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...

storytales.

bombardment!!
that's what the forecast is suggesting i prepare for.
an awe inspiring avalanche from the clouds.
white-outs and blackouts, even.
blizzardly wizardly windstormy nor'easterly new england hard style pounding.
the work schedule will likely be f*d up the a*,
the tourists will also be likely congesting the one road through town
on a fearful, frightful, grim, gridlocked exodus out of the heart of the polar tempest...
and i'm sure the gonad-gargling plowguy is poppin' a ragin' one,
over how hard he is gonna f* up my drveway!
the good news?:
due to the doo-doo buttery midwest blowback-bottomed backdraft of storminess,
harvest and maple are stayin' even longer....
this is like the extended director's cut version of school vacation.
another 'nother, other, 'nother extra day to enjoy together...
we stayed up late last night watching remi gaillard on youtube.
little kids love a-holes who do a-hole stuff.
so do a lot of big kids.
*ahem.*
everybody's sleepin' in but me.
again.
i'm makin' breakfast, ya'll.
word up.

i have to tell ya,
it's hard enough always tryin' to just being dope, my ninjas.
but also being engaging and entertaining is a whole 'nother bag of early-worms.
of course,
i've been makin' the most of my minutes.
and gettin' busy while i get busy gettin' down to business.
chattin' up the people who pop in and out of my life.
that's the integral support structure of any good storyteller.
the high points are usually great,
but they get a bit braggy, yeah?
and so battle-bards and warrior poets relay the sad sagas of sap-suckin' saucebabies, too.
comedy, tragedy, and history.
every victory has a defeat, an' that.
without the bitter, well, you know....
there is a flow that needs directing, after all.
to that end,
i've been being friendlier!
familiarity ensures comfort to my clients,
and often breeds contempt on my part;
free and easy.
that's my conversational style.
i'm not sure when it became competent communication,
instead of combative confrontation,
but it seems to be payin' off.
i'm sayin',
i don't have the time,
or the interest,
in intimately getting to know the inner mechanics of my client's lives,
but i'll listen to a scandalous story of triumph or tragedy...
and while i give 'em all a shot at really knockin' my socks off,
usually,
i'll handle the conversations from there,
once the epic fail is established.
surprisingly,
i usually only talk about the same set of scenarios:
bullets, bonfires, britain, baked goods, berserkers, boobs, boners, and buttholes.
y'know,
stuff that anyone who doesn't chug it is into.
awesome stuff.
and then i use the bits, pieces, scraps, and snippets of our dialogues
to feed the fountain of flavorful fancy i faithfully fabricate frequently.
remember,
without them,
we'd just be us.
and for those clients who may be readin' this:
i am, of course, talking about some other clients,
not ya'll.
however,
if you have to ask...
...i'm just sayin'.
never quiet, never soft....

buns, broccoli, burnt-out....

early-shirley darkish dawncrackin' a.m. risin' and shinin'.
gettin' those worms, ninjas.
i'm sayin',
it's a sh!t reward for waking up like an early bird....
besides,
while sunrises are nice,
i've always been partial to sunsets....
alas,
i've at least got time to practice and perfect my
sticky, buttery, sugary sweet and lovely cinnamon buns......

and since i'm speakin' on perfection:

the other night we had an off-the-meter mountain of broccoli-style stuffed bread.
i'm tellin' ya'll,
i've got the touch.
a spiral swirl of oily italian taste explosions.
throw a little tomato sauce on the side,
y'know, for dippin',
and you better recognize, son.

c'mon.
i'm sayin',
chewy, gooey, crusty, and top-notch tasty.
if you've had some nibbles on a slice,
you already know how true this statement is,
and if not,
you're really and truly missin' out.

and while i'm speakin' on missin' out;
extra days, longer hours, squeezin' in little tidbits and zapblasts-
i've been workin' kinda hard at tattooin' these days.
not on big, awesome, custom, career-defining crystalized visionary mayhem,
of course,
but on names, stars, flowers, suns, moons,
and assorted other misspent early tax-return money imagery
you know, that kind of stuff.
after all,
i've gotta get that movie check, my ninjas.
and lemme tell ya:
it bites it off.
so hard.
one slow furious molar gnashin' chomp on the ol' magic stick,
every day.
how do you guys do it?
stayin' late, workin' extra, investing your whole flavor into your job;
i just don't understand all you overachievers out there,
rockin' long hours, hard-styles, an' all that.
i mean,
i'm just tryin' to live,
and granted, to live well requires a modicum of labor-intensity to actualize,
but still...
since i'm tryin' to create an elaborate latticework web of rural Folk Life really realness,
and all those tribal suns are financing the other 'nother new hottnesses, y'heard?
and while it's a necessary investment in the longevity of woodsly goodness worthiness,
every other available minute is still better spent makin' my own moves,
my own  magic,
my own chester copperpot, truffle shuffle,
'our time, down here' kind of goonie adventure.
today is a work day.
it's also my kids last day up here until april.
it's a hard double dose of doo-doo butter.

makin' loot,
spendin' time,
borrowing minutes,
and losin' dollars.
it's never easy;
never quiet, never soft...

they got me!

