Archive for October, 2009

Oh my,

Its been one full year of bloggery. Time to pay the piper. For all of you who failed to read the fine print embedded in your cybercontracts, the charges are as follows: A buck and a half per laugh (up to and including guffaws), five bucks for each time you spluttered out a mouthful of food and a sawbuck for any liquid that has exited your nose. If you've forgotten the count, just go to the archives and read them again to get a rough estimate and send your remittance to the Rancho Relaxzo Retirement Home, a limited liability corporation headquartered in the Grand Cayman Islands.

With the funds taken in this year it is the intent of the R.R.R.H. to create a nest-egg/slush-fund devoted to the ideal that no old timer should go without scotch, weed, opiates, psychoactives and a semi-annual trip to the Angel Witch in Nana district, Bangkok. It may not be terribly social, but its security. Now pay up, or I will give my associate Vincent "boombatz" Cardinalli a call and instruct him to deal with yooz accordingly.

As huge breakthroughs go, we had one. Its been nigh unto five years since first noticing a leak in the pond. We let it drain down until several holes were patched. We crossed our fingers and filled it, only to find that a leak still lurked. Thoughts of new liners, transferring fish safely, refilling without killing the fish with county water parade like some hopeless drunk in that region of my mind marked "not now".

Well, a couple of weeks ago I noticed that the water hadn't gone down in days and figured it was time to send Commander Jeremiah out in the inflatable to cruise the edge and have a looksee. Sure enough, about half way around, he found a hole that had been made when first installing the liner almost twenty years ago. Apparently the patch had come loose and led to five years of the pond looking half full but feeling half empty. Visions of mounting expenses and increasing fish kill faded like a pecker in a pickle jar.

We filled it up last week and it sure looks purdy. It does appear to have gone down an inch or two in the last week which may indicate some slow seepage in addition to normal evaporation, but nothing that about six bucks worth of water won't replenish. Its as though a toothache that I'd gotten used to living with has gone away and in its place, minty fresh and pain free.

Duck world is now officially finished (almost) and our gang of muscovies have mostly settled into a life of spacious confinement punctuated by regular furloughs into the orchard to waddle the range freely,  stretch their wings and peck their way to order. Ol' Doc Bebockboc said they're the healthiest ducks he's seen in a long while. He and nurse Sally came by the other day to pick up some food and shoot the poop. They patched things up with each other with Sally promising not to freak out over the thought of the Doc with someone else and the Doc agreeing to have his eyes surgically removed. Seems fair.

Harvest time approaches. The orchard is dripping with multiple varieties of fruit, plumping up and coming ripe day by day. We'll be in the heart of it within a month with white sapote, longan, atemoya, avocado, starfruit, citrus, mango, banana and papaya looking good. The egg count is moving upward on what appears to be a very similar pattern to the dow jones industrials average.

The chooks appear to be able to send out subliminal signals to their feathered friends in the other enclosures, letting them know how many eggs they produced that day. This is a ploy to keep the farmer guessing, as they will withhold eggs from time to time creating dips in the production curve and leading to mild, but frequent anxiety attacks. I remember what E.S.P. Leibenlobe, pHd. told me about controlling the emotional surge. He said, "sink of it ass zo it vas a carrrrtoon perzon, zis liddle emojun off yuuurz. Ant zen, chust blow itup. If it comes beck, chust blow itup again. Zooner or lader, it vill go avay. Yah, you vill zee."
I use an all purpose image of Wiley Coyote whose priceless expressions upon realizing that he's a goner are beyond words really. Now, I couldn't give a hoot how many eggs we get as long as we're paying for the feed and eating as many as we want. Booyah.

Yup, harvest moon coming up. Can't help but remember the time when my old pal Augustus Marune  (a.k.a. Guth) showed up at my place with full moon lit, mostly out of his gourd. He was half covered in mud with leaves and twigs sticking to and out of him. He had the look of exasperated exhaustion you might see on a woman twenty hours into labor. He was panting and a bit more wild eyed than usual. He kept mumbling something underneath his breath that sounded like "worms and herms, worms and herms." I took him to the bathroom and drew a hot tub for him. "Get in man, have a soak and we'll talk."

