tricks and/or treats...

these treats are tricky, you hollow wieners!
look closely,
that's not steam escaping the hot-off-the-griddle glops and blops
of vegetable-based bangin' breakfast...
it's a mutha-lickin' specter.
spirited memories and masterful morningtimes,
from the frying pan to the hot fire to the big fat hungry mouth.

there're many many soybeans' zombified body-parts
composing (not decomposing) this big flippin' breakfast.
tofu scramble,
vegetarian soysage,
fake bacon,
heck,
there's even soymilk in the tea,
and pretend butter on the toast.
that's a lot of vegan thunder, duders.
shhhhh,
listen closely,
that's not a spooky ghoul wailing...
...it's my butthole exploding.
oooooOooOOoooooo-oooOh!
***********
it's all-hallow's eve,
and the oh-so-a'spooky times are teeming.
it's also Samhain.
summer's end.
the beginning of the dark half of the year.
c'mon.
if pumpkins and fires are your thing,
(and they are SO my thing, ninjas),
then the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress
is the place to be tonight.
a samhain berserker barbarian battle-blaze,
a lightning-striking viking banquet,
and a whole buttload of tricks,
and treats,
and ghostly goodness.
october's over.
yet again, a whole month has blasted past,
and only the cold nights and the dreams therein
left laising around after the fact.
october.
hallowe'en.
samhain.
pan de muerte,
pumpkin seeds,
grease paint,
and greasier gluttony.
trick.
OR treat.
it's happening.
i am grateful for the time i have been given.
the dark half starts now,
but there's always gonna be bright spots.
lights that never go out an' that;
never quiet, never soft.....

evens and eves.

wet leaves, and white water-
slippery slopes and collapsing riverbanks-
the flow up here is heavy,
and it's sucking in the souls, hard and fast and hungrily.
it's the eve of the eve an' that,
and the coast is far from clear.
it's mischief night.
or hell night.
or rascal night.
or whatever you nerds call it wherever you are.
call it what you want- tonight's the night.
i'm no wiccan weirdie, or anything close to it,
but i can feel it as fully as a full-moon frenzy.
spirits and memories, my ninjas.
flowing.
saints, souls, sinners, and sh!t.
and toilet paper,
rolls and rolls of toilet paper.
but we aren't wipin' up the doo-doo butter, duders,
we're mummy-wrapping the woodsly goodness.
c'mon.
it's mutha-b!tching mischief night for cryin' out loud.
i'd huck a batch of unborn baby chicks,
but that's a big fat NO-NO on the vegan lists,
so maybe twice as much shaving cream and flaming dog poop?
yeah.
that sounds about right.
***********
the day is foggy, and cold, and snowy.
that poses a problem;
snow leaves footprints,
and it seems unlikely someone else
won't be able to follow the tracks back to here.
awwwwww, man.
getting caught, in one's mid-thirties,
soaping car windows and putting toothpaste under doorhandles
isn't funny.
it's actually a misdemeanor.
and the boys in blue will take you in for criminal mischief.
should i stop?
YOU should stop even wondering.
real ninjas do real sh!t,
above and beyond the borders of good sense.
ah, yes,
it looks as if the hamden warrior spirit is alive and well...
haunting the hollows and hideaways of this mountain paradise,
lurking, with impish gleamings, in the shadows-
dead things come back, after all,
throughout these dias de los muertos.
soggy, frozen t.p.,
rock hard icy barely-inflammable animal feces,
and presumably,
if anyone espies my A* running through the woods,
maybe even some alleged sasquatch sightings...
not to mention all these mutha-ucking ghosts.
smoke ring spooks,
concentric coalescing circles,
spirits,
memories,
it's ALL really happening;
never quiet, never soft..... 

the wolfen.

c'mon.

sure it's a blurry cameraphone photo,

but it's the nearly Hallowe'en times.
that means it's the haunted hottness times.
so how about a little bloody-suited big head battle-beast?
howling mad,
and limp-wristed, too.
a ravaging, ravishing, ragnarok loco lobo.
it's the season for furious fenris tricky treaters,
and for classic monsters hooked-up
all fancy-like.
wolf man, werewolf, dog-head referee,
whatever.
and some bloody drips and drabs, for effect.
it's the wicked windy somethin' somethin' time
here in the woodsly goodness.
nowhere else looks half as Hallowed on the eves an' that.
time flies,
and i'm not even sure who having fun,
or if there is any fun to be had-
but i can assure you,
whatever these low pressure chills are bringing,
besides a yard raking nightmare,
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

downtown downpour.

what makes the city even sh!ttier?
rain.
instead of washing away the worst of the
filthy film of urban undesirability,
it always seems to somehow activate the latent lank,
dank, dingy doo-doo buttery weak-sauce.
it's like box mix vs. homemade dopeness:
conciously crafted creations vs. sh!t-instant suckiness.
y'know-
just add water.
c'mon.
and a warm october evening of eating the hottness
gets doused down to dolorous dampness
pretty flippin' quick under the droplets of city-slickery
that start falling out of the sky.
uh-huh.
that's right, neighbors,
we hit up the green elephant for portland restaurant week.
mass quantities were consumed.
after all,
more is better than not enough,
and too much is exactly the right amount.
*
what y'all may not know about, though,
is the dearth of edible options in the afternoon.
no jokes.
if you're hungry at 3p.m. in portland,
you can pretty much go F* yourself.
the whole city closes after lunch.
the WHOLE place.
that's a real thing.
sorry, bellyholes,
but your gonna have to wait until 5p.m.
and what makes it worse?
the wind is always mutha-b!tchin' blowing.
sea breezes or some similar oceanic seasick suckiness.
and, of course,
there's no tasty food smells wafting in with those winds.
there's no food cooking, after all-
no answers blowin',
no war, no change,
just dead sea creature rot,
and exhaust from all the buses and cars.
carbon-petrol haddock a la' decaying carcass-dock.
butt-nasty like a mo-fo, yo.
and that's for really real.
on the ones.
***********
our phone is dead.
it has been for two days.
rainy storms kicked it's A*,
and so we're keeping it molto ninja.
not that anyone EVER calls us, anyway,
but we're pretending the phone hasn't rung
because of the short circuits,
and not because our friends are too busy.
yeah, i'm sure the hotline'd be ringing off the
mutha-lickin' hook right now if it was juiced up.
i mean,
doesn't every single one of you need a little
teensy tiny bit of belligerent berserker barbarian battle beast
in your lives?
oh, wait.
you can just read this.
only,
it's not quite as loud, or hard,
and certainly not as fresh
as the real thing.
plus,
i'm congested to high hell, too.
y'all ninjas are missin' out.
mountain man magic, my duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

P.F.D. for me.

