Wednesday, March 31

barefoot in the rain.

where's my socks?
i wonder....
lucky for me and my feet,
i don't need 'em-
because they got rocked off in portland.
home of the rudest, most self-absorbed concert-goers ever.
they got louder as they got drunker,
and they only talked and didn't listen.
that's not exactly a phil spector/apple records wall of sound.
more like a suck sandwich.
...what a bunch of sh!tlords.
even the carhartt dread-headlock'd mullet A*-blasters
could not diminish the volcanic hottness
of dark dark dark.
nor could the sloshing intestinal armageddon
incited by pounds and pounds of vegan treats.
guess who was eating there next to us?
the triple dark, ninjas.
small world?
or vegan legend?
or both?
i don't know for sure.
but i know that our server not only remembered us,
but gave jess her # as well.
not in a gay way.
she made friends.
based solely on our memorable glutton festivals.
walking in the rain is awful.
driving in the rain in the dead of night is too.
there's flood warnings poppin' up all over the place up here.
which makes me glad i live on a hill.
in just a few hours,
i'm out the door,
on the road,
and on my way.
i'll try and catch a wink or forty,
a little shuteye an' that,
but i seem to be shiverin' with antici....
but maybe the rain is really to blame.
y'all know the rest;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, March 30

vacation time!

it's a chilly, rainy, awfully awful day out there.
but i'm on vacation, mutha-uckas,
so who gives a sh!t?
the best way to appreciate the woodsly goodness
is to head out to anywhere else for a little minute.
suckle it.
suckle it.
suckle, suckle, suckle.
there's a fellatious frenzy of rest-o'-the-worldliness out there,
and i'm ready to be blown away by it all.
if nothing else,
i'm ready to gorge my gullet in gastronomical grotesquerie;
just how much vegan food will i shark-chomp my
fat F*n' face through in the next week?
ALL of it.
gluttony, my ninjas, is what's up.
like a mutha-flippin' conehead,
one-bite delights, no matter the size of the forkful.
quantities will be consumed en masse.
where's the first stop on my feasty schedule?
the green elephant.
my once a month, post-werewolf munch-up is here.
i anticipate luxury, in my mouth.
and rest assured i will disgust the other diners
with my unchewed, whole-hunk swallowing.
in fact,
if my bellyhole isn't distended past the point
of any semblance of physical normality,
then i'm definitely doing it wrong.
with my damaged insides sloshing around my middle,
and my previously innie belly-button-up
protruding all pop-outie,
it'll be an evening of standing still
amidst a sea of sweaters, thick glasses, and tight pants.
dark dark dark time is tonight time!
non-stop action, kids.
there will not be pauses,
there will not be breaks,
nor interludes, intermissions, intervals, nor respite;
all dang day long, and most of the night,
there's to be as much fun hangaround time as possible,
because tomorrow is dedicated to traveling.
airborne adventures on the sea of clouds, y'all.
...i love flying.
airports can kinda chug on it,
especially for bearded folks at the security checks...
but airplanes are dope.
vacation, duders.
it's such a good thing.
art, music, food, friends, travel, all of that.
the next 216 hours hold the promise of nonstop rockin'.
as long as i see some titans clash,
and fill in the blanks with the brownest blops
of ethiopian edibles,
i'm ready for anything.
it's all happening,
and that's not even the half of it.
more like MAXI-apolis!
get ready;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, March 29

oh, C'MON!

okay duders,
somebody is obviously kidding me....
mutha-b!tchin', gaytarded sky turds?
come ON.
who asked that weather to show up uninvited last night?
it wasn't me, i'll tell you what.
a sh!t-salad-surprise-party-poopin' spring fling.
icy, slushy, snow-cone crappity.
i mean,
it isn't april fool's for a few more days, yeah?
i'm sayin';
not cool.
but on the bright side,
it's not wholly unexpected nor unheard of.
this IS the hard-style great northern
woodsly goodness, after all.
we doo-doo those do-over days.
y'know, like winter, for example.
we almost missed it, i guess,
and now here's a simple sample of ample arcticity.
just what i wanted.
that's the way the flakes flurry, i suppose.
it's the weekend again.
already, again.
again, again, again.
only THIS time,
it's also vacation time.
my last day of work in the woods for awhile.
it's vegan eats and russian gyspy accordion music,
and wednesday, mutha-lickas,
i'm on that the long airborne supertrek,
high-flyin' and high-falutin',
straight westwards to the upper midst, y'all.
that's correct, my ninjas;
Identity Tattoo is once again
playing host to 'the albie rock show'.
equal parts pompous pontification
and barbaric benediction.
with a dash of hamden warrior thrown in for flavor.
todd is graciously allowing me come back on over,
and to hang out and get busy
right alongside him and the crew.
it should be big big fun, for sure.
and i'm excited.
even moreso than last time.
since i consider those duders my peoples.
i've got standing reservations at the
louderhorn inn,
but no reservations about bringing the thunder;
all the way to eleven and more-
glad is my fate;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, March 28


the mist is mysterious.
and it's comin' down the mountains this morning.
all guerilla-like.
that's strike force-type moisture-based goodness...
never mind that fossey fuss,
regular gorillas can F* right off;
i'm talking about guerilla with a g-u-e.
but with a decidedly silver backing,
in the form of a foggy-bottom wall of water.
i'm sayin',
it looks like we're inside a smoke machine.
...a really flippin' cold smoke machine.
the mountains are veiled,
the treetops are hidden,
and the low-lying layout is all i can see.
a blanket of silver,
snuggling us up,
leaving dew drop teardrops on my whole world.
last night,
we went out to the theater in the woods,
and stomped our feet to a group called 'high range'.
two sets of old timey treats,
in a plastic yurt complex.
our good buddies casey and cyle took us out,
and casey's dad, peter,
plucked right alongside the band for a bit, too.
it was a good time,
with plenty of foot-stompin' bluegrass,
and a totally elite scenic backdrop.
when they say theater in the woods,
they are not kidding.
it's in there.
(that's what she said)
thanks again, kids!
only a couple more days on the countdown.
wednesday is minneapolis day.
i've got a dark dark dark show to hit up on tuesday night.
that's a preliminary innoculation of MPLS,
just to get my antigens and autoimmunity all the way up.
and just in time, too.
this werewolfen moonbeam eventide sh!t
is wreaking havoc on my sleepytimes.
if i found my skin on the floor one of these mornings,
i'd only be half surprised.
that big beautiful witch ball in the sky
has got me going loopy like a lupine,
all lunatic fringe an' that.
i can hear the accordions already,
all loupe-garou gyspy riverboat-
this silver mist just isn't a bullet, after all,
and it just goes to show,
even under a curtain of cloudcover,
the wolfman magic can't be conquered;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, March 27

pipe down.

