Thursday, December 31

adios. aloha.

this is it.
11:11 p.m.
the rest of the american semi-inebriated population
getting ready to watch the ball drop ordered chinese food tonight.
we kept it folk lively,
and cooked up our own.
sesame tofu,
broccoli with garlic sauce,
and seitan vegetable chow mein.
cooking with gas an' that.
and speaking of gas-
that much bok choy, broccoli, and soy sauce is sure to set it off all evening.
and since my balls dropped back during puberty,
instead of times square,
we're squaring off against time,
and watching the snow drop;
but not the television.
tonight's the night.
the midnight makeover edition of the calendar.
we're ready, and we're willing,
to celebrate a first night mayhem marathon of hot fire
and household holding it down....
recognize, ninjas;
that sh!t is crisp.
it even says so.
we've got it on ice,
cold chillin' until midnight.
then we'll finish off a bottle or two,
and crash out until sunrise.
not getting tuned up on the sauce is pretty rad.
and it doesn't leave anyone out.
including my two snowbunny berserker beauties.
we'll start the day off hangover-free,
and on the right side of the bed.
apple cider, ya'll.
grabbing the L, indeed.
how do i feel about leaving 2009 behind?
not ever.
ready for the new new hottness?
what did i turn into?
an A-hole?
not once,
not never;
never quiet, never soft.....

reflections eternal.

that's what last night's full moonlight was.
there was an enormous northern lights afterglow halo around it,
like a gigantic ice-blue moon-arc smoke ring.
it didn't translate into pictures,
but i felt pretty blue moon lucky to see it.
a year's worth of memories,
orbiting that outstanding oracle,
demanding tribute,
paid in full with reminiscence.
we defied the wet wood,
the cold chill,
and the not-so-neighborly next-door nancies,
in order to have a comforting huddle around our old friend:
hot fire.
after a whole week of freezing my face off indoors,
i decided to do a little reflective appreciation outdoors.
i cleared a space in the lung-snappingly sharp night air,
and let the wondrous werewolfen winter world swallow me up.
i was pretty amazed the kids decided to suffer alongside me-
but i was glad for the companionship.
while the christing vacationer folks next-door
had each and every possible lightbulb beaming in their house,
and every floodlight on around their house,
we kept it indigo glow over here.
kilowatts of weak sauce, ya'll.
what's there to be afraid of?
i'm pretty sure the bears are sleeping,
and the trees are too.
oh man, some folks just can't hang out with woodsly goodness.
their loss.
this isn't sucktard boston,
and the darkness up here is our friend.
if you look up,
there're stars in the sky, an' that-
ah well, y'know how it goes;
more turbo hottness and winter wonders for us,
more light bright lackadaisical lincoln log lameness for them.
score yet another 'nother viking victory for warrior poetry.
i enjoyed the holy hell outta my canadian XI-mas present though.
what do you ninjas know about a montecristo numero dos?
that's one smooth cuban exhaust pipe, ninjas.
stump-fever scented the evening's burnt pine with burnt numero dos.
i couldn't help but think on my peoples,
and how we're all far apart.
geographically, i mean.
a manly stink-stick solidarity salute was carried out,
and in so doing,
i kept 'em close and kept it real,
puffing away in stoic silence,
blowing a couple of ghost circles into the sky,
for all my duders, all over the place.
and most of all, for the cucch.
we miss that guy.
this year is over, and a whole new one is ready and waiting.
moves, duders.
moves were made this year.
my first full year of responsible adulthood,
fashionably better-late-than-never at age 33.
triple-eleven was a big one for me-
good things may come to those who wait,
and patience may be it's own reward,
but i was perfectly okay with holding off just a little bit longer.
this is one of those years i don't think i can top.
i'm just sayin',
i didn't exactly get richer or younger,
but a whole real life of worthy deeds and bold words got lived.
is there any proof?
more grey hairs, but less of 'em overall.
grown-up stuff abounded throughout all twelve months...
*i bought my super-white crackery subaru,
and jess got me the red-neckery pick'em up.
the safe commuter and the manly work vehicle.
that's grown-up like a mutha-ucka, son.
*we moved our whole world.
from the riverside woodlands,
to the temporary vacation maze/rat warren,
and finally to our very own heart-housing old busted castle,
the epic Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
*i celebrated a decade of tattooing,
a mile-high milestone,
at an arguably all-time low point in my 'career'.
*we saw spinal tap.
* we got married.
i'm saying.
that's all the big adult events, and spinal tap,
that most folks consider marks of success.
do i consider myself successful?
that may be a stretch, but we still did it.
it happened.
and i'm glad it did.
i'm grateful for the year,
i'm grateful for the people that filled in the moments,
i'm grateful for the time i have been given.
2+0+0+9 = eleven.
that's right, it did;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 30

sweet brown buns of sugar.

