Sunday, January 31

goodbye, january.

1/12th of the way through with 2010,
that means we've got to go to eleven to finish it.
i'm up for it;
how about all ya'll?
january is over!
all done.
and i don't have a single extra red cent to show for it.
material fasting doesn't work
when new hottness-infused lavatories are in the works.
of course,
if there'd been the usual spending spree,
i'd be deep down in a disastrous fiscal fiasco.
and instead,
i tatzapped my shiny heinie right off,
and ended up exactly where i started the year.
the middle of nowhere.
now i've got the first half of a bathroom begun as well.
so there's that, at least.
has everybody got their hot sauce ready?
heads up, eyes open, fists clenched;
B.H.M is creepin' on a come-up.
i've got a healthy hankerin'
for greens, gravy, grits, and grape soda.
oh, c'mon.
save the npr sermonizing about insensitivity for
the sappy suburban sally-struthers supporters-
i'm on that revolutionary but gangsta sh!t;
i'm reppin' amistad uprisings,
underground railroads,
black panthers, john henry, frederick douglas,
and my sweet syrupy aunt jemima.
all things pre-urban-idiot are subjects for celebration.
that means props to sally hemmings,
but no-fives for thomas jefferson.
that includes spending only wooden or buffalo nickels, too.
and buffalo stances like neneh cherry.
as you already know,
buffalo gals go around the outside.
but i have no idea what that even means.
it's an easy sunday morning over here.
i'm listening to black sabbath and the black keys,
gearing up for the big action tomorrow.
i've got some work to do,
i've got some life to live,
i've got fourteen hours of january left.
i've got a heated matress pad in effect, too.
gentle warmth, it says on the label.
not flippin' freezin' my A* off,
is what i say.
the days are getting longer,
but the nights are getting harder.
the weather's getting colder,
and the time is flying past us.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 30


where in the heck was the power last night?
...castle grayskull?
...with snap!?
...mightily morphin' with some rangers?
it sure as sh!t wasn't here.
right in the middle of a heated game of super mario,
the screen went blank.
and the house went dark.
and the furnace got awfully quiet.
in fact,
the only thing still humming and whirring
was the great outdoors.
the white mountain weather wonders,
and the woodsly goodness via the secret universal plan,
conspired to give us a romantic,
albeit mutha-lickin' chilly,
candlelit friday evening at home.
thanks heavens, yet again,
for the turbo-sexiness,
and whole-house heating,
of my cast-iron companion,
the woodsly goodstove.
it would've been -14 inside, too.
that's before the chill factor, kids.
my backyard faces southwesterly-
and that burly, brutal billowed blast-off business
left debris and detritus strewn about,
all bosnian battleground-style an' that.
how long is too long without heat, hot water, or electricity?
it's not really all that bad.
i mean,
that big bright luminous oracular lupine orb
let out some cosmic ray beams that lit up
the whole woodsly realm up in shades of baby blue;
and we've got blankets;
and candles;
and flashlights.
we back up our back up plans with other 'nother ones, yeah?
i can't say the same for all the neighbors, though.
our house looked like a perfect period reenactment was happenin',
warm waxy wick and wacky glow and all.
everywhere else looked like a big black block on the skyline.
i wonder if anyone else noticed that the suffusive azure outside
was so much F*n' better than the sad,
sorry simulacrum diffused by their televisons.
i mean,
without those big screens blaring and glaring,
and the flooded lights chasing away the deep dark around their houses,
they may have actually been forced to notice how dope it is out there.
or at least,
in sharp contrast to the night terrors of ma nature,
how warm and cozy our place looked up on the hill.
mood lighting is what we do, ninjas.
we kept it going from 8p.m. until 5:30a.m.
frosty like a snowman.
it was kind of awesome, in it's own way.
really REALLY rural and rustic.
well primitive an' that.
the sunlight and the electric lights all came on simultaneously.
we may just torch up the tapers again tonight.
there's no such thing as too much of a good thing.
and there is never enough Folk Life active participation.
keeping warm,
and holding down the fortress.
the best adventures are the simplest ones;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 29


primordial weather.
that's what's up.
it actually looks like a windswept snow-dune tundra.
last night it was so windy,
we woke up in the middle of the night to sounds
of a horrible hustle, bustle, shuffle and kerfuffle.
that's a terrible 3a.m. wake-up call, kids.
it's still so windy,
the whole of the wide woodsly goodness is
swayin' and shakin' and hootin' and hollerin'.
who thought of wind?
i mean,
it's just air.
yeah, air.
like in the places where insulation is supposed to be in my house.
smashing itself against the homestead,
and plummeting the temperatures outside.
it's blowing so puffy-cheek hard,
that even after a white-out snowstorm,
there's no traces of new snow.
it's blown all the way away.
somewhere east of here,
there must be a mountainous drift...
and it's so loud, ya'll.
loud and invasive.
loud, invasive, pervasive, and persuasive, even.
all around me the noses and cheeks and lips are chapped.
nobody even wanted to waft their way over for tattoos, either.
it's cold.
it's cold like the distilled essence of winter.
i'll bet a pair of witch's teats under an ice-cube sweater
would seem like the molten magma of maui by comparison.
that's cold.
it's so cold that even with the woodstove cookin' up some logs,
the heat turned on.
that means that even the warmest room in the house
isn't that warm.
what a stupid day, my ninjas.
i've got a union suit on,
under my normal sweet sleepytime jammies.
it's the brightest moon of 2010 outside,
and the worst weather, too.
it's so suckie,
there should be a sugarfree gum named after today;
arctic suck,
winter sh!tmint,
or some other descriptive, ultra-whitening,
fast-acting awfulness.
the weekend is here already,
and the bathroom project is at a standstill for a minute.
i'm on some tracking number update action,
perched patiently by my space heater,
the dog is on red-alert, oo.
because she is as suckie sometimes as the wind,
she's barking the alarm code for savage side-kicks,
at absolutely nothing but air.
what i'd give to have my house as full of hot air as my face is.
if i was a sailor,
my canvas would be fully unfurled, and i'd be on my way.
i'm anchored down,
and my hatches are battened.
before long,
i'll be abed,
under a hefty heap of flannel,
tryin' to shiver my timbers.
and funnel that friction into fuel for my furnace.
cold hands and warm hearts,
it's all really happening.
i think i just saw the abominable snowman;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 28


never quiet, never soft.
all the way to eleven.
loud, hard, and off the scales.
what else would you expect
from the battle-bardic vanity of a berserker barbarian?
if you don't know about it,
you should learn about it,
and if you already know about it,
you'd better be about it.
presentation is so important.
it's not just fancy bathrooms,
and well-wrapped gifts.
it's not only bow ties and matching socks.
it's everything.
it's where you're at,
and how you're livin'.
the devil's in the details, my ninjas,
and my whole life is a satanic seance of sexiness.
all the little things add up to the big big picture.
skinny bodies, narrowed eyes, and wide wide worlds;
this Folk Life is what i'm living.
if you've got it,
flaunt it.
and if you're into the vainglorious displays
of volume and force,
then you're going to pop a raging one,
when you see the hand-forged wrought iron floor nails-
now this is happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 27

ohhh, very tasty.

