SOLSTICE FROG AND MRS. CLAUS

SANTA AND A FROG WALK INTO A BAR

    No, it’s not a set up for a dirty joke. It’s just another holiday season in the Catskills. As the rest of America bristles and argues over impeachment and wonders what North Korea is going to send us for Xmas, here in the mountains all is calm. You wouldn’t think a far left of green, radical progressive frog could have a civil conversation with a raging, MAGA red suited Santa, but you’d be surprised just how easy it is. Here’s an example as best that I can remember:

    “I’ll have a martini.” I order at High Voltage, our local bar in Mountain Dale. Sonia the owner smiles and turns to find the vodka. Carlo is buying. He’s just back from China and Moscow on some sort of secret mission for the Art Department. (Shhhhhhhhhush) “I’m Catskill rich.” he crows and pays for my drink. Money from Rudy? (the lawyer not the reindeer). I’m dressed as a green bull frog, wearing a suicide vest of glitter bombs. Butch Resnick is dressed as Santa and already wiping booze out of his beard. Butch is my neighbor and owner of most of Mountain Dale. Carlo is in civilian clothes. We all clink glasses and slide into the holidays. The solstice is upon us. Here comes summer.

   “You like Trump, right Froggy?” Santa asks. My long green fingers tighten around my martini glass. Obviously Santa has not been paying attention in church. “I hate the motherfucker!” I admit. Santa looks over his wire rim glasses in disbelief. “You’re kidding.” he questions “You mean to tell me with all your anti-establishment shit, you don’t like the guy.” I hop up and down stamping my webbed feet and glare at Santa. “The guy’s a disgrace Santa. How can you defend him?” Santa smiles that big grin of his. “The economy you stupid frog.” he declares. Santa (and Butch) are the kings of the capitalists. “I can put up with anything with an economy this good.” Santa continues. I adjust my suicide vest. Should I just let ‘er rip? No. It’s the holidays. I grin right back at Santa, work my gills filled with vodka and as my mother would say, “Agree to disagree.” We toast and hug. Hark the herald angels….

   

    This is the second year Mountain Dale has gathered in a half-assed, hastily conceived attempt at bringing strangers to town to eat, drink and buy stuff. Is it working? It depends on who you ask. Most Catskill communities like Neversink, Livingston Manor and Callicoon, market holiday festivities in the more traditional “chestnuts roasting” and “carolers caroling” theme. We all got snow, but the tone of Mountain Dale is about as “off the beaten path” as the hamlet itself. Pinning the pickle to the Pussy Pole, destroying the environment with glitter and getting drunk all afternoon is more our speed. Butch, who was pitching the place to a new potential investor, said the "mark" thought Butch had hired actors to put on a passion play in order to impress them. HA! Solstice Frog, a wise woman, Daesh the Red Nose Reindeer, Drunk Santa and Buddy the elf (a prominent local politician) are all locals, always ready for a good time and an excuse to party. Although hiring us is a novel concept that I’m not opposed to.

    Herein lays the problem for expanding the crowd. We are a group of cliquish, clannish, subversives who store up ammunition year round just to shoot ourselves in the feet. We may make outsiders a bit uncomfortable. Between disappearances to check out the snow conditions on the slopes, Santa is the worst of the bunch. He may profess to be all about the economy, but under that beard he (and Mrs. Claus) are good hearted, generous, party animals. Santa doesn’t really care if the North Pole (or Mountain Dale) is solvent, or if that next investor ponies up the green to buy more toys. All he cares about is a good place to hang out. I see you Santa. We are all admittedly misfits in paradise. The rest of America may not be able to get along, but I thank the LGM that here in the Catskills we all (green, blue and red-eyed) can. HAPPY HOLIDAYS ONE AND ALL!   

OLD SHUL FOR SOCIAL SCULPTURE

BLACK FACE PETES

THE ZWARTE PIET TRADITION

    Henry Hudson may have been English, but his boat the Half Moon was Dutch. He landed in what is now New York harbor on September 11, 1609. Then he sailed up the river that one day would bear his name. It was known for centuries as the North River. The Delaware was known as the Zuidrivier or “South River.” Both names reflect the predominantly Dutch aborigine inhabitants of the Catskills and North River valley. The river wasn’t universally referred to as the Hudson River until the mid-19th century. 

     I note this historical fact because about the same time that the North became the Hudson a Dutch school teacher Jan Schenkman published a book depicting Saint Nicolas’ helper or “servant” as a black man. A tradition was born. This image  was actually seen as a progressive, less “racist” depiction of Santa’s helper, who in former (less enlightened) times was depicted as a “chained and fire-scorched demon.” —an evil black man who punished children who weren’t “good.” As the American slave trade was winding down the less scary Zwarte Piet or “Black Pete” archetype was embraced joyously in Amsterdam. Just like in America, black face buffoonery in minstrel shows was all the rage for years to come. The evolutionary move from demon to fool was seen as racial progress. 

   Every year around this time, as the Dutch Sinterklaas festivities kick into gear in Amsterdam, the conversation again erupts over the racist depiction of Black Pete—yay or nay? My ancestors were early immigrants to New York, Dutch aborigines, arriving in Kingston (Wildwyck) in 1653. They were also slave owners, until the practice was legislated out of existence in New York State in 1827. Osterhouts in Texas kept the “tradition” alive until 1865. The Civil  War finally ended the “traditional” conversation as to slavery. 

