MR. AND MRS. C WITH 10 POINT

 

FORGIVE YOUR TRESPASSES?

  

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

ATHENA at WOLF LAKE

 Photo: R. Kern

THE PERPETUAL SCENESTER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         

AMY with GUN

 Photo: R. Kern

FUNNY/NOT FUNNY?

 My latest blurb project is a magazine called FREE SPIRIT. I tried to get other artists and writers involved in it, to no avail. The only person to respond was my old friend, painter and writer, Walter Robinson. In true form he sent me everything he’d ever written on me over the years. It was of no use, but at least he responded. As for the rest, they know me all too well at this point. Why bother? Mike's shit goes nowhere. Not worth the trouble. I don’t blame them. Plus, more ink and space for me. So, I doubled the size. All 240 pages are now devoted to my work, sense of humor and culture. It's great! The opening essay spells it out. This magazine is devoted to how I, as an artist, deals with both humor and culture in my work. This covers quite a bit of territory.

 

The back cover is a picture of the Trumpist acolyte Laura Loomer, who Trump described as a “free spirit.” The front cover was of Nazi minister of propaganda Joseph Goebbels. I say “was” because I was convinced to remove his image by a few concerned members of community. This was done under protest. Firstly, not many knew exactly who he was, only that Goebbels was some random “old” Nazi. People also thought I was being old fashioned and a bit out of touch by using this B&W WWII image. I disagreed, but relented, changing the cover to a gunshot ravaged ear. Laura remains on the back cover…..for now.

 

This so-called magazine is just another book containing photos of my pieces. If I hadn’t maxed out what blurb allows for page count, I’d still be working on it. I tried to concentrate on pieces that use questionable humor. I have plenty. And this brings me to the jokester of the hour – Tony Hinchcliffe. I’d never heard of him before he was hired as the opening act at Trump’s MSG Nazi rally over the weekend. You’ve all heard the “island of garbage” joke by now. Funny? I didn’t think so at the time. It seemed like the usual mean-spirited crap Trump and his minions always spew. But then I Youtubed the entire MSG set. Context people!!!! It’s the crowd that is humorless, not the comedian. The guy is fucking funny!

 

As others have noted, it maybe wasn’t too swift of the Trump campaign to hire a “roast comedian” to open a Trump Nazi Rally. Whatever the reason they booked this act, this one guy and his bad jokes may win the Dems the election. I also am not convinced that this guy isn’t some deep-state A.I. generated avatar created by Biden Crime family operatives, posing as a Trumpian comedian. Watch the set. It becomes painfully clear immediately that the red hatted, foot-shuffling, mouth-breathing, crowd doesn’t know how to take the jokes. “Where are my Latinos?” he asks. There’s a big cheer. Tony doesn’t miss a beat. Here come the migrant and Puerto Rico garbage jokes. Unlike Trump’s disingenuous pandering to specific demographics in his crowd targeting, Hinchcliffe toys with this bunch of dimwits (and some very fine people) feeding them all the racist red meat they desire.

 

I do have to admit, that at the end of his set he loses me with his Trump endorsement and seems genuine in his support for the entire insane Musk Clown posse. I have no idea if he actually believes what he’s saying or if it’s all a bit, part of the act. In either case, Tony Hinchcliffe would be my pick as an opener for the next Kamala Harris rally (and minister of humor). There’s still time. The Republicans can wave goodbye to the Puerto Rican vote. That may be all we need. Garbage Island??? Yer killin’ me Tony!

GIRL WITH BOW by Ethelbert B. Crawford