...or do you take what's in the box?
i doo-doo take what's in there.
that's the new super bowl.
and it isn't even sunday, yet.
i had the lamest days off, ya'll.
spending loot on necessary goods doesn't make me glad.
the freeze on getting super-fancy unnecessaries?
doesn't make me glad, either.
but, i did get to be glad about having AAA.
the keys to the truck?
i had 'em on me.
i even used 'em on the big rig...
but they don't work on the locks, kids.
oh yeah, duders,
the locks just stay locked.
which meant that right after i bought a toilet,
and a flavorfully fresh bathroom light,
some extras, and some odds, and some extra ends,
i stared right at my dog, who stared right back,
and i couldn't get in the truck.
why did i lock the car doors?
i didn't.
but jess didn't want anyone to steal the dog.
like seventy pounds of semi-retarded hellacious pit bull
is first and foremost on anyone's to-do list at lowes.
sure thing.
i sat in the parking lot of the home improvement headquarters,
while my wife used the phone inside.
used the phone inside, huh?
cell phones?
i'm not having it.
so, after a little minute of waiting,
and another 'nother minute of jimmy-bar shimmy-shimmying,
we made it home,
and headed back out again,
to size up, select, and sort through
a crazy costly bevy of barbarian board feet.
i'm talking about how my living room looks like
an interpretive sculpture of president wilson:
that's a wood row, for sure.
floor, ceiling, walls, counters.
it's all right there.
i've got long wood, and wide wood,
and i've got short wood, thick wood,
and narrow wood;
come daybreak, my ninjas,
i'll even have morning wood.
it feels like my whole life is made out of trees.
there won't just be saws and such being used, either;
we're using blowtorches and sh!t to make magic.
that's correct, my blazing berserker buddies;
how hot is the hottness now?
pretty flippin' hot, i'd say.
this all-consuming project may be on hold for a while, too.
special order speedy deliveries aren't being dropped off.
so i am a patient boy.
i wait, i wait, i wait.
i guess the little mexican coppersmiths
don't feel the need to rush my extra-luscious sink up here.
and without the sink,
i can't do the counter,
and without the counter,
i can't plumb the faucet,
which means no backsplash,
which means a hold on the walls.
good thing i've got some double chocolate oatmeal rock blocks.
a.k.a the best cookies on earth,
and also also known as the most plentiful portion of dopeness
currently being digested in my bellyhole.
for every hour i wait,
i eat a cookie.
i'd better begin baking a bigger better batch.
what with the weekend waxing on the horizon,
and the united parcel service taking sats and suns off,
i'm gonna be a big fat F*n' pig come monday.
there's no such thing as empty calories,
just empty bathrooms;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 26

this is it.

i thought shark gluttony was dope.
(and it so is)
sharkbite plumbing equipment is even doper.
big gulping water-seal robobotronic getters.
it's magic gripping connector treats, ya'll.
and it is amazing.
no solder, sweating pipes, or whatever,
no pvc adhesive,
no plastic pex tubing crimper.
it just pops and locks.
it's b-boy breakin' builder's business,
and it is so super simple,
even i could figure it out.
and i did, and it's done... i'm a plumber now.
i've been wearing my pants extra low,
both as a homage to the poop-ploppin',
poppin', lockin,' don't-stoppin' freshness,
and to show off my newfound professional aspirations.
and here i thought plumber's crack
was some kind of hallucinogenic flux compound.
actually, we had a cracked pipe, too.
misty waterworks were rainbow brighting the basement.
it's repaired, duders.
and so is a whole bunch of other sh!t;
we've got a new hose spigot!;
we exorcised the spooky pipe demons (lead, iron, copper, and pvc);
we've got way more room in the horrorshow crawlspace!;
there's insulation in the floor, my ninjas.
it's not the new hottness just yet,
but it is much much warmer.
slowly, we're replacing what we removed,
and adding what was missing.
who'd have thought a 5' x 6' room could take up so much space?
in my head, i mean.
guess what i dreamt about?
the ponies were searching or authentic pyramid head nails,
for the red pine floors in the bathroom.
more than just my waking life is occupied, ya'll.
i'm finally free.
no more storage units for me.
it's been years.
and now,
i've got all my eggs back in one basket,
and one less bill every month tryin' to F* my A*.
that's good news, kids.
the storage unit guy is sad to see me go, he says.
i'm a cool dude, he also says,
i'd look good with my style,
at an awards show,
like the c.m.a.'s.
true story.
two compatible things, yeah?
my style, and the country music awards.
more like hard styles, i think.
i'm not sure if my feelings are hurt.
they might be.
then again,
i don't have to go there anymore.
so i still come out ahead.
and i'm a cool dude.
so there's that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 25


what do you doo-doo duders know about doo-doo?
i'm learning a lot...
dual-flush, for the ones and twos;
oval v.s. round holes, tiny heinies and cheeks for weeks;
chair height refers to handicapable seating.
there are a great many factors i need to know about.
you guessed it:
i'm getting a new toilet.
and i am not getting one of those feel-goodery,
'green' weak-sauce waterbaby low-flush ones.
save that for the suburban moms, ya'll.
i'm not buyin' it. literally or figuratively.
seriously, my ninjas,
i can't justify a mincy little winky-mouth potty chair,
they don't go anywhere even remotely near eleven...
..and because i have a lot of hefty friends.
...and some vegan log-jammers, too.
that equates to some heavy-duty spackle and grout.
and i'm just sayin':
flushin' three times to remove all traces
of a dirty two-tone beige barbarian grumper?
that is just not cool.
i want a power-packed whirlpool of excrement eradication.
charybdis, in miniature, in a polluted porcelain ocean.
nep-tune-ups, clash of the titans style.
that's on that leave no trace-type sh!t.
only, not the hippie nancyboy version.
oil-rubbed bronze, kids.
that's that victorian heritage finish.
i already pre-emptively purchased an after-market flush lever.
my jauns have got to match up, y'heard?
who buys a black toilet?
unless you're a movie cliche or a real-life mobster,
there's no need to drop down on an ebony throne.
that's too tacky to be believed, almost.
what next?
a sculptural black panther pedestal sink?
we're hopefully keeping ours classy.
plain, clean white.
none of that beige/eggshell/bisque crap.
that's forty years too old school for my A*.
i don't want a cream colored anything, ya'll.
that's the truth.
tomorrow is the big day for big fun;
cleaning out our storage space!
getting cars inspected!!
buying the toilet!!!
some guys have all the luck,
and some guys have all the fun.
some other other 'nother guys, however,
have a real deal woodsly Folk Life.
those are the moths amongst the butterflies.
duders who just doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
doing what we do, my ninjas.
infinite natures,
myriad situations,
predictable outcomes.
give a berserker some rage,
and he'll flip out for a day,
give him a raging stormswept savage gyspsy toilet,
and he'll flip his sh!t for a lifetime.
all this bathroom worry isn't affecting my bathroom humor.
that's something at least.
it's hard work learning about all this stuff.
it puts the toil in toilet.
word up.
the pipes aren't banging like in 'the goonies' just yet,
probably because down here,
it's our time...
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 24

conundrums, doldrums, bass drums.