c'mon.
y'all can almost hear the banjos and fiddles, right?
that's some countryside hottness right there.
hobo bagman with radio flyer and pumpkins.
triple dope.
we did some things, kids.
cider donutty, patchy pumpkiny, outsidey things.
all good things, even.
throw in a batch of homemade vegan pizzas for dinner,
and an out-of-service landline for incommunicado bravado,
and we had an ultimate autumn explosion of turbo-freshness.
for everybody's face.
things.
they happen in the woods, neighbors.
wild things.
in fact,
this is where they ARE;
never quiet, never soft.....

mice and men

awwwwwww, man.

mice, voles, and little night-time skritchers.
i guess we've got a serious infestation.
it's morning,
and i can totally hear a defiant little A*-hole
scuttling about under our cabinet.
it's not that we're dirty skanks, either-
so kill that noise in your thoughtwaves;
now that the doo-doo construction men have ravaged
the entire natural habitat of our little big-eared buddies,
they've decided that the fortress is the place to be.
there's so much space, and food, and everything.
the little F*-tards don't even try to hide.
they'll totally run right by the whole
it's like they WANT the dog to flip out,
and go apesh!t bananas.
(which, you can be sure, does wonders for MY peace of mind)
now it looks like they're puttin' in vermin condominiums:
hahahahaha.
c'mon.
those're actually wall-side blowholes for our new insulation.
the worker duders have swiss-cheeses my whole house.
the first floor looks like somebody shot it up,
with cannonballs.
and now that we can see inside all the mutha-b!tchin' spaces?
clarity of vision is always a struggle, ninjas.
there is honestly no insulation in any of these walls, kids.
just air.
cold air.
for now, anyway.
pretty soon, we'll be snugger than rug-bugs,
all roasty-toasted by the stove.
i've got a rockin' cast iron skillet around here somewhere,
so you can be sure that we'll even be roasting chestnuts
an' all that kind of old timey warmness-related activity.
hottness generates warmth.
warmth generates comfort.
comfort is it's own reward.
*
it rained like in the bible-type sh!t last night,
but it's warm and sunny today.
a P.F.D. ninjas.
it looks like it, anyway.
glistening autumn leaves.
low, foggy strands of cotton-candy clouds in-between
the mountains and the rivers.
bright blue skies.
and that's just the view out of my window.
woodsly goodness;
never quiet, never soft.....

foggy bottoms.

pie filling.
that's what's happening.
as in:
guess what's coming out of the large hole inside my skull?
uh-huh.
the aftermath of a connecticut-induced illness
is apparently a brutal nose-hole gulag of hard, hard pounding.
in my head.
a whole rainbow of horrors is lurking in my nodes and membranes-
i've got a sinus cavity that's packed to the limits
with a whole bakery's worth of premade pie filling.
sometimes it's lemon custard.
sometimes it's key lime.
and sometimes,
when the pressure is so intense i think my eyes may shoot out
across the room,
and my hair must be standing on end,
there's even pumpkin pie filling.
it's every bit as disturbing as y'all'd imagine.
i can blow all day,
and it still keeps comin' out too.
(that's what she said)
it's a real joy-destroyer, duders,
this gummy doo-doo butter in my head.
***********
meanwhile,
as my head is swelling with sauce...
we've got company.
our buddy jenny from pennsylvania is up.
because enjoying the spacious hottness
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress
in the autumny splendor of the woodsly goodness,
is exactly what everyone needs.
that's a real thing.
in fact,
it makes me wonder where the rest of y'all are hiding.
i'm just sayin'.
i wish the adventures were roiling,
and the accomplishments boiling over,
but all i've got is blops and glops of
citrus-shaded slick slime.
my head is a petri dish;
never quiet, never soft.....

exempt, but with contempt.

what needs doing gets done.
you know it.
delays and proscratinations
may not make it happen in a timely fashion.
but eventually,
the finish line gets closer.
by just a little tiny bit.
the more we do,
the more we have to do.
that's a hard style and a terrible truth-
the same amount as yesterday just won't be enough today.
the object is more.
right?
i know.
it's like this:
if your goals don't get bigger, ninjas,
you aren't getting nearer to 'em.
yeah?
yeah.  
that's the nature of perspective, after all.
it's time to hunker down and dig in-
for the winter,
for the future,
for all of that stuff.
the big change-up is here.
the mountains look like tsunamis-
all-encompassing white caps an' that.
the big crush is headed our way.
*
the more you have to do, duders.
just be dope,
but never just being.
the top of the game ninjas are the ones
who keep producing throughout their careers.
grind dates need making,
movie checks need writing.
insulation gets blown.
tomorrow.
tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow-
maybe the sun'll even come out.
that's some sh!t.
timely?
c'mon.
never quiet, never soft..... 

cucchiarelli ninja stopover.

everybody knows that in order to be my best friend,
you have to be able to hang out.
and you have to actually hang out.
in the woodsly goodness.
at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
making time for the hermits an' that.
which is exactly why the cucch is my main ninja.
yeah.
active participation.
that's the prime ingredient.
my ace homeboy slid up here from the vineyard,
just to rep the fattie boombattie fresh-to-deathness
of hard frosts and snow-capped white mountains.
plus, we had chef cucch's adult-diaper-sized vegan burritos.
surprise visits and tasty treats?
only a chosen few of the most worthy warrior poets are
awarded those all-access, backstage,
behind-the-scenes permission slips.
i'm just sayin',
...ya'll should definitely call first.
unless you're trying for a late night pop-over,
AND a softball-sized exit wound in the back of your face.
ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, sh!t!!
home invasion isn't always hostile,
but i usually am.
anyhow,
check this teleport:

and he does the dishes.
like i told you duders already;
active participation.
that's the business.

while clad in a bundled-up stay warm situation,
and flippy-floppies.
c'mon.
it's always super-rad when my A-numero-uno buddy
is hangin' out with us.
and i always wish it would last for a while longer
(t.w.s.s.)
still,
that's the key, neighbors.
and that's how i know it's a good thing.
because there's no such thing as too much of a good thing.
still and all,
i'm grateful for the limited number of real ninjas
who span time alongside me up here.
woooooord.
***********
it's full moon season right about now.
that means crazy dreams,
and crazier mornings.
plus tea and toast.
of course.
i've got work to do.
i'm a working person, after all.
and i'm on a vision quest, too.
brought on by insomnia,
fever,
and dehydration due to ectoplasmic nostril explosions.
yeah.
having a cold is pretty great.
sharing it with every exposed wound i create
while zipblasting is even better.
spreading the wealth,
and generating revenue.
that's how work gets done-
and it's how i blow my own horn-
(if by horn you mean nose)
never quiet, never soft.....

winter?

