Oh Hello, Its been a rather turbulent four or five weeks around here, what with maintaining the health and wellbeing of the chicklettes until they could be transferred from the killing fields to the wide and almost open spaces reserved for their little feathered tooshies. Big relief to get them oriented to their "permanent" digs and looking healthier and calmer each day. The lone escape artist found her way back in and I finally located and fixed the last breach in the enclosure. Most of you can probably empathize with the joyous stress induction related to preparing for the arrival of a parent, which in this case included all the "last minute" stuff, like furniture and bedding and towels and dishes and silverware and toaster and coffee maker etc. (quite the transformation from WWOOFs on futons). And although it may look like I'm totally at ease with a house full of party animals on the congenial prowl, that's 'cause I'd been drinking ayhuasca for four days in preparation and then weeping for two days after to purge the sense of inadequacy that plagues me when i realize that there weren't enough nappies and forks to go around. I'm not complaining, just venting. I'm really quite emotional for a guy. The mother ship has departed, leaving in her wake a sense of calm awareness and good humor that she carries around like a bag of Hungarian jumping beans hidden inside the I Ching. Nice infusion of energy for WWOOFer wworlldd. Her friend Marsha is selling everything and pledging her life and fortune to me for the opportunity to live here and sleep under a jaboticaba tree. Last season, we saw some ducklings around the beginning of June. The muscovies have been cruising off in pairs (Tux and Maybelle are the cutest) and nesting for a couple of weeks now. With an incubation period of about a month, I'm betting there's some eggs being laid and some hatchlings on the way. We're looking to build the flock up to around thirty. They're great browsers, keep the place slug, roach and centipede free, make fertile tea out of pond water and are well on their way to providing us with cooking and sauna fuel (barring further explosions). The daffyness doesn't get old either. Guarded good news from A.F.B.W.A. (Asylum for birds with amnesia) . Today, i collected sixteen eggs and it appears as though the fog is lifting. I'm going to go so far as to say that we're offering eggs along with the greens, fruits, vegetables, herbs and House of Yumm goodies. We're loaded with atemoya and avocado. Ample supplies of banana and papaya as well. We've got a smattering of citrus, acorn squash, raw coffee beans, some yacon and pepino dulce. Beans are coming on and peas and melons are going in the ground. Unlike psychos, who by definition do the same thing over and over expecting different results, we here at the Rancho repeat our patterns in the hope that we won't suck quite as badly with each passing attempt at engineering systems that are stable in their productivity, resilient and rich with diversity. My old buddy and violin mentor Bratislov Willimoto gave me two discs entitled "how to play in any key". He impishly crossed out the word "play" and substituted the word "suck" to emphasize the two things that deep down inside, we all know. One, we suck. Two, we are capable of sucking less. Move over Buddhism, there's a new paradigm in town. Suckism and the suckists (or suckologists) who are devoted to the philosophical underpinnings and theoretical principles of this "cut the crap" model of viewing the world were inspired by some drunk guy who, while visiting the latrine in a greenwich village cafe wrote these words on the stall just above the toilet paper: "There is no gravity, life sucks". A German philosphy professor, Hientz Katsopff, from Munich who was visiting new york on a quest to hear Jose Feliciano sing "light my fire" saw this graffiti, had an epiphany and the rest, as they say, became this ridiculous screed. Given the fact that the world health organization has elevated the pandemic threat level to number 5 on a scale of 1 to 6, I would advise all online date seekers to reject any requests for hook-ups with people named Maithuna Porker, Francine Bacon or Wilbur Phatbak. Just a suggestion. I don't want to stand in the way of true love. Finally, my sincere thanks to the musicians who have become the backbone of what has been a twenty year run of great parties. To Grimes, the illegitimate love child of Mose Alison and an avocado, K.K. who could have graduated to grand wizard had he not started seeing spots, The Sofa (cause he's so comfy to hang with) laying down a beat so smooth that songbirds land gently on his head while he plays, The preacher, singin like a house ablaze while holding the bottom together, Donny tutone, the bastard offspring of Marty Feldman and Barbara Walters, pedal stealing his way to musical mastery, Dorles, spinning out tunes like a spider tripping balls, Migmikey, making faces that only a conga player could love and Bentley, purring her way through a jam like a twelve cylinder Jag. And to Jimmah and Steph and Dave and Patrick and Greg and my hillbilly buds and Russel and Dina and Jennifer and Willy and all the rest of you who have seen fit to grace this place with your talent and good vibes. Live long and wail. Give us a call if you hunger for the good grinds and remember, our greens are crispy but our attitude is fresh. The more you come, the more we'll grow.Peace, Jp

ZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz, I dreamed a dream of Creation. A dream so vivid and visceral that when the angels wept I watched as their tears touched down and made those little slow motion crown shaped splashes, each part of which caught the dazzling starlight and split off rainbows vectoring in every direction, embracing me in pure color and rapturous sensation. Then i woke up and pulled a groin muscle getting out of bed. Speaking of which, can somebody 'splain to me why all the hubbub and tittering about teabagging anti tax parties last week in the media. While cute and funny to separate out the sexual context with pun and double entendre and underscore the dilemma of all things republican, its not like its anything new. In my day it was called getting a "hummer" and was actually a more evolved practice since it included having your loving partner hum your favorite tune while gargling the twins. My favorite has always been and will always be "Stars and Stripes Forever". HHmmmmm HHmmmmm Hm-Hm-Hmmm Hm-HmHmmmmm, Hm-HmHmmmm HmHmHmmmmm Hm-Heh-Hmmmm-Hm etc.. Auditions tuesday and friday nights, nine to midnight. I mean C'mon. I dreamed a dream of a world populated with choco-hempo-fungitarians (with a side order of Fong dog). A world descendant from a thought so Pure in Intent as to render the mind a Diamond emanating the light of Healing Wisdom. A world in which every act starts and finishes in Love. A world in which that Pure Original Thought and Intent is never forgotten and always embraced. Then I took some glucosamine sulfate cream that my mom gave me and rubbed my crotchel region until the pain subsided. As I was rubbing my groin, I realized that the bailouts are never gonna work ( i know, strange). Not because they could'nt, but because there's no love to be found. The souless Oligreedbots had to sell their hearts to Don Diablo Inc. of San Jose (with offices in Mexico City, Paris, London, Moscow, New York and Paia) for the thrill of earthly pleasure/treasure. They pillage and plunder while all the while feeding the souls of those who hunger for knowledge by teaching them how Not to be, but then if not that, what? So much of our day to day life feeds back into the Kali like grip of this ubiquitous matrix, with app. after app. telling us how to be or not to be (thanks, Willy). I dreamed a dream of no more quid pro quo, just weep no more. I dreamed a dream of the day when all our hearts, like farmers in a dust bowl, find our voice, like the blessing of a Spring rain and proclaim that victory Is as victory Does and that what we do, is our best. I dreamed a dream in which that was enough. Talked to my kid the other day who is campaigning in Alabama and has recently rubbed elbows with the spate of tornadoes passing through the region. From his place of work, the roof of a neighbors barn could be seen flying through space at an altitude of about three hundred feet. Just thought i'd throw that in for those of you overly concerned about split ends, creepy people next door or undercooked pizza.. Doc bebockboc and nurse Sally stopped by the other day to take a gander at the chicklettes. Four thumbs up. Doc said that given the amount of space they have now, there should'nt be too many feathers ruffled from here on out. He suggested that I consider putting some meds in their water supply to assure immune system strength. I asked him if there were any dangerous side effects and he said that aside from hicclucking, hang beak, eggs with sharp edges, and jelly feather, no problemo. I told him about the one remaining escape artist that clearly has the power to "beam" itself out of the enclosure, but not back in. He said he had seen that once before in Montana, but there it was a case of the farmer waking up in the chicken house without knowing how he got there, except that each time, there was this one chicken with glowing red eyes staring him down while scratching at the earth and pacing back and forth. He started feeding them more rendered cow parts and it stopped happening. Big ol' shout out to all of you who came out and made the season opener a pip. It was a four bagger, as in four 55 gallon gahbidge bags full after cleanup and as in a home run. Many thanks to the impromptu helpful hands who made tidying up a breeze. Came out with seven beers, half a bottle of pinot and some peanut sauce and corn chips to show for it. Hair of the dog. We've got the usual supply of foodstuffs at the usual Mana minus 20% price tag. Made a batch of pesto yesterday using a bit of arugula and endive in