Tuesday, August 31

the end.

this is it.
the last day of august.
the big finale.
and it's been a scorcher.
and what could be better?
melting your flesh on contact with the arid air,
evaporating moisture into the searing atmosphere.
dehydrating, my ninjas.
dehumidifying, even.
one hundred degrees of blistering, brutal barbarian waves.
nothing makes a sweater-loving bearded weirdie like me
go completely cranky-pants furious and unpleasant faster
than a climbing thermometer.
the whole woodsly realm had a fever today.
y'know what else loves the oveny temperatures of late late summer?
the dump.
all you public waste collection, trash day, garbage can-type
urban mutha-uckas have NO idea how really real us rural doo-duders
doo-doo that doo-doo disposal business.
there is no trash man, b!tches.
we're the trash men, i mean.
and we take all that really ripe, rancid, ruined and/or recyclable refuse
to a big square building in the woods.
and let me tell you, kids:
it F*ing stinks.
worse than a thousand decomposing unwanted dumpster babies.
worse than all the spoiled spilt milk in the dairy.
worse than a hot dock covered in old oysters.
it's rough, neighbors,
and i suspect the vultures swarming overhead
aren't there for the festy leftovers.
they want whole human being bits,
from those unfortunate nose-huffers who succumb to the stench.
i'm just sayin',
if you pass out and puke a little bit,
you'd better hope you land face down...
because those birds will so fully peck out your eye, y'all.
that's just how it goes.
i spotted a couple of sweet macaronis for my hat, though.
and i stuck those feathers right in, too.
yankee doo-doo never sleeps on that hot decor.
believe it.
since family day has been cancelled
on account of the kids being back in school,
we took a grown-ups-only day together to portland, maine.
just me and the wifey.
like a date.
we ate heaps of green elephanty goodness,
shopped around a little bit,
and generally enjoyed each other's company.
that's some romantic-type sh!t, ninjas.
don't you be doubtin' it.
except for the sweat.
and the dead oceany aroma of seaside waterfront reality.
hard styles don't take days off.
even when i'm rockin' one of my own.
goodbye, august.
goodbye, summer vacation.
goodbye, weekend.
i'll miss you;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, August 30

money money money monday.

even tea and toast isn't going to rock my socks off this morning.
with the sunshine.
and the breeze.
and the breakfast table.
we've got moves to make, ninjas.
hard styles to enact, even.
and also things like 'brush hogging'.
that's real.
woodchips and tractors and sh!t are involved.
with hogging on the brush.
i'm serious.
they could've called it plant chopping,
or bush detroying (that's what SHE said)
or a whole bunch of other defoliating monikers....
but brush hogging is what is widely accepted as appropriate.
trees are getting chopped down over here,
and so many handy men are lined up to lend those hands.
summer is way over, over here.
and now,
in the hardy heatwaves,
we'll have sweaty sweepers swabbing the sauce off.
...of the chimneys, mutha-lickas.
our very good buddy,
and personal hair stylist,
ms. elsah davis,
turns another year older today.
but she's still little.
like a cool kid sister or somethin'.
happy berfday!
i can't believe i've known her for, like, eight years.
in a row.
it's important to shout-out to your peoples, neighbors.
especially when it's their scissors that are responsible
for the very tenuous grasp on humane unattractiveness i hold.
humane unattractiveness.
sure thing.
a bad haircut could render me unsanctioned
and nearly war-criminal in my mothlike, unhot visage.
i'm sayin'.
you just can't polish a turd,
but you sure can squish one and make it even worse.
i'm very grateful for her efforts to tame my dome
and it's ever dwindling follicles,
to make it marginally less offensive to the see-balls of others.
get it?
i figured you'd catch on.
sometimes, kids,
sometimes, it's hard to get psyched on
documenting all the daily doo-dooings.
the ins and the outs and the in-betweens of a
soft and secret Folk Life aren't really all that exciting.
even when they're all really happening.
writing it down just makes it worse.
i'm as surprised as you are.
it's not a non-stop rockin', hard, hot fire, lightning-streaked,
stormswept, savage, raging gypsy warpath all the time.
there are short gaps in the berserker barbarian battles.
to breathe in an' that.
huffin' and puffin' and blowin'.
here's to those little minutes.
the easy ones.
without the lulled-down calm spots for comparison,
eleven just seems like a hard ten.
(that's what she said)
never quiet, never soft.....

sunday, sunny sunday.

ninety degrees of right angled hot hot heat.
of degrees.
where did that come from?
i didn't even realize it was a blistering doo-doo butter explosion
for almost the whole day.
because i was tattooing concentric circles all flippin' day.
that's a double dose, neighbors.
circles inside circles.
that's the cost of living in the woods, i suppose;
the less-fun ideas of less-awesome getters.
tatblasting away on pain-in-the-A*-holes?
we got that.
in a few weeks,
i'll be thrilled to have those same turdsmashers spending loot.
but not today.
stina and james and rowan.
y'know 'em?
we ate some tasty treats after work with those kids,
and despite the heroically awful service at the restaurant,
the company was great.
they do tattoos.
they think like tattooers.
we don't really do anything the same way.
but still,
vegan, drug-free tattooed non-A*-holes should stick together.
or at least hang out once a year.
their little man, rowan,
is pretty flippin' adorable.
and y'all know i don't hang out with little legit diaper babies if i can help it.
that kid gets a free pass.
late night parking lot hangin',
with filled-up bellyholes,
and months worth of stories to swap.
that's a good night.
after a superheated day of brutal swelter,
the relative cool and calm of the dark dark dark nighttime
is what we all needed.
small doses, duders.
or at least short visits.
warrior poetry is best appreciated in concentrated bursts
of burly barbarian spitfire camaraderie;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, August 29

baby sat.