powerful self-indulgence.
that's what's up.
what am i indulging in?
oh, you know;
check the teleport:
this one's an erik nording.
from denmark.
that viking-type sh!t.
that's what this squatty bent rhodesian is.
a danish viking rhodesian.
true story.
being rhodesian really refers to just the style of pipe.
if it'd had a straight stem,
it'd usually be called a bulldog;
but when it curves like this one,
it's straight-up rhodesian.
why not?
it's dang cool lookin' either way.
...and shiny.
someone spent some time buffin' this baby b!tch
all the way from rough wood to high gloss.
i'm not foolin', it almost glows in almost any light.
powerful self -indulgence,
like i said.
but wait,
that's not it (when is it ever?)
there's another other 'nother one:

captain pete!
that's honestly the name of this one.
it's stamped on the side, even.
big body, short stumps.
like a bow-legged sea cap'n.
take a good look at this tall and short combo.
peterson pipes, my ninjas.
always fresh.
it just gives off the vibes,
like an aran sweater wearin',
peg-leggin', net-haulin' irish sailor
would popeye his A* off with this 'un.
treats for my face.
and now i can take it easy again,
and focus on doo-dooin' what actually needs doing.
instead of on what kind of special, neat-o treats
i can find and order and get.
it's saturday mornin'.
for whatever reason,
it's never ever as easy as sunday's.
that's for sure.
a full day of tedium in the tattoo world awaits;
double portraits are on the schedule at work,
i've got to be out of there on time,
and get home, get fed, and get back out in time
to see some bluegrass pickin' folk musicians
out playing some songs at
the secret woodsly yurt theater in our neighborhood.
that's a real thing, by the way.
it looks like there's to be racing and breakneck pacing
for prodigious progeny portraiture,
and then some boot-scootin', bass fiddlin',
banjos pluckin' hoedown hottness
right up and out into the darkness after that.
it was eight degrees last night.
that's not cool.
it's downright cold.
from record highs a week ago,
we're reppin' record low-lows right now.
violent swings,
extreme ranges,
and the ever-present winds.
new england weather, y'all.
that's some unpredictable business.
reliably unreliable, even.
but seriously,
eight degrees?
what am i?
a frozen A*hole?
close to it, don't you be doubtin',
but i'm armed with enough wood to warm the fortress
from the plaster to the rafters.
the hearth is heated, duders.
the moon is almost waxed to the max,
and the wolfman magic is in the air.
beyond crisp,
the spring air is sharp,
beyond blue,
the full moon is bright.
really real-
long days,
longer nights,
bitter winds,
and sweet times.
Folk Art.
Folk Music.
Folk Lore.
Folk Life (& Liberty)
it's here.
it's happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, March 26

frayed-eye friday.

we have an electric teakettle at work now.
which means i drink waaaay more tea
at work now than i did before.
which, in turn, means that i take way more breaks
than i ever have before.
thems the breaks, i guess.
tea breaks?
i make my big fat vat of tea in-between appointments.
so that's not it.
...i take pee breaks.
gallons and gallons of urine, y'all.
so good.
i use it to make the tea.
that's some gandhi-style recycling.
that's actually not what happens,
but there IS a lot of sippin' goin' on.
hydration is a novel concept to me.
i used to consume almost a whole thimbleful
of moisture in a day.
like a camel.
and not just because i like to hump.
now, however, the flood gates are open,
and i've found something else out:
a couple of minutes NOT tattooing every hour
does heroic wonders for my tired, wracked-up body parts.
no joke.
it's friday.
and i ain't got sh!t happenin'.
my clients have gotten on a cancellation sensation,
and my docket is clear, kids.
what woodsly wonders does the secret universal plan
have in store for the bards of barbarism?
i wonder...
before too long,
it'll be in minnesota,
making shirts and stickers and whatever else,
and probably gettin' and givin' some zappps.
is this the lull before the storm?
a chance to harvest some energy,
and store some monumental momentum?
you bet it is.
when the time comes,
a ragnarok rampage of active participation is comin' down.
april fool's.
good friday.
triple threat blitzkrieg assault hard-style pounding.
if y'all though minnesota was flat before,
we're fixin' to level the joint
with a multi-megaton mountain of mindless mayhem.
making minutes matter more,
it's all really happening,
about half as much as it's about to;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, March 25


more like thor, roughly.
it's thunder day again.
with 11% less thunder.
what could've lessened the lashing?
if i was taking guesses,
i'd suppose it might've been the human feces.
you read that right.
human excrement.
not contained within the human body either.
human waste,
in my house.
on the new bathroom floor.
the wood one,
the very same one that hasn't been poly-coated.
it has, however, been stained.
with sh!t.
sh!t-stained, even.
since the most excellent lair of loafing
hasn't been completed,
there's no toilet in there yet.
so the whole hole was just plugged up,
waiting for the wax ring and the ceramic seat.
of course,
the cloth clog couldn't compete with the
hard style hurricane of backed-up squack
from the functioning facilities.
i know what you're wondering:
how'd that work out yesterday evening?
with a full house of guests waiting for dinner?
what type of monumental mishap marauded my life
at precisely the magic moment when
the upstairs bathroom's number one gravity feed
decided to collide with the epic log jam jamboree
lurking within the iron drains,
previously deposited by unknown persons?
(it sure as F* wasn't me, ninjas)
oh yes indeed, muthab!tches.
secret sauce,
the weakest, and most awful,
just like you hear about in other people's horror stories.
doo-doo butter meets doo-doo water.
the end results?
how about a small poop sprinkle sittin' pretty on the floor?
you like that?
do ya?
i know i did.
especially when jess walked into the overflowed bathroom,
and while mopping up the mess,
spotted our knobbly little nugget of gnarliness,
asked if it was what she thought it was,
and then left.
and i mean LEFT left.
without returning...
thank goodness for antibacterial soap,
and for the possession of prior janitorial talents.
i'm sayin',
take a wild guess who stopped cooking, mid-stir,
in the midst of making a meal for six,
and stooped down and out long enough
to paper towel, plastic bag, and thoroughly pooper-scoop
a butt-nasty little toxic soft-serve tootsie roll?
makes one wonder just what exactly
fortune bestows in favors on the bold.
real life.
let me take a second to mention that
i'm glad i really, really like my friends.
because i'm pretty much positive that last night
i scoopled one of 'em's turds.
the thunder is less ferocious today by comparison;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, March 24


i went ot the post office and what did i find?
an harmonica hurricane.
four fresh ferocious face harps.
is that a hohner 'blues bender' in Bb?
it sure is.
it says so right on the box.
huge bendy blues brotherly notes.
what's this on about?
did someone say eastern europe?
i think i can hear that yiddish gibberish mayhem.
check the hottness:
thanks to my favorite danish duder,
i've got that folk magic fever.
i mean, the guy used to be in WAR.
warrior battle stereophonic flavor,
in the keys of
A minor,
Bb minor,
G minor,
all minor threats.
harmonic minors.
that's the soundtrack score to
savage stormswept raging gyspy battle-beastliness.
and it's SO good.
word up.
i spent the evening tatblastin' my friend amber,
and listening to good music.
day off late night workload layabout style.
that's how it goes.
during the daytimes,
pre-blast session,
me and the missus murdered our 'to do list',
we also got some sweet threads for the spring season.
that's how busy business gets done.
is a reading day.
and maybe a cigar in the garage day....
it's happening.
the lull before the storm.
one week until minneapolis.
i'm resting my voice,
and my spindly ape-arms.
one week.
and then the volume and the intensity
will resume the competetive cacophony
of east coastal crucial cataclysm.
all the time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, March 23


dried cranberries?
...unacceptable nomenclature.
dried cranberries sounds like something i'd eat.
that sounds more like
craven, crazy raisins.
which they are definitely NOT.
and, moreover,
that sounds like that which i do not want in my mouth.
sane raisins are hard enough to swallow, y'know?
because they used to be grapes.
(of wrath, ninjas)
dried grapes somehow sounds more
disgusting than raisins does, though.
the lack of moisture warrants a name change, i guess.
i doo-doo that bakery fresh sh!t.
no, for real, though:
a bucket of treats!
Rock Bloxxx.
for your face.
more than four dozen boulders of oven-fresh flav'.
maple-oat chocolate chip coconut cranberry cookies!
the only potential improvement?
orange zest.
that would've brought 'em to eleven.
or maybe some marzipan.
that's elevenish, too.
but i was just too busy chatty-batty smalltalking
to consider the optional ingredients.
peoples are important.
my peoples are very important.
v.i.p.'s an that.
i talked to half of my homeboys yesterday,
for molto minutes each.
so blame them for the lack of citrus/almond add-ins.
today is a garment gathering day.
i need some fresh treads for my trip to mpls.
i was thinking about just throwing some
carhartts and a dollar-store blouse on,
but then i might just be accused of being a copycat.
fresh threads are a must for the discriminating,
sophisticated fancypants battle bard on tour.
you want to look your best whilst yelling out loud
about buttholes and barbarian b!tchbaggery.
classy is as classy does.
i know the clothes don't make the man,
but every girl is craisin 'bout a sharp dressed man.
lookin' sharp is necessary.
it matches my wit and tongue.
that's a coordinated outfit;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, March 22


in the tattoo world,
in the woodsly goodness,
monday is friday.
and friday is tuesday.
it's some kind of backwards work schedule.
but what it means is:
the week is mostly over already.
and the weekend is here.
and again.
and again.
lather. rinse. repeat.
over and over.....
there will be friends comin' over for dinner.
there will be food feasted upon.
there will be fires ferociously fuming.
there will be more of the same.
more of this.
more lightning-strike lifetime.
more fleeting fireside family funtime.
more and more...
and after plenty of above average temperature days,
it's now cold, cloudy, and rainy,
just in time to ruin my days off.
ma nature must be making sure that i'm getting
F*ed right up the weekend.
looks like a layabout lounging lurch for your ninja;
it's probably for the best,
since i've got a broken brake line on my car.
going isn't the problem. (when is it ever?)
it's stopping that's hard. (just like everything else)
maybe, just maybe,
someone is trying to kill me.
that's the most obvious conclusion, anyway.
another plausible exlanation,
albeit far less probable,
would be that the salty winter-time roadways
of northern new england are bad for undercarriages.
but i'm still stickin' with the first one.
i mean,
when you're a positively preposterous person,
assassination attempts are always at least a little bit likely...
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, March 21

three two one.

a hailstone hellstorm,
heavily hitting and hurting our hale hero?
happy second day of springtime.
the party is clearly over,
and the winds have brought another change our way.
little see-through tic-tac confetti,
frozen fleaspecks of icy cruelty.
cold and hard and loud.
the pitter-patter of pea-sized pellets an' that.
i had to stoke the mutha-lickin' fire back up again.
(with tiny sparkle embers from last afternoon)
no match for my unmatched firestartin' skills.
and no lighters either for that matter.
some sh!t is so simple, but so dope.
like hail.
like woodstoves.
like Folk Life in the woodsly goodness.
there are some things that just seem to amplify
all the hot fiery hottness.
those things are out and about right now.
it's hard to keep pace with my mornings.
they're faster than i am.
before too long,
it's time to go to work,
and after far too long,
when that's finally over,
it's dinner, a book, and bed.
what the F*?
it's springtime.
the balance of day and night has shifted.
day is winning for the first time in six months.
so of course,
it's cloudy as a mutha-ucka;
even with multiple advantages,
the remains of today promise rowdy clouds,
and a dusky noontide-
so what's the difference really?
we saved daylight a week ago;
we gave it another 'nother headstart yesterday;
and already it's taking a sunovab!tchin' sick day.
it's not as if there's a reset.
there's no do-over anytime soon.
we only get the time we get,
and not one split second more.
so why do those moments have to be dark and dreary?
from the looks of it out there,
i'd say that the lugubrious lack of luminescence
seems compulsory.
that's great news.
i was hoping not to cast a shadow during the daylight hours.
or at least, to exist primarily in semi-permanent shade.
bright folks need dim ones for comparison.
good news needs bad news.
the sweet needs the bitter y'all.
but still,
all this shadow-seeing is for the waterbabies.
punxatawney phil can go suckle, y'all.
i want that bright spot.
the halo.
the aureole.
the secret silent circle of light.
instead there's smoke rings.
ghost rings.
spirits. memories. winds. change.
i can only hope that the blazing beacon
of worthy really-real life is something akin
to a last lonely lighthouse.
bold, fortunate, aglow with epic hottness.
long nights, hard times,
half empty hourglasses,
lit up and exposed in the baskable blaze
of a will'o'wisp of foxfiery freshness.
come crash on my shores;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, March 20

it's spring again.

the earth has completed it's annual circuit,
and the astral orbit of awesome has placed
our A*s in line to get the party started right.
the equinox rocks my socks off.
spring is here.
vernal type rebirth business.
it's good stuff, yeah?
little lime green spikes are poppin'
out from under the jaundiced grass and moss.
even teenier, tinier little nubbins are hangin'
off of some of the hardier trees, too.
that's life waking up.
nature's first green is gold,
but her first gold is absolutely, unmistakably brown...
...and more than those verdant tones,
it's absolutely every-freakin'-where.
the snow's mostly gone already,
and there's mud where the ice used to be.
we get a whole season dedicated to wet earth over here.
mud season.
it's a big deal in the woodsly goodness.
the still-light-out night out times are staying less frosty,
and the days of death, dearth, despair, and doo-doo
are definitely done.
it's mutha-b!tchin' spring, ninjas.
druid like robe wearing sacrifice-stabbin' cosmic calendar
monolithic stonehenge type sh!t.
you got it;
it's also my ma's berfday.
of all the birthdays out there,
that's a pretty easy one to remember, y'know?
happy B-day, ma.
nice work, being born an' that.
moms are kinda rad.
mine is no exception,
and the fact that she shares her big moment
with ma nature's big re-emergence
is pretty flippin' neat-o.
it's spring, duders.
bouncy, bouncy, slinky coils, even.
today is the day,
on all counts,
by all accounts,
and it is all really happening.
i remain grateful for this time i've been given,
and even moreso,
i remain
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, March 19

discussion group.

that was the main topic of the day.
about how flippin' impossibly awesome they are.
and they ARE.
not that there has ever been any doubt about it.
they look cool, they feel cool,
they're practically indestructible,
and they shoot hot fiery payloads of mayhem!
dopeness incarnate.
but seriously,
if you're over 18,
and you don't live in a little b!tch-baby anti-gun state,
you should go get one.
or two.
or if you've got the available funds,
then i strongly recommend three.
that's the magic number, y'know.
that way you can custom fit a couple
for all your assault weapony needs.
did i do a tattoo today that included the
three letter acronym FMS?
i sure did.
that's not a set of initials either.
can any of you ninja guess what it stands for?
Ferocious Metal Steampipe?
Fondle My Sausage?
Full Meat Sack?
Funky Monkey Stick?
none of the above.
it stood for (get ready),
F* Me Stupid.
i swear it's real.
and no, not as in:
you are stupid, and should F* me;
but more like,
F* me until i become stupid.
hard pounding meets 'tard pounding, at the same time.
i can't help myself wondering:
just how do you know if you've been F*ed into stupidity?
is there a test afterwards?
do you have to fail it to be successful?
questions questions questions-
i need to know these things,
but sadly, i haven't a clue.
it all falls down to conjecture.
which i've spent most of the day doing.
it could've been a more productive afternoon,
but within realistic measurements, by how much?
not enough to dissuade me at all.
it's friday night.
we've got nothing planned.
there's talk of watching 'the notebook'.
i had hoped there'd be a way to depress myself
into a suicidal coma of despair,
and i think i may have found my answer.
i guess y'all will know by tomorrow.
no blog = dead albie.
it's all really happening,
until it isn't anymore.
F M S.
word up;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, March 18

rumbledy grumbledy

hey, y'all.
it's thursday again.
this sort of day seems to show up every week
right around this time.
the weekend is worn-out,
and the work week is waxing wretchedly.
would you like to know what's keeping
my metaphorical monday blues away?
what it is exactly that's holding the throes of woe
and the back-to-work weak sauce at bay?
it's the promise of leftovers.
as simple as that.
and man oh man, have i got some tasty treats left over.
six separate people ate six serious slices
out of my totally terrific pot pie.
and there's still a full half a circle of gravy-laden goodness left.
that's a semi-circle.
turns out i made enough for six more...
or for me and my wifey three more times.
take a good look and realize what you missed:

that's the flakiest, crispiest, butterishy, golden
homemade pastry crust you've ever imagined.
and there's no less than nine pounds of num-numminess
sitting pretty deep within.
brothers and sisters,
i prepared this beauteous beast for hours.
i roasted the carrots and the potatoes in the oven.
i put that crisp skin to 'em,
then added in the sauteed onions and celery,
and threw in the mandatory handful of peas.
once the tofu was seasoned, simmered, and sauce-basted,
i prepared a couple cups of extra gravy,
and poured the whole crucial caboodle all the way inside
the enormous aluminum bucket of epic hottness.
can you see how it domes all up and over the top of the pot?
yes, yes, y'all.
that's enough for 8 and 40 blackbirds, even.....
if you're keeping count, you'll notice that
that's a double-deep dose of dopeness.
some things are perfect 10s.
but this mutha-b!tch is a perfect eleven.
and like i said,
there's still six people's worth of slices still left over.