the fully engorged lunar lightbomb satellite in the sky
has summoned up a serious sh!t-salad savage storm
of change and challenge for our A*s up here.
there's wolf-biting winds,
plummeting temperatures,
and,
on top of the skin-shedding creepy crawl of lunar polarity
and it's imploring tug at the ocean of blood in my chest cavity,
a coalescing crystallization, is falling right out of the sky, too.
pride may go before the fall, y'all-
but right in the middle of fall?
snow.
uh-huh.
we've got flurries of ice and water.
pellets of pitter-pattering polar pelting.
nice.
which makes the werewolf berserker fury even harder.
that's a thing, duders.
and with the incredibly boogery, hacking howl of a sinus cough,
it's a sickly pack of lobos who're hunting in this sub-arctic realm.
damn.
hard styles and heavy hands and heads.
full moons.
full nostrils.
fully frozen skies.
and answers to the wrong questions blowing in on brutal breezes.
ouch.
it's all really happening,
and it hurts, kids.
***********
unrealistic demands.
that's how the autumn seems to be unfolding.
we've got clients who all want big intricate tattoos.
right this very second.
one the one hand,
word up, gimme s'money, y'heard?
but on the other hand,
if YOU ninjas were getting a gigantic tatty-o,
wouldn't you want more than ten seconds
worth of composition evoted to the imagery?
or is instantaneous gratification more important?
i mean,
a minute and a half of drawing for a multi-subject half-sleeve?
c'mon.
that's not so dope.
don't get me wrong...i'll still do it.
a grand don't come for free, after all.
and i can't pretend that i'm the helpful professor of goodwill
at the tattoo embassy, ninjas.
i'm just not especially committed
to any doo-doo buttery A*-blasters who want that kind of
non-involved turd-scribing.
i blame those t.v. shows,
and electronic culture in general.
if i can get the instantaneous answer to any question
just by typing on a space-robot mobile phone,
how can it possibly take so long to get what i want drawn up?
the process isn't displayed,
so the assumption is that is doesn't exist.
or worse,
that we should drop everything and dedicate all our energy to
the super-great ideas that these waterbabies think up.
suuure.
nobody ever sees the screening process for zipzaps,
just the big dumb results.
and that's not real life.
at all.
it's just real gaysplosively 'tarded-up.
and neighbors,
that's the jauns i just can't hang out with.
unfortunately,
i've got a cold,
and it's twice as cold outside,
and triple as sickly.
that means that the normal refusal and rebuttal process
isn't on the menu for this day's doings.
if ya'll could see the skin-sticking skidmarks
i'm sure to be leaving on the underwear of life today,
you'd make sure to bring a spare pair for your own A*.
doo-dooin' what i doo-doo.
in between gasps and hacks.
wholeheartedly half-hearted.
huh?
that doesn't even make sense;
never quiet, never soft.....

X

connecticut is a hard style.
even at the very best of times.
which we had, in abundance,
the last few days.
there was another other 'nother highlight to our trip however.
my uncle's career is being celebrated in new haven
at the john slade ely house.
the whole first floor, ninjas.
right now,
until the 14th of november.
if you're even remotely nearby.
make the trip.
do it.
edward j. castiglione.
it's an incredible representation of decades of hard work.
a tribute to an elusive, reclusive scholar and creator.
he was a hard man to know,
almost impossible to know well,
and an even harder one to like.
i understand that.
hell, i live that.
but he did some things, y'all.
and what's more,
he made hundreds and hundreds of paintings,
and never showed but a tiny selection to
and even tinier group of close confidants.
i've seen 'em,
there and then, and now again at the gallery.
the best part?
they're all unsigned, undated, uncataloged,
under the radar.
he just did what he did.
it wasn't ever about anyone else.
the great tragedy is that it wasn't just his art,
but his whole way of life.
moths do mothlike things.
just because that's what they DO.
some people can't hang out with that.
we condemn in others what we dislike most in ourselves.
but it's bad form to speak ill of the dead.
i count myself fortunate to have been a part
of the good,
and the bad,
and the ugly-
as a nephew,
a roommate,
as a peer,
and as a friend.
***********
it's there for the viewing,
and you're probably not THAT busy.
a little insight into some of my early influences,
right in the city.
get cultured, ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

ten.

i've got a ten year old daughter.

today.
that's no joking around.
a decade of fatherhood,
parental consent,
and dissent,
and well-sent scents,
and all the good times and hard styles
that come along with it.
ten years,
in a row,
since i sat down with my new baby girl.
my little helpless, pink, wet raisin of a baby.
harvest skye ruth.
duders,
real talk:
i cried like i was little infant when it all really happened.
now she's all big, and ten, and a real-life person.
it's crazy.
ten years have past.
already.
ten years.
from diapers and bottles to books and violins.
i'm grateful for chance to influence 'em.
seriously,
it's hard to wrap my head around having a
decade-old daughter.
today is the day.
and it's been so for ten flippin' years.
i couldn't even imagine not knowing those kids of mine, y'all.
sappy?
sure.
self-indulgent?
a little.
true story?
abso-'ucking-lutely.
***********
so how do really real duders celebrate being a dad,
and how do hungry little harpies
hunker down on their hankering for hottness?
pepe's pizza, mutha-lickas.
we demolished four pizzas.
on the ones, my ninjas.
we gnashed and gnoshed and tore and swallowed.
we ate it all up.
hard.
that's berfday pizza, yo.
because we doo-doo that discus of delicious jauns.
every time.
full bellies,
full hearts,
overflowing freshness.
today is a good day.
a great day.
the day.
happy birthday, my beautiful little girl;
never quiet, never soft.....

it's not a car...

...it's a LIMO.

we picked up harvest and maple in a fully-stretched limousine,

from school,

all extra-big-baller flashy an' that.

dainty, delicate darlings and a great big birthday extravaganza.
it wasn't harv's actual b-day,
but still,
family day with the new hampshire ninjas brought the noise.

woooooooooooooooooord up.

after all,
birthday times are kind of a big deal, y'heard?
my extraordinary wifey made the magical arrangements,
and jeff the chauffeur took us wherever
my lovely little ladies wanted to go.
of course,
after the initial showboating and grandstanding of
a really righteous all-the-way-to-eleven arrival,
emergency tofutti was in order:

scooples of vegan dopeness for your face.

for everybody's face, actually.
that's that oreo-style cookie monster sh!t.
it's also exactly how a bangin' birthday celebration kicks off.
believe it.

it's definitely a head-turning spoiled-rotten experience, y'all.

getting out of a limo at the bookstore,

at the video game store,

at the toy store,
and even just mackin' so fresh around the downtown new haven area.
special days call for special measures.
real talk.

c'mon.
we did all the big fun stuff,

for hours and hours,

and repeated the process,

sans limousine,

the next day.

that's some viking vixen fixin's, duders.

i mean,

you only get to turn double-digits the once,

dig it?

