job.

seriously,
i don't know who ordered the snow,
but they can pretty much F* right off today.
it's not so much the amount as the principle.
a light dusting of pretzel salt style granules
is still a frosty harbinger of hard styles and cold nights
and all that other 'nother rough wintry business.
weather can chug it, duders.
just sayin'...
ice in the birdbath,
snow on the ground,
crunchy snapping leaves underfoot,
and icy windshields.
without the cold without,
the hottness within wouldn't seem as heated, i'm sure;
and it's pretty flippin' hot in here, at least.
in fact,
we had company, and them ninjas were all like:
'damn, it's like a picture out of a catalog in here'.
and not budget-A* ikea, either.
country living, maybe,
or martha mutha-b!tchin' stewart perhaps.
fancy-grade decorative hottness.
no snow is gonna put the kibosh on THAT, homeboy.
word.
***********
going. going. gone.
it's the weakest link in workweek waterbabyhood.
the week right before thanksgiving,
and nobody wants tattoos.
lucky for us worthy warrior busy-bodies,
we've got big action to bust some moves on.
block prints and line art,
and a whole mess of assorted manliness, to boot.
maul-split logs an' that kind of thing.
it'll probably happen.
i mean, it all always is;
never quiet, never soft.....

delicious. now with added gravy.

whaaaaaaaaat?!!
real ninjas do real things, neighbor.
and when they're done,
they represent some shark-gluttonous hunger-type jauns.
i know it.
and i remedy it.
recognize the teleport:

garlic'd-up and sauteed collard greens!
no vinegary southern greens up in this italian household.
no way, jose. (umm, giuseppe?)
it's straight-up with 11 cloves of garlic.
we doo-doo that breath-stinkin' allium alliance sh!t.
when it's rainy out,
i get busy in my kitchen, kids-
i spent the day boiling up a big, burly batch
of wheaty meaty brown blops.
that's exactly right, ninjas:
seitan!
gluten steaks in full mutha-b!tching effect.
and you'd better believe that.
hours and hours of boiled brothy business,
until the optimum consistency of spongy/chewy thickness
and gastronomic palatability are acquired.
and once i strained the carrots, onions, and celery
out of the cauldron of smoky salty broth,
i boiled up a batch of potatoes, too.
waste not, want not.
those're broth-saturated molto mashed jauns up there.
oh, man.
off-the-chain, neighbors.
hottness unleashed an' that.
-and yes,
those are carmelized onions and browned baby bellas
smothered in butterish on top of the seitan slabs.
 and while we're on the subject,
that IS souped-up brown gravy over everything too.
c'mon.
what am i?
a bad chef A*-hole.
not on your life mutha-lickas.
hmm?
oh, yes,
as a matter of fact,
i DID make some dessert too.

seasonally appropriate rock blocks.
yeah.
rock blocks.
albie rock blocks of big fun.
building blocks for big bootied b!tches, even.
and not booties for large baby feet, either....
whatev', folks;
cookies by the dozens get baked when it's wet out.
what are these, specifically?
cinnamon-nutmeg oatmeal chocolate chip.
if you can't hang out with that complete treat suite,
then we're not friends anymore.
wait,
you never call,
you never visit,
maybe we're already not friends anymore.
awwwwww, man.
well,
on the brighter side,
that means more mutha-forkin' leftovers for ME.
bam-a-lama, ninja.
somebody just turned a frown upside down.
deal with that, son.
i've got an extra dozen, just for work today.
fat bellyholes make for tame reactions.
stay calm, stay fat, stay alive.
that's today's goal set.
thor's day.
no thunder, but plenty of wind.
outside, and inside,
in so many ways,
especially after last night's feast.
ka-splode;
never quiet, never soft.....

down came the rain.