and let's not forget about the rest of the righteous repast.
i don't know how often you ninjas cook rutabagas,
but that was a new experience for me.
it's the italian in me, i guess,
that normally persuades me to forgo
all those waxy bowling ball veggies.
but my boiled up broth, with silly bay leaf placebo,
and my horseradishy, mus'tarded,
liquid-smoky (a.k.a. synthetic ham),
peppery cabbage, carrots, onions, 'taters,
and rosy-cream colored cubes of rutabaga,
was bangin' off the meter.
that's affirmative my feisty, famished mean mama-jamas.
and topped with a slice of magical soda bread?
what whaaaaaaaaat?!
i think the secret universal plan endorsed
the full breadth and scope of my culinary course yesterday.
why do i say that?
because after all that tofu and gravy rainmaking,
and all that cabbagey cloud seeding,
there was no thunder.
i'm talking about crackin' A*s,
blasting buttrockets,
cutting the flounder,
or the absence thereof.
not a bubble, not a gurgle, not a squeak.
the luck o' the irish, huh?
i guess maybe everybody really IS irish on st. pat's.
if it'll keep my A*hole attached,
i'll take it.
i'll be two hours early to work today.
drawing dragons and scales and fire an' that.
lining up all those hundreds of flippin' scales, kids.
no fun. at all.
like not at all, at all.
hard work is it's own reward,
and my vacation is coming up
in just two short sweet weeks.
i'm sketching overlapping semi-circles,
and thinking of half a pot pie with each elliptical arc.
breakfast was over only a little minute ago,
but already my stomach is growling it's
demands for a little slice of heaven.
if it keeps it up,
i won't have to talk to my first client,
i'll just let my bellyhole howl it's hunger song;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, March 17

more and more.

it was warm as F* out there today.
and since the coals in the woodstove never went out,
and the kitchen oven was revved around 400 degrees
for most of the afternoon,
it was hot inside the house today.
plenty hot.
and when the hottness has empirical hotness,
it must be a good day.
even without the carbonated beverages,
the soda bread was soundly removed from all lameness.
no joke,
it came out so super good-lookin':
is that a magic cake?
pretty much.
moist, sweet, and irishy, too.
i am a stovetop samurai,
a bakery-fresh barbarian,
and a kitchen crusader.
your bellyhole will confirm it,
i'm a bad mutha-F*er, after all.
st. patrick's big fun.
perfect weather.
good times.
good friends hangin' about.
elsah and jim came over for dinner,
and just to kick up the irish vibes around here,
mr. steve gillespie and ms. molly mckinnon
rode up from masshole feverville and hung out.
for a good long minute or two, even.
have you ever wondered just exactly what
a homosexual leprechaun looks like?
here's a sneak peak:
SO gay.
you like the zoolander pose, yeah?
me too.
but honestly,
i miss that big gay fella.
a whole bunch, even.
he even ate vegetables!
a plate full of 'em,
with no carcasses in sight.
that's real-life friendship, y'all.
choking down a gulletload of green leafy goodness?
i appreciate the gesture,
especially from a fresh flesh feeder.
he's practically a zombie,
what with all the hunger for bloody meat.
molly and my wife had some kind of girl time, too.
something about magnetic vagina power or whatever....
i cooked all day,
and we ate all night.
was there a fire?
you already know there had to be;
where else would i break in my special
limited edition st. patrick's day pipe?
i told you this was a big day.
the fires are both still going,
but the guests are already gone-
i am grateful for days like this one.
this time is a good time;
never quiet, never soft.....

luck o'.

my eyes are smilin',
and my lips got that blarney-kissin' glibness.
but my face is a little swollen.
don't worry, i'll be okay,
but now it's your turn;
your whole entire face is about to get demolished.
no, really.
i got a treat in the mail yesterday that's so dope,
it'll break your jaw.
in at least three places.
the ongoing saga of the woodsly goodness'
number one hot fiery bathroom continues.
the latest installment?
brace your b!tch-A*s;
you'd do well to get ready for a haymakin' k.o.:
that's a surface draw lock.
complete with big-A* skeleton keys.
big-A* keys?
oh, heck yeah.
they're seriously like cartoon jailhouse ones.
that big rig is a beast, my ninjas.
i know i could've settled on a smaller substitute...
but, c'mon.
what am i?
ultimate hottness is it's own reward.
bathroom sexiness has never been so, y'know,
cast iron,
brass clampers,
and eleven kinds of elite action.
and that's just on the side of the door
that ISN'T hidden and ninja.
i already told you mutha-fliplets about them jauns.
you know you really like it.
it's the big day.
potatoes are running scared, an' that.
st. paddy's, y'all.
parades can jog on.
green beer can chug it.
corned beef can smoke it.
but otherwise,
i'm celebrating.
what with my leprechaunical little ones
being composed of a goodly genetic portion
of mcreynolds,
i feel it's appropriate that i do it up right.
and, heck, st. pasquale was an italian, to boot. we're good.
cabbage and rutabaga (a.k.a. swedes)?
rumbles and bumps or bubble and squeak, as they say.
a whole deeep-dish pot pie?
that's a cauldron of crucial comestibles.
soda bread?
there's no dr. pepper in it,
i can tell you that much.
but it's some irish-type eat'em-ups,
so i'll be a-makin' it today.
i'm wearin' green too.
but more to celebrate the springy spring-time,
and to keep hidden amongst the pines.
ninja-style cuchulainn action, duders.
deep-coverage and invisible motion.
CuChulainn is what's up.
that red branch knight was way more burly
than st. patrick could ever hope to be.
...and that was butt naked with a shield and a spear.
word up.
there's more to this day, duders,
but it'll have to wait.
there's real life waiting to get poppin',
and mad amounts of meatless treats that need cookin'.
you can keep your luck,
i'll take raw uncut good fortune;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, March 16


there's a good feeling in the air.
take a sniff.
you can smell it.
i almost gave in to a lost-and-forgotten-about air;
some hard-style lonely lamenting type sh!t,
for a hot second.
hermited up along the far reaches of inaccessible
Folk Life hibernation.
it's true. i blame it on all the rain.
and then i went to my P.O. Box,
and instantaneously recognized the error
in that weak-sauce thought process-
check the teleport, y'all:
what happens when a pizza place moves to canada?
well, they change the name, for starters...
what we love to munch up here in the woodsly goodness
is known as flatbread,
but in the land of moose and ham/bacon,
it's called creekbread!
that's where the cucch is at.
and where this shirt comes from.
it says so right on the front, even.
i get treats with love from canada.
british columbia, an' that.
i think there's less coffee and cocaine in the british one,
but i can't be sure,
since there's always talk about all the powder they get.....
and while i'm wearin' that brown bomber later,
i'll be puffin' on THIS brown bomber, too:
eso si que es!
and what it is is a montecristo numero dos.
de habana.
luxury, mutha-F*tards. luxury.
a torpedo of tastiness for my lips!
muy delicioso.
i've got a stellar stick of stinky smoke,
courtesy of my godfather.
no horse heads were severed in the process.
no, really.
that's not an ambiguous italian anecdote,
my actual godfather sent it up.
straight outta the bottom b!tches of the
backside of the northern hemisphere.
that's some good lookin' out, y'heard?
i'm transcontinentally endowed with ninjas.
the post office proved it yesterday.
top to bottom,
duders are keepin' it activated for your buddy.
two drastic directional differences,
one result;
i love 'em.
who's a lucky life-liver?
here's a hint:
it's me.
gratitude is oozin' out,
and generosity is flowin' in.
it's all really happening,
and i'm practically clapping
with accolades for my peep's participation.
the prequinox is here.
get it?'s not saturday, yet.
viking springtime celebration time is on.
that means fires.
it's only viking if you burn sh!t.
tomorrow promises some irish luck,
or at least some irish food.
i even bought some cabbage, kids.
for tomorrow.
pot pie and potatoes,
cabbage and corned seitan?
it's destined to be great,
or the worst,
but never just okay.
treats, y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, March 15


the ides of march, y'all.
i'm on that wary, scary, just-woken-type sh!t.
we've got some real deal march weather here.
it's just as ugly and dope as it gets;
it's windy.
and wet.
and i think there's a roman duder with a knife somewhere.
in like a lion,
stabbin' up the joint, an' that,
and out like a liam.
or something.
that's some qui-gon jinn style blue ghostie business, even.
i guess i'd prefer a lightsaber hole to a dagger poke.
if only for cool points before i throw up and die.
et tu, obi-wan?
i think i'm more concerned with the st. Ides of march.
ninjas get the real march madness off of those jauns.
remember that on wednesday, kids.
if it ain't malt liquor, it ain't a 40oz.
it's just a big beer.
regardless of what the label says.
and those're words of wisdom from a real-life
hard-style drunk person,
so they must be true.
am i tatblasting "the weiner guy" today?
i sure am.
it's because of the ides, duders.
i'm shading the sh!t outta the viking valkyrie backpiece
that i've been working on for the last month or so.
work is a good thing.
i'd rather have it and be grumpy,
rather than not have it and be grumpier.
dollar dollar bills, y'all.
gimme some money!
'specially since we go and do our taxes tomorrow,
so i'm probably gonna need those movie checks, y'heard?
beware the day after the ides, too.
we are also as happy as a couple of hot brick ovens
to announce the arrival of a brand-spankin' new little bun!
we're uncle albie & auntie jess, again...
that's what's up;
my bro-in-law robert and his girlyfriend, sharon,
have produced a bouncing little bitty baby boy.
the first grandkid on that side of the family.
that's kind of a big deal, innit?
early yesterday mornin',
_____ thomas guercia entered the world!
he's called blank t.?
uh huh.
that's pretty gangster, ninjas.
but just for a little minute-
they haven't decided on a first name yet....
i think albie sounds pretty flippin' good,
but there's absolutely zero chance of that happening.
whatever they name 'im,
i'm still super happy for those crazy kids.
i'll bet that helpless pink raisin is already their favorite one.
now we'll see how they do without sleep for weeks on end.
looks like we'll be making the voyage down to ct. again....
a trip to waterbaby world to see a baby?
now that makes sense.
it's my friday over here.
i'd be peeing my pants with gleeful promises
of relaxing, and maxing, and assorted leisures.
but this weekend seems like it's gonna suck 'em.
i mean,
wood staining?
st. patrick?
ALL kinds of lame cake for my face.
there's rumours on the package progress tracker, kids;
vandyke's has a special delivery for me!
and when you see the eleventh level of locks and keys
i've learned about,
the boners will be a-poppin'.
believe it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, March 14

check the teleport.

the clock in my mutha-b!tchin' kitchen
reads 9:29 a.m.
but dang, kids,
it sure as heck still FEELS like 8:29.
we're saving daylight,
sorta like private ryan.
(i think that means we all die in the end.)
send in the special forces an' that.
which is to say,
worthy warrior poets,
taking no prisoners behind enemy timelines.
we're rushing headlong toward the ides of march,
taking a bayonet's worth of before
and plunging our attacks into this new after.
we're in the future, suddenly-
time travel sans flux capacitor-
as simple and easy as waking up and rolling over.
we're on a frontline offensive against the darkness,
i guess;
and when i'm driving home in the not-nighttime later on,
i'll really be waging a one-man campaign against the
deepening shadows of time at day's end.
that's some sh!t, huh?
this missing hour of ours means we're ahead of ourselves.
it's all still really happening,
just before it would've happened at the same time yesterday.
my past won't catch up with me until
i'm knees-deep into autumn.
so i've got time to make some magic happen, for sure.
my first order of business?
i want a recorder.
not a video or an audio recorder,
not a dvdr, or whatever.
a recorder recorder.
a hot cross buns,
fruit-flute salute,
third grade concert-type recorder.
another 'nother annoying noisebringer-maker,
so my full complement of cacophonous calamity
can serenade the sprits of the woodsly goodness.
we ALL need more of that, i'm sure....
all y'all fools out there better be getting ready...
because on the first of april,
i'll be in minneapolis, minnesota.
the louderhorn inn will have it's least-loved loafer
lounging in the guest room for a week.
and identity tattoo will have 200% too much
east coast amplification in one building for the same duration.
the volume will be permanently pegged at eleven.
yes, indeed.
will there be shark gluttony?
how about arthur-making hottness?
of course.
did somebody say tatblasting?
i hope so.
what about some never quiet, never soft projects?
and hanging out with my expanding host of homeboys?
that's MAN time-type sh!t like a mutha-b!tch.
it will be good.
it always is.
lightning-striking viking battle-beastly berserking.
we'll be showing those scant scandinavian scamps
exactly how we doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
loud and hard.
make arrangements,
you will NOT want to miss out.
this future really is brighter;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, March 13


scat is poop.
and so is today.
i thought i had a psych-out easy day
dead ahead of my tattyblastin' self.
my clients had both rescheduled,
leaving me with a wide-open expanse of hours;
i could've been doing some
small and easy one-shot jobbers all dang day long.
no brainer sh!t an' that.
porkchop portions of pleasurable pokin'.
guess how long that fantasy lasted?
i went upstairs,
came down a hot second later,
and found myself facing an all-day,
hard-style full-sleeve sitting.
on a saturday.
another 'nother other dose of big-timer terror,
and a weak-sauce wallop of warped wages.
it's non-stop rockin' in the woodsly goodness.
i have no super saturdays to eagerly anticipate anymore.
just tons of hard work.
who thought of THAT?!
not that i'd take a picture anyway,
but all this big work takes time.
so i couldn't even if i wanted to.
tough luck, kids.
s-a-t-u-r-d-a-y night!
harmonica night is on over here.
honkin', bendin' and blowin'.
in minor keys, too.
that's that gypsy science metaphysics.
i don't know if anybody else is down
for the hohner hoedown,
but it's still happening.
i'm taking it back, an' that;
i know,
it's pi day today,
but i only care about 3.14% for all of that noise.
what's more alarming and charming and disarming
than that never-ending integer,
is all the time travel we'll doo-doo tonight.
when we wake up tomorrow,
we'll be sixty minutes into the future.
that's some marty mcfly sh!t, duders.
i'm ready, though.
i've cleared my sleep schedule for the evening,
and rearranged my r.e.m. dreamscapes,
so that when the future hits at 2a.m.
i'll have a blank check in my slumbering noggin.
payable to the half-full fury of optimism.
i don't think we're losing an hour,
since we know where it's hiding-
it's waiting for us in the fall-
but i know it's gonna be light and bright by
tomorrow night-
just in time for a new moon on monday....
awwwww, man.
it's never easy;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, March 12


my ninjas all know i love to get some treats!
i got some in the post today.
so you know that i spent the day in a well fresh mood.
so good.
and for the first time in a little minute,
it was something i did extra-nice for myself.
a little indulgent masculine collector's cache.
check it:
the brand of this pipe?
there isn't one.
the sandblast looks like a bomb-blast,
and it's fatter than it would ever need to be.
there's a stamp on it's side.
it just says: CZECH.
some scary gypsy picked up a new hobby, i guess.
i wish he hadn't left the scary tenon-bit in the airhole.
watch your A* when you F* with those czech duders-
czech yourself before you wreck yourself.
that's how it goes.
i like it a lot.
because it's molto rough, and molto stout,
and that's how i get busy.
when i put the fattie-boombattie bit between my teeth,
i feel as though i should be smuggling prostitutes
out of mother russia in a wagon,
while my partner plays the accordion.
this pipe evokes some serious sh!t, y'all.
the treat festival didn't stop there...
of dublin.
that's their newish 'shamrock' finish.
light, bright, and tight.
more 'rock than sham- i think.
this one exudes some vibes.
it makes me feel more like
graveyard sittin',
and thinkin' about some warrior poetry.
it's smaller in size,
and rusticated, not sandblasted.
which really just means they put the chisel to it.
and that's pretty dope, too.
but wait,
there's STILL more...

this mutha-b!tch is huge.
and deep.
and shiny.
(that's what she said)
more peterson pipe works for your face!
a special edition st. patrick's day 2010,
double-deep, dope, dirty,
bird's eye & flame grain bowl of briar.
that's some hottness, for sure.
the silver stamp tells you what time it is.
as long as it's march 17th, at drunk o'clock.
no doubt my copious collection of leaf-burnin'
barbarian battle cannons for my face,
just got a whole heckuva big ol' bunch more rad.
pizza night at the overpriced hippie pizzeria,
with my buddy beau the barbarian,
and our teacheriffic confidante casey,
also got poppin',
and we stuffed the F* out of our faces.
before that, a whole bunch of scandalous
low rent tatzappin' error also got started,
but nothing quite measures up to the
savage smokestacks of sexy i got in the mail.
smoke ring ghost rings of spirit and memory
will fumigate the Fortress for a fortnight.
smoke doesn't make noise,
but i do;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, March 11


i've got sh!t to do.
moves to make.
fire to spit.
activity to activate.
and skin to inscribe.
...all flippin' day long.
brutal barbarism, my ninjas,
attacking each hour in an all-out full-frontal
berserker blitzkrieg.
and to top it off,
i got a haircut,
and my beard trimmed.
less wiry pube hedgerow cheeks,
more classy mutha-F*er.
i didn't say i was shaving, baby,
so be easy;
i said trimmed.
my facial topiary garden is ready to look it's best.
and i'm looking for a perfect balance of
blowing locks and blinding bald spot.
my hairline's receeding,
but my bloodline's top seeded.
that is, it's number one.
that's correct,
the breakbeat double-bass of my
double-boilin' dutch oven of dopeness
is the numero uno entry in the woodsly goodness.
for what?
i'll tell you for what:
for proactive participation and personal activation,
and anti-site-specific social network interaction.
c'mon, ninjas.
i'm tryin' to win over here.
turisas is what's up.
epic viking hard style barbarian battle metal.
just what the world needs more of.
it's fully the perfect soundtrack to tattoo to.
a little norse fury,
some fiddle solos,
and an accordion.
instant awesomeness.
it works, too.
everybody had a better day at the studio today;
and i believe it was 100% due to the
battle metal masterpiece rockin' our socks
and our eardrums for hours while we worked.
russian gypsy jigs and finnish freshness?
i'm trying to help you mutha-uckas here.
try it.
you'll be converted as well.
who wants to come over and stain my bathroom?
hold on.
hold ON.
with some minwax.
the wood is lookin' good (no sexy)
but it needs the sealing protection and preservation
of a couple coats of hott sauce.
what am i proposing/
well let's see;
do you enjoy vegan treats?
how about heroic hospitality?
the warmth of a woodstove?
well, then,
i've got a mission for your A*.
come on over,
bring a brush,
or at the very least,
strap on some big business overalls,
and let's get busy.
i could use some help is all i'm sayin'.
where all my brush-strokers at?
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, March 10

plumb crazy.

oh home depot,
how i do SO love your orange stencil-lettered sign.
i wish i could make several humble pilgrimages
to your palatial expanse of improvement-specific items,
every single day.
oh, wait a minute.....
now that i think about it,
i do.
i doo-doo that do-it-myself sh!t.
looks like my dream has come true.
they always do,
as long as they are not ambitious dreams.
small victories are still victories, kids.
plumbing a super-deluxe ridiculous custom bathroom
is not as awesome as it would seem.
and i don't think it even seems
like it would ever be all that awesome.
it is educational, however.
we've got, in a one foot space,
lead pipes,
copper pipes,
pvc pipes,
the drain,
teflon tape,
and a trap.
i'm not foolin' around.
interconnected intermingling.
it has to work, and work well,
because if it doesn't,
water finds a way to undermine all the hard work....
water doesn't F* around too much.
and therefore,
the first half of the day was spent
traveling back and forth to home depot.
over and over and over.
after a series of troubleshooting inventions
didn't quite make the grade,
silicone caulk and a slipover sleeve of pipey hottness
were decided upon.
i could've called a plumber,
but that's weak-sauce.
and expensive.
and not Folk Life active participation.
larry and i let our buttcracks hang out,
and plumbed the heck out of that room.
problem solved?
not yet, exactly,
but my ever-expanding mental library of information
added several volumes on the nature of water, pipes,
and making different things work together,
i'm a regular united nations of plumbing.
days off, duders.
i spend 'em fast,
and hard.
i take my time,
the time is taken,
and the abduction of my days
makes it seems like there's a pressing hostage situation
every nightfall.
negotiations fail each time, too.
and before i know it,
i've relinquished another 'other one
to sleepytimes.
i took a few hours back though,
to hang out,
and blaze the ghost circle smog out of
a dark, dank, stinky nicotiana log
with my buddy steve.
i needed that.
good conversation, kids.
it's better than a monologue.
but only if the other folks have something
worth hearing to speak upon.
i got lucky with my friends.
i'm pretty grateful for the fistful of worthy warriors
who i can hang out with.
it's lonely at the acme of artful activity.
that's that apex of poetry in motion,
the pinnacle of prowess,
crown of acomplishment type sh!t.
everybody gets to be good at something.
i picked competent communication.
bad choices are better than indecision, right?
i'm haniging out with a cadre of calamitous captains,
and it's good.
this time is taken,
and i'll never give it back;
never quiet, never soft......