yeah.
man oh man.
we ate what we wanted,
we did as we pleased.
making minutes matter much more.
that's how we doo-doo our togetherness action.
connecticut got tuned up, b!tches.
and i got a brutal cold.
i'm immune to almost everything, kids,
except chronic hamden warriorism.
i've yet to escape without a tremendously horrendous
case of acute 'itis.
was it worth it?
c'mon,
what am i?
an A*hole?
no way, neighbors.
i'm a lucky duckling;
never quiet, never soft.....

antlers, answered.

hey, neighbors.

one more thing the woodsly realm has going for it
is the abundant presence of presents.
y'know,
treats.
and when it comes to treats, duders,
i'm ALL about 'em.
one of my clients brought me this righteous pair
of naturally-dropped moose antlers,
as a tip.
naturally-dropped means shed whilst alive-
not barbarian weiner-baby chopped off after getting killed.
i can hang out with that stuff way more,
even if it totally IS moose-murdering season.
i've got the humane mounts, b!tch-bags-
that's what's up.

nice rack, right?

i know.
the fun and funny stuffed dead heads thing is pretty cool.
i guess.
but the around-the-bend natural world of woodsly goodness
and it's native flora and fauna?
it's even flippin' better.
unstuffed stuffs!
word up.
and great big mutha-b!tchin' head spikes, kids.
i've got 'em.
real jauns count for more, y'heard?
***********
it's 6a.m., my ninjas.
and in just a little tiny bit,
we're headed down south.
i've got some not-so-little kids
who are expecting a big fun afternoon,
and i intend to make it memorable.
plus,
we're all already in agreement that some
no-joke emergency tofutti needs scoopling.
it'll be one for the memory banks, neighbors.
plus,
my super-rad wifey has made some truly
sparkle-magical plans for the little ladies.
that's that real life-type stepmom sh!t.
and if it's wicked,
it's in a new englandy way.
like, wicked pissah! an' that.
by this evening,
i'll be surrounded by girlie-girls who love me.
admittedly,
it's not exactly how i imagined that would be,
but still,
it's happening,
albeit on a technicality.
and as usual, that's what's poppin'.
i like it.
you like it.
i'm sure they like it.
it's pretty dang good.
i may not be psyched on connecticut,
or the hours of driving to get there,
but i'm sure-as-sh!t grateful for having the
time to doo-doo this family-type business.
spanning time,
spanning new england.
one more milemarker,
one more milestone;
never quiet, never soft.....

many other things.

even my mug's hand has teeth.

c'mon.
lobster claw clayware?
that's the hottness, yeah?
yeah.
straight out of maine an' that.
i can't help it.
i like the handmade fancypants stuff the most.
mass production can't compete with
the loud, fresh hardness of hand-thrown stone-speckled
earthen-type turbo-sexiness.
i think it may even make my tea taste better.
for real.
***********
wooooooooord up.
so, where are you?
because i'm at the fire, kids.
duders,
for really real-
that woodstove action is molto sweet.
i'd almost forgotten about how fresh that
natural combustion compressor can be.
i'm sayin',
a rocking chair, a book,
and a molto-molten magma heat-blaster,
blowin' that roasty toastiness all up and over the place?
yeah.
that's that woodsly goodness, neighbors.
***********
it's a slow ride at the zapzip shop.
a lull in the news, as it stands.
tomorrow sees the big fun and bad mamajams
of the non-woodsly ungoodness.
but,
until then,
it's just a whole bunch of hot fire,
hot tea,
and hot other 'nother stuff.
it's happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

bright and shiny.

duders,
the weak-sauce is calling to me.
and i can't ignore it, either.
it's interfering with my mentals, y'all.
it's never easy to knowingly wade in,
but once in a while,
the hermit has to slide down off of the mountaintop.
uh-huh.
the doo-doo buttery nutmeg nancypants
of the most watered-down waterbaby world
is lettin' a real ninja know he's got to make some
hard-style action-hero moves.
it's happening.
a blitzkreig lightning-strike surgical insurgency.
connecticut.
tuesday.
it's on.
awwwwwww, man.
there will be blood.
blood relatives, i mean.
be easy.
there are times in a man's life, neighbors.
these kinds of times.
hard times, even.
winter's almost here,
and the hectic, harrowing hardwood heaping
is being put on hold.
it's the harvest season-
in more ways than just the reaping, ninjas.
and little harvest isn't so little anymore.
that's no joke, either.
so the real question is:
who wants to eat pizza?
i'm gonna.
into every thunderous constitution-draining
assault on the constitution state,
a slice or eleven of pepe's pizza needs to bring the noise.
y'know,
to keep up my energy for the good fight an' that.
there you have it.
pizza, my peoples, and the piss-poor populace
of one of the world's worst realms.
connecticut.
connect?
i cut.
it's the opposite, kids.
severing the sh!t-salad from the sweetness.
when life hands you connecticut,
make doo-doo butter?
i dunno.
it's happening;
that much i can assure you;
never quiet, never soft.....

water beats fire.

hey-O!
it's tea and toast, mutha-b!tches.
perfect breakfast-time goodness.
i need it,
you like it,
we love it.
so run tell that, homeboy...

tea and toast.
that's pretty much the routine,
the tradition,
the daily dopeness that defines my relationship.
warm, envigorating, crunchy, nutritious.
we doo-doo that good morning-type sh!t.
in so many ways, too:

tea and toast.
me and my mrs. each have one.
awwwwwwwwww.
yep.
we're romantic, b!tches.
***********
so, yesterday was the big day.
a major milestone of endurance and fortitude.
believe it.
and right out of the gates,
i finished up a pretty fresh tattoo, too;
and then dove wide-eyed and grimacing,
face first into an open-faced sh!t-salad sandwich, y'all.
covering-up an ex's name tattoo time was in effect.
just as a reminder of what's happening*, i guess.
(* it ALL is, all the time)
and for extra brutality?
black spikes.
...that's triiiiiiibal, ninjas.
i'm tellin' you-
that was how i got it poppin' to commemorate
eleven sexy years of zipzapping.
was there at least a celebratory battle-beast bonfire afterwards?
uh-uh.
how about deflatory depressing deluge, instead.
it rained enough yesterday to warrant the building of an ark.
almost.
we moved the flames inside to the woodsly woodstove,
y'know,
the heart of the fortress,
in the bellyhole of the beast.
and with a belly full to bursting with roast tofurky?
and a roasty toasty home and hearth?
c'mon.
that's what's up.
the first blaze with our reconditioned iron oven.
that's some blacksmith dwarven battle-forge business.
and it was warm as F*, too.
cold and wet outside,
but cozy as a mutha-ucka in here.
dopeness.
***********
it's lookin' like it's gonna be a busy weekend.
for real.
time is short, my ninjas.
and the nights are long.
the savage storms have swept by,
and the sun is out and shining it's sparkle-magic beams down
on the kaleidoscopic wet leafy reflector situation.
i've got a sweater and some hot cider, duders.
you know it-
it's just plain better up here.
woodsly.
goodness.
never quiet, never soft.....

