el ocho.

eight years ago,
today,
a little, pink, wobbly-headed, wet, crying little miniature human
made her big debut.
for the record:
that sh!t looks SO gross when it happens.
of course,
my sweet sugary lovely little lady has more
than made up for the initial squeezin',
with a long stretch of being pretty flippin' excellent.
yep.
today,
in the right now moments,
maple st*r turns eight years old.
eight!
my littlest baby daughter is 'ucking eight.
i really don't feel like that many years have passed.
...until i look in the mirror at the soft, sallow, saggy sack of sh!t staring back.
then,
it seems like eight hundred years have gone under the bridge.
and it's only a couple of weeks until my birthday, too.
two chappy goat capricorns, ya'll.
me and my little maple.
i read some crap about astrological blabbity-blah this morning.
it was actually a little spooky;
turns out, according to some a-hole somewhere,
i fit the mold for the quintessential crap-ricorn.
it's right here.
my favorite part?
the 'dislikes'.
read it, duders.
hilarious.
and completely true.
what can i say?
i'm a hard-hearted hard-style hater.
i doo-doo that mean and grinchy business.
it's the part where the goat is also half-fish.
maybe that explains the shark-gluttony a bit better.

did somebody say sinus infection?
that's even grosser than childbirth.
i mean,
a baby is supposed to look like a naked mole rat
covered in ghostbustery ectoplasm when it shoots out.
but inside my nose isn't.
oh, don't worry,
all that skank-huffin' i did under the house gave me a humdinger of one.
anybody else see that one coming?
i guess ebola mouse dust and fiberglass don't really bode well
for the respiratory system.
sorry mucous membranes-
now i've got pumpkin pie filling in my skull cavity.
is that disgusting?
yeah.
i know it is.
but it's all really happening,
and real life sometimes has scooples of esophageal pudding in it.
what better way to celebrate all that recently stockpiled masculinity,
than with a fever chills and nostril batter spate of consequences?
maybe i'm just feeling sick with the prospect of driving to the weakest sauce.
tomorrow we head to ct.
Pepe's Pizzeria is a mandatory first stop.
if you don't know,
you'd better find out.
who's coming?
we'll be there.
XI-mas journeying,
birthday partying,
and family gathering;
never quiet, never soft.....

i put the win in winter.

and this is what victory looks like:
nice hole, huh?
you like it, probably because it's so small and tight.
(that's what she said)
olive the dog is ALL about creepy, stinky spaces.
that's why she's over here holding down the fort in good guard dog mode.
take a little notice of how her ears are all perked up;
she's on orange alert for burly, burrowing, b!tch-sap sappers.
why would that be a concern?
because of the spanish-moustached spelunker scraping around down there!
yeah, duders,
that's a headlamp on my brow.
a regular 'great escape' tunnel rat.
but i'm still smiling an' that.
i'm also taking up every last scooch of area in that deep dark dungeon.
it's good thing having a scrapey gape in my house isn't getting old at all.
but really,
just how many days of crawling on my hands and knees,

or flat on my belly,

in a doo-doo buttery asthma cavern is too many?

i'm not sure there has ever even been such a thing

as too much of a bad thing.

should i be worried, now that i'm starting to like it down there?

what's more of a concern is the fiberglass foulness in my eyes

and the creosote fury in my lungs.

black tears came out of my face yesterday,

and i wasn't even sad or anything

-y'know what they say about big girls an' all that-

still, it's MY party, and i will if i want to;

i'm pretty sure that's not good.

neither was the naughty-list lump of anthracite i coughed up afterwards.

y'know something, my ninjas?:

when i promised to stay black,

i didn't mean in my lungs.

***********

i'm on that hard-style solstice season-change dark day action.

i'm sayin',

it's winter now.

or at least,

today is day one of the cold times, redux, on the calendar.
5:47 p.m., ya'll.

that's when the blazing barbarian bonfires get lit the F* up.

i love hard times.

i love long nights.

tonight's the longest hardest one.

the darkest darkness,

the farthest from warmth we'll be no matter how much colder it gets.

light averse long leaning axis angles cast long long shadows, ya'll.

i'll set all those dark spots dancing by the light of the hot hot fire.

y'know why winter is so dope?

because each year we begin and end with it.

one chilled-out concentric circle overlapping another.

