Sunday, February 28


the fullest.
oh yeah.
superlative moonlight conditions exist this evening.
with the refractory refinement of a mountain
of unmelted white-highlight ice crystals all around us,
it should be daytime bright all night.
despite the nearly-there illumination of yestereve,
i somehow still fell fast asleep at 9:30 last night.
how's that for the fast-paced ferocity of Folk Life?
work, work, work, dinner, sleep.
and sleep so hard!
jeez, real nice;
i hope i'm not terminally ill,
or two hundred years old,
i was just tired.
it's hard work, after all,
all that yelling and complaining and tattooing all damn day.
or maybe,
just maybe,
i was getting caught up on my beauty rest,
so i can be hearty and hale for the wild rumpus
of werewolfen, shapeshifting, berserker burliness
that runs hand in hand with lunar lycanthropic lunacy.
that's exactly what happens on fullest moons.
that means bonfires in the snow,
and wet woodsly smoke so thick it looks like clouds,
and howling so hard-style it makes alan ginsberg's ghost
make multiple graveside revolutions.
roll over, ninja.
we beat beat, and replace it with battle.
warrior poetry, every time, my ninjas-
it'll be so dazzlingly dope, y'all.
tonight's a great night for that kind of action.
i'm feelin' it, too.
full moon fever an' that.
we've got a crucial collection of leafy greens up here.
this is one of the newer ones.
we already had a bonsai tree,
but in the interests of anthropomorphized flora,
it needed a friend.
or else it'd get lonely.
...i'm serious.
and so now this is happening.
i don't know if they can see each other,
but i suppose they seem happier?
double dwarf super-star juniper jars.
maybe they'll produce some berries,
and we'll make some gin.
seems likely on both counts, yeah?

this one's rosemary.
she smells good.
and i like good smells.
i think i'm supposed to clip and snip off some limbs,
all medieval torture and culinary culture,
from this conical clay-pot co-conspirator.
i almost never ever do it, though.
it just seems mean.
maybe once my wife's green thumbs-up
causes a sprouting spurt of growth and change,
i'll be forced to stunt that progress,
and fill my bellyhole, too.
i can't waste the whole window's worth of space
just being nice to a useless plant.
a useful plant, on the other hand,
that might get the run of a whole hallway.
active participation applies
to personality-possessing plants, too.
right out that door, kids.
that's where my naked heinie is headed.
tonight, i mean.
once the wolfman sh!t hits the fan.
brisk, crisp cold night air,
unfortunately furred flesh,
and a slew of shocked neighbors, most likely.
nudity almost never escapes notice, y'know?
butt-naked and burning sh!t seems a great way
to get the party started, though.
the last day of B.H.M. needs a proper send-off party.
the sounds outside are muffled into near-silence,
and the powdery-puffed up snowdrifts are like cold cushions.
that seems like the antithesis of what i'm representing.
don't worry,
like a real-deal hardcore hemmingway character,
my infinite nature will triumph over ma nature-
sound-dampening, impact-deadening snow can't win,
i'm just sayin',
it's a full mutha-flippin' moon,
and the battle-beasts don't play nice.
you still know how it goes:
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 27


tattooing is for A*-holes.
that's a hard style.
but it's so true.
and no,
i don't mean that getting tattoos makes you a turd.
peoples getting tattooed pays
the note on my Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
so keep that part up, for sure.
i mean the tattooers.
duders are getting a little self-important, huh?
i'm sayin'.
doo-dooing this job is for...
uhhhhm, y'know,
the A*-holes.
y'all ever met a bigger batch of stretched-out onion rings?
believe it.
what's the lamest thing about pro wrestling?
it's FAKE.
same thing with tattooers.
lots and lots of rah-rah-rah show-offery,
lots of sparkles and smoke,
but little substance.
remember back in the good ol' days?
hacksaw jim duggan?
big john stud?
george the animal steele?
no glistening oily muscles.
no fireworks.
no complicated dramatic story arcs.
just fat dudes handin' out some lumpin'.
we need more of that in tatzappin'.
the lumpin' distribution,
not the obesity.
go easy on all the fancy nancypants sh!t-
i'm just sayin',
we're barbarian viking battle-bards,
not pirates.
what happened?
all of a sudden i don't even recognize it anymore.
for serious, ninjas;
what's the big goal in all of this?
more work. more money. less everything else?
all so a bunch of duders who do the same job
can agree that you're good at it?
then what?
i'm just not feelin' it.
i'm tryin' to live, son.
not work.
just be dope.
or F* right off.
it all rolls back to moths and butterflies.
over and over.
the biggest and most beautifullest flutterers
stay safe by being totally noxious on the inside.
(...or by imitating the poisonous ones.)
i mean,
am i right or am i right or am i right?
the dark, dirty, woodsly tree-bark-lookin' hairy ones
get just as busy when nobody's watchin'.
save that pretty-lookin' putrescence for the waterbabies.
i'm on that moth-man meat-paw wrasslin' action.
club fisted, ham-handed, brutal, barbarian, really real sh!t.
where's all my ugly, hard-workin' tatty-folk at?
keep it up, ya'll.
what are you?
an A*-hole?
no way.
you're a barbarian art-wrestler,
all storm, and no rainbow.
maybe it's just the weather,
or maybe it's the full moon,
it might even be the stuffy nose,
but whatever the reason,
i'm on a mission-
art-wrestling. 1.2.3.
steel cage style;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 26

fleeting sleeting.

not just the glaring stares i get, either.
like the reception most of my jokes receive.
like the slip-sliding streets of this woodsly goodness.
like the best part of a frozen italian.
it's awful outside.
which is to say,
it is dope outside.
totally inclement.
i'll be taking 'er easy on the roadways today.
no sense smashing myself up before work, yeah?
y'know what's better than a receding hairline?
a big bald spot.
guess who wins in that case?
me, baby.
the champ.
i'm well aware of the foreboding my forehead foretells.
more like a six-head,
because it's definitely 50% bigger than it was
just a few short, sweet years back.
i could feel a chill on my melon, though.
in the back of my head,
where the eyes should go.
(or at least some bushy eyebrows).
what i mean is:
i made the mistake of looking in the mirror yesterday.
what a dummy.
unless i'm growing in a new patch of skin-colored hair,
my father's father's father's long bloodline hairline
of accursedly shiny pater's pates
is destined to chrome up my dome.
F* my A*, duders.
how many bald werewolves have you ever seen?
me neither.
skallalbrechtson, ya'll.
bald albert's son.
that's me.
ya'll ever seen that guy from strapping young lad?
awwwwww, man.
how about that?!
maybe that duder is part klingon or some sh!t.
i dunno.
let's just hope that's not the look i end up rocking.
hard styles and soft scalps.
i got them jauns.
i'd better get a lot funnier and wealthier, and soon.
i'm pretty sure that the impending forsaking of my follicles
isn't going to make me any more appealing.
some folks can rock the patrick stewart/bruce willis look.
i'm pretty sure i'll be more along the lines of
ned 'the head' ryerson.
am i right or am i right or am i right?
broke, broken, balding, barbarian bard.
don't dream it, yeah?
be it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 25

horse faces.

what do better horses eat?
what do better horse-faced hard-hearted haters eat?
it's what's for breakfast.
during the good ol' days,
the english would deride the scottish
about munching up on the same food they fed their horses.
'better horses, better men',
that was the invariable reply.
that's burly.
and i love some burly breakfast cereal.
believe that.
it says thick and rough on the box.
(that's also what she said.)
i do that sort of variation.
we didn't get bread yesterday,
so toast is out of the question.
we're going whole-hog on a heavier whole grain.
oats are barbarian man food, ya'll.
wild oats grew all over the northern european lands.
and vikings ate the mess out of 'em,
and so did all the celts and other gaelic duders.
that's word.
sowing wild oats means hard-style pounding, too.
an individual oat groat is a pretty fresh thing.
especially once it's flattened.
not that it takes a lot for me to get wound up,
but those burly groats have got it in spades.
i feel all fired up.
hot fire spitting,
and nose blowing,
are about all i do these days.
and eat oatmeal, too.
the winter loveliness was just kidding.
instead of the powdery, plush purity of snow,
we're on that icy rain, slushy sleet sh!t.
floods are happening.
dirty deluge doo-doo is happening.
roads have gone missing,
cars are disappearing into lakes,
driveways have become doomsdays.
it's all really happening.
this is some kind of full-moon high tide omen.
B.H.M. werewolf thunder, even.
maybe even sea-wolf thunder.
it's ever-worsening severe winter weather.
but i need a wolf skin or two,
and some gut-string chords,
and an axe.
seasonally appropriate garb, an' that.
this is viking weather.
this is berserker barbarian battle-beast weather.
this storm is what's up.
good thing i had those gnarly oats for breakfast;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 24

what? winter's still here?

it's so dope up here,
when it's so dope up here.
circular logic?
just the facts.
sh!t's dope when it's dope, y'know?
the weather decided to remember it's purpose.
ma nature must've been all:
'just be dope? woooooooooord!'
it's winter again in the woodsly goodness.
and that's dope.
waking up to a grey sky,
sticky silhouettes of sticks,
and a fresh topcoat of frosty, froze-up hottness.
that's so good.
a refreshing do-over doo-doo butter button
on the brown busted disgustingness
of old and crusty leftover wintertimes.
fresh, ninjas.
that's what this world of wafting white wonderment is.
it's just wet enough to hold onto whatever it hits.
like a sprayed-on cottonball swabbing.
feet of snow are rumored to be headed up this way.
and that's cool.
the wavering watermark between sleet
and snow is blurred to bits,
and the back 'n' forth switch'em-up is a little intense.
powdery crispness is great,
but it comes with the hefty price of plummeting temperatures.
below zero is too far from freezing for my tastes today.
it's warmer than that, for sure.
it keeps heating up a tad too much-
i'm all about blazing, raging barbarian bonfires in the snow.
smoldering smokeouts in the rain?
not so much.
this kind of weather,
this kind of day,
calls for a relaxing roost,
a homey hearth,
and a good book.
i've got all them jauns, ninjas.
there's a lovely lady drawing dragons on my left,
there's a dumb dog licking it's own A-hole on my right,
there's vegan baked ziti extraordinaire in the oven,
and some gingery ale in my mug.
a day off.
that's what today is.
i'm enjoying every fast-flying second of it.
tomorrow there's more of everything else,
but right this very second,
there's a veritable fortress of fulfilment in my face.
little teeny tiny things.
bright spots.
like the afterglow of a stunningly spectacular 'splosion.
or just the lingering limning of a lantern.
there is a light that never goes out;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, February 23

getting away with it..

i don't have much.
i mean,
i've got these moments,
and a few minutes here and there,
but really,
i'm out of time.
every day is over before i even get ready for it..
before i even get started,
i'm snacking on some treats,
feeding the woodtove a bellyful of logs,
and hunkering down under the covers.
lather. rinse. repeat.
responsible adulthood, an' that.
pretty much the worst thing ever, right?
feeling like you have to doo-doo some doo-doo?
i'd take the goosebumpity diarrhea chills
over the crushing heat of obligation any day.
so lame.
i stopped by the shop to see if my sweet baby-lady
wanted to scoople up a little somethin' for lunch,
...and i ended up working until closing.
sans lunch.
i should've probably known better than to
show up with a parking lot chock full of cars,
but what can i say?
i chose the wrench.
it's just what i do.
i've been balls-out slammed with skin to wreak wreck on.
it's good.
and it's not so good.
on the one hand;
hard work is it's own reward.
and a handsome reward it is, too.
(the papers these ninjas get stuck for don't hurt, either)
but on the other hand;
i definitely don't live to work.
except that lately i kind of do.
that's that hands-have-teeth,
back-biting the hand that feeds 'em type action.
i'm so busy i think i might be part beaver.
that's doubly so if you are what you eat.
oh, c'mon, that's inappropriate.
maybe i'm part bee, instead.
that's probably closer to what's up.
a dispassionate drone.
that sounds more like it.
work. sleep. buzz off. buzz on.
buzzard business.
that's the circle i see most often lately.
never mind the smoky ghosts,
and smoke rings,
of thought and memory;
i'm on that vulture downdraft,
carrion-creeping, concentric concentration.
that's the ever tightening spiral of a vortex, ninjas.
obligation, an' that.
i'm so mutha-flippin' far out of time,
it's actually already tomorrow as i finish writing.
i'd hoped to be timeless in the everlasting sense of
authentic eminence of authorship,
not time-less with less time.
so lame.
my glass is half-full, believe it or not,
but my hourglass, now, ya'll,
that sunovagun is down to the last grains;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, February 22

sittin' on it.

how is my wife so rad?
that's a little over-general,
but also pretty true.
it's a fair question, though.
more accurately,
how can she be so good, and funny, and fun,
and smokin' hot,
and be so nice to somebody like me?
(i wouldn't, ya'll)
it's a mystery.
a mind-boggling puzzle-stumper the solution to which
i've been trying to figure out for years.
she's a regular voracious valkyrie of virtue.
that's no joke.
she's gone and upped the ante,
what do you get the husband who's naught
but a total pain-in-the-A*?
check out this little bit of butt-soothing beauty:
it's fancy, huh?
luxurious, even.
and it's super-comfortable, to boot.
i came home and found it waiting for me,
with a bow and everything.
lucky duckling.
that's what i am.
guess what else?
i got some trophies for being a decent tatblaster last week.
i know,
i forgot to document that tidbit of victory.
but i'm remedying that now.
my buddies billy and joe were in pa. a motorcycle show,
and they both scoopled up some big wins.
bikers like me.
that's cool.
it's probably the hard-style of my lifestyle they love.
of course,
the promoters spelled tattoo incorrectly.
right on the trophies.
1st place tatoo.
is that good?
close enough??
i dunno.
is that gift-horseplay in the mouth area?
i don't know that either.
what i do know is:
i also got some tasty black stink-stick stumps,
and a case of cape cod potato chips.
from the self-same fellas,
but as a sign of appreciation unrelated to the awards.
all that and a bag of chips?
how about 96 bags of chips?
real real.
that's some barbarian honor system generosity sh!t.
a lucky duckling.
that's me.
i'm doing a viking tattoo today.
the start of a midgard/asgard backpiece.
thor will be there.
prominently, in fact.
with his unholy pagan hellhammer, too.
and lightning.
don't forget about the lightning.
i got a semi-coma's worth of rest last night.
so i'm bright-eyed,
and bushy bearded. could be a tail.
since i'm kind of an A*-face.
(maybe if i was doing a handstand.)
i know it's NOT my elbow, at least.
my front and back may match each other,
in frowning, follicled, frightening force,
but neither looks like my knobby arm hinge.
i could pass for a double-headed mandrill.
sad, but true.
but while my elbows are blue, too,
they don't have holes.
unlike the other two options, y'heard?
i can at least tell one from the others.
an ugly duckling.
a lucky one, but a butt-nasty looker,
all at the same time.
that's your ninja;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, February 21

over and done with.

did you guys know that all of the
woodland wackiness north of up here
is even more flippin' weird and F*d up?
they start february vacation this week.
and, they had school on president's day!
i guess something about the current president
must prohibit them from celebrating
president's day as a national holiday.
(i think it's because he's a black guy. i swear)
i'm serious.
they couldn't bank or do mail,
but they went to school.
that's hard.
that's so not B.H.M. friendly.
redneck A*-hole racist jerks is what they are.
true story.
i can't hang out.
but then again,
i make up special holidays to get time off.
so there's that.
the upside down side to all this?
all those white mountainous white people
will be coming in for some tatzappin' all week long.
those suckas better be packing a big, fat, wallet chock full
to the brim and beyond with income tax return money,
because i've got their number.
it definitely is NOT eleven.
that's word.
suckiness costs extra.
i'm sayin'.
i went to mass. today.
tearful goodbyes an' that, y'know.
there's never enough time,
and never ever enough of the girls in my life.
no such thing as too much of a good thing, right?
i know.
the only thing i'm looking forward to is about a hundred years'
worth of rip van winkling.
i'm beat up,
burned out,
and worn down.
i can actually see the orbital cavities of my skull.
like a pair of sunken, inverted black eyes,
i'm rocking the purple panda racoon look.
soup is on.
it's got healing powers.
like eagle's eggs nutrients, even.
the house is empty,
the nest is empty,
the eagle has landed,
all that noise;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 20

cinnamon girls.

...and not just because i'm rockin' in the free world;
i'm all about some neil young-type business an' that.
flannel and terrible voice and everything.
that's how we break our fast in the mountains.
that's how we start our morning on the last full day
of non-travelling vacation fun.
eating cinnamon buns,
with cinnamon girls.
i take a big pile of comfort from these things.
these traditions.
and the tender flaky moist delicious dollops of dopeness, too.
our own tradtions.
the Folk Life flavor of my fantastic family of females.
nice, kid. nice.
tony the tyrant turns 30.
that's more of a despotic reign than most
military monarchs ever enjoy.
way to go, old man!!.
hip replacement looms on the horizon, i'm sure.
it's the kids last night in town.
it's late-ish in the day,
and i'm just getting home from a day of wrenching it up.
the last minute last minutes, ya'll.
i've got peter and the wolf queued up.
i've got a house packed with people.
this world of my own making,
this fresh, worthy woodsly goodness,
is exactly what i need,
exactly where i belong,
and exactly the recipe for successful fatherly feelings.
there's sparkling cider around here somewhere,
and i'm looking to toast to the fates,
and fortunes,
of this real life.
as it unfolds,
it is documented;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 19

dippin' dots.

what goes better with complete insomnia than
tea and toast in full flippin' effect?
and with all my ladies beside me, too?
nothing is better than that, ya'll.
there's never really any problems
getting up in time for breakfast,
when you're still up from the night before.
the whole house is under attack, lately.
the winter windchill and westerly war trumpets
are buffeting the battens again.
we enjoyed another 'nother windstorm last night.
i suspected a savage sweep-out of gypsy bellowing
was on it's way towards us...
after all,
blowhards can smell their own, y'know.
mix in some sniffles and snuffles,
and a wracking cough or two,
and it's wide awake for your favorite woodsly warrior.
it wasn't all just tossing, turning, and fussing though;
i practiced my homepathic healing prowess last night, too.
little maple star had a full-on asthma explosion.
which meant that once she finally fell asleep,
the doctor was on duty,
listening for raspy wheezes and chokey sneezes.
she got a good's night worth of healthy restful relaxation.
but i only got about four winks in.
that's a decimated dose of dreamland.
i'm sleepy.
long nights and hard times.
that's what northlanders live for.
and we're living, kids.
i wouldn't trade in one heavy-lidded minute.
this is the time i've been given,
and i'm more than making the most of it.
real life.
real real;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 18

thor's hammering.

mjolnir, kids.
the enchanted bash'em up smasher of thor.
i think it may be hidden behind my eyes.
if it's not,
then i'm at a loss to explain the smiting
sledge-slamming scrapyard slaps of this headache.
me and the kids have all got colds.
during vacation.
what a rip-off.
i'm sayin',
i got that connecticitis.
i only seem to ever get sick when i go to connecticut,
or when connecticut cats come up here.
...the woodsly goodness would never commit
an affront like that to my immune system...
the conditions have been met,
and therefore i'm hacking away.
and not with a berserker viking axe, either.
lungs make for sh!tty chopping tools, y'know?
and ya'll thought i was playin';
the nutmeg doo-doo butter,
in actuality,
makes me sick.
i'm not trying to sound snotty,
(although the drippy faucet on my face
may make it seem otherwise)
but that's just what is.
if germs were money,
i'd be filthy stinking rich right now.
will i be spreading the wealth?
oh, yeah-
sneezy, wheezy spattering,
directly into the exposed skin of my clients.
epidemic action,
through the epidermis, an' that.
new hampshire,
but infectious out-of-state awfulness
isn't just limited to restaurants and traffic.
there's no rest in my future, duders.
i've got cookin', tattooing, reading, shopping,
and all kinds of fatherly fun to get going on with.
that means that i'm contaminating
whole swaths of mountainside with this 'itis.
it's thursday.
thor's day.
so the hammering hellstorm in my skull
probably won't abate anytime soon.
that's good news.
a deafening thunderstorm of thoughts,
a hollering hurricane of blacksmith beating,
a drumbeat battle-hym in my head, even,
may be just what i need to take this day all the way;
to eleven,
and back again.
that's a righteous round-trip ragnarok.
i'll pick up were i leave off-
battle-beast bardic bellipotence and all-
true stories, told truly.
that's the way it works.
get it?
Folk Life woodsly strikeforce lightning.
that's what's on the menu today.
if i've gotta be sick,
i'm gonna be the sickest.
all wicked sick,
as in: doooooooope.
translated from the bostonian version of english.
boogers, lungs full of choking pudding,
coughing up coffee-colored cream,
and feverish.
don't forget the feverish frenzy, folks.
that's hottness trying to burn up the bad parts.
purification by fire.
on the inside.
there's a pulse-pounding, hard-pounding power,
i'm surprised it can't be heard by ya'll when i open my mouth.
and definitely happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 17

big fun.