eleven.

eleven years.

in a row.
eleven times the hardness,
eleven times the freshness,
eleven times the loudness,
and most of all,
eleven times the hottness.
today is the day.
especially.
eleven mutha-F*ing years.
YEARS, i'm sayin'.
y'heard?
eleven years of tattooing.
ever since those first nervous zaps
all the way up until to today's tempered t-blasts,
i've spanned the whole gamut,
from gettin' over on that fresh art-pirate bread & butter,
to bumpin' and grindin' out that mortgage payment.
eleven mama-lickin' solar cycles,
smoke-ring ghost circles of character-defining
spirit, memory, savage stormswept creation
and berserker barbarian self-destruction.
it's been something beyond better-than-good,
and sometimes much worse than awful,
but it's still all really happening,
day after week after month after year.
from metal mitch to mountain mayhem-
from synonymous with fabulous,
to anonymous and nebulous-
really real reality,
worthy warrior poetry,
and most of all my movie checks,
are all tied directly to the lucky ducky
doo-doo buttery dopeness of tattyzapping.
tattooing made me the ninja i am, y'all.
that's no joke.
and real ninjas do real sh!t.
without meat-marring meet-ups,
there'd be no albie rock.
there'd be no Folk Lifey woodsly
goodsly new hampsire newhamden-ness,
no fortress of liberty,
no zipzappin' super-hot wife,
and probably no ex-wife and kids, either...
(real talk)
no shawn hebrank,
no dan dealy,
hell, none o' my main duders would even know me now.
what i mean is:
i am grateful for this time i have been given.
all the days,
soul-crushingly slow,
or brutally busy.
hard times,
harder styles,
and hardest poundings.
long nights,
cold winters,
cold shoulders,
cold squirts of green soap,
and about a million disposable razors.
i'm still here,
still sincere,
after ALL these F*ing years.
it's still happening.
and today,
it goes to eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

P.F.D. for you and me

beauty.
and the battle-beast.
you guys know what solomon's seal is?
i'm talking specifically in a non-old-testament sense here.
it's a plant,
and it's a good one.
i've got a spot that needed some hottness,
and i spied a patch of these duders and their tubers
protruding from the leafy loam across the way.
so i wheeled my barrow into the woods,
and dug up a whole plot of those mutha-b!tches.
transplants, y'all.
now i've got a semi-shaded shed spot,
filled full-on with sweet treats from nature.
thanks ma nature,
for providing the perennial bounty of this
up-here woodsly goodness.
*
the cold night air in these mountains is no joke.
and i'm not laughing.
neither are the field mice.
or the doormice.
or whatever other 'nother little F*holes
are scurrying, and scampering, and scooting,
and sneaking, and stealing, and skulking,
and in all other ways scritching around
all throughout my fortified Fortress.
infiltrators, kids.
i can't hang out with that.
they aren't invited, neighbors.
and there's not a whole lot i like less
than an unsolicited pop-over.
it's cool, though.
we make sure they don't stick around.
(that meansNO glue traps. mmm-hmmm)
the have-a-heart is slamming shut on the regular,
and we routinely relocate the little A*blasters
to points west, or north, or wherever,
miles away from here.
alive,
but without regard for how long.
hawks and owls gotta eat too, ninjas.
concentric circles, widening or tightening.
life circles an' that.
word.
*
now,
who wants to get into some old timey sh!t?
i doo-doo want to do that rural-type action....
i have to erect a woodshed.
who is gonna help me bake THAT bread?
huh?
not you?
nice.
well,
i'm lookin' for some strong-backed active participants.
i'm gettin' wood, suckas.
(that's so what she said)
and i'm ready.
now wheres my amish-type cats at?
c'mon.
that's manly (or burly woman) type action.
who's 'bout it?
erection, duders.
together.
now THAT's some freaky sh!t.
so,
who wants to get all sweaty with me?
i'm waiiiting;
never quiet, never soft.....

that looks like it hurts.

aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

is that a pirate noise?
maybe.
is it the nightmare howl of an injured torso?
probably.
is it a tattoo photo?
actually, yeah.
half-healed/half-hurtie,
all hard-all the time:
timbers?
shivered.
hatches?
battened.
decks?
swabbed.
sometimes,
i do some things.
other times?
not as much.
things happen, y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....

twelfth night?

daaaaaaaaamn.
sometimes,
really real and really rural
are a hard batch of b!tches to hang out with.
moves are getting made.
it's not interesting, really.
but it sure is happening...
there're construction hard-hats everywhere, y'all.
sewer pipeline A*-holes,
lumberjackers,
powerliners,
and road-maker paver/choppers.
and that's just the part that isn't dope.
because they weren't/aren't the only buildtards building-
we've had workers working,
and estimators estimating,
and plants to plant too.
in october?
yep.
a little too late,
a little too cold,
with a little too much mulch.
to try to keep the bite out of their roots.
that's the whole story up here.
root-bite.
that sort of thing seems to be the par
for this collison course we've set for stereotypical money-pits
and hard-styled hard times.
don't worry.
it all really happened...
...for our faces.
a burly list of business needs conducting,
and it's officially business time up here.
right as tourist season disappears.
the roadways are clear,
the leaves are beautiful,
the cider is mulled,
the pies are baked,
and the fattie boombattie stacks of loot
are gone, baby.
gone.
the love has gone away.
the way that scrubs can't holler out the passenger side, an' that.
you know it.
i mean,
i'm still in love,
with the woodsly goodness,
with warrior poetry,
with Folk Life & Liberty...
ALL those hot fiery jauns.
-and my fine-A* wifey, too.
holla back, shor-tay!
(awwwww)
what i'm sayin' is:
i'm lookin' for hugs and kisses,
and i'm leavin' with stained undies.
get it?
life has a way of doin' dirty deeds,
except that the tag is far from dirt cheap,
leavin' us dirtier still.
AC/DC was wrong, duders.
that's that grit-grimy real sh!t.
it's what i'm talkin' about.
***********
it looks like the new england coffee roasters bags out here.
no,
not vaccuum-sealed and foil-packed-
calico leafy hottness.
look it up.
picturesque,
right out my kitchen picture window.
imagine that.
P.F.D. ninjas.
perfect.
fall.
day.
a series of events,
both fortunate and unfortunate.
spanning time and spending money-
if it's there,
it's here.
and vice versa
grateful?
for ALL of this;
never quiet, never soft.....

conqueror.