sweet teeth and fat bellies.
me and the family are feasting, duders.
since the howlin'-mad moonbeams have rendered sleep a non-option,
i've been bakin by the blue light of the blue moon.
and just because it's twice in a month,
i don't see why i have to be twice as wolfen.
but i am.
and so early shirley in the still-dark,
i started kneading on some treats:
did ya'll hear a jamaican talking about an evildoer's butt?
sinnah mon buns?
oh, c'mon, bumbaclots.
that's horrible.
but those cinnamon buns aren't horrible.
in fact, they're delicious.
i've already whole-hogged out on three of 'em.
it took about six bites to gain membership in the clean plate club.
there're still 5 fat bottom bombers left;
though i doubt they'll last through lunchtime.
bellyache city, ninjas.
that's where i'm headed.
the kids officiously pointed out,
in-between cinnamon-sugaru mouthfuls of brown blops,
that this is NOT the most nutritious breakfast.
i disagree.
i mean,
i did put a confectioner's glaze on 'em too.
that's probably got some vitamins in it.
but only if we regard sugar as a vitamin, y'heard?
i'm gonna.
because i also got some rootin' tootin' rooty beers for tonight.
and they're positively loaded with those vitamins.
pure cane ones, even.
hyper-quenched, mother-licker.
that's how i'm doing it.
although i'm sure to be more of the former than the latter.
we've got the whole day together.
me, the wifey, the pajama jammie-jammers, and the dog.
and it's permafrost tundra cold outside.
and we've got plenty of catch-up chores to do.
AND it's the end of the year.
AND school vacation is closing in on itself.
that's a lot of ands.
now we'll just need some ifs and buts for our butts,
and then we can disregard the lame parts,
and wrest a wave of windy winter wonder from the workpile,
AND wreak a weak-sauce-walloping wassail through the woods.
that's for the small lives and unworthy warriors-
we're on that year-end full-moon sugar-high thunderclap sh!t...
what the F* does chores have to doo-doo with that?;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 29

the pannie man can.

new england.
new hampshire.
the woodsly goodness.
winter vacation.
daddy's house.

that's correct-
fuzzy jammies,
raging fire,
dawn's early light,
nintendoid bobotrons,
...we got it a-poppin' over here.
AND we've got something else to be psyched about:
flaps like a jack, ninjas.
griddle bombs.
pannie-man cakes.
i know ya'll put a few tsps. of vanilla in yours now, too, right?
that's one of those vegan hook-ups.
we still want to eat delicious treats, y'heard?
no eggs?
damn right.
but then how do we get a real lumberyard man-meal taste?
with extract of madagascar orchid pods.
i don't get it, exactly, but i doo-doo it anyway.
cakes, ninjas.
dense rib-sticking manly manhole covers.
with real maple syrup,
which is only half as sweet as real maple star.
she's thankfully not as sticky, though.

it's barely even any degrees outside.
and it's as windy as it's ever been.
it's making it way less degrees outside than almost none.
ma nature is obviously trying to F* up my day.
the wind chill freezeout breeze-easy dust-up.
'feels like' my favorite nature poet sank in some incisors,
and chewed my a-hole right of my body.
frost-bitten, duders.
that's the hardest hue to hold, ya'll.
...yesterday was a wet snow day.
the heavy, terrible, slippery sh!t, yeah?
and now it's so flippin' windy today,
even that soggy-bottomed cotton blop is blowing around.
that's an eleven on the windy scale, for sure.
considering that 15 miles north of here,
the world's worst recorded weather went on record,
i'm not that surprised.
but i am quite chilly.
2009 is nearly done for.
there's only mere moments,
a couple of meager meals,
a measly few minutes,
and a miniscule mote or two of merriment left.
it pretty much all really happened.
so loud, and so hard, for so long,
i'm almost relieved to see it go.
i mean, after all,
a jedi may not crave adventure or excitement,
but you'd better believe a berserker barbarian battle-beast bard
dark-side's exclusively for ALL of that hottness.
not to mention danger, fury, fire, thunder, and lightning.
but not the wind so much.
it's kind of fitting that the new year
is blowing in on a barrage of baleful bursts.
war and change and spirits and memories.
the end is the beginning;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, December 28

keep on truckin'.

four wheel drive.
v8 engine.
extended cab.
there's a whole checklist of powertrain brutality.
i think my beard got thicker just riding around today.
i don't really know anything about car-tardation,
but i do know that i was blazing trails
all around the bumps and bogs of the woodsly goodness earlier.
because it's truck time in new hampshire, kids.
it's a snowy, iced-over roadway,
stay dark outside all afternoon kind of a day.
a bearded weirdie pioneer explorer kind of day.
although really,
if the truth is to be told,
it's more of a reading books and sipping homemade soup kind of day.
a drinking tea and listening to morrissey kind of day.
a wrapped in a warm blanket by the fire kind of day.
that could just be the homebody hermit in me talking.
but i'm just sayin',
it's wet outside.
and that's gross.
me and the kids are staying warm and roasty-toasty indoors.
at least,
we are now.
we shoveled and chopped wood,
we cleaned off the cars,
and we scampered through the snowbanks.
we piled in the pick'em up,
and slipped, slid, skidded, and fishtailed around town for a little minute,
and then headed right back to the homestead.
soggy socks and dank hair don't really do it for me, ninjas.
but mundane family funtimes,
and meager meatless meals,
with my nearest and dearest is what i'm really grateful for right now.
that and ibuprofen.
all that manly business earlier ripped my whole right elbow
right off of my body.
i'm needing a new one, ya'll.
i can't really move it.
not that i'm about to weak-sauce it up and go to the doctor.
maybe it'll fix itself tonight??
if not,
then i sure feel bad for my unsuspecting skinstab subjects tomorrow,
because my left-handed tatty-o game is not what it used to be.
so why am i smiling?
because i know something you don't know:
i am not left handed;
never quiet, never soft.....