i guess all the last minute not-ready-for-autumn-type ninjas
are all here for that last week of freedom.
it's like a carnival is in town.
without the rides,
or the food,
or the fun.
just the migrant weirdies who shill and huck.
they're here.
in droves.
the last minute push, mutha-lickas.
the last week or two of sweet sweet movie checks,
and fattie-boombattie swanky livin'.
that means that my grind is even gristlier.
and grislier.
and way more 'garious.
that's a vocab word that almost nobody knows.
but trust me.
it's flippin' 'garious.
at least there was a small bright spot of consideration, though.
my homeboy doug,
who happens to also be my propane representative,
brought me some hummus and pitas and taboulleh.
from somewhere in massachussetts.
'specially for me.
that's some sh!t.
it's always surprising to me when duders think of me,
of all people,
when they're out doo-dooing their own freaky sh!t.
i mean,
why ruin a perfectly good time,
or make a bad time worse,
with hot and fiery furious mental reference to me?
woodsly goodness as post-hypnotic suggestion?
does all my brutal butthole banter leave a seed of destruction
in your mutha-flippin' brains, kid?
i'll take it, don't get me wrong,
i'm just a little confused.
those pitas are off the hinges.
chick pea power, mutha- b!tches!
i got that.
chainsaw massacre.
those two words imply a lot.
like skin-wearing melt-faced murderers,
and body-snatching baby-eating texas mutants.
i'm not so down with all of that action.
i will totally massacre the spruces that windbreak my northface.
not my jacket, jerks.
i don't hang out with that type of cracker-A* hiker apparel.
i mean at the fortress.
facing north, against the cold and blustery sh!t.
you get it.
we're on some living-roof timber pole-shed wood hut-type jauns...
it isn't going to construct itself,
and neither are the trees going to relocate their roots.
good thoughts and warm wishes for the photosynthetic conifers, for sure,
but we are woodsly warrior barbarians, b!tchbags.
we chop all kinds of stuff down.
and the chainsaw my father-in-law has supplied is gonna be the instrument of
creation and destruction over here.
like i said,
it's what has to happen.
if i get ten seconds to doo-doo anything before dark anytime soon.
with my grisly, gristle-down grind.
hard work and hard styles and hard currency;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, August 27

wound and winded.

wind up your gears,
and let the wind fill your sails,
it's friday,
it's flippin' raging and stormswept,
and that crisp swan-song sawn-spruce smell is in the air.
mountain tops, my ninjas.
that's where i dwell.
and reside.
ohhhh, sh!t.
perpetually looking down on those of lower elevation,
berserker barbarian battle beasts reach pinnacles, kids.
because not giving a flyin' mutha-uck is how we get busy.
at the top, i mean.
of the mountains.
where we dwell.
and reside.
those gusts and gales can't dislodge us from our spots, either.
the fortress is too strong to wear away from hard air flow.
cross-currents of breathable fluid and forceful, oxygen-rich atmosphere
can't hold a blow-hard huff'n'puff wolf-bellow to our spot.
that's word.
and that's not all;
i'm grinding, ninjas.
work. work. work.
all work.
and no play.
if not for the wind,
and the blown-in answers,
i'd think that the secret universal plan was holding out on me.
there's a definite disturbance in the force.
if you can't feel it,
i can't feel YOU.
i'm sayin',
strange doings are afoot in the overlapping concentric social circles
of the woodsly warrior realm.
it blows.
and breaks.
like the wind.
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, August 26

present. tense.

that's right.
i'm here,
and i'm feeling the pull and push of the polarized moonscape.
the punchy power, people.
it's happening.
right now.
in regards to my state of being;
my current status in the present tense,
i AM well past tense,
and all the way into the agitated spectrum.
true story.
that's the difference between impending berserker fury,
and occurring berserker fury.
like i said,
it's all really happening.
batsh!t crazy, lunar lycanthropic werewolf hairiness, even.
at least the lil' wane means we're past the prime freakout sessions.
oh, c'mon.
today's the day,
in the way that every day is.
a prime starring role in really-real reality.
even with cranky-pants on,
even as a warrior poet in the woodsly goodness
surrounded by sauce-suckin' sack-soldiers.
the big action is poppin'.
there will be push-ups, sit-ups, F*-ups,
and maybe even tofu pups.
(wienery not-dogs are pretty good, y'all.)
the whole wet world of mountainous misery
is drying off and warming up.
that's good news.
i've got at least a couple of underquoted, underbooked appointments
to zippity-zap on,
and the whole thing is getting down under the auspices of the post-fullness.
...of the moon, my ninjas.
now that my girlie-girls have gone back to the hard styles of
connecticut's weak-sauce waterbabyhood,
it's get-busy time again in new hampshire.
no, not like that.
get-busy home improvement time.
i need masons,
flooring specialists,
chimney sweepers,
and assorted technicians
to come by,
doo-doo that helpin' handful of stuff that they do,
and make this place the winter-safe, warm, welcoming
den of dopeness it's supposed to be.
word up.
wood sheds?
double that.
brick hottnesses?
living-rooftop lining,
and timber framing?
recognize the designs of an onslaught of opulence.
i'm just sayin',
stow that new bathtub, neighbors...
we're reinforcing the fortress,
with furious, facile, friendly freshness.
...for your face.
this is Folk Life,
all the way to eleven.
still here,
still happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, August 25

all wet.

yesterday was family day.
at the polar caves.
a cascade of giant boulders fell off of a mountainside,
and when they piled up...
you guessed it.
they're deep, they're dark, they're damp,
and they are F*n' awesome, too.
over in rumney, new hampshire,
they've certainly got rocks.
heaps and heaps of 'em.
plus, fallow deer.
they look like baby deer,
but with antlers.
that's the answer, i guess.
and apparently,
hasidic duders love touristy new hampshire sh!t.
i'm for real on this one.
everywhere we go,
every time we get there,
there's a whole posse in effect rockin' matzo madness.
creepin' with us in the caves,
climbing the stairs,
checking out the international pheasant zoo.
if you've heard of a kind of pheasant,
from bavaria to brazil,
the polar caves has one.
in a polar cage, even.
you know i got a few stray feathers,
stuck 'em in my hat,
and called 'em macaroni and everything.
yankee doodoo, my ninjas.
we had 'mexican' food for dinner,
at the local mexi-faux spot,
and played soccer until dark.
hard styles, long hikes, far drives, and tofutti treats.
a full day for all of us.
the last one for a while.
summer's done,
and as if to punctuate that point of peril,
it's colder and wetter and greyer and suckier than ever.
the woodsly goodness is depressed.
i'm sayin',
no lovely light-bringing little ladies,
and the next thing you know,
it's lugubrious as a mutha-ucka.
harvest and maple are home.
after a whole day in the car,
behind the misty moisture
and meat-headed massholes clogging the roads.
no more family days.
just days.
and plenty to do, too.
if only this horrorshow of hard rain fallin' would stop for a second.
it's too grey, kids.
there's plenty more life happening,
but i'm sitting the rest of today out.
i'm all about mushin' in my room;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, August 24

family day.

