out like a lamb.

it's warm out,
there's a gentle breeze blowing the scent of wet earth and pure water,
and the sun has been shining all flippin' day.
in like a snow-covered lion,
and out like a freshly shorn little baby-b!tch lanolin lamb,
march is done! 
i'm sayin',
this year is already 25% finished.
i hope everybody out there is satisfied with the first quarter score.
y'know,
comfortable and contented with what they've made of their allotted time thus far.... 
i've been busy,
hell,
i've been busy gettin' busy,
but i still only grade it as a B- average.
on the real,
i never find enough time to do all i gotta do.
plus,
there's a precedent to purport a penchant for misprioritizing my purposes.
double plus,
i get sleepy pretty easily,
and spend lot of time reading novels,
resting up for arthur/tatblasting/foodmaking efforts,
instead of staying up and reading blueprints of the secret universal variety.
....and that never helps.
BOLD and fortunate, most of the time, still holds true,
but it's the times in between that cause all the probems, my ninjas;
it also would seem that he who hesitates is surely lost:
despite a compass and a true-north starry sky to navigate the woodsly goodness by:
we waited a little bit too long to come up with a mortgage plan,
we waited a tad to too long to write up a business plan,
and we waited just a smidge too long to start looking for new rents!
i thought GOOD things are supposed to come to those who wait?!
turns out that first quarter of the year neither asked for nor granted me any.
(puns, b!tches... you like it)
now,
instead of a leisurely launch into new and exciting horizons,
it's a hard-style hard road to packing up,
relocating, refreshing,
reinventing, and reinvigorating our Folk Life livelihood.
it's only the start of the second quarter,
but it feels like sudden death overtime up here, my ninjas.
it's a mad dash to get the job done by May Day,
and i'm almost ready to issue a mayday call in the meantime.
it's a red-alert scramble,
as i'm so sure you can imagine;
like when rogue aircraft have invaded your personal space,
you've gotta mount an offensive defense to deter the doo-doo butter.
and believe me,
my space has definitely been invaded by some bit-part poop sprinkles.
unlike the 8-bit arcade variety,
i'm faced with two-bit turds,
and too many two-faced twittering twits to duly deal with their duality!
daaamn!
extended metaphors, mutha-uckas.
if only clever commentary could contribute to quality conclusions,
i'd write my own happy ending here,
and reap the rewards in real time.
alas,
it would seem that i'm destined to make some mistakes over and over and over.
today is the day,
even if i would rather wait until tomorrow....


all this packing and preparing is taking a taxing toll
on the portion of my elbow-pasta pile of skull-filling brainstuffs
that i usually dedicate to arthur-making motivation.
i've got a whole batch of half-cooked ideas,
al dente like a mutha-ucka,
just waiting to receive their share of attention.
good things.
that's the forecasted conclusion to the waiting game on that stuff, at least.
oh yeah,
the picture doesn't lie;
despite the strain on the grey matter macaroni,
real macaroni helps me carbo-load for the big action.
we had spaghetti and rigatoni recently.
we're italian, after all, ya'll,
go easy.....

i pity the fools who aren't excited about april;
never quiet, never soft.....

nasty way to go....

when some folks talk about deep,
they're talking about lofty high-minded philosophical musings.
they're referring to a multi-faceted layering of character.
they may even be speaking more literally,
about the distance between sea level and the bottom of a place well below it....
but not me, F*ulators!
my shallow self is talking about takin' it DEEP.
as in:
when the secret universal plan has plotted out some 'character building exercises'.
in the form and function of a prison shower scene,
complete with tattoos.
the lesson?
fortune favors the bold,
but ultimately rewards the worthy.
i guess it's time to reappraise the really real Folk Life warrior worthiness.
because i'm flippin' tellin' ya'll,
yesterday,
i made the x-rays escaping out of black holes look weak.
and i am now fully well aware of how incredibly ferocious and atrocious
the push and pull of hard styles can be.
they abounded.
they abraded.
they assaulted.
i abided.
i witnessed the full breadth of don't-hold-your-breath,
successive, percussive,
pumpin', bumpin', grindin',
and oh-SO-deep, permanently internally damaging doo-doo butter.
i actually even got told, in a familiar and disturbing way:
"it's cool, it's cool, no, really, it's cool..."
(and isn't that what every fella try to assure you when it is certainly NOT cool?)
it was so far around the crap-o-meter wheel,
it circumvented worst,
and went back around to best again.
in the interests of the greater good, (the greater good)
i'm not going to get into the knee-scraping, throat-choking,
bleary, world-weary, and teary-eyed
mutha-flippin', greasy, grimey nitty gritty, ya'll.
i'm keeping that mostly to myself.
i'll let a little peek slip your way, though;
it was mostly composed of:
kip winger songs,
cannabis leafy bald-box babymaker banners,
big boobs,
baby feet,
bad barbering,
asthma attacks,
head lice,
forest service attempted make-out partytime,
morphine (not the band, either),
and a foie gras force feeding of double-troublesome dirty deeds.
c'mon.
you like it.
i will say that the sweet just got exponentially sweeter by comparison,
and i even got a bit better at bein' bitter....
some days you make money,
other days you earn it.
and i should probably have some o.t. comin', my ninjas, after a day like that.
it wasn't all bad, either.
i even saw some friends,
including 'the weiner guy',
and his better half, 
(which is NOT his lower half, take it easy!)
they even brought belated birthday/holiday goodness with 'em.
nice!

it's defining, though.
they ways in which you endure and interpret a boo-boo booty doo-doo dispensed day.
any good storyteller will agree;
the worst situations make great comedies.
the best situations make great tragedies.
and every situation is making history.
don't worry, kids.
a flash-flood of flavorless foolhardies,
an avalanche of A*-tard A-holes,
and a waterspout of weak-sauce waterbabies
ain't gonna break MY stride.
oh! what to do, what to do???
obviously,
there are only ever two options:
just be dope,
or,
F* right off...
eleven.
that's the only number on the dial, ya'll;
never quiet, never soft.....

spring?

this is what today is like.
awwwwwwwwwwwww man.
c'mon....
oh,
and yes,
that IS a mountain of snow behind those wilted blooms.
yeah.
new hampshire. 
late march.
early spring.
that's how we doo-doo that sh!t, ninjas. 
so far the whole experience kind of chews on it.
hard.

this little red mutha-ucka does not seem to be bothered much by the dark,
dank, dreary dismal doo-doo buttery inclemency of the weekend's weather forecast.
he does,
however,
seem to really, really like peanut butter.
he sat around sucking down the soggy-bottom breadcrusts
of a previous a.m.'s nitro tnt (tea & toast) breaking of the fast.
composting has only successfully yielded an unofficial trough
for the fauna of the woodsly goodness.
and also thereby providing the means for making our dogs go batsh!t,
as these little hungry m-f*ers navy seal, rainbow six,
spearhead their incursive invasions onto the porch.
thanks a whole fat bunch, you little a-holes!!
i hope they haven't forgotten how to get these nuts, so to speak,
because in just one short month,
we won't be here to fatten up their peanutty little furry faces.

how many of ya'll sat around in the dark from 7:30 to 8:30 p.m. last night?
on purpose, i mean.
we did.
earth hour was in full effect,
although the full effect was largely lost on the environmentally unconscious,
hard-partyin' 'tards who cohabitate the woodsly goodness.
i'm sure they threw out an extra mcdonald's bag or two
right along the roadside,
with a supersized side order of dunkin' donuts styrofoam,
and some cigarette buttholes to commemorate the moment.
i'm sayin',
it's pretty dark around here anyway.
at least in terms of bright futures....
but still,
in my house,
the lights were off.
and the horizon was dusky,
but the future,
well,
i'm planning on riding the awesome train all the way to valhalla;
never quiet, never soft.....

