FIRST SNOW

  Bird called last night, just after dark. "Look out your window." There it was- big wet snow flakes. Damn! I hadn't counted on this before Halloween, but was more than happy to see it. As a bow hunter, this time of year is great to sit in the tree on a warm afternoon, no gloves, dozing off, watching deer munch in the fields. But after a couple of weeks of that it's time to get down to business. The rut is a while away, so the best way to hunt is to pattern the critters between bedding and food source. I have one stand in an orchard and another off in the oaks, over on Majestic. I decided the Majestic spot was the one for the morning.
    The house was warm, with the wood stove cranking when I got up in the dark. The thermometer read 31 degrees. A couple cups of coffee and I'm good to go. My first problem was to locate my windshield scrapper. Both the truck and car were a mess of clothes and hunting crap. There was no way I could find the scrapper. The next best thing was a split log off the wood pile. My fingers were freezing before i even started the truck. I cleared an area of ice just big enough to see through and headed for my spot. The ground was frozen crunchy. I circled and approached my stand from the east, keeping the wind in my face. Once I was 20 feet off the ground and strapped in, it didn't take long before I heard the unmistakable light cadence of a deer approaching. I slowly rose out of the snowy seat and clipped my release to the drawstring. I could see the deer working its way towards me. It looked like a nice doe. My breath quickened.
    I have no idea what ya'll were doing at dawn, but as i looked around at the rising sun dancing off the snow covered branches, some still holding bright red and yellow leaves, that deer slowly approaching, i felt a little sorry for all of you still in bed. The deer was taking its time. When it was about 50 yards out it raised it's head and I saw two tiny antlers. It was a spike buck- illegal in this county. I wouldn't have shot him even if he was legal. Too small. I sat back down, breathed deeply and tried to lower my heart rate. That was all I saw all morning. About 9:30 am i climbed out of the tree and headed back to the truck to warm up. Beautiful.

MOM BLAMES FOOTBALL

Yesterday I went over to Ct. to visit my moms. I know, you wouldn't think someone as ancient as I would have a mom still kicking....but I do. Hell, up until a few years back I had a grandma. She died , after out living her pacemaker, at 105. She'd lived in the 19th, 20th and 21st centuries. This was mom's mom, and aside from passing off that longevity gene, my maternal side is heavy on the wisdom. The Jennings girls are sharp.
   I don't get over there enough. When i do, i try to make a nice dinner and spend a relaxing Happy Hour catching up on the family and chatting about what ever suits our fancy. Mom has taken on Gram's aura of oneness with her surroundings to the degree that you feel good just being in her presence. That aside we always find something current to talk about. The evening's topic of interest was Occupy Wall Street. I brought it up. Since the old man was a broker and she had witnessed that world first hand, I was curious what her take was on the whole thing. "I blame football." she stated bluntly. "Football?" I responded, obviously taken aback by the curve ball. Ought-oh.
    Like I said, I don't get over here enough. Had I not picked up on something over the phone? Was this the onset of something? "You blame football?" I'd bite. "Why?" She took another sip of her wine and put it down on a coaster. "I blame football and baseball and basketball......." she paused and looked at the ceiling "....and even hockey." Then she straightened her crooked back and put her hands on her knees. "These athletes started demanding outrageous salaries. Ticket prices were raised. The front office started making larger and larger profits. Corporate greed set in. Everybody had to make more than these overpaid athletes and the system couldn't handle it. That's where Bernie Madoff, Goldman Sacs and the Bear Sterns mess came from. It's those athletes that got us in this mess." She picked up her wine, settled back on the couch and smiled.
   Phew! Was I relieved. Mom's theory may be a little out of the box, but in many ways she was right on. Forget the onset of anything. The old girl had all her marbles and then some. I made a nice veal with spinach and pasta and we both toasted and said "I love you." In the morning she gave me a chair, a quilt, a bunch of bad paintings I did over the years and a table where she found my pot in 1969. I thanked her and told her I'd keep my pot in the table. We both laughed, hugged and kissed goodbye and I drove home. Fucking football. I agree.

