FLYING SQUIRREL

MY LIFE WITH SQUIRRELS

   The first squirrel I really knew was “Charlie.” Charlie hung around my grandfather’s house on Boyd St. in the village of Montgomery, NY. He was a big grey with a distinctive chopped off tip of his tail who let us feed him peanuts from our hands. Gramp had trained him to cautiously grab the nut, then sit back on his haunches, crack the shell and chew it up as we kids watched with delight. Charlie was a hoot. Over the years I’ve shot and eaten plenty of squirrels, but Charlie was the only one I ever actually had a relationship with.

   The eastern grey squirrel (which can also come in white and black) is native to North America. It’s smart and easily adapts to urban areas and dense human habitation. When I lived on E. 6th St. and Ave. A in the East Village (before they tore down Ben’s Babyland) I had squirrels everywhere, knocking on my window and jumping from tree to tree. If I didn’t remember to put the screen in they’d come right in the bedroom. Once a rather large, bold one almost crawled in bed with me. It took me a second before I realized his bald tail was not a species anomaly. I don’t miss city living.

    In the Catskills squirrels are everywhere. When I had a big oak tree shading my house the early fall was a time of war between me and the squirrel population. The acorns shaken loose from the hungry critters hit my roof like machine gun fire, sending me into a frenzy. I couldn’t get any sleep after the crack of dawn. In order to preserve my sanity I pulled out the 20 ga. The freezer filled up with their little bodies. One early fall day of especially frenetic activity found me blasting away as the neighbors took the last warm day of the year to let the kids splash in the pool. Maybe you can see what’s coming, but neither I nor the squirrel had any idea.

    The furry bastard was in the very top of the tree. I missed him on the first shot. Chambering another round I swung and firing a second time, cut the branch in two with the #7 birdshot. He didn’t have a scratch on him as he hit the ground, gave me the finger, and disappeared into the undergrowth. Five minutes later there was a loud knock on my door. The neighbors (who I was already feuding with) had seen the birdshot raining down around their kids swimming in the pool. Luckily nobody was hit. Of course I denied everything. Why they didn’t have me arrested is still a mystery.

    The oak tree is gone now and my war with the local squirrel population is over. I don’t shoot squirrels anymore and enjoy watching them play in the woods. But I can only speak for myself. Last night Cheeky took his usual midnight stroll as I tried to sleep. He has a bad habit of coming and going out my bedroom window at all hours. Around 1:00 am I heard a faint meow and a knock at the window. Half asleep I automatically cranked open the window and let him vault in. That’s usually the end of it and he crawls up in my beard and goes to sleep. But last night the meowing continued. It was strangely muffled. Finally I turned on the light to find the cat crouched on the floor, a ball of grey and white fluff stuffed in his mouth. I didn’t have my glasses on. As I stumbled to Cheeky’s prize the first thing I wanted to determine was if the creature was actually dead. It was. He dropped it at my feet and looked up at me for approval. What the hell? Laying there at the top of the loft ladder was the cutest, big eyed, flying squirrel I’d ever seen.

    Now you may think that flying squirrels are benign and I would be disappointed in Cheeky for killing one of nature’s marvels. You’d be wrong. Flying squirrels may be cute, but they are the most destructive and annoying of all types of squirrels. I once had a family of them living in my roof rafters. Unlike grey squirrels, they are nocturnal. So when you want to sleep they are coming and going, slamming doors, opening bags of chips and partying ‘til all hours. I tried to kill many and never got one. You try hitting a flying squirrel, bleary eyed, waving a shotgun in the middle of the night. I love living in the Catskills. I don’t condone Cheeky hurdling across my head with a bloody, dead rodent in his mouth, but what could I say? I’m proud of my little squirrel hunter. How the hell does a cat ever catch one? Top of the food chain baby! In the end it’s us or the squirrels. I’ll bet on cats any day.

MORGANE DUBLED

HWS REDUX?

  The concept for huntingwithsupermodels the blog, came about after actually taking a model hunting. French supermodel Morgane Dubled was visiting her boyfriend at the time, Josh Druckman, in Woodridge and Josh told me Morgane wanted to go hunting. I called up my brother Bird and asked if he wanted to join me in taking a Victoria Secret model hunting? This was way back in 2007, when it was still considered acceptably harmless for a couple of “older” men to show enthusiasm at the prospect of dragging a long legged French model through the deer woods. She didn’t last long. “Sacre bleu—I think my toes are frozen.” Morgane pouted and groaned. She was a good sport in those fancy boots, but about an hour into the afternoon’s sit, she got up, stomped her pretty feet, lit a cigarette and headed back to the car. As Morgane listened to the radio, cranked up the heater and lit another smoke, three deer walked by the car. Bird and I never saw a deer.

    Now, before you think Bird and I are just leering old duffers, let me say Morgane is very good company. She probably should’ve been a doctor, but the curse of her beauty thrust her in a different direction. All the models I know are smart, funny and interesting. Maybe I’m just lucky, but the cliche of the air headed, dimwitted mannequin just doesn’t hold water in my experience. The wonderful absurdity of being in a position to guide a fashion model through the Catskill woods was not lost on Bird or me. I think I came up with title “hunting with supermodels” that night. The idea would be to write on anything I wanted (like today) but punctuate the blog with photos of “supermodels.” The term is generic. Just so happened I knew three photographers, George Holz, Richard Kern and Marianna Rothen who specialized in photographing beautiful women—in various states of undress. Emulating old school magazines of my father’s day like, TRUE, ARGOSY and even PLAYBOY I would write and keep the readership coming back for more with the pictures of naked women. How times have changed.

    The #MeToo era has everyone reevaluating what it means to objectify women. Trump’s boastful confiding of his “pussy grabbing” to Billy Bush (and the world) was a watershed moment. Instead of being publicly vilified he was elected President. A year later we got Harvey Weinstein and the #MeToo movement. By 2019 serial pedophile Jeffery Epstein was dead by suicide in his cell in the Tombs. #MeToo was in full effect. To be honest, I didn’t stop posting HWS because of any reason other than being too busy writing www.fancestor.blogspot.com. But when I finished (F)ancestor I decided not to go back. Even though I was friends with the models and photographers I used in HWS, and there was no question of exploitation on anyone’s part, I felt uneasy using pretty girls to get people to read my writing. At least I think they were reading.

    

     Aside from Morgane, I count myself lucky to have a couple of very close friends, Marianna Rothen and Hollie Witchey, who just happen to be drop dead gorgeous models. Marianna is also a  talented photographer and Hollie’s shoppe Witchey Handmade Apothecary is a centerpiece of the Mountain dale experiment. Would I like them as much if they were ugly? Probably not. We all key in on symmetry. And these women are nothing if not symmetrical. They had me at hello. I’m as shallow as the next guy and a sucker for a pretty face. But that only goes so far. These two have deep souls and great personalities. We’ve remained friends for over 12 years. 

    My audience for my blogs is small and not just male. There's always room to boost readership. I’m all for the groundswell that #MeToo unleashed. Scumbags like Weinstein, Epstein and Trump should be held to account and punished accordingly. But, in it’s wake there also has been collateral damage caused by overzealous accusations. Even R. Kern felt the #MeToo sting thrown at him (unjustifiably so) by an disgruntled ex. Photographers (men and women) who specialize in the nude are especially vulnerable to unwarranted attack. I could easily go back to objectifying women on HWS, with probably no consequences whatsoever. I have reevaluated my work and I did not find anything untoward. Maybe it is time to get back to my roots and once again exploit the sly smile of a supermodel in the name of art.

FUCKED

LOYALTY AND THE DEATH OF CRITICAL THOUGHT

    I started drawing in the fifties. In the sixties my interest in being an artist was growing to the degree that it took precedent over all other possible vocations. By the seventies I began to refine my focus, concentrating on printmaking and later performance and conceptual approaches within my oeuvre. It was at this point I began writing. Most of this early writing took the form of journals and either performance “spoken word” scripts or poetic narratives that reflected larger conceptual projects. Then it turned into songs. It wasn’t until the late 1980’s when I was hired by PAPER magazine as a columnist did I realize I had a knack for opinionated essays. It’s fun to pontificate. A blog (like a column) is nothing more than a letter to the editor or op-ed. in the form of an essay, self-published on the internet. Like Dr. Fiona Hill stated in her testimony, referring to a Ukrainian op-ed,  “Identify a peg and either agree or disagree in public.” Make your opinion known.

   I’ve always been prolific. So when people say that they can’t keep up with the blog I don’t take offense. Another post is coming soon- like it or not. Some won’t read my writing specifically because it is a “blog.” They see it as self-indulgent and low brow. They need the objective stamp of approval of an editor and the formality of publishing to take my writing seriously. Others won’t read it because they know me too well and don’t need to be constantly reminded of my opinions. Yeah, yeah, you said that this morning…… Still others just aren’t interested. But for those of you that do take the time to check in regularly I am eternally grateful.

    

   One thing that struck me in watching the impeachment inquiry hearings was the extreme loyalty of the Republican Party towards their leader President Donald J. Trump. Many call it “partisan,” but it seems to have mutated into something much more sinister. Partisan polarization in politics has been going on since the forming of the American Republic. It’s healthy to have a system rife with choices and opposing views. Wigs, Know-Nothings, Barn Burners, Greens, Communists, Working People’s, Democrats and Republicans are just a few of the political parties that historically have been available to Americans over the years. We operate in an open system filled with choice. Loyalty to a mindset or political party (right or left) is traditional and well within the bounds of the law. But what is happening within today’s Republican Party is something new and not just a little disconcerting.

    The actions of this President, that more than half of the country view as criminal and reason for impeachment and possible removal from office, are being unwaveringly defended by his own party. Evidence of both his guilt and innocence, in the form of a transcript of a certain phone call, is held up by both sides as PROOF each side is correct. How can this be? It is logically impossible. The cult of personality that has formed around Trump has dropped critical thought in favor of some sort of mass hysterical hypnosis. “You are getting sleepy…..count backwards 100. 99, 98….the phone call was “perfect”…now squawk…”  Like a bad nightclub act, the Republicans actually seem to believe they are all chickens. They don’t care if you believe it or not.

   Plenty have warned of this blindness to facts, obsession over propaganda, reliance on falsehoods and commitment of undying loyalty to a corrupt leader being problematic. There’s more than a few historical examples; National Socialism being the most recent and decidedly horrifying. I don’t think we’re there yet. But the inability (or unwillingness) to think critically because of an insatiable lust for power or fear of reprisal from a petulant, aggressive, alien life form is troubling, to say the least. 

    I’m no expert. I’m just an artist blogger, an opinionated, armchair pundit. That said, I do value critical thought. I would like to think that if I were a Democrat presented with proof of Trump’s innocence, his genuine desire to root out corruption in the Ukraine, a simple reason for removing Ambassador Maria Yovanovitch from her post, evidence that $400 million and a meeting at the oval were held back through proper channels and not tied to a quid pro quo, official causation for Rudy Guliani’s involvement in U.S. foreign policy and clear indications that the President acted in good faith, I too would, if not defend him, at least not actively seek his removal from office. I’d let him lose the election. That would be utilizing a critical thought process. Until that happens, in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, the only defense that Pence, Pompeo, Mulvaney, Sondland and a slew of others have is: “We were just following orders.” That sounds frighteningly familiar to me. The chickens have come home to roost. Look who just laid an egg! 

SPERM DONOR

VIRGIN BIRTH PROJECT

     I don’t have kids. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like them or am not fascinated by the miracle of birth. The linearity of birth and death compels many artists in the creative process. Usually this is metaphorical (the birth of an idea or death civilization) leaving the true birthing of a living being to those willing to put up with the uncertain, and often trying results. Couples unable to “do it” the old fashioned way spend thousands of dollars on sperm, eggs and expensive procedures in order have a baby. In a world where clueless teenagers do it all the time, how difficult can it be?

    The Virgin Birth Project is a piece I’ve had in the pipeline for years. It has taken various forms and has yet to be realized. One version was the proposed artificial insemination of my sperm into a willing participant who would be willing to certify she had never had sex—a virgin. If the female got pregnant and eventually gave birth I would then take over the raising of the child, selling “shares” in the process to collectors. The results of the “virgin birth” would essentially be the raising of the infant by an art world community effort. In another version I would purchase selected sperm and egg (erasing my DNA from the project) again finding an (over 21) virgin and continue in a similar vein. Although many ethical issues are raised, there would be nothing illegal about any of this.

    As I said, this has been in the pipeline for years, if not decades. At 67, I’m getting a bit long in the tooth to consider this project anymore. Even a version that involved a collaboration with my dairy farmer friend Scotty Key, replacing the human with the bovine, would be difficult to commit to. The Lion of Judah Cage is more appropriate for chickens than cows. Animal husbandry, utilizing artificial insemination as a matter of course, has replaced actually animal sex. Almost every livestock farmer has a place in the barn for a liquid nitrogen tank and a plenty of straws of sperm. It’s basic veterinary science. How many times have I shown up at Majestic Farm to find Sarah Budde talking on her cell phone, with the other arm up to her elbow in a pig’s vagina, squirting a turkey baster filled with boar sperm into an annoyed sow? Sure I’ll have a cup of coffee.

   I may come up with another version of this piece before I’m done, or just leave it on the shelf. It’s one of the dilemmas of conceptualism, to have more ideas than you have strategies for seeing them through. I don’t think I could even do it the old fashioned way anymore. I’m blowing more dust than  tadpoles. Sperm is cheap, but human eggs cost thousands. I know a few women who have frozen their eggs. One Aussie pop star (I won’t mention by name) once told me we could maybe make a deal for some eggs, but then I think she got cold feet and changed her mind. It’s touchy. Good art always is. I haven’t given up yet. Anybody know any virgins over 21? 

TRUMP GOLFING DURING HURRICANE DORIAN

THE TRUMPRANOS

  When I’m not in the woods I’m watching the impeachment hearings and reruns of The Sopranos. These two episodic extravaganzas dovetail perfectly. I get the hearings on NPR and CNN and The Sopranos on AMAZON. I don’t have a TV. With my slow internet there can be a lot of buffering. It’s worth it. After a day of sitting in the cold, deer hunting and watching the hearings, I need the straight forward perspective of Tony and the Jersey mob in order to make sense of Trump’s style of government. I remind you that mob mouthpiece Roy Cohn was also Donald Trump’s lawyer, confidant and mentor for years. Cohn was a scumbag. Trump was an excellent student. Fuggetaboutit.

   The Cosa Nostra, Mafia, Mob, Family—whatever you want to call it— is nothing if not entertaining…..until the bodies start washing ashore. Politics fits the same bill. Trump is also entertaining; just not so much for a Ukrainian soldier waiting for more ammo or a woman trying to change in a Barney’s dressing room. Like Tony Soprano, the boss can be a little overbearing. Emulating his mob counterparts Trump does not email or text. He does talk on the phone; but his only paper trail is writ large on cardboard in Sharpie: “I WANT NOTHING. I WANT NOTHING….I WANT NO QUID, PRO, QUO…” 

    As his sudden change of plans in the summer illustrates, when the boss senses the law is closing in he hits the links and sends in one of his captains (like Pence) to take the heat. His excuse for skipping the sit down with Zelinsky in Warsaw was Hurricane Dorian. The VP is loyal to a fault. When asked about the money, Pence just nodded and told the President of Ukraine he’d talk to the big guy about that missing $300 million, when he got back to the compound. The above picture shows how the President dealt with the approaching storm; between golf games and altering weather maps with the same Sharpie. He’ll take a mulligan.

    Unlike the boss I do a lot of my communication in public and leave a pretty clear electronic trail. I like to review the evidence when I’m called upon to testify on “rudeness,” or somebody swears I didn’t invite them to the Xmas party. I don’t have a consiglieri. I wish I could say “Talk to Rudy.” 

    During Ambassador Sondland’s incriminating testimony, as I watched the Republicans try to convince the public that a series of Ukrainian tweets and a stray op-ed during the Presidential election was “meddling” or “election interference,” I thought of all the shitty things Republicans had said about Trump during the same time period. They hated him way more than the Ukrainians. Why don’t the Dems throw it right back in their faces; read a quote from Lindsey Graham or Ted Cruz during the campaign? Who could I contact with this great idea? Under the subject “Just a thought” I got out my secure computer and sent off a quick email to my favorite Senator- Dick Durbin.                            

Dear Dick,                                   

    Every time the Republicans bring up the anti-Trump op-ed and tweets by the Ukrainians during the election as evidence of some sort of election interference, there is a big list of sitting Republicans, Lindsey Graham et al, who said and wrote loads of anti-Trump talking points at the same time. Enjoying these hearings. Got a nice buck with the bow. (insert picture of buck)

All the best,

MO

   DD (Dick Durbin not Diamond Dave) seems to have a sense of humor and so far has not sent me a cease and desist for emailing him. Most times I’m amazed that the guy actually responds. If at the next hearing you hear them call bullshit on this lame “Ukrainian corruption” evidence and quote a Republican saying nasty shit about the boss I may be getting through. 

    The boss went to the doctor the other day. Here again, an old mob ploy. Don’t be surprised if suddenly the President appears in a wheel chair, dragging an oxygen tank, humming The Soprano’s theme song, muttering to himself about Gulianni and Michael Cohen. How hard is it for a President to find a good lawyer? The don’t make ‘em like Roy Cohn anymore. “Woke up this morning….got myself a gun…..got myself a gun…..”     

TEDDY FEEDING DAFFODIL

FOREST TO FORK STRATEGY

  Most of the old hunters of my father’s generation are gone now. That makes guys like me the new “old timer.” But where is the youth? The woods have grown quieter and quieter over the years. As recently as 10 years ago opening day in the Catskills sounded more like half-price day at the local shooting range, than the chattering squirrels and squawking bluejays I experienced last Saturday. This radical auditory shift is due to two things, the death of older hunters (both local and city) and the dwindling crop of youthful participants willing to pick up a gun and kill a deer. Don’t get me wrong, I like the emptiness and appreciate the quiet. Fewer bodies in the woods makes for a better experience for the solitary hunter. But I’m selfish. Looking at the larger picture, the V generation’s ignorance of hunting culture—manifesting in apathy and clueless vitriol—will have far reaching effects on habitat and species conservation. You can’t keep a healthy deer herd without sustained habitat preservation and promoting generational hunting.

    Hunting and fishing license fees go directly towards wildlife conservation and state environmental programs. The numbers don’t lie. There are fewer hunters in the woods, ergo less money in state coffers. Anecdotally, this is confirmed by all of us old timers in the woods. Within the next generation of my rather large family only my nephew Wade is a hunter. The rest of the nieces and nephews don’t hunt. The family tradition is dying off. It is not only the city kids, with their noses in their iPhones, who decided not to hunt. Many country and suburban kids, with hunting uncles, fathers, and grandfathers, also choose not to get up before dawn, climb a tree and freeze to death (week after week) hoping to shoot a deer. WTF? You don’t know what you are missing.

     I hunted from the time I was old enough to tag along with my father (around 12 years old) until I was about twenty. I couldn’t wait to go deer hunting. Then, because I became a urban dweller, I stopped hunting for twenty years. I was still living in the East Village when I picked it up again at forty in 1992. I shot my first deer at 42. Since then I haven’t stopped. It has become a big part of who I am as an artist and person. Sadly, I am always defending it. Since I picked up the gun again, I’ve consistently had to explain my choice to hunt and justify the practice, especially amongst artists. I feel an obligation to articulate the hunt for the uninitiated. So when I read ill informed insta-attacks on hunters, like I did recently, I try to calmly come to the defense of hunters. Here’s an example of a comment exchange below a picture of two does in Phonecia posted by my friend David Hershkovitz @davidreporting:

@thelazyhustler- Roaches that shoot animals for fun should be lined up and shot….For crimes against nature. Period.

@oldshul1- She’s legal and tasty. You should have more sense Rickster…Even extreme vegans like our mutual friend the late, great Jerry Williams saw the value of ethical hunting. Pick another burger off the burger tree.

    @thelazyhustler is Ricky Powell’s account. He is a photographer known for his Beastie Boys connects and “fight for your right to partay” street cred. Jerry Williams was Purple Geezus' guitar player, CLGM organist and church founding member. J Dublee not only didn’t eat meat or wear leather, he barely ate solid food. He survived on some mysterious concoction that he drank from a mason jar. We in the band called it “bull jizz.” I think it’s what killed him. Nonetheless, he never busted my chops or moralized over my deer hunting. Because Powell also knew Jerry (buying pot from him regularly) I invoked Willie’s vegan cred. and even handed approach with hunting. I have no idea if I got through to Ricky P. Probably not.

    Anti-hunters are rigidly unyielding in their vehement religiosity when it comes to painting hunters with a very wide, and rather demonic brush. In their nasty hyperbole, we are all bloodthirsty “roaches” who should be shot. A bit extreme. But, I’m not the only one trying to defend the hunter. Along with the outdoor apparel and gun industries, more and more state agencies are attempting to rebrand who exactly the hunter is. Conserving deer populations by killing deer seems counterintuitive to many. It has to be re-contextualized for the masses in order to continue. Trophy hunting, that was used in the past to sell product is a distasteful hard sell to today’s sophisticated youth. Instead, PR firms hired by government agencies to repackage hunter identity, take a hard turn left. The neo-hunter is in tune with his or her environment and diet and a benefit to the community. Biting off the “farm to table” paradigm the “forest to fork” movement seeks to make the hunter less “Bambi Killer” and more progressive warrior “harvesting” high protein, healthy table fare—the hunter as hipster, conservationist chef. Leftist crybaby euphemisms aside, we still kill deer.  

    It’s an exhausting, uphill battle, engaging in this conversation as comments like Mr. Powell’s illustrates. Blame it on Bambi. I’ve never seen Bambi the movie but I’m familiar with the plot line and WWII geo-political implications. Demonization of deer hunters (and Nazis) picked up after the movie’s release August 21,1942, ten years to the day before I was born. Sixties counter culture reinvigorated the Disney propagandists’ agenda carrying it well into the 21st century. Good and evil always sells tickets. In the process, we (hunters) have become more and more marginalized and misunderstood. Come on Ricky, roaches? 

      Like I said, I’m selfish. I don’t really care if kids hunt or not. I love the empty woods. But as this trend continues, inflammatory rhetoric like Ricky P’s finds firm ground in the youth propelled insta-sphere; further muddying the water. They (the non-hunters) become more detached from the realities of the process and misinformed by anti-hunting zealots like Powell. It’s not deer hunting that’s wearing me out, but always being on the defensive for my perceived “crimes against nature.” It’s not that hard to understand the benefits of hunting and accord hunters proper respect. I’m incredibly thankful I can still get in the woods and put that venison on the end of my (and your) fork and….”for fun,” carry on the tradition.  

SIBERIAN SHAMAN- 18th Century

EVERYBODY LOVES SHAMAN

     A few years ago I was sitting in a friend’s dome sipping a cup of ayahuasca. There were five of us: Josh, Pablo, Erin, myself, and our “shamanic” guide, a young French woman whose name I forget. Everybody was excited to drink the drug and become enlightened by its effects. A relaxing music droned in the background. 

   It should come as no surprise that I’ve spent a lifetime using (if not abusing) various illicit substances. My generation inherited the bunky Mexican shake, worn plastic bags of pills and mysteriously colored blotter acid of our slightly older cousins in the late 60’s. They had already “experimented” and let us kids know it was “safe.” “Here ya go. First one’s free.” I’ve dropped acid in remote North Carolina cabins, done heroin in  Tennessee flop houses, snorted coke with guys who looked like they had at least one body in the trunk and smoked pot with anyone who would accept the joint I’m passing them. And through all this I’ve yet to become “enlightened” by any drug. Drugs are a way to pass time and (in the case of marijuana)  a cure for depression—nothing more, nothing less. I also recognize that I’m not as susceptible to addiction as many less lucky individuals. What many call addiction I call enthusiasm. Thankfully, I can take it or leave it. 

Back to the ayahuasca.

   Along with my resistance to addiction I seem to have a good degree of scar tissue surrounding my enlightenment glands. As everybody in the dome was dutifully zoning out on the gong vibe and tea I was getting twitchy and not very high. Our shamanic guide asked how everyone was doing? I asked for another cup. She glared at me and shook her head. There seems to be a trend amongst good looking, very young, self-assured men and women to become “life coaches” or psychedelic prescribing spiritual guides. I’m sorry, but when a 23 year old tells me “You are too closed off. Open up to the experience.” I have a tendency to bristle. I tend to find so-called “shamans” about as reliable as a Catholic priest on bath night.

    So as the others had a great time on the aya I had to take a shit. I opened my eyes and looked around the room. Everybody’s head was back and their eyes were closed. Just to fuck with them I silently removed my boots and stealthily crept out of the dome. I hoped that, when they came back to earth, they would think I just dematerialized, leaving nothing but footwear. I drove home and spent the rest of the night on the toilet. I never did get high….or enlightened. I did feel like I was ready for a colonoscopy. 

Fast forward to present day.

  The other night a local, Tal Beery, came over for Thirsty Thursdays. Somehow the conversation turned to shamanism. Turns out Tal’s father is a bona fide shaman. Who knew? An Israeli, Tal’s father picked up his chops in Central America and now travels around preforming various ceremonies for money. He told me of one instance (I don’t think involving his dad) where a shaman beat a “patient” on the back with a guinea pig until the cute little rodent was dead. “The goiter that had plagued the person magically disappeared.” I don’t want to disparage anybody’s profession, but hey how about the guinea pig? 

     Magico-religious traditions go way back in non-white culture. The priest/medicine person has had a valuable position in many indigenous tribes throughout the world since the stone age. Western counter-culture periodically rediscovers these traditions and appropriates them, tinging drug use with a heavy dose of mysticism. Along with this devotion, hucksters can thrive and ply their trade. You’ll never convince me that beating somebody with a furry animal will cure disease. Like “faith healing” there is a long standing tradition of slight of hand, chicken gizzards and pig’s blood being involved in these so-called cures. Everybody loves a shaman, but to me they are just another version of a priest, minister or guru, taking advantage of peoples’ need to believe, be enlightened or transcend the mundane. Call me cynical, but I ain’t buying the hype. Maybe I’m just too closed off. That said, I can’t wait to meet Tal’s dad and do some more aya.                     

ROB K. AND BABY T.

IMPEACHMENT STEW

   Neither Samm nor I are sports fans. Super Bowl Sunday is about the extent of our participation in consuming nationalized sports propaganda. And that’s just for the socializing and finger food. The concussion causing, opioid of the masses has no effect on us. But what we both approach with the same enthusiastic, fan frenzy as sports is televised hearings. We prepare for such political events with the relish of a bobble-headed mascot during the playoffs. Booze, drugs, and prepared dishes are required. Yesterday I made a nice venison stew in anticipation of Bill Taylor’s testimony in the historic televised hearings leading up to the impeachment of Donald Trump. Samm’s bringing the beer and edibles. Who’s your party? USA! USA!

   What I don’t understand is Trump’s failure to truly exploit this TV moment. The king of the “no press is bad press” aphorism, “Tabloid Trump,” is missing out on a perfect opportunity to capitalize on a prime-time spectacle. They are impeaching HIM. Why not spin this into a once in a lifetime Pay-Per-View extravaganza? Take control. Forget these whiny Whitehouse lawyers. Rudy must know some L.A. entertainment sharks who can take a fresh approach—intellectual property and branding specialists—trained to smell blood. These legal “producers” could package the entire Presidential impeachment proceeding as something like the Olympics; pitch it to FOX—freeze out the competition. The greater the production value and the more “up close and personal” interviews of flag waving, God fearing Republicans the greater the chance for a win. Did somebody say Nuremberg?

     The fact that Trump is being seen at more sporting events is also telling and not unrelated. I don’t think he even hears the booing or the chants of “lock him up.” He’s there to be seen and as long as the crowd sees him, all good. Alabama college football fans are a made to order MAGA smack shot right into Trump’s ego. One acolyte even stabbed the Baby Trump balloon in front of Rob Kennedy, in appreciation of the Presidential visit. That should have been on TV. If somehow sports spectacle could be combined with political theater—with maybe Jenine Pirro and O.J. doing the color commentary—a new crossbreed, hybrid form of entertainment could be salvaged out of the Trump shit show. Where’s Trump’s new spiritual advisor? Advise for Christ’s sake. Somebody must know O.J. 

  Because it was so cold in the mountains yesterday, making the venison stew on top of the wood stove was an easy choice. I hung the buck on the porch and cranked up the fire in the stove. Soon the smell of the onions simmering in squished peeled tomatoes filled the house. It’s one of my favorite ways to cook and heat the house at the same time. Because I’ve been hunting so hard, I was a bit at loose ends on Tuesday. Gun season doesn’t open until Saturday. I got a couple of days off. Wednesday I’ll watch the hearings and we’ll eat the stew. Thursday I’ll skin, trim up the back strap and quarter that deer. On Friday we’ll either watch more hearings or I’ll finish the butchering on my own with the radio tuned in. Saturday I’ll load the 30.06 and hit the woods again, looking for the buck that broke that 10 pointer’s rack. My week is planned.

     We already know what Bill Taylor is going to say, but I can’t wait to hear him say it. Any sane person knows that Trump has no defense, but that never stopped him before. How many times has Melania found surly hookers in bed with her husband, only to be convinced by the irate President that there were no such women there after all? How many times have we counted him out—were sure there was no way he was gonna wiggle out of this one—that finally he’d been caught red handed……..only to be proven how foolish we are? I’ll never give a shit about the World Series or the Final Four, but give me a Watergate, Kavanaugh, or Trump impeachment extravaganza any day of the week. Between that and deer hunting the holidays will be here before you know it. I know what I want for Christmas. 

BUSTED UP TEN POINTER

11/11

  I don’t know what it is about this date. Some of my favorite people were born on this day: Ray Gilkey, my godson Iman, Emma Voegelin and her cousin Lara Wray Rowe. I’m sure there’s more. Of course it commemorates the signing of the Armistice between Germany and Allied forces that took effect at 11:00 am on November 11. 1918. We call it Veteran’s Day. Most of the veterans in my family are dead. The exception is my cousin Steve Suydam (wounded in Vietnam) and my second “father” Vic Voegelin (WWII). The other reason I like 11/11 is it falls during the peak of the rut. Bill Voegelin swears by 11/13 as peak, but I like the 11th. I shot my first buck with the bow on Nov. 11th. This morning I had another chance.

    The second person I called with the news of my hunt (after Samm) was Vic Voegelin. After some preliminary talk of family feuds and the importance of mending fences, I wished Vic a happy Veteran’s Day and got down to the business at hand: relaying a good deer story. These rare times of telling good stories in the deer woods I sure miss my old man, but Vic is the next best thing.

   I’ve been hunting above South Fallsburg. The place is loaded with oaks and finally this year we have a good mast crop. I’ve been seeing does consistently and a few spikes, but no shooters. The action has been hit and miss. There’s a big weather front coming in and I wasn’t looking forward to sitting in the sleet and snow on Tues. and Wed., as the temps drop into the teens. So today I vowed to get in the stand early and stay until noon while the temps are mild. The plan was to go home at noon, get some wood in, cover the pile and get right back in the woods.

    Around 6:45 am I spotted a little four pointer in front of me feeding and milling about. He wandered off and I could see other bodies through a patch of small hemlocks. I pulled the binocs up and spotted another buck. This one was bigger and possibly a shooter. After about 15 minutes the woods exploded. The four pointer chased a doe in front of me while the bigger buck (right on a doe’s ass) went bounding towards town. I had no shots, but was encouraged by the action. Then everything went silent.

    At about 7:45 am I caught movement off to my left. I saw a large bodied deer coming at me full tilt. I didn’t even look for antlers. I stood up, nocked an arrow and “bleated.” A bleat sounds like a sheep. “Baaaaaa.” The deer came to a dead stop about twenty yards broadside. It was a good buck. I had him. I settled the pin on his vitals and released the arrow….just as he turned. I saw the arrow hit the dirt and heard the sickening “whoosh” of defeat. Automatically I nocked a second arrow and pulled back. To my surprise the buck had not spooked, but stood there staring up at me. No shot. I had all I could to keep from shaking with the bow at full draw. Then as he slowly turned I let the arrow fly.  I drilled him. He ran thirty yards and piled up dead. 

    Only another bow hunter can fully appreciate how unusual it is to stop a running deer, miss it on the first shot and kill it on the second. As I walked up on the deer I spotted another eight point buck that was following the one I shot. I’d seen four bucks and shot a bruiser of a busted up ten pointer before 8:00 am. 

    I immediately thanked the LGM and that deer for giving up his life. I was so grateful that I had made a good kill shot and the buck did not suffer. I also was spared a long track and possible loss of the deer. Vic listened intently and warmly congratulated me. He and his wife Georgia are in their 90’s, facing various health issues. They are my second parents. Vic knows my pacifist views, yet told me he’d be proud to have me as a “fox hole buddy” any day. He knows from experience the futility of war and how important it is to love one another. He said his next call was going to be to my brother Ross to try to patch up things between Ross and my sister Susan. Good luck Vic. I love Vic and Georgia and feel so blessed that I can get in the woods, make a good shot on a buck and call Vic up with the story. As I look through the bloody face of my watch it reads 11:00 am.  Not a bad 11/11/19.   

TRAINWRECK

I BAPTIZE YOU TRAINWRECK

     The CLGM has always prided itself in offering cradle to grave service both in the city and country. Weddings are hit and miss, but baptisms and funerals are always spot on. There’s something about baptizing a little baby or even a grown individual in front of a charged congregation that fires everybody up. The same can be said for a memorial. We tend to “roast” as we remember those passed, allowing the group to cry, laugh and give the middle finger to the grim reaper…… in the face of our obvious mortality. It is cathartic.

    Quite a few years ago we convened a specific “baptism” church. I dragged a colorful kiddie pool into church, filled it with cold water and went about baptizing “baby Moses” aka Josh Druckman. There’s an old Catskill wive’s tale that tells of your window seat on the bus to heaven being dependent upon how many Jews you can baptize. I don’t know about that, but the baptism schtick went off without a hitch and I opened it up to any volunteers in the congregation. Out of the pews stepped a rather large, bearded man, who willingly plopped his ass down in the kiddie pool. He was a stranger to me, so I asked his name? “Trainwreck” he said with a big grin. “In the name of the father. In the name of the mother. In the name of the Little Green Man, I baptize you Trainwreck!” The congregation erupted in approval. Amen.

    A couple of days ago I got an email from a distraught congregant, Devin Blagbrough. He had been crying his eyes out and thought I should know—Trainwreck was dead. Gary “Trainwreck” Budnik had passed over to the other side.       

Hi Mike,

   Still in shock here, but I think that you should be aware, Gary Trainwreck Budnik passed from a heart attack yesterday while out hiking... I am sure Shannon will need some support, and I'm sitting here crying because he introduced me to Jenny, but I wanted to share with you to pass along to the congregation... we've lost another member too soon.    Let me know if you have any ideas to support, I'm sitting here crying over a good friend lost... but also want to support his wife who's left behind.   She mentioned he didn't want a funeral, but a party... if I can help make that happen for her for him, I'd be glad but you know the folks he knew as well if not better than I... so I'm sharing and also offering help while also assuming his wife needs help.

Tks,

-d

  Many in the community knew Trainwreck better than I did. He was a hockey player, a fixture at church, Dutch’s, the Farmers’ Market and a vocal member of the Rock Hill community. He was in his early forties. It’s never easy losing a loved one (at any age) but especially painful when one drops dead in their prime. Brett Budde ran into him in the gas station as he was heading out with his dog for that hike. Brett said he looked great, was full of life and couldn’t wait to hit the mountain for a little hike with the dog in the woods. 

   In times of birth and death the CLGM operates just like a “real” church. The day before yesterday we gathered for our usual Thirsty Thursdays cocktail hour at my place. Before the crowd thinned out we raised our glasses to Trainwreck—one of our own had passed way too soon. We toasted Gary as Stairway to Heaven appropriately played in the background. R.I.P. Trainwreck. You will be missed mightily by the CLGM congregation. Yes, unfortunately I will be getting another tattoo. Please reach out to Shannon. 

Back to Devin:

    

I am sorry I couldn't make it Thursday - I brought Shannon dinner and enough food for leftovers - I can only go back to my father's passing to know losing someone so close as she did, and I sat with her and her mother for over an hour talking.  When my dad passed, I forgot to eat unless someone handed me something and made me eat - its just something we forget, so that's what I do, I bring food and an ear to listen.   We talked about many things but of course Gary was foremost... he had lost over 60 pounds, quit eating meat, and all presumed he was more healthy - but as we know now what's in your heart and arteries is not always reflective of what you see on the outside... he had what they consider a widow maker - a clogged artery around his heart, and it caught up with him.   He was hiking along but on a well traveled trail... when he passed one group walking well with his dog, another passed within a few minutes and he was found on the ground - he didn't suffer, it was sudden, there was no sign of struggle where he was found... and he died doing what he came to love recently: Hiking with his dog.    They spoke that morning and after his hike, he had plans for buying a new chef's knife he had been saving for - he loved to cook and he was the chef in Shannon and his marriage - so as it turns out handing a grieving wife a meal she didn't have to figure out how to prepare was well received if only the least I could do...  we all have a thing we can do... and along that line, thank you for your blog - it was Gary that first brought me to CLGM and told me about your blog which I enjoy reading from time to time.  I'm honored to be a small part of it, though I wish it were under happier circumstances.

Tks,

-d

From Sarah Budde:

Gary's "Celebration of Life" will be held Saturday November 23rd from 1 - 4 PM

Rock Hill Firehouse 

61 Glen Wild Rd

Rock Hill, NY 12775

Feel free to share any photos as well for the memorial to RHfarmersmarket@gmail.com

The beautifully supportive reaction by Devin and others here in the mountains to Trainwreck’s passing is a testament to the heart of this Catskill community, that I am also so honored to be a small part of.

BEFORE

DIAMOND DAVE RESPONDS

I reached out to Dave Markovitz with this email and we proceeded to communicate for a couple of hours. Here is the exchange in its entirety. Dave in ital.:

Dave, 

    I started writing a new blog www.theantipastoralist.blogspot.com. It deals with issues locally. You really caught my attention with your extreme landscaping. I wrote about it and will publish tomorrow. I wanted to give you a chance to respond so I’m sending you the post. On another unrelated front I know my big collage has been in your barn for years. Let me know if that is an inconvenience and I’ll make arrangements to get it out. Hope you take this in the spirit in which it is meant. I was pretty shocked by the river bank. All the best, MO           

Hey Mike,

Been a long time, I hope all is well.

I haven't and wouldn't have a problem with whatever topic you choose to write about. Regardless if I am part of the subject matter or not. I have always appreciated and continue to support your candor, provocative essays, assorted musings and rebellious rantings.

"...he changed personalities."  I don't believe that is the case, but I am no expert on "personality changes" so I can only say that I strongly disagree with that statement. Nor did I disappear. Sure, I went through a challenging period of a personal nature...no more wife... for a couple of years, and maybe there was a little re-focusing with regards priorities but not much else has changed. I am still generous to a fault, I can't speak to how much "fun" I am, but I suspect I maintain enough of a fun factor...I can ask around though :)...

On the "friends" note, sure we are friends, there wasn't anything that has ever transpired directly or indirectly to challenge our status as such. Although, if a friend of mine suddenly disappeared, I would most certainly have reached out and inquired as to my friends whereabouts and well being. Maybe there was something going on in my friends life that I was not aware of and maybe just by reaching out, it would be a meaningful expression of a freind.  "I never knew why"....because you never asked...never stopped by, never flagged me down, never called...zilch, zero, zip, so I am not sure what definition of "friends" you are referring to. 

On to the "Trees"...

"What possible justification could Diamond Dave have for his arboreal crime?"

Crime...wow.

Very simply, we had identified 130 standing dead trees, mostly cherry, that were slowly dropping limbs etc and were a general eyesore (opinion), as well a potential developing hazard. 

You can use google maps, or look at the attached satellite image which clearly shows a large amount of dead standing trees in the fields. We chose to address this issue, and have. The trees along the riverbank were never supposed to be taken down, I cherished those large Maples and Oaks as well, and was looking forward to seeing them in all their glory for many years to come. It was a complete surprise to me on Saturday morning to see that they had already been taken down and that I was not consulted about it. The foreman on the job, explained that the trees were already dead or dying and he said they had to come down soon anyway. We had lost 2 of them over the last year or so already. At that point, anything I could have said or done was after the fact. My choice, had I had one, would have been to leave them anyway, let nature take its course, and we could enjoy them for as long as possible. As for the possibility of erosion on the lower flat, yes, it floods a few times a year, and erosion is always a concern. I have taken the initial steps of erosion control, and will continue to responsibly monitor it. I take the role of steward of my little postage stamp seriously.

"microcosms"...."rich men doing as they please..." I'll just call bullshit on those comments. In all the time we have spent together, regardless of what was in my wallet, have you ever witnessed even a hint of anything other than concientiousness in that regard ?

None of this project was taken on rashly or irresponsibly. The dead trees had to come down, the pond needed to have the berm repaired, and the land needed some grading. All of this was planned by professionals, legal permits obtained, and an official consultation with the DEC was had. 

Maybe you got this one all wrong, maybe it was just an affront on one of your senses, and your gut reaction was what it was, right or wrong.

I still applaud your voice, your right to shriek or whisper, and your ‘merican right to be...wrong

Friends ? I think so...although in the future, try to act like a real one.

Looking forward to your next rant,

DD

DD, 

So good to hear from you. I DID reach out, multiple times with invites and some direct references to your “disappearance.” If you did respond it was always…"yeah, all good.” and that was that. I always tried to send you invites to church or whatever I was doing and never saw you. You are right, I didn’t drop by. I guess I assumed your absence was purposeful. John and Asher said they similarly didn’t see you anymore. It all seemed the way you wanted it, but confusing to me. But hell we’re grown men, so I thought that was your choice. I didn’t hold it against you and still considered you a friend. I’m sorry I didn’t make more of an effort to get in touch. I’m glad to hear you are Ok and thriving and maybe we can pick up where we left off. You are right. I had a visceral reaction to seeing those river bank trees come down. Sad to hear it was a surprise to you also. I’m going to carefully re-read what you sent and consider edits or possibly not post……as brilliant as the writing is. You got both barrels. I’m glad I sent it to you first and you have taken the time to address it. I apologize for painting you with the “rich man” brush. You are my favorite rich man and not the norm. You around tonight? Thirsty Thursday cocktails at my house. Otherwise lets have a drink very soon, Love, MO 

No worries Mike...and I stand corrected as to your reaching out, I definitely received a few church invites and more.

I didn't and don’t feel like there are double barrels pointing at me. You saw, you reacted, you wrote...pretty brilliantly I would agree...the microcosm/rich man call out sort of bundled the entirely of the piece as that of yet another another leftist crybaby without a real agenda or a plan for tomorrow morning....it was stronger without it...and that has nothing to do with me being the subject...your a trend bucking independent, so own it.

Proceed as you choose, pay no mind to me.

Would love to catch up...I’ll make a point of it next time I am local. 

Stay feisty

I DID NOT EDIT THE POST.

       My response to the “leftist crybaby without a real agenda or a plan for tomorrow morning….”  comment is this. My plan for “yesterday” would have been simple oversight of my loggers and making sure every tree was marked for cutting—clear and concise communication—no excuses after the fact. You are right Dave, there is no plan for tomorrow morning. Once the trees come down there’s nothing that can be done. That was my point. Your own “before” photo clearly shows plenty of foliage all along the river. The damage is irreparable. I sure wouldn’t pay the loggers who so thoughtlessly ravaged your river bank and “surprised” you with the results they seemed so proud of. How’s it look? As Andy Brennan put it, “Nothing uglier than a golf course.” 

     Did the tree removal offer a unique opportunity to reestablish a friendly communication with Diamond Dave? Yes. Will the shepherd return to the flock? Maybe. Was it worth it? Not for the trees, the river or future generations crossing the ford. Time will tell with me and DD.

AFTER

IF A TREE FALLS AND NOBODY SAYS ANYTHING

    Back to our theme of antipastoralism. Just to remind you this is not an anti-environmental mindset. Quite the opposite. The antipastoralist wants to keep the shepherd out of the picture, let nature take its wild course. The “shepherd” brings in the flock, cuts down the forest for grazing, builds walls, fence lines and railroads. The community encourages the shepherd. He clothes and feeds THE PEOPLE, he heats their homes with those trees; as banks and storefronts spring up in the barren meadows. As time passes, smoke stacks and church steeples emerge in the gloomy distance. A wide brush stirs the oily sky into beautiful compliance. Chaos is evicted. A pastoral propaganda is developed that justifies the violent manicure. This is called progress. Something happened recently, down by the river, that will not go unnoticed. The pastoralist was in full effect. It wasn’t a pretty picture. 

    

    I live in a magical little river valley. The Neversink River has snaked through these Catskill forests and fields for thousands of years. When the rivers were dammed up in the 1930’s the reservoirs delivering potable water to NYC were also engineered to control excessive flow. Cyclic seasonal flooding subsided. The downstream rivers were tamed, but not damaged. The ancient Neversink remained one of the world’s premier trout streams. It is sacred and in some areas pristine.

      I travel across Denniston Ford and the Neversink River almost daily. Until a few years ago a one lane bridge spanned the ford. This bucolic spot had been a backwoods travel corridor between the Hudson Valley and Catskills for hundreds of years. It is a natural flat of low water that served as a wagon crossing before the bridges were built. With the building of highways, the ford is now well off the beaten path. 

     I hunt the old Denniston farm that’s been split up and now is owned by my friends and neighbors Butch Resnick, John Letourneau and The Denniston Hill Foundation. Old pastures of rich river bottom are bordered by thick pine ridges, majestic maple hedgerows and shady river banks. I’ve already mentioned my displeasure with Butch and John’s fence lines, but these flimsy structures can always be removed or reconfigured. They are not a permanent scar on the landscape. Fences come and go. What I witnessed over the weekend, down by the river, was much worse than another fence going up and will forever put a knot in my stomach.

   

    Across the ford, traveling west, there used to be a funky little pink house perched on a hill overlooking overgrown fields. I always loved the look of the place, tucked in the wild sumach and scrub brush. A hoarder lived there with his cats. The house was an old stage coach stop that dated back to the 1840’s. One day I noticed activity. Somebody had purchased the pink house and was fixing it up. That somebody was Dave Markovitz. He was a Porsche driving, friendly young guy with a wife, son and plenty of money. I nicknamed him “Diamond Dave.” We became friends. He came to church and seemed down with the CLGM community. He was generous to a fault and a helluva lot of fun. Then one day, like a cat, he changed personalities. Nobody ever saw him around anymore. I thought this would be a temporary phase and he would return to the fold. He didn’t. I never knew why—still don’t. Did we remain friends? I guess so. I haven’t talked to him in years. I may have a better answer to that after he reads this.

   

     If I’m going to be honest in writing about the Catskills I’ll have to call out certain people (friend or foe) when I see things happening that I feel are detrimental to the community and environment. What I witnessed at the ford was burly loggers wielding chainsaws and two massive excavators working in tandem, tearing down dozens of majestic 200 year old maples and oaks that had shaded the Neversink River’s western bank for generations—Diamond Dave’s trees. 

     Yesterday the stumps that bore witness to the slaughter were six feet across, obscenely protruding from the naked bank like rotten teeth. Today the stumps have also been extracted; the bloody gums of the river bank salved with straw. Why would anybody do this? What possible justification could Diamond Dave have for his arboreal crime? A better view of the river? His house sits high on a hill. He could already see the river. It makes no sense. 

     Before the new bridge came in, even with reservoir regulation, these fields were prone to flooding. With the removal of the trees flooding will most likely return. Erosion will tear up the cleared river bank, unnaturally widening the river. But the immediate damage is aesthetic and irreparable. It can never be corrected. 

     It’s private property. This is ‘merica! It’s Dave Markovitz’s ‘merican right to cut his trees down. What can any of us do but bitch after the fact? But that’s my ‘merican right also. Dave’s clear cut is a microcosm of what is being done globally to our environment—rich men doing as they please because they can. Are we all helpless? I can’t imagine any good argument for this obscenity. But if there is one I’ve reached out to Diamond Dave for a response. No matter the justification it won’t bring the trees back. Any remnant of those trees is gone forever. The loggers worked so fast you’d never know a tree ever grew there. 

    

     As I was taking pictures of the aftermath a logger came running over, phone in hand. “How’s it look?” he asked cheerily. “Looks like hell.” I answered. He was taken aback by my response. He obviously thought he’d done a pretty good job, pastorally speaking.  “Those trees were there for hundreds of years.” I told him. He looked confused and a bit hurt. What business was it of mine? “You asked.” I said as he took a picture of my license plate (I don’t know why) and went away grumbling. Looks like a good spot for another Dollar General store. It’s a shanda Dave. Honestly, what the hell were you thinking?

Tomorrow: Diamond Dave’s response. 

NOTICE

OUR CONNECTION IS NOT PRIVATE

Monday, November 4, 2019 

    You should have been able to read this on Tuesday, but guess what? The internet is down. Part of living in the Catskills is putting up with slow and unreliable internet. Politicians have been promising for years to bring high speed broadband to the sticks and here I sit, a day before elections 2019, one tiny step above that annoying sound of dial up. 

    Want cable? Good luck. The cable companies insist YOU pay for their infrastructure, charging by the foot to run cable to your house. Last I checked they wanted about $5000 to hook me up. What a racket! They have to be fucking insane to think I will pay them thousands of dollars to hang wire on existing poles and charge me $150 per month for the privilege. So I’m stuck with a radio, a record player, slow Hughes Net satellite and a rotary phone. The TV blew up years ago. Outside of my guns, the old black, indestructible, bakelite phone is the most dependable machine I own.

   I love and depend on the internet. I’m of the generation of passive receivers, not aggressive transmitters. I became addicted to TV in the mid-1950’s, while that medium was still in its infancy. I couldn’t get enough of it. When my work started to mature in the late 1970’s we still had eight track cassettes, reel to reel video rigs and porn played in movie theaters. There was no power to transmit for the artist. If you wanted people to know about your projects you mailed out invitations or wheat pasted posters around town. Everything cost money and your reach was limited to word of mouth, mailing lists and the odd sighting on a telephone pole. It was expensive, difficult and frustrating to promote your work. So when I finally got hip to the internet (way late) I was hooked. I started a blog the first week I bought a computer. You mean to tell me I can publish images or whatever I write, for free, WORLD WIDE, with the press of a button? It still thrills me.

     I may not have too many followers or a viral footprint, but the democratization of information that the world wide web has provided took a load off of me. Facebook, Instagram and blogspot are so easy to use a five year old can do it. The pressure to publish or have somebody put the seal of approval on my work vanished. I could do it all on my own, build my audience (or not) slowly. Fuck the publishers, gallerists, museum directors and record company execs. I have Instagram, blogspot and Spotify. It’s free for all. Fuck the business plan. Just kidding. I never had one. 

    

   Going back to why you couldn’t read this earlier—these sites all depend on the internet. Without that my ability to transmit songs, words and images and your ability to receive them disappears like the politicians’ promises for rural broadband. The computer is just a machine. Today the internet stopped working and this alarming notice appeared on my machine’s screen—“Your Connection is Not Private. Attackers might be trying to steal your information…”  Suddenly, I was forced offline, simultaneously silenced and vulnerable.

   The machine allows me to write this, but unless you come over to the house and I show it to you, the audience is just me and Cheeky. I may as well drag the IBM Selectric. out of the attic or find a crayon and paper bag. So here I sit. No cell phone. No TV. No email. No CNN. No Al Jazeera. No Instagram. No porn. No wide world. I called Hughes Net and waited 15 minutes to talk to someone. Then, after another fifteen minutes of back and forth, pressing buttons and stroking keys, they dropped the call. I had to call back on the rotary and start from scratch. Try staying calm as you anticipate a cold, lonely night in the Catskills, a pledge drive on local Public Radio, no beer in the fridge and…..did I mention no porn? Elton John is on the record player- “and I think it’s gonna be a long, long time…..”

   

    The good news is that on the second call I was able to schedule an appointment with a service technician for tomorrow (your yesterday). I hope to hunt in the morning. He’s supposed to show up between 11am and 2pm. Hopefully my passwords weren’t hacked or checking account drained as I slept. If all goes well you will be reading this sometime in the not too distant future. 

P.S.

The technician never showed. More calls. More “on hold.” More apologies, promises and pleas for me to keep the obscenities to a minimum. Fuck that! I don’t have time for this shit. Now “Mr. Groom” is set to show up between 2-5pm Wed. “Ken” the nice Indian gentleman in Arizona promises. If he doesn’t show I’m canceling my account. I can sit in the freezing cold day after day waiting for a buck. But waiting for two days for a service technician to show is another story. It is torture. 

    

    The rut is heating up and we’re expecting snow on Friday. I’ve seen one good buck, but have had nothing in close enough for the bow. Right now it’s a waiting game. Duh. I have to put the time in the stand and stay focused. All I want to do is sit in a tree. I love trees as much as the internet. I’m still haunted by the last shot I flubbed on the biggest buck I’d even seen in the woods. Only another hunter would know the feeling. 

   I wrote about that on www.huntingwithsupermodels.blogspot.com. HWS also has plenty of pictures of some of my favorite supermodels, Marianna Rothen, Hollie Witchey and Morgane Dubled, and other sexy pics by great photogs Richard Kern, George Holz and Marianna Rothen. Just thinking about it makes me wish I had internet. Check out the archives. Our connection is public. “Im a Rocketmannnnnnnnn”  Sing it Elton.

TIMOTHY PICKERING

RULE OF LAW- Part Two

“I knew all this constant harping on art was gonna cause trouble.”- Tony Soprano, The Sopranos, season 4 episode 2 

    When I started writing (F)ancestor I realized this was an opportunity to not only find out about my ancestors, but put myself in historical context; a kind of “generational memoir.” I’d always known of various Osterhout branches (my own included) being involved in the criminal justice system. Uncle Wray was a thief and junky, in and out of jail in the 40’s and 50’s. I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know. I’ve had more than a few “days” in court myself. Luckily I’m still on the outside. I can’t say the same for some other family members. With the help of Google I now can keep track of all incarcerated Osterhouts. 

     

   There’s Alan Osterhout, Jr. (a black man) serving out his sentence in Florida for murdering his wife. Before you make assumptions based on race, Alan was a sixty something, middle class businessman who shot his college professor wife. Racial tropes are of no use with the Osterhouts. His 911 call placed just after the murder is on Youtube. It’s simultaneously heartbreaking and despicable. I reached out, but have yet to hear back.

     

    Then there’s Stephen Allen Osterhout, who at 16 killed a seminarian in Michigan in the 1980’s. He was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole as a juvenile. He’d been in so long he was known as the “Professor” in Baraga Correctional. Thirty years later, a month after his suicide in his prison cell, the Supreme Court struck down those draconian sentencing guidelines for juveniles. He just missed it. He couldn’t wait any longer. His pen pal Linda, an academic in Michigan, stopped returning my emails.

    

    The worst of the bunch are a father son duo, Franklin Ward and Franklin Scott Osterhoudt, presently serving time in a prison in Idaho for rape, incest, meth and assorted other crimes. From their location and some newspaper articles I determined that their direct ancestor was Solomon Osterhout. Solomon left a diary documenting his ordeal crossing the United States from Illinois to California by ox train in 1850. I have a copy. I would love to see if the original diary still exists. Franklin and Franklin Osterhout would maybe know. I’m not reaching out to these two for anything.

     

    On the other side of the rule of law are various sheriffs, deputies, constables and police officers in the family. Three of the most famous Osterhout officers of the court were from Pennsylvania. 

     Constable Gideon Osterhout of Wyoming, Pa. arrested Aaron Kilborn, 15 years old, one of the kidnappers of George Washington’s future Secretary of State, Timothy Pickering, in 1788 during the Pennamite War; another armed struggle over property. The bold young kidnapper argued that he was on his way to turning himself in anyway and was due the $100 reward himself. Constable Osterhout was merely his ride to jail. After his release, Pickering sent a letter to the Gov. of Pennsylvania, Thomas Mifflin on Nov. 15, 1788. Initially siding with Kilborn, questioning Constable Osterhout’s claim for the reward, Pickering eventually relented, thanking Gideon for his patriotism and recommending he get the C note. 

     

     A descendant of Gideon, Sheriff Thomas Osterhout, was the first Sheriff of Wyoming when it officially became a county in Pennsylvania in the 1840’s. He also had an uneven term of office, repeatedly losing prisoners. Escapes from his jail were a constant embarrassment to the Sheriff until his retirement. He walked with a limp. His ebony cane is still on display in the Wyoming County Historical Society in Tunkhannock.

    

     The last lawman of any note that I could find was Judge John Peterson Osterhout, also from Tunkhannock, Pa. He moved to Texas, fought for the Confederacy, started a local newspaper, The Bellville Countryman, was appointed to the bench and owned slaves until the end of the Civil War; when the rule of law changed once more. His letters home and Countryman editorials proclaiming the benefits of slavery are unnerving to say the least.

    Nobody in my immediate family is a cop or in jail at this writing. We are, for the most part, law abiding citizens who shun law enforcement. Every time I hear somebody declare “We are a country of laws.” I cringe. So much damage has been done under the guise of “legality” it loses meaning. The removal of the Indians, the reservation system and ultimate genocide was legal. Slavery was legal. The Holocaust was legal. The environment is legally raped and in many places (like the U.S.) global warming continues unchecked (or even unacknowledged) protected by the rule of law. Immigrant children are removed from their parents legally. The Amazon is burning—legally. Just look at the transcript of Trump’s phone call to Zelinsky. It’s “perfectly” legal. How can you possibly think any laws were broken? Oh I don’t know…..maybe by reading it? Legality has become a political power game. Today, criminality has become as subjective as art.