HELL (again)

BREAK'S OVER

    There’s an old joke of finding oneself in Hell, in a small room with a bunch of condemned souls sipping coffee, up to their necks in shit. The newcomer grabs a cup and settles in for eternity. After a few minutes he gets used to the smell and turns to his neighbor and says, “This isn’t so bad.” Then a bell sounds and Satan’s voice comes over the loudspeaker: “BREAK’S OVER! Stand on your heads.”

    I predicted this impeachment inquiry in my Outrage Porn post. I told you another surprise was coming. I just didn’t know it would come while I was standing up to my neck in shit sipping Bustelo. A week is a very long time in Trump World. Predictably, as world leaders (and Greta) met at the United Nations for a climate summit, there was little talk of global warming, starving polar bears, or ice caps melting. The two cults of personality (Thunberg and Trump) took center stage, eclipsing all the science. When Trump’s “beautiful” Ukraine phone call was released to the public all talk of climate change was forgotten entirely. All aboard the impeachment express. Let the planet burn.  

    One of the reasons I needed a break from the daily blog grind was in order to concentrate on The Social Sculpture Park and install a new piece. I can only juggle so many balls. The Mountain Dale SSP has been a great venue for me to install new work and take advantage of the “social” aspect of my art by having an opening for each new piece. It’s a fluid dynamic that allows me to explore a new context and reflect on issues that face this “curated” town. Unlike the retail vendors struggling to make a living, I’m not burdened by staying open when nobody darkens the doorway. My work can be seen (or defaced) 24/7. Quoting Mike, the guy who mows the lawn, “Everybody in town hates your work.” Okay. Tell me what you really think.

    Undeterred with the underlying negativity permeating town, when I have an idea for a new piece I go full steam ahead. The latest is a large metal hoop perched on a concrete pedestal declaring “SMALL ENOUGH TO FIX.” It is an homage to Erna Hutchinson, a long time resident, who’s been here long enough to share her wisdom. She was referring to the many times Mountain Dale has faced renovation since the 1960’s. I look at it as an invitation to “break” a few things also. 

    On Saturday I scheduled an opening to coincide with Marianna Rothen’s installation, also in Mountain Dale. A nice crowd showed up. We drank, chatted, and took photos of one another having fun. One goofy photo that I insisted on taking was Dara Manzi’s dog Albert (who was about to be “fixed”) held up in the middle of the hoop. Everybody was clicking away and laughing at little Albert. In all the foolishness Dara was distracted and Albert ran into the street. All I heard was tires screeching and a loud thump……to be continued.  

HELL

THE ANTI-PASTOR

  It took me a minute to realize that pastoral is derived from pastor, coming from the Latin for shepherd. This all makes sense now. It also makes sense that I would be the anti-shepherd. I do not lead you through the thickets safely or pretend to protect my flock. I’m with you—not herding you. I take issue with the pastoral portrayal of the Catskills. That’s what got me writing this blog to begin with. I also find the metaphoric distinction of a “minister” or “pastor,” tending to a congregation of helpless, wooly animals, distasteful. It sets up a top heavy dynamic that is decidedly unequal and hierarchical. This is how problems arise in any organization pretending to be a democratic one of faith. Gurus, priests, rabbis, mullahs and cult leaders are all “pastors” in one way or another. I call bullshit.

  I am the Osti or “host.” Checking French Canadian slang for the meaning of Osti— “A popular French swear word in Quebec…..the French word for “host,” the round bread consecrated during the Eucharist….used like we may use “hell,” in the beginning of a sentence.” The hats and t-shirts say Osti de CLGM or “ The Hell with the Church of the Little Green Man.”

   I’ve been called “Osti” since I was a kid. My father and some of my nephews were and are also called Osti. My old man was notorious for getting us all goofy “Osti” t-shirts for family gatherings. We are the “Ostis.” Gimme an “O”…… None of us in the family had any idea of the Canadian curse word, the French holy bread, or that our nickname literally meant hell. We are almost entirely of Dutch and English ancestry. But I have plenty of friends who live in France. They tipped me off to the meaning of Osti. The fact that this nickname would dovetail perfectly with my choice of “profession,” is not entirely surprising. To be simultaneously portrayed as a eucharistic “host,” and shouted as a cuss word in Canada seems appropriate. I don’t question it. 

    To be an anti-pastor,  a good Osti (host) is to be actively engaged in promoting an opposite point of view….. our curse. It is the contextual not the didactic that drives me. I’m more interested in the sun dappled meadow, then what to do if the wolf appears. I’d say you’re on your own. That would be the pastor’s job—to portray a false sense of security—deliver on a promise that he has no authority to make. He wants you believe he can stop the hungry wolf. Plenty take the pastors at their word. “Deliver us from evil……. This is the body…”  Osti (Hell) you say.

I’ve posted every day since I started writing this blog. Time for a break. Stay tuned….

TEDDY

DADDY DAUGHTER DAZE

      I don’t have kids. Samm has a daughter Teddy. So now I’m a de-facto dad. I’ve known her for about ten years. She’s 23 or 24. Teddy’s birthday is today. I love her dearly. Yesterday  morning I came downstairs to her wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the couch. Bachelor in Paradise was on the TV. “Can’t I watch CNN?” I pleaded. “What,” she responded “You’d rather watch that asshole Trump in the morning?” I had to admit I did. But, after I had a little coffee in my system, I settled in and relented to her TV choice. I learned all about Kristen and Devon and Marsha and Paul and Bimmy…..Teddy had so many friends. These physically perfect specimens of twenty-somethings had backstories, moms and dads, exes and…..within ten minutes I knew way too much. Fifteen minutes later and I was sobbing uncontrollably; as hearts were broken to pieces on the beach. I was definitely not high enough to deal with Paradise.

    When Samm goes out of the country I take care of the critters, also assuming the duties as Teddy’s Uber driver, TV adversary, pot smoking buddy and roommate. I believe in parenting as an equal. Of course she sees me as inferior. It’s hard to believe she is not my biological daughter. We are both stubborn, slovenly, stoners— TV addicts who like to argue, laugh at stupid stuff, drive each other crazy—did I mention we smoke pot together? Teddy’s been living with her mother in the Catskills for the summer, working multiple jobs, and plotting her next move as a 23 or 24 year old. She’s weighing staying in the country against getting a better job and moving back into NYC. Both have their pros and cons. It’s still up in the air. I don’t know if writing about her will tickle her or piss her off. I’ll take the chance.

    What do you get a grown daughter for her birthday? She’s got plenty of clothes and makeup and skin products and paraphernalia. Money? Hell, she’s been working like a dog all summer. She’s more flush than I am. Art? Ha. Can’t get away with that anymore. I decided on a tattoo. She’s got a few nice ones and has been talking about getting another. Is that too hillbilly? It’s not like it’s a meth pipe or belly button ring. I can draw her one or just pony up the cash and supply a ride to the tattoo parlor.

    Parenting late in life with someone so similar to myself is a challenge. I have to remind myself constantly how difficult I was at her age. I may have been married, with a steady job, a rental house in Bearsville and plans to move to the west coast but, I had barely escaped the Vietnam War, dropped out of school, was completely unreliable, selfish, impatient, clueless about women, constantly broke and wanted to be an artist. In spite of all this, my parents were always supportive, loving, gave good advice and never abandoned me on any level. I just hope I can live up to their example. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TEDDY! I love you. Your next tattoo is on me.