ticking away.

while jess was getting her car windshield repaired,
with magic sand/putty glassjuice transformation wizardry,
(because the secret universal plan decided to rock out with some wrecking
and pop a pit on her frontview translucent air defractor )
we moseyed down the driveway,
and peeped in the windows of the next-door, old, and grit-grimy
antique (man-tique) boutique store.
imagine my excitement, my ninjas.
i found a big ol' burly, bent and dented, brassmaster blaster!!
oh yeah, kiddos,
i'm tellin' ya,
we discovered an antique marching band f*ing TUBA.
i may have to go and get it.
after all, ya'll,
cultivating coincidences is my most prolific pastime.
it seems a shame to let all these vanilla-tainted skylines go unappreciated.
anyone have any impressive animal leg bones to donate to the art installation sensation?
i mean,
i kinda have to make a viking vase for a bouquet of barbarian battle out of it.
wheat, bones, sticks, runes, moths, and wrenches.
y'know,
all the awesome stuff.
c'mon.

it's lookin' pretty lugubrious out there today.
at least, it is right now.
yesterday looked bleak and weak,
but finished in a storm of warm instead.
if my schedule at work today is any indication,
it will most probably be more of a 'cold day spent ice skating in hell'
kind of weak end weekend.
great.

jess has a blog now.
a conduit to the outside world.
a pathway to purveying her visceral, virtuous visual imagery and viewpoints.
there will probably be many photos of our dogs, too.
you've been warned.
but still,
that's big news.
i mean,
what's the point in being dope if you don't tell anyone about it, anyhow?
and now she can dispense the lady's touch of woodsly goodness to your face and eyes.
i'm sayin', kids;
if a tree falls in the forest,
and nobody knows about the dope art you're making,
then who gives a sh!t?
mixed metaphor?
off-axis axiom?
i don't know,
but i DO know that my sweet and lovely one had better get busy gettin' busy,
letting mutha-uckas know its time to recognize or get wreck-ified.
word up.
a tag-team title contending dynamic duo.
that's right, b!tches,
like a pair of wunderkind wonder twins
(excepting that we make out sometimes, too)
making arthur
and making moves
and making the magic happen.
in fact,
it's all really happening.
that's the whole point.
real life.
documented.
live and direct.
if you didn't know before,
well,
now you do;
never quiet, never soft....

The Gun Room, packed and packing.

what kind of day off is this?
a move-makin',
get-busy,
doo-doo-what-you've-gotta-do kind of day.
today,
i begin the cordite igniting odyssey that takes aim as i pack up The Gun Room.

just look at all this survivalist/liberty-minded/hard-style
super-magnum, big-bore, zombie-resistant craziness.
i normally HATE packing, ya'll,
but this little trip down awesome street isn't so bad, really.
it's like visiting an old friend,
and instantly remembering why you've been friends as long as you have.
mostly,
it's because of the bullets:

there's also three big ol' bulky boxes of camouflage clothes!
hell,
i've got 6 different pairs of kneepads, too.
and only 2 knees!!
what am i,
an A-hole?
c'mon.
even though i'm old an' that,
i still get to play pretendian make-believe and dress-up, i guess.
and not just because i'm a tattoo maker, either.
..........right?
whatever, judgemental judies...
you secretly wish you could wear color coordinated facemasks, knee and elbow pads, too.
don't kid yourselves.
woooooord.

for the record,
movin' 1,000 round boxes of bullets gets really flippin' heavy, my ninjas.
and i'm well stocked with case after case of just-in-case crates,

full to burstin' with boattail barbarian copper-jacketed hellfiery hottness.
cyrillic silliness, yo.
secret code for righteous ragnarok reserves, probably...
damn, son,
moving is definitely gonna eat a hot, hard, hateful one.
but,
i keep bumping into special friends as i make my rounds amongst the live rounds:

for those who are curious,
those are both double-barrelled, 12 gauge, hot fire dispensing blitzkrieg blasters.
they make side x side and over/unders,
so obviously,
since i am NOT a turbo A-lord,
i have both.
variety, mutha-uckas,
because i like my life spicy.

in other news,
my home away from home homeboy,
mr. lucky,
your favorite satanic mechanic and arthur making architect,
(i call him) todd lambright,
turns 38!
last time i checked,
that adds up to my favorite lucky number!
bam-a-lama, f*tards, 
that's correct:
eleven.
that's probably important to remember.
because as  sh!tty as getting older gets,
that hard-earned, hard-style, life-lesson-learning mother-ucka of invention,
the very necessary, and very fresh, full, and flavorful accumulation of acumen,
the one and only,
wisdom,
is sharpened most keenly by age.
without the bitter, an' all that....
i think that's the most important distinction between worthy warrior poets,
and weak sauce waterbabies;
the wisdom to know the difference.
between the new hottness and just the novelty of newness,
between the long term and instant gratification,
between the keep it really realness of furious Folk Life,
and the b!tch-sap sucking sadness of suppositioning  greener grass.
you ever notice how most folks look back to where they used to be,
after misplayed, mismanaged, mismotivated move-making,
and realize the grass was actually greener wherever they just were?
yeah,
usually that's because the ground has been saturated
with their own heapin' helpin' of futile fertilizer
that sprouts better memories after bitter realities.
i'm sayin',
they're so full of sh!t,
it skews their views all askance,
and seeps into their hindsight as a lamentation of what should've,
could've,
and would've.
F-, my ninjas....
here's to wide-open-eyed oglers of What Is.
green grass or brown lawn or asphalt lot, ya'll,
where you're standing is where you're supposed to be,
provided you make your minutes matter.
i for one am grateful for the time i have been given,
and even for the wrenches in the works, as well.
spanning time, ya'll,
knees deep in hollowpoints, holsters, and hatchets.
never quiet, never soft.....

even more of this.

lightning-striking vikings!!!

how about a ghostly/goodsly, warrior/woodsly spirit,
berserking with his bearded bad-ass barbarian self,
high-fiving no one in particular with a toothy hand,
rockin' the stone tower of power cufflink and crown,
and the de rigeur bobotronic robo-armor.

is he gettin' busy heralding the heraldry of the hottness?
uh-huh,
so now this is happening, ya'll...
and as usual,
you've got your wrenches, acorns, skulls, moths, bones and obligatory hot fire. 
it's like an iron chef challenge, 
combining the same ingredients over and over 
to make marginally new and delicious dishes.
with hands and teeth and sh!t.
red spirit mites are spriting around that banana creme background to complete the scene.
i'm into it.
although,
the coarseness could be increased,
looser strokes an' that,
and the color palette could be a bit more grim and lugubrious.
otherwise,
the kelly-colored tunic and bichrome ribbons kinda get it poppin'.
what is it made out of?
acrylics, cardboard, sharpies, alcohol markers, & pencil.
i keep making 'em, without any thought to whatever happens after that.
what the f* am i gonna DO with all this stuff?
no, really, kids,
what am i gonna do with it?
suggestions?

i've got a full day of work today.
tatzap explosions to the fullest.
i also don't have to spray pee right now.
not exactly headline news,
but a welcome respite from the past week's urinary contrariness.
what finally did it?
antibiotics?
c'mon,
what am i, an A-hole?
instead of the medical route to rehabilitation,
it was consistent, persistent, insistent systemwide waterbaby inoculation.
fight fire with fire,
and weak-sauce water with water.
no caffeine, no sugar, no fun,
but also no hot fire firehose, either.
a fair trade if ever there was one.
it's thor's day, my friends,
and it's the day that almost always brings the thunder.
i sure have a good feeling about this one.
today is the day.
so is every day.

y'know,
even though it seems like i started writing these
little love letters to all ya'll only yesterday.
i've already been at this for just over a year.
incidentals and coincidentals,
confessionals and confidentials.
time flies, fun or otherwise.
and yet,
i'm still doo-dooin' this little scrap of doo-doo.
a semi-anonymous philosopher,
nom de plume notwithstanding.
spouting bits, pieces, fragments, & scraps of creamy top-risen goodness.
i hope you ninjas are enjoying it as much as i am.
today is blog post #371.
add it up, mutha-'uckas,
3 + 7 + 1
according to my math,
that totals eleven.
you'd better flippin' believe it.
never quiet, never soft...

