squeaky wheels.

toasted sesame oil is kinda rad.
it's like burnt peanuts mixed with china or some sh!t.
i'm sayin'.
it's good.

i've said it before...
there's kind of a lot of things i don't do.
especially compared to the regular mcburgery sports-fan flag-waver crowd.
but,
more often than not,
i'm more concerned with what i do do. (doo-doo)
because really,
that's much more of an identity to be proud of.
i'm a book-reading, food cooking, barbarian bonfire lighting, dollmaking warrior poet,
who just happens to focus on vegetables, dungeons, dragons, and unclouded mindstates.
in general,
i find that vegans and drug-free-types only yell the loudest,
and get the proudest,
about what they aren't doing.
we don't drink.
we don't eat meat.
we don't watch t.v.
whatever.
i haven't gotten down on any of those generic waterbaby pastimes in forever and a day.
i don't usually ever even think about it,
unless i'm around other vegan eaters or non-drinkers.
then,
it's the compare and contrast contest.
who's more vegan, who's less drug-free.
you win, nitpickers.
seriously.
enjoy it.
you're doing the least.
congratulations an' that.
that is some sh!t-salad-tossing weak b!tchbag asstardation.
i'm more psyched on what i'm cooking in my kitchen than what's missing from my fridge;
i care about what i read, and draw, build and burn instead of spending those nights barhopping;
and i'm definitely more into the performance art
of creating uncomfortably comedic situations,
instead of crouching couchbound and down, watching scripted situation comedies.
i mean,
active participation involves gettin' busy with your big bad business, yeah?
so really,
who gives a hot turd what you abstain from gettng all up on?
why am i rehashing all this "alike/unlike" action?
we've got some new vegan straight-edge transplants in town.
there's always someone who points out, in front of the newcomers,
how jess and i are the local elder statesmen of meatless sobriety.
apparently, we've been elected to the welcoming commitee-
they always leave out that we're unfriendly hermits of solitude,
and hard-hearted haters,
and woodsly battle-beasts who shun encounters like the sasquatch.
i promise we have less in common than you'd think.
it just doesn't look good for a comradery connection based solely on similar diets,
or rah-rah-rah music-based subcultural identification.
so while it's only too-true that i won't eat a grilled cheese,
i will still totally kick a dog in it's hairy butthole if it deserves it, broken toe or not;
and while i can appreciate the idealism behind remaining 'nailed to the X',
even after turning 21,
i'm more apt to summon up the really-realism and nail it to XI....
whilst doing a rootin'-tootin' root beer kegstand.
if a vegan eats a salad in the forest and no one is around to make a recycled tote bag with a clever slogan about it,
is the dressing still delicious?
my dudes are the ones who doo-doo what they do,
whatever the F* it is,
without an allegiance-swearing t-shirt announcing it to the world.....
you know the drill,
my worthy warriors of windswept woodsliness,
just be dope, first,
then we'll worry about what's for lunch;
never quiet, never soft.....

foe toe.

that's a bruised, used, and abused footlong foot.

i know all about the bam-bam bat i inherited as a BIG balance digit.

what worries me is the third one in from either side;

yep,

i broke my middle toe.

on my ass-kickin' foot, at that.

'this little piggie had roast beef...'
figures that my vegan sensibilities would let the wreck rain down on that guy...

it used to slant about twenty degrees to the right.

now, of course,

every single step i take brings the thunder down.

it's awesome.

did i break that sumb!tch off in a sucka's A-hole?

did i kick the ever-loving livin' sh!t outta something?

did i give 'em the boot and sustain battle-damage whilst booting?

nope.

i didn't jump from on high,

i didn't twist it in a cliff-face crevasse;

so how, exactly, did i grape-ape my toe knuckle?

i got up to grab the phone,

and heard an audible crunching crush as i shuffle-stepped into a chair.

