PRE-RUT

Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, week by......it's been bad. No deer. Not only no bucks but no movement. A doe here, a spike there, one half way decent buck down at Ray Gilkey's, but other than that- nothing. I have good spots, plenty of acorns, even rubs and scrapes, but up until tonight you'd think the whitetail had gone extinct. The wind has been nonstop for two weeks. Just like my old man, I hate the wind. So, otherwise pleasant afternoons in the tree are swaying irritation. Add to that the complete lack of action and I'm starting to think I may be all wrong in my approach to time well spent. I'm starting to think i should go back to work. Man, things are bleak.

But as I alluded, tonight it changed. I went in early (around 2pm) down at GNJohn's. This stand has one of the most beautiful panoramic views you could imagine. A high pine and hardwood ridge spills onto mowed fields. My stand is on the edge of an old orchard on the edge of a swamp, that empties into a stream bed cut through the mowed fields. This is framed by one of the best trout rivers on the east coast. You'd think I'd kill a buck every day. But that's not the deal. The doubt sets in. What a spot! I must be doing something wrong. I stink. I somehow emit the smell of failure. Didn't Savage always shoot big bucks here? Then I turn around and there's a doe right in the path about 70 yards. I slowly lift the bow and get ready. Fuck the bucks. Daddy needs meat.

I wait....and wait. The doe lazily munches the grass and comes no closer. It starts to snow. It's cold as hell and my fingers are frozen. The doe behind me disappears back in the brush and i settle back in, hurrying the sunset. The best time, the most exciting, prime time of the afternoon is right before dark. And it's the hardest time to stay focused. You are bored, cold, pissed off that you may have just wasted another....when the deer start to come off the hill. This is the time it may happen, but your neck hurts, you can't feel your finger tips and you have to take a leak. Then right underneath my stand there's a spike. Then a doe. I reach for the bow. They play kissy face and move out to the field. Before I know it there's a bigger buck coming from the river. I grunt. He stops and slowly comes my way.......

Dexter's on gotta go.

MARIANNA ROTHEN

VIRAL RETIREMENT

Only the oaks are still holding onto their leaves. The wind has finally died down and the temps have turned Indian Summer mild. Half way into week two of the season and still not much to report. Yesterday I went out to WSS in order to complete a punch list at WSSP and WSSP II and figured I'd bring the bow and hunt behind Shewho's. There's an old hillbilly stand (just steps leading up into tree branches) that sits right on a trail leading into an old orchard/swamp. I climbed up and settled in for the last two hours of daylight. The south wind was right in my face. I heard a twig snap, turned my head and locked eyes with a nice doe 10 yards behind me. When she went behind a tree i slowly reached for the bow. She either caught the movement or winded me. She spun and disappeared into the thick stuff. And that was it. Oh yeah, on the drive home I saw a six pointer just above the bridge.

As frustrating as the hunt has been, I've been thoroughly enjoying myself. I get up before dawn, hit the woods until about 8:30, come home, post a video or two on Youtube, pick up the guitar and practice some new song, talk to Shewho, maybe write a little on the blog, go to the diner....you get the idea. It's like I'm retired (if I ever really had a job). I look forward all year to hunting season. If I can afford it I set these few months aside to hunt and do art exclusively. Never selling any of my work or getting press used to really irritate me. But now I've finally gotten to the point that I could really give a shit. After the last church someone suggested I get a NYC writer to hype it. Why? What could be the possible benefit of promoting a dollar burning church? We are already at SRO capacity. It's not like I need more dollars burned.

So the season grinds on. It's dark and raining today. It's a good day to wash my gear, do my dirty dishes and plan my next move. Hour after hour sitting in a tree affords one the time to do a lot of thinking. I know I've said in the past that i really didn't care about the approval of the artworld or inclusion into their reindeer games....only to bitch later about my persistent obscurity. But now I think I finally have come to grips with it. My work is as good as it's ever been and I'm producing constantly. Eventually the rut will kick in. If I'm lucky I'll shoot a nice buck. I have the love and support of a good woman, family and a nice little underground forming here in my corner of the Catskills. Do I need the artworld? Naw. Will I go viral? I doubt it. But maybe if I dress the cats as little green men and juggle them while playing the church organ.....where's my camera?

NO TITTIE SUNDAY

I just saw Savage Lynch and he had nothing to report. Yesterday afternoon I tried behind Gene's house in an old plywood stand I usually reserve for really shitty weather. I saw a spike chasing a doe. And this morning I went back and saw nothing. So with nothing to report and time on my hands before the afternoon hunt, might as well ponder a little theology.

Looking at the videos (now on disposabletv/youtube.com) of the two most recent churches, there is a marked difference between them. Until the Jerry Williams Memorial Temple we had consistently held services on Sundays. Like the dollar burning, it was a tradition that had survived for over 25 years. The Sunday Mortgage burning service video is chill, kinda sweet, with kids and dogs. The JW Temple is raucous (no small part due to Caki Calas' noise makers) and looks like a whole lot more dangerous fun. I'm just throwing it out there, but what if we changed church to Saturday night? Would that be wrong?

And that reminds me of the Babydoll Tittie Bar Easter services we held in 1988. They were all on Sunday. In fact that was the only day we could do them. Linda and Robin Clemens (members of the congregation) worked behind the Babydoll bar and they hooked me up with Irving, the owner. Irving pulled me aside before the first service and in a low whisper told me the rules in no uncertain terms. "Listen, I don't know what kind of church you are but we got rules....." Irving put his cigar in the ashtray and leaned in closer. "No tittie." Then he picked up his cigar and stuck it back in his mouth. "No tittie on Sunday." he said again, poking me in the chest and went out the door, leaving the Babydoll Lounge to The Church of the Little Green Man....fully clothed. I think I'll hunt Bird's this afternoon.

WEEK ONE

I've got my head 3/4's of the way inside my mother's fireplace, trying to open the flue so i can blow some eye medicine without stinking up the house. Mom's in her bedroom, catching a little NCSI before calling it a night. Her TV's up loud. She's a little hard of hearing. I light one up and the smoke drifts lazily up the chimney.

So far the season has been a bust. The weather was so lousy (a Noreaster) I didn't even go out Saturday morning. It was Shewho's birthday and I did ask her to shop for and cook her own birthday dinner and I invited guests (Bird and Ginger), so I could hunt the afternoon. Come on....I did pay. Needless to say I took shit from everyone (esp. my mother) for that move. Shewho took it in stride and made a nice chicken. Then on Sunday I slept in again and took Shewho for a glider ride in Wurstboro. Redemption. (Even though she had finally redeemed the flight I had given Teehoo on her 14th birthday.) Teehoo didn't want to be in a small place with a stranger. The chance of plummeting to her death didn't seem to cross her mind.

Monday I hunted down by the river and saw deer, but just does and a spike. Plus they were a mile away on Gilkey's. So on Tuesday I called my mother and told her I was coming over to her house to cook her dinner and spend the night. I needed to get art work out of her attic that had been there for 25 years. So i took the truck and bought a nice salmon steak with all the fixings and drove over to CT.

As I'm swatting the clouds of smoke into the fireplace I reflect on just how far my mom and I have come. Her and I spent the first 14 months of my life together- just the two of us. Then the old man came home from Korea and well, you know the rest. I figure this is the first time my mom and i have spent an afternoon, evening and night together (just the two of us) since 1953. It's nice. In the morning I take her shopping and drive home. The weather's turned mild and the wind has died down so I go back down to the stand by the river and it's the same as the last time. The deer don't even show until the sun goes behind the tree line and still they are way over by the Deniston marker. Nothing shows in GNJohn's field. The moon comes up and it's almost full. Tomorrow I'm going to try to get up early and hunt Majestic. My mother said that would be a good idea.

SOLID GREEN DANCERS

MORGANE

TEARING THE DOOR OFF THE OUTHOUSE, WHILE WATERING THE TOOLS

First let me thank all those who attended the JERRY WILLIAMS OKTOBERFEST ALL SAINTS HARVEST TEMPLE OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN. Special thanks go out to those who traveled the greatest distances- Marta- Paris, Rob and Caki- Hawaii, Mark- Florida, John W.- Ill., Izak and crew- Maine, Milawyer- W. Virginia, The Hampshire College bunch and anyone who was able to loosen Manhattan's evil grip long enough to travel upstate. It wouldn't have been half the fun without you. Now that that is taken care of lets breathe a tremendous sigh of relief. Nothing flooded. Nothing caught fire. No one went to the ER and aside from Jarvis, no one got too loaded. Oh yeah, did anyone realize that they left Jarvis here?

On Sunday, after cleaning up the mess, we popped a couple more cold ones, twisted a number or two and the inner circle headed down the road to the church cemetery to scatter Willie's ashes. The town may have made me take my signs down but they can't stop me from using the cemetery for its intended purpose. Jerry's brothers Tim and John, wife Debbie all said a few words, we said our goodbyes and the ziplock plastic bag containing Willie's remains was emptied onto the soft bed of moss. Done.

I had told everyone it was about a 15 min. walk. I guess it was more like a half hour each way. So Rob and I left the pack and fast walked home to get the church van. Jarvis walked just fast enough to get out of sight of the main group and not fast enough to see Rob and I up front. This is where it gets interesting. About this time whatever my man Throbbing Jarvis was adding to the beer started to kick in. And when he focused his eyes nothing looked familiar. There's one turn between the church and the cemetery and Jarv was lost. He stopped and asked some carpenters. "Excuse me could you spare some water and a crust of bread for a weary traveller?" They pointed up the road. Church that way.

By dark everyone had left but Jarvis and Marta. Marta and I sat by the fire as Jarvis came and went, a shiteating grin on his face, elbows akimbo, arms flailing about his head, sometimes glasses on, sometimes off. Scott Julien Jarvis was the drummer in 'th cigarettez- the NC punk band that Jerry fronted in the 70's as well as Purple Geezus. He'd known Willie from the time he was a pup. Whatever poison he'd imbibed to reach this state of pure drunken bliss was sorely needed. Marta worried that he was going to fall down the outhouse hole but I assured her that I had made the hole smaller that Jarvis' head specifically for this purpose.

During the night my well pump kept tripping and I heard alot of mumbling, snoring and what sounded like raccoons fighting over a crust of pizza. In the morning I surveyed the property. The outhouse door was ripped clean off and a shower of water washed over my chop box and table saw. Jarv was sleeping like a baby on the couch. As planned, we had sent Willie off in style. The demons had been vanquished. A few more nails in the door frame and the tools laid in the sun and all was as it should be. We took Jarv to the train and Marta and I came home to catch up. The church is now closed for the winter. Hunting season opens this weekend. And if I'm lucky some supermodel pics will begin to fill my in box. Stay tuned for more......