SLO-ART

Each night for the last 4 or 5 days I've been meaning to get up at dawn and go turkey hunting. One night I even stayed up, with a drink in my hand, waiting for the crack of light to peel across the eastern sky. I set the drink on the table, laid down (for just a minute) and that was all she wrote. I never made it. It's been a full on social sculpture weekend. A bunch of art, 3 venues, bands- The Zabellas and Golden Animals, a packed house every night of cool cats and beautiful women and no turkey hunting. If I hadn't shot two good gobblers I'd be tweaking. As it is I'm more than happy to sleep in and leave the birds alone.
   The term "Social Sculpture" was coined by German uber-artist Joseph Beuys. I don't really know what he meant by it, but I've taken it and run with it. In my world it's a term that seems to encapsulate my way of working to a tee. I use it literally. A gallery or church or rock band or school or even a house can be a social sculpture. In envisioning THE SOCIAL SCULPTURE WEEKEND i realized that the social aspect was as important (or more so) than the sculpture part. Of course you need the work. But that's never been a problem for me. I'm compulsive in my art making process. With no available venues, no market for sales, very little press and a small group of supportive friends and family I've been able to slowly build a body of work and now a way of showing (either through my own venues or friend's intimate spaces). My last show was at MARIANNA'S APARTMENT in 2009. The opening becomes the most important aspect in this way of showing. From then on it's word of mouth.
    I can't do this kind of work without the support and help of people much younger, hipper and more beautiful than myself. Friends and family Josh Druckman, Ambika Conroy,, Marianna Rothen, Hollie Witchey, Dave and Liz Markovitz, the McCormick/Hughes-Freelands, The Voegelins, The Ostis, the Buddes, John Letourneau and of course my one and only Samm Kunce lend spaces, hook up bands, take photos, bring people and generally spread the word. I never think more than 20 people will show up and am always amazed when 60 or 70 do. We are a real underground, tucked away in the Catskills, fueled by an incredible community of creative people. Their support is integral to my "slo" approach to an art career. It'll take some time. Bare with us. Remember ELECTRIC SOLSTICE FOXY BOXING FLASHBACK RAINBOW UNICORN TEMPLE OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN is coming up Sat. June 23- 8pm. See you in church.
 

MANY THANKS

OR DRIVE TO THE CATSKILLS

HITTING THE BARn FLOOR

It's 10:30 am and I'm just prying open my eyes. "How can this be?" you ask. It's still turkey season, before noon and I'm not in the woods. "What's going on?" Well let me tell you.

   Last night Diamond Dave gave me a call. He was up from the city on a Monday to clear his pistol permit for full carry and he and Pigpen were down at THE BARn, twisting one, and wondered if I would not like to partake. I'd run out of eye medicine a week ago and was in the car before he could hang up the phone. Pigpen was nose deep in a tractor manual, so I poured a couple of shots of bourbon and settled into the tulip chair. The place looked good. After we swapped out a couple of the old Kristan Kohl works for new ones, swept the floor and stocked the bar we'd be ready for Saturday night's grande opening. Conversation turned to the upcoming show and Trussbridge Farm fresh veggie stand about to be centered around the old Denniston Ford bridge. As we discussed the pros and cons of opening before the veggies ripened there was a knock at the door. It was the Little Green Man. Damn! We'd been waiting.
    I know, just like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, you may not believe in him. But I'm here to tell you he exists. What happened next should convince you. The LGM sat down. He had his arm in a sling and a triangle face. And the LGM sat down. He carried with him a soft leather bag which he pulled open,  removing some condiments and a resin encrusted glass pipe that resembled the starship Enterprise. Like a wizened, ageless medicine man he inventoried his magic powders. "This one makes you big and this one makes you small....." DD and I moved in for a closer look. "Where's the sacred flame?" he asked. Someone found the propane torch behind the woodstove.
     Gently....ever so gently the LGM packed the glass pipe with a sticky substance resembling a grass eating cat's throw up. The flame clicked and the pipe glowed red. "Take it in slowly." he instructed me, passing me the nasty pipe. I wrapped my lips around the ass end of the Enterprise and sucked. Then I started coughing......and coughing...AND COUGHING. I couldn't stop. So I removed myself to the metal roofed storage area outside. Rain pounded on the shed as I leaned against a post and retched into the darkness. Then, suddenly, I stopped coughing, took a deep breath, and went into another dimension. Flopping (or rather falling) into a chair I opened my eyes to complete perfection. The rain was so loud I couldn't hear anything. All of a sudden I felt great.....more than great....I felt enlightened.
  Slowly I raised from the chair and re-entered THE BARn. I couldn't wait to tell the others where I'd been. I started for the chair. The next thing I remember is DD standing over me. "Are you OK dude?" How do I answer this? I think he helped me to my feet. I started for the chair again. And again I crumpled like a stringless marionette. Before I could compose myself the LGM was gone. I think I babbled some incoherent thoughts, made it to the bar and then went blind. Now when I say blind I don't mean everything went black....rather I could see, but my brain couldn't process it. My environment was a complete mystery. It was like I was an alien creature waiting for the rosetta stone software to be uploaded. Eventually Diamond Dave drove me home.
   There was a light on in the church. Instead of going in and turning it off, I went in and turned all the lights on. The place glowed. Just that day I'd rewired the lighting and the sanctuary never looked better. I laid on a pew and i think I prayed. Maybe I just imagined I did. In either case I know I'd been through something like I'd never experienced before. The LGM had paid me a visit and I was still rattled. It was like huffing glue, while drinking a bottle of bourbon, between tokes on the crack pipe. Whatever the LGM is cooking up in his lair over in Monticello I'd suggest you smoke it with extreme caution. As GNJohn put it this morning, after I relayed the tale to him "I'd say you were too old for this shit. But it wouldn't do any good." Truer words were never spoken. Amen.

FRENCH POT SMOKER

THE HAPLESSNESS OF THE HYPER-GRAPHIAC

I've written a couple of memoirs. The first, RELIGIOPATH, I wrote in 1992. I was working for PAPER magazine at the time, so had the use of an old IBM Selectric typewriter and a desk overlooking the corner of Prince and Broadway, above Blimpies. Everyday I'd walk to the office from E7th and Ave. C and start banging away on the metal beast. I was just short of 40 years old, living with a 23 year old Grad student/stripper, so I had no problem pouring out my heart through my fingers. Computers were called "word processors" at the time and the the internet was still being dreamed up by the military. The book was a rambling tomb that focused on my days in SF in the 70's and the East Village in the 80's. 600 pages in I gave up , wrapped it in a paper bag and tossed it in the closet. No editor would lift it, let alone read it.
    I wrote a religious column for PAPER. If you've ever seen this magazine you'll be amazed to know that my column THE HOLY CORNER  actually lasted 10 years. Like Franco in Spanish history class, there's little evidence of my years there. In this case those who forget history will never be forced to repeat it. I loved the couple hundred word, once a month, exercise in column writing.  I pretty much had a free rein. I was proud of my work. But when i moved upstate in 1995, leaving the stripper, and empty parking space on E7th and the marshal's padlock on my door, my attention (and column) turned to hunting. The editors at PAPER could only be stretched so far. Gold watch? I was lucky to get a phone call informing me my services were no longer needed.
   My next writing gig was as an outdoor columnist for THE RIVER REPORTER in Narrowsburg. My column OUT OF THE WOODS mixed tales of working as a carpenter for rich celebs like Michael Douglas and of course hunting. Once again the editors questioned the validity of all the name dropping alongside missed shots and hunting missteps. Wasn't I supposed to be an expert with good advice for the readership? I have no idea where they got that idea. Suffice to say the job did not last. About this time computers had developed an on/off button and were becoming simple enough for me to consider. I succumbed and bought a mac in 2002. My next memoir was called LUCKY MIKE. Get the irony? The wife I had moved to the sticks with had left, my band broke up, my art career was non-existent, I was broke as usual and once again I seemed to have a lot to say. I still didn't have internet but the little mac was a helluva lot fasted than the Selectric. No white out.
   It took a couple of months to bang out LUCKY MIKE. It picked up where RELIGIOPATH left off and dealt with my failed romances along with some of my ancient Indian killer/hillbilly roots. Once again I shopped it around to no avail. Publishing a memoir seemed as easy as putting out a record or having a show in a decent gallery. Then, out of pure frustration, I got dial up internet. I'd heard of these things called "blogs".  Within days I'd tossed LUCKY MIKE in another closet and started a blog by the same name. I just couldn't believe that with a touch of a little button in the hills of Glen Wild I could publish my writing world wide. This was the answer. Technology had finally caught up with my compulsion to write. Fuck publishing. The whole world could read my words at the click of a mouse. Millions could, and would know my inner thoughts. What I didn't realize was how many other dumb fucks thought the same thing at the same time. So to my half dozen loyal readers let me just say thank you. As long as you are out there I'll keep writing. As I'm sure you've realized by now- it's not like I can stop.

SISTER NUN OF YOUR BUSINESS HOLLIE WITCHEY

"FUCK YOU. YOU FAGGOT!"

I'm sitting on the deck in the warm glow of the setting sun, enjoying a cold beer, doing my cat lady thing, watching Nicole, Spooky Cat and Mr. Kitty vie for my attention. The lawn is freshly mowed. The church is bathed in a golden light that reminds one just why the 1867 congregation placed the structure facing due west. The big tom, that I shot in the morning, sits in the sink, feet sticking up, soaking in a pot of salt water. I've just talked to my mom on the phone and she's feeling better after another surgery. The LGM is in his heaven and all things considered I'm a lucky man. The only thing missing is Shewho at my side sipping a tequila. Hopefully in a year or so the picture will be complete.
   I haven't made a dime in over a month. The bills are piling up. I've hidden the key to the church to make it more difficult for NYSEG to turn off my juice and I really don't care. Life is good. MEMORIAL WEEKEND SOCIAL SCULPTURE is coming up, as well as ELECTRIC SOLSTICE FOXY BOXING FLASH BACK TEMPLE OF THE LGM. Most of the work is hung and I'm expecting Slick and Cowboy Levi at any moment for a little hymn writing. Predictably the passing cars slow to either check out the camels and other exotic critters in RNButch's paddocks or swing their heads to read my billboards written in english and hebrew- DON'T FIGHT F**K, GOD LOVES DYKES AND GOD LOVES FAGS. Sometimes I smile and wave and am rewarded with big grins and thumbs up. But most times I just daydream and don't make eye contact. Let the stare-a-thon continue unabated.
   Nicole rolls across the table and falls to the deck just as a little black Toyota cruises slowly. I giggle to myself at Nicole's insanity and pay no attention to the car....until they stop and roll down the window. I expect the cell phone camera to come out as usual. Instead a young man in a baseball cap leans out the window and yells at the top of his lungs "FUCK YOU. YOU FAGGOT!" Before I have time to respond with anything but a raised middle finger, they drive off. The puzzled cats look at me, as if to ask WTF? I don't know what to tell them. It's been a while since I'd had anything close to a negative response to my lawn full of love. The obvious ignorant hatred directed towards me is disconcerting. Then in a flash it's over. The birds are still chirping. The freshly mowed grass still smells incredible. I get up from my seat, go in the house and take my 9mm. down from the shelf. Back on the deck, I slide in the clip and lay it on the table. That beautiful day glo orb is slipping behind the ridge. Now what were you saying?

ROMINA IN PLAYBOY MEXICO

EVOLUTION

1. An unfolding process of development or change.

   I've always used this word when people ask about THE CHURCH OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN. When they ask what we believe, I answer that it is "an evolving theology". It's another way of saying that we make it up as we go along. Too many things in this world are held back by definition. It's nice to have no restraints. Recently President Obama has "evolved" his opinion on gay marriage to the degree that (with the prodding of Veep Biden) he came out in the pro column. I have no such problem with that issue. As far as I'm concerned anyone who engages in any particular sexual practice should be allowed to make all the same mistakes as die hard heterosexuals. I hope someone told them that gay divorce is not quite as much fun as the wedding.
   I'm leaning against a tree, tucked in the high wet grass, overlooking a big field shrouded in fog. I've been after a group of birds that are roosting on the opposite ridge for two weeks now. They are predictably gobbling like crazy just after dawn. What is unpredictable is where they are going to fly down. I've had them pegged in the woods only to have them hit the big open field. Likewise I've set up in the field only to have them fly across the river, head up the ridge or just shut up and disappear. This morning I have a decoy set up and by their gobbles i can tell they are moving through the woods.....closer.
   As I squint into the fog, hoping to see black dots materialize in the wet grass, I ponder all this talk of evolution. Recently I vowed not to shoot anymore coyotes. After years of putting the hammer down on these critters at any opportunity I decided that they had just as much right to hunt turkey and deer as I did. I had evolved. No sooner had this thought drifted through my skull than I caught sight of a brown back skulking through the field. Damn! I gently stroked my call and he raised his head. Immediately the birds shut up. He saw the decoy and headed straight for it at a good trot. I put my gun on my knee. He closed the distance in seconds. All this evolution was wrecking havoc with my head. I clicked off the safety and settled the sights on his chest. When he was 6 feet from the decoy he stopped. I had him.
   Then a funny thing happened. I didn't pull the trigger. My evolution was holding. Every muscle twitched. My head pounded. All the DNA that had gotten me this far boiled in my blood. I was hard wired into the food chain to kill this animal....and I didn't. The furry little fuck had spooked the turkeys, ruining my hunt. As soon as he sniffed that rubber decoy he spun and took off across the field. For the next hour he circled. Nothing gobbled. And eventually I gave up. The fog lifted and I drug my ass home empty handed. Right now I don't know what I think. Will I develop a furry tail or gills on my dick? I have no idea how this process will unfold. All I know is this evolution is a bitch.

THE SHOW

In the animal kingdom it's all about the display....if you want to get laid. And unlike homo sapiens (disregarding many glittery queens), most critters leave it to the males to put on the lip gloss. Of the animals I hunt, none do it like the tom turkey. This is what us turkey hunters live for. Sure there's plenty of times you'll  hit the woods and spend the entire morning working a bird, only hearing gobbles and never see the bird. Then there's other times you'll have one come in silent and be in your lap before you can even get the gun up. But the classic scenario is to call one across a field, soaking in every moment of this courtship dance.
    It's the middle of the season and almost every day it has rained. Sometimes this doesn't matter, but most times it does. Birds just don't like to sound off in the rain. The only thing worse than rain is wind. Once the wind kicks up the birds can't hear your calls and you can't hear their gobbles. It's incredibly frustrating. So it was last week that i found myself set up in a hedge row, high up on the edge of some hay fields in White Sulfur Springs. The skies had cleared but a brisk 20 mph wind had kicked up. It was late in the morning and I'd just about given up. The 4:00 am wake ups were taking their toll, so I leaned back against a big tree and dozed off. I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden a faint gobble woke me up. I opened my eyes only to see a monster of a bird standing about 200 yards directly in front of me out in the field. He gobbled again and went into strut. This is the classic Thanksgiving fan and feathery beach ball mode. His head turned from white to blue to red....then white again. I slowly raised the gun to my knee and stroked the call lightly. He roared back and started his march across the field. I couldn't believe my luck. He was all alone, floating in the grass and closing the distance fast.

    I shoot a Browning 12 ga. pump shotgun with tiny rifle sights. I've shot a lot of birds with this gun. My eyes are pretty good at a distance, but across the gun barrel it's all blur. Nonetheless i had plenty of time to settle in and wait for that big bright head to get within range. When he dropped strut he'd stretch his neck out and gobble, shaking his head from side to side, searching for the hen (me). The ground vibrated with every step. His beard was at least a foot long, dragging in the tall grass. I breathed deeply, trying to steady my racing heartbeat. I had him. When he was within 30 yards I pulled the trigger......he shook his head, spread his wings and rocketed straight up. I was so shocked that I hadn't dropped him I wasted at least a split second pumping another round into the gun. I shot again....and again...never touching him. The last time I saw him he was heading for Orange County.
   It's been a while since I've missed such an easy shot. I have no idea where I went wrong. But there you have it. My stomach was knotted and I felt like bawling like a little girl. There's no explaining it. That bird was just not meant to die. Failure is a constant companion of the hunter. It's what drives you. Any time I get complacent and think I got it all figured out something like this happens, reminding me just why I get up an hour before dawn for the 31 days of May. I'll remember that show for the rest of my life. THAT'S what it's all about.  

BEFORE HUNGER GAMES

* NONE OF THIS MAY BE TRUE

Anyone who tells you turkey hunting is easy is full of shit. Sure, you may get lucky, have a tom gobble to the slamming of a car door, stroll in the woods and shoot a bird with no effort....but it won't happen twice. I've hunted turkeys seriously for 20 years and I still make every mistake in the book. I call too much, too little, too soft, too loud, bust birds, and when the chips are down I can miss them. And when you aren't making mistakes you can't find 'em, the weather turns foul, you spook 'em from the roost or a multitude of other things can go wrong. That's exactly why I love it so.
   The past week has been tough. I'm not working so I have every day (no matter what the weather) to hunt. You can only hunt until noon, so I'm up at 4:30 am and in the woods by 5:15 am. Aside from opening day the only other day where the birds were hot was Sunday. Milawyer and I went out to White Sulfur Springs to try our luck. No sooner were we set up than the birds started gobbling. They were quite a ways off, but after an hour of calling they started to work their way towards us. It sounded like a half dozen or more toms or jakes. I'd let a few jakes walk, but now I was willing to shoot any legal bird. Forget trophy hunting I wanted a nice marsala for dinner. We were situated perfectly on the edge of some big hay fields, with birds gobbling all around us, but we couldn't see the birds. The globally warmed woods are at least 3 weeks ahead of schedule. Then just as I caught sight of a giant in full strut out in the field a big group of deer ran through the opening, followed by another hunter. FUCK! They shut up. We were screwed. We left WSS birdless.

This is the way it's been going. I've had 3 coyotes come in on my calls. I can't tell you how many I shot, but by the time the third one showed up I'd resolved not to shoot anymore. They somehow know. I pulled up the gun, put the sights on his chest and........he didn't move. I waved my hand. Nothing. Finally I barked and he hightailed it across the field. The hunt was ruined.
  Today I only had hens cackling from the roost. I hunted Diamond Dave's, GNJohn's and was driving past Gilkey's when I spotted a big group of birds right behind the house. I pulled in XRoadJohn's driveway and snuck down in the woods. Misjudging where the birds were, they caught me as i neared the field. See what I mean about repeating mistakes? By 9:00 am I was fed up. As a last resort I decided to drive to Montgomery to hunt Mupp's. I sat down by Fairburn's shack and made a few calls. I heard a gobble up and over the ridge, down in the pines. Immediately I got up and walked to the top of the hill. He gobbled again. He was close. I sat against a big oak and put the gun on my knee. I saw a white head, then it disappeared into the thick vegetation. I never called. He gobbled again......and stepped out.  I settled my blurry sights and squeezed the trigger.

21 lbs. 9 inch beard. My confidence has been restored.  
  

BETTER LEGS THAN BUKOWSKI

The other night I was admiring a mount hanging at Milawyer's place. It wasn't a giant, but definitely a buck to be proud of. In characteristic modesty Milawyer dismissed it. I then turned to Savage and told him to drop by to check out the mount I had just got in of a buck a shot a couple of years back. "He's not one of your usual monsters." I declared following Milawyer's lead. "But he's the biggest I ever shot." "It's not a contest." Savage stated. Then moved in and whispered in my ear "But we all know it really is." And that's the deal. No matter how gracious you want to be it's a Darwinian toe to toe from cradle to grave. Anyone who denies it is delusional.
    We are hard wired into the food chain. Nothing illustrates this better than hitting the woods in the Spring. Deer are dropping fawns. Turkeys and geese are laying eggs. All the little critters of the forest are giving birth and trying their damnedest to protect their young. Keying in on this vast maternity ward are not only the humans, like myself, but every hawk, eagle, coyote, crow, skunk, raccoon and 'possum in the woods. It's not by accident that turkey season is in May. The hens are receptive to the gobbling toms. It's my job to sound as much like a hen as I can muster. Trouble being that the more you sound like a hen the more likely you are to call in an unwanted hungry coyote. Recently a hunter in Maine was attacked by a coyote while turkey hunting. A 12 ga. levels the playing field there. Top of the food chain Wiley.
   Nothing was gobbling this morning, so I had plenty of time to ponder the level of competition in my life. It's not always apparent. But it's everywhere- for jobs, big bucks (green and antler sporting), recognition, or just competing with a noisy bar TV, hoping to quiet down the crowd long enough to hear a song. It's all a struggle. But above all is the competition one has with one's self- a never ending tug of war with id, ego, desire, failure, pride, and self worth. I remember reading Bukowski. He was rough looking cuss who could string words together like nobody's business. But one of the things he was most proud of was his legs. According to CB his legs were his best feature, and drove women right into his big hairy arms. Well, let me just say, Bukowski sat on his ass in the post office or on a bar stool most of his life. I know he wrote real good and I would never try to compete on his level. But after a life time of working as a carpenter and running up and down ridges chasing deer and turkey, I will put my legs up against any writer out there. It may not be a competition.....but we all know it is.  

KIKI

SO FAR.....

First let me say the weather has sucked. It's rained every day this week. The only reason I'm sitting here writing this right now is it's raining...AGAIN! The only thing worse than rain for turkey hunting is wind. I'm waiting for that to kick up. But even with the rain I've been on birds. Let's recap.

Tues. morning Milawyer and I were no sooner behind Diamond Dave's BARn then we heard a gobble. The hillbilly that DD bought his place from took the cash, put it in coffee cans and now lives in a conglomeration of tarp shacks back in the woods. His only entertainment is feeding the deer and turkey. I'm sure he won't miss one or two. Pigpen Rothman had informed me that the gobbling turkeys had been waking him up every morning for a month. Even in the pouring rain we were not disappointed.
   It took about a half hour for the birds to drop from the roost. They were gobbling all around us. It was like the good old days up in Cooperstown. I knew they were close but in the dark thick woods I couldn't see anything. Then I saw Milawyer raise his gun. I softened my calling... and waited. The 12 ga. report echoed down the ridge. 50 yards away a turkey was flopping. Success! Milawyer was all smiles and I was delighted. I'd much rather get a bird for a friend than shoot one myself. And to guide and get a Bird for deer hunting guru Savage Lynch's brother? Well that was the cherry on the sundae. After coffee Milawyer proudly took his prize home and I went back in the woods.
   The rest of the week has been a series of missteps, fuck ups, hens, fog and rain. My opening day feeling that I would have multiple birds in the freezer by week's end quickly vanished. I've spooked birds, had hens steal them right out from under me, and lately not even been able to find them. As I said before the weather has sucked. The only thing I've had the gun on was a coyote, but he was too far out to do any damage. The past couple of days they've stopped roost gobbling. So this morning I slept in. I'm sure I'll get a call from Pigpen informing me of the action at dawn. Oh well. i needed the sleep. It's 7:00 am and they won't be strutting past my couch. So I have to stop this stupid writing and get in the woods.

ART NEWS: Munch's SCREAM sold at auction for $120 mil. Rumor has it Glen Wild art patron Diamond Dave wrote the check. Way to go DD!  

3 BLIND MICE

  The night before opening day found me on Paradise Pond, knocking back a few with Milawyer and his brother Savage Lynch. To my surprise Milawyer had purchased a NYS turkey permit and was on board for the May 1st hunt. I was tickled. I had a hunting buddy for the morning. Any time the 3 of us get together you can be sure the whiskey will flow and the stories and foolishness will follow. Imagine the cast of THE UNFORGIVEN without the gun play. We are all grizzled old timers with a life time of tales. We aren't related....but we might as well be.
    It didn't take long for me to pull out the eye medicine, and talk turned to ailments and how best to fix them. So happens this bunch all has glaucoma. If we had colostomies we would've commiserated of what was the best crap bag on the market. I'm the only dedicated pot smoker, so of course I fly the 4/20 flag. That's not to say my friends won't take a polite toke from time to time. As the conversation turned to depression, the hot little roach burned my finger tips. I rolled another.
   When the steaks and ramps were done we sat down, each with a glass of booze and a plate of red meat in front of us. I looked over at Savage and noticed he was bleeding from his finger. Between the bad peepers and hands so tough and calloused they are impervious to pain, he didn't notice he was holding his steak knife with the sharp edge up. He sawed into the steak, bearing down with his finger, wondering why he was having so much difficulty cutting off a piece of meat. By the time he noticed he'd had the knife inverted, it was too late. In genteel company you would expect one to quietly wrap the finger tip and continue with one's meal. The cast of HILLBILLY HAND FISHING looks like debutants in comparison. Before I knew it Savage was spewing blood everywhere, poking my chest with the offending digit and drumming the table (off the beat) to a very loud Steve Stills tune. Before I could react he'd drawn a big bloody cross and NATAS on my shirt, giggling like a little girl, and smirking at me with that sake fueled smile. We were helpless. Between Milawyer's expensive dinner table, blood splattered walls and my shirt, it looked like a crime scene. I poured another. It was gonna be a long night.

Milawyer was at my house at 5:30 am. The birds were hot as hell. But that's another story.

MILAWYER AND BIRD- opening day 2012