washout.
down. F*ing. pour.
deluge.
cloudburst.
damn it all.
another drenched and drizzled
fizzled-out flop of a day.
***********
days off during non-permissive weather
make for difficulties and hard styles,
not to mention a fat loss of productivity.
so when it's sad and rainy,
what do warrior word-eaters get busy doing?
reading about dungeons, and dragons, of course.
that's not all, though.
there're other other necessary actions that beg attention.
example:
during a lull in the lambasting liquid sky-peeing,
i took a break from the epic nerd endeavors i'm into,
and sneaked out for a little pole-saw power-pruning,
that's a thing.
i de-limbed a whole bunch of old and busted trees.
now,
they're the new hottness again.
and my arms had a workout they don't usually get.
so they feel old and busted now-
they've got the icy-hot 'ness to help with all that.
***********
there are only so many days, duders.
at least one fresh thing should happen on each of 'em.
i'm just sayin'.
let's make that sh!t happen.
one item of freshness,
one instance of active participation,
one thing to kick up the worthiness and the realness,
to eleven.
i almost forgot about all the stuff i know.
on the ones, duders.
because up here, isolated in the mountains,
i don't really need to know much.
but a little cardio for my brain
has amped up the thirstiness for all that stuff,
and i'm studying up for the big action.
firearms,
history,
mythology,
gardening,
cooking.
past, present, future, and all that good stuff.
at the same time.
has, is, and will happen.
y'know, like piebald says:
you're part of it.
so,
what're we doing?
never quiet, never soft.....

shotguns.

duders,
we need to arrange a shotgun derby.
that's when you nancypants fruitblasters
remove your pleated waterbaby diapers,
and come up to the woods and bring the unholy thunder.
12gauge ragnarok.
c'mon.
that's such a kick-A* barbarian thing to do.
double-barrels,
over-and-under,
brutal pump-action rigs,
and single shot break-barrels.
now,
i know some of you have a healthy dose of
weak-sauce connecticut-style do-goodery in you.
and i know that implies a lot of liberal gun aversion.
it's cool.
i won't report you to the awesome police.
it can be our little secret.
c'mon. c'mon. C'MON.
i've got pumpkins,
and gourds,
and targets that NEED exploding.
plus,
there's at least 5 shottie-boom-ba'lotties in the
war room that could use a little action.
let's amke it happen.
you bring a carton of shells,
i'll bring the cannons,
and we'll get a little stress-relieving in
while getting the lead out.
i watched a little sumthin' sumthin',
and now i'm all fired-up to fire off some buckshot barbarism.
here,
check it out.on the link below:
(berserker hard-style hottness)
if that doesn't give you a raging one,
you're suspect.
i'm just sayin'.
shotgun derby.
no skeet, all pounding;
never quiet, never soft.....

temperance.

self-restraint, moderation, and control.
awwwwwwww, man.
that doesn't sound dope.....at ALL.
but fortuitously and coincidentally,
temperance is also the term used
to indicate complete abstinence from alcohol.
i got THAT going on at least.
a temperant temperment an' that.
i'm just sayin',
for us feral and furious berserker barbarians,
not drinking is much much easier
than following an ambiguous middle path
that focuses fully on not-flipping the F* out.
where's the hottness in that, after all?
i'm on that stone-sober, no-excuses, bearded, battle-beastly
lightning-striking viking mania, homeboy-
axe. chop. head.
those're the only 3 things in the lesson plan, y'heard?
anything else maxes out at less than eleven.
...and that's unacceptable.
still, neighbors,
there's a little tiny bit of something to be said,
for taking it easy in the face of infuriating F*tardation.
i mean,
it gets tiring always over-reacting to every
spot of bebotherance and trouble.
actually,
that just means i get a good night's sleep.
nevermind, duders.
doo-dooing it hard, and loud, and fast
may actually be better for my constitution.
whew, that's a relief.
***********
a full day of foul weather again.
i split and carried wood,
hauled lumber,
made breakfast,
and now it's time to go and zipzap on a 1/2 sleeve.
full minutes.
full hours.
full days.
under cloudcover,
covered under tarps,
covering chunks of skin.
i've got time accounted for,
and counting down,
i've got it covered, too.
dang;
never quiet, never soft.....