instead of an extra day of dopeness with my strong-willed womenfolk,
i'm fillin' in at work,
for the other ones,
and for my special one,
who was originally fillin' in as an extra tatblastin' pair of hands
while i went to drive the kids halfway home.
of course,
any and all plans are somewhat negotiable,
and now they aren't goin' back to sodapants nutmeg nancyland until sunday,
BUT,
jess caught the 'uck-ugly connecticut crap germs,
and is further under the weather than my kids, even....
that's three cranky coughin' cats who need attention;
now,
i like soup and video games as much as the next guy,
hell,
maybe even a little tiny bit more than the next guy,
but,
i'm eager to avoid the chronic doo-doo'itis that my cheshire cats brought up.
the state of my constitution is NOT gonna get harshed up with
infectious weak-sauce from the constitution state.
and so off to work it is.
it should be so good.
if your favorite movie is deep impact, that is.....
and to think,
my a-hole had almost shrunk back to normal size.

now,
once sunday has come and gone,
i'll be back to work on
spirits and memories of the woodsly goodness
i'm sayin'.
artwork is the big plan.
(see my earlier reference to negotiability)
i've got a bountiful bookshelf burstin' with paperbacks, too...
forgotten realms like a mutha-ucka, my ninjas...
i've a plan for some so so def new fresh business.
you better be gettin' ready.
a one-two punching heavy handed haymaker of holy sh!t high-temp. hottness
is headed your way....
think of the merchandising potential of all this wrenching hot fire barbarian berserking.
it goes to eleven, yo.
uhaul-type business, kids.
makin' moves,
in more ways than one.....
never quiet, never soft...

snowstorms and snow forts.

yeah,
i'm broken in a few places tonight.
not my heart, or anything.
jeez,
the emotional babypants confessional circus isn't in town, ya'll.
i'm talkin' about my neck, my back, my hands, and my crack....
shoveling heavy snow?
chuggin' it deep.
driving in a sh!tstorm?
so deep.
workin' during an arctic explosion?
so deep it comes out the other side!!

this mornin',
my daughters and i finally connected the last four feet of tunnels
in our snow fortress.
that involves a lot of kickin',
some hip crushing layin' down on the ice,
soakin' your clothes in frosty moisture,
and combating intense claustrophobia.
all that sweaty toil and trouble,
after we shoveled the driveway...
oh suckiest of plowguys,
the hate i wish upon you is a mighty curse, indeed.
tomorrow,
we carve out a great hall in the center of the snowbank.
the dragon's lair, if you feel me....

this kind of day puts dudes to sleep early.
word.
never quiet, never soft...

npr. felines. lesbians.

what happens when you mix those three things together?

yep.
a subaru!!
relax,
the tevas and socks, recumbent bicycle scenario is still many, many years away.
so why didn't i just drive the old death trap volvo into the ground?
as a matter of fact,
my old car blew a gasket in it's basket,
just minutes from the dealership.
was the secret universal plan workin' it's tasty treats?
i think so.
happily,
i still got a trade-in credit.
...dummies.
still,
that's a resonsible adult's vehicle up there;
that's right, ninjas,
i'm definitely whiter than i was two days ago.
but it's a fact i don't like cats.
and i'm pretty sure i'm still not a lesbian.
however,
if my minnesota trip works it's magic right,
me and garrison keillor will be spending an evening together in march....
great.
still,
a cracker-ass vehicle,
and a car loan are a truly hard style.
i almost bought a cheaper, albeit way less-fresh one,
but then i remembered a most important axiom.
eleven is louder than ten.
i'm sayin',
just be dope,
or f* right off.

my daughters have a cough/sniffle/cold kind of thing goin' on.
and doc rock is on duty, ya'll.
nothin' kicks up a vacation like some under the weather grumbles.
and chokeneck hackin' just eats it so hard.....
which is why those who know what's up gotta love the honey.
it works great for throat-tube distress.
for some elitist vegetarians,
it's a major sin.
for others it's a superfood health and allergen exploder.
and of course, it also never goes bad.
so go feed your high horse some clover,
after the bees pollinate that sh!t,
and bring the hottness home to the hive......

we went out to the movies and watched 'coraline' this afternoon.
go immediately and see it,
or you're really dumb.
those are the only two options.
sorry, but it's true.
we all left with bare feet.
yep.
knocked our collective socks right off.

i'm feelin' more than my share of unwell, too.
i had a deep impact arctic tunnel rat experience all morning long.
layin' on the snow,
gettin' sweaty,
and diggin' out the first phase of the best snow fort yet.

tonight,
there's gonna be broccoli bread,
and then the inaugural candle party inside the frost tubes out back.
we've got a storm comin', too.
some kind of abominable three-days of snow sh!tshow.
nothin's better'n' drivin' in snow,
with kids,
for hours and hours.....
nice.
never quiet, never soft...

blueberries and woodland fairies.

early a.m. risin' and shinin',
with complimentary tasty treats.
blueberry muffins, my ninjas,
with coconutty crumb streusel.
yum4tum, like you read about.

alright,
sooooo,
i'm still sellin' dolls, yo.
here's a chance to scoople up a limited edition selection.
every 30 or so dolls during the first run,
i would make a birch tree spirit wizard.
y'see,
the woodsly goodlings that i make
all embody the natural world on the small-scale side of the beautiful,
bountiful, barbarian 'up-here-ness' of where i'm at.
these specific sylvanians rep on the birch angle.

numero uno/(actually #30)
i was trying for one of those muffin-hat renaissance italian guys....
he reminds me of a tomie depaola drawing....


more of this business.

the sixtieth overall doll,
and more of a friendly, surprised flavor.
barely different, but still not the same...


another 'nother one.
i was getting more creative with the hair,
and at this point,
my puppet making resources had grown
to fill the whole downstairs of the house


 grillin' up at your facepiece, b!tches....

yeah,
by 120 dolls into the project i was definitely getting the hang of it....
i didn't get to #140 in the first series,
so this guy is the last of the birchmasters...
if you've got $150 dollars,
you've got what it takes to own one.
email me, and we'll get busy.
stop playin' the wall,
and let's doo-doo some art buyin' freshness.....

p.s.
two out of four from this post are still available....
(and they're cheaper....)

i spent the whole day at a car dealership.
that's no fun.
at all.
but come tomorrrow,
i'll have a car that better fits the vanity of my license plates.
never quiet, never soft....

president's day.