there's a rythym up here.
heartbeating, heartbreaking, breakbeating,
mystery, misery, mastery.
that's the revolving cycle of serious business.
how do i know?
how do you think i spent my day, mutha-licker?
and dumpin'.
actually that last one is more literal.
i went to the dump and dropped off the last of the old bathroom.
now there's no trace of the old bustedness,
and much more room for filling in the new hottness.
i thought sunday mornings were supposed to be easy, ya'll.
i hauled and stacked firewood,
packed and posited plywood in far-off places,
toasted some banana bread,
and went plumbing at home depot,
all before 11a.m.
if you've never been to the woodsly goodness,
then you don't know how far apart stuff is in this small town.
the main major mystery is how much longer that seems,
when the roads are congested with ski-bum tourist out-of-towners.
twenty minutes to get to the center of town?
(it's like two miles away)
i know it's good in the woods, ya'll;
that's why i live here,
instead of easy-way-outing it in the city.
that means nestling in to the bustle of voyeur turds, i guess.
it's like urban doo-doo butter sticks to 'em,
and clogs up the freshness of the great white northern extremes. a cigarette butt in a salad, my ninjas.
cities ruin my whole wide world.
i may have something really wrong with my upstairs.
i'm on that heavy-handed hermit sh!t.
if it wan't for gettin' that bill-paper dollartime,
i'd never even ever leave my headquarters.
the harder way, ninjas.
that's the way i choose.
every single time.
wrenching, spanning, choosing.
the woodsly goodness itself is still another mystery.
it's so dope up here.
if you visited, you'd know it to be true.
it's probably better than where you are right now;
i mean, it's got epic natural beauty,
picturesque real-world hottness,
and me.
all good things...
unless you've met me,
and then you know that for a gross exaggeration.
or, at the very least,
you know that it's in no way more awesome
for any of my contributions.
(but the bathroom isn't finished yet, so that may change)
i'm here.
you should stop by.
y'know-take the drive on up.
i can't promise you anything special,
other than amazing vegan eats,
a walking tour of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
mind-blowing panoramic natural wonders,
and a well-stacked woodshed.
that's what's up.
i'm easy.
like sunday evening.
better later than never,
unless you're talking about
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 23


i wore my ass-paragus printed, souvenier
japanese wrapping paper/headband/mop today:

it's called a tenugui.
it's the all-purpose magic shop rag treat!
and that's a photo of my actual buttcheek pocket,
stuffed full of cottony spears of hottness.
you like that i call it the ass-paragus.
i do too.
where does someone get one of those?
my very good friend shawn hebrank went to japan.
and he got us some treats.
i'm lucky to have people who think of me
when they are somewhere else,
doing something better than i am,
in a place i would almost certainly ruin if i was also there.
gratitude and generosity, again and again.
more circles, bigger, better, and rounder.
speaking of grateful days and nights-
i'd better give out some praises to my number one collaborator:
thanks, secret universal plan!
these days,
i'm not just a home improver,
a warrior poet documentary life liver,
or a vegan, tea-sipping bookworm;
i'm also a furious raging ball of tattoo fury.
and that's no small feat, ya'll.
i'm more of a wish-i-weren't-here kind of worker.
but not anymore,
or at least,
not right now, anyway;
i've been blasting some of the awesomest clients lately.
they come back and finish their sh!t,
they sit still,
they hang out,
they tip big.
all the best parts, kids.
it's true.
i appreciate the folks who know what's up.
so this is a shoutout to all the kick-ass peoples gettin' zapped.
without them,
my soon-to-be-delivered hand-hammered sexy copper vessel sink
would NOT have gotten ordered.
and we can't have that, duders.
it's a saturday night, here in the woodsly goodness;
the temperature is low,
the humidity is lower,
and the home-made seitan steaks are sizzling.
this is some kind of a life, my ninjas.
a real one.
creative non-fiction, as i've heard it called.
and when i'm scarfing down my seitanic scrumptiousness,
i'll have a side order of asparagus scarf, too.
(it's also a napkin!)
all day long my pee smelled funny,
and i think i just figured out why;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 22

the new what-ness.

what could make my lovely, luscious wife recoil so?
did she open the door and see me playing papparazzo?
was there something so spooky-scary on the inside?
it was the smashed-up bathroom what did her in.
or, i should say;
the lack thereof.
i know there's no place like home,
but what about no place AS home?
at the very least,
it looks like there is no room like no room.
check it:
oh yes indeed.
that's a missing room.
and a dirt floor.
i mean,
if i have to have a new bathroom,
(and i have to have a newbathroom),
then it should be the freshest poop-hut possible.
you like it.
i know i do.
what kind of a crazy mess is this?
it's the kind of adult-onset obligation that old people love.
not feeling young?
too broke to travel?
let's fix this old and bustedness!
what's worse,
i'm actually excited about picking out super-sexy fixtures.
i didn't previously give a sh!t about bronze cabinet hardware,
or corresponding t.p. holders,
towel racks,
and toilet flush handles.
but i do now, duders.
this is what happens.
it's happening.
y'know what else is happening?
banana bread.
and why is banana bread happening?
because banana bread is dope.
that's right, and i mean it.
it's got two delicious things, at the same time;
it's bread,
and it's bananas.
what else do you need?
me and the mrs. are making moves in the kitchen.
that's romance.
and unlike the flowers and champagne crowd,
we'll have more than just sticky jammies by the end of the night,
we'll have bellies full of awesome, too.
pinching loaves,
all apesh!t bananas an' that.
that's that new years newlywed action comin' up;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 21

rotten luck.

rotten walls?
rotten flooring?
heck yep.
rotten ceiling sauce?
of course.
y'know what's butt-nasty?
a secretly rotten bathroom.
butt-nasty like a nasty butt.
i should know,
i've got both.
underneath the underneath,
and inside the outsides,
there was a doo-doo buttery sh!t-salad sandwich
lying in the weeds, wrecking up on the structure.
do ya'll know about old fashioned insulation?
horse hair.
all bad things.
what do you know about turbo throwback insulation?
would you like to know what that is?
it's air.
that's correct.
empty. vacant. vast. air.
that's all there is between the walls,
the frosty outdoor coldsnappin' weather, and us.
when you think on it,
the dark, dank, damp, doo-doo is almost awesome,
at least, by comparison;
i mean,
it's beat up and it's suckie,
but it's actually there...
i can see it right now.
and it IS definitely beat up and suckie
small wonder that it's been so chilled out in my kitchen.
good thing i keep a stocked up pantry.
because that's all that's insulating the walls, yeah?
i guess it's frozen food, in a way.
old house funhouse distortion, duders.
extra-wonky, without the hall of mirrors, even.
what happens next?
that's a good question.
i mean it.
when we all do all the things we have to do;
when the goals are reached;
when the requisite levels of hottness are met;
what happens next?
too much of a good thing is never enough.
well true, an' that.
but when we're maxed out at eleven,
way doper, and fresher, and all that stuff,
where do we go from here?
that's the big question.
somebody better hit me up with an answer.
no joke, mutha-lickers.
hit me up.
with the answer.
"antlers" will not be accepted.
do it.
i'm waiting.
in fact,
i'm freezing my A-hole off.
but i'm also waiting.
what happens next?
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 20

bashing in the bathroom.