I first met Guth back in the late seventies when he was a legend among growers of the good herb. He was notorious for his zeal and his love of Woody Guthrie whose tapes he played endlessly on his travels from patch to patch. That's not why we called him Guth. His name was actually Gus, but he had a serious lisp and we just couldn't help but goof on him.

As a grower he was into it, big time. He had patches everywhere from Hana to Kapalua, sea level to five thousand feet, cane fields to rose apple forest. He was on the move all the time, planting, nurturing, chasing pigs away, harvesting, drying, trimming and selling. Of course back then it was a once a year affair. None of this sea of green all year round nonsense. Where's the challenge? Back then growing was for the tough. Those willing to brave the weather, the wilderness, the copters and the slimy two legged rat ( Rattus ripoficus). Those strong enough to pack in sixty pounds of supplies and live on guava, mountain apple and urine.

He emerged from a steamy bathroom with a calm and somewhat invigorated look. He was naked with an almost empty pint bottle of vodka in his right hand. Apparently it had been in his back pocket when he entered. "Tho thorry, man. I didn't know where elth to go and I'm freaked out." "Hadn't noticed", I said. He smiled.

I pointed and said. "dick, hanging out." " Oh thorry, man. My clothes are trashed from runnin' through the jungle. You got thom thtuff I can wear?" "In the bedroom; take your pick." He came back out wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that read, "dislexic Devil worshipers sell their souls to Santa."

"So what", I asked. "Oh man, all my patcheth on the north shore have been theriously wormed and half of them are going hermaphrodyke" (thats what he called it). On top of that its like raining every night and the pigth have been total wankerth. I gotta go back out potht hathte to at leatht take down whats thalvageable. I mean, I thtood out there the other day between showerth and watched as the meretht touch made a big, beautiful bud crumble to shkeevautz (he liked that word although he didn't know what it meant). And the poop trails. Oh my god. The butterfly larvae work their way down the bud eating and pooping and itth the poop that getth you. The poop attractth mold and funguth which works its way through the bud and renderth it a math of grey worthlethneth." He was talking really fast now. "Then, on top of that this one thtrain is going hermy on me and I'm out there with the tweethers yanking male flowers for fucking hourth."

I said, " lets say you lose half the north shore. How much healthy chi-chi ya-ya stuff do you have coming in?" His eyes went skyward as the inner calculator kicked in. After a bit he looked at me and said, "dry, maybe a couple hundred poundth". I looked at him with a wistful smile and said, " shut the fuck up!" He said, "no, really, everything elthe lookth primo." I said, " here's an idea. Lets go get a pizza and another bottle of vodka and call it a wash". He smiled big and said, " you know what man, your right."

We got pasted and slept it off. The next day, sunshine flooded the north shore and Guth pulled in two thirds of the sticky sticky. Good times.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace out, Jp

Oh 'scuse me,

Is being a blackish, left handed Leo with a penchant for perspicacity and a list of sort of accomplishments all it takes to grab the Nobel gold ring on this wacky little merry go round? 'Cause if it is, then Dave Chapelle, step right up and claim the cake brother, because laughter is the universal language of peace. Come to think of it, our last two democratic prez's have been left handed Leo's. Charismatic, smooth talkin' slingers of snake oil, capable of the most refined presentations of flim-flammery carefully crafted to dazzle the public into believing that there's something to believe in. O.k., I'm glad I got that off my chest.

'Cause here's the thing, if you really still believe that whatever watered down version of part of a promise made during a campaign designed to give the appearance of sincerity is a credible beacon, lighting the way toward a better tomorrow, then c'mere, i've got a great deal on a map to Shangri-la that I got from a guy who's sister partied with the Kalu Rinpoche who handed her the tattered parchment after bearing up to unspeakable pleasures, all the while smiling serenely. O.k., I feel better now.

And by the way, there's nothing more powerfully disruptive than an idea whose time hasn't come which is, nonetheless, being promoted as the next incarnation of the final incarnation and the beginning of the end to suffering on Earth. Of course my heart swells with pride over Barry's sweeping endorsement as ambassador of peace and that America is once again looked to for its leadership role in dishing out smiley face t-shirts and "What, me Worry" bumper stickers. This should go a long way toward quelling world wide unrest, economic collapse, environmental chaos and Tom Delay's stress fractures.

Here on the farm we tend to think of "living sustainably" as meaning the process by which externally required inputs are reduced to the point of elimination (ideally) and that the design, in fact generates a surplus of products on a number of levels which are cycled back into the community. This creates more efficient models requiring ever fewer external plug-ins while growing a populace increasingly well schooled in the day to day realities of sustainable living.

Scalable designs that reduce our dependence and increase our productivity are the inevitable result of a well networked and educated community. After awhile, its not that hard to see how these things could be done throughout communities, counties, states, regions and nations to gradually reduce our need to seek out sources for food, fuel, medicines, clothing, shelter etc.. It is the work of a generation if co-operation world wide happened right now, so don't hold your breath.

Water is another issue and one which revolves around the debate as to whether it is a public resource or a commodity to be owned and doled out by wealthy profiteers as is the case here on Maui. Nice to know that rain is still free, for now.

Here's an idea for reducing our energy dependence. There are eight hundred million obese people on planet earth. That means eight hundred million of us that are twenty five pounds or more overweight. One pound of human fat is the equivalent of 3500 calories. By comparison, one gallon of gasoline yields 31,000 calories. This means that if we got to all the obese people and sucked out their fat we would have over two trillion pounds of grossgoo, or the same number of calories in a bit more than two hundred billion gallons of gasoline.

At present, the world uses about eighty million barrels (forty two g/p/b) of oil a day. Each barrel refines out to about twenty gallons of gasoline. That's one point six billion gallons per day or five hundred eighty four billion gallons a year. Harvesting human fat could reduce that footprint by thirty percent, require much simpler methods of refining and smell like Mcdonalds meets krispy Creme, when burned as fuel. Eu-freakin'-reka.

Oh, and by the way, this would be a renewable resource, since people will continue to stuff their donut holes, pack on the pounds and provide gobs of fuel for generations to come. The whole meaning of "fat farm" would be turned on its head to denote a place where people go to overeat in ways that would gross out Aki Bono, then relax, decompress and provide the raw material to power up _______ (your favorite third world country here). Imagine the sense of gratification as one see's ones fat being bottled up for shipment to Madagascar, with the promise that it will be used to provide electricity to three new schools in Antananarivo. Brings tears to my eyes.

O.k., lets go one step further. All newborns could be tested for the genetic marker for obesity and immediately begin a diet of butter filled fried malasada's, strawberry malts, scooter pies and Lipitor. Large residential communities powered by sun and wind could be built in the vast stretches of prairie that is the Texas outback. These isolated communities would be home to the grossgoo-donors who would grow up with other grossgoo-donors, be revered for the crucial role they play in society and never have to lay eyes on skinny, sexy folks so as to maintain the illusion captured by the community motto: "In flabbo delictum".

Harvested twice annually, these hundreds of millions of grossgoo-donors worldwide, would live out their lives encouraged to go with their genetic flow, be appreciated for their gift to society and bring new meaning to the words, dessert cart, which in this case would be a fleet of r.v's circulating the community stocked with every goo-zoo known to man and playing "Chantilly Lace" as they cruise the streets. The lyrics are altered to read:

Straw-berry cake, with a chocolate glaze,
whipping cream, hangin' down.
Jiggle in her walk an' a giggle in her talk,
Make the world go round.
Ain't nothin' in the world like a big fat girl,
make me act so funny, make me spend my money,
make me feel real loose, like a chocolate mousse,
Oh baby that's a' what i like.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Oh thanks,

to Sherry for throwing her annual Halloween/B-day bash. Same beautiful location as the last party up in Olinda. October 25th, 2233 Olinda road. Pot luck. Dress to scare. Prizes awarded for blood and gore, best slutty look, best Einstien imitation and showing up buck nekkid. Starts at 5pm and ends when someone can't stop saying Booowaaahahahahahhhhaaaaaa...........

Also to nurse Lindsey for writing in and suggesting that I post a link to the blog page and send it out to the email list so that the latest edited offering of mental flotsom, bubbling to the surface with distressing regularity is but a double click away.

Here's a quick tutorial:

Click here to enjoy (or disparage) this weeks blog, www.ranchorelaxzo.com/blog/ , and hey, while your at it, why not check out our selection of farm fresh delectables and House of Yumm scrummies at www.ranchorelaxzo.com/c-s-a/ .

"Is that it unky Jp, its that easy?" "Thats right little feller, even a tiny tard like yourself could do it."

So you can keep reading it here, or take the leap through cyberspace and find yourself immersed in our moderately captivating and spell checked website. Soon, however, you will have no choice in the matter. Such is my hunger for control. Yes, momentary control of your funbone. No matter how hard you try to resist clicking on the link you will be compelled like a moth to the flame, a compulsive gambler to the game. an ego to the promise of fame.

Think Muddy Waters, delta blues, moderate to slow

Da dada da daow (guitar), ch-ch chih, ch-ch chih, ch-ch chih, (high hat)

da dada da daow

Well i woke up dis' mownin',

da dada da daow

Bout fo' fitty five,

da dada da daow

Some stars still out twinklin',

da dada da daow

an a booger in my eye,

da dada da daow

I'ze feelin' mighty happy

da dada da daow,

Jus' to be here alive,

da dada da daow,

If I didn't know better,

I'd think a grown mans s'posed to cry.

Cause I'm a doit farmer, baby.

Won't find no clean under These finger nails....

ch-ch chih ch-ch chih ch-ch chih

Yes I'm a doit farmer darlin',

an' I'm thinkin' of blazin' me some trails.

Yeah, I was about to bed down when that came to me. Such is the life of a permaculturist wandering the fringes, guided by acid flashbacks and an urge to prove Aeschylus wrong. I've got a couple a' few more verses for that bluesey selection and will be featuring it with twelve other musical epiphanies on an upcoming album called "Blue Bakers Dozen", to be released on the "Get outta Hear" label.

I had Doc Bebockboc roll by the other day to check out Duck World. He's a wealth of information and a great source for poultry tranquilizers when the chickens get too feisty. We were wandering around, talking about this and that. Got to the gate at Duck World and moved it aside. The ducks were down at the lower pond (big puddle really) and when they heard us come in headed our way in the hopes of big bipeds bearing food pellets.

We had a plastic cup full of feed because doc wanted to get close to them without chasing them down. We sat by the upper pond and waited for them to come crowding around us. Doc put a handful of feed in his palm and was pounced on by a half dozen ducklings. It gave him the chance to gently probe here and there and look closely at their features for any problems. He declared them to be in fine fettle although I sensed that he was not.

Problem was, he had hit a snag with nurse Sally and was a bit down in the dumps. He just wasn't really "there". So I coaxed it out of him. Seems he had run into an old flame and shared a moment of spontaneous huggyness in front of Sally which led to a look akin to what a frozen daiquiri brainfreeze feels like. So here he is, on the backside, trying to be attentive but hardly succeeding when I spot what appears to be a perfectly ripe r2e2 mango hanging on a tree by the knucklehead asylum. I said, "scuse me, I believe I see something that will make you feel better." I walked over to the tree, gently squeezed the already softened and colorful fruit which popped off its stem with the lightest touch, and into my hand .

Now the Doc is a mango aficionado, and if there's anything short of Absinthe and Laudanum that will sidestep a funk its tasting a perfectly ripe specimen, fiber-less, juicy and melting, erasing all that is wrong with life and leaving in its wake a moment in the eye of the storm which is our collective existence. A brief pause. A moment of clarity, soon to be swallowed up in the chaos that can brand affairs of the heart.

I strolled back over to Duck World and closed the gate behind me. I sat beside him by the smaller of the two ponds as he played with the youngsters and did that kind of shaking his head while mumbling something to himself kind of thing. Pulled a pocket knife and made a couple of mango rosettes. I handed him one and we toasted a time when peace of mind would be considered baseline, not benchmark.

I've been a bit like the kid in the candy store with the water. These past couple of months since we got the ag rates back I had to fight to beat back my inhibitions until finally I just gave in and started watering the crap out of everything. We've even resurrected a privacy corridor between the pond and the road whose trees withered in the drought of the late 90s. We'll be planting Ice Cream Bean, white guava, mulberry, allspice, clove and cinnamon with a couple of brazil plums here and there for the heck of it.

I'm so used to a state of stasis that moving to more complexity is almost hard to accept. Odd how so much of life is defined by the limitations imposed by "others" and liberated in a gush of novelty. Now that our well has come in, we plan to gush on into the foreseeable future with the gardens radiating, poultry plumping and fruits growing sweet and juicy. Can I get a big Shamalama? Lemme hear it........

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp