fun is how you make it....

...not where you make it.
that's the truth.
good thing, too-
because the saturday crowd at the tatblastin' studio
is never ever really so much of the easiest one.
we save that for sunday mornings.
*
i made my own fun today.
it wasn't easy, but also was not that hard,
and yet, somehow, twice as loud and fresh.
there were hard styles galore at the zip-zap store today.
inner arms, trapezius floppers, ditch-pitchin' pokers,
and a cover-up to close out the stay-late night times.
stay all day, and pound it out all night?
fun is how you make it, like i said.
i sometimes surprise myself.
which is probably nothing compared to how i startle the clients.
consternation and confounding confusion is what i leave in my wake.
and that's just during my least wakeful minutes.
*
live,
from the woodsly goodness,
it's saturday night.
and that's pretty much all that there is.
i'm making fun.
it's what i do;
never quiet, never soft.....

ELEVEN

this is it.
today.
today is the day.
just like every other day,
except even more so than usual.
what makes today more of a day than yesterday or tomorrow?
c'mon.
haven't you been paying attention?
didn't you read the title?
what are you?
an A*hole?
it's the eleventh.
...and that's what's up.
a ferocious, fantastic, furious, spurious, bi-curious,
glorious, uproarious, drastic, spastic, caustic cacophony
of berserker barbarian bearded battle-beastly big business,
and raging savage stormswept gypsy thunder.
huh?
yeah.
i'm just sayin' it's set to be a good day.
that's all.
conditions are perfect.
there's tats what need zappin',
food what needs cookin',
hard styles desperate for pounding,
and duders who need an infusion of warrior poetry.
long, drawn-out, over-the-top, and totally true.
sagas, son.
the hot fire spat wrench-tightened temperant tales;
told truly and lived well.
it's all really happening.
always.
**********
embroidery might be dope.
i'm not sure, exactly.
i mean,
i always associated it with polo shirts and golf,
or those old timey primers (which actually are pretty dope).
but these days,
i'm all about the embroidery action.
on hats and treats and sh!t.
no polo shirts for me, thanks.
that hellhammer logo for ZERO is pretty flippin' fresh,
and it's stitched onto some other 'nother goodsly goodies,
and that makes those treats louder and harder and fresher.
for my face, via my whole head.
and that is good.
for everybody.
embroidery, duders.
that's like screenprinting for crackery people.
word.
i'm on the fence about the implications.
i think that very dad-like dads and duders
will be psyched about the texture and the luxury
of sewn-up sweetness.
plus, embroidery goes great with righteous rightness.
like the right to keep and bear, b!tches.
and with the proposed 'constitutional carry' law
slated for state approval this year, (look that hottness up, ninjas)
i think my firearm-friendly responsible-americanism
could use a deep and delicious dose of thread-count sophistication.
that's a real thing.
you like it.
***********
friday.
right now.
the truly true and tried, tied-up fried-up flambe, ninjas.
hot F*ing fire.
the pyres are piled,
the kindling is kindled with combustible kindred,
and the catalysts are awaiting the order to attack.
time takes time,
and we take it for ourselves.
one for you,
two for me,
three to get ready,
four to go,
and one for good luck.
add it up, neighbors,
and you get eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

real life.

hard styles.
that's what happens,
every day in every way.
up here,
in the woodsly goodsly hottness-
that's pretty much the general rule, ninjas.
i mean it.
if you've got any sense of style,
it's almost always a hard style.
drunk flunkies, all redneck and incorrect,
ill, illiterate, and filled to the brim with rural resentment...
those quiet, stale, softnesses make the
eleventh-level-type really-real warrior poets seem worth a darn.
you know what i mean, yeah?
we're doo-dooing what we do,
and not letting the dense-packed doldrums kick our A*s.
that counts for a lot.
i'm sayin', son-
without them, we'd just be us.
the have-nots, neighbors,
those weak-sauce wallflowers are here to
make the sweet parts that much sweeter,
because that bitter batter makes the Folk Life better.
it's like sourdough, duders.
they're sour about how little dough they've got,
but they keep rising up like yeasty beasts.
acrimonious.
that's that >10 crowds' jam, i guess.
and that's word, you dread pirates-
life is pain,
anyone who says differently is selling something.
that's real life.
go ahead and document it;
i meant it.
what it means, my friends,
is that as long as we keep keeping it up,
our superfly turbo-dope mothra magic
is gonna continue to carry the day.
it has to.
if not then what is the whole point?
no, for real-
i'm asking you.
************
it's one of those days, kids.
a perfect 10.
sunny, shiny, bright, tight, and alright.
even the calendar says it's a ten.
no foolin',
but,
since when is ten good enough for anything?
i mean,
what are we?
a bunch of A*-holes?
uh-uh.
no way are we gonna let the date set the stage
for a watered-down waterbaby saucefest.
it's an eleven kind of ten.
it's thursday.
it's thor's day.
that's hammer time,
AND thunder time.
and self-regenerating goat chariot time...
ummm.
okay.
maybe not that last one,
although us crap-ricorns could sure use an auto-heal feature like that.
what i mean to imply is,
it'd be nice to know that i could have a do-over clause written into
my skaldic stanzas,
because i am on that lightning-striking viking-type jauns today.
so HARD.
if you have the means,
i suggest you come by and get a little...
for your face.
thunder is just the sky applauding electifying actions.
c'mon;
never quiet, never soft.....

breakfast of champions.

pannie cakes,
pannie cakes,
baker's man.
fry me some flat and sweet treats,
as fast as you can-

griddle in the middle and the stacks pack back.
thick, hearty, buttery, yet fluffy, golden and delicious.
that's how the day gets started when the Folk Life folks
get together early-shirley in the a.m. for nutritious fast breakin'.
whaaaaat?!
yeah.
slogged down in a saucy slather of real maple mutha-b!tchin' syrup,
and none of that corn-sap suckholery, either.
not once, not never.
it's practically impossible to have a bad time when your guts
and butts are digesting a pile of pannies.
me and my most excellent wifely hottness played host
to the cucch and our good buddy casey.
we gorged with gastric shark-gluttony.
pounds of pannies got pounded.
hard.
because that's how we doo-doo that sh!t.
and that's exactly what we did.
***********
it is 2011 isn't it?
so where is the thunder?
i've got the good stuff,
but now i want the loud(er),
fresh(er),
hardest of the hard-style hardness.
for all the skull-flesh flensing features anywhere.
11, for goodness' sake.
that means zombies, duders.
and what i mean by that is:
who wants to be a zombie?
we've got movie magic and tomsavini handbooks,
makeup artists, photographers, and props....
there's fake blood, real bullets, and tons of professional expertise,
all building towards the 19th of february.
what we need are active participants, y'all.
that means you.
you wanna be a zombie?
we'll make it happen.
on the ones, my ninjas-
if you've got the desire,
we can hook you up.
zombie photo shoot time is coming up.
get at me, ninjas,
and you can be a part of something super eleveny.
don't sleep on this.
life is happening,
and you're part of it.
hey!;
never quiet, never soft.....

surprise!

yesterday i was wondering where the good stuff was at...
today, i know, neighbors;
it's right here,
where it has alwaysd belonged.
i'm tellin' you duders about what's up, now.
good peoples, in the right place, at the right time-
even if they like to shave away the barbarian burliness,
and replace it with yosemite selleck situations.
i'm on that justache surprise arrival explosion action...
hold on,
i'll just show you what time it is:

awesome o'clock, my ninjas!
the cucch is back again!!
just when the deep freeze had ice pop stopped up the works,
the hamdenista hottness is here to heat it back up again.
lucky ugly duckling that i am,
i've already got a ninja making dinner with my wifey.
tandem noodle gnoshfest feasting?
i got that.
my two most favoritest, most bestest ones preparing them jauns?
double-up on the dopeness, doo-doo butterballs,
because here is where the good stuff is.
*
don't worry,
with all this twice-as-awesomeness everywhere,
it's a wonder twin wonderwall of works in the works...
and wrenches, too.
uh-huh.
i'm takin' it back, kids.
i think there's even a double ear infection brewing in my braincase.
yeah!
F* cotton swabs,
i'm de-waxing, waxing loquacious, and whacking my lobes
with a set of metric hexes and pipe-fitting monkeys.
that's fixing to go apesh!t on that kind of hard-style, innit?
yes.
it is.
shhhhhhh.
if you stop enjoying my misfortunes and fortunes for a minute,
you can hear that spooky moustache whispering.
so a'spooky, son.
i am grateful for these peoples,
and i look forward to spanning time,
even as i appreciate the time i'm spanning right now.
this is how it is.
wrenches and nuts,
making bolts start tightening like lightning;
never quiet, never soft.....

wordimus for the turdimus at the terminus.

what?
where's all the good stuff at?
for real, y'all.
where on earth did you mutha-lickas hide them jauns?
we got cold air,
snowblind bright bright brightness, all salted, shiny, and slick,
there's plenty of miniature mountains made of mounded blizzard leavings,
heck, ninjas,
we've even got ski-rack attack vehicles s.u.v-ing all over the dang place.
but i'm lookin' for the good stuff...
good news, good food, good friends, good miki-fikin' times.
all the time, some of the time, one time, any time;
where in the holy F* are they?
i'm on that great hall viking winter barbarian get-together-type sh!t.
gratitude, generosity, and tag-team tandem active participation.
on est ensemble, ninjas.
we are together.
neighbors,
i'm for serious on this.
it's february, already.
watches with wings, an' that.
just sayin', time flies, son!
c'mon.
today,
a best-buddy of mine from way back in the day turns 35.
and i haven't talked to him in well over 10 or so years.
that's flippin' crazy.
hangin' out on every afternoon for two mutha-b!tching decades,
and then nothing?
just where is that good stuff, then?...
crazy.
like i said.
it's not as if i can afford to spend relationships freely, either.
i don't exactly make friends easily.
so the ones who make the grade get bonus points forever.
hard-style hard, loud, fresh peoples are few and far between.
and coupled with cast-iron skin,
iron-clad temperance,
and ironic temerity,
the order is taller than most folks can fill.
(even though most of my main duders are shorter than i am)
after all,
you must be at least *this* dope to ride this ride.
i mean,
if you can't go to eleven,
you can't hang out....
but still-
for old times' sake, suckas-
where is all the good stuff at?
i've got some,
and i want some more.
strap on your snowshoes,
pull up your water(baby)proof pants,
raise anchor on your longships,
and set sail due north.
here is where the power is.
(that's some reiki mystic magic mage movement, kids)
i am grateful for you Folk Life folks that i span
this airborne hourglass alongside.
the rest of you duders need to hop on board,
or hit the bricks.
it is happening.
let's make it even moreso;
never quiet, never soft.....

super-stupid, maybe

what's so flippin' super about superbowl sunday?
not much, duders.
buffalo wings and t.v. ad campaigns,
fat guys in plastic armor,
fatter guys shirtless with body paint,
and commercial beer and nachos by the truckful.
i'm more than just kind-of-whatever about the stupidbowl.
i hate it.
hard.
not that i watch it, ever,
or give a handful of turds about who wins it,
or whose fantasy football pool pays the best dividends.....
if football is your thing, as far as i'm concerned,
you'd better be talking about soccer, my ninjas.
otherwise, it's all just a b!tchlike batch of
sports, and sports, and sports, and sports.
it just all sounds like blabbity-blah baby-talk to my ears.
and i can't translate that kind of weak-sauce whinging
into coherent hot-fire-spit syllables of warrior poetry.
but seriously, nevermind about me,
you have fun with your lucky jersey,
and your hot sauce,
and your fat A* friends.
i think it should be called the super-bowels.
given what goes into the average sportsfan tonight,
they'll flippin' need 'em.
word.
* 
dear america,
it's time to get excited,
about commercials!
yeah!
you win
....for suckiest use of a sunday.
xoxoxo
-albie
*
don't worry about us, though, neighbors.
there are still ladies who need to get tattooed today,
in the snow, and ice, and stupidbowlery-
these ladies of leisure feel no qualms about venturing forth
in the inclemency to inflict their fancies on our loud, fresh, hardness.
i'm serious.
tax return money-spending doesn't take weekends off, y'all.
and it's a good thing, too.
all those tortillas and velveeta aren't free, after all.
do they leave fattie-boombattie tips,
gratuitous gratuities of epic appreciation?
never ever.
that's what happens with an h&r block debit card, son.....
you can't be leavin' extra loot with that shystie jauns.
tax-returns, instant gratification,
life-altering executive ink injections
and cheapskate pig skin pork-rind grinders!
y'heard?
i did,
but only because i was listening for the sound of
total awesomeness dying in a last-gasp guttering sputter.
ouch.
that just happened.
again.
it all really is.
always.
***********
iron is anathema to the fey.
that's that cold-iron exorcism action.
from what i understand,
the supernatural hates iron.
ferrous ferocity fights off bogeymen, an' that.
gridiron, however, acts as a summoning circle for
slovenly sloths and subservient spouses.
demonic dollops of fat dookie duders, on the ones.
super.
stupid.
bowl.
now,
when i rep a bowl,
there's never sports of nugs within a thousand miles....
i mean it,
it'd better have cereal or soup in it,
or at least 10 pins of regulation, duck-, or even candle-sized business.
c'mon.
that is no joke.
and while ten-pins goes to eleven,
the super one goes to the toilet.
poop-boat tardifiyin',
and doo-doo buttery bleu-cheese blops.
hard styles are how i get busy, mutha-uckas.
whether it's first and ten,
or it's fourth and goal,
there's still no hope of scoring.
woodsly goodness still wins,
supertime suppertime hits the showers;
never quiet, never soft.....

storming the gates...

snow as high as the windows?
yeah, i got that.
snow higher than the tree branches?
pretty much.
snow, right now, outside, adding height, weight, and fury
to the otherwise idyllic woodsly goodsly winter wonderland?
you know it.
were we busy as a mutha-beaver, bad weather and all?
c'mon.
this is new england, my ninjas,
no amount of snow is gonna stop the local lurky-jerks
from wastrel spending and squandering their early tax returns.
that's that 'power to stay-poor positive thinking'.
they do, and i'm positive it won't stop anytime soon, either....
***********
shovel, shovel, shovel, shovel.
year of the rabbit,
and the burrowing hasn't taken a second off yet.
warrens, tunnels, holes, heaps, burrows and barrows.
this weather is a wreck.
and it's scheduled to keep dumping a whitewash of hoary icebombs
for days and days to come.
eleven inches, every day.
c'mon.
in fact,
real life documentation is over for the moment.
i've got saturday night fever,
and the fever comes with drippy nose,
aching ears,
forzen digits,
and soggy shoes.
this is responsible adulthood.
this is north woods living.
this is all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

dedicated.

how serious about surviving the worst case scenario are you?
i mean,
do you have the capacity and wherewithal
to bring the burly, berserker barbarian battle-beastly
primal instinct-type business to bear when it counts?
i hope so.
just sayin', duders-
i know i have peoples with generators,
and people with big ol' gardents,
and people with cases of ammo.....
but y'know what else i have?
i have some really real ninjas molto dedicated
to striking back and rockin' the hardest of hard styles.
huh?
zombie defensive systems are not for the weak sauciest, son.
example:

c'mon.
my business partner's son, son!
zero heavy industries has die-hard duders who need it on 'em.
(and here you haven't even bought a shirt yet, huh?)
that's that really real talk in practice with purpose.
how do you know when an image has enough hottness?
when it makes a bold tattooable turnout in person, on a person.
woooooord.
that's some sh!t.
the exact same sh!t that us woodsly warrior poets totally doo-doo.
recognize.
*
and in case you were actually wondering just how stylish
a conceptual engineer needs to be all lookin' like an' that?
teleport to this jauns:

yeah.
year of the rabbit, you playboys and bunnies....
check the scarf and hat combo.
hottness like you read about in thai ladyboy periodicals.
i'm not sayin',
i'm just sayin'.
y'heard?
wordimus prime;
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit.

year of the bunny, my ninjas.
rabbity asian hottness,
complete with lucky feet
and rapid reproduction capacities.
a whole year of coneys cuttin' it up
and comin' correct.
like a rump-dumping thumper session,
the pittery-pat-the-bunny magic is happening.
happy, happy, happy.
happy new year to all you cottontailed co-conspirators
and large-and-in-charge lagomorphs.
big ears?
check.
big teeth?
yep.
big feet?
you know it.
that's right, duders-
your main man in the woodsly goodsly great white north
is one of the luckiest lops in the warren.
i'm a rabbit, neighbors,
and this year is MINE.
***********
y'know what goes all the way to eleven?
vegan donuts.
yep.
we get the love jones, b!tchbags-
holly sent us an early valentine's day present.
see?
lucky rabbits get the mutha-lickin' frostable freshness,
for their faces.
wooord.
thanks for lovin' up our tasty treats, via postal express explosion.
good one, mama bomb-bomb-pajamatron.
yeah!
***********
is it tax return tattoo time?
you be the judge.
i had three first timers.
in a row.
uno, dos, tres, an' that...
...in a row, y'all.
barbed wire armband?!
oh, yes, indeed.
male nudity with a gandering glimpse of flagrant full-frontal foulness?
yeah.
how about a hand tattoo for a intoductory pounce into hard-style reality?
i doo-doo that freaky sh!t, son!
the woodwork is oozing out the weirdonauts,
and i guess i've been elected to helm the ship of fools.
oh, captain, my captain.
we're lollipoppin' and loop-de-loopin'.
this is it,
and that's all there need to be;
never quiet, never soft.....

watch that first step....

...it's a dooo-oo-ooozy.
BING!!!
that's right, all you ned ryersons-
it's groundhog day.
and i sure as heckfire remember you.
for the record,
punxsutawney phil can go screw.
a promise of early spring right now
is as of much use as an extensive knowledge
of sanskrit is to someone trapped in a gutter in lima.
i'm sayin'.
keep your big action to yourself,
and if you aren't showing up with a shovel,
then please, just stay wherever the heck you already are.
the woodsly goodness doesn't need any more weak-sauce waterbabies
slaloming along it's wet, wintry roadways.
stay home, stay warm, and cut it out.
ma nature is giving us the frigid F*-blasting.
seems oxymoronic, kinda, huh?
c'mon.
you like it.
***********
8 years.
in a row.
that's no joke.
coincidentally on groundhog day-
and repeating ad infinitum ever since.
yes sir.
8 years of woodsly goodsly Folk Life & Liberty.
and in no way is THAT depressing.
(are you sure?)
and to think i showed up here
with just half a kitchen garbage bagful of owned property,
and now all of THIS is happening.
payments, payments, bills, and expenses.
or, as you capitalist vermin would know it better as:
success.
happy anniversary, to me.
seriously, neighbors.
getting away from all the doo-doo buttery nancypantsery,
and making the magic happen was the very best move ever made...
that's really real, on the real, and documented.
i said it, i meant it, and i made it happen.
(take that, red spikes)
.....and now,
i'm buried under feet of snow.
nothin' like a little blizzard to reinforce some affirmative life decisions, huh?
uh-huh.
***********
hard styles and hard weather.
it's all really happening.
and i wouldn't trade it for all the heat on the equator.
after all,
we've got all the hottness we could ever need right here;
never quiet, never soft.....