hat hottness.

who's that breath-takingly handsome mutha-ucka up there?
the gandalf of get-busy garrulousness?
the merlin of move-makin' mayhem?
the faustus of furious Folk Livelihood?
the prospero of pure-power puerile pugilism?
oh, heck yeah!
how fresh is that hat?!!!?
...don't answer,
it's rhetorical...
i know, though,
it IS so dope...
jess almost wasn't sure i could pull it off!
can you believe that?
she says it's a crazy person hat,
and it wouldn't suit me!!
weird,
when we already know
it's impossible to find a hat that doesn't suit me.
if you must know my secret:
it's the beard.
beards and hats go together like unprotected sex and teenagers.
you just can't keep 'em apart!
hell,
my beard is practically a chin-hat in it's own right, for cryin' out loud.
that being considered,
my new hat is most excellent, ya'll.
it's like a wafer-thin mushroom of awesome.
equal parts poor spanish peasant a la don quixote,
carribean pirate-king,
and fabulous french riviera grand dame.
it's a hard-style, to be sure,
but, i mean, with the pipe?!
uh-huh. dopeness.
and if ever a wearable wrench manifested as headgear...
c'mon.
d'ya think the airport security will like it?
never quiet, never soft....

fuh-reeeez-ing.

bein' ugly, bein' dope.
more magical moth flavored folksiness.
surprise!
lightning and acorns, too.
yep.
i like that stuff.
that's the thoughts and the memory of woodsly goodness, in essence.

holy crap it's cold out this morning.
negative degrees, an' that.
most likely, it's the pre-game warm-up and cool-down,
for the big action in minneapolis!!!!!
my first full day?
wotan's day, the 11th,
word the f* up.
and not to summon the sh!tstorm jinx for the projected unprotected hijinx,
but last time,
i had NO voice.......(and that is SO hard for me, kids)
and this time,
my larynx has a phalanx of taut-bowstring vocal chords on guard,
ready to resonate,
and remonstrate all forms of quiet and soft.
the volume, my ninjas,
of art,
of culinary conquests,
of big barbarian fun,
and of decibels,
will most definitely be in the mutha-uckin' red.
you know the routine:
we go all the way to eleven...
and i'll be there for fortune-tempting,
fate-flaunting,
bad-lucking friday the thirteenth!
if you haven't made the decision to come out to the midwest for the week,
i feel bad for you, son.
ya'll are missin' out on minnesotan misanthropy.

moving on,
i'm about to get out and about in the proud pride of in-like-a-lion,
out-like-a-lionel-ritchie march madness;
i have to re-register my car today.
live free or die, they say.
and i don't get it it,
because i obviously choose live free,
but they still stick me for my papers,
every single chance they get.
at least the vanity plates will get rocked to the fullest.


new garbage, new arthur.
the beginnings of another 'nother one.....
more of this, to be sure.

oh,
and just to keep you updated:
a vat of hummus in my head!
that's the best description for the marinated mucous melt
all up in behind my eyes, ears, nose, and throat.
sinus pressure, yo.
i can hear it percolating,
like a bialetetti stovetop model,
makin' that continental syrupy doo-doo sap...
...in my face.
-this heinous update of my headcold
brought to you by misery loving company;
never quiet, never soft....

soot-eater.