pipes, stumps, indoor and outdoor fires.
that's what's up.
ash wednesday over here means burning stuff.
right down to the gray dusty dirt dots.
orange glow, billowy smoke, the works.
from the hottest hottness to the coolest kids in town,
we have a pretty good Folk Life flavor over here.
and we don't smudge any on our foreheads, even.
yeah, duders, i know.
more fire, more food, more of all of this.
it's all happening.
but that's not all that's happening.
of course,
in the traditions of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
when the visiting valkyries are here,
we roll up and bake our very best stuff.
stuffed stuff, an' that.
jim came over.
larry and special lady amber came over.
and we all stuffed our faces with stuffed stuff:
that's a big loaf if i ever saw one.
and i've seen some pretty epic loaves, ya'll.
i've sliced and/or pinched some of the most incredible ones.
so i'm kind of an expert.
and this loaf is a truly impressive-
in fact,
it was the biggest, crustiest, tastiest one yet.
broccoli bread, b!tches.
special occasion traditional vegan celebration fare.
you know you wish you'd gotten a slice.
seriously, though,
it was a great, big, sonuvagun;
look here:

daaaaaaamn, my ninjas,
that's a long, lovely, luscious log of 'licious.
diagonal on the pan,
and still spanning from end to end.
add in a roasty-toasty fire afterwards,
and a circle of hewn log stump-seating,
and you've got a spirit-ring of real-life,
good-life, Folk Life mutha-uckas keeping it nice.
makes me feel all gooey and warm inside....
like that.
of course,
a heaping second helping of the butt-slice ends
left me powered up for a sheet-scorching night
of hurricane-force gale winds.
you know what i'm talking about.
ass wednesday.
you knew i couldn't resist.
everything i touch,
and eat,
eventually turns to crap.
that's biology,
and possibly geneaology.
all roads lead to rome, ya'll.
...if rome is located in my butt;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, February 16

Fat Tuesday!

holy smokes.
i think that i was supposed to be throwing
cheap plastic beads at boobs today!
there's no drunk people going wild over here at all.
i guess i F*d that one up pretty hard.
i didn't even make any jambalaya.
turns out,
i just don't have much need for debauchery.
in fact,
almost exactly the opposite is true.
i could use some virtue.
never mind all the exposed baloney floppers,
what about all the real-life worthiness?
almost anybody can flip out, get nasty, and go bananas.
real deal battle-beast philosophers
save that freaky sh!t for when it really counts.
berserking on the field of active participation is dope.
berserking in a sub-sea level pee-smelling parade?
not even close.
it isn't always easy, my ninjas,
exercising straight-up, stand-up, heroic restraint.
now that's some fat business.
doing the right thing.
kepping it really real,
and doing what needs doing,
and all that responsible adult action.
unless the home depot is giving away plastic dazzlers,
i don't think my freaky-diki miki-fiki mardis gras magic
is looking too promising.
of course,
wednesday being ash wednesday,
that means a ragin' cajun inspired bonfuego.
which, naturally, takes care of the ash.
maybe a pipe full of smoke rings will get added to the mix.
if we have half the company we've gotten rumors of,
there will be cigars and broccoli bread, too.
with young 'uns and good 'uns,
and a healthy helping of homeopathic remedies,
the fat, the tuesday, and the weak sauce
will have absolutely no place up in here.
n'orleans can keep the saints, ninjas.
and the sinners.
we'll take the warriors,
and the blazing barbarians.
lent makes me ill,
but lentils make me psyched...
that's word;
never quiet, never soft.....


after all the busy business of a long, hard weekend,
guess what i came home to yesterday?
i'll give you a hint;
they have frosting on 'em...
vegan mutha-uckin' cupcakes.
the good-life wife,
with some support from my treat-eating sweet'uns,
baked up a beautiful blue 'n' blush batch of baked babies.
after i shark-bit a couple of 'cakes into my bellyhole,
i tried hangin' out with the whole family.
quality time, an' that.
i was doing great for about seventeen seconds.
i didn't say quantity time, ya'll.
the next thing i remember is waking up,
smack dab in the dead-on dark middle of the night,
and adding fuel to the fire.
(even in a flat-out coma, i'd still manage to stoke the embers)
that's some Folk Life woodsly goodness, ya'll.
there's nowhere half as dope as your own bed.
if you've got two small princesses
testing the pea-sized pitfalls of your own actual bed,
then you'd be pleased to know the guest bed works just as well.
a guest bed snore festival.
that's how i get with it.
i guess that a weak weekend of riding around,
wringing my hands,
and working my A-hole off of my body,
left me spent up, burned out, and beat down.
...but not anymore, ninjas.
now i'm wide awake,
my eyes are open,
and the griddle is heated:
that's the way a day away from the workplace should start.
pannies, man.
them jauns always taste better in the a.m.
(but anytime is a good time for panniecakes, y'heard?)
now that harvest and maple are all syruped-up,
we're ready for big fun.
one rock, two pebbles.
that's the start of an avalanche of awesomeness.
gravity, inertia, and a few well-placed lightningbolts.
that's how we get it rollin' along,
here in the high-up hills of new hampshire.
it's good to be here;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, February 15


and more furious.
that perfectly describes the last two days.
tatblasting on copious quantities of crappiness.
cookin' up a storm of warm words and hot fire spit.
hanging out with our newly, happily, single buddy holly.
and making the most of each and every minute.
that said,
how did i spend my valentine's night?
in the sweet, soulful snuggles of my
super-duper dope wife?
that's not even close.
i took a post-workday whirlwind road trip.
all by my lonesome.
to the withered weakness of craptacular connecticut.
why would i F* up my romantic prospects
with a sh!t-salad sojourn to the nutmeg nancyness?, but seriously,though, why?
because i love my kids, ya'll.
no joking around.
and if i have to make moves to see 'em,
in the face of bastardly, dastardly, devious,
doo-doo buttery d'baggery,
then that's what's got to happen.
wu-TANG, my ninjas.
i'll hit the road like a warrior, y'heard?
i got there extra late,
caught the sh!t-end of substantially less than forty winks,
and got right back on the road to my heart, hearth, and home,
all early shirley in the predawn perfection.
and i scraped in with just enough time left over
to rinse off the grit, grease, and grime
of the very scary worst parts of new england.
and the get right back to the grind,
for another 'nother full day of real-life work.
hard hard styles.
that's what i'm rockin'.
the road gets longer.
the times get rougher.
but for all the poop-boat floating,
light bright smite and smoting,
i've got a pair of incredibly excellent offspring
right here, in the woodsly goodness,
where they belong,
and that makes it all seem like a sound investment.
i am grateful for this time,
and every time with my ladies.
by hook, by crook, or by car,
there is nowhere i wouldn't go
to have this time with these folks;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, February 14

i love you.

from the latin, valens.
guess what that means?
true story.
that makes all my warriors,
and all my ninjas,
and all those Folk Life active participants
each and every one of my valentines.
be worthy.
be mine.
i'm reppin' on lupercalia, though.
and that's pretty flippin' roman, for sure.
the ides of february, or thereabouts,
is when the werewolfen jump-off gets poppin'.
no hearts.
no flowers.
just some proto-pantheistic power.
evil spirits catch wreck in a warding fire,
health, vitality, fertility, and good fortune all show up.
it's the feast of lupa.
that's the crazy wolf that raises the twins romulus and remus.
one founded rome.
without him,
star trek would've been lamer,
there'd be nowhere for barbarians to get busy smashing.
the other gets killed by the one who founded rome,
and kinda sucks, really.
awwww, man.
during lupercalia,
people dressed up like chappy goats,
except mostly naked, like the fauns, and pan,
whilst slapping other people with bloody blackjacks.
my taciturn crap capricon nature
is kind of all about that.
i mean,
if i had to pick one or the other.
bloody slaps trumps roses and candy every time.
so i'm still here.
and my kids still aren't.
that makes for hard styles,
and hard days.
it's valentine's day.
the day of the worthy.
never mind the mushy stuff, ninjas.
worthiness is the name of the game.
i could give a damn about lace and pink stuff,
but i sure do want to be worth a damn.
where the heck did i put my wooly goat thong?
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 13

new moon new year.

hey there.
happy new year.
oh, yeah.
sorry, white people,
i'm talking about the lunar new year.
the one that the most populous populace of people celebrates.
that's asia, ninjas.
we had the new moon an' that.
the cosmic do-over.
the pre-dawn of a whole new year, even.
without a shiny circle in the sky,
it's always darkest before dawn,
but when the lighthouse in the air is turned off,
that darkness is pretty much constant after dusk.
that's what makes it so dope.
deep cover, ya'll.
the blackest night.
that's when the worthy life-living participants get busy.
in so many ways.
from do-dirt ninjas,
to doo-doo buttery ninjas,
to do-the-right-thing mutha-uckas,
me, her, him, and the rest of my peoples,
(that includes you)
are exactly what goes bump in the night.
ghost circles, right?
life cycles and spirits and memories.
really real sh!t.
we get it goin' on,
and in those extra-long lightless expanses,
we bump.
that's a bass-boosted head-nod affirmation,
that real life is what's up.
from the low-end rattle in your trunk,
to the poppin' and lockin' junk in the trunk,
we bump.
but for all our bumpin' (and grindin')
suckas better watch who you callin' spooks, though,
and that's no mutha-lickin' joke, son.
we're bumpin'.
and sometimes,
us ugly-lookin' duders are bumpin' uglies, too.
we doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
we get busy gettin' busy.
we got work to do;
moths, y'heard?
save that butterfly fancypants crap for the daylight-
we come out in the blackest nights,
and do what we do.
it's our time.
night time.
dinner time.
bed time.
sleepy time.
dream time.
life time.
a new moon.
it's the same one, actually.
just reprising it's role as
the invisible black bowling ball in the sky.
while the stars may seem brighter by comparison,
what with the absence of reflected lunar luminescence,
it's still kind of comforting to know
that the orbiting orb of wolfman masterwork
is still hanging out up there;
it's only under cover,
out back, behind the deepest and the darkest an' that.
kind of like the secret universal plan, ya'll.
just because you can't see it,
that doesn't mean it's not still there.
a dark, deep, rich and luxurious blackness.
that's the heavens paying out props to black history.
a whole evening of velvety sky.
a new year to boot.
another other 'nother new beginning.
we got that.
i'm taking back darkness for the hottness.
i got black st*r playin brown skin lady.
i'm on that type of sh!t.
i'm talking about being positive.
dark times, dark ages, dark thoughts?
that's a little too negative for me.
darkness as an absence of illumination?
it's defined as the absence of light.
but i'm reppin' on dark chocolate,
dark-roasted coffee,
dark brown sugar,
and sweet-juicy dark berries.
any and all elite dark definite dopeness.
that kind of darkness is what's up.
that's right, new yearlings.
i'm sipping a kickass coffee.
i drink it black, kids.
you know it.
just like my mama:
large, black, and strong.
on the inside;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 12

good news, bad news.

so guess who doesn't have to go to massachussetts today?
good guess.
it IS me.
that's totally flippin' awesome.
(it sucks some pretty hard full ones over there)
that also means i won't be getting my great little girls.
which means no valentine's day daddy-time.
that sucks even worse than massachussetts does.
no joke.
i might not even get to collect them up until mid-week,
if even then.
because divorce is awesome, sometimes.
and the rest of the time, it is not that dope.
at all.
that's word.
i mean,
if you both always agreed on a lot of stuff,
you'd probably not be divorced, right?
bittersweets, ninjas.
when life hands you kool-aid,
it might be jim jones, and not B.H.M.,
that's servin' up the wall-crashing, soul-smashing 'Oh, yeahs!'
i'm sayin'.
not taking a sh!t-salad road trip to somewhere lame;
that's pretty good.
sad dad absenteeism, however;
that's not so great, is it?
even when i'm winning,
i still lose.
and even when i'm losing,
i never really could've won.
that's actually kind of depressing.
of course,
winning isn't everything.
just ask all the losers out there.
there's plenty of other stuff to occupy your days;
like beers, video games, internet porn, sports, and t.v.
it's sort of a glass half-empty,
vs. a glass three-quarters-empty thing.
oh man,
my ferocious furnaces are fired-up with foul-tempered fury.
heated by hard-hearted hate, even.
there's a limit, ya'll.
a limit to objectivity.
a limit to dispassionate documentation.
and then,
it's on like donkey kong.
and i am an apeman barrel-bowler like you read about.
it looks like i'll be back at work today anyway.
i feel bad for all the A*-tards looking for some punishment,
because the berserker barbarian battle-beast is ready.
i'm taking something out on everyone else.
that's savage stormswept gypsy brutality.
the deck is stacked in favor of fervor:
caffeinated coffee?
oh, yes.
high-powered hyperbole and ragnarok rhetoric?
sugar highs and lowbrow browbeating bleatings.
today, my ninjas.
today is the day.
today the volume,
the intensity,
the lumens,
the b.t.u's,
the velocity,
the ferocity,
and the viscosity,
all go to eleven.
i gots no time for exes.
after all X is never ever enough.
only XI has what i need-
misery loves company,
so i guess i'm making new 'friends' today.
works like a charm.
every single time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 11


check 'em out, ya'll.
all the way to eleven, on the 11th;
barbarian crucifixion spikes!!!
oh relax, jesus,
they're for the floor in the super-sexy bathroom.
decorative heads!
hand-cut iron wedges!
black, burly, battle daggers!
i finally got my not-so-speedy delivery.
special order treats are what i love.
i guess that the wait was worth it;
holding these heavy metal hunks of hardware
gives me a very special feeling.
super-fancy and very necessary-
not just any inexpensive weak-sauce fasteners will work.
and regular baby-b!tch-sap tacks just would not
pass muster on my wide, white, knotty, pine planks.
deluxe dopeness.
that's how it happens,
and it ALL keeps happening.
on the real real.
did i get a relaxing day off?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
i was as busy as ever,
bopping back and forth between businesses,
buying a bunch of ingredients for Folk Life liveliness.
i managed to squeeze in two more trips to the 'depot.
snagging some sets of odds and ends and bits and pieces.
it's all the forgettables that make my days of memorable.
roofing felt?
why would i ever think to get roofing felt for an indoor floor?
because it's a squeaky-noise-eliminating vapor barrier.
and then,
after my double dose of depot,
i got to go get another other 'nother batch of woodsly planks.
i'm bored of buying boards, ninjas.
you'd think that a small remodeling job
would be easier to plan and prepare for.
...and you'd be wrong.
designing on the fly,
without blueprints, sketches, numbers, figures,
or any other firm plans,
is how we doo-doo that secret universal sensitivity training.
we just pay attention,
and let the hottness design itself.
passive reception,
active participation.
you've got to feel it, kids.
that's word.
tomorrow mornin',
i drive to 'assachussetts,
to suffer the massed mess of
sauceless weaklings in the least fresh state in the union.
why would i do that?
because i'm picking up my daughters.
and without the bitter, ninjas,
the sweet's never ever as sweet.
it doesn't get much sweeter than my two little lovely ones.
and mass. leaves the bitterest bite on my palate.
i'll be making the most of the minutes i get-
there's never enough of a good thing, after all.
ten days of delightful daughterly dopeness,
but it'll seem like seven seconds before it's all over.
black history, president's weekend, winter break.
lots to do, lots to talk about.
for them, at least.
by high noon, i'll be laden with ladies,
and trekking back to the really real world
of the inestimably incomparable woodsly goodness.
it's big busy business, bouncing back and forth
between enjoyment and employment.
switching between friendly fatherliness,
and flesh-flaying ferocity.
life is way more like a box of
baking chocolates, ninjas.
regardless of what you get,
it's not supposed to be delicious.
i like my styles like i live my life:
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 10

dulce y ahumado.

i got that mexican/hungarian connection.
pimento peppers.
the same peppers that constitute
those little red dots that go into olives,
get ground up to make paprika.
a.k.a. the homefries dye.
i got some gourmet paprika blends, ya'll.
y'know anything about el avion?
it's the airplane brand!
ever heard of it?
me neither.
but i got the sweet and the smoked varieties,
and i've already tried 'em.
they're deliciously red-orange.
it's not so much a flavor as an aura or something.
it's super-concentrated.
i had orange fingers, orange lips, orange counter-tops.
and an orange tongue that was pretty psyched, too.
that smoked-out jauns is off-the-hinges good.
regular people put beach sand and seashells,
or authentic river rocks,
or some other small decorative sh!t in these glass cases.
for fancying up guest bathrooms or whatever,
just to sneak the hint of classiness into their spot.
little ol' grandmas put candy in 'em.
crazy old grandpas make moonshine inside of 'em.
not us.
we run it straight-up terrarium style.
green thumbs an' that.
african violet, fern, and curly willow, my ninjas.
that's what we put in it.
my better half has been talking about this business
since i got her a book with crafty ideas in it at XI-mas.
and now it's really happening.
when we spend a day off together,
anything can happen.
and when i say anything,
i mean it usually involves t.j. maxx and home depot.
we got nails, hinges, plant stuff, interior paint, a rug,
some pillows, brand-new usa-made lodge cast iron skillets,
and an orchid that was too long for the glass case.
then we went to the scary, crazy-person florist to snatch
some more size-appropriate flora for our clear crystal cloche .
that was some big, up-here, hills-have-eyes action.
actually, more like the hills have flowers.
(it's called hill's florist)
brian hill is no F*n' joke.
part mad scientist, part fish hatchery pro,
part mountain man, part crazy-eyed professor,
he hooked us up with some free clippings and cuttings,
some knowledge, and a tour of his
overwhelmingly crowded clutterbin greenhouse...
not bad for an unguessably-old woodsman.
we got home and set up our sweet treats.
pilows and rugs are in place.
paint is stirred and set to coat our walls and doors.
paprika is prepared to pigment our plates.
we're ready.
days off?
not hardly.
days lived hard?
you know this, ninjas.
hail seitan!
i always get a little grossed out
when i'm boiling up a batch of bread-based protein.
it's all blobbity and wet.
squeaky slabs of soy-soaked steakiness.
it's gross.
i'm just sayin';
but once i hit it with some flour, salt, pepper, and paprika,
and set it to sizzling in my new skillfully seasoned skillet,
it was all well worth it.
after a busy day of improving our home,
we hunkered down to expand our waistlines,
if not our horizons.
it was warm out.
the food was hot.
the fire was raging.
and the hottness was all around us.
good times, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, February 9


there's something like 16 different
definitions on the books.
and a few other other ones, too.
more anatomical an' that-
(y'know, for the ol' "vertical checkbook")
i bought some trim yesterday.
heck no, i didn't pay for sex!
the moulding kind.
not the kind of moulding that happens
under the leaves in my yard.
the royal treatment.
crown moulding.
and it trimmed my wallet down to size.
now it's looking trim to the point of gauntness,
like it's an anorexic doing aerobics.
tree-trimming is what's up, though.
or at least tree parts as trimming.
wood, in the woodsly goodness.
i've got a luxury liner head of a crucial cabin crapper.
and i've got a sinking feeling;
if i'm to stay afloat over here,
i'll need to trim my sails,
and adjust my ballast...
it will look dope, of course,
this barbarian bathroom of mine,
but my ducats and ingots are being diverted into
this one solitary tiny little space.
it's my own personal death star,
and i'm bankrupting the empire on it.
what's worse,
it's not even close to fully-operational.
ohhhhhh, man.
the upside to this economic downturn?
secret doors!
three of 'em.
how flippin' dope is THAT?!
trap-, entry-, and hidden firearm-.
that's the trio of prefixes, ya'll.
under the floor,
out of the house,
and ready to spit hot fire.
so dope.
why the magic number when one would suffice?
it's not building i believe in;
it's OVER-building.
i guess you could say that's my philosophy.
too much is the right amount.
y'know how i know i'm getting old?
because i think young people look like a
fresh-baked batch of A*-holes.
more than just head-shaking at
the neo-neon pop punky goofiness,
what i really find myself wondering is:
who thought of this new pantsless trend?
someone with a ninja-pedophile fetish?
just leggings, dromedary digits, and fuzzy boots.
and a little bit skanky.
especially if you have a sad butt...
you've left the house without any pants on.
it's true.
are there buttons?
a zipper?
then those black stockings you're wearing
aren't pants now, are they?
the 80's aren't coming back.
at least not for about 70 more years.
so unless you're a mime,
or a gymnast,
or you've just gotten out of a dance recital,
i shouldn't have to see the silhouette of your uterus.
be honest, duders;
for every scandalously flavorful, firm set of legs,
there's her three stretched-out lycra/poly/rayon blended
brutal behemoth bovine buddies.
uh-uh, ninjas.
that's six plump-when-you-cook-'em hocks
for every two human-proportioned stalks.
hard styles.
i can't hang out.
be ugly, and be dope, for sure.
be ugly, and look stupid?
not so good.
even with stupid, furry, knee-high inuit slippers on,
i'll bet their barely-protected babymakers are COLD. could get chapped lips.
oh, c'mon.
i mean it,
the wind chill alone dropped the temperature
almost 20 degrees yesterday.
you could freeze and embryo like that.
on the real,
it's not like you can wear a pair of quilted parka-panties
underneath those silky-smooth ho-ho-hose.
kinda changes the meaning of icebox, yeah?
sorry, scantily-covered heinies;
i like a revealing, absentee-fathered, attention-seeking,
been-raised-wrong outfit as much as anyone...
but a circus strongman leotard,
with a belt strapped over a sweater?
that just isn't it.
i'm not actually gay,
i just prefer my trim to be warm and made of wood;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, February 8

nacho libre.

so maybe i was hasty.
all Bad Brains, an' that.
with the quickness, yeah?
i dissed and dismissed one thing too many yesterday.
it's true,
and i can almost always admit when i'm wrong.
and i was wrong.
because i added a little terrific tortilla tastiness
inadvertently into my tyrannical tirade.
when issuing decrees, i sometimes get carried away.
i apologize.
i should've thought ahead just a little bit further, ya'll.
if there is actually one thing i have in common with
fat, quasi-literate, jockstrap pinchin', A*-hole sports fans,
it is clearly the ubiquitous adopted mexican delicacy:
delicioso, gringos!
i got those LIBRE jauns, amigos.
black history beans,
refried beans,
black history olives,
fire-roasted chiles,
imitation chickenish strips,
vegan taco filling blops,
hot sauce, (c'mon)
and dos types of salsa.
the wifey used some gay-o soya-queso, too.
that's some eagle's eggs powers-type sh!t,
and a whole helluva lot of nutrients.
get that corn into my face...
it kinda looks like some fraggle rock ragnarok action.
gorg gorging gluttony an' all.
staring at the mountain of piping hottness,
i almost expected two rats to pop out
and tell me the trash heap had spoken.
i mean it,
that's a filthy pantload of dirty diaper dopeness.
easily five full pounds of food,
and aside from the crunchy corn circles down under,
it looks like it's already been chewed!
that's economy of action, really.
bite, swallow, bite, swallow.
sharks don't chew.
it would be safe to assume we brought the thunder.
...and so did montezuma, duders.
not some much revenge as a stern warning.
merit points were awarded for supporting indigenous artisans.
(the sink, kids. hecho en mexico. recognize)
aside from the shrapnel of some soggy salsa-sorcery,
we tuned-up the whole heap, too.
that's how we live.
not so much in the wallet area,
or even along the beltline...
but on the inside.
that's word.
my infinite nature is four hundred pounds, ninjas.
remember julius caesar?
you know,
yeah, him.
not only did that ninja bring the noise,
and coin the phrase 'fortune favors the BOLD',
he also is partially responsible for taking the calendar
to eleven.
it's true.
that's my kind of peoples, ya'll.
before him, and his flashy ways,
there were only ten months.
all the way to december-remember your latin?
deca = 10.
now it's the twelfth month.
then, between june and september (septa = 7),
the romans snuck in july.
before augustus showed up, an' that.
from ten months to eleven.
just like that.
later on, august got slid in as well.
but you can't have twelve without eleven first.
certain folks are just so dope.
usually, later on though,
their friends stab 'em up.
of course,
it's still a ways away from mid-march.
i wonder if i should reconsider my minnesota trip?
(et tu, hebrankus?)
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, February 7


today is some kind of super special day,
for jocks,
college kids,
fat dads,
bored wives,
drunk people,
and small chickens everywhere.
(sorry, buffaloed winglets)
that celery stalk next to the dead bird arms
never ever gets any credit.
that's a hard style.
it's the big game.
the super sunday.
better than palm sunday.
way better than church,
the perfect excuse to get sh!tty on a sunday-
and get serious about shark gluttony
while eating well beyond the borders of good sense,
and yelling at a glowing rectangle on your wall.
super stupid stupor bowl.
turn off your brains,
and cross your fingers,
maybe the squares you bought
at the office pool pay will off big!
sorry, world events.
fat shirtless americans in bodypaint
are gonna dominate the front pages,
newcasts, and radiowaves all day and night.
during the halftime bathroom breakaway flushout,
i'm pretty sure the beer/chili/b'wangs/pizza blast-off
will make the highlight reel of plumbers everywhere.
...super bowels, is more like it.
so huzzah for commercials!
hooray for chubby monsters in plastic armor!!
three cheers for nachos!!!
cowleather pigskins!
that's dumb!
rarely using feet!
that's ironic and moronic!!
dominant male archetypes!
wait, what?
cheerleaders, ya'll.
skirts and flirts aside,
they're not exactly advancing equality among the genders.
rockhard washerboard abs notwithstanding,
they serve the ogler more than the spectator.
(that's the guy with the huge foam finger down his pants)
it must suck to be a dumpy mom watching the game.
all big business, oversized lucky jersey,
and horde of semi-'tarded meathead spawn dropping crumbs.
relegated to secondary support,
extraneous sideline material,
eyecandy with no overall impact on outcomes.
that's right at-home ladies,
get back in the kitchen and clean up those pizza boxes!
Go! fight!! WIN!!!
and unless you look like those bobotic future pornlets,
fetch me another brewski out of the chillbox.
ohhhh, man.
i will be yellin' like a madman,
all damn day long,
the single super-syllable super-salute to super-ness.
most fattie-boombattie bigbottoms yell right back.
some offer high-fives,
others, the always bromantic chest splash-
they don't always get my non-specific athletic warcry,
but they like it.
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 6

the mid-atlantic?

it hasn't snowed in a while.
that's the worst.
the lower portion of the right side of the country
is getting a hell-hammer of blizzard blitzkrieg,
and up here in the northern extremes,
we're just cold.
who came up with that idea?
i mean,
i though that was for lovers,
not skiers.
not that i want to shovel,
or slide around on the roads,
or go sledding, even;
i can't hang out with the doo-doo buttery
bustedness of old snow, sand, debris, dog poop,
and whatever other other sh!t gets exposed
when the existing snow gets old.
crunchy, sad, half-ice, melty crap!!
i'd be happy with a freak storm of mint mentos, y'hear?
i need that freshmaker, ninjas.
the blanket of beauty.
the gentle downy dopeness.
the billowy arctic cottonballs.
it's really just a cover-up,
and deep down underneath,
all that sour, scabby, salvageyard scum is still there-
but i'm more than willing to sweep all that weak sauce
under a blanket of fresh, clean winter carpet, yeah?
i want that whitewash topcoat cleanup special.
make it a winter wonderland again.
i could use a day off where i'm actually OFF.
a stay-home, make soup, take-'er-easy day.
you need that snowblind blitz,
that stormswept blizzard blasting,
or else you're just being a cookie-cuttin' nancypants.
that's no joke.
barbarians roam the tundra, son.
that's just how it is.
unless there's a ferocious flurry of frozen fury,
you gotta get busy out there.
sorry, D.C.
your sauce is watered-down.
i'm worried.
it's true.
i'm worried about maintaining the hottness.
think about it, ninjas;
if my tiny half-bathroom is this thermonuclear lava hot,
how much more time, money, thought, and flavor
will i need to muster up for the bigger, better rooms?
it keeps me up at night.
no joke.
i dream of the van dyke's catalog.
spare rooms.
that's something.
yeah, spare.
13 separate definitions, ya'll.
from showing mercy,
to having extra,
to even being frugal.
spare rooms.
spartan, sparse rooms?
i don't think so.
spare rooms.
extra rooms?
heck no. that's not it.
spare rooms.
unoccupied rooms?
spare rooms.
i'm thinking on the savage second-chance strike sh!t.
the barbarian boulder bowling ten-pin extra points.
i'm thinking 7/10 split style points,
and gutter-mouthed guttural balls.
spare rooms!
axe-chop battle backslash marks on my score card.
no matter how old and busted they are now,
i'll finish 'em off proper.
that's final frame, extra roll business for sure.
spare no expense,
spare no detail,
spare me the sorry sob-stories.
...hey, ninja, can you spare a room?
you'd better F*n' believe it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 5


oh, my, MY, my.
lookie here.
my Folk Life fiefdom just got fresher.
well past ten, and testing the limits of eleven,
i've got heavy metal hook-ups all over the place.
no head-banging, either.
wrought, forged, cast, cut, and hammered.
oil-rubbing is on the menu, too.
do you feel the force of woodsly goodness?
it's probably emanating off of your
computer screen right about now;
what makes a barbarian battle-bard get goosebumps?
decorative hardware.
and i've got a tingle in my tips.
y'know why?
because when i'm doin' the wipe,
i want that luxury on my wrinkle-dot.
check it:
dear french victorian t.p. roll holder,
you are my sunshine sunburst of burly bronze beauty.
and that wood spindle in your middle?
you're so the hottness.
i know it hurts, kids.
i know.
that much epic detail,
that much decadent doo-doo accoutrement,
it surely stings a little bit.
that's the sensation of brutal hot-to-death dopeness.
don't worry,
once a roll of quilted two-ply is hooked up,
it actually feels soothing.
you heard it here first-
if i'm destined to be an A*-hole,
i'm gonna be a furious, spurious, luxurious A*-hole.
and that goes double for my actual A*-hole.
and unless you're an A*-hole,
you're all the way all about it, too.!
sorry carhartt tard-carts,
but no canvas-clad heinies get to doo-doo any freaky sh!ts.
not once, not never-ever,
and not in my new wood-walled water closet.
that's reserved for classy-asses only.
i'm just lettin' you ninjas know in advance...
dress to impress, and wear your sunday trousers,
if you want to drop 'em along with some logs up in here.
and that's the double-truth, ruth.
and that's what's happening over here.
small wonders.
it's all the little things that add up, yeah?
and these little things are all big on dopeness.
that adds up to something huge.
like the freshest outhouse-sized lavatory around.
some people thing good enough is good enough,
but enough is never ever enough,
and if you think you've got too much of a good thing,
it's probably not all that good.
i've got just the right amount of a good thing;
a woodsly goodness thing, even,
and i'm busy trying to fit in a little more.
good enough is never enough.
it bears repeating, my ninjas.
that's the difference between 'scale-of-1-to-10' folks,
and us berserker barbarian battle-beasts.
we don't just go the extra mile,
we always take it too far,
because you can never actually go too far.
(smoke rings, globes, and ghost circles just start over)
past the point of no return, and back to the beginning;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 4

louder than ten.

that's some sh!t.
when it comes to flavor points,
in case you're keeping score-
it goes all the way, kids.
and let me take a little minute to mention:
i love the mail.
it brings me my treats.
and i love my treats.
UPS counts as mail, right?
i hope so,
because they sure bring a big bountiful
cornucopia of special speedy deliveries over here.
so what can brown do for me?
it already has, my ninjas...
i got a tasty package of soulfully sexual
smoke-seasoned, hand-hammered
chester copperpot hottness:
c'mon, mutha-uckas!!
if that oval of devastating dopeness doesn't
make my peoples pop the hardest, ragingest,
hard-style style-boners,
then those boner-less poppers are Off The List.
so hard.
you know what's even better?
that isn't close to all i got either-
those pictures will have to wait.
this much hottness can't be absorbed
by the common man in just one viewing.
there's also a big ol' box of other 'nother fixtures an' that.
so many fresh and amazing super-dope design features.
this bathroom is shaping up to be explosively bad-A*.
i'm in love with it, a little tiny bit;
and i may also have made a worthy new buddy-
larry is full-on bringing the thunder down on this project.
above and beyond the capacity of everyday handy manliness.
thanks, buddy!
sometimes white folks get it wrong;
and other times,
white folks get it really wrong.
i'm well aware of B.H.M. being in full effect,
but i'm just not okay with overgeneralized racial innuendo.
i don't know who let the crackers up here think they
could be a part of the month-long magic
just by gettin' down on some ribs.
that's scandalously stereotypical.
i'm pretty sure nobody meant tattooed ribs.
so although that's all i did, all damn day long,
i'm fairly certain that "barbecued"
was the correct method.
oh, come ON, for crying out loud.
i'm cool with ugly people, ya'll.
but only when they're dope.
lately, however,
i find that there's some kind of conspiracy
of doo-doo buttery weak-sauce sorcerers
tryin' to F* with my well-being.
no jokes, duders.
there are some broke, busted disgusties
oozing around the valley,
harshing up the scenic sights of woodsly goodness.
what's worse?
three seperate clients have made casual mention
of my own lack of dashing features
and pleasing physical attributes.
as if somehow,
my personal perceptions of ugly dopeness
are so severely skewed,
i'm actually akin to the stump-creatures
cavorting out from their crevasses...
then again,
how worthy, bold, and actively participating
are those judgemental beholders?
if i look like i've fallen victim to some hard livin',
maybe it's because i'm just livin' so hard.
that's word.
be ugly,
be dope.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 3

seven hundred.

if that doesn't look delicious to your face,
then ya'll are most probably giant A-holes.
...with bad taste.
...and dumb eyes.
i was looking for a starchy treat to go with my eats;
i rocked out with the classic, ya'll.
baked potato.
it's only got the two ingredients.
and potato.
and those are both dope.
notice the morse code punctures on top?
H, T, over and over;
that's no joke-
hot, tasty, hot, tasty.
we doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
and those blackeye peas?
better than a rough right hook to the orbital.
some hot hot sauce, and some sauteed onions,
and they blew the eyelids right off my head,
and tuned up my lacrimals, too.
and what about those collard jauns?
smooth, my ninjas.
so smooth.
even though i cheated,
and did 'em up with garlic and olive oil,
not vinegar and onions.
(oh, sh!t! northern white people don't even know about that!)
they were still incredible.
and edible.
and after all,
sicilian-type hard-style cookin' is half-chocolate anyway.
that corn-meal madness,
the brown slab of meaty and delicious lookin' treats-
that's the chicken-fried seitan.
the kind of illicit ingestible that makes my mom say:
(it's true, i heard her)
on the ones, my hungry, hungry homies,
i should have a restaurant.
i'll call it:
hotter than yours.
because my cookin' so is.
(unless you just happen to be the cucch)
be easy,
i'll share some of my treats with your hungry A*,
you just have to make the trip up here.
it's true.
a viking warlord never refuses to be hospitable,
even though he will totally axe-chop your whole F*n' face.
remember that.
gratitude, and generosity, and berserker fury.
you will get a savage stormswept barbarian bashing,
we'll eat really good first, y'heard?
all culinary credibility aside,
the big question remains:
am i still keepin' it real up here?
i sure as sh!t am.
believe it.
sorry, white mountains,
but i've got a conscious conscience,
and i can't hang out with your white deviltry.
i'm reppin' alice walker, not johnny walker,
l.l. cool j, not l.l. bean,
ghostface, not facebook,
bass drums, not bass fish,
& the jackson 5, not the jackson$20.
woodsly 'hoodness, ya'll.
B.H.M is how we get busy.
today's update of the comings and goings-on
in the snowblown northern frontier
marks the seven hundredth communique
from my rural reality to the far reaches of everywhere else.
that's no small amount, to be sure.
i guess i'm in the seven hundred club, now, duders.
hell no,
not the crazy A*-tard christ-y weirdie one;
the other one:
the hard-style long night debonair legionnaire one.
jesus isn't invited.
sevens, my ninjas.
on the ones.
i'm just sayin',
time doesn't really take any of itself, does it?
seven years in the woods seemed severe.
seven hundred blogs about savagery,
-styles, 'shrooms, -sauce, and sh!t,
somehow seems more serious.
it doesn't stop happening,
and i don't stop documenting.
today's another day,
just like every day;
never quiet, never soft.....