heatwaves.

so it's a million degrees outside,
and that is exactly the wrong kind of hotness.
it's got only one t, for starters,
and the thermometer is already reading 80-something at 9 a.m.
hot and sweaty and humid just isn't as good,
not when compared to the lusciousness
of flavorful, talented, attractiveness.
i say "no, thank you" to hotness,
and "yes, please'' to the hottness.
the differences remain less-than-subtle.
i have tattooed my fingers off these last few days,
and that makes typing extra hard.

the woodsly goodness is taking it's sweet time presenting us with options.
i may have to trailblaze a furious swath of devastating destruction soon.
prepare yourselves,
the Folk Life & Liberty real-american carnival is being prepared.
whether or not we have a house to call home,
and regardless of where we hang our hats,
unicycles, stilts, banjos, concertinas, puppets, harmonicas,
and even vegan waybread are gonna have to happen
before the fall falls upon us all.
care to contribute your time and energy?
i hope so,
because this is what active participation is all about.
get ready,
or not,
but here we come;
never quiet, never soft....

bookwyrm.

c'mon.
what did i do yesterday? 
after those bangin' waffles, i mean...
truth be told,
i've been especially under the weather this last whole entire week.
it's probably some type of plague virus,
gestating in a healthy vegan,
learning the ins and outs of a really barbarian battle-beastly immune system,
so as to better conquer all the compromised meatmongers afterwards.
besides feeling like a steamin'-fresh heapin' pile of freshly-dropped links,
i also picked up a book order i'd been waiting on.
and i read all flippin' afternoon.
i still have a bunch left over,
but i powered through the lion's share,
comprised completely of graphic novels, first.
the sha-boo-ya roll call, please:
jenny finn: doom messiah- mike mignola is rad...
achewood: the great outdoor fight-crap drawings hilarious writing;
zombieworld: champion of the worms-johnny quest-style zombie fighters;
b.p.r.d. 10: the warning- dooooooooooooooope;
welcome to hoxford- ben templesmith, the 30 days of night guy does werewolves;
wondermark: beards of our forefathers-clip art made hilarious;
capacity- some montana bizarro who draws complicated pseudocomics;
apple dos- the weirdie korean art comic compilation;
if that seems like i waded balls-deep into superdorky barbarian booktard territory,
it's because i totally did!
the tamerlane of turbolame, mutha-uckas.
yeah!
nerding it up BIG time.
that's what's up.
i tattooed all flippin' day today,
instead of nerding it up some more.
we've got preposterously hot weather,
wicked lame touristas,
and a whole mess of stress.
i'm not letting it get me down, though.
be easy my ninjas,
better things are headed our way;
never quiet, never soft.....

waffles and woodcocks.

is that a righteous plate of wotan's waffles?
with buttery-type spreadable goodness, 
and powdered sugar,
AND a maple-vanilla blueberry and strawberry compote?
heck yes it is, my mutha-lickin' ninjas,
after all, what am i?
an A-hole diaperbaby?
how do we take something so clearly delicious,
and kick it up to eleven?

uh-huh,
weird german faux whipped cream!
fresh from the land that brought you two epic world wars,
comes the so def dopeness that squirts out umlauts of awesome.
breakfast at my house gets it IN.
that's word, not jibba-jabba....


i guess a bow-tie is a real deal freshmaker!
certain folks seem to suggest that i'm a bit overdressed for work most days;
i would argue that i'd rather dress specifically for success,
in it's myriad forms, and fabrics,
whether or not it fits the glass house dress code
and/or glass ceiling limitations of my vocation.
that said,
my secret recipe and farmer's market fresh flavor
seem to show up as super-sour sauce to lobster-neck trailer-trucktards.
it's like losing face for trying harder.
of course,
failing to excel within parameters designed to impede is no failure at all.
i promise not to meet your expectations....
...if they suck balls, that is.
personal style, ya'll.
i dress to impress,
as if every day was an awards-show induction ceremony.
because it IS.
co-sponsored by the secret universal plan and the woodsly goodness,
and thrown as a gala fete in my honor,
just for showing up.
i make every occasion special,
and every day is it's own reward.
battle bards write their own history every single day, right?
the chronicles of a worthy and bold existence,
from daybreak until we break....


