SOUTH PARK VEAL

VENISON VEAL

 So far it's been a helluva season. It's not even Halloween and I have two on the ground. As anyone who knows me, or who follows this blog will tell you, this is atypical. And I'm not even hunting hard. In fact I haven't hunted one morning or gotten cold. I work on the shul and go out late afternoon. It's civilized hunting. The struggle of shooting the big 7 left me licking my wounds for a week. But on Thurs. I got back in the stand. I hunted above the bridge. One doe crashed through around 4 pm. Then nothing.
   On Friday I decided to hunt behind the house. I'd gotten permission and hung a stand late last season in a good spot. On the way in I jumped a nice buck, not 10 yards away. He ran maybe 20 yards and stopped, trying to scent me. I had the wind. I could just make out his heavy white antlers, turning slowly, catching the light, nose up. I froze. Finally he gave up and moved off. Then I saw a doe slink off in the other direction. I'd saved her an afternoon of sexual harassment. I never had a shot. Plus I had already filled my buck tag for bow. I could only legally shoot a doe, until gun season, when another buck tag kicks in. I settled into the stand.
    Around 5 pm I spotted a doe working it's way through some pines behind me. Then I saw two more. From my perspective there was one big one and two medium size ones. I slowly moved for the bow and stood up, as the small lead doe walked within range, to an open spot to my left. It was a perfect opportunity for a shot. She stopped. I drew and fired. The impact of the arrow knocked her off her feet for a split second. Then she got up, ran about 10 yards and dropped.

    My arrow was drenched in bright red blood and hair, a welcome change from the brown goo of my lousy gut shot. There would be no tracking job for Bonnie on this one. I could see the deer laying in the leaves. My elation of my clean kill shot was tempered when I walked up on her and realized just how small this deer was. I'd killed Bambi's little sister- early in the movie. She didn't have spots......but I'm sure they were dropped close by and not long ago. After gutting her I picked her up, put her in my pocket and walked home.
   It didn't take long to butcher this deer. I don't think I'll make it a practice, but there are many advantages to shooting a young deer. My back feels fine, and a hindquarter will fit on my hillbilly can smoker. After a little upgrade from my rusted out smoker, and some false starts, I pulled out a rich, glistening brown, warm shank of tender smoked venison veal. And it doesn't take up the whole fridge. My deer bow tags are filled. I guess I'm turkey and bear hunting until opening day.  

RIHANNA

POSITIONED IN A BEDROOM POUT

 Yesterday I finally went to the doc for my leg. That morning I had walked PhotogGH  in to my stand , where I shot the 7, then walked back out and went back to bed. My leg hurt like hell. I doubted whether I could climb a stick ladder, and safely get strapped in the stand. After Shewho's party the night before, I was still a little hungover also. But it definitely was the leg, not the head, that sent me hobbling out of the woods. PGH had a doe and the six come in. He had a shot at the six and took it. Sadly he only came up with belly hair. Happily it was a clean miss. The arrow was clear of any fluids. He cursed his luck, and pondered the shot. By all accounts he must've hit a branch. The thinnest of twigs can throw off a bullet, let alone an arrow. Hunt long enough and you'll miss. But back to me.
    I sat in the chair next to the admitting doc. "I guess I need the story." she said with a smile. I told her of the freak accident and watched her puzzled look. She then pointed to the paper in front of her. "It says antler stuck in head." I then showed her my leg, to her relief. My handwriting is bad.......but leg is only 3 letters. Once that was cleared up, it was anti-biotics and a tetanus shot for moi. I feel better. Today I went back to work.

    This morning a member of the shul removed the books, plaques and sacred objects from the sanctuary. I was happy to see these disposed of properly. Although I would've put them to good use, it's appropriate that they are dealt with according to tradition. The last thing i want to do is inadvertently step on toes. And this brings me to Rihanna. I don't know much about this woman other than she's smoking hot and has good/bad tattoos. Now that I have a synagogue and a church people joke about me getting a mosque. The story on Ri-ri has her posing in front of some big mosque somewhere, in her sultry, pouty way. Surprise- they kicked her out.
   I don't know how out of touch this girl is. Honey, don't fuck with the moslems. You can make fun of the christians and jews 'til the cows come home, with no consequences. That's why I feel comfortable doing work in Hebrew or burning crosses or inseminating virgins, it's all good. No one pays the least bit of attention. But start up The Mosque of the Little Green Man and get ready for a shit storm. It's a big failing with this bunch- a lack of self-deprication. They take themselves way too seriously. Rihanna looks great in her birka pant-suit and gold. Word to the wise girlfriend. Leave Islam alone. They don't appreciate your hotness. My leg/head is feeling better. And my lips are positioned in a bedroom pout.

RIB CAGE

LEG LUNG

OUCHIE!

 Blame it on Global Warming. A process that usually takes a couple of weeks in mid-winter, this time took days. Each season brings with it a certain amount of art work and this work always takes a different form. Last year I only shot two does. No antlers to consider. Each doe I boned, in tact, utilizing the skeletal structure as focal point. I also did a couple of blood "drag" prints by flopping the deer onto a piece of canvas nailed into the ground and pulling the length. It's not always taxidermy. As the season progresses I try to change techniques, as called for. The fact that I shot this deer so early in the season, in the middle of a warm spell, has expedited the whole process.
     Pain seems the theme. It started with the bad shot. That was Sunday evening. Then I drug one of my best friends into the mix. I knew Savage had a bad back and was in pain. It didn't seem to matter to him or I. There was no stopping us. While flies swarmed the dead buck, I stabbed the pinky of my left hand with my skinning knife,  dripping blood across the kitchen floor. I left an easy trail to follow. Then, came the leg entanglement of the rack and goring of the leg. As I removed the paper towels sopping up the blood, I noticed little butterfly images appearing. I pulled a half dozen small prints off my open wound, as I waited for Shewho to return with the bandages and hydrogen peroxide. Once again the work was finding its own form. All I had to do was recognize it.
    What with all the trauma and lack of sleep I hadn't really had time to assess the rack. It was a very wide and heavy seven pointer. The antlers had beautiful symmetry. One side lacked a brow tine. Otherwise they were perfect. He hadn't had to defend his territory yet. Nothing was broken off. Being the dominant buck, not many would have had the balls to challenge him. So, yesterday I carefully pulled the head out of the out house, into the sun, and examined it. My plan was to skin and boil the skull and make a "European mount". I could do this myself and save money. But, as I looked at this deer, it deserved more. Then I flipped back the skin. It was covered with writhing maggots. Time to decide. Off to the taxidermist.
    Mitaxidermist's shop is in Bethel. He understands my "dead mount" approach and never disappoints. He also raises whitetails in the back. It's always a show every time I go out there. I got telling him my zombie deer attack story as two monster 180 " bucks gave me the hairy eyeball. They were making me uncomfortable. Had word gotten out about their gut shot friend?  "Have they ever attacked you?" I asked, looking over my shoulder, as the bucks circled us, their giant white antlers gleaming in the sun. He told me a story of being cornered by his biggest buck, a 190 beast he kept down the road. The buck had recently killed two does with rough sex and was a little worked up, when his handler entered the pen. Mitaxidermist admitted that he wasn't taking the bristling hair and ground pawing serious enough. Luckily he carried a length of two by four. Problem was each swing was parried by the buck's massively lethal antlers. He was cornered and losing ground. The only thing that saved his life was a joint compound bucket with drilled 1" holes. He was able to stick it on the rack and run for his life.
      He also told me a story of inadvertently sitting on an elk point. "I plopped down with all my weight. I thought I was sitting on my stool. It stuck right above the hole. An inch lower and it would gone inside me. I've never known such pain. Now what do you want to do with this one?"

The theme continues.  

HORNS

MEAT

SANDRINE

THUMBS UP

BHR FOODIE REVIEW

Last night Shewho and I went out to dinner. The choices are limited in this neck of the woods. For years I've hoped for a good restaurant. That's the one thing I miss about the city. The ability to pick up the phone and order some Thai or Two Boots or sushi is sadly not an option here in the sticks. That's why I have my recurring fantasies regarding JOODLES or just opening a palidar/bar. Good drinks and some finger food served from that center thingy in the shul and tables, stage and dance floor in the back could be a blast. Yet, would it be appreciated? Do it in Brooklyn or the East Village and you'd be turning 'em away. Up here? Aside from the congregation, I doubt if it would draw the bodies needed to stay open. But, back to last night's dinner.
    We decided to check out RNButch's new restaurant in Rock Hill- BERNIE'S HOLIDAY RESTAURANT. It used to be just BERNIE"S. My ex-wife worked there for one night as a waitress. When she was told to scrape the untouched salad back in the bowl she bolted for the door. What with my advanced age and injuries we decide to eat early. If they had a senior citizen early bird special I would've been game. No such luck. So here for the first time is a HWS restaurant review:

    Open Wed.- Sun. in the winter months, BHR is a large, white table cloth and fine china, dark carpet operation. We were early, so the place was empty. Opting for the cozy bar area, we slid into a comfortable small table and booth. The waitress was cheery, pretty and smart. She brought us menus and two of the best margaritas I'd had in a while, along with a basket of fresh warm bread and an olive oil and tiny tomato dip. Unsure whether I was supposed to eat the little tomatoes I took a chance and speared one-heaven. Is that too gushy? I'm new at being a foodie.
    I ordered the chicken pot pie and Shewho had the duck. But before our entres arrived we devoured an appetizer plate of riblets. If you want to go on the cheap, I suggest a couple of drinks and these riblets. They were fucking incredible! Who's ever in the kitchen knows their shit. Both entres were good. What was missing? Bodies. I was not prepared for how good this place was. And, as everyone knows, (even neighbor RNButch) I don't pull my punches. I call a mousse a moose- no matter. It was Wed. Maybe on Friday and Sat. the place is jumping. We'll come back some weekend to rub elbows with the local bigshots like Diamond Dave and iLiz, Steve and Edie, Bronco Billy, RNButch and JNell. After my anti-casino sermon I don't know whether I'll get the same service. But, I do have to admit that's the one thing casinos may provide- bodies. Only the future will tell. HWS gives BHR 4 titties and a broken thumbs up. Suggestions? Put some Sullivan County venison, Majestic Farm pork, Trussbridge veggies and Aaron Burr Cider on the menu. We'll be back. Spread the good word.    

HOLLIE AND KATE

DEAD DEER ATTACKS LOCAL HUNTER

   I have a pine tree out my back door. Since I bought the place I've hung my kills in that tree. The lower branches sport ratted twine that I use for turkeys. And if I attach a come-a-long to the upper branch I can hang a big buck. In normal October weather I'd string it up, hose out the gut and let it hang for a couple of days before butchering it. Suffice it to say this is not normal fall weather. Savage and I no sooner hoisted the buck than flies began to cluster around the eyes, nose and open gut. I had no idea how long that deer had been laying dead in the woods. It could've been as much as 15 hours before we found him. I didn't dare let him hang. So Monday afternoon I skinned it, cut out the tenderloin and strap, and quartered it. Then i put it in big plastic garbage bags and stuffed it in the fridge. Now I could take my time with the processing.
    Once the meat was in the fridge I put the head inside the outhouse, to protect it from the flies. I hadn't  decided what approach to take with my trophy, but didn't want it writhing with maggots in a week. Now the tree was empty and I was not able to admire that beautiful wide rack from my kitchen window. So, yesterday, late in the afternoon, I went to the outhouse to see how the head was fairing with the flies. I opened the door and peered in. It looked fine. But when I moved it I noticed a wet blood skid on the rough cut floor boards. I should put some plywood under it, I thought as I stepped inside and grabbed the horns. What happened next is a little blurry.
   I either slipped on the blood or stepped on a dangling cord, with which I had tied my tag onto the horns. In any case I tumbled backwards off the outhouse porch, the rack tangling between my legs. I hit the ground and the sharp point of the G-2 went through my pant leg, goring my calf, my full weight plunging the antler into my flesh. If it didn't hurt so bad, I would've died laughing.

    Today is Shewho's birthday. Last night she spent doctoring my puncture wound, and not getting any sleep, as I tossed and turned in pain. I told Savage of the mishap and he didn't skip a beat. "That deer is getting back at you for gut shooting him." I believe in karma. I think he's right. That horn could've hit my femoral artery, my balls, chest or gut. I could've died a painful death, on my front lawn, impaled on that big G-2. It's the kind of story that ends up in the Yahoo news feed. I thank the LGM and my lucky stars that the spirit of that buck did not seek more vengeance.  A sleepless night, a sore leg and a good woman who nursed me through my bizarre stupidity, is more than I deserve. I will try to stop the next buck, and promise to never again take a shot in such low light (even if it's still legal). Now, if I can only stand up, I'll have that deer butchered up by dark. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHEWHO!

    

MARTYNKA

COLUMBUS DAY TRACK

Savage and his "tracking" dog Bonnie met me at my house at 8:30 am. We were off. Bonnie had spent her life in the shadow of ace tracking dog Duchess and never had much luck following the blood. This was her first time in the field since Duchess had died. We were all hoping for the best. I had wrapped a florescent orange deer drag around the tree where I found my arrow. No blood. The next step was to find the last spot where I had seen the buck, before he disappeared into the forest. We found that, no problem, and found a nice puddle of bright red blood. Things were looking up.Savage put Bonnie on it and she seemed to follow the track. I'm being kind. That dog didn't have a clue. Thank God she's cute and charming. Hence the quotes around tracking. I think she was looking for butterflies.
   What followed was a painstaking process of trying to find a pin prick of blood on a carpet of brown and yellow leaves, dotted with splashes of red. Step by step Savage and I moved deeper into the woods. My heart sank with every step. Then, every time I was about to give up, I'd hear Savage call out "Blood!" I don't know how many times we lost the sparse blood trail, only to have Savage spy a dot the size of a tick on one brown leaf. I don't think I found one drop. I was no better at this than Bonnie. At least Savage didn't tie me to a tree.
   Four hours into the track and we were at a loss. We'd traveled at least two hundred yards into the woods and at a break in a stone wall we lost the trail. The three of us stood there not knowing which way to turn. Savage looked around. "He should've bedded down by now." he said glumly. There was a trail cutting right down the middle of a flat. It seemed logical that the wounded deer would head for the path of least resistance, but we couldn't find a speck of blood or gut fluid. What to do? I asked Savage if he'd checked a stand of pines up a hill. He said he had, but not all the way to the top. I stumbled up the ridge, walking around aimlessly. I was about to turn around and head back, when to my left I saw a rack and a brown back. It was the dead buck. You can't imagine my relief. I yelled for Savage. "I found him!" Success.
   The shot was a terrible one. The combination of low light and not stopping that deer had caused me to hit him way far back. I was ashamed to have not killed this magnificent creature cleanly, but so elated to have found him....in one piece, that I didn't dwell on it. I felt too good. What followed was a comedy of errors, trying to drag this big buck out. Neither of us is a spring chicken and this was a big deer. We got him down onto the flat and both of us were out of breath. There was a time........no longer. We borrowed a golf cart from Majestic Farms and tied the antlers to the spot where the golf bags go. It could've made the cover of Outdoor Life or Golf Digest. I can't thank Savage enough. If he had not gotten me within 50 yards of that deer I never would've found him. In this weather he would've rotted by afternoon or been torn to shreds by coyotes. As it is I have him skinned, quartered and in my fridge. Backstrap for Shewho's birthday party. I am one happy man.    

SAVAGE AND BONNIE WITH BUCK

TARGET

GUT SHOT

I heard the thump. I knew I had hit him, but had not seen where. He ran, then stopped at the edge of some thick stuff. I waited for him to drop. He didn't. Then I lost sight of him....but lets go back a little.

    After letting the small six walk I couldn't wait to get back to my spot. The weather was still unseasonably warm. I hadn't even had a coat on yet, let alone gloves or long johns. A t-shirt and some light leafy wear was comfortable, even at dark. I got in the stand by 4:30 pm Sunday afternoon. The chipmunks were chirping and every once in a while I'd hear an acorn drop. Otherwise there was a light breeze out of the west, rustling the leaves, and not much moving. This time I had obsessed over washing my clothes and myself, spraying down my rubber boats and gear. I hoped this would work.
   About 5:30 pm I heard crashing coming my way. A small doe streaked by me, followed by two large does. They were acting like a buck was chasing them, but I never saw horns. I had no shot at either doe, but they didn't spook either, as they crossed my path. Maybe my scent proofing was working. When things quieted down, my heart was racing. Could the pre-rut already be happening? About 15 minutes went by and I heard more crashing, this time behind me. Another doe appeared and on her tail was a big bodied, dark deer. I saw horns. This was no small six. The buck stopped, too far for a shot, as the doe vanished into the pines, the buck right behind her. I didn't even have my grunt call on me. Who'd have thought I would even need it this early in the season?
   As the sun started to set, three more small does appeared and worked their way in front of me. I kept hoping for another look at the buck. It was getting dark fast. Then I heard the crunch of leaves to my right. I saw a big body emerge out of the pines. He was crossing broadside 30 yards to my right. My eyesight is terrible in low light. I drew back and almost didn't take the shot. He was walking slowly. I should've tried to bleat him to a stop......but I didn't. When he hit a clear spot i touched the release. THUMP. I had hit him.

I waited about 10 minutes before getting out of the tree and searching for my arrow. Once on the ground I checked my watch. 6:30 pm. It was almost dark when I found the arrow. It was a pass through, but my initial joy was tempered when I examined the fletching. It was brown and stunk. I had gut shot the buck. Damn. Between the low light and moving animal, I'd fucked up the shot. It was too late to even follow a blood trail. I backed off, drove home and called Savage. He said he'd meet me at my house at 8:00 am Monday, with his dog Bonnie. "It's a dead deer." he said confidently. "We just have to find it." I was not so confident. I knew from experience, that this was easier said than done, especially with no snow, coyotes and a bad shot. I would not get much sleep that night. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

HOLLIE WITCHEY

OK DAD?

 It's not exactly cold out, but it has cooled enough to sit in a tree without sweating. Nonetheless, it doesn't make much sense to hunt any other times but early morning and late afternoon. Getting up early has been a problem, so I try to hit the woods by 4pm. And so far I've seen very little.
   Yesterday I took the day off from working the shul and drove down to Diamond Dave's to see if he wanted to go and check out buying a bow. DD is a natural shot. He had borrowed supermodel Hollie Witchey's bow at a party and was hitting the bull pretty good. He was hooked. I knew it wouldn't take much convincing to get him to purchase a new toy. Of course, first we had to capture the cow. Rosey had jumped the fence again. An hour later Pigpen and a bucket of feed coaxed her back in the paddock. Done. Lets go shopping. Dave wanted me to drive his Porsche. Surprisingly, I declined.  What followed was a white knuckled ride to Woodborne, DD at the wheel. I swear we caught air numerous times. Next time I'll drive.
   As we pulled up to the bow shop, a half dozen woodchucks and a DEC officer eyeballed us in the expensive sports car. Dollar signs flashed in all their eyes. Turned out the DEC cop was there because of a dispute between the shop's owner and a deer loving neighbor, who liked to walk the property line with a flashlight, shooting a .22 every 10 feet. What is it with neighbors? No matter where you live, your closest neighbor is likely to be an asshole. Let me testify to this fact. But that's another story.
   As DD is new to the archery game, he kept deferring to me in the bow buying process. Remembering Irish Liz's admonishments, as we pulled out of the driveway, I kept steering Dave towards the lower end product- much to the salesman's dismay. More than once he mentioned the shiny black Porsche in the same breath as the $1000 bow. Then, the guy picked up a moderately priced bow, looked at me for approval, and asked "OK Dad?" DAD! That's it. I'm keeping my mouth shut. You're on your own, son.

  After all the fun with DD, I got in the woods around 4:30pm. I decided to hunt Majestic. I had hung a stand late in the season last year and never really had a chance to hunt it. The wind was out of the east, perfect for this spot. About 5:00 pm I spotted a doe down wind. She stopped raised her nose and bounded off. My clothes were clean, sprayed down, as was I. Still, she scented me. This is always the problem. I stink. Then, around 5:45 pm I heard a crunch behind me. Slowly I turned and spotted a deer, head down, munching on acorns. It was a buck. I counted points. 1-2-3....on one side- legal. It was a smallish six pointer. I had no shot, so I waited. If he moved around the tree and didn't spook......
   Slowly I rose to my feet. The buck looked right at me. I froze. Then he lowered his head again, and kept eating. A few more steps and I'd have him......Then, as i thought of Shewho's birthday party next Sat., and how much she wanted venison, a little voice crept into my head. It was Savage Lynch's. "No brow tines. You oughta let him walk. He'll be a nice one next year.... It's early in the season. Wait for a doe." And Goddamnmit that little voice won out. I never drew back the string. Over 20 minutes that buck presented me with numerous shot opportunities. And in the end i passed. In one day I refused driving a $175,000 Porsche and let a six point buck walk. What the hell is wrong with me?      

WASSUP BITCHES?

QUESTION: WHO WILL SHOVEL THE TURD?

Answer: I will shovel the turd.

    Anyone interested in saving old religious structures from gravity, decay, lack of funds and neglect, must answer this question in the positive. Any other approach would just be wrong. Just like I would never ask any member of the congregation to do anything I was not prepared to do......(I'm still prepping for the burning of the dollar) I would never assign the lowliest of tasks to Pigpen. But it's still early in the job. I may change my answer.
    I should be in the woods instead of writing this blog. That front went through and it's finally cooling off. I'm seeing deer in the fields and i even had one walk about 50 yards behind the house stand. No shot, but got the pulse racing. Before you know it the pre-rut will kick in. Yet, I somehow can't kick my ass into gear at 4:00 pm, let alone- 6:00 am. I'm not in the zone. Plus, I'm just plain out of shape. Not working a construction job for almost a year made me soft. I ache all the time and even though I'm staying awake through the afternoon, I still can't put in the full eight hours. I don't even know whether it's possible to get back into shape at my age. Climbing a tree at the end of a work day is not looking great. Motrin and a bottle of beer is more like it.

   Working in downtown Glen Wild has been a trip. The hustle and bustle of the area is amazing! A lot of people don't realize that the church is on a back road, outside of Glen Wild proper. But the shul is smack dab in the middle of the action. It's been a real eyeopener to be working every day on a property in the village. Every morning before work I swing by Meadow's Muffin shop for a fresh baked croissant and a cappuccino and catch up on village gossip. Will OK is there, as is the owner Bob Meadows. We chit chat about this and then all go our separate ways, with big smiles on our faces. Maybe it's me, but I never noticed how friendly our little town is. "Hi Mrs. Budinski!" I wave. She smiles and waves back." Gosh, the trees are pretty." I yell. A little girl gets on the bright yellow school bus. Will OK lets me run an extension cord from his driveway light. I hear wind chimes. Isn't that a blue bird......?    

ANA MENDIETA: Body Tracks 1974

THE FEAR OF DESECRATION AND THE RADICAL THOUGHT PROCESS

Well, as you can tell from the title, nothing's happening in the woods. The combination of getting in the shul and the weather being so unseasonably warm, has put the whole idea of hunting out of my head. Instead, Pigpen "King of the Jews" Rothman and I have spent the week ripping and tearing in the shul. It feels good to finally be able to start this project. It took two days of brush and briar clearing just to get to the door. I bought a new pair of work boots, a new weed wacker and chainsaw, tackling the overgrowth by myself. Once I gained access to the building I got Pigpen on board for the demo. Take any farmer out of the fields and put a crow bar in his or her hands and point them at a something to be destroyed and you'll see a happy person. Instant gratification. Fuck the weather.
   Not only is Pigpen a helluva good worker, he's also fluent in Hebrew. When my 90 year old real estate agent Ruby Katz shows up needing a daily prayer book, laborer/scholar Pigpen pulls off from the ripping and tearing and finds him the book, amongst the filth and plaster of the sanctuary. Even though I attended seminary, I really don't know much, Christian wise. I know even less of the Jewish traditions. This doesn't seem to stop me when it comes to putting my own spin on services in either "house of worship". So when i got wind that some of my Semitic brethren were concerned over my possible desecration of the shul I was rather surprised.
   By all accounts the last service of The Congregation of The People in Glen Wild was in 1996. It looks as if they locked the door and never looked back. To say the place is a mess doesn't even come close to properly describing the "desecration" of this structure. Large chunks of plaster have been working their way loose from the lath and exploding like dirt bombs for years. Piles of moldy yarmulkes, books, banners and ephemera are scattered throughout. To worry about me putting my own spin on services after the neglect visited upon this place by "The People" is ludicrous. The filthy, shredded curtain separating the last three pews for the women folk of the congregation, stand as testament to tradition. One final insult is a big load of shit deposited in the dry women's toilet. Now for the radical thought process.
   Obviously women do not fair equally in many religious traditions. The Catholics don't allow women priests. The Moslems put women in birkas and that's just the beginning of their iron hand. The Jews make them sit in the back of the room, behind a curtain. In fact the male centric approach is found in almost all belief systems save Wiccan and Goddess worship tribal societies. Well, here's a thought: instead of naming this The Shul of the Little Green Man, why not break the mold and start off on the high heeled foot? I think it was the discovery of the turds in the Lady's room. Yes, I'm a man. But trapped inside me is the soul (and fashion sense) of a 16 year old girl. I love women. I find them at least my equals, if not my betters. We'll never be able to right all the wrongs. But we can do our bit to change things. To this end I propose we call this new project THE SHUL OF THE BIG RED WOMAN. Lets see where it leads us. That's my kind of desecration.