holy smokes!!
there's a blurry dreadheadlocked man in my bathroom!
take it easy. it's cool.
i invited him over.
it's larry.
he's handy.
he's a handy man.
he may also be a manly man.
but he is definitely a manly, handy handyman to have on hand.
he'll be bashing and smashing our downstairs bathroom.
because it's broken.
and there's still a hole in the floor.
i'm guessing that that's about to be remedied.
but first,
the old and the busted has got to go;
some new old-style hottness can take it's place.
the quickest way to make things better?
make 'em worse first.
that way, any progress is more impressive than the lowest low.
that's working smarter, yeah.
well smarter an' that.
plus, there gets to be some barbarian brutality.
and that's always dope.
he's using two hammers.
that's a double dwarven battle-crashing technique, i think.
it's awesome.
there are peices of house flying all over the F*ing place.
when we're done,
there's gonna be trap doors,
secret doors,
shelves, windows, comfortable toilet space,
and a new sink.
what do you duders know about raised-basin sinks?
such sexiness.
i'm pretty sure i need one.
in the meantime,
homewreckin' housebreakers are what's a-poppin'.
pry bars, ya'll.
wrenching on some jauns.
sometimes when you choose the wrench,
there aren't any spanners anywhere in sight.
crazy talk?
but there's too much sawzall noise for me to think clearly, anyway.
so who's surprised?
today's the day for registering cars, too.
or at least for doo-dooin' it to the truck.
vain letters are in order.
my vanity insists i get that kind of license plates.
it's true.
why would i even bother being seen
in my heroic chariot of homeric hottness?
i'll have to see what kind of fresh tags are still available.
then we'll be ordering up a tasty batch of self-indulgence.
i need that more than a new raised-basin sink, even.
i've got v8 engines firing,
i've got earthshaking home improving,
i've got sh!t to do.
busy business is big business.
right action is the big action.
big bashing burliness is the big fun.
it's happening.
all of it.
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 19


i made these.
and they are sexy.
and they are brass.
and that's even sexier.
victorian pipe-fittings,
fittingly affixed to fix pipes, my ninjas,
cogs, and plugs, and threaded rod.
(and also lamp parts)
yeah. yeah. yeah.
but what are they?
for tamping down the contents of a pipe.
a pipe.
not at all like the oft-frozen ones under the fortress.
a sherlock holmes,
ancient mariner,
santa claus and frosty kind of a pipe.
and no, stoners,
they're not secretly little one-hitters, either.
i can't hang out with that kind of pipe.
the tamper, as it's name implies,
messes with the ingredients,
and ultimately packs 'em in,
so they burn better, and hotter, and longer.
that lets the flames activate the smoke rings inside.
ghosts, my ninjas, swirling in grey haze all up in here.
i've been using a stick for months.
it's really more of a twig at that.
i think it's pine from the front yard.
that'll be retired, but not burned,
as a reward for good service and merit.
and now,
i've got a set of fashionable manly metal pusher-downers.
my wife picked up the tab on the pieces, too.
letting the material fast continue,
and keeping me busy for a little minute, yeah?
subtly getting me out of the way-
now that's a good woman.
what do you know about blue monday?
or as i call it: yesterday.
it's the most depressed, depressing, miserable day of the year.
which makes today, what? like, the second or third?
i didn't do a single tattoo yesterday.
or much of anything else...
which was pretty depressing.
poor me, yeah? literally.
we say recession nowadays,
because depression only refers to feelings, tropical storms, and dents.
sorry economy,
but when things suck, you get to go to recess,
where i always was pretty unhappy as a kid, too.
damn you, kickball!
so i guess it's true.
it feels true, at least.
maybe i would've mentioned all this yesterday,
but i was just too bummed out.
oh, c'mon.
maybe there's something to it, though.
as resolutions waver,
bills pile up,
warm, dry weather remains elusive,
and the post-holiday realities set in,
the sun-shiny cheer of a new year
is really just as much of another chance to fail.
or at least, not to succeed.
that's a hard-style true story.
i'm not talking about us.
of course not.
we're worthy warriors.
we're bold favorites of fortune.
we're living real lives.
blue mondays, fat tuesdays, prince spaghetti wednesdays,
it makes no mutha-flippin' difference, now, does it?
heck no.
i've got brass pipe tampers for crying out loud.
it's impossible to be in a sad mood with those.
they weigh way too much.
that's balance, and ballast, for upright righteous world walking.
when you've got the bleakness weighing you down,
i'm sayin', kids,
you need a counterweight to counter counterproductivity.
double negatives, ninjas, after all, are super positive.
world-weary woes and weak-sauce can't compete with
rural repetetive rhetoric, yeah?
never ever not dope.
always dope.
that's word.
double-negs, like i just said.
counterpoints and rebuttals to all the
hardstyle humdrum hegemony.
recess is over;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 18

so much white stuff.

we're getting some wintrier weather.
snowy, blowy, cold, wet dopeness.
haulin' A*, whilst haulin' wood.
that means i'm staying roasty-toasty,
tryin' to keep it roasty-toasty...
my whole house is heated up, ya'll.
let it snow, ya'll.
it's winter.
it's supposed to.
that aerated insulating frozen water magic
is rocking it.
now, it's a long weekend monday;
and unless you're a selfish, bigoted, A-hole,
you're celebrating, or at least acknowledging
the civil righteousness of mm-m-m-mm-martin.
you know, dr. king, (if you're nasty.)
you may just be celebrating civil rights day.
live free or die;
...depending on if you're white or black, i guess.
hold up, now, chocolate,
i'm still keeping it real.
but for some reason,
outside of the woodsly goodness,
the rest of the up-here is really F*ed up.
although today is on record as
'martin luther king jr. civil rights day',
go ahead and ask any redneck ice fisherman up here,
and they honestly haven't even heard of the m.l.k.j. part.
how flippin' gaytarded is that?
we love ourselves some libertarianism,
and we love all the kickassery of some civil rights,
but new hampshire just doesn't know much about black folks.
mostly, because there aren't too many of my duders up here.
i always thought everybody knew about my man doc king.
it sometimes sucks some hard ones,
being up in the monocultural white mountains.
regular folks take the whole day off,
regardless of why it's happening.
i always get excited about today.
it's like a teaser trailer for black history month.
and that's the sweetest berry on the calendar, after all.
maybe i'll watch a little 'do the right thing'.
mookie, mutha-ucka.
i'm sayin'.
so, yeah,
do the right thing.
doo-doo that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 17

pump up the volume.

i got that.
i take up more space than i immediately occupy.
i've got disturbingly deceptive capacities.
i have immense quantities.
i'm loud as F*.
what word has the sauce when it comes to all of that?
volume, mutha-lickas.
y'know what's dope?
words with lots of definitions.
i'm sayin',
i love that sh!t.
volume, son.
i'm talking about the sheer volume
of the heavy volume of words and ideas that come up, out,
and at 'em from your favorite mountain manly hermit...
i even think with deafening decibel distribution.
and that's not counting the volumes i've written right here.
...or the yearly compilation of those.
real life documentary wordsmithery. (volume three).
and even if i wasn't, and we didn't,
it's still out there, ya'll.
real-life. being lived.
and all those bold moves and worthy actions?
even to the belligerent, illiterate, unintelligent, and unobservant,
those jauns speak volumes.
it's a real thing.
woodsly goodness, i mean.
an ambiguous amorphous vessel,
taking up a whole lot of space,
holding all this spirit and memory.
filled to bursting, and beyond,
with the bright burning beacon of berserker barbarian
battle-bardly beastly business.
putting the luminous,
in voluminous, an' that.
that's the unavoidable presence of the loudest and hardest.
metaphorically deaf, dumb, and blind folks can still feel
the bass-boosted vibrations of the sonic booming waves.
which, i may add,
happen to overlap like concentric circles.
it's out there, ya'll.
like it or not.

