Here's a question or few worth asking. How many ways are there to feel the shame associated with not knowing what to do, or how to do it? How many ways do inappropriate acts feed the shame because, what else? The loop has been closed. How many ways do we shame ourselves into believing that some magic mojo type deal will get us through the heated turbulence at our door like a gang of Fiji fire walkers surfing the lava hot waves of Kilauea, brandishing samurai swords and golf clubs, and undoing Evil in all its forms and forces. These things occur to me because while knowing that the tipping point within the singularity surrounded by the string that vibrates in twelve different ways creating everything, could pop right up and go, ready for the 'pocyclypse, here it comes, Wwwhhhheeeeeeee, the meaning of that moment is obscured. By what? By the shame. And so, no focus, no hocuspocus. Its a pearly gates phenomenon. You know, st. pete gives you the rundown, you are naked on every level in his/her presence but by the time you actually get there, you've had the revelation of Truth that not only liberates in hitherto unknown ways but brings with gut wrenching certainty what uncompromising fuck ups we are. This would be a good time to say something like, " listen, Pete, it's all good, right? I mean what with the arthritis and that frump of a wife and the pension devalued. At least I recycled, most of the time." So whether you have rock star status or are a complete schmendrake, you WILL make excuses for the fuck up factor. Don't get me wrong, I'm not lookin' for an answer or heart felt epiphany or nuthin', I personally just infuse the appropriate sacraments into this meat locker and practice my pearly gates speech. I'm thinking "listen Pete", might be a bit cheeky. Not so long ago, in what seemed like a dream I sat on a sandy beach, waves gently lapping the shore and looked out over west maui with Haleakala in the distance. A magnificent sight made even more of a revelation by the feel of the warm water and coarse sand playing footsie with me. Then I realized that there was this yellow greyish blob of cane smoke hovering over the valley awaiting the trade winds to mount a take off.  As fate would have it, not much wind till much later in the morning. I know you're dyin' to know what happened. I was too. So I sat on the beach and watched as the toxic cloud began to spread out and leave its pall over the entire central valley and surrounding shoreline waters. And it hung, and it hung, and it hung. This is the smog that smog aspires to be, thought I. Bbbblllleeeeechchhcchch, as they would say in the halls of Mad Magazine. Where the fuck is the shame? Here's when I decided to cast my fate to the next narcissistic hottie to walk into my life needing an oil change. As I sat and watched the wind line begin to ripple, and pond fronds start to click and clack, the umbrella like shroud of canedoom dispersed in such a way as to cascade its somewhat diluted filth over the WEST maui moutains and down toward the premier touist haven on planet Oyyth. I mean Kapalua would be the seventh chakra of Maui for chrissake........Where, you might ask, is the Shame? We are imbued with a sense of entitlement granted on the basis of myth and flaunted with impunity in the name of Shame. I have, in some ways grown to appreciate the crazyass monsoon weather that has characterized a pattern of remarkable change in the array of choices made by the orchard creatures, rooted, crawling, wwoofing or flying. Having watched this movie for many moons, I can say with some authority that the amount of vegetative growth in the orchards this year matches that of the last four or five years. The amount of biomass covering the land is staggering. I'm thinking of petitioning the Chinese gov't for some part time labor to build a huge methane generator out of the cistern and then petitioning the mexican gov't to give me the addresses of illegal immigrants so I can hire them under the table to cut the greenery and turn it to gas. That way, I can fuel the generator that creates the electricity to keep my Leaf charged so I can go to Fong store for my red dog, Toggi bar fix. In a perfect world, maybe. I'm in a tradition starting mood. Having watched the Burning Man phenomenon take hold in such magical and shameful ways I'm thinkin' that the Rancho needs to redefine itself in terms of providing annual entertainment in the form of several parties a year, attended by some of the most overlooked and underqualified musicians on the island. I was thinking that the kicker would be to have a mini festival for the season finale after the fashion of the great shame on the playa. I would call it Burning Spam. If nothing else, it would smell sublime, down to the last crackling chunk oozing some fat like material from the face of Spamann. We are taking submissions for sculptures and interactive displays. They must all be made of spam, have some kinetic component as well as l.e.d. lighting and an adequate supply of toasted bagels for the aftermath of the burn. See how Eco freakin' friendly. No shame whatsoever. Party on. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp p.s. nurse kristen was last seen diving head first into a large, ripe jak fruit. She has not been seen since.