50-50.

after a looong day of paintin',
banana bread toastin',
peein' hot fire,
Folk Life livin',
and 24 thick oily inches of veggie submarine-style heroic hoagie grinders,
i'm full.
full-bellied,
full of sh!t,
full-hearted,
full.

the problem with things being fifty-fifty,
is that you're every bit as likely to NOT do something as you are TO do something.
either you make it,
or you don't.
...dang.
i didn't make it down the mountain to see my very very talented eastcoast revisiting buddy,
mr. shawn hebrank,
mainly due to the distance and distress i seem to induce in all rural reclusive situations.
i was lookin' down the turnpike to the tune of 5 mutha-flippin' hours,
in each direction,
from the woodsly goodness to the doo-doo butter of the worst state this side of connecticut,
even though new england touches itself in so many closeknit highways and byways!!
clearly,
the interstate system is kidding-
that much ridin' for a few moments of comradery sounds explosively gaytarded to me.
it didn't take that long to fly to minnesota for cryin' out loud!
sorry, buddy,
but my road trippin' days were numbered in the best of cases, anyway,
and the extra hot fiery fury
lazerbeaming out of my lightsaber just isn't helping any damn thing.
blame it on making the miniature minutes matter more,
but there isn't an audiobook on earth that could've made today an all day car day.
even odds, as it was,
there will always be next time,
whenever that is.


oh,
and while i'm chopping up the recyclables,
and stressing out and all about the time consuming,
hand cramping,
laborious glorious intensity of my quasi-cartoon
mosaic maniac arthur schedule,
jess will just pop out some incredibly excellent super-freshness.
that's a renaissance mandolin octopus, b!tches.
and it is DOPE.
it's great having a reminder made out of turbo-hottness living alongside me every day.
a blonde haired and blue eyed cautionary keep-it-real coconspirator,
tellin' me with words, with deeds, and in pictures;
just be dope,
and keep doing what you do.
harder.
louder.
longer.
more.
because i've got a lotta  catching up to do, my ninjas.

it's ladies night for my sweetie and her homegirls,
which makes it man night,
in the singular,
in this house,
until the estrogen boosted super soul sisterhood returns;
never quiet, never soft...

pro-active participation.

it shows through, sometimes.
my being born someplace other than the woodsly goodness, i mean.
for example,
when i think of a 4x4.
i think of a comfy little circle,
perfect for putting some of my favorite little fellas inside....
and then this happens.

it's never easy
somehow i've got the doldrum drums in the deep bumping out a lethargic lullaby.
i don't feel like doin' sh!t, mutha-uckas.
but,
i'm still gonna.
why?
because wallpapery wall-playin',
poop-boatswain barge charging,
weak-sauce waterbaby wallflowers are the flippin' worst.
in order to avoid that kind of b!tch-sap syrup distillation,
i'm makin' arthur with my lady,
i'm baking banana bread while i draw,
and i'm plotting and planning some new and improved hottness.
there's even a 50-50 shot that tomorrow will see a road trip to 'assachussets,
for a quick-stop, whole-shot, double barrelled, burly art explosion with 'mr. hebrank'.
i've got the sonic transduicer fueled up and standing by,
just itching to get down on some frank n. furter-y next level action,
i'm sayin';
don't dream it, BE it,
berserker barbarian battle-beast big action business.
active participation.
i have NO interest in a passive-aggressive pity party pantywaists.
at all.
just be dope already,
or f* right off, yeah?

better days are definitely coming,
and until then,
it's only a matter of making all the minutes in between matter more.
in order to further those moments' momentum,
i got some new art supplies.
four new paints, and some markers.
$6.
total.
word.
a fantastic investment, if you ask me.
but then again,
most of my cardstock 'canvases' cost around a dollar,
and usually include about a pound of uncooked macaroni, too.
what that means, my ninjas,
is that i've got some prepaid plans,
for pasta salad and private showings of all that's good in the woods.
c'mon, strangers,
SOMEbody should make an effort to get up here for dinner,
and bullet-blasting,
and king arthur art making and flour-powered bread baking.
you're invited.
cordially.
for starring-rolemodel roleplaying.
kind of like l.a.r.p.'ing,
but with real guns, bigger fun, and the plausibility of actual bodily harm.
y'know, so when i werewolf you,
you'll probably be ready,
warrior-poet wizardly walking stick in hand,
to werewolf me right back.
active participation.
the main ingredient in just-be-dopeness.
never quiet, never soft....

spring?

well below freezing.
that's been the temperature of the woodsly goodness for a few days now.
last night,
it was below zero, even.
and that's a sure enough frosty way to begin the big thawout funtimes.
springtime is supposed to be so positive,
and the degrees are in the negatives?
that's dumb.
the sky even considered snowing for a little baby bit yesterday.
i mean,
flippin' flurries an' that?
c'mon, mother nature,
what are you,
an a*-hole?

late 1800s victorian british empire hottness.
that's the flavor of the day.
if you've got some, i want it.
i'm talking about books, bottles, bowler hats, whatever.
donate some to the woodsly goodness improvement coalition.
i've got to make a run to the antique store, ya'll,
for some display stands and whatnots,
because i'm working on the reliquary meditative repository of spirit and memory.
....yep.
you heard that right, yo.
fancypants-type hard-style wall-sculpture.
and all that while i'm still clipping, cuttin', and pasting
that recyclable surreal cereal box top arthur stuff, too.

i tatblasted all dang day.
and i just had some truly epic homemade pizza pie,
courtesy of the careful hands and heart of my lovely and talented
sweet honey ladybird,
ms. jess.
i wish there was more to report,
but the broken tract of pipe i've got goin' on consumes most of my attention,
and may actually need some antibiotics.
it's very distracting,
especially when it feels like warm wet anger is seeping out of your shorts all day.
tomorrow i'm gonna make like an insane astronaut, strap on some diapers,
and make arthur until it's finished,
or the vegan sausage breaks right off,
that's word;
never quiet, never soft....

uncle ed is dope.

hey ya'll.
do you know that my uncle ed is one of my most favorite people?
well,
he is.
would you like to see some evidence of why?
great!
when it comes to academic elitist highbrow top-shelf single malt epic hot hot hottness,
my man gets SO mutha-flippin' busy,
in oil, no less.
his newest work is mind-numbingly intricate, uncut convoluted insanity.
you need it.
do this:
go to www.anticosartini.com
...our friend paul is also pretty *uckin' cool,
and he is in charge over there.
when you get there,
click on the link to resident artist joseph e. castiglione.
put a hat on, while you're at it,
because otherwise your mind will be blown all over your computer.
and, unfortunately for the walls in your apartment,
you probably can't afford any of it.
seriously,
this kind of antique brokerage is what's poppin'.
feel free to feel poor,
unless you're a deep-pocketed big timer ready to make some upper-crusty moves.
i'm not,
but i'm still glad this kind of stuff exists.

