiedra somehow, obviously, so maybe weirdness with her would convince Waters to be on board with the project. Of course, now that World Wide Fascism owns AAA, that means Psycho Clown, Pagano, and La Hiedra are unavailable creatively, as they are contractually obligated to devilry. Thus, plan B for when I win the lottery is to do exactly what I just said, except it’s probably gonna be an off-brand John Waters, and involve Zona 23 instead, likely Juan el Ranchero and Demus el Demonio. I think a friendly rancher and a good-hearted demon doing battle against evil ICE agents in Mazatlan junkyards makes a lot of sense, hand to hand combatting to free a warehouse prison full of women and children. That’s the type of art I’d be commissioning if I were rich beyond belief. We have such boring wealthy people these days.

SONG OF THE DAY: On A Sunday Afternoon (kudzu'd)

I have spent years, going through all the regional hip hop scenes’ histories, painstakingly compiling all references to playing horseshoes, in honor of my father, who loved the game more than almost anything else. This has involved hours upon hours of digging through obscure record label discographies, forgotten groups that never made any noise outside of their small city, and digging through both digital and physical archives of DJs, music writers, and hip hop historians. Thus far, this is the only song on the playlist.

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

It’s fun to sit in the secondary DPUs on a long ass train, at night when nobody can see you sitting in there, and pretend you’re driving the train. Granted, your front view is blocked by the other half of the train you’re behind; but it’s still fun as fuck. Especially pretending to hit the horn at crossings. I love that shit.

SONG OF THE DAY: Turn Off The Lights (kudzu'd)

People usually just think “Turn Off The Lights” was a sexy ass song that Teddy Pendergrass made because he was a sexy ass man, but it was actually CIA-funded, and was pushed on urban American radio in the summer of 1979 in response to the Islamic Revolution in Iran, and the rising energy costs America was experiencing as a result of that. The song was released by Philadelphia International Records, the label run by the famous Gamble and Huff songwriting tandem, who had helped usher in an era of pro-Black pop soul in the decade before. But by 1975, Gamble and Huff were caught up in a payola-related scandal, and recruited by the CIA, much like the Iowa Writer’s Workshop MFA program, to help engineer mass-consciousness. This ushered in an era of songs like “Turn Off The Lights”, The Jacksons’ “Enjoy Yourself”, and “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” by McFadden & Whitehead. “Turn Off The Lights” only got up to 48 on the Hot 100 Billboard charts, as Teddy’s voice was too sexy in a primordial sense, so the song’s effects on mass consciousness were thwarted by the feral sexiness of the track. The CIA handlers of Gamble and Huff had toyed with the idea of using the song with Michael Jackson’s still childlike voice, though America was perhaps not ready for that level of sexualizing a well-known child singer, albeit him now being an adult. Plus, Jackson was in the process of being moved to a solo career, moving from a soul-specific CIA operation, to a larger CIA pop music project beginning with Epic Records around the same time. But Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” was created in the same secret writing sessions of the late ‘70s as “Turn Off The Lights”. In 1982, as Pendergrass was finishing up his sixth album, he began to become frustrated with his label’s handlers, and had threatened to name some names and start outing the secretive efforts to control pop music in America. This led to a “mechanical failure” in his Rolls Royce causing an accident which left the singer paralyzed. His sixth album was released, but without the same push behind the scenes, and thus was his first to not go gold or platinum. The label (and CIA project) used up the rest of his recorded material with Philadelphia International to release 1983’s Heaven Only Knows, also without any push behind the scenes, and that finished his contractual obligations with the label, with Gamble and Huff, and with the CIA handlers who helped make him a superstar.

SONG OF THE DAY: Del Barrio Pal Barrio (kudzu'd)

We don’t have an actual free market, because it only allows for market changes by those already with the wealth to do so. Thus, we have “disruption” of taxi service to be gig economy jobs to drive people around as Uber of Lyft, burning through willing drivers, because it’s nearly impossible to make money at the gamified gig that benefits the creator of the new system. And you put existing taxi services out of business, by siphoning away their easiest customer base.
We used to have all these amazing Greyhound stations in America, and one by one, they’ve been shuttered and sold off, and now, for the most part, if you catch a Greyhound (if they still serve you where you are), you stand outside somewhere until it shows up, just standing around like a fuckin’ pigeon. And the old Greyhound stations were beautiful a lot of times! The Greyhound station in Charlottesville has been shut down for a while, fenced off, nobody’s bought it, looks like some work has been done inside minimally, but mostly it’s just an abandoned hulk of building that could be a goddamned bus station.
I say all this because one of the great cultural achievements that is so easily overlooked is the Transportation to Sound System channel, where a taxi driver or bus driver spends so much of their life behind the wheel, that they obviously need to keep themselves entertained, so they develop a love for playing music they love. It’s the DJ/curator on wheels aesthetic, and in many places, when combined with individual buses, which can be decorated in colorful creative aesthetics (as is often the case in non-American parts of the world), it creates a whole vibe. And who doesn’t want a whole vibe when you’re stuck on a bus for a long ass ride?
In America, we are controlled by legal ownership principles, so even if someone has a bus or cab idea, they paint them all in trademarked patterns that are patented and claimed as unique proprietary material, instead of just letting your longest time drivers also be owners and paint that shit up however they see fit, to help them enjoy their days spent working. Anyways, shout out to all the taxi cab and bus drivers out there with their signature sounds that they blast and sing along to and often times annoy white America with, because we seemingly have been trained to only appreciate the bland of the free (trademarked).

SONG OF THE DAY: I Wanna Sex You Up (kudzu'd)

This is such a corny song normal speed, and still might be slowed down, but I enjoy it. The thump has more thump (classic bass thickening from shifted pitch). Slowed down the “tick tock you don’t stop” adds layers of suggestive metaphysical meaning. At least to me, it does.