i came (every day)
i saw (the same stuff every day)

i conquered (the shark-bellied hot fatness)
what whaaaaaat?!
yeah.
check this big action:just like yesterday's date.
10-10-10.
three perfect tens.
triple dimes, ninjas.
see how they even had special celebration foil wrappers?
...because i'm super-special.
you'll get to see just how special if you keep reading.
i promise.
fa-
la-
fel.
i doo-doo that wood-fired flatbread type business.
three more, right before the end of a whole week
of epic woodsly goodness.
and that makes twenty-eight.
F* all y'all.
i am the fattest and the most determined.
28 falafels down the hatch.
that's the most i've managed to munch to date.
and it's a pretty sizeable milestone, too.
a personal best- done and done;
NOW the fair is finished.
and,
my favorite falafel family kept it mad real, duders.
how real?
really real.
how special am i?
THIS special-
get your spacesuits ready,
because the teleport needs checking:

do you even know what that is?
heyyyyy-O!

it's like 4 kilos of that pure uncut sh!t.
uh-huh.
i'm on that cartel/escobar/cuban-linx type jauns.
two sweet bags of ground up gold.
unfried falafel!
oh baby, i like it raw.
now my freezer has little treats hiding out.
now i've got that all-the-way-live sh!t.
now you want to come over and visit, huh?
too bad, mutha-b!tch-bags!
it's mine all mine all mine.
***********
and columbus gets a day.
but i don't.
in fact,
i'll be at work,
like a jerk,
all g-darn dang day long.
gaytardedness, observed.
maybe i'll smoke a cigar and wear a gold crucifix.
y'know,
as a big, fat, stinky, ugly thank you to mr. cristobal colon.
lame.
there's some good news creepin' up, though.
three more days until my anniversary.
or birthday, really.
stay tuned for that slice of loose-leaf warrior poetry.
***********
the end of everyone else's long weekend
is the start of our regular one.
so today is my friday,
and it's friday i'm in love.
i'll miss my nightly routine of fried bean-balls,
and hopefully i'll not get the withdrawal shakes,
but i've got a whole brave new world to discover.
like a regular sailcloth pioneer.
all those duders were just vikings with lamer boats
and way gayer clothes.
my boat is a subaru,
and my clothes are turbo-gay.
i conquered my intestines,
i conquered the fairgrounds,
and now i'm going to conquer the whole woodsly realm.
today is the day.
especially today.
columbus, like ohio.
both not dope.
word;
never quiet, never soft.....

countdown.

oh, man.

i tattooed until kinda lateish last night.
which was fresh because those grands don't come for free,
but that scene was also stress-laden,
since the fairgrounds stop making magic kinda early.
that's a dangerous combination of ingredients, neighbors.
like chlorine and ammonia,
it's a knockout and a bombshell...
...but not an attractive lady.
c'mon.
there was good news, though.
my homeboy nate drove me to the fair.
after getting tat-blasted for a bunch of hours.
all late-night saturday night creepin' on them jauns.
and we hit that sh!t before closing.
and like 1,2,3,
we made it work, ninjas.
consider, if you're able, the teleport:

fa.

la.
fel.
full-on feasting fury folks.
it's the new recipe, i think.
finely-ground and perfectly spiced,
with a dual-lubricated larynx flume upgrade.
fried + tahini = pantloads of fun.
twenty-five berserker raids on my bellyhole.
twenty-five separate sojourns to tastebud eden.
that's no joke.
plus, my buddy had his first ever falafel.
and immediately upon finishing,
his second ever falafel.
word up.
i'm changing whole culinary perspectives up here.
like a mouth-watering wisdom-widening woodsly guru.
mmm-hmmm.
recognize, duders.
last-minute liasons with my dinnertime reality.
concentric circles, kids.
overlapping spheres of influence.
is it random chance that falafel balls are circular discs?
or cultivated coincidence?
there's nothing metaphsyical about the aftermat, though;
of that noise, i can assure all y'all.
those bombshells are just pure ragnarok.
***********
it's sunday.
it's the last day of the fair.
eight days.
that's somethin'.
it's been a pretty amazing week.
i dealt with nothing.
i accomplished less.
i consumed incredible quantities of a single foodstuff.
tomorrow is an observed holiday.
i'll be observing a moment of silence,
because tomorrow,
the new world is discovered.
the world without falafel.
what am i gonna have for dinner?
anything can happen;
never quiet, never soft.....

success is measured in bites.

feelin' awesome?

yep.
feelin' awesome.
with three chunky chomped-up chickpea challenges
completed right out at the entryway.
bing! straight outta the box an' that.
bam. bam. bam.
that's a strong start, y'all.
what comes next?
check it out:

feelin' full.
part two of a three-step process for success.

grumbles and mumbles in my bellyhole.
a top-coat of tahini, and a mug of rootin-tootin' sarsaparilla,
y'know,
to settle things down a bit.
and after a quick photo attempt
with my new favorite animal, the human-boobed sow,
(who stayed modest sleeping on her stomach)
it was time to bring the thunder.
it was windy as F*.
the answers were blowing,
on woodsmoke scented gusts,
mixed with animal doo-doo.
take it to eleven, albie rock.
...and then double it.
uh-huh:

folks,
i give you number twenty-two.
ka-pow! feelin' awful, yet?
yep.
...finally.
successfully shark-gluttoned into oblivion.
a cucumber-accompanied clod of
carotid-clogging crunchables.
holy smokes.
holy horsecrap.
holy sh!t-salad.
dreams really do come true, huh?
yeah.
***********
it's a holiday weekend for regular folks.
that's probably good news for some of y'all.
not much changes for woodsly goodsmen and
woodsly goodwives, though.
we just do what we do.
despite the octagenarian buick-drivers
wreaking bedlam on the byways and overlooks
of this idyllic mountain vale.
look! a tree!
drive slower.
look a tree!
swerve into the breakdown lane.
look a tree!
for goodness' sake, duders.
it's a forest.
they just can't see it for the trees.
c'mon.
orange.
yellow.
green.
brown.
sounds like my toilet after feel-awful falafel friday.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
hard styles
and real life.
we got them jauns up here.
true stories told truly;
never quiet, never soft.....

feel-awful falafel friday.

duders.

duders, duders, duders...
it's always an uphill climb towards greatness.
the acme,
the apex,
the pinnacle.
the tippity-top of the heap.
i mean it.
you know,
it's always a good idea to set realistic goals.
that way,
a feeling of accomplishment is never too far away.
a little hard work,
a little sweat and tears and elbow grease,
and then the big payoff.
now,
in career-minded folks,
that may exemplified by a promotion and a raise.
in berserker barbarian battle-beasts, however,
our goals are more concrete,
and even easier to attain.
the sweat and the tears are still mandatory,
but it's fryolator grease, and not the elbow variety,
that lubricates the gears of warrior poetry.
kids,
what i'm trying to say is:

promotion, ninjas.
fattest.
fullest.
hardest.
i doo-doo that chunky chickpea-type freaky falafel sh!t.
literally and figuratively.