meanwhile,
i'm peeing a lot,
or at least,
a little bit,
just very, very, very often.
ebbs,
flows,
and fifteen second waterbabymaker breaks every fifteen minutes or so.
pee pants, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft....

busy busy busy

without any preamble to prepare me,
yesterday was apparently "get two tattoos day",
or at least it sure seemed like it.
everybody got two small tattoos.
one very nice lady even came back later on,
after her first tatblastin' session,
for another 'nother one to cover-up a hard-style howlin' doo-doo butter ankle wolf.
glamorous, ya'll.
i know.
now,
if you're guessing that what i'm insinuating
is that i spent all day zapulating lots of hand-crampin',
little bitty, diaperbaby tatty-o'blasters,
for not many dollars,
then you hit the nail right on the *ucking head,
good guess, ninja.

i've got to make like a moth tonight,
and rock out some nocturnal arthur-making.
sometimes,
long nights and hard times are the only way to go.
what am i gonna DO with all this stuff?
hell if i know, mutha-uckas.
the journey is the destination.
never quiet, never soft....

better days are coming.

finally.
check the almost-pastel muted background.
why?
because it's spring!
i mean, c'mon,
what are you, an a-hole?
general bobotronic hottness,
a highly decorated blitzkrieg berserker,
posing in a patch of acorns, even,

puffin' a potent pipe dream,
actualizing as a fully-opened box of whoop-ass,
showering the skies with some
'death from above',

in the form and function of symbolic sendings,
and elemental all-the-way-to-eleven just-be-dopeness 
in color coordinated squadrons of spirit-moths.
how many?

11 flying furious moths,
2 metallic medallion moths,
and even a skull with moth wings insignia, too.
three elevens, 
that's two different magic numbers, y'feel me?
the last one is on his kevlar sausage flap, written in runes.
a word to the wise-
don't wash your body armor in the spin cycle at the laundromat, kids.
it shrinks.
i'm sayin'.

the next step?

haunted castle ghost-king vikings.
naturally.

it's been said that fortune favors the bold.
if that's in any way at all true,
then this year will definitely add up to eleven.
we've got bold barbarian business goin' on in abundance;
more arthur-making than i even know what to do with is happening.
and,
once we move into a new place,
untold sun-surface degrees of thermonuclear temperature hottness
are definitely destined to get under way.
it's all about authentic battle damage, my ninjas.
you gotta endure all that you can,
sopping up all the weak-sauce and b!tch-sap,
until the saturation point is reached.
then you untether all that tension in a strong-to-the-finish counterattack.
popeye-style.
as in:
that's all i can stand, and i can't stand no more.
...so,
pass me a corn-cob pipe,
some spinach,
(fresh, please, not canned)
and then keep your peepers peeled for my squinky stink wink,
because with or without bulging battleship biceps,
BETTER days are comin'.
if you don't know yet,
you'd better get busy gettin' ready;
never quiet, never soft....

kapow! it's spring.

anybody else been feelin' the fever?
the quasi-cosmic seismic shift in seasons?
don't get all bunched up about it, panty-babies,
that's just the vernal equinox!
just like that.
and now,
it's a whole new quarter of the year.
slightly more importantly,
it's also my ma's big special day.
celebrating the emergence of a whole person,
as well as a better section of wet warmer weather.
i have no idea how old she is,
but she is old.
hahaha.
i'm only saying that because i noticed whole new streaks of silvery,
foxy, gray lightning strikes in my hairline today.
and if i'm rockin' the eldery wizard look,
then damn if my mama isn't a double decade headstart beyond that.
happy mutha-uckin' berfday, mama bear!
without her, there'd be no me.
so blame her.
that's a hard style, for sure.

organic unsweetened pure and uncut cranberry juice.
anyone who has had the pleasure of sortin' out some 
problematic pee-pee parts can attest;
it's undiluted fluid pain,
with stabbing wet jabbers,
and acid etching rape-lasers for your throat.
oh,
and a whole bottle of it might make you a bit better,
but it doesn't feel any less intense on the opposite end of the digestive system, either.
great.
i was really and truly hoping to experience
a double-stuffed hot fire firecrackin' 
a-crack and mouthpiece
bitter-ripper extravaganza.
be careful what you wish for, i guess.

watchmen.
have you seen it?
because you should.
it is good.
AND,
there's gratuitous full-frontal thick and veiny, nuclear fission, glowing, blue weiner.
lots of it, even.
and it's even bigger on the big screen.
i'm sayin'.

i've got no phone service.
seriously.
it's been days.
c'mon.
and you know i don't rock a mobile phone,
so it's woodsly hermit habitation until the problem gets fixed.
what the F* ever, my ninjas.
the sun is out,
the sky is blue,
it's beautiful,
and
never quiet, never soft.....

the big action.

have ya'll ever noticed how,
whenever you've got to make moves of the major-league variety,
every single person you've ever met
has some kind of two-bit advice on how to do it the right way?
and it always starts with:
(drawing oneself up and puffing up like a preening grouse)
"what I would do is...."
except they probably wouldn't,
because they haven't yet....
c'mon,
seriously.
i mean,
i actually do ask a few people about the right way to doo-doo the freakiest sh!t,
and even then,
only because i have the utmost respect for that very select few of the worthiest warriors.
but why would anyone ever wonder what the battle-plan is from just 'some dudes'?
of course,
those are the folks who always have some latent desire to be dope,
but only the vaguest notion of what dopeness even is.
naturally, therefore,
they've just GOT to tell you about it.
unsolicited, yet still volunteered information and opinion is about as welcome
as a savage gypsy side bicycle kick to the left ear.
i'm trusting in three things, ninjas;
-the secret universal plan looking out for it's very own lancelot of the woodsly goodness;
-the sound groundwork laid down by those dudes who've already done it,
and done it right;
and last but most importantly,
-the get-busy berserker barbarian battle-beastly bring-the-noise results of hard-ass work.
big moves, on each and every front line of the good fight.
yeah.
may day is the big day,
by then we'll be relocated, in so many ways.
i am grateful for the time i've been granted in the places i've spanned it in....

i painted so many little medallions and moths yesterday,
but,
i also managed to get some problematic poison in my pee-hole, too.
yep.
all that root beer caused a little distress and destruction,
and it's sugar-free cranberry juice for me until it clears up......
nice.
but then again,
isn't that always how it works?:
the things we enjoy the most are always the ones that break us the worst.
just ask anyone i (we) know.
toothachy-breaky bicyclists,
frustrated photographers,
pizza-makin' travelers,
fractured family guys,
woodsly werewolfen warrior poets....
it's another 'nother universal fact.
that's just a side-effect of really real lives lived furiously, though.
i'm sippin' weak-sauce until i'm ready to return to fight the good fight.
i'm walkin' into the fray,
every day, in every way,
loud, and hard,
knowing full well that every victory comes with a crucial cache of consequence.
the better i do, the more it hurts.
without the bitter, mutha-uckas,
and without the sweet,
we're just another set of lame-cake waterbabies.
just be dopeness forbids any other actions, ya'll;
never quiet, never soft...

home again, home again, jiggity jig.....

i'm back.
safe and sound,
and $250 poorer.
oh yeah,
in the spirit of st. pasquale,
trooper faherty of the new hampshire state police
decided that not everybody is irish on st. paddy's day,
and cast the snakes right out of my wallet
with a jackass jack-move citation and summons.
mutha-ucka!!
he did hide behind his mirrored glasses,
and make fun of my licence picture,
but he did NOT have a kickass moustache.
two out of three passes the douche exam,
barely.
F+, ya'll.....
way to go, cop-tard!