(observed)
thanks, in part, to the looong weekend,
i'm takin' one for the home team
and as such i'll be tatblasting all day,
makin' whatever dollars there are out there,
scrimpin' up the loose change,
and planning and preparing for the big action.
my tuesday/wednesday weekend is destined to include all the usual,
incomparable, unavoidable ingredients of Folk Life hottness.
fire,
snowforts,
brocolli bread,
books, movies, playmobils,
and all the traditional new hampshire family funtimes.
of course,
it IS somewhat dependant on how fresh the schedule is over at my work situation.
i know i'm starting off with a name gettin' covered up,
and then a rework of someone else's weak sauce,
followed by some other 'nother name on some other 'nother duder after that,
of course,
to replace the covered up one,
and bring balance to the force
and ending off with a half-armband of big black spikes.
triiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiibal!!!!
some tattooers are too good for that sort of thing.
i mean, they're tattoo artists, after all.
i'm tryin' to get those dollars, my ninjas,
and black spike money spends the same as all the rest.
and while the subject of serious deep d-stick destruction is fresh in my mind,
as it pertains to yesterday's post,
as it was described to me last night;
butt poetry?
c'mon.
seems like an odd piece of praise(?) for the poorly-phrased paragraphs i compose,
but still,
butt poetry?
it just sounds so gangster.
battle bard skaldic stanzas,
about takin' it so deep.
reverse mix-a-lot, even.....

in other news;
my uncle ed's birthday is happening.
he's gettin' old.
and he's stayin' awesome.
and that's all i ever expect from him,
and he never disappoints.
that's also the secret to our excellent relationship...
he just be's dope,
and so do i,
and we mutually respect the hell outta each other for do-doin' that sh!t.
talk about dudes who just do what they do!
packs and packs of camel unfiltered's since the sixties, ya'll.
pink brooks brothers shirts, bow-ties, blue blazers, loafers,
the whole academic elitist flavor.
he taught me about art, literature, taste, class, food, films, travel, history,
and a whole bunch of other stuff, too.
he's the reason i have a beard ya'll.
it's more of a shout out than a style-bite, though....
no sh!t.
my dad, however, is in some strange way responsible for the long hair,
and the effeminate hair ties.
weird.
the male influences in my life collided in a perfect storm of 'hood and high-society,
and the end result?
berserker barbarian battle-beastly warrior poetics,
building and destroying real life Folk Livin',
in the woodsly mutha-uckin' goodness.
i can live with that.

nature.
nurture.
concious choice.
three important ingredients;
what you're made out of
isn't always determinate of what you're made OF,
or what you make of it.

fairness.

"i hope it *uckin' hurts."
that seems to be the secret universal plan's penultimate sentiment,
in regards to the metaphorically deep, dry-dockin',
hard-style pounding i've been taking.
and man, there's been an awful lot of it lately.
in a row, and at the same time, even.
like consecutive unsolicited, unwarranted gangbangs,
right up the ol' 'butter churner.
i guess even if you're not guilty,
for some reason,
sometimes,
you still have it comin'.
i guess it's just one of those things;
you take it prison-style until you just can't stand it anymore.
and then you make your escape.
i've got my rock hammer and a poster of rita hayworth...
damn,
i never figured myself eligible for that shawshank-type sh!t.

what do you ninjas know about fairness?
i've always been all about it.
i feel good when everyone gets the same amount of something;
i feel good when stand-up behavior is rewarded;
i feel good when bad things happen to a-holes; 
an' stuff like that. 
i know i try to live hard, and keep it fair.
i don't cheat. i don't steal. i don't do a lot of lame takin' advantage-type stuff.
i take responsibility for my actions.
it's only fair, after all......
which is why it's so f*n' hard to sit out on the other side of pro-activity,
having faith in doing the right things,
and letting the wrong things expose themselves for what they are,
hoping that the blueprints have allowed for a big, fat, cold plate of get-even-steven,
epic,
righteous,
trial by combat,
fairly played,
balance to the force kind of outcome.....

why take it so in-depth and explicit to the butthole of my own life?
well,
i like the other parts, the various hottness of the woodsly goodness,
much more than i don't like the ways in which i provide for 'em....
sometimes dudes say some profound things:
'i love a lot of things, and pretty much hate the rest.'
that about sums it all up.
when you're livin' high on the hog,
it's hard to imagine wallowing with pigs.....
either way,
bacon is still delicious,
and meat is still murder.
it's just What Is;
never quiet, never soft...

eat your cake and have it, too.

pink cake!
pink frosting!
red candies!
color coordinated holiday appropriate baked goods.
if, however improbably, you hate cake,
then f*** you.
this cake is delicious.
really delicious.
it's like this morning's panniecakes,
turned up to eleven.

