unlucky number thirteen.

pure evaporated henry weinhard's root beer.
that must have been what the storm clouds were made of yesterday,
because the rootin' tootin' sassafras shootin' thunder was coalescing in the studio
all damn day long.
baked potatoes,
indian goobieblops,
fresh baked maple scones, dropped, and replucked from off the floor at deep discounts,
and some epic vegetable soup, with macaroni magic
all filled my belly to the breaking point.
gastronomically, yesterday blew me away.
so much so, in fact,
that four mere minutes into a movie,
i was dreaming about geysers and wolfmen pretty hard.
yesterday also saw some serious tattooing.
serious as in:
hummingbirds, feathers, and ambigrams.
and it held a healthy portion of time-spanning with my peoples too;
drawing, foam cutting and grocery-getting also figured in prominently.

today is the day.
friday the thirteenth, redux.
the second one in a row.
successive jinx-proof weekend starters can mean only one thing:
this thirteenth has got to go to eleven....
it's the official unofficial party day at identity tattoo.
the root beer is chilled.
the not-casual friday attire is ready to be worn in haute couture high hard style,
and there's probably some pancakes and mapley syrupy aromas somewhere in there, too.
i'm to be drinking REAL coffees, all day,
just to make sure that the nordic frenzy of berserking battle stays at fever pitch.
well after the eight o'clock bell tolls, too.
if you've got asbestos underpants,
today's the day to put 'em on and head on in,
because that's the only way to save your special bits from a scalding skaldic singeing,
i'm warning you now;
the hot fire and flavorful barbarian bouillion are about to be administered in
unfathomable quantities to any and all weak-sauce spots,
in an all-out war on waterbaby sodapants b!tch-sappery.
savage stormswept gypsy stone soup is on the menu, my ninjas.
the lightning-striking vikings at identity tattoo are all on board,
and we're riding this day all the way to valhalla.

no foolin',
it's been great so far over here.
so much so that i really did konk out early last night.
the woodsly goodness,
for all it's Folk Life keep it realism,
does NOT operate at a breakneck city-limits pace.
that said,
i'd rather collapse exhausted into the night,
and wake up at the asscrack of dawn prepared for whatever's clever,
as active a participant as i can be,
as hard as i can be,
for as long as i can be,
than to play the wallpaper wallflower role,
watching the all-the-way-live action, unscripted way of the warrior unfurl around me,
creating What Is bit by bit, moment by moment,
until history is hot on the heels
of the diligently documented really-real happenings of the bet-busy big action.
i'm telling you,
i'm prepared to alter the traditional tar and feather funtimes,
and hit each one of you with a smear-face b!tch-slap of adhesive ointment,
and a big, bad, blowhard huff n' puff poof of trimmed and tossed-out shorthairs, too.
which is to say,
i'll werewolf you!!,
before you catch me sitting on the sidelines,
watching without working.
each and every j.a.f.o. can take it deep.
(just a f*n' observer)
pick a side,
take a stance,
have an opinion.
in or out,
burly badass barbarian or cookie-cuttin' seahorse.
live free, or die.
don't dream it, my ninjas,
BE IT.
have a hand in your own play.
play the role of your own self at the live-action saga of your real life.
just be dope.
or,
f* right off.
....i werewolf you;
never quiet, never soft....