Website, c.s.a. tab, weekly menu. Go, look. |:-} (that's me sticking my tongue out at you)

The cold, misty nighttime air soothed my face which still felt a bit like pork cracklins'. The shoulder held up pretty well as I used my standard fall asleep routine, which is counting chickens. Chickens jumping through futuristic microwave hoops. Chickens that come out the other side plated as buffalo wings and tender juicy breasts dazzled with Thai glaze. Chickens that will never again fly up in my face when I toss them some food. Grateful dead chickens, happy to serve and be served. Never made it to a hundred before nodding off.

My awakenings throughout the night brought drifting star maps and wandering satellites and a reluctant but unavoidable whizz. The nene sang the dawn into being and the anticipation of the hike out the gap was front and center. My feet were wet with the cold dewy grass as I walked out back to the catchment tank, filled a pot half full of cold water and immersed my face until running out of breath. I was really glad there were no mirrors. As it was, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the cabin windows, and it shattered.

Floors got swept, dishes got washed, packs got packed, sleeping bags got stuffed and water bottles got filled. Campers emerged from grassy campsites, zombie-like looking for the crapper. The sun had yet to crest the eastern pali and the walk to the kaupo trail head was cool, shady and damp, with tall grass soaking our pants and shoes within minutes. I always forget that part of the hike as well as the two or three extra pairs of dry socks that make the squishy foot go away.Maybe next time.

Looking across the gap to the west of the trail head, the peak called Haleakala had been bathed in the morning sunlight while the shadow cast by the ridge was in full retreat down to the base and across the western portion of the gap lighting the landscape in its wake. There were some swirling clouds and chilly breezes but it was a beautiful morning for a walk. We got baked and forged ahead.

The trail hugs the east side of the gap and winds in and out of grassy fields with outcroppings of thorny black raspberry bushes. We've been up there when they were in season and going off and it still took a discriminating eye to pick ones that tasted reasonably good. Leave it to Ty to spot some thimble berries, which along with Ohelo made a two part trail mix. The meadows merged with rocky switch backs and ridge line high points. We passed the last meadow before the sun poured over the ridge to bring the warmth our way.

The Kaupo bay came into view on a ridge overlook and I knew we were halfway out of the park. Safety break. Noemie was keeping pace with Tyler and I while Emily and James were bringing up the rear, leaving time for the occasional snog. It was time to change into my driest wet socks, lose the long sleeves and dive into the snack bag. We all sat together, strewn along the trail sharing food and taking in the calm majesty of the place. Noemie ate and drank nothing. It was like she was being nourished by what her flying saucer eyes were taking in.

The feel of the tropics was coming back as we had probably dropped fifteen hundred vertical feet. Koa trees and A'ali'i bushes appeared along with small shrubs, ferns and rock clingers with delicate poly-form flowers. Lichen and moss held on to stone and tree alike. The remainder of the hike through the park is spectacular. Views of the southern coast opened wide as we wound in and out of old stand ohia and koa hung with Spanish moss, surrounded by long, soft grassy carpeting and an invitation to wild crater sex if ever there was one. I was hoping that James and Emily would take advantage of this opportunity to file away a "we boinked under a koa tree in the soft grass of the Kaupo gap" moment. You just never know how many of those your gonna get.

We had come from the barren, dry and wind swept summit walking through this timeless zone, being replenished and exhausted all at once. And now, as the native tropical landscape marked our safe passage along the remaining trail, I had the same revelation that I always have, one of subtle but distinct transformation. Of acceptance. Of surrender. Sort of like, " ahhhhh haaa, That's what the fuck." All of this while watching Noemie and my peaceful young warrior blaze the trail through the tall green grass to Kaupo's end. Satisfying stuff.

Once out of the park its time to tank up and cool down for the hike through the ranch. We picked a rock outcropping down and to the right to drop our packs, lose the shoes, air out the feet and recharge. Its quite a stark contrast to look back into the fenced off park and then at the dramatically different landscape created by the decades of cattle ranching going on in Kaupo. There is a lone avocado tree standing by the park exit. There are cow pies everywhere you look. Old dry ones, fresh steamy ones, ones with amorphous shapes, one that looked like Jay Leno's chin. There's a rutted rocky four wheel drive road with erosion patterns in the usual places that doubles as the "trail" through the ranch.

Enter the Bizarre. Here we sat, having been immersed in the peace and stark rampant beauty of Haleakala national park for three days, when not twenty minutes after returning to "civilization" we heard the not so distant thumping of helicopter blades followed by the appearance of not one, but two yellow potcopters. They were low enough to see the grizzled look of the pilots mug and were running search patterns in and out of the valleys and along the ridges. One of them took off into the park for a look-see. It was as though the lord of karma had decided that we were entirely too chilled out and needed a little reality check. Welcome back, kids. Irony be thy name.

This surreal buzzkill continued unabated for the better part of a half hour as we hiked through the grasslands. At one point the trail overlooked a flat area where one of the choppers sent down a wire to pick up a large bag full of "something". There was a small portable looking building in the middle of nowhere and two or three black s.u.v.'s parked there looking very much like gubmint issue. It was like someone had taken the remote and gone from the discovery channel special on the wonder of national parks, to a crime scene on Dog the bounty hunter. A true "remember the time when" moment.

The sideshow finally ended and we were left fully exposed to a glorious sun, winding our way down a trail rather treacherous in its rock strewn steepness. Its slow going and a test on the toes and shins and calves and knees and thighs. Other than that, piece of pie. One of the high points of this part of the hike is rounding a corner and seeing two large water storage tanks sitting there, reflecting the sunlight. There's a constant flow of sparkling water piped in from the watershed replenishing the supply. Their effect is magnetic.

I'm stripping off my pack then my hat then my shirt, grabbing the empty water bottles and heading up the ladder to the edge of the tank where I can hang over an dunk myself up to the shoulders in liquid life. A welcome boost at the perfect time. Be a great place to set up a little pizza by the slice place. Pina coladas and vitamin B shots on the side.

I knew from experience that we were only one or two short rest stops away from the ranch border gate. By now the sun was beating down tropical, Emily's calves were cramping, general energy levels flagging (except for Noemie who had that ready for anything look) and all in all a desire to see Beauregard parked at the ranch entrance with Cassie and Jeremiah, a.k.a. Bubba Mahalo's at the ready to load up and cruise home. That's about the way it went down.

