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.