seventeen falafels.

down the gullet of your favorite glutton.
bam-a-lama!
quicker than hurry-up even.
***********
today is the day.
again.
like most days, even.
but with the added incentive of being feel-awful falafel day.
to be fair,
it begins as feel-awesome falafel day,
but then gets kicked up that next notch.
y'know, to eleven.
or as it reads on the roadmap to ragnarok:
TOO FAR.
that's where we're taking it this evening.
beyond the borders of enjoyment,
past the point of good sense,
and over the line of weak-sauce sorcery,
and into the realm of lightning-striking vikings.
word.
***********
there's a sow in the hog barn, y'all.
no surprise there, really.
but what IS surprising/marginally disturbing
are the human boobs she's got dangling.
huh?
c'mon.
i wouldn't make that up.
i attempted pictures last night,
but she got all modest and rolled over.
i'm on it, though.
neighbors, i'm tellin' you;
out of ten possible teats,
only two have milk in 'em.
the top two.
a matched pair of bare-skinned mom-bombs.
it's horrifying.
and it's yet another 'nother reason i'll stay meat-free.
unwitting anthropomorphism?
gross.
vegetarian sensibility?
assured.
nightmares for weeks?
probably.
it's all really happening,
even if not much else is;
never quiet, never soft.....

grotesque.

four more falafels?

jeez.
now it's actually starting to hurt.
bad.
at both ends.
but i can't/won't stop,
until i reach the pinnacle of shark gluttony.
creating a paradigm an' that.
one tahini-drippin' guini at a time.
teleport?
check it:

actually, this is my buddy jim's falafel.
in the interests of real life documentarianism,
i've got to confess-
i ate my first one waiting in line for my second.
no photos, just swallows.
gulpin' like a gutshot gulpeador.
ouch.
but, i used this artist's representation just to let
all y'all hungry hippos out there know-
they get got, and then ate the F* up.
all those jauns are in my bellyhole.
also for the record,
i wouldn't bother with that fancy light tahini action,
in my opinion, it detracts from the overall carnage;
tahini is like astroglide for my epiglottis, kids.
lube it up,
slide it down.
(that's what she said?)

this picklelicious one is all me though.

yep.
third times the charm.
it rained the whole time we roamed the fair.
and it was a brisk forty-one degrees.
how did we cope with four hours of fairgrounds under water?
yep.
falafels.
my whole body feels deep-fried, duders.

whooo-hooooo!
and another one.
fourteen falafel sandwiches.
four days.
am i getting fatter?
uh-huh.
it's about as ferocious as you'd expect, neighbors.
but it's for a good cause.
self-destruction.
isn't that how vaccinations work?
a little bit of awful,
to inure yourself to it's presence?
well,
worthy warriors doo-doo that even harder.
a lot of awesome turned awful in my innards
makes for an even more goatlike capricorn aura
all around you rural ragnarok wreaking battle-beast buddy.
...that's me.
***********
now,

i should mention right here that i don't just eat falafels.
there's other stuff, too.
like bunnies,
and chickens,
and goats,
and alpacas,
and all the other stuff you'd expect at a country fair.
but mostly,
it's all about the falafels.
if more was happening,
more would be forthcoming.
sorry, friends and neighbors-
time stands still while we make our spirits and memories.
fa.
la.
fel;
never quiet, never soft.....

sweetness.

the whole world is on hold

whilst the fairgrounds are callin' to us.

like a sailor to a siren's song,

those sandwiches are just luring me in....

everything else is just not as important.

what's the score?

three more falafels last night, y'all.

huh?
that's only two.
i need one more for the road-
...pretty F*n' rad, too.
that's ten for the week,

and that after only three days.
and that also means today immediately
goes to eleven.
and they taste even mutha-lickin' better
than they mutha-flippin'  look,
and don't even try to tell me they don't look good.
wooooooooord.
really good.
***********
let's talk about little babies in my house.
cuteness to eleven, ninjas.
and y'all know me.
babies don't normally make me get soft-centered and gooey.
i'm a hard-hearted hatemonger,
but i always give credit where it's due.
and i doo-doo that little doodoo monster,
i'm tellin' you guys-
little harlen is adorable.
the dog, however, can't hang out.
for real,
a little squishy, stinky, squeaky round pink thing?
sounds like a chew toy?
looks like a piglet?
that's a snack.
and our little 'tarded special needs beast
would love nothing more than to snack up
on a little baby rump roast.
be easy.
we worked it out,
and everything's cool.
except the dog.
nature vs. nature vs. nurture.
infinity and beyond, y'all.
from falafel to falafel,
the world is one beige blur;
never quiet, never soft.....

eaten.

fat?
yep.
two more right out of the gates...
for my face:
and then another one, y'know, like for dessert:

and then another 'nother one,

because i'm so not kidding around...

duders-
they've got home-cured pickles.
and they are off-the-charts dope.
my brain almost can't handle the heroic hottness.
and neither can my bellyhole.
but only almost.
because after all,
we go to eleven up here.
...in gambling,
seven means craps.
in falafels, doubly so.
that much gonzo garbanzo
is devastating, y'all.
and they've added extra cayenne pepper this year.
trust me on this one.
i spit hot fire, after all.
(out of my butthole)
woooooooord.
it feels like vacation up here.
it smells like fresh cut wood,
but that's because those nasty A*-lords
have been chainsawing away all the natural goodness
since the super-early-shirley a.m. hours.
mutha-uckers are destroying the whole landscape.
someone is obviously kidding me.
except these sixty foot trees are gone for good.
bunch o' b!tch-bags is what these city planners are.
and these lumberjackoffs,
and the civil engineers.
civil would've been a heads-up before we bought the place,
that they planned on F*ing our A*s.
y'know?
lame cake needs falafel power to soothe the savage battle-beast.
***********
anybody else having google machine image upload problems?
i sure am.
maybe i jinxed it with the tattoo pictures.
could very well be the case.
but,
i assure y'all.
every tasty sandwich is getting documented.
real life doesn't take shortcuts, after all.
set your goals;
never quiet, never soft.....

i doo-doo them jauns.

soooo,
my homeboy toby got this last month.
and i took a picture.
seriously.
i almost don't believe it either.
but it's true.
look:

pure fish.

