This was supposed to be easier when I decided to break the J.J. Krupert list into multiple posts and all, but it doesn't seem to be. I am unmotivated, overheated, and full of anger and resentment towards the world. Luckily for me, my wife is as well. We are full of frustration and lack of inspiration and surrounded by scrunchfaced people living in doomed relationships with no creative passion. Trapped in a dilapidated house full of kids and to-do lists and no money and shit is broken and damn we could use a weekend in a hotel with a mini-fridge full of beer and no clothes, but all we got is the same routine all the fucking time. Stupid fucking blog that I feel I should keep up with, but for what? Like six books in various stages of neglect, and never finish any of them because if I can trick myself into writing for an hour after the day's and night's obligations and responsibilities have all been honored, I end up writing some stupid mindless shit like this.
Yeah, Hayes Carll. Some internet dude a few years back sent me a small collection of songs by dudes who probably are part of that uber-fucking stupid alt.country genre, but actually suggested as halfway decent from this internet dude, who was originally some overweight retard from Kentucky before he became an internet dude, so maybe he knew. The problem is all those guys he sent me - Hayes Carll and Robison Charlie and Chris Knight and all - they are all the same guy to me, a guy who Nashville doesn't respect and was married to one of the Dixie Chicks and went to rehab for cocaine. This isn't the song that the internet dude sent me, but it lead me, after a couple years, into stealing a Hayes Carll album called Trouble In Mind from inside the internet, and it is fucking awesome. This song just reaffirms in my mind how much me and the ol' lady need to be laying around a hotel room in some strange city we never heard of somewhere in West Virginia or North Carolina or somewhere. But we won't.
Oh well, fucking holiday weekend. Let's sit in the back yard and play music loud as fuck and get drunk and watch the kids chase the chickens around. Fuck it. That's the beauty of good music. When your life feels like a big pile of endless shit, someone has taken the story of their life being a big pile of endless shit, worded it well, and put it to a nice melody.
Also I should clarify that I don't mean to sound like a bitch. It's just I have a camper trailer and a ratty picnic table and an empty cooler, and none of that has been getting used as much lately as the DVD player or the cyberbox or the indoors electrified icebox, and I feel myself becoming disconnected to my standard disconnect. I am too much wired in lately, to the point I feel like a grounding wire is attached from the base of my spine where it meets my brainstem into that big giant electronic buzz. A weekend of camping, or at least purging my family of its endless piles of shit would do me a world of good. I think a couple feet in the James River, some horseshoes, and a tall stack of emtpy beer bottles will probably make it easier, plus a few five hour stints of writing in the camper. This writing in the house at the kitchen table is messing me up. I didn't spend all that time layering the inside of the camper with crushed beer cans to stifle the negative mental effect of electromagnetic waves for nothing, did I?
STEAL “Drunken Poet’s Dream”
NEXT UP: Mushroom memories and girls who don’t wear underwear, or shave!
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