frost ring smoke rings,

spirit and memory;

the mark of any good storyteller is to knit it all together in the end,

starting and stopping with what happened at the beginning.

and so i'll be burning a cage of fiery rage in honor of this last chapter of 2009.

and i'll be home early-shirley from work to doo-doo it, too.

you can have the woods without the goods,

but you can't have the hottness withot the hot fire.

that's non-negotiable.

hot fire is compulsory;

never quiet, never soft.....

liberte!!

whaaaaaaaaaat?

there's a word for this:

dooooooooooooooope.

that's some fuego mas caliente, for sure.

early XI-mas presents that go all the way to eleven?

i got them jauns!

how?

the cucch ya'll.

he represents the best parts of really realness.

once again proving why he is my favoritest and the most bestest.

thanks, man.

so,

what are you jive miki-fikis doin' for the solstice manana?

i'll be suckin' off a stinky brown cuban,

like a major-league-bound pitcher

tryin' to get a seat on that raft to florida.

bam!

i doo-doo that freaky-diki sh!t.

that's the only good news, ninjas.

what do you mean, what do i mean?

i mean,

the trap door hole in my floor is really just a hole trap in my floor.

it doesn't lead anywhere.

in patented old busted hottness fashion,

i hewed a hefty hole in my jauns,

and was thwarted by the labyrinthine maze of pipes and powerlines.

F*ed right up the A*, even.

i'm thinking of covering it with leaves,

and sharpening some stakes inside it.

that'd be a hoot.

since i've been ho chi minh trailing my crawlyspaces,

i figure some black pajamas and a tiger pit or two

would really amp up my fortress' defenses.

yeah.

did i mention how i almost passed out?

oh man,

i totally lapsed into minor unconciousness.

rip saw fury + ancient hardwood + closed doors and windows =

smoke inhalation poison doom.

i saw stars and hazy corners and all that stuff.

there's a word for that, too:

manly! (or is it man-tarded?)

y'know what would've been amazing?

if i fell face first into the 'ucking hole!

i can just imagine waking up,

upside down,

in a cavern of icy sh!tty sawdust, dirt, and rust.

...because i'd probably take it pretty well.

if taking it pretty well involves sh!tting my pants sideways, i mean.

and,

the increased water pressure we used to loosen the frozen pipes?

uh-huh.

consequences, ninjas.

it blew the seals off of the washing machine!!!!!

ever seen a man-made lake?

ever seen one indoors?

yeah.

do you kids know what's even more rad than a dry, festy dwarf cave?

a muddy, wet festy dwarf cave!

since it seems way less cold when you're soaked in mud....right?

my legs are numb, duders.

and not just from the frostbiting effects of sub-freezing waterplay.

i think that the secret universal plan may have gone a little too deep.

y'know,

in my butthole;

i'm talking about when i was getting proper F*ed by these unfolding events.

i may have snapped off my sciatic nerve, even.

it's cool,

useless legs go great with my emerging vietnam conflict theme

that i'm redecorating with, anyway.

no, it's cool.

really.

i'm becoming one with the spirit of this woodsly realm,

attuned to the inner workings of my epic Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.

what i do know already is:

every moment i make things better,

the next is even fresher than that.

this is my time.

down here.

chester copperpot-type business.

in the crawlspace.

in the cold...

i wouldn't change that much either, ya'll.

in order to have the hottness,

you have to be the hottness.

i strive to be worthy of this time i have been given.

that's that warrior poetry sh!t;

never quiet, never soft.....

vanilla jinx.

what is the modern face of nonplussed manliness?
would you like to know what produces this amount of

grit-grimy geis and shruggably sad sucktardation?

frozen pipes.

dirty ones.

and as much of a fan as i am of hot, clean pipes,

(that's what she said)

i am the exact opposite in endearment to the cold, stuck-up dirty ones.

remember yesterday?

when i was talking about how cold it was inside my house?

yeah.

it was waaaay colder under the house, i guess.

clearly,

someone is attempting to force my hand.

folks have been vanilla sky cultivating this moment.

now, daddy has to get butt-nasty in the pretend basement...

did i crawl around in the frozen spider hovel for a while?

yep.

did i just flippin' write about how psyched i was that they were probably frozen?

uh-huh.

were they frozen solid or at least into submission?

c'mon.

