HUNTINGWITHSUPERMODELS

KATE

2012-02-16T15:33:00.003-08:00

EXUDES CHARM AND BOASTS A CLOSET

2012-02-16T14:32:00.000-08:00

I love my shack. But as anyone can tell you, it gets a bit ripe now and then. The woodstove and an obvious degenerative gene that allows me to live in my own crapulence with little or no regard, can leave the homestead a bit gamey for some. People point out unpainted surfaces and sooty cobwebs hanging from every available corner, to no avail. I really don't care. I guess there was a time I cared, but it's so long ago i credit that to a different me. The present me is happy in my own shit. So, it was with much trepidation I left the mountain for a pre-Valentine's jaunt to the city. Everything went great for the first 45 mins.

   I drive a 2003 Dodge Neon, and I love it just like my house. But, like the house, it's been around the block. Around Chester the dome light came on, the beepy thing beeped, and the back door flew open at 70 mph. I pulled over and within a matter of frustrating minutes I determined that no matter how hard I slammed the door it did not stay shut. With the help of Shewho's calm direction I fashioned an ingenious length of wire attached to a light plug. With the plug stuck outside and the window tightly rolled up I could attach the wire to a metal hoop, obviously designed for this very purpose. We got back onto the highway only to find that the dome light would not turn off. It spotlighted my scraggly noggan as if to say "Officer that guy smokes pot and he's too stoned to realize his dome light is on." I was waiting to see flashing lights in the rearview.
   We turned around and headed back, only to eventually get the light out and head again back towards NYC. Add 40 miles to the trip. The rest of the trip in was a breeze. So after some last minute chocolate shopping we ended up in Brooklyn. The reason for the trip was to have dinner with the students from The Old School back in 1999. Jessie from LA, Spiro Baltimore, Sharon from Israel all gathered at Durado and Segali's. Leila drew me a valentine. The next day Shewho, Smokey and i ate chocolates and watched chick flicks in bed. We ordered spicy Vietnamese sandwiches and I pulled out about 2pm, ready to get home.
   The shack was cold. I started a hot fire and thought about cleaning the place up. But that was about as far as it went. My stomach was rumbling from all the booze, chocolate and Vietnamese food. I don't know how to put this delicately.....so I'll just say it. I had to take a mighty shit. I sat down on the old seat and let 'er rip. Gawd that felt good. My relief was temporary. You see, the previous night's spicy hot soup had obviously waited to be joined by the flaming Viet sauce, in order to act as some sort of rocket fuel blasting through my intestines. My asshole was never informed as to what was coming.
   Dancing around the bathroom, my pants down about my ankles, I grabbed the heretofore strictly decorative bright yellow and red plastic can of Anti-monkey butt wipes. This had been a gag Xmas gift from Shewho. Nothing was funny about this. FUCK! There was a silver foil seal. I quickly plunged a toothbrush through it, reaching the cooling wipes. I unrolled one and applied the moist cloth to my......ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Damn that felt good. The soft wipes were designed to "pop" through a star shaped hole in the bright red top. It looked like if i could just stuff one through the hole with my finger......Remember my pants are still around my ankles.
   I forced the rag through the hole with the tip of the middle finger of my left hand. And when I do, the points of that plastic asshole clamp down on my finger tip like a bear trap- forward it gets worse. Backward? There's no backing out without shredding my finger tip like razored Chinese handcuffs. I run, wobble, fall into the kitchen, looking for a sharp knife, realizing without my glasses I'll likely cut my finger off. Bare assed, screaming in pain, I'm finally am able to find my glasses and a pair of scissors that will cut free my now bloody finger tip from the plastic top. I now know what those turtles feel like with those six pack rings around their heads. Still, after all that, I hope that's the last time I have to go into the city for a while. There's no place like home.

I CONFESS

2012-02-09T05:15:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite quotes of all time is by that crazy fuck L. Ron Hubbard- "Science fiction is OK. But if you want to make some real money start a religion." Working in MO David North (the art producing wing of the CLGM) the quote ran through my head as i arranged bleached deer bones on the table. I had run out of eye medicine (both prescription and otherwise) a while back and I couldn't tell if it was the smoking Ker-o-sun heater or my peepers, but the room was lost in a haze. I was broke and didn't know where my next dollar was coming from. Sad to say this was not unfamiliar territory to me. So as i adjusted the sooty heater it occurred to me where I could get some quick cash- the collection plate.
Over the past couple of years we've done five CLGMs. Unlike L. Ron I never set money as a goal for the church. Hell, everybody knows you have have to burn a dollar to get in. But, not to be completely out done by the others, we do pass the plate. Up until this day I'd just stuffed the cash in a jar and forgotten about it. I bet there was a few hundred bucks stashed away in the emergency church fund. Was this not an emergency? I called Dr. X. The Dr. was in.
The Dr. had been treating me for some time for my glaucoma. When things get tight I have to miss my appointments and forgo my medicine. Life of the unemployed artist is one of constant triage. I need rear brakes but the front ones can wait. I have four cats but two dishes of food should suffice. I can do without.....but not without sight. My hand plunged into the jar. Greasy fives, tens and even a few twenties were stuffed in my pocket. All toll I pulled out about $200. I bought $150 of eye medicine and $20 of kerosene. The remainder i still have squirreled away. The room is still hazy but now I know it's not the smokey heater. I CAN SEE! Forgive me.

MORGANE

2012-02-04T05:57:00.001-08:00

ART AND DEATH

2012-02-04T05:16:00.000-08:00

   I've always been firm in my belief that it is just as important to stop things as it is to start them. That said, I draw the line at the ultimate free will decision given all of us- suicide. Not that I've never considered it. I don't think there's too many artists out there (successful or not) who haven't at least in passing, thought of eating a bullet. It seems to come with the territory. This past week has been a tough one in the arts and entertainment world. Two major figures, SOUL TRAIN'S Don Cornelius and the king of messy, arrested development, punk-boy art Mike Kelley both took it upon themselves to leave this mortal coil. After all the sadness and glowing tributes to both, what are we left with? Why?
   According to anecdotal accounts Mike's was over a woman. I haven't heard Don's reason. The fact is anything short of having a terminal illness and taking things in your own hands.....and even that seems a cop out, just sounds hollow. Death has always indirectly fascinated me in my work. I bought and branded a cow in 1980 only to have get hit and killed by a truck. My plan was to let it live a natural life. Turned out it's natural life was only a year. These days I hunt and kill animals as part of my art process. Their deaths literally feed my artistic community. That is my concern (above my personal and artistic selfishness). I know if I committed suicide my community would be incredibly disappointed. They'd kill me. Didn't Mike and Don think of this?
   In 2000 I purchased a small piece of woods surrounded by cemeteries in order to have a place to spread the ashes of the congregation. If nothing else I want my work to out live me. The community responded positively. They also want to be remembered fondly. We all have a finite amount of time. Like MY COW it may be cut short by a pick up truck. If it is, so be it. Or like some, you may hit 100 and still be kicking. The CLGM has few rules- no spitting, arm punching or berating your friends in public. I'd like to add another one. NO SUICIDES! There's no room in my cemetery for quitters. Otherwise, die old and leave a mess. I prepare a place for you.

ERIN BROCKOVICH AND THE MYSTERIOUS TICS OF LE ROY

2012-02-03T09:56:00.000-08:00

  Sometimes an arbitrary news item catches me. It happened back in 1978 when I read in the paper about a kid cleaning up an alley in SF. It was a nowhere, nothing fluff piece on a kid in the Tenderloin. When the media attention died down I got to know that kid and documented the process in my piece MISSIONARY (the extended family as sculpture). This piece, more than any other, set the tone for my life's work. Last night I had a similar experience. I was watching the evening news when a story came on reporting a mysterious illness that had hit the upstate town of Le Roy, NY. It seems that 14 teenage girls, one boy and a 35 year woman have developed symptoms that mirror Tourettes Syndrome. In varying degrees of severity, all exhibit tics, both verbal and physical. This has been going on since October, but only recently has it gained the attention of the International media. NYS Health Dept. has supposedly tested all possible environmental causes and sided with doctors from The Dent Institute who have diagnosed this as a case of mass hysteria brought on by the stress of being a teenager. Are you shitting me? There should be millions of them.
   Enter Erin Brockovich, the crusading lawyer played by Julia Roberts in the 2000 movie of the same name. Contacted by the sister of one of the afflicted girls, Ms. Brockovich has come on scene to independently test soil, air and hopefully everything else that can be tested, in order to get to the bottom of this mystery. If nothing else there's another movie in it.
   Since seeing this story last night, little else has been on my mind. (OK it's winter and I'm unemployed.) But, my God, to explain away a cluster of people with debilitating tics as some sort of psychosomatic herd mentality seems as outlandish an explanation as I've ever heard. Yet, these doctors cite historical evidence to the contrary- a school in Virginia, one in Boston, etc. According to accounts, this has happened before, usually involving female teenagers. What century are we living in?

The obvious holes in this theory are #1. There is now a boy and a grown woman exhibiting these symptoms. #2. Brockovich and her team have uncovered evidence of a chemical spill in 1970, not that far from the school. #3. The school had drainage issues from day one, having to close on occasion to deal with flooding. #4. Poisoning by various substances, like mercury, can cause similar symptoms. Now, I'm no scientist, but if I was a parent the first thing I would do would be get my kid as far away from Le Roy, NY as possible and see if she or he got better. For now the mystery only deepens. My niece is an ace speech pathologist who lives in Syracuse, not far from Le Roy. I think a road trip may be in order.

WHAT IS A DONKEY PUNCH

2012-01-24T13:14:00.000-08:00

   The other night I was snuggled up to the wood stove in single digit country, when the phone rang. "Hello." "Hello." "Who's this?" "Who's this?" By now I usually hang up or figure out who's yanking my chain. Right before I clicked off..."Hey Uncle Mike. It's Esak." It was my nephew from the hills of Me. He and his buddy Walker Rothchild were down in this neck of woods putting on a roof in the middle of January. The weather had been so mild in Me., they figured working down here would be like vacationing in Florida. Trouble was the temps had dropped and snow was coming. Oh well. I had a big pot of venison chili on the stove and was grateful for the company. Things get lonely up here in the winter. The youth had arrived.
   The next few days the boys showed up after dark with micro-brew six packs and good herb. Walker had a good looking German Short hair pup that locked onto Ray Gilkey for a stare down. The cat was curled up in the chair and Rico the dog had his drooling snout laid right on the cushion, just inches away. Neither moved a muscle. After a while the three of us humans got tired of watching them and talk turned to politics (show business for ugly people). We speculated the pros and cons of which Republican douche bag may get the nomination. Then Walker informed me of a little known fact. "Do you know what a "Santorum" is?" I'll bite. "It's the viscous coating of ass fluid and cum that covers your dick after anal sex." At that the cat blinked and a blur of teeth, claws, screams, growls and fur erupted five feet off the ground. Ray got a good swipe in and I think for a split second was caught between Rico's jaws. Walker grabbed Rico and Ray escaped up the loft ladder. "Jesus! That's disgusting." I said when everything died down. And I don't mean the animals.
   The internet is a beautiful thing. When Rick Santorum compares gay sex with animal fucking, some smart geek fag gets on Wikipedia and look out. I just got used to Reverse Cow Girl. I had no idea how many terms there were out there for various positions and perverse sexual activities. Not to be out done Esak asked if I knew what "Riding the bull" was? I just shrugged. "Next time you are having sex from behind lean over and whisper into the person's ear- "I've got AIDS." Then see how long you can hang on." Sensing a theme here? Ray sat on the ladder and didn't take his eyes off the dog. "What's a Donkey Punch?" I asked. I truly didn't know. Earlier that night I had flipped by TMZ. The whole bunch was giggling at a wrong answer on JEOPARDY. The answer was A BLOW TO THE BACK OF THE NECK NAMED AFTER AN ANIMAL. The guy buzzed in and confidently said "What is a Donkey Punch." TMZ cracked up, as Alex never faltered. I had no idea what the joke was. Want to know what it is? Google it. I'm too disgusted. Just know it's not quite as bad as being Gingriched.

DELIVER ME

2012-01-19T07:13:00.000-08:00

   My feud with NYSEG (New York State Electric and Gas) continues. Yesterday I received another call informing me my lights would be turned off for non-payment of $150 bill. I don't know about you, but I've paid for my electricity all my adult life and think it's a bit extreme to cut off the juice of a good customer, in the middle of winter, for this paltry sum. I told the woman I had just sent out the check (true dat). She said that the disconnect order was still in effect and I would have to call this number and....I cut her off and informed her that talking to her should suffice. "The check's in the mail. Cancel the disconnect order. I'm not calling any...." Then the line went dead. She'd hung up on me. The lights flickered.....but remained on. Phew.
   With the news yesterday of Obama stopping the Keystone pipeline it got me to once again thinking about power and it's delivery to the masses. I'm no different than most, completely dependent on my car and truck in order to make money. When gas goes up I make less. So I'm all for cheap, domestic oil and gas, but at what price? Do I want to give up the beautiful countryside for generations to come, as well as clean water and peace of mind, just for a couple of bucks? Fracking is a real threat in my backyard. So I can relate to how those farmers and ranchers feel out west. Pipelines for jobs? No way. One spill and you are fucked. Not worth it.
   We've just gotten the first taste of all the extreme weather to come. The fragility of the electrical (and oil and gas) delivery infrastructure is more and more apparent with every storm. For years I've suggested burying electrical, cable and telephone wires as a way of protecting them from snow, wind, flooding and minivans. As a fringe benefit, imagine looking across the road without having the view marred by poles and drooping wires. Of course it's much cheaper to set a mile of poles than digging and burying the lines. But set that against all the money spent in getting the power back on year after year as the weather gets worse. An FDR style Gov. work program could do the trick.
   A few of my kin are off the grid and I applaud them. But that's not for me. I need my juice and I'm willing to pay for it. Sure, once in a while I get a little behind on my bill.But should I constantly be at their mercy? Until the customized hamster wheel I've been modifying for the cats is finished and hooked up to the car batteries on the porch, I'll still be obliging to NYSEG. The next time that woman calls I'm going to suggest my wire burying idea. Maybe I'll get a break on my bill for having a good idea. Didn't a couple of bicycle mechanics invent the airplane?

ATHENA AT WOLF LAKE

2012-01-18T10:24:00.001-08:00

SHOOTINGWITHSUPERMODELS

2012-01-15T16:35:00.001-08:00

TAKE A SUPERMODEL SHOOTING

2012-01-15T16:25:00.000-08:00

Winter finally arrived this weekend. Temps went into the single digits and an inch of snowed turned into the frozen tundra. At last i could face the beast, instead of merely anticipating it. The hawk was at the door. I treated myself to a new kerosene heater (one that actually heats without the carbon monoxide). The woodstove is packed with burning logs and I wear a light coat inside. So I'm pretty comfortable. I'm not a sports fan so I can't even pass the time with the play offs. Jints will probably let everyone down anyway. In these bleak days I usually can at least look forward to Shewho coming up on the weekends, and reminding me to wash. But I haven't seen her in 2012. She left New Years Eve and has been stuck in town for one reason or another ever sense. This leaves the usual bunch of hicksters, none of which I was in any hurry to entertain and no invites were forthcoming. Then I got a call from my favorite client supermodel Hollie Witchey.
The Hollie Witchey Project is the only paying gig on my plate these days. Since 2007 I've done three projects- The White Sulphur Springs Project with Samm Kunce, WSSP II with Tessa Hughes Freeland and Carlo McCormick and HWP. The restoring of old houses, as art for close friends and remaining gainfully employed (and still friends) has paid off. I've known Hollie about five years and she's one of my favorite people, so when i get a call to come to dinner with the boss I perk up. Plus she said her French friend Sandi was coming for the weekend. I think I'll shower. As a good boss myself, I drug Levi along for a lovely evening of wine, cheeze and lamb chops with two beautiful blond supermodels. He didn't complain. I don't pay much, but the perks are good. As we got drunker, talk turned to guns. I guess you can blame Hollywood, but for some reason hot girls all want to shoot guns. Who was I not to grant their wish. I promised on Sunday I'd bring the guns.
Today, after a little thrift store shopping with the girls, I packed the .22, 9 mm. and 20 ga. into the
Neon with a duffle bag of ammo and went out in back of Hollie's barn to teach the supermodels how to safely handle firearms. It was about 10 degrees. Between the wind blowing the Coors cans off the bench, the bitter cold and my guns that hadn't been clean in a while, it didn't take long for things to start misfiring and jamming. Still, the ladies hung in there and were excellent students. The light was failing and I'm sure the sights on the guns were off. As we finished up, my hands frozen, Sandi and Hollie posed holding the guns, big smiles on their beautiful faces. I went to take the perfect shot for huntingwithsupermodels and the batteries on my camera went dead. Next time.

CENSORED KERN GIRLS IN OLD SCHOOL

2012-01-13T08:04:00.001-08:00

NEA TO RESUME INDIVIDUAL ARTIST GRANTS

2012-01-13T07:49:00.000-08:00

Sorry. That's a lie. The issue is why the fuck not? Way back in the 80's I was lucky enough to get two NEA grants- the first in 1984 and the second in 1989. Both were controversial and most likely wouldn't have happened were it not for artists who really supported and understood my work being on the panels. You know who you are. Then that Jesse Helms, Mapplethorpe, Finley mess ensued and the NEA buckled under political pressure, severing it's support to individuals and replacing it with support of organizations- much less risky. These artists were way more visible and successful than I AND used sex in a more overt way. They were easy targets. This was the beginning of the dark age of PC and the rise of the ultra-rich artist right alongside the poor and obscure. Like on main street, the middle class was extinguished.
So as I sit here, the wind howling and temperature dropping, huddled up to the woodstove, alternating between the computer and the cold studio, I think back to those good old days when I could convince a panel of peers to give me money for being in a rock band, pulling prints from tattoos or branding a cow. Alas, these days are long gone and if there is an agency out there that would fund my hunting/art career I'd like to know about it. That said, more importantly, what about the youngsters? Art students are now encouraged to set up their "Practice", like a lawyer or doctor may do, and do good professional art. For some, of course, this approach works perfectly. There will always be a few good looking artists who do good looking work, who will rise to the top and have great careers. But what about that sullen, ugly, fat girl in the corner doing work that nobody likes? The NEA was for her. She's forced to change or give up. Neither works.
I think enough time has passed. The internet has numbed us all to sex. Mapplethorpe boners look quaint. This agency should have a complete makeover. Has anybody brought this up with Mrs. Obama? Hell, she tore up the lawn and put a garden in. Maybe she'd be into it. I think hubby is a lost cause. I don't think he took art in school. He thinks we're all losers. I need a reason to go to the post office and get my mail, tear open that government envelope and read: "Congratulations....." Ah, the good old days.

THE OSTERHOUT NARRATIVE

2012-01-12T09:36:00.000-08:00

  Google this and chapt. 7 of a 19th century book on the Catskills (Schoharie Co. in particular) comes up. Osterhout is a common name in these hills, but more than likely these were distant kin. The chapter documents the fam. back to pre-independence, French and Indian War times. The "Negroes" and "Indians" do not fair well in this telling of my gnarled family tree's involvement with the Brits, as well as the revolutionaries. Put in the most patriotic of terms....we were fucking Americans in a time and place that produced the term. As they say, you can't pick your family or the country you were born in.
   Yet there are traits of pure ornery distain for authority that seem to have survived through the centuries. I can relate when the old man gets whacked with the General's cane, or cussed out by the Captain, only to stand his ground and prevail. Like my ancestors I do not take kindly to the voice of authority. In the end the old man gets pushed off a wagon, murdered for some land and cash.....not by an enemy, but a friend. Lesson to be learned? I can't find one.
   To have an account of ordinary (not public figures) blood kin that far back is fascinating. The men and the women were tough, mean, complex, pioneer, racist, Indian killers. Told by the grandson in the 1860's, his account of his grandparents is of it's day, a time when Blacks and Indians were still thought of as less than human. But to somehow sugar coat it would not do anyone justice. It is probably as accurate an account as you will get. On a cold snowy day in the Catskills, 400 years later, the narrative continues.

MO DAVID NORTH- Studio view

2012-01-10T09:45:00.000-08:00

MORE BORING ART

2012-01-10T09:40:00.000-08:00

A little over a week into the new year and hunting season seems a way too distant memory. My life structured around the weather, the rut, the lock down, the weather still, the moon, the second rut.....as i rise way before dawn and get home to a cold stove after dark, is sorely missed. What's left? A light work sched. and art. I've taken over the porch (MO David North) as my studio. Neither Shewho nor I have completely decided to close the doors, but it's in the wind. I'm definitely leaning towards moving on. MO David as a concept is a good one- make the context the content. But I have to admit dealing with other artists isn't always fun. In fact it can become downright ponderous. So in the meantime I'm bleaching bones and dripping deer blood onto plates. It's relaxing.
My facebook artfaggery continues as I hype the new church, now called WAY TOO GAY NOT BLACK ENOUGH EMERGENCY CIRCUS FOXY BOXING CHURCH OF THE LGM, and argue relevant points of art interest. For some reason people are questioning super rich artists who don't actually make their own work, like Koons and Hirst. I thought Duchamp settled this point in 1911? Another point was made about hoping 2012 would produce no boring art. IFF! No boring art? That really takes a lot of us out of the game. Try sitting in a tree day after day, seeing nothing but slowly passing clouds and try not to be bored. We as artists should embrace boredom. The rest of you can try to avoid it. Watch America's Got Way Too Much Talent and try not to be bored. Boredom is such a giant part of my life I have no idea what I'd do without it. Unlike Koons and Hirst, I do my own work. But if I had the money I'd be right behind those guys outsourcing it. I see no conflict.
I'm thinking about doing a little coyote hunting, but I haven't gotten passed the pondering stage. The wind's kicking up and even though it's probably in the high thirties, no one is used to it. It feels fucking cold. Global warming has screwed our winter. There's no snow, and barely frost in the ground. The lakes have thin ice, so I haven't even seen Bobby R. and Savage for an afternoon of ice fishing. To fight the boredom I had Hollie Witchey and Levi Barrett over to the shack for a back strap feast last night. It worked. We drank wine, laughed and plotted the spring church. Before Xmas I had found a great vintage boxing bell at Dick Benjamin's. I proposed Hollie fight another super model at church. She agreed and instead threw down the challenge to Horst. Perfect! At the sound of the bell.....come out fighting. Not that's some boring art!

WAITING FOR AN INVITATION

2012-01-01T07:11:00.000-08:00

  SOUTH PARK is on the TV. It's the episode where the guinea pigs, rats, bees and bunnies take over the world. It's a good one. I'm cracking up on the couch all alone. The last night of the year finds me with a bottle of Nyquil, next to a bottle of Hennesy on the table, wrapped in a blanket, sniffling and coughing. Shewho is off with the McCormicks at Hollie Witchey's House of Enchantment bringing in the New Year. I've opted to stay in the shack, feed the fire and drown my cold with booze and cough syrup. "Happy Rocking New Year." drools Dick Clark. Why do they keep trotting that poor fuck out? He looks like he's having a stroke as the ball drops. If this is any indication of what's coming....lets hope the Mayan calendar is right.
   Earlier Shewho and I sat on the couch and talked resolutions. Her's are classified. Mine is the same every year. Get a career. I don't mean choose a career. That was settled 40 years ago. I mean have that chosen career gather enough momentum to sustain a meager economic flow. Enough to pay the phone, TV, and electric bills. Rich and famous? Not even close. Closing in on 60, all I want is a couple of opportunities to strut my stuff, show, and maybe make a sale or two. Need I remind you all again that Cady Noland sold a multiple for $6.7 mil.? Does that make sense to anyone?
   But enough of that. It's been a good year. In fact my 50's (the last nine years) have been great. I got a little money in the bank from carpentry and real estate. The house and church are paid for. Shewho, Smokey and I are a little family unit. The truck and car still run. The LGM is back in full swing. MO David returned for a minute. My health is good. The Old Man died, but mom is still kicking, and sweet as ever. For some reason I look to New Years (more than Thanksgiving) as a time to take stock and give thanks for all I have. And I have a lot. Resolutions? Sure it's always the same one. Even when I say I could give a shit.....you all know I do. I just want to be asked. HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE.

SUPER CONVENIENT POST-SEASON PRE-CHRISTMAS CAR CRASH

2011-12-22T10:02:00.000-08:00

I had just talked to Shewho an hour before. "Be careful driving and call me when you get home." I said and went back to skinning out the buck head I had sitting on the coffee table. I can't afford the taxidermist this year and these two bucks deserve better than just sawing off the antlers. So I'm skinning, cooking and stripping the skulls. After that who knows. Diamonds? Naw. Too Damien Hirst. Then the phone rang. "Hiiiiiiiii....." It was Shewho. By the sound of her voice I knew something was wrong. "I just got in a bad accident......I'm OK......Oh man........" My mind kicked into overdrive. "Where are you?" She had driven off the mountain, back towards NYC and made it almost to the Palisades when traffic came to a screeching halt. She slammed on the brakes on the wet road and lost control. Spinning across two lanes of traffic she crashed into the concrete median on the driver's side. "Here comes the cops. I'll call you right back. I don't think the car can be driven." And she hung up.
   I went back to scrapping meat from the buck's skull. Pea soup fog shrouded the mountain. I waited in shock. When the phone rang again another voice was on the end of the line. "Hi. This is the paramedic. We are taking Shewho to Nyack Hospital." "What? I thought she was fine?" The paramedic took a deep breath. "Well......when someone is in a car that experiences such damage.....we have to take her in." OK. I got in the truck and headed for Nyack. My mind was racing. Was she really OK? My night vision isn't too good these days and the 1984 Ford pick up I drive is not exactly lit up. I had all I could do to read the instructions to the hospital. I have no cell phone, nor obviously map quest. Pencil, paper and a good sense of direction got me to the emergency room.
   Shewho has many names. When I asked the girl at the desk if Shewhocannotbenamed was admitted? She looked at me blankly. Then I went through the list of her other names. She had a hit on her second ex-husband's last name. Bingo. I followed her instructions through the hallways. There sat Shewho talking to a young Dr., looking no worse for the wear. Oh yeah, I kinda looked like a hillbilly. I hadn't even changed out of my hunting clothes- rubber boots, camo and orange hat. "Looks like we got you out of the woods." a nice nurse commented. "If she acts goofy bring her back in." The Dr. said as he shook my hand. I cracked that that would probably be before we left the parking lot. I have never gotten in and out of a hospital so fast and had such nice people take care of a loved one and wish us both Merry Christmas with such genuine good will. If you are gonna get in an accident I highly recommend you tell the paramedics to take you to Nyack Hospital.
   Now it's the day after and it all has had a chance to sink in, just how wrong this could've gone. I haven't seen the car, but by all accounts (aside from Shewho's) it was totaled. She is sooooooooo lucky and in turn so am I. Deer season is over. I shot two bucks and a doe. I am surrounded by good people- both family and friends. Xmas is coming and Shewho, Smokey and I are going to share it with Chuck, Tessa and Cardinal Tristan out at WSS. After last night the true meaning of being blessed is seared into my brain. HAPPY AND SAFE HOLIDAYS TO ONE AND ALL.

DOMESTICATED WOMEN

2011-12-19T05:55:00.000-08:00

DEAD MAN SHOOTS DEER

2011-12-19T05:41:00.000-08:00

  It's been a long season, and it's just about over. Muzzle loader ends on Tuesday. I've been in the woods for so many days, some things have fallen between the cracks. My TV service has been terminated and a pink slip in my front door (that I didn't notice for week) informed me that my electricity is to be shut off. I've spent the morning trying to get through to NYSEG on numbers that don't work. Want to piss me off? Tell me you are going to turn off my lights and make it as hard as possible to speak to someone about it. Finally I got through to someone and he took offense with my use of "damn" as in "Your damn phone #s don't work." "Sir, please do not use profanity." he officiously stated. "Damn is not really profanity....YOU FUCKING CUNT!" I informed him as the phone went dead. My phone service had been shut off.
   This morning's frustrating episodes aside, it's been an incredible season. We had a nice venison feast on Sat. night. In attendance- Savage Lynch and wife June Bug, Mupp and Ginger, Slick and Beeks, Diamond Dave and Asher, Buddy, Sarah Birka and Feetus Budde, Annie C., Drekes, Andrew and Junie Caprice, Marianna Louise and Horst, Tricky Traviss, Hollie Witchey, Sombrero Paul and Justin the Dog Whisperer, George Holz, who did I forget? Oh, of course Shewho on the eggnog and by my side at the stove. Could never survive without her. The backstrap was served, consumed and all approved. The booze flowed. As the the evening progressed I sat there with a big shit eating grin on my puss. Hollie pointed out how happy (3 deers down) I seemed. They were all hard earned. It takes a lot to make this hunter happy. But she was right. I was down right giddy surrounded by this bunch.
   Talk switched to deer- legal and illegal. Mupp and I scored opening day and much to Savage's dismay we didn't tag our bucks, allowing us to keep an open tag, and hunt the rest of the season. On the whole, all of us are pretty legal, but sometimes it's the spirit, if not the letter of the law, that prevails. Savage was no one to talk. For years he's carried multiple tags in his pocket. "I bet you still have Ray Gilkey's tag, don't you?" (Ray had died years ago.) He had a sheepish smile on his face. "I have to admit I did get one deer posthumously." Ray always let Savage hunt his farm and provided him with extra tags. Savage continued. "Ray gave me his tag and died before the season over. I wasn't gonna tell the DEC that the buck was killed by a dead man. Don't write that in your blog." Too late.

LAMBCHOP

2011-12-15T15:00:00.000-08:00

   I like farmers. I grew up in Montgomery, NY, along side the Wallkill River, surrounded by farms. Vanderlee's dairy farm bordered our lot. Down the road was Brach's and The Hawkins farm. Across the fields was my friend Tommy Moroney's place. In between were corn, hay, bean and potato fields The smell of cow shit is very familiar to me. But I'm no farmer. When I was a kid I would help Tommy with his chores and enjoy it. But I could go home and watch TV. It's a little like being an uncle. I dig the kids, but I can always leave 'em to their parents. Farming, like having kids, was way too much work.
  As I got older I met and made friends with other generational farmers. The Rowe farm in Maybrook and the Key farm in Cooperstown are two examples. Then there was Ray Gilkey- now dead, my neighbor, friend, and royal pain in my ass. I miss the hell out of him. He started as a shop teacher, then retired, inherited his uncle's farm and died at 85, raising beefalo.
   These days I'm friends with loads of "farmers". The "" are because their farms are by no means traditional, and may not last a generation. Time will tell if the quotes come off. There's Asher and Diamond Dave's TRUSSBRIDGE FARM- a nice medium sized (and expanding) organic veggie operation down by the river. Drekey and Andrew's sustainable, experimental, crazy smart set up above Ellenville. RNButch's MADISON HILL FARM- complete with camels, ostriches, and Dennis the Big Dick Donkey. Slick and Beeka's Rabbit Bikini farm over in Woodridge. Supermodel's pay big bucks for the bikinis made from just the whiskers and eye lashes. And last, but by no means least, Buddy Budde and Sarah Birka Budde's MAJESTIC FARM- goats, sheep, pigs, turkeys, etc. All carved out of the rocky woods- like they used to. And this brings me to the reason I got off on this farmer tangent.

   I set my pop up blind above the bridge on GNJohn's mountain. I was in the blind before first light. It was supposed to rain, but so far it was holding off. I heard something coming. It was way before shooting light. But even in the dark I could see it was a big sheep. Lambchop had escaped the Thanksgiving sheep round up and had been running loose in these hills ever since. She's obviously survived deer season in good shape. I bleated on my call and she stopped. The Buddes had given me instructions to shoot on sight. A dead sheep was worth more than no sheep. Maybe I could keep her around until it was light enough to shoot.
   As the dark maw that had belched her into sight lightened and took shape, I slowly raised the muzzle loader. She kept feeding and looked in great shape. Then I realized there was no way I could shoot her. That's another big reason I'm not a farmer. Hunting's one thing. Putting the hammer down on Lambchop was another. About noon I came home and called Buddy. He was glad I didn't kill her and wanted a chance to catch her.
In the afternoon I moved the blind down the ridge and god dammit there was the sheep again. I spooked two deer going in and didn't see another thing but that bounding sheep all afternoon. I was thinking twice about shooting her. At dark I went back to the truck. There, behind the writer's cabin, on a big rock, stood Lambchop, a perfect broadside shot. I raised the gun and put the crosshairs right behind her shoulder. My thumb caressed the hammer........."Bang." I whispered. Then Lambchop bounced across the rocks, like a goat into the night. I just ain't no farmer.

JULIA RESTOIN ROITFELD WEARING KIKI de MONTPARNASSE

2011-12-06T19:26:00.001-08:00

STREET? YOU AIN'T STREET.

2011-12-06T08:42:00.000-08:00

   I didn't hunt this morning. It's sixty degrees and raining off and on. I decided to get up at 7:00 am, check in with my facebook fags and see what's been happening while I slept. I've tried to load up my friends list with as many artfags as I can. I don't need to see baby pictures or sunsets from planes. I want to know what's going on in the so-called artworld. Of course if you shoot a big one....post away.
   My first encounter was with Jane Harris, an art history prof. at SVA. She had posted an opinion. She was dismayed concerning artists who seemed down with OWS jetting off to Miami Basel to suck up to the 1%. Now, I wouldn't be caught dead at Miami Basel, but I don't begrudge any artist exchanging finger food and bon mots with the rich if they can get themselves to that shindig on somebody's tip. That said, I agree how distastefully the whole thing is. My comment was "Blame the game not the playa." Well, then followed a flurry of comments, pro and con for sucking cock under the table of the privileged. I couldn't resist. I weighed in on the benefits of a day job and the failings of academia to properly warn the glut of MFA's coming into the market that there's no room for them. Of course I ended with a holier- than- thou proclamation of "strapping on the hammer and going to work."
   In reality I took off work today to wash my hunting clothes, find all my muzzle loader crap, sight in the gun, move my pop up stand, and of course, write this blog and argue with artfags on facebook. It's fucking 60 DEGREES! Nothing's gonna move until the temps drop. Good news is- it's coming. So, before I drive to Monticello to dry my warm clothes, let me just say....... I have worked my entire career at something other than what I wanted to be doing, only to find out I had developed my own unique type of artist. Artist....not art. It's the artist as working man. I failed in quitting my day job, only to make my day job my art. WSSP, WSSP II, and the HOLLIE WITCHEY PROJECT are testament to my success in this effort. I don't sell my art perse, rather a more useful skill like carpentry. All my personalities are complete failures. MO David, Richard Mauwra, Kiristan Kohl, Tobias Yves Zintel are big disappointments. We fucking burn MONEY in the Church of the Little Green Man. But Mike Osterhout (the carpenter/artist) still pays the bills. My street cred. is intact. You think you're street? You better check under the table. You ain't street.

THE LYNCH REPORT

2011-12-03T06:55:00.000-08:00

I've got a buck and a doe on the ground. So, with meat in the freezer it's time to check in with Savage Lynch......in his own words.

   "During the rut I hunted behind the house in the morning and in the afternoon drove up the mountain to hunt the high stand. On 11/11 I had a nice heavy, dark eight come down the hill. I could see it was a shooter. I drew back and waited. Two more steps and I had him. Then, out of the blue he spun and headed back up the hill. I had the wind. I didn't know what spooked him. Then I looked down. A wind breaker I had draped over the shooting bar had slipped off and fell to the ground. Just bad luck."

   Opening night dinner at Mupp's found Mupp, Beaver and I with bucks and Savage with nothing. This was Topsy-Turvey World. I think it was the first time in deer hunting history that the three of us had scored and Savage came up empty. What was going on?

"I hardly saw anything the first week, no shooters."

Milawyer (Savage's bro) came up from West Virginia and Mupp and I joined them to put on drives around here. We saw deer, but no horns. It's always a blast to hunt with these guys. At the end of the day we sat in my cold kitchen drinking and bullshitting, until the wives started calling. Two days later the phone rang.

"Savage here. They've been putting on drives over at the farm. No shooters but they've been taking does and even put out a bear on one drive- a little one. No one shot it. Bobby and I went over to hunt that property near the trestle. I saw some does on the edge, near the property line. So I belly crawled up to get a better look. Turned out there was a six and a small eight with them. I decided to pass on the eight and get on one of the does. But they kept moving away and I couldn't get a shot. Then I was kicking myself for passing on the eight. I got on the radio and told Bobby I was going to try to get a little closer. Then before I could move, the eight reappeared. I had a good steady rest on my belly pack. He gave me a broadside shot and I dropped him. Finally! Meat in the freezer. Savage out."

BUTT GRUNT

2011-11-28T15:24:00.000-08:00

  Since opening day it's been slow. The weather's been a bitch, warm, calm. The rut's over. Everything's ground to a halt. Even on the weekend, with the Italians and Serbs and Russians running around in bright orange camo, I've barely heard a shot. The last good buck sighting I had was the day it rained last week. I set up my pop up high on GNJohn's mountain and waited out the downpours, dry and comfortable. When it let up around noon, I backed out and got in the truck. I figured on going home and grabbing a bite. As I looked behind Gilkey's barn I spotted a large deer, head down, munching the grass. He raised his head. Nice buck.
  I continued to the writer's cabin turn off and opened the truck door. Big mistake. He had a direct line of sight. I closed the door and the buck spun into the swamp. I quickly backed the truck up and parked in the mush by Deniston Hill House. I had an old ladder against a big cherry tree on the roadside edge of the swamp. The wind was in my face, right off the river. I crept up on the ladder and waited. If he had a hot doe in the swamp, I was sure he would run her by me at some point. I waited. A doe skirted the field and went in the thick stuff. The afternoon passed...... At dark I went back to the truck, now sunk up to the hubs in mud. Thankfully a good soul stopped with a 4X4 and a chain and pulled me out. But before I could head back up the hill, another car pulled over. It was two women passing out posters of a lost pitbull. I told them I had their dog outside my house that morning, with his front paws on my french doors. My suggestion was for them to go up to the church and call. I went home to straighten my legs.
   Within the hour, one of the women was at my door trying to stuff a twenty in my palm. They'd found "Diesel" the pitbull. I wouldn't take the money. Getting that dog out of my woods was payment enough. The only other story worth telling is getting 12 year old Church Cardinal Tristen Epic up at 6:00 am and out in the woods. We walked straight up his mountain in the pre-dawn. Within 5 mins. he had informed me "We aren't going to see anything." I told him to think positive. In another 5 mins. he told me that again. I heard leaves crunching and told him "Heads up." Then I saw it was a squirrel. Fuck. I really wanted to get a deer in front of him. I had him out in the Spring for turkey and all we saw was a deer. "Fucking squirrel." The Cardinal informed me. I made a couple of soft grunts on my call, explaining "It may get a buck's interest." Then as if he was planning it all along, the Cardinal farted, looked at me and in a whispered voice said "Butt grunt." He was right. We didn't see anything.

MAJESTIC FARM BUCK

2011-11-21T05:19:00.001-08:00

IT TAKES A CONGREGATION

2011-11-21T05:13:00.000-08:00

   The night before we went down to Mupp and Ginger's for Betheroo's birthday bash. I was beat. Up every morning at 5 am was taking it's toll. Nonetheless the next day still held the mystique of Xmas morning. I couldn't wait to get home and snuggle in the covers. I told Shewho and Smokey to follow me in their car. Shewho does not have the best sense of direction. By the time I reached 17K her headlights had disappeared in my rearview. That was a record for even her. I turned the truck around and pulled up along side her. "I hit a deer." she moaned, still shaken. Peta member Smokey was on full meltdown. I surveyed the damage. The plastic bumper and grill were cracked but not much else. Deer are tough creatures. I reassured them that the deer was most likely OK and we continued up the mountain. Either way the shooting started at dawn.
   I had set my stand high on the mountain, in the back of the Majestic Farm. I love this spot. I'd hunted it last year and got a big buck during muzzle loader season. The Budde's (who own the farm) are gracious enough to give me free rein. It's away from the usual Sullivan County rat-a-tat-tat of city hunters over by the church. Buddy Budde and I had it to ourselves.
   A lone doe slowly walked through at first light. Then another one, followed by a spike. By 9 am I'd had a big 3 pointer and 5 more does bedded down within 20 yards of my tree. The weather was mild, but not warm.....perfect. By noon I decided to go home, have a bite and quickly get back in the stand. I lowered my rifle, barrel first. Because I was strapped in I couldn't quite get the rope down. With 6 inches of slack I let loose. The shock loosened the knot and the gun stuck like a spear in the mud. FUCK! Luckily it hadn't hit a rock, but the barrel was jammed with dirt. I reamed it out with a green stick, but couldn't be sure it was clear. I remembered horror stories of hunters shooting with barrel obstructions. The lucky ones were blinded or disfigured. At lunch I cleaned the .243.
   The afternoon sit started slow. But then about 2:30 pm I heard leaves crunching. A buck was coming right towards me. I put the scope on him. He was a big bodied deer with a wide heavy rack. I could only see 6 points, but decided in a matter of seconds that I would shoot. I settled the crosshairs on his front shoulder and fired. He kicked, spun and took off on a dead run. Had I missed? Slowly I lowered the gun and got out of the tree. I went to the spot where he stood when I shot. The leaves were kicked up. I looked for blood or hair. Nothing. Damn. I followed the faint trail, scanning the forest floor. No blood. At about 50 yards I stopped, devastated. My heart sank. Had the scope been thrown off by the gun's fall? Then I turned to the right, convinced I had missed. There lay my dead deer. I breathed a sigh of relief, thanked the deer, the LGM and my lucky stars.
   The buck was a wide heavy 6, and the biggest bodied deer I'd ever shot. I gutted it and started the long drag down the mountain. A couple of hundred yards down the trail I was so sore and out of breath I realized this old man was not going to be able to get the buck out without help. I left him lay and went back to the farm. Sarah "Birka" Budde called Slick and Levi and as one of the Budde's cur dogs followed us and Sarah snapped iphone pics, we got that big buck in the truck. Thanks to all. Sometimes it takes a congregation. Today I butcher him up. Drop by for a beer and a backstrap to go.

CLOSING DAY 2011

2011-11-20T13:35:00.000-08:00

But first, lets back up a little. The last week of bow I worked a little and hunted hard. The beginning of the rut was warm, mooned up and disappointing. But late in the week, with a cold snap and a dark night, things heated up. I was hunting the hillbilly stand and every day I saw deer...in the end 3 good bucks. Oh, and I stumbled across the lost ladder stand. It was right where I had set it. In the summer I just couldn't find the thing. So I sat there a couple of times and saw nothing. Thursday I decided to walk the cemetery drive nose into the wind. But barely into an open pine woods, I spotted a steaming hot scape right under a tree, that had been gouged and rubbed by a big set of antlers. I found a big half dead tree I could climb up in and settled in for the afternoon.
By dusk I'd seen 3 does and had a small spike right under the tree. Then about a half an hour before sunset the place exploded. I was on the bottom edge of a brushy field. Does were running in all direction. I grunted and waited for the buck to step out. But nothing followed. I turned my head and looked up the hill, across the field. There stood a massive bright white eight. As he turned to disappear into the woods, I grunted again. He spun, stopped and stared me down. I didn't dare move, peeking through the bow I had propped in the crotch of the tree. I was shaking. In retrospect I probably should've grunted again, but I didn't. The buck was gone. By sunset Friday I hadn't drawn blood.

WIPE OUT CORPORATE GREED

2011-11-15T07:12:00.003-08:00

WILD LIFE

2011-11-15T07:11:00.001-08:00

  After seeing two good bucks in as many days I was back in the stand before first light. The wind had died down and things were quiet. Around 10 am I went back to the house to grab a bite to eat and ready for the long sit. I called Mupp and caught him up on the rut activity. The cap on my bottle of doe pee came off in my shirt pocket, so I stank like piss. Maybe that will work in my favor. Within an hour I was headed back to the stand.
   As I headed down the road I noticed a large flock of grackles (black birds) was spread out in the woods maybe 100 yards. There must've been a couple of thousand of them. As I continued towards the stand, they would flush with a loud whoosh, only to settle right back down and continue scratching in the leaves. This was perfect cover for me. Twenty feet from the stand I looked to the right. There was a large 8 pointer (a different buck) walking slowly away. I let him get out of sight before scurrying up the tree, as quickly and quietly as I could. I knocked an arrow and grunted into my tube. In the less than a minute I spotted the buck crossing at about 50 yards. When he cut my track I grunted again, stopping him. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity. I didn't dare grunt again. I waited, release clipped, trying to stay calm. Then he just disappeared into the woods.
   Every night I call Shewho to let her know I'm safely out of the tree and update her on my day. All conversation revolves around the animal kingdom. I've finally let the cats in for the winter. Nicole and Ray immediately go to sleep- Ray in his chair and Nicole under the wood stove. Spooky is not welcome by the other two, so meows incessantly and clings to me. Eventually I can't take it and toss him out. The mice have taken over the kitchen. The cats are no help. Yesterday I got a double in the trap and had one run across the windshield of the truck at 50 mph. The grackle phenom. continues throughout the area and the rut activity is spotty, due to a full moon and warm weather. Now it's raining and 60 degrees. My plan is to hunt. Can't kill 'em from the couch. I wonder what's happening amongst the humans?

11-11-11

2011-11-11T14:55:00.000-08:00

  According to Savage Lynch 11/13 is the hot day to be in the woods. But for me, I like 11/11. I always seem to see deer on this day. But this morning there wasn't hide nor hair. I started the day watching the sun rise from the orchard stand down by the river. It's not usually a good morning spot but I was stuck. Between the Budde dogs and Scapegoat Dave's cacophony I couldn't take the Majestic stand first thing. As I sat there my mind wandered. Then a startling thought- did I shut the wood stove door? Hmmmmmm? This happened once before a few years back. It was a foggy afternoon. The same thought went through my mind and then I heard the fire alarm. The trucks seemed to stop directly east- right about where my house was. That time I got out of the tree and drove up the hill. Through the thick fog I could see flashing lights. My heart was in my throat. A fireman stopped the car at the fork in the road. I couldn't see flames, but I smelled smoke. Then the fireman waved me through. It was the neighbor's house. Damn. That was close.
   This morning I got home to a house filled with smoke. I HADN'T shut the stove door. Luckily it was just a smoldering log. I grabbed another cup of coffee, counted my lucky stars and warmed up. There was a stiff, cold NW wind. My plan was to hunt behind the cemetery, creeping into the wind. I got back in the truck. I hadn't gone a 1/4 mile before a nice 8 point buck sauntered across the road into the woods behind the church. I turned the truck around. Change of plans. There was an old hillbilly tree stand on the other side of those woods. I headed for it. One of the steps fell off in my hands on the way up...but I made it. I knocked an arrow and grunted, scanning the woods. It wasn't two minutes before I heard leaves crunching behind me. There was a big 7 point mature buck 30 yards out and closing the distance. I couldn't believe my luck. I slowly raised the bow and as I did he stopped broadside at about 20 yards....raised his nose and spun. He was down wind and I'm sure I smelled like a fucking forest fire.
   The rest of the afternoon was slow. I saw a doe and some chasing, but nothing close. As the sun set and the wind died down I huddled in the cold, disappointed but far from discouraged. In fact I can't wait to get back in there in the morning. What I lack in ability I make up for in persistence. 11-11-11- two good bucks. I made a wish. Tomorrow,,,,,,

IFF (I'm fucking flabbergasted}

2011-11-10T10:18:00.000-08:00

   This morning I hunted Majestic. It was 60 degrees. All this warm weather and a full moon has shut things down. I never saw a deer. So about 9 am I decided to move the stand. There's a spot on the edge of a pond, with some apple trees. It's a pinch point. I detached the stand and ladder and humped it down to a split crooked tree at an opening. I sat for a bit and then decided it would be better to come back in the afternoon. The Hollie Witchey Project is starting up again, but today I have off due to client indecision. That's OK. It gives me time to sweep out the shack, do laundry, wash dishes...etc. Oh, and check in on the latest fb/Christies auction results.
   This morning was a shocker. A Cady Noland b. 1956 multiple went for $6 mil. plus. Now I don't begrudge any artist making it big, big, BIG! But I missed this one. Cady is the daughter of Kenneth Noland the painter. I like his work and Cady's, but I had no idea her work commanded such prices. I'll be the first to admit I'm out of touch in such matters, but if a Cady Noland print goes for that I'm sorry, I am forced to raise my prices. All you people out there saving your pennies in order to buy a Kohl, a Gary Ray, a Richard Mauwra, or even a Tobias Yves Zintel, forget it. There's no way you can afford me now.

MO DAVID NORTH

2011-11-09T19:06:00.001-08:00

SEX CRAZED BUCK STOPS HUNTER'S FALL FROM TREE

2011-11-09T18:32:00.001-08:00

  I'ved settled into a routine. In the morning I get up around 6:30 am, make coffee, turn on the radio and check my email. Then I click that little facebook icon. Since we don't have another church until Spring I can only post so many variations of blackface and tweek the themes so much. That leaves other people's worlds. So I comment. You have to be very careful with comments, especially if you don't really know the person your commenting on. They can take it wrong in a hurry. But that's the challenge. I like my art world "friends" for my comments. For God knows what reason I have a simultaneous fascination/revulsion for the art world and all it's twisted complexity. I so much want to be an art fag. So instead, I comment on some real art fag's page and off I go to work.
   While I'm working I'm thinking about two things- where I'm going to hunt the afternoon and why is it, at 58 I'm still ripping up carpet and stuffing other people's garbage into the back of my pick up truck for hourly wage? Then I calm down, get some perspective (the wage isn't bad) get some shit done, while I ponder rejoining my facebook friends after work in an interesting discussion concerning Richard Serra and his black cube, recently sold at auction with contextual considerations attached. Pro or con?
   But before I can do this I decide to move one of my stands up at Ralph's. I grab the shotgun, in case i see those turkeys and head up into the hay field. Just as I come upon the stand I hear a deer bust out of it's bed. I just see back and tail. Moving and hanging stands is one of my least favorite parts of deer hunting. This particular stand is a bitch. It has a hard spring catch and dangling from the stick ladder 16 feet in the air, wrestling it off the tree, can be challenging. I almost have it when feel something slip.......Im losing my footing and I'm not strapped in........then I somehow get a grasp on the branch. Jesus! Then I hear leaves crunching behind me. I stopped clanking and cussing the sign, catch my breath, turned my head and saw a 3 point buck headed right for me. He got within five yards, stopped and nosed the leaves. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was completely oblivious to me. Then he was right underneath me.
   I snorted and wheezed and he just looked at me blankly. Eventually he sauntered off. I let the stand hang, went and got some lunch, camoed up and got right back in the tree. But as you must know by now deer hunting is a frustrating business. I sat the beautiful warm November afternoon, seeing nothing. I thought of my morning comment on the disconnect between an actual working artist and a Lictenstein painting going for $43 mil. I saw a red squirrel and a woodpecker. Around four that sex crazed 3 pointer came back. I could've shot him. The rut is on.

WAY TOO GAY NOT BLACK ENOUGH MO' MONEY MENSTRUAL 99% EMERGENCY CIRCUS CHURCH OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN

2011-11-04T09:28:00.000-07:00

PRE-RUT PRAYER MEETING

2011-11-04T09:19:00.000-07:00

  I hunted Mupp's last night for the first time. I got in the woods about 3pm and wasn't in the stand 15 mins. before I caught movement coming down the hill. A doe and 2 fawns worked their way down into the brushy flat. They milled around and eventually bedded down a couple of hundred yards to my right. Then I saw a fourth, bigger deer, behind them. It looked like a buck.
   It's just before the rut kicks in here in the northeast and things are beginning to heat up. I've missed two, count 'em TWO, does. In the low light with my bad peepers I can't even tell if I'm shooting over or under them. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong." I whine to Evets Snidely, my electrician. "I know...." he offers "You're missing them." Thanks. There is not much sympathy amongst my friends. In fact they seem to get quite a kick out of my failures. Oh well. I have no choice but to get back in the stand. So I say a little prayer to the LGM and go at it again. The only thing I've changed are my arrow tips. I've switched from broadheads to expandables. The other day I even I climbed up on my roof, after setting up the target at 15 yards. I let loose. Not a bullseye, but close enough. It's not the angle.

  Hours in the stand always gives me plenty of time to ponder things. Two of my main areas of interest and subsequent expertise, are art and religion. I believe in art and do whatever I can to fuck with religion. My credentials are in order. I have degrees from both art school and seminary. I was even accepted into the phd. program at Columbia on the strength of forming my own dis-organised religion. I decided to forgo this. It was an ego thing. Academia is now cranking out "art docs" along with MFAs. It's a new boutique industry. I don't need $50,000 in debt and 4 lost years in order to be called Dr. Osterhout. You should think of me as a Dr. anyway.
   So when I read that a Boston theologian had recently written an article in a Catholic publication, citing proof of the Devil's existence in gay lust, it caught my interest. In the ensuing Gay Rights bru-ha-ha the Catholics retracted the story. This is why belief systems have gotten such a bad rap all around. I feel I'm as much of an expert on these issues as anyone. So let me just say that Organized religion of all denominations- Christian, Moslem, Hindu, Jew invented the Devil for their own political agendas and she is very easy to spot. Her bloody handprints are everywhere. So when I make fun of all these so- called organized religions, it is not without good reason and a relatively qualified voice. Now, lets get back to hunting and pray I'll make a good shot.

SLAYER OF THE PEOPLE

2011-11-01T08:41:00.000-07:00

THINGS ARE CHANGING.

2011-11-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

Two snow storms before Halloween and I still don't have a deer on the ground. I've been hitting my spot on Majestic most mornings and sitting the orchard in the afternoon. It's been hit and miss. The freak October snows had shut them down until yesterday evening. Things are changing.
   I was to go out to The Hollie Witchey Project to celebrate Mystery Girl's birthday around 7pm so I got in the stand a little early. Gilkey's fields were still covered in snow, but under the apple trees there was plenty of green and tracks. The deer had definitely been feeding at night. I didn't have to wait long. A big doe worked her way quickly across the field, right towards me around 3:30pm. I slowly rose out of my seat, clipped the release and waited......and waited. She was in no hurry. I watched her munch apples, protected by the thick canopy of still green leafed trees. Then she bedded down. It took her about an hour before she presented a shot. I came to full draw.....and she turned. Fuck. But she came closer. I let off the string and waited. Again I came to full draw. She was right below me. Before I could release the arrow, she turned again and ducked under the trees again.
   When I let off for the second time she caught me and spooked, bounding across the field towards the river. What a beautiful sight. That's how the afternoon went. More does (some big, some small), a little spike, weaved in and out of range. The wind was out of the SE. Perfect. Finally I had a shot at a small doe as the bigger one snorted and stomped behind me in the field. I pulled back and let loose. The place exploded, deer running in every direction. The little doe joined the spike and big doe heading for the opposite ridge. I'd missed clean. I shot right under her belly. Damn. In retrospect I don't think I was thoroughly committed to the shot. I felt disappointed, but not too much. What an afternoon!
   After a great supermodel birthday dinner with Nun of your business, Popol-U and Mystery Girl I drove home after midnight, beat. Just off 17, right before Fred Rd. my headlights caught a deer standing in the middle of the road. It wasn't moving. I turned the truck to light it. It was a beautiful big 8 pointer. I literally drove right up to it before he slowly headed down the ridge. Nice. First big buck sighting of the season. Things are changing.

FIRST SNOW

2011-10-28T07:20:00.000-07:00

  Bird called last night, just after dark. "Look out your window." There it was- big wet snow flakes. Damn! I hadn't counted on this before Halloween, but was more than happy to see it. As a bow hunter, this time of year is great to sit in the tree on a warm afternoon, no gloves, dozing off, watching deer munch in the fields. But after a couple of weeks of that it's time to get down to business. The rut is a while away, so the best way to hunt is to pattern the critters between bedding and food source. I have one stand in an orchard and another off in the oaks, over on Majestic. I decided the Majestic spot was the one for the morning.
   The house was warm, with the wood stove cranking when I got up in the dark. The thermometer read 31 degrees. A couple cups of coffee and I'm good to go. My first problem was to locate my windshield scrapper. Both the truck and car were a mess of clothes and hunting crap. There was no way I could find the scrapper. The next best thing was a split log off the wood pile. My fingers were freezing before i even started the truck. I cleared an area of ice just big enough to see through and headed for my spot. The ground was frozen crunchy. I circled and approached my stand from the east, keeping the wind in my face. Once I was 20 feet off the ground and strapped in, it didn't take long before I heard the unmistakable light cadence of a deer approaching. I slowly rose out of the snowy seat and clipped my release to the drawstring. I could see the deer working its way towards me. It looked like a nice doe. My breath quickened.
   I have no idea what ya'll were doing at dawn, but as i looked around at the rising sun dancing off the snow covered branches, some still holding bright red and yellow leaves, that deer slowly approaching, i felt a little sorry for all of you still in bed. The deer was taking its time. When it was about 50 yards out it raised it's head and I saw two tiny antlers. It was a spike buck- illegal in this county. I wouldn't have shot him even if he was legal. Too small. I sat back down, breathed deeply and tried to lower my heart rate. That was all I saw all morning. About 9:30 am i climbed out of the tree and headed back to the truck to warm up. Beautiful.

MOM BLAMES FOOTBALL

2011-10-27T13:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went over to Ct. to visit my moms. I know, you wouldn't think someone as ancient as I would have a mom still kicking....but I do. Hell, up until a few years back I had a grandma. She died , after out living her pacemaker, at 105. She'd lived in the 19th, 20th and 21st centuries. This was mom's mom, and aside from passing off that longevity gene, my maternal side is heavy on the wisdom. The Jennings girls are sharp.
   I don't get over there enough. When i do, i try to make a nice dinner and spend a relaxing Happy Hour catching up on the family and chatting about what ever suits our fancy. Mom has taken on Gram's aura of oneness with her surroundings to the degree that you feel good just being in her presence. That aside we always find something current to talk about. The evening's topic of interest was Occupy Wall Street. I brought it up. Since the old man was a broker and she had witnessed that world first hand, I was curious what her take was on the whole thing. "I blame football." she stated bluntly. "Football?" I responded, obviously taken aback by the curve ball. Ought-oh.
   Like I said, I don't get over here enough. Had I not picked up on something over the phone? Was this the onset of something? "You blame football?" I'd bite. "Why?" She took another sip of her wine and put it down on a coaster. "I blame football and baseball and basketball......." she paused and looked at the ceiling "....and even hockey." Then she straightened her crooked back and put her hands on her knees. "These athletes started demanding outrageous salaries. Ticket prices were raised. The front office started making larger and larger profits. Corporate greed set in. Everybody had to make more than these overpaid athletes and the system couldn't handle it. That's where Bernie Madoff, Goldman Sacs and the Bear Sterns mess came from. It's those athletes that got us in this mess." She picked up her wine, settled back on the couch and smiled.
   Phew! Was I relieved. Mom's theory may be a little out of the box, but in many ways she was right on. Forget the onset of anything. The old girl had all her marbles and then some. I made a nice veal with spinach and pasta and we both toasted and said "I love you." In the morning she gave me a chair, a quilt, a bunch of bad paintings I did over the years and a table where she found my pot in 1969. I thanked her and told her I'd keep my pot in the table. We both laughed, hugged and kissed goodbye and I drove home. Fucking football. I agree.

LIMBO LOUNGE 1985

2011-10-25T08:07:00.001-07:00

AGHAST!

2011-10-25T05:26:00.000-07:00

   In the mid-1970's I began working in what was then called "performance art". I didn't have a clue as to what that was. I'd just moved with my young wife, cat and dog to the Bay Area and enrolled in the sculpture department at The San Francisco Art Institute. I'd started out as a printmaker and was bored with the anal approach to art making. Somehow I ended up in Howard Fried's video/performance class in Studio 9 with Tony Labat, Debora Iyall, Karen Finley and a hand full of other lost souls. Between that class and devouring everything I could get my hands on that explained the work of Chris Burden, Vito Acconci, Yves Klein, Joseph Beuys and even that Frenchman Duchamp.....I started to get a handle on performance.
   Fast forward 10 years. I'm "performing" at Limbo Lounge on E10th St. in NYC. I have a burning cross in one hand and I'm flinging pieces of raw chicken with the other, all the time reciting a stream of consciousness poem. The crowd of jaded hipsters recoils and heckles. My sister is in the audience. She's brought a straight couple out of suburbia to see her big brother rock the NY. The couple are so insulted and freaked out by the display they leave my sister alone in her chair. Obviously performance art is not for everyone. Sis and I spend the night hitting the bars. She leaves in good spirits.

What I do now is a far cry from those halcyon days. Hell, I recently saw a display of brightly colored mouses at Best Buy under the heading- PERFORMANCE ART by So and So. Performance art has been co-opted by the mainstream. I haven't used the term since 1985. Yesterday I went to a new dentist. Just so happened he was at Saturday's End of the World Temple. As he climbed through my mouth I asked if he had a good time? He hesitated. Seems he had brought a couple who had no idea what they were walking into. After burning their dollars they watched a supermodel whip a bare assed German with a butt plug as the congregation gleefully counted to 10. I guess they'd never been to church before, because they were shocked and disgusted. Oh well. There's the door.
   Over and over I hear congregants complain over how difficult it is to explain the CLGM. They say Church or Temple to friends and watch them glaze over and back away with patronizing smiles. "No thanks." Then there is the reticence of people who KNOW what it is but won't get on stage. They think they have to have an act or be "good" at something. If I can impart any wisdom in my role as pastor of this bunch, let me just say. This ain't performance art. This ain't theater. This ain't no disco. But it is ALL about fooling around. The unbelievers may or may not see it our way. We aren't for everyone, but for some salvation is at hand.

SISTER NUN OF YOUR BUSINESS

2011-10-24T06:33:00.001-07:00

THANKS TO ALL

2011-10-24T06:23:00.000-07:00

Temple's over for the year. Cold weather is coming and it's time to hunt, get the wood in, put on the storm windows and feather the nest for the upcoming darkness. My ass still hurts from all the anal probes. As Tim Williams put it- "Hard to stop at just one." The Green Mother Superior Shewho is back in Brooklyn. I could never do these Temples without her selfless help. Of course I never thank her enough. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a bit of a self-absorbed asshole. You want smiley faced compassion go with the Presbyterians. Sister Nun of Your Business was a vision in latex, spiked heels and and ankle cuffs. Popul-U proudly removed his butt plug (thing was as big as an iPhone) and hit the wheels of steel with Yusel "Jew in Space"Druckman. The congregation danced until the wee hours.
We are five services into the second coming of The Temple of The Little Green Man and so far so good. The cops haven't raided the place. And as far as I can tell everyone is having a good time. The infusion of the youthful energy of Sara"Preggers" Budde, Buddy Budde, Yusel D., Beeka BoBeep, Nickel Pickel, Drekes Caprice, R. Kern, Tricky Traviss, Levi Jeans, Mystery Girl, Nutbush, Mother Superior Shewho, Sister Nun of Your Business, Nun Too Soon, Nun of What I told You Last Night is True, Deacons Bird, Al, Marc, Popul-U, Scapegoat Dave, Cardinal T. Epic, Holy Child Leila, The Solid Green Dancers, Dome Theater, Coco Dolle, Willow and all the congregants who graciously agree to get up front and burn some time, has made this scene. Thanks to all.

STOLEN

2011-10-20T09:03:00.001-07:00

FIRST WEEK

2011-10-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

  It's been slow. Apart from one very hot night down at GNJohn's (at full draw 3x) I haven't had much action. The deer have been staying out in the fields and not presenting any shots in the orchard. The weather's been mild with heavy winds. Yesterday it came swirling out of the NE and fucked with my spot. I saw a doe raise her nose 300 yards out and spin on her heels. No matter how careful you are about your scent, they still are gonna bust you.
   In between afternoon hunts I've been kinda lost. It looks like a rough winter is coming. No work and little savings, combined with my neglected dental issues and rising pressure in my glaucoma ravaged peepers leaves me a little bummed. So today I went down to the river to check on my FOR SALE sign. You guessed it. Gone. I suspect the fucking neighbors in their snowboard shoppe made it disappear. I spent an hour waiting in the Sheriff's office only to be told that they'd send out a deputy later. So here I sit waiting for the law to make a report. Can't even twist one to relax.
   For some reason people can't stand a lack of information on a sign. The fact that it merely said- FOR SALE (no phone # or name) drove the snowboard fucks crazy. Art has a tendency to do that. I tried to explain my approach, and get them to see the absurdity and humor....but no go. They hated it. I can relate. I hate things my neighbors do also. Photographing Mystery Girl bare assed in front of the scowling Satan at WSSP is my way of dealing with it. They are not so creative. Now I'm out another $400 for a pilfered billboard, going slowly blind, and chewing soft food on one side of my mouth. THE END OF THE WORLD CHURCH is Saturday night. One can only hope that will be end of it all. I can't take much more.

SHEWHO'S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND

2011-10-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

   I have a tough time remembering birthdays. But now with the help of FB and the threat of certain death if I forget again, I am getting into pre-Bday mode for Shewho. It doesn't help that tomorrow is opening day of bow season for us deer hunters. Last year i made the mistake of hunting all weekend and letting Shewho bake her own cake. WTF? I can't bake. But this year i can't get away with that. Nonetheless she is giving me permission to hunt Sat. morning and Sunday afternoon. So I have to hang my stand out in White Sulphur, pack all my de-scented hunting clothes, bow, guitar, stand, ladder, Keith Richard's bio, knife, shotgun (still turkey season), food, beer, booze, pot.....Christ, I'm exhausted already.
   I'm still nursing my bad knee back into shape and don't want to hang a stand too far from the truck, just in case I get lucky. Temple is coming up next week and The BAF has been rehearsing some old rocking PG tunes, along with a couple of very tasty new hymns. The supermodel spanking booth is shaping up nicely and the Alien Anal Probe....... But wait, this weekend it's all about Shewho. She works extremely hard for two dead artists and raises Smokey in her private school splendor, all in a small Brooklyn apartment. When she escapes to the mountain I'm not always the most generously engaging person. OK, almost never. I got my own demons to deal with and that usually takes up most of the day. So, when Shewho needs pampering I can be missing in inaction.
   But, goddamnit this weekend's gonna be different. She should be arriving in a couple of hours, so I have to pack the truck, feed the cats, go to the liquor store, wrap her present, etc. It will go a long way if I just light a fire for her before she arrives. But once, that's done i can scout for the morning. Now, where to hang that stand?

HOLLIE AND KATE

2011-10-11T10:14:00.001-07:00

GROUP SHOW AND BEAR REPORT

2011-10-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

   I've spent the weekend trying to explain my work to a photojournalist, as part of THE EDDIE ADAMS WORKSHOP. Eddie Adams was a Vietnam era photojournalist. His best known shot is of the South Vietnamese General blowing the brains out of a suspected Viet Cong in the town square. It's right up there with the crying, napalmed, naked little girl, running from the My Lai Massacre, as far as iconic shots of horror go. I've done this a couple of times now. Back in '06 I did the same thing- allowed a photog to shadow me for a couple of days. That time it was Michael Christopher Brown doing the query and shoot. Since then he's been in Libya, was wounded covering the revolution and got his iPhone shot in Nat Geo. The boy's going places.
   This time I have a very pleasant, rather studious young man asking the questions and clicking the button. We hang out on the deck as my nose turns red in the sun and I try to explain 30 years of art in soundbites and digestible parable. I can see he's not getting it. I talk about the use of different names and other artists as material, while explaining how carpentry on my girlfriend's house can actually be construed as sculpture and held outside of the banal. Blank stare. Somehow we get through the afternoon. When he shows me a shot of my face I see just how red my nose has gotten and suggest we go inside. I look like Bukowski on a bad day.
   The next day I suggest we go turkey hunting. I know I can escape behind the leafy mask and hide the alkie blood vessels popping off my snozzola. We trudge through the morning dew up behind Ralph's. It's a picture perfect morning. Fog hangs in nestled Japanese print nooks. I try to give him the The Fredrich painting panorama, seen on all those Nietzche paperbacks, as i stand stoicly cradling the 12 ga.. I don't know if he caught it. Then I took him back to his motel, shake hands and are done. We never saw a bird.
   Hanging with these young photojournalists and trying to explain who I am to them in 2 days is an interesting process for me. It helps me see me through their eyes. I explained the Kristan Kohl work- a dead German artist who keeps producing. The Richard Mauwra work- simple sculptural "combines" and cranky letters to the Editor. The MO David work- art criticism and art dealing. The Gary Ray work- garbage off the street that looks like art, onto which I sign Gary Ray (an actor friend of mine). And finally the Tobias Yves Zintel work- a German artist friend whose name I purchased in order to do and show a group of billboards. There I said it. The TYZ work is all mine. No wonder the kid's confused.

BEAR REPORT
On Sunday Shewho and I drove up to Phonecia to visit our friends for a Yom Kippur dinner. All the roads over the mountain are still closed due to damage from last month's floods. It took us three hours and plenty of back tracking to get there. But just as we pulled out of Stone Ridge I looked out in a field and spotted what I thought was a bowhunter's bear target. Then it moved. I told Shewho to pull over. Out in that field, just off the wood line stood two of the most enormous black bears I'd ever seen. I first spotted the back one, who was huge, only to catch sight of the lead bear going into the woods. It dwarfed the first bear. Wow! That was worth the trip. Timing is everything.

MORGANE

2011-10-07T09:25:00.003-07:00

STILL A NATION OF HYPOCRITES

2011-10-07T09:17:00.000-07:00

  Now that the WSSP II barn roof is finished I can chill, lick my wounds, ice my knee and have a leisurely breakfast, reading the morning paper at the diner. What's news? Well, we all know about the Occupy Wall Street bunch by now. Off of Facebook and onto the evening news. That shit's over. It's the 10th anniversary of our occupation of Afghanistan. Check. No cutesy pie signs there. Still plenty of ammo. And tucked there on page 8 is a little piece on the Obama administration's tough new policy on medical marijuana. Seems that the feds are amping up the drug war once again. The G-men have sent out 45 day notices to Cali pot stores, reminding them that what they are doing is against the law and they run the risk of arrest and confiscation of product and property if they continue to do business. So much for Obama being green.
   I have glaucoma. But even if I didn't I would be partaking of the eye medicine. After much experimentation in self-medication I have come to the informed conclusion that marijuana and booze helps a multitude of ailments. (I'm sure it gives you a few too. It's a trade off.) So when I watched Ken Burns' latest doc. on Prohibition I couldn't help but make comparisons with my lifetime love affair with bud. Does it's illegality really affect me? I'd have to say only once. I got busted in the 90's in Rockland Co. I pled not guilty by reason of insanity. I was crazy to blow gauge in my old Chevy with no muffler, rocketing down the Palisades. But overall, pot being against the law, doesn't really matter. I'll smoke it either way.
   In the spirit of this new post-Arab Spring world I have a proposal. Instead of legalizing marijuana, lets keep it illegal AND bring back the 18th Amendment. Lets make booze illegal once again. All you have to do is go to your local sports bar in order to see just how lame legal booze has become. Knuckleheads guzzling Jager and secretaries drowning in Long Island ice tea is not my idea of class. One of my neighbors recently talked about starting a speakeasy in his barn. I'm all for it. Forget the liquor license. As soon as I can afford the copper I'm making a still. Fuck the feds. Blow your reefer and re-ratify the Volstead Act. Lets make drinking against the law.....and hip once again.

VENISON FOR VICTORY

2011-10-04T16:00:00.000-07:00

The Old Man was a stock broker. In fact, family lore has him as one of the youngest stock brokers in the early 50's. To his credit he shed the office, just like that undertakers suit, at the end of the day. We rarely saw the broker side of dad. I know nothing of that world. But we all had to admit that it was that world that paid the bills. That said, he was not your typical broker. He was a real people person. So after a while he managed the brokers. The cats that worked for him drove the Mercedes and went to the country club. They made way more dash than Dick. The other thing that set him apart in the job was his unblinking honesty. That's not a plus in that biz. He retired incredibly frustrated.
Now with the lines being drawn on Wall Street I think back to how pissed the Old Man was in his later years. He saw how crooked the bankers, the hedge fund managers, the entire system was. Seems like when he retired the whole place went to shit. I think he was keeping a lid on it just a bit....keeping the worse of 'em in line. With him gone they all ran amok.
I knew the turkey and deer hunting father, the guy who drove the crappy station wagon and partied with his blue collar friends. We were complete opposites in many ways, but the common ground we found spread wide. He would be proud of the Wall Street occupation. When I first came back to hunting I told him I wanted to donate my deer to the homeless. (This was a couple of years before those programs existed). He just smirked and told me I'd better not donate my meat before it was on the butcher's table. Truer words were never spoken. I may not even get a deer this year. But if I do I would like to put it in the truck, take it to Wall Street and butcher it up for the troops. I heard somewhere a revolution runs on it's stomach. I make a helluva a back strap. Save me a parking space.

NEVER TOO OLD

2011-10-03T12:37:00.000-07:00

The broken tie rod should've been a warning- watch the ice! When I was 25 years old and punk rock came around, I made the big mistake of thinking "I'm too old for this". I stuck to my art pieces and did some good unfashionable work in the 70's involving tattoos, hookers and even cows, but it wasn't until I was well into my thirties that I tried music. With no musical training and what most would consider very little talent, I grabbed the microphone, wrote some songs and formed my own band PURPLE GEEZUS. To all you kids and even old farts out there who are bored with your plight, start a fucking rock band. It taught me a powerful lesson. You are never too old for anything that doesn't involve physical activity.
   The qualification comes on the heels of my recent trip to the roller rink for SLICK AND ZEV'S SPECIAL K ROLLER RAMA. I've never been much of an athlete. I played Little League and wrestled in high school (until being booted for smoking), but that was about it. I'm no sports fan. I'll save my fantasies for something other than football. So when Slick told me he was hosting another night at SKATE WORLD, one of the funkiest, lost in a Catskill time warp scenes, I wasn't sure I wanted to lace up the skates. But then I remembered my lost opportunity during SF's punk rock hay day. OK. I'm in. Save me some K.
   I grabbed my party pants and Shewho and off we went. I never skated as a kid, but last summer, after about an hour or so on the rink I was no longer clutching the rail. Little by little I got the hang of it. Look, none of that fancy backwards shit, but I could round the floor without ridicule. This time I was gliding easily in 15 mins. An hour in and I was picking up speed. Polly Ester blasted from the sound system and I was feeling it. GNJohn and Buddy Budde wizzed past me hand in hand. What a beautiful couple. Spangles and spandex on leggy girls caught the disco lighting. A big shit eating grin on my face I............felt like I hit a patch of ice...... my feet flew out from under me and when I landed my left leg stuck out like a seal's flipper. Little flashes of disco ball danced across my party pants. All I could see was wheels 6 inches from my nose. Finally some stranger stopped to see if I was alright? I shook my head in pain. NO I WASN'T ALRIGHT. I was a fucking idiot.
   Back on the sidelines, skates off, a free beer in hand, (one with every injury) I broke into a cold sweat. I could barely bend my knee. Then I had an epiphany- maybe I was too old. How could I risk my mobility at work, in a tree stand, crossing a frozen swamp, dragging a big buck for a few fleeting moments with a bunch of K'd up hipsters in spandex? Sunday I spent flat on my back, eating Motrin, icing up the knee. This morning I hobbled out of the nest only to endure Al B's giggling smirk at 6:30 AM when I told him just why I couldn't make it in. I'm still not convinced it's really an age issue. I guess that's a sign of my persistent immaturity. But from now on I am going to cut out roller skating and maybe water skiing. Tonight THE BAND OF ALL FAITHS is coming over to rehearse some old PURPLE GEEZUS material for THE END OF THE WORLD CHURCH. If I could only remember those dance moves. Hope they are bringing the K.

END OF THE WORLD CHURCH- 0CT. 22, 2011 8PM 143 Old Glen Wild rd. Glen Wild, NY 1238

2011-10-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

OPENING DAY 5772

2011-10-02T11:54:00.000-07:00

It's been a tough week. We started re-roofing the old barn out at WSSP II and no sooner did we get the shingles in the dumpster than the sky opened up and shut us down. Every morning it's been the same thing- 6:30 AM call Al B., (who has already been up for an hour.) "We can't catch a fucking break." I moan into the phone, as the rain pounds against the windows. "Try tomorrow, Bub." Al says, trying to be positive and I crawl back in bed. On one of the few clear days I drove home in the Neon, every muscle aching. As soon as I pulled off the highway I felt the car shift...like I had hit a patch of ice. But it's only Sept.. After stopping at the stop sign I pull out, only to have the car skid to a stop. The right tire was cocked and the steering wheel had no effect.. A broken tie rod dangled obscenely. If it had happened 30 seconds earlier i most likely wouldn't be writing this.
   Out of habit more than anything, I listen to OPR (Old People Radio). Nowhere is the baby boomer party line more evident than this mix of Classical muzak and lefty news. Almost every "human interest" story is geared to the geezer set. And nowadays it's all about how unprepared we all are for retirement. I became an artist specifically so that I would not have to retire. But when I was 30 I didn't think I'd still be putting roofs on in order to fix my art jones at 60. Retire from roofing? FUCK YEAH! So Friday night after Shewho fixed me a wonderful dinner and I licked my wounds, I brought up the retirement issue. Big mistake. Within minutes we were in a big argument about money (or lack thereof) art (who believed more in whose) old age, health, injury, etc., etc. Needless to say it went from bad to worse and I drove home, in the pouring rain. I take full responsibility for being the asshole. I'm good like that.
   The next day was opening day of turkey season and after blowing off work (rain again) and making up with Shewho (she's the most wonderful woman on earth and very forgiving), I put on the camo, grabbed the 12 ga. and hit the woods. I started up behind Ralph's at the end of Robertson road. You know the place- a nice steep ridge of hardwoods and big hay fields. I slowly walked the edge. A little doe spooked and I didn't pay too much attention, until I saw a bunch of turkey heads bobbing down into the woods behind the deer. Shit. I'm off my game. The deer had spooked the birds. So for the rest of the afternoon I tried to find those birds. I'd call a little, then walk slowly, setting up again against various trees, listening for any yelps or clucking. Nothing. As the sun went in and out of dark clouds I worked my way into unfamiliar territory and before I knew it I was hopelessly lost. Then it rained....again.
   Finally I found myself in a recently mowed hay field ringed with posted signs. I could see a road and decided I would try to get my bearings from there. The problem was between me and the road stood a guy with a rifle. I yelled and waved. Luckily I saw him before he saw me. He was not pleased to see a stranger coming across his field. I explained my bone headed sense of direction and he thawed a bit when I told him I lived just down the road. He was trying to kill a coyote he had spotted. I blew that for him. Between apologies I informed him of a nice line of buck rubs I'd spotted. He told me how to get back to Robertson Rd. and as I turned one way and he turned the other, a nice buck blasted across the grass in front of me. I yelled back and held my fingers above my head- "NICE BUCK!" He smiled and gave me the thumbs up. I went back to Shewho's to dry out and get ready for SLICK AND ZEV'S SPECIAL K ROLLER RAMA later that evening. Am I too old for such foolishness? That's another story.....

PRE-SEASON

2011-09-25T11:34:00.000-07:00

   I've been in the worst of holding patterns, suspended between "churches", out of work, riding a horrible dry spell writing songs, no art project on the horizon, out of money, a broken string on the guitar, watching bad TV and opening day of turkey season is a week away...so I call Shewho. She always has a way of cheering me up. She tries the usual- "You must need it.....enjoy the bad TV." But I can tell she's just giving me good phone. "What if it's over?" I say, not really believing it, until it comes out of my mouth. Fuck. What if it is? Oh well. That would save a lot of time and money.
   Then we get to chatting about Smokey- Shewho's 16 year old daughter and her group of rich friends. Smokey lives in a different world than her mother and I. Shewho has spent all of those 16 years making sure of that. She goes to a toney private school and private school don't come cheap. On the weekends she hangs in the Hamptons or jets off to St. Barts for the holidays. All her friends have names that would fit perfectly on a cute, fuzzy puppy in a West Village pet store window. A lot of these kids have older parents- like Shewho. Sometimes Shewho knows the rich parents and sometimes she doesn't. It's considered bad form to use private school like the local Elk's Club, so the Uber-rich ones are not in her circle. I'd be horrible at Private school PTA meetings. "Excuse me Mr. Rockafeller, our kids are tight...... Howzabout a beer after this shindig?" Rest assured I'll never be invited.
   But Smokey's position in this world is secure. She's cute, smart, funny, charming and unimpressed by yachts and pretentious bullshit. They all love her. In fact there's one particular rich guy that is thinking of naming the new baby Smokey. "But the new wifey is not carrying this one. They have a surrogate." Shewho tells me. Wait a minute.....she CAN carry the baby but isn't? Shewho confirms that this is indeed the case. Now I know the rich can do pretty much whatever they want, but I had no idea that they did THIS. Just to make sure I press the issue. Is this a well known practice? Who the fuck knows.
   I gather all my self-restraint not to dial PAGESIX. I once had Michael Douglas' and KZJ's complete wedding itinerary and guest list in front of my morning coffee, 2 weeks before Entertainment Tonight. Carpenter Code- never divulge on a client. I went about my business. I could've retired on that dime. So I can't say who this rich guy is. But man do I want to meet him. All I know is my twenty year old quest to recreate the Virgin Birth may be closer than any of us thought.

11:08

2011-09-22T08:39:00.000-07:00

Puts things in perspective, when a man knows his exact moment of death. It's a nausea producing thought just to ponder it. Last night the State of Georgia ended Troy Davis' existence at 11:08 PM. By most accounts he was innocent of the crime he was accused- the killing of a police officer trying to help a homeless man in a parking lot in Savanna. This happened before there was a camera on every lamp post. 7 of the 9 prosecution witnesses recanted their original testimony, but still the State (and the dead officer's family) felt confident that Troy was their man- and killed him. He refused to select his last meal and was served what was on the menu for Wed.- cheeseburger, beans and fries. Why meet your maker still digesting lobster bisque if you are innocent?
I don't know if I would be an opponent of capital punishments if someone I loved was brutally murdered and the case was iron clad. I think I have enough rancor to want to see that criminal gone. Some people ARE a waste of space. There's a case now in Ct. of a man invading a home and killing a Doctor's picture book beautiful family. There's no question that they have the right guy. Should the State kill this person? I'm not sure. But I think so. This is my dilemma. I can't call myself a true opponent of the death penalty. That said, I in no way feel that Troy Davis should have been put to death. The system sucks. Obama golfs while another black man is put down like a sick cat? NO DNA. NO GUN. NO DOUBT Troy Davis should still be alive to see 11:09.

MUGSHOT.XXX

2011-09-20T11:15:00.000-07:00

  It's no secret that porn and war are at the forefront of most major technological advances in our little post-industrial universe. The internet is the prime 21st century example. Started as a war tool, it was quickly co-opted as the next step in smut delivery system. The man may still rig the net up to drones and flame our asses, but for now it's pussies and pricks that are driving things forward. When the eggheads at Apple finally figure out a way to physically hook us up to the laptop you won't have to wonder for long why the "finger hole" is so large.
   I don't know who is behind the move to shift Adult material into its own XXX ghetto, but I'm all for it. For all its usefulness as a ready made community, Facebook has failed miserably in offering any sort of underbelly alternative to the big room of smiling, happy faces. I can only reel myself in so much, even if my nieces are in the room.... and even if I block the baby pictures and sunsets, I can't make them block me. (Unfriending seems so mean). Of course I'm something less than a smut peddler, yet FB has taken upon itself to shut me up. (I've gotten around this by making Shewho an admin on the CLGM page and letting her know when fresh copy in the hopper. She then links it to HWSM.) I may take to banging out morse code on the pipes soon.
   Recently Staples Copy Center refused to xerox the church program because of the "Nudity". Tracing her finger between the wig that covered Mystery Girl's titties and her exposed landing strip, the girl offered "If there was hair here..." I rightfully pointed out that the perfectly trimmed punice HAD hair, but she stormed off. "It may be kiddy porn." she said in parting.
   This Puritan, uptight, Republican, tea bagger, middle American, protect us from ourselves attitude is slowly creeping in all around us. It's disgusting. So if artists and other forward thinking drunks and reprobates have to be lumped in with people who make a damn good living off girl on girl action so be it. And being the real estate enthusiast you all know me to be I've started snatching up .XXX domains. JESUSHCHRST.XXX was my first. I have no idea what I'll do with it but I know it will look damn good on a billboard down by the river. MUGSHOT.XXX is my latest. I envision this as the new adult facebook- a place where the grownups can go and talk about grownup things. I'm sure there will be some titties involved. I have some venture capitalists already interested in bankrolling the project. "We're gonna make a fucking million." All my money ideas are well......money dude. Ask anybody. Get your profiles ready. Now if I can just fit the mainframes in the outhouse.

MYSTERY GIRL @ HOLLIE WITCHEY PROJECT

2011-09-20T08:49:00.001-07:00

FACEPLANT

2011-09-19T16:46:00.000-07:00

After all my agonizing over becoming a facebook fag and even removing myself from the room for a bit, I re-joined the party with a new found energy. I had a great weekend shooting the next church invite with supermodels HW and ML and in my excitement to share, I posted a photo of HW tying ML's hands behind her back. I noticed they had removed my link button on top of the page, so I wrote in "Going Jew" and the HWSM blog url. Oh yeah, ML didn't have any pants on. Is that a problem? Now, here on blogspot, thank God, that's not a problem. But when I went on fb today and tried to retrieve some messages nothing happened. WTF? I punched the other little buttons on top of the page and same thing. Then just for fun I thought I would find another bare ass image to post and guess what? Froze out.
This had happened before with warnings, but now they had disabled my ability to transmit.....while I was on a streak. I typed my question into the help box- "Why can't I post?" YOU HAVE BEEN BLOCKED! Someone out there has taken offense. Was it the bare ass? Was it the hands being tied? Was it the blond girl in Mormon clothes? Was it the "Jew" thing? Was it my new website JESUSHCHRIST.XXX? I didn't have a clue. I'd rejected fb, then come back and now was being uncermoniously 86'd. They said it could be a few hours, days or weeks. Forget any previous notion I had of quitting fb. Do they have any idea who they are dealing with?

GOING JEW

2011-09-18T16:40:00.000-07:00

I've been pondering this for a while. Since the Catskill Cliche Temple and the Teenage Hassid attack on THE GOD LOVES FAGS Tobias Yves Zintel billboard I've been considering changing teams. Not in the traditional read the Torah and give up Red lobster, study all night, movie and Chinese food for Xmas way, but the get the sign painter to change "church" to "temple", Sunday to Saturday night service way. Maybe the Christians deserve a break and I can work full time associating the TLGM with my Semitic brethren. I like Saturday night for services.
   I brought this up with one of the elders- Savage Lynch and he was not so sure. "I went to Sunday School with you. I KNOW you are Christian." I disagree. The CLGM may borrow heavily from the Christian tradition but I never declared myself to any Sexy Jesus. I've always been a free agent. Hell, if the Muslims had a little more of a sense of humor I could easy like Mohammed. So why not? I like the Jews. They are funny as shit. Even the ones who aren't funny, think they are and that's a total crack up. Plus there are plenty here in the hood. Savage may just have to accept the tide change. It'll take a little time to get the paper work together. I'll keep you posted. TEMPLE OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN has a nice ring to it.

END OF THE WORLD BIKER UFO S&M TEMPLE OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN SAT. OCT. 22, 2011 8 PM

2011-09-18T10:18:00.000-07:00

REACTIVATED

2011-09-16T07:13:00.001-07:00

  I've spent over a week recuperating from "Church", alternating between hours of TCM on my couch and crawling in the rubble under a friend's ancient barn, trying to determine what was keeping it standing. I had a bad case of post-partum depression. The Tobias Yves Zintel show had gone nowhere and once the debris had been swept up in the chapel, sanctuary was just another word for empty room. I'd even made the unwise decision of quitting facebook, shrinking my already little comfort zone into a pitifully puckered asshole. Three cats can only be so much company.
   I'd known R.Kennedy was coming to town with his band the JAM MESSENGERS for a while and intended on seeing him in Woodstock, but without facebook the lines of communication had gone dead. OK, guess I had to punch in the password in order to get back in touch. "WELCOME BACK!" the computer greeted me. Christ- I'm such a tool. My first surprise was that the show was in Hudson, not Woodstock. Fuck, that was 20 miles south of Albany. I definitely did not want to make that drive. It took all the energy I could muster AND a whining call from RK to get my ass in the car. Oh well, it was still better than driving to Manhattan.
  THE SPOTTY DOG was a narrow book store on a main street of high end stores selling high end crap. I had 4 dollars and change in my pocket. "I'm on Kennedy's list." I told the young granola chewing hippie minding the door. "It's $5. There's no list." I pulled out the crumpled bills and lint covered quarters. "4 is OK." he said. I was pitiful. Then I spotted RK and he got me back the four bucks and bought me a beer. That was better. Three of us went outside to blow one. When Kennedy left to do something, the granola hippy yelled at the other guy (Mike Edison) and myself for smoking next to his door. "Come on guys..." he moaned. Still getting yelled at and now they're half my age.
   There was a girl in short skirt and wool socks sliding around on the floor alternating between screeching into a mic., over a tape of her screeching into a mic. and apologizing for the whole thing. I'd missed RK's train mate- this guy Mike Edison a writer from the New York. We drank our beers and waited for socky girl to run out of steam. THE JAM MESSENGERS are Kennedy and a Brazilian one- man- band by the name of Marco Butcher. Somehow a blond woman named Sandy from Detroit was also on board, driving the rental and sitting in on the drums. Edison and I watched as RK unleashed his shirtless, manic blues act in the little bookstore. I was waiting for him to climb the shelves, toppling them onto the crowd. Somehow we got out alive.
   I'd agreed to put up the bunch for the night. RK rode with me and the others followed in the van. Two hours later, following me down dark back roads, on a head of talking powder and the three of them were slack jawed and hopelessly lost."Where the fuck are we?" they asked. I took them to the bar for some bad fried food and more beer. By the time my headlights lit the church the van of fucked up hipsters were primed for an epiphany. As I turned on lights and sound systems and Kennedy stuffed the pipe i saw fresh just how good I have it here. Sometimes I lose that perspective. Sandy, Marco and Mike bounced from gallery to outhouse to church to inner sanctum, babbling and vying for Kennedy and my attention with their own twisted freakazoid histories. We didn't quit until 5am.
   By the time I'd crawled into the nest, and the rest had scattered on the couch, futon and floor I'd been rejuvenated by the tribe. RK and I had reaffirmed our keep doing it until your dead with or without support credo, as i learned just how cool my new guests were. Marco- a pure musical genius from the favelas of Rio, ladies man and all around charmer. Sandy- hot widow, Detroit musical royalty (Jack, Patty, etc come over for bar-b-qs) and natural drummer. And last but by no means least Mike Edison- drummer from Sharkey's Machine and Raunch Hands, and as I sit here reading his book I HAVE FUN EVERYWHERE I GO- a helluva fucking scribe. Thanks folks. You put me back on track. My door is always open.

WHO CALLED THE COPS?

2011-09-12T13:11:00.000-07:00

  Recently I received an email from a grad student wanting to know about the famous Karen Finley and a piece I did long ago. I had rented the display windows of a defunct department store in SF, and scheduled artist performances and installations. One of my artists was Karen Finley. We were fresh out of art school. She proceeded to get naked and bang on the windows like a crazy woman for the downtown SF lunch hour crowd. After she escaped on the back of a motorcycle the crowd and the cops were left to me. Without the naked girl they had nothing. I told them I had rented the windows from Bob Lurie (the owner of the SF Giants) and was just trying to bring a little art to downtown. They scowled, got on their radios and eventually kicked me loose. "Watch yourself!" a burly officer warned me. This got me to thinking- how many times have I been told that by the law?
   A year later I organized an exchange between The Federal Correctional Institution in Pleasanton, CA and The SF Art Institute. My contribution to FCI co-ed prison was THE UNDEAD and THE PUDS- both punk rock art bands who had a predilection for removing their clothes. When Philip Huyser the lead singer for THE PUDS took the stage with his penis poking though the hole in a 45 rpm record taped around his waist I should've realized things were not going to go well. By the time a doz. Kathy Acker paperbacks had been tossed to the cheering crowd the Warden was already on her way. "Where the HELL do you think you are?" the big stern woman asked me as I squirmed in a metal chair. After confiscating the photog's film we were all released. "Watch yourself!" the Warden growled as we made our way back to the truck.
  In NYC I strung the artist Stelarc over East 11th St. with 18 shark hooks in his back. The cable was jerri-rigged to a 4X4 and a fire escape three stories above the street. When the cops shut down the spectacle their only concern was that the man hanging from hooks and flimsy cable was naked. They hadn't written yet all the other laws we broke. It being NYC the cops were cool and non-plussed by the whole thing. They wrote Stelarc a ticket for disorderly conduct and assured us they wouldn't show up. I accompanied Stelarc as his dealer. I have a fond memory of Stelarc bantering with the judge after he insisted the artist come up with a last name. "Like Cher your honor." Stelarc told the judge, in his most charming Aussie accent. "Dismissed." his frustrated honor barked with a bang of his gavel. Then he looked down at me and pointed his hammer at my face. "You better watch yourself mister." I got a million of 'em.

Nowadays it's me calling the cops when the kids fuck up my GOD LOVES FAGS sign or the neighbors cover my FOR SALE sign or run their ATVs in circles at 4am in the morning. WTF am I losing my stuff? Must be getting old. Still, I'd like to think that given the opportunity to walk that razor edge between legal and illegal I'll always come down on the side of the law. I'm just trying to bring a little art to the sticks.

IT'S OVER

2011-09-09T07:13:00.000-07:00

No- not the World. Not yet. What's over for me is my participation in the social media site known as Facebook. I guess I'd been in that crowded little room for a little over a year. Before that I'd partied, drink in hand, at the MySpace get together. But then someone told me that there was a much cooler party happening on another floor. I came late to both, eaten a couple of hot dogs, had a beer or two and left without so much as saying goodbye. That's just me.
There is no specific reason for leaving the fb crowd. In many ways it was a hip little get together. I always brought along flyers hyping whatever I was doing at the time, handing them out and waiting patiently for the thumbs up or maybe even someone telling me how much they liked my efforts. But after a while the whole process became predictably stale. And not only this, but when I wasn't in the room I found myself wondering how the party was going? Was I missing anything? Maybe I'll just poke my head in and see what people are talking about.....Like the clackety-clack of a razor blade on a mirror, I salivated in anticipation. Then, disappointed in the banality of the dynamic, I closed the door and walked down the stairs.
I've always insisted that it is just as important to cease something as it is to start something. I've started and stopped plenty of projects over the years. The reasons are many for stopping. Failure is a big one. Boredom runs a close second. Then there is "liking" it too much. An admittedly addictive personality plays into this. I stopped watching TV in 1995 only to get satellite 10 years later. I stopped hunting in 1975 only to return to it with religious ferocity 20 years later. Heroin has got nothing on sitting for 8 hours in a tree stand. My art runs the gamut of styles, medium and artistic personalities. Some are fictional, some real. Some are alive, some dead. Some techniques I continue. Some I drop. Projects start and stop. The church and the gallery continue.....for now. When I joined facebook they asked for a quote. It's as relevant now as it was then. All I know is "I'll never join facebook- again"

ONE MILLION FIVE

2011-09-07T12:52:00.001-07:00

HIGH WATER

2011-09-07T12:45:00.000-07:00

The Neversink River Valley has been spared much of the devastation that her northern cousins The Esophus and Mombackus and plenty others have endured. Nonetheless as an owner of river front property I was concerned about the CLGM Baptism Access site on Holiday Mt. Rd. I drove down through Bridgeville and at first didn't see the sign. Then I noticed it had been covered up by two pieces of plywood and an old pink bed cover. Two people were along side their white Jeep in the road. I pulled up, removed the wet pink cover and heavy plywood. "Are these yours I asked?" politely. They both shook their heads No. Then the blond woman asked if it was my sign? I said it was. She wondered what it was all about?
At first I thought she was just curious, but soon realized she was pissed and did not like the sign at all. Her husband did not like it either. I tried to explain it as an art work but I wasn't getting through. "Two people called and asked if we were selling? It's confusing." I didn't see it but also didn't want to be a bad neighbor...."Plus." she continued "the town says it's illegal." Ahhhh. Now she had my attention. "The town does not regulate for sale signs." I explained. "But there's no phone #." This seemed to bother her quite a lot. I give you what you paid for it. You paid $250." I actually paid $300, but if she knew that she could get my ph #. "No." I said. "How much then?" she asked. "One million five." I love saying that.
Then ensued a back and forth that got testier and testier. "Get your car off my property." My property is a little bigger than my Neon. All but the sign was underwater. The blond wife stormed off and the hubby hung back to try to talk sense into me. I moved the car and tried in vain to explain the art tradition of Gordon Matta-Clark and myself to this guy. "Are you sure this isn't your plywood?" I asked the guy. He just looked at me. "OK. They're going in the river." At this the wife screamed something about recycling out of her Yoga/ Snowboard Shoppe window. I took that as an admission of guilt and tossed it and the bed sheet over on her property. Another front opens.

THANK YOU

2011-09-05T09:55:00.000-07:00

I'd like to thank everyone who made the Catskill Cliche Church one of the best LGM services ever. When people ask what the church is all about, I never quite know what to say. Words fail it. But the one thing I'm certain of it IS a church in the classic sense. And what makes up a church? CONGREGATION. Yeah, I may run the show and The Band of All Faiths may drive the bus, but it is the congregation who burn their hard earned dollars who really make it a church. Without them it's just rehearsal. All my love and appreciation goes out to the CLGM congregation. See you for THE END OF THE WORLD BIKER UFO TEMPLE OF THE LGM- Sat. Oct. 22, 2011- 8pm.

HOLLIE WITCHEY

2011-08-22T11:17:00.001-07:00

WHO SHOT OMAR?

2011-08-22T11:12:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here in the gallery, incessantly swatting flies. I couldn't even get that sentence written....nor this one..... without picking up the swatter and going on the attack. There. I just killed one more and he landed on my keyboard. Yesterday i turned 69. A bunch of friends came over and the doors stayed open for hours. Hence the flies.
   I didn't always love people so much. in fact i didn't like them very much at all. But, I tell you, it is so refreshing to be around loved ones and even a few strangers, as I get older by the minute. Like my cats, I think I am changing personalities.....some would say "Thank God." I still don't think much of people as a species but one on one, or in small very select groups I find them delightful.
   My young French friend Ptolemy has come to visit and although 50 years separate us, conversation is easy and relaxed. Last night after the party we chilled out watching THE WIRE. "I love THE WIRE." Ptol exclaimed. He doesn't have a TV in France, so I asked who turned him onto this fine series? "Obama." he replied. "Excuse me?" I thought I had heard him wrong. I hadn't. "I heard an interview with President Obama and he talked about how good THE WIRE was. (Two more flies down. One buzzing in my beard.) Obama was quoted as saying how interesting the Omar character was. Omar was the super-human gangster with an extreme attitude towards drug dealers....a vigilante's vigilante. Ptol and I agreed with Obama on this issue. We liked Omar also. The OG had a code. Shit, in THE WIRE the cops don't even have a code.
  Then as the episode ended we saw Omar, dead on the morgue slab. Fuck! We had missed Omar meet his demise. So we switched to CNN and the war in Libya. Kadaffy was to fall at any minute! Yet, like those flies eluding my swatter, by the time I hit the sack Libya was still in full on kill mode. "Until the bitter end." I'm sure it will all work out. What I want to know is who shot Omar?

TREBUCHET (TRAP) 1917-1964 2nd version

2011-08-16T08:42:00.001-07:00

TREBuCHET (TRAP) 1917-2011

2011-08-16T08:35:00.001-07:00

TREBUCHET (TRAP) 1917

2011-08-16T08:29:00.000-07:00

From now until the end of the Tobias Yves Zintel show at MO David North on Sept. 30, I've given him the use of huntingwithsupermodels to write about whatever he wants. Recently I told him about finding what I believe to be Marcel Duchamp's Trebuchet in a little thrift store in the Catskills. Here's TYZ's essay on same.

THE TRAP

   In Duchamp's words: "...a real coat hanger that I wanted sometime to put on the wall and hang my things on but I never did come to that- so it was on the floor and I would kick it every minute, every time I went out- I got crazy about it and I said the Hell with it, if it wants to stay there and bore me, I'll nail it down....and then the association with the Readymade came and it was that. It was not bought to be a Readymade- it was a natural thing.....it was nailed where it was and then the idea came....."
-MARCEL DUCHAMP
from unpublished interview with Harriet Janis

In Osterhout's words: "I was picking around in this thrift store I like to visit and I spotted this nice coat hanger in the corner on the floor. It had these beautifully curved hooks that were mounted to a nice piece of oak. It was very well made and old. So I bought it and gave it to Samm Kunce for St. Valentine's Day. But I was lazy and didn't bother to put it up for her, so it laid on the floor in the kitchen for months. Every time I went in and out of the back door I kicked it and muttered "One of these days I gotta put that thing up." Then one day I tripped over a pile of books at Samm's house and the top book happened to be a Duchamp catalog from his MOMA show in 1974.
  I sat down and started to leaf through the book. It was then that I discovered a photo of Duchamp's NYC studio in 1917. There on the floor in the photo was the exact same coat hanger. I compared Samm's with the Duchamp and it was the same object. I then screwed it to her floor in her bedroom."

In Zintell's words: When Mike Osterhout told me this story I thought he was bullshitting me. Knowing MO you have to take everything he says with a grain of salt. So after I was suspicious he took me out to Samm Kunce's house and showed me the piece. My God. It was the exact profile of the original. A lost Duchamp Readymade found in a shop? Could it be? I asked if he had found a signature? Osterhout explained that the original was only shown once and was never signed. In my research I discovered this was in fact true. The Holy Grail!
   Trebuchet is a chess term meaning to use your pawns as a rouse- to be tripped over. If in fact this is the original "Trap" two artists, nearly one hundred years apart, had almost the same experience with this object. But what of the signature? The iconic FOUNTAIN- 1917 urinal was signed R. Mutt and rejected from The Independents exhibition in 1917 (the original also being lost). It gained fame as a Stieglitz photograph not a sculpture. It wasn't until 1951 that Duchamp redid this piece for a Sidney Janis show, of course re-signing. The signature was now all important.
   So this begs the issue. Is the found coat rack "Trebuchet- 2011" a Duchamp even if it is the exact object that Marcel Duchamp nailed to his studio floor in 1917? Is the "art" inherent in the object or the signature? Or conversely can the signifying be satisfied by Osterhout's discovery (tripping over) the Duchamp MOMA catalog and subsequent manipulation by screwing it to the floor. Upon inspection I found no nail holes, rather two screw eyes. Could Duchamp have mis-translated nailed with screwed? Or he could have bent nails over the screw holes. Such technical details are long lost and unimportant. Comparing the Kunce Trap to the 1917 photo it looks identical.
   My old professor Joseph Kosuth is quoted in the Duchamp catalog: "All art (after Duchamp) is conceptual (in Nature) because art only exists conceptually." I concur. I think Marcel Duchamp, if he were alive would enjoy this discussion. Obviously (no disrespect) this coat rack would be worth quite a bit more as a Duchamp, rather than an Osterhout. Yet I see the collaboration brings a fresh element to this heretofore rather obscure Duchamp "Not quite Readymade". Is it a Duchamp? I don't know. Is it an Osterhout? Yes. Definitely. Will it become something greater than the two? Stay tuned.

TYZ- CRITIC

2011-08-10T06:37:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows Tobias Yves Zintel is a German artist of note. But few realize that he has been writing criticism for years under various names. I sat down with him recently to discuss his eclectic approach to getting criticism in print.

MO- You were born in Munich in 1975. What were you doing in the 90's?
TYZ- I was working various dead-end jobs and going to art school. Germany at the time was still reeling from reunification. Many people from the East were flooding West. It was like being stuck in the arm with a syringe filled with energy. The "Easties" had no documentation. They were starting fresh. I coveted their anonymity. There was a small group of us working together. So I decided to steal an established critic's name to write about my friends and myself.
MO- Who was your first critic?
TYZ- I was only 20 in 1995 but I was fascinated by the way critics wrote about artists. Even older artists whose work bored me....I found the criticism more interesting than the art. In a bin outside my flat I found an old catalog from a show by Sigmar Polke. There was an essay by Friedrich Durrenmatt. I decided to steal his name and write about my own work in super-glowing ways under this name.
MO- Did you get published?
TYZ- I published it myself on a xerox machine and got my friends to pass it around school. We were all so naive, but in a way this worked. I had no idea I was doing anything wrong or illegal. In art you have a duty to push the boundaries of what is accepted. Eventually it got in the hands of the school authorities and I was censored.
MO- Censored?
TYZ- They told me I would be kicked out of school if I did it again.
MO- But you did, no?
TYZ- Yes, of course. Who ever was publishing in the art magazines at the time I would steal their name and eventually I got published.
MO- Whose name finally got you in print?
TYZ- I can't say.
MO- Will you review your show here at MO David North?

At this point TYZ indicated that the interview was over and his handlers ushered him out of the room.

DIALOG- TYZ

2011-08-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

The siege of Glen Wild continues. But in between setting trail cams. and checking trip wires, the Tobias Yves Zintel show is shaping up nicely. I don't want to jinx it but I think it's going to be a hit. This guy is so easy to work with....smart, amiable, young. Such a nice refreshing change from my frustrating try at bringing back from the dead Ethelbert Crawford. I haven't totally given up on EBC, but for now let him lie in the trunk in the library attic. TYZ is more relevant, less 90's. And I mean 1890's.
  The Catskill Cliche Church had it's first rehearsal and more and more Hassidim are pulling over in their mini-vans taking pictures of the TYZ- GOD LOVES FAGS billboard. The guy may profess to not be provocative but his shit is getting the hairy eyeball for sure. "Provocation is super-lame." he writes. A contradiction no? In either case this German quasi- Satanist is getting the attention of the Tribe. I never thought anything I did on this side of the road could compete with camels.
   Just yesterday i queried a couple of young Hasid men in regard to the TYZ billboard. "Does it offend you?" I asked politely. "It's not true." answered the older of the two. "That's your opinion." I said. "Well things that aren't true offend me." he countered. Well I could dig that. We had common ground. To be honest I don't think Tobias Yve's Zintel knows if God Loves Fags. I don't think he knows if God even cares. But I also know that the Hasid doesn't know either. "The reason I ask." Getting back to conversation. "Is a bunch of Hassidim teenagers tore apart that billboard."
   I had the idea he knew where I was going with this. "Well...." he admitted "You shouldn't destroy private property." "Thank You."

The Tobias Yves Zintel billboard and his upcoming show have opened up a necessary, albiet provocative (intentional or not) fissure in the wall that has been built here in the Catskills. Be you Hasid, secular jew, mouth breathing hillbilly local, mobbed up italian, Ashram devotee or fag this show is for you.

CATSKILL CLICHE BORST BELT DIRTY DANCING CASINO TEMPLE OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN

2011-08-01T06:40:00.001-07:00

SOBER

2011-08-01T06:36:00.000-07:00

I think it started with the post office asking me for proof of my address. I'd been receiving my mail at a PO box for 16 years. In fact my house never had an actual number until recently. Here in the sticks it was not unusual for your house to have no street number. That's why you got your mail at the post office. So, of course, all my I.D. has my PO box on it...not a street address. See the problem? I tried to make the Post Mistress recognize the Kafkaesque folly of this request to no avail. "YOU HAVE TO SHOW ME PROOF OF ADDRESS!" she barked. Want me to cooperate? Never say "YOU HAVE TO....." I haven't picked up my mail in two weeks.
Then Samm and I went to the U2 concert at the Meadowlands. One of the band members (I can't say who) is a client of MO David North. We were supposed to have the VIP treatment. Someone dropped the ball and we were not given the right wristband. Welcome to the masses. The last time I saw that many people in one place I was in the field at Yasgur's farm. I couldn't wait to get back on the mountain.
But once home I had to deal with all the cancelations, the sign vandals and now my Italian neighbors are on the warpath once again. It's a long story. Suffice to say all the guns are loaded and the lights are on. I went to Walmart and bought a trail camera. Guess what? It didn't work. Mercury retrograde? When the fuck isn't it? Last night I went through the whole night without a drink. This may not be a wise move at this point. Finally we have an artist for the September show- Tobias Yves Zintel. This German artist did the GOD LOVES FAGS billboard and promises to provoke the locals plenty for the show. AND on the same weekend we will do THE CATSKILL CLICHE CHURCH. Get your routines ready. I already need a drink.

GOD LOVES FAGS by Tobias Yves Zintel- VANDALIZED

2011-07-26T11:35:00.000-07:00

ONE STEP FORWARD. THREE STEPS BACK.

2011-07-26T11:20:00.000-07:00

"Welcome back to the art world." This is what my friend art critic Chuck McCormick said after the second backwards misstep. MO David North has been in existence since Memorial Day and we've hung one show and canceled three. The first cancelation was the Alix Lambert/ Kembra Pfaler show. This was taken in stride. We wanted the first show to run a little longer anyway, so we gladly put off showing these two. That also gave us a little more time to coordinate the Cuban show- Riviera Norte. Now, as most people know that show went belly up. The boat sank. How many Cubans does it take......? Pick a reason. But the latest fuck up has got me wondering just what the hell I'm doing back in this world. The planned September show of the late, great and mightily obscure American impressionist Ethelbert B. Crawford now looks like it will not take place.

As the locals know the paintings of EBC hang in the library of the same name in Monticello, NY. My gallery partner Samm and i fell in love with the work and have been in negotiations since March in order to mount this show. We........

As I'm writing this a carload of Hassidic kids pulls over on my lawn. They get out and start taking pictures with their cell phones of the MO David North GOD LOVES FAGS billboard in Hebrew script. The response has been overwhelmingly positive. Can't count the thumbs up I've gotten from everyone- Hassidics included. Then I hear a loud noise. The motherfuckers are kicking the sign from the back, breaking the plywood in two. I run outside. But it's too late. They jump in the car and are gone. I can't get the plate #. Step 4 backward. I'm too disgusted to write anymore.

FETCH ME MY MONKEY!

2011-06-16T06:27:00.000-07:00

   Michael Jackson has always loomed large in CLGM canon. Hymns like MICHAEL LOVES THE LITTLE CHILDREN and PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE PANTS are of course homages to the gloved one. From the church's humble beginnings in 1986 to recent services we've drawn inspiration from Jack-o's lifestyle and music. BAD is our theme song.
   Maybe it's the camels and ostriches wandering across my lawn or the caged skunk out back on the job site, but recently I've noticed some of MJ's less than positive personal traits are starting to rub off. No, Webster is not sharing my futon and as far as I know I'm not under inditement, but every morning I wake up feeling less than happy to face the day. I pack my tools in the pick up, drive to the job site, string the extension cords, start up the saw and........where's the joy? Then I remember where I was just 2 weeks ago- surrounded by supermodels, hob knobbing with the art world, soaking up the hipster vibe. And when that was over I squeezed into a bright red g-string with blinking lights, glued green sequin tassels onto my nipples, attached bunny tail and ears to my Santa suit, and stepped on stage. I felt so happy.....and dare I say-complete. Could it be that, like MICHAEL, I'm only comfortable on stage?
   I pull my flat bar out of the truck, dig out some nasty mouse nest and ponder this issue. This stinks. Or maybe that's the skunk out back. In either case I have the distinct feeling that I'm morphing into a show business beast that will be unable to operate normally in the day to day world. Just this morning after succeeding on the third try to get the combination right to my post office box, I found myself waiting for applause from the post mistress. None was forthcoming. I walked in the diner and no one looked up. At The Trading Post a little fat girl passed me and didn't want an autograph. See what I mean? How the hell am I going to make it to Labor Day and THE BORST BELT STAND UP COMEDIAN CATSKILL CASINO CLICHE TEMPLE OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN- Sept. 3, 2011 8pm. Anybody got a monkey for sale?

GENTLE CREATURE

2011-06-08T12:32:00.001-07:00

MO DAVID NORTH-open

2011-06-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

I may not want to talk about church but MO DAVID NORTH is another story. It's off to a good start. We got press and plenty of interest in the work of the three artists we are showing- George Holz, Richard Kern and Marianna Rothen. And so far Marianna in garnering the most buzz. The work really should be seen in this context. As good as the old internet is, it is no substitute for a drive up to the Catskills and a little visit to probably one of the classiest little out-of-the-way galleries you'll ever come across. Officially it's only open by appointment. But unofficially I'm here- just hanging.
It's nice and cool under the big oak and the cross breeze on the porch makes the work look even better. Richard Kern chose photos that were shot at THE OLD SCHOOL FOR SOCIAL SCULPTURE and in my bathroom and the church. All of them have that distinctive "Kern" edge. You can't tell if they are supposed to turn you on or turn you off. It's a rather pleasant limbo that he elicits out of the voyeur. You come away not all together guiltless. George Holz on the other hand, lays it out up front. His languid beauties in repose or arched in babbling brooks are there to be admired in slack jawed awe. Add to this a deep black and white printing and the pieces have a lush preciousness and a commanding presence. But it's Marianna Rothen who comes up with the cross over into object. Each of her photos (all 13"X13" with no glass) are simply presented in white frames. The model/actresses in each of her photographs are no small component in Rothen's work. All of these artists chose their models carefully, but Marianna Rothen (being a model herself) brings an especially mysterious mood to her work and a sensitivity to her subjects that I don't think you could get otherwise. She, above all, shares the immediacy of the shutter click with us. As a dealer I want to thank each one of these artists. I'm a big fan. Man, what a world.

SOLID GREEN DANCER ROSE CRACK

2011-06-02T06:20:00.000-07:00

WHAT HAPPENS IN CHURCH STAYS IN CHURCH

2011-06-02T06:17:00.000-07:00

For years people have asked me about the CLGM. Sometimes it's some lost Hassidic family stopping by to peep the neighbor's camels. Sometimes it's a clueless family member or old friend who has reconnected after 40 years. Other times it's an art student or writer of some hipster mag. looking to make sense of what they have just witnessed. I struggle with trying to put 25 years of evolving theology into a coherent sound byte. I even started a facebook page for the church. (See facebook.com/clgm for a thumbnail sketch). But all attempts fall short.
There are many things I do in this world where I wish I had a little more recognition, or money coming my way. MO David North is a commercial gallery where you can actually buy art. I do static work under three different names- Kristan Kohl, Richard Mauwra and Mike Osterhout. All this work may be written about and purchased. I write plenty of songs that may be recorded by others and have tape from three different projects- Purple Geezus, Black Tractor, and a solo called LUCKY 13. WSSP, WSSP II and the HOLLY WITCHEY PROJECT all show what I can do with a hammer and saw. I can be bought. But how about the church? That's a different story.
The CLGM stands alone as a project that does not need nor want press or money. The reality of what has developed in terms of congregation is so satisfying and heart warming that press would only ruin it. So it is I ask all members of the congregation to keep it under your hat. Sure you can tell your friends but do not write about it or talk to any reporters. We have a great thing going here. I know it's hard to wrap your head around something that you don't want to go viral in a world that judges every thing by thumbs up and comments. So the next time someone asks what the fuck that church thing is all about? State very simply "What happens in church stays in church." Amen.

CLGM INVITE

2011-06-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

SEASON RECAP

2011-06-01T05:25:00.000-07:00

For all you turkey hunters who read this blog for that day to day report throughout May I apologize. Once again I scheduled a CLGM for Memorial Weekend and on top of that opened a gallery....so I had my hands full. Let me make it up to you.

Opening day found me up above WSSP on Ralph's land. At dawn things were quiet. No roost gobbles. I wandered down the ridge, calling periodically. I set down against a big oak and dozed off. Then in my stupor I heard crunching leaves behind me. Out of practice and half asleep I turned. What a bone head move. A jake was coming in silent. He spotted me and disappeared. I shook it off and started calling again. Finally a gobble....then another and another. I sweet talked the birds and in they came. Gun on my knee, sight settled, I saw three red heads coming through the woods. I clicked the safety off and.......all jakes. I lowered the barrel and just watched. Jakes are legal but it's like shooting a spike on opening day. I'll pass.
   Now maybe it didn't rain every day in May, but damn close. AND it was cold. Add to that the fact that we were trying to put two roofs on out at The Hollie Witchey Project and the season shaped up to be one of the most frustrating in recent memory. I'd see birds in strut far out in fields and never be able to get up on them. The woods would be silent for most of the morning, only to hear one or two gobbles then nothing. Late one Saturday morning I went down to Gilkey's and called in five hot jakes. I wasn't gonna let this one pass. I shot and killed one. Then I pumped another shell and leveled the sights on a second bird. Click. I pumped again. Click again. Fuck! Turned out my gun was so dirty it wouldn't chamber the shells.
   The weather only got worse as the season progressed. I'd get birds going only to have them shut up and vanish after 15 mins. I hunted before work when I could drag my ass out. Another jake went down in Butch's field. I had meat for Memorial day but no gobbler. As we all know it ain't over until May 31. So the weekend of the church and show I went out, hung over, dead tired with George Holz (my only artist hunting buddy). Once again we heard birds only to fuck up and spook them or just have them hen up and go the other direction. And now 10,000 mosquitos were devouring my flesh. On Sunday George was at my door in a raging thunder storm at 6am. I had to give it to the guy. He was serious about drawing blood. But once again the only blood came from my neck covered in needle nosed insects.
  The weekend over, I got up at 4:30 am yesterday and hit the woods. Nothing at Butch's. I drove to WSSP. As the morning progressed I had three different birds going. Each time my heart raced as the woods rocked with gobbles. FINALLY! But then they'd shut up. I'd call softly....then louder. Other hens would call and before I could ever see feathers they'd peel off the hot tom and I'd only hear sparrows and meadowlarks. The last morning was the best- even without seeing a bird. By 11:30 I drug my ass home to mow the lawn. Time to write the blog. I'm back.

ANNA SCHILLING

2011-06-01T04:13:00.001-07:00

THE TRIBE

2011-05-31T16:04:00.000-07:00

   I've always said that it's just as important to stop things as to start them. I closed MO David Inc. in 1987 in NYC. I accepted the fact that I wanted to be an artist way more than an art dealer and came to the rather obvious conclusion that I wasn't much of a salesman. It was one of the best moves I ever made. Unencumbered by the dismal everyday grind of running a retail art space freed me up to explore other things. I began writing songs, hooked up with three amazing musicians- Scott Jarvis, Rob Kennedy and the late Jerry Williams, and began to explore my inner rocker in the band Purple Geezus. Then the band, along with Carlo McCormick and I plotted in my E6th St. apt to form the Church of the Little Green Man. Fuck the art world. Music and religion were way more fun.
   The other side of that equation is that once stopping things, it may make sense to start 'em up again. Aside from an emergency church in 2001, we essentially stopped the CLGM and Purple Geezus in the early 90's. I moved to the country. So here I was living in the Catskills, removed from the art scene, removed from the music scene, restoring a 150 year old church working as a carpenter, hunting and guiding, continuing static work and writing songs. I bought a guitar and taught myself some cords. Life was good, if a little isolated. I never imagined I'd be a dealer again and questioned ever doing the church. Then something happened. I met a young guy named Josh Druckman. He had a recording studio in an old bungalow and the two of us began recording my stuff. I've found there are a few people who I've met in my lifetime that have opened up completely new worlds to me. Usually they become really good friends. In order from 1977 I put them Tony Labat, Carlo McCormick and Josh Druckman. These guys expanded my world. And it's still blowing up....
  So it has been working with J.D. (aka Slick) that I finally restarted the CLGM. Church is back. Three services down and more coming. BORST BELT DIRTY DANCING STAND UP COMEDIAN CATSKILL CLICHE CHURCH is coming up on Labor Day. The congregation is growing. Dollars are going up in smoke. And now if you can believe it I've restarted MO David as MO DAVID NORTH with the love of my life Shewho. We had the first opening this weekend with photos by R. Kern M. Rothen and G. Holz. It fucking rocked the house. And this is no small part do to the infusion of a much younger and better looking scene supplied by Mr. Druckman. No, we haven't sold anything yet. And maybe we won't. But once again that is inconsequential. This stuff lives and breathes. It ends. It starts up again. And always the tribe is out there. Here we go again.

AMERICAN iPOLE XMAS @ EASTER LAPTISM CLGM- May 29, 2011

2011-03-26T05:27:00.000-07:00

EXPLOITISM

2011-03-24T08:35:00.000-07:00

Six weeks until turkey season, an upcoming church and the opening of MO David North in the works, and what is on my mind? The exploitation of friends, family and congregation. Exploitation is a funny word. It has such negative connotation at first reading. Lets go to Webster's. "A daring act. A bold deed. 1. To make use of. 2. To make unethical use of for one's own profit." Well, as I read this, in the negative sense, the word doesn't really apply. When have I ever made a profit off of anybody unethically (or ethically for that matter)? Not that I wouldn't be open to it. It just never seems to happen. So years ago I just stopped trying. But still I like the word. So why not own it baby?
I'm lucky enough to know a few supermodels. And I've even taken a couple hunting. This was the inspiration of the blog. Do I use the image of a beautiful woman in various states of undress to keep readers coming back for the more mundane musing of middle aged hillbilly trying to keep his hand in the game? Damn straight. Is this exploitation mutual? I think so. That's a model's business. Their image is their cache. Do I make a profit? No. In the 80's I took artists' work (both known and unknown) and painted over it with various colors. I made their work mine. It was bold and daring. Some artists were OK with it. Other artists got really pissed. They felt exploited. Did I sell any? No. Over the years I've had bands, exploiting the musical ability of others to get across my songs and formed a church where dollars are burned for everyone's amusement. Am I a cult leader or even a traditional minister who asks the congregation to give up worldly possessions or tithe 10%? No way. Burn a buck and join the party. I'm easy.
And now I am revisiting a piece I concocted years ago- MO David. This is a gallery that shows other artists, as well as two fake ones I invented. Once again I'm lucky enough to know some really good artists. It is traditional for a gallery to take 40 or 50% of the price of an artwork upon sale. Why shouldn't I take my fee off the back end? Not only do I use other artist's art in my work, I've found a way to use other artist's careers. MO David North looks good only if our roster looks good. All of my artists, as well as my partner in this venture- Shewho, have better careers than I do. I need them way more than they need me. Will I finally make unethical use of another for my profit? I sure as hell hope so. Let the exploitation begin.

ANNA SCHILLING

2011-02-24T05:06:00.001-08:00

KRISTAN KOHL 1952

2011-02-21T08:46:00.001-08:00

SELLING THE DEADIST

2011-02-21T08:39:00.000-08:00

  In 1984 I created the artist Kristan Kohl in order to surreptitiously show in my NYC gallery MO David. Eventually I also showed my other identities - Richard Mauwra and Mike Osterhout. But it was Kristan Kohl, who I had die in 1985, who has become the most prolific of all my personas. With the re-opening of MO David North I've been revisiting the work of this deadist as well as Richard Mauwra (still alive). Mauwra indulges himself with goofy, purient combine sculptures with titles full of pun and whimsy. You can never have enough fucking whimsy with Mauwra. You got: Stuffing The Puppy, Shaving the Grinch, Poking the Love Bug, Stabbing the Bunny, and LOOK! It's a Penis. That one Tristan titled. But it's work by the deadist Kristan Kohl that continues to force its way to the front, and joins the rest of my problematic dead artists.
   Recently I emailed an art critic friend and informed him about MO David North. He replied that he always loved my work and how lucky I was to still have all of it. He ended his nice little note with "Don't worry. When you die your career will explode." Thanks. I think. I thought I did that. I guess faking it just doesn't fly. I'm starting to know a few dead artists and it's no cake walk in the after life either. Look at Abraham Levin. The poor guy hasn't had a show since 1967. His paintings are fucking great! Shewho manages the estate of Leon Golub and Nancy Spero- both recent deadists and she works goddamn hard keeping the balls in the air. Who knows what's going on with David Ireland's house or all his work. If you don't attain some A-list status while still breathing, it can be a rough road to immortality.
   That old myth of the dead artist being worth so much more can be mightily fueled if the artist dies young and hot. Jean Michel comes to mind. But usually it doesn't apply. If you are just a working stiff, even well known and greatly respected- still a working stiff, a deadist can find a show ending with no where to go but storage. And before you know it the gallerist is calling you "Non-representative." It's a constant struggle even after death. So chances are my stuff isn't going to be worth much more when I'm six feet under, so you might as well start buying it now and do my family a solid by getting it out of my house. Otherwise it's just more work for Shewho and she's got her hands full.

WILL WORK FOR NOTHING

2011-02-15T08:56:00.000-08:00

   Not everybody feels this way. After The Huffington Post was recently purchased by AOL for $315 million, it's no surprise that the legions of unpaid bloggers that supply content to HP want a little gravy on their biscuit. Back in 1989 I wrote a column for PAPER MAGAZINE called The Holy Corner. It took me a couple of hours each month to write, for which I received $125. I felt I was grossly under paid, but I WAS paid. One of the columns was on the movie FORREST GUMP. Everyone had come out with glowing reviews of the pic., so I decided to rip it apart. Some producer in LA, who happened to be involved with a show on ABC that came on after NIGHTLINE, read the piece and liked it. His assistant called me and asked if I would be interested in coming on the air to read the column. "How much will you pay?" I asked, like a dog having a juicy piece of meat waved under his nose. (I was constantly broke at the time). "Oh we don't pay." the assistant responded, surprised that I would even bring it up. "You'll get national exposure for your act." I had to explain to her that I had no "act" only "bills". She said she'd get back to me.
   When I told my editors at PAPER about the offer and my refusal to work for nothing they thought I was nuts. How could I turn my nose up a such a big break into show business? Just like with the assistant, I had to explain to them just how much money such a TV show pulled in and how my lights were about to be shut off and all I wanted was a token. Christ I would've taken car fare. But the ABC producer stood firm. NO PAY. NO WAY. I stuck to my guns and refused. They thanked me for my time and put some other shmuck on the air. I think it was John Stewart.
   That was a long time ago. These days I work for nothing as a matter of course. (Not carpentry, silly. I got bills). I mean I write. I record. I paint and sculpt and think up new money draining projects all the time. Sure it would be nice to get paid for any of these things, but I don't sweat it anymore. The internet has freed me up from needing to be published or having a CD or even an art show. Every day I sit down at my little mac. and throw out into cyberspace whatever. Do I care how many people read or see it? Not really. I figure I've done my job. Now it's up to the public. I've got no love for AOL or The Huffington Post. But to all the suppliers of content who are bellyaching about a paycheck, I would just say- get a real job and do all the rest for free. It's good exposure.

KATANIA

2011-02-14T06:38:00.001-08:00

COUNTRY RAT PLUMMETS TO DEATH IN GARAGE GOURD HELL HOLE

2011-02-14T06:34:00.000-08:00

  Big news on the mountain is GNJohn's discovery of a rat who found his way into a garbage can containing a rotten gourd. We think the critter ate himself to death. Ever the pragmatist, GNJ left the rat where he lay, drawing in another who also was found dead a day or so later, forming a ying- yang rat circle of death. Now, the question is- why did the rats die so quickly? You would think a rat could survive for quite some time on just gourd and fellow dead rat meat. Can this particular gourd be deadly to rats? The queries are piling up. You can tell it's been a long winter.
   I haven't worked since before deer season, when I painted WSSP II. And now my neck is so screwed up I may not be able to work when Holly Witchey finally closes on her new property. This is why, once again, I'm trying to breathe new life into MO David. We all know the money burning CLGM has no chance of paying the bills, so why not start a gallery again? For what ever reason I haven't burned the bridges I thought I had, so when I contact my contemporaries (successful or not) they mostly seem willing to participate. It doesn't hurt to have Shewho on board as a partner. Her expertise and demeanor will be invaluable when it comes to actually selling a work of art. I'll be the first one to admit, I don't have a clue how to do it.
   Today is the first day the mercury has climbed above freezing. The woodchuck's prediction may be correct. Turkeys are out in the field scratching and Dennis the big dick donkey is kicking up his heels and chasing the the little goat around. Spring just may be around the corner. Mupp is home polishing the stripper pole and lovers everywhere are exchanging candied hearts. The rat mystery continues, as well as preparations for the CLGM Xmas @ Easter Laptism American iPole Church. This afternoon I'm biting the bullet and going to the neck doctor. I'll let you know how I make out. Happy VD!

MARTYNKA

2011-02-10T16:35:00.003-08:00

AMERICAN iPOLE

2011-02-10T10:28:00.000-08:00

   Just the other day Deacon Mupp picked up 20 feet of stainless steel stripper pole, all set to be polished and installed in the church. Let the Catholics have their kiddie molester priests. Let the Presbyterians have their bland covered dish dinners. Let the Mormons have their ghost baptisms and multiple wives. And even let the Scientologists have their absurd celebs and science fiction dogma. The CLGM is the first church to install a stripper pole. If there's another one I'd like to hear about it.
   Preparations are continuing for The Xmas @ Easter Laptism American iPole Church of the Little Green Man Sunday May 29, 2011. Animals are being rounded up for the petting zoo. The elves and bunnies are busy with all their duties. But most importantly we are spreading the word regarding the American iPole Contest. Here's your chance. Can't sing? Can't dance? Can't play an instrument. No problem. Anyone can spin around a pole. Simon Cowel can't make it but we do have the panel of Deacons- Mupp, Al Blanchard and Savage Lynch. And although she can be kinda unreliable Kim Kardashian promises to fill the JLo spot. The Band of All Faiths is learning Like A Rock and some Fergie tunes. So get out that Victoria Secret catalog and pick out some appropriate duds. God bless you one and all.

ARTISTIC PARTNERSHIPS

2011-01-31T10:25:00.000-08:00

  For someone who became an artist so he wouldn't have to work with anybody, I sure have had a bunch of collaborators. I ran down the MO David artists over the years, but even before that I started working with other artists. THE MOTEL TAPES put videos by Jose Maria Bustos, Peggy Ingalls, and Tony Labat, as well as myself, in a SF Porno motel. THE CHURCH and THE WHOUSE were both done at David Ireland's 65 Capp house. And Labat and I organized THE HAMM'S BREWERY SHOW and THE AMERICAN INDIAN CENTER SHOW. I also helped him with his KIDNAP ATTEMPT of Lowell Darling. Then there were THE WINDOWS. I rented the display windows of the old JC PENNEY building in downtown SF. All was going well until Karen Finley inadvertently broke one, naked, banging on it like a crazy woman, during the lunch hour rush. Nice piece, but the $600 replacement cost was more than 6 months rent. End of show. THE FEDERAL PRISON SHOW with THE PUDS and THE UNDEAD ended the same way after the warden threatened to lock me up after PUDS lead singer Philip Huyser took the stage in nothing but boots and a 45 rpm record taped around his middle, with his pecker sticking through the hole. Guilty your honor.
   When MO David Inc. closed in NYC I didn't waste much time finding others to play with. Carlo McCormick and THE WORKDOGS joined me in setting up the church and PURPLE GEEZUS. To this day I work with a lot of the same people I did 20 and even 30 years ago. I guess I'ved worked with Tony Labat the most. He helped a lot with THE OLD SCHOOL FOR SOCIAL SCULPTURE (bringing a graduate class from SFAI) for my faculty of Robin Winters, Kiki Smith, Linda Montano, Alix Lambert and others. And I went to Cuba a couple of times with him, once to lecture at ISA and an other time promoting my HOLYLGM water, honey and cigars in a circus tent outside of Havana. Carlo and Tessa Hughes Freeland funded WSSP II this past year and soon Holly Witchey will start THE JEFFERSONVILLE PROJECT. THE BAND OF ALL FAITHS includes Josh Druckman, RI Travis, Sarah Budde, Dreiky Caprice, Scott Jarvis, G. Nick, and more. Tristan McCormick/Freeland is the new Cardinal. Regular contributors R. Kern, Marianna Rothen and now George Holz put the supermodels in huntingwithsupermodels.blogspot.com. Plus I could never do half the carpentry works I do without Al Blanchard and Mupp. The Key Family Dairy Farm will be instrumental in helping me realize my newest work- MY COW II. Eggs and sperm are on ice as we speak.
   These days with the re-startup of MO David Gallery as MO David North, the artistic partnerships are expanding once again. First and foremost is the artist Samm Kunce. Even though we are personally involved it doesn't seem to interfere with our working relationship. Separate houses helps. WSSP( see-whitesulphurspringsproject.blogspot.com) would never have been possible without her. And basically the only chance MO David North has of selling anything falls to her. I'm a terrible businessman and she's a pro. A website MODAVIDGALLERY.COM is coming. Up coming shows with Kembra Pfahler and Mel Chin are in the works and the Holz, Kern, Rothen show is opening on May 28, 2011. I look forward to working with all these people and more. I can always use a hand.

MO DAVID NORTH-opening May 28, 2011

2011-01-31T08:14:00.000-08:00