breakfast sandwiches.

oh. Oh. OHHH.
whaaaaaat-what?! my ninjas.
breakfast 'guinis...
...you know it.
i fried up a batch of 'em by request;
so all credit is due my wifey,
for her insightful culinary mien,
and her perpetual shark-gluttonous hunger.
(keep moving, keep eating, stay alive.)
it's a non-denominational secular-sunday way to kick off this day.
wafer-thin seasoned tofu slices,
crispy on the outside, soft as silk in the center-
seared and spiced-up with g'pop,
(that's garlic powder and onion powder)
and molto coarse-ground black peppercorns,
with vegan gravy,
faux bacon strippers,
and a toasted soy-buttery hard-style roll.
word the F* up, hungry hippos,
these jauns are like magic treats.
...and are those mapled-up soysages?
you betcha, b!tchbags.
a powerful blend of semi-healthy,
truly delicious, fattie-boombattie greasy diner comfort,
fresh from the Fortress galley.
we doo-doo that guilty-pleasure sh!t, duders.
believe it.
***********
do y'all like the phrase 'weather permitting'?
i do.
because it's like invoking the wrath of ma nature,
and all her firmamental fury.
the vault of the heavens will open and call forth
a divine host of hail, snow, rain, sleet,
and whatever directional winds most likely to befoul
the best of intentions.
it's been 60 degrees for days, neighbors.
and i've been 'working' instead of home improving.
there's wood what needs stacking,
and sheds what need building,
and the weather seems like it's perfectly suited
to that situation.
but i've got to wait until i'm not languishing
in the tattoo studio to get busy with my business.
which means:
on my days OFF,
weather permitting-
two days of early-dark doo-doo
in which i've got to hustle and bustle my way to the finish line.
you know where this is going, right?
mmm-hmmm.
it's not even supposed to be kinda nice out this week.
the forecast is more like a smegma-sleeved foreskin, ninjas.
c'mon.
from sunny and warm whilst i'm
whiling away the viable daylight hours right now,
to a hard-style harshness more fitting for
a cataclysmic calamity of cold and clammy crapola.
somebody somewhere is obviously kidding me.
clouds, darkness, weather, i abjure thee.
good luck with all that.
***********
it's a sunday.
and it's a sunny day.
how trite.
i'll be sure to soak up a ray or so,
and synthesize the good moody vitamins
and seasonal affective destroyers,
before another dirgeful doldrum roosts over these hills.
man, it's a bright (bright) bright (bright) sunshiny day.
all flash and barb.
like a lure, kids.
strike if you must, while the sky is light,
but be prepared for those pesky consequences;
never quiet, never soft.....

cool beans.

pinto,
black,
dark red kidney,
& white kidney cannellini.
beans, mutha-uckas.
a hill of beans, even.
or maybe just a colander full,
but still,
that's four sonuvagunnin' pounds of the magical fruit;
good for your heart, an' that.
little powerhouses of protein.
i can feel my sinews and sh!t synthesizing them jauns.
hobo chili in my bellyhole,
and a trimmed and neatened beard?
i can feel the ley lines converging,
and the planetary alignments locking into place.
saturn's day, duders,
and it's a fully-formed,
full-force flint-and-steel foray into
fresh, hard, loudness all the way to eleven.
oh, man.
is it ever going to be a day of epic hot fire and lightning.
all that energy,
all that well-groomed face.....
dirty b!tches are gonna be losing their funking minds.
theyll be all like:
'daaaaamn,
is that a depression-era carnival roustabout?
for real?
hey, ninja, you hittin' my SPOT!'
or something along those lines.
and it'll be like that right up until the hot peppers
activate the turbo-chargers,
and the blast furnaces start blasting and smelting.
and after it's smelt,
i'll be responsible for what's dealt, i'm sure.
***********
there are certain specifics of woodsly goodness
that make all the grind dates seem less abrasive,
and all the long nights and hard times a
little tiny bit easier to weather.
like the big-action focal point in our great hall.
(living room?)
within the very vast, expansive excellence of the
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
girl,
you know it's true:

c'mon.
warmth and comfort.

that's what's up.

