gravy fries.

what happens when a side order becomes the main course?
awesomeness is what happens.
real talk.
be easy,
we had some baby cabbage bombs too,
but only because a pot of gravy and french-style-fries seemed
just a touch too beige for an entire meal.
molto green and yellow helped out a lot.
these other 'nothers who dwell beside me betimes
in this Fortress of Folk Life feasting
had that too-realistic faux-chee' on theirs.
uh-huh.
that's how we do it up here.
fattie-boombattie blops,
slathered in sauce, neighbors.
grime and punishment, for our butts and guts.
if you can't get down on that big action,
we probably don't hang out much as it is, huh?
woooord.
***********
minneapolis is waiting,
patiently,
for the hamden warrior crew to come a-wreckin'.
my dear friend meryl is about to bear the brunt of
a batch of belligerent berserker barbarian battle-beasts.
gracious hostess meets grateful,
yet gratuitously gregarious,
hard-style hard-heads
for a week of worthy warrior poetry in motion.
ohhh, man.
it's on like donkey kong, neighbors,
and the barrel fever is in flippin' full-effect.
get ready, super marios,
because the jumpin' and jivin' and fireball-blowin' big action
is only a few days away.
i'm already ready, already.
and full-to-bursting with piss, vinegar, pep, vip, and vim,
not to mention vigor and viking vitality.
duders,
the art times are upon us.
blops and glops of vegan hottness.
carhartt art-tards,
brutally cold gemini urban-outlines and skylines
(twin cities, whaaaaaaat?)
and a double-barreled blast of full-choke,
big bore, but never boring,
gypsy opening night highlights and lowlifes.
i hope you're coming out,
because the hermits are coming down off the mountain, ninjas
for the limited-time limited-edition limit-breaking burly business;
never quiet, never soft.....

hot glue, hot fire, hot tea.

...all good things.
so,
did your main ninja numero-uno duder
drop-ship a six foot-high box-stack of arthur-making artsy 'ness
to the impending event horizon in minnesota?
you betcha.
really.
so now we just wait until tuesday,
and then,
when the plane touches down on the tarmac,
the real work begins.
you know expectations, and tensions, are awfully high
when you get mumbled, garbled, semi-encoded
gibberish messages that go on forever and ever
on your answering machine,
all presumably about what we're gonna do,
and how it's gonna get done.
well,
i don't know, and i don't care.
how's that for an answer?!
yeah, it kinda IS a sh!tty one, huh?
oh, c'mon.
***********
distractions abound,
and a thawing winter wonderland is not helping much.
tonight, it's gravy fries and brussels sprouts.
...with gravy.
that's twice as much gravy, baby.
we doo-doo that greasy gooey goodness, guys.
oh, and do you guys know about poutine?
it's a lot like rectangular pizza (i.e. it is nasty)
but my peoples have discovered daiya,
and they are hips-deep in curds of clotted crap.
it even smells like the real thing,
and i hate it's whole face off.
i guess if y'all aren't google searching these new things,
you're missing out.
hard.
gravy is bubbling and toiling, and troubling.
it's now.
right now.
and saturday night is totally winning;
never quiet, never soft.....

long, hard, loud, fresh.

duuuuders!
check the manufacturing promotional teleport action:

sticky situations and masking magic.
straight razorblades, straight-edge levels,
peel-and-crack-and peel vinyl removal mayhem,
and so much crack-a-lacking backing to reposition and place,
just so my friends, neighbors, and countrymen
can show some support for the endeavors
that me and mine make moves on.
huh?
yeah.
ZERO heavy industries decals, duders.
now we have 'em,
and once you have stickers,
you're official.
that's a thing.
***********
it's friday, again.
and another 'nother other long day is done,
and an even longer and harder night is set to begin.
the woods are quiet,
and the breeze is soft,
which is the apotheosis of all things weak and saucy.
no foolin'.
we need the winds of war and change to blow hard like bellows,
and stoke the fiery forges of ferocious freshness.
the weather may be pleasant,
and the surroundings may be lovely,
but it's savage stormswept gyspsy rage
and unbridled barbarian berserkering
within the walls of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
c'mon.
inside is what counts, yeah?
and we've got an ascending amount of hottness
boiling, roiling, and uncoiling amongst the blankets and pillows
of the woodsly, goodsly, rural and righteous realm we call home.
what i'm trying to tell you is:
it flippin' rules here.
so hard.
and these starlit and serene evenings
are just the cuddly and calm coating
covering the core of deep, dark, dirty dopeness
that we nurture and nudge to full-flavored fruition.
we get busy, b!tches.
doing what, you ask?
doing what needs to be done, son.
tatzappin', bill-paying, art-showing, hard-style real life.
it unfurls all around us,
as it actually happens.
i am grateful for this time i have been given,
and for the places and faces that make it all really happen.
this is what it is;
never quiet, never soft.....

3311

march third.
3-3.
even in europe,
where they doo-doo the date in ascending order,
it's still 3-3.
that's a magic number tie score, my ninjas.
and we all know the tie goes in favor of the runner.
yep.
and we're runnin'.
runnin' on empty,
runnin' out of time,
and runnin' free, like the wind, an' that.
i guess that means that the day finds in favor of us.
and that's a win for breaking even, innit?
word.
are we going to do our taxes today?
yeah.
a deep deficit of debited dollars is due,
in quarterly installments, to our uncle samuel.
we must be related by marriage or something,
because i've personally never met the guy.
did i mail five fully-packed boxes of arthurian art 'splosions
to the frosty prairies of minneapolis?
i sure did.
friday, they're in love,
and destined to arrive a week early
for the superfresh dynamite deluxe dopeness of our
especially never quiet, never soft art debut exrtravaganza.
if you haven't booked a flight,
you're probably an A*-hole.
seriously,
this could be your chance to experience a nearly-lethal dose
of loud, fresh, tooth-handed avian-influenza-influenced
wrench-tightened hot fire and lightning.
with not just one, but two opening nights.
...in a row.
march 11th, march 12th.
twice the volume,
twice the flavor,
twice the chances for full-blown failure.
now how much would you pay?!
don't miss it.
cult status gallery, mutha-b!tches.
you need it, and we have it.
*
march third, neighbors.
think first, prepare second, and march third.
the brains are done deliberating,
the tickets are bought, the bags are packed,
and it's time to get a move on.
minnesota is gonna go from being flat and sucky,
to being a crater of bombed-out barbarian brutality.
that's even lower than flat.
concave caveman back-to-the-stone-age apeman sh!t, son!!
we're comin',
and all the viking bloodline dna in the whole wide world
isn't gonna staunch the tide of magnanimous magma
we're sure to spew all up and over the whole place.
i ain't gonna lie, man.....uh-uh.
it's all true,
and it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

fooooooooooooooood.

collard greens,
and cuban-style rice,
which includes blops and gops of brown and red and green,
and epic grill-presses ciabatta sandwiches?
ka-splode, ninjas, on the teleport, an' that:

c'mon.
onions, peppers, fake-type ham slabs, pseudo-chix,
margarine, nooch, non-dairy ranch dressing,
and arugula.
...it's a veg-e-ta-ble.
wooord up.
***********
darling daughters, duders.
they're back in connecticut,
doing dutiful doo-doo down there.
i reconize i rarely share the parts of real life that matter most with y'all.
check out the little ladies, at my ma's.

maple star, and harvest (with dog-toy headgear)
there's just never enough time to span, neighbors.
so we make the minutes matter more,
in snow tunnels,
or on road trips.
with piebald as the soundtrack,
we're part of it.
hey!
***********
we've got jet plane tickets,
and big moves to make with 'em.
time is running short,
art is taking too long,
and in a little while,
the loudest freshest hardness is ready to
hammer out a thunder-and-lightning-striking breakbeat...
...for every-flippin'-body's whole entire face.
if you're able,
you should seriously show up and watch the train derail
along the banks of the mighty mississppi;
never quiet, never soft.....

Rabbit....Rabbit....

hey-O!
it's march.
technically, spring shows up this month.
i'll believe it when i see it.
more likely,
there's to be a more concrete kind of motion-related word
associated with marching and springing-
march madness,
and in no way am i referring to basketball or college.
i'm talking about end of winter, cabin-fever, full-bore
redline-maxed-out, maple-sugaring sappy-crappy,
serious, savage stormswept raging mountain thaw-out frenzy.
an avalanche of awesome,
one increased degree of warmth at a time.
it's march first.
(and ask questions later)
don't you worry your little heads, neighbors-
i called out a midnight 'rabbit, rabbit'
for a fresh-baked batch of good luck spellcast shout-outs,
and a first eye-opener muttered mantra as well for insured success.
we do what we do.
and what we do is that deep doo-doo.
speaking of deep doo-doo,
minnesota in a week?
where in the F* did that creep up on me from?
the avant garde wine and cheese/ pbr and pad thai crowd
get to get a glimpse at the goods, i guess.
what does that have to do with warrior poetry,
Folk Life & Liberty,
hot fire, lightning,
and/or woodsly goodness?
nuthin'.
at all.
besides the fact that is most certainly all really happening.
that much is true.
but in the most removed-from-really-real-life kind of way.
tatblasters, art worlders, and city-livin' sap-suckers?
c'mon.
not one little lippity-lick of real life is gonna go down....
but,
there will be big heads.
and oil paintings of dead birds an' that.
plus,
people seem to really like the partnership of
loud and hard and fresh.
i guess we'll know in a week,
if it's weak sauce or powerful potion.
my peoples make magic happen,
and i'm an abominable blizzard wizard myself.
therefore,
i suspect that the hot fire- and the travesty-meter
will BOTH go to eleven.
oh man!
i sure hope shawn said a superstitious rabbit x2 too.
word.
***********
so it's tuesday.
it's windy.
it's cold.
it's the first of the month.
and it's not snowing.
see?
not all bad, at all.
the slick roads and glaring glare just serve
to make the bright spots blindingly so.
and i'm on that melvins-type kiss coversong kickassery.
goin' blind.
you like it.
there's packing, shipping, picking, and paying
all at the same time.
busy big business is in effect.
i said it, i meant it:
rabbit, rabbit,
in the year of,
and i'm of the year of.
that makes it my year, yeah?
i dunno, ninjas,
but i hope my hard-style hymnal to the hares and jackalopes
gets heard.
i'm yellin' it at the top of my lungs after all;
never quiet, never soft.....

the end...

...of february.
but don't worry,
it's still snowing up here.
i left yesterday in the throes of a snowstorm,
ate some pizza,
had a few teary-eyed farewells,
and scooted northwards,
to avoid overly enjoying the fifty degree sunny weather
that connecticut saw fit to rub in my face.
i suppose the brutal 'itis it gave me last time wasn't antagonism enough, yeah?
don't wory duders,
i returned to new hampshire in the depths of the evening,
and woke up to...
guess what?!
yep.
a snowstorm.
c'mon!.
12 hours round-trip to the weakest sauce,
10 am to 10 pm,
capped on both ends with raging stormswept gypsy cloudcover.
the hardest of hard styles.
12 hours, 10-10,
and all of it because i take it to eleven.
*
february is molto finito.
right now, the last grains in the hourglass are swirling
clockwise towards oblivion.
where the F* did it go?
if you know, holler the answer at your neighbor.
because i have no clue.
at all.
and i mean at all, at all.
how do we counter clockwise?
with clock ignorance.
oh, c'mon.
age and experience make wisdom,
so youthful indiscretion makes time stand still?
let's try it.
i'm ready for a little teleport to the top.
***********
duders,
art show time is upon me.
cult status, in minneapolis, is doing the do,
and shawn hebrank and i are the stars.
maybe.
i've got heaps and piles and wads of art,
and it's got to get to the midwest before the 11th.
c'mon.
when did you think it would be...
holy crapola.
tomorrow is march.
already.
so much to do, so little time;
never quiet, never soft.....

double-b!

duders.
broccoli bread is how we spend time.
my daughetrs' last night in town?
we gotta close it down in full-blown flavorful style.
florets and nooch and gluten and pure dopeness.
special occasion taste sensations!
we reserve the albert r. loaf until the girlie-girls are in the building.
heck,
that means the only time i get to have it is when they're here.
that's called honoring traditions, ninjas.
they could never know about a little secret cheat treats on the side,
but i would.
and worthiness is what i value, neighbors,
even more than broccoliness.
no doubt.
so i am a patient boy;
i wait, i wait, i wait,
and when the big moment of big fun in due time comes around,
i most certainly, and with authority, chow down on both crusty ends.
two butts is how i doo-doo that freaky green sh!t.
wooooooooooord.
here's what you hungry hippos missed:

ohhhhhhh! sh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!t!
that's a log of burly block of hot and gooey, chewy, crust, crumb, and crowns.
yum4tum, my ninjas.
and it's even more impressive on the inside.

c'mon.
you like it, we love it.
bite, swallow, bite, swallow....
chew?
that's for little fish, mutha-uckas,
we get busy like sharks, son.
recognize.
***********
it's snowing,
and i'm a male man,
so i've got to make like a mailman,
and not let the sleet, or rain, or stormswept sucktardation
stop me from making a special delivery today.
the warrior express is about to start an epic expedition,
from the pinnacle of northeasterly turbo-hottness,
to the nadir of sauce-suckin' stinkbombs.
connecticut-bound, and down.
it's been a great week.
and i've got some great peoples who can hang out.
i am grateful for this time i have been given,
but if there was a suggestion box,
i'd make mention of the fact that i'd sure like some more.
that's the right amount, right?
road warriors and snowplows make for gripping tales
and gripping steering wheels,
and white powder, white knuckles, and white mountains.
it's all really happening.
halfway?
no way.
all the way, or none of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

marsupial.

if you eat kangaroo,
and you aren't crocodile dundee,
you are suspect.
questionable.
if you used to be vegan,
and now you get down on 'roo tail steaks?
you are definitely Off The List.
the price of success, i guess.
money never made a man, ninjas.
but,
it has definitely changed one or two.
don't misunderstand me-
i make money, too,
and it has certainly changed me.
the thing is,
i don't have lots of money.
i have just about enough to stay still.
i'm not gettin' swole up movie-check pockets,
but i'm not dipping below the dangerzone redline, either.
i'm living precisely at my means.
that's a thin line of tightwad tightrope walking,
but i keep it balanced,
i keep it fair,
i keep it even,
and most of all, i keep it real.
that's a thing.
but i'm talking more specifically about the selfishness
that an abundance of eminence,
and the resultant prosperity that comes along with it, brings.
selfishness?
duders, c'mon.
it's easy to forget being a dumpster-diving
vegan punk rock radical made of compassion and idealism,
when you've got a guaranteed income
cut heavily from the fat off of scatophagic sycophants
who seek to supplement your scene and psyche for years to come.
you turn into something else.
it's inevitable.
ask any group of hold-out poutypants turned sell-out lootmakers.
(baby boomers, anyone?)
all i'm sayin' is:
foundational beliefs shouldn't be so easily shaken.
and marsupials?
grosser than veal calves.
grosser than Filipino balut eggs.
fuzzy, external womb, pink-raisin-baby dinosaur mammals?
c'mon.
that's the transition?
used-to-be's.
those're my favorite ones.
i used-to-be ____.
if you're not now, you never were.
now that's a hard style, huh?
you bet.
*
i never understood the conscience behind
free-range organic dead animal parts, duders.
like,
if you treat 'em good before you kill 'em, then it's okay.
i don't care how nicely fed and cared for they were up until
the ol' sledgehammer-to-the-face moment.
c'mon.
or how large the farm they roamed was,
before they slit their necks with an X in a tiny room.
the dopest jail is still jail.
a free college degree on death row is no consolation
when it's finally lethal injection day, right?
word.
spending extra loot to eliminate pesticides and hormones
doesn't change the fact that the animal was super-duper healthy
up until it's decomposing, dismembered carcass got heated up
to start rotting in your A*-hole.
suckle the protein, b!tches, and eat a bean.
just sayin'.
*
kind of like being vegan just to win.
you know who you are.
duders,
i don't get that either.
i know a guy who'd totally watch me eat a bevy of baby beasts,
and not even try to stop the senseless swallowing whole
of all the cutest and the fuzziest of furry friends,
just for the priviledge of being so much more vegan,
so much harder than me.
the dead animals are completely irrelevant.
why be vegan then?
to lord it over everyone else.
winning a competition no one else knew they were entered in.
almost makes me want to gnosh a wombat omelet,
and forfeit the contest.
....almost.
***********
there's no more nights.
tonight's the last one.
and that's no lie.
tomorrow,
in the snow,
it'll be downsouth driving,
and daughterly delivery,
to the doo-doo buttery depths
of the constitution state.
the state of my constitution?
compromised.
but in the meantime....
it's broccoli bread time!
small victories and big hunks of treats.
lucky us.
cyle and casey and cucch,
plus harvest and maple,
and my most lovely and delightful wifely hottness.
i'm surrounded on all sides,
including the inside,
and that's where and what counts;
never quiet, never soft.....

eleveneleven

how many blog posts?
1111.
c'mon.
really?
yes, duders, really.
a snowbound and windswept,
wintry white mountain friday night,
and that's the only way, really,
to mark one thousand one hundred eleven
truly told sagas of Folk Life & Liberty from
the worthy warrior poets to the rest of you.
that's exactly what the F* is up, duders.
a foot of heavy wet water?
we got that.
an unplowed uphill driveway?
white mountain tattoo does NOT make it easy for waterbabies
to get what they want, y'all.
mountaintop gurus make you work for their wisdom, after all.
and that's how it goes.
the second-to-last night before the girlie-girls go home.
it's never ever ever enough of them.
that's the sentiment from the bottom of my sh!t, ninjas.
little partial pebbles of albie rockness,
all alive and kicking it with their collective active participatory parents.
we doo-doo the sweet and sappy lovey-dovey stuff, neighbors.
real talk and human accessibility from your favorite gyspy stalwart?
don't judge me.
i'm happy, they're happy, we're happy.
eleven, an' that.
***********
so,
commemorative magic milemarkers aside,
it's been a rough, rugged, raw kind of week.
and the big weekend capper?
i get to get going on a whole other 'nother 'nother road trip,
back to connecticut.
disconnecticut, even.
no-pros-just-cons-necticut.
and back again,
like, to the future, almost-
in a round-trip lightning-striking-viking
plunder-and-sack pilgrimage.
we go easy,
but we come rougher every time.
ahh,
the rewards of responsible adulthood.
seven kinds of hard-styles,
in a three kinds of hardness capacity container.
overflowing with hard.
that's a thing,
(and that's what she said?)
never quiet, never soft.....

secret tunnels.

hoth base night-raid mountainside
rabbit-warren wilderness snowbank
deluxe fort freshness.....
check 'em out:

glowsticks as entryway lights?
so good.

c'mon.
forty feet of hollow holes.
a veritable winter enclave of cocave of cave complexes.
go ahead and yell, ninjas-
snow muffles sound,
warm days make melting happen,
long nights make it ice over.
it's silent, and it's deep,
it would be dark too,
but our esteemed neighbors keep every vacationary light
lit to the highest possible lumen output.
flooding the night with light.
floodlights, even.
nothing says woodsly goodness like extended urban light pollution.
the stras are bright, but less so when those duders are about.
they aren't outshone,
just occluded by massholery.
luckily,
valkyrie vixens and their dads don't let weak sauce dilute
the dopeness of snowfort playland taken to the limit.
eleven.
that's what's up.
*
kids,
i was a full-on tax return tattooer today.
no joke.
matching kanji?
oh yeah.
matching initials as tribal?
indeed.
astrolgical neck zaps?
you know it.
what could top that much hottness?
how about a dale earnhardt sr. #3,
and 'intimidator' under it in olde english?
albie rock, for the win.
victory, in this instance, is just delayed loss.
and that's always interesting, innit?
yeah.
brutality, in fully-formed effect;
never quiet, never soft.....