NEW YEAR'S EVE 2021

 

SAILING THE SITUATIONSHIP

 Less than a relationship, but more than a casual encounter or booty call, a situationship refers to a romantic relationship that is, and remains, undefined. "A situationship is that space between a committed relationship and something that is more than a friendship," explains psychotherapist and author Jonathan Alpert.

     It's an interesting term. I first heard it yesterday on the radio. I think all my so-called "relationships" have actually been "situationships." I like it when a definition explicitly includes the word "undefined." How is that a definition? Situationships seem to allow for much wiggle room and subjectivity.. Also the word "romantic" can be difficult to define. What I consider romantic one day may depend on the situation the next. All I know is that when I couldn't find my blue butcher knife Shewho got me the exact same knife for Xmas. Is that a situationship? Naw. That's a fucking beautiful relationship. 

    Today when Bird and Savage came over to put on drives Bird had the blue knife in his hand. Huh? Wha? Where? "I found it on the picnic table." he said. The snow had melted enough to expose the blue blade. I'd lost it the night of the snowstorm when I drug the doe in the porch. It had been entombed in a block of ice until today. The situation had changed.

     The drive behind the house put out one coyote to Savage. No deer. No shots. The cemetery was accessible to the 4 wheel drive truck. Savage got in the ladder stand and Bird and I drove. As I neared the open woods between the road and the cut I heard a shot. I saw a body running back towards Bird, but he never saw the deer. When we walked up on Savage's big doe we noticed the penny sized spots on "his" head. This is one of the problems with a late muzzleloader season. This buck had already dropped his antlers. Another Sullivan County buck taken out of the herd. No fault of the hunter. Just the situation. Tomorrow we try again. The romantic life of the hunter.    

HOLLIE

 Photo:Marianna Rothen

EXCERCISE AND FUTILITY

      The truck being in the shop during deer season will get you in shape. As I said, this morning I hiked to the cemetery stand. And no they haven't plowed access roads to the graves or our stands. I sat it out until 9:30 and saw nothing. Then I got down from the stand and tried to quietly ease myself down the ridge and follow the road through the open woods. I saw plenty of turkey and coyote tracks but little sign of deer. They must be herded up in someplace I'm not hunting. Now that all the ag fields are either fenced off or lay fallow and unplanted there is no sure-fire food source to hunt in this frozen wasteland. Once back on the road I shouldered my gun and humped it to the Post Office. My nieces, nephews and siblings are card senders. Thanks for all the Xmas cards you guys! I'm bad. I never send any out. But you know that.  

    Every morning the alarm goes off at 5:30 am and I get back at it. We devoured that little doe's back strap over the holidays and we all need more. With the warm up the previously frozen solid snow is now a crust that noisily gives way with every step. People pay good money for a workout like this. But today will be a pleasant memory compared to what's ahead for tomorrow. That's when Bird and Savage come up for our traditional drives. It's just like it sounds. Drivers attempt to drive deer in front of the standers gun. It's just like the Royal family on The Crown. Only instead of pheasants frightened to the wing by the hired staff we will painfully trudge through the soft snow in hopes of killing just one more...... I better be in shape.

   This is the last chance, the stretch, the clock is ticking. Even though the season ends on Sunday, Saturday will be my last day. I have plans to get so fucked up New Year's Eve that a loaded gun is not on the menu for  Sunday morning. I'm so through with '22. 

      

TRUMP

 

LIAR, LIAR

 What if I told you: I left the house at 6:45 am, walked down the hill to my stand above the Hassidics and settled in for the morning's hunt. The only movement was crows (or ravens) cackling and sounding like Tibetan throat singers swooping through the woods. There was no movement until about 7:30 when.....I caught something to my left. The gun was hanging on the rest by the sling. Slowly I turned and lifted it in place. Then I heard the distinctive "crunch-crunch" of a deer approaching in the frozen snow. I looked up. Oh my God! It was........ 

    You see that was all bullshit. I hunted until 9:30 am, froze my ass off and saw nothing. You trust me to give you the straight report. Otherwise why would you bother to read me? And I do. The point being that if you wanted fiction you'd read a Republican's blog. The latest on the admitted liar Rep. George Santos from Long Island is that yeah, he's an admitted liar but the egg is on the Dems. faces because they didn't discover that fact sooner. I got to admit I agree. What kind of opposition research team can't discover that the guy doesn't own property, isn't Jewish, didn't graduate college and lives with his mom? Pitiful.

   I can't stand liars. It's a pet peeve. The truth can be ugly, embarrassing, hurtful and inopportune. But a lie is corrosive. It fucks with the past, present and future. Now Rep. Santos will take the oath of office because even if he's an admitted liar he's an elected official. And the Republicans need every liar they they can get their hands on. 

   Tomorrow I'm going to walk (still no truck) to the cemetery stand, see if it's plowed and hunt the morning.. Then I'll walk to Post Office and see if Cheeky's special food has arrived. I'll keep you posted.   

DIE FOR CAPITALISM

 

THE THIRD WORLD

      No. Not that "third world." The one I'm talking about is the art world. Like the deer hunting and everyday American worlds I inhabit, I'm an unwilling inhabitant in the rarified "art" world. Even though my shit is weird, not commodified, recognized nor financially supported, this is the only "world" that makes any sense to accommodate me. Music? Nope. Not good enough. Writing? Huuummmm....I think I'm great, but nobody else does. So that leaves art. And there I'm king. You can't touch me. It's not braggy to say that the art world has overlooked my genius for almost a half century. I'm not bitter nor complaining, just pointing out a truth, a point of fact. I'm really, REALLY good.  

    This is why, if I hadn't become an artist I would have become a lawyer. Both artists and lawyers deal in truth. For an artist it is subjective. In the best case scenario a lawyer delivers an objective truth before the bench. He either wins or loses the argument. In art there is never a definitive resolution other than the marketplace. And, as I said, I have no market. But when it comes to the law and art, I do know a thing or two.

    There is real currency in sheer perseverance. The law (art) of survival.  People may have a tendency to refer to you as "an artist's artist." But who cares? That means you can't sell anything but younger, way more successful artists, think you are cool for lasting this long. My critic and curator friend Chuckles says he hears the term "legendary" all the time. Then the youth pay homage with a drink ticket and a slap on the back. This is the plight of the old and obscure. We exist one small step away from sitting  obliviously on the crapper as the man with the long pole pushes the ice flow out to sea.

    Thank God Xmas has only seven hours left and deer season starts up again tomorrow. Art and the law will  have to wait until next year. Once again a reason to live.                   

DAVID IRELAND at 65 Capp St.

 

D.I.'S GHOST

 

    At seventy years old, a long career behind me, with future exhibitions in question, this Xmas Eve 2022 I want to share a piece I wrote about my old friend David Ireland.  

 I met David Ireland in his kitchen at 500 Capp st. in San Francisco in the Spring of 1978. I was  25 years old. David was 47. My friend, and fellow art student Tony Labat introduced us. Labat was videotaping David’s “maintenance action,” as he turned 500 Capp into part archeological dig, part social sculpture/site specific installation—the home as art. As Labat knew both myself and David to be working carpenters, as well as artists, he felt we would get along. He was correct.

    Initially my relationship with David Ireland was transactional. I knew enough of his work to ask him to be my advisor at The San Francisco Art Institute. In those days a student could ask any member of the Bay Area artist community to become an advisor. A small stipend was provided the artist and the community grew organically though an informal mentorship program. When David learned that I could swing a hammer he hired me periodically as construction jobs came up. He was my boss, my advisor and soon thereafter my friend and landlord. 

    Despite the age difference, David and I had much in common. I had a small town upbringing in New York, while Bellingham, Wa., where David was born in 1930, wasn’t much bigger in his day. We came to conceptualism from a similar hands-on, blue collar perspective. We were both printmakers early in our careers. We looked for a core of an idea to propel a project, shying away from over-intellectualization or didacticism. Material was important to each of us. He wasn’t afraid to explore the beauty in the banal, literally excavating the construction site for inspiration as well as object. But David’s greatest gift to me as an artist was his creation of context by example. I had never considered that context could stand alone, mutate, remain relevant, and prevail.

   500 Capp was first and foremost David Ireland’s home address. He lived there. It was not a house to be flipped or a neutral art project container. By the time I sat down at that kitchen table David had been at 500 Capp three years, and the building neared completion as a functioning  home. It was no longer a construction site, yet still a work in progress. Sealed in his special concoction of paint and urethane the sanded smooth, plaster walls literally glowed in the candlelight. I’d never seen anything like it. The atmosphere was mysteriously inviting and comfortable, yet contained some unexplainable twist….a bit of Hollywood fakery. You didn’t know if you were being put on with smoke and mirrors or following him willingly down the rabbit hole. 

    Google David Ireland and his more high profile “art world” career and easygoing persona will come through. A couple of videos are available of David sitting in his house in 2001, explaining his art philosophy, or calmly directing his retrospective at the Oakland Museum in 2004. He’s sharp, sincere and dedicated. But by the time of his retrospective his health was already failing and he’d soon have to leave 500 for the assisted living home. Labat and I went for a visit before he died. I hadn’t seen him in years. The same great spirit was trapped in his now fragile container. That laugh was still there.

    

     David Ireland circa 1978 was tall, erect, and could work a construction site with the best of them. He had a thick shock of blond/white hair and a big white mustache. He looked the part of the safari “bwana,” like John Huston shooting African Queen. His exploding laugh would rock you back in your seat. This fun loving, gregarious, extroverted side of D.I.was tempered with a quiet seriousness and a no bullshit attitude when it came to art. He didn’t suffer fools or posers lightly. When we talked art it was all business. His approval was not granted capriciously.

Back to the kitchen table:

     

     I laid a long stick in the shape of a cross and an old beat up shoebox on David’s table. Then I began to remove a few small objects from the box without explanation—a bandage, a broken pencil, a chunk of mud…..David scrutinized them, having no reaction. He would later confide how disappointed he was. He thought I had made these odd little objects in the studio and was already thinking of a way to cut the visit short. I laid everything out on the table alongside the stick. Then I picked up a small red book with the title Missionary in gold script embossed on the cover and began to read. “Missionary (the extended family as sculpture) “Things need cleaning up around here and someone has to do it.”- Darell Monroe. The artist as a friend—someone you can trust—trust with your children—let in your house. 

3/7/78 

Go to meet with Darrell and his parents today 4:00 pm very excited and nervous.” 

   I explained that these relics were generated though an “action” I had undertaken to get to know a 12 year old boy (not studio activity) and that cross was a homemade fishing pole. The mud had fallen from my boot on a fishing trip I had taken Darrell on. I looked up at David. I had him.

    

    From our first meeting to our last David Ireland was and remains influential in my work. His acceptance, without question, that what I was exploring in Missionary was valid was pleasantly unexpected. I was already in awe of 500 Capp and the banal objects he was still in the process of sprinkling with pixie dust. His approval went a long way. We both recognized intent as being the crucial factor in flushing that unicorn out of the ether. An early photo of the chunk of mud from Missionary shows me pointing my finger at the mud resting in the palm of my hand, above one of David’s Chinese chests. This photo was taken at D.I.’s direction. The pointing was an Eastern gesture of quietly drawing attention to something. That light touch is key to understanding the elegance David Ireland brings to the object or installation. It is something I still strive for.

    Since his death in 2009 David Ireland’s profile as a seminal conceptualist and influence on the Bay Area art scene has only increased. This is as it should be. The subtle nature of his work will take time to appreciate. The vessel that he created to contain his objects as well as historicize his rubric has not remained static. 500 Capp has mutated and prevailed. The context became the salable object, and then transformed back into institutional context. The process has not been without struggle. Google 500 Capp Foundation and you’ll learn more. 500 Capp continues to exist in a fluid, sometimes antagonistic uncertainty. Is there a there there? Time will tell. 

    Twentieth and Capp St. is not the same quiet backwater address it was in the 1970’s. The house now interacts with an unpredictably volatile, sometimes hostile community, on the cutting edge of change. Housing shortages, gentrification, “art washing,” economically disparaging narratives all play into the equation. David’s old house now becomes a lightning rod specifically because it remains a social sculpture. The conversations (if not the evictions) are unavoidable. The vacuum of responsibility no longer exists. If it ever did. One cannot detach the art gesture from a neighborhood struggling to maintain it’s character and adhere to the needs of its inhabitants.

   The “social” element of this sculpture will always exist. Because 500 Capp is now formalized as a “foundation,” instead of simply David’s home, navigation within the community can be precarious. Any and all moves will be scrutinized. There will never be complete consensus regarding any program that The 500 Capp Foundation adopts. This unavoidable new wrinkle to the Ireland work should be embraced and celebrated. It is a microcosm within a larger dynamic that questions the validity of our art institutions, political power structure and the needs of a community under constant threat of marginalization and disenfranchisement. There’s a reason this idiosyncratic sculpture resides in the Mission and not Pacific Heights. It is on the front line.    

         

   I have never done anything at 500 Capp. Although David gave me free reign at his other properties 65 Capp, where I did The Church (one service with Rev. Willie Dicks) and The House (a brothel for one night) and later MO David Gallery on South Van Ness, 500 was off limits, sacred, different from all other Ireland real estate; David’s baby. It’s difficult, even today, to separate the house from the man. His ghost is everywhere. To be invited in is a great honor. To be asked to add my imprint will be a challenge. But as David would advise, you have to accept it all as art—then point. 

CHRISTMAS PAST

 

SPIRAL

 PHOTO: George Holz

DEUS EX MACHINA

Yeah, don't feel bad. I had to look it up too.  

   Deus ex machina (/ˌdeɪəs ɛks ˈmækɪnə, ˈmɑːk-/ DAY-əs ex-MA(H)K-in-ə,^[Latin: [ˈdɛ.ʊs ɛks ˈmaːkʰɪnaː]; plural: dei ex machina; English "god out of the machine") is a plot device whereby a seemingly unsolvable problem in a story is suddenly and abruptly resolved by an unexpected and unlikely occurrence. Its function is generally to resolve an otherwise irresolvable plot situation, to surprise the audience, to bring the tale to a happy ending, or act as a comedic device.

   All I know is the term popped into my .....OH Shit! I forgot the oatmeal boiling on the stove. Phew. Caught it before it turned to glue.  As I was saying the term popped into my head this morning as I went out to start the truck. The door dinged. The radio came on and when I  turned the key it went "click." Battery? It had started on colder mornings. Hummmm..... And this is why the Latin. I'm bad with machines. God is definitely "out" of my machines. Just last week I had to peel the old man's bequeathed rubber hunting seat from the back of my dryer. And when I say peeled I mean I  worked for 15 minutes with a putty knife and razor blade. The grey 1980's petroleum product is still stuck like acne in my dyer's tumbler guts. Now it seems not to want to dry. You poisoned me it cries out in anguish as my Carhart overall straps spin in the cool, rhythmic air. Clickey-clack.

   Yesterday was the last day of muzzleloader season phase one. Savage and I hunted Bird's. The plan was to go in about 2:00 pm and have Bird put on a drive when he got home from work at 4:00 pm. Savage could see deer feeding out in a field when he got in the two man stand. One was a shooter buck. I had three does (a momma and two babies) come in fast from behind me. The little ones presented shots. When I turned to my right the bigger doe caught me and bolted. Classic mistake. I should have frozen and let them pass then shot mommy. Bird put the same three past me with his drive. Again no shot. This three have slipped by all our guns. Savage saw deer, but like me had no opportunities for a shot. Bird was still holding out for another buck.

    At dark we three rode out of the woods in style on Savage's ATV. Now we break for about a week, lick our wounds, compartmentalize our mistakes and disappointments since November. Oh yeah, and it's Christmas. Now that the truck is in the shop (starter not battery) my holiday will be celebrated with Cheeky and feeding the wood stove. Ho-ho-ho. Single digits are predicted. It promises to be festive.

     I still haven't found that blue knife or resolved how the mouse got in the toilet with the lid closed, which led to the running toilet and caused my well to go dry. Mysteries continue unresolved. No surprise ending. As long as the snowmobile lobby and those who ride their fossil fuel guzzling, scare every bird or furry critter within a 100 miles to death, knuckle-headed, go-fast in the silent cold, very loud, human stupidity machines don't buy off the governor we'll all start hunting deer again on Dec. 26th. 

     Just to keep things in perspective and not make you think I'm bitching, all these mysteries and annoyances fall by the wayside compared to the love I feel for my family, friends and community this holiday season; as well as the gratitude I have for whatever higher power led me to that lost, dead, doe I shot lying in the snow. In the meantime there's a reason I don't have a cell phone, heat by wood and have a lot of kerosene lamps. I'm no good with machines. God is not with me there. Happiest of HOLIDAYS!        

    

VEILED

 Photo: Marianna Rothen

THE POT HUNTER

  My old man always used that term as a pejorative. I don't.  Up at 5:30 am. Out the door at 6:30. Walk down the hill (because of snow). Climb 20' up into stand and strap in by 7:15. Sit until 10:00. See nothing. Walk home through the woods, struggling up the hill in the crusted snow. Call Shewho at 10:45 to let her know I'm out of the tree and home safe from the morning hunt. Reheat coffee. Snuggle Cheeky. Plan the afternoon. 

    Now that I've stopped hunting horns and am trying to put meat on the table, all deer are scarce. The recent snow storms and hard freeze has made still hunting impossible and the slog in and out of stands has become too much like work. We blew off our traditional two days of deer drives with Bird, Savage and UB because of crusty snow and flu-like symptoms amongst the hunters. Bird figured out that our median age is 69.5 years. Legs, heart rate, eye sight, etc. all are issues. Savage and I have two good eyes between us. UB has hunted with one arm since he was a kid and Bird is recovering from pneumonia, This gang of OGs has to be careful. We are in it for the long haul, however long that is.

    I haven't seen a deer since I stumbled upon the doe I shot. Setting up the butcher shop on my porch, I seem to have misplaced my favorite blue butcher knife. Along with forgetting the names of famous actors, losing shit now seems to be plaguing me. "It will turn up." everybody says. I've torn my house apart looking for that knife. It's BRIGHT BLUE for Christsake! Finally I gave up looking, skinned out the deer and cut up the backstrap. It'll turn up? I'm not so sure. 

   Even though I haven't seen a deer, yesterday I had a golden eagle swoop down in front of my truck and lead me down the road before he landed in a big oak and gave me a good look. I've only seen one golden eagle in my entire life, years ago down along the Neversink. What a creature! Then last night while searching for something to watch on TV I stumbled across a documentary on the eagle hunters of Kyrgzstan. These old timers hunt with golden eagles from horseback. Tough as we are here in the Catskills, we got nothing on these cats. One day left before Xmas break in muzzleloader season. I may take the afternoon off to watch the final Jan. 6 hearing. We'll see. Stay tuned.       

THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

 

SHOULD I JUST GIVE UP?*

 "Nobody likes a quitter." The old man's words keep spiraling through my head as I sit in the tree stand, gun smoke wafting through the woods. Yet, I remember in the early 90's my career as an artist, musician, and writer in tatters, unable to get a show, a publishing or recording contract, my father admitted that he would look for other endeavors. I never quit, but I did shift gears. That's when I started hunting again and would soon buy my church and move upstate. I never looked back.

    This morning I hunted the stand above the Hassidics. With a storm coming I had high hopes for a doe. The morning started off good. A deer snorted as I walked up the hill to the stand. Good sign. Once I settled in and the sun came up I saw a small doe below me to the right. I put the scope on her. Not a shooter. Then I looked behind me. There stood a nice mature doe. She had me. So I slowly moved back behind the tree and tried to keep my good eye on her. She turned and headed right for my shooting lane to my left. I shifted in my seat, put the barrel on a rest, cocked the hammer and settled the cross hairs where I hoped she would step out. She did not disappoint. 50 yards broadside in the snow in open woods......a chip shot. I shot. She bounded and stopped, looking around for the source of that loud sound. As I fumbled to reload she trotted away unscathed. I'd missed.....AGAIN!

    Fifteen minutes later I saw a large bodied deer walking towards me through the woods. For some reason bucks walk different than does. I knew this was a buck. Then he disappeared in a bunch of dead falls. Twenty minutes later he reappeared walking towards me. At about 150 yards I could see horns. It wasn't Biggers or Golden Boy, but a nice solid eight, a definite shooter this late in the season. I got the gun steadied on a shooting stick and waited. Just before the woods opened up he stopped facing me at 100 yards and then ducked behind a tree. In years past I could've made that shot. But after missing the doe I had no confidence so I held my fire. Then he turned and walked back into the woods.

   Torn up over another miss I still hoped to get one before this snow storm hit. At 11:00 another doe came through behind me. I put the gun on the rest, bleated her stopped and settled the crosshairs on her vitals. BANG! She lurched but didn't drop. She looked hit, but I couldn't be sure. I lost sight of her as she crossed the ridge. I got down to look for blood. At first I found nothing.  Then doubling back to the spot where I thought she was standing I found a few tiny drops of red in the snow. I was elated. My happiness soon passed. That was the only blood I found. I spent the next two hours criss-crossing that ridge in search of blood or a body. To no avail. My morning went from good to bad to worse. I've always said I'd hunt until I couldn't anymore. I thought that point would be far in the future when my legs, heart or endurance gave out. Honestly I have no idea what's happening to me. Bad as my eye is I can still hit the target. Why can't I kill a deer? The two bucks I missed were fast long shots. These does were gimmes. I don't want to admit that the time may have come for me to hang up my guns. But after this morning I may be doing more harm than good in the woods. I wish I had some answers. 

* I came home and cried on Shewho's  shoulder (on the phone). She always has the best advice. "Get something to eat and get back out there." As depressed as I was I followed her advice. I still hunted back to my stand at 2:00 pm. As I went I looked for blood or a dead doe. Nothing. Then as I entered the woods at the end of the extension road I almost stepped on the deer I had shot laying dead in the snow. I had hit her perfectly, double-lunged. She had run about 150 yards with no blood trail. I was never so happy to walk up on a dead deer. If I had waited the snow storm would've covered up all traces of her until the crows and coyotes discovered her. I don't really believe in a guiding higher power, but something led me to that spot. In the name of the father. In the name of the mother. In the name of the Little Green Man. I couldn't be more thankful.  My confidence is back.  

CHEEKY (as seen through my right eye)

 

NO DEER FOR OLD MEN

   Today Savage, Bird and I hunted Bird's Preserve. But not before I went to the eye doctor to see if a contact lens would fix my blurry peeper. No such luck. It only made it worse. When I asked the young female doctor if this was going to be a permanent problem she said it may take some time for the brain to compensate for the problem. That seems a bit much to ask of my drug-addled brain. It's gone through a lot. Plus isn't that like asking your car's computer to fix the wonky transmission. Eye problems aside we hit the woods about 1:30 PM. 

    About 2:00 I saw something running through the woods. It was small and fast. At first I thought it was a coyote, but it had longer legs and no bushy tail. When it disappeared a white tail went up. It was about the size of a spotted fawn but way too late for that be a possibility. A chupacabra? I was stumped. Savage and I are now ready to take does. Bird is holding out still hoping to get on a shooter. The afternoon drug on. No shots.

    Then about 4:25 I finally saw a deer. Two yearlings moved into an opening 125 yards to my left. Too small and too far for a shot this late. But they kept fidgeting and looking back into the woods. Suddenly one jumped and they both took off. All I could see was a tail in the woods chasing them in parallel. I'm sure it was a buck. At dark we gathered for drinks and pizza. Bird could've had a shot at does and didn't take it. Savage and I had no shots. Empty handed again. Nothing new. Savage said the chupacabra sounded like a bobcat. That was more likely. I drove home and looked forward to snuggling Cheeky and telling him about my day and the bobcat. I walked in the kitchen and called his name "Cheeky....." Nothing. No running to meet me or meows. He must be asleep. "CHEEEEEKY....." I called again louder. He wasn't sprawled on the back of the couch or curled in his favorite chair or snuggled in the wood box. Maybe he was in my bed. I climbed the loft ladder and tossed the covers. Huh? No Cheeky. What the fuck?

     I know many think I am a cold-hearted bastard incapable of feeling anything close to concern or love for another living being, but you are wrong. I called Shewho, not to express my undying love but to moan, "Cheeky's missing." in a panic. "I left him here this morning. Somebody must've....I don't know.....come in the house and he got out....it's fucking cold out.....what am I to......" At the same time I'm wondering  could one of my enemies (I have many) stolen Cheeky and at that very moment were.....? Then I heard the cat door flap. It was Cheeky. He had no explanation. Shewho said later that she never heard me sound so tender as I welcomed Cheeky home safe and sound. Now that I'm shooting does hopefully tomorrow I will kill Bambi's mother (without rancor) and lock the door so nobody can steal Cheeky. It's 11:00 pm. Do you know when your pussy is?  

NOT VOGUE

 Photo: Richard Kern

TWO WORLDS

      From opening day (Nov. 5 this year because of eye) until New Year's Day I live in two worlds. One is the world that we all live in, with breaking news and breaking down cars, war in Ukraine, election deniers, the World Cup, and mice in the toilet. The other is the world of the obsessive deer hunter. In that world the clock is ticking. Yesterday was the last day of gun season. With snow expected I was in the Gilkey stand at dawn hoping for Biggers to make a reappearance. No such luck. Three does fed lazily across the field. At 9:00 I lowered the gun as the snow started. Not cinching the knot on the rope, the gun let loose and stuck in the ground barrel first. FUCK ME!

    I came home, cleaned the mud out the barrel and threw a shell through it. All good. The gun was on. If I miss I can't blame the gun. With the ground covered with fresh white I decided to make an all day affair of hunting the perimeter of RNButch's farm. It had been years since I made this slog in driving snow. My plan was to hunt from the ground, pussy footing around the ridge, sitting when I had a good view. I went in at 10:00 am with a dusting and came out at 4:30 pm in 6 inches of snow. A pack, a gun and twenty pounds of wet clothes made the incline behind the old school house feel like climbing Everest, step by torturous step. I never saw a deer while sitting and kicked out two does a mile ahead of me. A bust.

    This morning I slept in. Cramped seventy year old legs and snow on all the trees cutting visibility to zero kept me snuggling Cheeky under the covers. Instead of freezing my ass off in a tree I listened to Democracy Now and heated up venison stew on the wood stove....two worlds. The second rut is on. Bird shot a six chasing does two days ago. Savage and I are still hoping to get on a big one until we give up on horns and go for meat. The weather is now a big factor. Until the wind clears the trees it is tight, wet and cold in the woods. Field hunting is out of the question. No deer wants to scratch for dead grass through six inches of snow. They are browsing in the woods. Until we start putting on drives the deer will be scarce in the world that is most important to me.

    Now I'm in the zone. I don't care about the war in Ukraine or how that pro-LGBTQIA soccer journalist died in Qatar. It's all about getting on Biggers or Golden Boy (if they are still alive). I heard a lot of shooting over at RNButch's. I picture martinis and lines of (?) with bait piles and flood lights. "Go ahead shoot through the window. Glass is cheap." BAM! Was that a shot? It's 9:00 pm. Will Biggers and GB survive the farm? Anybody's guess. As for me I'll be back in the woods this afternoon with the smoke pole. I've got some of my biggest bucks with the muzzleloader. It ain't over until 2023. Wish me luck.     

EXIT 109

 

DICK KING'S BODY

  Here's the update: Bird has seen two shooters with no shots. I've missed two shooters with four shots. Photogeorge got a nice 8 opening day and Savage is hunting hard and not seeing much. Today we plan on putting a second stand in the cemetery. The second rut may be kicking in soon and snow is expected on Sunday. Monday is muzzleloader opener. Everyone is hoping for a hot doe and a horny buck on her tail in freshly fallen snow.

    All my mice and vehicle issues have kept me busy. I blew the all wheel drive transmission on Shewho's car and put my truck back on the road. Another car goes to the wreckers. My salvage yard and I are on a first name basis. I hope to get tires today and am keeping my fingers crossed. As far as the mice go, every morning I shake Cheeky's $10 per pound special cat food out of my boots before I go in the woods. Cheeky sleeps a lot and seems unconcerned that the mice are stashing his food in my footwear. I think they're friends. Yesterday I received a call from brother Ross. He was wondering if I knew Richard King? I did not. Why?

    Ross told me that Richard King aka Robert Hoagland died Monday in Rock Hill. So? It turned out that Robert Hoagland has his own Wikipedia page. Here's the thumbnail:  On the morning of July 28, 2013, security footage at a Mobil gas station in Newtown, Connecticut, United States, captured Robert Hoagland (1963 – December 5, 2022), a local chef and property appraiser, buying a map along with fuel for his wife's car. He was last seen by anyone who knew him later that morning, when his son bid goodbye as Robert was mowing the lawn of the family home, a conversation also witnessed by a neighbor. Hoagland failed to show up for work the next morning or pick up his wife when she returned home from an overseas trip that afternoon. He was reported missing.

Police investigated several sightings of Hoagland over the next year, mostly nearby.Tips also placed him in southern California and South Carolina; neither they nor the alleged sightings yielded any trace of him. Theories about his disappearance range from foul play possibly connected to his son's drug problems to an attempt to start a new life. The case has been featured on an episode of the Investigation Discovery series Disappeared.

Hoagland's disappearance was resolved almost a decade later when his body was found by a roommate in a Rock Hill, New York, apartment December 5, 2022, where he had been living under the name Richard King. Deputies from the Sullivan County Sheriff's Office found paperwork with his real name on it, and notified Newtown police.

    I don't have a Wikipedia page, but as far as the NY art world is concerned I also disappeared in 1995. Nobody bothered to search for the body. This story raises way more questions than answers. This man moved less than 100 miles from his home, changed his name and lived in plain sight for almost a decade. Why did he disappear? How did he support himself? Why could he not be found even with national attention given to his case, etc. etc.? But most importantly how could a 50 year old man with a job, a wife and two kids abandon it all to live in Rock Hill? When deer season is over this may require a bit more investigation. In the meantime I'm trying to interest townsfolk in changing the hamlet's slogan. ROCK HILL A Great Place to Disappear! 

    

I KILLED SHIRLEY

 

HILLBILLY HACKS

     It didn't start with the mouse in the bowl, but a leaky roof, clogged stove pipe, and bald truck tires. At my age (and everything else's) all is triage.  How long can one get away without spending money? I started out as a roofer right out of high school. Memories of black tar patch in my long, brown, hair come back immediately as I once again get the sticky crap in my long, white, hair, slathering it around my clogged stove pipe. The leak fixed, I turn to the pipe. Now it's time to make the decision to buy tires or take the truck off the road. I bought my first truck for the cost of a tank of gas. Tires will cost at least $1000. I take the truck off the road and borrow Shewho's SUV (with bald tires). Yesterday that car broke down and the toilet started running again. The roof's not leaking, but that could have something to do with the fact it isn't raining. 

    Without a car I'm at the mercy of the kindness of friends. Doctors' appointments, beer runs and trips to my deer stands require a lift. Savage is coming up at noon today for lunch. He'll hunt the cemetery stand while I'll either hunt Gilkey's or my new stand above the Hassidics. Because the Gilkey stand faces due west I'm blinded by the setting sun from 4:00 pm until dark - prime time. It's a better morning spot. Without a car it's a long hike down the hill. I'm looking at other forms of transport. A cat powered Cheeky cart? Roller skates? A skateboard? All will work going downhill. The walk home is the bitch.

    So as I wait for the diagnosis on Shewho's car, I turn off the water valve on the toilet, knock the clogged stovepipe (until the January full cleaning), check for leaks when it rains, and strategized which stand to hunt and figure out how to get a buck out if I score. I have a doctor's appt. tomorrow with the heart doc. Hopefully a kind neighbor will give me a lift. Maybe Medicare provides transport to the doctor's office and if I bring my rifle they'll drop me off at the cemetery on the way home. It's time to explore all my options. Or do I call the cement truck?