F* my A*, ya'll.

right off my body an' that.

happily, my lung capacity is top-notch,

and my vocal chords are functioning just fine, thanks.

i spat the hottest fire and swore the dirtiest dirt-dog doo-doo butter,

up, down, sideways, and diagonally.

none of that made it feel any better.

i got beat up by a chair.

and i wasn't professionally wrestling, either.

hell, it's a flippin' antique, my ninjas.

damn,

i can't even get hurt all manly style.

F-.

i'm treading lightly,

like it or not,

but i absolutely refuse to watch my step.

never quiet, never soft.....

thor's thunderous hammer.

maybe my dorkiness is overwhelming me?
i mean,
i just wrapped up a book called
orcs: bad blood.
seriously.
it's the first book of the second series.
it's about orcs.
i know.
that's some 10th level +5 twenty-sided jackassery;
but what kicks it up to eleven,
is that as soon as i put that mutha-F*er to sleep,
i immediately reached over to the night stand and scoopled up a totally different book,
one that promises even more jacked-up assism;
it's called dwarves.
i swear to god, yo.
take a guess what it's about.
no, not little teapots,
the other other hard metal short and stout boilermakers.
axe-warriors, my ninjas, are pretty flippin' dope,
and that's word.
now,
in an effort to tone down the epic scale of nerdhood involved,
or maybe to turn it up a little,
i feel i should let ya'll know it's written by a real German guy.
and translated from the real German text.
those dudes know what's up when it comes to nordic insanity.
some type of genetic-memory black forest berserker sh!t.
jeez....
sometimes, i even want to bully myself for my lunch money.
of course,
my supreme fantasy fascination doesn't go unnoticed.
apparently,
the vanilla sky full of cultivated coincidences was paying attention;
i actually tatblasted a warhammer chaos symbol for hours today.
water finds it's own level, so they say.
'my other car is a space marine predator.'
if you were also into plastic miniature combat bitz,
that would be hilarious.
the big irony for me was that when the chaos heavy metal masterwork was all done,
my client changed OUT of his GWAR shirt afterwards,
to avoid getting his blood on it!
yeah.
i'm serious.

justification, rationalization, explanation;
i'm not exclusive in my word-nerd dragonlancing-
i do have a second tier of books getting eaten up by my head.
all non-fantasy, occasionally non-fiction;
novels, graphic novels, autobiographies, short stories, miscellaneous reference ....
y'know,
less dork, more work.
i read 'em on the ground floor of the fortress, just to stay grounded,
and leave the lofty tomes of higher learning
for the higher floors of the homestead, instead.
you gotta climb the steps if you're going to get busy in the dungeon.
oxymoronic? maybe.
regular moronic? probably.

when i've filled up on my Fall word-eating,
and i've satisfied the hungry hole in my head with pages and pages and pages,
i'll be ready to start in on some falafel.
barely more than a week away,
the real damage is set to be dispensed.
never mind women's urine,
i'll stick to chick peas.
never quiet, never soft.....

cannibus 3.14...

what?
yeah!
pot pie.
c'mon...

unlike pot brownies,
only the flaky pastry crust gets baked when i make this mighty british treat.
that's comparatively misleading in the nomenclature department, yeah?
neither is made in a pot,
and while both may require some TLC,
only one has THC.
pot pie is pretty innocuous.
but it is also pretty flippin' doooooooooope.
and that's word.

it's Fall, my freaky-diki mutha-flippers,
the jump-off for hearty, rib-stickin' thickness from my kitchen.
and for the record,
it is ON up here.

while my hard-workin' honey went to the studio and zapped it up,
i stoked the homefires hearthside,
and invested the entire afternoon peelin', paring, choppin', roasting, rollin', kneadin'
and so many other culinary kitcheny things,
that it was dark before i realized just how busy i'd been all damn day.
that mutha-uckin' pan of manly mealtime has got it all, too:
poultry-geisted tofu cubes,
hunks and chunks of vegetables,
thick, rich, greasy gooey gravy sauce,
and a golden butteryish crisp pastie-top enclosure.
damn,
i used to make moves with paint and pencils and sh!t...
anybody remember arthur?
me neither.
and i'm too full to care!

