Friday, October 30, 2020


 Photo: Sara Budde


 "I don't know anything about QAnon, but I hear they are very strongly against pedophilia. So am I."- Donald J. Trump

   I feel reassured. You never know with Trump. He easily could've pointed out some "very good pedophiles on both sides" or left it up to the states. What business is child sex abuse to William Barr? He's busy with the Antifa and the Bidens. Wait, isn't the left riddled with pedophiles? Maybe the DNC and Bidens should be investigated for pedophilia. Instead of disavowing QAnon Trump aligned with this crackpot bunch of flat earthers (who he knows nothing about) who have professed undying allegiance to their invisible cult leader Q and his earthly manifestation, Trump. These Q nuts vote. And surprise, surprise, Trump knows all about them. Kids (abused or otherwise) don't vote. They are expendable.

    Children have been a big part of global victimhood historically, and many times used and abused physically and politically by both church and the state. QAnon's outrageous fantasies of Democrat child sex rings and pizza parlor basements make flat earth theories sound plausible. Yet, these narratives ring true for millions...... YES....millions of Q followers. This is a new wrinkle of child sex abuse in of itself. When pedophilia becomes the core element of a politically motivated conspiracy theory aimed at getting Trump four more years, the actual child victims of pedophilia and their endured sexual terror at the hands of adults are minimized. Trump is complicit in QAnon's rape of the truth, crackpot theories and hijacking of NGO hashtags. Children are mere tools to attain their desired ends of a Trump political dynasty. They care nothing for the real victims of child sex abuse.

   I love kids. No. Not in that way. Get your mind out of the gutter. Being the eldest of five children, I've always been around them. I don't have any myself, but my nieces and nephews operate like puppy mills, so I'm still around plenty of them.  Kids like me too. This is because I talk to them like adults and allow the rugrats to wail on me without fear of reprisal. I'm no "bad grandma" disciplinarian. Even when the parents allow me to clock the brats when they act up or misbehave, I resist. That's their job-- if they choose that route. My bark can stop most tykes in their tracks and I never have to lift my hand. Kids are very similar to pack animals. Jerk the chain (metaphorically speaking)...then give them a treat. Orange Osti chips work great!

    I know all you parents reading this must think I'm full of shit. But remember I'm speaking as an uncle, great uncle, old weird artist neighbor and pretend minister-- not a parent. Most kids respond to me specifically because I am childless, snide and fun. No competition. I can have my influence on children and leave them to the mater and pater familia at the end of the day. If my stepdaughter was reading this (or talking to me) she'd probably agree with you; that I know nothing about parenting. I'll readily admit that. But I do know that I will always align with the youth and if they don't over stay their welcome, (hint, hint) you can always trust me with your kids. As for QAnon followers, politicians or my fellow clergy members I make no such promises in that regard. You kids are fair game to be exploited by groups like QAnon, evil manipulative clergy and singularly focused assholes like Trump, until you can fight back. Even one of my nieces was a beauty queen in one of Trump's Miss Whatever franchises. I blame the parents. Let's hope they all learned their lesson. I'm not confident  If her father votes for Trump AGAIN all might be lost. Hold onto your childhood for dear life and don't ever trust adults. You kids just may survive. #savethechildrenfordessert    



Thursday, October 29, 2020

AMERIKLAN- studio view


KU KLUX KLOWN defeated by some girl

 Photo: Samm Kunce


   I know we are used to being divided, polarized into viewing things in terms of black and white (or red and blue). Remember a time when it wasn't so? Remember when "shades of grey" wasn't just a creepy soft core porn movie? It's difficult. In the art world it's been happening for a while. Philip Guston is only the latest to fall under the cancel culture ax. Where's the outrage? It is of course divided across the board.

   Here's the thumbnail of this latest art world tempest: Famous, revered by both the market and institutions, critically acclaimed, dead artist Philip Guston had a major retrospective of his work planned for a traveling show at four major museums to begin in 2021- The Tate Modern in London, The National Gallery in Washington DC, The Museums of Fine Arts in both Boston and Houston.  But something happened. Together these institutions issued a joint statement reading:    

‘After a great deal of reflection and extensive consultation, our four institutions have jointly made the decision to delay our successive presentations of Philip Guston Now. We are postponing the exhibition until a time at which we think that the powerful message of social and racial justice that is at the center of Philip Guston’s work can be more clearly interpreted.’ Going on to explain, ‘We plan to present a reconsidered Guston exhibition in 2024 and will work together to do so.’

   That prompted this response from Guston's family and art world scholars: "Guston’s daughter Musa Mayer quoted in The New York Times, [said] that she was ‘deeply saddened’ by the decision to postpone the exhibition, going on to declare that he ‘dared to unveil white culpability, our shared role in allowing the racist terror that he had witnessed since boyhood,’ and that ‘these paintings meet the moment we are in today. The danger is not in looking at Philip Guston’s work, but in looking away.’

    Mark Godfrey, Senior Curator, International Art at Tate Modern, who had been working on the show, took to social media to express his dismay, reiterating Mayer’s comments about Guston’s anti-racist position and writing, as part of a lengthy statement, that: ‘Cancelling or delaying the exhibition is probably motivated by the wish to be sensitive to the imagined reactions of particular viewers, and the fear of protest. However, it is actually extremely patronising to viewers, who are assumed not to be able to appreciate the nuance and politics of Guston’s works.’ Before going on to suggest that the reasons for the postponement (which he equates to a cancellation) have little to do with Guston’s work and more to do with the institutions’ lack of faith in their curators and lack of belief in the intellect of the general public.

Godfrey’s statement echoed the thoughts of eminent art-historian Robert Storr (author of a recent biography of Guston), who said: ‘If the National Gallery of Art, which has conspicuously failed to feature many artists-of-colour, cannot explain to those who protect the work on view that the artist who made it was on the side of racial equality, no wonder they caved to misunderstanding in Trump times.’- from ArtReview Sept. 25, 2020

    Would that this was only a problem in the high end art world. The other night at Samm's super spreader birthday party a guest suggested that the time may not be right to sport my TRUMP bumper stickers with the "T" in the form of a burning cross on your car or pickup truck. The argument was that the sticker could be seen as Pro-Trump and not understood at 60 mph. THAT is exactly the idea, and dare I say the point of both my and Guston's art. When that Statey is closing the distance on my truck I want him to think that TRUMP sticker is for his guy, cutting me some slack until he blasts by and then thinks to himself, "Was that a burning cross? Was that an anti-Trump truck?" Too late. I drive home safely. If now isn't the time, when?

   Since 2012, at the beginning of the second Obama administration, when the crackers of this world became more and more emboldened by Trump and his birtherism, when unarmed black men, women and children increasing died at the hands of police, when racism seemed to be back in a big way, I started incorporating racist, Klan imagery in my work. Guston was one of my influences. When I lit a handheld, burning cross during the Foxy Boxing match of Ku Klux Klown the congregation was aghast. When I created Ameriklan in response to Trump's flag hugging stunts I was warned that people would not understand. Like it or not I am not beholding to anyone and ask no permission to display this work. Ultimately I trust my audience will grasp the nuance, the ambiguity and embrace the anti-racist message my work embodies. The museum boards that are controlled by money (much Republican) can all go fuck themselves. It's a shanda! They are failing the people with their narrow mindedness.       

Wednesday, October 28, 2020


 Photo: George Holz


 Living here in Covid Dale we are far. While the second (or first) wave of Covid-19 infections are raging across the country and Trump continues his "We Give Up" tour of denial, we remain secluded in our hidden penetralia. We wear masks and take simple social distance precautions in public that have become second nature. Some take greater risks by coming and going to NYC but most remain isolated and healthy. I changed Cheeky's litter last night and this morning he took a nice big shit in the clean box. Life is good.

  2020 has become the year of lowered expectations. My bar was already set so low I may have to dig a trench. The one exhibition I had planned is now postponed indefinitely. Grants? All rejections. Jobs? Non-existent. Record deal? Ha! That's funny. Publishing? Here I continue to be persistent. Whoever I know that has even the slightest connection with the written word I send files and ask for help getting anything in print. Recently I contacted my old friend and ex PAPER magazine publisher DH pleading for a leg up anywhere. He suggested I try the art world route- a small publishing house/gallery called Karma in the East Village and famous artist Richard Prince. With absolutely nothing to lose I sent a cover letter (with CLGM documentary) off to each. No response.

    This is why I love and cannot stop deer hunting. My success to failure rate in the woods is about on par with my creative career as a whole. Years keep piling up. Sitting in a tree for hours at a time, seeing nothing but chattering squirrels and the odd porcupine is a metaphor. Obscurity? It would take a lot more attention to attain that welcome status. A big buck on the ground? You have to see a deer first. The parallels between art and hunting slap me in the face every time the alarm clock goes off at 5:30 am. Do you keep at it or just pull the covers over your head and go back to sleep? Today the rain (and failures) kept me snuggled up with Cheeky in bed. That's why I'm home writing this on Oct. 28th.

    October has been a disappointment. Early buck sightings are now a distant memory. I'm seeing no movement whatsoever-- not even does. The weather has been mild, making long sits easy, but with no deer incredibly boring. With the promise of temps tumbling and snow coming on Friday this all may change in an instant. Deer move on pressure shifts and weather fronts (warm or cold) moving through. Plus, if that buck crossing Church Road last Friday with his nose on a doe's ass is any indication the rut should be kicking in any day now. I have to hang in there. 

    The deer herd and the population of Covid Dale seem to be weathering the pandemics just fine. It all looks promising for the mammalien population on all fronts.  Chances of raising my profile a bit in the art or literary world? Not so much. But let's keep things in perspective. The skies are clearing. Time to get in the tree. Keep those expectations on the ground. Cheeky's headed for his box. Another dump? As my old man used to love to say. You have to keep a good attitude and regular bowel movements. Good boy Cheeky!        


Sunday, October 25, 2020




    Everybody knows that quote. Who said it? John Van Buren. How do I know that? Because both sides (Osterhout and Jennings) of my family had legal and political dealings with the Van Burens throughout the 19th century in New York State. We nativists are linked through hundreds of years of local history and voter fraud. Every day this becomes more apparent. 

    The more familiar Van Buren would be John's father former U.S. President Martin Van Buren. Well before he was elected President, in 1819 Martin Van Buren, known as the Little Magician, for his ability to pull fat contracts and  political graft out of his hat, was the Attorney General of New York State. Martin is credited with inventing "machine politics" in NY with his powerfully corrupt Albany Regency "Bucktail" Party. When then NY Gov. Dewitt Clinton heard about a murder conspiracy that unfolded just down the road from his family home in Little Britain, Orange County, NY, he assigned the high profile prosecution of the conspirators to AG Van Buren. The murder victim in this case was my mother's ancestor Richard Jennings. Jennings' sister Mary was married to Dr. Samuel Sweezey Seward, a Goshen magistrate and the father of Lincoln's future Secretary of State William Henry Seward. The Sewards (and eventually the Osterhouts) were also entwined for decades with the Van Burens. Digging into history is like trying to unravel a big ball of writhing snakes without being bit. Bear with me. 

    AG Martin Van Buren convicted four men in the conspiracy to murder Richard Jennings in 1819--sentencing them all to hang-- pardoning Hannah Teed, the one woman involved in the plot. Gov. Clinton then spared two of the conspirators, David Conklin and Jack Hodges (a rich white farmer and a black sailor), almost at the gallows steps. The poor farm hand David Dunning and head conspirator, Jennings nephew James Teed, would hang for the crime; while Hodges and Conklin would both serve ten years in prison. Go to for more details. 

   Twenty-five years later, in the midst of the Rent Wars in upstate NY, Calico Indian insurgents Elias and David Osterhout would also face off with then NY AG John Van Buren in court in Delhi, NY, on charges of murder and kidnapping of Sheriff Osman "lead can't hurt steel" Steele. They would lose. The Osterhouts (along with many others) were convicted and sent off to the brand new state prison at Dannemora, named for the ex governor Dewitt Clinton. When administrations changed once again in Albany the Calico Indians at Dannemoran were all pardoned from Clinton Correctional. That's politics. 

    A few years after the Delhi trials ex NY governor, then a high profile lawyer in private practice, William H. Seward, would also face AG John Van Buren in court in Auburn, NY, in the case of the People vs. William Freeman. His client, the mixed race (indigenous and black) Freeman, who had been wrongly convicted of horse thievery, tortured and abused during his time in the State Prison at Auburn, had viciously murdered the white Van Nest family just after his release. Seward's defense was revolutionary- not guilty by reason of insanity. The man who years later would be stabbed and almost killed the same night President Lincoln was assassinated, in another murder conspiracy, would put the NY prison system on trial, arguing that the state had turned young William Freeman into a senseless killer. Defeating AG Van Buren, Seward would be rewarded with a hung jury. Never exonerated or freed, Bill Freeman died in the Auburn jail (from head injuries sustained in prison) before he could be retried. After surviving his own assassination attempt and buying Alaska from the Russians, Henry Seward would die peacefully in bed.

     New York State is a microcosm of US politics at large, traditionally crooked and steeped in dirty money. Trump may be voting in Florida now, but he's a quintessential New Yorker- dirty to the core. Like resisting my urge to trespass, now is the time to play by the rules. I shot my first legal bow buck years ago on election day. I feel lucky. That's my plan for this year- get up early and vote only once in Woodridge on Nov. 3. By then the brewing rut should be heating up, so I'll hunt the rest of the day, secure that I'm obeying ALL the laws. If there's any MAGA poll watchers watching my pole, step aside. Democracy is at stake.       


Saturday, October 24, 2020

DRAW ME- Kembra




   When I first started to blog the internet offered the option to record your voice over the phone. I was writing plenty of songs at the time, so I used the option to sing and play guitar into the phone. Then blogspot dropped the option. I lost all those recordings. Luckily I still have Josh Druckman and his state of the art Outlier Studios a short drive away. This is one of the many perks I receive from living in this community- pity recording time. Here's a few lyrics from a recent session:    

Lord help us 'cause we're a little light now

Just a nickle short

Living on the somehow

Fer Christ's sake sometimes we're hungry

You've eaten all the steak

Left us nothing but baloney

All eyes gaze to the heavens

You can't pay the rent



America - um hum

Everybody says these times are uncertain

You don't want to see what lies behind that curtain

Hear that eagle scream as he flies down the river




Fuck Us All

Slavery since 1619

We made a lot of money killing off the Indians

God watched. "What's all the commotion? You better not get no abortions."

Fer Christ's sake you must be horny

Ain't you getting tired of slamming your salamis?

   Songs are like drawings. They come when they feel like it, are fast, a little rough and serve the purpose of an immediate outlet. Practicing and singing them allows for a cathartic release of controlled breath, calming one down and fills countless hours with a proactive activity. I stopped performing solo in public years ago. Fronting a rock band or even a church is so much more fun than sitting in a chair with a guitar and struggling to remember my own words. The singer/songwriter thing was never for me. The bottom line is I'm just not that good at it. Yet, I keep at it in private and entertain myself to no end. Come over some time and I'll sing you a song.

   I've written poetry since the 1970's, fronted rock bands from the 80's into the 2000's and never bought a guitar until 2001. I didn't come from an artistic or musical family so my influences were accessed through cultural osmosis and hit and miss experimentation. A horrible music teacher in fourth grade so traumatized me into believing I had no musical talent whatsoever that I missed out on being in bands in the 60's and 70's. Educators take note: EVERY KID ON EARTH HAS MUSICAL ABILITY! The world would be a better place if art and music was encouraged. I never even tried to play music until Punk Rock granted me agency to fail. In fact that Punk era taught me that failure could be really fun. Confidence and attitude supersedes talent any day. 90% of the fun of life is having the balls to fail. I'm  trying to keep that tradition alive.

Lord help us 'cause we're a little tight now

Just a nickle short 

Living on the somehow


If only....

Ain't you sick and tired of only eating baloney?

All eyes gaze to the heavens

You can't find a job




Fuck Us All!



Friday, October 23, 2020


 Photo: Richard Kern


 Weak, insecure, racist white people in America like to point to how long their family have been "here." It's called "nativism." Mean spirited assholes like Stephen Miller and his hand puppet Trump are perfect examples; spewing anti-immigrant rhetoric and instituting real world policies-- like ripping babies from parents' arms while never recording pertinent ancestral data-- severing the consaguinal lineage. won't help these children. Media reports at least 545 children lost in the system due to the Trump administration's Nazi like policies. You MAGA hat wearing hunters still want to vote red?

   If I believed in nativist privilege (which I don't) I would be king of the castle. Trump's grandmother was an Irish immigrant. Miller's family were part of the Jewish diaspora from Russia in the 20th Century. These guys are only a generation or two removed from immigration; yet they act like they founded the place. On the other hand my ancestor Jan Jansen Van Oosterhoudt sailed from Amsterdam, landing in Kingston, NY (then Wildwyck) in 1653. In 13 generations the Osterhouts have only moved about an hour away from where they got off the boat. You can't get much more 'merican than that.My family were some of the original trespassers.

   One of the first pieces of hard data I found on Dutch immigrant #1, Jan Jansen, was a record of a fine levied by the Wildwyck court on Van Oosterhoudt for trespassing outside of  stockade, ignoring the danger of Esopus Indian attack, while tending his still. We are generational bootleggers and trespassers. You want an Osterhout in your shit? Tell him he can't go there. More than a dozen fines were levied on Jan Jansen for trespass. None were ever recorded as paid. We are also terrible scofflaws. Jan Jansen survived his first wife, remarried and had nine children. If my nieces and nephews are any indication of breeding policy, we are far from done populating these American woods with spawn and hidden stills.

   Even though Carlo will never give me credit for it, I also do my fair share of reading.  These days much of it is historical. I want to know how this shit show started here in the good old USA. Ever hear of the enclosure movement? It began in Europe by the aristocracy, with hedges, stone walls and finally fence lines. Europeans loved straight lines. The merchants and slave traders exported the practice to North America. This is where capitalism and the whole concept of private property came from. Those burning Target stores you saw on TV in June are a direct reaction to the European enclosure movement of 500 years ago. Like my ancestors, I also hate being told where not to go and admittedly have crossed my fair share of forbidden fence lines. If we step back a little the entire white race is complicit, comprised of nothing but trespassers onto Indigenous territory. It seems to be the one thing we are really good at.

  I once knew a guy who couldn't hunt without trespassing. He'd grown up in a hillbilly poaching family in Pennsylvania (where else) and needed the adrenalin jolt of breaking the law to hunt. He bragged about setting up a bow stand on Whitney Houston's estate in Tuxedo-- shooting a nice buck early one morning--then dragging it off the tennis court before the household awoke. I'm not that bad.  

 But, just yesterday I did pull a deer stand out of one of my favorite pieces of woods, loaded with acorns. Last year I shot a nice buck in those woods with the bow. Why did I pull the stand before the rut even started? I'm sorry to say that I was trespassing. I never said I was perfect. This Osterhout character flaw is so deeply embedded in my ancestral skin that I have to work very hard to try to overcome it. These days as we all "check our privilege" and try to attain "ego death," my little attempt at being a better white person is to try to reel in my propensity to ignore posted signs. As of this writing all my deer stands are legal. One day at a time. It is my nature. Sadly, I'm all too American. 



Thursday, October 22, 2020


 Photo: Marianna Rothen


    Researching and writing multiple books were not the only reasons I stopped writing this blog in 2017.  There were some other issues at play that year. Decades of attempting to keep my glaucoma under control had resulted in an eye operation in my left eye and hundreds of years of oppression, exploitation of women resulting in a overlooked, dark post-feminist "rape culture," brought forth the hashtag MeToo. A reckoning was afoot. Fearing blindness and questioning the validity of writing a blog that featured scantily clad women, I too was affected by the times "canceling" myself......until I could figure it all out.

    As an artist, a fan, and a hunter I am an objectifier. I obsess over the object (in whatever form) seeking out the big beautiful buck, the pleasing composition, or languid female form sprawled out in all her glory across the page. I can appreciate the male form also, but hey, we all have our favorites. Time and space is limited. I identify as a heterosexual male-- like it or not. I'm unapologetic and confident in my choices. Then I squeeze the trigger or press "publish," moving on. Sometimes I hit the target. Sometimes I miss.

  Four years after Trump's "pussy grabbing" tape was revealed, four years of official misogyny, racist anti-immigrant policy, child separations, and the appointments of a sexual abuser (Kavanaugh) and a  handmaid (Coney-Barrett) to the Supreme Court, where has #MeToo gone? It has been, if not eclipsed, at least temporarily set aside by more pressing events like a pandemic, multiple (and ongoing) murders of unarmed black men, women and children by police and the most important Presidential election in American history. As I dive back into HWS the shelf life of the hashtag MeToo is front and center.   

  When I started writing HWS it was inspired by a cold afternoon squiring French supermodel Morgane Dubled through the NY woods during deer season. Stepping off the Victoria's Secret runway into my pickup seemed too crazy not to memorialize in some way. Remember Victoria's Secret? It's no secret anymore. But those days in 2007 were simpler times of angel wings and skimpy thongs. HWS was born. I would write about hunting (and anything else), emulating my father's trashy magazines of my youth like True and Argosy, while featuring work of my art photographer friends Richard Kern, Marianna Rothen and George Holz. Although there were plenty of nipples and asses, it was not even close to pornographic or exploitive. I would call it tasteful. 

     Plenty of individuals (mostly men) fell under the #MeToo ax in the ensuing years for being creepy, manipulative, sexual abusers. Rightfully so. A welcome light was shone on exploitive practices in academia, the entertainment industry and the art world that put women in compromising positions in order to maintain careers; while at the same time America elected a sexual predator as President. WTF? Yes, I'm an objectifier. Most artists are. But I'm no sexual abuser, misogynist or smut peddler. I welcome #MeToo, #blacklivesmatter, and #notmypresident. I personally guarantee that all the photographers and models featured in HWS are professional, incredibly talented and appearing here with their permission. Without apology I offer their work to the public once again. Enjoy!


The eye operation was a success! Everything is now in focus.    

Wednesday, October 21, 2020




    Bow hunting deer is the second season I've participated in during the Covid-19 pandemic in America. The first opportunity that I had to get in the woods was turkey season during the month of May. Remember May? George Floyd was murdered by a white police officer on May 25th as I was creeping up on gobbling birds in White Sulphur Springs. The U.S., sick with the Corona Virus, tried to come to grips with racial injustice and a white police state urged on by an increasingly fascist administration in Washington during turkey season 2020. The turkeys didn't care. The turkeys knew nothing of the virus, police violence, racism or crackpot Q-Anon theories. The bird that came very close to replacing the eagle perched on top of flag poles across the U.S., knew only of that camo-clad man crawling through the woods, trying to put them in the pot. Their world view was laser focused on survival and getting laid. We'd do well taking their example to heart. All but one local turkey survived May 2020; not from my lack of trying to kill my limit.

    Hunting is primal, simple and usually undertaken alone. In the time of Covid, outdoor activities took on new significance as the weather warmed in the Spring. Sporting goods stores did a bang up business on walking sticks and kayaks. If you lived in the country the Covid lockdown wasn't so bad. Get out in the sunshine. Breathe that fresh air! The woods were safe, human virus free. Masks were required, but only to hide shiny skin and white beards from sharp turkey eyeballs, not mitigate virus particles. A dewy field at the crack of dawn was a welcome respite from the oppressive fear of catching the Covid- EVERYWHERE! 

   The turkeys so far are healthy. But diseases of another variety stalk the deer population. Brought on by climate change, CWD (chronic wasting disease) and EHD (epizootic hemorrhagic disease) are two diseases that are having devastating effects on the deer herd in America. Locally CWD has not been an issue. The same cannot be said for the EHD virus. Over 400 rotting corpses of whitetail deer were reported in and around the aptly named Purgatory Swamp near Goshen, NY this summer; a short drive from my front door. Unusually warm storm systems blowing out of the southern states carried the virus vectors north in large swarms of insects. Transmitted by the tiny midge (no-see-ums) an infected northern whitetail deer, not immune to the bite of the southern midge, will usually die within 24- 36 hours. Humans are not alone in susceptibility to these aggressive pathogens lurking about these days. And, like in the Corona virus, a close connection remains between the animal and human kingdoms.  There is presently no vaccine for any of these diseases, animal or human.

    Here in the higher elevations the deer herd at present remains unaffected by EHD. But that's not to say this will always be the case. Tomorrow temps are suppose to rise into the 70's. This is not unheard of in mid-October, but these warm spells are happening more and more frequently. Without midge killing hard frosts the weedy species of all plant and animal varieties thrive, spreading Lyme and a dystopian cornucopia of other illnesses across species populations, at times spreading to humans. Covid-19 is only the latest to jump species. 

It's a sick world out there.   



Tuesday, October 20, 2020




  Yeah, I'm back. What have I been up to during the Trump years? Let's see. I wrote three books- (F)ancestor, Family Portrait, 1926, and Virus Suite. None have been published. I had multiple shows of my work, both self generated and otherwise. I recorded plenty of new songs, did a few radio interviews and was featured in a short documentary on the Church of the Little Green Man. I got back into painting, showing in a local Motel and even sold a couple of canvases. Taken in total I can look back on the last four years and be pleased that I didn't just crawl in a hole until it was over. That said, I did stop writing this blog. I still refuse to buy a cell phone, no longer have an answering machine or TV and recently dropped almost all my social media. I still have a Twitter account, that has about a dozen followers, that I use infrequently. For all intent and purpose I have become even more of a luddite than I was in 2017. But that doesn't mean I stopped working or hunting. 

    At 68, I'm still relatively healthy, prolific, and even though I can't get a book, record, or exhibition deal to save my life, it hasn't stopped me from cranking out the product or climbing in the tree stand. I've done a thousand drawings since March. Numbers are meaningless. Periodically I send out writing to agents and magazines, receiving only rejection or silence in response. That's why I'm back at HWS. The good old internet. It never goes away. 

    I know that many disparage blog writing, finding it too casual or not worth the time to read. But lacking the support of a publisher, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I've tried a few other blogs but nothing ever catches fire. So HWS it is.....again. This past summer I reached out to a friend to inform him of a new blog. Here's an example of what I got in response:        

MO: If you read blogs Carlo- Lays it all out.

CM: thanks for reminding me why I don't read blogs.

 MO: Maybe you want to be one of the Maid of Love’s royal court in the Love Parade? John is the Maid of Love. Get your girl on. And fuck you, you anti-bloggist.

 CM: when's the love parade? I might go to that, or counter-program with a hate pageant. certainly will not be at the mildred lane candlelight vigil, though I appreciate how they write- Please bring beeswax candles in place of petroleum paraffin* products what I've learned in my decades as a writer is that I always need a good editor. by such a measure I find blogs (and lots of the stuff on the internet) very sorely lacking. 

MO: Spare me your elitist, editor centric snobbery. Screw editors. Teach yourself- that’s what I say! I’m sure there’s a Youtube tutorial on the INTERNET!!!!!! Yeah, I’m making candles from gasoline and boiled down bear fat. Hope that’s PC enough. I’m just jealous of you “professional” writers. Let me know when I can be edited and be paid and I’ll join your team.

CM: funny indeed. there is of course an obvious difference between having standards and being a snob. and if the difference between a professional and an amateur is not quite so easy to explain, suppose you imagine how you might respond to a skill-deficient handyman asking you why he doesn't get hired to rebuild houses, and you can surmise your own answer to this riddle. as for one way to be a better writer I would suggest to start by being a better reader, to read for substance and style rather than information, which is part of where my efite literary tastes come from.

speaking of being a better reader-

I asked you when the love parade is and in an earlier email I asked if you had read that trash mystery "catskill" I laid on you. let me know the aforementioned, and keep in mind that what makes correspondence a conversation is the mutual regard to read the entirety of what has been addressed to you before responding. much love brother- your friend the intellectual snob.

 MO: I can’t take it. Your assumptions of your own self-worth and my worthlessness as a writer is making me cry. You need to get back to the city where people can massage that atrophying ego of yours…..or get some pot. There is a difference between reading and remembering. If I remembered every verbose string of inquiry you throw my way my head would explode. I can’t even find the questions in there. Yes, I did get into, but dropped, the Catskill book. Not very well written and didn’t really keep my attention. Drop City much better. Love Parade on July 18th 6pm., culminating in Covid-Tent and Social Distance Picnic Table opening at SS Park. I know you can read like a motherfucker, but your memory and dare I say word smithing skills are about on par with mine. Wish you kept the first letter I sent to “Mr. McCormick the East Village Eye critic.” Remember? Now THAT was some writing!

CM: laughing so hard I nearly wet my pants. my notes to just you I do try to keep brief because I know your limited attention span and learned some brevity from your constant interruptions whenever we talk in person. july 18th sounds like quite a fete, will be there for sure. maybe tristan too, but he went off this morning with his girlfriend so we'll not see him anytime too soon. sorry I did not think much of the blog you sent me today, but maybe you don't either since you seem to have abandoned it last year. I did quite enjoy the family book you wrote, and would propose the reason it is much better is because you worked on it with the discipline or rewrites and editing. skills matter, but hard work is crucial to shaping whatever we do. I do wish I had kept that letter, as well as the one jacaeber sent me, much in the same vein, saying that I had my head stuck too far up my ass to come check out what he was showing at psychedelic solution, unaware that I'd been visiting the place from the start. I got so much mail back then, it would all make a good book, but if I've lost these missives I'm happy that I've at least kept you all as friends.

MO: You call that brief? You and Andy both need some editor app that will shut you two up after 12 paragraphs and put the actual question (or point) in bold type. Saw a great doc. last night on Amazon. Gil Scott Heron- Black Wax. Please don’t tell me you hate him because the Last Poets are so much better….but you did share a cab with him and he liked your shoes. 

CM: I am a paradigm of brevity, it is just that my thoughts are larger than the diminishment of our tweet cultureI saw gil-scott heroin perform quite a few times, including some shows where he was a genuine criminal, but no personal anecdotes I'm afraid.I loved him up to the end, including his last record which he sang from his graveside of hell. attaching here a great song from that album you will dig- NY Was Killin’ Me

MO: Ahhhh…..finally common ground- NY is killing’ me! Nighty night.

I'm happy to be back. I love him, but we all know Carlo's an asshole. Screw the man. I can do it on my own. I had a nice 8 point buck under my tree stand last night. No shot, but things are heating up. Stay tuned....