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