Driving home today, as I turned a corner there was an egret riding the wind. You know, the kind that can be found pickin' nits on the rump of a cow, or sorting through pies for undigested seed and tasty bits.

It looked like it was having much more fun than should be allowable to our avian friends, given the difficult economic times and the need to tone down the impulses to display feelings of exuberant well being (and that means you Rose Neptune).

Those among us who feel the economic pressure building and the interpersonal walls closing in should not have to be moved to suicidal thoughts over a random sighting of some boneheaded bird surfing the wind tubes with what certainly appeared to be a shit eating grin on its face. I mean c'mon.

So accordingly I have started the Eat an Egret for Easter foundation, dedicated to teaching those little fuckers a lesson in etiquette and the REAL pecking order around these parts. After all , can't go around letting this sort of behavior stand unchallenged. They'll just think that anytime the freakin' wind comes up they can just go have a good old time ripping about as they please without reaping some of the karma of the disturbing spin off created by their self interested behavior. Pish Toosh, I say, and with all due respect.

It's gonna take a couple a' few birds each to make a satisfactory meal, so we've posted a limit of fifteen egrets per household. In Ecuador, where egret is highly prized for its meat and the mojo it imparts when ingested, they often just deep fry the whole bird, guts, feathers, feet and all right after catching it so as to convey some of its mojo (found in the feathers and feet) into the cooking oil, which is then used to power a fleet of bio diesel vehicles which average just under three thousand miles per gallon, give or take. That's o.k. for Ecuador, but it does nothing for my depressed state.

I've heard through some deformed sources that Exxon/Mobile  has set up labs devoted to the breeding and genetic modification of egrets so as to corner the market with a patent on their mojo. They are working with the likes of Archer Daniels Midland and Fox News to include feather/foot meal in all their poultry and cattle feed as well as developing strategies whereby the same feather/foot meal can be pressure injected into existing deposits of oil which will dramatically increase miles per gallon allowing them to use a fraction of the oil to create gobs more gasoline. Mooowhaaahahhaaaahhaaaahhhaaaaaaa.

Some of you may scoff at the notion that birds flying free with shit eating grins constitutes a national security threat. Remember your history people. The pilgrims endured hardship beyond measure at the claws of wild turkeys who ate their grain and stole their children.

Remember that the creature created by the cross breeding of turkey and  Brit was simply called Indian and it was decades before one of these Indians stood up for the rights of the pilgrims and taught them how to slaughter turkeys and make stuffing. Do we want that happening on the slopes of Haleakala. I for one, think not.

Send your tax deductible donations to: E.E.E. c/o "Sweet Pea" Forster, 1212 potluck drive, grand cayman island, grand caymen.

I had a flashback about Tyler the other day. Back in the era of Banana Buddies, Ty was an aspiring squirt. He was just getting a grip on the talking thing and in some categories, he knew what he liked. One of those categories was chocolate.

We used to buy fifty pound boxes made up of five ten pound bars of both dark and milk chocolate. This would be used to coat the bite size pieces of dried banana which would then be cooled, dried, packaged and shipped.

One of the benefits of having ten pound slabs of chocolate around all the time is that you can at least in part, act out the life of Caligula. It was not at all unusual to think of a fist size serving of chocolate at eight eleven a.m. as perfectly normal, nay super-normal. And here's this kid who thinks its totallycool super-normal. Probably dreamed about the stuff days before coming to visit.

I never kept any in our house, just in the kitchen on the lower part of the property, which became known as "down below", or in Tyler speak, "donnabloww"? I write that with a question mark because it was always used that way, as in "go donnabloww"?, followed by the same sort of shit eating grin that the egret wore. This inquiry usually resulted in a mock argument where I refused and he insisted and I refused and he insisted until I gave in followed by a walk donnabloww and further negotiations over quantities consumed.

We had been experimenting with dried pineapple and dark chocolate. We'd take several slices of dried pineapple and stack them to about an inch and a half. Then we'd cut them into six or eight triangular pieces. These would get coated with dark chocolate and were going to become the next member of our product line. Pineapple Pals, naturally.

One time I had some friends coming over so i'd brought some samples up for them to try. The samples were sitting on a plate which rested on an ottoman  in the living room and Ty was tripping on some legos in the office. I went to take a walk around the yard with my friends and upon returning found the boy sitting on the floor next to the ottoman attempting to chew up an entire slice of this dark chocolate feast. He could hardly cram a whole section into his mouth, no less chew it up.

His mouth said everything. It was filled to brimming with this partially chewed extravaganza. His lips ringed with an orgy of overflowing darkness resembling the Devils goatee. His entire little face fixed in a smile which conveyed this message alone: "I know I'm fucking up, whaddayagonnadoaboutit?" I fully cracked up.

Not since walking into that bakery in Stamford Connecticut, the morning after an acid trip with Anton Selkowietz, and having the sight of an elderly woman in curlers and bunny slippers send us dashing for the door in paroxysms of laughter have I seen the pure humor of a moment so plainly and beautifully spelled out. He might as well have had Tweety Bird's  feathers sticking out of his mouth. Thanks for the bubble, man.

Party season approacheth. We are consulting the homunculus for dates, themes and undergarments. Posting will continue when a final arrangement has been struck and the proper burnt offerings gathered.

Nurse Caley and I are working up a set for the Mana'o radio upcountry Sundays gig in May. I am inspired and energized by the way this kid can kroon. Nuff said.

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