two kinds of pies in one day?
i doo-doo that pannie-pan pastry-type sh!t.
hell yeah.

apple attack!

another 'nother 3 quarts of gastric destruction.
my oven received a double stuffin' of stuffed-up stuffs, ya'll.
some folks wuss out and only use cinnamon and nutmeg in their apple pie.
that's why theirs is only a lower-than-ten slice of b!tch-sappy weak sauce,
and this nobbly, oaty dutch-crusted malus masterwork goes to eleven.
ginger? cloves? allspice? vanilla? maple syrup?
of course.
when it's complicated, it's just right.

the aftermath.

pounds of hard-pounded hard style scarfing, ya'll.

that's like eating ten dirty diapersfull of delicious.

we brought some serious thunder to the supper table tonight.

i honestly feel like i may burst open,

through my stomach,

out of my torso,

and all over the mutha-uckin' place.

i can't even swallow i'm stuffed so full.

(that's what she said).

cooking food is how i work out the rough spots.

it's a process.

it's a labor of love.

it's how i get busy when i'm otherwise gettin' in my own way.

today was like a marathon therapy session,

with comestible quantities of progress being made.

it all works out the way it's supposed to.

after all,

my wallet may be empty,

but my belly sure is full;

never quiet, never soft.....

double-deuce

today's date is the best way to succinctly sum it up;
the 22nd;
that's all the way to eleven,
twice.

what makes a kickass day off kick ass?
no work, obviously, for starters;
add in that it's the inestimable excellence of the equinox;
there's great weather;
scenic views and breathtakingly beautiful woodsly goodness;
and to top it all off, we went apple picking.
yep.
score one for the battle-beasts, b!tches.
right out of the gates,
a Perfect Fall Day.
you can maybe try and wrap your brains around beginning to imagine how F*n' amped on this type of Folk Life libertarianism i get.
it's a LOT, ya'll. and that's no foolin'.

a knit cap, savage barbarian beard, and a neil young type flannel?
sometimes even i'm surprised at my own manliness
we kinda came to rock the party today.
and thus far we totally have,
...SO HARD.
and i haven't even started baking anything yet.
apples and cinnamon and streusel, kids;
i know,
really, i know...
the white mountains.
northern new england.
throwback funtimes and real-life documentation...
this is the kind of stuff that makes me pop the veiniest rager on record!
scandalous?
a little.
true?
always, ya'll....
c'mon.

^^ummm,
that's what SHE said?

if you can't get 'em or don't wan't 'em from the grocery store,

and have to handpick some apples,

make sure they've got the right stuff for the job.

namely, some apple trees, for starters.

more importantly, a gallon of gasoline,

and a box of antlers as well,

so you'll have the answers,

and the hot fire,

to ensure your experience is fully-formed.

as much as always,

and maybe more than ever,

i am so super grateful for the times being had.

it's really happening;

never quiet, never soft.....

we all fall down.

happy mutha-F*n' Fall.
today's the big one,
the autumnal equinox.
the first day of the best season out of all four of 'em.
it's time for super color-change leaf-peepin',
face-stuffin' harvest-tide feastin',
and the famous fryeburg fair all the falafel i can force into my foodhole.
my favoritest time of year, ya'll.
and it's on.
right now, even as i type this,
it's Fall outside.
it could just be me,
but the air smells even better than it's usual luscious woodsly terrificness.
Fall, ya'll.
i'm sayin';
so good.
we lit stuff on fire last night,
to mark the mighty transfer of quadrant sky power
with a raisin' up of some hottness and some night-light-watchmanship.
as usual,
it rocked my socks right off of my body.
small routines, like the eventide flameblasting we're on about over here,
become traditions before you know it.
if i have to span an hour between dinnertime and before-bedtime
bringing the muotherflippin' heat and hellfire down on my driveway,
then so be it.
the cannonlike funnel of the chiminea makes for some awesome pictures, too.
i mean,
isn't that some sh!t, son?
the flashburn calligraphy laserbeam lightshow?
c'mon.
it's like an ocean of fireflies being blasted out of an undersea volcano.
you know you like it.

