Nom Nom

Kimchee is the food of the gods, not to mention one of the healthiest foods on earth. Maybe one of these days I'll pony up a recipe for you folks out there in roughfisherland. In the meantime, you'll just have to eat vicariously through me while I make my way through 6 quarts of heaven in a jar.

Secret Pond

Somewhere near the Canadian border...








Full panoramic. Click on the image for larger version.

the headwaters

Fall colors at the headwaters of the Mississippi, Itasca State Park. Aerial views taken from atop the Aiton Heights Fire Tower.






The Continental Divide. Points east of the ridge drain into the Gulf of Mexico via the Mississippi. Points west drain north into Hudson Bay via the Red River of the North.



A full panoramic vista of the Continental Divide. Click on the image for larger version.

Throwing Stones

Fuck you BP, fuck you corporate America, and fuck you all you fucking fucks who have sold the environment short just to make a fucking buck. FUCK YOU.

Picture a bright blue ball, just spinning, spinnin free,
Dizzy with eternity.
Paint it with a skin of sky,
Brush in some clouds and sea,
Call it home for you and me.
A peaceful place or so it looks from space,
A closer look reveals the human race.
Full of hope, full of grace
Is the human face,
But afraid we may lay our home to waste.

There's a fear down here we can't forget.
Hasn't got a name just yet.
Always awake, always around,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Now watch as the ball revolves
And the nighttime falls.
Again the hunt begins,
Again the bloodwind calls.
By and by, the morning sun will rise,
But the darkness never goes
From some men's eyes.
It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets,
Staking turf, dividing up meat.
Nightmare spook, piece of heat,
It's you and me.
You and me.

Click flash blade in ghetto night,
Rudies looking for a fight.
Rat cat alley, roll them bones.
Need that cash to feed that jones.
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Commissars and pin-stripe bosses
Roll the dice.
Any way they fall,
Guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian gray,
Selling guns 'stead of food today.

So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Heartless powers try to tell us
What to think.
If the spirit's sleeping,
Then the flesh is ink
History's page will thus be carved in stone.
And we are here, and we are on our own
On our own.
On our own.
On our own.

If the game is lost,
Then we're all the same.
No one left to place or take the blame.
We can leave this place and empty stone
Or that shinin' ball we used to call our home.

So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Shipping powders back and forth
Singing black goes south and white comes north.
In a whole world full of petty wars
Singing I got mine and you got yours.
And the current fashion sets the pace,
Lose your step, fall out of grace.
And the radical, he rant and rage,
Singing someone's got to turn the page.
And the rich man in his summer home,
Singing just leave well enough alone.
But his pants are down, his cover's blown...

And the politicians throwin' stones,
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And it's all too clear we're on our own.
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Picture a bright blue ball,
Just spinnin', spinnin, free.
Dizzy with the possibilities.

"Throwing Stones" Words by John Perry Barlow; music by Bob Weir. Copyright Ice Nine Publishing.

I Miss You, My Hawai'i

I hear the wind traveling down the Ko'olau...


Aloha au ia 'oe, hui hou kakou e ku'u Hawai'i

me ke aloha,
Keonaona