great success.

my barbarian bellyhole definitely goes to eleven...
...and a half.
that's the current running tally for the fryeburg fair falafel feast.
11.5, 
just a little bit of extra sauce, y'know?
the hot kind, not the weak kind.

c'mon.
pictures of food.
that's some kind of blog thing, anyway.
we do eat other stuff,
just not as hard or often, y'heard?
i bet it's even gettin' hard to tell these posts apart.
recitation, reiteration, and repetition.
do any one thing wrong enough for long enough,
and it becomes YOUR thing, right?


peep on this antique dough roller.
Folk Life, b!tches.
sour doughballs, whole wheat crunchiness,
and a weird laundry ringer.
it only ever gets even better;

a crusty rusty old real-deal cast iron wood-fired cookstove!!
talk about keeping it really real. 
imagine carting this hunk of heavy metal mayhem around,
just to make toasted tastiness to serve my snacks on...
some of these spots, these repeat treats and eats,
they really make the new england woodsly goodness work.
intimate environments surround by an ocean of people.
every quiet nook and pine bough alcove,
every solitary bench, and all the little crafty stalls.
homemade root beer.
the creepy nut-roaster guy.
the old soap-maker ladies.
tiny islands of awesome in a sea of mega-super-maxi-sized doo-doo butterballs. 
dynamic dots of definite dopeness,
blips of battle-bard batter amongst the tractors and the fat and fatters.
it's been raining every day, too.
so only the true die-hard fun-havers are even going to the fair.
more falafel for ME, ya'll.

****************************************
greatness.
it's so seriously NOT the same as success.
i guess success is better in some ways,
but i'm not successful.
(i'm not so great either)
but i'm more interested in greatness.
i'm trying to just be dope.
i mean,
what's greater than that?
and if you can succeed at that lofty ambition,
then i guess you get to be both.
it's just comparitive relativity.
what do you want?
how accomplished at it are you?
compared to what?
some dudes get paid to be mediocre.
other dudes are broke and fantastically more adept at the same sh!t.
a few folks are amazing and duly compensated and recognized.
and an even smaller number just do their own thing,
as hard as they can,
hopefully better than most,
grateful for any rewards,
but persitently producing in their absence,
generous with the gifts they have been given,
and determined to be worthy of the time alotted to do it in.
warrior poets.
berserker barbarian battle-beasts.
us.
livin' it, and keeping records but not scores....
it's all really happening all around us.
comparitive relativity.
just be dope.


how many piglets?
lucky thirteen.
and trust me, between the smell and the sounds,
they're makin' me proud:
never quiet, never soft...