We wound our way through thickening foliage, picked the occasional guava, found the shade of some old stand common mangoes and traversed the final meadow and past the huge tractor tire thats used for a cattle trough to find that the ever lovin' couple had loaded up a cooler with homemade humus (broke da mouth), cucumbers and felafel's, iced beverages, fresh fruit and Noemie's favorite ranch dip with a bag of those tiny lathed carrots. If possible, she lit up even brighter.

We made the obligatory stop at the Kaupo store for some zoo zoo's and a frosty one, pointed the trusty steed toward home and watched the road disappear beneath us.

"Is that it unky jp, huh is that it? Didja hafta kill anything or drink blood to survive?"
"No, no little feller, we did just fine with water, and no killin' necessary."
"Thats cool unky jp. Maybe next time."
"Thats right, little feller, there's always next time. Sweet dreams."

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Thanks to the clear headed advice of rap star Jay Nay I'm gonna start rather than end, with a prompt to go to the "csa" tab on the www.ranchorelaxzo.com site if you are interested in finding out what kine food we get. Learning how to be annoying and insistent at the expense of your customers peace of mind is an important aspect of marketing and one of which I hope to become surpassingly obnoxious. Mahalo's, the meanagement.

You know the feeling when you come to from an afternoon nap in a space that turned too hot while you were sleeping. You wake up in a sweaty daze punctuated by some drool, blurred vision and creased cheeks. Thinking is all askew and left arm half asleep and starting to tingle, with a nene goose nibbling on your big toe. You know that feeling? Me too.

The scene was typical Paliku. James and Emily had planned their day and were busily dividing the contents of a clear plastic bag, scarfing a substance resembling tree bark and dried seaweed, all giggles and smiles. Young love. Disgusting really. Noemie was in a wandering whimsy and appeared to stop every now and again to pet a flower or taste the dew on a blade of grass. Ty was plotting an agenda which included challenging the ridge overlooking Kipahulu valley.

I went through the gruelling process of moving eighteen feet to the left, positioning myself in the shade of an overhanging tree next to the cabin and letting the dappled sunlight dance the rusty bag of bones polka. I did my "old guy" yoga shtick, made note of increased circulation in the still functioning extremities and figured to make it through the day. My hand went periodically to the trail mix bag like some solid fuel i.v.. I went in and out of reading and reverie, feeling the heat on my face and the cool breezy shade initiating a comeback.

Turns out that after a couple of exploratory walks, Ty and Noemie went off on the ridge hike together which I thought was totally cool because I figured Ty would get to see her whip out a pair of tinkerbell wings and butter-fly her way up the trail to the ridge, so convinced was I of her otherworldly roots.

What a moment though.Perhaps the only time in this girls life that she will experience Haleakala, taking one of the more difficult and rewarding climbs with the doofusburger (thats Mr. Doofusburger to you) leading the way, courteous and confident. What a nice connection for two young people to make. Its a reminder to me of how significant a place Haleakala can be in a persons life and what a blessing it is to live in its shadow. The view from the ridge is sweeping and encompasses an almost mind numbingly beautiful landscape. I could imagine Noemie taking it all in and filing it away under "Mon Deux".

A couple of campers showed up and a group of six headed for the ranger cabin for some all out howlin'. I had boiled up some water for the trip out the gap and then cooked up the remaining pasta and pesto. A one dish smorgyborg. The scene looking toward the gap from the grassy lawn of Paliku cabin was dynamic. From prairie grasses doing the wave in the wind to the pack horses grazing lazily in the sprawling tree splotched meadow down to the left. The misty clouds never ceased their mutable morph, climbing the ridges and surging up the gap. At one point a wave of fog washed up and vanished the surroundings, gobbling up the cabin for a few minutes before melting like cotton candy in a little kids mouth. The nene held sway and foraged their way through the afternoon while the overall sense of being peacefully disconnected opened up a growing contentment. Breathing deep came easily.

Somehow the healthcare debate lost its gravitas. Peak oil, ppffffff. The rape and pillage of the planet in the name of corporate profits; boys will be boys. Global warming, a carefully crafted conspiracy theory to hide the fact that the military has been controlling the weather for decades. Economic meltdown, cacao beans were used for currency until the late nineteenth century, so sweat it not.

It should be mandated that all members of congress, s.c.o.t.us and the executive branch be annually set ablaze by some powerful entheogen, given three liters of fresh water with a squeeze of lemon and set loose to wander the crater, nekked, for sixty four hours while spending an hour contemplating each of the hexagrams of the I Ching. Confucius say "Inertia bad, self induced freak out, good." Once you've hugged a silversword and shared a good cry with a nene goose, its game over.

James and Emily had gone wandering for a couple of hours after which they parked themselves on the other side of the cabin in the tall shaded grass. Evidence of burbling and cooing were riding the breeze and what seemed to be a ridiculously good time for them continued unabated. Disgusting really.

Now Emily, when she's not playing Bonnie to James' Clyde is a naturalist who works, of all places at a bird sanctuary in Olinda that breeds nene and sets them back in the wild after spending hours forced to watch South Park episodes and listen to tapes of Milton Freedmans economic theory. She's not sure who initiated that protocol. She is able to replicate every nuanced sound they make and has pretty much figured out what they are saying. Its funny because every now and then right in the middle of an intimate conversation with James she'll go into some goose-speak tirade having overheard some kind of squabble in the underbrush. James just robs banks.

Ty and Noemie got back as Maui's grasp on the sun weakened and the evening began to awaken. Ty came over and put a mirror under my nose to make sure I was still alive. We chatted about the hike and he said that Noemie had no problem keeping up and in spite of language barriers had his usual mellow, open eyed, good time adventure. I must say that aside from the occasional minor spazz, Tyler is very level headed as humans go. The right combination of receptivity, self respect and selfless service. Doesn't hurt to have the brain of a mutant either.

And Noemie, this picture of youth, this student of agricultural engineering with a mind to explore relief work, standing there kind of knock kneed and smiling big like she had just seen something that added a bunch of acreage to her farm. The end of the day was reconciled in harmony as we all began to think with our stomachs.

The pasta was there for all and as for the rest, bags of this and that appeared, joints were torched and Ty made some tea out of the wild spearmint he found growing on one of his walks. The temperature dipped with the rays of the sun and the first signs of night crept over the pali to the east. It was a typical Paliku day segueing into an evening spent in candlelight and card games with pecans as poker chips. Noemie kicked our butts.

"Whats next unky Jp, huhhuhhuh?? Didja sleep outside again or rastle the moon?? Whadja do next?"

"Well little feller, your gonna have to trust me on this, but I can't really talk about what happened next, 'cause it involved nakedness and coconut oil and more of that stuff that looked like tree bark and dried seaweed, but i'll tell you all about that when your a bit older."

"Thanks unky Jp. Thanks." " Sure, little feller, sure."

Out the gap we go.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

The nene were well into their daily foraging routine as the morning light crested the Paliku ridges and raced to illuminate. There were some sounds coming from inside Kapalaoa cabin as bodies moved from slumber to remember. One could feel the early momentum surging toward the hike to Paliku cabin.

Now of the three cabins in the crater it may just be universally agreed upon that Paliku wins the chi chi ,bo bo, ya ya award. Oh, by the way, big disappointment at Kapalaoa in the fact that the wooden picnic style table inside had been formaicaed over in a transparent attempt to bring tackiness to the wilderness. Paliku has it all. You're still in the crater with amazing vistas but its a bit warmer and much greener and the vibe in the cabin is one of having arrived rather than just passing through.

Ty and I knew this well but the lam-misters and frenchy hadn't a clue. I have this little thing I go through upon awakening and finding myself sore, sleep deprived and partially ossified with plenny more hiking ahead. What I do is ask myself, "what the fuck, you could be home drinkin' hot chocolate and watching Maddow, whatchu dooin'?"The response is always the same. Too late now, sucka. From there it just gets easier.

Noemie had popped her lenses in and wiki'ed her stuff into her pack and was out in front of the cabin breathing the morning in. Any eye contact with that girl solicited the signature smile. She looked fresh as the proverbial daisy. She ate and drank nothing. The cabin cleanup went quickly with Emily and James at the helm. Ty and I replaced the bunk matress to its designated slot, packed up, did some dishes, filled our water bottles, locked the back door and walked out into the cool bright morning.We all departed the cabin and with the click of the combo lock made our way to the trail.

At first its a bit like the trail leading to Kapalaoa. Kind of small grain cinder lined with flax and fern plants. But then it segues into a lava pathway strewn with loose rocks. There are old flow outcroppings on the left and a beautiful meandering arroyo on the right. One can look up at the ridges and see the remnants of rock slides spread out at the keyline like a river delta caught in a freeze frame.

About a quarter mile down this path on the left is a small access point through the rough sculpted lava. It was here that I found a camp site on my first trip into Haleakala in June of '70. Spent nine nights tent camping and ten days roaming the hills electric like I owned the joint. I'd go to the cabin once every day or two to get water for cooking and drinking.

This one time there were a couple of San Fransisco socialite moms with three or four kids doing the sliding sands to kaupo hike. All North Face and Kelty. I was hanging by the cabin brewing up some tea when they arrived. The youngest boy who couldn't have been more than seven or eight looked pooped. He was carrying a small pack that sagged a bit under the weight. We exchanged greetings and I smiled at the kid and said, "looks like you're ready for a rest". He just rolled his eyes back. Turns out he was charged with the task of carrying in a six pound london broil as well as the packets of freeze dried beef stroganoff, dehydrated daiquiri mix and his sleeping bag and toothbrush. We talked a little about this and laughed a bit about that and as I got up to go they invited me to come back at sunset for daiquiris, which I did. Acid and daiquiris. I felt like staying up there forever.

We wound our way around and through rock formations and thickening vegetation. Narrow rocky trails require full attention and a sure footed pace so one has to slow way down to take in the surroundings. Even though the once molten lava is fixed in stone, there is a very dynamic feeling to it all. Brilliant blue sky framing subtle earth tones and mountainous moonscapes all under the radiant and healing sunlight. Miller time.

Ty was the first to spot some ripe Ohelo berries which although somewhat bland tasting impart real refreshment and began to appear regularly along the path. We took rest when tired and kept a leisurely pace. The trail eventually intersects with the one from Holua cabin at the base of a large cinder cone, Puu Oili where we all kicked back and broke out the goods.

I twirled a slim one, fished the bag of trail mix out of my pack and took a long pull off my water bottle. It was chilly enough in the breezy shade to scare up a few goosebumps. Ty and I sucked some smoke and passed it on to the cooing James and Emily. We all sat quietly munching a snack or two, re hydrating and waiting for that point when you're nearly too relaxed to keep moving. At that moment its either kick back and have a snooze or build a small fire under the toosh that is your will to forge ahead. It would have been a nice time to play a little shakuhachi to pump up the breathing, except for the fact that I forgot to bring it. I held my stiffened arms and splayed hands up and made a Frankenstein meets Jerry Lewis moaning sound in the hope that someone would give the ol' guy a little help. Not a chance.

As you come around the Puu, the trail opens out into a lava field , smooth and shimmering in the sunlit heat. Its my favorite area because its so open and speaks so transparently of the spectacle of molten rock making its way toward the gap. It also affords one of the best views both east and west.

A couple of years back i sat with my dad on his death bed and told him that Ty and I had agreed that some of my ashes be spread in the crater by the hill called Oili. I asked him if he'd like to have a pinch of himself join the party. He smiled and nodded, so as our little excursion approached the favored location, Ty and I hung back and let the others go on to Paliku.

We sloughed our packs and started searching the area for the "spot". After a few moments we came across a bubble cave which for some reason had what looked like a couple of hundred feet of loosely coiled speaker wire tossed on the ground. We figured some hippy found the cave while tripping balls, got caught up in a fantasy about living there and got as far as bringing in some speaker wire for his surround sound, solar powered music system. The novelty must have worn off.

To the left of this strange anomaly was a lava outcropping with deep grooves forming near concentric circles from peak to base. There were three distinct levels. So we talked it out and sprinkled the last of dads ashes in the upper groove, reserving the middle for me and the foundation for Ty. We walked back to the path, keeping a slanted rock landmark in sight. It was a cool moment for us both and further cemented the bond that has been such a blessing in our lives.

From there, its less than a mile to Paliku. The trail opens up the view down the gap, across the channel and to the big island where the volcanoes appear to just hang suspended in the passing clouds. Misty drafts raced up the gap curling off the ridges as the final leg of the trail revealed the roof of Paliku cabin coming into view. We passed through tall grass and the first of the raspberry thickets that grow around the cabin and down the gap. It's not a long hike but I was ready to strip off my shoes, socks and shirt and lay motionless in the cool green grass.

Unfortunately I fell asleep and burned my face to a crisp. I awakened to the sound of an egg frying on my forehead.

Check the website for this weeks food items. Its right there under the "csa" tab at the top of the page.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Sweet dreams, Jp

Where was I? Oh yeah.......