like i said,

the best bread has broccoli in it.
are you wearing a hat?
otherwise, it could get messy in here.
because of the mind-blowing hottness that is woodsly goodness broccoli bread:
your face cannot handle the amount of delicious in there.
you'd better believe it.
crusty and doughy.
crunchy and chewy.
firm and gooey.
and extremely rare in it's creation.
the ultimate Folk Life family tradition.
my peoples showed up with bibs and forks an' that.
casey came over for her first taste of my epicurean edibles.
she's in the club, now.
jim got busy with a couple slices,
all my little rock-ettes each got down on a slab or two.
...and i had my favorite part-
the butt.
truth be told,
i went one step further in my anaconda jaw-hinge food predation-
i actually had 'em both.
two butt-end slathered-up slices of filthy feasting.
i'm sayin',
we polished off the whole loaf.
that's 5 crowns of broccoli worth of ferocious flatulent flavor.
we doo-doo that special event sh!t.
i've got the perfect balance of broccoli and bread.
the perfect blend of nooch, spices, onions, and oil.
i've even discovered the right way to activate the dough, ya'll.
the trick is to add a little extra yeast.
and then a smidge of sugar for extra-activation.
and then hit it up with the special ingredient:
wheat protein.
it's essential.
i like that the box says 'vital wheat gluten'
i'm serious.
that's the big buzzword for being so dope.
at least for a silky silty sandpile of beige business an' all.
it is SO vital.
without it, it's just puffy bread.
but with an extra heavy handful of them vital jauns?
crusty, chewy, golden, and amazing.
does the veg get a little steamed with some egg replacer stir-fry motion?
rendered to optimum doneness.
it's a fine line,
but we walk it with confidence.
if that flagrant floret fury doesn't look good to you,
you're probably a total A-hole.
my girlie-girls are still here for a week.
so we may yet see a repeat performance of this tasty action.
ya'll can guess what that means;
one more year-end obligatory food blog.
good peoples,
good eats,
good times;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, December 27

the best bread

has broccoli in it.
that's what's up.
we engage in a time-honored tradition.
shark-gluttonous stuffed bread swallowing.
it's always crusty and chewy,
or so i've heard.
chewing is not how barbarians shove comestibles down their craws.
but it's still pretty delicious.
with tomatoey dippin' sauce,
and slabs of succulent, starchy, gooey goodness, too.
and we're having company over to enjoy the hottness.
jim watched over the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress for us,
and when we got home it was still here.
for that, he definitely gets a slice or two.
the girlies know i only make my delectable dopeness
when they're here to enjoy it,
so they chomp it up pretty hard, too.
it's got broccoli,
it's got bread,
it's got a F*-ton of the nooch.
i know, i know-
unlike my ol' man,
i have only one kind of 'cheese' around the house,
and even that one isn't real.
it's also powdery flakes.
and it's also made out of yeast.
it also doesn't smell vaguely like spoiled milk, vomit, or feet.
so i'm still winning.
plus, it is yellow, so that's cool.....
what's not so cool?
it's raining.
it's cold.
it's foggy, too.
looks like a day of playing nintendo,
reading books,
and playmobil playhousing.
not for me so much.
dads always get beat when it comes to big fun.
that's a rule.
even with my marvelous pick'em-up truck,
there's still reality to deal with.
i'll be backing it back up to the wrenchy grind.
tattyblastifying a whole slew and smattering of vacation douchetards
and suckie fat families of out-of-towners.
all while the fam' is hanging out and about the homestead.
missing out instead of making moves-
that's the hardest part, ya'll;
leaving the house,
after being away for days.
we've got everything we need right here.
eats, XI-mas treats, movies, hot fire,
and the impending epic feasty goodness.
oh, yeah,
and i'm sure glad i'm not going anywhere by plane anytime soon.
(i'm still a little salty about that scarf)
thanks to our young nigerian friend,
and his half-hearted attempt at blowin' sh!t up,
i'm sure all the tattooed A-holes headed to asia
will be exposed to extra body-cavity inspecting scrutiny.
hard styles are a must when sweet rewards are on the menu.
i suspect the failure to destroy something was entirely because
northworst airlines already sucks the hardest and fullest ones.
an explosion would only improve their services,
and the secret universal plan cannot allow for that type of b!tchbaggery.
a long day's journey into night.
it's gonna be dark by the time i get home.
that just makes the glow from inside the house that much warmer.
my kids have disappeared into wii land.
they venture out occasionally to play on their dsi portable bobot systems.
that's not going to last much longer-
they've got a veritable library of new books that need reading-
most of them have dungeons or dragons in 'em-
and i can't abide by letting them get dumber on my watch.
i've polished off most of the books i got jess already.
too much is the right amount.
especially when it comes to words,
and even moreso when it comes to broccoli bread.
fat bellied battle-beasts,
butt-blasting barbarian bellows;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 26