the mix. Much Yumm. Give a call @ 8786287 and if nobody answers its because I just got caller i.d. and I don't like you. The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Olleh ho, (Hawaiian for Oh hello) , Big Huzzah huzzaaaah, woohooo and whatnot to the Keekster who rounded the corner on a quarter century this week, soon to be seen gobbling up large portions of Germany and Ze Verld with her beauty and intelligence. We put the little chickolecent darlings out the other day. No longer living the life of penned up beasties awaiting debeaking, forced laying and increasingly tighter quarters, the Leghorns, with some 2500 square feet of glycine covered Brigadoon have commenced a display of battery chickens gone wild. Its like a marauding horde of spring breakers. Everything in their frankenchicken rearing is telling them that this is too good to be true. From the bamboo training roosts to two squares a day to bugs everywhere and room to roam. The very thought of pecking a sister to death has vanished into the Scottish mist, hopefully forevah. You can already see the cliques forming. There's the prancer/preener clique, the hide and seek clique, the beak dancers clique and there's always an escape artist clique. I'm convinced that the escape artists are the smartest, in spite of the fact that once they've found a way to break out they spend the rest of the day trying to break back in and for some reason can't puzzle that one through. They go running up and down the fence line poking their little heads through the wire mesh until I catch em' and toss em' back to the mobette at which time they socialize for a few and then try to break out again. They'll all stay put until they start laying (late summer) at which time we'll start to range them freely around the hillside below the house to clear it out and add a touch of fertz. So I got this old pressure cooker and mounted some thick felt on a few wood frames that fit in the cooker. I innoculated the felt with methanogenic bacteria that I got from the same source that sends me mushroom spores, ammo, hemp oil and porn, and put a slurry of duck goo-doo and green manure in the cooker. Well apparently whats supposed to happen is that the bacteria colonize the felt and turn into an army of tiny fart machines, gobbling down the slurry and turning it into things like hydrogen sulfide and methane. I'm picturing their microscopic selves being propelled along the surface of their habitat by way of gaseous effluvium. You know, like passing each other and doing the bacterial version of waving, high fives, a few shakas from the well traveled, all the while, going nowhere in particular but having fun just tooling around. Then proceeded to snap the top shut and clamped a hose onto the pressure relief thingy and ran it into one end of a metal box stuffed with steel wool (primative scrubber for hydrogen sulfide). Ran another hose out the other end of the box to a bunsen burner I found laying around (don't ask). Waited a few days and turned the valve for the burner on and torched a bic. The jet of blue flame that blew the burner off the hose was about three feet long and stopped only when I shut the backup valve off. Didn't tighten the hose clamp on the burner enough. Thats what I call gassin' the cook. Still haven't found the bunsen burner. I think its lodged in a gps satellite. The mother unit arrived yesterday. We strapped down the eighteen foot long tibetan fog horns encased in petrified yak butter, affixed a skull and crossbones flag on the ends sticking out the bed and hit it for the highlands. Quite a sight. Moms been practicing her circular breathing all day and scaring the crap out of the chickens, but then the crap falls on piles of chewed up glycine which acts as fertile mulch for the fruit trees, so we're cool with that. She can play them both at once....... Food, yes. Greens, fruits, House of Yumm treats and maybe a few eggs from the asylum for birds with amnesia (or A.F.B.W.A.), whose purpose in life has been superceded by the need to be snooty little beeeeeotches. I know, I need an aptitude adjustment. Masters weekend has past (and a roller coaster ride it was), so don't be shy, come on by. Just cut a nice stalk of nanners and although mom gets the prime cuts on everything, there's enough for we plebes to nibble. We'd like it if you shopped early in the day as the greens are very dewey fresh. Jennifers got the nursery trees looking great and we still have the best prices on the island, so c'mon, I dare ya to plant some food. You can reach her @5731040 or 2050430. Shameless self promotion brought to you by i.me.my.com. Barring rain, the parties on, and the forecast calls for a sunny day. Lets celebrate the coming paradigm shift, wherin cannabis and raw cacao become the new monetary standards, bartered endlessly for goods and services that we've either forgotten why we needed or are too high on phenethylamines and theobromine to give a shit about. Therein lies the end of consumerism and the beginning of the Endless Age of Tranquility and Goofiness. And yes, you're right, i've crossed the border. {:-] The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace out, Jp