i thought the Folk Life Fortress was a moving castle for a second.
no earthquakes or tragedies of tectonic tremoring were influencing my confusion.
mostly, it was because of the howls.
howl's moving castle? y'know?
oh, c'mon.
howlin' wolves is more like it.
i've got a nephew named harlen.
that's like the deep-south-accented way of pronouncing howling.
umm, yeah.
it's a full moon,
and the cubs and i are all revved up and raring to rage.
the rain stopped.
ma nature wants us to burn a blazing barbarian bonfire, i guess.
that's cool with us.
it's family day in the woodsly goodness.
that means muff's with blueberr's in 'em,
and with coconut/cinnamon/oatmeal/brown sugar streusel on top.
so we've got nutrients to power-up our A*s for all the big fun.
canis lupus lupus.
the wolfen.
the woodsly goodness wouldn't have as much hot fire,
or loud thunder,
or fresh hardness for your face,
without the lunar influence of wolf-man warrior poetics.
and we've got the will,
and the wood,
and the matches,
to sing out our scalding skaldic stanzas all F*n' night.
that's right, mutha-b!tches.
it's werewolf family day.
fat moms and ugly kids had better be careful.
they're considered prey,
especially in the natural world.
we've got caves to explore, ninjas.
deep, steep steps,
big rocks,
and glacial action.
another family day,
another series of underground canyons.
we take it to eleven,
with just the four of us.
it's the last one, y'all.
the last day we're all together for a while.
school is starting,
weak-sauce connecticut is waiting,
and in the meantime,
while we've still got the strength and the will,
we're gonna live this last one.
so hard.
i'm grateful for the time i have been given.
i just wish there were more of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, August 23

monday, almost full moon, rain.

you're kidding.
...aren't you?
well, you should be.
it's the weekend for warrior woodsmen,
and it's a doo-doo buttery chocolate rain in the sky.
our last two nights,
and all-together family day,
under the cover of clouds.
what's that smell?
i blame the cucch.
for what, you ask?
for that extra serving sitting in my fridge,
going bad,
after every single meal.
there's food a-wasting,
and it's all because my number one homeboy,
and notorious snacker/grazer/professional eater,
isn't here to pick up the slack.
i make so much food.
and before you even suggest it,
NO, i can't make any less.
what am i?
an A*-hole?
i'm a vegan gourmet making family dinnertime treats,
but with one less family mouth to feed.
and it sucks.
see a need, fill a need.
i need a wingman to munch up his share of the eats.
where you at?
there's a whole holy heckuva lot of good times over here.
in the woods,
in the rain,
with my main ninjas,
and doo-doo-that duders.
tonight's the night,
just like every night.
return of the jedi?
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, August 22

ill-conceived and poorly executed.

the last dregs of summer are filtering in.
those few, proud epic A*-blasters who take their paid leave after everybody else.
post-season rates, y'all.
savin' bucks and not givin' 'ucks.
dear drunk guy with the sunburn-
you're right,
that's probably 150 proof chewing gum i smell on your breath,
and you're boiled lobster red because you're 1/800th cherokee.
my mistake.
of course i'll tattoo you.
when you come back in to complain
about your melted-off scabby tattoo under the blistered skin lesions?
yeah, i know.
no one told you it was a bad idea to get tattooed,
and then rub your arm on a dead bird carcass down by the lake,
what with that flaking third-degree scalding cherry red leather hide you call your skin.
it probably wasn't even mentioned. at all.
i'm sure your hearing and judgement aren't impaired
by the seven simultaneous shots of strychnine
that you sucked down seconds before driving here.
(maybe one should've been a shot of penicillin, hmm?)
after all,
you're not drunk.
or belligerent.
or smelly.
or stupid.
so thank you,
inebriated plumber/vacationer/tattoo aftercare expert,
for letting me know what a failure i truly am,
for not having the good sense to listen to your inestimable insights,
and for brushing my teeth, washing my armpits, being literate, and using sunscreen.
if not for you,
i might have gone the rest of my life in ignorance.
it's a sh!t-salad sunday of overcast weak sauce.
what makes a day go by slower,
whilst simultaneously always looking much later than it is?
gray skies.
what a psych out.
it looks like tonight all morning and all afternoon.
time doesn't span like it should without that glowing circle in the sky.
there is no such thing as a cloud-dial now, is there?
i'm just sayin'.
no rocks,
no soccer,
no fires.
we're gonna have to hope for stormswept thunder
and lightning-striking  berserker fury before the day is done.
what do you duders know about THIS?
fungi perfecti, b!tchbags...
crazy mushroom people.
crazy mushroom growers.
crazy mushroom internet customers.
i'm so into it.
we're cutting a couple of spruces down,
and we'll be inoculating both of 'em
with plug after plug of laetiporus conifericola.
that's evergreen-friendly chicken-of-the-woods.
i may even harsh up some old oak logs,
and grow a whole slew of shiitakes,
and maitakes,
and phoenix fir oysters like a regular crazy mushroom gourmet.
you like it.
we like it.
you will eat it.
with us.
it may be the end of summer,
but it is the beginning of worthy really real life.
every day.
especially today.
gray skies and all;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, August 21


^ no A*s, my ninjas.
...you get it.
it's that time of day again.
morning time.
y'know what other other time it is too?
oh yes it is:
panniecakes time.
that's a good time.
they're cakes that you don't bake.
and that's cakesmade out of dopeness.
...and if you don't like panniecakes?
F* you.
discs of delicious are what's for breakfast.
i need those flapjack frisbees to power-up.
there's a long, slow, strange day ahead of me,
tatblastin' clowns (the image not the client)
and some robert frost-type jauns, too.
maybe, it will be great.
regardless of the quotients of greatness quantity,
i will at least have all the energy i need.
because of those mutha-flippin' griddle treats, y'all.
panniecakes, pannicakes-baker-man!!
nutrients, for my face.
hey, neighbors,
what do you know about books?
i know, i know, i KNOW.
books are for dorks.
and reading is for the queers...
are these books for queer dorks?
no way.
these books are clearly the super-smartie, turbo-cool
monster manuals for woodsly goodsly warrior poetry.
...and i have 'em.
i did NOT take a photo of the half dozen fantasy novels
about dragons, dungeons, and dwarves that arrived in the mail.
now that'd be dorky.
if you're visiting,
and you're also wondering about viking saxes
or plug spawn fungi,
or what type of weird mushroom is growing
all up on that tree stump in the woods out back,
i've got you covered.
you should schedule some time to hang out, strangers;
it's good for you up here.
that's the truth.
it's s'turd'y.
most folks have the whole day to doo-doo what they want to.
but not us.
we're grindin' away.
workin' hard and hangin' tough.
as usual.
there's soccer playing on the schedule this evening.
bicycle kicks, duders.
that's somethin'.
savage stormswept raging gypsy physical exercises.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, August 20

ole! ole! ole! ole!

four pairs of old-timey sneaky hottness.
everybody rocks the same sweet sneaks,
everybody kicks the footie.
those're the rules for after-dinner runaround time.
sambas, ninjas.
goin' back with it.
that's that cute, quirky family togetherness-type sh!t.
sorta like when fat families all wear the same oversized shirts to amusement parks.
only way less gaytarded.
we are together.
 on est ensemble.
that's good stuff.
now that autumn has decided to pop in,
and make a special cameo appearance...
it's extra chilly,
and that crisp cool breeze is blowin' in with answers.
it seems that summer is over and done with.
at least, for most practical purposes.
soon-to-be drunken college kids have all gone off
to dorm rooms and sh!tty beer-party apartments by now;
school kids are done shoppin' for gear,
and are getting their bus schedules and homeroom assignments;
and moms and dads are finally finished with their time off of work.
vacations are done for, duders.
the woodsly goodness is finally slowing down.
which of course is good and bad.
we get our streets back,
but we've only got the local stumplestiltskins to rely on for loot.
that's a rough exchange.
if i spend more time driving,
and less time working,
then i'm ahead of the curve, yeah?
after all,
we've got the shoes,
we've got the fields,
and we've got the ball.
kickin' it all the way live;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, August 19

failure to thrive.

y'know the last time i played soccer?
eleven years or so ago.
'out of practice' would be an enormous understatement.
'out of shape' seems to fit accurately as well.
'mutant hour old baby gazelle' is just about the perfect description.
lanky, covered in wetness, ungraceful, and prone to accidents.
good thing there aren't any hyenas or lionesses around.
they'd eat me before i could ever sweep a side bicycle kick.
a whole family of warrior woodsmen and women,
runnin' in circles around a field?
that's a recipe for tragic consequence.
in fact,
i'm broken, already.
i dislodged my kneecap,
and bruised my instep.
i walk like a pirate, now.
what am i?
a thousand-year-old A*-hole?
man, i sure hope not;
but while i'm limpin' around today,
that may be a point of debate.
at least i can rest assured i am not a jocktard fruit-destroyer either.
small relief, maybe, but relief nonetheless.
the whole dang gang is back under one roof.
harvest and maple and us.
that's so good.
like vitamins.
one last week of summer vacation together.
although it feels like apple-pickin' weather a full month early.
it's cold at night, neighbors.
i'm sayin'.
pajamas are ON.
y'know what'd keep us toasty warm?
hot fire.
we got that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, August 18

on the road. again.

rock hunting!
that's that romancing the stone sh!t.
we took the dog out to uncle steven's castle in the sky.
really, it's just a mountain,
but there's a lot of what i need up there.
hand-picked for their visual virtues
from a field full of rocks,
and filling a truckbed full of rocks,
for a flowerbed full of rocks.
they aren't getting any lighter, either.
check the viewpoint, ninjas.
scenic vista-type action over here.
that's nature, in full effect.
y'know what goes great with bandy-armed rock-rackin' exhaustion?
noodoo bowl.
sweet and spicy tofu.
soba noodoos.
with three kinds of hot sauce and extra black pepper.
plus some soupy veggies and lots of soy sauce.
that's like a whole hole of unholy hellacious howling.
more like noodoo bowel.
the soccer ball is here,
and so is the low self-esteem.
the wife and i were a couple of sweat-soaked soggy sacks, y'all.
an hour of kickin' it about,
on a proper pitch,
and we both needed a shower and a massage.
sore, tired, and played-out.
i got that.
i also get to go to assachussetts in a little minute.
harvest and maple are coming back for one last week
of woodsly goodness,
and family togetherness,
and summer vacation.
lucky us.
one less day off,
one more day of driving across the 'sauce.
one more magic minute with my mighty miniatures.
moments, neighbors.
i'm on 'em;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, August 17

positive dental futures.

when you're a tattooer,
you always hear references to dentistry.
and drilling.
and assorted oral hygiene situations.
the thing is,
i love the dentist.
a lot.
mostly because i hate gross teeth.
i mean, a whole faceful of mossy gnarled-up plaque attackers?
that's butt-nastiness behind your lips.
i confess:
i'm a flosser.
i can't hang out with festy choppers,
and i make it a priority to keep 'em nice.
me and the wife are both gettin' our chompers buffed and polished.
that's romance.
the ultrasonic tea and tobacco tannin removal magic?
so sexy.
up here in the mountains,
plenty of folks let their incisors get crusty,
but still drop loot on getting tattooed.
misplaced priorities?
heck yes.
fix your doo-doo buttery cavity-creepin' grill, ninjas.
sh!t's not cool, y'heard?
word up.
up-here life is dope.
up-here teeth are not.
what's up with tartar?
yo, but on the really real, though, that's so gross.
tartar sauce? nasty.
steak tartare? F*n' nasty.
cream of tartar? good for baking, nasty on it's own.
tooth tartar? C'MON...
heck, even heck used to be called tartarus.
if you've got cottage-cheesy clotted-crap leavin's on your teeth?
you're suspect, son.
brush 'em up.
of course,
i'm exempting the tatars.
gobi desert/ural mountain turks are okay with me.
i have no experience with the quality of their enameled eat-bones....
linoleum blocks.
what do you guys think?
i'm on some Folk Life & Liberty arthur-making.
would you wear a woodsly goodness-reppin' shirt?
i would.
we'll be seeing more of that in the next few days.
i'm excited.
who knows?
maybe i'll even break out the camera over here,
and have some photos to go with these words...
blah blah blah.
you stopped reading so many sentences ago, anyway;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, August 16

bull shark

awwwwwwwww man.
it's rainin'.
it's monday.
i'm tatblastin' The Wiener Guy.
i'm buying a football.
a real one.
the round kind;
not a bastardized rugby lemon-oval.
hexagonal panels and all of that.
oh c'mon, america, figure it out.
i'm talking about soccer.
from when i was eleven.
and now,
i'm taking it
what do really real warriors need a footie for?
plaza soccer, kids. on the ones.
i'm sayin'.
sweaty nights of root beers and kickin' it about.
that's some throw-it-down back in the day sh!t.
if you weren't there, 
you have no idea.
this is as close as i get to reminiscing, neighbors.
we'll see how it goes.
step one: get a soccer ball.
step two: adidas sambas.
step three: root beer.
that's pretty much it,
besides a shopping plaza and a late night.
it's too wet to go get rocks.
(they get slippery, son)
and ma nature already watered my garden.
looks like this monday is already ready already.
once i get my manliness all collected in one place,
i can start sawing wood,
hammering nails,
and constructing straight structures.
that's right.
buildin' sh!t.
like sheds and arbors and all that woodsly hottness.
the fortress is always the central space around which
many support structures spring up.
castle first,
city second.
Folk Life & Liberty.
and sheds.
and gardens.
and woodsly goodness.
i'm on it as it happens.
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, August 15