i walked in the door to this little cutie awaiting my arrival.
c'mon.
an upside downside root spirit of the woodsly goodness?!
do i ever even deserve such dopeness?
i sure hope so.
and after smooching all my ladies,
both two and four legged
i sprawled out in my bed and passed the f* out.
i slept for a good strong stretch, for the first time in a long time.
when i got up,
i had some east coast hard-style captain eli's root beer,
with a few drops of birch-tinged respect tipped out for my minnesota homies.
then i watched the rocky horror picture show,
alongside my sweet sweet honey baby,
and when it was over and done with,
and rif-raf and magenta had transported then entire castle
back to planet transsexual in the galaxy of transylvania,
i climbed back into bed,
again,
and fell balls-deep asleep reading about thieves, scouts, and half-orc raiders.
damn, my ninjas,
i'm still a little bit sad about having left the comfortable companionship of
those fresh and flavorful midwestern warriors,
but sh!t on a sapsucker, yo,
it's really mutha-uckin' fantastically good to be home.

i'm gonna finish this prussian pointy panzer-pinscher.

i'm thinkin' that there's a box full of barbarian battle moths.
y'know,
made out of the four flavor components of hottness:
fire, wrench, lightning, bones.

throw in some runes and a few elevens,
and maybe an acorn or three,
and it looks like i've got all the ingredients already gathered.
stayin' busy.
a rolling stone gathers no moss.
(although i really like moss)
and a rolling rock gathers white-capped dave matthew's fans.
and i guess if we roll out the barrel,
most likely, super-mario will jump it and try to kick donkey kong's mincy monkey heinie.
i've lost my original thought,
but where there's simian buttholes,
there's the opportunity to go completely apesh!t bananas-
that's the big business big action right there;
never quiet, never soft....

what a difference a year makes.

it's really flippin' early.
in just 20 little minutes,
i'm out the door,
on my way to the home sweet homeyness of the great northern woodsly goodness.
last year,
it was snowing when i left,
and i was sick, coughing, and voiceless when i departed.
this time,
it's been a worthy week of well-lived really real life.
i am psyched.
i am satisfied.
i am victorious.
i am grateful.

dear minneapolis,
i win.
seems like the score is 7 - 0,
that's an official shutout.
better luck next year.

love,
xoxoxox,
your pal,
-albie

never quiet, never soft....

b!tches, come and get some!

baby blue, baby b!tches!!!
a bouquet of thunder an' that.
don't even act like you don't like it.


it even goes to eleven, same as the fellas shirts...
and unless you're gross,
or your special lady is,
you really need one of these new hottnesses.
just $15, my ninjas.
i know, i know, it's more dollars than the manliness,
but believe me, at a mere $2 per boob,
it's well worth the investment.
tell me, or tell shawn.
but make sure to actually tell one of us.
and we will get one out to you,
so your boobs will look even better.
waaaaay more than $4 worth, anyway.
i'm sayin'...
spending quality time was the big action plan for today.
we did it.
right up to the last minute, even.....

ever had kurdish food?
you should.
because it is SO dope for your bellyhole.
cucumbers, tomatoes, and rice and brown blops of spicy so so goodness.
babani's in st. paul is america's first kurdish restaurant.
the dudes are known for fighting skills,
and sexual prowess.
i only know this because it says so in bold burly letters,
right on the front of the menu.
the second sentence, in fact.
that's some heroic boasting, ya'll.

we went to the big catholic cathedral .
it's big.
it's catholic.
some organ guy was rocking out with christ.
that's cool.
some other guy was in a coffin, while his family sat there,
then stood up, then sat there,
then stood up, then kneeled down.....
yep.
we crashed an actual funeral.
that's just how we get busy.
mostly, though, we checked out and scoped up on some super-duper fancy unnecessaries.
we also walked through the white midwestern version of sanford & sons world of antiques.
kewpie dolls and rocky horror action figures.
in full effect.
the sun was shining, the breeze was blowing, the coincidences were ripe for cultivating.
let's hope tomorrow is ready for my turbulent travails through time and space back to the northeast.
i'm gettin' back to the home of irish-american pride,
just in time for st. patrick's day, mutha-uckas.
i'll make sure to NOT have any beers.
actually,
i had so much f*n' rooty-tooty root beer over the last week
that my whole body is starting to get a little extra sassy sasparilla sauce oozin' out.
and it wasn't just so much soda i popped, either
i ate so much flippin' food all week, kids.
painful amounts.
be grateful you aren't climbing into bed with me this evening,
because the pipes are groaning, if you feel me;
keep an ear out, and a window open,
i'm blowin' up the spot,
loud and hard;
never quiet, never soft....

Loud and Hard.

yep.
that's a giant *ucking TUBA!!!
never quiet, never soft.
c'mon.
that's what's poppin'.
we deferentially decided to rock a color scheme most closely resembling
the exclamatory excellence of the 'butter pear', my ninjas,
that's correct:
avocado!
men's shirts, small - XXL,
you know you want one.
in fact,
there are two kinds of people in this world:

those who go to eleven,
and therefore are gonna get one of these,
and mutha-uckin' douchetards.
you're either one or the other.
live free.
or die.
i'm just sayin',
pick a side.
moths, leaves, elevens, banners, and the back-action brass section blowhard blaster.
you need to buy one - immediately, even;
how many hundreds of dollars does something this dope cost, you want to know?
what are you?
an a-hole?
it's yours for just eleven buxxx, (word)
so take off the diaper, baby-pants,
because there's no way that's gonna break your bank, now is it?
battlebeasteleven@gmail.com
get at me,
and we'll get you one, quick like a bunny...
or,
hit up shawnhebrank.com,
and he'll get you one, fast like a falcon...
don't even hesitate to think about it.
do it.
oh, yeah;
at some point today,
scanty little baby-b!tch blue girly girl shirts are slated to get hooked up.
it's a different design,
but it is the same amount of awesome.
that's right ladies,
we GOT you, too.

despite being full to the brim on pannie-cakes,
we closed out the gastrnomic portion of the day with an asian sensation:
taiwanese food!
that's how we remained wary of the ides of march.
brutus didn't backstab us at all,
but we definitely polished off plate after plate of great brown balls of toothsome treats.
hell,
shawn even ordered another 'nother helping of barbarian blumps,
after we finished the first time,
just so we all could enter the clean plate club twice in one sitting.
gluttony, my ninjas.
i'm into it.
we also watched a movie last night.
wellll,
i slept through most of a movie,
but realistically,
i probably spent that brick of time the smartest way....
it was an epic poop-boat called 'henry poole is here'.
something about jesus and houses and mute girls
and a crazy-eyed eastern eurpoean looking ___anian,
and about two hours of not dopeness.
i did get us thinking on miraculousness.
and i guess we're hoping for a miracle,
because we're going to st. paul's cathedral to see jesus.
if he's home, i mean.
otherwise it'll be more of the graceland tour-style visitation.
there will probably also be some vegan food times,
and walkin' about times,
and spanning quality time.
weather permitting,
naturally.
it's my last day, ya'll.
until next time...
-thanks minneapolis, it's been great,
-thanks todd, you're always great,
-thanks shawn and meryl,
without ya'll,
i'd still be in hibernation, across the nation,
waiting for the big thaw up in the woodsly goodness.
best hosts a warrior poet could hope for, ya'll.
no sh!t;
never quiet, never soft.....

it really is in the air.

nate waited a whole year to get tattooed during my visit

and when the time finally came 'round,

he opted for a little good touch/ bad touch big action.

a real 'diamond in the rough', as he put it.

that's some poetry, ya'll.

especially since he was all buffed up baby smooth and shiny.