the lion in winter.
feast your eyes on the progenitor of pure power.
the original berserker keeper of really realness.
the invoker of the thunder and the noise.
the face of the future of your favorite true storyteller
(and probably the hairline, too)
just who is this legend of the fall?
what type of grizzled grizzly gets busy like this?
how does someone manage to look tired and wild at the same time?
here is a man who has inspired more fear and loathing
than the entirety of las vegas;
more wise words, wise cracks, and wise potato chips
than any other living guru of supreme intelligence;
the one and only sire of the hot fire;
the curious, spurious, oft furious,
the dude.
my dad.
that's the countenance of a man who has 15 different kinds of cheese in the fridge.
that's no joke- i counted, duders.
he had every type of deceased animal that ever
walked, crawled, flew, or swam stocked to the railings in there, too.
and, incongruously,
an apple and a head of iceberg lettuce.
as he says, 'that's the produce section'
for variety.
we hung out for a little minute with my main man.
a couple, two, three times, even.
hard of hearing and hard of style.
i talk to him often,
but i never see him.
a special treat, ya'll.
it was truly terrific to see my peoples.
all kidding aside,
i've got to give some sweet shout-outs to all the families.
because that's what the holidays are supposed to be about.
or so i've heard.
then again,
i got a truck,
so i'm not sweating all those relatives too much, y'know?
but for really real-
we had some peoples taking some kind of good care of us,
for all the days we were in the swamp of sh!t-salad stagnation.
(you know it as connecticut)
i restored my tomato sauce levels
to an acceptable high-watermark of italian ancestry.
three days, three different red infusions of olivey, oily, oh-my-goodness-ness.
pizza time with my uncle eddie was excellent.
dinner with the guercias was great.
the bowel-blasting barrage of beans with jess's ma's side of the family
left me staggeringly full,
and everyone else gasping for fresh air.
i even had a low key marinara mangia with my ma and the dude.
we saw 'em all.
we broke bread.
we broke balls.
we had a time.
for the first time in a few years my whole immediate family was in one place.
no one was injured the entire time.
that's a dangerous rogue's gallery of hard-stylists, my ninjas.
for real.
if you've had the honor of hanging out with the whole crew,
and i mean all of 'em, each and every warrior battle-beastly bard,
you're impressed by the low casualty rate.
i know i am.
so, yeah,
i have some peoples who have some peoples.
and they got to glean a glimpse of the goodness.
fleeting flavor infusions.
too much hottness for such a cold, dark state.
so hot, in fact,
it's raining instead of snowing.
further diluting the already weak sauce.
it's alright, though-
the barbarian bouillion left behind will make a hearty berserker broth.
-thanks for sucking just a little less, ct.
you're welcome;
never quiet, never soft.....

not to be outdone... wife took the prize this year.
in addition to hottest,
and overall most elite,
this year we had to add:
most considerate, most generous, most attentive.
all of that.
being as generous as the most epic norse valkyrie queens,
she helped me acheive an even more ridiculous level
of uber-turbo-hirsute manliness.
i hope i'm as worthy of her infinite excellence as i can be.
i'm sayin',
some people are just plain ol' lucky.
some people have a set of good peoples looking out for them.
some people have a whole blueprint page of secret universal planagram mapped out
like a cheat-code backroom password to fresh-to-deathliness.
i gots ALL of them jauns.
oh, yes, today, this day, this XI-mas,
i most certainly do;
while regular ladies were out buying cologne and boxers for their menfolk,
my worthy wifely warrior poet was taking it to eleven.
what do you get for the barbarian who has everything?
what says 'berserker fury' and 'i love you'?
what kind of sweet treat can leave me speechless?
what kind of show-stopping big unveiling hard-style woodsly, goodsly,
savage stormswept hottness provides all that big action?
i'll give ya'll a hint;
usually it gets a gun rack in the back,
and you'd better believe this one will, too:
holy mother-lickin' sh!t, ninjas.
that's a god-damned 4x4 MAN truck.
for sure.
battle-damaged bumpers?
that's road warrior poetry.
equal parts mad max, jack kerouac, and cormac mccarthy.
i watched my epic presentation of treats get routed.
and here i thought i was over-the-top.
my wife wins, duders.
harder and louder and better than everyone else.
sorry kwanzaa,
but we stole your thunder today.
boo-ya, an' that.
top-secret dealer delivery got the truck dropped off at the house.
are you getting this?
i have a manly miki-fiki truck.
the last stone in a damning dam of rural reality.
a work truck, b!tches.
for hauling homeownery sh!t all over the flippin' place.
relax, for a second-
even though it's new (to me)
it's used.
so ease off the big-timer backlash.
fortunate events favor bold move makers.
and here we are-
i mean it.
i would feel horrible putting dents and dirt on a brand spankin' new one anyway.
this one is perfect.
just like my better half.
we sped home.
we opened presents.
we're making dinner.
i got a sonuvab!tchin' truck, you 'uckers.
all the way to eleven.
i can't say it often enough-
i am grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

jiggity-jig, etc.

home again, home again.
we're back,
it's full-blown XI-mas time,
and the paper is ripped,
the bows are uncurled,
the fire is stoked,
and we're settling down into winter weather.
it's super good to be home.
my control issues make it hard to let other people look after my sh!t.
of course,
everyone came through all aces.
and the washed out weak sauce sorcery of the nutmeg doo-doo
was totally tolerable, too.
we made some mother-F*ing memories, ninjas.
but still,
it's so good to be home.
most certainly, it's where the house is.
and the wallet and heart, too.
the two tiny terrifics have had a good one so far.
how bad can it be- it IS second XI-mas, yeah?
we left early, avoiding the stormy weather,
and raced home in record time.
things are good.
really good.
the holiday spirit an' that.
speaking of spirited holiday business:
i'm still surprised my womenfolk aren't more rotten.
because of how spoiled they are, i mean.
mr. claus came through in a huge way for the kids.
check the sparkle-magical shiny sugar foil hottness.
that's the good stuff, ninjas.
it's in a prismatic paper-packed crinkly heap now, at any rate.
the wifey got a little classier arrangement.
three towers of victorian metallics,
stagger-stacked and sorted by size.
does that go well with the house?
you tell me:
treats again!!
i love my peoples.
i love watching them get their viking rewards every year.
that's a good one.
that's an even better one.
that's what i've got going on in a great big way.
this day keeps improving at breakneck speed.
it's dark ouside already,
but there's a light here that never goes out.
today is the day.
i am grateful for the time that i have been given.
it's all really happening-
merry XI-mas, mutha-uckas;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 24

fat bellies, bad drivers, cold weather.