...like a grown up real-person tattoo.
no bubble-cheeked cartoons or nothin'.
welllll,
maybe just a little tiny bit.
old ways, y'all.
they die hard.
like batteries and bruce willis.
how about that?
i figured since the last tatblasted-up jammer y'all saw
was 'the estar bunny',
maybe i should let heads know about how i'm still here.
and still sincere,
about all the things i doo-doo.
here, for really real, is another 'nother one-

..and it's a not-exactly-creative cover-up, too.
got a goobieblop of unwanted weak sauce on your chest?
no problem.
how about a big black hole of a monster mouth?
okay?
well, i hope you wanted a battle-beast-
because that's what's on the menu.
word.
so there it is;
a couple of more recent, non-crayon-based zappers,
for your faces.
i still do this stuff.
surprised?
never quiet, never soft.....

this just in.

in my bellyhole, i mean.
ohhhhhh, sh!t!!
it was like a perfet relapse.
like a junkie shooting the whole bag.
falafels, neighbors.
pure heaven for my whole face.
oh how i missed my little deep-fried nuggets.
fa.
la.
fel.
one two three.
check this chickpea chastisement:

three in a row,
right down the hatch.
chomp. chomp. chomp.
shark gluttony, duders.
and they went down sooo smooth.
and quick.
i mean, with all the bite and swallow,
and none of the tedious chewing...
that's my word, too, ninjas.
we stayed at the fair for all of thirty minutes.
just long enough to get our whole-week-long admission armbands,
and that tasty tahini-troweled garbanzoey goodness.
food, photos of food, and non-stop monotonous munching.
really real.
it almost makes my horribly disfigured clear-cut acreage
a little less terrible.
almost, but not quite-
i'll find solace at the tail end of a whole wheat pita,
until i find satisfaction for the wrongs of this miserable world;
never quiet, never soft.....

Fryeburg Fair.

today is the day.
the big one.
the one i've waited one whole entire long year for.
the real life rural blue ribbon classic, ninjas.
the fryeburg fair.
why aren't you here?
i mean it.
where are you?
it's sunday.
y'all aren't working.
so there's no good excuses i'll entertain.
i'm just sayin'.
the fair.
The Fair.
THE FAIR!
rain. shine, frost, gale-force winds,
train derailings, flash floods.....
...there's not a whole holy helluva lot that can
realistically come between me and my
mutha-uckin' falafels.
***********
in addition,
it's my sister's 33rd berfday!
i have a thirty-three year old sibling.
and she's younger than i am.
and, it's her big day.
happy berfday, little mary grace.
(she's not here for falafels, either, duders)
weak sauce and b-day cake don't make it o.k.
***********
aaaaaaaand,
in other news,
we're gonna have a baby!
whoah.
hold on.
we're gonna have a baby in our house.
jeez.
c'mon, now.
little baby harlen and his ma and pa,
my brother-in-law and his ol' lady,
are our fryeburg fair houseguests for the next four days.
my father-in-law and his lovely wife betty are headed up, too.
some people know what time it is at least.
(it's fair time- which works every time)
boring daily doings,
and doo-doo buttery deeds in between feedings.
it's all really happening,
but so is the mutha-b!tchin' fair, ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

almost.

it's only important if it's important to you.
interest breeds action.
disinterest breeds disdain.
and what matters hard to some folks,
is completely irrelevant to other duders out there-
like car people.
i personally couldn't care any less about
super-jacked up lifted trucks with winches,
and gunracks, and huge redneck tires,
any more than i give a flying F* about lowered, lit-up
leathery, fast & bi-curious speed coupes.
therefore, to me, they don't matter.
at all.
in fact, they're pretty mutha-lickin' stupid.
and it's the same principle with everythingand anything.
some people like the way their smelly armpits reek up
a room with oniony soup whiffs.
soapy showers just aren't important to them.
other people devote tons of time to collecting sneakers.
but not wearing them.
i hate sneakers, y'all. (trainers to you british kids)
from where i'm standing, gentleman warriors wear shoes.
it's personal definition, duders.
y'know,
how you define yourself.
it's one of those things.
perspectives, i guess.
i can't hang out with the dithering misery of ambition or inclusion.
seperate sovereignty
just be dope, right?
or else, you've got to F* right off.
if you've got that eleventh level viking spirit,
the gratitude and the generosity for what's all really happening,
then,
anywhere is as awesome as you make it.
fun is how you make it, after all,
not where you make it.
moths, neighbors.
it's still all about the moths.
do what you do.
and the rest works itself out.
me?
i'm grateful for having stuff to do,
for having duders to do it with,
and for having a place to do it at.
i live a Folk Life.
that's my important thing.
everything else is just window treatment.
***********
it's almost the fair.
northern new englandy hottness.
in F*ing full effect.
it's also almost time for my favorite middle eastern treats.
Falafels.
eight days of dietary delightfulness.
eight days of chick peas and pitas.
eight days of gastric shark gluttony.
they don't make enough sit-ups and push-ups to undo the
savage damage i'm about to inflict.
tremendous tahini tuesday?
yeah.
monumental mixed pickle monday?
sure thing.
sauce-saturated saturday?
so good.
feel-awful falafel friday?
abso-F*n'- lutely.
it's important if it's important.
sharkbite munching,
animal petting,
overall wearing,
rural real life northwoods living.
Folk Life.
here is where we make the fun,
but loud, hard, and fresh is how we doo-doo
that autumny hottness;
never quiet, never soft..... 

rabbit!!! rabbit.

it's the first of the month.
and it's mutha-F*ing october!
ka-pow!

martha's own rabbit, rabbit. good luck for the whole dang month?
right-seems like it...
check this little tidbit of post-vacation doo-doo butter:
we were gone for a few days,
and came back to a lawn coated in molto rakeables,
and a forest unmistakeable for it's fewer trees.
oh yeah.
less trees.
the sun came up, sorta, behind the clouds.
it got brighter out, at least.
and that shed some much needed light on our backyard.
surprise!
while we were gone,
somebody decided to get lumberjack like a heart attack,
all up and over on our woodsly realm.
sewer line construction started in our ansence,
and they bulldozed a trail through OUR backyard,
so our neighbors can flush away their poops.
i'm not even a little bit kidding...
check this out:

c'mon.
i tried to go and get some bagels this morning,
but found this in my way:

bam-a-lama.
trucks,
and saws,
and wet rainy washout manliness.
but that isn't tree work from the stormswept fury of
the mountain's skies.
surprise!
the state has appropriated a 20' right of way,
straight up the butt of our backyard.
sorry property lines.
and in the middle of my harried, hurried phone calls,
i've got duders tellin' me about how they're NOT wrecking my yard.
their clearing the state's yard.
da, comrade.
for the good of the state.
somebody obviously thinks we're A*-holes.
live free, or die, or get proper F*ed.
there IS a third option after all.
awesome.
anybody out there want to imagine the choice words
i've already exchanged?
yeah.
choice.
berserker barbarian battle-beastliness, ninjas...
with copious profane statements of emphasis.
we went from a forest to a meadow,
while martha's vineyard kept us moist.
some rabbity rabbitude over here, huh?
mutha-F*ers are tryin' to F* my A*
harder than ever...
hard styles and hard times.
good morning, october;
never quiet, never soft.....