Archive for November, 2010

So first off, I've got an announcement. Ta dahhh. My good buddy Micro Dot called me the other day to inform me that the acts she had booked for the December fifth upcountry Sundays at Casanova's had bagged on her and she was thinkin' it might be cool if we convened the usual gang of scofflaws and nincompoops who show up for parties out here and have one massive holiday jam session, Rancho Relaxzo style. I know, I know you're probably thinking, oh great, a bunch of proto hippies trying to relive the musical glory days that they never actually had. Just keep in mind that there will be a core of players whose first gig together was the Magna Carta signing party, so if nothing else, we'll look comfy and relaxed on stage. I'm thinking of it as a party at my place with pizza and no cleanup. We knew that if we got Grimes to sign on that the rest would fall in place like a bunch of drunken dominoes. He agreed to do it for half the door. We're giving him the half with the knob. So come on out on December fifth and support Mana'o radio at Casanova's between two and five. The Rancho Relaxzo All Star Jam Band will be doing their very first, and quite likely last road gig, so don't miss it. And for those of you who are far, far away pining over the fact that you can't be there, tune in at www.manaoradio.com where the music streams live, worldwide. Passed Thanksgiving quietly. Took my traditional route of fasting. A small measure of austerity designed to bring focus to things easily overlooked on a churning stomach. I also figure that since the scales of gluttony are tipped toward overindulgence, might as well do my bit to create some semblance of balance in the skinny vs. porker equation. Fasting is a bit like having the sight of something stop you in your tracks,  like a pheasant taking flight from underbrush that's just a stones throw away. It's an immediate look into the body/mind relationship to food. For a brief moment one goes from subjective processing to objective innerview. The alimentary canal keeps chugging along, but there's nothing much to process so the body can heave a bit of a sigh and relax. Relax in a way that the body can't while processing food. Relax enough to sense the fundamental  health benefits of the practice. The body often encourages the effects and yearns for more. The mind however, is a different kettle of guppies. Any manner of scam available will be deployed in an effort to direct my attention to a steaming hot pizza backed by a cold beer. I mean how else will I overcome this foolhardy notion that starving myself will result in anything useful. All manner of zoozoo and gooball parades before my minds eye imploring me to give up this meaningless self flagellation. I resist. Driving down to the airport to pick up an arriving Wwoofer becomes a study in not blowing it. Nearly wolfed down a stack of peanut butter cups at the gas station. I still resist. Wwoofmeister Natalie cooked up a wonderful venison stew with lots of stuff from the garden and agreed to defer to my silliness by only giving me a small ration of shit for not eating it on Thanksgiving day. All in all, a Thanksgiving well spent. Hope the same was true for yooz. (your favorite emoticon here) We're seeing some good results from the broadcasting of pasture poultry seed in paddock one, of two paddocks that the Ameraucana's roam. It's a blend of common flax, ladino clover, birdsfoot trefoil, alfalfa, red cowpeas and buckwheat. Mmmmm, yummy. Actually sounds like it would make a great breakfast gruel with a drizzle of honey. Being the worst keeper of records in the known galaxy, I can only guestimate that it was planted five, six weeks ago (maybe more), and is now looking lush and green with flower heads popping and the promise of reduced feed cost and eggs rich in omega 3 fatty acids. The mix itself costs about three fitty a pound, which covers about twelve hundred square feet.  I know, its kinda boring, but when you crunch the numbers out, the savings leave me with enough to stop calling my mom collect. Now there's several factors that come into play equaling the kind of strange flowering patterns we're seeing this year. Many of the fruiting trees so coveted by humans have a habit of bearing sporadically. One year, choke, next year, pinchy. We've got five varieties of avo and all but two said in avospeak, "sorry mate, takin' a break. Tired of holding up all that bloody fruit while you walk around gloating  over futures prices." Yes, they're Australian cultivars. The mangoes held their own this year, and owing to high mortality rates in feral fowl populations (due to the drought and predation), not much damage to the fruits due to famished tweeters. But here's how quirky it gets. I've got two Keitt mango trees side by side. Both planted on the same day and now some eighteen years old. Both trees flowered like crazy. One bore a couple of hundred fruit, the other, three. We suspect that its the fertile duck pond water that empties onto the tree that set all the fruit. The longan didn't appear to flower much at all, setting little fruit, but a month and a half later a few of the trees are full of flowers, making for a longan harvest in February/March instead of November. The white sapotes are also acting a bit lolo and unresponsive to somewhat established patterns. The Jaboticaba is flowering two months later than usual, atemoya and cherimoya are sparse and small. The drought played no small role in putting things kapa kahi most of the year, and while having enough inexpensive water to keep things flourishing has been great, it also makes for trees that don't feel as threatened by drought into producing a lot of seed. Finding the balance. It's hard, being human. More esoteric factors include chem trails of aluminum, barium and strontium meant to geo-engineer a cooler planet by creating "clouds", but having secondary effects which include but are not limited to reduced phosphate uptake in the soil and elevated pH and heavy metal residues in soil and water. I'm thinking that the plants are getting their version of Asthma and Alzheimer's . So what appears to be up is that I am, in Natures eye, a particle of whimsy, an amusement, a droll distraction, and that the entirety of the plant kingdom has been put in place for the sole purpose of using me for mulch after having mugged forty years of service out of this bent and wrinkled frame. This peripatetic life had made pathways where before only weeds stood tall. I have schlepped trees over rock and hill to assure them a singularly nurtured existence with food, water and sunset views. I have forsaken fortune, fame and my very own playstation for a shot at the ipsissimus of mans desires. To be merged with life unbroken, to feel the seamless integrity of the Grand Plan, to question no more the endless profusion of perfect. What a maroon. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Didja miss me? There have been moments in the Rancho's history when the passing on of wwoofs has left a sadly dispersed proximity, but the sense that the very fabric of the place has been changed for the better. This has never been more true than in the recent passing of Team McGuire whose pattern in the tapestry that is the story of Rancho Relaxzo stands out for its unassuming  brilliance. They have gone on to the mystical Land of Main, where they will experience any number of  realms available to those who brave the journey. Joshua will be reunited with his four legged woofer and Lyndsey may cross the border and become a cat servant after having experienced the wonders of the Rancho's purring bed warmers. They will work in a community and bring their considerable skill and energy to do I'm not exactly sure what yet, but I'll keep you posted on that. It's in Lyndsey's nature to stir up the fire. To send tiny embers afloat in the clear night sky, twisting and dancing their way to soft gray ash, then off to stir a fire somewhere else. It's in Joshua's nature to be rock solid in his support and persevering in his need to know and act from the heart.  He confirms my theory that any Scorpio born with fewer than four planets in Libra should be discarded at birth. He's got five. Of course, while this is no real dying off and the connection established grows in the invisible realm held together by heart-string and bone, they will be missed in a" honey can I make you some french toast" sort of way. Lindsey had, in her zeal to spread light made up some music discs entitled "rockin' at the rancho". First tune, disc one is a hoedown with the first two lines of the chorus being "yer gonna die someday, yer' gonna fade away", which she featured as being so catchy and plainly true that it was about the only greeting issuing forth from her cheerleader lips for the next several weeks. It will, no doubt be the anthem that connects us for years to come. I'm considering having it carved into a slab of nice wood, varnishing it and hanging it on the entry gate to the property right under the "welcome to rancho relaxzo" part. Just a friendly reminder. In the relatively short period since the last post, the surrounding hills, parched to dust for months have soaked in the recent rains like a starving Sponge Bob in a vat of clam chowder. Now, resplendent in tall green clumps of Buffel grass,  the rolling terrain seems to be laughing its way down to Kihei.  The cattle actually get up on their hind legs, jump up and click their heels together every now and then. Everywhere they look, a feast. This is where we turn a corner described by the difference between keeping things mulched and watered and keeping the marauding hordes of desert flora from overtaking the joint.  