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.

c'mon.

it's only got the two ingredients.

baked,

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.

seriously,

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.

woooooooord.

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:

damn, Damn, DAMN.

(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.

why?

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,

but,

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.
what?

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.....