Archive for April, 2009

Oh Hello, Its been a rather turbulent four or five weeks around here, what with maintaining the health and wellbeing of the chicklettes until they could be transferred from the killing fields to the wide and almost open spaces reserved for their little feathered tooshies. Big relief to get them oriented to their "permanent" digs and looking healthier and calmer each day. The lone escape artist found her way back in and I finally located and fixed the last breach in the enclosure. Most of you can probably empathize with the joyous stress induction related to preparing for the arrival of a parent, which in this case included all the "last minute" stuff, like furniture and bedding and towels and dishes and silverware and toaster and coffee maker etc. (quite the transformation from WWOOFs on futons). And although it may look like I'm totally at ease with a house full of party animals on the congenial prowl, that's 'cause I'd been drinking ayhuasca for four days in preparation and then weeping for two days after to purge the sense of inadequacy that plagues me when i realize that there weren't enough nappies and forks to go around. I'm not complaining, just venting. I'm really quite emotional for a guy. The mother ship has departed, leaving in her wake a sense of calm awareness and good humor that she carries around like a bag of Hungarian jumping beans hidden inside the I Ching. Nice infusion of energy for WWOOFer wworlldd. Her friend Marsha is selling everything and pledging her life and fortune to me for the opportunity to live here and sleep under a jaboticaba tree. Last season, we saw some ducklings around the beginning of June. The muscovies have been cruising off in pairs (Tux and Maybelle are the cutest) and nesting for a couple of weeks now. With an incubation period of about a month, I'm betting there's some eggs being laid and some hatchlings on the way. We're looking to build the flock up to around thirty. They're great browsers, keep the place slug, roach and centipede free, make fertile tea out of pond water and are well on their way to providing us with cooking and sauna fuel (barring further explosions). The daffyness doesn't get old either. Guarded good news from A.F.B.W.A. (Asylum for birds with amnesia) . Today, i collected sixteen eggs and it appears as though the fog is lifting. I'm going to go so far as to say that we're offering eggs along with the greens, fruits, vegetables, herbs and House of Yumm goodies. We're loaded with atemoya and avocado. Ample supplies of banana and papaya as well. We've got a smattering of citrus, acorn squash, raw coffee beans, some yacon and pepino dulce. Beans are coming on and peas and melons are going in the ground. Unlike psychos, who by definition do the same thing over and over expecting different results, we here at the Rancho repeat our patterns in the hope that we won't suck quite as badly with each passing attempt at engineering systems that are stable in their productivity, resilient and rich with diversity. My old buddy and violin mentor Bratislov Willimoto gave me two discs entitled "how to play in any key". He impishly crossed out the word "play" and substituted the word "suck" to emphasize the two things that deep down inside, we all know. One, we suck. Two, we are capable of sucking less. Move over Buddhism, there's a new paradigm in town. Suckism and the suckists (or suckologists) who are devoted to the philosophical underpinnings and theoretical principles of this "cut the crap" model of viewing the world were inspired by some drunk guy who, while visiting the latrine in a greenwich village cafe wrote these words on the stall just above the toilet paper: "There is no gravity, life sucks". A German philosphy professor, Hientz Katsopff, from Munich who was visiting new york on a quest to hear Jose Feliciano sing "light my fire" saw this graffiti, had an epiphany and the rest, as they say, became this ridiculous screed. Given the fact that the world health organization has elevated the pandemic threat level to number 5 on a scale of 1 to 6, I would advise all online date seekers to reject any requests for hook-ups with people named Maithuna Porker, Francine Bacon or Wilbur Phatbak. Just a suggestion. I don't want to stand in the way of true love. Finally, my sincere thanks to the musicians who have become the backbone of what has been a twenty year run of great parties. To Grimes, the illegitimate love child of Mose Alison and an avocado, K.K. who could have graduated to grand wizard had he not started seeing spots, The Sofa (cause he's so comfy to hang with) laying down a beat so smooth that songbirds land gently on his head while he plays, The preacher, singin like a house ablaze while holding the bottom together, Donny tutone, the bastard offspring of Marty Feldman and Barbara Walters, pedal stealing his way to musical mastery, Dorles, spinning out tunes like a spider tripping balls, Migmikey, making faces that only a conga player could love and Bentley, purring her way through a jam like a twelve cylinder Jag. And to Jimmah and Steph and Dave and Patrick and Greg and my hillbilly buds and Russel and Dina and Jennifer and Willy and all the rest of you who have seen fit to grace this place with your talent and good vibes. Live long and wail. Give us a call if you hunger for the good grinds and remember, our greens are crispy but our attitude is fresh. The more you come, the more we'll grow.Peace, Jp

ZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz, I dreamed a dream of Creation. A dream so vivid and visceral that when the angels wept I watched as their tears touched down and made those little slow motion crown shaped splashes, each part of which caught the dazzling starlight and split off rainbows vectoring in every direction, embracing me in pure color and rapturous sensation. Then i woke up and pulled a groin muscle getting out of bed. Speaking of which, can somebody 'splain to me why all the hubbub and tittering about teabagging anti tax parties last week in the media. While cute and funny to separate out the sexual context with pun and double entendre and underscore the dilemma of all things republican, its not like its anything new. In my day it was called getting a "hummer" and was actually a more evolved practice since it included having your loving partner hum your favorite tune while gargling the twins. My favorite has always been and will always be "Stars and Stripes Forever". HHmmmmm HHmmmmm Hm-Hm-Hmmm Hm-HmHmmmmm, Hm-HmHmmmm HmHmHmmmmm Hm-Heh-Hmmmm-Hm etc.. Auditions tuesday and friday nights, nine to midnight. I mean C'mon. I dreamed a dream of a world populated with choco-hempo-fungitarians (with a side order of Fong dog). A world descendant from a thought so Pure in Intent as to render the mind a Diamond emanating the light of Healing Wisdom. A world in which every act starts and finishes in Love. A world in which that Pure Original Thought and Intent is never forgotten and always embraced. Then I took some glucosamine sulfate cream that my mom gave me and rubbed my crotchel region until the pain subsided. As I was rubbing my groin, I realized that the bailouts are never gonna work ( i know, strange). Not because they could'nt, but because there's no love to be found. The souless Oligreedbots had to sell their hearts to Don Diablo Inc. of San Jose (with offices in Mexico City, Paris, London, Moscow, New York and Paia) for the thrill of earthly pleasure/treasure. They pillage and plunder while all the while feeding the souls of those who hunger for knowledge by teaching them how Not to be, but then if not that, what? So much of our day to day life feeds back into the Kali like grip of this ubiquitous matrix, with app. after app. telling us how to be or not to be (thanks, Willy). I dreamed a dream of no more quid pro quo, just weep no more. I dreamed a dream of the day when all our hearts, like farmers in a dust bowl, find our voice, like the blessing of a Spring rain and proclaim that victory Is as victory Does and that what we do, is our best. I dreamed a dream in which that was enough. Talked to my kid the other day who is campaigning in Alabama and has recently rubbed elbows with the spate of tornadoes passing through the region. From his place of work, the roof of a neighbors barn could be seen flying through space at an altitude of about three hundred feet. Just thought i'd throw that in for those of you overly concerned about split ends, creepy people next door or undercooked pizza.. Doc bebockboc and nurse Sally stopped by the other day to take a gander at the chicklettes. Four thumbs up. Doc said that given the amount of space they have now, there should'nt be too many feathers ruffled from here on out. He suggested that I consider putting some meds in their water supply to assure immune system strength. I asked him if there were any dangerous side effects and he said that aside from hicclucking, hang beak, eggs with sharp edges, and jelly feather, no problemo. I told him about the one remaining escape artist that clearly has the power to "beam" itself out of the enclosure, but not back in. He said he had seen that once before in Montana, but there it was a case of the farmer waking up in the chicken house without knowing how he got there, except that each time, there was this one chicken with glowing red eyes staring him down while scratching at the earth and pacing back and forth. He started feeding them more rendered cow parts and it stopped happening. Big ol' shout out to all of you who came out and made the season opener a pip. It was a four bagger, as in four 55 gallon gahbidge bags full after cleanup and as in a home run. Many thanks to the impromptu helpful hands who made tidying up a breeze. Came out with seven beers, half a bottle of pinot and some peanut sauce and corn chips to show for it. Hair of the dog. We've got the usual supply of foodstuffs at the usual Mana minus 20% price tag. Made a batch of pesto yesterday using a bit of arugula and endive in the mix. Much Yumm. Give a call @ 8786287 and if nobody answers its because I just got caller i.d. and I don't like you. The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Olleh ho, (Hawaiian for Oh hello) , Big Huzzah huzzaaaah, woohooo and whatnot to the Keekster who rounded the corner on a quarter century this week, soon to be seen gobbling up large portions of Germany and Ze Verld with her beauty and intelligence. We put the little chickolecent darlings out the other day. No longer living the life of penned up beasties awaiting debeaking, forced laying and increasingly tighter quarters, the Leghorns, with some 2500 square feet of glycine covered Brigadoon have commenced a display of battery chickens gone wild. Its like a marauding horde of spring breakers. Everything in their frankenchicken rearing is telling them that this is too good to be true. From the bamboo training roosts to two squares a day to bugs everywhere and room to roam. The very thought of pecking a sister to death has vanished into the Scottish mist, hopefully forevah. You can already see the cliques forming. There's the prancer/preener clique, the hide and seek clique, the beak dancers clique and there's always an escape artist clique. I'm convinced that the escape artists are the smartest, in spite of the fact that once they've found a way to break out they spend the rest of the day trying to break back in and for some reason can't puzzle that one through. They go running up and down the fence line poking their little heads through the wire mesh until I catch em' and toss em' back to the mobette at which time they socialize for a few and then try to break out again. They'll all stay put until they start laying (late summer) at which time we'll start to range them freely around the hillside below the house to clear it out and add a touch of fertz. So I got this old pressure cooker and mounted some thick felt on a few wood frames that fit in the cooker. I innoculated the felt with methanogenic bacteria that I got from the same source that sends me mushroom spores, ammo, hemp oil and porn, and put a slurry of duck goo-doo and green manure in the cooker. Well apparently whats supposed to happen is that the bacteria colonize the felt and turn into an army of tiny fart machines, gobbling down the slurry and turning it into things like hydrogen sulfide and methane. I'm picturing their microscopic selves being propelled along the surface of their habitat by way of gaseous effluvium. You know, like passing each other and doing the bacterial version of waving, high fives, a few shakas from the well traveled, all the while, going nowhere in particular but having fun just tooling around. Then proceeded to snap the top shut and clamped a hose onto the pressure relief thingy and ran it into one end of a metal box stuffed with steel wool (primative scrubber for hydrogen sulfide). Ran another hose out the other end of the box to a bunsen burner I found laying around (don't ask). Waited a few days and turned the valve for the burner on and torched a bic. The jet of blue flame that blew the burner off the hose was about three feet long and stopped only when I shut the backup valve off. Didn't tighten the hose clamp on the burner enough. Thats what I call gassin' the cook. Still haven't found the bunsen burner. I think its lodged in a gps satellite. The mother unit arrived yesterday. We strapped down the eighteen foot long tibetan fog horns encased in petrified yak butter, affixed a skull and crossbones flag on the ends sticking out the bed and hit it for the highlands. Quite a sight. Moms been practicing her circular breathing all day and scaring the crap out of the chickens, but then the crap falls on piles of chewed up glycine which acts as fertile mulch for the fruit trees, so we're cool with that. She can play them both at once....... Food, yes. Greens, fruits, House of Yumm treats and maybe a few eggs from the asylum for birds with amnesia (or A.F.B.W.A.), whose purpose in life has been superceded by the need to be snooty little beeeeeotches. I know, I need an aptitude adjustment. Masters weekend has past (and a roller coaster ride it was), so don't be shy, come on by. Just cut a nice stalk of nanners and although mom gets the prime cuts on everything, there's enough for we plebes to nibble. We'd like it if you shopped early in the day as the greens are very dewey fresh. Jennifers got the nursery trees looking great and we still have the best prices on the island, so c'mon, I dare ya to plant some food. You can reach her @5731040 or 2050430. Shameless self promotion brought to you by i.me.my.com. Barring rain, the parties on, and the forecast calls for a sunny day. Lets celebrate the coming paradigm shift, wherin cannabis and raw cacao become the new monetary standards, bartered endlessly for goods and services that we've either forgotten why we needed or are too high on phenethylamines and theobromine to give a shit about. Therein lies the end of consumerism and the beginning of the Endless Age of Tranquility and Goofiness. And yes, you're right, i've crossed the border. {:-] The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace out, Jp

Oh hello, The season opener on April 19th will now commence at four thirty/fiveish instead of two, and go until the sound of the vacuum cleaner overtakes the drunken banter. Here's my reasoning; cause i said so. Actually i've fielded a little flack about earthday and upcountry sundays and would vewee much like to have as many of you chowderheads show up as possible, thus the late start. If the musicians get too cold, we'll bring in Disco Dave and the e-rave firedancers to keep things warm. Mom says her band is used to playing outdoor winter gigs in the parking lots of Bayonne shopping malls, so no sweat. The Gumbo brothers, Moe and Joe are setting up a 55 gallon drum filled with garbage to burn so that they feel like they're at one of their real gigs. There may be a hillbilly or two lurking in the underbrush. Bring some good grinds and remember, parking inside for metaphysicians only. The chicklets are about ten days away from being big enough to put out in the gated communities assigned them according to color, race and egg size. By big enough, I mean incapable of squeezing through two inch chicken wire and capable of enough flight to reach mongoose proof roosts. The fly power is there, we just have to beef em' up a bit. Chick food isn't too expensive, but in exploring the options, it turned out that the depression deals they have on Taco Bell nacho's (three styles) fell just under the chickfood price curve, so alls I do is call in my order for a couple of dozen assorted nacho's and they come meet me at the telephone exchange and slide me the goods on the downlow in case someone from the feed and grain may be watching. The cheese and beans and sourcream are definately having a positive effect on their weight profile and I keep on seeing them craning their necks to look back at their tail feathers as if to wonder, is my ass too big for these feathers? They're at that tender age where appearance is everything. One of Doc Bebockbocs Portaghee friends, Souza Ventura asked me to save ten hens and a rooster for him and then backed out of the deal when he found out you have to take care of them in order to keep them alive. Soooo, there's this one little rooster bouncing around the Leghorn pen trying to decide whether to shit or go blind. He runs around humping everything in sight, but you can tell that he's not really sure why. Meanwhile the ducks are displaying every sort of mating/fighting behaviour in the Book of Muscovy, from delicate neck bobbing to agressive wing biting to corkscrew peckers trying to find purchase. We're thinking of hanging a few webcams from the trees and streaming live duck porn worldwide in an attempt to provide yet another vital and sustainable service to the broadest possible spectrum of plant and animal loving perverts. We could use the cashflow too. I got an email from my buddy Vincent "boombatz" Cardinalli reminding me that it was the forty seventh anniversary of the time he and i got into the parents gin stash resulting in every zinnia plant in the yard dying from puke exposure. Funny what people remember. He remembers every year because it was on the tuesday before the Masters that he came over to my house after school and talked me into pillaging the alcohol stash. A word about the Masters. During the six or seven hours a day that the tournament is televised, my intent is to become immersed, nay obsessed with the viewing of this, a tradition like no other. I will plump the pillows, surround myself with food,drink,remote controls and recreational substances; calls will be ignored (except for Roger and Geoff), shoppers will be shunned and all but an act of the Almighty Hoohaa ( Danielle?) will keep me from the rapture of soaking up the very essence of the Thing. And day after day this revelation of sport will build on itself until the leaders make the turn on the final day to battle it out in golfs equivalent of two out in the bottom of the ninth, three and two count, trailing by three runs and hitting a grand slam in the world series to win it all, except taking three hours to do so,like moderately good sex with sandwich breaks. What I'm saying is that if you want food this weekend, go to Mana and pay 20% more. No bahddah me. I can afford to say this because i beat the spread on the NCAA finals to double my net worth. Wouldn't YOU like to know. I can tell you its high three figures. Let the good times roll. But really, all kidding aside, stay away unless you're a goon for golf or can accept me at 20% attention span for thirty second bursts wearing a self indulgent smirk conveying the message, "these are not the droids you are looking for". Peace out, Jp P.S. Shout out to the Savior who was spotted recently in the body of a street vendor selling deep fried insects and reptiles in Pattaya Thailand, where there is no word for sin.