Late last night in the living room, dimly lit with a candles flicker, the serenity was punctuated only by the barely audible  hum of a small swarm of fruit flies hovering over and feasting on a few tangor peels and some lilikoi pulp that got tossed into a bowl in the sink. Tiny wings flapping frantic, fanning the incense. A thought floated by.....

The number ten is the only number that contains within itself the two digits and only the two digits upon which all of computer binary code is based, 1 and 0. It could be argued that the first year of the century contains those digits as in 01' but that would be poppycock, pure and simple.  So what, you say?

If this humble combination of digits is capable of generating the entire world of computerspeak , might this not be the year to install  new operating systems, upgrade to more sustainable configs. and apps., flash our own BIOS's? Too fringy? O.k., if only for the symbolic certainty of the fact that there is only one year per century that ends with a 1 and a 0. If only for the fact that these are the only two digits which when combined neutralize each other rather than add to or subtract from each other. Ever ask yourself why the pocket protector geeky types chose 1 and 0 instead of say 2 and 0. Neither have I, not that bored yet but I'm just saying.

Nothing in the established political, economic and corporate order of things is changing to the extent to which waves of constructive transformation can take place any time soon. It is still very much an individual and tribal struggle to find our way through Madison Avenue's take on the word sustainable or the u.s.d.a.'s ever morphing definition of organic to an understanding that grows with shifting lifestyle choices and the new skill sets that enable and enrich those choices. Ten start again.

Congratulations are in order. Only once in the history of hosting wwoofers has anyone been elevated to the status of Executive Assistant. This, of course was the Keekster, now working on her masters degree at the only university in zeh virld devoted to the study of organic farming.

Nurse Dinah Foley has been in residence for three months now. While young by chronology she arrived as prepared, if not more so than any to come before her. Cruisin' light with money to spare. The term "hit the ground runnin'" comes to mind. The complexities of farming single crops can be daunting. The grasp of systems diversified by design takes a whole 'nother part of the brain.

Three months is really no time at all, but enough to feel what mojo lies beneath. Executive assistant status is awarded to those who have shown enough of a grasp of whats going on here for me to say, "going traveling now, see you in three months". For a certainty the fine work of Bubbha Mahalo's puts him within this category as well, but him gone, she exude magnetic heat of huge pile of smoldering ragamuffins, me born year of Pig. Everything work out fine.

So it is now Executive assistant Dzzyna Falolee. Reborn with a new kanaka name resembling that of a refreshing tropical cocktail. Here are some insights into her nature. Today, she captured, cuddled, nurtured, bonded with, felt the pain of separation and released into the wild a rooster name of Charles. She knew that my definition of complying with the neighborhood No Rooster rule meant headless dancin' and tasty bits. Already having with intent, witnessed the slaughter of a few ducks and Charles' cousin Skeedaddle, she pled her vegan case for the pardon of the regal and velvety feathered ruler of the road island red roost. So, stashed away cleverly in a layer pellet feed bag Charles was given the ultimate gift of free ranging freedom. He is now pecking his way to order in an undisclosed location having been given a new identity under the auspices of the poultry protection program (feather dye job, taught to walk with a limp).

Her favorite game is Scrabble. She doodles far out sketches while engaging in conversation. She sings in the garden and writes songs with lyrics for our time. She scampers up trees like a monkey. She says things like "word" and fu'shizzle and scrilla.  She's a natural born percussionist. She pops out creative ideas a plenty and she has carved her initials in the heartwood of Rancho Relaxzo. I'd like to give her flowers but she would think that was gay. I'd like to write a song about her but there's only one word that rhymes well with Dinah, and I don't know her That well.

You may see her behind the counter at Grandma's brewing the joe and serving up the grinds. She'll be the one oozing the energy that tickles your beauty bone.

I was playing chess with my humunculus the other day and it told me that my moves were contrived and telegraphed my whole approach to the game. It told me to play it fast and loose like Eddy Felson after a J.T.S. Brown, no ice, no glass. It told me that this whole fooferah over being concerned and doing the right thing was for pussies. It reminded me that the clock is ticking and that like a chicken that has only so many eggs to lay, _____________(your punch line here). It toyed with me until i shoved a coat hanger up my nose and crushed the little fucker..........again. Sometimes its hard to resist the blaze of glory approach. I'd hate to say I'm getting too old 'cause that would pretty much screw the pooch. Welcome to the razors edge.

Anyway, Munkie and me made up and continue the work of maintaining balance in a world off its rocker. I'm pitchin' the responsibility embraced by fun approach while he staunchly adheres to the "only the best and later for the rest" model of dispassionate conservatism. He's a cute little critter in a horrifying sort of way.

Oh yeah, these days we can usually be found selling our goods at the Makawao farmers market on Wednesday. Its across from rodeo general and runs from eleven to five. Its a nice scene, especially when the weather holds. This week we've got two kine banana, two kine oranges, tangelo's, lemons, papaya, white sapote, longan, atemoya, lilikoi, acorn squash, salad greens, froozies, pesto, dried fruit, eggs, honey and a partridge in a mango tree, and if you know the secret password, I'll slip you some hot pepper tincture. Hope to see you there.

"Hey unky jp, didja make any revolutions for the new year?"

"You mean resolutions, dontcha little fellah?" "Whatever, didja?"

"Matter of fact I did, but if I told you it would lose all its power, like passin' gas in a gale."

"You ever gonna trust me, unky jp?" "Probably not, little fellah, probably not."

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