it was a crazy saturday night in the white mountains.
i made some italian stew for me and my sweet'un.
we sipped on some fizzy lifting drinks;
club soda, cranberry juice, and a lime wedge.
not exactly the hard stuff,
but really flippin' good.
then we played some new super mario brothers,
on the wii, under some blankets,
and when i hadn't gotten my fill of big fun and excitement,
i stayed up until 2 in the morning,
yep, reading.
the 4th volume of glen cook's
black company compilations.
books 9 & 10.
it's dope, ninjas.
real dope.
creating, compiling, invading, and assaulting.
repetition implies cycling,
cycling circumnavigates a circle,
and circles form rings.
smoke rings, ghost rings, and sound waves.
how's that?
always loud. always hard;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 16


i think somebody laced my thai food.
i may finally be somebody worth assassinating.
it's a goal i've been working toward for years.
spicy vegetable drunken noodles, no tofu,
side order of poison?
i don't think we ordered THAT.
well, at the very least,
if it was not spiked with poison,
then it just made in the normal way.
that includes using some terrible southeast asian ju-ju
equivalent to iocane powder.
(they must've orderd it from australia.)
duders, i must've munched up a little bit on some
colorless, tasteless, terrible aquatic destruction.
as it so happens, i've discovered that i most likely have
an adult-onset dead ocean allergy.
throat-closing, hot-eared, nausea-inducing itchy death.
it's not like i was sucking on shrimp,
lunching on lobster,
scarfing on scallops,
crunching on crabs,
or any other underwater fauna, either.
i wouldn't. i couldn't. i didn't.
it was trace elements, ninjas.
out to take me down.
our homeboy at the bangkok cafe, li,
hooks us up with some special order crucial eat'em'ups-
and he makes all of them jauns tofu family style.
that's not family style, but with tofu,
it's the style of the tofu family.
and i'm the head of the family.
no joke,
vegans and vegetarians from all over the town
order their treats like my family orders 'em.
no filthy furious fermented fish-weiner spicy poison awful sauce,
and no heinous ornithological ovum scrambles, either.
i guess nobody ever told the new cook.
i got some kind of hot fire lava death attack.
and all i could think about?
hot much hotter the fire would seem ,
when it would literally shoot out of my facehole,
if that four-star spicy devastation came back out through the 'in' door.
benadryl to the rescue, kids.
i went from a light-headed, breathless mess,
to a still-nauseous unobstructed-airway mess.
i thought the sith were immune to poison?
all that time,
and darth vader could've been defeated
just by getting a hug from admiral ackbar.
maybe that's really why he wheezed so much?
y'know, it could've been that he used
cod-liver laden a+d ointment to keep his bionic
iron lung bodysuit from chafing, right?
oh, the humanity.
so i didn't die.
that's cool.
then again,
whatever's making it's way through my body
hasn't shown up again yet either,
so i still might.
since today could very well be my last day,
i'll be living it loud and hard.
sorry, busy saturday full of tatty-o clients,
but it looks like it's going to be another 'nother
knockdown dragout barbarian wallbanger.
this time, however,
no police will need to be involved.
i've already got guns, and authority,
and i'm taking it to eleven,
even on some less-than<5-type weak-sauce clientelle.
so it's gonna be a battle of wits, i guess.
to the death. of course.
i can clearly not choose the thai food in front of me,
but clearly, you would've known that,
so i cannot choose the thai food in front of YOU.
(i'm pretty sure they're both poisoned, kids)
inconceivable, yeah?
butt-hurt and gut-wrenching.
i doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 15

get busy.

headed out of my homestead early.
headed home again late later on.
what's going on?
i've been tattooing.
i do that, y'know.
in fact, i doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
i've actually been tattooing a lot.
sticking peoples,
for their papers.
damn, ninjas.
i suppose it makes sense.
it IS my job, after all.
it's just that i've spent the better part of two years
only getting to blast on the left over weak-sauce ideas.
the ones i never ever even had to use my brain on.
at all.
an immediate switch-up flipped on the jump-up.
last saturday's bat-sh!t berserker frenzy,
has clearly caused some coming-clean karmic mix-up.
the turnaround for hottness is off the hinges.
big, bright, burly, beautiful business is the order of the day.
on the ones, duders,
i've been zapping my actual a-hole off of my body.
i think i even left it at work last night.
so many rad tattoos are getting done-
too bad about that broken camera, huh?
who cares about what goes on in the woods?
i'm still going to tell the story anyway.
i'd like to acknowledge the new hottness;
the resultant rewards of true belief,
in regards to the secret universal plan.
concentric overlapping circles, kids.
i'm telling you,
what you put out comes back again.
you need that perseverance, mutha-uckas.
responding with right action,
and not retribution,
seems to have been the get-fresh flavor.
i think that was the responsible adulthood talking, though.
berserkers just flip on out of their ninja-bag.
that didn't seem to be working out so tough.
the plan was looking out for it's own,
with a little kamikaze guidance.
no, not suicidal dive-bombers...
...straight-up divine wind, kids.
that's the one with the blowing answers.
like, to the question:
what happens when honor culture
meets worthy F*ing Folk Life adversaries?
i'm just sayin',
rocks don't care about storms.
they just do what they do.
noun and verb.
albie rock, duders.
believe it.
the ability to absorb incredible amounts of punishment,
and still maintain the mindset of a worthy warrior poet.
that's that william-wallace-yelling-'FREEDOM'-with-his-guts-out jauns.
that's endurance.
demolition derby-type hard-style pounding.
if you can still move afterwards,
and you haven't been crippled by soul-crushing waterbabyishness,
then you win.
the prize?
a change of scenery,
a change in my work environment.
after war, change.
it has been awfully windy, my ninjas.
i guess it's true;
without the bitter,
the sweet's just not as sweet.
i've practically got a toothache, kids,
dipping down on the delicious daily dose of
doldrums-and-doo-doo-destroying dopeness,
doled out with decidedly devious delight.
my slice has enlarged, ya'll.
there may really even be more pie to eat off of, too.
but one less mouth munching it up,
that's more and more.
and more.
that is the object, yeah?
neither the biggest nor the most beautifullest,
just more.
of this real life.
it continues to really be happening.
i am grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 14