     The history of the Dutch slave trade is no secret. But most of their slaves went to the Dutch West Indies and North America. The black population of Holland today are also immigrants, like my kin, not like in North America, predominantly descendants of Dutch and English slaves. They have no political currency. Their numbers are small and they remain marginalized. The racist depictions of Black Pete around the holidays are seen by many more affluent and politically powerful whites in Holland as benign, again explained away as “traditional.” And if you don’t like it, as Trump would say, “Go back to your shit-hole country.” They point to the “burned” demons of the Middle Ages or Santa Claus sliding down the chimney with ease-dropping chimney sweep assistants brushing the way—as to why Pete’s face is black. It’s not racist; it’s an occupational hazard. The “servant” isn’t a slave he’s a “helper,” cleaning out the chimney for Santa Claus. Have a candy cane. Ho-ho-ho.

   It’s not coincidental that the political cartoonist Thomas Nast also masticated old Saint Nic, Krampus and Sinterklaas, spitting him out as the non-threatening jolly, old, white “pedophile” we know as Santa around the same time. All these so-called traditions begin during the ultra-racist 19th century. Thankfully Black Pete never gained traction in the U.S. The Dutch have long since become the minority—even in the Catskills. Although the old Beekman patent of Rhinebeck, NY still holds a Sinterklaas festival, sans Black Pete, in Holland they hold onto Pete for dear life. Re-branding Black Pete as the more acceptable “Chimney Pete,” doesn’t quite fly either. What’s with the curly haired wigs and bright red lips? The make up and costume hasn’t changed. The name means nothing. Nobody’s coming to clean out your flue pipe who looks like that.

    “Traditional” is another one of those excuses like “rule of law,” that rings hollow. Confederate flag flying rednecks always use that weak refuge. Dixie will rise again—if we just “remember” hard enough with stars and bars decals and Confederate statues. The fact that so many photographs of politicians wearing black face have recently surfaced makes you wonder what the hell their tradition was when the cameras weren’t clicking. The most surprising thing is that we are actually still having this “discussion.” Another lame tradition. Black face at any time of the year is inappropriate and YES racist. Duh. If the boneheaded Dutch can’t accept that they should be shamed globally. They may be inclusive and progressive on the surface, but Black Pete reveals a very deep, disturbing, racist core. As our arbiter of racial correctness white Kim Kardashian recently tweeted, “The Dutch tradition called: “black pete” is disturbing!” #kimdisapproves You give it to ‘em Kim! Wake up you fucking Dutch idiots! As a direct descendant of Dutch immigrants I have (white) skin in this game. Zwarte Piet (and the Socratic tradition surrounding him) must go. End of discussion. 

WALTER ROBINSON- B&S

BROKEN AND SCREWED

“A court in Denmark will rule on Monday on whether to prohibit a pair of Faroese art provocateurs from destroying a painting by the Danish artist Tal R and using pieces of the canvas as decorative faces for a line of luxury wristwatches.

Tal R in October dismissed the project in an email to the Politiken newspaper, as a “disrespectful” attempt “to make money and get attention by making a product out of my art”.

His lawyer, Jørgen Permin, argued in a one-day hearing at the maritime and commercial court in Copenhagen in November that the scheme was a clear case of copyright infringement.

“He acknowledges that whoever purchases one of his works would be at liberty to sell it on or even destroy the work,” Permin said. “But what he is not obliged to accept is for someone to alter the work and then reintroduce it to the public domain, and particularly not for commercial reasons.”

   This Danish court case interests me. Beginning in the 1980’s I embarked on a number of projects involving the work of other’s. I began by inventing a color—I.K.G. or International Kohl Green. For you art historians reading my blog, you will recognize an obvious nod to the French artist Yves Klein and his “color” I.K.B.—International Klein Blue. Instead of painting monochromes like Klein, I decided to “slime” canvases of other artists. I, in essence, altered the work and reintroduced it into the public domain as my own. I don’t think I sold any so the “commercial reason” was moot. 

    Just like the watchmakers, I took an iconoclast’s approach to the the actual canvas—not the image—reassigning value to the work and authorship to myself. Some of these artworks by artists like Walter Robinson, David Ireland, Robin Winters and Tony Oursler already had market value. Because my work didn’t then (and doesn’t now) have market value, I essentially defaced for no good reason other than the artistic statement; reason enough in my book.       

                                       

Dann Thorleifsson and Arne Leivsgard, who five years ago founded the Kanske watch brand, bought Paris Chic, one of Tal R’s brightly coloured Sexshops series, for £70,000 at the Victoria Miro gallery in London in August.

In October, they revealed plans to use the canvas as raw material to manufacture between 200 and 300 watches for Letho, their new brand, which they aim to sell for 10,000 Danish kroner (£1,150) each.

 “We needed an artist that was esteemed by experts because we also needed to get a reaction,” Thorleifsson said. “If we just took a $100 canvas, no one would really care. It needed to be a true masterpiece.”

   From what I’ve seen of Tal R’s work in general and this painting Paris Chic in particular, the “masterpiece” assignation is arguable. But that’s neither here nor there. They did pay $70,000 pounds for it. That ain’t chicken feed. If the court finds in favor of the artist the owners of the work intend on destroying the canvas in public. I do believe in burning money—but only a dollar at a time. I don’t believe in destroying another’s work. The “alterations” I did were limited to one per artist. And I did not destroy any. I defaced. This is important. The work survives in another form.     

 “Thorleifsson and Leivsgard plan in a fortnight to destroy the painting at a public event they are calling a vernissage, a term more commonly used for a preview of an art exhibition.”

   I can see both sides of this argument. Although most artists whose work I defaced had no problem with the process, not all were so willing to see their work altered. Some were hurt. Others were just pissed. The last series I did was called Broken and Screwed. There’s only one in this group. It’s a canvas by the painter Walter Robinson. Years later when I showed it to him he swore he never painted it. The signature on the back proves otherwise. I don’t think this Danish court case will have much effect on my work. But Tal R. should be thankful to those iconoclastic watch makers. If they didn’t buy (and threaten to destroy) his work, few would ever had heard of the guy.   

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