Well, it is time to start this month’s countdown of songs that have been bouncing around my tiny little 2 gig gaypod in survival of the fittest mode. I will warn you, springtime with a new sort of soul-sucking job of a bureacratic nature has triggered in me a strong desire to ride around and get drunk, because a sweaty beer between my legs on the ride home makes those dress slacks and buttons not feel so tight, if only momentarily and misguidedly. This has meant screwed and chopped season has been set off early this year, and the ruralish hodgepodge of rock, country, and classics from my upbringing has been slapped back into J.J. Krupert as well. I have a longing for something, and I don’t know what it is but I know I ain’t feeling it, and it has caused a writer’s block in me that’s more lethargy for life than any sort of block. Bills must be paid, and usually there is only one way to pay them, so each day that becomes the order of business. The thing is, there are a pair of things I resent more than “order” and “business”. Luckily there is music, the soma for my withering soul. And these would be the songs for this month. No hipster posturing, no new music downloads to act like I’m ahead of the worldwide web curve for a day-and-a-half. This is my soundtrack, as I sit in a beat-up 2002 Nissan Frontier with matte black primer front end and silver/copper hard-to-tell factory ends, dented and paint-splotched, with river sand and the smell of river dogs inside the cab, plus it leaks rain from where I dented the fucking top carrying a load of 20 foot long cedar poles for a goddamned tipi one time, and we can sit on the tailgate and listen to this music for as long as my battery holds out, but the tailgate handle doesn’t work so I tore off the bedliner on the inside of the gate and removed the plate so you can reach inside and push down on the latch to put it down, and my battery terminal is not so tight because the beer can I had used to tighten the connection has disappeared, so if I’ve hit too many potholes on the commute to wherever the fuck we are, the connection might be loose at best. But if we were sitting there, this is what we’d be listening to, at least hopefully.
TOMORROW: Redneck mountain man bullshit stories that’ll make your foot tap!
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