did i break the oaths of tradition?
did i do the undo-able?
have i disrespected the sanctity of my vow?
y'know, the promise of special moments,
exclusively shared in the presence of my peoples.
what i mean is:
did i make broccoli bread when my kids weren't here?
F* no.
what do you think i am?
an A-hole?
when it comes to shoving something awesome
inside some other awesome thing,
how can i best express the truth of this reality?
i'm the man.
that's soysage, mushroom, and spinach bread, b!tches.
and it is totally mutha-flippin' delicious.
it's got that earthy, moist and crunchy crust, kids.
it's got the savory smoke-stained sauteed soy bits,
it's got the spiffy spankin'-fresh steamed spinach,
and it's got garlic-simmered criminis, mutha-uckas.
yep. criminis.
luxury mushrooms.
i got the sweet inside information.
it's right there in everyone's face,
and nobody notices.
i watched the sweatpants shoppers buying mushrooms.
no joke,
i stood there for a little while,
just scoping out the scene.
the ultimately skanky cats were all about the white button jauns.
so disregard their contributions at all costs.
more interestingly,
the regular ladies got down on baby bellas.
but the crackery white moms?
straight for the criminis.
the loose ones, even.
y'know, the bag-your-own basket of fanciness.
i'm serious.
the identically sized assortments were stacked all in a row.
there was literally no difference in appearance.
at all.
i've said this before,
but it bears repeating:
baby bellas, ya'll,
weigh in at a couple bucks for a lb.
that's relatively inexpensive.
criminis, however,
run around $6-$7 dirty dollars a pound.
they're the exact same mushrooms.
not even comparitively similar.
they're the same ones.
no really, look:
truth tellers can never stop.
what's in a name?
about five dollars.
i can see the hesitancy in purchasing the less-than-luxurious.
after all,
baby versions of anything are way more trailery.
remember the muppet babies?
yeah, i rest my case.
but if i'm obviously getting over on a deal,
why does this irritate me so much?
because nobody notices the difference.
we're being told that the same old sh!t is two separate things.
that's troubling.
if nobody can see the the underlying similarities,
the comparisons and contrasts,
then what's to say it stops at mushrooms?
or movie remakes?
or worse, cover songs?
we're being re-gifted our own unwanted history.
a little editing, a different name, some cellophane,
and all of a sudden,
there's nothing new anymore.
just repackaged pre-existence.
old ways are good ways,
but they aren't new ways.
i hate that our culture is nostalgic for it's own todays.
rediscovery implies losing something first.
like, maybe losing sight of what's really happening.
there's a certain distance that must be traveled
before the natural cycles restart themselves.
the point of no return.
when you've crossed the midway marker,
and you're closer to the finish than to the starting point.
the earth spins on it's axis,
the moon spins around the earth,
the earth spins around the sun.
concentric, overlapping, ghost circling smoke-rings.
that's time-spanning.
that's life cycles.
that's what's poppin'.
that's how it goes.
i'm reppin' Fok Life, kids.
buying the trailery baby bellas,
getting that crimini value,
and saving those dollars.
it's cool, i know the difference.
never mind all that back to the future crap,
i'm going forward into the past.
old ways, ya'll.
worthy. real. rural. righteous.
stay portobello, my ninjas.
like big ass criminis.
like the antique roadway.
two different things.
both dope.
it's all really happening.
pay attention;
never quiet, never soft.....


i just got my beautiful belated berfday present
from my number one main man,
purchased via internet from whistler, b.c. canada,
and sent factory direct from beautiful san francisco,
and it's legendary chinatown...
that's exactly what i said, too.
a wok.
and not just any old wok,
but a super-sexy carbon steel great big luxury model,
with a whole bowlful of little scooplers and sh!t.
there's racks, and steamers, and some weird round crown thing.
and those really big choppy sticks, too.
what can i say?
the cucch knows about treats.
that's how he knew to send me the deluxe turbo-dope ones.
i get to season it tonight,
with salt and high flames.
that's practically some biblical-smiting-type business.
i don't know where the apostles or whoever
would've seen fit to feature woks in the bible.
they should've, probably-
i know i'd be more likely to care about that kind of stuff
if there was the promise of eternal stir-fry, y'heard?
or wontons, ya'll. so good.
wok the path of righteousness and all that noise.
i'm gonna activate the hottness of this big action later;
with salt and fire,
and maybe even that weird bamboo sex-toy brush, too.
i can't believe i didn't have one of these weird roundies in my house.
apparently, i was F*ing up all this time.
like i may have been an ignorant A-hole, even.
i'm just sayin',
cucchie was positively scandalized that i've not owned a wok.
it's an all-purpose kitchen implement, it turns out.
frying, stir-, deep-, and pan-, are all possible.
word up.
what about boiling?
of course.
can you say braising?
no, not blazing with a wok-inspired accent.
but the wok can do it.
and saute', and smoke sh!t, and pop on some popplecorn.
it says so on my 'personal wok set instructions', ninjas.
so it must be true.
it says it will just get blacker and better with use.
that's so dope i can't even handle it.
it's like sweeter berries an' that.
it's like chuck d, son.
thanks, buddy,
for being generous and thoughtful and considerate,
and for a terrific treats delivery.
treats, during a material fast?
that's a little something called perfect timing.
so good.
did i mention it came with a back scratcher?
yeah. it did.
because is always reachable!
i swear it says so on the scritch-claw.
it's extendable, duders.
i'm glad i read that,
because i didn't immediately recognize it's infinite nature,
and i may have tried to cook with it, had i not.
not spending money has the arthur-making bug kicking on.
i've got some ideas.
some Folk Life funtime, noise-making ones.
how about a mobile, bicycle-based one-man band?
with a little propane cookstove,
for the wok.
anything is possible,
no matter how implausible.
i've got a wok,
if that isn't proof,
then you're going to have to talk to my man, yan.
because it's true, he can cook.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 13

the thirteenth warrior.

who can hate on hanging out?
not me. that's for certain.
i love hanging out.
not so much with other folks, really.
but moreso hanging out in the abstract.
it's alright for some duders to be around,
but only if they're self-sufficient.
otherwise, you're entertaining,
and that's not hanging out at all.
if you're hanging out and sombody else is around,
but he or she just doesn't know how,
so they're all up on your down time,
then they are a hanger-on.
that's some weak-sauce.
i'm more about the leisurely lounging-
like with a book, by the fire, in my slippers,
by my lonesome, maybe with some cookies...
(and i've GOT some cookies, ya'll)
that's what's poppin'.
i'm repping some thirteenth warrior business.
beowulf meets michael crichton.
stranger strangers and barbarian battle-beasts.
court poets and curt soldiers.
givers and takers,
builders and breakers.
what did they doo-doo most of the time?
how did they spend their days?
hanging out.
vikings used to hang out a lot.
usually after they killed up all the menfolk wherever they were.
then there wasn't anyone to bother 'em.
why not string up a hammock and take 'er easy afterwards, right?
they would write little poems about how ferocious
and totally bad-ass they were, too.
there's something to be said for acting when it's time to,
and not acting in it's own appropriate moment.
making moves, they call it.
or at least, that's what i call it.
i'm not killing any menfolk, really,
and i've already stolen all the women i care to.
really, it's just the one.
that leaves the important task of establishing realness;
composing, memorizing, and reciting the true stories that ensue.
i'm on it.
post-viking descendants hung out quite a bit as well.
scottish highlanders,
they all spat some hot fire,
then simmered with it for a minute or two.
they all also wrote and told tons of stories.
oral traditions are fresh, too.
vocal styles, ya'll.
i talk like i write,
but it sounds SO different out loud.
can there be words meant to be listened to but not heard?
i don't know.
it's almost like some cabalistiv mantra-type sh!t.
true stories about nothing,
trivial pursuits made into mountains,
devils in the details,
and perils in the perception.
it's all really happening,
but i don't know if you'd see it the same way i do.
i know that the proto-english
didn't see eye-to-eye with the berserkers, either.
today's a 'take 'er easy' day.
no savage stormswept longship incursions are gonna jump off.
maybe tomorrow,
maybe not.
i'm talking out loud.
i'm rehearsing the rites,
i'm building the pyres,
i'm casting the spell.
it may just be a dizzy spell.
we'll see;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 12

saving some fried potatoes.

dear shawn,
never mind about minnesota,
we take care of our peoples.
what's the secret?
naturally, i'd say it's the wine.....
wrong album.
actually, there are two secrets.
i mean it.
and red devil.
normally, i'd agree with ya'll that slicing tiny cubes
out of really bangin' taters is the most important part.
but c'mon,
that rests a little bit of a too-heavy burden
on the powdered hungarian hottness, yeah?
i'm just sayin':
a little paprika sprinkle just doesn't have the activation essence.
you want your homestyle homeboy fry-up to go to eleven, right?
well, then you need to hit up the huy fong and the trappey's.
that's twice the hot pepper sauce, ya'll.
one that's thick, gloppity, and garlic heavy,
and another other one that's sharp and sweet and wet.
it's the secret double-up combination
that activates the yum4tum tastiness.
some people don't use mincey little onion dots in their homers.
those people are A-holes.
hell, i get down with the GPOP, too.
that's garlic powder and onion powder.
they are important,
especially if you're vegan.
they make the plain stuff turn dope.
a light dusting of dried up deliciousness.
it's got activation powers, y'heard?
it's like adding in sparkle magic flavor sprinks, my ninjas.
and you gots to get busy with the sprinks.
i'll just say it;
if you don't get down with the GPOP,
i can't get down with you.
and you can go down on your dad,
because you suck balls.
word up...i said it.
i worked.
on my day off.
on some honeymooners.
and made the sweet moolah,
uncle rico-style.
for long islanders,
they were pretty cool.
oh, c'mon.
they were turbo nice folks,
and they even got the smart-person jokes
that usually fly well over the heads of the locals.
i could hang out a bit,
even though they pop boners for dave.
i guess you leave off the matthews if you're ''in the know''.
i wasn't then,
but i am now.
although i still hate cargo shorts and visors.
go figure that one out.
it's easier to materially fast when you're at work.
it's the reverse of having fun and spending money.
i also drove around smoking a pipe,
in my truck,
with my hellacious a-tard pitbull in the passenger seat.
i went to the dump, my duders.
i went to the storage unit, too.
full-bed chore action.
when that type of hot hard-hearted style is happening,
the manliness is off the meter;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 11

hot fire.

wood has needs, ya'll.
demanding ones, even.
there's some powerful sauce in there.
i'm reminded of that big business daily at around 3:30-4:30 a.m.
because that's about when i'm F*ing with the woodstove.
it's a little tiny bit weird doing old yankee new englandy stuff.
only because i wasn't raised to love rustic old bustedness.
i like union suits, too.
all kinds of rural real Folk Life action.
there's a comfort in old ways, y'know?
that kind of stuff stands the test of time.
the new hottness is almost never the modern convenience.
modern convenience is obsolete the moment it is created.
apple corers don't need software upgrades.
that's word.
i mean,
sparkle bobotronic computer phones?
downloadable apps?
i-tarded, rude, texthole space-age whatevers?
try staying warm with any of those b!tches.
come up to the woodsly goodness,
turn them jauns off,
and maybe help a ninja split some kindling.
it's good for you.

so i'm on this material fast, right?
it's the eleventh, already,
and i haven't bought a thing.
no morning coffees and social interaction,
no new camera to take pictures of good stuff with,
no water resistant shoes to keep my feet dry,
and no books or treats or shirts or anything.
it's awful.
and it isn't like there's piles of extra money
just heaping up and laying around as a result, either.
stick-to-itiveness is important, i've heard.
tenacity, they call it.
follow-through an' that.
so i'm all adbustery and transcendent in my wordly cravings.
sure i am.
i'm getting it going with two days off,
and lots to do,
inside, and outside,
and under the mutha-F*ing house.
all this stuff that i get to do,
and no juice.
where's the fun in that.
save the simple free pleasures for the hippies, y'heard?
i'm sayin',
there'so kind of fun like expensive fun.
but since we're making do or doing without:
woodsly goodness,
i need some juice-
bring me a little tiny bit of some new hottness;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 10

berserker barbarian battle-beast.

ever seen someone else go completely apesh!t bananas?'s pretty intense.
i mean,
not just coming undone and flippin' the F* out,
but going all the way to eleven in a crash-and-burn,
scorched earth, total four-alarm thermonuclear holocaust meltdown?
postal workers have got no juice compared to
the nigh-legendary lashing-out that was unleashed yesterday.
and here i thought burning bridges was MY thing;
duders, i was upstaged and outdone beyond all rational comprehension.
i thought i'd seen some things in my time.
but not like this.
mind-blowing mayhem ensued.
there were many regrettable things said,
and lines crossed,
and feelings hurt.
inappropriate behaviors, unpronounceable oaths,
finger pointing, middle fingering,
unfounded, groundless, and even a few true accusations,
and some police, too.
y'know how people say "you had to be there"?
well, you did and you didn't.
if you weren't you won't believe it,
because your brains can't comprehend it.
and if you were, you mostly wish you weren't,
because it was rough, rugged, and raw.
train wrecks are less messy.
oh, man!
off-the-hinges-type hard style going berserk is where it's at.
but only if you like sitting inside a thunderstorm,
getting hit with stray lightningbolts,
and drowned out in a deluge of destructive damnation.
bringing the thunder is pretty barbarian, for sure.
but getting stuck and struck, strafed and stricken
by the raging stormswept savage gypsy fury?
not so much.
i bore witness, ya'll.
in fact,
i felt a little tiny bit like dorothy in the tornado,
and instead of the wicked elphaba getting my pretties on a bicycle,
the entire luftwaffe came blitzkrieging in,
wu-tanging the sh!t out of everything.
there are ch-ch-ch-changes being made at white mountain tattoo.
unexpected, major, multifaceted move-making;
and some lineup alterations, too.
yesterday was a heckuva day, my ninjas.
what a holy heckuva day.
one that will live on in the annals
of legendary battle-beastly blowouts throughout history.
those who were there will talk of such things with awe.
i haven't given you much information, have i?
i know.
just how reliable are eyewitnesses to a car bomb, anyway?
it wasn't me...
but it was still all really happening.
way way louder.
and all the way to eleven, like a mutha-'ucka.
first the winds of war,
then the winds of change,
and finally the answers start blowing in.
establishing the realest really-real reality.
today is the day-
got that -est poppin', yeah?
superlatively superb, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 9

talking about.