it's a sunday in the woods.
a relaxing, leisurely day of rest;
but only if you're an A*-hole....
i'm fairly sure i'm not actually an A*-hole,
and i've got ten hours of tattoos to do.
so i'm safe for now.
busy, busy, busy.
late nights, long days, hard styles.
it's actually pretty cool to have so much zapping to do.
can't help that gratitude when things are steady rockin' every day.
if only it were always this busy.
i'd get to miss out on my whole life ALL the time.
so other people could have sentimental skin scars of stupid stuff.
don't get me wrong, kids,
i'm on my grind.
making moves and movie checks, y'heard?
i mean,
there's only a few more weeks of summer left,
and then all these madras-shorted meat-mashers
head back home to their lairs and lounges
in whatever non-woodsly goodness they live in.
but that's in a few sundays.
not today.
right now, today, on THIS sunday,
the getting is good.
so i'm getting busy with my big business by getting busy-
you'd think i'd share more pictures, huh?
i can't doo-doo-that, neighbors.
for one thing, i don't take many pictures,
for another, this is real-life documentarianism,
not work life watermarking.
maybe if i did a tattoo of some rocks.....
brutal workweeks make home life seem haggard.
not much gets done around the fortress
when i don't get home until after dark.
it doesn't get dark out THAT early, ninjas.
i'm sayin'.
what i really need, neighbors,
is a couple of extra rugged man hands to help me haul
some woodland rocks up and out of the roadside lodes and piles.
for real.
my megalithic aspirations have exceeded my meager musculature.
i can't lift 'em up, duders.
not that i even have half an extra second to go out huntin', anyway.
i used up those mini-minutes writing about it.
time is taking itself, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, August 14


i am makin' fun of every mutha-F*er who shows up today.
you know it.
i've been a busy beaver,
blasting away at all the tatty-o's that i can cram into each minute,
with almost no time to even inhale a deep breath, my ninjas.
all week i've been in extra early and out extra late,
and even crushed it on my days off.
someone has got to pay for that.
you heard me, son.
now, even when we're super-slammed with eager,
unprepared, uninformed walk-in clientelle,
the tattoo prices stay reasonable,
because i can't get all shystie like that...
so instead i'm exacting tolls in hurt feelings and hard styles.
snark week, b!tchbags.
it's time to let mutha-uckas know what's happenin'.
if sh!tty sideways commentary was dollars, duders,
i'm sayin',
i'd retire tonight.
it's like just can't help myself;
i see these goofy flat-brim beefsticks and their dumpy girlie-girls,
and i can't stop.
yes, i'll still tattoo my best effort the whole time.
yes, i'm reppin' G.S.M., and will take ALL your loot.
yes, i will also take away your sense of self-esteem and well-being.
it's a dirty job- you know the rest.
their b!tch-sap just oozes out, neighbors.
and it's not as if there's a shortage of subject matter-
this town is packed to the pits with family vacationers.
nine o'clock last night, on my way home from work,
three hours later than usual,
and the crosswalks were mobbed with whole fat families
out hunting for french fries and souvenirs.
that's a general populace looking to get a dose of doo-doo butter
on general principle.
i'm up early-shirley.
twenty winks, like i'm on a reduced rest diet.
that's how i make time for myself.
dawn's early light, an' that.
one way or another i take time.
i don't just take my time either.
i rush and rush and attack, an' that.
hurried along, but harried and held as well.
i take time, duders.
i'll take it hostage if i have to.
sensitive sapsuckin' waterbabies have been warned.
it's satire-day.
all day.
live and direct,
with hot fire spit from lava-lacquered lips,
loud fresh hardness...
...for you face;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, August 13

the thirteenth.

it's ah-so a'spooky.
the sun is out now and the skies are clear,
and that's nice weather for sure.
but that doesn't matter today, now does it?
no way no how,
you're proper F*ed my jinxy minxes and vexed vixens.
there's hexes and evil eyes and superb superstitions to observe-
it's friday the 13th, ninja-b!tches.
and what with it being a friday,
it's decidedly not-casual.
that's a pretty clear clarion call for machete-chops,
and for the wearing of bow ties if ever i've heard of one.
human sacrifices and broken mirrors and umbrellas indoors
and all of that tasty treatsiness.
i'm on it.
and that's not all, at all;
provided a black cat doesn't cross the path of the delivery man,
and he doesn't drive under a ladder or whatever,
so that he makes it to minneapolis on time,
there will be new and better treats for your faces
over at the hotspot for unholy heaps of hottness:
check in on all those sweet jauns this afternoon, neighbors.
provided we haven't been hexed or hemmed-up,
there's bound to be new stuff
that takes it all the way to eleven.
on the 13th, an' that.
we've got your number,
and maybe even a spare bow tie.
check out the mesa for your face-a:
that's my table rock.
the hunt for solid stone slabs is getting harder
as my ambitions get bigger (and heavier).
that striated slice of turbo-fresh is what's sating my searches for now.
it's not easy,
fitting in time to get that granitey goodness.
like these butt-spots around the fire pit...
what's more flavorful than permanent posts of lithic loveliness?
off the henges, y'all...
yeah, that's right.
it's friday.
the 13th.
another 'nother day full of non-stop real life.
i'm lucky to be here;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, August 12

festy spiders.

you know i hate 'em.
i don't squish 'em,
or get into any of that 'killing tiny things' weak sauce;
i mean,
i'm not an A*-hole, after all.
but i still hate 'em up hard.
i doo-doo that eight-legged freaky sh!t all the time.
it's a little weird, yeah?
i'm sayin',
spindle legs and fat butts aren't usually the object of my ire, y'all.
at all.
but i'm sort of a two-leg upper limit kind of a guy.
so if you're rockin' six more than that?
i can't hang out.
and it's only spiders of notable size that make my pee-pants get saturated, too.
...unless they're the really quick kind of spiders.
then, neighbors, it's a warbled warcry to my wife to come rescue me.
no joke.
me and those little dip-darting guys aren't cool with each other.
their spider-sense clearly targets me as prey, or somethin'.
(i don't get it, i've never been considered very fly...oh, come on.)
but now would you guys like to know what makes all my burly barbarism
melt away into a skirt-lifting prissy-prance?
i'll tell you:
those mutha-b!tchin' quick-jumpie spiders.
oh MAN, they're the worst.
fat, huge, crawlie ones are pretty bad, for sure,
at least those're comparatively slow moving, though.
but those teleporter jammies?
the ones that jump faster than your eyes can follow?
F* all of that noise, ninjas.
i will spray a nervous vomit 360 degree mist globe
in a gypsy thunderstorm of bilious bile surround-sound sorcery.
i'm just not into those little 'uckers.
i'm reminded of this now
because my wife caught a small one last night.
in the bathroom.
and called me in to show me.
that's a hard style, kids.
no me gusta.
after all,
my wiener is exposed and vulnerable most often in that room.
go ahead,
imagine the semi-nude scampering pee-showering escape romp.
it's bound to happen.
rational relative-size reasoning isn't an option.
i think of my beard harboring one of 'em,
and i practically punch my own face right off.
every time.
yesterday was something else.
did i stop into the studio for just a quick second,
to see my wifely hottness and firm up our dinner plans?
yeah. i did.
did i end up doing three little gaysplosive tatty-zippers?
of course.
i can't escape those adult responsibilities.
no fun.
now you know why i'm doing so many sit-ups and push-ups.
i can't help but pull my own weight, y'heard?
so i'm trying to weigh less.
did i still drive all day and then work?
i'll just say it, my worthy warriors;
i loooove those mutha-flippin' movie checks.
G.S.M. y'all-
like s'mores:
Gimme S'Money, mutha-lickers;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, August 11


slap-happy sticker-heads will be pleased to know
we've got what you need.
as usual,
before you even realized it was necessary.
are we psychics?
of course not.
we just bring the lightning-striking viking-type action.
that precedes the thunder, as a matter of fact.
style-making trendsetters, us.
yeah, yeah, yeah.
i know what you're thinking;
so where's the adhesive vinyl advertising at?
we're more than happy to lay some treats on ya.
over at
click it, and check it, and get some.
heck, get a lot.
you need, we have.
doo-doo that.
it's the eleventh.
that's the truth.
and after our second family fun day in a row yesterday,
it almost seems like a sin
to bring my baby girls back home already.
...but it's happening.
go easy, neighbors.
they're coming back here next week.
we're nice with it like that.
a jaunt over to asscrackachussetts?
not so nice with it.
a day off, spent driving in the car, without a fresh destination?
doo-doo butter...for your face.
but hard styles are what we rock.
whenever we must, wherever we are.
warrior poetry is composed of harsh verses,
and adverse adlibs.
and sometimes a little bit of massholery.
true stories, duders.
now act like y'know:
taking it to eleven doesn't always mean going
completely berserker barbarian batsh!t bananas for everything.
sometimes a little cold-hearted calendar calculation is in order.
i doo-doo that planned propaganda sh!t, too.
today's an example of that-
up here on this very computer,
in the leafy embrace of the woodsly goodness.
it's the eleventh, but that's not all.
this is also the 900th real-life documentarian blog i've written.
in a row.
BAM!-a-lama, b!tchbags.
that's a whole holy helluva lot of tue stories and Folk Life, huh?
it sure is.
and it's all really happening right now.
that's timing, ninjas.
perfect alignments and o'clocks.
you like it.
happy anniversay,
to me;
never quiet, never soft.....

family day.

guess what we found?
lost river gorge!
it's not just a doo-doo fresh ravine of natural wonderment, either-
it's got glacial caves.
even better than that,
it's totally and copletely non-friendly for fatties and lazies.
nice, huh?
you know it.
if you're in any way stout of body,
you will get stuck in these jauns.
and that's no joke.
check the teleportational hottness:
that's a big chasm of mossy rivery lostness.
i'm just sayin'.
so there's all these caves with raging torrents
of watery hydro-thunder hangin' out.
in the dark.
under tons of thick, heavy, rocky nature.
every so many feet the big cracked-up boulders surround
pools and potholes made by sedimentary debris in the water,
abrading the slabs of stone in every direction.
it's all still really happening,
just like it did a flippin' bazillion years ago.
let me also say, for the record,
that it felt good to be a spindly stick-man today.
we saw all the secret insides of all the secret tunnels.
that's some nutrient-rich hard-style action. ninjas.
and once we bounced out and away from the gloomy gorge,
we hit up an even gloomier spot,
in broad sunny daylight:
boise rock.
it's an enormous glacial irregularity,
where a dude by the name of thomas boise rocked out
with the loudest, freshest, hardness of some epic survivalism.
during an icy blizzard back in the olden days of manly nordic fury,
he endured the savage stormswept winter action
by first killing, and then skinning,
and finally wrapping himself in said skin of,
his trusty horse,
all whilst weathering the inclemency from under the g-darn rock,
until duders sledded out looking for him the next day.
he lived, duders,
but they had to axe-warrior chop the frozen
horse-hide mummy wraps off of him.
tougher than you are.
that's what that is.
believe it.
family day, redux.
another 'nother magical moment of
togetherness and active particpation
in the northern extremes of the woodsly goodness.
dear red spikes,
our day was better than yours.
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, August 9


ferns. ferns. ferns. ferns. ferns.
that's what i'm on about, neighbors.
sweet unrolled stagger-spiked sticks of woodsly goodness.
there're so many different types of  'em up here.
which, of course, means one important thing:
i definitely need some for my semicircular soil strips
and my gardeny mounds of magic dirt.
i'm pretty sure i've got the technology to obtain a whole fieldful.
i mean,
i've got a shovel.
i've got a hundred empty plastic plant pots,
and i've got a truck that'll hold the whole lot of 'em.
word up, duders;
looks like a late night roadside primitive vegetation appropriation sensation
is what's got to be done.
absconding with the living proof of dinosaury peabody paintings,
under cover of the ever-encroaching daylight decreases
of a worn-out waning summertime.
i'm sayin'.
this way,
i've got a free store of radical free fronds of freshness
and a whole new botanical perspective
on these saga-worthy tracts of earth and air.
plots of land, as plots of stories.
i get it, i got it, we're on it.
ferns, kids.
there's a crazy-big seven-footer of ostrichy splendor i'm peepin',
and seven or eight shorter, stouter little teapots of terrific, too.
ferns are what's up.
just be dope, or F* right off, y'heard?
it's august 9th again.
that's a little somethin' awesome, from where i'm at.
yeah, ninjas.
15 years!
of no grateful dead, i mean.
look it up.
today's the day.
cryin' hippies on campus,
back in '95,
lamenting the passing on of one mr. jerry garcia.
awwwwwww, man.
more accurately:
after decades of drug-addled vibulations,
and the absence of a razor on legs or pits
for miles in every direction,
the lazy, hazy incense and sensimilla dreamland of underachievement
instantly came to a screeching sobriety-threatening halt.
definite gnarly bummer, bro.
harsh realms, an' that....
oh c'mon.
it's called a shower,
and a job.
check it out.
finally dead was more like it,
and no love lost between the really real ones
and the tie-dyed doo-doo butter, either.
...i may even have some cake.
that's no joke.
thank goodness for my impeccable fashion sense,
it'd be all hard styles,
and no personal styles.
8-9-10, by the american account of months and days.
today is the day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, August 8

B & P for you and me.

y'know what goes swimmingly with a big field
packed full of stinky hippies and sunshiny vibes?
and puppets.
for those who don't know,
you are completely unprepared for the epic hottness
that we immersed ourselves in today...
glover, vt.
bread and puppet's decapitalization circus,
and 'the nothing is not ready' pageant.
what's better than an eighty year old manly man on turbo-long stilts?
a day in the northeast kingdom,
a day with the family,
a day off from the doo-doo butter.
that's a good day.
so many smelly ones, hairy ones, and not-so-fresh ones.
and even more awesome ones.
the loud, fresh, hard elite dopeness went to eleven.
stilts, kids.
i need a pair of reliable log-length legs.
last time i tried, i broke my A*-bone right off of my body.
so naturally,
after the spell of abstinence from dangerous balancing acts,
i need more.
kiss my A*.
to make the boo-boos go away, in advance, i mean.
be easy.
long drives and loud music,
overcast days and powerful plays,
life is getting lived,
like it or leave it,
free or die,
and all that stuff.
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, August 7

saturdazed and consternated...

hard styles.
that's what i'm reppin' on.
somebody broke my computer.
y'know how it goes:
clickety-clicks and clacks on every little icon,
and before you know it,
you've contracted internet AIDS.
i don't know who the heck it was who did it to it,
but i know that by the time i got home extra-late from work,
a full-blown case of blistering, feverish foulness had done 'er in.
complications are what gets you in the end, huh.
so my jauns are busted,
and i'm at work,
readying my A* for a brutal bevvy of blastin' on some boorish
beat-street browsin' bastards...
is it ever easy?
who even wants the easy way?
not me, ninjas.
the hard way is the only way.
some kind of righty-tighty wrenchin' is what i need.
at all times.
lucky for y'all,
these waterbabies can't start without me,
and i'm taking a second to discuss the difficulties inherent
in internet usage.
i think the poison email doo-doo-dot.com butter
is what killed us.
have you gotten that canadian viagra secret crap-blast
live and direct from friendly trusted email addresses yet?
so good.
i got that.
and now i'm all F*ed up.
be careful, mutha-b!tches, is all i'm sayin'....
it's a super-duper busy saturday up here.
every flippin' A*-tard i've ever even heard of
is hangin' out at every light at every intersection,
wrecking my whole world.....
sitting at work,
sitting in cars,
sitting in on a session of aggression and concession;
it's still what happens,
even when it sucks;
*super p.s.-
i couldn't and wouldn't ever let some lame cake weak sauce stop me
from bringing the thunder and the lightning into the equation.
i've already rocked this day inside and out,
and after a trip to staples,
i'm all usb ported and routered up.
i've brought the tower out of retirement,
and i'm a lot less mobile with a full-sized pc,
but the big action is back in action.
i doo-doo that instant gratification-type sh!t...
...not to mention the brandy spankin' new laptop
that i'll be representin' all the real life documentarianism with,
come thursday.
i know that's not exactly instant,
which explains the wireless magic stick stuff i'm using right now.
it is literally all really happening as i type.
barely, and even then only for you.
and you.
and you.
you, not so much.
and you, too;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, August 6

all kinds of tired.

i dream of standing stones.
massive menhirs,
daunting dolmens,
and barbaric boulders.
it does not normally make for restful sleep.
at all.
i didn't dream even a little tiny bit last night.
and instead of restless rolling rocky ramblin' roads,
i just stayed up.
all flippin' night long an' that-
wide awake, tossing and turning,
and all the suckie sundries of associated slumberlessness included.
long nights, neighbors.
probably just not enough heavy lifting of the standing slabs.
i'm tellin' you guys,
hard work makes you sleepy,
although a little less so each day.
i only moved one grainy grabhandle glob granite yesterday.
it was a triple-hundred-pounder;
but still,
that's light action in relative terms of Folk Lively gardening.
and my nightie-night times paid for it in the end.
i've got a couple of little girls in my house.
y'know what i think they've been eating behind my back?
coughie cake.
yeah, i spelled it right:
hacking, sniffling, summer cold-type wheezy rasp attacks.
that's a batch of crap, you can be certain.
summer colds are for A*-holes.
and i'm especially not vibing on the communicable A*-hole
who brought that doo-doo butter down on my daughters.
so not cool, sucka.
don't let me catch you on the street corner some night.
i'm just sayin'.
there's semi-sickness sort of skulking,
an crack-a-lackin' coughs barking out.
where's all the hottness gone to?
i daresay i won't be lookin' on the thermometer, in any event.
not so rad, for the record.
there's sure to be a full day of tedious tatzappin' in front of me.
how ELSE could i rock out to eleven,
on eleven seconds of sleep,
with sickish seeds awaiting my return,
and with big fun healing magic moments to plan for the night ahead?
i already know i've got some sh!t-salad to dress up later on.
my early-warning black-ops doo-doo sense is tingling, y'all.
or my tired, addled, monomaniacally rock-fixated brain has had enough
of all of this.
not that it matters much;
if work is on the schedule.
then work is what i do.
but later on, i may take a fern-transplanting sortie off into the side streets
and washouts, culverts, and crags of the woodsly goodness.
natural plants, in natural environments.
now what do YOU minky city-blowers know about that?
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, August 5

broccoli on the inside.

that's how i'm living my life.
with that tasty bread, full of broccoli,
on the inside.
in the crust, in my mouth, in my bellyhole.
that's family traditions, ninjas.
big ol' blocks of browned-up barbarian banquetry.
look at that extra-gluten-y crustiness.
that's right, neighbors-
that's the stretchy crust secret to gooey, chewy hottness.
oh, yeah, one more thing:
celiac disease can suckle it.
wheat treats rule my jewels, b!tches.
and like i already said-
there's broccoli on the inside:
c'mon. c'mon. C'MON.
you wish you'd had a slab of that succulence.
we tuned it up, too.
and as usual, the big reward for being the big baking daddy?
i got both butts.
two tapered-tips of broccoli, in bread, for my face.
a double-ender of delicious conical crustaceousness.
it's my house, after all.
(that's what she said)
as usual,
it goes to eleven in my kitchen.
and there're still brownies and frosting
just waiting to fulfill our flavorful fancies,
yesterday, today, tonight, and every other night.
it's always happening,
here more than there.
woodsly goodness is just that.
and more rocks.
and somehow, even more rocks.
i bring a crack team of rockin' robbers along for the ride.
a gang of four or more is preferred.
this time, in the sweltering sweat-pits,
i took jim, my helping handyman,
and my two dedicated daughterly rock-hunting little ladybirds.
rock hunting is an especially tricky lost art.
as it is,
rocks are pretty low-impact, in terms of the hunt,
as they don't ever really run from the hunters.
they rely much more heavily on camouflage.
and duders, it flippin' works.
they look exactly like every other blop and outcrop all around 'em.
and i'm not talking about boring bab-b!tch bricks of blase' basalt.
i'm naturally selecting the sz'huan spikes of earthly delight.
anybody can find a stone of two,
but it takes a worthy, wary-eyed warrior poet
to scoople up the really worthwhile ones.
that's why i bring a posse with me.
a search and rescue party of mountain-top trawlers,
making sure we nab all the garden-hard-style heavyweights.
another pick'em-up truckload, snagged and delivered.
when these gardens are finished.
(IF these gardens are ever finished)
you'll probably need to come over, huh?
otherwise, you're clearly missing out.
and we don't want that, now do we?
we planted grapes (of wrath),
and wisteria (of wonder),
and now all we need is a carpenter to help create the arbors.
it's a room, outside.
and the paths are being paved with participation,
and really big rocks.
isn't that always the case?
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, August 4


i've heard that it is good for you-
like vitamins.
chocolate treats make great presents, too.
guess who gets a tasty mutha-uckin' plate of
peanut-buttery/chocolate-chipped/cocoa-frosted brownies?
no, not YOU.
what have you done to merit some of those tasty bits anyway?
but if not any of you, then who?
a very special friendly one of our close and worthy peoples:
ms. casey!
her big b-day is tomorrow,
but she's headed off to some hippie camping hard-pounding expedition.
now what goes better with crunchy grit-grimers than brownies?
nothing at all, y'all.
so now this is happening.....
it's a wet wednesday in the woods.
the environment, more so than the day,
is precursory to a glad presumption;
mushrooms will be sprouting.
what's more rad than those spored-up dirt fruits?
maybe chocolates, but not much else, kids.
walks in the weeds,
and shovels full of disinterred fungi,
are on the menu.
and that's not all.
it's been too long, neighbors.
we feast our fat A*s on broccoli bread.
family dinner, with brownies for dessert?
good times are being had.
that's the truth.
baking, to begin and end the day.
mushrooms in the middle,
and a whole lot of big fun in between.
summer is for participating.
we doo-doo that get-involved-type sh!t;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, August 3

family day.

that's today.
the wife. the kids. and me.
that's the makings of family day in the woodsly goodness.
do you know what happens on family day?
i'll tell you:
nothing but flippin' righteous awesomeness all dang day!
no, really, though,
i'm serious.
it's all really happening.
like, documented-type stuff and everything.
believe me.
cue the teleportation:
panniecakes with double-buttery(ish) earth balance business!
that's just to fuel the gardening introduction to a flavorful day of raditude.
where is this, you're asking?
robert frost's house, b!tches.
that's right.
poetry walks and writers in residence at the residence.
you like it, huh?
recognize the hottness...
...for your F*ing face.
would i write nature poems if every day i saw this?
heck yes, i would.
nature's first green an' that.
stay gold, ninjas.
on the ones.
hey now,
is that the last remaining iron furnace
from the post-revolutionary war era?
it IS, actually.
a humongous chimney fire-breather for melting metal.
and it's old and covered in slag leavings and sh!t?
nothing but industry and excellence,
hundreds of years later, even.
it's across the gale river, in franconia, nh.
and there's a wicked old bridge made out of it's iron by-products, too.
it just keeps getting doper and doper.
and that's not even the best part, mutha-b!tches....
fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuume gorge.
the green, mossy canyon of fast-moving moisture.
lord of the rings like a mutha-ucka, son.
this spot had it ALL.
insane hikes.
wet, slippery, dangerous terrain.
breath-taking scenery.
mushrooms in glorious abundance.
slow moving hasidic jews and their thousands of kids.
i guess we picked queens, n.y. day at the state park.
shalom, suckas.
it was ON, duders.
i'm sayin'.
in under eight hours,
we ate an epic breakfast,
shopped for and planted some new greenery,
drove across the white mountains,
saw the sights,
hiked the wet and wild wilderness,
rode back again,
ate dinner at the flatbread pizza treat spot,
went shopping,
and lived to tell the tale.
family day, you lazy butt-blasterizers.
word up.
living so hard.
family day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, August 2

monday, monday...

ohhhhhhhh, sh!t!!
it's another 'nother other day of the dingy dirge up here.
more 'zaps,
more crap,
and more claptrap word-slaps for all the b!tchsap waterbabies out there.
i'm on that grind date workweek weariness.
grindin', y'all.
from black spikes to portraits,
i haven't even used colored pigments in days.
i'm lucky, neighbors, for sure-
requested appointments are packing my hours solid.
far and away.
at work early, home from work late.
first in, last out.
hard work is it's own reward.
it's the only acceptable conduit for such hard styles as we rock
over here in the mountainous realms of woods and goods.
do work, ninjas.
that's the example we're setting.
life's worthiness isn't about showing off what you make,
or what you get paid for it.
it's about how you're livin' it.
which happens to be great news,
since i've got not too much of either of the former,
and a whole heapin' helpin' of loud, hard, freshness
in regards to the latter.
life gets lived, like it or not.
grindin' away at the hours, the weeks, the months, and the years.
slowly, but surely.
spanning time, but not touching.
it's my weekend tomorrow,
and it feels as if it's already been a month since last weekend.
even bearded weirdies need a break for a little minute.
i'm sayin',
i'm all barba-strano, mutha-uckas.
that's italiano for weird beard.
we got those jauns up here.
bilingual business for your face.
...and your beard.
word up.
and so it's british ladies,
and The Wiener Guy,
closing out my last day of work until thursday.
you appreciate the rest more if it's super strenuous right before it.
grindin', mutha-flippers.
it's what we're all about;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, August 1


i said it, ninjas.
and so did the rest of the my fresh family of Fortress denizens.
fortified alive like supercilious superstition supporters,
rabbits galore, the first of the month magic mantra,
right out of our F*n' mouths and into the universe,
ready and willing to let our good fortunes be received
and rejoiced in by the secret universal plans.
we burnt up an august offering of blazin' rage,
and set the sparks soaring all the way to valhalla.
look at how sz'huan that big action was:
pretty 'splosiony, huh?
and here's another phase of the landspark lightning:
floating glow-embers make for heroic portraits of evening splendor.
the last night in july was a pretty handsome one, i might add-
except for the just-out-of-the-nest baby gray squirrels.
they weren't rocking it so hard.
in fact,
after a visit, all up close an' that, to the humans of the woodsly goodness,
their inadequate instincts served them even poorer than their proximity to
our ever-lovin' animal attackin' idiot canine.
the dog went inside,
we hung out by the fire,
and the babies moved towards the tree cover.
that's where everything fell apart,
and those underdeveloped instincts proved insufficient.
a fox ate one.
just like that.
no segue, no warnings.
i'm serious.
a squeak, a snap, and a scamper.
done. done. and done.
right before our faces.
that's a hard rural style, i'm just sayin'...
nature, y'all.
it wins.
and now it's august already.
that also means it's our great big one year anniversary!
the anniversary of the hottness of home ownership, i mean.
one year ago we moved into our incredible edifice.
an it's been a seriously eventful one, too.
the gardens are taking root.
and so are we.
embedded in the excellence of existing, kids.
we're here.
it's happening.
i'm grateful for this time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....