After settling down to a snack of apples and cheese and feeling our bare toes instinctively kneading the short grass and cinder, Ty and I went into the cabin to check the progress of the water heating on the stove. It was a rolling boil, so I pulled a pound of pasta out of my pack (say that fast five times) and Ty grabbed the pesto. Now one thing you usually find in the cabin kitchen is salt, but tonite, none.

During the course of the hike I realized I had forgotten seven things, one of which was salt, and i'd just taken delivery on a five pound bag of pink himalayan salt which is made from the crystallized perspiration of sherpa guides collected at the exact moment of reaching the peak of Everest. Seriously.

I knew the pesto would be less than spectacular, but figured a little carbo loading would be good for the hike to Paliku. Cooked up the pasta, drained off the water, mixed in half the container of pesto and ended up with enough pasta to feed us all and have four pounds left over to dump in the crapper the next day. By the way, a definite improvement to the overall aromatics.

I hadn't seen Noemie eat or drink all day, except for a slice of apple at the base of Sliding Sands. She had about a half a small bowl of pasta for dinner. She looked fresh as a daisy, needed no bandaids for blisters and had a not so subtle glow going, even after she had popped her lenses and donned the Tina Feys. I was beginning to suspect extra terrestrial origins. Everyone had settled into their respective bunk spaces with packs open and clothes being balled up into pillows.

After a spirited round of cards by candle light , with pecans doubling as poker chips, I figured to take the bunk "mattress" off the stand and put it outside on a relatively flat spot to get the full effect of the nearly new moon sky and the tail end of the Perseid meteor showers. Besides, its hard enough for me to sleep with the pitterpatter of little gecko feet on the ceiling in my bedroom no less four other people tossing, or in Emily and James' case, whispering, giggling and snogging.

So Ty and I pulled one out and carried it to the side of the cabin where I rolled out the mummy and zipped up. Ty had a ground blanket and his bag and hung out with me until it got too cold for his gear. We watched as satellites appeared and meandered across the heavens in varying orbits and elevations, two of which came careening at each other and missed by a space inch. We were bummed when they didn't crash 'cause that would have been awesome.

The milky way hung like a gossamer fixed cloud draped over the crater, we stared into the center of the galaxy or thereabouts. Jupiter had risen over the eastern ridges and was pulsing'. Scorpio was prominent to the south with Antares at its heart, glowing red. The breeze was still steady and my face was comfortably cold. Turns out the nene go clubbin' at night 'cause they were whooping it up well into the darkness. Beautiful sounds, really. A seamless community, day or night, their little black faces radiating thanks for the Obama presidency and that the National Park service's plans for the crater include a massive outer space theme park for residents of Dubai and Brunei only, then they can finally get some fucking good food to eat. Grass gets old.

There's no real sleeping up there, there's just the surface of dreams then waking to stare out at the living planetarium as the earths rotation presents a slightly different view each time eyes open. Saw four meteors. One for each awakening. Saw a bunch of those distant zigzaggy things too. You know, the ones that fit no rational flight pattern but go whipping around up there anyway. Anomalies are good.

Reflected on what a fine young fellow Tyler has become and how our Love, in the process of aging opens up the power of Two, Tao, Chokmah, Wisdom. All the while, mantra sounding in the background. Ommanipadmehumommanipadmehumommanipadmehum. ._.. ._. ... _.. __...

Upon waking for the fifth time, the starlight had diminished and the dawn was insinuating itself over to the Paliku ridges. I felt a bit like hammered dog shit. Like the dark wrinkle creatures had unpacked their bags under my eyes. Like even if I soaked my head in a bucket of ice water my face would still feel like a shar pei with a hangover might look, if shar pei's got drunk and actually cared how they looked. My sore shoulder had kicked my ass most of the night and a mummy bag is no place for a borderline psychotic with a fear of being institutionalized.

Breathed my way through all that and got a smidgen of comfortable rest before unzipping and heading around the back of the cabin to the outside water faucet at the base of the roof catchment tank. Cupped a few hands to my face and ran some wet through my hair. Turned to see the clouds on the eastern horizen had acquired some golden piping. Coming up on some photo op moments when I realized that my camera was the second thing i forgot.

I shifted into a sort of rasta dance mode to lube the brittle and chill out the cold. Rockin' too and fro mahn, wit' dee oh-kaijjinahl bouncin' up and dowen trown in. Suns morning glow now widespread. Sun itself cresting the clouds and spreading rays out over the crater ridges like locusts on a field of ripe corn. Not terribly warm at first, but totally reassuring. Ty came out the back door, we smiled and shared our standard "johnboy"......."budyoh" salutation as he headed for the outhouse. We were less than a full day in and life surged with glowing color and growing warmth.

A play in one act:

"Do i have to go to sleep now unky Jp. Cantcha just tell me a little more of your crater adventure, huh, pleeeesohpleeesohpleeees." O.k., little feller, maybe a few more lines." " Thanks, unky Jp."

Next week, Morning two and the hike to Paliku.

"Sorry little feller, i lied, get used to it."

This afternoon, in the process of doing chores as in kissing the asses of chickens who could give a shit (thankfully), I filled my belly with a scrummy apple banana, a handful of strawberries, a soupcon of lemon guava and a perfectly tree ripened r2e2 mango. Just thought you'd like to know.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

High there, Final notice on the party because I forgot to mention things like the address and the day, so spacey was my week. 2233 olinda road, Sunday the 23rd, 5pm, pot luck.

After watching Tiger beat himself to death at Hazeltine we all bounced into the truck and headed up to the crater. Jeremiah the transformer (as in transforming the farm with his might and bright) and nurse Cassie (the high priestess of compassioneat), drove us up the mountain on a splendid Sunday afternoon. Ty and I were accompanied by Noemie, our darling French wwoof, who had never taken a hike before, as well as James and Emily, a young couple from the Midwest who had just robbed several banks on Oahu and were on the lam looking for a place to lay low.

After checking into the ranger station and watching a seven minute buzz kill of a slide show advising us not to flick our cigarette butts, defecate in the wood stove or cook up any nene geese, we piled back into Beauregard and blazed up to the summit where we were greeted by brilliantly clear skies and air that when taken in deeply felt like ethereal spun honey mixed with ecstasy. A kind of instant giddiness ensued. Could have been partly due to the shrooms we ate during the slide show.

We pulled the truck over on the summit road to unload the packs and pick up the trail a ways up from the visitor center. As we were doing so, a ranger cop pulled up behind us, lit up his bubble gum machine and explained in his condescendingly superior voice that there is a parking lot provided at the visitor center for this sort of thing. It was almost like he wanted us to throw the packs back into the truck and park down there, you know, so that we did it by the book. Jeremiah just walked over to the guy and clocked him so hard that his teeth turned up on the Hamakua coast. We left him toothless and bloodied laying on the road and booked it down the trail. Dontcha just wish you could do that?

No matter how many times I hit that part of Sliding Sands that affords a full view of the caldera, I am left totally speechless. There's just joy bubbling to the surface and inspiring giddyup. You can be packing in thirty pounds but you feel like you're walking on air. For Tyler and I, it carved out the tenth anniversary of hiking the crater together and a lot of memories that get packed away like your favorite christmas tree ornaments stashed in a box in the attic, or in our case that stack of vintage Mad magazines. I think we can safely say that our mutual love for this ritual is no flash in the pan.

We were all a bit concerned for Noemie, being the novice and weighing in at about a hundred pounds (including a pair of Jane Mansfields which fortunately helped to balance the backpack), but she seemed very at ease and kept pace with no problems while flashing her signature smile at each and every eye contact. I'd see her growing more and more enchanted by everything she was taking in. We all hiked at our own pace and took rest stops together where energy bars and apples were munched and water guzzled. The afternoon sun was just right and we figured to get to Kapalaoa cabin somewhat before dusk. We passed from rock scape to sparse flax plants into silversword groves, fern patches and earth tone cinder cone outcroppings, all along being embraced by the silence and purity of the place.

Not sure what got into me, but I was really feeling the trail and made it down to the bottom of Sliding Sands well ahead of the youngsters. Kicked back in the shade and had me a long pull on the water bottle and a handful of the mix i'd put together made out of pecans, almonds, dried blueberries, tamari sunflower seeds and raw cacao nibs. My heartbeat slowed and my skin cooled in the shade. I heard the call of the nene reflecting off the ridges as the others arrived. We all sat half mesmerized and burned a bone. Silence punctuated by the occasional curious buzzing fly followed. Its a raw, stark, beautiful, peaceful place that gobbles up all but that which is of the Essence.

Ty took the lead for the last leg of the hike. He's in good shape due to the his membership in the Howler monkey fight club. I watched him move along the trail occasionally stopping to do a three sixty or crouch down to check out a flowering plant or roving insect. I caught him up a little ways before the cabin and we flashed on the time that we were hiking through on a July fourth weekend a few years back. It was one of those simultaneous memory bubbles. Turns out that around the beginning of July, the afternoon sun plays off the foothills on the opposite side of the crater to produce a sprawling shadow that looks exactly like a t-rex poised to pounce on some unsuspecting prey. No, really. Given the declination of the planet and the rapidly changing solar angle we figured that the shadow probably only lasts a week or two and that we wouldn't see it this time. We were right.

No t-rex but only three tenths of a mile to the cabin, which after a five and a half mile slog is a welcome site given that a normal days excercise consists of bossing people around, hitting a few seven irons into a net, hefting a bottle of scotch and reaching for the remote. The typical gang of nene's was hanging out in front of the cabin making their nene sounds, browsing the stubbly grass and hoping for the appearance of an insect or two. They have a complex, sonorous and interesting language. We figured they were saying, "quick, look cute and they'll break out the grub". We sloughed off our packs, kicked off our shoes, unlocked the cabin and sat our asses down. Doobage and food were first to be unpacked. Its about then that the whole immersion into the crater experience really settles in. Total disconnect. No more nothin'. Only-eye.

Sitting out in front of the cabin, without the focus of the hike, the movement of the environment takes over. A passing trio of flying nene's. The quick moving red masked partridge like birds that scamper around the flax. The yellow jackets checking out the apples and the ever present fly by. There are wasp traps hung in the brush and small spiders clinging to webs that strain in the wind. Ty found some small psychoactive mushrooms in the nene poop as well as in the area close to where the horses get tied off. He's got a good eye for that shit. I can't for the life of me figure where he got that.

We'd packed in some farm pesto and a couple of pounds of pasta so we got to boiling some water. Emily and James were huddled together cooking up their next heist and Noemie was out front gathering it all in. Ty and I were cutting off a hunk of Fontinella to go with our Pink Lady apples (i kid you not) as dusk began its descent and the eastern horizon boasted a few stars. We took it all in, looked at each other, shared a high five smile and in the vernacular of corporate america, had a kodak moment.

That's right, we've got food too. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Oh slow-mo,

That's the way I've been feeling lately, like everything is fishbowl friendly and moving like a remora sucking algae off an aquarium wall. So lets get the business out of the way. Auntie Dorothy and yours incredulously cordially invite you to the thirteenth annual fiftieth birthday party of some poor schmucks who are turning sixty two. Don't get me wrong, i like the aging process, especially in wine, mango trees, cheese, single malt scotch and editorialized life stories. Its applying the template of time to myself that just somehow doesn't seem fair. Know what i mean? And yet , the end of another year approacheth like a foil destined for the heart of Hamlet. I've broken all the mirrors in the house in preparation.

There will be music and fine potlucking at the sumptuous Rainbow Acres high atop Rockefeller plaza in downtown olinda. The festivities begin at 5pm and go until Grimes pops out of the cake and has sex with a blowup doll in the midst of a frenzy of flying icing. Don't know about you but I wouldn't miss it, 'cause to pass up a free meal these days is chust cwazy.

Now, for the less frivolous news; there is this one leghorn that is most assuredly the runt of the batch. She's pint size for her age and in serious danger whenever competing for feed is involved. Soooo, we decided that it might be wise to give her a shot at the full free range spectrum, not unlike Smartypantz. We let her out to roam for the day. She seemed to do fine until the evening feeding time came and i went into club Leghorn to dispense the goods. So intent was the runt at getting back in to be with her abusive sisters that she literally pushed her way through a slight breach in the chicken wire and merged with the flock. We've named her Cinderella and wish her luck.

Ty arrived yesterday with tales of howler monkeys, senorita's and coconut moonshine. He shows the signs of self assurance that are the ultimate comfort to a parent, and in spite of marking a transition to independence of thought, speech and action we are very much on the same page and remain devoted to the lunatic fringe with its many and varied creative sideshows. We have three days of the crater ahead and look forward to clearing a few cobwebs from the attic.

I was told on Friday that our application for ag. water rates had been approved and its as though an area of creativity in my mind that had been put on hold for over a decade decided to make its way sheepishly into the light of day and quietly ask, "for real"? Apparently so. Put simply, we get to use twice as much water for half the price we presently pay, which should forestall the anxiety attacks that have plagued me whenever the hills turn brown. I look forward to a more relaxed and productive time ahead. I'm off to pack for the crater. See you at the party. Peace, Jp

Hello Padre,
Its been sixty one years since my last confession. Just thought i'd throw that in. I feel much better. Thanks. How are you all doing? Of course I don't expect you to actually carry on a hypothetical conversation with me, but around this time of day, you know, the time when you drizzle some scotch over your Kashi to take the edge off before morning prayer meetings with the chickens, it sometimes occurs to me that warm, caring, soothing conversation, albeit imaginary, is better than yelling "die choad die" while watching Glenn Beck soil himself on cable. Not that that doesn't have its merits. I'm fine, thanks. How are the kids doing?

Speaking of which, the hanai son approacheth. Tyler,  love of my life, bane of my existence, radiant soul, turd in a bowl, smart as a whip and hung like Shadowfax, arrives next week for a much needed break. He's been Wwoofing in Costa Rica where he picks peach aphids off sugar apple trees ten hours a day. Then he washes dishes in a sleazy cantina called the Stuffed Donkey until two a.m. at which time he goes back to his tent to sleep on a dirt floor teeming with kookaracha's. In his spare time he keeps the servers up and going at the local web-cam house of porn where fifty or so lovely senorita's stream live flesh. He says it beats college.

We've been hiking the crater pretty much every year since he was ten. Missed one here and there, and he did his first solo hike last year. Well, he's twenty now and I figure that gives it the weight of a tradition in this rag tag family, the only other one being liftime memberships in the "Venerate the Pussy" society. Haven't seen him since we turned the corner on 09'. He said he met a shaman in a remote village that could charm the eggs right out of a chicken. Said it gave the chickens "human skin" just to be in his presence. He's turning into quite the little raconteur. We'll have the cabins for a couple of days and then out the gap. He may make a guest appearance at the Grimelock where he will debut the first chapter of his new cookbook called "The Homeless Persons guide to Roadkill Recipes".

We picked up thirty more Ameraucana chicks. Those are the ones that lay the tinted eggs in the blue to blue green spectrum. They won't be kicking in for awhile but when they do, they'll give us at least a couple per dozen to mix with the white and brown ones if all goes well. Doc Bebockboc took some time out of his busy schedule and torrid affair with nurse Sally (yes, its official) to swing by and take a look at the layers. He was all smiles. Said they looked like rose petals and chocolate pillow mints strewn on your bed at the Four Seasons when you get back to your room after a sumptuous feast and start popping buttons on a buxom blond. He's totally gone over nurse Sally who looks like she lifts weights with her breasts. So firm they are, young skywalker.

We're into a nice planting rotation and starting to fill in as much space as we can with layers of edible goodness. In having developed scalable models of plant guilds that prove to be productive and beneficial to the landscape we stand poised and ready to develop more of the property once we start paying about 23% as much for water as we are now. I'm gonna have to create a new wwoof job description. "Water wwoofer" will be a revolving job, shared amongst the intern population and affording the opportunity to commune with the plant life in a way unparalleled by any other farm task. When you give water to thirsty plants and wash the accumulated dust off their leaves and just stand there in the mist and scent there is a bonding. There is a sense of gratitude. There are bigger freakin' mangoes.

Hard to overestimate the critical importance of water to dry-land farming. Its everything. We will continue to employ conservative methods for our use of water and liberal to gonzo philosophical models for all else. As in, "two rabbi's and a kidney walked into a New Jersey bar". I'm more amused than amazed at the news these days. Not sure that's a good sign cause' there sure is a lot of shit being slung over yonder. We're about seventy percent water. You'd think we'd be all sloshin' around merging with everything and flowing into the most natural position gravity could afford. More like a viral form of robocop with notable exceptions being hippies who overdosed on acid at Winterland, dancers of any stripe, the young and the young at heart, in their minds.

Its dry as the pig femur you find digging a hole in the dry dry dirt that crumbles when you look at it too hard. The chickens kick up a cloud of dust every time they come runnin' to praise the food guy with the magic blue bucket. The cloud drifts through the orchard dusting everything cinnamon. The cow pastures across the road show no sign of green. It is a golden brown embrace. Just add water and get baked.

Lets see, what else? Oh yeah, we're having a contest to find out how many nurdles it takes to constitute an area twice the size of the continental united states that is currently swirling slowly in the pacific gyre (a.k.a. garbage dump) and composed of some hundred million tons of plastic debris oozing just beneath the waters surface and inexorably becoming part of the food chain. Soon we'll be able to hike from Maui to Alaska using my new web foot water shoes (patent pending) which allow for easy maneuvering across the buoyant plastislime.

Random factoid: When Bush took office there were 77 non organic substances that were permitted to be used in u.s.d.a. certified "organic" foods. This number was to be reduced over time to protect the integrity of organic labeling. There are now 245 non organic substances that are allowed into our foods. These foods are still considered certified organic. Codex Alimentarius baby, codex alimentarius.

Soooo, as strategic alliances for resources and markets continues to grind humanity into a high protein food supplement, and political posturing continues to pose as progress, we here at the Rancho are hunkered down with our psyche's tuned to higher frequencies and our expectations at the lowest setting available. That way, when the turds hit the turbine we'll feel like a monster truck hitting a speed bump at sixty with a cd of Jimmy Hendrix playing Red House not missing a beat.

Check the c.s.a. tab on the website for this weeks food selection and give us a shout if we can help you out.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, jP.

Oh howdy,
Mostly, things have been pretty stable here at the Rancho. The summer heat has made no bones about dominating the landscape. We're managing to sort of keep pace with the needs of the younger trees, whose water requirements exceed the old stand trees. The wwoof's have taken the cue and are up increasingly early to complete their chores before their skin starts blistering and the hallucinations get too strong. Noemie has taken to wearing a burkha made from old feed bags with eye slits cut out and Jeremiah told me that at around noon the other day he heard the flower of a Dragon Fruit cactus start singing "Wooly Bully". Nurse Cassie, who worked the West Wing for years said she just keeps seeing the face of Martin Sheen percolating up through the soil and whispering, "go to the light."

We are on the verge of re-establishing agricultural water rates here after a mere thirteen year transition to a delivery system that will allow us the potential for increased volume and greatly reduced cost, giving us the opportunity to farm this rat infested rock pile in a way hitherto in the realm of "don't think about it, it will drive you crazy". We've all gotten so burned out over this process that enthusiasm levels over meter installations were on par with going to get a root canal.

To say this has been a cluster fuck would be to seriously underestimate the reality. That having been said, here we are, application for ag rates submitted and accepted, inspector being assigned to the task, with the potential result being to pay one fourth the rate we currently pay and the odds coming in at about two to one that it will actually happen.

The meeting with the inspector will be a schmooze fest of monumental proportions with our ultimate ace in the hole in defense of the inevitable catch 22 ( "you want ag rates but you're not using enough land" or "don't have enough income" or "can't tell a chicken from a two by four"), being the fact that we have had insufficient and overly expensive water to farm the land to the extent that the current codes require and therefore, existing efforts along with our obvious zeal for playing creator on this rodent strewn heap of stone should give us every right to continue our attempts at making the desert bloom and show productivity curves previously reserved for Exxon Mobil and Jennifer Lopez.

The mindset that control of water should dominate rather than liberate peoples lives is the final assault on and insult to equitable and virtuous behavior. It is no less than wielding the power of life and death over those deemed unworthy of this common resource. "Tough talk there mo-fo, why so freaked over the h2o", you might ask if you had just finished chugging a quart of colt 45 at a local poetry slam.

Well, 'cause millions worldwide are looking into the precipice of survival due to starvation and dehydration and water borne disease. Because farmers world wide are taking the easy way out and just killing themselves rather than face the relentless realities imposed by privatized water and industrial agriculture to whom the starving hordes are merely collateral damage in the war for water.

Interesting stat courtesy of my pal J. Nay. "According to the Washington Post in '05, just one flush of a toilet in the west uses more water than most Africans have to perform an entire day's washing, cleaning, cooking and drinking." Not going on a rant, just saying. One of the other stats that says it all is the one about a billion people being under nourished and eight hundred million being obese (and thats just in Alabama). My oh my oh my. It appears as though common sense has gone fishing.

Here we have a case of invasive species, as in the movement of indigenous plants to geographic realms where their introduction could trigger trouble. Only in this case we're talking about areas of the brain, as in reptilian survival impulses making their way to the neo cortex and hunkering down, taking pot shots at passing impulses aimed at integrated and holarchic thought. It is an invasion of alien thinking into the realms of moral imperative and intellectual process as confounding as it is culturally denigrating. It segments us and separates us from nearly everything but the hyperbole of narcissism and power. We walk past the beauty of life while staring at a tiny lcd display, twittering away.

"Whoa, slow down there professor poopy pants, nobody wants a killjoy for a cellmate", you might say. And right you would be. I can rest content in the fact that my daily routine is fulfilling, that my smoke filled think tank will never fully grasp the complexity of the ridiculousness we move through and that around ten thirty a.m. on any particularly hot day, the faces of my chickens will morph into Newt Gingrich. Better, as they say, than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. And yes, laughter is the best medicine.

I'm posting a list of available food and House of Yumm goodness under the C.S.A. tab on the website (www.ranchorelaxzo.com ). This will be a weekly post. Good way to keep you updated while saving space for writing about things of critical importance as well as broadening the participation in my quest for world wide domination of all things Permaculture. The people here at the "Institution" only allow me 15kbs of cyberspace before the keyboard locks down and surges with electric current. Probably best as i've usually eaten my t-shirt by now.

Not sure we can call it a "Grimelock", given that its not at my place and we won't be using Grimes' p.a., but its probably not too early to mention the thirteenth annual fiftieth b-day celebration. My auntie micro Dot, being 22 hours older than me has donned the mantle of hostess and is providing a great party space up at rainbow acres in olinda. Sahweet. The date is Sunday, the 23rd of August. Will fill in details as to time and directions in next weeks post. One thing's for sure, its pot luck with the theme being to bring something that makes you want to drop to your knees and shout hallelujah.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Stay cool, Jp

Once upon a time in a land all but forgotten and lost in the vastness of
space lived a grizzled old coot and his mangy cat Rufus. Rufus mostly
slept all day and at sundown went lookin' for trouble. He'd come back in
the morning with a little piece of ear missing or a new patch of fur
torn away or leaking blood. The grizzled old coot would patch him up and
feed him the breakfast leftovers after which Rufus would curl up in a
ball and sleep it off, dreaming dreams of sashimi and retribution and
sashimi.

It was a barren and childless place, fit only for rodents, figs, stray
cats, olive trees, fire ants and hot dry winds. A few scrawny feral
chickens ran around in a dither pecking at rocks and thin air and on the
rare occasion dropping an egg. This would bring a frenzy of rats
forming what looked like a rugby scrum around the egg moving it here and
there until the shell started to ooze.

The grizzled old coot, having witnessed this national geographics moment
was at the ready with his favorite intervention technique. Piss on em'.
Thats right. Piss on em'. They scattered in horror as he lashed his
cooty hose this way and that, because the scent of human piss is their
kryptonite and to be stained by it is to be made an outcaste for life.
Might as well just go over to Rufus and start yankin' whiskers. The
grizzled old coot crouched down, and keeping the side with the puka up,
cradled the small egg in his palm and carried it in an unhurried manner
to his humble digs.

The land was his by right of passage. He had beaten the snot out of the
last old coot that lived there, peed in all the corners (to keep the
rats out) and closed escrow. It was a prized package in this rock and
scrub terrain because his stone house sat next to the only fresh water
spring for miles in any direction. His house was really just one big
room and big enough it was. The kitchen window looked out at the
anomaly. A bubbling spring which trickled water constantly fed both
irrigation systems and storage tanks and punctuated the landscape with a
riot of color and sustenance.

There was a meander of living fence made from mulberry and bamboo and
thick fruit bearing shrubs that kept this edenscape safe from the
occasional smarmy invader and defined the stark contrast with the
encroaching desert. The grizzled old coot, with egg in hand felt a tear
forming and his throat swelling as he looked into his outer life. He
cracked the egg and let it sit in the bowl while he warmed up the
skillet. Rufus cracked his eyelids, stretched like only a cat can, yawned
big and fell back to sleep. A solitary salty teardrop fell to the
counter.

As the egg hit the skillet it formed an almost perfect circle
surrounding the yolk, floating and bubbling there on the olive oil
coated surface. The grizzled old coot pulled some fresh picked greens
from the chill box and chopped them up. They hit the fry pan and danced
as they wilted around the egg. He sprinkled some spice and zested a
lime. His nose, the scent, dare I say sublime?

He carried his plate over to the thick wood slab table, sat down and
looked out at another view of his life's passion. Fruits and vegetables
grew everywhere. Herbs and spices crept and crawled. Trees crowded yet
content. They hung with passion fruit and grape vine and yielded all
manner of useful things. As he ate he recalled both heartache and joy in
his travels through life. It was as though each moment reminded him of
where he had been and how his future was thereby shaped.

But now, on this particular morning he finally knew that his work was
finished, that he need do no more or less than watch and listen with
focused attention and appreciation. That in his minds eye was the vision
of things perfected and in his heart, peace. No doubt he would find some
reason to kick the cat from time to time, or fly a few rocks at the
feral chickens invading his green garden, but this sense of completion
washed over him like the joy in the eyes of a baby who just figured out
that he could play with his own toes.

Life is routine wrapped in chaos, and the grizzled old coot had long
since understood that the holy trinity of working the land was: I make,
I break and I fix. He was centered in solitude and would follow this law
in order to give expression to something uniquely human, the growing of
a soul. As he forked the last of his meal from plate to mouth he watched
Rufus' hind legs kick out and twitch a bit as if re-living a chase
scene. The grizzled old coot just smiled down at his longtime friend and
stroked his patchwork coat. Rufus purred in his sleep.

And so, as the world moved along at breakneck speed, whizzing by Rufus
and his master like a hellhound riding a summer squall, they rested
content, awaiting the moment when some grizzled young coot would come
along, beat the living snot out of them, piss in all the corners (to keep the rats out)
and close escrow once again.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. peace, Jp

Hhhhmmmmm,
Whenever I see a group of three or more women together in a kind of huddle, talking with intensity I think there they go, creating the world as we know it. Because if the spoken word manifests reality and it is delivered by humankind's representative of the Yin principle on earth, it becomes part of our cultural tapestry sooner or later. In an ongoing attempt to grasp the Yin principle it is paramount for men and women alike to get a grip on giving in, tossing the towel, saying uncle....................

The lessons in giving in begin here every morning when a slightly deeper and broader understanding of daily insights manifest in say, the discovery of another dead duckling trampled by dada duck so eager to get to the food that he misses his offspring underfoot, or noticing that the finches are starting to eat the still green papayas or seeing that even after a week of afternoon showers, the hills are turning blond with the summer heat. This morning I sauntered down the path with the expectation of being greeted by little tail wagging ducklettes (that now eat out of my hand), to find that one of the "secure" garden enclosures had been visited by a pig or two.

Plants were uprooted and mulch tossed and turned. It didn't take long to restore the mulch to order, replant and move along, but. on the farm, there's a constant reminder that life is hundreds of trillions of interactions per second somehow managing to manifest a stable system within a framework that promises chaotic harmonics around every corner and exists within a universe thus far largely unknowable. These are the voyages of the Starship Relaxzo. Our mission, to seek out the best place to take a nap.

If Yin is all of manifest reality then Yang is the great unmanifest. The place quantum particles go when they blip out. I have to say that as a guy, I feel a little discriminated against. This is clearly a world in which women should by nature, feel very much at home. Guys are constantly overcompensating for feeling ill at ease with their complete immersion in all that is Yin. Whats the old saying? "Men love women, women love children and children love pets." If you're a lucky guy you get to be freaked out by Love a few times, and then get some closure with all of it while swinging in a hammock on your back porch watching a sunset and reminiscing with your sixty year old kid about Freckles the Cocker Spaniel. Sometimes what comes around doesn't go anywhere.

It doesn't help much to know that these two conjoined forces uphold and preserve each other when some of the normal side effects of their interactions may include sustained moments of profound confusion, a sense of being totally inadequate to whatever the task may be, a haunting voice inside ones head repeating the phrase, "make it stop" and a strong desire to eat enough twinkies to go into insulin shock. You go round the track enough times and the giving in option looks more and more like safe haven.

The prime directive of Permaculture methodology is impartial and inquisitive observation, leading to common sense questions, spurring on research into said questions, resulting in the backbone of any design. This is how the unmanifest is made manifest and more importantly, why. If its all random chaotic interfaces of cosmic energies run amok, well whoopteedoo, lets pop some corn and a bottle of charlie champers and watch the movie. If, on the other hand there is some kind of truth to be winnowed out of this harvest of methods and techniques that tend to support our life here and actually present a model for systems that limit dependency, then let the symposium on common sense, commence.

Like the great Chinese doctor who can look at your tongue and say, "sorry but that gall bladder is going to have to come out", training allows us to see the future by reckoning with the present. Personally, I think we're up it without a paddle. That having been said, i should also note that I've been wrong alot. Main thing is that there is real contentment residing in the workings of a complex organism like a farm and one need only step into the flow of things to clear the ol' noggin' and restore a sense of purpose where once there was South Park.

About ten twelve years ago we had a family of pigs move on to the property. It was an awful time with each day bringing a new destructive vision. Actually saw one on hind legs picking and eating mangoes. I had my rifle, but the Rabbi was still asleep.

Finally, a local friend came to the rescue with a trap. He put me on to some hunter guys who were more than willing to come by and take the pigs for luau or letum' go for hunt lat-ah. It worked and the property had been clear of pigs for many years. So rather than take mushrooms and stay up all night waiting for a pig to appear and hope that at that very moment I will have the presence of mind to actually ready, aim and fire, captain Jeremiah dusted off and repaired the old porker snare and made it ready with a slurry of mashed banana/with peal, avocado, ginger snaps and a tasty little Bordeaux. We anticipate one schnockered little piggy givin' us a cross eyed grin in the morning and chops at sunset.

I like the early a.m., predawn hours, which is why i've prepped myself for The Open Championship by visualizing myself doing yoga for six hours while watching the live from Turnberry broadcast of The Open Championship between 12:30 a.m. and 6:30 a.m. on Thursday and Friday. Just the thought of visualizing myself doing yoga makes me tired.

Big big week what with the opening of Harry Potter and the thrill of golfs best getting the crap kicked out of them by the grandaddy of all Open courses. In addition we have a newbie wwoof arriving on Friday at a time of day when i will be mostly incoherent from lack of sleep and she will be excited beyond measure to be here. Nice. Me likey garden fairies who do what me say.

What else? Oh yeah, we're working on a small c.s.a. type of marketing scheme which would include a rock solid base of customers willing to go with our shenanigans and grow with us in a beneficial synergy. Anyone interested in seeing whats up and signing on, give us a ping.

So as the summer heat kicks out the beat, stay cool, and grow some shade that has food hanging from it, 'cause it ain't gonna be any cooler next summer.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace be, Jp