what a cute and tiny woodcock!
(that's what she said)
c'mon, ya'll.
jess has the whole story over at her daily newsmakin' station.
but seriously;
woodcock!
hilarious.
one more point on the woodsly goodness scorecard,
plus an extra point for the name.
one more time:
woodcock!
awesome.
never quiet, never soft...

be like mike...

saint michael.
bearded, burly, crusader-style.
sorry morningstar,
but your bat-winged and goat-horned business,
is gettin' cast the F* out,
with a complimentary face stomp,
by a foot in greeves, at that.
toeless sandal boots?
insult to injury is what that is.
my new friend paris,
not to be confused with my old friend paris,
better known to the masses as mitch-slap gibbs,
came in for a square foot of first tattoo.
and he took it like a trooper.
word up.

we saw a whole mess of romulans and vulcans get into some stuff.
STAR TREK was dope.
no joke.
despite not being star wars,
or perhaps in relativity to the fact,
this particular pre-imagining was not lame cake at all.....
just the opposite, actually.
it even had a little tiny bit of plot and character development,
but mostly,
there were two hours of 'splosions.
and that is so good.

otherwise,
it's a day for moving stuff to other places,
doing other things,
coughing a whole lot,
and probably eating pizza.
i wish every day could be so easy.
never quiet, never soft....

ignition.

spit hot fire!
exclusively as productive verbal vendettas
against weak-words and waterbabies.
i have no actual interest in being one of those other other fire-breathers,
y'know,
the hippies with the flaming marshmallow sticks,
and the vaseline-lined lips,
and the acres of epic chunky vibes and lameness.
but,
when it comes to liquid lava lingo,
and fluid flowing magma metaphor,
i'm all about it.
so hard.
it's not that simple or easy though,
i'm sayin', it never is;
because when you got it goin' on like a dragon,
it usually just means you've got those bad breath bits,
all up on your tongue-piece an' all...
and while wordcraft and storytelling are important to me,
i still stock up on chewing gum,
because a doublestuffed face furnace fountain
is a happy one.
a dragon without 'the dragon'.
you get it.
your ears and your nose will thank me, too.
minty-scented hot fire breath, ya'll.
that's customer service at it's finest.
the hard(er) part, my ninjas,
is slowing down the steady-rocking stream of sounds and symbols in my head,
so that it seems solid and sinuously super-sonic simultaneously,
but not as self-serving and sh!t-smarmy as it does at full-force in real-time.
i mean,
it seems i'm way more enjoyable when i slow it down,
or better yet put it down in print for leisurely perusal;
NOT because of any lofty incomprehensible concepts,
but rather because of the pace and volume
of loud, hard, level-eleven Folk Life living.
too much is normally the exact right amount.
unless you're a b!tch-sap oozing diaperpants baby
believe you me when i spill these beans, ya'll.
spitting this particular hard hot fire,
out into the expanses of experience we call really-real reality,
is waaaaay more than those other 'nother folks,
can really tolerate in any quantity larger than none at all.....
their loss is our gain, though, right?
warrior poetry.
that's what real-life is all about.
combustion.
enunciation.
conflagration.
composition.
diction and domination.
spitting hot fire.
wherever.
whenever.
threatening thesaurical terrorism,
one syllable sniper shot at a time.
my tongue is a strike-anywhere match.
never quiet, never soft.....

back at 'em.

live free.
or die.
there's something seriously satisying about seeing that kind of badassery,
on every license plate and road sign and state building.
we doo doo that freaky-diki hard style concrete concious choice.
i still pick live free.
every time.
it's the kind of half-full glassy-eyed gangster slogan
that serves as a salutatory celebration confirmation 
of the warm and fuzzy fact that we're back.
deep in the super-dope sighing boughs of the barbarian forestwoods.
and while we still don't have a definite designated domicile
to relate to there being no place like;
i suppose the red ruby slippers got click-clacked enough times,
simultaneously in sync with the magic words
whispered on the warring winds of change,
and maybe,
just maybe,
the secret universal plan has a sneak peek preview
prepared to premier to anyone berserker and battle-bardly enough.
i hope i qualify with all of the necessary prerequisite barbarisms;
i've got my beard,
my surly, burly, and unfortunate patches of body hair,
and an out-of-place sense of style, 
hard and otherwise,
(kind of like a mangy sasquatch chimney sweep)
so all's well and good,
and basically back to normal.
which includes,
but is not limited to,
hard styles,
hard times,
long nights,
and Folk Life reality....

this whole place has a hazy shade of summer, kids.
chartreuse and lime.
the leaves are all still kinda young,
and yellow-green.
and wet.
it never ever seems to stop raining.
every day gets a dash of dewdrops, raindrops, and coughdrops.

it is a nearly-summer weekend.
that means out-of-state players, haters, waterbabies, and sightseers.
and that means walk-in clients.
that's how i get busy.
straight-up street style.
back to the grindstone,
milling about,
and making that grist,
if ya'll get my gist, ninjas.
whilst i thought it would seem nigh-impossible,
it was actually pretty good to get back to work.
(you read that right.)

the best and the most.
that's what i'm making out of each day;
never quiet, never soft....

happenings.

candy beans, b!tches.
seriously, gimbal's candy beans are what's up.
except for buttered popcorn,
because that sh!t is so 'ucking nastypants.
ewwww.
otherwise,
they're pretty tasty.
good for your soul,
if not so much for your bellyhole.
i had a handy fistful last night,
celebrating the arrival of my A-hole
back in the super fresh air of the woodsly goodness.
i've said it before,
but nowhere is as awesome as here.


the cucch is back to rocking out a turbo-scary justache.
as in:
no beard,
just 'stache.
it's like a gene-splicing experiment gone haywire,
involving freddie mercury and a troupe of gypsy carnival performers.
when i see that 'stache, though,
i hear 'we are the champions' playing in my head,
unlike the ironic hipster moustache crimes i saw in philly.
those dudes get an F-. 
and the only music i hear playing is Bel Biv Devoe.
the weakest of weak sauce.


hank's gourmet, ya'll.
it's like spicy vanilla cream soda with birch sauce mixed in.
the bottle is so fancy,
it almost makes it taste even better.
if you like root beer,
and i know you do,
you should try and get a sip or two of this sodapop.
it's good.


straight from the source!
boo-ya, even!
meat without feet.
fish are definitely NOT made out of carrots, after all.
all fake-a-tarian vegetarians had better recognize.
somehow, though,
i think this truck is psyched that fish are so dead and edible!
i haven't called the number yet,
but i think we all should.
just to let 'em know that they totally rock it so hard.

we're here.
gettin' busy with our big business 
as events unfold like they're supposed to.
you know the flavor:
balls-deep active participants
not panty-waisted time-wasting passive spectators.
we doo-doo ALL that freaky sh!t.
today is the day,
again.
never quiet, never soft.....

i h8 driving.

the more i travel,
the less i like it.
for real.
goin' places, sleepin' even less, eatin' even more.
tons of people, tons of cars, tons of asphalt and concrete.
it does not agree with me.
my constitution is dependant on clean air and good water,
and a whiff of the poisonous air and noxious atmosphere
of each and every exit all the way down and out,
has left me sniffling and sore,
bleary and road-weary as a sonuvagun.
and highways are so mutha-uckin' awful, ya'll.
interstate 95 may traverse the whole east coast,
tip to tip, hittin' all the hot spots from maine to miami,
but that doesn't mean it doesn't suck.
hard.
traffic jam for breakfast is not as nourishing as tea and toast.
i'm sayin',
turnpikes, tollbooths, decaying dollops of doo-doo butter,
from white plains to philly.....
everywhere that is not here is less than dope;
i'm reppin' the woodsly goodness, my ninjas,
like it's the damn center of the universe.
there's no place like home, i guess,
even when you've got about two weeks of home left,
before you're homeless.

we also figured out why we eat so flippin' much when we're other places.
it's the one part we like about city life.
vegan food all up and over the place.
the rest can F* right off.
our homegirl jenny brought the noise,
in the form of hospitality and generosity.
we may have barely stopped by the 'burbs in pennsylvania,
but she helped make it feel good to be there.
and the bangin' seats to see SPINAL TAP didn't hurt, either.
i am grateful for the time i have been given.
i am grateful for the people i span it with.
that said,
believe me when i tell ya'll;
it's great to be back.
never quiet, never soft....

holy smokes!

okay,

so,

i'm not one for short and sweetness,

but it's late,

i've got a touch of the swine/bird flu,

and i just had a life-altering experience.....

unwigged, unplugged,

and totally awesome.

songs from SPINAL TAP,

a mighty wind,

and even waiting for guffman.

ya'll really missed out.

front and center, 

close enough to smell the glove.

tonight was definitely the night,

more so than most;

talkin' 'bout chair fruit?

my girl's got 'em;

never quiet, never soft......

tornado warning...

someone is obviously kidding me.
it is probably the same person who thinks that connecticut is awesome.
so they are clearly an A-hole.....
i've been gorging myself since i got here.
no foolin',
i've been non-stop stuffing my facehole for two days straight.
it's like a two day pre-hibernation season,
where i pack my foodbox with all my favorite foods,
and visit all kinds of family,
and pack my whole day full to the tippity-top with activity,
so that i can feed off the stores until i return again.
believe me,
a little teentsy weentsy tiny bit goes one helluva long way.

sorry connecticut,
you may be full of people i care about,
but that won't save you.
too many other 'nother other folks,
too much traffic,
too much suburban/urban sprawl,
too much everything,
and nowhere near enough woodsly goodness.
i choose live free over die every time.
a better fate than death awaits us anywhere.
(except connecticut)



tomorrow, my ninjas,
we blow through philadelphia,
at about eleven thousand miles per hour,
at about eleven million decibels,
for about eleven seconds.
don't blink or you'll miss it,
but we're here and there and back again in under a day.
it beats it hard,
but we've got so little time this week,
and most of it has been spent in a turdtastic world tour of the highways and byways of new england.
weeeeeeak sauce!!
and with nowhere to live,
no new options on the horizon,
and next to no dollars to doo-doo any type of worthwile freaky dikiness,
we've got just that one little lumen of light to look forward to:
SPINAL MUTHA-UCKIN" TAP!!!!
sixth row center, b!tchbag babyheads!
i'm pretty much missing out on all other experiences,
good,
bad,
ugly,
and the full gambit in between.

road trip tornado,
not enough time,
too much too see.
never quiet, never soft....

comin' down the mountain.

a pig-pile of sylvan spirits.
for the record,
you should buy some of these.
and also for the record,
packing up your stuff still eats up on a hard-hearted hot one....

i'm driving today.
all F*n' day.
and that's just great.
i'm driving for a good chunk of the night, too,
from one end of waterbabyland to the other,
which is also happening,
and also F*n',
but just not as great.
i do get to see a whole plethora of my peoples;
a regular lynch-mob posse,
waiting with bated breath and open arms,
(and clenched fistfuls of rope) at the state line.
i'll be summoning a slice or ten of pepe's pizza,
and luring the ladies in my life to smoochville,
with tomato-scented baited breath.
i'm excited.
my delightful daughter-persons are BOTH getting trophies tonight,
from their school,
for rockin' it in some contest
and making some hottness happen in the art department.
word.
 harvest is even in the big-deal town art show on friday.
c'mon.
nature, nurture, whatever;
hot fire is coursing through their little valkyrie veins.
something about fruit, trees, and falling.....
or was that newton?
or figs?
fruit and cake, my ninjas,
either way,
good times will be had.

the car is stocked with snacks, maps, and soundtracks.
it's also got ass and gas, (we'll skip the grass, thanks);
it's a road trip.
a stay young and do something trip.
a long nights, hard times, good times, short days trip.
it's like we're going on a vacation,
whirlwind tour,
and family reunion all at once.
AND we'll even be seeing the cucch!
he's in weak-sauce wallingford, ct,
and i'll be in hard-style hamden.
we'll meet up in the middle.
at the fire.
keeping our streak of intense duderiffic hangin' out
fully-intact, unbroken, and in full-effect.
nice.
this kind of packing is way more manageable, ya'll.
four days worth of clothes and toothpaste?
i've got it covered.
i even got extra socks.

oh, and since the big action is underway all day,
i'll ask all ya'll a quick question:
what do christopher guest,
harry shearer,
michael mckean,
and albie rock
all have in common?
amongst many many other things,
we'll all be together in philly thursday night,
going all the way to eleven!!!!!
socks will be rocked, ya'll.
read that back again.
because i'm serious,
and it's all really happening.
that is exactly correct, my mutha-lickin' flipper-uckers,
with great big thanks to our especially special ladyfriend ms. j.w.,
SPINAL TAP is happening,
all up in my face;
now you know what the extra socks are for....
never quiet, never soft....