700 degrees farenheit of furioso ferocidad del fuego.

that's purely red oak combustion,

and the smoke is even reignited in the catalytic converter.

waste not want not.

that's extra explosions of oxygen molecules

for extra hottness.

certain specifics, neighbors.

simple pleasures, even.

my hairs are cut,

and when shortened,

the silver sides of my scalp are rrrreally accentuated.

two two inch tall swaths of gorillaback grays.

distinguished,

even as my youthfulness is extinguished.

thank goodness i've got the woodsly goodness.

even elderly-haired,

real barbarians never say never,

unless they're saying

never quiet, never soft.....

moving along.

that's right, b!tches...
i'm like arabian nights and sh!t.
1001.
and counting.
***********
four bean,
three pepper (+ black pepper),
two alarm,
one and only chili, my duders.
it's on the stove and it's stewing in it's cumin-cured juices.
first and foremost,
a tasty batch of gastronomical hottness is what we all need.
there's enough for you, too.
i just don't think you'll make it here before it's all gone.
and you probably won't want to brew your own black lungs
in the post-dinner aftermath, either.
sorry about all of that.
***********
new haircuts and new shirts are pretty flippin' great.
and i've got both.
that's doubly good stuff,
and two headlights of bright in an otherwise
drudged-out dreary workweek.
grinding, ninjas.
that's the mark of responsible adult obligations,
and the very necessary insoluble unsolvable series
of mostly unfortunate events.
doing work.
that's what i'm talking about.
i'm not tryin' to WORK, mutha-lickas,
i'm trying to LIVE.
and i just don't live to work.
i do both, for sure.
hard, even.
but i'm not roundin' on that daily breadwinning-type style.
i'm daily grinding.
grist and grit and ground-away good-humor.
that's a hard way to separate wheat from chaff.
so,
maybe some of you should stop by
and sweeten the pot?
i think so.
after all,
like the little red hen,
if you don't help,
you don't get to have any.
word up;
never quiet, never soft.....

eleven eleven.

one thousand.
1000.
1k.
M.
today is the day,
one thousand entries into, onto, and all about
the really-realness, hard times, hard styles
and the worthy warrior poetry
of real life documentarianism.
it never stops happening.
oh man.
today.
what a fitting date to hit the spot with.
11-11.
eleven twice?
c'mon.
indeed it is.
right now.
live and direct from the
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
deep in the heart of the woodsly goodness.
from the flawless victory of red spikes,
throughout the years of mountain-man magic,
and up to the heres and the nows of the continuing
sagas and sojourns of a berserker barbarian battle-beast.
one thousand and counting.
how am i celebrating?
easy.
i'm blocking some prints and kicking it up another level
on the thermometer:

flying acorns?
crossbones?
fire, lightning, and double 11's.
have y'all been over to the other other sh!t?
we've got treats for your monkey-A*s over there.
check it out, kids:
NEVERQUIETNEVERSOFT
that's what's up.
***********
two years, eight months, almost to the day.
it's all right here.
as it just so happens,
it happens just so.
truth tellers can never stop,
and speaking of never-nevers-
it's eleven eleven all dang day long.
it certainly calls for some cerebral celebrating,
some serious stylizing,
and some sumptuous snacks.
we'll see.
thanks for spanning time with me;
never quiet, never soft.....

manliness in abundance.

dial 999 for emergency.

that'll make more sense tomorrow, maybe;
but right now, here's what's poppin'-
look at the packed, picked, and delivered
nasty-fresh hottness i came home and found in my driveway:

W-O-O-D.
that's what an unassembled shed's-worth of lumber looks like.
and it's been treated to some pressure, too.
we know all about seasoning the spruce with serious sauce, yeah?
pressure treated to leach poison into the earth, son.
that's vegan-rebuttal americana embodied.
replacing some carbon in my patriotic carbon-footprint enlargement,
just so my prints match my shoes.
(they're BIG booty b!tches, after all)
molto boards, molto planks, molto pillars-
they're ready, and set to be set upon,
poked, and plied with some large and in-charge lag screws, ninjas.
that's how we're bolt-strappin' this b!tch-bag building together.
big, honkin' hunks of connectivity.
galvanized an' that.
huh?
that's a good question.
NO, actually,
they aren't all ready to be put together like a hobby kit.
some of those girthy pylons need sizing.
what?
another 'nother good question-
what AM i gonna slice and dice all those burly posts with?
hmmmm.
how about a big mutha-uckin' saw, ninjas.
what?!!
teleport?
check.

12" of frenzied ferocious circular devastation.

i've got that, kids.
(however, not what she said.)
power tools and angle iron and tie downs.
screws and joists and braces.
one well appointed pole shed is about to get got.
***********
it was a shopping day here in the veiled vale
of the pointed peaks of the whitest mountains on the east coast.
that's new shirts and a right angled carpenter's-level.
my angles are righteous, now.
i'm aware that's hardly groundbreaking
super-shiny tatblast braggadoccio,
but that's just because the comings
and goings are slower and smaller here.
it's pure, uncut barbarian bouillon.
awesomeness, concentrated.
sheds, smells, tools.
that's what worthy ones are wantin'.
real life.
and it's constituents.
for the time that's given,
the good life gets lived.
this is how it goes;
never quiet, never soft.....

aromas.

dang it all,

i think i spent yesterday as the smelly kid.
no, for really real though-
everything that went IN
left an indelible mark on my aura.
.....or so to speak, anyway.
and that was before it ever came back out.
surface to surface warfare-type hard hard styles.
there was a definite unearthly halo around me.
coffee, a black-as-night cigar,
flat-tire-repair slime on my overalls,
soy hot chocolate;
duders,
there's not enough gum on the planet to
decrapinate a doo-doo buttery tongue
so severely saturated in residue-doo.
and if the musky pressure-treated scum on my shirt,
and the husky stench of super-strong foods in my moustache
weren't enough of an odious, odorous onus,
with an O, neighbors,
although the one with an A
was also in F*ing full effect
i kicked it up to eleven,
coming AND going,
with this:

that's a garlic and garlic oil sauteed asparagus flatbread.
i may be using my skills for the creation of pure evil, ninjas.
it tasted molto molto good,
but there are consequences for a day of decadent devouring.
dire consequences, y'all.
dire.
earth, air, fire, and water.
the major elements were all there.
...and they all smelled of pure destruction.
the vents were open, the flues were on full-blast,
and a desolation worthy of smaug was in attendance.
but for all of the power and the glory
of a furious foulness full of food and fuel,
i didn't, and still don't, even come remotely close
to rivalling this smelly chum-bucket of turds and whey:

olive.

yep.
breath like a dumpster heaped high with week-old oysters,
butthole like an oil-soaked mountain of catfish,
and inner bellows that belch forth a smog
scented of wilted, rotten lettuce, and corpses.
lucky me.
my sense of smell has been knocked senseless,
and i'm breathless,
not from exertion,
but from a lightheadedness borne on
reeking clouds of noxious fumes.
*
that was yesterday.
today is a refreshing breeze,
a crisp november (rainless) day.
the only vapors emanating from within the Fortress
are the medicine-whiffs of woodstain.
home improvements and empty sinuses.
today is a good day;
never quiet, never soft.....