where would the fun be in that?

duders and ninjas,

i was actually excavating creepy-crawly spots under hot exhaust vents and sh!t.

i shimmy-shimmy-ya'd under, over, and around

some ridiculous 18" high obstacles on my belly.

in the asbestos/radon/powdered neuropoison/furnace smoke deathtrap-

and i still couldn't find an access point to my kitchen.

old and busted and so full of funtime surprises.

frozen aqueducts and zipped-up walls and crawls, ya'll;

there was absolutely no way in.

what does a woodsly warrior poet do when confronted with this scenario?
you'll like this one,

if only because it's a time-tested recipe for money-pit mayhem,

demonic devastation, and probable loss of limbs:

i bought a skil saw.

me. and a skil saw. and an old house.

you like it.

to err on the safer side, i invited my actually manly burly bearded buddy over.

wayne morris, ya'll. a real friend, for sure.

he left work for a minute, chopped up some linoleum,

and then we cut a hole in the floor.

on the one hand,

two hundred year old two foot wide planks of hard-style hardwood

are almost too dope to chop up,

but on the other hand,

the results of this testoster-tacular trial will be a fully-operational trap door.

i said it: a trap mutha-ucking door.

with a cast iron recessed pull ring,

and a rug over it to make it tippity-top secret an' everything.

i mean,

is this a fortress or just a dumb house?

yeah, i thought so.

in the meantime,

there's a hole.

in my floor.

full of very cold, hungry spiders.

what?

yes, actually,

it did feel like little spiders were in my beard all day.

i'm the 'itchy drug addict' look was very appealing to anyone watching.

what now?

oh, hell yeah, i'm totally gonna roll around in my dingy dirt pit again this morning.

we found animal bones down there already.

i'm sure there's some angry dead indians waiting to poltergeist my jauns, too.

***********

by the way;

when your pipes freeze,

don't turn up the water pressure.

why?

because your washing machine might explode.

why do i mention this?

oh, y'know,

no reason....

***********

you should hear the sounds of construction destruction over here.

it' like shiva's bathroom or somethin';

never quiet, never soft.....

the unhappiest place in america.

so there's this scientific survey...
it rated the happiest places in america by state,
including the district of columbia.
y'know,
so people in sunny warm places can gloat about it.
new hampshire is right in the middle area-
and that makes sense, too.
we keep it really real.
but just how happy can you be with reality, anyway?
it gets way better than that, though;
true to my black-ops detecting observations,
number 50, right down at the waste port of doo-doo buttery despair,
is the nutmeg capitol of weak sauce, nancypantsed waterbabyishness,
and epic human fecal misery.
connecticut, according to me, and now according to researchers, too,
is a terribly unhappy sh!t-salad sandwich.
it's science, ya'll.
maybe i should've put on a lab coat when i made my decree?
i knew that years ago.
of course, i told you so.

speaking of unhappy;
we failed.
it's true.
i'm reporting an incredible miscalculation of frigid fallacy.
i came home last night,
in negative degree weather,
and the house was 40 degrees.
INSIDE.
it gets cold overnight, but we're toasty under the covers.
we wake up, crank up the woodstove, and warm up.
y'know, around 4 a.m.
duders,
it was only 6:30 p.m.
that's fookin' crazy.
i shiver to think on how dumb-cold it would've been at midnight.
have you seen my wife?
she's not well-insulated in a thick human meat parka of fast-food blubber.
she's a wee lass, y'heard?
there's not much to keep hypothermia away, i'm sayin'.
kids,
we turned the furnace on.
i know it's not as woodlsy,
but c'mon,
forty indoor degrees?
that's so flippin' horrible.
it makes me wonder why i bought such a palatial expanse of old bustedness.
and then i remember that cold or not,
it's brutally fresh,
and a fortress is pretty much the only dastardly domicile
for any worthy barbarian battle-beast of winter warcraft.
plus,
with the real heat on,
the woodstove puts out seemingly way more hot fire.
so that's cool.
still, it's not even actually winter yet.
i can't help but feel like i could've just worn
some bear skins or something, instead.
not that i have any, or anything even close...
i'm pretty sure a dog hair covered blanket is not as intimidating,
or warm.
bummer.
now IS the summer of my discontent,
made glorious by the coming of the news
that connecticut really does suck balls.
don't shoot the messenger, ninjas-
truth tellers can never stop;
never quiet, never soft.....

again?

don't be fooled.
it only looks warm, toasty, homey, and inviting.
i'm thinking of groundhog day.

...rise and shine campers,

and don't forget your booties,

'cause it's coooooold out there today...

last night was an exact replica of the previous one.

loud and hard and cold and sh!tty;

maybe we'll get a crazy non-stop wind tunnel tornado every night.

i can only hope for a clear day of warmer weather,

because if this windy blowbag outdoor activity

is the harbinger of an even colder front,

we're proper F*ed.

the mercury says we need to warm up just to have NO degrees.

that's a negative, in more ways than just temperature.

and it's not even winter until monday.

somebody should mention that to ma nature,

because if this is only late late fall,

midwinter is going to suckle a doo-doo buttery logsicle.

frosty windows in my kitchen just before sunrise?

it's a good thing i never need to sleep in there.

at least those spiders are probably frozen solid.

unless they've moved upstairs to my toasty bedroom.

great.

i'm glad i thought of that;

now i won't need the barbarian blast of icy air to chill my spine.

imaginary arachnid scritchers have got it covered.

flippin' spiders, my ninjas.

...no me gusta.

still,

spiders and northern blizzardly badness notwithstanding,

where else could i ever live?

i mean it;

where besides the woodsly goodness could a hard-style

hermit of the warrior poetry hunker down and burrow in?

there are warmer places,
and there are hotter spots,
y'know,
where there's not hurricanes of cold and 'necktards galore-
but i'm on that old time promise ring sh!t;
remember that song pink chimneys?
well, new england's in my life.
it's only cold when you sleep alone.
...so true. so good.
***********
consider this my two weeks' notice.
sorry, 2009,
but i'm moving on-
two weeks until we're done with this one, yeah?
two short ones,
and we begin a clean slate of resolute righteousness.
ya'll've got fourteen days to figure out how to arrive in the winter wonders
of woodsly goodness, and ring in on that new year with us.
you're invited,
and i hope you like sparkling cider and hot fire.
that's how we doo- doo that first night flight of fancypants funtimes.
this year was a pretty good one.
but we're going to bring a whole new heavyweight batch
of berserker thunder down on 2010.
hell, it'll jump off so hard,
it'll feel like 2011.
recognize;
never quiet, never soft.....

stormswept.

who thought of wind storms?
c'mon.
real life ones.
no weather substance, just bluster.
it's like being in chicago at the beginning of march.
get it?
the woods are awash in bent boughs.
the nose-nipping jack frost ferocity is not winning any prizes.
this is the big action on this otherwise boring day off.
raging savage stormswept gypsy air currents...
berserker barbarian arctic blowhard breezes...
gargantuan gale-force ghost gusts...
it's like the mutha-uckin' tundra up here.
duders,
it's hard to sleep with the sound of a thousand raging A-holes
bleating and buffeting the fortress.
vortex-type sonic destruction isn't super exciting-
especially when there's only some cold, lame air making all the ruckus.
yeah,
air is being a real F*-tard right now.
that 'jet-directly-overhead' noise has been roaring since midnight.
and what's up with the wind chill, ya'll?
that's a sure enough doo-doo buttery bonus.
i've always loved that 'feels like' temperature adjustment.
y'know,
it's actually this many degrees,
but thanks to our buddy the wind,
it now sucks even worse.
i should be wearing a windbreaker,
but it seems more likely i'll just be one.
c'mon.
***********

this would almost be a little less explosively lame

if i had a group of homeboys and girls to play with.

i'd swear, judging by this stack of uber-nerd literature

that brutally hot talented ladies would be in the realm of pure fantasy.

and yet,

i've got my preposterously disproportionately attractive wife to prove otherwise.

that's a real natural 20 moment, ya'll.

of course,

SHE won't play imaginary battle-beast games.

she's pretty, and not a screaming dork, after all.

so mostly,

i've got an eleven volume collection of reasons i should be getting divorced.

awwwwwwww, man.

that's a hard-style statement, huh?

relax;

she knew i was a closeted gaymer when we met.

no secrets, kids.

only true stories, told truly.

real life.

in the woods.

in the cold.

it's all really happening,

even the solo adventure dungeoneering;

never quiet, never soft.....