we used some wood from a weird tree on the front lawn.

no,

nobody axe-warriored a live tree down for no reason.

obviously,

part of it was dead,

and uncle steven viking berserker-ed it into little logs of fire food.

nice.

days off should all start with excellent nights like this one.

there is absolutely no acceptable substitute for taking time for yourself,

with a greedy grabhanded chokehold, if need be,

and making some moments of magic.

we got it like that up here.

it's poppin',

and not just because the wood is a little wet still;

(that's what she said?)

never quiet, never soft.....

summer's end.

this is it.
the last lazy, hazy, crazy day of summer.
the closing curtain on three month's worth
of workin', lovin', fightin', and livin'.
and what a season it was;
two epic-scale whole-hog whole house relocations;
a working mini-vacation of sorts in a weird house;
a brand-spankin'-new old busted fortress of hottness;
thousand of hours spanned across long days,
hundreds of tatty-o's administered;
tons of vegan eats prepared;
dozens of cigars;
hours of harmonica harping;
and one fabulous, furious, fearless Folk Life.
talk about reaping what's been sown.


big ups in the form of congratulations go out to
my talented, hardworking, friendly, dedicated
(and in most other ways unlike me) homeboy,
mr. shawn hebrank,
for snagging the coveted, prestigious 'tattoo of the day' award,
on the final day of the first-ever minneapolis tattoo convention.
that flawless victory added yet another 'nother trophy to the boards
for my home away from home, identity tattoo.
so word up to all of those duders.
especially 'mr. my third convention ever'....
nice.

i'm waiting on a new beginning.
there's a whole midweek weekend rollin' up and at me over here.
there's no shortage of stuff i could be doing,
or even probably should be doing,
and, if i was wealthy or motivated, probably would be doing,
but all of that responsible adult business seems less than likely.
the first day of fall calls out longingly for apple pickin',
pumpkin patching,
bonfire blazing,
and cinnamon scented something.
i'm sayin',
the grown-up world can make like eddie murphy and nick nolte,
and wait 48 hours,
because the really-real life i'm makin' moves on
has got other plans.
priorities, my ninjas.
...i doo-doo that freaky sh!t;

did somebody say cider doughnuts??
never quiet, never soft.....

it started like a prison riot.

epic manliness in the face of adversity?
check.
limited in visibility, cold, windswept, and under-prepared,
i still managed to ignite a serious berserker barbarian battle-blaze
on uncle steven's 28 mountain-top acres, ya'll.
without the previously presumed presence of kerosene, newpaper, kindling,
or any other helpful combustion accelerants,
i used some active participation,
and worthy woodsly Folk Lively improvisation,
and got the going, tough and then some, under way to rescue the evening;
using only some drier-than-dust treebark,
a match,
and a roll of old toilet paper from the disused camper on the property as a chimney,
i came to get down, and left the place burnt up to a crisp.
smoldering smugness ensued on my part.
hell yes, mutha-lickers,
never mind the boy scouts,
we were members of the dead warrior poet's society last night.
i guess i'm kind of a real deal expert firestarter,
a real prodigy, even.....except somehow with barely better hair.
(right, smalley?)
truthfully,
i actually used two matches,
but one was mainly to light my way,
and the second one to light my fire completely brought the blaze to bear.
time was spanned exceptionaly well.
jess, uncle steven, jim, olive, and myself made with the campy campground activities.
we shootin-star-gazed,
cuban embargo stump fumed,
(jim rocked a sweet-smellin' mellow yellow-stemmed pipe)
and toasted up our heinies for hours and hours.
even after a whole weak week of zippin' off on armbands and baby names,
a little minute on the mountain reset the hottness back on track.