future exploits.
heroic boasts.
schematics, blueprints, layouts.
instructions. hopes. dreams. fantasies.
one uni-verse, in a meta-text.
...yes, that's how it works.
inside my head, i mean.
all day long.
part cockney rhyming slang,
part free-association vocabulary test,
part puzzle.
part interconnected sequential serials,
part disconnected serious consequence...
what the F* am i talking about?
i'm talking about making moves.
i'm talking about making sense.
i'm talking about trusting in the right action of righteous real-life.
i'm talking about the big picture.
i don't want to miss out, after all.
why don't YOU try figuring out an explanation for
the secret universal plan?
you can't,
not really,at least, not all the way.
i mean, it's a secret, yeah?
and it's everywhere and nowhere.
and that makes it hard.
(that's what she said)
seriously though, duders,
it's out there, and it's in here.
and just about everywhere else.
especially the woodsly goodness.
i'm sayin',
i keep the faith.
i keep it real.
i keep it on the-up-and-up.
and somehow, also on the down-low.
most of all, though,
i can keep a secret like nobody's business.
that's the truth.
i doo-doo that sh!t,
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 8

birthdays was the worst days.

but yesterday was good.
another slice of time, down the hatch, and out the chute.
in the interest of giving credit in the areas where it is most due:
thanks for all the berfday well-wishing!
no joke.
all the worthy really-real ones sent regards.
since i've no time for fake ones,
that worked out pretty g-darn terrific.
there're a lot of folks who could do a lot worse, yeah?
it's nice to know i might matter a mighty mini mite.
berfday blasts, my ninjas, y'know, from the past, also occurred;
my man M-Dog called, from out of the blue, from las vegas.
if you've got a friend with a hyphenated -dog suffix,
you know what i'm talkin' on, here.
(it should be noted his first name does NOT start with an M, either)
and shawn called from japan.
what better way to celebrate,
than with a cake wrecks homage?
jess made me a tasty vegan treat.
from scratch.
i mean, what the F* is box mix?
we had sushi. we had cake. we saw the new sherlock holmes movie;
sir arthur is surely completing multiple final-resting revolutions, ya'll.
not quite the consulting detective of old, to be certain.
there were 'splosions.
and face-punches.
and old sh!tty gritty london landscapes.
so we liked it.
i guess guy ritchie must've taken the divorce pretty hard.
because he hopped on the big-budget blockbuster business
like a cold-blooded broke-ass.
a couple of handsome superstars and a diabolical plot
is a darn good way to spend an afternoon matinee.
that's that.
i'm older than i was yesterday.
the first week of the year is over.
the long road gets longer.
so do the nights.
or maybe the lack of sleeping just makes it seem that way.
not that i know either of the principal characters,
but last night, during dinner,
a waitress interrupted our meal and told me that
her gynecologist thinks i'm great.
true story.
thing is,
she wasn't our waitress.
and i wasn't wearing a name tag.
and she wasn't in stirrups.
unsolicited reminders of stranger's vaginas, ya'll.
happy birthday, indeed;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 7


just be ugly, just be dope.
ah, the life of an old man.
inasmuch as there is no such thing as a happy ending-
there is some justifiable cause to assume
that there is such an event as a happy birthday.
an annual exclamation point,
punctuating the perfunctory passing of another cycle of seasons.
you have successfully continued on enduring the rigors of being.
today is the day.
a reminder of times past, and of beginnings.
a milemarker on the cobbles of continued cause-and-effect;
it is not the end of days.
...that there will be more of this;
of that alone, i possess much certainty,
and more's the pity.
the world isn't ending.
the sky is not falling.
and there is only real life ahead of me.
years old.
in a row.
that's entry-level mid range thirties.
entry-level, and mid range. lower middle, even.
happy berfday to me.
my shortcomings take me farther
than the goings-on of my long-term plans.
and that's a tall order.
talk about doing the do-nots, yeah?
34 years of loud, abrasive, combative, argumentative, pessimistic complaints.
hell, them jauns're the good qualities.
willful belligerence.
purposefully warlike.
spirit, memory, smoke, wind, fire, lightning, prose, and poetry.
all good things.
and let's all of us not forget about all the butt-hole references, either.
there's certainly a word or two to be said for
the continued existence of albie rock.
i mean,
who else is going to?
so there's that.
all the wisdom of a well-lived wrathful woodsly reeking wreaking.
old and busted is the new hottness, after all.
i must be positively aglow with emitted british thermal units today, then.
nqns, well replaced by bjbs today.
if you don't know,
you'd better ask a ninja who does.
i got some kickass treats, too.
lanterns, books, shirts, and good smelling fresheners.
elsah paid for some of my tatty-o session yesterday.
the calls and emails are pouring in (well, trickling in anyway)
and it's all really happening.
another day older,
another day bolder.
the winds are breezily buffeting the battens, ya'll.
happy mutha-ucking berfday.
to me;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 6


tomorrow is the big day.
MY birthday.
the most important one, yeah?
i'll be celebrating with a piratey gimpin' pimp-limpin' walk.
because the inestimable hottness of the very excellent mr. phuc tran
is getting administered to my thigh this evening.
i'm getting tatblasted.
yeah, i know,
how often does that happen?
it's not exactly easy...
not just anyone gets to put some zaps down on my business.
that's reserved for only the really-real really dope ones.
and so i'll be down in the old-dock stank of portland, maine, tonight,
at the perpetually, impenetrably sweet-scented tsunami tattoo,
enjoying the full-flavored freshness of phuc
and his incredibly awesome wife, sue.
they're nice folks, kids.
way nicer than you are, for sure.
i'm sure i'll get to lament my lack of luster,
at least compared to the effervescent optimism of those two.
the best part?
he's NOT using hand-poking pop-stabbers!
contrary to what you may have heard,
i hate, hate, HATE getting tattooed.
jigglystick tebori torture is not even any kind of option.
especially not on my side-ass.
one-and-a-half years in the making,
my thigh-meat lobster is getting a little color added today.
the original inspiration, my ninjas-
for, y'know,
my hands have teeth.
because they really do.
lopsided grabbers that they are, lobster claws are really flippin' dope.
i'll see you there.
thick lentil soup and homemade cornbread.
the sweet sweet hottness of a full belly.
when i tell you that a bowl of bangalicious legumes
is just what i needed to garner a gleeful
gastronomically astronomical good feeling,
you'd better 'ucking believe i flippin' mean it.
that jauns has little tater cubes in it too,
which serve to make it starchy and filling and heavy-duty dope.
add a square soup-scoopler made out of corn,
and it's pretty much the perfect doo-doo-butter-destroying,
doldrum-decimating, dolorous dirge-defying deliciousness you can get.
i, for one, feel better,
that's for sure.

holy smokes!!!
is that the zig-zag "tobacco" accessories man?
not very likely.
i could maybe start a career as a real-time live-action spokesperson.
like the marlboro cowboy, only vaguely turkish instead.
seems like a perfect fit, since nearly everyone can agree:
i at least look like i have a left-handed hookah around here somewhere.
well ironic an' that.
do ya'll know dean whipple?
i do.
he's a strong duder from the weak wastes of ct.
and, he's been spotted relaxing in the woodsly goodness.
i bumped into him at the grocery store,
and immediately got confused.
like when something you know from somewhere else
is not where it's supposed to be.
we figured it out quickly, and tentative meet-ups were made-
maybe he'll hang out a little bit?
we'll see.
tonight's the night.
and tomorrow is definitely the day.
will there be cake?
it's too soon to tell;
never quiet, never soft.....