KISS TOMORROW GOODBYE

 PHOTO: Marianna Rothen

DEERSPIRACY

 As the less than promising rut ends and the traditional "dead time" of the next two weeks begins, so to my blog posts may be spotty. There's just not that much to report. Other than Savage's five and Wader's seven nobody else has blood on their hands. Bird is still seeing good movement and PhotogGeorge had to cut his season short and visit his sick mom in Tennessee. As for me, I had one great morning: a dozen does, two bucks fighting, two eagles and a pass on a pretty nice seven point. It all happened within forty-five minutes one morning a few days ago. Most days it's been only spikes and a few does. The teenagers seem determined to get some action now that the does have been released from the rapey lockdown of the mature bucks. As bad as I've had it recently, it's nothing compared to my hunting buddy UB on his family farm near Rock Tavern. The cause of the lack of deer? EHD.   

"EHD is a viral disease that’s endemic in North American white-tailed deer populations. It is transmitted by biting midges, also called “no-see-ums” or “punkies.” External signs of EHD in deer include fever, small hemorrhages or bruises in the mouth and nose, and swelling of the head, neck, tongue, and lips. The hooves of infected deer often crack or slough, which makes infected animals appear lame. Deer with highly virulent strains of the virus may die within 1 to 3 days of becoming infected. Dead or dying deer are commonly found near water in late summer or early fall. The DEC examines dead deer by necropsy with tissue samples tested to confirm the disease. DEC officials also opportunistically collect carcasses and tissue samples from deer on the fringes of known EHD outbreak areas for testing.

New York’s Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) has monitored this year’s outbreak since it began in the lower Hudson Valley in late July. More than 30 counties have reported some level of outbreak. Counties clustered along the Adirondack Mountains appear to have escaped the outbreak so far, as have about half of the counties in the western portion of the state. DEC officials can’t point to a specific known reason why the outbreak happened where it did this year, but note that the disease does not affect deer populations uniformly. Hunters may see variable impacts on hunting success depending on the specific locations they chose to hunt."- Field and Stream

   EHD appeared late last summer 2020 in the area and has been with us since then. Anecdotally there were reports of piles of deer carcasses blocking the dam in Wallkill and big bucks discovered floating in local ponds. In a world where everyone carries a camera on their phones where are the photos? Sadly, hard scientific information is lacking which leads to speculation and conspiracy theories. One such theory is that the DEC (urged on by Insurance Companies) is experimenting with bugs and invasive species on the 6,700 acres of Stewart State Forest in the Towns of New Windsor, Newburgh and Montgomery in Orange County, New York. UB still farms parts of this state land and according to his report nobody took a deer opening day on the large state parcel. Again, statistics are hard to find. Is the DEC some sort of Wuhan virus lab funded by Big Insurance in order to decimate the deer herd and stop hunting? That's a stretch. 

    Chronic Wasting Disease and EHD have been around for decades. I don't think a NYS governmental agency is nefarious or smart enough to pull this off. But, what is undeniable is the deer are gone from UB's farm. Yet, less than twenty miles away on Bird's property the deer are plentiful. My lack of deer movement cannot be blamed on disease. I've found no carcasses in the ponds, woods, or the river. My theory is that these late summer hurricane systems are blowing the southern midges north and randomly depositing the nasty little critters hither thither across the state. It's just bad luck to be in one of the infected areas. These so-called "weedy species" thrive in the new world of climate change. We must adapt. If the DEC was that smart they'd figure out a way to stop the Debell Egg Breaking facility in Town of Fallsburg from polluting the air and Neversink watershed with their residue. I can smell the idling egg trucks from my tree stand and see the pipe belching egg waste into the Neversink year round. I've repeatedly contacted the facility and the DEC engineers. No action has been taken. Nobody seems concerned but me. Or maybe it's all part of the big plan to rid the world of hunter/gatherers. Some hunters can just forget venison this year. Every sick and dying deer represents one less car insurance claim. And what about those Covid deer? Bat asshole anyone?     

KIA

 

*A LETTER TO DICK

 

Dear Senator Durbin,

   As a lifetime hunter and gun owner I have watched in horror as innocent citizens of this country (of all ages) are randomly mowed down by increasingly lethal and efficient weaponry. I have never belonged to the NRA and find their politics appalling. But, what I also find appalling is the lack of the most basic expertise surrounding firearms, each time one of these mass shootings occurs. You don’t have to be an expert to know that firearms fall into two simple categories: handguns and long guns. The “actions” of these weapons are also simplistic: bolt action, lever action, pump action, revolver, semi-automatic and the illegal “automatic.” Because a firearm has no built in obsolescence (a good gun will last generations) the industry must come up with another way to sell product. That is why the gun industry and its lobbying arm the NRA made the AR (and all the knock offs) the most popular weapon in America. These guns are made to be accessorized. Scopes, slings, bi-pods, bump-stocks, sound suppressors (silencers) and massive, high capacity (200 round) magazines are a few of the ways shooters customize ARs. The danger seems obvious. 
   I’m not an activist nor do I have any political agenda. I’m an artist who knows Jen, Michael and the kids. You seem to have the ability to work across the aisle. This is why I am disregarding proper channels and reaching out to you directly. The one concrete step I can see that would have a positive effect immediately would be to ban all high capacity magazines. These “accessories” (like bump-stocks) are what allows anyone to kill on a grand scale in a matter of seconds. It is not the gun or the action, but the magazine that is so dangerous. This fact gets lost in the discussion. This also omits the 2nd amendment issue, that scares so many politicians. Banning these high capacity magazines would be a start. 
    Hunters are heavily regulated. Seasons, bag limits, hours, caliber, etc. are all part of legal and ethical hunting. Because of previously unregulated market hunting you can’t hunt ducks with more than 3 shells in your shotgun. Recreational shooters should also be regulated for public safety. Most shooters and hunters would agree and gladly accept commonsense regulation on their weaponry. Even the military doesn’t issue these insane high capacity barrel magazines. They are on sale for $125 online. I realize I may be preaching to the choir. I hope, if you read this, you consider it in the spirit it is meant; not as criticism but encouragement. I hope somebody has the political will to act. Time is of the essence.

         *Full disclosure: I'm a friend of Senator Durbin's daughter Jen.     

SHEWHO AND WOODY

 

THE CHURCH VORTEX

    This morning after coming out of the woods (seeing nothing) I noticed a white NYSEG pickup in my driveway. Even though I was paid up on my bill I panicked. Too many shut offs in my past.  I asked the young women with a clipboard if I could help her. She smiled and said that she was just reading the meter and admiring the sculpture. "Do you know Noah Kalina?" she asked. I did. Noah was a local photographer. The NYSEG meter reader was Noah's neighbor and a fan. This was a switch. Instead of having my juice turned off she asked if we could take a selfie. Smile!

    My old church has always been a magnet for the curious. The first time I saw it I was drawn inside. The door was open so my girlfriend and I went in and poked around. I've told this story many times. I found a church certificate for baptism or marriage with the surname Osterhout on it. When I ended up buying the place a decade later I never found the framed document. Was I imagining it? My ex-girlfriend who I contacted years later assured me we had seen the family name laying on the floor. 

    This hunting season has been one of extremes. I had crazy action in late October and early November. Then, just when the rut should have been kicking in it all went dead. No deer movement. No bucks and barely any does. I've been hunting hard but not over hunting any particular spot. I can't for the life of me find deer, let alone Clocker. 

   After the selfie session I checked my computer for the Arbery verdict. Thankfully all three defendants were convicted of Felony murder for the lynching of Ahmaud Arbery. Just as the verdict was read there was a knock at my door. A blond stranger stood in the yard. "You probably don't remember me." she said with a smile, "I'm Andy Acerra's wife." I had purchased the church and my house from Andy Acerra in 1995. Mrs. Acerra teared up. "We lost Andy this year....and....well...I wondered if it would be OK.....if....." I invited her in. She broke down. I broke down. We hugged. Her daughter was in the car. The Acerras selling me the church changed my life. They have checked in periodically over the years and always with love and appreciation regarding what I have created with the old Methodist church they used to be the stewards of. It's so gratifying to know they are down with the CLGM and approve. 

    The emotional meeting ended with a tour of the place and I left mother and daughter to explore the woods and share their memories in private. I told them of finding the Osterhout certificate years before buying the church. Mrs. Accerra promised to look for it in the boxes she still had from those years. We all hugged and cried one more time before they left. I'm not much for faith or even spirituality, but I have to admit there is an energy surrounding 143 Old Glen Wild Rd. It is positive and loving, not unlike Shewho's interaction with Woody the partridge. Don't over think it. Just count your blessings and enjoy the ride.  Rest in Peace Ahmaud Arbery and Andy Accerra. We all have much to be thankful for.          

       

ERIN

 PHOTO: R. Kern

THE STORY TELLERS

 After letting Cheeky out, making coffee and taking a leak I check my watch. 3:15 am.What? That's what happens when you forget to change your alarm clock from Daylight Savings Time on Nov. 7th. Having to pee, I'd checked the time and read 4:00 am. Close enough to the alarm going off.  Then I realized I'd gotten up an hour and 15 minutes early. Fuck! This is my false start this morning: getting up four hours before daylight. It's going to be a long day.

   Yesterday I'd hunted the cemetery hoping to cut off Clocker. No luck. Later, after watching closing arguments in the Arbery trial, I decided to hunt from the ground above Gilkey's in the notch.  Before going in the woods I'd run into Zara on the road. She needed firewood. I supplied my connect as her dog barked and snarled in my face. Dogs somehow know that strangers with guns are the enemy. The next car up the hill also pulled over to chat. This is life in the sticks, socializing on the fly. It was Mr. and Mrs. Charlie. They are serious deer hunters, loyal blog readers and part time neighbors. We caught up after a long year between the seasons. They'd had a great season so far - three bucks between them with the bow. Pleasantries completed, I finally got in the woods. Once again, no  bucks. No luck.

   After dark, as I sat spinning on the exer-cycle, phone to my ear, I got the report from Savage. Now that gun season has started, every evening involves calls to Bird and Savage. Bird still has a job. I know, that's crazy. I keep  telling him to quit and get serious about deer hunting.  So, lacking his own story, he provided strategies for me for the next day's hunt. Savage (like me) has his priorities straight. Hunting is number one.  He spent the  day in Cragsmoor hunting his favorite spot. Before noon he spotted a buck. He could just make out a rack above the blueberry bushes. He decided it was a shooter. Picking an opening he settled the crosshairs on the buck's shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The buck had been with a doe and only one deer ran up the mountain after the shot. Savage noted a tall white pine near where the buck had disappeared, climbed down out of the stand and went to look for the deer. When he got to  that tree he looked around for a body. Nothing.

    This is what each of us hunters face after pulling the trigger or releasing an arrow, the uncertainty of the kill. Was the shot good? Did you miss? Was the deer wounded? Was he laying dead close by? Where's the blood? As I noted before, Savage has one good eye. Going almost blind in his shooting eye he taught himself to shoot left handed and can still shoot better than any of us. He looked for blood (with his left eye) and found nothing but red and yellow leaves, no scuffs, no tracks in the mud. Had he missed? Then, after widening the circle, he found a drop of blood......then a few drops more where the buck had stopped. Then nothing. An hour into the search, Savage was sweating and the disappointment was beginning to sink in. The sun was melting the frost and just as he was about to give up he spotted brown. The buck was laying there dead. He told me the story like this. Like you, I didn't know if he got the deer until the end of his story. 

    The euphoria one feels when finding a dead deer after thinking you had botched a shot is indescribable. Now the task was to get that deer down the mountain. We are all solitary (old) hunters. Even with a quad, Savage struggled to get the deer up on the machine. Ropes, pulleys, tree branch rigging and a lot of levers and fulcrums were involved in the process. As I peddled away on my exer-cycle Savage laid out his long day in the woods. He was a bit disappointed in the "ground shrinkage" of the rack he felt was better at 200 yards. But, this 71 year old man had killed a good buck, gutted it, got it down the mountain, in the truck and back to his house by late afternoon.... all by himself.  I told him how impressive that was. He should be proud. How many big racks does he need? The fact is Savage Lynch, the mighty deer hunting guru, still is the shitz, an inspiration to the rest of us lesser hunters. I have only one thing to say: I am not worthy. Respect.            

MAIL ORDER BRIDE

 PHOTO: Marianna Rothen

OPENING DAYS PAST AND PRESENT

 Opening day of deer season used to be like Xmas morning. This was years before I picked up the bow and tried to kill a buck with an arrow. Now it marks the failed end of my quest to arrow the ten point.  Although some states allow twelve-year-olds to hunt, in NYS one has to be at least 16 years old to hunt deer. My first opening day I accompanied my father and Vic Voegelin to Beaver Brook Rod and Gun Club near Narrowsburg in Sullivan County to hunt. They dropped me off at an old, rickety, hillbilly tree stand and continued into the woods. A sixteen year old does not have much patience. I remember being cold, fidgeting, fighting boredom and basically wanting to go home and make out with my girl friend. Just before dark I heard footsteps in the leaves. My father had drilled into me NOT to turn around. "Let the deer walk past you." he insisted. When I heard the approaching footsteps I froze, finger caressing the safety all my senses on high alert. Then, what sounded like a machine gun exploded at the base of the tree. I turned and saw Vic and the old man bent over in uncontrollable laughter as I nearly shit myself.  They'd set off a string of firecrackers. Yeah, funny. That was my first opening day more than fifty years ago. Hours in stand: too many. Deer seen: 0.

     I returned from SF in 1983 and after a brief stint of "hypothetically hunting," and taking pot shots at low flying geese, I eventually took the task of killing a deer seriously. By the mid-nineties I'd moved back to the sticks and religiously joined my father and brother Bird hunting opening day and the rest of the family at the traditional opening evening gathering. Except for last year's Covid lockdown cancellation this tradition has survived all these years. Last night both Bird and I choked up over the phone wishing our father and mother were still alive to enjoy this year's deer season festivities.

TODAY 

5:45 am: Climb in stand. 

4:45 pm: Climb out of stand 

Deer seen: 0

  Shewho and I drove to Montgomery to Bird and Ginger's house. The gathering now is mostly my non-hunting nieces one nephew, their friends and a whole bunch of kids. Bird and Ginger still put on a nice spread and we all drink and eat our fill. This year my nephew Waders had all the action. He shot a nice seven point after passing up on multiple bucks that were pointed out as "off limits" on Bird's trail cam. His mother, my sister (yes I have a sister) Mrs. Budinski also showed up. We're like the Kennedys. It's not that we're ashamed of our sister, it's just that she doesn't hunt, holds advanced degrees and is prettier than all the men, so we keep her existence a secret. That makes us feel superior. It was great seeing her. Multiple people exclaimed You have a sister? I swear she prompts them before hand. This morning I'm sleeping in. I need a break. Hopefully Clocker survived opening day.

I dedicate this blog to my one and only sister who I love dearly and now admit to her existence in public. Please tell everyone!       

    

TREE HUGGER

 PHOTO: George Holz

NEIGHBORS

 I own a 3/4 acre piece of property that is covered with buildings and art. I depend on my neighbors for land to hunt on. Three land owners in particular - GNJohn, RNButch and ProfStephanie are the ones whose property I most regularly hunt. It's a  fluid dance of diplomacy, bribes, payoffs and graft in order to retain hunting permission in those woods. So far so good this year. But things can change as fast as you can pull the trigger.

    Private property is a religion in America, zealously protected by law so as to be indistinguishable from the "pursuit of happiness..." My property is bordered by two neighbors. One piece of undeveloped woods has stayed undisturbed until recently. The other seasonal neighbor was an old Italian patriarch of a large family who looked and talked like the mumbly Vito Corleone in The Godfather. At first we were cordial. But soon things changed. A chainlink fence went up and tensions grew. Over the years my range war with these neighbors went from cold to torrid. Guns were drawn, fences disappeared and finally the old timers died off leaving the war to be carried on by uninterested heirs. The youth ceased coming to the mountains in the summer or during deer season. The war was over. Peace was maintained.

    The other neighbor owned 16 wooded acres to the south of my church. They never showed up in the 26 years I've lived here. Then one day last fall a for sale sign appeared on the road. I immediately called. A land broker had purchased the property for $17,000 and was selling it for $35,000. I agreed to the price and was willing to sign a contract for sale that day. The broker put me off hoping to capitalize on a Covid real estate bubble in the Catskills. It worked. Within two weeks he had other offers for thousands of dollars over the asking price. I could not afford a bidding war. The property sold to someone else.

    The woman who bought the property for $45,000 immediately put it up for sale. I called again. This time the price was $181,000. WTF? That's a bit greedy. She can have it. A few days ago I was coming out of the woods and walked by a man loading up his pickup with pine boughs from this property. He was a young, white, hillbilly logger who had the contract to clear cut those woods. The pine branches were being sold as a Xmas wreath bonus. I asked if he could take the pine from deeper in the woods instead of decimating the natural green screen along the road? He did not want to be told what he could or couldn't do by some old neighbor. Within seconds he was in my face, loppers in hand. A young girl who I assumed was his daughter watched open-mouthed as her father and the white bearded old man (me) squared off on the road edge. He was armed with the loppers and I with an unloaded crossbow. It was a stand off.

    Here's the problem with neighbors. It always seems that the ones who border you, the closest in proximity, are the ones you can't get along with. As I've admitted I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope. I don't like most people no matter race, creed or color. I also have a character flaw that does not allow me to back down when confronted. I stood my ground and told the red faced cracker that I would resist telling him what I really thought of his demeanor because of the young girl. When he threatened to "pistol whip" me all bets were off. "Cover your ears honey." A string of obscenities spewed forth between the two of us.

    I wish I could get along with my neighbors. I really do. I also wish I could walk away from confrontation. Growing up a skinny kid I learned early on that standing up to a bully twice my size and not showing fear worked....most times. It's not like I never took a punch for my "quick tongue," but most times an aggressor shrank and gave up when confronted with an equal amount of vitriol. I admit that I can be an asshole, but I try to be a good neighbor. Sadly the new neighbor and I are not off to a very good start. 

     Coincidentally the Kyle Ritternhouse (defendant) and Ahmaud Arbery (victim) trials, both of which involve firearms, property and a plea of self-defense are unfolding during deer season. When not in the tree I'm in court. Both trials are fascinating. All the hot button issues of race, guns, and a white man's right to kill someone who touches the barrel of his gun are on full display. So are the failings of the education system, the police state and neighborhoods who perceive any outsider (esp. one of color) as an imminent threat to their safety. Although I hope for convictions in both cases, my bet is Rittenhouse will get off. The judge seems determined to free him. I pray the mouth breathing defendants in Georgia who chased down and killed Ahmaud Arbery get the max. Closing arguments on Monday. In the meantime the gun part of deer season opens tomorrow and the loggers will start clear cutting as soon as the ground freezes.  Christmas is coming, the time of peace and joy. Let's hope the logger and I keep our distance. Pilfered pine wreaths anyone? 

P.S.

A few hours after I posted this Rittenhouse was acquitted on all charges. One down. One to go.               

EXPLAINING STELARC TO A COP

 PHOTO: Ruby Ray

LUCKY MIKE

 I've always been unlucky-lucky. Shit will happen to me that could be potentially catastrophic. But for some reason it never is. Here's a couple of examples:

    In 1985 I was running a gallery in NYC. One of my artists was Stelarc. Stelarc did something he called "Obsolete Body Suspensions." Simply put he would stick 18 shark hooks (barbs filed off) through his back and hang in unusual locations around the world. Being in NYC he chose E. 11th St. and Ave. B for his "hang." These were the days when NYC was wide open. How do you ask permission to suspend a naked Australian by shark hooks three stories above the ground? Instead we strung a cable from a 4x4 post to a fire escape (with no rigging knowledge) and pulled out Stelarc. 

  A large crowd had gathered. With Stelarc swinging in the breeze the NYPD showed up to disperse the crowd and reel in the naked man. I was on the fire escape. The line with which I had used to pulled Stelarc to the middle of the street was too long and had bunched up. As my friends on the other end began to reel the artist in I was forced to release the knotted line. A large box truck (unaware of the hooked man above him) was traveling west down 11th St. The knotted ball of rope hooked on the edge of the truck. People were screaming for the driver to stop. He paid no attention and accelerated. The rope ball bounced along the truck's box and fell harmlessly to the street. Disaster that would have undoubtedly killed Stelarc was averted. The police gave him a ticket for indecent exposure and promised not to show up in court. They kept their word. We all skated away.

   Yesterday I was moving my tree stand from Ray Gilkey's grave to the curve in the river for Saturday's gun opener. I wanted to get deeper in the woods once the shooting starts. All of my stands are old and I'm not all that good at maintenance. When I attempted to rehang the stand I noticed one of the cables that tie the seat to the deck had broken. This was the first time a stand had broken. I'm always strapped in with a body harness except when I'm climbing in or out of the tree. Then I stand on that deck held by two cables, exposed and vulnerable to a fall. I took the stand home and when I went to replace the broken cable the "good" cable came off in my hand. Both cables breaking off under my weight, in the dark, as I climbed in the stand would have meant certain death. Now I have to check all my stands.

   This morning, rattled by yesterday's lucky escape from the jaws of death, I slept in. It was a good move. The thick fog is just lifting as I write this. I'll rehang my jerry-rigged stand this afternoon. How long will my luck hold? Your guess is as good as mine. The clock is ticking. In this regard I feel a kinship to that big ten point and that bear. A tilting umbrella and a shot placed too low saved both their lives. A lucky move from Ray's grave at a crucial time saved my ass. If I was a believing man I'd thank whomever is in charge of  looking over such things for man and beast. The hunt continues. Tick-fucking-tock.       

LUNG LEG

 PHOTO: R. Kern

THE ABIOGENESIS BLUES

 "The earliest known life-forms are putative fossilized microorganisms, found in hydrothermal vent precipitates, that may have lived as early as 4.28 Gya (billion years ago), relatively soon after the oceans formed 4.41 Gya, and not long after the formation of the Earth 4.54 Gya."

  Every race, society, religion and culture on earth has a creation myth. Most include a gob of mud dug from the depths of the cosmological waters and (as in the Haida and Lenape) plopped on the back of a turtle. This forms the basis of mother earth. For the Shawnee it's "Our Grandmother" who gives birth to homo sapiens. In Christianity it's that couple of hotties in the garden.  

In Genesis: 

"And God said, “Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water.” So God made the vault and separated the water under the vault from the water above it. And it was so.  God called the vault “sky.” And there was evening, and there was morning the second day."

    The similarities in the explanation of life's origins on planet earth are surprisingly similar. Gas turned to water turned to solid, and from that supercharged, liquified mud sprang life. From those silly little squirming microorganisms emerged human beings. What we humans have forgotten in our quest to dominate all life forms is that everything that lives dies....even that steaming turd on the back of a turtle. The highest life forms on earth will end up up killing all that nourished it into being. It's unavoidable...... natural. Climate change - urged on by human habitation - has accelerated the process to the degree that we feel helpless to stop the downward spiral. It's a logical feeling. Just go with it. The snake will eventually devour itself bit by tasty bit. 

     As my favorite cynical teenage climate activist Greta Thunberg put it "Build back better....blah, blah, blah...." We humans are great at rhetoric and procrastination. There is nothing anybody can say to change our bleak future. We need sticks and stones not words. We are all going to die and so is mother earth. We are in the first throes of that death rattle today. Sit back and enjoy it.

  As you can surmise from the last couple of blogs, not much is happening in the woods. Last night I saw a squirrel with a white tip on its tail and a cruising buck at about 120 yards. No does. This morning I saw one buck (too far for a shot) and once again no does. What's with this lackluster rut? Climate change? This lack of action has me pondering the big issues in the tree. We've shit our nests to the degree that there will be no cleaning up the mess. So-called western civilization (white men) are mostly to blame. The east, in China, have also climbed onboard the extinction express. Communism and capitalism have joined forces. There is little hope of reversing the process. Slavery, imperialism, colonialism, industrialization, technology and even "God" all play crucial roles in destroying the world. Putting whitey on the moon cost us dearly.

   This is not to say that we can't make the most out of what limited time we have left on the turtle's back and a better future for our progeny. But we can not leave it to industrialists, politicians or the idiot rich to change things. We all feel helpless because we are. The ancestors have screwed us royally. As a psychotherapy-industry emerges to deal with depressed college students too concerned with the climate to make their beds, my advice would be to go outside, toss your cell phone in that scum covered pond surrounded by forest fires, climb a tree (that's not burning) just before dawn. Then scan the swamp covered by the season's first snow fall and thank your lucky stars you can enjoy one last split second on mother earth. Make the most of it.            

TREE STAND FROG

 PHOTO: Cassandra Warner

SPECIES FLUIDITY

     For the uninformed, deer season is broken up into four parts: bow (long or compound), crossbow, gun (any centerfire caliber above .223) and finally muzzleloader. As the season progresses more hunters hit the woods. After the first week of gun season the enthusiasm drops off again as the weather turns brutal and only we hardcores keep at it. During all four sections strategies change. During early bow season the tree stand is the only option for me. During crossbow I get on the ground either in a blind or camoed up in a tree or tucked in a deadfall, waiting in ambush. Last year this tactic worked perfectly and and I arrowed a nice buck at ten yards. Costumery is crucial.

    Because I am also a serious turkey hunter I have plenty of camo. The rules requiring one to wear orange do no apply until gun season. If not for the problem of scent I can disappear pretty easily. Working the wind is crucial. Deer smell way better than they see. The past three days have been dead. Now that the  pre-rut has passed I'm faced with does in heat (and lockdown) and a total lack of cruising bucks. The action ground to a halt. WTF? Construction workers, neighbors walking dogs and chattering red squirrels narcing me out are all constant annoyances. But no deer is the ultimate bummer.

      Last night a front came through and by this afternoon the skies promise to clear. Yesterday, 11/11, would have been Ray Welcome Gilkey's 101st birthday. I hunted the morning a few yards from where we buried Ray's ashes. I saw seven does before the construction workers started on what is now artist Julie Merhetu's house. If the carpenters take the afternoon off I'll be back in the same stand until dark, hoping a buck will cruise that edge looking for a hot doe. If not I'll climb the mountain behind the white house and tuck in behind a deadfall hoping to see movement. 

   No carpenters around, I donned my tree frog drag complete with large frog penis and climbed in the stand. Nothing showed until 4:30 pm when the same seven does worked their way into the field. One large doe came directly under the stand. She looked up and saw the giant frog penis and seemed unconcerned. If I had been taking does she'd be hanging in the tree. No bucks showed. By dark three does were still in the field. I had to move. When I croaked they snorted and scattered. On the way home (driving in frog drag) I almost hit a yearling crossing the road in front of the church. My experiment in species fluidity worked. The penis is a little unwieldy but if I tuck it between my legs it no longer interferes with the crossbow. I think I've hit on something. The illusive titty-dolphin may work in the morning.            

HOLLIE

 

DECOLONIALIZATION AS METAPHOR

 Curtis, 

    I’m in the woods all day most days deer hunting. No cell or answering machine. Home now until about 2pm EST. If you could give me some idea when you could bring this up with LC and what exactly you have in mind it would be helpful. There’s no great hurry. I just wanted to know if the interest was still there. There was a land transfer in Sullivan County in 2014 of 330 acres to the Munsee-Stockbridge band for a proposed casino that never happened. We now have a Chinese owned casino that is a giant eyesore and one step from bankruptcy. Don’t know if the Munsee band still have the property or how exactly that transfer took place. Email is the best way for me to stay in touch as I’m a confirmed non-cell phone person and obsessed deer hunter.

Best,

MO

Mike, 

I just tried to call your number but it did not allow for leaving a voicemail. Please reply by email or text and let me know when we can talk. For me it is best after 5pm Central time today. Wednesday during the daytime and all day Thursday is good too.

Honestly we at LC have not discussed this yet as we’re overwhelmed with other matters and your inquiry has not made it to the agenda yet.

Curtis Zunigha

    This email exchange is with Chief Curtis Zunigha, director of Cultural Resources and a member of the Absentee Delaware Tribe in Bartlesville, OK. Curtis is my contact with the Lenape Nation band in Oklahoma who are interested in somehow receiving my "Land Back" social sculpture in Bridgeville. "LC" refers to his online project in New York www.thelenapecenter.com. Our respective ancestors were not so cordial to each other. Both river dwelling cultures (mine Dutch and his Lenape) we have a deep and contentious shared history in my family reaching back to 1653 in the Catskills. Colonial powers and the Lenape and Esopus Tribes were some of the first bands of Indigenous Peoples to come in contact with Henrick Hudson's Half Moon in 1609 and the Van Oosterhoudts in 1653. It's gone down hill (for the Lenape) ever since.

     The Osterhouts and the various bands of so-called "river Indians" as well as the Six Nations of the Haudenosaunee and even the Northwest Coastal tribes of Nisga'a and Haida had been killing, scalping, trading, drinking, negotiating and even converting each other for almost four hundred years. I thought it was about time the family engaged with the tribes on the higher level of art.....if it's not too late. As I told Curtis, I'm very busy hunting.

   Here's how most days unfold for me: Up at 4:15 am, I make coffee, feed Cheeky, check the news and email. Then, as I decide which stand to hunt, I reach out to Curtis, check in on my upcoming show at The 500 Capp Street Foundation in San Francisco and work on a little writing before taking a bath. Then I let out Cheeky and take a nice morning poop. TMI? I try to stay in the stand at least until 11 am, when it's back to the shack to watch the Kyle Rittenhouse trial, finish whatever thoughts I had at 4:30 am and post the blog. It's back to the woods for the afternoon hunt and a chance at one of these shooters. Home at dark (empty handed), I cook up some dinner, turn up the music and hit the exercise bike while the meal cooks. Recently I've become the recipient of Majestic Farm's unsealed (and unsalable) pork about to go bad and whatever remained in Jass and Careamee's pantry when they went back to France. Tonight it's pork chops with a half box of rigatoni. Is that a fly? Oh well, he wasn't in the water long. I imagine the community cleaning out their fridges, sniffing food and saying with a grimace, "Mike will take it." Put it in the box girls. Being a charity case is nice. Thanks to everyone. Cheeky feels a bit left out. Hint, hint. Then it's a couple of old episodes of GLEE and off to bed.

 It's 5:12 am. I have to take a bath. I'll be back.......

11:01 am: I saw a buck about 9:30. He was about 200 yards downwind of me and had me pegged. I couldn't tell which buck it was but I found a large rub on a tree near my stand. I think Fang is coming and going between the swamp and mountain. I'm hoping it wasn't him. I'm now watching Kyle Rittenhouse break down on the stand and wondering how that buck caught me. Before I press "post" I'll see how the trial and the afternoon hunt goes. Stay tuned....

     Home at 5:12 pm again empty handed. The rut is in full swing and the woods have gone dead. Tomorrow is 11/11 my lucky day for killing bucks. It's sure not looking promising for me. Kyle Rittenhouse, on the other hand, seems to be faring much better. To be young, white, armed and ignorant in America is a colonial pastime that shows no sign of waning. After killing two men and almost tearing the arm off a third with his .223 AR-15 full metal jacket round, by his own admission, "I don't know much about ammo." No need for expertise or a reason to kill a fellow human during a BLM "riot." Like many  police officers, a young, puffy, white boy need only fear to justify killing. The judge will take it from there. I'm fucking exhausted.   

BURT

 

THE ECONOMICS OF ACTING ON POST-PRIMAL INSTINCT or THE COST BENEFIT ANALYSIS OF PULLING THAT TRIGGER

     Years ago while the old man was still alive, he, Bird and I were deer hunting with Ray Key in Cooperstown. We were putting on drives and I was on stand. I caught sight of something coming at me from the left. The drivers were pushing the woods to my right. Lopping along was a coyote so big it looked like a timber wolf. These were the days of slug guns with iron sights being the only legal option in Otsego County. I didn't think twice. I pulled the gun up and shot. The coyote turned, unscathed and rocketed by me. I threw two more shots at him and never touched a hair on his massive frame.

    When we all regathered everybody asked if I had gotten the eight point? What eight point? As my attention had been riveted  by that fellow predator I had missed even seeing the nice buck the other hunters had pushed to me. They never let me forget my fuck up. Bird still brings it up. I learned my lesson. I no longer shoot coyotes while turkey or deer hunting. They have every right to hunt right alongside me. I bring this up because the other day I had a similar experience. The legal department agreed that I could tell the story as long as I omit date and place. OK. Here goes:

    I was hunting from a ground blind set up about 100 yards from the spot I had had that encounter with the ten point. The blind faced the opposite direction on the edge of a logging cut with a good view of the woods. The morning had been quiet and cold. At 8:45 am I caught sight of something black coming from my right. I thought it was a turkey or fisher cat. Then, to my surprise, a 300 pound black bear emerged out of the woods running past me at fifteen yards. I swung the crossbow and tried to settle the pin low, behind his front leg as he came to a screeching stop quartering to me. I pulled the trigger and heard a thump. My heart was racing a mile a minute. Let me back up a bit. A few days earlier Savage had told me of two bears he had seen the same day at Paradise Pond. Savage wants to shoot a bear. I've seen plenty of bear in the woods but never during bear season with a weapon in my hand. I told Savage I was unsure if given the opportunity I would shoot a bear or not. I hadn't factored into the equation just how hardwired we hunters are in these situations. I didn't think twice about shooting that bear.

    I sat there, trying to catch my breath and listened for a death moan. I'd heard that a bear will exhale upon expiring and rattle the woods with a loud groan. Silence. But bear can also die without moaning. Savage had told me many times that a bear's vitals are much lower than a deer's. I aimed accordingly. I knew I hit him but was afraid I'd caught his gut and buried the arrow. This could be a hard track. After waiting for about twenty minutes I went in search of the arrow and a blood trail. Nothing. The spot where the bear disappeared was a jungle of deadfalls and briars. I needed help, so I called Bird. The consequence of pulling that trigger was now becoming apparent. Without blood it would be a long and torturous day criss crossing through the morass looking for hair, blood or a black body. We had no choice. We went at it, armed and ready for a wounded bear to explode from the undergrowth.

    This was my prime hunting spot, a deer bedding area that I was now contaminating with human scent and noise. If we did find the bear how the fuck would we ever get him out? If we didn't find him I was faced with sleepless nights of worry and regret, and days scanning the skies for crows and buzzards. By then it would be too late to recover much more than rotting meat. Even in the best case scenario of finding and somehow dragging the bear out of the woods I was faced with days of butchering and a heavy taxidermy bill. I'd have to have a sexy bear rug. My early deer season and hunt for these big bucks was about to be ruined. Why had I shot? I literally could not help myself. Then, as I stumbled over another blow down I heard Bird yell. He'd found something but I couldn't make out what. His voice was coming in the direction of the blind. When I got there he was holding my arrow. 

    Somehow I had not mortally wounded that majestic animal. The faint blood on the fletching  told the story.  The arrow had passed through so low it had just pierced his brisket, no vitals, bone or blood vessels. Yes, I had stung him but not severely. It was a mild flesh wound that would soon heal over. I was thrilled. Outside of a kill shot or a complete miss, this was the third best option. Bird and I were all smiles. I had shot a bear. And that bear lives. The search was over and the story was a good one with a happy ending. We didn't have to drag a three hundred pound corpse through the woods or face any of the other obstacles I had envisioned and outlined. I was back on the hunt for those bucks by the afternoon. I've learned my lesson. I promise. I will never shoot another bear or coyote unless it's in self-defense. And that's very unlikely.  I sure don't need a bear skin rug to feel sexy.            

HAND

 PHOTO: Marianna Rothen

HIT LIST

 I've never had so many shooters on my list so early in the season. In years past I was lucky to have seen a decent buck by now. As of this morning I have three good bucks in my hunting territory: Fang, Ten O'Clocker (so named because I've seen him three times at 5:45 in three different places) and High Top (this morning's high eight). All these deer are eight or better and most likely four-year-olds. Less than two weeks before the shooting starts and the woods fill with orange, the clock is ticking.

   I'm lucky to be old, poor and have all day to hunt. The weather has been perfect. After a horribly wet summer and early fall, the days are now bluebird perfect, chill mornings and warm afternoons. The rut is kicking it and a hot doe could bring in a shooter at any moment. If I could live on adrenalin I'd have a full larder by now. Because of nosey neighbors and the fact that the DEC reads this blog (I suspect for the photos) the legal team at HWS has advised that I keep some encounters to myself.  Ergo the last redacted blog. I'll tell you everything at the end of the season.

    As for my other hunting buddies.....Milawyer is putting more time in the courtroom in retirement than he was when he was working. He may not even show up for gun season. UB is still working the farm cutting corn and I've heard no report from him. Bird doesn't bow hunt and Savage, after losing sight in his right eye, killing  a ten point shooting left handed last year, his body is betraying him with aches, pains and fatigue. But that is not keeping him out of the tree with the X bow. Savage has one eye and UB one arm. Neither is slowed by physical limitations. Until Nov. 20th  we have the woods to ourselves. So far Savage spotted a giant pile of bear shit in his backyard. He's excited. Every morning we hit the woods. Every evening more reports come in.

   Savage is over 70 and the rest of us are very close behind him. I take three aspirin every morning just to get up the mountain and climb in the stand. Still, we are all hardcore about the hunt. I feel very blessed that with all the damage I've done to my body with drugs and alcohol I can still walk upright, let alone move stands and strap myself in at twenty feet above the ground. Most times I get a shot off. Like art, it's a solitary affair. I've admitted it many times - I'm not a people person. Even my friends are annoying. It's not their fault. It's me not them. But put me in a tree stand, or a ground blind, a frost covered field in front of me and the sound of crunching leaves coming from behind and my heart quickens. I'm alive, a happy man up to the challenge. Now if I could just kill a deer.   

    

          

        

MORGANE

 

X BOW OPENER- REDACTED

 

BRITNEY

 

PHOTO: George Holz

COVID DEER?

 Last night Shewho told me the New York Times and NPR informed her that deer can have Covid-19 and I should be careful. Huh? What exactly does that mean? I asked. Once pressed Shewho admitted that the information was sketchy and she did not have the answers to my obvious questions about meat consumption, etc. I had spent the past two afternoons being cock-blocked by humans walking dogs during my hunt. Hoping to catch one of these big bucks filtering into a field of does, my efforts were stymied by strolling neighbors unconcerned with my efforts, as I sat in a tree watching them fuck up my hunt. I was in no mood to hear that gutting a deer or eating back-strap could now give me Corona Virus. WTF?

     So after overreacting to the "news"and getting testy with Shewho, I googled whitetail Covid. This so-called "pre-print," non-peer reviewed study is right up there with the classic National Enquirer articles "Benji has AIDS" and "Crackhead Squirrels of Tompkins Square Park." Here is a Forbes Magazine article:   "Anyone with decent Wifi, a computer, and opposable thumbs can upload a pre-print. So take any results from this study with a fanny pack full of salt.......The team from Penn State, University of Cambridge, University of Chicago, and Houston Methodist Hospital examined samples of retropharyngeal lymph nodes from a total of 283 deer, 151 of whom were free-living and 132 were in captivity..... retropharyngeal lymph nodes are lymph nodes behind your throat. The researchers searched the lymph node samples for evidence of SARS-CoV-2 genetic material (i.e., RNA) using RT-PCR. A little over a a third (33.2%) of all samples from September 2020 through January of 2021 were positive for SARS-CoV-2 RNA. Narrowing the time window to Nov 23, 2020 through January 10, 2021, pushed this number even higher up to 82.5% with 80 of 97 having detectable SARS-CoV-2 RNA....Nevertheless, finding the virus in deer shouldn’t have been too surprising. There already have been cases of lions, tigers, cats, dogs, minks, and other animals getting infected with the Covid-19 coronavirus."

   This smacks of anti-gun, anti-hunting propaganda. If not the dreaded "fake news," this item was at least so ill-informed and lacking in hard data as to be basically worthless. I don't usually get my hunting information from Forbes, but in this case they at least put things in context. Minks and cats may carry Covid but you don't eat your cat or fur coat. No so-called journalist even mentioned if you could (or couldn't) get Covid from ingesting venison. It all reminds me of the early days of Lyme Disease, Radon and Hantavirus scares. People visiting me from the city eye-balled my mouse traps suspiciously and  duct taped their pant legs, too paranoid to venture out in grass above their shoes. If mouse shit, dirt basements and every tick I got on me while in the woods made me vulnerable to disease I would've croaked years ago. I'm anticipating emails with the NYTimes deer-Covid link attached coming soon from all my citiot friends.

      Cheeky is drooling in my beard and giving me butterfly kisses. Don't worry Cheeky I'm vaccinated and suspicious of everything. The alarmist NYTimes and NPR editors should be ashamed of themselves. I admit that I get most of my news from the usually reliable left of center PBS and NPR news outlets but maybe it's time for a Fox fix. This all smacks of a "time sensitive" item that fit the bill for a left of PETA agenda just before the gun opener. It went viral in no time. Nothing can be taken at face value these days. Check, check and double-check anything you read. Those deer are keeping their "social distance" quite well in my woods. I'll worry (or not) about catching Covid when I get one on the ground. Expect a study on Covid turkeys and the danger of infected  canned cranberry sauce in the coming weeks. Remember to microwave your mail and wash your hands like you have OCD. Let's stay safe out there. Extra salt on everything!      

ABORT TEXAS

 

BETWEEN TRUTH AND BELIEF

    It's 5:48 am the day after the election. CNN projects a Youngkin win in Virginia and a "virtual tie" in the New Jersey Governor's race. The Republicans are back. What about Steve Vegliante in the Town of Fallsburg you ask? With 61.3% CLGM congregant Steve Vegs prevailed. Phew! Steve will remain as our town Supervisor for the time being. As red as this county is, we remain an island of blue. The Gestapo may not be pounding at the door, but if you are paying attention they seem to be polishing those jackboots off in the wings. As the Supreme Court hears seminal gun and abortion rights cases and Toni Morrison is banned in Virginia schools all the warning bells are clanging. As Eric Voegelin would put it, "...even Aristotle had to remind certain pests of his time that an 'educated man" will not expect exactness of the mathematical type in a treatise on politics." Nothing is certain or exact.

     Over the years politics has joined the great obsessions of my life: art, religion, history and hunting. Each of these realms deal with the slippery beast - "truth."  In order to get at that truth one must navigate the stumbling blocks of "belief" or what many call "faith."  Intertwined in all this is science and common law (as opposed to that of nature). Science tells me the sun will rise at 7:34 am, when maybe a good buck will be on his feet. I'll be back...... 

10:47 am - I spent the morning in a stand behind the white house at a pinch point near the base of the mountain. I've hunted this stand a couple of times and only seen one turkey and no deer. This morning was clear, cold and quiet. At about 9 am I finally saw a deer. It was about 100 yards in front of me. I pulled up the binocs and saw that it was a decent buck. It was a pretty nice eight point, but did not compare to the ten and even larger buck I named "Fang" for his six inch brow tines. I watched as the buck circled and disappeared. Then at about 9:45 I heard a twig snap behind me. To my left a doe and fawn came running with that eight point right on their asses. Thinking maybe another buck would be following I grabbed the bow. Before I could stand up another eight pointer appeared on the run. He looked like the brother of the first one, solid, but not a shooter. This is the truth. Believe me or not.

    Not to disagree with Prof. Voegelin, but democratic politics is basic math. The person with the most votes wins. The Band of All Faith could learn a thing or two about democracy when it comes to voting. But that's another blog. These days belief has become as powerful a weapon as truth. Be it suburban "Karens" or mouth breathing, toothless, QAnon Trump supporters, so-called "belief" seems the only justification for vaccine hesitancy, crackpot conspiracy theories, or insistence that Trump won the 2020 election. Facts and truth take a backseat to faith in addressing obvious falsities. When presented with cold hard facts, Republicans say the opposite and add, "Well that's what I believe." There's a long tradition. Virgin birth and resurrection anyone?

P.S.

I JUST HEARD THAT THE ABSENTEE BALLOTS HAVEN'T BEEN COUNTED IN FALLSBURG. DON'T POP THE BUBBLY YET. OY VEY!         

TRISTAN

 PHOTO: Samm Kunce

CAN'T GIVE IT AWAY

     Forget trying to sell something. I gave up on that years ago. Even my 2002 Toyota Corolla (with bad brakes and muffler) sits forlornly alongside the road  waiting for a load of dirt and a pine tree to transform it into lawn art or the scrap  man to tow it away. In my entire fifty-four years of driving I've never sold a car or truck. Once I've had my way with a vehicle nobody wants them. As for my art career, I've de-capitalized as much as humanly possible. It's not that I won't sell anything but the opportunity arises so infrequently that I stopped trying decades ago. Instead, periodically I try to give work away. That can be as difficult as closing on a sale.

1989 BLUE BLANKET GIVEAWAY- While living on Ave. A and Sixth Street in the East Village one winter I decided to create a piece that would not only gift twelve friends with a warm blanket, it would put the task of giving another blanket away in their hands. To that end I purchased twenty-four blue blankets. Each person received two blankets with the instruction to give one to a homeless person. With no fear of  small pox, over that winter my blankets appeared draped over shopping carts and wrapped around still bodies up and down the Alphabets. The piece was a success.

2014 SELL TO THE RICH GIVE TO THE POOR- This was my attempt to give a "major work" to anyone in Sullivan County who could prove they fell below the poverty line of $11,600 yearly income. I printed up cards and put them on bulletin boards in all the social services offices throughout the county. I received one response. The guy said he had no use nor appreciation for art and was basically insulted by the offer. I couldn't give away work any other artist would have charged tens of thousands of dollars for. 

2021 LAND BACK This piece, that I referred to a few blogs back, is my latest attempt at giving away something with no strings attached. I own a tiny piece of river front property along the Neversink that I've used for various purposes. Originally I envisioned it as a "baptism access" for the CLGM. I put up a sign which was immediately stolen. When I reported the theft to the town they just laughed and told me the sign was illegal. (I suspected the Town of Thompson road crew had pilfered it). I asked about all the local election and FOR SALE signs around town. Were they illegal? I had them. No, for sale and political signs were allowed. So, then I erected a 4'x8' red and white FOR SALE sign. For some reason the neighbors hated that. It also disappeared. I suspect the neighbors. Now I want to give that river front property back to the Lenape Nation. You'd think that would be easy. Guess again. The Lenape diaspora is spread out from Oklahoma to Wisconsin and into Canada. Six distinct Federally recognized bands join other lesser affiliates. Give to one and piss off the others. My connect is Chief Curtis Zunigha of the Oklahoma Lenape and his organization The Lenape Center. We are in discussions to somehow transfer real property into the meta-sphere (they have no physical space), a symbolic gesture in keeping with the spirit of (F)ancestor. So far it's slow going. All I can hope for is stones removed from ears, scales lifted from eyes and the path cleared of briars. Talks continue. I'll keep you posted.       

KEMBRA

 PHOTO:RICHARD KERN

THE OSTERHOUT/VOEGELIN ENIGMA

 "In an hour of crisis, when the order of society flounders and disintegrates, the fundamental problems of political existence in history are more apt to come into view than in periods of comparative stability."- Eric Voegelin

       Along with his own children my grandfather also provided a safe refuge for my father’s best friend George Victor “Vic” Voegelin, who considered my grandfather Wray Osterhout a father figure and mentor. Even the odd spelling of (w)Ray has been passed down in both families. Two of my lifelong friends and deer hunting companions are Vic’s sons Bill and Wray Voegelin (Savage Lynch and Milawyer). Vic’s father, the rich and spoiled George Voegelin was said to have been a hopeless alcoholic losing millions multiple times and like my great grandfather Andrew Osterhout his name was rarely mentioned by either family. Turns out the Voegelins have as odd a bunch of intellectuals and hardcore alcoholics as the Osterhouts.  

      The reason I include the Voegelins here is twofold. One, the Voegelin family are as close to kin as it comes and secondly while researching (F)ancestor I came across the famous Indigenous linguist and anthropologist Prof. Charles F. “Carl” Voegelin. Carl led me to a German cousin, one of the twentieth century’s great minds, political philosopher Eric Voegelin. Voegelin is an even more uncommon surname than Osterhout. We are fam-il-ee.

     Eric Voegelin coined the arcane phrase “Don’t immanentize the eschaton.” that was popularized by conservative pundit William F. Buckley in the 1960’s. In Buckley’s skewed usage it was a battle cry against the radical left activism and utopian visions of the Sixties Revolutionaries that Conservatives feared were leading the world into “Godless totalitarianism.” In my understanding I took Voegelin’s 1952 statement to mean in both political and theological terms a call against the blind religious enthusiasm of the Second Great Awakening of a century before and even the Native American Revitalization Movement, a warning to the modern evangelical Right that increasingly infected American politics after World War II and continues in today’s "apocalyptic Republican insurgency." Heaven will not materialize on earth, so don’t seek it out, try to create it or hasten the arrival of the nihilistic “end of times,” with your stupidity of faith and politics.

     Not a rigid political ideologue like Buckley, Voegelin drew dangerous parallels between Christian post-millennial ideology (eschatology) and the Third Reich Nazism he fled in Germany. Writing to George H. Nash after the historian labeled Eric Voegelin a “conservative,” the philosopher stated in typical Voegelin fashion, “Just because I’m not stupid enough to be a liberal does not mean I am stupid enough to be a conservative.” 

    I've read some of Charles Voegelin's work on the Shawnee female deity "Our Grandmother" and just scratched the surface with Eric Voegelin. The shit is dense. Both these Voegelins were giant intellects. I've spent a lifetime drinking and conversing with Wray and Bill Voegelin. Neither is an intellectual, but both are smart, clever and funny as hell. I'd trust either with my life. Eric Voegelin left Austria in the 1930's with the Gestapo at his door. Rather than collaborate with the Nazis he fled to America. In this "hour of crisis" in American politics the Osterhouts and Voegelins are not going anywhere. We may not be intellectuals, or have all the answers, but we are very well armed and know how to shoot. Not everyone on the left is unprepared for what may come. Just because we aren't smart enough to be labeled as intellectuals doesn't mean we aren't smart enough to recognize the warnings.