Tuesday, March 9

two for tuesday.

what a whirlwind of work.
we discovered six inches of average in the wood.
(yes, that's what SHE said, but...)
let me explain:
a small patch of my epic lavatory escaped
the turbo-hottness treatment.
it's true, duders.
but it's okay.
a little bitty portion of slats and boards
didn't have that eleveny goodness.
i fixed the problem with a little help from
my good budies at vandyke's restorers.
i still love those distant electronic treats suppliers.
turns out,
all it needed was some forged iron stuff,
and some rustic barbarian battlement bits.
problem solved, kids.
the chores didn't just stop there, either.
who got a table saw?
oh, yes i did.
long pieces of wood are gonna get ripped now.
i know this because the package tells me so.
and i like it, too.
there's precious metal mineral mayhem lining on it.
that's a real thing.
the spinning ninja circle has extra kung-fu in it,
or something like that.
all i know is:
i bought a self-supporting wheel of fortune.
to slice, dice, and make fiddlesticks with.
we had some hungry heads up in here today.
y'know what the cure for that is?
teriyaki-glazed tofu rice bowl.
with chinese cabbage, red peppers, onions, celery,
basil, broccoli, snow peas, scallions, sesame seeds,
and cashews.
a full house of folks actively participating.
and chewing and swallowing.
my homemade asian marinades might have some peoples
wondering if my name is pronounced albie WOK.'s not.
but that's dope.
dinner for six?
got that.
dinner party?
so grown up, yeah?
adult time is on the menu, as well as the delicious treats.
it's cool.
although the tail end of the hangin'-out got dicey.
everybody was cool,
i just had to try and light a fire using wet paper.
had to?
yeah. had to.
i had some rugged gloves on,
and didn't realize it at the time.
instead of my usual one-match lighting prowess,
i used two.
that's the kind of thing that can really spark some berserker fury.
i had a leftover luxury stink-log waiting for me.
so soothing, despite the burning bite
of the wrapped-up latin leaves.
viva cuba!
that's real.
we've got bad movies to watch,
and werewolf books to read.
everybody's gone,
and we're still here.
just like always;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, March 8


is that a warrior's shield lain on a dragon's body?
a robotic jackson's chameleon lizard?
half a yo-yo on some weird leather?
it's my oh-so-turbo hot sink, fool.
so what's the difference
between your plain ol' bathroom sink drain,
all boring and shiny silvery waterbabyish,
and this pop-touch, luxurious, oil-rubbed bronze,
burly, super-sexy, bad mama-jamma?
roughly 300%.
triple the dopeness,
triple the mutha-uckin' dollars.
and i priced 'em out,
so i know exactly what i'm talking about.
i'm literally watching my sweet moolah
go clockwise right down the drain.
but, it's got to be worth it.
how could i let a weak-sauce waterspout
spurt it's juice into a craptacular container?
i couldn't. i wouldn't. i didn't.
it's got a touch-button drainage plug.
no levers, no lameness.
(you know you like it.)
and it's got the matching metal coordination.
i'm pretty much all about that sort of thing.
contextual continuity an' that.
the hot sh!t for my hot sh!t.
opulence, kids.
i'm on the mutha-F*er.
decadent defecation in my pooped-up palace.
this is what gets me through the day.
...yeah, i know.

the fever is here.
not for the flavor.
spring fever.
our orchids are poppin' their petals out,
the bromeliad is spiral-sprout spinning it's
prehistoric root system in every direction,
and it's actually kind of warm outside.
i even let the fire go out.
that's the first time since XI-mas day, y'heard?
just for the afternoon,
and i re-lit that iron cauldron of hot fiery fury
strictly off of the embers.
i've got fire-creating prometheal man skills, ninjas.
what's manlier than one-match lighting?
no match lighting, of course.
i doo-doo that conflagration sh!t.
guess what i worked on all week?
sleeves and backpieces.
i'm not kidding.
but i am as surprised as y'all are.
to be fair,
i actually also hit up that creepy weiner,
and in a cultivated coincidence/vanilla sky moment,
the REAL weiner guy brought a friend in,
and i finished sawing off the areola of a full-on boob;
but otherwise it was big black outlines,
big black shading,
and big black coffees,
for days and days.
my weekend is looming on the threshold.
i've already been back to the wood store,
and i suspect a table saw is in my immediate future.
did you feel that?
my beard just sent a shockwave of barbarian masculinity
all across the universe.
it's all really going on,
this feverish springing,
this incredible excellence,
this real-deal Folk Life.
there's plenty of hard work,
yard work,
and berserk jerks that need attention,
but that can wait until thursday.
the weekend is here,
and everybody's been workin' for it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, March 7


what do y'all know about cape buffalo?
they live in africa,
and they keep it really real.
here's pretty much the only facts you need:
they're huge.
they're totally butt-nasty mean.
they flip out regularly.
they wreck sh!t all day.
they also kill the ever-lovin' mess out of hunters.
all the time!
lions, hyenas, cheetas, people, crocodiles, everybody.
i mean,
getting your A*hole stepped on by posse of cows?
so preposterously mutha-F*n' dope.
they gang up on suckas who want to mess with their faces.
that's for serious.
rescue missions against predators?!
they've killed more human hunters than anything else.
and that's usually after it's been shot.
if only holsteins had that kind of hot fire.
burgers'd be right off the menu, y'heard?
just another 'nother example of ugly-type folks
being dope.
on the real,
cape buffalo are really not sexy looking.
but they are so berserker!
battle-beasts like a sunovagun.
i'm kind of all about 'em.
who's ready to go with me to the motherland?
i think i've found my true calling.
jolly rancher.
undomesticated monster barbarian bovids,
imported to the woodsly goodness.
think about it, ninjas;
we need 'em as mounts.
for riding.
into battle.
c'mon. c'mon. C'MON.
we'll even wear capes.
like superheroes,
for the irony.
you get it.
and you like it.
we saw alice in wonderland.
elsah took us out to the movies, which was super-nice,
and we got free passes to another other movie
when the film reel broke mid-feature.
we still saw the ending.
all told,
comparing and contrasting the effects against the story,
it was pretty good-
despite being a sequel of sorts,
and featuring a whole bunch of half-dopeness.
there were swords.
including the vorpal blade. (+11 vs. jabberwockies)
and chopping.
and armor.
and monsters.
and that's pretty much all i really need in a movie.
and since that's pretty much all i got,
i figure it was a darned good evening after all.
so, anyway,
cape buffs, kids.
they only like each other,
and even then,
the fellas mostly smash their heads together.
all the time.
except when other stuff tries to step up to the whole herd.
you can't play with my capes like that.
they don't leave anyone behind.
no old ones,
no stray calves,
none of that.
unless you already got ate the F* up,
and then they exact vengeance.
charles bronson, hard-lookin', get-even sh!t.
that's word.
the whole mob will hand out a b-beat-down
to anyone or anything that deserves it.
up in your pampas grass with crews,
on that 'never forgive' business.
that's worthy viking fury hard-style action.
nature wins, my ninjas.
be ugly.
be dope;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, March 6


i'm disappointed in my appointments.
i have a bunch of appointments,
so that's not the disappointing part.
it's the real-world weekends that take their toll.
i'm always booked with pain-in-the-pleats,
big ol' zapper sitdown sessions.
two half-day tattoos on a saturday?
whatever happened to hustling?
i'm sayin',
i'm all about those 'take ten tiny terrible tatzap times'.
line 'em up, blast 'em out, an' that.
stayin' keen, honing in on those itty-bitty income increments.
whetting my appetite for destruction on the masses.
words, work, and worthiness are my weapons...
keeps the senses sharp,
especially the senses of humor and self-worth.
worthiness is measured in effort, or somethin'.
so i'm either the m.v.p, or the least likely to succeed.
it's all in where you're sitting in the studio.
if talkin' sh!t and spitting hot fire was worth money,
i'd retire already on a pile of pieces of eight.
but if tattooing is the key to the gates,
these double appointment days are doo-dooing me in.
see, like i said.
double-edged-type hard style slicin' dicey deeds.
russian riverboat carnival music.
that's how the wifey described the dark dark dark album.
it seemed like something good to listen to,
since i've been kinda listless and longing for the snow magic.
the weather kind, not the ear kind,
it's not far off from the truth of the sounds.
huge-spectacled spectacles?
meek voices and weird inflections?
so fresh.
i'd ride the waves to these tunes all day, y'all.
no joke.
i'm on that poop boat of poor performance.
tattooing all alone in my isolated room.
it's not SO bad,
since it gives me a great reason to get louder.
projection, i think, is the term.
straight outta the projects, though,
is more accurate.
i've got anxiety-attack accordion and banjo barrages,
and i've got a double-barreled lungful
of loud and hard hollerin' to hand out today.
today is the day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, March 5

ooh baby, i like it thaw.