okay.
so this guy flies around munchin' up on burnt bits of smoky air.
y'know,
a sentry spirit,
keepin' out the smog and foulmouth fog from the sh!tty city world,
and helpin' the woodsly goodness stay crisp, ya'll.....
well,
except that he can't actually fly,
which is where the pet moths come into play.
and he's obviously not very heavy,
or those two little heterocerae couldn't flit his ass around for too long.
i'm tryin' new things,
and keeping some old things,
and making other 'nother things.
he's got sleeves, but no shirt on,
globe ornament kneecaps,
and a serious pair of ice-skating boot-tights on as well.
and let's just address the obvious fact:
eating soot all day makes your face into a skullish black mess,
so your hands are goin' to need teeth
clip art churches and buildings for an instant whitechapel neighbourhood.
really,
it's just two of each,
plus extensive photocopying,
some ledger paper,
and a healthy infusion of alcohol markering.
a touch of the ol' 'albie rock architecture school', an' that....
think londony thoughts,
circa 1866,
with pre-renaissance cimabue proportions,
charles wysocki smokestacks,
and churchy triptych colored backgrounds,
but without the gold-leaf gaudiness,
or lapis blue tempura figures in the foreground.
it isn't easy keepin' it all rough-cut and cardboard halfway housed.
i'm sayin',
i respect dudes with all that solid technical ability,
honestly, a lot of those guys don't get near enough credit for executing that slick stuff,
but,
and there's always a but with me,
(that's what SHE said,)
that Folk Life Folk Art coarse ground hottness,
as elusively simple a style as it is,
takes me to the happy place in  between my ears.
i'm workin' on it,
and it ain't easy,
but what ever is?

so yesterday,
i griped about tatzappin',
and then did mostly fresh-as-fresh-gets ideas all flippin'day.
vanilla skyed a batch of better business, i did.
the squeaky wheel gets all the oil, after all.
and i was a well-lubed hub in the heat of the hub-bub,
you better believe it.
no pictures,
but it's still true.
i promise.
i even had a dude WALK OUT,
in a huff and a puff,
like a big bad wolfman,
after a blitzkrieg barrage of lightning-striking viking verbosity.
some folks just don't get down on the basic B's, y'heard?.....
thankfully,
while he pouted out loud so hard in the car,
his ol' lady still got tatblasted,
and i still got paid,
so at least there was a happy ending after it all was said and done.
(that's what SHE said.)

i've decided to let the deeds of my days determine my disposition.
makin' moves.
makin' progress.
makin' arthur.
makin' decisions, mutha-uckas.
i'm feelin' it.
all grown-up and responsible!
just be doper than ever before,
that's the reiterating rallying cry for the whole month.
fortune's favorites have a understated obligation to maintain
eleventh-level untold boldness.
that said,
i'll be in minnesota next weekend, if you hadn't already heard,
with my homeboys shawn and todd,
who are infinitely more personable, it seems, than i am....
so who's comin' to hang out?
you can even talk to them first, if you'd like;
never quiet, never soft...

in case you were wondering,
but not that you asked,
i'm not as sick as i was,
but i've still got a powerful camembert aging facility in my nostrils,
pumpin' out that soft, french dairy doo-doo in dizzying dollops.
it's even more awful in person.
word up.

without the bitter...

the snow didn't miss us after all.
it did wait until about 4a.m. to get goin' though,
so i should be able to enjoy the slippery roads well into the day.

i tattoo a lot of folks.
no foolin',
straight up street-style hardworkin' american vacation spot tatblast pounding.
high volume, low flavor.
it's like the prison food of tattooing.
we get the kind of folks who buy an ed hardy shirt at t.j.maxx,
so they won't stick out like an out-of-place sore thumb in the studio!!!
lifestyle-branded chameeleonism.
of course,
the ball-team windbreaker and
the nascar-realtree-camo hat usually gives 'em away though.
you just can't un-ruralize some folks that easily, after all...
and a backwards hat might not cover that red neck all the way either....
but, 
as long as we stick to the basic B's
(and not Boston sports teams, or Beers, either)
conversations can go smoothly.
bullets. bonfires. beards. barbarians. books. boobs. buttholes. boners. black folks.
admittedly,
it's good to lead in with bullets,
which, unfortunately, frequently leads to hunting stories,
whereupon i explain that the client is OBVIOUSLY a small-genitaled capital A-hole,
and anyone who wears animal urine and sits in a tree dressed-up as a leaf-pile,
can definitely chug a fat, veiny, raging one. (which brings us to b for boners)
at that point,
i mention that my firearms are for hunting people.
and this indirectly, more often than not, leads back to black people.
what's funnier to a developementally-challenged,
backwoods backbottom bottom-feeder than a joke involving shooting 'cans??
y'know the one, right?
well,
i can tell ya'll,
it's not the second punchline,
where i tell 'em i'm lookin' to line up my crosshairs on all the wayward, racist, white ameriCANS.
books and beards are usually strikeouts, too, for what it's worth.
bonfires = beer-tard parties for almost all under-25 year olds, so that's an age sensitive topic.
and that's why i talk about boobs and buttholes so damn much.
i will say, though,
that i'd way rather disagree about racism or vegetarianism
than play the superfriendly babypants role.
seriously, my ninjas,
i'm tellin' you;
i don't want to answer any of the stock first-timer questions ever again.
you know the ones;
the queries made by nervous younglings about things that,
i'm sure,
in their heads at the very least,
sound like astute and relevant observations about the tatzappin' brave new world
that they are warily entering into for their very first experience.
i'm sayin',
i just don't have it in me to flit around like a hummingbird of friendliness,
bobbing my head up and down enthusiastically,
while talking in a kindergarten teacher voice,
patiently explaining the answers to inquiries 
i stopped wanting to discuss years and years ago:
-yes.
i've tattooed myself.
-no.
not my own right arm...
because, i'm not left-handed.
-yes.
it did hurt (my future) to tattoo my neck.
-no.
i don't love my job soooooo much.
i just don't want to stock boxes, third shift at a factory, instead.
-probably your skin.
that's where it hurts the most to get tattooed.
-overpriced, simple, and easy.
that's my favorite kind of tattoo to do.......
-do you have any money?
then yes, i doo-doo think that's a good idea for a tattoo.