a sweet and soothing slice of sugary assuagement.
just what the ol' bellyhole was hopin' for,
what with the near-lethal dose of daily soul deflating hard timey wrenched-up life;
moving. car trouble. workplace doo-doo butter...
it isn't easy taking it easy,
but cake and ma nature's dopeness really help.
i'm just sayin':
thank heavens for the woodsly goodness.
from the snowbanks to the riverbanks,
i'm sure going to miss the holy livin' sh!t out of this place.
and,
if these howlin' wolf winds ever take it down a peg or two,
we'll be able to have a party in the snowtunnel fortress we started today.
that's what's poppin', ya'll.
it seems the winds of change and war are both bustin' a gust,
just to f* with my whole business.
blowin' out the bright spots,
chillin' down the warm hearth,
snappin' branches and whispering doubts.
i guess the blistery bluster must not have heard the good news:
berserker barbarian battle-beasts don't bend over or blow away.
my ninjas,
i'm tellin' you,
they huff,
they puff,
and they sure as sh!t counterattack with a blowback bellow of hard-hearted hottness.
forune favors the bold.
and i'm already fortunate as all flippin' f* to have the life i've led up until now.
and to have the people i've spent that life with....
that's tellin' me somethin', for sure.
too much is the right amount, kids.
as loud and hard as ever;
never quiet, never soft...

love is in the air.

what happens when you've got two genetics-defying, amazing kids up for school vacation,
and breakfast needs some cookin' up,
AND it's valentine's day?
pink pannie-cakes happens, fool.
i mean,
c'mon,
what else could it be?

the thermometer says 40 degrees,
but i do not believe it;
whenever it gets above freezin',
ma nature has a perfect solution:
wind chill.
word up.
cold and windy.
windy and cold.
that about sums up the week's weather.
in fact, it was so flippin' windy last night,
it sounded as if trucks were rapidly accelerating inside my bedroom.
and that creepy ghost-touch chill that rides shotgun with the outside wind?
yeah,
when it's so windy outside that it somehow gets windy inside?
i'm sayin',
who came up with that?
haunted friday the thirteenth whistling whispers, moans,
house-shakin' hurricane gale force gusts,
that whole package is not so rad, really.
sleep was not one of the multiple choice options, ya'll.


blurry; check.
bleary; check.
jammies and blankets; double check.
snacks; check.
mario-mutha-uckin'-cart! you better check yo' self before you wreck yourself.
me and the youngling padawans are all about some lightsaber duels, too...
and vegan grilled cheese for lunch!
take it easy, high 'n' mighty super-mom police force,
we're not gonna play video games ALL day...
as a matter of fact,
we already baked up a pan of pinkyheart vanilla cake,
and when it cools off enough,
pink frosting is rumored to be tag-teaming up with red sprinkles,
for an all-out, deluxe demerara/confectioner's sugar glucose blastoff evening....
vacation, ya'll.
it's awesome.

now,
i don't really like being told when i should feel especially like being in love an' that.
but i do love any excuse to celebrate something!
hell,
the whole family is wearing red, white, and pink!
it's really the best way to enjoy a fabricated commercial funday, anyway.
hangin' out,
with my ladies,
spending way more in time and energy than in store-bought treats.


of course,
it isn't ALL conversation hearts and scandalous lingerie...
and this is the face i make when my valentine is spanning time without us at work.
make that money, honey,
and bring that green paper home to daddy!!!
so pimp, my ninjas.
i'm sayin'....

this is what's happening.
today is the day.
today is valentine's day.
actually, today is our day.
dear really-real Folk Life rural reality,
be mine.
after all,
i put the V.D. in valentine's day, ya'll,
never quiet, never soft...

ELEVEN+

what's louder than ten, mutha-uckas?!
yep.
eleven.
what's better than that?
eleven plus.
that's correct, my ninjas.
all the way past ten,
and then maybe a little tiny bit beyond that, too.
i hope you ninjas can appreciate the irony:
fresh new vanity hottness,
old busted vehicle.
i'm rockin' the 'up-here' style, i guess;
it's a redneck version of 'hood livin',
like 22" rims on a '94 corsica....
ouch.
bittersweet, yo.
defined.


totoro.
that dude is my neighbor.
if you don't know,
you'd really better find out.
right now.
i mean it.
stop reading, don't wait for netflix, go find it, buy it, love it.
immediately.
i'm pretty sure that when i get my 'princess bride' tattoo,
jess will be following that with a totoro one of her own....
an early valentine's treats for my talented, terrific, top-notch teetotaling teammate.
my conjugal co-captain,
my carnal cohort,
my corporeal consort.
my sweetheart, yo.
the most beautifullest thing in the world.
just like that;
.........
(and if you know keith murray, you already know what's up)

friday the 13th,
part eleven.
because apparently the first ten,
and that fight over on elm st. weren't enough, i guess.
rather appropriately, it starts today.
ridiculous.
let me guess:
crystal lake. machete. hockey mask.
chop + head + naked boobs = #1 blockbuster weekend.
there's a crystal lake up here,
hmmmmm, i wonder....
maybe i'll wait around tonight for a good ol' fashioned axe-chop face stab!
OR,
i'll drive to the lame do-gooder puritan turd expanses of 'assachussetts,
and pick up my little seedlings for a vacation valhalla in the woodsly goodness.....
a whole week of excellence, kids.
comin' right up.
never quiet, never soft...

