MANY HANDS AT WORK

THE LITTLE GREEN PARTY

As you could surmise from my last two blogs, I don’t have much going on. That’s why today I decided to form a political party. I don’t know why it took me SO LONG to come up with the idea. It was simple. There’s already a “Green Party,” so name recognition is baked in. Then, all I had to do was cob together some text over a photo and the party was formed…..I thought. Feeling self-satisfied I got off the couch and forced myself to get some wood in for the night. I was bending over and picking up a log when inspiration hit, and the party was truly formed. The slogan: “Let’s Get This Party Started!” Popped into my noggin. That’s what was missing. Now we have eight years to get our shit together. The entire process took about 20 minutes. I’m sure political parties have been formed in less time…. still it wasn’t bad. What’s our platform? You ask. Even without any candidate, I have an answer – Potlatch. Simply put, this is an ancient system of consumer dependency and power distribution that relies on the belief that the more you give away, the more status you gain within the community. Usually, hyper-localized, there’s no reason why this mindset could not be applied globally. There’s an intrinsic element of healthy competition here. Billionaire slobs love to one up each other in any exchange. Imagine if people actually wanted to have dinner with Elon Musk or Trump without all the genuflecting and reach-arounds? Imagine if billionaires competed in give-away largess? THIS is what LGP candidates (we only run for Prez) would be all aout. There’s no time to waste. I put it out there. I got two likes on insta. Come on PEOPLE! You all have been bitching forever that the two-party system doesn’t work. I agree. The T-shirts (that I hope to get somebody to pay for) will say – L.G.P. - LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED! Check for rallies to come!

OLD SCHOOL BED

THE VICARIOUS AVATAR Part II

Before we (literally) pick up O’s blood trail, let me give you a little background on where this guy is hunting. I used to hunt the same woods. Back in my day it was “fair chase,” plenty of bucks, but mostly sixes and eights. That was before the fence went up. Nowadays the island of Manhattan is a well-stocked “canned hunt” preserve, where only the rich elites (and their hangers-on) can afford to hunt. Bagging a twelve pointer is still tough, but way more commonplace than you would imagine. My buddy has got himself hooked up with stands and guide service from Harlem to Bushwick. On this night, he and O were headed to the East Village - Ludlow and Houston – my old stomping grounds, to lay up for the night. I’m sure there has to be a stand or two of mine that hasn’t rotted out of a neighborhood tree. Careful climbing the ladder. But enough of me. Back to O. “I was strategically wiping the vomit from my mouth, when I heard the word “period.” I still couldn’t feel my legs. “Do you have any tampons?” I asked her. She shook her head. “No worries.” She grinned, “I’ll use toilet paper.” I had rented a friend’s pad for the month and remembered we were also out of TP. Finally, we found a bodega that was open. O threw opened the door and announced to two startled Pakistani gentlemen “I’m BLEEDING!” Before they could dial 911, I explained that her trauma was not worth calling an ambulance. No, they didn’t have tampons…….but they did have toilet paper. Phew. We got home and O disappeared into the bathroom. When she re-emerged, she was dragging a tail of white paper and wearing a quizzical look on her beautifully symmetrical face. “I’ve been here before…..oh no……” Then she went silent. Turned out the guy who I was renting the place from, had also “dated” O. What the fuck? “He was way too handsy…” she confessed. “Not rapey, but pushy.” O wanted to leave immediately. (A good hunter will intuit when his prey is getting hinky, nose in the air, checking the wind, stomping the inter-digital gland with those stilettos, getting ready to snort and blow the scene). My friend didn’t dare move for fear of spooking her. Then, thankfully, O thought better. She was way too fucked up to find the front door – even in a studio apartment. We never got our clothes off – just passed out on the bed. In the morning I bought her a nice breakfast and told her I’d drive her to get her bag that she left at the CHELSEA and to her modeling gig. “What’s your name again?” she asked, leaning over her scrambled eggs. I told her, again. Then, if all this wasn’t crazy enough, she cocked her head and squinted her cute little eyes. “I KNOW YOU!” HOLY SHIT – AGAIN! I have no idea what her fucking “awakening” and this bizzarro series of events is trying to tell me, but we HAD met a year ago, exchanged info and followed each other on insta. End of story. (Then he dropped her off at her gig and called me. I took a nap, got my mail, went to the bank, bought groceries, and played with Cheeky and got wood in. That was my day. I asked if he was going to see her again? What do you think?) This could be the one.

YOU CAN LEAD A HORST TO WATER

THE VICARIOUS AVATAR Part One

Hunting season is over and it’s cold as shit. Just feeding the woodstove is a full-time job. I’ve been doing a little drawing and working on another book. This time I want to try to capture Jack Hodges, the black sailor who shot my 5x great uncle Richard Jennings, was sentenced to hang, then got off – while two white men hanged. Jack is an unlikely and unexpectedly slippery character to capture on the page. I want to do him justice, so I’m trying to take my time on this one. That’s a tall order for me. Too much like work. So, in the meantime – avoiding the constant media drone surrounding the downfall of western civilization - I have to get my kicks elsewhere. One prime source is a fellow big game hunter who will remain nameless. His season is always open - 24/7. All weapony are legal. He hunts way more dangerous game than I dare to stalk anymore. Those days are long gone for me. I’ll let him tell the story. “I met up with this guy Vaughn, in the city. He’s about 60, cool, big hair, hooked up in the entertainment industry. He’s probably had a few “METOO” moments…. but he’s all right…. not like he carries NDAs around in his pocket. So, he and I started off at BEAUTY BAR. We go in and who do you think is sitting in the front booth? (I have no clue) Chuckles. He’s there with a couple of glum looking artist types. We just say hello, look around and leave. Chuckles agrees. “Good idea. This place is dead.” Next stop is PEOPLES. The place is the new “it” spot. I tried getting in last week and couldn’t get past the rope. Fuckers. Vaughn says he knows the owner. This is a better scene: a small good-looking crowd – like a hip railroad flat with expensive drinks. We get the VIP treatment and go to the back with the owner. On the way we pass these two hot girls – one brunette and one blond. The blond catches my eye and gives me a BIG smile. She’s blasted. We order drinks. I don’t have mine half down before I back track and pick up the trail of the blond. She’s still all smiles. It doesn’t take long before Vaughn decides to leave, and I slide in to…....possibly….... get in position for a shot. Too early to tell if she’s a shooter. The brunette leaves. More drinks. Then we go up to the CHELSEA HOTEl for more alcohol. The blond…....her name is Oralia……...goes into a winding, slurry, stream of consciousness, monologue about her recent “awakening” and a new video projector she just bought. “All I want to do is stay home, watch TV and snort ketamine.” At this a very tall, older woman in hoop earings, a red mu-mu and gold turban (who had been listening intently to Oralia’s rant) turned and said very loudly “METOO! I have a room upstairs. Let’s go.” I hadn’t done K in years. Oralia jumped in the woman’s bed, while I snorted a line. HOLY SHIT! Then she popped up and did one too. Fifteen minutes later we were banging on THE JANIS JOPLIN room’s door. Some poor fuck stood there, completely dressed, on the phone, looking confused. Then we ran like K-hole maniacs out into the street. When O (that’s what I was calling her by then) when O got into the passenger side, I puked between the car and the curb. A steady rocket stream. I don’t think she saw it. I shouldn’t have driven. I couldn’t feel my legs. But O insisted it would be fine. “Ooops.” She said, “I just got my period.” ……to be continued

OUIJA BOARD pre-WWII

SECOND COMING

Since the second coming of our great, and fearless leader Donald “nip ear” Trump I thought I could just ride out the next four years, keep quiet and let the chips (or immigrants) fall where they may. Good luck with that. I didn’t watch the “peaceful” transfer of power yesterday. Too cold. I was busy shoveling snow and stacking wood. But by this morning (when both Cheeky and I had to pee) I got up, made coffee, and turned-on Democracy Now. Big mistake. 1500 White Supremacist insurrectionists pardoned, Gulf of Mexico renamed, birthright citizenship at risk, etc., etc. The only good news was Biden’s last-minute commutation of Leonard Peltier’s life sentence to home confinement. It won’t take effect until late February. Tick-fucking-tock. Even the Proud Boys can run free and get their guns back TODAY. Biden sucks almost as much as Trump is dangerous. Then I saw that advertisement for “douche on the spectrum” award-Elon Musk giving the Sieg Heil (twice!) to the crowd of Trumpists. As Amy Goodman explained, “There’s a meme going around that defines it as a “Roman salute” appropriated by Mussolini and Hitler.” No harm. No foul. It's as Italian as pizza and the mob. Any other connotation is simply a “hair on fire,” WOKE, invention of the radical left, meant to disparage truly patriotic Americans. Duh. OK, you fucking idiots. Missing the opportunity to put Musk’s salute in context, nobody on Democracy Now seemed to remember that the “auspicious svastika” was for thousands of years an ancient symbol of eternal goodness; literally meaning “to be good.” Then that mustachioed, bitter, wannabe artist, and psychopath turned all that goodness on its head. Of course, this opens the door to a lot of tattoo parlors now offering up, not only Hegseth’s “crusader” titty cross, but actual Trump-era repurposed, WHITE, CHRISTIAN, NATIONALIST swastikas. $100 special!!! It’s cool. It's Sanskrit. It’s ancient Indian. Nothing to do with the Nazis. Get your mind out of the history books if you think otherwise.

BEAR WITH ME

DINNER WITH THE OLIGARCHS

For God knows what reason, the stretch of land that runs up the hill from Denniston Ford to – where in 1801 a Montgomery Palatine developer by the name of Johannes Miller planned his city of the shining future on a hill- now has become Oligarch Row. Going back a couple of centuries, as the Newburgh/Cochecton investor (Miller) poured money into the old Indian trail that would become Rt. 17K and B, two brothers beat him to the punch, laying out the village of Monticello. Miller’s Settlement would never come to fruition, leaving my church (The Glen Wild Methodist/Episcopal Church aka CLGM) the center piece of a beautiful, forgotten, backwater. Listing the oligarchs from the valley up the hill we have Diamond Dave, Denniston Hill Foundation, GNJohn, Julie Merry-too and my neighbors RNButch and Jin-L. Last night Shewho and I were invited over to dine at the manor house. Also, in attendance were one of my lawyers SVegs, and wife Dolly. Jin-L laid out a great spread of booze, finger food and ox tail stew. Jin-L is Cuban. It rocked! Finding ourselves amongst the oligarchs, Shewho and I did our best figuring out the right fork to use and attempted not to embarrass ourselves amongst the neighborhood elites. We were going along great until, somehow, the subject of Puffy P. Diddy Combs came up. For some reason Diddy’s recent troubles of creepoid S&M parties, underage sex trafficking and general mayhem and abuse had escaped my radar. Have you seen the video of Diddy beating the shit out of some poor girl in the hallway? I hadn’t. I’m a sucker for 1st hand historical information of any sort. Turned out Jin-L had just that. As a young Miami hottie she ran in the Diddy circle. In fact, she told a story of introducing RNButch to Puffy in a packed Miami club. I’m envisioning the scene in Scarface, right before the shooting starts. Jin-L had never witnessed a "freak off" or a case of spent baby oil. No lube job. Nothing but gentlemanly behavior from the Puffer, she said. She never went to a Diddy Party that wasn't completely genteel- white or black. Or maybe, like Dave Chapell, Puffy recognised a little "snitch energy" in Jin-L, and never considered inviting her. Either way, Jin-L feels for the poor guy, now languishing in a NY jail. Crimes of the oligarchy run the gamut. In the end, the dinner was really fun. Good food. Good company. Good eye medicine. I’m no capitalist, but I know plenty of them. I try not to be too judgey. “Keep an open mind.” As Bird always says. Puffy? Who knows how fucked up this guy is, was, or will be. Like dogs, I try to take oligarchs on a “one on one” basis. “As bad as R. Kelly?” I asked. “WORSE!” everyone chimed in unison. Oh well. Flan for desert. Muy bueno!

TOGETHERNESS

APOCALYPSE, MAYBE?

L.A. is burning (burnt), there may be a cease fire deal in Gaza (doubtful), and on Monday, Hell (D.C.) will freeze over. What does it say in the Bible about all this? Just kidding. That rather confusing and contradictory book is way too long (fine print) to find just the right passage; although I’m sure it’s in there somewhere. Instead, I’ve begun reading soothsayer Octavia E. Butler’s “Parable” series. You want to know what will happen next? Check her out. Let’s take ‘em one at a time. Octavia Butler (1947-2006), who was writing these books in the late nineties, saw it all coming – Covid (the pox), “Make America Great Again” (same phrase), Trump (President Jarret), War with Canada? Check. Christian Nationalism, Crusaders, Fires, Slavers, etc., etc. It’s all there. The books are set on the west coast, as the shoreline falls into the ocean, Alaska warms up and L.A. burns. She’s brilliant! Cease fire in Gaza? As both political parties angle for credit, Israel steps up its bombing campaign, killing as many women and children as it can manage before Sunday. Trump is getting way more credit as the transactional, real estate broker he is, than he deserves. Nonetheless, this part of his cheap-o “war costs too much” personality may suit this specific situation. The problems will arise for the Palestinians when he gives Be Be the green light to annex the West Bank and Jared Kushner the development rights to “all that beachfront property” in Gaza. Let’s see what happens……ugh. Lastly, we have Trump’s cold as fuck inauguration on Monday. Today I must move enough wood onto my porch to not have to open my door for a week. In D.C. (Hell) the temps are predicted to be in the single digits. Under this kind of “climate change denialist” punishment, the swearing in and party has been moved inside. Instead of flag (and AR-15) waving Proud Boys, there's only room for the Tech billionaires and hookers. Zuckerberg and the Google guy have ordered A.I. orgasmatron googles for everyone in attendance. Michelle Obama and Liz Cheney (Bird’s pick for the 2028 ticket) won’t be there, but those goggles will take 50 years off Hillary and put a smile on Melania’s face. As everyone does “The Trump” dance move (fisting and grimace) I hear that in the back room, on what used to be Nancy Pelosi’s shit-stained desk, a swimming pool sized punch bowl, laced with Molly and Red Bull awaits. Don’t forget those Google goggles. There’s a naked Jeffery Epstein doing laps in the bowl, with a hardon and a big smile on his face. God Fucking Bless America!

AVA

DATE NIGHT WITH AVA

Last night Shewho came over to do her wash (her machine broke) and have dinner. I’d prepared a nice venison stew on the woodstove. She brought two bottles of wine and some pot candies along with all the dirty towels Teehoo had left in her wake while staying with her mom. As the wash churned and the venison simmered Shewho asked if she could play me something on her iPhone? Ugh. Never owning such a device I’ve become increasingly annoyed at people swiping, texting, chking Instagram….on and on. I figured it was some cat video. “Just send it to me later.” I grumbled “I don’t want to bother with it now.” But, Shewho was persistent, as she fiddled with my speaker, turning off Massive Attack. I had no chance of stopping her. As the pleasant voice began to read, Shewho sat in the chair with a big shit eating grin on her face . “Just listen.” She insisted. I heard the voice talk about the very subject I had been writing about for the past couple of weeks – the summer of 1816, Mt. Tamboro’s eruption, climate change, etc. Increasingly annoyed, I couldn’t believe there was a podcast covering everything I’d been working on. “Fuck.” I moaned, “Where’d you find this?” “Listen.” Shewho repeated with that Cheshire cat grin still on her face. Then I got it. HOLY SHIT! It was MY writing. I write fast. And, no matter what I write, I always try to cajole Shewho into reading it. My attempts at “sharing” are always met with resistance. Somehow with a wave of her magic A.I. wand, Shewho was able to drop the word doc. Text into an A.I. generated stew, select “Ava” as the voice that would read my words and presto-change-o you got an audio-book. I couldn’t believe my ears. We sat there, my chin on my chest, mouth agape, until it got embarrassing, listening to Ava deliver my words with subtle legitimacy. I felt like I was at Barnes and Noble listening to a hot girl read from my best seller. Shewho cracked up, knowing she had really gotten me. I had nothing. So from now on, if I send any of you a text to read, don’t bother. Go to www.naturalreaders.com , find Ava and give her my words. She’ll take it from there. Listen in the car, the toilet, while you are doing yoga, etc. There’s no more need to squint, or keep a train of thought. Let Ava’s soothing voice lull you into the right mood to consume what I’m trying to share with you. It’s fucking painless. Hell, you could probably do it with the blog.

STOLEN SEX DOLL

STATEY AT THE DOOR

 Yesterday, while stoking the woodstove, freezing to death in the shack, I saw that iconic blue and yellow of a NYS Police cruiser pull up in my driveway. Now, it’s not unusual to have Townie or even County cops to stop by for one reason or another, a Statey? Of course, I was torching some afternoon eye medicine.  As my blood pressure rose, I had to remind myself that I was completely legal. A lifetime of law breaking (that switched in the blink of an eye) is a tough pathology to ignore.

 

As the pot smoke billowed out the back door, I went outside to see what the trooper wanted. “Do you own that green synagogue on Glen Wild Rd.?” he asked. My mind raced. Fire? Zucker? Swastikas? “Yes.” I answered. “Are those your cameras?” Again, what cameras? Had old man Zucker rigged up some sort of surveillance system to catch me mowing MY lawn? “The silver camera facing the road.” The cop clarified. “Oh yeah, those are mine.” I explained that they were fake; installed years ago to deter the local youth from breaking in and stealing my sex dolls. He nodded. “I thought so.” He said with a smile. “Why?” I asked. “We had a fatality on Glen Wild road the other night.” Damn. Again.

 

From The Daily Voice: 

Driver Charged In Thompson Pedestrian Crash That Killed Liberty Woman: Police

A 29-year-old Liberty woman has died after being struck by a vehicle in Sullivan County, and the driver is now facing charges of vehicular manslaughter and driving while impaired, State Police report.

This is an all too frequent occurrence in the hood. A few years back this happened.

From The THRecord:

Former Fallsburg town justice sentenced for crash that killed two teenage boys 

MONTICELLO – A retired town justice who struck and killed two teenagers in Rock Hill has been sentenced after pleading guilty to reckless driving, Sullivan County District Attorney Meagan Galligan said. 

The two boys, Devin Zeininger, 16, and Justin Finkel, 14, were walking with a third teenager along a narrow-shouldered stretch of Glen Wild Road near Rock Hill on June 2, 2019, when former Fallsburg Town Justice Isaac “Yits” Kantrowitz struck them.  

Kantrowitz, now 89, was ultimately indicted by a Sullivan Grand Jury on a count of reckless driving, an unclassified misdemeanor under the Vehicle and Traffic Law, and two traffic infractions. He pleaded guilty to the charges on March 1.  

On Thursday, Galligan and the boys’ families asked Sullivan County state Supreme Court Justice Stephan Schick to impose the maximum jail sentence for the charge, 30 days. Schick, after considering the circumstances of the case and the defendant, did not impose jail. Instead, he sentenced Kantrowitz to the maximum fine, which is $300 for the reckless driving, plus $88 in surcharges. Kantrowitz’s license was revoked, and the sentence carries a condition that Kantrowitz never drive agai“The deaths of Devin and Justin will always be an unfathomable tragedy,” Galligan said via a news release on Thursday. “When I inherited this case, my Office made this investigation a priority and fulfilled our promise to these victims to make a full, fair and legal presentation of this case to a grand jury and to prosecute any crimes it charged. The defendant pled guilty to the top charge issued by the grand jury and his license is permanently revoked.”                                                                                                                     The old judge, who was given a ride home from the crime scene, was fined $388 in the death of these two boys. I’ve complained to the Town, County and State over the excessive speed limit on Glen Wild Rd. and got nowhere. The trucks from Newburgh Egg (among others) only want to get to the highway as quickly as possible. The same goes for the Hassidic road rally every Friday at dusk in the summer and high holy days. My advice to everyone is SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! And never walk on Glen Wild Rd. THE NY STATE POLICE CONCUR.

 

SPIT

 Photo: R. Kern

TEXT MESSAGE

 

WRINGING OUT 2024

 It’s over. I can’t believe it. My emotions are mixed.

 

Our traditional New Year’s Eve drives found Bird and I to be the last men standing. Savage, who was plagued with health issues all season, hernia and cataract operations, AND then got Covid, was obviously out. Then UB also got sick the night before, leaving just us two seventy-something Osti bros to put on drives for each other. Add to this the fact that I had to look for the doe I had shot the night before at 8:00 am that morning, and we almost cancelled. But we didn't. Soldier on. First the deer search.

 

I had passed Buddy Budde and son Rocket Boy on the road out of Majestic the previous night, after finding blood and no deer. I was in no mood to bullshit. As I stopped the truck to wrangle some help, I heard a voice coming from the dark passenger side. “Hey bitch, turn your truck around, come over and have a drink!” It was Rocket Boy Budde. The kid is 11. His father shrugged his shoulders, grinned, and rolled his eyes as if to say, “What can I do? He’s a handful.” I paid no attention to RB’s taunting and focused on getting help in finding that doe. “Can you and that pack of mutts help me look for a dead deer tomorrow at 7:30?” “That’s too early. 9:00.” “8 am…... and bring the boy……. bitch.” I countered. Then drove off not waiting for an answer.

 

As Buddy made coffee the next morning Rocket rubbed his sleepy eyes and sat on the couch in his PJs. “Are you coming?” I asked him. “Noooo.” He moaned. “Too early.” “GET YOUR BOOTS AND COAT. Move it!” His father barked. Rocket grudgingly obeyed as the pack of dogs: Dash, Max, (some random cur sleeping over) and Frank and Beans climbed all over the furniture. I didn’t have much hope in my deer search team, but it was all I had to work with. In the end we went up the mountain with a pack of three dogs - Dash (the elder) and the two pocket dogs Frank and Beans.

 

We immediately found a little more blood, but no distinguishable track. So began the grid search for  a body. After about a half-hour the dogs went silent and disappeared. Suddenly I heard what is always music to my ears, “MIKE! We found her.” I rushed towards the sound of the voice, only to find the whole canine crew pulling at what little was left of that doe. The coyotes had found her first. There wasn’t much to tug at. I immediately looked for the bullet hole. It was a kill shot and still she ran 100 yards. Without the dogs we never would have found her. Again, emotions were mixed. I mourned the lost meat but was glad the gun was on and happy to find the corpse. It’s part of the deal as a hunter. With no snow, and wet leaves in an area with massive scratching, it’s next to impossible to follow blood or the scuffed track of a mortally wounded deer. I take no joy in feeding coyotes, but nature always has the final say. I grabbed the doe’s leg and Dash bit my hand. OK. We’re done here.

 

For the rest the day Bird put drives on for me. On the last drive, as I saw Bird coming through the woods, I stood up and uncapped my gun. Then, looking below me and to my right I spotted a small doe standing there, also watching Bird. I fumbled for another cap, got the gun loaded, took a knee, and fired. I aimed for the chest. She ran…. tail up. That shot should have dropped her. Another miss? Ugh. Oh well, I’ll take it. I was way too exhausted to track another wounded deer. We looked for hair or blood. Nothing. Phew. The day ended with beers in the kitchen and many thanks to the Gods that allowed us to come out of the woods in one piece. Next.

I had a long night of partying ahead. I’ll just give you the highlights: Slick generously bought Oars and I dinner at a fancy restaurant. Then we drove off to Love Velma. There was a fifty-dollar cover. Yup. I know. Crazy. I did the classic Osterhout bum rush to the bar, as doorperson Clown Daddy was distracted by Slick and Oars paying up. I have plenty of capitalist friends, but I don’t adhere to theie ideology or economics. It works for me. An hour later Clown Daddy spotted me and asked “How did you slip by me without paying?” I just shrugged and grinned. “That’s how I roll....... bitch.” She rolled her eyes, grinned, and went back to charging more compliant suckers at the door.

 

 Just before midnight I left my date (Slick) at Velma and got a lift to The Dale with the Buddes and their driver/pool boy TOOval (a retired IDF rabbit sniper) and ate one (quite powerful) gummy, which did the trick for the entire evening. I danced the night away with my peeps. No Molly, only a beer or two and Catsilk Lani on the wheels of steel, kept me upright and waving my skinny arms until two am. Then I got in my truck, completely sober, and drove home. The only thing that could’ve made it more fun would have been having Shewho and Teehoo on board. But my girls wanted a quiet evening at home. I learned years ago not to impose my manic pathology on them.

 

In the end, we wrung the most out of 2024. In retrospect I was too lazy early in deer season but made up for it as the season progressed. The elements were tough – brutal cold, rain, snow, seesawing temps and no deer movement made for a rough slog. As I write this there’s still five hours of legal shooting light left. I could go back up Majestic Mountain and try for another doe. Should I? Naw. I’m done. I’ll shoot the last load into a target and see where the gun is shooting. The deer have nothing to worry about from me until Oct. I’ve got big plans for next year. Gonna move stands, cut paths, and maybe even teach Rocket Boy how to shoot and hunt. 2025 (for all its macro-horror in the world at large) may finally be the start of the Scoring Twenties here in the mountains. I for one can’t wait. HAPPY NEW YEAR to all my loyal readers. Much love. 2025 is all ours. 

PS

The gun shot three inches left of center - basically on. I should not have missed that last shot. Chalk it up to an unsteady knee and a lot of fumbling. Next season to resolve to do better. If I can only remember all my mistakes.