BIRDS OF A FEATHER

 

WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?

 I find myself using that simple question more and more these days. And it’s not for the more than obvious Trump cabinet picks. I know the answer to that. Casting by Satan. I don’t know if Bill Cosby and Harvey Weinstein are still alive, but…….now with Jeffrey Epstein gone, either seem perfect for Secretary of (underage) Women’s Affairs. I haven’t had a TV in a long time, but most of the cabinet seem to be plucked from reruns and long-ago cancelled shows. Once Matt Gaetz is thrown in jail, I nominate the A.I. generated Scooby-Doo hologram for A.G. “Sooby-Dooby-Doo! I convict YOU!”

 

No. The whys I’ve been muttering to myself as I split wood, hunt and butcher deer, cook venison stew on the woodstove, and as Shewho, washes wool, spins Lassie’s hair and weaves rugs on her many looms are…..why the fuck does the 21^st Century need A.I., and bitcoin powered by nuclear powered plants? Assholes like Elon Musk landing rich tourists on Mars? A global arms industry that funds genocide and colonialism? &c.? &c.?

 

One doesn’t need to be sitting in the tree stand for hours on end (seeing nothing) to ask these questions. All you have to do is pry your eyes open in the morning. Used to be I stayed engaged with Democracy Now and Aljazeera. No more. I can’t get through 15 mins. of news before my stomach starts to flip. CNN and PBS lost me months ago with their pro-Israeli spin and lame jingoism. I never liked MSNBC. Too much makeup. The entire mess has been normalized to the degree that I can’t even satisfy my “outrage porn” needs. The neighbor’s ostriches stretch their necks out, look at me and wink, as if to say “You know what you have to do.” Nooooooooooooooo!

MY BUCK NOVEMBER 16, 2024

 

SAVAGE LYNCH NOVEMBER 17, 2024

 

BIRD NOVEMBER 16, 2024

 

PHOTOG GEORGE NOV. 15, 2024

 

TALE OF THE ANCIENT HUNTERS

 What the fuck am I doing home on the second day of gun season writing my blog in 57-degree weather? For the answer keep reading. Let’s go back a week or so. The fall weather has been crazy here in the northeast – no rain, temps into the 70’s. It’s more like California…and now even with wildfires. Of course, global warming is a myth so we shouldn’t concern ourselves. Try explaining that to a doe coming into estrous or a rutting buck. There’s a lot of activity (running, searching, speed-dating and finally sexual intercourse) involved around this time of year. When it’s warm, that dance of procreation is that much more taxing in the heat of day. Nighttime becomes the right time. That leaves all but a few jacklighting hillbilly neighbors holding our dicks, instead of a big rack. Then there’s my party schedule. With everybody having birthdays, I’ve been busy. I think some of the harder partiers are double dipping. Didn’t we just celebrate your 30th six months ago?

 

As of last week, I’d barely seen a deer, let alone a shooter buck. Then, the night before opening day I got an email from Photog George. He’d also been seeing nothing, but I noticed there was an attachment. Leave it to PG to lay a big buck out on the last day of bow. This guy has shot some of the biggest wall hangers I’ve ever seen. It’s not fucking fair. We ALL hate him. Just kidding Georgie.

 

So, when I got up Sat. morning at 5:00 am, with a head ache, sweaty and nauseous, I had to double check my memory. Had I been drinking too much? No. In fact I hadn’t had a drink all week. Feeling like shit, I drug my ass down to Gilkey’s (Julie’s) and climbed in a tree Bird was calling the Hemorrhoid Stand (long story). As dawn was breaking, I spotted a doe about 300 yards across the open field. Then another. Then the sun hit horns. The third deer was a buck – not a giant, but a solid eight. I decided I would shoot him IF he gave me the opportunity.

 

My days of letting bucks pass, “wait until next year when he’ll be bigger" are long gone. Who knows if I’ll be here next year. I scoped the deer and tried to judge the distance. I had a steady rest on a tree branch and the gun was on at 100 yards, but I didn’t trust myself at 300 or even 200 yards. So, I waited. They stayed in the same spot for over an hour, eating, the doe acting very demure. A few times the buck got frustrated, ran the doe around aimlessly, but they always returned to the same spot, under Savage’s high stand on GNJohn’s property line. You know the spot?

 

Then, right around 8:00 am the buck had had enough. Time to get jiggy. He put his nose to the ground and made his intentions known. Luck was on my side. She ran straight for the hemorrhoid tree. My scope was at full power and the tree branch rest was worthless. I swung the gun and tried to get on the buck as they barreled right at me. At about 30 yards they slowed, and the buck stopped. Then, out of the bushes came a little fawn. She stopped right behind the buck. I couldn’t shoot. The cross hairs were on his chest when she moved, and I pulled the trigger. The buck stumbled and fell. He was dead within seconds. THANK YOU LGM - and all other deities!

 

I drove my truck right to the deer and had him hanging in the tree before 9:00 am. As it turned out, brother Bird was pulling the trigger at almost the same moment as I on an even bigger eight. When we gathered at Bird’s last night for our traditional opening day party, Bird and I were the only one’s with blood under our fingernails. Shewho and I planned to hang until about 10 pm, then drive  up to Sara B’s Bday party at Velma. But my morning sickness came back. Pregnant? Manopause? We drove home and I sweated all night in misery. So much for date night.

 

The only one to go out this morning was Savage. Around 10 am I got a call from Bird and an email from Ginger. Savage had scored. Four OLD hunters in their sixties and seventies had each shot good bucks within three days. Mine, although perfectly respectable, was the smallest of the bunch. Who knows how many years we all got left. If we’re lucky we’ll all die in the stand…..or on the dance floor. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SEXY MAMA SARA B.!!!!!  Time to party.           

WORRIED MOTHER

PHOTO: Marianna Rothen
 

FELONIOUS TRUMP*

 I’ve had good luck on past election days. I shot my first buck with a bow on election day years ago. On this day, Bird, Savage and I decided to sight in our guns (muzzle and rifle) down at Bird’s new firing range behind his house. We organized a little shopping trip to the Thruway Market first for muzzle supplies and ammo. It had been a while since I bought 30.06 shells, so I was surprised when the salesgirl said, “Let me get started on the paperwork.” Huh? For bullets? That’s right, all you wannbe school shooters. Now you have to fill out forms and pay $2.50 so they can search you in the Federal system before you mow down your classmates. As luck would have it, the system was down, this girl told me after waiting 15 mins. as she fiddled with an old PC. “It may take a while.” She frowned. I didn’t have all fucking day. I told her to forget it and returned the shells. I have no patience for such bullshit. No. I could not have my $2.50 back, she informed me.

 

We got pizza, the muzzle supplies, and left. By the time we got home and set up at the range it was about 1pm. The plan was to sight in the guns and then hunt the last two hours of daylight, which we did. Both my guns were so far off I’m surprised that I hit anything last year. But with Bird and the guru encouraging me to get my irons zeroed in, I finally was hitting close to the bull. No excuses this year. Now all I needed was to see a deer.

 

The afternoon’s hunt produced nothing, not even a fucking squirrel. But a happy hour with the fam. and a special appearance by the visiting Victoria V. Montana made for a great pre-game. We all felt pretty confident that Kamala was a sure thing. Won’t it be nice to never have to listen to Trump again? we told each other. We drank, ate peanuts and by 8 pm I was driving back up the mountain with a little buzz on.

 

The next stop was Slick’s to drink whiskey, smoke pot and wait for our first female president to be called by AP. He had no food either. A few beers, some peanuts, and now whiskey on empty stomach was making me feel that maybe the Democrats had miscalculated. That looked like a lot of red all across America on the TV screen. My stomach grumbled. Slicked turned on John Stewart. This would cheer us up. Nope. Even JS couldn’t raise a laugh. Fuck. What was happening? I left around 11:30, went home, made some oatmeal (that’s all I had in the house) watched Aljazeera for another hour, then went to bed.

 

Whatever, whiskey, peanuts, beer and oatmeal make in your stomach, you could probably run a small municipality on the gas I was producing. I farted my way to 3 am, when I had to pee. I checked CNN before I peed. Trump -269. Harris – chump change. WHAT THE HOLY FUCKING FUCK FUCK? Not only was Trump clinching the “rigged” electoral college count, but he was also on the path to get the popular vote. One pundit blamed black men. Another one blamed suburban white women and hillbillies. I blame every fucking idiot that voted for the man. By morning Trump had his victory….and I had diarrhea.

 

Where to now? By 8am the whole cluster-fuck had been normalized. We now had our first fascist, convicted felon in the White House. No biggie. Goodbye Jack Smith. Pack yer bags. After Trump finishes taking all the ass-sniffing, brown nosing phone calls from leaders around the globe, he’ll golf, get a couple of hookers, and start moving his Gestapo chess pieces: RFK, Jr., Musk, Bannon, Steve Miller, etc. all around the board. Get ready, the lunacy will start very shortly. With no more Nazi rallies to get his fix, he’ll be bored and very dangerous. Once again, the American public will be the flies whose wings he will pull off, very slowly. You assholes didn’t learn the first time around. I got to say, you deserve just what you’re gonna get. Make America Eat Shit AGAIN! It's gonna be wild!       

*If there is any silver lining in this mess, it’s the fact that the Democrats are the best losers on the planet. (Plenty of practice). If they know how to do one thing it’s the peaceful hand off of power. “Need anything Mr. President?” they reach out to Trump “However we can help settle your autocratic, fascist, mean-spirited, criminal, ass back in the oval office…….don’t hesitate to call.”

 

PUUUULLLLEEEEZE let me see a decent buck soon!      

MR. AND MRS. C WITH 10 POINT

 

FORGIVE YOUR TRESPASSES?

  

I know. It’s called HUNTING with Supermodels. Sorry. I’ve hardly been in the woods. It’s been incredibly dry. Getting to and from the stand is like walking on bags of potato chips. Combined with the unseasonably warm weather, conditions have kept me on the couch. This morning it was too cold. I know, I'm a wimp. Yesterday I climbed GNJohn’s mountain for the afternoon sit. I spooked a doe going in and saw one red squirrel while I was in the tree. It sucks!

As of yesterday, we are now in crossbow season. I can still hit the target with the compound bow, but so much can go wrong I was glad to have the extra fire power and extended range of the scoped crossbow. I admit it, I’m getting old. But extra fire power does you no good when you aren’t seeing deer. This is not the case with the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. C.

 

Readers may remember that a few years back I ran into a young couple that came up from Jersey to hunt the same woods as I do. We introduced ourselves and to my surprise they were readers of the blog. Like many of you, they have been disappointed in the lack of hunting stories this year. Sure, the babes are great, but plenty of you tune into HWS for the weather, wind direction, buck scrapes, and rut action. Sorry again. I got nothing.

 

This morning I was fucking around on the porch when there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. C. He had a story. He’d shot a nice buck over by the junk yard. He’d hit it low and a little back. “Gut?” I asked. He wasn’t sure. He said that he’d found white belly hair, but the blood (he had pictures) was bright red. No evidence of bowel. He’d followed the blood trail and jumped the buck just before dark. So, he backed out, hoping he’d bed down and die overnight. No such luck. The next morning, he picked up the trail, eventually losing blood. It’s heartbreaking, but it happens. With that kind of disappointment, I couldn’t figure out why the couple was so smiley. “Want to see what we got in the truck?” he asked. “She shot a 10!”

 

Let me back up a bit. A couple of weeks ago a friend set me a photo of a man being arrested for trespassing on the casino property. It’s a small community of deer hunters in the hood. I didn’t know the guy, but I knew exactly who he was. Savage Lynch had told me about one of his outlaw neighbors hanging a stand in there. It was he. It’s not like I’ve never trespassed, but when I do, I’m cagey as hell. This guy was just plain blatant with his illegal activities…a repeat offender. He’s the kind that gives all of us a bad name. “Where’d you get him?” I asked Mrs. C. as I examined her beautiful buck. “On the Casino property.” she said with a smile. Huh?

 

Turned out that the Cs knew somebody at the casino and got permission to hunt the same property that the outlaw got busted on. The story unfolded. “I was watching a six pointer chase a doe, when I heard crunching behind me.” She continued. “I turned and all I saw was rack. He never knew I was there. He was watching the six and the doe. He stopped at 20 yards, and I drilled him.” As Bird is fond of saying, “Right place. Right time.” I’ve barely seen deer and no buck sign nor rut action. Yet, these two young hunters are having a helluva season so far. I sent the buck pic to Savage to send to his neighbor. “Tell him next time to ask permission. He may just get it. I do not forgive his trespasses.” “Hope you don’t feel too bad.” Mr. C graciously offered.” No way! I love it. I’ve been around long enough to know this is how it goes. The rut is on. Somebody’s seeing deer. My time will come. Hope I don’t blow it when I get a shot. Congrats Mrs. C! That’s a perfect 10. I can’t wait to get back in the tree.             

ATHENA at WOLF LAKE

 Photo: R. Kern

THE PERPETUAL SCENESTER

 I've been lucky enough to hit some pretty good scenes in my day. It's always been by accident. Coming of age in the early 70's, I was just a little late to be a full-fledged hippie and born too soon to be a punk. My first scene (after the draft ended and I dropped out of college) was Woodstock - the village not the festival. But, it was attending the festival in Bethel at 16 that drew me there.  In 1973 the word "Woodstock" still had cache, filled with the magic and promise of that festival in 1969. I married my first wife Renee in a Justice of the Peace's basement in Saugerties just before deer season in 1973. We had our wedding reception at The Woodstock Pub on the main drag. My wife was 19. I was 21. It didn't take long for us to realize we had arrived a little late to the party. 

We both worked hard, me as a carpenter, she as a seamstress. Where the fuck was all the acid parties and free love? We lived in a little shack back in the woods on a dead end road in Bearsville, barely making ends meet. We got food stamps, fed two dogs, a cat and heated by wood. Our lifestyle was way more hillbilly American that groovy hipster. But, we made do. I taught lithography at the Woodstock Artist's Assoc. for no money and dreamed of being an "artist"......whatever the fuck that meant. Eventually we decided to move on. Too insecure to hit Manhattan, we packed up the pickup truck and drove to SF - to Haight Asbury in the Spring of 1975. Maybe that was were it was still happening.

Yeah. You guessed it. The Haight was a skeleton of its former self. We got an apt. on Clayton St, near the panhandle, up the street from the Hell's Angel's club house. More work. Damn! We were too young to be working so hard. We moved to Pacific Heights in a "work for rent" deal with a gay landlord. Then on to Mill Valley when that deal soured. We always seemed to be the young, poor, kids among the older rich folks. Desperate to make my mark I reluctantly went back to college at The San Francisco Art Institute in 1977. That's when I realized I had to make my own scene. 

Two things happened in 1977. My art began to mature and I met a group of like-minded cool cats about my own age. We could form community on our own. With the help of Tony Labat, Karen Finley, Sally Webster, Debora Iyall, Bruce Pollack, and our teachers and mentors David Ireland, Howard Fried, Tom Marioni, etc. we found common ground in the Bay Area. The acid parties never materialized, but plenty of good Columbian weed and coke did. After getting my MFA I ended up going to seminary, buying a cow, starting a gallery, tattooing a bunch of people with my designs and eventually became a medium-sized fish in a very small pond. That's when NYC beckoned.

Now divorced (with another 19-year-old girlfriend nicknamed "Cookie") I moved back east to the big city. I opened MO David, Inc. at 436 E. 9th St. and Ave. A just after New Years Eve 1984. The first week in town I met Carlo McCormick and his wife Tessa Hughes Freeland. They introduced me to their world and became the nucleus of a new community. I never looked back. Although for years I would periodically go back to SFAI as guest faculty, I never lived in SF again. New York was home. I won't bore you with all the particulars of my 11 year stretch in the East Village, only to say that my gallery closed, my so-called art career tanked, I formed a band and a church, met Shewho, got re-married to a woman named Melanie and in 1995 together we bought an old church and shack in the Catskills.

This is where I will die (hopefully no time soon). This is my last scene, and by all accounts the best of the bunch. I've been here almost thirty years. I got divorced again in 1999. The run down isolation that accompanied the early years has been replaced by a vibrant, fun-loving, hard-partying groove that is now drawing people from the surrounding counties into our unique orbit. The CLGM is now an institution and there's a marijuana store in Rock Hill! I never saw that coming. I also never thought that hot young woman I met in in the EV in 1988 (Shewho) would become the love of my life, what in the olden days we would refer to as a "common law wife." There's nothing common about her.

Last night we went to The Dale (our local watering hole) for their annual Playboy night. Bunny ears (and feet) abounded. The good weed is even better now and that Miami coke has been replaced by Ketomine and Molly. Never one to dance (except onstage) these chemical enhancements have unleashed the dancing fool in me. No more inhibitions. I'm a balding, long-haired, white-bearded, skinny, old, white man with a head full of designer drugs and autistic dance moves. Who knew (with Shewho at my side) my presentation could be read as harmless....even (surprise, surprise) as charming. Pretty women actually come up and talk to me. I'm having way too much fun with Shewho, Sara, Brett, the IDF boys, Richard, Dreiky, Nick, Christy, Hetter, Josh, Sarah B., Dara, Hollie, Marianna, Carlo, Tess, John, Adrianne, and all the rest at my side. As the world seems to be imploding, this scene is only gonna get bigger and better. Spread the word - the Catskills are back! Who knows how long it will last. I for one ain't going anywhere.