if you understand where i'm at,
you should realize i'm grateful for the opportunities i'm presented with every day.
but berserker barbarian battle-beasts don't turn down the hot fire any lower than eleven.
sour grapes make bitter wine,
but better vinegar,
and without vinegar,
you don't have a decent hot sauce.
and without hot sauce,
all you've got is weak-sauce.
my work may be prison food,
but my really real life is five-star fine dining.
never quiet, never soft...

rabbit, rabbit.

yeah!
march madness, my ninjas!!!!
my man gay dan went home today,
but not before we started a viking mer-man djinn spirit on his leg!
no,
i didn't take a picture...
but anyhow,
it was the least i could do for a guy,
after he watched me sleep for two days straight,
with fever chills,
and oodles of boogie-night boogers and bogeys bustin' outta everywhere.
i'm pretty sure that i was the worst host ever.
alas,
the restfulness was broken up with intermittent tatblastin' and terrorizin',
and a whole helluva lotta backhanded barbarian boasting.
and we wached 'my blue heaven', too.
i'm totally feelin' the 'rabbit, rabbit' good-luck explosion today.
as in:
the sh!tty sickness is in remission,
my tat-zappin' skills were utilized to their fullest
(read as: 100 words, and a tupac poem at that, on some ribs)
and i ate a buttbaby dirty diaperload of delicious indian food.
march, ya'll.
so good.
the big windy wartorn merry merry month....
named after mars,
the god of war.
figures the winds blow so hard all month.
war AND change.
let's not forget it's spring in 19 more days,


the big arthur makey-ness,
-in progress.
that's a pasta box, yo.
and those hands definitely have teeth....
he's a soot eater.
y'know,
a spirit who flies around eating up smokiness from chimneys an' what-all.
it'll most likely make more sense when there's a background, huh?

i don't even care!!
i'm not sick,
i'm full-bellied,
and full-hearted,
and i've got twenty boxes of non-vegan girlscout cookies headed my way!!!
maybe a tremendous norse springtime bonfore sacrificial offering is in the works???
who knows,
the insane nor'easter blowin' across southern new england may even miss us up here.
woodsly goodness, ya'll.
i am so all about it,
right now,
as it happens.
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft...

gettin ready for lions....

it's the last day of february.
and i'm sick.
in fact,
i'm sicker and suckier than i've been in a year...
hell,
it coincides with my last trip out to minnesota,
so it's kind of a full circle return to the past...
great.

i did matching parrot skull/jimmy buffett tattoos on a pair of fresh ones
from further up north.
their philosophy?
everyone says they're weak-sauce for lovin' on my man jimmy,
but they couldn't care any less.
actually,
they decided to take their friendship and love of alcoholic summers to a new level:
bro tats, ya'll.
wonder twin powerpuff cheeseburgers wasting away in a margaritaville paradise.
that may just be the fever talkin'....

march better bring the spring.
floods, mud, rain,
and of course,
the winds of war,
and change.
blowin' loud and proud,
never quiet, never soft...

connected.

if i were a baked treat,
i'd be coughie cake.
i've got that connecticut 'itis, kids,
and i'm feelin' it.
that burnt headed hands-have-teeth cherub?
that's about all i have to show for goin' to work yesterday....
before i crawled home and sloshed through an evening of soup,
tea,
and other warm fluids.
someone spiked the juice with weak-sauce,
or used powdered doo-doo butter in the kool-aid,
because i am takin' battle damage to the throat hole,
and my voicebox isn't co-operating with my mouthpiece.
...lame.

i worked on some arthur last night,
a background setting for the ghost worm:

despite the super marioesque color scheme,
i still like it.....
it's kind of like a seance, right?
and those hands are summoning up a spirit from the tea leaves....
gypsy sh!t, if you get me...
babushka head wraps and wagon wheels,
minor keys on harmonica,
accordion and fiddle-type sh!t.

i don't know if it means that makey-time's days are a-changing,
but i have been utilizing one guilty indulgence:
prismacolor alcohol markers.
they're not exactly cheap,
for markers,
and i don't exactly like the color ones, either,
but,
i'll tell ya,
the greyscale markers are my favorites.
especially because it seems they were born to rock it out
on cardboard macaroni boxes.
as long as everything else is still trash,
ya'll will let me slide on havin' the marky markers, right?
c'mon.

my main man,
gay dan,
(that's definitively gay,
as in,
jocund, lively, and convivial)
is headed up here, today.
escaping from the sh!tty city, by way of durham, ct.,
to watch me hack and wince, maybe.....
and to enjoy the woodsly goodness alongside a comrade-in-arms.
battle-beasts should stick together,
after all.
oh, and by the way,
shawn,
my special friend in minnesota,
called twice yesterday,
with supportive mockery and encouragement.
i can't tell you how important it is to know i've got duders who care.
did i mention that his boss,
todd,
is my other new favorite?
heck yes.
i may be a hermit,
but thankfully,
i'm somehow still not alone.
active participation, my ninjas,
from really real life-livers,
is what's motivating me these days.
fueling the hot fire furnace, an' that.
or more accurately, the boiler;
i'm so full of wetness that i'm definitely buildin' pressure in my cooker.
like a sauna of savage stormswept steaminess;
never quiet, never soft...

arthur-making.

uh-huh.
occasionally, i get around to gettin' busy, my ninjas.
this fella showed up yesterday unnanounced.
the skull part doesn't line up with the libbidy-lips,
and the glowing hot fire furnace in his face seems too big for his big mouth,
all while he's a smudgy ash-wednesday wraith, with wings....
the herald angels are singin' off key with this one, ya'll.
but,
one hand has teeth,
and the other has a gooseflesh fingerless mitten on......
so, deal with it....
i'm sayin'.


here's a battle-beastly wicked little worm,
whose relationship should be evident to the smoke-ghost skeleton up above....
cousins, most likely, yeah?
six arms,
spotty eyebrows,
lobster claws,
and a warrior-poet's cap.

i think my makey-ness is starting to inbreed.
spirits, memories,
smokin' woodslies,
smokey goodslies,
hands with teeth,
scrapbook bits and cutout pieces......
everything is becoming one thing.
i guess i can live with that.