friday the thirteenth.

bad luck!
bad movies!
jason flippin' vorhees.
kane hodder, even.
black cats crossing paths.
broken mirrors.
walkin' under ladders.
steppin' on cracks.
that's right, all you superstitious sallypants,
today's the big day.
the unluckiest date on the calender!
the devil's day.
it's also my old friend mr. adam mazza's 40th birthday.
man, 40 already...that IS bad luck.
i mean, happy birthday!
now,
maybe it should be noted that i'm a big-time believer in the power of the jinx.
all that cultivated coincidence vanilla skydiving that i'm always doing
has made me a little gun-shy,
or at least shell shocked,
or maybe just pragmatically aware of the What Is-ness of the way things really are.
it doesn't mean i don't strive for barbarian boldness,
it just means i know that the wrench is what i'm choosin' every time.
the harder way sorta seems to be the one and only way.
but what's the alternative?
steep in the sap of waterbaby weal-sauce?
doesn't look good on that front, ya'll.
i'll keep up the hard-way hard style 'til i'm blue in the face,
like a regular william wallace,
ridin' out to meet the day.
whatever it brings.
no matter how unbelievably, incrementally worse-than-every-yesterday it gets
so,
knock on wood, my ninjas,
and throw a pinch of salt with your right hand over your left shoulder!
today is the day!
every day is.
word.
never quiet, never soft....

my hands have teeth.

uh-huh.
that's in there from my ass-hip to my knee.
and i'm rockin' the dry heal....
forget about it.
that actually IS the dry heal technique...
you just let it go.
good advice, kids.
for tattoos and a lotta other other things.
i'm kinda on that ghredh.
the big walk.
makin' moves.
movin' on, even.
except not to anywhere in particular.
aggressive progressive graduation.
it's all the same.
even when it's different.
but it sure ain't easy.
"my life is spent in one long effort to escape form the commonplaces of existence."
that's comin' from the heart, and also from your man sherlock holmes.
the issue with being accepting of What Is,
is that sometimes what's all really happening
really knobs up the fattest hog in the whole wide world.

i'm about to pull a bob wiley,
and take a vacation...
...from my problems.
that's some positively new hampshire sh!t, after all, right?
jeez,
i'm reading 'a spot of bother',
by mark haddon,
the guy who also blew it wide open with
'the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime'.
he must either be mentally ill,
or live with some folks who are,
because i am rarely shook up by expert writing,
but this is a james bond beverage explosion....
not stirred, ya'll.
this dude brings the noise, my ninjas.
and is f*ing up everything in my head.
honestly,
i would steal so many epic lines from this book,
but i'm too busy turning to the next page to watch the ghredh get busy...
you need some of this.
you really do.
never quiet, never soft...

nice folks.

(pretend there's a picture of a huge lobster right here)
yeeeeeeeeeeeeeah!
black,
and grey,
for a few hours.
i'm tellin' you guys:
phuc and his wife sue are great.
and not just at running an incredible studio, either.
really,
they're just great.
i'm also pretty amped up on his new swash-drive shader.
because as much as i normally hate gettin' tattooed,
i barely even felt what was happening!
(that's what SHE said.)
i chugged down a giant burrito in one huge bite, anaconda-style,
right before i got there,
and pounded down 3 BOBA teas whilst gettin' zapped upon.
throw in a baby-sized road trip back and forth,
some Cure albums,
and the hip hippie burrito shop's obligatory
'loud-enough-to-make-sure-i-hear-it' tattoo talk,
and a pretty good day went down.
word.

i also got a good feeling for a little minute about all of this documenting of my real-life.
kevin and cat evidently read this thing.
and yesterday,
when i mentioned portland, tsunami tattoo, and comin' by to say 'ello.
they saw that sh!t.
and as they were in the area.
they came and hung out for a bit.
and it was terrific.
and the parts about weirdies, beardies, and my love of pipes?
well,
kevin has a preposterous dwarven barbarian beard.
(he's the provider of the gnarly beaver skull from last month)
and he carved up a preposterous dwarven bearded pipe.
and he brought it by for show-and-tell,
and then let me keep it!
c'mon...

that's mutha-flippin' fresh, ya'll....

that's some 'nother level viking sh!t, my ninjas.
generosity for no reason...
and comfortable social interaction with strangers.
a whole roomful of really nice people, and me.
i am confused by this, but i like it.
thanks for comin' by, guys!!
thanks for the fresh as f* pipe, too.
and thanks for the epic sumi beatdown, phuc!

tomorrow,
i get to drive around,
about halfway to connecticut,
to somewhere in massachussetts,
to pick up harvest and maple.
honestly,
it's just in time.
i'm past due for a booster shot of itty-bitty pretty little kiddies.
long drives, traffic jam jamborees, missed work, it's all well worth it.
because,
nothin's harder than not seein' them,
except maybe watching them leave again.
at any rate,
i'll be spendin' valentine's day with the top three sweet and lovelies in my life.
i'm grateful, mutha-uckas.
you know this;
never quiet, never soft...

tatblasted.

Folk Art.
simple.
unpretentious. 
real.
i love it.
and as such,
i try so hard to make it.
and emulate it's simple, primitive approach.
but mostly,
i draw weirdie beardies instead.
and now that that's noted,
here's two more spirited memories,
straight from the woodsly goodness:

a serene shrubbery reconnects with his roots in a pipe dream....
of course, originally, pipe dreams were the desired byproduct of smoking opium.
so maybe not pipe dreams,
but definitely smoke signals.
you get the idea.
he may be a bush,
but he has no ambitions for a first-world leadership position,
and there's a lot to be said for that, anyway...


amazing, grazing, hazy, horned homeboy.
wheat is so useful...
because it is delicious.
so is a nice hot cuppa.
he's got the 'queen victoria memorial statue' pose goin' on, too.
word.
i like pipes.
they just seem to lend themselves to reflective, introspective,
and procedurally meditative mental activity.
and they're utilitarian art objects, even.
plus,
a whole bunch of fresh, bold, and worthy fortunate favorites
have been known to have rocked pipes...
sherlock holmes!!! although he never rocks a calabash in any of the stories,
his on-screen tobacco burner is still his iconic implement.
norman rockwell! norman rock-a-pipe-well is more like it...
santa! father XI-mas style, though, before america weak-sauced him up...
frosty the snowman! he also had a button nose and two eyes made out of coal.
okay,
so three out of four examples are pretend,
still,
i like pipes.
throw in a beard, and you've got a case of instant handsomeness.


i had an overcast evening FULL of hot fire.
just try and tell me that isn't some d&d lookin' flame tower sh!t.....
and i'll tell you that you're probably stupid.
and possibly blind.
or at the very least,
uninformed about kickass lord of the rings type hottness.

how about these phoenix wings?
wu-TANG! ya'll.
it turns out that a great big pile of burning is the best medicine for an over-busy brain.
well,
that and a bunch of mindless entertainment.
....
we watched the rocker. it's pretty awesome.
and zombie diaries. also awesome, but less so.
AND hell ride. which had an awesome amount of exposed, enormous, sweeeet boobs.
and guns.
and bikers.
but it was really the least awesome movie we saw.
times is hard, ninjas.
times is hard.
and what's the best cure for hard times?
wellllllllll,
i'm getting tattooed this afternoon.
courtesy of my especially friendly friend,
the optimistic,
latin-teachin',
uber-talented tatzapster,
and all-around super nice guy,
mr. phuc tran. 
we'll be working on my giant lobster.
or at least he will,
while i squirm and complain really, really hard.
i'm pretty psyched,
except for that whole part about getting tattooed.
because that sh!t hurts.
all ya'll should really get tattooed by him,
if you haven't already....
his shop is off the f*'n' chain in terms of fresh-to-defness...
he reads books!!
he works really hard!!
he's painfully genuine!
they listen to and support public radio!!
they encourage shopping at local businesses!!!
and they drink tea and be nice to everybody all the time!!!
y'know, exactly like what goes on up here, too.
right?
*ahem*
anyway,
i get to enjoy a day in portland, maine,
the downeast hotspot of the extreme northeast.
the agenda?
herb's gully burritos.
red bean steamed buns,
boba mutha-flippin' tea, mutha-ucka!
and tattoo thunder from my hip to my knee.
ouch.
thank goodness for elite, high-minded, excellent people.
i need a healthy draught from that phial of flavor, and not a second too soon...
i sure am grateful for the time i have been given.

i have got some clean undies on,
and my game face is all set and ready to go,
fat lot of good that it'll do me.
if you're in maine, more precisely in portland, after 4:30p.m.,
stop in, say 'ello, and watch me handle it so poorly,
you'll not be able to feel anything but better about yourself.
i'm here to help;
never quiet, never soft....

birds.

we've got a serious case of crows!
no joke,
they're big like dinosaurs!!!
i mean it,
they look like pterodons...
i was under the shadow from one of 'em
and i thought there was a solar eclipse goin' on.
i'm pretty sure i saw one eat a whole loaf of bread.
in one gulp.
there are a few books about the whole family of black birds,
like bird brains, for a start, 
that keep the props administered pretty gnarly-like,
and let's not forget about hugin and munin,
thought and memory,
the tag-team messengers of the o.g. wisdom keeper,
my main man Wotan....
we like havin' the big bastards around so much,
that instead of filling up and keeping up with bird feeders,
(although we throw seeds out and about once in a while)
as fresh and sweet and cute as swallows sparrows and chickadees are,
we lure the fattie-boombatties back to the berserker buffet because
we take all the organic waste from the fridge,
and all the odds & ends from dinner preparations each night,
and dump 'em out in a few strategic locations around the property.
it was supposed to become a compost pile set-up,
but mostly,
it's all about crows
(and, to a quieter and less obtrusive extent, red and grey squirrels).
occasionally we get some turkeys,
and the blue jays converge en masse every morning,
but the dominant battle-beast dotting the treeline
manifests in murders and unkindnesses.
they're big like 'eat a small dog' sized,
and they bring the thunder every single day.
i'm gonna miss this particular posse of compost purloining corvids.
hard.
i mean,
c'mon,
what is there not to be into?
big, black, burly, and belligerent.
just like my balls, b!tches....
and they're camera-shy, too.
again,
just like the huevos...

and don't forget about this.
never quiet, never soft....

fully mooned up.

blue light specials, kids.
that's what these last few nights have been.
snow + full moon + woodsly goodness = bluish brightish nightly highlights.
bonfire?
probably.
candle party?
definitely.
who's comin' over?
probably nobody.
real-life documentarianism isn't that useful when nothin' excitin' happens.

moving on,
since i showed off a few of my spirits and memories drawings the other day,
here's some viewably delicious and way fresher, more finished, flavorful ones
from the mind and hands of the lovely and talented lady i span time alongside.
i'll spare ya'll the commentary and explanations,
since i didn't make 'em,
and i wouldn't want to put words in her mouth...
just open your eyeballs,
and soak up the hottness:








yeah.
i'm lucky.
talk about meeting the right person.
there just aren't that many fresh and flavorful cuties out there that
meet the requisites for hottness and be-dopeness...
let alone that would enjoy my company,
put up with non-stop barbarian berserking A-holesomeness,
AND go family-style on a collaborative collection of art-makeyness, too.
of course, somehow,
when she's around,
i'm even more of a jerkfaced a-tard.
but mostly just by comparison, though.
like i said before,
without the sweet,
the bitter is not as bitter, either.
word.

anyways,
now you've seen a double dose of things to come.
and there's more on the lightbox, too, yo.
i'm gettin' ready to do some travelin'.
and once my trip is planned, and paid for,
by the time i get to minnesota,
somebody should be ready to get busy...
with me. and my friend shawn.
so i guess i mean with us.
never quiet, never soft...

defrosting.

50 degrees??
above zero?!!
i guess the whistlepig isn't that accurate after all.....
seriously, though,
these thawing out times eat it so hard.
mud.
wet.
ice.
windshield salty sandy beige skids.
road glare.
soggy pant bottoms.....
not dope. at all.
i'll take the tundra any time, my ninjas.
and, it's extra flippin' windy outside, too.
it had better be because of some epic changes a-blowin' on through.

i did eight tattoos today.
in a row.
without no breaks before, during, or after.
i forget what that's like sometimes.
and when i remember,
i also remember why i forget.
it isn't that much fun, ya'll.
in fact,
it's the opposite of fun.
as a note on subject matter:
i did 4 different nautical stars,
on folks who didn't know each other.
and a boston red sox B,
and a baby name, too...
so don't worry,
i held it down, mutha-uckas.
the final tally and totals for my saturday/sunday workweek?
well, let's see;
i did thirty stars,
three shamrocks,
and even two butterflies.
so if you don't mind,
i'm gonna go cry bloody tears into my pillow,
icy/hot my crippled, crushed, cramped digits,
and listen to 'the cure'.
tatblastin' your tax return away,
never quiet, never soft.....

ghredh.

with enough delicious dark chocolates in my foodbox,
and some full moon werewolfen craziness in my headbox,
suddenly,
i'm mildly motivated to cramp up my hands on the lightbox!
here's a sneak preview of sorts,
just the linework,
for half of my half of the hottness:
spirits and memories of the woodsly goodness
each one is 3.75" x 6.25", in pen.


caterpillery death's head mothman prophet.
with or without wings,
some folks are always in a state of becoming.
non-stop throughout youth, adulthood, & death.
larva, wings, & skullface.
being ugly and also being dope is it's own catch 22.
are you dope because you're ugly, or vice-versa?
if you were handsome, would you try as hard?


a dendroid isn't a robotic living room, ninjas!
it's a treelike entity.
think of a dryad, but without a set of sumptuous sweet boobs.
this specific sarsaparilla sippin' dendroid is a real nut!
literally.
and he's also a few different kinds of trees, judging by the leaves on his torso.
some dudes are just mad arborescent, ya'll.
he puts the root in root beer.
seriously.
what's his favorite band? the roots.
favorite author? alex haley....c'mon.
how's he gonna kick it? gonna kick it root down..... 


a bird with your hand is worth at least two in a bush.
wildlife stories are my favorite kind of one-upmanship in the woodsly goodness.
whatever you've seen,
some ol' timer has seen two, bigger, and closer than you ever will.
trust me, it goes;
"oh, yeah?
well i saw a goose as big as a moose, and it ate a baby in one gulp!!!!"
or somethin' like that.....
never fails.


home is where the hearth is.
here's a hibernian hibernal hearth-hearted homebody.
the homefires are brewin' in this bruin....
and for the record,
i'm takin' mushrooms back, kids.
awwwwww,
so sorry, sad psilocybin stoners,
but they're mine now,
so you can put that in your amanita,
and muscaria it;
as a consolation, you can keep the cowplops, suckas....


oak tree spirit salamander-man,
doin' the gallop!
you know,
slappin' his own ass with a switch,
and rumpty dumpty butt-shakin'
until that acorn is charged up with dramatic, static, lightnin' strikin' electricity....
another 'nother hand, too?
yeah.
so?

ghredh.
that's what's up.
is the indo-european philological root for a whole fat bunch of awesomeness;
it is defined thusly:
To walk, go. Suffixed zero-grade form *ghdh-yo-. a. gressorial; aggress, congress, degression, digress, egress, ingredient, ingress, introgression, pinnigrade, plantigrade, progress, regress, retrograde, retrogress, tardigrade, transgress, from Latin grad (past participle gressus), to walk, go; b. grade, gradual, graduate, gree; centigrade, degrade, degree, from Latin gradus (< deverbative *grad-u-), step, stage, degree, rank. (Pokorny ghredh- 456.) 
ghredh, ya'll.
pronounced with a loogie-throated noise at the front,
and a lispy breathless thszs at the ass-end.....
the ghredh is non-negotiable, my ninjas,
the paths we pick on our choose-your-own-adventure poetic paean processional 
only ever modify the modes and methods of the composition.
re-read the definition if you don't get it yet.
all walks of life, mutha-uckas.....
but for real, though.
never quiet, never soft...

to blathe...

i could really use a (minor) miracle right about now mutha-uckas.
and i hear the chocolate makes it go down easier.
i'll even wait the whole 15 minutes for full potency.
y'heard?....
a wheelbarrow and a doomsday cloak should definitely be listed amongst our assets.
no foolin', though,
a secret universal dropkick of dopeness would be okay with me.
or even just a friendly email or two....
my holdin'-it-down homeboy in hamden,
the one and only nice kid, mr. M.C.,
already got the good vibes started up,
with some mystical wizard-type tips and tidbits
about my most favoritest thang in the world, ya'll.
no, not THAT thing....
jeez, my kids read this sometimes.... 
the other other most favoritest thang, ya'll:
you know:
hot fire.....
a new level of viking vanguard victory is about to come on up.
you mutha-flippin' mutha-flippers aren't ready, either.
trust me.
once i gather the necessary spell components,
you'd better hold on to your heads, or wear a helmet, or somethin',
because minds will be BLOWN, son....
word up.

and while we're on the topic of mind blowin' fresh-to-deathliness,
you better figure out what's up.
i'm talkin' about ROSE CITY, ya'll.
as in:
vegan fancypants chocolates!!!
^you need these^.
they're almost TOO delicious,
as if that could even be possible.
if you're of the non-dairy persuasion,
or if your sweet honey baby is,
or if you just like your chocolate oprah winfrey style
(heavy, dark, and rich, fool)
you'd be wise to order up a bulky batch of those brown bombers,
and quick like a bunny, too,
before the day dedicated to romantic love comes around on the ol' calendar.
seriously,
you may not want to cough up money for my life's blood and sweat in art form,
but who doesn't love a good dark chocolate ganache, right?
i'm sayin',
put your money where your mouth is, at least,
if you can't put it in my pocket in exchange for some dollbabies or hot fiery bobots....
c'mon.

that's my 'c'mon' face.....
it's also interchangeable with my sparkle magical 'heeeeyyyyyyyyyyy!!' face,
and that's a pom -pom on my hat, too, b!tch.....

it sometimes seems as if only a couple mutha-uckas are listening.
when i say 'get at me',
i mean it,
get at me:
battlebeasteleven@gmail.com
stop playin' the wall,
and be an active participant.
as a gentle aside to all the wallflowers,
weak sauce waterbabies,
and timid nontemeritous turdbiters out there....
even if you were more inclined to keep it really real and real rural,
whole grain wheaty, 
high and mighty meatless,
big-bore pistol-packin', 
eruditely smart-ass smartypantsed,
or whatever;
i'd still feel the same......
worthiness doesn't just get granted to carbon-copied fall-in-line followers.
i walk side by side with my ninjas, kids....
fortune favors the bold.
so do i.
just be dope, ya'll,
or f* right off.....
2009=eleven.
how's that for accessible?
never quiet, never soft...

narrowing.

thank goodness for hot fire.
as always, it was just what i needed...

and also as usual,
i rocked it with the dryer lint vs. swedish firesteel method.
dwarven earth-warrior flavored preplanned combustion....
hot fire is definitely the essence of warrior poetry.
light in the darkness.
warmth in the cold.
perfect purchase on pure purpose.
converting matter to energy.
c'mon.
what's better than that?


ever head of charon?
(hint: not a vegetable)
y'know,
he's the dead guy who runs the boat across the styx,
(and not the band styx, either, ya'll)
his name means feverish eyes, or sumthin' like that.
for a coupla coins, as in, pennies on your eyes an' that,
he takes you on a cruise to the land of the dead,
where you get to sit around forever.
....
now,
 if you save your still-livin' nickels, dimes, and quarters for gas money.
you duders can come and visit the hottness of the woodlsy goodness,
and watch me build a burly bonfire,
and cross the river yourselves....
take it easy, despite all the guns,
i'm actually talkin' about the saco, not the styx, or the acheron...
and besides, it's frozen through anyways, so you can prob'ly just walk. 

i don't know why i look surprised. i took the picture myself.
i guess i'm more of a fairie man than a ferryman.

as choices narrow,
solutions solidify.
i want to waterspout up a reverse tornado,
skywards to an apex, a pinnacle of concentrated conquest,
not down into the funneled failing depths of vortex.....
i'm trying to keep it tight, ya'll.
righty-tighty even.
as in, clockwise.
as in, clock wise.
time is what you make it,
so make it matter,
and make moves to make the magic happen.
i'm always grateful for the time i have been given, my ninjas,
and i'm using it to earn the Folk Life really realness.
to that effect,
i've got a pair of good luck, head's up pennies in my pocket,
so one way or the other,
i'll pay my dues,
and put in my time,
and keep recording every dirty little detail, ya'll.
real-life.
it's all still really happening.

black coffee.
black licorice.
dark chocolate.
these 3 things are making up the bulk of today's digestive destruction.
kind of a culinary color palette dedicated to black history.
or at least to dark brown and delicious foodstuffs.
my stomach is growling.
i'd expect nothing less from a gluttonous gaping gulag in my guts.
however,
the rest of me is fighting for alpha male dominance,
and a growl is a straight-up sonorous note of challenge to my ears, mutha-uckas....
mastication mayhem, and gory, glorious glutition.
eat to live, or die tryin';
never quiet, never soft...