Oh hello, The season opener on April 19th will now commence at four thirty/fiveish instead of two, and go until the sound of the vacuum cleaner overtakes the drunken banter. Here's my reasoning; cause i said so. Actually i've fielded a little flack about earthday and upcountry sundays and would vewee much like to have as many of you chowderheads show up as possible, thus the late start. If the musicians get too cold, we'll bring in Disco Dave and the e-rave firedancers to keep things warm. Mom says her band is used to playing outdoor winter gigs in the parking lots of Bayonne shopping malls, so no sweat. The Gumbo brothers, Moe and Joe are setting up a 55 gallon drum filled with garbage to burn so that they feel like they're at one of their real gigs. There may be a hillbilly or two lurking in the underbrush. Bring some good grinds and remember, parking inside for metaphysicians only. The chicklets are about ten days away from being big enough to put out in the gated communities assigned them according to color, race and egg size. By big enough, I mean incapable of squeezing through two inch chicken wire and capable of enough flight to reach mongoose proof roosts. The fly power is there, we just have to beef em' up a bit. Chick food isn't too expensive, but in exploring the options, it turned out that the depression deals they have on Taco Bell nacho's (three styles) fell just under the chickfood price curve, so alls I do is call in my order for a couple of dozen assorted nacho's and they come meet me at the telephone exchange and slide me the goods on the downlow in case someone from the feed and grain may be watching. The cheese and beans and sourcream are definately having a positive effect on their weight profile and I keep on seeing them craning their necks to look back at their tail feathers as if to wonder, is my ass too big for these feathers? They're at that tender age where appearance is everything. One of Doc Bebockbocs Portaghee friends, Souza Ventura asked me to save ten hens and a rooster for him and then backed out of the deal when he found out you have to take care of them in order to keep them alive. Soooo, there's this one little rooster bouncing around the Leghorn pen trying to decide whether to shit or go blind. He runs around humping everything in sight, but you can tell that he's not really sure why. Meanwhile the ducks are displaying every sort of mating/fighting behaviour in the Book of Muscovy, from delicate neck bobbing to agressive wing biting to corkscrew peckers trying to find purchase. We're thinking of hanging a few webcams from the trees and streaming live duck porn worldwide in an attempt to provide yet another vital and sustainable service to the broadest possible spectrum of plant and animal loving perverts. We could use the cashflow too. I got an email from my buddy Vincent "boombatz" Cardinalli reminding me that it was the forty seventh anniversary of the time he and i got into the parents gin stash resulting in every zinnia plant in the yard dying from puke exposure. Funny what people remember. He remembers every year because it was on the tuesday before the Masters that he came over to my house after school and talked me into pillaging the alcohol stash. A word about the Masters. During the six or seven hours a day that the tournament is televised, my intent is to become immersed, nay obsessed with the viewing of this, a tradition like no other. I will plump the pillows, surround myself with food,drink,remote controls and recreational substances; calls will be ignored (except for Roger and Geoff), shoppers will be shunned and all but an act of the Almighty Hoohaa ( Danielle?) will keep me from the rapture of soaking up the very essence of the Thing. And day after day this revelation of sport will build on itself until the leaders make the turn on the final day to battle it out in golfs equivalent of two out in the bottom of the ninth, three and two count, trailing by three runs and hitting a grand slam in the world series to win it all, except taking three hours to do so,like moderately good sex with sandwich breaks. What I'm saying is that if you want food this weekend, go to Mana and pay 20% more. No bahddah me. I can afford to say this because i beat the spread on the NCAA finals to double my net worth. Wouldn't YOU like to know. I can tell you its high three figures. Let the good times roll. But really, all kidding aside, stay away unless you're a goon for golf or can accept me at 20% attention span for thirty second bursts wearing a self indulgent smirk conveying the message, "these are not the droids you are looking for". Peace out, Jp P.S. Shout out to the Savior who was spotted recently in the body of a street vendor selling deep fried insects and reptiles in Pattaya Thailand, where there is no word for sin.

Oh hello, Spring has sprung and with it the urge to bacchanalia till you drop is reaching escape velocity. I offer as a remedy the first party of the season targeted for Sunday, April 19th. There will be gewgaw and folderol for all. That, by the way is Not what you should bring as your pot luck offering. The usual gang of knuckleheads will lead us down the musical path to temptation and urge us into seditious forms of behaviour like dancing, drinking, smoking, joking and exploring the dark gooshy places ventured into after such an event. My mom will be here and has agreed to fly her all girl band in from joisey to play a couple of tunes. They're called the Octagepussykatz and consist of two Tibetan fog horns, a didgeridoo, accordian, washboard and timbales. They will rip the tops of your heads off. Oh, and by the way, watch your language, eh. I'm calling it for 2pm till 8pm so as to avoid W.M.C.F.K.(WimpMusicianColdFingerKvetch). If its raining, it ain't happening. I read the text of a letter sent recently from some midwestern industrial farm conglom to the First Lady regarding her organic veggie garden, "respectfully" warning her of the dangerous inadequacies inherant to organic farming and going on to trumpet the wonders of chemically treated crops whose yields are SOOOO much greater and whose chances of survival are SOOOO much better because of the wondrous pesticides now coursing the blood streams and altering the genetics of each and every one of us. I needed a time out. Not just a Johnny black with beer back break either. So I went out to the pond and sat on my haunches with a handful of sedated insects (just put em' in the freezer for a couple of minutes), waiting for the nearest bufo to take the bait. Didn't take long before I rassled one down and gently masqueezed its back until a thin, light brown oily substance began to shine in the afternoon light. I took a big ol' lick hoping that the bufo would turn into princess Di in the body of a nineteen year old Thai girl with mocha silk skin, skilled in the art of Kama Sutra with particular mastery of the posture known as "mongoose foraging in the musk melon patch". After vomiting for three or four hours, I felt a lot better. Still seeing stars though. I'm not sending any photos of the chickabals this week as they are grounded. Seems as though the relaxants in their water supply wore off and they ran down the neighbors dog and ate him..............not good. They have taken to weaving strands of grass into bandanas and walking around with boom boxes affixed to their ears playing lowrider music,. You'll see little groups of them hanging out in corners or in tall grass clumps geezing oyster shell flour and planning savage raids on all pets within a four hundred yard radius. We're bringing in one of Doc Bebockbocs close friends who specializes in tough love anger management. What Doctor Waldo Sardonicups phD. does is place the feet of an offending chick ever so slightly into a pot of boiling water so as to solicit a scream inaudible to humans but a total freaker to her cousins. They become completely distracted and forget their bloodlust momentarily. The good doctor has put together a device that allows a chicken to be dipped at an interval which keeps the rest of the flock flummoxed all day. I also saw a technique on Dick Cheneys web site that looks promising. We'll break the little fuckers of their grotesque habits even if we have to kill em'and eat em' all.

Lets see, we've got atemoya, avocado, some citrus, papaya, jaboticaba, soursop, raw coffee beans, plenty of greens and herbs as well as House of Yumm pesto, chocavopousse, tomatillo salsa and froozies. The eggs are trickling in so i'm hoping that within a couple of weeks we'll start to have some to sell. We're open by appointment any time of day although I encourage shopping in the morning or later in the day when the veggie leaves are at there crispy best. 878-6287 Nurse Brandy took off today leaving a super secret recipe for turnovers and tracers of twinklemoan in her wake. She's on assignment in Boulder where she will be participating in a triage operation to treat patients with advanced cases of narcissitic rage. Those who are too far gone will be allowed to sit mindlessly in front of t.v.s that no longer work, clicking a remote which solicits no response but to display a commercial for American Idol over and over again, creating a perfect state of equilibrium between useless wanting and endless waiting. Those still coherant will be read Dr. Seuss stories while on morphine drips. She doesn't know what will come next for her, but has promised to keep us posted as to her whereabouts worldwide, which I look forward to sharing. And last but not least, HOW ABOUT TIGER AT BAYHILL. HOLYCRAP. The more you come, the more we'll grow, Peace out, Jp

Oh Hello, The farm is the world in microcosm. Any and every relationship in existence is witnessed being played out by a cast of characters as diverse as the billions of organisms contained in a tablespoon of healthy soil. From the heartwarming antics of the "pantzer" to the leghorn impersonation of the Hutu and Tutsi one can but wonder at the layers of meaning contained in our ability to observe, collate and empathize. All this in the hope that the small revelations can lead to large clues as to how this tiny life integrates seemlessly with All Life. So much power, so little perspective, so it goes. Our guiding principle here at the Rancho is to allow the intuition to flourish by deepening ones willingness to simply observe and to then act, with confidence, based on those observations. Much of that is routine work and common sense stuff, but hidden within the tapestry of routine can be found patterns in nature which point to universal principles at work and play. Patterns which re-enforce our natural tendency toward integration with our surroundings and a sense that being of service to that which tirelessly, endlessly and without thought or desire supports and nurtures us is natures reward for being human on Earth. On the other hand, if you are Monsanto, Carghill, A.D.M. or other agromaniacs, the stated goal is to control the worlds seed, fertilizer, pesticide and food supply through legislation aimed at legitimizing yet another form of genocide. Want a cup of scary? Google Codex Alimentarius for the creepiest look at foods future and the end of any semblance of "organically" grown food. I've followed this issue for some time now and am not optimistic given that Tom Nutsack, with incestuously close ties to Monsanto was named secretary of agribusiness and that HR 875 is about to be crammed through congress giving unprecedented power over the food supply of the world to those who, in a just world would be hanging by their testicles from the nearest organically grown tree. By the way, the only legislator who has ever gotten back to me on this is Abercrombie, and while his message was laden with gobbledegook, at least he tried. The monsanto mafia, rothschild molesters and kosher nostra are well on their way to controlling food and money in the world. As a public service we have included some recipes for money, since food is rapidly becoming too expensive to buy (over 7 bucks a loaf for bread) and since your "victory gardens" will soon be subject to the scrutiny of monsanto storm troopers armed with pollen guns and ready to claim your harvest as their own and then levee a six figure fine for your seditious behaviour. Sauteed sawbucks:

1. Shred (don't chop) a pile of twenties.
2. Grease skillet with toe jam or a spray of underarm deoderant.
3. Lightly saute sawbucks until the edges begin to brown and curl.
4. Remove from heat, cover with brackish water and let sit for twelve minutes.
5. When the money is al dente, serve over a bed of nickels.

Fricaccee of fifties:

1. Stack fifty dollar bills until one and a half inches high.
2. Cut into cubes. Wrap with duct tape.
3. Gather some tree bark and dead leaves (while nobody is watching) and form into matzo balls.
4. Place ingredients in stew pot with water substitute and green antifreeze.
5. Bring to a rolling boil, cool and serve over a some spent shotgun shells.

Three cheers to Doc Bebockboc and nurse Sally for mixing up a cocktail (no pun intended) of poultry sedatives in mild solution for the little leghorn darlings to drink with daily water and high and behold, while they stumble around a bit (probably the valium), they no longer seem to crave raw flesh. One of the neo-hips going through a "boy" thing asked if she could hang with the chicks and have a shot or two. I told her to reel herself in and mixed her up a pitcher of sunset pina coladas. Nurse Brandy, who has been tireless in her zeal to keep the chicks healthy and happy, all but insisted today that the cure for all my anxieties over watching the cannibals at play was to have her bake up a batch of turnovers with eight different kinds of filling. She told me i'm to eat one an hour and call her in the morning. I think i'll save the white sapote, banana, coconut, pecan turnover with a drizzle of raw cacao sauce for last. Therein lies happymouth. While we have yet to officially name turnovers as part of our House of Yumm offerings, the numbers crunch out well enough that a weekly bake out may be justified, as well as simply prepping and freezing them for you to take home and nuke. We'll keep you posted. So come on down before the property is quarantined and our food confiscated for not containing enough toxic matter to pass for "organic". We're through the looking glass here people. Next stop, sunshine tax. We're open until we're not. Give a call @ 8786287 and come down for some politically incorrect food. The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Oh Servus! I was browsing Der Spiegel today (do I have to have a reason?) and came across a heartwarming article linking compassion and euro in a daisychain of economic and psychophysical relief. The headline read, "Brothel cuts rates by half for senior citizens". Given the legal and respectable nature of prostitution in Germany and the fact that the economy is the vurst since ze vohrr, a perfect marriage. Rates are only good between 10am and 4pm, you must be over 66 and you can bring your spouse. Hmmmmmm, only four and a half more years...........i'll be covered by medicare in case I get Bulgarian herporrhea or a heart attack. Ahhh, the golden years. This part may be creepy to some. We've been witnessing acts of outright cannibalism amongst the leghorn population. By the time we noticed the bloodied feathers on the first three or four, they were gettin' pecked down to the flesh and then some. Had to isolate them in some old bunny cages w/food and water supply to see if they would heal up and not continue to indulge in behavior most unbecoming. The majority of wounds occur at the base of the tail feathers where the baby feathers still reside and provide scant cover for the succulent flesh that tastes just like a whopper. Well, we've been pulling them out for the last few days and keeping them isolated to groups of no more than four or five and they seem to be recovering nicely. I decided to give doc Bebockboc and nurse Sally a shout and they told me to call the nursery, find out what they say and then get back to them if I had any more questions. I thought that was kind of a strange response until I called the nursery.

"Hi, this is Margie at Ahdeel Powtry, how may ah hep you?" "Yes, I bought some birds which you shipped last month and the Leghorns seem to be eating each other. I mean literally. Are they cannibals or what?" (jokingly) "Oh yes sir, they ahr." "Really?" (incredulously) "Oh yes sir. Once they git the taste of bloooood, they cain't stop." "But the Reds are so docile and calm and don't even seem to shit as much. Is there anything I can do, because this is totally unacceptable." (In kind but firm tones) "Well sir.....................hold on, ah'll ask." "O.K." "Yes sir, the owner Jerry sayd that you need to get some of that Camphophenic, just like the kind you have in your medicine chest aind paint that awn the birds, or just get one a' them big ol' toenail clippers and clip their beaks off. He says that the production Leghorn are fiesty like that." "I'm sorry, we don't mutilate our birds here and don't you think it would be appropriate to tell your clients about a habit like that? I mean, do they behave that way as adults, or do they grow out of it?" "Hold awn sir, ah'll ask... O.k. sir, yes, Jerry says they are like that as adults as weyll."

At this point a time out was called for, so I reached for the last of the animal tranks that Doc had slipped me and knocked it back with some Johnny Black as I mumbled that i'd phone back in a few days and we could talk about it. She said they "wanted to be of hep if they coood." Phew, what a relief. I was going to send you photos of exposed and bloodied flesh, documentary style, pointing out the dangers of hybrids pushed to the edge, but opted for recovery room shots instead. Nurture over nature. We've started reading the "Greenleaf guide to Vegan Cookery" to them and have some "Ghandi on nonviolence" tapes in the mail. The oldest of the Knucklehead Consortium, i.e. the pair of four year old Black Australorps started laying on the ides of March. Co-inkydink or the foreshadowing of hard boiled doom? I'm going with the triumph of the light, as in happy equinox and here's to an unmatched laying season. The youngsters should be online in time for our thirteenth annual fiftieth birthday party. We've got fresh avo, atemoya, citrus, papaya and we'll be cutting a stalk of bananas in the next few days. Plenty of greens as well as the usual pile of miscillany. Running a bit low on chocavopousse but the sharwil avo is kicking in just in time to provide a little extra fruit to amp up the supply. A clockwork green. So, as March grunts and groans its way out of pretending to be tough, and warmth and light win the northern hemisphere over, go plant a seed that has nothing to do with greed. The more you come, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp