HOLLIE IN THE LIVING ROOM

 Photo: Marianna Rothen

A MOTH, A FROG, AND A CHIPMUNK

  

“Molly?” this is what the pretty blond girl asked me around the fire the other night at Slick’s FAMORO DJOUBATE concert at his Outlier Amphitheater. We had been chatting earlier and I assumed she wanted to continue the convo on another level. “Are you offering me some?” I asked not quite sure where this was going. She looked confused. “Some what?” she retorted. “Molly.” I clarified. “Oh no.” she rewound. “I was wondering if the band was from Mali.” My bad. Honest mistake these days in the Catskills.

 

This past weekend ended the season with a bang not a whimper. The African musicians put on a helluva show for the overwhelmingly white crowd scattered through the fallen leaf woods. Then on Saturday night I opened the doors of the church to the Catskill DJ community. It didn’t take long to warm the place up with twirling bodies, rattling windows, and sphincter loosening bass lines. In this crowd there is no confusion between “Molly” and Mali.                            

 

The party flowed naturally between sanctuary, front lawn smoking, outhouse dumping, and fireplace porch VIP room groove. Shewho and I danced and bounced between the scenes, elder witnesses to a crowd seemingly in the midst of yet one more mid-life crisis. Forget the elections. Forget the kids. Forget genocide. Forget capitalism. LET’S DANCE! Even Cheeky stuck around (no dogs) deciding at one point to jump on (and off) of Cowboy Jake’s lap. Now that was unusual. We all noticed.

 

It was then that CJake told us that he recently had experienced a heightened connection with the animal kingdom. How so? “The other day,” he explained, “I was walking in the woods, heading up a hill, trying to catch my breath…..when a moth flew in my mouth and went directly down my throat.” OK. It’s not a worm eating RFK’s brain, but interesting. Go on. “I was gagging and could feel the moth fluttering in my throat. I couldn’t puke it up or swallow it. I had to run back to the car for water.” He eventually was able to dislodge and swallow it. “I shat it out that night.” I’m assuming it flew out his ass. But that wasn’t all.

 

“A couple of days later I was chopping wood,” CJake continued, “when I heard a rustle in the trees. I looked up and a frog fell from the branches directly onto my face. A FUCKING FROG!” Now he had our full attention. The music throbbed out of the church as the drugs did their thing. “But that’s not all. I threw the frog into the bushes, when suddenly a chipmunk appeared out of the wood pile. He ran across the yard directly at me. I thought he was gonna crawl up my leg, when he stopped at my feet and with one little paw he touched my right foot, looked directly into my eyes (as if to say “Tag you’re it”) and then ran away. WTF?”

 

Was this “communing” with nature on some advanced level or the spirit world attempting to warn CJake (and us) about some impending disaster? All the signs are there. But what do they point to? It may take a minute to figure this one out. “More Molly?’ somebody asked. Yes please. It's gonna be a long night.           

BIKINI CAR WASH 2010

 PHOTO: Marianna Rothen

IF YOU ARE INDICTED, YOU'RE INVITED!

 I stole this line from the new Trump-Cohn buddy biopic, The Apprentice. Federal indictments seem to be falling like the yellow leaves of autumn in my world. This invite is applicable for ALL this weekend’s festivities here in the hood. Fellow big game hunter Slick is hosting a live music show at his venue The Outlier tonight around 7 pm tonight, while CLGM Band of All Faith’s drummer Dreiky Caprice is gathering all the DJs in the county to throw down at church tomorrow night. It’s a big weekend. RNButch may still be in a Bronx halfway house during the week but on weekends (playing the Jew card) he is let out on the weekends. Good Shabbos. Hopefully he’ll show up for a little welcome home spin on the dance floor. Sadly, my indicted ex-lawyer SR took the permanent way out of his troubles in an FBI shootout and suicide. As far as the CLGM goes, all (living) criminals are welcome.

 

Artists and criminals have much in common. When I was a kid (fifth grade) my parents and teachers felt I was hanging out with the wrong crowd. My little buds John Balonzi, Bruce Taylor (writer Mickey Spillane’s supposed stepson) Ronny Helms and Tommy Maroney were admittedly troublemakers. I was immediately drawn to their humor and distain for authority. In an attempt to turn us from the obvious primrose path to hell and a life of crime, the art teacher, Mrs. McGinnis, decided to form the after-school Art Club just for us.

 

The others grumbled and fidgeted with their crayons while I took to it like a fish to water. Within weeks I was the only one showing up for club, while the others immersed themselves in kiddy crime. I didn’t lose or toss my friends to the curb. No. Instead, I started to identify as an “artist” in the group. Every gang needs one.

 

 As the years passed John Balonzi was somehow mobbed up through family connects. I think he did time and is now dead. Bruce Taylor also did time and is also now deceased. Tommy became a hard-working contractor and died years ago of a brain hemorrhage. I think Ronnie Helms became a cop. I don’t know if he is dead or alive. That’s the entire art club. Only I became an “artist.” I put the word in quotes as the (art)world may take issue with that assignation.

 

As a lifelong criminal (drug user) I have avoided the judicial grab by the long arm of the law, but for a few minor instances. Although accused of much bad taste and arrested a couple of times for minor offenses I have never been indicted for anything serious. The character “flaws” that have saved my ass over the years are the very real fear of incarceration and the lack of interest in money. I’m not willing to work for $, let alone steal it. It’s just not that interesting.

 

So, shout out to all you Catskill crooks and criminals. Leave your firearms at home if the Feds haven’t already confiscated them and join us at church. Dance all your criminal inclinations away. Thank you, Mrs. McGinnis! You did have a giant effect on my life. You showed me there was another way to keep boredom at bay and entertain ourselves for over a half century. Criminals and artists love to break the rules. It’s what makes us special.                       

MORNING COFFEE

 PHOTO: R. KERN

HERE COME THE GODS

 John Hopfield and Geoffrey Hinton just won the Nobel Prize for physics. I usually don’t pay much attention to this kind of thing. But these cats may just be the two most important “Dr. Frankenstein” brains on earth. They will, according to their own calculations, “soon be eclipsed” in mental ability and capacity by their own invention - Artificial Intelligence. The beast has opened his eyes. IT LIVES!  A.I. applications like Lavender and Where’s Daddy? used by the IDF to target and kill Palestinians in Gaza and now the Lebanese people will most likely be in full effect as these scientists accept their checks and medals in Stockholm. How smart will these killing applications be by then? Count the bodies. In Hinton’s warnings, we do not know how to control this new technology and soon it has the capacity to bring back a new era of “fearing the Gods,” as unseen forces at play toy with our very existence – just like in the old days.  

        

We are already locked in what has all the earmarks of “end times” here in the USA. From the evil machinations of the Postal Service to MTG’s accusation that the Democrats can control the weather, to Haitian children nibbling on dog ears around the breakfast table, things look bleak. Bots are running the show already. It’s only going to get worse. Thunderbolts from the ancient heavens, thrown by an angry Zeus are going to look like butterfly kisses in comparison.

 

I don’t have a cell phone and try to minimize my dependence on technology. But if Shewho’s cell is anywhere within earshot I get ads for whatever we are discussing. Who needs a 14-inch dildo? I can still get it up and heat by wood. I think Shewho and I were discussing how long to cut logs for the stove just before the dildo ad came up on the CNN newsfeed. That’s just one example. I still have free-will….so far. But I can see a day when the money will come directly out of my checking account and the dildo will be delivered directly to my door (without me ordering it). Don’t want (or need) it? No problem. Just repackage and drop it in the mail. Wrong address? Sorry. Time is up. Bend over.

 

Fear of suffering under the wrath of these lurking, unseen, Gods has already manifested itself by Qanon crackpots and flat earthers in 2020. Seems quaint now, don’t it? A.I. was in its infancy then. Like the Corona virus A.I. has by now mutated and spread across the globe beyond all expectations. Even as these big brain scientists warn that Pandora is already out of her box, the media continues to spin the “good” applications of this God like force. “It may cure cancer.” the pundits spin. It also may unleash a nuclear holocaust. Pick one. The Gods are fickled.

 

Where’s daddy? He just walked in the front door of his tent with some bread and water for his starving and thirsty kids. 3-2-1…..FIRE! Nothing but dust.        

 

Thanks A.I. What a God send.

 

Nothing is moving in the woods. All the A.I. in the world won’t help getting on a shooter buck.

SCARED

 Photo: R. Kern

GOT GAS

 I don’t carry a handgun in public, although I have a full carry permit issued by the State of New York. I’m self-aware enough to realize that taking full advantage of my second amendment rights would not always be a good idea. Reason #1: I’m not a very good shot. If (God forbid) I was in some crazy dangerous situation that required that I pull out my firearm in order to protect myself or the lives of others it may not go well. Life ain’t like on T.V. I could do way more collateral damage than maybe just crawling into a fetal position and minding my own business. Reason #2: I have a temper. I’m not violent, but my voice raises (without me even realizing it) when I feel wronged, disrespected, or get overtly frustrated. Even though I’m “doing the work,” recently I’ve been confronting a system that could try the patience of Job. The post office was only yesterday. Today I had to order propane.

 

Twenty years ago, I was really broke and happened to be late paying my gas bill. The company COMBINED ENERGY SYSTEMS decided I should be punished for this monetary slight. So, they took me off automatic delivery and required that I pay up front or give them $350 deposit for my hot water and cooking gas. I opted for the pre-pay. I have a small gas tank and a big gas tank hooked up together. When the big one runs out, I turn on the small one and go to the CES office to order more gas and pay for it. No big deal. This is the way I’ve been doing it for years. My system works. The women at the front desk at CES are always friendly and efficient. All……..except one.

 

There’s one woman in that office that I remember having an argument with years ago. As luck would have it, they were busy and she was the person I dealt with today. She didn’t remember me, but I remembered her. At first everything went smoothly. I explained my efficient system and that I needed ex-amount of gas. “Does your gauge read 30%?” she asked. I didn’t even get into the fact that my gauge has never worked from day one but explained to her that “When I run out of gas in the middle of the night, I turn on the auxiliary tank and come in here to pay for more. I just want to pay you for a gas delivery.” My voice was straining and starting to raise in volume. ‘That’s not cost -effective for us.” She countered flatly and indicated that NO I could NOT get gas today and turned her back. Excuse me, but how is me driving to your office and offering to pre-pay for my gas delivery not an efficient, cost-effective process? It was here that I blew my top.

 

“You! It’s YOU that I can’t deal with!” I ja-cused, identifying the real problem. “Please get me somebody else to take my order. Fer Christsake! Thirty fucking years I’ve been a customer and still you insist on treating me like this?” This got everybody’s attention, but nobody moved. One woman cowering behind her desk instructed me to lower my voice. “There’s other customers, sir.” I’d forgotten about the little old lady in a surgical mask that I’d passed on the way in. Sorry ma’am. Rebuked, I stood there silently steaming as my nemesis vanished. What should I do? After about 5 mins., a very nice woman came up to the counter. “Can you help me?” I asked in exasperation. “I hope so.” She said with a wry smile. She took my credit card, completed my order and I left with a headache and knot in my stomach. Thanks, CES.

 

I know what you are thinking - Jesus Christ, Osti can’t leave the house without getting into an argument. Well, I hear you. I feel exactly the same way. If I did carry a gun I’d be running out of ammo by noon.

 

The weather is cooling, and I have plans to get in the tree this afternoon. Chances are I won’t meet any humans in the woods. THANK GOD! Even if I don’t see anything the meditative process will hopefully calm me. I’m still on the CES delivery schedule to take advantage of hot water and hot meals that I pay dearly for. Capitalism at work. For now - got gas.

FREE THE EARTH

 

GOING POSTAL

 From Wikipedia: Going postal is an American English slang phrase referring to becoming extremely and uncontrollably angry, often to the point of violence, and usually in a workplace environment. The expression derives from a series of incidents from 1986 onward in which United States Postal Service (USPS) workers shot and killed managers, fellow workers, police officers and members of the general public in acts of mass murder. Between 1970 and 1997, more than 40 people were killed by then-current or former employees in at least 20 incidents of workplace rage. Between 1986 and 2011, workplace shootings happened roughly twice per year, with an average of 1.18 people killed per year.

 

 You don’t hear the term much anymore. I think this is because the Postal Service realized they were hiring the wrong type of personality in the 1980’s. Civil servants were educated, thought for themselves, and were rewarded by being beaten down, driven to the point of murder/suicide by the mismanagement of this massive pseudo government agency. The workers snapped and went on murderous rampages, hence the term. Anybody who’s ever been to the post office can sympathize. Nobody could blame them. So, the agency began to steadily lower it’s standards and expectations to the degree that tiny computers now do all the “thinking” and the employees are allowed to remain in a mind-numbing Oxy-Prozac stupor for their 8 hr. shift…….. with bennies. Welcome to the 21^st century mail delivery system.

 

It's no longer the postal worker “going postal,” but the postal customer (me). Let me give you some background. I get my mail at a post office about as big as a UPS truck. It’s intimate and most times (depending on the temporary help) pleasant. When I first moved to the area my house and church didn’t even have a street address. I asked about mail delivery and was told that the postal truck did not go down my road. Also, I could not get home delivery for a house with no street address. Catch 22. So, I rented a post office box for $25 per year and got my mail that way. All good.

 

A few years later the 911 Emergency system was mandated, and I got an address. I asked about now putting in a mailbox and once again was informed that would be impossible (huh?). But  they would waive the PO box fee for the inconvenience. Every year I sign a document that lets the powers-that-be in Washington know that I am alive and still living at my house. If I forget to sign the paper, they lock my box and hold my mail hostage until I do. IT’S FUCKIN FREE! WHYYYYYYYYY???? This year I signed the paperwork twice.

 

Today I was expecting a package that contained the new edition of FREE SPIRIT Magazine with Non-Nazi cover. I’d anxiously followed the tracking as the mags crept their way across the U.S. This morning I saw that they were in Wurstboro. I was excited to get them but waited until after 1 pm to go to the post office. That’s when a human arrives.

 

Postal workers come and go in the Glen Wild Post Office on a weekly basis. Most are sullen and inept. You are lucky to get a grunt out of them. When shit goes missing, they shrug it off and turn their backs. This was not the case today. The new GW post mistress Alicia is great. She’s friendly and helpful. When I asked about my magazines, she said that maybe they went out on the route by accident. No problem. She would call, so they didn’t send them back. “Back?” I asked. “To sender.” Well, that would be crazy. “Why would they do that?” I asked. She just smiled. I thanked her and let her handle it.

 

I wasn’t home five minutes before the phone rang. It was Alicia. Great! I was ready to jump in the truck and get my FREE SPIRITS. “I’m sorry sir, they’ve already sent back your package.” She informed me. I tried not to lose my temper. And I succeeded. I knew it wasn’t her fault. She apologized and sympathized with my plight. She was off the hook. I did not feel the same way about the Wurtsboro Post Office. I found the phone # on their website and dialed them up. Here’s some reviews that I read while waiting for them to pick up.

 

 

"Waited almost 45 minutes in their lobby this morning to pay for a money order."

"In the past I have complained because I get other people’s mail."

"This post office is inept, poorly run, and shoul be shut down."

 

I was going to drive down the mountain and confront them but though better of it. Instead, I added my own review as I waited. “A Kafkaesque pit of comical proportions. 30 years -  worthless.” It took a while, but finally they answered. The voice on the other end was human (I think). As anybody who has ever licked a stamp or used Amazon knows sometimes, “they” want a “mailing” address and sometimes “they” want a “street” address. You see my dilemma as a PO user? Some companies use USPS and some use UPS. In a thinking local postal system, they would know Mike Osterhout, who lives at The Church of the Little Green Man at 143 Old Glen Wild Rd. Glen Wild, NY, also gets his mail at the post office OR you could actually recognize a big church with a sign in front of it and drop the package off……even WITHOUT using a mailbox. NO! That would take brain power.

 

All of this I tried to explain to the woman on the phone as she repeatedly told me (like a bot) to “Make sure your PO box # is on every package. We can’t deliver otherwise……” I got hotter and hotter. My voice raised to a crescendo, I finally screamed, “STEP IT THE FUCK UP!” and hung up. So instead of getting my mail (when it was soooooo close) it now goes all the way back across the country, wasting time, effort, fuel, brain cells, etc., etc. …..causing the earth to deteriorate at an accelerated rate, while I go fucking postal. FREE THE EARTH! FREE THE MAIL! Good luck with your mail-in ballots in Nov.    

MARTYNKA IN THE OLD SCHOOL

 Photo: R. Kern

THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT

 I have few friends my age (or older) that I enjoy spending time with. The ones I do have I’ve known all my life. They are like family. But on the hole, I find ma- ma- my generation incredibly boring. If they are sick, I feel sorry for them and shamefully avoid their company. If they are healthy, most are retired and seem to be at the end of their warranty. I avoid them also. They have no drive, no fire in the belly (or loins). If they were successful in their long lives, they’ve retired to golf and play with the snotty-nose grandkids. Boooooorring. If they were miserable failures (like me), they gave up on their dreams years ago and settled. Shameful.

Lucky for me I have a great group of friends in their 50’s, 40’s and even some 30’s. I’m not sure, but a couple may even be in their 20’s. Let’s see some ID. These “kids” are MY crowd, support unit and community. Case in point: Saturday night world famous hottie Lani was DJing at The Old Foundation in Jeffersonville. I’d been there only once before, for Hollie Witchey’s wedding reception, so didn’t know what to expect. Shewho was home with a bad back and I was given a very long lease. She’s the best.

 

As per usual the guides for our safari were the Buddes- Sara (no "h") and Brett. These two are such party beasts that they have their own disco bus (a re-fitted short bus from RIDE the D). A visiting nephew and ex-IDF soldier was our driver. Check his papers. Solid. Police cruisers, drones, and check points are never a problem for this guy. The bus was SRO. Hot girls, a bunch of random cool cats, and another British/Israeli citizen who looked so hunky I could possibly turn gay. Then out came the…….

 

When we popped over the parking lot curb and screeched to a halt in the packed parking lot the ride alone was worth the price of admission. Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom throbbed out of the disco light bus. We poured in the bar; a bunch of half-crazed lunatics. The proprietors may not have needed our attendance, but it sure didn’t hurt to have our squiggly energy pumping up the vibe and rattling the floorboards. The night was off! I don’t remember much. I know I danced…..A LOT!

 

I got off the bus at my front door around 4:00 am, still in the glow. This is the way we party in the mountains. Good luck getting this experience in New York City or Tel Aviv, let alone anywhere else in the world. This kind of groove is exclusive to our Catskill congregation. Even the Satanists don’t have their own bus! So, as I wait for the weather to turn cold, or something to materialize in the Rosenwasser/Soudani case, health permitting I’m taking advantage of every opportunity to party down with the kids. My grandfather did the same thing. He had no use for his old man’s or his own generation after the divorce. He hung with my old man, my mom and most of their friends. Lacking my own kids, I’m just following his example. That’s me waving at the bus stop.

HOLLIE IN MY KITCHEN

 Photo: Marianna Rothen

SCENE OF THE CRIME

 Q. Where do you live, Mr. Osterhout?

A. Montgomery, New York.

Q. What is your business?

A. Butcher.

Q. Are you in business with someone else?

A. My brother-in-law, Gorss.

Q. What is the name of your firm?

A. Gorss & Osterhout.

Q. You are the son of the contestants here?

A. Yes, sir.

 

As much as this testimony is recorded verbatim, this is the first time I have heard (or read) my grandfather Wray Osterhout’s words since he died in 1967. It’s fascinating to see how this played out, with my grandfather, his parents, and my great aunts and uncles all having a say. Gramp was 27. His father was 55.

 

Q. Did you have a talk with your father about this situation?

A. In Crabtree’s horse barn.

Q. Is that where your father was working at the time?

A. Yes, sir.

 

The two men discussed the fact that it would be best for all parties concerned to settle this out of court, if Andrew would just pay Elsie and family $15 per week and sign over the deed to the house. Andrew was rumored to have $3,500 in the bank and to have owned three properties in Montgomery. Elsie was pennyless.

 

Q. What did he say?

A. He said he would deed the house that they lived in to my mother, and give them $15 a week to live on.

Q. Do you know whether or not he did that?

A. No, he did not.

Q. Did you at any time ever see your father and Mrs. Velie together?

A. Yes, sir. I saw them before he left home and I saw them since he left home.

Q. Where?

A. On the road, the Bullville Rd., between Mrs. Velie’s residence and Clarence Vanderoef’s stand.

Q. They were parked on the side of the road?

A. Yes, sir.

Q. What kind of car?

A. Essex coupe.

 

What year was the Essex? In a case with so much minutia this info is missing. Either way, 1927 Essex coupes have windows as big as a sliding glass door. Easy to see in.

 

Q. Will you tell the court what you observed?

A. Why, we were going along up the road, trying my partner’s car (Uncle Fred Gorss’ wheels) out on the hill, and we ran on this car around the curve, parked, with no lights….as we passed, I recognized them right away and I didn’t want my youngest sister or brother-in-law – of course, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want them to recognize them.

Q. What did you see?

A. I saw my father and Mrs. Velie sitting there, and she was reclining towards him, and he had his arm up over the back of the seat around her.

 

BUSTED!

 

I wonder what I would have done in the same situation. If I had caught my old man making out with some neighbor lady in 1979 (when I was 27), and he then left home, would I have urged my mom to seek a divorce? Or had I caught my first wife fucking my best friend (before I married her), would I have ……oh wait. Let’s not go there. The Rosenwasser/Soudani case has not moved. Maybe I’ll hunt this afternoon. The pre-rut should start kicking in soon.

SIGN OF THE TIMES

 

MURDER KING

 This Rosenwasser/Soudani case is screaming for attention. Boredom and curiosity are great motivators. The 1977 murder (and the cops’ bungling) are laid out in lurid detail in old newspaper clippings. “Grief stricken Marty Soudani wished a horrible death for his wife’s killer….”The killer,” he said, “should be hung…..and made chopped meat.”        

 

Then the grieving spouse goes on to demonstrate for the newspaper’s photographer how he thought Helen had been killed, with a wine bottle in his restaurant. He does not mention the $1.5 million insurance policy he took out on his 25-year-old wife’s life some months before her murder. Although police eventually consider him a suspect, Soudani is never arrested or charged.

 

1977- Soudani’s 17-year-old sister Eman arrives in the U.S. as a virgin and is reportedly raped by her elder brother the same year as the murder. He is also accused (decades later) of keeping his sister as a “sex slave” until 2022, when she moves to Colorado with her son.  According to newspaper reportage two years later Soudani was still considered a suspect. After that who knows. The case seems to have been shelved.

 

When Stewart Rosenwasser first made Soudani’s acquaintance is unclear. According to the Federal indictment Rosenwasser did represent Soudani on some minor matter in the early 90’s. This is brought to Stewart’s attention by his boss in the DA’s office as an obvious conflict of interest. But Stew does not recuse himself from the Soudani case in Colorado. Why? What did Soudani, senior have on this Orange County prosecutor to make Stewart Rosenwasser obviously and blatantly break so many laws and leave such an incriminating trail of evidence? The man was not stupid.

 

At the very least Judge Rosenwasser’s judge of character seems a bit askew. Here’s a guy who is a suspect in his wife’s murder, could possibly be raping (and impregnating) his sister over decades, and presents as the local glad handing, friendly, Greek restauranteur. “Here, let me get you a seat by the window. A little ouzo?” The police never built a case against Soudani and he got a respected county prosecutor to personally do his bidding by arresting his sister and nephew in another state on a financial matter. I doubt if I could’ve gotten Stewart to fix a parking ticket.

GIRL IN MY BATHROOM

 PHOTO: R. Kern

SEX SLAVE?

From recordonline.com:

 

“Stewart Rosenwasser, the former Orange County prosecutor and judge who reportedly died by suicide when FBI agents attempted to arrest him this week, had been accused of taking thousands in bribes connected to an allegedly fraudulent prosecution, which tied him to a man whose sister claims she was used as his "sex slave."

Rosenwasser had been indicted on charges of bribery, conspiracy to commit bribery, conspiracy to commit honest services fraud, honest services wire fraud, extortion under color of official right and making false statements.”

From The NY Post Dec. 17, 2023

A Jordanian woman who moved to New York as a teen was repeatedly raped by her brother and treated as his “sexual slave” for decades, a sickening new lawsuit claims.

Eman Soudani, 63, says her former restaurateur brother, Mout’z Soudani, 72, horrifically abused her while isolating her, denying her educational opportunities and subjecting her to “economic servitude,” according to the recently filed Manhattan federal court suit.

Mout’z “forcibly took Plaintiff’s virginity in 1977, when she was 17, just months after she first arrived in the United States from Jordan” — and she got an abortion after he impregnated her in 1989, the lawsuit alleges.

“He continued to treat her as a sexual slave for decades, until October 2022, when Plaintiff finally escaped Soudani’s domination,” court documents claim.

But the defendant says his sibling accuser is nothing but a liar.

The defendant’s lawyer pointed The Post to news of the recent guilty plea by the plaintiff’s son arising from a felony charge of embezzling more than $1.6 million from the defendant in a crypto currency scheme.

“Eman Soudani’s civil complaint is absolutely false and complete fiction,” insisted Mout’z’s lawyer, Michael Burke. “He emphatically denies each and every allegation.”

Eman’s shocking civil complaint was filed last month, under the expiring Adult Survivors Act, by lawyer Arthur Middlemiss.

She claims in her suit that her brother treated her as an indentured servant and controlled all aspects of her life for 45 years while sexually abusing her.

The pair lived together at various times including in Rockland County and upstate Montgomery, the lawsuit says.

At the age of 17, she became the primary caregiver to her brother’s three sons — and that’s when her sibling forced her to have sex with him against her will, the complaint said.

Mout’z’s first wife, Helen, was brutally murdered in September 1977 and found dead outside the couple’s now-closed Aegean Grotto restaurant, according to the suit and the Journal News.

The murder was never solved, the suit said.

Her brother eventually arranged for her marriage with an Egyptian man, Mohammed Elkarim, the suit said. They had a son and later divorced, and she moved back to her brother’s house, court papers allege.

“Soudani carried out his sexual attacks against the plaintiff using forcible compulsion,
undue influence, overt threats, duress, coercion, physical force, and intimidation,” the suit says.

Mout’z also “threatened and inflicted physical violence” against Eman and her son, Martin, the complaint said.

Eman also said her brother threatened to kill her son on “multiple occasions” and more than once pointed a gun at them.

She said she felt trapped because she and Martin feared for their lives, according to the suit.

Her brother later married Elizabeth Rutkay, a woman about 10 years his senior and who had worked at his restaurant. She had a worsening heart condition and eventually died, the suit says.

In the complaint, the plaintiff said she escaped her brother’s clutches by fleeing to Colorado last year.

After she fled to Colorado, Soudani accused her of stealing more than $300,000 in cash from him, and she was charged with grand larceny in March of this year, the suit said.

But the Orange County District Attorney’s Office reduced the felony count to a misdemeanor, and the case was later dismissed by the Town of Goshen criminal court, the complaint said.

Mout’z’s lawyer, Burke, said both Eman and her son Martin fled to Colorado once Mout’z became “suspicious of the son’s fraud.

Martin Soudani, 34, was arraigned in Orange County Court on an indictment charging him with grand larceny and money laundering earlier this year for allegedly embezzling $1.62 million from Mout’z over a five-year period.

Court records show that Martin is set to be sentenced in the case early next year.

Eman’s suit seeks at least $75,000 from her brother in compensatory and punitive damages for sex abuse and unjustment enrichment and related counts.

“I’m thankful for the support of everyone who helped me escape a lifetime of unspeakable abuse. Having taken these steps I encourage those who have had similar experiences to be brave and come forward,” Eman Soudani told The Post.

Incestuous sex slave and unsolved murder? Huh. How’d I miss that one the first go-round? There’s always some darker reason for such seemingly blatant and unexplainable courses of action that a respected prosecutor and his “client” would take in purely monetary matters. The paper trail of endorsed checks and text messages (detailed in the indictment) between Stewy and the brother of said “sex slave” Mout’z Soudani Sr. is dizzying. Constant warnings to Soudani by Rosenwasser to “stop texting.” go unheeded. He kept at it. And Stewart kept cashing the checks. The amount in bribes - $63,000 is not much. It in no way warrants throwing away a long career that ended in what looks like either “suicide by cop” or by Stewart’s own hand. Why?

I posed this question to Milawyer. “He could not face the disgrace.” was his immediate answer. This is the simplest answer. Does Occam’s razor apply? Maybe. Maybe not. Things don’t quite add up. The so-called “disgrace” may involve other factors. But back to Andrew and Elsie.

Q. Are you able to read or write?

A. No.

Although Great Grandpa Andy comes off as articulate on the stand, he freely admits to being illiterate. I knew this fact from a notation in the 1900 census. This would become relevant later as a note from Mr. Velie warning Andy to “stay out of the yard.” is introduced into evidence.

Q. Could you read the note?

A. No.

The plausible deniability of Mr. Velie’s warning to the autodidact Andy, as he sensed a cuckold “in the yard” doesn’t quite hold up. My Great Grandma Elsie could read. She also saw the note. As the lawyers spared, drilling in on the fact that my great grandparents hadn’t had sex in over a decade, they felt the need to over-explain the “living as man and wife” euphemism.

Q. Did you continue to have sexual intercourse with your wife?

A. Once she bolted the door, I got the hint.

Here is where it gets tricky legally speaking. Who was the abandoned victim? Was Elsie refusing her husband the marital bed or was Andrew refusing to do his conjugal duty as a husband? My grandfather realized in 1927 that the only way he could hold his now absent old man accountable to support his mother with “$25 per week and deed to the house” was to bring a formal complaint before the court. According to Elsie, “I never refused the man.”

Sex is usually behind most aberrant behavior that adults find themselves trapped by – fumbling in the dark recesses of community and family. What was going on in the Soudani and Rosenwasser households over the years sexual speaking? Was GG Andrew innocently boarding at the 137-acre Velie farm, pasturing some calves, and/or banging the landlady, as her husband helplessly stood by? As I’ve said many times before, in discussing local gossip, bodies are going to start popping up.

The unsolved 1977 murder case of Soudani senior’s wife Helen was reopened yesterday by the Town of Ramapo police. We’ve only scratched the surface. Stay tuned.          

MARTYNKA AND SARAH

 PHOTO: R. Kern

A SHANDA

 Since it’s common knowledge who my first lawyer was, I’ll now use his name – Stewart A. Rosenwasser. Google him. I first met Stew in high school. In my day that meant seventh grade. A 1960’s centralized school system (Valley Central) had thrown together the teens and pre-teens from the old Wallkill River Valley villages of Walden, Maybrook and Montgomery in a kind of forced socializing in a cow field experiment. A mix of hardscrabble farm kids hobnobbed with the more button-down suburban sprawl of the ambitious middle and merchant class. Blue collar and white color mixed quite nicely. A mostly white and Christian community, Stewart Rosenwasser’s Jewish parents ran a small coffee shop in Walden. Neither post World War II assimilation nor antisemitism was on my radar in 1964. That was the year I first saw numbers tattooed on a person’s arm.        

 

Stewart was a leader, a good talker, personable to a fault. If he hadn’t chosen the law/politics, used car salesman would’ve been a good fit. In Walden the Rosenwassers were respected, upstanding citizens, members of the community in good standing; not quite on the level as the Houghtalings, but their kids would be - if they had anything to say about it. From your google search you can see how Stewart fared all his life…. before the indictment was issued and the FBI came knocking. Fucking “upstanding” as fuck! No blemishes. His brother Mel is a topflight orthopedic surgeon, a consultant for the New York Yankees on hand injuries. A doctor and a lawyer ferchristsake. Mr. and Mrs. Rosenwasser could be proud.

 

This is where my great grandparents’ divorce and recent events collide in the telling of the tale.

 

The only way that my grandfather could get redress for his mother from a father who had packed his bags and moved to the Velie farm, and was rumored to have become intimate with Mrs. Velie, was to drag his father into court AND SHAME THE HELL OUT OF HIM. That set off a chain of very public events that painted Andrew as a drunk and philanderer who abandoned his wife and seven “kids.” It must have been the talk of the town. Today it’s the late Stewart Rosenwasser who has been accused of accepting bribes, wire fraud, firing upon the FBI, and ending his life (possibly by his own hand) etc., etc. Would I care if it was just a suicide by a depressed lawyer? I doubt it.

 

Shameful as this all reads, we live in a world that’s coming apart at the seams – Gaza, Lebanon, Iran. Presidential elections are around the corner. Uncle Joe is gone, but Trump is still a nasty co-morbidity that should concern all of us. And today (insult to injury) Instagram removed my HOT GIRL BENDING OVER post and even “blogger” hit me with a warning for the Kern photo. What the fuck is this world coming to? Since Butch is still in the halfway house I did a little recon in his fields, hoping maybe that buck would show himself. No such luck. The same six turkeys and a field full of deer by Butch’s driveway. Three little bucks and a dozen does. They know where they are safe.

HOT GIRL BENDING OVER

Photo: R. Kern

 

BAD RAP

 What both “news” items: FBI shootout and my great grandparents’ divorce have in common is small town lawyers, and my relationship with them. I received a call Monday night from my lifelong friend (and sometimes law consultant) Milawyer. He proposed a cocktail hour on my deck and dinner later. As a true friend he was willing to bring the booze and weed. I’m broke.

 

Milawyer and I are about the same age and also grew up in Montgomery. We both knew most of the players in both small-town dramas. He was more than familiar with my ex-lawyer’s demise after opening fire on the FBI agents who had come to arrest him and some of the old timers in 1927.  As the booze flowed, we discussed the cases. This being such an insular community I also knew the lawyer’s ex-wife (she married my cousin) and his current wife (she had also married one of my good friends before marrying him). I dated her once, eons ago.

 

Gossip. This is another common thread. Let’s go back to 1927. My grandfather Wray Osterhout is 27 years-old, married to Maude Miller and has two kids, Mary Etta (Maime) and his namesake Wray. My father Dick is yet to be born. Everyone in our family knew that our grandfather's father Andrew and mother Elsie were divorced at a time when divorce was seen as a shameful, newsworthy, event. That’s all we knew. Yet, Andrew took all the blame. If his name was mentioned at all, it was with derision. Elsie, on the other hand, was portrayed as the faithful, abandoned wife with an “infant” (14 year-old Bob) two daughters (Blanche and Ruth) and Ruth’s husband Wes residing at home.

 

As my lawyer and I bounced back and forth between the two cases an historical matrix evolved. “Did you see who represented Elsie?” I asked, pouring another drink. He smiled as the ice crackled. “Houghtaling.” This name rang a bell. My first girlfriend’s “secret” boyfriend was a Houghtaling. He was a rich kid off at private school when we started dating. I wouldn’t find out about him until Thanksgiving Holiday when he showed up out of the blue. He also became a lawyer. This girl and I were going to get married, but thankfully never did. Instead, we both married (and divorced) different people. Decades later she ended up marrying her old Houghtaling boyfriend. They live happily in Pa. I doubt if you can find our unexceptional divorces anywhere online.

 

In the coming days I’ll try to unpack what led up to the FBI shootout as well as contextualize my ancestors’ divorce and how it impacted my family through the generations. Oh yeah, I hunted Tuesday. I saw two woodpeckers, a bluejay and six turkeys. No deer. It’s early.