is that two out of three wise men stacked on top of each other?
a brundlefly teleporter experiment using two handsome arabs?
a witch being burned at the stake?
nope.
it's just another picture of me lookin' F*d up.
this is pretty much what happens at night up here,
give or take a hundred pages of nerdy book browsing before bedtime.
it's how we get busy in a laid-back locale.
and it's real life.
unfolding along a predetermined, yet completely unscripted course,
one minute after another.

there's a longer night, every night,

by about two minutes.

we're rubbin' elbows with autumn,

and it's apple pickin' time in the north.

i've got more pies to bake,

i've got more cider and more problems to mull over,

and i've got a whole new season of woodsly goodness

to appreciate, participate, and instigate.

it's all really happening.

the weather is beautiful,

the harvest is bountiful,

this is the time i've been given,

and i'm having a helluva time of it.

i wish you were here;

never quiet, never soft.....

chuggin' along.

couscous is dumb.
it's like eating little crumbs of something bigger and more delicious.
unless it's that big badass moroccan couscous.
the one that looks like beige ball bearings, or ecru-tinted mini-marbles,
and that no supermarkets up here carry.
i guess it's a tried and true stereotype,
despite all the open-mindedness in the whole wide world:
the african version is bigger and thicker and lasts longer than
the mincey, minky little european version.
c'mon now.
mediterranean couscous may share some common ancestors
with that other other othello-type sh!t an' that, ya'll,
and even though you can get it all up and down the big boot-scootin' shores of italy,
just try tellin' that to any sicilians you come across and see what happens.
ah well,
it totally figures that the culturally disadvantaged crevices and counters
of the great white north lean towards the mundane palate;
and so dumb crumbs it is, ya'll.
happily,
it's so little and unassuming that i can bully it into submission
and smother it under tasty treats and scooples of mushyroomination.
why use it at all?
because even when a spatula or a spoon would suffice,
i still choose the wrench.
my metaphoric works-wrecking tool is also my favorite kitchen utensil.
wu-TANG!
with uncle steven here,
i've been spanning more time in the kitchen,
impressing him with the inestimable power of supreme vegan eats.
judging by the coneheads-esque ingesting of mass-quantities,
i'd say it's working.

i mean,

this pie right here,

for those of you who don't know what's poppin'-fresh in the woods,

is pretty much the pumpiest-jumpkiny discus of dopeness

i've had the pleasure and presence of mind to prepare.

for all the b!tch-sap-oozin' pie purists who can't hang out with crumbly toppings;

i feel bad for you, son,

because ya'll are most definitely doo-dooin' some disrespect to your lingual pappillae;

... you're probably the same ones who prefer that little waterbaby couscous,

and don't know about the big b.b. wheat caviar type sh!t.

if i were you,

i'd take some hand-crushed pecans, some raw mexican pumpkin seeds,

flour, sugar, butterish blops, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg,

and get with increasing the curb appeal of your crusty gourd custard.

do it.

fatty-boombattie fresh flavor for your bald belly, blitzle;

never quiet, never soft.....

sweater weather

dang, it's been a chilly penguin festival up here.
windy, cold, and generally crappy,
on the plus side,
i finally get to re-cover myself in seasonally appropriate cladding.
sweater season is in full mutha-F*n' effect.
and that's a damn good thing.
the less of me showing = the more of me that looks good.
clothes may not make the man,
but they sure help disguise him.
and let's all thank the lucky stars for that little tidbit of truth.
word.