It's the time of year when we pray to the gods of wwooof for a weed whacker jockey with triple crown credentials. The kind of person that sees him/herself as living the Agroid's ultimate first person shooter fantasy. Armed with serrated cutting tool, pruning knives, pole saw, weed whacker and chain saw, there is no foe gnarly enough to overcome the pure joy taken in shredding to teeny bits the grasses, vines and shrubs overtaking pathways and fruit trees alike. Pathways which, in the mind of Commander Whacker represent the way to ultimate freedom.  The vanquishing of evil. The release of goodness as personified by the perfectly tree ripened mango, which at days end will be his and his alone to devour having slain the invasive hordes and left their twitching, leafless bodies to be picked through by a small pack of feathered raptors, otherwise known as chickens. He/she will end the day covered in the lifeless remains of the once vital enemy, knowing that even now, as the adrenalin subsides and the taste of mango brings rapture to every bud, the enemy grows. Plots its revenge. Plans its assault. And as long as the rains persist, the armies of evil will march. So, as the Commander beds down for the night one thought lingers. The only good weed is a dead weed, or at least sufficiently cut back enough so that the boss will bring home some pastries from La Provence restaurant. It is a time of wonder here at the Rancho as both my mamoosh and my hanai son are in residence. Its a rare blending of energies not unlike the cocktail one might make from the remains of all the drinks at the Kopfelmans table in the wake of their sons Bar Mitzvah. Family, scary good. Moms here for a few weeks and Tyler for two. Both were in need of a sustained break. Mom, of course just finished her annual mud wrestling tour through the deep south where they insist upon using lard instead of mud. Makes the clean up a bear. Her skin looks better already. Ty just got elected to the House of Representatives from the sixteenth district in Alabama, where he ran on the motto "shoot first and don't ask".  He came home to run his agenda by me and see if it could use any tweaks. Basically, he figures to scare the turds out of the populace with thruthy hyperbole while offering enhanced home security systems through a company operating under the auspices of a shell corporation headquartered in Vanuatu.  Told him the only thing I might add would be a free wwll bayonet with each system purchased. Army surplus, there when you need it. It is deeply satisfying to see the generations merge with a certain ease and lack of constraint. The Rancho helps, but mostly its their mutual love of wrestling. I love it when they hit the deck and go at it. Moms eighty eight, but if she gets you in a headlock, its lights out. There is something of a changing of the guard in the wwoof population these days what with the McGuires gone and our wonderful "flashwwoof" (stay of one month or less) Justin returned to the ivory tower to digest his permaculture primer.  We have representatives from France, Chicago and Washington state on deck and due in for short to medium stays after which I must do what is not possible to do, find a replacement for dearest Natalie who even now plots her escape to exotic lands eastward. Places with funny names and short, mocha colored people talking fast and smiling far too much. Places too hot to even really imagine for a Minnesotan, but beyond resistance for this diminutive adventuress. She has slowly and steadily left her mark on every inch of this land. She has become that one pure gold thread that runs through an ornate tapestry and gives it the beauty that goes beyond mere value. She has become the best of friends and an enduring accomplice. I feel certain that any journey she takes will find those whose path she crosses enhanced by the experience. So here's my theory du jour. We have reached a tipping point. A tipping point triggered by the consumption of large sea creatures awash with mercury and other heavy metals which have diligently worked their way up the food chain to settle in the fleshy tissue of that tuna you just had for lunch. Now it doesn't happen overnight, but over ten years or so, neural networks start to break down and the world becomes more and more cartoon like. More and more susceptible to the whimsy of decaying gray matter. More and more capable of making fact arise from fiction, and fiction pose for fact. Being the kind of guy who feels everything happens as it should, I will concede that this free for all of ideas and opinions may be riddled with inconsistency, but that without this polarization we never get to whats next. So whats next? I know, but I'm not tellin'. Work has begun on what a paniolo pal of mine said was going to be a very ornate and elaborate entry way to the Winfrey interstate which begins at the bottom of Kealakapu road and follows its nose down to Kihei. From what I heard it then merges with a hidden tunnel which splits off in five directions and uses a supersonic railway system to allow access to any island within six minutes. There goes the neighborhood. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Happy holidays, Jp