LIMBO LOUNGE 1985

AGHAST!

   In the mid-1970's I began working in what was then called "performance art". I didn't have a clue as to what that was. I'd just moved with my young wife, cat and dog to the Bay Area and enrolled in the sculpture department at The San Francisco Art Institute. I'd started out as a printmaker and was bored with the anal approach to art making. Somehow I ended up in Howard Fried's video/performance class in Studio 9 with Tony Labat, Debora Iyall, Karen Finley and a hand full of other lost souls. Between that class and devouring everything I could get my hands on that explained the work of Chris Burden, Vito Acconci, Yves Klein, Joseph Beuys and even that Frenchman Duchamp.....I started to get a handle on performance.
     Fast forward 10 years. I'm "performing" at Limbo Lounge on E10th St. in NYC. I have a burning cross in one hand and I'm flinging pieces of raw chicken with the other, all the time reciting a stream of consciousness poem. The crowd of jaded hipsters recoils and heckles. My sister is in the audience. She's brought a straight couple out of suburbia to see her big brother rock the NY. The couple are so insulted and freaked out by the display they leave my sister alone in her chair. Obviously performance art is not for everyone. Sis and I spend the night hitting the bars. She leaves in good spirits.

What I do now is a far cry from those halcyon days. Hell, I recently saw a display of brightly colored mouses at Best Buy under the heading- PERFORMANCE ART by So and So. Performance art has been co-opted by the mainstream. I haven't used the term since 1985. Yesterday I went to a new dentist. Just so happened he was at Saturday's End of the World Temple. As he climbed through my mouth I asked if he had a good time? He hesitated. Seems he had brought a couple who had no idea what they were walking into. After burning their dollars they watched a supermodel whip a bare assed German with a butt plug as the congregation gleefully counted to 10. I guess they'd never been to church before, because they were shocked and disgusted. Oh well. There's the door.
   Over and over I hear congregants complain over how difficult it is to explain the CLGM. They say Church or Temple to friends and watch them glaze over and back away with patronizing smiles. "No thanks." Then there is the reticence of people who KNOW what it is but won't get on stage. They think they have to have an act or be "good" at something. If I can impart any wisdom in my role as pastor of this bunch, let me just say. This ain't performance art. This ain't theater. This ain't no disco. But it is ALL about fooling around. The unbelievers may or may not see it our way. We aren't for everyone, but for some salvation is at hand.    

SISTER NUN OF YOUR BUSINESS

THANKS TO ALL

Temple's over for the year. Cold weather is coming and it's time to hunt, get the wood in, put on the storm windows and feather the nest for the upcoming darkness. My ass still hurts from all the anal probes. As Tim Williams put it- "Hard to stop at just one." The Green Mother Superior Shewho is back in Brooklyn. I could never do these Temples without her selfless help. Of course I never thank her enough. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a bit of a self-absorbed asshole. You want smiley faced compassion go with the Presbyterians. Sister Nun of Your Business was a vision in latex, spiked heels and and ankle cuffs. Popul-U proudly removed his butt plug (thing was as big as an iPhone) and hit the wheels of steel with Yusel "Jew in Space"Druckman. The congregation danced until the wee hours.
   We are five services into the second coming of The Temple of The Little Green Man and so far so good. The cops haven't raided the place. And as far as I can tell everyone is having a good time. The infusion of the youthful energy of Sara"Preggers" Budde, Buddy Budde, Yusel D., Beeka BoBeep, Nickel Pickel, Drekes Caprice, R. Kern, Tricky Traviss, Levi Jeans, Mystery Girl, Nutbush, Mother Superior Shewho, Sister Nun of Your Business, Nun Too Soon, Nun of What I told You Last Night is True, Deacons Bird, Al, Marc, Popul-U, Scapegoat Dave, Cardinal T. Epic, Holy Child Leila, The Solid Green Dancers, Dome Theater, Coco Dolle, Willow and all the congregants who graciously agree to get up front and burn some time, has made this scene. Thanks to all.

STOLEN

FIRST WEEK

  It's been slow. Apart from one very hot night down at GNJohn's (at full draw 3x) I haven't had much action. The deer have been staying out in the fields and not presenting any shots in the orchard. The weather's been mild with heavy winds. Yesterday it came swirling out of the NE and fucked with my spot. I saw a doe raise her nose 300 yards out and spin on her heels. No matter how careful you are about your scent, they still are gonna bust you.
   In between afternoon hunts I've been kinda lost. It looks like a rough winter is coming. No work and little savings, combined with my neglected dental issues and rising pressure in my glaucoma ravaged peepers leaves me a little bummed. So today I went down to the river to check on my FOR SALE sign. You guessed it. Gone. I suspect the fucking neighbors in their snowboard shoppe made it disappear. I spent an hour waiting in the Sheriff's office only to be told that they'd send out a deputy later. So here I sit waiting for the law to make a report. Can't even twist one to relax.
   For some reason people can't stand a lack of information on a sign. The fact that it merely said- FOR SALE (no phone # or name) drove the snowboard fucks crazy. Art has a tendency to do that. I tried to explain my approach, and get them to see the absurdity and humor....but no go. They hated it. I can relate. I hate things my neighbors do also. Photographing Mystery Girl bare assed in front of the scowling Satan at WSSP is my way of dealing with it. They are not so creative. Now I'm out another $400 for a pilfered billboard, going slowly blind, and chewing soft food on one side of my mouth. THE END OF THE WORLD CHURCH is Saturday night. One can only hope that will be end of it all. I can't take much more.

SHEWHO'S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND

   I have a tough time remembering birthdays. But now with the help of FB and the threat of certain death if I forget again, I am getting into pre-Bday mode for Shewho. It doesn't help that tomorrow is opening day of bow season for us deer hunters. Last year i made the mistake of hunting all weekend and letting Shewho  bake her own cake. WTF? I can't bake. But this year i can't get away with that. Nonetheless she is giving me permission to hunt Sat. morning and Sunday afternoon. So I have to hang my stand out in White Sulphur, pack all my de-scented hunting clothes, bow, guitar, stand, ladder, Keith Richard's bio, knife, shotgun (still turkey season), food, beer, booze, pot.....Christ, I'm exhausted already.
   I'm still nursing my bad knee back into shape and don't want to hang a stand too far from the truck, just in case I get lucky. Temple is coming up next week and The BAF has been rehearsing some old rocking PG tunes, along with a couple of very tasty new hymns. The supermodel spanking booth is shaping up nicely and the Alien Anal Probe....... But wait, this weekend it's all about Shewho. She works extremely hard for two dead artists and raises Smokey in her private school splendor, all in a small Brooklyn apartment. When she escapes to the mountain I'm not always the most generously engaging person. OK, almost never. I got my own demons to deal with and that usually takes up most of the day. So, when Shewho needs pampering I can be missing in inaction.
      But, goddamnit this weekend's gonna be different. She should be arriving in a couple of hours, so I have to pack the truck, feed the cats, go to the liquor store, wrap her present, etc. It will go a long way if I just light a fire for her before she arrives. But once, that's done i can scout for the morning. Now, where to hang that stand?
 

HOLLIE AND KATE

GROUP SHOW AND BEAR REPORT

   I've spent the weekend trying to explain my work to a photojournalist, as part of THE EDDIE ADAMS WORKSHOP. Eddie Adams was a Vietnam era photojournalist. His best known shot is of the South Vietnamese General blowing the brains out of a suspected Viet Cong in the town square. It's right up there with the crying, napalmed, naked little girl, running from the My Lai Massacre, as far as iconic shots of horror go. I've done this a couple of times now. Back in '06 I did the same thing- allowed a photog to shadow me for a couple of days. That time it was Michael Christopher Brown doing the query and shoot. Since then he's been in Libya, was wounded covering the revolution and got his iPhone shot in Nat Geo. The boy's going places.
   This time I have a very pleasant, rather studious young man asking the questions and clicking the button. We hang out on the deck as my nose turns red in the sun and I try to explain 30 years of art in soundbites and digestible parable. I can see he's not getting it. I talk about the use of different names and other artists as material, while explaining how carpentry on my girlfriend's house can actually be construed as sculpture and held outside of the banal. Blank stare. Somehow we get through the afternoon. When he shows me a shot of my face I see just how red my nose has gotten and suggest we go inside. I look like Bukowski on a bad day.
   The next day I suggest we go turkey hunting. I know I can escape behind the leafy mask and hide the alkie blood vessels popping off my snozzola. We trudge through the morning dew up behind Ralph's. It's a picture perfect morning. Fog hangs in nestled Japanese print nooks. I try to give him the The Fredrich painting panorama, seen on all those Nietzche paperbacks, as i stand stoicly cradling the 12 ga.. I don't know if he caught it. Then I took him back to his motel, shake hands and are done. We never saw a bird.
   Hanging with these young photojournalists and trying to explain who I am to them in 2 days is an interesting process for me. It helps me see me through their eyes. I explained the Kristan Kohl work- a dead German artist who keeps producing. The Richard Mauwra work- simple sculptural "combines" and cranky letters to the Editor. The MO David work- art criticism and art dealing. The Gary Ray work- garbage off the street that looks like art, onto which I sign Gary Ray (an actor friend of mine). And finally the Tobias Yves Zintel work- a German artist friend whose name I purchased in order to do and show a group of billboards. There I said it. The TYZ work is all mine. No wonder the kid's confused.

BEAR REPORT
On Sunday Shewho and I drove up to Phonecia to visit our friends for a Yom Kippur dinner. All the roads over the mountain are still closed due to damage from last month's floods. It took us three hours and plenty of back tracking to get there. But just as we pulled out of Stone Ridge I looked out in a field and spotted what I thought was a bowhunter's bear target. Then it moved. I told Shewho to pull over. Out in that field, just off the wood line stood two of the most enormous black bears I'd ever seen. I first spotted the back one, who was huge, only to catch sight of the lead bear going into the woods. It dwarfed the first bear. Wow! That was worth the trip. Timing is everything.      

MORGANE

STILL A NATION OF HYPOCRITES

  Now that the WSSP II barn roof is finished I can chill, lick my wounds, ice my knee and have a leisurely breakfast, reading the morning paper at the diner. What's news? Well, we all know about the Occupy Wall Street bunch by now. Off of Facebook and onto the evening news. That shit's over. It's the 10th anniversary of our occupation of Afghanistan. Check. No cutesy pie signs there. Still plenty of ammo. And tucked there on page 8 is a little piece on the Obama administration's tough new policy on medical marijuana. Seems that the feds are amping up the drug war once again. The G-men have sent out 45 day notices to Cali pot stores, reminding them that what they are doing is against the law and they run the risk of arrest and confiscation of product and property if they continue to do business. So much for Obama being green.
   I have glaucoma. But even if I didn't I would be partaking of the eye medicine. After much experimentation in self-medication I have come to the informed conclusion that marijuana and booze helps a multitude of ailments. (I'm sure it gives you a few too. It's a trade off.) So when I watched Ken Burns' latest doc. on Prohibition I couldn't help but make comparisons with my lifetime love affair with bud. Does it's illegality really affect me? I'd have to say only once. I got busted in the 90's in Rockland Co. I pled not guilty by reason of insanity. I was crazy to blow gauge in my old Chevy with no muffler, rocketing down the Palisades. But overall, pot being against the law, doesn't really matter. I'll smoke it either way.
    In the spirit of this new post-Arab Spring world I have a proposal. Instead of legalizing marijuana, lets keep it illegal AND bring back the 18th Amendment. Lets make booze illegal once again. All you have to do is go to your local sports bar in order to see just how lame legal booze has become. Knuckleheads guzzling Jager and secretaries drowning in Long Island ice tea is not my idea of class. One of my neighbors recently talked about starting a speakeasy in his barn. I'm all for it. Forget the liquor license. As soon as I can afford the copper I'm making a still. Fuck the feds. Blow your reefer and re-ratify the Volstead Act. Lets make drinking against the law.....and hip once again.
 

VENISON FOR VICTORY

The Old Man was a stock broker. In fact, family lore has him as one of the youngest stock brokers in the early 50's. To his credit he shed the office, just like that undertakers suit, at the end of the day. We rarely saw the broker side of dad. I know nothing of that world. But we all had to admit that it was that world that paid the bills. That said, he was not your typical broker. He was a real people person. So after a while he managed the brokers. The cats that worked for him drove the Mercedes and went to the country club. They made way more dash than Dick. The other thing that set him apart in the job was his unblinking honesty. That's not a plus in that biz. He retired incredibly frustrated.
   Now with the lines being drawn on Wall Street I think back to how pissed the Old Man was in his later years. He saw how crooked the bankers, the hedge fund managers, the entire system was. Seems like when he retired the whole place went to shit.  I think he was keeping a lid on it just a bit....keeping the worse of 'em in line. With him gone they all ran amok.
    I knew the turkey and deer hunting father, the guy who drove the crappy station wagon and partied with his blue collar friends. We were complete opposites in many ways, but the common ground we found spread wide. He would be proud of the Wall Street occupation. When I first came back to hunting I told him I wanted to donate my deer to the homeless. (This was a couple of years before those programs existed).  He just smirked and told me I'd better not donate my meat before it was on the butcher's table. Truer words were never spoken. I may not even get a deer this year. But if I do I would like to put it in the truck, take it to Wall Street and butcher it up for the troops. I heard somewhere a revolution runs on it's stomach. I make a helluva a back strap. Save me a parking space.

NEVER TOO OLD

The broken tie rod should've been a warning- watch the ice! When I was 25 years old and punk rock came around, I made the big mistake of thinking "I'm too old for this". I stuck to my art pieces and did some good unfashionable work in the 70's involving tattoos, hookers and even cows, but it wasn't until I was well into my thirties that I tried music. With no musical training and what most would consider very little talent, I grabbed the microphone, wrote some songs and formed my own band PURPLE GEEZUS. To all you kids and even old farts out there who are bored with your plight, start a fucking rock band. It taught me a powerful lesson. You are never too old for anything that doesn't involve physical activity.
    The qualification comes on the heels of my recent trip to the roller rink for SLICK AND ZEV'S SPECIAL K ROLLER RAMA. I've never been much of an athlete. I played Little League and wrestled in high school (until being booted for smoking), but that was about it. I'm no sports fan. I'll save my fantasies for something other than football. So when Slick told me he was hosting another night at SKATE WORLD, one of the funkiest, lost in a Catskill time warp scenes, I wasn't sure I wanted to lace up the skates.  But then I remembered my lost opportunity during SF's punk rock hay day. OK. I'm in. Save me some K.
   I grabbed my party pants and Shewho and off we went. I never skated as a kid, but last summer, after about an hour or so on the rink I was no longer clutching the rail. Little by little I got the hang of it. Look, none of that fancy backwards shit, but I could round the floor without ridicule. This time I was gliding easily in 15 mins. An hour in and I was picking up speed. Polly Ester blasted from the sound system and I was feeling it. GNJohn and Buddy Budde wizzed past me hand in hand. What a beautiful couple. Spangles and spandex on leggy girls caught the disco lighting. A big shit eating grin on my face I............felt like I hit a patch of ice...... my feet flew out from under me and when I landed my left leg stuck out like a seal's flipper. Little flashes of disco ball danced across my party pants. All I could see was wheels 6 inches from my nose. Finally some stranger stopped to see if I was alright? I shook my head in pain. NO I WASN'T ALRIGHT. I was a fucking idiot.
    Back on the sidelines, skates off, a free beer in hand, (one with every injury) I broke into a cold sweat.  I could barely bend my knee. Then I had an epiphany- maybe I was too old. How could I risk my mobility at work, in a tree stand, crossing a frozen swamp, dragging a big buck for a few fleeting moments with a bunch of K'd up hipsters in spandex? Sunday I spent flat on my back, eating Motrin, icing up the knee. This morning I hobbled out of the nest only to endure Al B's giggling smirk at 6:30 AM when I told him just why I couldn't make it in. I'm still not convinced it's really an age issue. I guess that's a sign of my persistent immaturity. But from now on I am going to cut out roller skating and maybe water skiing. Tonight THE BAND OF ALL FAITHS is coming over to rehearse some old PURPLE GEEZUS material for THE END OF THE WORLD CHURCH. If I could only remember those dance moves. Hope they are bringing the K.  

END OF THE WORLD CHURCH- 0CT. 22, 2011 8PM 143 Old Glen Wild rd. Glen Wild, NY 1238

OPENING DAY 5772

It's been a tough week. We started re-roofing the old barn out at WSSP II and no sooner did we get the shingles in the dumpster than the sky opened up and shut us down. Every morning it's been the same thing- 6:30 AM call Al B., (who has already been up for an hour.) "We can't catch a fucking break." I moan into the phone, as the rain pounds against the windows. "Try tomorrow, Bub." Al says, trying to be positive and I crawl back in bed. On one of the few clear days I drove home in the Neon, every muscle aching. As soon as I pulled off the highway I felt the car shift...like I had hit a patch of ice. But it's only Sept.. After stopping at the stop sign I pull out, only to have the car skid to a stop. The right tire was cocked and the steering wheel had no effect.. A broken tie rod dangled obscenely. If it had happened 30 seconds earlier i most likely wouldn't be writing this.
   Out of habit more than anything, I listen to OPR (Old People Radio). Nowhere is the baby boomer party line more evident than this mix of Classical muzak and lefty news. Almost every "human interest" story is geared to the geezer set. And nowadays it's all about how unprepared we all are for retirement. I became an artist specifically so that I would not have to retire. But when I was 30 I didn't think I'd still be putting roofs on in order to fix my art jones at 60. Retire from roofing? FUCK YEAH! So Friday night after Shewho fixed me a wonderful dinner and I licked my wounds, I brought up the retirement issue. Big mistake. Within minutes we were in a big argument about money (or lack thereof) art (who believed more in whose) old age, health, injury, etc., etc. Needless to say it went from bad to worse and I drove home, in the pouring rain. I take full responsibility for being the asshole. I'm good like that.
   The next day was opening day of turkey season and after blowing off work (rain again) and making up with Shewho (she's the most wonderful woman on earth and very forgiving), I put on the camo, grabbed the 12 ga. and hit the woods. I started up behind Ralph's at the end of Robertson road. You know the place- a nice steep ridge of hardwoods and big hay fields. I slowly walked the edge. A little doe spooked and I didn't pay too much attention, until I saw a bunch of turkey heads bobbing down into the woods behind the deer. Shit. I'm off my game. The deer had spooked the birds. So for the rest of the afternoon I tried to find those birds. I'd call a little, then walk slowly, setting up again against various trees, listening for any yelps or clucking. Nothing. As the sun went in and out of dark clouds I worked my way into unfamiliar territory and before I knew it I was hopelessly lost. Then it rained....again.
   Finally I found myself in a recently mowed hay field ringed with posted signs. I could see a road and decided I would try to get my bearings from there. The problem was between me and the road stood a guy with a rifle. I yelled and waved. Luckily I saw him before he saw me. He was not pleased to see a stranger coming across his field. I explained my bone headed sense of direction and he thawed a bit when I told him I lived just down the road. He was trying to kill a coyote he had spotted. I blew that for him. Between apologies I informed him of a nice line of buck rubs I'd spotted. He told me how to get back to Robertson Rd. and as I turned one way and he turned the other, a nice buck blasted across the grass in front of me. I yelled back and held my fingers above my head- "NICE BUCK!" He smiled and gave me the thumbs up. I went back to Shewho's to dry out and get ready for SLICK AND ZEV'S SPECIAL K ROLLER RAMA later that evening. Am I too old for such foolishness? That's another story.....