i don't know that i'm on familiar enough terms with art,
neither as a notion nor as a creation,
to call it something so friendly....
so i'll go with a proper formal name, instead;
i make a lot of Arthur,
y'heard?
and yesterday was a lesson in arthur-makin'.
a spot of gettin' to know ya,
with sharpies and scissors....
.......
-hey arthur,
mind if i call you art?
oh,
you do?
alright then,
i'll just be over here,
makin' stuff..
lemme know if you change your mind, yeah?-
.......
i seem to always have such grander estimations of my speediness.
i thought for sure i would bang out a heap of makey-ass stuff.
not just one and a half skull-worms.
i mean,
i already had the budget frames,
the dime-store acrylics,
the spent-up brushes,
and the cereal boxes and cardboard from the recycling...
i even had ideas,
although those got eaten up rather immediately,
and i was left freestylin' those goobieblops up there..
i had some fun,
we read some books (finished one/started another), 
made some soup to fix this cranky, skanky, drippin' and coughin',
and drank a gallon of tea, in assorted fruit and british flavours.
spendin' a lazy day with my ladyfriend,
and despite the relegation,
to the cold cold basement,
of all my arthurian endeavors,
i was up and down enough to feel like the time was spanned well....
(that's what SHE said)

i got smashed in the face with a lot of ice yesterday,
but,
i also smashed a lot of ice in the face.
the dam didn't break loose and crush me, either.
and, there wasn't water seepin' into the ceiling.
i'm comfortable with a tie score, ya'll......
lately,
all the shoveling and hammering,
and the 'echo base' snowfort tunneling,
as well as all the other assorted manly tasks
have left my limbs sapped of all strength.
i'm reppin' the overcooked spaghetti noodle-arms.
and legs.
wobbliness,
and dropsy,
in flippin' full effect.
i've got an avocado in my throat,
and every time i swallow,
i'm making guacamole;
never quiet, never soft...

cajun cookin' and blackened foreheads

num num num num, ninjas.
that sh!t is my JAM...balaya.
weirdie faux meats, ya'll,
i'm just sayin',
are kinda delicious,
and kinda creepy,
at the same time.
sausage and chicken,
except not actually either,
and authentic peppers, onions, celery, broth, and rice,
with half a cup of hot sauce, for good measure....
not exactly good for your bellyhole,
but so good for your whole well-being...
hell,
it was f*n' mardi gras,
the big fat mutha-uckin' tuesday, after all.
the good ol' stuff yo' face feast before the penitent abstemiousness of lent.
at least in the olde days, anyway,
before mardi gras just meant girls could go wild,
for a week straight,
and be rewarded with plastic necklaces for their efforts....
in solidarity with the bourbon street barbarians,
i let my bathtub overflow,
and while standin' in deep waters,
i shot guns all night!
hahahahaha.
c'mon.....
here's a tasty tidbit of info about me;
i could give a squirt about religion,
but still,
i gave up hope for lent....
word.
it seemed an appropriate response,
and one i can handle until chocolate bunny sunday comes callin' on the calender.
today should see some folks walkin' about with smudgy foreheads, too.
ashes to ashes, charcoal catechumens, an' that.
whatever, ya'll,
i'll be snackin' up on leftover jambalaya.....
and if i end up with burnt up bits of bible-butter on my head,
it'll be because of berserker barbarian hellstorm hottness,
in the form of deep-driftin', snow-siftin', song-beltin' snow-meltin'
hot hottness and fiery ferocious fury.
i got my belated birthday bundle from our homegirl, holly.
and it had magic fire dirt in it.
no foolin'.
i'll be puttin' that to incredibly good use,
and if anyone wants to come over
and receive a sooty slap-happy barbarian blessing
from the one and only reverend rock,
ya'll know where to find me.....

hammerin' away at weighty waterlogged ice dams is on my schedule today.
seriously.
thor's hammer,
mjolnir,
has got nothin' on the carpenter's claw i'll be swingin' overhead.
hard-style hittin' at the feet and feet of
frosty barbaric barricades,
drip-drippin' and shingle rippin' on our roof.....
smashing icicles on a step ladder while wearin' goggles, kids.
that's manliness happening, right there,
for those who don't know it on sight.
to recap:
me and a hammer vs. really cold water.
yeah,
my moneys on the water, too.

gregory mcguire.
know of him?
yeah, you do:
wicked? son of a witch? lost?
it turns out,
just because he's ridiculously popular,
it may be deservedly so.
he's actually a helluva writer too.
in my usual completionist collector mania,
i scoopled up all the books jess didn't have yet, yesterday....
now,
my 'To Read' stack is gettin' pretty tall.
so after the super-sledge smash festival is over and done with,
i'll shovel the rubble,
defrost my face,
reheat my eats,
and today may just become a reading day.
i've got a voluminous library here,
but unlike the public versions,
the ground-rules in the woodsly goodness are the exact opposite:
never quiet, never soft...

Fat Tuesday.

what better way to end a visit,
than to go back to the beginning?

word to yo' mother, ninjas.
pannie-cakes!!!
that's right.
and this morning,
after all the weekend's weak sauce delays and detours,
my little beautiful ladybirds went back to waterbaby 'butterburgh.
i miss 'em as much as ever, already.
it's a hard style, ya'll,
watchin' 'em head out....
the worst part, every time,
and always right at the end.
like finding a big black hairy fly in the bottom of your bowl of soup.

harvest is so much like me, i want to kick her in the pants,

and maple is so much like her ma, that i wanna do the same thing....
oh c'mon....
at any rate,
i'm still grateful for the time,
and it's still heart-hardeningly hard when it's over.
too much is the right amount.
and enough is never enough.....
i've said it before,
you can't have heart-wrenchin' sh!t,
without the wrench...

in less hopelessly depressing news:
it's mardi gras, kids.
that also means it's vegan jambalaya time, too.
ragin' cajun taste sensation are on the special shortlist for dinner tonight.
with a side order of shout out to the late, great justin wilson.
hoo-boy,
i gah-ron-tee, ya'll.....
if you've got the beads, by the way,
i am fully prepared to engage in any level of public nudity to gain a set.
and believe me,
when you see my set,
you'll wish you had bigger beads.....
word up.
never quiet, never soft....

sticky.

lightsaber wizard beard, my ninjas!
sometimes, it kinda rules,
lookin' all airbrushed van panel an' that....

underground snowtunnel glowstick party.
c'mon...
i mean, there's a slide inside.

and four different openings.

and room for expansion, even.

here, maple demonstrates the scale of the whole thing....
that's the small tunnel, y'heard?
early evenings spent shinin' and slidin',
in an ancient inuit-flavored arctic snowbank bivouac shelter,
with flourescent tubes of ravin' wavin' goo-goo butter illuminating the scene.
the girls got the mace windu kool-aid ones,
and i rocked the greenies...

heavy, heavy, wet, and nasty, my ninjas. 
i said heavy twice, because it's extra heavy.
barely freezin' temperatures make for some burly burdens to burrow out of....
the morning after a snowstorm is alternately beautiful and infuriating.
the snow is wet enough that everything looks like it's been covered in vanilla frosting.
and it's heavy enough that i'll need a chiropractor after i shovel.
and i'll need to shovel about a foot down and 'bout forty feet along the driveway!!
yeah.
i was hopin' to have to do most of the work i pay someone else to do.
and still have to pay him....
oh man,
i am gonna burn this guy's house down at some point in the future!!!
that's correct,
the a-tarded f*hole plowsucker has struck again!!
i'm wishing hard-hearted hate, in the form of actual leprosy,
or at least weepin', seepin' full-body blisters,
on our plowguy, too.
really,
i'm gonna need to have to evidence of severe injury inflicted upon him,
if i'm to feel any sense of justice.
he's the gopher in my caddyshack, ya'll.....
i never even see or hear this sh!tlickin' slacker show up.
like a ghost of incompetence,
he haunts my driveway.
i need to exercise an exorcism,
in the form of battle beastly barbarian beatdowns,
or some such suitable sabotage.
hard-hearted, i'm tellin' you.
word.

due, in part,
to the perpetual inclemency of the northern skies,
harvest and maple are stayin' even longer!!!
extended director's cut school vacation!!
quality spannin' with my miniature masterworks!
naturally, i have to rearrange whole big blocks of time;
which f*s up my work schedule,
and my greenback-bottom dollar revenues,
and also simultaneously kicks the dad-o-meter up to eleven.
it's not a bad trade off.
every minute,
every day,
i am grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft...