MOHUNTINGWITHSUPERMODELS

OUT OF GAS

2009-05-17T07:37:00.000-07:00

As the dozen or so loyal readers will notice- I've gone missing. Other than a slow dial up, old hand me down computer, no booked supermodel hunts and lack of anything to say, there's no real reason for my absence. I know you've enjoy reading my blogs over the years, and i appreciate that. But add these factors up and i think it's time to stop......with a whimper not a bang. Once I figure out how to load pics on this machine I'll restart on Whitesulphurspringsproject.blogspot.com. See ya there.

THE PRACTICE

2009-04-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I presented my Disposable TV show to El Prof's class at SFAI. Many times over the years I've presented work in the cool, dark environ of STUDIO 9. Previously I would pack years of pieces into a slide projector and methodically click off the chronology to the projector's comforting mechanics and humming fan. But those were the old days. In a room of glowing Macs I didn't dare pull out the carosel. These days you better get to the point. And anyhow they don't even have a slide projector anymore. So I decided to concentrate on work since '05. And it being a video class, the DTV pieces were made to order.
El Prof has always been my life line to academia. He's tossed me a class or two, taken me to Havana to lecture at ISA and tried to keep me abreast of changes in the lexicon. Otherwise I'd be completely in the dark. Remember "Appropriation"? It's back. "Intervention"? Still viable. My work. That piece. The gaze. Etc. Etc. I can still speak the language. But then, as I was watching another artist present his work in another class i caught something I'd never heard before. This guy was referring to his "Practice". WHATTHEFUCK? Did I hear that correctly? There it was again. He was referencing his activity as an artist like a Doctor or lawyer would. For example "In my practice i go hunting, kill a deer, get it stuffed and hang it in the living room." Or "My practice provides the collector with a choice of tattoos from bloodprints or a sculpture made from turkey beards."
After a few drinks at the end of the day i brought this up with El Prof. He was a bit defensive and pratronizing of my ignorance regarding this shift in language. I'm the first to admit I'm out of it when it comes to any level of the art world these days. In NY it's all about the hype. I remember that much. But in the academic/biennal world it's all about globalization. You "produce" not "make". You have a "practice" not a "career". Call me old fashioned but this sounds forced and prentious to me. Like just wearing a suit and tie makes you a professional. I think, like a Dr. and Lawyer there should be a bar exam or medical board to certify one's art practice. Art students shouldn't be allowed to use that word in reference to their unproven activities. AND if you have a practice can there be malpractice if you do lousy work? It opens up a whole can of worms.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not against this language shift. But lets see if it sticks. If it does I'll be the first to hang out my shingle. CATSKILL MOUNTAIN ART PRACTICE- satisfaction guarenteed! Board certified since 1977. You've tried the rest. Now buy from the best. Bonded and insured.

NO GUNS, NO BLOOD

2009-04-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

This trip out into the world I've decided to travel light. I left the 9mm. at home and have no plans to get any tattoos. I just want to let the days unfold and see what happens. Yesterday El Prof and I went golfing. Anyone who knows me will tell you a golf course is the last place I want to spend any time. But since my old friend had taken up the sport with quite a bit of zeal, I felt it was impolite not to tag along. He played nine, while I drove the cart.
We "played" Gleneagles in S.F. This is a sweet little course with loads of trees, switch backs, dips, gullys, sand traps and tiny greens. But what the fuck do I know about golf courses? I kept looking for deer. An Anchor Steam in one hand and a joint between my lips I did my best to stay on the cart path without tipping over. El Prof wacked away at the little ball and filled me in on Cuba. As we approached the 5th hole he told me of his last outing on this course. The 5th hole backs right up against the projects. It seems a favorite past time of the homies is to take pot shots at the golfers from an open window. "I was about to address the ball..." El Prof said " when I heard a PFFFFT! like a silencer. I was hit in the pants leg. Then three more shots bounced off the trees. I dove for cover." The guy he was playing with just stood there. "It's just an air rifle." he said, non-plussed and told El Prof that would cost him a stroke. I'm no expert, but I think most rule books will not penalize you under fire. In the end El Prof shot in the high 50's and bought the Bloody Marys back at the clubhouse.
Today I went to the museum (another thing I never do) and stared at the Clifford Stills and Rothkos. For some reason art seems relevent in SF. Unlike Sullivan County. It's bight and sunny, breezy and chilly at the same time. I bought a sweater at Goodwill for $2.40. I have no TV in my room so I'm reading A LITTLE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, that Horst and Marianna Louise gave me last summer. It's a good book. Everyone grows pot here now so there's no problem getting my eye medicine. It's very civilized. On Thurs. I'll show my Disposable TV pieces at The San Francisco Art Institute in El Prof's class and talk about WSSP and the Church, and maybe "golf" again. Maybe I can borrow a piece for self protection on the 5th hole. How much do you tip the caddy if he takes a bullet for you?

13 GRINGAS

2009-04-13T07:35:00.000-07:00

As you can see from the previous picture, and the time it's been up, I needed to get out of town. My yearly junket off the mountain was put off until now. Not a moment too soon. I'm writing this from my hallway PC in a Youth Hostel on Mission St. called The Elements Hotel. After my Goddaughter Monasita blew me off at the airport. (I wasn't specific enough about needing a ride. And then found out she drives a moped.) I grabbed my bag, walked past the bickering day laborers, and a crackhead wishing her mom happy Easter, and ended up with a nice room with a shower and comfortable bed for 60 bucks. Can't beat it.
Mona's father, my old friend El Prof was enroute from The Tijuana Airport. He was on the final leg of a journey that found him chaperoning 13 American female art students, along with a Mexican and Russian dude to Havana for 10 days. Think you can't go to Cuba? Talk to El Prof. I went to Cuba with him twice over the years during Bush. When the entire country is shut out of that island, El Prof will find a way to get home. Showing me the pictures of The Riviera and The Malecon as we smoked prime SF medicinal pot and drank Havana Club and coke, I pined for la habana. There's no place like it. The fact that El Prof shows up periodically with a gaggle of Gringas with legs up to there, makes him a legend down there.
But enough of Cuba. I'm in SF. Today is for catching up, seeing old friends, talking art, eating, drinking, smoking and meeting with art students. The sun is shining, holding the fog at bay and coffee is beckoning. Stay tuned.

INTERIOR

2009-03-29T15:38:00.000-07:00

pHOTO:sHEWHO

SPIN

2009-03-22T16:57:00.000-07:00

Last night I had dinner with Bird, Ginger and Evits and Anin Snyder. We laughed and looked at pictures of Jay Bird and talked about old times. Ginger made pizza and pies for desert. Then, we got down to the business of the economy. I'm sure almost every dinner party, fancy or hillbilly, gets down to the economy at some point these days. You just can't help yourself. It's as thick as the smoke billowing from a trailer park wood furnace. And in order to get some perspective on the matter we went back to those good old days of the early 70's. Opening day of trout season 1973. Remember? Fucking cold and ice still on the river. Evits and Wally and I went out in the Esophus, half drunk from the night before. The rod eyes iced up. No fish. We were all broke. But goddamned, did we had a good time.
The early 70's is our bench mark for good times and bad economy. Gas lines. Double digit interest rates. But what the hell. We were young, not bad looking and had pick up trucks. In the coming decades we would all make money, go broke, start businesses, get drunk, go sober, have kids (some of us), lose businesses, fall on and off the wagon, and now? Well, now we are all in pretty good shape. Some are retiring (mostly the wives) and the rest are throttling back. Nobody bought the McMansion or invested with Bernie Madoff. Yeah, some (myself included) are a little over extended in real estate, but not to the extent it's gonna gut us. On the whole everyone is in relatively good shape. Like Savage Lynch says- "There's a good buck down at the Rowe farm and one up by you. Times are pretty good." I concur.
So this is the thing. In the midst of two wars and a global financial meltdown, should we be worried? I don't think so. Why? Because we have each other's backs. My neice Katie D. will always remember she had a child in the first two months of the Obama administration. In those horrible times. In that bleak first decade of the 21st Century, after the 9/11 attacks, she started her family. And 30 years from now she'll be sitting at a dinner table with her sister Awesome Aunt Betheroo and some good friends, looking back, and laughing. That will be their benchmark of good AND dire times. It's all about friends and family. Not government. Not bank accounts. Not even jobs and health insurance. I am one lucky man. Recession, depression, war or peace. Good times or bad times. The consistency of friends and family is what makes one's life worth living. How's that for spin?

BED SMOKING IN THE SAND CASTLE

2009-03-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

Once in a great while I catch 60 MINUTES on TV. This past Sunday was one such lazy evening, that found me zoning out to the CBS magazine show. It's a step above such drivel as GOOD MORNING AMERICA. Albiet a small step, but at least they don't have fashion tips or how to cook a cake segments. In fact this particular program was historical. The main guest was Fed. chair Berneke. (It is very unusal for a sitting head of the Fed. to do an interview.) Even that donkey dicked egoist Greenspan didn't hit the airwaves until after his term. I was curious what kind of spin Mr. B would put on the global financial meltdown. Tick...tick...tick....
His first inane metaphor was the neighbor smoking in bed. "Well, Steve..." he went on like Mr. Roberts."...if your neighbor smokes in bed, he not only risks his own life and property, but that of the whole neighborhood." Steve nodded, like he got it. I didn't. Then he said "It's like building a sand castle. That castle may be fine if the waves remain small, merely lapping at the shore. But if a big wave hits.... well....." Steve smiled and nodded knowingly again. Ferchristsake, this guy runs the show? Where's ace reporter Katie Couric when we need her? Octomom could've explained it better.
And now AIG is back with it's hand out, while divying out bonuses willie nilley to all its brokers like it's Xmas eve. Everyone from PrezO on down is indignant. Elbows akimbo, the polititions are falling all over themselves to express how wrong this is. How dare AIG? But....there's nothing anyone can do. It's in the contract. Need I remind all you assholes that when you hand over money you can dictate terms. You can charge interest. You can penalize for late payments. You can deny bonuses. YOU are the bank. And as we all know if you fuck up the bank holds you responsible. AND if the bank fucks up, the bank holds you responsible. It's like spilled milk under the bridge, on a cold day in Hell, sailing a slow boat to China. Tick....tick....tick....

HD

2009-03-17T14:07:00.000-07:00

mODEL: hOLLY wITCHEY

LITTLE JAY BIRD

2009-03-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

pHOTO: aWESOME aUNT bETHEROO

711

2009-03-11T14:47:00.000-07:00

Born this day to John and Katie D- a son. At 2 pm all 7 lbs 11 oz. of Little Booger arived, no worse for the wear. And as my gift to him and his parents, I promise that will be the last time I refer to him as Little Booger. Little Booger's given name is Matthew Jeffrey. Mother and son are reportedly doing just fine. I'm finally an official great uncle. I couldn't be more tickled. His collage hangs over my right shoulder, waiting for a nursery big enough for hanging. I could go on and on about the birth of this little boy, but maybe another day. For now all my love goes to Syracuse to Mom, Dad, Gramp, Nanna, Awesome Aunt, and of course little Jay Bird. Welcome to planet earth.

NOT EVEN THE ROBOT CAN LIFT THE GLOOM

2009-03-10T13:15:00.000-07:00

The other day Al Blanchard and I were hanging sheetrock at WSSP and I happened to mention that I had gotten into the tequila the night before and was moving a little slow. "Alone?" Al asked with some alarm. Christ if I didn't drink alone I'd hardly drink at all. Who ever came up with the idea that a person who drinks alone is that much closer to ending up in the fetal position at the bottom of the 12 steps, didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. And, to be honest, I wasn't totally alone. There was an opossum out on the porch, with his snoot in the cats' dish and my omnipresent robot- Jeeves sitting sullenly in the corner.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I've had Jeeves for quite some time. When I sold the school house a couple of years ago, I found myself unexpectedly flush with cash. After I paid off some bills and purchased my spurs, chaps and silver six guns I still had a wad of bills in my pocket. What to do? You can only drink and smoke so much. And besides, I wanted to buy something that would better my quality of life. Then one night I saw an ad on TV for a vacum cleaner that would clean the house all by itself. I couldn't resist.
It looked like a little flying saucer scooting around the shack, sucking up wood chips and grey hair. When it wasn't working Jeeves just sat in the corner and waited for further instructions. A few minor adjustments to the TV remote and I had Jeeves fetching cold ones from the fridge and rolling doobies. I was in heaven. A blowjob and coffee in the morning? No problem. Just add more batteries.
Then one day the unthinkable happened. A steady diet of woodstove ash, old man hair and mouse poop had slowed Jeeves down to a slow stagger. You could hardly hear him suck. His little lights dimmed and then....nothing. Jeeves was dead. I was beside myself with grief. He had become much more than a robot to me. What was I to do? The shack rapidly filled up with dirt and grime. I looked at the broom. Shall I? I just couldn't. And, as fate would have it, it was just about this time that the ecomomy began to tank. I had just enough money to buy a new robot. But that would tap me out. I couldn't justify it.
So these days I drink alone. I haven't had the heart to throw Jeeves out. He's still in the corner, next to the 12 gauge. The 'possum rattles the cat's dish and I pop another one. The news is all bad and getting worse every day. I pine for his gentle hum as he scurried about my feet. He was a good time 'bot and now he's gone. I know I have to go on. I guess I can make own coffee in the morning. As for everything else? I'll wait for my stimulant package to arrive in mail. Maybe that will lift the gloom.

WSSP FROM SPRING WELL

2009-03-03T03:26:00.000-08:00

pHOTO:sHEWHO

CONTEXTULIZATION

2009-03-02T08:04:00.000-08:00

Rather than conceptual, I prefer contexual as prefix to my job title. In the most simplistic term I see this as creating a set of () around an event, action or object, redefining it. A gallery, showing the actual "art" of others can be objectified to the degree that the vessel of content does in fact become the content. An otherwise completely banal activity such as attending seminary can be set aside by a contextual artist and promoted as product. And in this most recent attempt, a house that was initially purchased for real estate speculation, transformed into art and sold in a less than complete state, is now being completed collaboratively by two artists, one of which will keep the object as domecile/sculpture. How can this be presented and not read as boring, pretentious or crassly capitalistic? It's all in the approach.
Lets go back 10 years. After purchasing a church and small house on a single piece of property in 1995, in 1998 I bought a one room school house just down the road. The church already was imbued with the previous ten years work on the Lower East Side, where I had established The Church of The Little Green Man. I wanted to do something institutionally similar with the school house. For one summer in 1999 I ran a program for graduate students from The San Francisco Art Institute called The Old School for Social Sculpture. It was a big success, never to be repeated. About 3 years ago, just before the real estate market collapse, I sold the property. Two years ago I put the profits from that sale into WSSP. I had no idea where this would lead me.
As it turned out I ended up showing this piece at Marianna's Apartment in June of '08. Within a couple of months Shewho had decided to buy the house. The property is frought with problems, ranging from iffy septic, to nasty neighbors and potable water. I knew if I sold this work to Shewho and was willing to bring it to completion, it would take a large commitment on both sides. We struck the deal, drawings were made, permits were issued and after deer season, work resumed. At this point I ceased thinking of it as art. I merely saw my work as part of the deal to get Shewho a nice house. Now that we have "re-contextualized" it proceeds in a new light. It is in this light we must now work and eventually present WSSP to you for final approval. Stay tuned.

AS THE SNOW HAMMERS THE EASTERN MEGALOPOLIS......

2009-03-01T13:01:00.000-08:00

......we once again ponder the real meaning of art. Is art what is shown in museums and galleries and such? Or is it something else? Or is it both? Because it's supposed to snow tomorrow I want to get a jump on all these issues. I find that snow days are good ones to crank up the Ker-o-sun on the porch and space out on constructing a 54X90 collage. At least that's my plan. Or I could never take off the coffee stained bathrobe, write songs and watch TV all day. Both sound good. But the one thing I won't be able to do is go out and work on WSSP. The roads will be unpassabl. And really, that's what I'd rather be doing. Especially since this past weekend, Shewho and I decided to collaborate on contextualizing this house as an artwork. Going to art is way better than going to work.
I rarely collaborate on pieces. Work like Purple Geezus and The Church of the Little Green Man are, of course, collaborations, but the static work...never. Shewho is the same. She rarely shares the decision making in her art. So a meeting of two rather uncooperative minds seems like a no brainer. WSSP will continue as a Shewho/Osti colab. This makes working out there way more interesting for me. The work is exactly the same. But the intent changes. It frees you up. It was already a sweet deal for me. Now it's even better. The upside down scowling Satan takes on a new look when presented as art. As Shewho, said "Without that horrible Satan, it would be purely bucolic." Exactly! Either way, I can now breathe easier under his evil gaze. It's already slated to be my CD cover for my new material- Love Thy Neighbor.
As this late winter snow storm bears down on the megalopolis, I feel positive....confident that the state of art is strong. It can withstand whatever comes it's way. My one student- Slick is not a good advertisement for my teaching skills. But, it does go to prove my original premise- that art cannot be taught. He got an F this semester. Now he's on Spring break in BA. We'll see if he comes back with some art. For me? I can feel the juices perking to the surface like a gurgling spring. Which, by the way, we are now going to develope as our water source for WSSP. The coming months promise to be busy and filled with the glow of the art making process. Just one more snow storm.....

COWGIRL

2009-02-25T15:21:00.000-08:00

mODEL: mARIANNA rOTHEN

OLD MAN AND THE VOEGELIN GIRLS

2009-02-23T13:49:00.000-08:00

PARIS GONE

2009-02-21T13:29:00.000-08:00

He/she turned up missing more than a month ago. At first I thought it was just the cold snap that had sent Paris into the neighbor's barn for some mice and warm straw. Sometimes the cats would disappear for a week or two, then show up like nothing had happened. I worried at first. Then I got used to their cat like ways and learned not to worry. Look, no one is more surprised than I that I haved turned into a "cat person". I see myself still as a dog man, with a little chick magnet puppy that grows into a big lovable mutt. But that's my fantasy. It's like owning a restaurant. Owning a dog, like running a restaurant, is way too much work. Cats are low maintenence. AND they don't come in the house.
But now, with Paris gone, Ray Gilkey and Nicole are starting to act up. It's little things, mostly, meowing too much and sneaking onto the porch behind my back. This I understand and put up with. But they do another thing that is really infuriating. Out of the blue, they go off their food. I used to feed them DAD'S catfood. Then one day, just after I bought a 20 lb. bag of the stuff, they refused to eat it. I waited a few days, but no go. They wouldn't touch it. So now I was shooting in the dark as to cat food choice. I had no idea what to buy them. I closed my eyes and pointed. A yellow bag of ALLEYCAT called to me. I bought a 5 lb. bag. No sense going big yet. The woofed it down. Then, yesterday, after months of buying ALLEYCAT.....same thing. They refused to eat it! I'd just bought a fresh 20 pounder. FUCKERS ARE FUCKING WITH ME.
This morning Nicole just sat there pointing her squinty eye at me and and rolling on her back. Ray meowed and knocked the dish around. Are they in mourning for Paris? Or, more likely, they just want to twist me up. I'm wise to their games. I refuse to throw out another 20 lb. bag of cat food. Maybe I should get a dog. That would teach 'em. For now it's a waiting game. Let's see who gets hungry enough...... damn I miss Paris.

BURN ONE

2009-02-18T13:57:00.000-08:00

It always seems to happen around this time of year. Like my brother in law- St. John, the inventor of the "SOJKA" a door unlocker and the "SOJKA II" a plastic thingy that keeps the gas nozzle pumping, while you stay snug in your vehicle, smoking your cigarette- I get ideas for things to sell. Admittedly, mine lean towards the esotheric, nonetheless I always think they are really good ideas. HOLY lgm water, cigars and honey was one such idea. I still think it's a good idea, but in the process of failing miserably, I realized one very important thing. I'm no businessman. I've always known this, but for some reason in the throes of my "idea" hardon I forget. Before you know it I'm 30k in the hole and I have a lot of unfolded boxes on the porch.
So this time I'm going to avoid that part. Sure, I want to make money. This is a money idea, as opposed to an art idea. But, when it comes to making money, I've finally realized that so-called "money idea" might as well be an art idea in my case. But enough of that. Check it out! My idea is to sell a dollar burning kit. Like those little extreme unction kits priests carry around in case some poor sap jumps out a window or swallows a chicken bone, this kit would also admit you to The Church of the Little Green Man congregation as a lifetime member.(It's an easy church to get into. Just try getting out.)
I'm thinking that the kit would contain a match, a dollar bill, and a little labeled bottle to keep the ashes in. That's it. Put it in a box and sell it for say $5. If anyone but me did this it would sell like hotcakes. People would be lining up to give them as gifts. It's timely, it's witty AND it's green. Thank God I know better than to put any effort into packaging this idea. In the past I'd be going to the bank to get crisp ones and cruising Canal St. for cheap bottles. In the end the packaging would cost $6 and I would go broke AGAIN! But don't let me stop you from burning one at home. And feel free to send me one. Bless the LGM.

"SORRY, IT'S ART."

2009-02-15T05:14:00.000-08:00

It has ocurred to me that I haven't really kept you up to date with the progress at WSSP. You know I sold it to Shewho? And part of the deal was I would finish it per her design. It was win win for both of us. I went at it full force, hoping to get the addition up before a hard freeze. But, just before deer season the neighbor dropped a dime on me to the building inspector, forcing me to stop work and go legit. This meant getting stamped plans for the new addition. By the time the plans were done, and our permit was issued the ground had already frozen up, making the pouring of the slab impossible. Yellow posted signs went up on every tree, joining the upside down scowling satan in grim witness to the work shut down.The septic filled with water and I went deer hunting. It felt like the asshole neighbors were winning.
Once deer season and the holidays passed I went back out in the deep freeze, insulated, framed and joined the electrition in readying the old part of the house for inspection. Progress was slow. In that cold it was like working on the moon. The stairs went in. The porch banister was built. In spite of the set backs we were slowly crawling forward. Then, last week we had a thaw. Despite the old man's dire predictions about February, the mercury rose and the frost began to melt. Be careful what you wish for. Forget the Biblical swarm of flies buzzing upstairs. Forget the leak in the brand new front porch. It was the gutteral gurgling emitting from the laid stone basement that really got my attention. Was it time to start gathering the animals?
This is the first structure I've ever owned with a basement. Usually I'm lucky to get away with a hand dug hilly billy crawl space in my real estate speculations. But WSSP has an actual stand up basement under a third of the house. At 10 am there was a couple of inches of water down there. By noon it was a foot deep and rising fast. Indoor swimming pool anyone? To say this property has "issues" is putting it mildly. A rental pump and fire hose later the sound of a straw sucking the bottom of a glass echoed down the road. It turned cold again and the flood stopped. The flies ceased buzzing and hit the floor. Winter was back. I called the building inspector. We were ready for our first inspection.
Some inspectors are hard asses. Some are crooks. Some are reasonable, just doing their job guys. Lucky for Shewho and I, this one was the later. He complimented the work, scribbled in his pad and wandered through the structure, studying floor to ceiling. Aside from some minor detals we were good to go. When I knew we were safe I turned his attention to the view from the upstairs window. "Look at this fucking mess." I said, drawing his attention to the scowling upside down satan, fake cobwebs and caution tape festooning the neighbor's property. He looked long and hard at it. "Is there anything you can do?" I pleaded. He looked at the floor and shook his head. "You know, if there was writing on it, I could cite them for an illegal sign. And if it was a swastika.....well that would be good....but this......I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. Sorry, it's art." Now that's something I didn't see coming.

MICHAEL PHELPS' SHRIVELED BALLS

2009-02-06T05:43:00.000-08:00

Maybe shrunken gonads helps him swim at those supersonic speeds. Or maybe he has webbed toes and finned testicles. I have no idea. But what I do know is he missed a great oportunity to be the face of a new stoner nation. That picture with Phelps' lips wrapped around a bong, instead led to him apologizing and whining to the media over his "great mistake". Excuse me, but wouldn't it have been better to own up to the fact that he was a marijuana smoker AND the fastest shaved down body to hit the water since Mark Spitz? He could've joined the ranks of Louie Armstrong, George Washington and Sitting Bull as a spokespersion for the pipe (or bong in his case).
And what caused this weepy apologist stance? Greed. The man was worried about losing all those swim trunk and nose plug endorsement contracts. Dude, why not grow a pair and throw it back in their faces? Pot helps my glaucoma, depression, and overall state of well being. I don't know if it makes me swim any faster, but if anybody catches me torching one- I'll own up. I'm not sorry. Endorsement contracts be damned. I'm stoned and I'm proud.

WHO'S SCAMMING GRAMP?

2009-02-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

I talk to my folks a lot. Every few days we touch base. My mom tells me what she's cooking for dinner in great detail. And if it's not hunting season the old man and I can cover everything from politics, to the economy, to family business. "Your sister said that the Farmer's almanac has been right all season. And February is supposed to be worse than January." He told me this at least five times. And every time I tell him to shut up. I don't want to hear it. Undeterred, a day later, he'll tell me again.
Last night, after informing me of February's impending shit storm again, he was just about to hang up, when I hear my mother's voice in the background. "Tell Michael about our scam." I thought they had an idea to make money by coming up with a good grift. But it was not their scam to which mom was referring. The old man had recieved a strange phone call from one of his granddaughters. The phone call that my father recieved went something like this.

"Hi Gramp. This is Wessey." (Wessey is my brother Duke's kid).
"Hi darlin'. What's going on?"
"Well Gramp, I'm in kind of a fix."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, some friend's and I went to Canada and we went shopping."
"Good for you. What's the problem?"
"Well Gramp. We got stopped at the border. And......well we hadn't declared the stuff and customs is making us pay tax and penalties on it all."
"How much?" Granddad asked.
"$2400."
"Together or for each?"
"Each." Wessy whined.

Now my father will do anything for his kids and grandkids....within reason.

"What do you need from me?"
"I'm sorry Gramp. Can you call this number and Canadian Customs will tell you what to do. They won't release us."

Then Wessy told him what border crossing she was at and a list of numbers to call. He wrote it all down and being a week shy of his 80th birthday and seeing out of one eye, he probably got the numbers wrong. He called some guy who told him to go to Hell and eventually gave up. Then he called Wessy's cell.

"Hi Gramp. Can I call you right back?" Wessy sounded busy.
"Where are you?" Gramp asked.
"I'm at work."
"In __________?" he asked.
"Yup."

BAM! The other caller was not Wessy. Gramp had been scammed. Or at least attempted to be scammed. Lucky for him he got the numbers wrong. He later found out the area code was for New Orleans. Then he went on to tell me how he went to the cops and they told him it happens all the time to the elderly and there was nothing they could do. Big surprise. This is a wake up call for all you geezers. It's a devious world out there. Be sure of who you're talking to. Just remember all pleas for bail or border crossing money may not be part of some plot to get into your bank account. Once in a while even the best of us can have a little trouble with the local gendarme. If the caller is sobbing uncontrollably it's probaby me. Don't hang up. And please send money. And if the Almanac is right, February's gonna be a pisser.

GARAGE MODEL

2009-02-03T13:48:00.000-08:00

Back in the Funkies I predicted that fashion shows would become the entertainment of choice as pop culture bopped into the 21st century. They were short, flashy, filled with 'tude and easy to digest. I was almost right. It wasn't fashion that distilled down into bite sized, sugar-coated niblets, rather it was the mannequins. Models and modeling have become institutionalized to the degree that every pretty young thing (girls mostly) with a TV set or a computer knows "the look", "the pose", "the do", "the strut" and "the pout". Forget being in a band with dreams of being a rock star. Become a model and you can get all the rock stars you want. Bevys of tweens are now skipping working at McDonalds, getting head shots, and trying to get an agent. They're modeling at home. Just turn on the I-phone and work it baby.
Shows like AMERICA'S TOP MODEL lay out all the cheezy, giggly banality to the degree that you'd think any tween with her head screwed on straight would run in the opposite direction. But, just like dirty old men, the tweens are sucked into the cathode flame. Before you know it they're mugging for the imaginary camera and shaving off nonexistent hair. They pack up and practice "vogueing" and dissing, as well as seeing who can sound street or faggy. "That's fabbbbbbuuuuuullllush beeeotch!" Don't get me wrong. I think this new avenue for expression is great. Like art, modeling can be taught. (How many songs you got written, Slick?) Why not start teaching yourself at 13? But, in the wise words of my supermodel friend Marianna Rothen- "Don't go pro until you can show your tits." In case my neices Sammi and Danni read my blog- that's 26.

MARIA CARLO

2009-01-28T04:49:00.000-08:00

BRING ME THE HANDS OF JUAN PERRONE

2009-01-27T14:25:00.001-08:00

In the wake of the recent discovery of the cardboard cut-out Obama having white hands, I recall one of my very first supermodel interactions. It was at the beginning of that turbulent decade- the Funkies. I was working for PAPER MAGAZINE as their religion editor. And one day, while in the office, above Blimpies on Spring and Broadway, I spied a rather fetching young woman, typing away on her IBM Selectric. PAPER always had pretty young girls coming and going, interns and such. So I wasn't that surprised. "Nice new intern." I commented to Charles in Charge McC. "She's a fucking supermodel." he said, in distain of my ignorance. "That's Veronica Webb." I had no idea who Veronica Webb was, but I made it my mission to write my column with a view of her desk from then on.
Turned out she was smart, and cool and basically just another one of the oddball columnists. So happened she was incredibly beautiful, and had a high paying job to boot. I had recently written a piece on "FASHION", so I felt qualified to chat her up. I knew who the players were- Isabel and Rueben Toledo, Izac Mizrahi, Todd Oldham, (household names now, but then just PAPER darlings). It wasn't my scene, but that came with the territory, writing on religion for a scenester mag like PAPER. When I started concentrating on the hunting in my columns, we parted company. But back to Veronica.
How ever long she wrote for PAPER, it was during this period that she blew up big in the modeling world. She was in PAGE SIX and then she got a Revlon contract and if I'm not mistaken, she was the first Black girl to do this. Of course PAPER had to have a big party to celebrate this historic event. So Charles in Charge McC and I go to this party to congratulate Veronica on this supermodeling coup. On the way to the party I pick up a NY POST in the back seat of the cab we're riding in. And on PAGE SIX is the news, complete with photo. VERONICA WEBB SCORES REVLON CONTRACT! The only problem was they had printed a shot of some white model. Charles looked at it and assured me it was Veronica. "They make 'em up. You can't tell who they are, let alone Black or White."
When we got to the party the first thing out of Chuck's mouth was " Wow! Congratulations. etc. etc., ect, .....oh was that you in the POST?" I thought the girl would shit. And in lieu of the situation, she was gracious of the POST'S utter fuck up. "Yeah, they put a White girl in there. Nice." was all she said. And now Obama's hands are white. Dangling from all those life size cut-outs, people are having their pictures taken along side, could be the hands of Juan Perrone. Or even George Bush. When will it ever end?

MARIE CLAIRE

2009-01-23T09:31:00.000-08:00

FUTURE WOMAN

2009-01-21T15:31:00.000-08:00

mODEL:mARIANNA rOTHEN

'BAMA BUCKS

2009-01-21T05:27:00.000-08:00

The morning news informed us that political prisoner Leonard Peltier was beaten severely in his new digs in a Penn. prison. So much for the Red man getting ahead- man. 33 years of confinement and 33 years of declaring his innocence in the killing of 2 FBI agents has gotten him to this point in his history. The day we inaugurate an African American President he's beaten within an inch of his life by fellow prisoners. Hope and change does not trickle down so easily to the US prison system. Please, Mr. President, pardon this man before it's too late.

Now for my solution to the economic crisis. Yesterday the Dow dropped 4%- THE WORSE DAY ON WALL STREET FOR AN INAUGURATION! As the country celebrated, brokers dumped paper. This was an obvious no confidence vote on the street towards the new administration. So, instead of printing more of the same, let's put George W. (Washington-that is) up on the shelf and start fresh. We have made history. We have put a Black family in the White House. What better way to commemorate this than to put Obama on a bill? My proposal would be to take one of Shepard Ferry's fly images of Barack and create a new currency for a new day. And give this 'Bama buck a new value. $2 never worked. $3 has a bad connotation. But how about $1.50? A buck fitty has a nice ring to it.
This infusion of cash into the global economy could be just what the doctor ordered. Make this legal tender world wide. Hell, if the European Union can do it, why can't we? Pull out those Obama "Change" purses and stuff them with folding money. In the words of the great poet John Lennon- "Imagine".

MOTHER OF INVENTION

2009-01-20T04:43:00.000-08:00

As the sun peeks over the horizon in the east, I toss another log on the fire, light the pilot light on my ancient PC and in patriotic fashion, I sit down to write my blog. It's zero in the Catskills and maybe 30 degrees warmer in DC. NPR is positively giddy, gushing over the swearing in of the 44th President. If I hear one more commentator ask another Black person "Did you think you'd ever see this in your lifetime?" I'm gonna puke. I thought we'd be flying around Future Town in our personal jetpacks by now. I figured time travel and orgasmatrons would be common place and they would have perfected the candy cane tree, gay bomb (it makes you gay with one wiff) and whiskey spring by now. Did I think an Afro-American would be president? Sure, why not? Christ, wasn't Kennedy Irish? My only surprise was it took so long.
Instead of gathering on the mall, I've decided to do my bit by going to work, after I stoke the woodstove, warm up my '86 Ford pick up and wrap my feet in plastic bags to keep from freezing. So much for Future Town. And all the time I'm thinking. I'm thinking about how to make this country a better place...and make a buck in the process. Just like my brother in law Sojka, I have a knack for coming up with things that beg for an infomercial. The micro-wave water heater, the Vac-Sac and the cell phone toilet are a few of my favorites. Because of today's impending disaster concerning cell signals and port-a-johns on the mall, let's concentrate on the later item.
What do people HAVE to do every day? They have to vacate their systems and keep in touch with everyone they know by cell phone. Why not combine the two? With a few minor adjustments, some super-sizing and the addition of my soon to be patented green chemical/electro-micobe system any cell phone can become a crapper. Flip. Then flip again. Stretch. Press #2. Squat and let 'er rip. I have three old cell phones that I've combined as a prototype. There's still a few bugs to be ironed out, but I'm confident. Sometimes I take a picture instead of flushing. Sorry if I've accidently speed dialed any of you during my test runs. Today is a day which will go down in history. In Obama's honor lets all try to come up with something that will make our live's better. That's the spirit of America. SHAM-WOW, BABY!

COURTESY MARIANNA LOUISE

2009-01-18T06:42:00.000-08:00

TRISTAN

2009-01-17T05:38:00.000-08:00

HOW TO BE AN ARTIST 101

2009-01-16T08:43:00.000-08:00

First let me say that this has been the subject of rather long, diffuse, alcohol fueled conversations with my buddy Slick. He feels that, not only art, but being an artist can be taught. I disagree. I feel that being artist is somewhere between a calling and a curse. It's like having an extraneous nipple. It does you absolutely no good, but you either have one or don't. Nonetheless, for the sake of argument (and it being 5 below zero and way too cold to do paid work) I'll take on the premise that one can teach another how to be an artist. Here goes.
First, put away any notion that the ability to draw is somehow connected to art and your "art career". Even though every art school- k-phD still looks at drawing as an indicator of your "talent", it's completely wrong headed. I can draw a little, but I know plenty of very good artists that can't draw a lick. Because artists are so difficult to spot, institutions rely upon this simplistic, antiquated barometer. Who knows how many real artists are dissuaded and rejected every year because of a weak showing with the #2 pencil. Conversely many people who have a knack rendering that apple, but are void of what it takes in the long run to be an artist, get in Yale and are now selling carpet in their father's store.
Still want to be an artist? OK. Get a job. I suggest a really shitty job involving manual labor or as a Walmart greeter during the holidays. If you enjoy your job you must quit and find another one. Got alot of money and don't have to work? No matter. You still must get a job. I had some of my best ideas when I was around 25 years old, making pizzas for a 16 year old (son of the owner) boss. My mind was working faster than you could say "large pie, extra cheese, hold the anchovies." I hated that job and my kiddie boss so much, the only way I could deal was to lose myself in various art schemes that involved murder and sausage making. When you can't stand it any longer, quit your job. This is crucial in the artist making process. See how good you feel? Stock up on tuna and top raumen and note where all the pawn shops and blood banks are. You'll need these later.
Traditional art education is way over rated but not without value. If you already are starting to think of yourself as an artist and can come up with a way to pay for it, art schools can be a useful place to make connects and bide your time, avoiding the real world. In the process you may even make some art. But lets not get ahead of ourselves. I can see you are lacking in confidence. How do you know that what you are doing is art? You don't. Doubt is good. In fact if your peers tell you that you are not a very good artist and never will be, be assured you are on the right path. Do more of it. If, on the other hand, you are embraced by the community, sell your work, get shows and reviews early on in the process....WATCH OUT! This is the worse possible thing that can happen. Pick up a 20 year old ARTFORUM and see if you recognise 99% of the hot artists of the time. Failure and self-doubt are crucial components to this quest. Toughen up that ego.
Lets review. You've worked. You've quit. You've made art and nobody responds positively. You have been rejected, discouraged, ridiculed. You can't go back to school and that pizza job is now not looking so bad. You feel like a complete failure. This is the most crucial time in the artist making process. An artist will redefine failure. You aren't failing. Quite the contrary. You are succeeding through obstinance and perseverance. Notice I have not mentioned talent. You do not need any talent to be an artist. That's one of the best things about it. But....and this is a big but...you DO need talent to work. You must find a job that you can do to a degree throughout your life and not kill yourself. This will sustain you financially when none of your art sells. I chose carpentry, but it could be anything. Bukowski worked for the post office.
Obviously, I have a rather old school, romantic view of what an artist is. An artist, to me, continues against all odds. He (or she) is a bur under the saddle of conformity, constantly irritating societie's ass. And in the end only faith in art will save the individual. Every day an artist faces the beast with it's rancid breath, whispering "Give it up. You're getting nowhere." No one is saying do some more work, yet the work gets done. Once in a while someone will look at the work and approve or disapprove. It really doesn't matter. Rewards? Sure you get the self satisfaction of completion. But simultaneously you realize nothing is ever complete. In fact, that's another good thing about this "career". You never have to retire. Want to be a successful artist, traveling the world and making the big bucks? I can't help you there. But let me know when someone teaches that course. I'll be the first to sign up.

"GET ME A SAW."

2009-01-14T13:48:00.000-08:00

Having a blog about hunting and supermodels can sometimes be a difficult thing to keep current. For one thing my interaction with supermodels has dwindled to the degree that I may have to change the title to NOHUNTINGWITHSUPERMODELS. Add to that the fact that the only animal in season is the coyote, and I'm just not up to it anymore. It's too cold and they're way too wiley. So what does that leave? Work, art, beer, pot and TV. Shewho's off to Spain. Did I mention it's cold? So work is cold. WSSP is not yet insulated or heated. Still, every day I get up and go out there, wrap my belly with barbed wire, sprinkle gravel in my boots, put on the carhart hair shirt, turn on the radio, insulate and frame. Art? My songs are boring, as is the new collage. Just a bad spot before I change into something else. Beer? That's going well. Harps is my favorite. I have a good pot connection. And no, I won't give it to you. TV? Now, that I can talk about.
Last year, when I was geting my neck worked on I got into a 2pm routine. After going to the Dr. in the morning, I would chill in the afternoon and watch old episodes of 24. I saw the whole show. I was hooked. Every afternoon I was a little further into Jack's twisted day. Jack is basically our last line of defense. And, as of Sunday night, Jack is back.
I know the real government spooks watch the show, and I think that's a bad thing. These guys take it seriously and look at Jack as Hollywood's green light for torture. I do not approve. I can see these guys sitting around a laptop in Islamabad, watching 24 and then going out and getting some. I pity the poor cadriver on those nights. These guys have no sense of satire. On the other hand, I watch 24 with a big dose of irony and I'm no threat to the Moslem world. To me it's right up there with the first season of THE SIMPLE LIFE - purely of it's time.
In this new season, Jack's gone off the grid. Bill and Chloe have a new pad with a fireplace, cool lighting and Old Navy turtlenecks. They are running the show with Tony being deep undercover. These post-modern puppet masters are now the only ones we can trust. Tony's beat up, mean and sexy as hell. The government is compromised and corrupt (surprise). Only the hipster agents know to what degree. Jack, is of course drawn in. Couldn't keep him away from this scene. And there's a new babe. You could literally see all the actors look sympathically at Jack's new budding love interest.(Don't worry she'll get hotter). They all know she'll be killed. All Jack's women are killed. That actress shouldn't take out a big mortgage.
My favorite 24 scene in the entire show is the time Jack had to get back undercover with a bunch badasses. He needed the cooperation of a scumbag/pedophile. When the guy was not forthcoming, Jack pulled out his gun and killed him. As the other agents gasped in horror, Jack calm knelt and grabbed the guy's hair. Holding up the dead sumbag/pedophile's lifeless head, he whispered to the camera, between clenched teeth. "Get me a saw." Now that's a man I can trust.

5YRAASI

2009-01-06T05:04:00.000-08:00

pHOTO:dAVID bELLEMERE

WILL HISTORY ABSOLVE US?

2009-01-01T17:21:00.000-08:00

Years ago, a young, unsuccessful artist sat in a German prison cell penning his autobiography. Things had not gone well for him. In his youth he wanted nothing more than to be admitted to the Kunst Academie in Vienna for painting. But his drawings were stilted and lacking in inspiration. The professors thought he would be much better suited for the School of Architecture. But he would have none of that. He grew bitter and fell in with the wrong crowd. In 1918 he decided that he would show them all. Maybe he didn't have the talent to be a painter, but he would never stop thinking of himself as an artist. In MEIN KAMPF he writes, "My fate became known to me. I decided to go into politics." and later in the book- "History will absolve me." We all know how that worked out.

Another politician who used that phrase in a very long and eloquent statement as he stood before his accusors in a pre-revolutionary Cuban court room was the young lawyer Fidel Castro. Who knows whether he lifted it from MEIN KAMPF. The judges were not impressed. Off to prison went Fidel. But he did not stay there long. Once out he traveled to Mexico, where along with Che, brother Raul and Camillo Cienfuegos, they plotted and carried out the 1959 New Year's Eve overthrow of the Batista government. For the past 50 years "El Comandante" and his brother have brought the revolution into the 21st century. Has history absolved them? The jury's still out.
In 2002 and again in 2003 I visited Cuba. On my first visit I lectured at ISA (the country club where Che and Fidel played golf and vowed to establish a world class art school). They did. And on my second visit I had my world product launch of Holy LGM water, cigars and honey under the big top on the outskirts of Havana. A burly, plain clothes Cuban security officer was so appalled that a capitalista gringo would attempt to sell products in Cuba he was speechless. After pleading ignorance of the Socialista system and handing him a box of fresh Cohiba cigars, with my Holy lgm band, he agreed to let me pass out all the swag for free. The circus could proceed. I was a hero to the kids sucking down the bottled honey and cocking their new baseball caps.
I love Cuba and all it's contradictions. One night I sat in the back seat of a 1959 Chevy that had had it's aging motor replaced with a Russian tractor engine. The cabby was proud of the rumbling beast. It was geared so low it barely went faster than 20 mph. We stopped at an intersection and a cop waved us over. I asked the cabby what was going on? He just pointed as a long line of Mercedes limos (all with their lights out) passed in front of us. "Fidel." he grumbled. Then he went on to tell me how he was arrested in the early 90's for having US dollars. At the time it was illegal for Cubans to have US money in their posession. He spent 5 years in prison. When they changed the law he was released. "Who will give me back those 5 years?" he asked. I gave him a $10 tip for a $5 ride. He cursed Fidel and thanked me for the generous tip. So much for the revolution in his eyes.
In less than a month the 44th president of the United States will be sworn into office. He inherits such a shit storm from his predecessors it's had to know where to begin to shovel it out. He better make a revolution or we're all doomed. Last night my Cuban friends lit cigars, ate grapes and tossed buckets of water out their doors. It's a new beginning. Shewho and I went to Slick's to party in the new year. Our lives are good. But at what price to the rest of the world? In the words of Homer Simpson "I resolve to be more fun." That can't hurt. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

FEED A JEW FOR XMAS

2008-12-24T06:34:00.000-08:00

Sure the Jews have Chanuka this time of year, but how can that compete with Santa Claus? Little boys and girls of mixed marraiges naturally would gladly toss the dradle in the trash just for a taste of figgy pudding and a chance at a new Schwinn under the tree. Mennorah or fake snow on big blow up baby Jesus' forehead, out in the front yard bouncy manger? No contest. Silent night or The draddle song? Hot chocolate. Carolers. Malls. Shopping. Ca-ching. Chinese food and a movie or glazed ham and lobster bisque? Nothing against my Semetic brethren, but what do they know about stealing xmas trees from state parks? Raised as a covered dish Presbyterian, and now a free agent, I feel a certain duty to take care of my Jewish friends this time of year.
So it is that Slick and I are going to have Xmas together. I usually go to the folks but now that all the neices and nephews are grown (and no fun), and after the dog shitting on the rug incident, I've decided to stay home. Shewho's with her daughter and everyone else I know has plans. So that leaves Slick and I to bring in the holiday together. We'll hang our socks (and his yamulka) on the stove pipe, turn on the home shoppping channel, pour a couple of eggnogs (with a stick in it)and try to sight in the muzzle loader. The neighborhood camels will watch as we bounce in the manger and toss our sweet lord back and forth. Once sufficiently toasted, the elves (cats) will help make a big dinner of venison, swine and various shellfish. More booze and the traditional smoking of the "evergreen" will follow.
I'm looking forward to spending the day with someone of an other faith and culture. I want to share my traditions with him and learn from his strange customs, such as wrapping pennies and ordering things online. I think this could become a holiday tradition. This is the time of year to educate all those infidels of the glory and majesty of an inflatable virgin Mary snuggled up to a chainsaw carved black bear, bringing in Xmas as one. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all.

MODEL ON SOFA

2008-12-24T06:28:00.000-08:00

pHOTO:hELMUT nEWTON

GIRL ON COUCH

2008-12-23T05:34:00.000-08:00

pHOTO:dAVID bELLEMERE

SANTA FE

2008-12-22T06:07:00.000-08:00

mODEL:mARIANNA lOUISE

GOING ONCE. GOING TWICE.....

2008-12-22T05:43:00.000-08:00

In a world where the individual seems so overwhelmed by bad news, that most people just shut down out of sheer impotence, one man took a stand and made a difference. Friday, Univ. of Utah economics student Tim deChristopher went straight from his economics final to the BLM auction of vast acreage in the Utah wilderness to the oil companies. He saw a smattering of tree hugger protesters outside and decided he had to do more to disrupt the auction. In a matter of minutes he had a bidder's paddle in hand and before he knew it, he was driving up the price of every parcel on the block. In a moment of pure inspiration this student saw an opportunity and siezed upon it. Before he was through he was the proud owner of over 20,000 acres of pristine wilderness in Utah for a little over a million bucks. What a deal! I've rennovated upper east side apartments for 10 times that.
Of course being a student, Tim did not have the money in his checking account. But the damage was already done. The auction was in disaray. Federal agents took Tim into custody and then released him, but not without charging him for various offenses. This morning he was on Democracy Now. He goes to court later today. You could tell he was riding a high. His act (like Julia Butterfly sitting in that tree) was inspired, pure and effective. It was a work of art. All eco-protesters, as well as eco-millionaires like Robert Redford should take note. Every auction should be filled with straw bidders to stir things up or people with real money should buy up these properties and protect them from the oil companies. $1,000,000 is nothing to Robert Redford. Tim did good. Follow his lead.

HOMO FOR THE HOLIDAYS

2008-12-21T16:29:00.000-08:00

Look, I'm already a slim bachelor who lives alone with three cats. How much of a stretch can it be to go over to the dark side for the holiday season? I wanted the Obama inaugeral gig. I heard I was on the short list. But instead he's going with some homophobic Evangelical cracker. So as a member of the clergy who caters to gay weddings and funerals I'm going homo for the holidays.
The first thing I did was decorate. I put up twinkly lights around my dead buck and attached two shiny red xmas balls to his crotch. My new couch, straight from "Nana's" house (complete with 70's pillows) made my place look even more gay. Now we're getting somewhere. Then the phone rang. It was GNJohn. He told me about his past week. It has way more holiday spirit than mine. MERRY XMO.

Al Blanchard, GNJohn and I spent last winter building GNJ's new house. A year later he has a great house and is broke. Remember this as we go forward. Last week he spent his last $1000 on a new gold front tooth. He came home and showed it off. It was shiny. A couple of days later another tooth started hurting. He lived with it until he couldn't sleep from the pain. But before he drove to his city dentist he went to get his oil changed. The mechanic noticed his front tires were bald. $200 later he headed to Manhattan. Half way down the thruway he started to shake uncontrollably. His gums were turning black. The dentist took one look at him and made an appt. with the surgeon for the morning. GNJphn had brought his dog Girl. Girl doesn't "get" NYC so it took a 2 hour walk for her to take a shit. GNJohn was dying.
The next morning he had to move the car. He did- but close to a hydrant. The surgeon removed the tooth with much bone splintering and pressure, but no pain. The Doc was good. GNjohn drove back up on the mountain with a pocket full of vics., but not until getting a $115 ticket for that hydrant. After he got through telling me this, we got to talking about his father's mini-strokes and the aunt's skin disease. Not to be confused with the sister in law's flesh eating virus.
I ran out of gas tonight. But I had an extra tank. I'm sorry that's all I got. I can't compete with GNJohn for his holiday tale of pain and suffering. Oh yeah, the windshield wipers on the truck stopped working. I think it's the fuse. Am I getting anywhere? I guess no matter how much I gussy up the place and sit around watching John and Kate plus 8, I'll never really be gay. I takes a certain comittment that I just don't have. GNJohn showed the hole in his mouth off to post office girl Emily. He bragged that he was now a local. Emily sized him up. "You're just a poser." she said. "A local loses that tooth in a fight." That's my kind of committment. That's not to say that homo for the holidays can't compete with Gay for a Day in the straight community. Instead of watching Obama pray with the Rev. Homohater, take a homo to lunch. Spread the love.

WHEN THE MUSIC STOPS

2008-12-20T12:21:00.000-08:00

I discovered porn and hunting early in life. In the 50's if you must know. The so-called porn was tiny B&W booklets hidden in my old man's desk drawer. They were put out by PUP'S PARTS, an auto parts company. These quaint little tomes had busty babes in see-through nighties and racy cartoons, in various degrees of bad taste. Bird and I took every opportunity to sneak a peek. Smokie was too young. Hunting was tagging along rabbit, duck and pheasant hunting with the old man or lonely woodchuck hunting with an old long bow and target arrow. I eventually did get a chuck (cornered by my hound dog). The target points just bounced off. I literally had to knock it from the dog's neck with the bow and beat it to death. It sure wasn't pretty, but I think that still counts as a bow kill.
After puberty and the Vietnam years I soured on hunting as well as porn. In 1975 I was in the Mitchell Brother's SF. Nekid girls were everywhere. I got a job illustrating stroke books "in the style" of some dead illustrator. It was tedious work dictated to me by my boss, a homely Mafia princess in house coat and fuzzy slippers. "In today's story Nurse Nancy is giving Dr. Bones a sloppy blowjob. And Mike....." she said, singling me out from the Chinese gay guy and hillbilly from Florida. "Mike......please a little more graphic. Less artsy." I had a prudish way of squiggling over the nasty bits. The hillbilly, known for his giant, squirting dicks, just smirked. I got 10 dollars a drawing. On a good night I could make a C note. 8 hours of pouring through skin mags and putting the body parts together in a Frankensteinian approach to illustrative narrative was exhausting. At the end of a hard day, the last thing i wanted to do was go to a dirty movie.
Since I lived in the city and knew no one who hunted, I stopped hunting. Even when I visited back east, I took a less than serious approach. I borrowed gloves, coat, hat and gun from Bird, went up on his back hill for a couple of hours and then went back to the house to watch cartoons with my neices. VHS was yet to be marketed to consumers, but art students had half inch B&W video tape to play with. The first thing I did was video the wife and I getting busy. Tommy and Pam got nothing to worry about. (Don't worry #1. I taped over it.) Back in SF, my interest in porn started to heat up again.
The only place you could watch a dirty movie in bed was a motel. I decided to curated a series of artist videos that would air between the motel porn. The Motel Tapes were a big hit. I wasn't actually doing porn, but exploiting the already charged space around it. That's artspeak for I did the stuff that didn't turn you on. I thought about hunting again, but did nothing to get back into the woods. It wasn't until 1993, back in NY, that I took it up again. And when i did, I jumped back in with both feet. Typically, at first, pigeon holing it as art. I read magazines and replenished the gun cabinet. My first squirrels I skinned salted and stacked in cardboard ravioli boxes. I broiled the tiny critters with a little garlic. Mmmmmmm. Food, as well as art.
Now, some 15 years later, it's still art for me. But when the season's over I need new activities. I get my porn for free from the internet and my "hunting porn" on two cable TV channels- Versus and Pursuit. This quite bizarre line up of shows on chs. 603 and 608 is totally consuming me. There's Les Johnson, blastng coyotes at 600yards on PREDATOR QUEST. A hillbilly couple of champion archers on STAYING SAFE or the cute yuppy version DRIVEN. The later couple looks like they'd be just as comfortable hosting MTV's Spring Break House. Jello shooters on that dead buck anyone? There's a lot of product hype and Maxoderm and Enzyte hawking, but compared to Oprah or IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, it's no contest. The guests range from kids with cancer to CEOs of gun companys. WHITETAIL ADDICTION is my fave. It's do-it-yourselfer's show of giant buck kills. And all these shows are structured exactly like pornos.
First there's the set up. The plumber rings the doorbell. A little grunting and rattling from the stand. A pretty girl answers the door. A buck peeks out from behind a bush. Hmmmmm? Hmmmmm? In both hunting shows and porn the predictable plot proceeds with varying degrees of proficency, always accompanied by some horrible swelling music. Then.....AND ONLY THEN... when the music stops, and the camera zooms in for the money shot, death or ejaculation occur. Finally, two of my favorite pastimes combined as one. You'd think the animals would get hip to that music stopping.

THE HORRIBLE STINK OF THE ROTTING CORPOCRACY

2008-12-17T06:52:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 5:30 am like clockwork. Got up. Turned on the twinkling xmas lights draped over Rudolph the red balled reindeer. Grabbed my gun. Turned on the Pursuit Channel and methodically made my way around the shack. Is that a rub on the coffee table leg? I swear I saw tracks in the closet and scrapes in the kitchen, under the coat rack. Ssssshhhhhh. Between ads for hardon pills and cream I thought I saw a big buck crosing the TV screen. I laid the gun barrel over the back of a chair and waited....
After two months in the woods I knew it wouldn't be easy to make the transition back to civilian life. I heard crows and looked up. Buzzards were circling the cieling fan. Was this the big one? Had I actually hit him? I followed my nose behind the woodstove and there it lay- not the monster buck, I had missed clean, but the foul coyote shredded carcass of the American system of government and finance. It seems an unethical hunter had gut shot his buddy and left him to die an ignoble death in the weeds. How could this have happened? Let's try to piece together the forensic evidence.
Once upon a time corporations and government hunted together. Each year they would don the blaze orange, load up the pick up trucks with apples and pumpkins and make their way to the mountains for a weekend of drinking, card playing and shooting around the bait pile. If it was brown it was down. Spikes and does were piled in the truck beds and back to the city they went. It was a system that seemed to work. With names like Madoff and Blogovavich, politicions, hedge fund managers and corporate execs took a little time off to hunt with each other. Deals were made. Pockets were lined. Bush came late and hunted from his tinted window SUV with the lights and heater on. He never even turned the radio off. Then, this year there were no deer. So they drank and their trigger fingers got itchy.
Poor people with late mortgage payments and hardly any meat on their bones were the first to fall. Because the bankers had the most powerful guns and the most ammo the politicians didn't dare draw a bead on them. But fat under gunned auto execs looked mighty tasty, sneaking through the under brush. Brokerage houses were easy picking and by the end of the season all bets were off. No one was safe. For now it's left to the scavengers. For me, I have laundry, wood to get in and a house to finish building. That should keep me busy 'til spring. Four months until turkey season.

2 FOR 8

2008-12-15T05:45:00.000-08:00

That's the tally. I shot under 2 does with the bow before hitting one. Then I shot a buck with the .243, missed the big one with the slug gun, missed a doe with the .243 and two more with the muzzle loader. It's probably my worst season for misses. But, the good thing is I haven't wounded anything, shot myself (or anyone else)and there's two days left to redeem myself. This deer season has been long and hard. Since October 15th I've hunted almost full time. I'm broke, worn out and trying my damndest to put another in the freezer. For those citizens who think it's so easy to shoot Bambi, try the last two days of muzzle loader season. One day it's 5 degrees and ice. The next it's 50 degrees and rain. The deer are all spooked. Tomorrow they're calling for snow. Please let it be so.
The deer are holed up in pockets. Sitting in a stand and waiting for them to stroll by may work, but chances are you have to sneak up on them. The weather plays the most important role in this. Rain is good. Snow is better. So for the next two days I'll move. I stink. (Who has time to wash clothes?) My gun is finally sighted in. (I hope and pray). I have a half dozen shots left, tape for the barrel and my legs are strong. From all accounts no one shot the big one. At sunset tomorrow it's all over. The dark winter begins. I hear the market has gone to hell and the world is a dangerous place. I have to go back to work and deal with all the problems out at WSSP. Has Detroit been bailed out? Do I care? Not yet......

BIG NUDE

2008-12-08T04:27:00.000-08:00

pHOTO: hELMUT nEWTON

WHY IT'S SO GOOD FOR ME

2008-12-07T15:42:00.000-08:00

Not to say it's so bad for you, or to be braggy. But, I just have to say, that today reminds me of why I'm on this earth. First, let me catch you up on my doing. Because of a hard freeze and deer season, WSSP is on hold. Morris is on the septic problem and I'm forced to trust him. I hope he's right when he says "It's gonna work, Mike." Luckily I have a very understanding client. So I'm free to hunt. Deer season wise it has been hit and miss. After my miss at the big one I have seen less and less. Now resigned to take does, I have only had small bucks in my sights. Yesterday i missed a 100 yard shot at a doe in the last 5 mins. of shooting light. I should of had her.
Last night it snowed about an inch and in the morning it was dead calm. I went behind the school house and saw nothing but turkeys. Around 11am Savage Lynch, Bird, Al Blanchard,and Bobby Rowe were coming up to put on drives. Around 10 am the wind kicked up and it started to snow intermitently. This was perfect weather for drives. A deer drive is when you try to spook deer towards standers. And in this kind of weather, (wind swirling snow) either can get a shot.
So we started driving Elijah's towards the cemetery. Al and I stood and Bird, Savage and Bobby drove. They saw a whole bunch of deer early and didn't shoot. Al saw one but his eyes weren't adjusted so he didn't shoot. And I saw nothing.
Second drive was Al and I on the back ridge above Ray Gilkey's pushing to Bird, Bob and Savage. I saw 4 turkeys and a 4 pointer at the end. No shots. Third drive was GNJohn's swamp. They pushed 3 does to me and Al. I could've had a running shot, but decided to pass. Bird saw nothing. It was time for lunch. Let me just say that I couldn't be hunting with four finer individuals. Savage brought bologna sandwiches and I cookd up a venison steak. Al drank water and refused to eat and Bird had an apple. Bobby munched on chips. Low maintenance to a man.
The last drive of the day was behind The Denniston Farm Foundation house on GNJohn's Mountain. It was a new drive for us. I laid it out with maps and diagrams and was certain everyone knew where to go. Right. As Savage and I pushed, the others took their places. Five minutes into the drive I saw two does on the snowy ridge. I settled in and laid the gun over a rock. I didn't want to miss. The doe moved. i moved. Just when I had her broadside...I clicked off the safety and.....A SHOT! I thought it was Savage. It wasn't. The does bolted. I got on the radio and alerted Savage. I tried to get on the larger doe to no avail. Then another shot. Definitely Savage this time. I called. No response.
I continued up the hill and found Al. He said Bird was in a different spot than we agreed upon. CHRIST! He was worse than the old man and ex-wife Melanie put together. As the light began to fade and the snow blew i made my way back to the truck. Bobby looked forlorn. "What's wrong little buckeroo?" I asked. Seems he had gone into woods with an empty chamber. Three doe had stood in front of him pleading to be shot. He pulled up his gun. Click. I told him it was a way better story than shooting one. "And you?" I asked Savage. He had missed the first doe and had shot again at another coming from the other direction. "You get it?" He pulled a fez of hair from his pocket. It was the tip of a deer's tail. Now that is shooting.
And this is why it's so good. I just spent most of a day with four men I would trust with my life, chasing deer up and down snow covered, wind blown ridges, and came home with the bloody tip of a deer's tail. Then we proceeded to drink and rag on each other, as we relived the entire day. Listen to the evening news and hear how bad it is. Go deer hunting with men you trust and see how good it is.

SHOTGUN SLUG BLUES

2008-11-26T15:15:00.000-08:00

It started during bow season. I was seeing a lot of rubs. For you non-hunters a rub is when a buck scrapes the bark off one side of a tree to attract does and mark his territory. Not to be confused with a scrape which is a rubbed patch of earth that a buck pees on to mark his territory and attract does. Rule of thumb is a lttle buck will make little rubs on little trees, but only a big buck will tear up a big (3 or more inches diam.) tree. I was seeing big trees gouged.
So yesterday in a sloppy soup of snow, sleet and rain I decided to still hunt. I started out behind the church. Taking a slow, steady loop, I sat and walked, walked and sat. I went behind the two new houses and cut close to the Russian's with the new cinder block bomb shelter or White Castle. I came out by where Elijah's trailer used to be. Crossing the road, I cut behind the cemetery, where Bird had pushed the 8 to me last year. I was seeing big rubs all the way, but no deer. By noon I was in the back corner of the horse farm. I have permission to hunt this, but try to stay out during gun season. Too many other hunters. But the weather was so crappy I figured that I would be the only one crazy enough to be out. I was right.
I crested the hill and slid down the back side towards the river. I wasn't even paying attention, when I noticed a deer laying down the hill 10 yards in front of me. It was a buck. He was facing down the hill and never heard me. To walk up on any deer is a coup. To walk up on a buck, so close, is unheard of (for me at least). I hit the ground and peeked up. He was a nice four pointer. Not legal. When I peeked he caught me and scooted down the hill as silent as an owl. Now I was paying attention. Why couldn't he have been a big buck? I was carrying my Browning 12 ga. pump slug gun with open sights. In this weather I didn't want to carry my scoped .243. I'd killed bucks with this gun, with bad eyes. It was more of a challenge than the rifle. 50 yards was my max.
About half way down the ridge I hit a logging trail and turned right. The corner of the river was just below me and I was headng towards the road. Not 50 yards down the road I spotted a deer under a little hemlock. IT WAS A MONSTER BUCK! I'd walked up on two bucks in one day! Even with my bad eyes I could tell this was a nice buck. I shouldered the shotgun as he stood. I fired. He kicked and twisted like a fish, all four feet off the ground. Then he headed straight up the ridge, That's right, UP the ridge. I lost him immediately. I had never shot at a buck this big. All indications were it was a good hit. I chambered another shell and headed slowly down the road. I was sure he'd be piled up just up the hill. Yeah right.
The first couple of minutes of searching for blood didn't concern me. I'd hit plenty of deer and not found blood at the hit, only to find a dead deer 20 yards away. A half hour in and 200 yards up the hill I began to worry. Two hours later I was crestfallen. I kept playing it over in my head. He kicked. He hunched. He twisted. I know I hit this deer. No blood. No Hair. I came home and called Savage. I got his machine. I grabbed the .243 and went back. By dark I gave up.

In the aftermath of this terible event I consulted with the old man, Bird, and of course Savage Lynch. "Sorry Ost." he said,"I think you missed him. Must've shot right over his back." Of all the lousy scenerios this was the best. I couldn't deal with wounding and not finding this deer. I went back today and listened for crows and checked for any trace of hair. Nada. The old man said his old man always said that most deer are missed by shooting over their backs. He was a wise old coot. Savage said he heard of a guy that shot at a deer and four other deer hit the ground out of shear fright. I feel better knowing it was a clean miss. But I still feel like shit knowing I blew a chance of a lifetime. You have no idea how this affects a hunter. Now I'm really going to get serious.

SLEEPY GIRL

2008-11-20T04:39:00.000-08:00

pHOTO:dAVID bELLEMERE

SEASON UPDATE

2008-11-19T04:19:00.000-08:00

The last day of bow season was a bust. I hunted the afternoon out at WSS. It was rainy and warm. I saw one doe and six turkeys. Then on my way home, waiting to turn onto Rt.52, I saw a deer attempting to cross the road. Traffic was coming in both directions and this deer was not waiting. I laid on the horn to no avail. A car hit it broadside. I got out of my truck to see if the driver was ok. A woman, holding a cell phone, was shakey but unharmed. The deer did not fair as well. It was a spike buck and he was hurt bad. I had no gun and did not want to release an arrow into a flopping deer in the dark, on the side of a rainy highway. I grabbed my knife and headed for the buck. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING? Luckily the deer read my mind, struggled to its feet and disappeared into the woods. I had to remember I was no Savage Lynch.
Opening day of gun brought more rain and 60 degree temps. Shitty weather for deer hunting. I never saw a deer all day. Bird and Ginger hosted our traditional Opening Day Night Betheroo Birthday Party. Shewo came up and I cooked wild turkey and the backstrap of that doe I got last week. Mmmmmmmm! Many were in attendance, but sorely missed were Milawyer and his parents Vic and Georgia. Vic got a "honker" and was wiped out and Milawyer was in the process of extracting large sums of money from some nameless corporation back in West Virginia. A great time was had by all.
The morning of the second day brought high wind and cooling temps. I moved from my high stand down at GNJohns to a spot behind the cemetery where it was more protected. Through the thick woods I could see a doe darting back and forth. The rut was still on. Then I saw a big body and horns. It was the high six I'd seen during bow season, but he was too far and moving too fast. The doe circled and came right for me. I saw another deer behind her, raised the gun, and fingered the safety. The lead doe made me, stopped and started to head bob. Then what I thought was the buck stepped out giving me a shot. Fuck! It was another doe. The buck had vanished.
On Monday I hunted hard all day and never saw a deer. Yesterday I got in the GNJohn stand early. It had snowed Monday night and you could see movement a mile away. Aside from spooking four does off of Ray Gilkey's lawn I never saw a thing. At about 8:30 I decided to climb down and head for the mountain behind the old white Denniston house. Just before I crested the top I spotted 3 does feeding way off in the woods. I set up against a tree where I could see above and below me. I wasn't there 20 minutes before I heard crunch-crunch coming behind me. It was a buck. He crossed 10 yards in front of me and headed down the hill at a steady clip, oblivious to everything. I tried to get the scope on him to see if he had brow tines. He was a good sweeping four. At about 50 yards I was able to stop him with a bleat. He turned his head and I saw a brow time. I put the cross hairs on his front shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
He hunched. He kicked. He ran. Then I lost sight of him. After waiting about 10 minutes I followed his tracks in the snow. I saw where he spun. But no blood. I dropped my bag and tried to follow his tracks, but lost the trail in the briars. Still no blood. How could I have missed this deer? I circled the area for a half hour and was just about to give up when....there he lay against a tree. He hadn't gone 30 yards. He was a six with two broken brow tines. Phew! The wave of relief is indescribable. Aside from my aching neck and shoulders, and a near heart attack dragging the buck out, it was a perfect morning. Stay tuned.

MISS LONGWELL

2008-11-17T07:48:00.000-08:00

pHOTO:hELMUT nEWTON

NOT LIKE ON TV

2008-11-12T16:00:00.000-08:00

I started seeing deer at first light. Three does were under the apple tree. Two more came from the woods. Another bunch came across the road, dog barking. By 7:30 am I bet I'd seen 15 does. One skulking through the woods at a steady clip looked like a buck, but I never saw horns. Then, off to my right a decent sized doe was heading for my stand. I clipped my release on the bow string and waited. By the time the doe was standing right under my feet, another had appeared in front of me and two more behind me. I leaned to my left, hugging the tree, drew back and fired. The deer crashed through some brush to my left and took off up the hill. 50 yards out it stopped, slowly turned and headed back to me, now farther out. I saw blood coming from her side. I had hit her way too far back. But she was quartering away, so I felt confident I'd hit vitals. The deer laid down, head up. She was too far for a second shot. I waited for her to die.
45 mins. later, she got up, stumbled, got up again and disappeared into the pines. Fuck! Wounding a deer is bad enough. Losing a wounded deer is every hunters nightmare. I decided to back off and call Savage Lynch. He said the hit sounded good and that most likely if I just let her lay, she'd die. Nonetheless he was willing to drive up the mountain with his dogs Bonnie and Duchess. Bonnie could use an easy one. We found the bed and as soon as the dogs got on the trail a doe jumped up. It was my deer. Fuck again. She crossed the road and ran across a big lawn. I knocked on the door to get permission to follow the deer. The increasingly horrified look on the woman's face, as I explained my dilema, said it all. "YOU WOUNDED ONE OF MY DEER?" Tears were welling up in her eyes. Luckily her husband stood behind her, calming her and assuring her that it was the ethical thing to do. Now I felt worse.
It didn't take Savage and the dogs long to spot the deer under an apple tree not 10 yards off the lawn. I'd warned the woman that she may hear a shot. Savage pulled his scoped .357 from it's holster, as I held the dogs. He shot. He missed. He shot again and hit it in the ass. "She was curled up." he explained. "I was aiming for her head. I put 6 shots in a pie plate at 100 yards." I believed him. But he couldn't hit shit at 10 yards. "Give me your knife." he said. My old man explained that it was a Lynch thing. "Now you know what I've been putting up with for 60 years with his father."
When I went back to thank the PETA woman, her eyes were red and swollen. "I've been crying all this time." she moaned. I told her she'd done the right thing. She said she didn't know how I could hunt. She wasn't angry. Just perplexed. I didn't know what to say to comfort her. I thanked her again and left. It's part of the deal when you hunt. Once you let that arrow fly you are committed. A miss is a miss. But a hit means a kill one way or another, if possible. If it wasn't for Savage and his dogs I easily could have lost that deer. It wasn't pretty but it was successful. Tomorrow is the 13th. I still have a buck tag. Lets hope I can put the arrow where I want it.

NEW JUICE

2008-11-12T02:18:00.000-08:00

pHOTO:dAVID bELLEMERE

11/11 2X2

2008-11-11T15:13:00.000-08:00

Let me just say that some of my favorite people were born on 11/11. Ray Gilkey, Emma Lee, and Iman (one of my two Black godchildren), to name three. Happy Birthday! Now lets get down to business. Enough politics. Enough real estate woes and Hatfield and McCoy feuds. Enough talk of economic down turn and government bail out. The rut is in full swing. It's time to spend all day in a tree and shoot that big boy. Fuck the rest of it.
This morning I went back to my stand behind Elijah's. I've moved it closer to the action, between two houses, in a brushy field with apple trees. Even though I live near big stretches of woods, I've decided to get up close and personal on these deer this year. It's safe with a bow, I have permission and I've got a bird's eye view of all the action. The problem is that most of the deer are still too far for a shot. I barely feel comfortable at 30 yards. That's my max. I have to get them in. This morning that changed.
I'd seen 6 distinctly different bucks in this spot. Most were legal, but small. But I did see one high six that I wanted to take. Hunting this spot I listen for the dog across the road barking. 9 out of 10 times this means deer are coming. The dog barked and a minute later I saw a big bodied deer walking towards me. From 50 yards I could see a white rack. It looked like the six. I clipped my release and waited. He was coming right for me, nice and easy. At 15 yards I saw a sweeping rack, with a good spread and.....4...... what? only 4 points! He strolled right under my stand. I could've jumped on him. I wanted so badly to grow brow tines on this buck. Three or better on one side is the law in this county. I'm trying my damndest to comply. I had to let him walk. No bragging rights on shooting, even a big 4 pointer. It's still early.
Savage Lynch swears by the 13th as peak of the rut. He's probably right. All I know is for the next week I'm in the woods. Gun opens on Saturday. Fuck the crazy neighbors. Fuck the building inspector and fuck the new President and his new puppy. I'm so over the Obama years. I'd love to talk supermodels, but for now that's a foreign subject. You'll have to settle for hunting. It's light by 6am.

"YOU'RE PANICING, MIKE."

2008-11-10T06:37:00.000-08:00

Some people have shrinks. Other's confide in men or women of the cloth. Still others tell all to someone close, taking solace in the words of wisdom of a friend, spouse or family member. For me, I rely on the tried and true perspective of my honeydipper- Morris Cooper. No one can calm my nerves and relax my furrowed brow like an experienced septic man.
Not wanting to incriminate myself, I can't tell you what particular septic system I'm talking about. Lets just say it's in the western part of the county. I made the calculated risk to purchase an old farm house on a postage stamp size piece of property with an old spring well and barely discernable septic. Being a good citizen I got the place engineered. But being engineers they designed a system for a small municipality. Fuck that. So I called up Morris and asked if he could put in a bare bones, workable "upgrade of an existing system"? "No problem." he said in his trademark growl.
Then, after he put it in, all hell broke loose. The asshole, hillbilly satanist, neighbors dropped a dime to the building inspector. I dealt. Then a camera appeared, trained on the house. I dealt again. But what really made me start to twitch was the new system immediately filled with water. I called Morris. He reassured me that this happens all the time. I felt better. But two weeks later the water is still gurgling out of the waste pipe. Prozac does not fix this. So I called Morris again. In a doctorly tone he told me "You're panicing, Mike. Give it some time. Things will settle down. That new ground has to set. Every thing's gonna be OK." And, Goddamnit I believe him. Worse case scenerio we have to put in a curtain drain in the Spring. In with the good. Out with the bad. Yes, I still wish my neighbors would die in a fiery car crash but I trust in my honeydipper. My shit is his bread and butter.

MODEL WITH COYOTE AND VOODOO DOLL

2008-11-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

44 HALF BLACK

2008-11-05T16:11:00.000-08:00

The shining eyes of Obama youth are upon us. In a world changed over night, a future promises your children and grandchildren a chance to say I was there when... As for me, I started last night with a phone call to the folks to see if they voted. "After chemo." my mother said. Priorities. Then the old man got on the line and told me how he voted for McCain because Obama only thought about himself. He's usually perceptive about this kind of crap, but this time I felt he was way off. What he took as self centered, I take as ego and confidence. And for a guy who didn't exactly like the Navy, he's way too impresed by McCain's military experience. As if to say crashing planes and being a POW makes for good Presidential training. I got disgusted and told him to put mom back on the line. She voted for McCain also, but for some reason it didn't bother me as much. She told me she just liked underdogs. I gave her a pass.
Then I went over to Slick's for a election results party. We kept flipping between CNN and Fox. It was painful. But at last my eye medicine arrived and all looked better. As Obama started to look like a shoein, I asked if John Stewart was on? Bam! It had just started. My TV clock was ticking away. Colbert and Stewart were in full effect. It was official. Two little Black girls were about to take up residence, with their parents, in the White House. In January 2009 the 44th, half black, half white, President of the United States will be sworn in. In the meantime, everyone is holding their breath. Yes we can.
I came home, flipped on ch. 13 and watched McCain's concession speech and Obama's acceptance speech. If that stiff armed old coot had been half as relaxed and gracious during the campaign as he was leaving it, I would've voted for him. By the time Obama got to the call and response portion of his "Yes we can." speech, I had had enough. Will the dashiki's and red bowties appear? Is Obama the selfless, compassionate leader he appears to be? Or is he some sort of meglomaniac, leading an adoring throng of lemmings off the cliff? I'd guess somewhere in between. I have a dream. We give him a chance.

CYBERWOMAN

2008-11-05T04:56:00.000-08:00

pHOTO: hELMUT nEWTON

PRESIDENT MUMIA ABU JAMAL

2008-11-03T18:20:00.000-08:00

Back in the 20th century I was crossing the Denniston Ford bridge, on my way up the hill to my shack, when I heard a man on the radio speaking the truth. Because he was articulating some very perceptive and complex thoughts on politics in America I took note, and turned up the volume. I had never heard this man before. I sat in my driveway, the car running, listening to this voice. I said to myself- Now here's a man that should be President. When he ended, another voice came on and told me who the voice was. Live from death row- Mumia Abu Jamal.
On this election eve, I reset my deer stand to a spot just behind where Elijah's trailer used to sit. I didn't see anything tonight but I have high hopes for the morning. There's a couple of apple trees and a few fresh scapes. The bucks are heating up. But I digress. We were talking politics. We are poised to elect the first Black President of the United States. If we don't we're all fucked. But if we do, where are we? Barack Obama is no Mumia Jamal, but he's all we have at this point. This man is articulate, empathetic, astute, and politically a pure genius. But.....
Millions of dollars have been spent to elect this man. Barrack Hussain Obama is a Christian accused of being a Moslem. Has he made any effort to embrace his Moslem brothers? No. Against the war in Iraq, Obama plans to escalate the war in Afghanistan. Does he have an exit strategy for Afghanistan? No. Has Obama taken any of these millions of dollars and given them to Haiti or Congo, or Dafur, or any other country, cause or issue, black, white or otherwise? No. Will President Obama pardon Mumia Abu Jamal? Who knows. Pray for Obama.

IT'S A BOY!

2008-11-01T07:58:00.000-07:00

I don't have photos yet, but as soon as I do I'll let you see them. They sexed my neice Dr. Katestandingstraightandtall's little nugget and it's a male child. I couldn't be more tickled. Not that a girl wouldn't have made me just as pleased, but as Bird put it, our nephews Tappa-Kegga-Wade, Bayonet Esak, and Blinky are such disappointments, it will be nice to start fresh and mold Little Booger into something we can all be proud of. Bird is already buying deer dragging wagons and child sized wood splitters. I have cuddly coyote skins and rattling horn rattles for him. His parents Dr. K and her husband Nurse What'shisname? assure both the grandparents and more importantly, the granduncles and aunts that we will all participate in raising the golden child. We may have to keep the little sack of germs away from my parents until 1/2 way through happy hour. After that, both the GGs will be pickled enough that no germs can get through.
Now the only looming issue is location-location-location. The storage locker in Syracuse is too small to properly raise a child. Oh! And the naming. Everyone says that Little Booger is not suitable. They even frown at LB. Personally I don't see it, but hell, I'm flexible. My next choice would be Osterhout. Being a traditionalist Dr. K took Nurse ?'s last name as her own when they got married, leaving Osterhout like an abandoned cat caught in the crawl space. Naming the kid Osterhout would seem like a logical solution to this. Osterhout What'shisname? has a nice ring to it.
As far as moving closer to the grandparents and ME, this once again seems like a no brainer. I have a very flexible schedule and a first aid certificate from my hunting guide's license, just in case the kid swallows any bullets. Me and Little Osti can hang out, play with the cats and.....I'm sure we'll think of something to keep occupied. The parents can work and go about their business confident that the BOY! is well cared for. Plus I have plenty of runway model friends who would love to accessorize with a rugrat for a day or so. The kid's got a bright future. March is just around the corner. Bring it on.

NADJA STERN

2008-10-30T05:48:00.000-07:00

pHOTO:hELMUT nEWTON

WHITE HALLOWEEN

2008-10-30T05:21:00.000-07:00

Thanks to global warming our weather patterns are so screwed up, that, instead of my breezy milkmaid costume, I will be layering housecoats and going trick or treating as Homey's sock of shit. Up here on the moutain the fields are covered in icy white, while down in the valley the grass is still green. I've never seen it this bad so early. What's to come? I don't think I want to know.
Last night I went over to Paradise Pond for a end of the summer season fish fry at Heche Kaban's. Luckily I have snow tires. In attendance were Heche, Kate, Himynameisjames, and Savage. Over the din of conversation Barrack Obama strained to make his points to the American people. There were subtitles on the power points. The guy always looks good and is so unflappable as to seemingly be Zen like. Forget President. I think he should aim higher and go for messiah. Can you vote for the rapture?
Down in the swamp I saw 20 does and two spike bucks. With the early snow, the deer are on their feet and stuffing themselves with a bumper crop of apples. It won't be long before the rut starts to kick in. (I always think election day is the start). My strategy is to resist taking a doe from my swamp stand, and wait for something big to arrive. I ran this theory by Savage and he nodded in agreement. I can try to take a doe from another stand in order to restock the larder. In the meantime I'm working on my costume and trying to stay warm. Trick or treat.

NUDE IN BED

2008-10-28T09:51:00.000-07:00

pHOTO: hELMUT nEWTON

THE DUCHESS SLEEPS IN THE BED TONIGHT

2008-10-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

Savage Lynch and I have dined together the past two evenings. Junebug's in France. On Tuesday I went over to his place with a case of Smithwicks (courtesy of Milawyer) and half a turkey breast, from the one I shot last week. He had prepared a ravioli in a delightful red sauce. We Q'ed the bird and got hammered. Then last night SL called and asked if I had eaten yet? I hadn't, but was planning to cook the other half of that breast, in a canned soup, marsala mushroom sauce. He brought what was left of the Smithwicks, a bottle of sake and some venison backstrap. We never even cooked the deer. Then we watched the World series and talked deer hunting. At some point during the evening's lively discussion I asked if he had noticed how buff Sarah Palin looked? It seemed like the RNC must've hired Queer Eye to detail her every morning. "OK Gov. Bend over. Let's wax that pooter. Gotta look vice presidential."
Savage agreed. Neither of us would vote for her, but hypothetically speaking, we'd fuck her. I could see her in lab coat and tight skirt, clipboard in hand...... Savage saw her more as stern librarian with a ruler. It must be those glasses and that bun do. The media was all over the 150k new wardrobe. It just further confirms my theory of the gay makeover mob. I heard there's a porno of her on the internet. My dial up fried trying to locate it. Once we exhausted Palin we went back to hunting and tracking. Savage Lynch's dog, Duchess had just found her 100th deer, on a deer search tack. She's 14 years old. The dog is amazing. It's a low to the ground, wired hair dauchsund. In her old age she looks like a bearded alien. But you can't deny that all those years tracking have tuned this dog directly into the zone. She can smell a dead, or dying deer from two towns over.
As Savage pounded the sake and I finished off the Smithwicks, the Rays lost to the Phillies. Near the end Savage took to saying "If he gets a hit I'll have another drink." Then before the guy could even finish his ups, the bottle was tipped and the glass was filled.I asked if Duchess got any special tretment after finding her 100th? "She slept on the bed that night." Savage said with a grin. Then he asked if I wrote the blog when I was working? I admitted that I wrote it less when I was on the work tip. That made me feel guilty and I thought, there's gotta to be something to write about...

SUNBATHING

2008-10-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

pHOTO: hELMUT nEWTON

HOLLY WITCHY

2008-10-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

AMERICAN GODIATOR

2008-10-13T05:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Sunday, is the traditional day of prayer for American Christians. And even though preachers are supposed to keep it in their pants, many of them pontificate politically from the bloody pulpit. Remember Barack Obama's Rev. Wright? Now that B.O. has distanced himself from his more radical Christian brethren, the McCain/Palin bunch have picked up the righteous sword of the Lord and is swinging it wildly in a dark room. After a week of divisive rhetoric on the campaign trail, (did I see some nooses tucked under the folding chairs?) McCain's Rev. blessed the campaign and called for "Our God" to prevail. Forget mending fences. Forget bringing the country together. Jesus is going to the matresses.
As in most things political I see entertainment value in this approach. Grab that rattlesnake, practice speaking in tongues, and don the skimpy thong. My God can kick your God's ass any time, anywhere. It's time for Republican Christians to put up or shut up. In this corner we have TURBO JESUS and his partner SPARKLY MARY. Across the shark pond and urine dipped pungee sticks we have MAU-MAU MOHAMMED and 70 smoking hot virgins with rocking tits. Lords, please prepare yourselves for battle. LETS PARTY!
Although the big two, should, and will get the most air time, that's not to say we can't have great battles between, say, GO-GO GINEESH and the EVIL GHOST OF L. RON HUBBARD or SLICK JIMMY JONES and SARAH PALIN vs HAYSTACK BUDDHA and MUDFLAP GHIA. The matchup possibilities are endless. Once and for all lets see who is the most omnipotent. Then his (or her) God will reign supreme. End of debate.

VAGINAROO

2008-10-10T16:53:00.000-07:00

I've been sick. I got a nasty head cold and a case of pink eye. The past week, I've hardly worked. Every day i drive out to WSS, just to check on the place, and note any changes in the terrain. Items of note - orange eyes painted in the scowling Satan and another set of eyes faceing north. Seems to be a theme. I nailed a card to the door. It says- Jesus says, love thy neighbor. It's my new tact with these people. I want to love them so much they choke on their.....I'm trying.
So the rest of my time I sit in the chair, play guitar, write songs, watch TV, drink, smoke, and sleep. Shewho's in London, drinking 100 year old scotch and snorting coke out of baby's belly buttons. There's no recession in her world. Thank god she's working. Watching as much TV as I do, I'm bound to come across something good. This week's favorite is an ad for an Aussie hair product. I have no idea of the name, but the commercial is a classic. It shows a nurse comforting a man (or woman) in a kangeroo costume. The kangeroo is pregnant. Then, without warning, out pops a bottle of shampoo from the kangeroo's VAGINA! I swear. It does not come out of the pouch. Full on vaginaroo. I only saw it once. I'm sure they pulled it from the air ways. You can't catch this kinda stuff unless you are serious about your TV watching. It's like getting in the stand day after day to finally get a peek at that big buck. Perseverance pays off.

OCTOBER 9, 1900

2008-10-09T16:52:00.000-07:00

I'm standing on my roof, twisting the stove pipe, trying to find the incescent rattle, when Bird pulls in his 1981 classic Buick Riviera pimpmobile. "Do you know what day today is?" he asks, carryng a 12 pack of Bud. "Gramp's birthday." I say automatically. I didn't know until he asked. I climb down off the roof and we get to drinking and talking. Across the road Carlito is rustling the camels, a goat, and his new puppy. We toast our grandfather. He would've been 108.
One of my great disappointments in this world is that my paternal grandfather did not live long enough to see me as an adult. If we had stayed out of jail we would've been a force to be reckoned with, two of a kind, separated by a mere 52 years. Bird and I cover the latest, in and out of the family circle. I've been stressed as of late, what with building inspectors and surveillance cameras out at WSSP and an overall feeling of oncoming alzheimers. Maybe it's just a head cold and good pot, but i seem to be forgetting all kinds of shit. Last night I went to Rock Hill to get honey, lemon and Jack Daniels and drove all the way home without getting the Jack. That's not a good sign. Where are my priorities?
Then mom calls and she tells me that we moved out of our trailer and into our big house on River Road in Montgomery on Gramp's birthday in 1954. Bird was a little over a month old. Trailer trash to homeowners in one shot. I wish Gramp could see us all now. He'd get such a kick out of the camels and all of our trials and tribulations. Happy Birthday old timer. 108 and counting.

WATER HOLE

2008-10-07T14:35:00.000-07:00

DEAD DEER HANGING

2008-10-07T04:26:00.000-07:00

When I returned to hunting (after a 20 year absence) I needed an excuse to kill something other than the simple joy of the hunt. My excuse was art. I was living on 7&C on the Lower East Side, but every chance I got I drove up to Wolf Lake and hit the woods. I started small. After so many years of living in cities, I didn't know how I would feel pulling the trigger. Grey squirrels were the first to fall. Squirrels are small AND tastey. Broiled up with a little onion and garlic- MMMMMmmmmmm. Then I took the skins, salted them down, and put them in a stack of cardboard ravioli boxes, tails hanging out. Then came turkey and coyote and deer. I was back.
Most of these early pieces are gone now. Maggots and mice got to everything. My sparse taxidermy technique did not preserve the carcasses well enough. The only pieces to survive were the ones that were taken right down to the bone. So in the late 90's I began biting the bullet and getting specific animals mounted by a professional. I have a leaping coyote, a branch straddling turkey and a full deer skin rug on an ironing board. Then, last season I had an idea. Why not get a mount that looks exactly like the animal does when you shoot it? A dead mount.
Yesterday my taxidermist called me to say my deer was almost ready. I opened the door to his shop and there was my 8 pointer, hanging just like I had seen him last December. My taxidermist, Fernando Neves, said it was fooling everyone. Someone had actually dropped a dime to the game warden to tell him Neves had an illegal deer hanging. The job was excellent. Yesterday I shot another big, tagged tom, in the same spot in WSS that I had killed one in the Spring. I hung him from my tree behind the kitchen and just before I was to begin plucking him I decided he would be my next mount. This shit's not cheap. I learned years ago you have to spend money on your art (even if you never sell it). It's an act of faith. So when this bird is mounted, wings splayed, hanging from one leg, I'll cut my beard and add it to his. That should please just about everyone.

BAD BOYS. BAD BOYS...

2008-10-06T04:52:00.000-07:00

About 5 years ago Bird and I started making a yearly pilgrimage to Bugfucknowhere, Maine to visit little brother Duke, for our version of a road rally- The Sandy River 500. We took whatever wrecked cars were still running and drove them maniacally around a field (where the garden used to be) until antifreeze was streaming out of hoses and parts were seizing up. With the price of scrap going through the roof, Duke's collection of junkers had disappeared, as had our race. So this year the women folk- Ginger, neice Betheroo, Smokie and sis-in-law Boola all came on board for a weekend of drinking and lobster devouring.
Bird and Smokie both drive big, shiny, gas guzzling, white trucks. We might as well have plastered them with yellow ribbons and McCain/Palin stickers. We looked like ugly American leaf peepers. So it was, stopped in Springfield, Mass., getting gas that America raised it's ugly head. I noticed the bubble gum top of a police cruiser tucked under an overpass, as Bird and Smokie filled up the rigs.
I didn't think much of it until the lights and siren came on and the prowler headed right for us. In front of the cop, walking briskly, then on a full run was a young, baggy pants, Black gentleman, with his hand in one pocket of his hoodie. In the blink of an eye cops (dropping sticks, grasping guns) and more patrol cars appeared out of thin air. Mr. baggy pants zigged, zagged, and then headed right between Bird and Smokie. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Bird's SUV. The engine was running. All that kid had to do was jump in and take off. I didn't think of this until later. I was too busy wringing my hands and squealing like a little girl.
Bird's first instinct was to stop the kid. Then he saw the bulge in his hoodie and thought better. Smokie actually made a move for him and Bird screamed "Smokie, NO!" Just like a good bird dog, Smokie stayed put. The kid crossed the lot, a few more streets and when he headed up the bank, for the highway, a Suburu clipped him at about 30mph. He went down hard. Cops, with guns drawn, kneed and cuffed him. Phew! We were all safe. Here's the thing. Maybe that kid was one bad, murderous mutherfucker. Or, on the other hand, he could've had nothing more dangerous than a little stash of pot in his pocket. Innocent until proven guilty obviously does not protect you from being blindsided by a Suburu. Bird and Smokie jumped in the trucks and off we went before they closed off the street. We were all giddy with the excitement, drawing different scenerios. What if Smokie and Bird had tripped him, and he had a knife or a gun? What if the cops had started shooting? Or what if he just had a little weed, escaped unharmed and was back home at his moms, watching the debate at 9pm? I told my brothers if they had needed me I had their backs. They both smirked. "What about the pot in your pocket?" Bird asked. Oh yeah. Better just stay put in my passenger seat. Pass me the melted butter. My lobster's getting cold.

SHRINK IT AND PINK IT

2008-10-02T05:38:00.000-07:00

2008-10-02T05:10:00.000-07:00

This is an industry term used by gun and clothing manufacturers, who are constantly trying to break into the "woman huntress" demographic. Sounds dirty, don't it? Back in the early 90's I taught my Brooklyn born second wife Mrs. Yummy to shoot and hunt. It was a big mistake. You haven't lived until you've had a screaming match with your significant other, in the middle of the winter woods, over which tree you told her to stand against. Remember you are both heavily armed during this heated exchange. Couples therapy? I'd like to see some Manhattan shrink moderate, while the Mrs. is threatening to shoot the dog for not putting up a pheasant. "Lets all go to that quiet place now. Can you lower your expectations when it comes to the dog? Is there another way you can express your feelings of betrayal?"
Lucky for me, Shewho would much rather stay back at the shack, painting clouds or baking cinnamon buns, than grab a gun and join me. Hunting's not for everyone. Some supermodels take to it. Others can't wait to have a cigarette back at the truck or think they are in danger of losing those high end painted toes after 20 minutes against a cold tree. I was gonna go out yesterday, but Al B. showed up to put up my gutters and the afternoon was blown. Today I have to work and I'm heading north tonight. No time to shoot and clean a bird. Oh well, the season just started. As I write this the camels are doing some sort of dance in the field across the road. What does that mean? I have no idea. But I've learned to pay attention to the farm animals in order to predict changes in deer or turkey movement. Tonight's the debate. Let's see what Sarah has to say about shrink and pink. In the meantime here's some more likely customers.

DEER DRIVERS

2008-10-01T15:57:00.000-07:00

IN WHAT REGARD, CHARLIE?

2008-10-01T03:39:00.000-07:00

Right up there with "What's the frequency, Keneth?" Sarah Palin's question to the question of her take on the Bush Doctrine, in the horrible midwestern nasally whine, left Charles Gibson frowning over his gramma specs, and the rest of the country shaking their heads. The obvious fear is that dotering old fool McCain gets in office, croaks, and the reins are left to SP. God help us.

It's the opening day of turkey season and I have to drive to Monsey, to go bathroom fixture shopping for Shewho. My bevy of supermodel hunting buddies don't seem to be interested in Fall turkey. I don't blame them. It's not as much fun as Spring turkey. No big toms in strut. No gobbling. Hell, I don't even know where the flocks are. So the girls are staying home practicing their grunt calls and waiting for deer season. From the diaphram girls. Less lip.
Nonetheless, once my porcelin duties are over, I'm going to grab the shot gun and drive out to WSS. I've seen birds out there, and really just want to get back in the woods. Thurs. night Bird, Ginger and I are heading up to brother Duke's in Maine for The Sandy River 500. We're making a pitstop in CT to see the folks and watch the Palin/Biden debate. "The question is to Ms. Palin. Gov., a moose is crossing a bog, 300 yards out. You are shooting a Win. .300 mag. He stops. His vitals are partially covered by a blueberry bush. It starts to snow. In a matter of seconds you will not be able to see the moose, as it is headed for Russia. Do you wait until the squall passes, hoping the moose will still be there when the skies clear or do you take the shot through the Bush?" That one, I'm sure she could answer.

WSSP- LOFTS

2008-09-29T14:15:00.000-07:00

WSSP- 2nd FLOOR

2008-09-29T14:12:00.000-07:00

MY P-P-P-PITIFUL GENERATION

2008-09-26T17:12:00.000-07:00

I consider "MY" generation to be five years either side of my age- 51-61. This bunch, I'm sorry to say, is in charge. And it is this generation, who has royally fucked up the post 9/11 oportunity to make U.S. right with the world. Given the small amount of perspective my age affords me, plus knowing a good many old timers, I know from what I speak. Money has gotten us in this bloodthirsty mess. But money won't get us out. It's like we're riding one of those centrifugal force machines and the faster you go the less you see. But all the change drops out of your pockets, when the floor falls away.
The post-hippie, pre-punk niche that W and I fall into is a sort of cultural vacum that history has never paid much attention to. There's no defining identity, so there never seems to be a generational mindset onto which one can assess blame. We run amok with no consequences. Wars. Financial disaster. Torture- a matter of policy. Masters of what?
I am ashamed of this bunch. Do I not have some sense of responsibility for my peers? No, I don't think so. When anyone who had a pulse could get a mortgage at a low rate, would any bank give me a loan? No. I am not now, nor have I ever been part of this system and I thank them for not letting me play. I have no credit. I also have no debt. I manage just fine.
Tonight I called the old man to get his 2 cents. He, said he made two mistakes in his life. One was re-enlisting in the Navy during the Korean War. And another was moving from a samll town, empathetic, basically honest culture, to a more cut throat, greedy, urban/suburban culture. My whole life, I never realized that. Everything revolves around trust. He said he had no trust in this government. The whole bunch had let him down also. That DID make me feel like apologizing for my pitiful generation.

KERN SHOW

2008-09-24T14:12:00.000-07:00

THE APPEARANCE OF THE UPSIDEDOWN ,SCOWLING SATAN (CONTINUED)

2008-09-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

So after talking to the old timer, he assured me it wasn't his son's doing. He said his son was a sweetheart and would never paint this thing. He said it was probably the wife and her boyfriend. Boyfriend? Then he went on about that. I didn't want to know. What I did know is that fucking pentagram was in my face and I DID NOT like it one bit. I worked until 3:30 then came home. Do I starting packing to work? You know, I try to be a good neighbor. So who better to vent to than Good Neighbor John about all this. At 4:30 he was sound asleep. I woke him up and went on a tear, showing him a picture of the thing on my camera. In typical yawny tones he didn't know what the fuss was about. That just twisted me up more. He was absolutely no help.
I came home and luckily Shewho called. I didn't want to tell her about the whole mess. All I wanted to do was discuss her role as Candy, but I felt obligated. Shewho's the bank. In typical form she took it in stride, leaving it to me to thresh out.

Hunting season is coming. Turkey opens on Oct. first. A little reminder to the supermodels- book early. Rut's coming.