kewpie dolls and vanilla skies occupied the remainder of the day,

as did some ghostbustin' supermoms.

word...

spring must be en route,

special delivery an' that, too, my ninjas.

because i am tellin' all ya'll;

three days ago it was negative degrees outside.

and today,

it's pretty mutha-uckin' positive, and that's no joke.

so warm and sunny, son,

that i'm not even rockin' my super-sexy topcoat.

at all.

shawn, meryl, and my new in-person friend, camden 

all got up early-shirley this morning,

and headed to the crusty punk-rock hippie co-op breakfast joint.

we all ate a big fat heaping helping of morning glory.

then,

after camden went to work,

the rest of us all went to the walker,

for some art-attack action,

involving books,

some interesting floorplans,

false elevators,

a beat-up buick,

and a truly filthy day-glo AND blacklight post-hiroshima

french avant-garde bestiary of boners.

i'm sayin',

there were so many thick and tumescent yarn and wax weiners on display 

i felt like i was back at home!!!!

c'mon.

that's not exactly accurate,

but those weiners were in full effect. 

when it comes to moths and snails made out of slithery ghost sausages,

today definitely goes to eleven.

recognize.

now it's a brief sunday afternoon work attack,

making never quiet, never soft apparel for your style-point scorecard.

once they're done,

as in:

this afternoon,

you'd better contact me or shawn,

and get your minky little mince-chops on a fresh-to-death piece of the action.

we're here.

it's happening.

it's so good.

never quiet, never soft....

camera-shy?

friday the thirteenth was pretty intense.
i tattooed a very nice important executive lady named debbie,
while shawn and i rocked our collective socks off to
'the rocky horror picture show' soundtrack,
and later on, i closed out the day with my new friend, mr. palmer.
a man who can appreciate a fine posterior,
and has gigabytes of memory devoted to that appreciation.
his phone is a miniature digital altar to the latter day church of butt.
no joke.
i'm actually surprised his phone will even let him call his mom,
because that amount of cheeks-for-weeks passion is so sinful,
that cellular should blush with embarrassment.

in the interest of taunting,
rather than tempting, fate;
there were broken mirrors, umbrellas open indoors, unread, smashed fortune cookies,
and i've gotta make mention of the cameo made by a tattoo of some praying hands
which ended in an unintentional pair of palm-piloted rumpty dumplings
that would've run the hardest hard drive on mr. palmer's phone, had he known,
with the added extra hottness of his sleeve covering all of the hands BUT the butt,
with a banner reading 'hold fast' underneath.
(that's what SHE said)
he also had a lip tattoo that spelled out 'T-I-T-I-E-S'
THAT was pretty serious.
leave off a T, in the middle, i guess,
for extra awful, gollum-y sad, sprung, broken, spring breakable boobs.
on a more fulfilling note;
spring rolls were inhaled,
as were the many different kinds of root-style beer chilling out in the identity tattoo fridge.
shawn skipped 'em, because of his delicate ethical sensibilities,
which just meant more fluid ounces for washing down everyone else's pancakes, an' that.
todd and i enjoyed a pair of big, thick, hard black stumps together,
as well as a heart-to-heart heart string heart attack.
that sh!t definitely went to eleven.
the dude knows what's up.
and that's so flippin' cool,
because not a lot of folks see What Is for what it is;
i'll be honest, my ninjas,
the peoples i got,
i couldn't ask for any better than.
and that's word.

now,
ya'll may have noticed a dearth of photos from my trip thus far.
anybody care to guess why?
yep.
it wouldn't be an albie rock traveling road show
if the airplane part didn't f* up some of my sh!t.
my camera was lost somewhere in transit.
i'll say lost,
and not stolen,
but only because even if it was stolen,
it'll still be lost.
so,
add a new camera to the 'to do' list.
a small price to pay
for the priviledge of spanning time amongst the fine and
upstanding warrior-poets of minneapolis.
we even went out and had japanese food,
complete with dumplings in throat-flaying pain sauce!!
i am grateful for all the generosity of these crazy kids.
i am lucky to have the time i'm enjoying here.
today is the day.
so is every day.
my last day of official work at identity tattoo,
...until the next time.
long talks, long nights, longfellow's tattoos,
it's all really happening,
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft....

unlucky number thirteen.

pure evaporated henry weinhard's root beer.
that must have been what the storm clouds were made of yesterday,
because the rootin' tootin' sassafras shootin' thunder was coalescing in the studio
all damn day long.
baked potatoes,
indian goobieblops,
fresh baked maple scones, dropped, and replucked from off the floor at deep discounts,
and some epic vegetable soup, with macaroni magic
all filled my belly to the breaking point.
gastronomically, yesterday blew me away.
so much so, in fact,
that four mere minutes into a movie,
i was dreaming about geysers and wolfmen pretty hard.
yesterday also saw some serious tattooing.
serious as in:
hummingbirds, feathers, and ambigrams.
and it held a healthy portion of time-spanning with my peoples too;
drawing, foam cutting and grocery-getting also figured in prominently.

today is the day.
friday the thirteenth, redux.
the second one in a row.
successive jinx-proof weekend starters can mean only one thing:
this thirteenth has got to go to eleven....
it's the official unofficial party day at identity tattoo.
the root beer is chilled.
the not-casual friday attire is ready to be worn in haute couture high hard style,
and there's probably some pancakes and mapley syrupy aromas somewhere in there, too.
i'm to be drinking REAL coffees, all day,
just to make sure that the nordic frenzy of berserking battle stays at fever pitch.
well after the eight o'clock bell tolls, too.
if you've got asbestos underpants,
today's the day to put 'em on and head on in,
because that's the only way to save your special bits from a scalding skaldic singeing,
i'm warning you now;
the hot fire and flavorful barbarian bouillion are about to be administered in
unfathomable quantities to any and all weak-sauce spots,
in an all-out war on waterbaby sodapants b!tch-sappery.
savage stormswept gypsy stone soup is on the menu, my ninjas.
the lightning-striking vikings at identity tattoo are all on board,
and we're riding this day all the way to valhalla.

no foolin',
it's been great so far over here.
so much so that i really did konk out early last night.
the woodsly goodness,
for all it's Folk Life keep it realism,
does NOT operate at a breakneck city-limits pace.
that said,
i'd rather collapse exhausted into the night,
and wake up at the asscrack of dawn prepared for whatever's clever,
as active a participant as i can be,
as hard as i can be,
for as long as i can be,
than to play the wallpaper wallflower role,
watching the all-the-way-live action, unscripted way of the warrior unfurl around me,
creating What Is bit by bit, moment by moment,
until history is hot on the heels
of the diligently documented really-real happenings of the bet-busy big action.
i'm telling you,
i'm prepared to alter the traditional tar and feather funtimes,
and hit each one of you with a smear-face b!tch-slap of adhesive ointment,
and a big, bad, blowhard huff n' puff poof of trimmed and tossed-out shorthairs, too.
which is to say,
i'll werewolf you!!,
before you catch me sitting on the sidelines,
watching without working.
each and every j.a.f.o. can take it deep.
(just a f*n' observer)
pick a side,
take a stance,
have an opinion.
in or out,
burly badass barbarian or cookie-cuttin' seahorse.
live free, or die.
don't dream it, my ninjas,
BE IT.
have a hand in your own play.
play the role of your own self at the live-action saga of your real life.
just be dope.
or,
f* right off.
....i werewolf you;
never quiet, never soft....

thor's day thunder....