warmish all day,
crisp and cold all night.
it's like that.
and it's good.
hibernating animals are shaking off their stupor.
the languorous lethargy of a long night's sleep
is definitely over and done with.
we've got paw prints and hoof prints and claw marks,
and all other 'nother other kinds of spoor,
(that's poop and stuff)
letting ninjas know that the time for snoozin' is over.
don't sleep, mutha-F*ers!
that's also a pretty good indicator that the compost pile
isn't really serving it's purpose;
by all appearances,
it's really more of a 24-hour buffet for barbarian battle-beasts.
squirrels, birds, chipmunks, mice, possums, fox, raccoons.
oh my.
in just a little minute or two,
i'm sure the heavy hitters will lumber on down the montains,
looking for a slice of this tasty business.
what i mean is:
i can't wait for the big black bears to show up.
it'll be knife vs. claw at the trough, ninjas.
i'm sayin',
it's totally vegan to knife-stab a bear if it's trying to eat you.
or your compost(?).
the rules are a little dodgy on this particular point of interest,
but i'm confident that my anial-friendliness won't be questioned.
all i'm tryin' to get across here is:
i NEED a bearskin to wear as a cape.
now you know;
and if one of you duders can't produce one,
i'll be forced to fight for my right to free fur.
that's word.
it's imposible not to be taken seriously in an untanned
flayed fleshless furrier's fantasy.
there's big semi-circles of brown
creeping out of the snowpiles.
raw earth exposed to the sunlight,
wind, rain, and melty march action.
there's nothing green, growing, or delightful... yet.
but we're comin' close.
i'm sure there's a psych-out storm or two,
waiting in the wings,
ready to rear up and strike out,
just to let mutha-uckas know what time it is.
(it's nature time, y'all.)
mama nature likes to let suckas 'play themselves'.
that's a fact.
it's the reason bungee jumping, hang-gliding,
rock climbing and white water rafting exist.
just when you think you've got some hottness,
y'know, actin' all like a master of the elements,
and lord of harsh environs an' that,
that's when big mama hands out some severe weather
fatality sauce for your face!
that's my girl.
speaking of,
we're on that riverbank swell-up,
mudslide fallout, saturation point action.
my street is mostly gone, y'all.
no, really.
big canyon-sized rocky ravines have opened up
like fluid-funneling faultlines,
all the way down to the real roads.
that's some crucial hermit assistance.
harder to get to,
farther from the beaten path.
as if folks were having an easy time getting here before,
now we've taken inaccessability to eleven.
the rock-climbing, off-roading, floodgate fury,
is just ma nature keeping us safe.
the woodsly goodness doesn't like to let
the unworthy waterbabies weak sauce in.
hence the obstacle course.
the pre-spring thaw, kids.
like a teaser trailer for things to come.
muddy, grit-grimey, wet, and dirty.
oooh, baby, i like it thaw;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, March 4


i've got a great big basketball of splortchy red meat
where my skinny knock-kneecap used to be.
the patella may still be in place,
but the snowglobe of swelling makes it hard to tell.
i'm all puffed up and popped out.
my great-grampa must've been part balloon or somethin'.
how did i get such authentic battle-damage?
kung-fu kickin' sh!t?
outstanding debts to some good fellas?
rollerblading? (c'mon, that's not cool)
tsunami tattoo, ya'll.
good vibes in that place an' that.
i was there.
and as a result,
my rock lobster's done.
my knee's redone.
and i think somebody must be kidding me.
daruma, the dope little dharma-ridin' duder
who lives in his little nesting-doll pose,
directly on the bendy part of my legpiece,
is laughing at me through is moustachioed frown...
his do-overtures managed to harsh up my whole mobility,
phuc, the ever-lovin' blastmaster extraordinaire,
was a gentle little feather-touch zapper.
my knee, however, wasn't informed of that.
the response was totally knee-jerk.
or a jerk's knee.
or whatever.
...hence the splortchy basketball.
it looks good, though.
of course.
to clebrate the half-session of suffering,
mr. tran and his wifey, sue,
joined us and our other buddy elsah,
for some meatless meal mowing.
green elephant hottness right into the ol' bellyhole.
it almost made the pantleg full of fluid-filled flesh forgettable.
and for the record:
vegan dining with two dope portlanders?
somehow even more delicious.
true story.
the weekend's over.
it's all back on that grind.
hard styles,
harder hearts,
and hardest pounding.
i've got a fistful of frankfurter in my future.
it's weiner day at white mountain tattoo.
i'm ready.
if you're not,
then ya'll'd better get ready.
because it's a poppin'-fresh day over here.
the woodsly goodness.
the Folk Life.
my home.
chock full to the brim with sausage.
that's how it goes;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, March 3


the magic number.
two times in a row.
march 3rd.
a day in the life of a worthy warrior poet.
real life documented as it happens.
live. local. late-breaking.
big news from a small world.
it's a good day.
and speaking of good...
i didn't really do much at all yesterday.
i mean,
i went to the recycling center-
and it was so warm out it actually kinda smelled bad.
that's a good sign, believe it or not.
and we got more bathroom ingredients-
because a day off without a trip to the depot ain't sh!t.
my watch broke,
and i felt like i ran out of time.
the battery in my clock at home was dead too.
i take my time,
but i guess it's taking it right back.
and i made some epic cookies.
y'know how many flavors it takes to make a cookie into an epic?
chocolate chip raisin oatmeal coconut molasses.
like i just said: EPIC.
i put the bitter away for the day,
and went balls-deep bananarama on the sweetness;
dark brown sugar AND molasses AND maple syrup.
i doo-doo that freaky sh!t, kids.
just how sweet is sweet enough?
there's no such thing, ninjas.
and after i baked up four dozen delicious ducats of dopeness,
i made some seitan.
i stood inside a rune-carved pentagram and everything.
hail seitan, an' that.
after the boiled slabs of gluten were done
smellin' awesome and looking disgusting,
jim and larry and amber and my mommy-in-law,
claudia, came over.
that's when the real cookin' got cookin'.
we had sausage-season seitan sandwiches.
(say that ten times fast)
with arugala and garlic on top.
yeah, i said it;
it's a veg-e-ta-ble.
with a side of speary broccolini babies.
and a tasty orange tuber, too:
sweet potatoes.
sweet mutha-F*n' potatoes.
a little muthaland yam action for all y'all.
we had a fire.
roasty. toasty. raging. barbarian. the works.
one match lit it up, duders.
it's a matter of personal professional pride for me.
i make fires happen.
with my spit.
it looks like snow out there, folks.
of course.
i've got a journey into the land of the port today.
what's better than dark night drives in the snowstorminess?
i'm sure the tatblasting terror i'm destined to endure
will in no way diminish my enthusiasm for driving
in bad weather.
me and phuc.
tsunami tattoo.
are you comin' by?
i'll have almost no pants on,
if that's any incentive to swing over,
and hang out with my wang out.
maybe i'll even show you the new watch i'm gettin'.
...taking my time.
the last leg of a weekend of real life.
the last leg of a large leg tattoo.
tomorrow's another day.
i think i'm tatty-o'blastifying some duder's weiner.
NOT the weiner guy.
a different one.
lucky number seventeen.
at this point in my dong-decorating career,
i think I may be the weiner guy.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....