with all the low farenheits,
and absence of sufficient british thermal units,
i'm gettin' into hibernation mode, too.
storin' nuts in a hole and that sort of thing.
(that's what SHE said)
that means stockin' up on treats, and getting all swelly around my belly.
i have the sort of physiology that, when fattening up,
lends itself readily to a hybrid visual image of gollumy gauntness
AND a unicef-sponsored little blowpop-bellied brown person
from somewhere sh!tty.
except without the expected flies on or around my mouth.
none of that goes down, thankfully.
could it because my beard is too gross
even for insects that normally eat turds and dead bodies?
maybe.
or it could be that it looks too much like a whole nest of spiders stuck to my face.
unfortunate, but less likely, i'm sure.
otherwise,
it's a pale, distended stomach, bad hair, the works.
my torso looks like a xylophone on top of a basketball.
and yet, i keep right on consuming.
it's like there's a black hole inside me
like i'm channeling an interracial adult movie in my guts....
oh, c'mon.
but seriously, kinda,
i don't know how much shark-glutton calorie destruction i can handle
before i actually do blimp up, blow out, and battle the bulge,
it's just that i want to always be eating.
until i'm full blown 'hey, hey, HEEEY' sized.
like my namesake and patron saint,
fat albert, ya'll,
playin' my radiator accordion, even, an' all of that other junkyardyness, too.
i'm sayin',
if i could dislodge my bottom jaw at this point,
whole unchewed sandwiches could just get shoveled in.
think how much time i could save, never chewin' and all.
i think i'd like that.
that said,
pecan and pepita streusel topped pumpkin pie is on the menu.
homemade hottness is how i cope with shortening days, and frosty nights.
anything that tastes like cinnamony autumn,
with the consistency of doo-doo and crust,
is just my speed;
never quiet, never soft.....

tonight's the night.

today wasn't super remarkable.
the weather was fair, the temperature was average.
it wasn't profitable. i only did one tattoo all day.
it wasn't really even that enjoyable.
but tonight...
tonight was epic and excellent.
crisp clean night air,
incredible stratospheric ceiling visibility,
shooting stars and fast moving satellites,
and the ever-lovin' warmth of a hot fire.
while i was busy languishing through my hours of unproductive saucery,
our homeboy was helping himself to acres of manliness;
uncle steven cleared all kinds of stumps, sticks, branches, and brush.
he even mowed the sunovab!tchin' lawn.
so nice.
aaaand,
he prepped a whole pile of cedar balusters, posts, and pylons
for the new super woodsly waterproof airtight sap-saturated and sealed deck.
that lefts loads and loads of scrappy wood, scented like pure wizardly radness.
what did we doo-doo with all the leftovers?
we had the best smelling combustible goodness to date.
seriously,
it was like staying warm with magical incense.
we put the stink to it, ya'll.
that's how it happens up here.
so here's to uncle steven,
with our most sincere appreciation,
and his most active participation.
retaining relatives' relative worth and spanning time, my ninjas;
hot fire and lightning.
this is what every night should be like, ya'll.

is that the flaming ghost of my hair?
a scooby doo disguise?
a rhyming ancient mariner?

a rembrant reproduction?

my guess is it's an approximation of all of the above.

olive spends most of her time hoping that some animal,

any animal, even,
will show up for her to savagely tear and maim.
she goes routinely unrewarded, but her sprits remain high.
like all you democratic voters out there,
maybe magic results will appear if you just hope harder....

jess doing her best headless horror impression yet.

i swear i don't drink.

i just look like nick nolte's arrest photo purely by accident.

free chiminea.
free cedar wood.
livin' free,
or dyin' tryin'.
Folk Life & Liberty.

with the stink on it.

word up.

p.s. today makes 555 blog posts.

unlike in hollywood,

it's not an imaginary prefix,

calling out to nowhere.

it's the number of the beast, or his little brother, more likely,

calling out to all you warriors, poets, berserkers,

and real-life lovers and real-love lifers,

and it's all really happening;

never quiet, never soft.....