dropping degrees.

in the interest of super-soul sounds of the '70's photography,
here's a snappy shot of last night's battle-beast feasting.
maple-glazed nutmeg-spiced pecans,
over oven-roasted butternut squash,
with caramelized shallots.
french herbed crimini mushrooms.
weird brown wildstyle sesame rice.
and steamed broccoli.
there was apple crumble for dessert, too.
we had jess's ma, claudia, and our friend jim over,
and we watched 'spun',
that crystal meth movie from a little while ago.
mostly, though, we enjoyed some serious full, fat foodhole feelings.
a fantastic fall evening at chez rock, ya'll.
the hot fire kitchen command center.
vegan eats without equal.
in gutbusting hibernation-sized quantities.
i'm collecting up some calories for the winter.
you gotta get thick to stay warm, right?
i mean,
it was 22 degrees last night, out of nowhere.
frosty like a mofo.
recognize.
that kind of sh!t is no joke;
and i hate turning on the heat until the last possible minute.
and we're quickly gettin' there.
i feel like i just need some epic wolf and bearskins,
and then i'll be warm and toasty all day and all night;
and so fashionable, too.
you already know how serious i am, too, right?
on the real,
i would SO rock a savage second skin of ferocious furs...
not some pimp coat, not some trimmed-up collared 'sap-suit.
never chinchilla, or ermine, or whatever.
nothin small and weak-sauce. nothing farmed for its skin.
that's preposterously sad in infinite amounts.
only berserker barbarian burly battle-beast bits for me.
with feet and tails danglin', and maybe even a head or two.
relax.
i'm talking about old ones that died forever ago,
like from your grandma's house in colorado, or somethin'.
second-hand sacrifices, son. i'm sayin'.
anybody know where to get a used bearskin rug?
because i will SO look like the spittin' image of robert redford in 'jeremiah johnson'.

note the sassy pose, and the wizard stick,
and don't forget those luke skywalker leggings.
and, of course, the pet bear.
gangster.
j.j. gets it in.
dynomite!

check your calenders, wind your watches,
and put on your asbestos underpants,
because the hottness and the hot fire spit are en route...
tomorrow is connecticut time.
never quiet, never soft...