Star date, one year prior to the end of the world as we know it. Blogging in at oh eight hundred hours. It has been many moons since finger tips nuanced keyboard. Not an entirely intentional happenstance. In the process of mining information while attempting to "keep up" with whats going on worldwide, my mind merely slips into a time worp of interconnected levels of dysfunctional behavior leading to inappropriate actions and the apprehension of the rapidly approaching cliffs edge over which we, as a nasty little species are about to plummet. Now that's a vintage whine. Always call on the" wrapped up in the problems of the world rap" to deflect the fact that our little morbid fascination is the common denominator, the place where we meet to watch the process bleed out its ugly little spawn and foment a virtual revolution. It is for the good of mankind that I browse the web in search of doom. Popped the cork on another vintage whine while venturing through the cool, dank, and musky corners of the cellar late one night last week. I often venture there in the wee hours to pour over the oh so many reasons to support the notion that there is no gravity, that life simply sucks. Here's the one I sipped on till dawns light drove me to slumber. "The steady erosion of our human rights has led us into a sense of helpless longing. Longing for change, longing for equality and a fair share of the pie. It has driven us apart, erected boundaries and instilled fears that guide us into the grinding maw of corporate servitude." Longing and fear get a lot of play when you're just hanging out sipping on some whine. The chicks definitely dig it. Of course the one I hear more and more, which becomes mantra like in its all encompassing capacity to invade any conversation, is how bad it sucks to grow into old people. Kvetching increases by orders of magnitude. The aching joints and chronic pains mixed with a looming sense of despair makes for a scintillating whine, bound to lift the spirits. Speaking of which, say what you will about blended scotch, Chivas Regal rocks. Had one as a pau hana after the gig last week and it turned the road to rubbah. Much like the wino jamming two fingers down his throat after a Thunderbird bender we have the need to spew. It is the rubbing together of the raw and the resplendent, of empathy and rage. It is the newborn meme carved of discontent and depicting life as a cascade of tears, waiting for nothing to overcome everything. Somewhere between "fuck this" and "its all good" we find a life. So by all means, rejoice in your finest whine. Make it manifest so that it can drift off into the aethers, mingling with eternity and return cloaked in stardust like a disturbing thought turned revelation. You do what you can, right? You even try to do the best you can, eh? What does it get you? A big fat zero. Nada, bupkiss, shhkeevautz. Even the slightest expectation of some karmic credit sends the whole mess ass over teakettle into the fiery pits of Mordor. See, I just made some whine, on the spot. So easy. Now, I'm a true believer in civil disobedience, even disobedience of the uncivil kind, when called for. This is why I felt that I took it very well. You see, when I went down to feed the chickens a few days back, they had convened a delegation of each of the six groups of laying hens represented  on the farm. Delegates from the Leghorn clan, the Rhode Island/New Hampshire group, the Barred Rock inmates, the Ameraucana posse and the crazy Cukoo Maran gang had gathered in a circle around the garbage cans containing their food. They had gathered there to express, in no uncertain terms their strident objections to the way in which their lives were being manipulated and the indignity of servitude that had robbed them of all of what remained of their waning self respect. You've never seen so much fidgeting and clawing at the ground. The air was filled with the bukk bukk begok and pe-kawking sounds of hens on the edge of laying an egg, but desperately trying not to. I resolved to hear them out. They had flow charts fer' chrissake. Ones that showed the ratio's between bare minimum rations to overall morale and willingness to lay. Others that depicted different brands of feed and how small farmers everywhere and in the great majority left food out all day to free choice. They showed how, in spite of the glorious weather, spacious enclosures, garden scraps, banana peals, chicktendo consoles and a world of bugs to dig up, they went into a near faint every day, seeing their eggs carted away to a fate that would make Benedict Arnold renounce his association with this most essential of foodstuffs. A bit melodramatic, thinks I. But wait, it gets better. Let me interject here that were it not for a decades long search for the linguistic connections between human speech and fowl language, I would not be able to accurately render the conversation preceding the negotiated settlement. The elder in the Leghorn delegation approached me, turned around and took a crap on my shoe. This by way of traditional greeting. I reciprocated by kicking her tooshy across the yard. Proper protocols having been established, we got to the meat on this bone of contention. She started by telling me that were I not so ugly, the scent of rotting flesh oozing from my pores would actually be an asset. I told her that more wheat middlins' were not negotiable. She scratched up some dirt and ruffled those feathers on the back of her neck, huddled up for a couple of minutes with her fellow delegates and came back to tell me that after careful consideration the group had decided that I was unworthy. That my position as caregiver was a lark. That I only thought about the bottom line, that I was inattentive, and uncaring with regard to every aspect of their chicken-ness except the daily egg count. I returned fire by reminding them that they're a flock of spoiled, pampered and snooty yente's  whose only purpose in life is to be precursor to an omelet and that if they didn't snap out of it  I'd fire up the whizbang plucker and just let it run for awhile to remind them who's in charge. After a good bit of bashing it about, it came down to this. Cleaner water, one half ounce more food per occupant per day, seven days sick leave, two weeks paid vacation and cleaned and washed eggshells returned for worship and dessert. Only fair, especially cause they don't have a clue as to what a vacation really is, or what it means to be sick. Pretty slick negotiating skills, and in the end, terms we could all live with. So, as I sit watching the sun go down, lighting the sky with thrills and chills, I listen for the tweensy-est sound of discontent being mumbled in the roosts, but the bedtime banter is lighthearted and frilled with anticipation of the extra half ounce of feed due them by the dawns early light. Sleep well, my lovelies and snap out of this molt thing before I sell you for puppy chow. As this dark time dominates and the years end brings the promise of renewed light we stand in gratitude under Nature's guiding hand and give up the fear, and give up the longing and give up the illusions. We offer them up in sacrifice to what we know we can be, what we know is. Thanks to all of you who are kin to the Rancho. It puts the worth in worthwhile. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Mele Kalikimaka and a Maka Hiki Hou, Jp