what?
did you think that because i don't go flashin' it
out from under my topcoat,
seeking perverse approval behind some bushes in the park,
that i'd forgotten how?
that's right, my ninjas.
tat-BLASTING is what's a-poppin' up in here.
kyle unobtrusively, quietly, and sort of stoically requested an infusion of hottness,
probably only because it is mutha-uckin' freezing over here.
that non-new england affect, or lack thereof,
is hard to get used to.
i guess it isn't lack of enthusiasm,
but some type of location specific aversion to high-volume
berserker barbarian battle-beastliness.
it's weird as sh!t, i can tell you that.
i wasn't sure i was going to be up to zappin' the fresh-to-death
flashdance destruction while i was stayin' in this area.
i mean, shamrocks, sports logos, and celtic cross memorials
have been the short-order cookout cookoff contest of the past few months,
but,
it turns out,
all it takes is a quick "tribal initials plus teardrops of blood" warm up session,
and i'm ready to rock.
that dancing elephant is doing the 'ed lover dance' for sure,
the booty-wop/stop/drop/roll.....

and without any really genuine surprised looks from anyone,
the cultivated coincidences are rolling in fast and deep.
that's just how the fertile fields get reaped.
shawn rocked his butthole off on a dope viking helmet, too.
and we ate at a different ethnic doo-doo dollop establishment last night.
brown blops of pureed power!!!
indian food, ya'll.
and it was f*n' good, too, my ninjas.
the eleventh went to eleven.
but, i mean,
c'mon,
was there ever really any doubt?

vegan scones.
root beers.
drawing sessions.
the smell of pancakes.
i am grateful for this opportunity.
i am grateful for the worthy warrior-poets i span time with.
thor's day thunder promises to be as entertaining as wotan's wednesday, too.
i predict horseplay, tomfoolery, and cantankerous cavorting
in copious quantities from minneapolis to maple grove and back again.
the winds are blowin'.
still.
but instead of the wind chill icing down everything,
that biting breeze is just fanning the flames of hot hot fire that are blazing
like false-light lighthouses,
luring in the unsuspecting lutherans to a trial by combat
with the battle-bards and art-destroyers assembled alongside me.
we're ready to rock out louder and harder than yesterday.
every day.
and the winds still blow.
i wonder if there's any answers wafting in on 'em.
we'll see, yo.
we'll see...

i'm just sayin',
i realize you had a choice today...
thank you for choosing the wrench;
never quiet, never soft....

time travel and caffeine.

i'm here.
it's dope.
and everyone is always so nice to each other.
i like it.

i had one too many real-deal non-nancypantsed coffees yesterday,
coupled with the back-to-the-futuristic subtracting of one hour from real o'clock,
and delays,
brisk jogs,
bad weather,
and even worse weather.
the result?
stayin' up late,
freezing icestorms,
brown babybooty dirty diaperloads of delicious ethiopian food,
narrowly connected flights,
a jeff goldblum/miami vice impersonating tattle-baby,
some kid named chuck who is definitely gonna punch some other kid,
root beers on demand,
and a pretty healthy dose of much needed awesome.
the amount of excellence we're determined to cram-pack
and jam-stuff into a narrow space is borderline pornographic.

i only hope that my unique bedside manner as a house-guest and a tatzapper won't wear thin with my hosts.
in either place.
a little albie rock goes a loooong way.
sorta like poison ivy, if you feel me....
i'm grateful for the generosity of two absolutely excellent temporary
stomping/watering/resting grounds.
i'm not sure if i'm supposed to bring the thunder,
or the gentle introspective helpfulness of a positively charged participant in the lives of these terrific folks.
i'm leaning, naturally,
towards the thunder.
after all,
it's the eleventh.
it's a full moon.
it's mutha-flippin' freezin',
and it's earlier here than at home.
wotan's day is already ready, already.
thick black burning spring-rolls of nicotiana tabacum
are also rumored to be making a cameo at some point.
i didn't bring any matches,
but even in the steady march lion winds of the prairie,
blazing the cherry-tipped poker ends of 'em shouldn't be a problem.
i mean,
i spit hot fire, right?
never quiet, never soft....

either you make it,

or you don't.
i finished part of the painting.
only the big fun cereal box foreground.
i even added little symbolic insignia!
however,
the background isn't even being considered.
no pictures this time......
there's just too much midwest magic being planned on.
in any case,
i'm packed,
stacked,
locked,
and loaded.

if you see me at the airport,
being strip/body cavity searched,
pop a head in (not into me, into the cubicle)
and say hello.
i'll be the gentleman in the brown herringbone tweed....
or, the naked handcuffed fella.
just look for the handsome beard....
breakfast in new hampshire,
lunch in philadelphia,
dinner in minnesota, mutha-uckas.
never quiet, never soft....

buzzer-beaters.

i may actually finish this stormtrooper of woodsliness after all.
an early evening of acrylic angst is on the schedule for a second consecutive day.
so far, so good.
prussian-style policeman of hot fire and lightningbolt natural law enforcement.
this guy is lookin' more and more like a villain out of indiana jones-
except maybe not an alien....
now,
observing that similarity in style,
i should state emphatically that
in no way do i endorse the belief system of any oppressive movement.
ever.
but let me tell ya,
i have to admit those naughty deutschlanders
had some pimp-ass uniforms.
easily the best-looking military in modern memory.
too bad their whole flavor was a sh!t-salad sandwich.
weak-sauce in fresh coats.
i'm sayin'.

anyway,
i've got a blistering case of the "gottas".
as in:
gotta go and tatzap today.
gotta pack.
gotta get a good night's sleep,
gotta wake up early,
gotta drive far as f* to the airport,
(the woodsly goodness is accessible only by mountain pass, after all)
and gotta mentally prepare
for the hottest fire ever spat out on the plains of minnesota.
oh, and of course,
it's flippin' snowing.
yep.
yesterday,
it was 'dude-guy wearin' shorts-type' weather,
and today,
we've got frosty the inappropriate snowman f*ing up my sh!t.
nice.

just one more day of doo-doo butter, kids,
and then it's goin' to be a whole week of hellfire and damnation!!
by tomorrow afternoon,
the travelin' albie rock one man show will be appearing live in maple grove.
if you aren't ready,
you better GET ready, ninja.
berserker barbarian battle-beasts,
warrior poets,
battle bards,
and lightning-striking vikings.
lock, stock, and barrel:
the wrench in the works is headed west;
never quiet, never soft...

springing ahead.

ate that hour right up,
the springtime savings did.
somehow saving an hour tonight
by losing a sliver of sleep last night?....
we set our sundials ahead at 7 p.m.,
so as not to forget about it later on.
so really,
i was living in the future for 7 whole hours.
flux capacitor, indeed.
what did the time/space anomaly do for me?
well,
we watched a grim, bleak, and depressing movie,
ate some quick and easy dinner,
and i almost finished a book before i fell asleep,
at the same time i always do,
excepting and accepting that the alarm clock alarmingly read the future time instead....
i still woke up at six,
but damn if it didn't feel like 5, y'know?