CHEEKY

CAT APPROVAL PATHOLOGY

  I admit it. I talk to my cat. “Wow Cheeky. What a beautiful day! Like one of those 9/11 days.” Cheeky doesn’t get the reference or change his expression. If he starts responding verbally I know I’m in trouble. I’ve always been extremely susceptible to praise and instant gratification. If Cheeky starts to talk— HE’LL BE ABLE TO CONTROL ME— even more than he already does. 

     We are hard wired just like a dog or cat. Pavlov and Skinner realized it, as did Jeff Besos and Mark Zuckerberg. The Like option and  the next day shipping option are the most ingenious and nefarious “inventions” of the 21st Century….so far. I use quotes because neither is really new nor inventive. Both tap into psychology as old as the human race. It’s only the application and speed which are revolutionary. It goes right to our need to please and be satisfied.

    The roar of the crowd is a powerful, intoxicating motivator. The lack thereof, can also be extremely discouraging. The danger of finding oneself susceptible to this drug of acceptance is self-evident in many politicians, celebs and rock stars. That’s why, famous and rich as they are, they all also have Instagram accounts, just like us mortals. These days this addiction manifests itself  most clearly on the everyday, mundane level of social media. Kids are the most vulnerable. My sister-in-law Becky Dennison works with high school kids in Maine in a specialized outreach program for students who are “too anxious” for the traditional classroom. I asked her what would make these otherwise well adjusted country students so anxious in the sticks of Maine? “Their phones.” was her answer. I asked why their parents just didn’t take their phones away? She looked at me like I’d dropped in from outer space.

   I don’t have a cell phone. It’s for good reason. I know that if I allowed myself the luxury of buying that iPhone I would become hopeless addicted to it in a matter of hours and never be able to do without one…… for the rest of my life. It’s like using Propecia for hair loss or eye drops for glaucoma. Once you start you are committed to seeing it through. If you ever stop you will definitely go bald and blind. One whiff of cell signal and you are hooked. It is a life sentence. I’ve managed without one. I post on Instagram and Twitter, write a blog, and stay in touch with friends through email—all from my laptop. Facebook won’t let me on without a cell number, but I’d already soured on that, so no big deal. The point is, I’m far from isolated. I can’t text but I don’t feel the need to. It’s looks awkward and my thumbs are too big. If I want to contact someone I call or email. If I have to make a doctor’s appointment I drag out my novelty push button phone from the closet and “press one.” I still have a beautifully indestructible, black, bakelite, rotary phone on the coffee table. I can’t imagine that I’m missing much. But, when it comes to social media, I’m just as anxious as a Maine teenager.

   I am very conscious of my social media account and the number of likes I get or don’t get. I hate myself for this character flaw. I’m 67 years old fer Christ sake! Why the hell am I so needy of approval? I should be over it. Or is it just human pathology or metabolism—like being skinny? Is it out of my control? I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin, but a lack of “likes” will PREDICTABLY get to me. It sends me down a rabbit hole of self-doubt, forcing me to quickly come up with a cute photo of Cheeky to post, canceling out the questionable “unliked” post in cyberspace. Likes galore! Phew. I’m (or Cheeky) is still relevant. We are a team.

    What defense does some lonely pimply-faced thirteen year old, without a pet, have in this insta-universe when the blow back is silence or worse—bullying? I don’t want to take the kids’ cell phones away anymore than I want to confiscate their parents’ AR-15s. Those phones (and guns) are expensive. Plus taking their phones away frees up more time at the range with mom’s AR. Instead, we should arm children with the tools to deal with their phones and subsequent anxiety they produce. These aren’t just benign communication devices. They bring the world to you; whether you want it or not. It ain’t all rainbows and unicorns. The world can be a very fucked-up place. Trained self-confidence and artificially inflated egos in the face of the social media mob mentality are the only way that kids will be able survive. We have to teach them to FAKE it. Get them a pet, let them grow claws. We are in the infancy of an era that will produce VR robotic applications to devices and social media platforms that we can’t even imagine. They will MAKE YOU FEEL MORE—more joy, more love, more fear and more rejection. There’s no stopping it or taking it away from children. We should give the youth weapons and skills to deal with viral rejection in real time, minute by minute, hour after hour, day after day…..for the rest of their lives. Store up those cute cat photos. Your kids may need them more than you ever imagined.

AMERIKLAN

#HASHTAGHITLER

   Say what you will about Adolf Hitler the force of evil, you can’t deny his comic potential in cinema and standup. The Dictator, The Producers and Look Who’s Back are just a few of the classics lampooning the tiny mustachioed Der Furer. I mention this because Hitler started out wanting to be an artist. That’s my territory. If you look at National Socialism as a “graphic” movement (flags, symbols, uniforms and overall branding) you can’t deny the hand of the artist…….skeletal as it’s death grasp was……in shaping his vision of the world. My God, he appropriated and repurposed the ancient symbol of good, the svastika! That takes balls…..and a pretty good PR department. 

    A few days ago I wrote a blog called Outrage Porn accompanied by an updated version of a vintage Hitler campaign poster. I replaced Der Furer’s head with Trump’s face looming ominously. It wasn’t scary. It was simultaneously sad and funny. It cracked me up. Hardly anybody liked it on social media. I don’t think many got the Hitler reference. I guess any Trump (or Hitler) humor is a tough sell these days. 

     As bad as Trump is I don’t believe he is intrinsically evil. He’s just  been incredibly lucky all his life….. and inept beyond belief. So when I hashtag Hitler or Trump it’s because I’m making fun of both of them, for different reasons. You would think this would be obvious. Here’s the problem. If I hashtag #pedophile the insta-web doesn’t know that I’m criticizing the practice, not promoting it. PLEASE stop sending me those pictures. Hashtagging Hitler is not a subconscious need to read white nationalism recruitment brochures, buy Nazi memorabilia, or march on Charlottesville. But how does the internet know that? It responds to my search results, pupil dilation and heart rate, not my point of view.

    Over the years I’ve created a couple of church characters who utilize the old pro- wrestling prototype, promoting “villainy” to work up the crowd. One is called Ku Klux Klown. The other is Ameriklan. Both characters sport the tricked out robes and hoods of the Klan for their costumery. The only way to get Klan robes is to make them yourself or order a set from inside the club. It’s not like Amazon handles racist, white nationalist gear…..not yet. Rachel Carrigan sewed Ameriklan for me out of cut up American flags and I ordered the standard white for Ku Klux Klown  by mail.

   The vendor who sold me my white hood and robes (a proud Klansman) would only deal with cash, sent by mail, leaving the faintest possible trail. But this did not help mask my google search history in finding him. Again, just because I google “serial killers” doesn’t mean I’m looking for better spots to hide the bodies of my victims. Even talking about something in the privacy of your own home can result in sales on sheets at Bed Bath and Beyond and pro-Trump material simultaneously showing up in the sidebar of your CNN newsfeed. At first I thought this was just coincidence. Now I know better. My machine is listening. Hashtagging Hitler can lead you to places you would rather not venture.

   I’ve heard many people say that artists can change the world. I agree. Just look at Hitler. Unchecked, concentrated power in the hands of a disgruntled artist can unleash unimaginable horror on the world. The same could be said for insecure real estate developers. I can’t think of any examples of artists or real estate agents doing great good in the world. Maybe if you think of that prankster Jesus Christ (walking on water, water into wine, feeding the multitudes, etc.) as an artist, one could say he had a positive message and unarguably a big effect on the world. “Love your neighbor…” and all that. That’s the celebrity death match I want to see: Jesus vs. Hitler, with Trump in Hitler’s corner. “Okay Adolf, you got him on the ropes. (spit) Fantastic! You still got it. Watch the left hook.”

SPARED FEELINGS

PROLIFIC COMPULSIVENESS

     I rarely have artist or writer’s block; what others suffer as self-imposed obstacles to the creative process. Once my social security and medicare kicked in I stopped working for wage and concentrated my efforts full time in the “art” game. I haven’t looked back. I live on a shoestring and now demand the luxury of being an artist—no longer distracted by a day job. It has definitively drained my bank account, but raised my output and profile. If I drag myself off the couch I can crank out a bunch of drawings, paint a painting, sculpt a sculpture or figure out some subversion that fits with previous iconoclastic antics. I’m not bragging. It’s both a blessing and a curse. I feel I should constantly apologize for this overload to the supply chain with very little on the demand side. I know it can get tiring trying to stay apprized of my daily posts, remember exactly when the next church will convene or take in the new piece down in the Mountain Dale Social Sculpture Park. But I can’t stop myself. Try to keep up.

     It gets worse as I get older. I produce more and care less about my audience. I’m not saying that I’m not concerned with quality control—I want to get better—only that I care less and less if you like it, or even show up to see it. I also know myself well enough to realize tomorrow I can feel the exact opposite, anguishing over a lack venue, crowd size, recognition and money. This is what I mean by compulsiveness. It’s doesn’t seem to matter which side of the fence I come down on when it comes to the manic production. I’m always cranking out something.

   The work switches up constantly in regard to medium. These days I have introspective, confessional, narrative diarrhea. Obviously i have to tell you about that. See what I mean? Some things have thankfully dropped off. The songwriting and guitar riffs have almost entirely ceased. I can’t remember lyrics anymore when I play in public, so performing on stage has also stopped. As far as static work goes, I’m working on a series of large cowhides in the shul and in the process of completing a new sculpture for Mountain Dale. (F)ancestor, and all the research it took to write it is done. I barely read anymore. The upcoming documentary is a nice ego boost, but it won’t pay my taxes or the surprise brake job on Old Red. There again, I have absolutely nothing to complain about. A cancer was dug out of my shoulder a couple of weeks ago and the stitches came out yesterday. The scar encroaches slightly on one tattoo, but it healed up nicely. They tell me they got it all. I’m ready to move deer stands from Majestic with Bill Voegelin, excited about deer season. The leaves are just starting to turn and everybody is seeing bucks. 

    I’ll tell you what I care about most in regard to this writing compulsion—the few friends who take the time to religiously check in and once in a while give me good advice. My brothers, Asher Rothman and Ted Rosenthal are a few. Tony Labat is another. I also like using other peoples’ emails as material. It saves me from having to do it all. So here’s one from Labat, responding after I asked if he had read the blog. I hope he doesn’t mind me reprinting it. 

Hola hermano,

Very different, I like this new approach to the personal/historical mix, one critical thing if I may as your hermano is that I always talk about you to others as an amazing and very interesting artist doing what few claim to do but are just theory and no action or results, commitment, discipline, and a willingness to go against the grain...so it makes me cringe a bit when you undermine all of that by standards of the "market" world, OWN IT MIKE! You are as genuine and authentic as they come...loved the graphics and design….

Mucho love,

TL

I’m trying to take his advice.

UNCLE SAMM

DARWIN FARMS

  One benefit of living in the country is the ability to raise livestock, indulge in animal husbandry or just have enough room for your favorite cat Cheeky to come and go as he pleases. I know plenty of people who raise critters: Andy and Polly- ducks, Brett and Sarah- chickens, turkeys and pigs, Josh- sheep, llamas, chickens and goats, Butch- ostriches, camels, ponies, cows and other mystery creatures, Nick and Christy- chickens, Ambika and Carlos- rabbits and squirrels, and Samm- chickens, rabbits, a cat and a Lassie dog. Of this bunch of “farmers” only Sarah and Brett are market farmers who make a buck, raising and butchering their animals for the fancy French restaurant table. The rest are (like me) not interested in killing their furry and feathered friends. We just like the byproducts: bunny fur, eggs, dog yarn for hats or simply love the company. I have no qualms trying to arrow a buck, but I can’t wring a rooster’s neck…especially when I named him.

      You may be surprised to learn that I’ve also tried my hand at boutique farming. It never goes well. My first attempt at raising chickens was tied to an art installation I displayed at The Old Shul for Social Sculpture titled Roost X. This piece involved offering up two dozen hens and six roosters for adoption. The rule was simple— you had to adopt said bird and promise not to kill it. Turned out the hens I purchased from Murray’s Chicken were bred to have giant breasts and short life spans. NOT to kill the hens would be cruel. I changed the rule. Now you had to promise to kill them to adopt. The roosters, that I purchased from Majestic Farm, were another story. Given the opportunity they could live long lives. Any hen that wasn’t “adopted” for the table, we butchered and ate. The roosters I adopted and saved.

    My farming skills are uneven at best. The roosters roamed the churchyard during the day and slept in The Lion of Judah cage at night. When I remembered, I locked them in. When I forgot, the coyotes had a field day. Even under these extreme conditions one rooster (attacked repeatedly) survived. I named him Uncle Samm. Wise to the death trap that the lion cage had become, he roosted in the tree over my woodpile. He became a beloved pet, jumping for hotdog rolls and entertaining tourists with his friendly antics. Then, late last winter during a blizzard, instead of roosting in the tree he went back in the cage. I didn’t realize he had changed his roost routine until it was too late. The coyote tracks and feathers told the sad story. Uncle Samm was gone.

    Hearing of my loss the photographer Noah Kalina (another rooster lover) offered up a half dozen of his birds to replenish my decimated flock. They didn’t last a week. That’s it for me and farming. As much as I love seeing birds scratching and pecking amongst my sculptures, I can’t justify tending the flock—just to feed the local predator population. I admit it. I’m a lousy farmer and steward of livestock. My cavalier attitude of “survival of the fittest,” does not work. Even a magnificent cock with two inch spurs and all the experience of a veteran soldier, like Uncle Samm, is no match for a hungry pack of coyotes. 

    These days I leave the raising of livestock to the rest of the congregation, except when Samm  goes out of town. This can also be problematic. Her old cat MO, repeatedly attacked by Cheeky, died on my watch. It could’ve been suicide. As a kitten Cheeky was relentless. Then there was Squeaker the little one legged rooster who went feet (foot) first out the coop. I’m trying to do better. Samm’s in Sweden as I write this. Don’t worry honey. So far so good. I did a head count this morning. All accounted for. Lassie says, “Come home.”

BAPTISM at the CLGM

ALL ABOUT THE CHILDREN

    “No such thing as bad press.” I’m not so sure about this aphorism. Bad press goes hand in hand with “fake news,” and the results can be unpredictable. I give pastoral magazines like DVEIGHT and UPSTATE DIARY  a hard time for their elitist, rose colored, “pretty-centric,” celeb heavy content, yet benefit from their coverage of my thing. Both magazines have run articles on my work. They make me look way more interesting than I really am. I can be as fake as the next guy thank you very much. Back in the day we would deliberately release and push fake, unflattering stories surrounding the CLGM and my band Purple Geezus. The back cover of one Purple Geezus EP claimed that I had stalked country music star Barbara Mandrell and that Robert Chambers (a convicted murdering scumbag) had played bass with us. All false.This was the 80’s and a punk rock aesthetic of purposeful lying self-deprecation was still all the rage. We wanted people saying nice things about us, but wouldn’t be caught dead blowing our own horn. It was a strange “shoot yourself in the foot,” rationale.

    Because of the magazine and internet press I received in the early part of this decade more people knew of my work in the country and one day a guy showed up wanting to do a documentary. This was quite a surprise for an obscure rural artist, not considered an “outsider.”  I ain’t no Rev. Finster. I’d always resisted discussing the church in detail in print, but I felt it was time. I was proud of church and was willing to share. I agreed to let Roderick Angle film three churches and sat for multiple interviews. The final product is a short (14 mins.) film on the church and my approach to social sculpture. I’m a big fan of the documentary format. At first I thought so short a film would not do me nor the church justice. I was wrong. I no longer feel that way. Few people or projects are worthy of more than 14 mins. of video. The short film format is perfect. 14 mins. is plenty.

    Did Roderick capture the lightning in the bottle that is a Church of the Little Green Man service? Not exactly. That is not to say he didn’t try. Once again, I think this is a blessing in disguise. My singing to the children about sex and drugs, multiple congregant interviews ragging on me, pot smoking, shaky camera work and technical difficulties led to much excellent footage hitting the cutting room floor. As much of a control freak as I am, I had to force myself to be comfortable with the director’s choices. The thing that most concerned me was that he would make coming to church look so attractive that his short film would go viral and we would be inundated with curious weekend warriors looking for another fringe to infect. We are already at SRO for every service. Stay away. Too many cars on the road or congregants using the outhouse and we could lose control of our great little scene.

    Burning dollars and singing to underage kids about sex and drugs can be seen by many in the straight community as problematic. One of the most gratifying aspects of church for me is the fact that kids love it. We never tailored it to children. It’s always been (and remains) an adult scene. But as people started having children they brought them along. The one thing all kids love is watching adults make fools of themselves. Add a piñata filled with candy and you have a built in enthusiastic audience. Some, even in the inner circle, feel we should curb our overt sexual transgressive language and themes for the benefit of the impressionable youth. I’m not so sure. I resist change, hoping that a little bad press scaring parents with kids away would be a good thing— a natural editing process. I wish Roderick had kept more of my goofy interaction with the children in the film. I know this would make some parents uncomfortable and infuriate many. I think he knew that as well. Unlike me, he welcomes the viral. Why not? It’s his film. I know that the kids get it and they realize I would never purposefully do anything to make them uncomfortable. They are having innocent fun, as am I. Always align with the youth. We are in it together. As Michael Jackson was fond of saying,”It’s all about the children.”   

JOHN'S GOLDENROD

A TIGHT LITTLE RUBBER STORY

    A couple of weeks into this blog and we can see some themes emerging and repeating themselves. That’s good because I felt from the get-go it would be difficult to keep up the pace sticking strictly to my antipastoralism premise. FAKE fits nicely, as I see the mandate of pastoralism to present an overtly skewed, romanticized, false vision of the countryside to the city consumer. I want to oppose that. Stay away. It’s not what it looks like in those slick magazines. Sustainability and environmentalism are paramount and I want to continue to explore these issues. FAMILY is also a recurring theme; especially when it relates to local historical figures who can provide some insight into where we find ourselves globally. Dr. Winthrop Jon Van Leuvan Osterhout and his daughter Ann are two such characters.

    For those of you who haven’t read www.fancestor.blogspot.com these two will be new to you. For those who have, bear with me. I have new information. First let me introduce the doctor. WJVL was the son of Rev. John Osterhout of Lackawack, New York. Lackawack was flooded by the government in 1951; its ruins now sitting at the bottom of Roundout Reservoir. My great grandfather Andrew Osterhout was born just down the mountain, north of Ellenville, in Wawarsing (the bird’s nest.) We are close cousins to these academics from Lackawack. Winthrop was a world renown physiologist and botanist who taught at U.C. Berkeley, Wood’s Hole and Harvard. He was known to work and socialize in the highest circles of the scientific community, often frequenting that bastion of power elites and behind the scenes leverage, Bohemian Grove. Great grandfather Andrew Osterhout was an illiterate farmhand and seamster, who abandoned his family in Montgomery and died alone. I point this out not to disparage Andrew (although I heard he was an asshole) but to show that this Osterhout branch was (and still is) academically uneven. 

     Dr. WJVL Osterhout founded the august Journal of General Physiology with Jacques Loeb. Our old buddy Mark Twain found inspiration not only in the Cardiff giant hoax, he also was inspired by  Dr. Jacques Loeb; writing Dr. Loeb’s Incredible Discovery in 1910, an essay calling for a questioning of “general consensus” amongst the scientific community as new discoveries rapidly increased. Loeb was perhaps the most famous scientist in America at the time, nominated for the Nobel Prize repeatedly. Neither Osterhout nor Loeb won the Noble Prize, but they knew plenty who had. Portrayed in the press as a modern day “Faust,” Jacques Loeb’s experiments with sea urchins proved that “Physical chemistry could be a tool for altering the basic process of reproduction.” The 1899 Boston Herald headline declared in bold type “CREATION OF LIFE. STARTLING DISCOVERY OF PROF. LOEB. LOWER ANIMALS PRODUCED BY CHEMICAL MEANS. PROCESS MAY APPLY TO HUMAN SPECIES. IMMACULATE CONCEPTION EXPLAINED. WONDERFUL EXPERIMENTS CONDUCTED AT WOODS HOLE.” Loeb was as notorious as he was revered. Imagine life without sperm! Their little magazine benefitted tremendously from the salacious press. You are known by the company you keep.   

     Winthrop Jon Van Leuvan was the smartest (book wise) and well connected Osterhout ever to be born. He married Anna Maria Landstrom and had two daughters Ann and Olga. Both daughters married well. Olga, the artist in the family, married a Sears. But it was Ann who would become the Osterhout celebrity, specifically because of her choice in husbands. She married “the Wizard’s kin,” Theodore Edison. By 1925 Loeb was dead and Edison was the most famous family name/brand in the world.

    A few nights ago we (the band of all faiths) gathered down at John Letourneau’s deciding whether or not to convene a last CLGM service in calendar year 2019. John has probably the most spectacular backyard of anyone I’ve ever met….and it’s just down the hill. Between his house and the bucolic Neversink River is a carefully groomed “infinity lawn,” a swamp and orchard I hunt, and acres of yellow goldenrod waving gently in the evening breeze. If a plein air painter ever wanted a vista to cum over this is it. As the meeting continued I stared out across that field….looking for deer. 

     And this brings me back to Winthrop, Ann and younger sister Olga. I have Olga’s sketch book that I bought on Etsy, a oddly precious heirloom from this brilliant family branch. But as an artist Olga went nowhere. Judging from her sketchbook, she had a little talent but no edge or ambition. I’m speculating. It’s only a sketchbook.  Her father and sister were different animals entirely. Ann went to M.I.T., met Theodore Edison and fell in love. The parents Prof. Winthrop and Anna Maria Osterhout, and the in-laws Thomas and Mina Edison, approved of the match. Newspapers across the world in 1925 carried photos and accounts of the Firestones and Fords attending the Edison/Osterhout nuptials at the Harvard chapel. What’s the connection between these privileged, academic Osterhouts and John’s field you ask? Goldenrod.

     Right around the time that Theodore and Ann were tying the knot America was experiencing tremendous growing pains due to colonialism, money and the influence of industrial titans like Ford, Firestone and Edison. Oil, coal, steel production and the extraction of rubber were important components of capitalism’s master plan to take over the planet. WWI had proven that we had better shape up, think outside the box and put our shoulders to the grindstone if we were going to win WWII. It didn’t hurt that Ford, Firestone and Edison were buddies who actually went on motoring vacations together (with of all people the naturalist John Burroughs) to test out their collaborative product—the automobile. Edison and Ford built winter mansions side by side in Fort Myers, Florida. And that’s where they enlisted Dr. Winthrop Jon Van Leuvan Osterhout the botanist, to help them make rubber out of goldenrod. It was an informal arrangement. Family.  

    After years of research a particular hybrid, Solidago edisoniana, was chosen as their plant source for rubber production. It would only be used experimentally. The tires of the car they took on touring vacations were fitted with goldenrod rubber tires. Due to low tinsel strength in the rubber, there were plenty of flats and eventually they switched back to natural rubber tires for their summer vacations. They never invited Winthrop to come along.

     Thomas Edison died in 1931. Henry Ford and the U.S. Department of Agriculture continued the goldenrod research deciding, as WWII approached, to abandon the plant based rubber in favor of synthetics. Goldenrod and Dr. Osterhout’s experiments and findings were shelved. The doctor got divorced, went blind and married his half-Japanese young research assistant Dr. Marian “Icky” Irwin (a genius in her own right), dying in 1964, outliving all the titans. Olga lived out her life in quiet with Harold Sears. Daughter Ann and her husband Theodore Edison had no children, but would take in Ann’s ailing mother, go on to be lauded as staunch environmentalists, anti-war activists and through their efforts, save portions of the Everglades, proving once again that family will always surprise. Rubber remains, for the most part, petroleum based and synthetically produced. The goldenrod is safe. Oh, we decided not to have another church in 2019. Always leave ‘em wanting a little more bounce.

TRUMP

OUTRAGE PORN

     The evil genius of Trump is his ability to throw so much crap at a news cycle that we all are forced to choose our outrage. Russian election meddling? Rapey stuff? Inviting the Taliban for a sit down at Camp David the week of 9/11? Child separations? Dancing with Jeffery Epstein? See what I mean? It never ends. You are only as titillating as you last tweet. I’m trying to stay a few blogs ahead. By the time I post you can be assured that there will be another outrage to point out. This is how Trump uses the “porn paradigm” to control the narrative. He constantly ups the ante with increased FREE access and more salacious material. This is a man who does not drink or do drugs. His vices are predatory sex and an insatiable desire to always be the center of attention. He’s addicted to TV and never tires of hearing his own voice echoed back to him through his state media FOX “news” ventriloquist dummies. Tired of titties? How about Japanese girls shitting in each other’s mouths? It’s not for everyone. That’s what they said about Trump.

     Trump is not a soft focus spread of Playboy’s Ivy League Co-eds of 2019. He is scorched earth, legs behind the ears, full anal, gynecological bukake on steroids. NASTY! When that asshole took his Sharpie and drew FAKE weather it was a bridge too far. I can’t un-see it. The outrage is across the board, but it has a short shelf life and goes nowhere. To use another metaphor—it is masturbatory. We all get off on the lunacy, delivered to us via Twitter and CNN, like clockwork. Predictably we feel dirty in the afterglow, left with nothing but stains and disappointment. But, then we have a smoke, maybe a sandwich and we’re ready for more…..possibly something a little more outrageous?

    The outrage that Trump inspires on a daily basis is mind numbing. The real danger of having a government you can’t believe in is lost in the “doubling” and “tripling” down on falsehoods that are easily dispelled with hardly any investigation. After a while we are bored with all the lame excuses and insipid administration gamesmanship, and move on. Then we’re slapped in the face with a big, dirty, wet one. We accept, if not the lies, the fact that more filth is coming. Triage is the only way to get through. Our elbows are exhausted from being in a constant state of akimbo. “Nothing is surprising.” is the mantra you hear from mainstream media repeatedly. This is not true. Trump knows this. He has to surprise you to prevail. He knows, like the best of the smut-peddlers, that you have to up your game repeatedly if you want people to continue to tune in. He “surprises” us in order to increase and maintain outrage, keeping everyone in a perpetual state of engagement, if not engourgement.

    Trump is also a master of divide and conquer. He knows that division and polarization are integral for his plan of world (or at least U.S.) domination. And simplistically speaking it is a war between the salad eating, blue urban elitism of the coasts and the atrial fibrillating, disease ridden, clogged heart of rural middle America. More processed cheese please! I implore my backward country brethren. This man and his regulation slashing, pathological administration is stealing your grandchildren’s future (bleak as it may be) for a few golden ducats and more air time on FOX. Wake up! Look out your window. Trust your own eyes. Is it raining or is the sun shining. No. Don’t look at Twitter.       

   With henchmen like Mick Mulvaney, Wilbur Ross, Steve Mnuchin and Mike Pompeo doing his bidding, Trump has proven that he can even fake the weather. This is an amazing  superpower. Mr. Magoo’s doppelgänger, Wilbur Ross, told the government meteorologists to get in line with Trump’s Sharpie scribble or lose their jobs, Alabama and the truth be damned. Politics now supersedes even the blowing of the wind. Turns out you do need a weatherman to tell which way (and how hard) the wind blows. Seems all the government has to do is gerrymander a Sharpie line around an illusionary hurricane to meet the whims of a bumbling, lying, ill-informed, dangerously insecure man. I’m sorry to say it won’t end until Trump cranks up the lies and the sleaze, along with the horror and bodies start piling up. By then it will be too late.

When the state rapes science we are all violated. I admit it, I have an outrage porn addiction. I just wish we ruralists had faster internet to keep apprized of this existential threat and once in a while have a happy ending.

SUMMER HAVEN (Shul on cover)

MORE JEWS IN CHURCH

  As you’ve noticed I’ve tried to follow a rough chronology of the Catskills as we come and go, touching on contemporary, as well as historical  issues. Any discussion of these mountains has to include the Jewish diaspora. The above image was sent to me by Jeremy Floto. He was on a photo shoot in Miami and recognized the familiar building on the book’s cover. It is a photo of the Congregation Anshei synagogue in Glen Wild, NY, otherwise known as The Old Shul for Social Sculpture, which I own. I ordered the book, but as yet haven’t received my copy. I reached out to Holli Levitsky who forwarded my email to Phil Brown. Here’s his reply:        

 Hi Mike

Holli Levitsky forwarded your message.  I took the photo that is on the cover. I know the family who lived across the way. If you read the Intro in the book you will see  our connections to the area, including mention of John Gerson who gave land for the shul; the deep connection to Rosenblatt's Hotel (the place where Reuben Wallenrod worked, making his book a key impetus to our book Summer Haven); and  Abe and Dave Jaffe  whom I interviewed in 1993 - founders of the shul.

In Jewish Farmers of the Catskills, Abe Lavender and Clarence Steinberg write about the shul.

Who owned it when you bought it?

For our archives, please send photos of the shul. 

Thanks

Phil

Phil Brown,                

University Distinguished Professor of Sociology and Health Sciences

Director, Social Science Environmental Health Research Institute

Northeastern University

     I sent the professor some shul pics and a link to a recent article by Hilary Danailova in Hadassah Magazine—“Young Jews Are Bringing the Catskills Back to Life.” Shout out to Josh Druckman and Marisa Scheinfeld, who are both prominently featured. This article gives a rough timeline of Jewish influence in the Catskills starting with Asher Selig Grossinger’s purchase of a “$450 chicken farm in Liberty.” in 1914. That chicken farm became the world famous Grossinger’s Hotel, joining The Concord, Kutshers’ Browns, Pines, Zucker’s and The Raleigh, et al in forming the Borsht Belt. For my Jewish timeline I would go back to Asher Levy’s kosher slaughter house, serving his community in Fort Orange (Albany) in 1661. Either way, we can all agree that Jews have been in the Catskills for a very long time and more are coming every day.

   Today, as in days of old, the relationship between the Jewish community and the local goyim enclaves is in a  constant state of flux and reappraisal. Early brochures hyping vacation property on Wolf Lake describe it as a “Christian community.” That’s odd. Wouldn’t you think the so-called Christians would first build a church on the lake? The closest thing they have to sanctuary is a clubhouse. This blatantly prejudiced, legal at the time, real estate scam hawking lake front property in the 1940’s, was a not so subtle way of declaring NO JEWS ALLOWED. The Catskills have always been (and continue to be) a community divided along religious lines.

    

    I’ve fought against this division since I returned to the sticks in the 1990’s. My art (billboards with Hebrew lettering) the purchase of the shul, and various sculptures in Mountain Dale all reflect what I like to call “engagement” with the Jewish community. It is not always perceived as such. The God Loves Fags (in English and Hebrew) billboard was broken in half by Hassidic teenagers on a karate chopping tear. The God Loves Dykes billboard and the Cruciselfie  were both defaced with black spray paint in Mountain Dale, and the shul's stained glass windows have been attacked by rock throwing assailants. This may or may not be sectarian violence, as the Old Shul’s side displays a bold, decidedly anti-Trump message. Could just be hillbilly politics. 

    Nonetheless, I have plenty of Jewish friends and more and more Jews come to church every service. There is no denominational or sectarian division at the CLGM. What I see as engagement, the more fundamentalist in the hood (Christian and Jewish alike) see as provocation. They are missing the point. All my interaction with Hassidim or Christianity is not always cordial, but most is. All I have to do is open the doors of the church or shul and you can be assured someone of faith will stop by out of curiosity. Like the sign says: All are Welcome. The conversation continues. I can’t wait for YOUNG JEWS II.

FREDERICK A. COOK

OBSCURITY SHRUGS- Part Two

  I stumbled across the Cook brothers the same way I discovered Ethelbert Crawford, by accident. One day I was driving through the little village of Hurleyville and decided to check out the Historical Society. This museum resides in an old school repurposed as a repository for the Catskills of yesteryear. It’s rambling, funky and lovingly tended by a team of volunteers. There’s Dr. Livingston’s (not that one) stove pipe hat, a Calico Indian mask, an original map of the Hardenberg Patent, and an entire room devoted to the “great,” controversial, explorer Frederick A. Cook. The center piece of the display is a beautiful polar sled made by his brother Theodore. In another tragic twist of events, years after Frederick trudged through the arctic, his brother Theodore died in 1928, after being trapped and freezing to death in an upstate meat locker. Theodore Cook left behind a a small collection of Crawford paintings, that I now own.

   The first two sentences in Frederick Cook’s Wikipedia page states: “Frederick Albert Cook (June 10, 1865- August 5, 1940) was an American explorer, physician, and ethnographer, noted for his claim of having reached the North Pole on April 21, 1908. This was nearly a year before Robert Peary….” I grew up reading my grandfather’s old copies of Zane Grey’s (who also may have known the Cooks and Bert) cowboy novels. I may not be a great reader, but I love adventure stories. When I learned of Cook I bought everything I could find written on him—and as the wind howled and snow blew—I huddled by the wood stove and followed him up Mount Mckinley and (I thought) all the way to the North Pole.

   Cook, whose portrait looks like a present day Brooklyn hipster, was born in Sullivan County, moved to Bushwick with his family, became a doctor, lost his first wife to illness and became an ardent explorer. His brother Theodore moved back to the Catskills. Frederick A. Cook’s claims of  being the first to scale Mount Mckinley and reach the North pole have both been met with skepticism almost from the outset. The Cook Society, founded by devoted family members and other “believers” in Cook’s accomplishments is on its last legs. Many have died of old age. A 2011 article Hero to Humbug by Robert M. Bryce, who studied and wrote on the polar controversy, essentially calls Cook’s claims of both scaling Denali and reaching the pole before Peary a “hoax.” It’s not like FAKERY wasn’t a tradition in the Catskills. Cook was also a photographer, lugging his heavy photographic equipment along to document and prove his “discoveries.” According to Bryce, “photographs Cook claimed were taken of new land discovered on the way to the Pole (which does not exist and is therefore a fake)….strongly indicates tampering during developing to obscure significant identifying details that might establish the place it was actually taken.” What’s more interesting reaching the North Pole or faking the whole thing? Moon landing conspiracy theorists take note.

   No matter the volumes of evidence pro and con involving Cook’s “discoveries,” the controversy continues. A 2014 issue of NYU alumni magazine, which bears the same “hipster” profile of Cook on its cover, declares “CORRECTION- Arctic explorer Frederick Cook was not a fraud.” It didn’t hurt that Cook was strikingly handsome. America in 1908 was obsessed with the Wright brothers, the race to the Pole and how to perpetuate a believable hoax. FAKERY is still all the rage. All can agree that Frederick Cook did not sit home and create “deep fakes” on his couch. He raised money, sailed ships (to both poles) and mapped untold coastlines. His studies into the effects of the lack of sunlight on the body and mind, revolutionary photographic processes under extreme conditions, and heroism in the face of certain death, stand as testaments to the man. Peary had all the financial backing and political string pulling to support his claim of being first to the North Pole. The newspapers and populace fell in line, leaving Cook in disgrace, tarred as a huckster. Today, Peary’s claim is also questioned. Also a brilliant geologist, Cook ended up in a sketchy business deal with some Texas oil men in the 1920’s, essentially “discovering” the rich Texas oil fields. Because of the stain of his previously questioned explorations Cook was convicted of “fraud” for selling dry leases. Turned out the leases weren’t dry. You just had to drill a little deeper. He was convicted by a prejudiced judge and did 14 years in Leavenworth Prison, before being pardoned by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1940, dying soon thereafter, in obscurity….another Catskill tradition.

GIRL WITH HAT by Ethelbert B. Crawford

OBSCURITY SHRUGS- Part One

      Thomas Cole, Stephen Crane and the ghost of the Cardiff Giant, that Mark Twain conjured up in his shabby NYC digs, are only a few of the visionaries and malcontents who have trudged through these hills over the years. Many are world renown. Many more are obscure. Two of my favorite lesser knowns are Frederick Albert Cook and Ethelbert Baldwin Crawford—both Sullivan County residents—men who changed the world and were not appreciated or rewarded for their efforts.

    I stumbled across both of these men, who very well may have known each other, long before I started digging into Catskill history. Ethelbert B. Crawford was the first. I’d just returned from lecturing in Cuba and not having a computer (the only way to communicate cheaply with the island) I went in the Monticello library bearing Crawford’s name, in order to use their computer located in the basement. On my way down the stairs I looked above the stacks, noticing the entire room was festooned with small portraits and landscapes, done with a unique hand. This was not your typical Sunday painter’s show. I asked the girl at the desk about the work and she shrugged her shoulders. “They were donated.” she said and went back to her magazine.

     It would take years before the paintings caught my eye again. This time I dug deeper. The head librarian, Alan Barrish, was happy to meet somebody who gave a shit about the art he’d been looking at for the past twenty years. We hit it off and after a couple more years of research and negotiations I bought ten Ethelbert Crawford paintings, showing them along with a large selection of the library’s collection at MO David North.

     Ethelbert Crawford was a student of Robert Henri, a leader in the Ashcan School of gritty, painterly realism in the late 19th and early decades of the twentieth century. Crawford showed in the seminal Exhibition of  Independent Artists, organized by Henri, John Sloan and Walter Kuhn in 1910 in New York City. The Ashcan School were, for the most part, the urban version of the antipastoralists. They portrayed visually the realism that Crane was reflecting in print. Crawford was the country outlier. But by the 1913 Armory Show they were all old news, eclipsed by European modernist giants like Duchamp, Picasso and Picabia. Work by American painters like Robert Henri and what became known as The Eight (the additional Evertt Shinn, John Sloane, Arthur B. Davies, Ernest Lawson, Maurice Prendergast, George Luks, and William Glackens) quickly fell out of fashion. Today their work survives and all are highly collectible, constantly being re-discovered. Ethelbert B. Crawford, though talented, did not stand out. He was lost to obscurity. He has no market. I don’t care. None of my collection is for sale.

    Those “donated” paintings, tucked in every available square foot of the old library’s walls, were given to the library by Ethelbert Crawford’s doting mother Estelle. She had tried to give them to the Met and was politely declined. Then she put up her own money to build Monticello’s first library under the condition that her son’s paintings “always be on the display.” I read the will and have a copy. The wording is important. It doesn’t say “all” the paintings should be displayed, only that they “always” adorn the walls. After her only surviving child took a deer rifle and put a hole in his heart she wanted to do something to honor his memory.

     A late in life love affair gone horribly wrong, Ethelbert (who lived with mom) had been depressed and despondent for some time. The local doctor was called. Bert asked the doc to take a fountain pen and draw on his chest the exact location of his heart. The doctor complied, Bert excused himself, grabbed the rifle and killed himself.

    The paintings spoke to me—even without the tragic story—sending me on a mission to purchase as many as the library was willing to part with. Upon first inquiry that was exactly zero. So I made my case by letter and waited for a reply. There was no reply. I forgot about it.  A year went by and one day I got a call from Alan the librarian. He said the library committee had met, considered my offer and were willing to sell ten out of the 150 or so paintings in the collection. I could have my pick. I went straight for the portraits.

     This was only the beginning of my Crawford obsession and collection. I located a Crawford relative over in Pennsylvania who had an amazing collection, but was unwilling to part with even one. I understood. I looked online. Nothing. Samm found one and bought it for my birthday. When I did the show at MO David North in 2012 I got a little press and another local art collector called me. He had ten paintings that he was willing to part with. He had picked them up at an estate sale of the Cook family home in Hortonville. Cook? Where did I know that name from?……to be continued.

OLD

OLD RED

     I got a new (old) truck. It’s a tradition in our family to name our vehicles. It’s also part of the American love affair with the internal combustion engine to attach human identity to an inanimate object like a car or truck. Since the Model T rolled off that old anti-semite Henry Ford’s assembly line, Americans have been anthropomorphizing their vehicles. You may name your boat, vehicle or dildo but you don’t name your iPhone, fridge or toaster. The automobile stands side by side with these other precious products in being welcomed into the family by consumers with a loving moniker. Old Red was named by my great niece Elise. Her reasoning was that by the time I sold the truck, I (and the truck) would be old—hence the name fit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that we both are presently circling the scrap heap. Time is of the essence. “Old” is a relative term.

    It’s big news in the countryside when someone gets a new pick up. For me, the past couple of years without one have been difficult. My last truck, a beautiful 1984 step side named Jerry, rusted out so badly it was not safe to drive. It joined two other vehicles Shirley and Beth, who I heartlessly neglected to feed oil, forcing each into early retirement. Shirley, is a Sebring convertible I filled with concrete and Beth has an apple tree growing through her roof. Both were good cars and even better sculptures. I’m at a loss with what to do with Jerry. Hopefully I’ll think of something soon. Maybe I’ll just tow him over to Mountain Dale and park him in the Social Sculpture Park as an Air B&B venue. Bed in a bed anyone?

    Old Red  is a 2000 Ford F150, 2 wheel drive with an eight foot bed— beautifully basic. It had one owner, an old duffer who barely drove it. It was cheap and hopefully will be reliable. And this brings me to the problem with all that I’ve been writing so far. POLLUTION! I probably spend more money  on gasoline than anything else. Beer, pot and food are numbers two, three and four in that order. Taxes (too high) phone (rotary) insurance (car) internet (slow) ammunition (rifle and shotgun) and art supplies (could be anything) round out my monthly nut. Like everyone else I have a hand in destroying the planet. Because Samm and I have separate houses about 20 miles apart and enjoy each other’s company immensely, I find myself filling up the tank repeatedly to make the journey. How can I stop my part in increasing global warming?

   Here’s some possible solutions: 1) I could move in with Samm. Mention that I suggested this and it may get her to read my blog, just to stop any local threat to her way of life. I know she’d rather see the planet heat up a bit more than trip over my boots every morning. 2) I could get an electric car. I really don’t have the funds. Plus, where the hell would I charge it? The big automobile and fossil fuel companies have delayed infrastructure indefinitely, especially in the countryside. I’d have to have it towed to the city to get juiced. 3) Horse? 4) Goat cart? 5) Hitchhike? 6) Stop having sex and stay home? All these solutions take too much time to go twenty miles and #6 is a non-starter. Given that option we’d both rather let the world burn!  I’m stymied.

   For now I’m just going to have to continue filling up the tank and hope that the emissions of my twenty year old truck are not too severe. I heat by wood, shoot my own meat (when I’m lucky) don’t eat much and steer clear of unnecessary consumerism. Of course I could grow my own marijuana and load my own bullets, but that could also become problematic around harvest time/hunting season. How much gunpowder did I put in that shell? This homegrown is excellent! I think I’d better leave the manufacture of ammunition to Winchester. A greener garden is always an option. My footprint is small compared to most. I just wanted you all to know that I’m conscious of my role as a polluter and am always open to new avenues to better myself. Oh, and I still roll my own joints. Beware the vape! 

  Many will be relieved to know that I’ve scraped my plans to open MO David North- Art and Ammo. After further investigation, the guy at the Sullivan County Clerk’s office told me I needed a Federal Firearms Dealer’s license just to sell ammunition; even if I didn’t sell guns. It would take at least six months to get the proper permits. Who knows where we’ll be in six months. For now I’ll stock up on shells for deer season (and possible revolution) and hope there is no more grandstanding from the box stores. BAN ASSAULT WEAPONS and LARGE CAPACITY MAGAZINES NOW! Do you hear me Dick?  

ART DEALER- 1985

MO DAVID NORTH- Art and Ammo

    Let me say right off the bat that I’m a part time art dealer and full time gun owner, who is very much in favor of common sense gun law reform. I have a concealed carry handgun permit and have rarely felt the need to exercise my Constitutional right to armed self defense. I’m not much of a shooter, but I hunt and want to continue to do so. This makes buying ammunition (because I’ve been known to miss my intended target from time to time) a necessity. I’m all for banning assault weapons and large capacity magazines, instituting universal background checks, red flag laws and getting insurance companies to pay for mental health care. These are all no brainers. What I’m not so sure about is banning the sale of ammunition. In fact I think it’s a ploy to get favorable press for corporate America and make them look like they care. 

    Over the past thirty or so years large corporate box stores have pushed out what used to be a thriving chain of mom and pop sporting goods stores in the Catskills. These stores were where we used to be able to pick up a box of 12 ga. shotgun shells or some 30.06 ca. hollow point, boat tail deer loads, along with our long underwear. Local stores carried clothes, calls, bows, guns, accessories and of course ammo. My old friends the Keys, up in Cooperstown had a little shack on their dairy farm, where I could get anything I wanted for the hunt. Now these hard working merchants are all out of business. Corporate giants like Cabelas, Gander Mountain, Dicks and Walmart saw to that. These large box outlets that monopolized the market are now making a big show of banning ammo; ceasing to sell pistol and certain “short barrel” rifle ammunition. It’s a misdirected PR ploy, a shiny object that they want you to think is actually doing something. It will not effect much. How about refusing to sell assault weapons, large capacity magazines and disavowing the NRA party line? Crickets.

   We country folk get painted with a very wide brush by the media. If one drives a pick up, wears a trucker hat and owns a gun you are a white, Christian, MAGA loyalist with a high school education and a job in the coal mine. It’s laughable. To always debunk these skewed characterizations is futile and exhausting. Let the mainstream news outlets believe whatever they want about the ruralist. I’ll never have any effect changing that trope. But what I am good at is going behind the scenes, sometimes having real world effect. Here’s a recent example:          

 Dear Senator Durbin,

   As a lifetime hunter and gun owner I have watched in horror as innocent citizens of this country (of all ages) are randomly mowed down by increasingly lethal and efficient weaponry. I have never belonged to the NRA and find their politics appalling. But, what I also find appalling is the lack of the most basic expertise surrounding firearms, each time one of these mass shootings occurs. You don’t have to be an expert to know that firearms fall into two simple categories: handguns and long guns. The “actions” of these weapons are also simplistic: bolt action, lever action, pump action, revolver, semi-automatic and the illegal “automatic.” Because a firearm has no built in obsolescence (a good gun will last generations) the industry must come up with another way to sell product. That is why the gun industry and its lobbying arm the NRA made the AR (and all the knock offs) the most popular weapon in America. These guns are made to be accessorized. Scopes, slings, bi-pods, bump-stocks, sound suppressors (silencers) and massive, high capacity (200 round) magazines are a few of the ways shooters customize ARs. The danger seems obvious. 

   I’m not an activist nor do I have any political agenda. I’m an artist who knows Jen, Michael and the kids. You seem to have the ability to work across the aisle. This is why I am disregarding proper channels and reaching out to you directly. The one concrete step I can see that would have a positive effect immediately would be to ban all high capacity magazines. These “accessories” (like bump-stocks) are what allows anyone to kill on a grand scale in a matter of seconds. It is not the gun or the action, but the magazine that is so dangerous. This fact gets lost in the discussion. This also omits the 2nd amendment issue, that scares so many politicians. Banning these high capacity magazines would be a start. 

    Hunters are heavily regulated. Seasons, bag limits, hours, caliber, etc. are all part of legal and ethical hunting. Because of previously unregulated market hunting you can’t hunt ducks with more than 3 shells in your shotgun. Recreational shooters should also be regulated for public safety. Most shooters and hunters would agree and gladly accept commonsense regulation on their weaponry. Even the military doesn’t issue these insane high capacity barrel magazines. They are on sale for $125 online. I realize I may be preaching to the choir. I hope, if you read this, you consider it in the spirit it is meant; not as criticism but encouragement. I hope somebody has the political will to act. Time is of the essence.

Respectfully,

MO    

To my delight and surprise, Dick got right back to me.  

Thanks for your email. 

High capacity clips and bump stocks clearly have no explicable relation to the legal use of firearms for sport or hunting. 

Your words on restrictions placed on duck hunters don’t begin to describe the hurdles I face when I make a trip to Stuttgart, Arkansas. 

Appreciate your input

Dick

(then this)

Mike

For the record, the ducks are always happy to see me standing in waders. I am such a lousy shot that they usually entertain me with aerial maneuvers directly in front of me. 

Dick

 Kudos to Dick Durbin for listening, responding and having a sense of humor. Lets see what happens when Congress reconvenes. Here’s my question: In this climate of mass shootings, the NRA and gun toting Republicanism should I, as an art dealer (not a gun dealer) open an art and ammo store that bans all these insane weapons, but sells hunting ammunition alongside the art? All the info online says you need to register with the State Police in order to sell ammo. So I went down to my local Trooper barracks, where the boys in grey informed me that they had never heard of such a law and lectured me that 60% of what one reads online is untrue. Thanks Stateys for the heads up. Don’t believe the internet. Now FAKE LAWS! What’s a law abiding citizen to do? Comments welcome.

GRETA THUNBERG

THE ANTIPASTORAL AS INTRA-HISTORICIZER

   For the past three years I’ve immersed myself in local Catskill history and lore; most of it surrounding my family, who have been in these hills since 1653 (see www.fancestor.blogspot.com.) This crash course in the past has given me a pretty good perspective into what’s happening today in politics, climate and corporate capitalism. I’m no expert, but I’m a helluva lot better informed than I was in 2016. It took a lot of concentration, research and reading. I’ve always written plenty, but I’ve never been much of a reader. That’s probably why my grammar can be a little wonky and my punctuation unreliable. I know what it’s like to not want to read.  

     If you think it’s difficult to get people to look at your art or listen to your songs, try writing a book and getting somebody to read it. Everybody has an excuse why they “can’t” read something. Some don’t like reading on the computer. Other’s find the printed word puts them to sleep, while still others suggest you record your tome and read it to them as they go about their day. Why don’t I just come over and read to you as you make coffee fer Christ sake? Even so-called “voracious readers” will shy away from a rough manuscript. One such “reader” told me not to send him anything until it was completely edited and in final form. Thanks a lot asshole! I’ll get you a signed copy when it hits the best seller list. Jeesh!

    Still, I like a challenge, so undeterred I keep posting blogs and once in a while send files off to agents, hoping for a response. No luck yet. The knowledge I gained from my research and reading has been a great side benefit to the process of writing. I had to force myself to read. Now I have a much better perspective on my own little corner of the universe and how we are presently making history. 

   Sometimes when you are in the middle of something you fail to realize how modest actions can have grandiose results. Just look at that Swedish kid skipping school with her SKOLSTREJK FOR KLIMATET sign— school strike week 55. Truancy never looked so good. Again, it’s very similar to conceptual art. A little black paint and plywood and the resolve to just sit there on the steps of parliament, instead of going to class, can change the world. Greta Thunberg is a hero to many and an inspiration to her generation. I am unworthy.

    I’ve been lucky enough to witness (and have a small hand in) creating three “scenes” in my lifetime. The first was San Francisco’s performance/conceptual art nook 1975-1983. The second was New York’s East Village gallery/music scene 1983-1995. The third (final) construction of an interdenominational underground is here in the Catskills 1995-present. Many say all art is political. I’m not so sure about that. I think much is just self-serving crap, made to make a buck or fuel your delusion of rarefied identity. I do that kind too. But what really interests me these days is art that reflects the reality of a world we are trying to make a little better—not necessarily prettier—but less malignant. 

   Recently I told Sarah Budde how thrilled I was to be on three group email chains: one for The Band of All Faiths, another for our weekly boozed up get togethers Thirsty Thursdays, and the final (most entertaining one) The Mountain Dale Merchants Association. This one is filled with petty arguments, blame games, strategies for capitalism and solid ideas on how to trap tourists into buying $12 cocktails. I try not to stick my nose in too often, but sometimes just can’t resist.  Through some weird quirk of fate a core of about thirty very creative, oddball, sweet, hardworking, complex, communal individuals and their families have plopped down right HERE! We are making history in spite of ourselves. All it takes is some art supplies and a plan. Sarah just laughed at my joy of receiving three email chains and informed me that most people are on about 70. Thank God I’m not that inundated with other people’s bullshit. Three chains is plenty. I got time and plenty of ideas. Let me know if I can help.