Archive for April, 2014

I was chatting with Monci the other day. He was straddling the corpus callosom in a small netted hammock made from stolen neurons and decided that I needed a little talking to. Now its not easy to converse with one's homunculus, particularly when he is insistent and intrusive. Usually the little fella is real layed back. Love listening to his musings on almost any subject. The other day though, he was taking a rather solemn tone while dealing with what he sensed to be a growing malaise. Said the signals were coming in from far and wide and pointed to despair gathering like a fur ball in the gut of a cat. "A fur ball? That's the best analogy you got?" "Yes, my liege, and it serves well the situation. You see, a fur ball takes time and forms along with pleasant morsels of food found secreted away in the folds of a couch or on the carpet behind the fridge." "Fascinating. Do go on." "Gladly, your hugeness. The illusion of pleasantness is overtaken by the need to be rid of the tangled mass of hair and fur. It is then simply a matter of this malaise being tossed out like a kitty kat convulsing its way to fur ball freedom." "And so?" "Forgive me, my all and everything but have you ever examined a fresh fur ball and not felt despair?" "Good point." He went on to tell me that he thought he tasted cesium on my head the last time it rained and that that Cousteau guy swore he would never eat fish again and that the folks in New Mexico are dining on plumes of plutonium. He said if we could see the methane pouring out of the melting polar caps, it would look like an upside down avalanche and that yes, those silver metallic looking flecks on the surface of the pond is the residue of chem trails. I tried to comfort him by saying that life is inherently weird and that the skills we should value the most are the ones that transform to "normal" that which would demand otherwise. The sip of iced tea he had just taken came shooting out his nose. "What kind of hippie hogwash is that? Is that the sequel to "it's all good" or the beginning of a new failed philosophy?" "A bit of both", I had to admit. He said if I was finished being a dipshit he would turn to the less natural and more human aspects of today's world like the hunger, resource depletion, food quality, water quality, income inequality, rampant scumbaggery, tar sands frackery and the infamous "bottom line" which is about to loose the four horse guys on their rampage to ruin. "Is there anything I can eat or drink or smoke or snort or shoot or use in suppository form that would make you feel more at ease", I asked. After quite a long silence he said, "three beers, two doobs, the stem of a mushroom, a piece of new york cheesecake, hot chocolate and a viewing of Field of Dreams." I'll get right on it. I love hanging out by the pond. With the weather turning to leeward trade wind dry, sitting with feet dangling in the water is more and more attractive. The other day, to my surprise and delight I saw what appeared to be several hundred koi fry cruising the edge of the pond. I tried to think back to when we put the first koi in and how old that would make them but that just reminded me that I don't do statistics. Happy to say, old enough to reproduce in the open pond and survive whatever onslaught of bigger fish hunger that has thus far come their way. The unstoppable urge to life. I've decided, as proud papa to name them all so that when they grow up I can train them to jump into my net when a customer picks one out for his water feature. Shouldn't be too hard to do. I will fill them with tales of their amazing ancestry, of their ability to live over two hundred years, of their proud heritage in being able to jump into fish nets on command. See where I'm going with this? Although we have seen a winter and spring season go by with some heartbreaking results when it comes to watching fruits destined for market go to ground instead, there is the largest fruit set I've ever seen on the Whitsell avo and what is looking like quite a good count on the sharwil as well. The mango's, which have gone through three flowerings with little to show just flowered for a fourth time ( not good with stats, but I don't remember that happening before). This time around, the signs look very good. Very good indeed. The longans and lychee are racing each other for most flowers and leaving their lithe floral scents breezing through the orchard. The atemoya's are pushing out new leaves and that can only mean one thing, flowers and fruit to come. If we get through this cycle of winged demon assaults and the next batch has a hard time keeping up with the dry conditions, we might could get us some abundant harvest a couple a' few months down the road. Fingers crossed. One of the best farming techniques available. The process never grows old. The observed becomes the observer. The roles played are synergy at its best and with increased focus comes the simple pleasure of being engaged in an activity which is human. Week in brief: pond liner arrived, baby koi, oh boy, Ukraine has most plays of the Ballad (how cool is that), got a sprayer so look out lace bug. Homunculus wept himself to slumber while watching Field of Dreams. And so, to bed. the more you show, the more we'll grow. peace, jp  

There are times when gigs go well, in the sense that if you're playing a club or restaurant, its a good gig if you can be heard over the chatter and clinking of glass. Even better when someone looks up and bobs their head a bit before diving back in to the beef wellington. Better still if there is a smattering of applause indicating an attention level seldom seen in those who dine out. Just got back from the hana hou where Meaghan and I played to a crowded lanai. We're starting to get some regulars. Tonite, the regulars combined with the randoms and the family friends to create a synergy rarely seen. Rapt attention. Food came in second. It was interactive. There was the kind of appreciation one might feel at a small jazz club where the crowd is in the know and hears the tears that go into the music. Some players in the audience too. That's the best, when a musician gets to play for peers. It's a tuneup and a springboard. Tonite, in spite of the usual handful of clams, we held the audience and raked in the kind applause and post gig kudo's that make up for all the nights that someone slurred a request for "mustang sally". I have to say that Meg is the consummate pro. She has the casual funny, great story telling ability and she's way into it. Really never seen her get flummoxed. Laughs most gaffs off. Nice. While we're on the music news, the video posted the evening of the 15th of april on youtube has now gotten 7,305 views in just four days. We've gone bacterial. Some tell me that with that kind of start, its got a life of its own and one only need wait and goof on the spread. I find myself stopping strangers on the street (especially german tourists) and insisting that they whip out their smartphones and punch up youtube. "C'mon man, you're gonna love this." " C'mere dude, i'll give you a doob if you watch this shit." Mostly they make haste in a tangential tack. One cannot be overly zealous when it comes to self promotion. No bigger buzz kill. Unless its mom, with whom i share the new numbers at the top of the hour, 24/7. What i'm loving the most about the whole process of making and posting this work is the collaboration with some wonderful and talented young musicians whose mugs are being taken in each time some sucker checks us out. There is a collective resonance there that makes us all closer and happier. To quote nurse Jessica, "Groovy." My little splash in the vast puddle that is the "network" will send out a ripple which will ricochet off a few planets and fly, fragmented at vast alien populations galaxies away. And when they hear the staticee redacted version of the song, they will seek out this "sweet smoke", repent of their sins and say "It is gooood."7319 and counting. Been gearing down a bit on the farm stuff, mostly because we're short on fruit and long on the need to redefine ourselves in the light of wetter condition, more insect predation  and the recently discovered t.o.f. syndrome which effects most humans on the wrong side of sixty five. "Tired old Fart" syndrome was first diagnosed at the Happy Chanukah Rest Home in west palm beach florida. It's the kvetching that gives it away, aside from the actual smell of tired old farts. It was determined by a team of skilled specialists that if any given subject spent more than eleven and a half minutes of each hour kvetching that they were candidates for a new theraputic protocol involving silk stockings, shaved legs, a doily and steak tartar. In some cases heroic doses of antibiotics become necessary. There's really so little known about the origins and causes of t.o.f. that new methods of treatment are popping up all the time. My favorite includes cold milk and brownies while watching Dr.Strangelove. Come to think of it, that's what I used to do to avoid studying. 7451 and up. The trade winds are bringing the misery to the north shore with reports of mold creeping from clothing to toothbrush and calls coming in asking if there is any sun in the world. Even though there is still a good deal of moisture in the ground out here, the effects of the wind and sun are beginning to show as the rich green pastures start to pale. Another couple of weeks and the straw color will dominate after which the absence of rain will leave wind and sun to blanch the earth. Me likey. Hot and dry, baby. Hot and dry. The meat birds have moved to an outdoor "halfway house" facility. They are now four and a half weeks old and big enough to roam free, but the feral cat that I refer to as the ripper still lurks. Older hens have been found beheaded and or gutted as though Dexter was on the job. Traps have not worked, bait has not worked, repeating the words go away peckerhead has yet to work, so I worry about the little plumplings. We're loading them up on honohono grass which is a runner like plant that is rather succulent and obviously preferred to the pellet feed that they get in small measure. The glycine and garden clippings have also gotten approval from the council of cockerels. So be it. Easter and four twenty are here and I, for one hope that the convergence of resurrection and reefer make it less necessary to be nailed to a cross to have a good time. Amen brothers and sisters. Amen. The more you show, the more we'll grow. 7459 and growing. peace, jp                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Looks quite likely that we won't get to eat One white sapote this season. Not one. By this time of year we are usually filling up five gallon buckets for market, cleaning and freezing bunches for white sapote/coconut wafers, and hand picking the most golden, ready to fall off in your hand, just soft enough to eat gush of the sweet life. So very rich, so very creamy and so very delish. Ah, those were the days. This is now two out of the past three years that multi-species hordes of nocturnal fruit piercing moths have targeted the rancho. They are working on the loquats, jaboticaba, surinam cherry, figs and YES, the mangoes. I know this has been a topic of blogville for awhile now and that's because there are so many layers of data available on a number of micro and macro levels that have you running mental marathons to wrap your arms around it. Bottom line, them or us. So what works. Lets say one left a few sapote trees for "bait" and moved more expansively into those crops that seem immune to the critter like, avo's, mac nuts and more avo's and mac nuts 'cause as far as I can tell, those are the only two things that have thus for resisted these red eyed spawn of some entomological hell world. Oh yeah, chayote also seems immune to the vampire like allure. Its quite likely that one could live off chayote, goats milk and nutella. So what's a good little permaculturist to do? a. retire and get a life.                                                                                                                                                                            b. spend savings on a candy apple red metalflake Maserati. c. parade around the world with a svelt blonde glued to side. d. grow fish. Huh? come again. Grow Fish. So we've embarked on the completion of the "lower" pond which will hold our stock of Tilopia. Ah, Tilopia, that wonderful bulletproof fish that thrives and happily produces pound after pound of flaky, tender white flesh while providing hours of leisure fun for kids of all ages. We've thrown in a bunch of Koi as well in the hopes they will start breeding and providing us with some sellable stock and hours and hours of enjoyment watching them glide care free beneath. I remember well hanging out by the pond with Tyler when he was a stripling. We'd bait the hooks with fish food pellets, set the weight and bobber and let er' rip. Sometimes we'd go out in the inflatable and just float around with lines dangling, caring less. Nice to have those lazy summer daze to look forward to. There's already talk of rope swings and such. Venison barbecue anyone? While the loss of a season of fruits is never a pleasant affair, turns out that in the big pic these events just point to more diversity. So I'm thinking we just cut all the trees and put up cell phone towers. Those suckers lease for the big jing and i've already ordered lead lined clothing. Along with the fish, eggs and a few avo's and mac nuts we should do just fine. Had some major fun doing a bit of music with the wonderful fellas of the Brown Chicken Brown Cow string band. I've watched these young players for years. They've been coming to Maui for some time now and each and every time they come back they shine from the polish they've put on their playing. They've been joined by the harmonica wonder, Kat who, unfortunately left for the mainland before being able to put a track down. Might be able to patch one in when she returns. So I was at Charlie's watching their show a couple of months back and flashed that this is the perfect back up band to use when re-recording The Ballad of the Bust. Checked in with them recently and the idea sounded good, so we rolled from there. Simple tune, so one rehearsal had us prepped for a live recording session which happened at my house in a very relaxed atmosphere. Joined by a great young video guy name of Parker we proceeded to goof off for a few hours and make some memories. I will say here and now that Zander, Orion, Justin and Matt were perfect for the job and provided the  energy necessary for smooth running. Having written the song about forty years ago there was a certain closing of a loop that felt superb. Part of the inspiration to re make the tune was that a friend of mine had told me that Solomon Lee (subject of song) was retired and working at the Pukalani golf course. "Getoutahea", I coughed. Found out he was on a couple of days a week as the cart guy. So I went down one day and walked up to him and said, "are you the famous Solomon Lee?" To which he guffawed, "well, I don't know if I'm famous". To which I replied, "yes you are, I made you famous". To which he blurted, "Pollock?!!" Went on to one of the most pleasant conversations I've ever had with a known nemesis. Here's the funny part. When I came back in after looping the course, he comes over to me and asks, "do you remember the last time we saw each other?" "Yes I do", I replied. So dig this, here's a guy I haven't seen in nearly forty years and we both have the memory of that moment emblazoned in our brains, enough so that he thinks to ask me about it. The scene was this. I was cruising over to a friends house to return some schwagg they had given me to try to sell. It was crap. Had to go back. So I pull up in my vw bus, grab a garbage bag with five or six pound of herb and, santa like start up the path to the house when out the front door comes my friend who raises her hands and says, "not now, not now, go away". Those words yield an automatic response, and it is not, "what do you mean, I have your pot right here." Nor is it, "o.k. I'll just leave it on the sidewalk." The appropriate response is to turn around and walk casually but rapidly back to vw bus and tool on out of there. So this is what I am proceeding to do when I hear the voice, freezing me in my tracks. "Hey........... Pollock". I turn my head slowly and see Solomon standing on the porch. We have a "moment" after which he raises his right hand, smiles and waves at me. l waved back, boarded my bus and cruised on down the road. Only goes to show that music can melt away all differences creating harmonies, invisible and inaudible that cannot be  denied. So get your kid into an instrument. You never know, he or she might turn out to be a criminal. The more you show, the more we'll grow. peace, Jp