this morning i got a-crackin' on the arthur-making almost immediately,
after tea and toast,
and only just stopped a second ago.
i'm gonna try and finish this fella before i fly off to full moons
and full friday triskaidekaphobias.
of course,
if i don't,
then i don't.
that's an inescapabale truth, ya'll.
you either make it,
or you don't.
hard-style matter-of-fact brutality.
that's the infinite nature of What Is.
i fail a LOT.
but,
i also have a hand in a whole mess of goings-on at any given time,
so on average,
by sheer volume,
i succeed more often than i tank it.
it still hurts when i don't make the magic happen,
but i look at it as a positive thing.
if it doesn't hurt when it doesn't work,
then how invested in what i was doing was i really?
y'hear me?
if it doesn't matter, then don't do it,
and if it does,
do it as hard as you can, for as long as you can,
in as many different ways as you can.
until there's not much left but spirits and memories.
real life always ends up as ghost circle smoke rings at the end.
use it up,
wear it out,
make do,
or do without.
that's some wise washerwoman wisdom up there, my ninjas.
and it's the big bad action, an' that, if you know how it works.
after every harvest,
after all that toil and trouble,
and after the full-bellied hibernation and preservation,
once the feast is all used up,
you save the seeds and start a new situation,
just as soon as it thaws,
or before, even,
if you know how to trick the temperature to jump-start all that new growth.
heart-wrenching hot fire,
all the way past the 1-10 scale, up to eleven,
has got to extend the growing season a bit on either side....
an hour gained,
and hour lost,
darker lights,
lighter darks,
without that bitter, mutha-uckas, you know....
if you aren't just being dope,
then you're missing the point.
-where we're going, we don't need roads;
never quiet, never soft...

and i'm done with this one....

okay,
so now the guy has a peach or two to snack on.
so why peaches?
is there a symbolic innuendo to be read into?
y'know the sort:
there's pits in every sweetness,
under-the-surface hardcore hard cores an' that....
representational fruit, kids,
like trees of knowledge, long life, or vaginas-
is that what's goin' on here?
nope.
peaches are fuzzy, and delicious.
and, i don't have a lot of different colors of cheap craft paint.
i do have red, yellow, and white, though,
which makes the choice of fruit that much simpler.
bananas, apples, oranges, lemons, and peaches.
i picked peaches.
i like peaches.
and that's the whole insider big action on that.
i also do kinda like the occult seance spell pattern etched into the smoky tooth fire hand.
and i'll be honest:
those time cards i bought years ago have been an endless source of background inspiration ever since.
i even rocked the color-coordinated spirit mites, my ninjas.
those're important details in the world of the woodsly goodness, for sure.

it's springlike as heck outside!
i woke up to high forties temps, and wet windy air....
there's mud, and snow, and red squirrels everywhere.
i'm tellin' ya,
those little rodents are pushy and pouty when the 'compost' doesn't make it outside
on a tight and predictable schedule.
they'd make great organized crime collection agents, y'know?
i wonder, sometimes, if these little agents of ratatosk
aren't delivering some secret-coded blueprint from the super top-secret universal plan....
if so,
my eyes and ears are open,
and i'm huckin' out whole hunks of hot toast in payment for the information.
pity i don't speak squirrel,
although i am passingly familiar with nuts.
as in crazy,
c'mon.
(ok, you got me, AND as in balls!)


what is wrong with me?
i get amped on something,
and then just run away like a shoplifter with it, huh?
german stormtroopin' bobot zombie smokers?
c'mon. c'mon. c'mON.


ice dam damnation.
(now you see where the handy tooth model comes from)
i smashed  sh!t-ton of a lot of cold cold water with a hammer yesterday, too.
that manly business is super satisfying, i can tell ya.
there's just a certain kind of contentment that comes from bashing
the battle-beastly spirits into submission.
i'm sayin',
swingin' that steel striker until my arms go all rubbery feels good.
cold safety-glass sprinkles of abysmally frigid ice do not.
i'm thinkin' about bringin' a minor keyed harmonica to minnesota.
something about a full moon,
on the eleventh,
in the prairie, in a city, with some good peoples,
and a sad sad mouth-music maker,
just speaks out to the woodsly warrior poet in me;
never quiet, never soft.....

some kind of weather.

short leg syndrome.
nothing ruins a perfectly attractive young lady (or ladyboy, even)
than a set of too-short stems poppin' out of a normal-sized torso area....
long legs,
or at least proportionately un-short ones,
are what's up.....
that being noted,
here's some skeleton warrior bobotic ghost breathin'
tooth-handed fire-spittin' poetics....
of course,
without the background,
this guy is mostly a lonesome battle-beastly blowhard.
still,
i'm getting excited about all this new arthur i've been making up in here.
i'm concerned, however,
that the refining process is getting out of hand....
so i'll be using even worse brushes for whatever comes next.
coarse art kicks fine art's butthole right off.

rain. sleet. snow. wind. ice.
and that was before 7 a.m.
it's been in the 40s farenheit all day since...
come the f* ON, for goodness sake!
i'm just not in the mood for ma nature's mood swings.
anyway,
i got some new shirts,
and an epic early-spring hansdomely manicured beard trim explosion, too.
you know i gotta look good for the identity tattoo festival extravaganza.
the due date for delivery is gettin' closer,
and the pick-up and drop-off situations are already arranged.
all ya'll norwegian batchelor farmers had better be battenin' down the hatches,
because the winds of march and marchin' on,
and bringin' 'the albie rock show' with 'em to the prairie....

until then,
i've got three days of incredible un-'tasticness to slog through....
i feel so bad for the sap-suckers who don't come correct
for a sucka-free saturday and sunday...
hot fire is on tap,
and there's a keg-stand of crucial carnage in my future.
(it's a root-beer keg-stand kind of weekend)
never quiet, never soft...

grow.

this little sprout grew up from the saddest sprig of ivy.
he lived in a shot glass for a month,
and kinda just popped out some roots, shoots, and leaves,
and now he lives in a new home.
carpeted completely with dirt.
jess has the greenest thumbs, ya'll.
we had one spider plant, yeah?
and under her auspices it exploded in every direction,
and made enough for you, me, and everyone we know.
i've got a peace lily bloomin' right next to me,
dracaena (that's that good-luck' bamboo) almost 4 feet tall,
and some amazonian man-eaters taking over the living room.
i'm sayin',
it's the mutha-uckin' verdant thumbs!!
no foolin',
she's like that jolly giant, (only really pretty)
or a chlorophyll-colored hitch-hiker.
and while they're incredibly dextrous,
they aren't always opposable.
or at least, maybe i just know better than to try.
hence the greenhouse
not that i don't have my moments, too;
like the rolling stone's song:
under my thumb?
yeah.
whatever, my ninjas.
plants are kinda rad.
not so much when i bag my head on hanging pots,
every day in the same place,
but that's more my inability to accomodate flora in my personal airspace.
the air is cleaner, too.
psychologically, maybe.
but my house is teeming with life.
and that's dope.

dirt.
water.
light.
that's all they need.
and then they're off and running,
or twining, vining, creeping, sprouting, blooming and everything else.
i mean, c'mon,
talk about just doin' what you do!
that's today's plan, ninjas.
synthesizing.
takin' the dirt-dirty doo-doo butter,
the piss and vinegar,
and the warm rosy glow from the hot fire furnaces,
and combining it all to get bigger.
the ass's whole is greater than the half-assed parts, an' that.
yep.
tatblastin', arthur-makin', wrench-choosin', dinner-cookin',
all of it.
doin' what i do,
with only the sovereign state of my arm's reach empire under my feet,
a cuppa irish breakfast tea,
and the bright and shining sunlight beamin' through my window.
i'm hoping that by tonight the world seems a little smaller,
but only because i've managed to fill it fuller
with a larger and in-charger version of me.
larger-than-life livin', even when it is all kept so simple.
expanded horizons proportionate to personal developement.
a landfall landfill of get-busy, get-bigger, taprootin' tootin' and skyward reachin', highfalutin' bearin' fruit, and salutin'
fever-pitch frenzy of green-thumb assisted personal growth.
dirt.
water.
light.
the smallest leaf and the biggest tree, mutha-uckas.
they only need the same three things.
that's all you need.
now to figure out which three things are your magic combination,
that's the green-thumb gardener's ultimate challenge.
never quiet, never soft....