we're here.
and that's pretty rad.
we've already seen a holy heck of a lot of folks.
ate an even greater amount of pizza.
my uncle eddie showed up.
that was an epic XI-mas present, for sure.
jess' brother rob and his baby mama sharon came,
holly got there early,
and hung out with me and my father.
my kids came along as well and munched up a little bit.
belated berfday style funtimes, y'know.
we all got pretty busy gnashing and gnoshing down on some uber-guido paesan pies.
i tuned up a whole pizza by myself,
like an enormous fat shark-gluttonous boar-beast.
that's the best way to stock up on savage stormswept sauce quantities.
i needed it, ya'll.

and now it's the big eve.
the day before the even bigger day.
we're in old lyme,
enjoying the extra-white shoreline holiday atmosphere.
tom and betty as usual are displaying terrific hospitality.
i slept for ten hours.
so i'm on point with my mission-specific goals.
closer and closer.
every minute spent thus far has been one to be grateful for.
i've got the spirit.
no joke, my ninjas,
i'm full of cheer.
i've seen a ton of family,
i've eaten a ton and a half of food.
i even had some caffeinated coffee.
(sorry, connecticut, but it is ON like donkey kong)
i'm ready for whatever's next,
and i'm representing my woodsly Folk Life goodness
as i combat my aggressive urban urges.
that Pepe's tomato sauce is doing wonders against the ct. weak sauce.
so far,
the holiday spirits are winning,
but it's never a sure thing when barbarian battle-beasts are involved.
just like every day,
only maybe even moreso,
today is the day.
and tonight's the night;
never silent, never holy;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 23

eve of the eve.

this is what 6 a.m. looks like over here.
in my jammies,
i couldn't quite appreciate it as much as if i'd been suitably seasonally attired.
but, c'mon.
with the classic rockwell new england three bay window jauns?
magical wizardly old hottness.
so good.
we're off to the weak worldly realm of watery diaperbabies.
that's a lot of houses to pay visits at.
that's a half a day of driving.
two and a half days of families.
two and a half days of traffic.
two and a half days of sh!t-smelling miserable congested urban doo-doo.
sixty or so hours.
that's a lot of awakeness.
too much, really.
so sleep will play a crucial role in the making-or-breaking tolerances here.
after all,
there's no bad times when you're sleeping.
what better way to help time along it's breakneck pacing,
than a couple extra zzzzs?
i'm sayin',
eight solid snoozy hours a day?
bam-a-lama, kids,
now i'm down to just thirty-six hours.
no sweat.
we've got a car loaded up with treats for everybody.
we've got a pizza date with my kids and our peoples.
we've got warm beds, hot food, and blood relations waiting.
it sure sounds like holiday time to me.

stockings are stuffed, ninjas.
the bows, bangles, and baubles of an expert wrapping job are finished.
the last minute considerations are well-appointed,
jim is house sitting for us,
we traded treats with our up-here folks,
including some hot old mooks from our educationally-minded friend, casey,
and we're ready to journey down the tubes.
the long journey begins in a moment.
the hardest part is leaving all this old busted hottness behind.
especially just to go to connecticut.
the floors are filed with fiberglass now,
the tree is trimmed and limned with lights,
there's a specific warmth that radiates from spots like this one.
this place,
this moment,
this woodsly goodness.
i'll miss it while i'm gone,
but i'll love it that much more when i return.
i'm giving the rest of the peace, goodwill, and holiday cheer over to
the secret universal plan.
it's outta my hands now.
sorry, connecticut,
but a whole north wind wassail of warrior poetry,
and blazing, raging, savage, stormswept,
berserker barbarian battle-beastliness is tobogganing your way.
prodigal son, mutha 'uckas;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 22

el ocho.

eight years ago,
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.
in the right now moments,
maple st*r turns eight years old.
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.
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.
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?
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.....

Monday, December 21

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.....

Sunday, December 20


there's a word for this:
that's some fuego mas caliente, for sure.
early XI-mas presents that go all the way to eleven?
i got them jauns!
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.
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.
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.
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.
the increased water pressure we used to loosen the frozen pipes?
consequences, ninjas.
it blew the seals off of the washing machine!!!!!
ever seen a man-made lake?
ever seen one indoors?
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.
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.
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.....

Saturday, December 19

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?
it was waaaay colder under the house, i guess.
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?
did i just flippin' write about how psyched i was that they were probably frozen?
were they frozen solid or at least into submission?
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.
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.
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.....

Friday, December 18

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.
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.
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.
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'.
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.
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.
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.....

Thursday, December 17


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.
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. me gusta.
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,
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. 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.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 16


who thought of wind storms?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.....

Tuesday, December 15


han solo is way doper than luke.
it's so inarguably true;
he's got a wookie.
and he humps up a princess.
what about the millenium falcon?
yep. that's what's up.
smartmouth 'blaster pirates got it poppin'.
ya'll already know that's my dude.
but lately,
i'm feeling like i may have a little carbon-freezing blindness.
i just can't tell what's going on.
all of a sudden, it's the end of the year;
and mostly i've been holed-up in the north,
like a favorite wall decoration.
i got the hibernation sickness.
like maybe i've been out of it for a little while,
frozen in time,
taking pictures of mushrooms and burning stuff;
a ghost-ring snapshot of a perfect woodsly moment.
i've got next-to-no idea what's going on in the world outside the goodness.
i mean it.
axes, fires, wood, a little tatblasting, and some dinner.
that's pretty much how it works in winter in new hampshire.
yeah, all those things are dope.
too F*n' right.
i guess i shouldn't worry too much.
i'll always thaw a little quicker thanks to all the hot fire.
time is moving a lot faster than i am.
in a week i'll be in sh!t-salad-bar buffetburg.
it's time again for the connecticut holiday hurlfest.
i've got a bad feeling about this, for sure.
back to the waterbaby trash dump explosion already?
i should have known.
i'd recognize that foul stench anywhere.

it snowed last night.
a secret storm, even.
if i hadn't been up and at 'em at 3:30 a.m. for woodstove manliness duty,
i'd not have known until morning light.
not that it's gotten much brighter outside.
could be lobot's around here somewhere,
because we are mist-deep in a real bespin situation here.
cloud city, b!tches.
i'm sayin'.
i must've burnt a stinky log at some point, too-
i got that taun-taun jauns type sh!t.
it does smell worse on the inside an' that.
it's certainly cold and snowy enough for a little hoth ice base action.

we got the clone wars animated series season one.
for a geometric angular computer cartoon,
it rocks it pretty hard.
-it's got everything i need:
light sabers.
killed-up dudes.
space ships.
the works.
22 episodes, too.
that works for me.

i'm wearing five layers.
i need a haircut.
i'm out of touch with the rest of the whole world.
but the question remains:
...who's scruffy lookin'?
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, December 14

nobody beats the blizz...

snow is super dope.
that's the truth.
the first couple of storms every year are SO fresh.
and refreshing.
that white blanket of holiday hottness looks good.
really good.
it smells good, too.
snow air, ninjas.
i could sniff that sh!t all day.
you've got to get with the winter pop-off while it's still young.
snow gets old pretty fast.
and by old,
i mean ugly. (sorry hot old people, you're the exception)
and by ugly,
i mean footprinted, rock salted, and dog peed.
by february we'll be buried in a bank of brown sandy blops,
with some heinous fast food wrappers trapped all mammoth-style inside.
but right now,
in these immediate moments,
it is flippin' dope.
we got that magical hemlock tree all faerie-fluffed and fairy folked.
we've got the mountains looking turbo sexy,
and we've got the plow guy coming to save the day, and our backs.
backbreaking labor is just not that sexy.
beast-with-two-backs labor is,
but not sweaty, runny-nosed snow-blowing so much...
and so the plow blaster is very necessary.
we were supposed to only get a minky little dusting.
if a dusting is six inches of powder over half an inch of ice.
those silly little weathermen.
they must not have a window in their satellite live-doppler robo-bobotron room.
if you're telling me what's coming while something else entirely is happening,
you sound like an A-hole.
i'm just sayin'.
i had a barbarian battle-wrap party last night.
i used a whole roll of magic tape, too.
i don't know what's so magical about it, either;
i mean, it ran out, after all...
some people still want us to remember the reason for the season.
as long as that reason is geting treats for your peoples,
then i'm on board for whatever else is poppin'.
don't get me wrong;
i'm all about wise men.
smart wizards with beards and good smelling treats?
hell yeah.
desert barn babies and virgin moms can totally chug it.
i'm sayin',
the jolly german woodsly gift-man notwithstanding,
all that saintly celebration business is not my style.
it's not even a hard-style.
more like a no-style.
it ranks up there with all-blue light trimming on trees,
and all-white plastic trees,
and inflatable manger nativity lawn dioramas.
lameness of the weakest-sauce-level ever.
end of the year long nights and hard times,
not to mention old, cold bones,
deserve a little ceremony and celebration,
but if i'm repping for any babies,
it won't be little baby jesus.
(it might be big baby jesus, though. wu-TANG!)
and it surely won't be waterbaby whiners, either.
baby new year may get some props,
but otherwise, it's just the perpetual viking gratitude and generosity.
i will be blazing the berserker furious fuego for the solstice, though.
because that's at least a real thing.
XI-mas is purely about homeboy/girl appreciation times.
magic taping, knuckle-scraping, and memory making, my ninjas.
it's all really happening, that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, December 13

report cards.

"hey, this guy's a total A-hole,
but in a really great way.
like, i like it;
how cool is it that i can just say that in front of him?"
...pretty cool.
that was the exclamation i heard yesterday at work.
i guess i've been outed.
i kinda love and simultaneously hate it when someone is on to me.
i mean, how did she know?
the incessant straight-faced snidery should've been impenetrable.
but a whole group of young women saw right through it.
it took a minute or two, though.
usually i'm just sort of enjoying a little funtime jokey-pokey magic
that only one person is really getting.
you're laughing with me, but AT you...
how can i really be a snarky mean prick if i'm smiling so wide, after all?
they didn't even scowl at first.
i was so encouraged to vent a little spleen an' that.
i'm sayin',
it seemed so promising;
nobody even batted an eyelash when i suggested a bud light can
with a bendy straw and a paper umbrella,
with flourish script reading 'classy lady'.
not even when i pronounced it 'skanky lady'.
that is pure gold mother lode sh!t.
but within just seven or eight comparable sentences,
i felt like that naked emperor from the story, ya'll.
they saw right through it.
the only girl smart enough NOT to get a 'bro tat' with
her old college homegirls was the first one-
she what said that hottness up top there.
to be fair,
i think she could also read and had straight cavity-free teeth.
(read as: not a local)
perhaps i overestimated the power a sweater vest has on people.
or at least on people who aren't woodsly waterbabies.
we all zapblasted a couple of 'em and hustled them all out
before they could spread the knowledge of the hot fire to others.
we don't encourage prometheal fire sharing, ninjas.
then i resumed my usual routine.
the first thing you gotta do when you fall off,
is to get right back on, innit?

in other news,
my kinds are smart.
no, really.
it says so on their report cards.
so it's not exactly bragging, because it's a fact.
it also says they're both kind, funny, giving,
and a whole bunch of other good stuff that just goes to show:
nurture must be more important than nature.
because i can only assume my dominant barbarian genes
are being suppressed into smartypants surges,
instead of berserker urges.
or maybe it's all like teen wolf,
and they need to just get a bit older first.
and then one day they'll be poised to bring the noise with the best of 'em.
infinite natures, ya'll.
that's the kind of stuff they don't teach in school anyway;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 12


did you guys hear those wet smacking noises last night?
it wasn't what you think;
those were open-mouthed mannerless supper sounds.
chomp, chomp, chomp, an' that...
chicken-fried tempeh has been perfected.
believe it.
and seriously, kids,
whomever it was what decided to combine hot and potato together
is a mutha-lickin' genius.
i'm sayin',
they're like little cubes of roasted amazing.
and i eat 'em so hard.
and what do you duders know about broccolini?
it's barely even a broccoli plant, it's actually closer to mustard!
it is delicioso, however,
and served an important purpose as a dynamic dark green delight;
necessary color, ya'll, in with all that beige.
of course,
all those different flavors and textures are really
just an excuse to use epic quantities of gravy.
i never get tired of gravy.
it's like the solution salve they used to pry out william howard taft.
it's like jabba the hutt's loads.
(oh man, that is just not okay)
it's like distended-python-jaw sauce.
it's like salty shark glutton throat lube.
why chew when a gravified globbet will glide down your gobbet?
chomp, chomp, chomp, gone.
three plates of that action,
and it was early lie-down time.
lethargic metabolism and early-darkness hibernation tendencies.
brought to you by 'tatoes and gravy.
can i see my breath inside the house?
i sure can.
and not because of my internal combustion engines either.
that's right, it isn't because i spit such hot fire.
it's crazy stupid arctic tundra cold up here;
...and windy, too.
that's always worse.
it's so cold the mudroom has ice on the inside.
it's so cold and drafty that the fuego mas caliente in the stove
seems much more like a 60 watt easy bake bulb.
it's so cold and drafty and windy that it sounds just like
a herd of carnivorous caribou are stampeding through the upstairs.
it's pretty rad.
i mean it.
berserker barbarians get down with that nordic lappland fury.
am i going to kickstart the furnace?
what am i?
not the A-hole you must think i am.
i've got a bed of hot coals nestled in the shadows of my chest, ninjas.
that's a bevvy of balrogs breakdancing on my ribcage, even.
cold hands mean warm hearts, yeah?
then my frozen pink tarantula icicles imply a raging orpheum oven in there.
if i made snow angels right now,
they'd look like bare-lawn demons.
too much hottness, y'feel me?
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, December 11

weak piles

i'm pretty shallow.
just like that.
a little open-handed truth slap.
i know, it's true.
just because i often select literature by it's dust jacket,
that doesn't necessarily mean i'm therefore wrong about everything;
there are more than a few sinkholes, potholes,
and tectonic trenches in my personality profile, too.
secret depths of varying deep, dark, secret universal sentimentality.
like a jungle traps, ninjas.
it just looks like a small depression on the trail, all leafy an' that-
but then you set your flip-flops up on it,
and crash down into a dangerous, damnable, dirty dungeon,
high walled and filled with spikes, or maybe a totally bad-ass tiger.
duders, that's an analogy about my spirit.
maybe even my XI-mas spirit?
shallow or not,
some somethings should rock it on both sides
of the sparkle-magical viking longboat, y'heard?
like XI-mas present piles.
they're trickier than they look.
at face value, a small pile says you are a bad parent.
no kids? that jauns had better be expensive, then.
and not for nothing, that's still a cheesy opt-out move...
i mean,
what about stocking stuffers?
i doo-doo that.
materialistic? yep.
commercial holiday attitude? hell yeah.
epic berserker shopping master? absolutely.
likewise, sh!tty wrapping jobs indicate you're a mendicant,
or worse, you just throw money at treats without caring what they look like.
if it's really the thought that counts,
why do they make so many different kinds of so-dope sexy foil papers?
uh-huh, that's what i thought....
i'm on that all the way to eleven,
over-the-top dream christingmas-type big action-
from the 'i was listening that time you said you need this thing' gifts,
to the 'i know you so well i just knew you'd love this' gifts,
down to the 'you don't even know about how much hard-style hottness this thing has, but you're about to' ones,
all the way to the 'i just think you're special' jauns.
and what's the haps with the wraps?
minimal tape usage?
laser-level creases and corners?
complimentary color-coded contrast-printed paper?
you know what all that combines to make, yeah?
the perfect pile.
the. perfect. pile.
that's my everlasting holy grail arthurian quest.
gifts so dope, so thoughtful, so precisely paired,
so lavish, so luscious, so meticulous.
brutally delicate, barbarically sensitive, savagely sentimental.
so mouth-, eye-, and box-wateringly fresh i'm sure to un-grinch all the humbugs.
that's my word, ya'll.

you should maybe listen to your uncle albie:
i'm kind of a connoisseur of battle-bardly gratitude and generosity, right?
i'm just sayin';
some people give one truly meaningful, really sincere, heartfelt gift.
some folks bake cookies.
some folks just send a card.
...or worse;
the signed picture of their kids.
the one they freak out about when you don't display it in your home.
creepy little faces, creepy little outfits.
just what i wanted on the mantle.
beady little beetle eyes unblinking at me while i sit by the fire.
totally not horrifying at all.
sometimes you get the card with a little biographical report thrown in,
an interfamily memo about why the other family is doper than yours.
maybe somebody gets you a candle...
(that person re-gifted that sh!t, and doesn't know you or even like you much)
i gets busy all up on a lot of that.
not the kid sh!t, though.
i mean it.
it's creepy.
nobody is obligated to care about kids that aren't theirs.
that's a rule.

i've got an enormous woody!
a wood pecker!! (like the ma in johnny dangerously?)
i'm referring to the pileated woodpecker.
a big gnarly ironheaded redcap birdbrain.
he hangs out over here.
so do some of those ittle minky mini ones, too.
talk about a headbanger's ball.
and the reward for jamming his big beak into an icy expanse of tree?
frozen grublets.
he's like a jackhammer excavator.
good thing the wood is sort of rotten.
(it muffles the speed metal kickdrum solo his face is making)
that's the soundtrack to t'n't this morning.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 10


12" of snow isn't just a terrible white rap album.
-as an aside, that dude puts the gay in reggae-
a licky boom-boom down, huh? okay.
it's also a hard amount of snow to relocate.
if you move a foot of snow over one foot, it's suddenly two feet.
keep it up,
and over the course of scooping an expanse of woodsly goodness like the fortress,
you end up with mountains of powder.
catch my drift?
yeah. drifts.
even taller and suckier than the powder mountains.
and there's plenty more where that came from.
in a hot minute or two,
i'll be back outside, sled-dog running a firewood iditarod.
man's work, our girlie j.w. calls it.
licky boom-boom, indeed.
i got a room full of wet, cold wood, ya'll.
that's got to be a necrophile's dream come true.
oh, c'mon.
it's got to be moved, though.
from over there to over here,
and from here closer to there,
and so on and so forth.
that's just how we doo-doo what we've got to do;
y'know what else i've got to do?
take some ibuprofen.
i've got a creakity-crackity sore-spot situation.
which is better than an open sore, for sure.
mostly, i've got post-epic-manliness syndrome.
you can't expect there to be a boon of beneficial health
not after berserking through the tundra for a few days straight.
i'm getting rickety.
that's what you turn into when you get older.
speaking of;
2009's pretty flippin' rickety.
i'm sayin',
it can't get too much older,
or it won't even BE this year anymore.
who's coming up to ring in the waterbaby new year in?
where else should you go to bring the noise?
c'mon, no drinking, no driving, no dancing,
two little kids, a sip of cider, and a blazing raging ragnarokin' ultimo fuego.
i got it poppin' ninjas.
when it comes to hard-style hardly hard-partyin',
albie rock's hard place is where it's at.
not there...
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 9


some kind of crushing wintry fury?
it's like the old man winter overslept,
and when he woke up,
he flipped the F* out about running late,
and is more than making up for lost time,
balls-out, full-blown basting the earth in abominable blizzard wizardry.
y'know what that means;
shovel time.
shoveling isn't any more fun,
or any cooler, just because you're a homeowner.
it may even suck a little bit more.
ninety feet of driveway?
that sh!t was the hottness in the summertime.
it has cooled considerably in the ensuing months.
my snowpantsed wifey helped with snow-removal.
it kept snowing despite her insistence that it should probably quit doing that.
so, phone calls were made, ya'll.
and now we have a new plow guy.
because scoopling up some frozen water piles is for A-holes.
this plow guy had better be better than than bootyfaced buttblaster we had last year.
...or else.
and i mean 'or else, SO hard', even.
there are next-to-no cars out and about.
there are even fewer people walking.
sleigh bells ringing or otherwise,
there isn't much wonderland flavor to be had in this dog-doo snowcone of a day.
it seems only right that i should head back out,
into the wild windswept wastes of woodsly wintertime,
and fight ice with fire.
the hottest of fires at that.
a little spit, some kindling, a semi-salubrious stink stick, and a pair of mittens.
barbarians love the winter.
that's the truth.
a good reason to wreak wreck on the world an' that.
snowfall muffles footfalls,
but the thunder gets brought to bear anyway;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 8

shopping block

the byword is buy-words,
that means books are in the basket,
and printed materials and book rate mailing is in effect.
i always get a stink-wink from the postal servicemen
when i ask for a totally non-jesusy un'tarded set of XI-mas stamps.....
there's just no sense of what's poppin' over there.
i'm sayin',
there's three guys named paul over there at any given time.
that's real.
and it's also real questionable.
sounds like a pseudonym arrangement for hard-style service.
y'know, as in:
disgruntled stamp-buyer: 'paul was very rude to me'
disgruntled postal worker: 'ohhhh, paul, huh? we'll get right on that...'
i've got my nutcracker stamps, and no big baby jeez in sight at all.
that's a mark in the win column for sure.

we shopped well after any normal human's dropping point.
there must've been a secret universal ley-line of powerful barbarian energy
or something,
because we were impervious to jingley-jangled pumped-in holiday tunes,
and immune to 'assachussetts asslords shoving and pushing for sweet deals.
we got down on that spirits and memories style-
that's XI-mas spirit,
designed to dispense kickass memories,
all in the Folk Lively wintery wonderments of the woodsly goodness.
i swore up and down the sunny side of the streets, all day long.
i even managed to wheedle a grudging agreement from the import store lady,
about the brutal 3rd world truth;
corrugated tin roofs guarantee some hot 'rrhea.
nobody can resist true stories told truly.
i got them jauns, ninjas,
AND a closet full of presents, too-
we're just the types to reward naughtiness over nancy-pantsed niceties anyway.

there's talk of impending arctic assault tomorrow.
that's just what i was hoping for.
especially since i put off stacking firewood today.
doo-dooin' it in the snow will definitely be better, right?
maybe i'll ask one of the postal pen-pauls to help.
that'd be a hoot.
i'm looking forward to thick snow...
because that sh!t insulates like a mo-fo.
and i am flippin' fuh-reeeeee-zin'.
drafty old houses.
they are the hottness,
but they just don't hold heat;
never quiet, never soft.....