Sure the Jews have Chanuka this time of year, but how can that compete with Santa Claus? Little boys and girls of mixed marraiges naturally would gladly toss the dradle in the trash just for a taste of figgy pudding and a chance at a new Schwinn under the tree. Mennorah or fake snow on big blow up baby Jesus' forehead, out in the front yard bouncy manger? No contest. Silent night or The draddle song? Hot chocolate. Carolers. Malls. Shopping. Ca-ching. Chinese food and a movie or glazed ham and lobster bisque? Nothing against my Semetic brethren, but what do they know about stealing xmas trees from state parks? Raised as a covered dish Presbyterian, and now a free agent, I feel a certain duty to take care of my Jewish friends this time of year.
So it is that Slick and I are going to have Xmas together. I usually go to the folks but now that all the neices and nephews are grown (and no fun), and after the dog shitting on the rug incident, I've decided to stay home. Shewho's with her daughter and everyone else I know has plans. So that leaves Slick and I to bring in the holiday together. We'll hang our socks (and his yamulka) on the stove pipe, turn on the home shoppping channel, pour a couple of eggnogs (with a stick in it)and try to sight in the muzzle loader. The neighborhood camels will watch as we bounce in the manger and toss our sweet lord back and forth. Once sufficiently toasted, the elves (cats) will help make a big dinner of venison, swine and various shellfish. More booze and the traditional smoking of the "evergreen" will follow.
I'm looking forward to spending the day with someone of an other faith and culture. I want to share my traditions with him and learn from his strange customs, such as wrapping pennies and ordering things online. I think this could become a holiday tradition. This is the time of year to educate all those infidels of the glory and majesty of an inflatable virgin Mary snuggled up to a chainsaw carved black bear, bringing in Xmas as one. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
GOING ONCE. GOING TWICE.....
In a world where the individual seems so overwhelmed by bad news, that most people just shut down out of sheer impotence, one man took a stand and made a difference. Friday, Univ. of Utah economics student Tim deChristopher went straight from his economics final to the BLM auction of vast acreage in the Utah wilderness to the oil companies. He saw a smattering of tree hugger protesters outside and decided he had to do more to disrupt the auction. In a matter of minutes he had a bidder's paddle in hand and before he knew it, he was driving up the price of every parcel on the block. In a moment of pure inspiration this student saw an opportunity and siezed upon it. Before he was through he was the proud owner of over 20,000 acres of pristine wilderness in Utah for a little over a million bucks. What a deal! I've rennovated upper east side apartments for 10 times that.
Of course being a student, Tim did not have the money in his checking account. But the damage was already done. The auction was in disaray. Federal agents took Tim into custody and then released him, but not without charging him for various offenses. This morning he was on Democracy Now. He goes to court later today. You could tell he was riding a high. His act (like Julia Butterfly sitting in that tree) was inspired, pure and effective. It was a work of art. All eco-protesters, as well as eco-millionaires like Robert Redford should take note. Every auction should be filled with straw bidders to stir things up or people with real money should buy up these properties and protect them from the oil companies. $1,000,000 is nothing to Robert Redford. Tim did good. Follow his lead.
Of course being a student, Tim did not have the money in his checking account. But the damage was already done. The auction was in disaray. Federal agents took Tim into custody and then released him, but not without charging him for various offenses. This morning he was on Democracy Now. He goes to court later today. You could tell he was riding a high. His act (like Julia Butterfly sitting in that tree) was inspired, pure and effective. It was a work of art. All eco-protesters, as well as eco-millionaires like Robert Redford should take note. Every auction should be filled with straw bidders to stir things up or people with real money should buy up these properties and protect them from the oil companies. $1,000,000 is nothing to Robert Redford. Tim did good. Follow his lead.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
HOMO FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Look, I'm already a slim bachelor who lives alone with three cats. How much of a stretch can it be to go over to the dark side for the holiday season? I wanted the Obama inaugeral gig. I heard I was on the short list. But instead he's going with some homophobic Evangelical cracker. So as a member of the clergy who caters to gay weddings and funerals I'm going homo for the holidays.
The first thing I did was decorate. I put up twinkly lights around my dead buck and attached two shiny red xmas balls to his crotch. My new couch, straight from "Nana's" house (complete with 70's pillows) made my place look even more gay. Now we're getting somewhere. Then the phone rang. It was GNJohn. He told me about his past week. It has way more holiday spirit than mine. MERRY XMO.
Al Blanchard, GNJohn and I spent last winter building GNJ's new house. A year later he has a great house and is broke. Remember this as we go forward. Last week he spent his last $1000 on a new gold front tooth. He came home and showed it off. It was shiny. A couple of days later another tooth started hurting. He lived with it until he couldn't sleep from the pain. But before he drove to his city dentist he went to get his oil changed. The mechanic noticed his front tires were bald. $200 later he headed to Manhattan. Half way down the thruway he started to shake uncontrollably. His gums were turning black. The dentist took one look at him and made an appt. with the surgeon for the morning. GNJphn had brought his dog Girl. Girl doesn't "get" NYC so it took a 2 hour walk for her to take a shit. GNJohn was dying.
The next morning he had to move the car. He did- but close to a hydrant. The surgeon removed the tooth with much bone splintering and pressure, but no pain. The Doc was good. GNjohn drove back up on the mountain with a pocket full of vics., but not until getting a $115 ticket for that hydrant. After he got through telling me this, we got to talking about his father's mini-strokes and the aunt's skin disease. Not to be confused with the sister in law's flesh eating virus.
I ran out of gas tonight. But I had an extra tank. I'm sorry that's all I got. I can't compete with GNJohn for his holiday tale of pain and suffering. Oh yeah, the windshield wipers on the truck stopped working. I think it's the fuse. Am I getting anywhere? I guess no matter how much I gussy up the place and sit around watching John and Kate plus 8, I'll never really be gay. I takes a certain comittment that I just don't have. GNJohn showed the hole in his mouth off to post office girl Emily. He bragged that he was now a local. Emily sized him up. "You're just a poser." she said. "A local loses that tooth in a fight." That's my kind of committment. That's not to say that homo for the holidays can't compete with Gay for a Day in the straight community. Instead of watching Obama pray with the Rev. Homohater, take a homo to lunch. Spread the love.
The first thing I did was decorate. I put up twinkly lights around my dead buck and attached two shiny red xmas balls to his crotch. My new couch, straight from "Nana's" house (complete with 70's pillows) made my place look even more gay. Now we're getting somewhere. Then the phone rang. It was GNJohn. He told me about his past week. It has way more holiday spirit than mine. MERRY XMO.
Al Blanchard, GNJohn and I spent last winter building GNJ's new house. A year later he has a great house and is broke. Remember this as we go forward. Last week he spent his last $1000 on a new gold front tooth. He came home and showed it off. It was shiny. A couple of days later another tooth started hurting. He lived with it until he couldn't sleep from the pain. But before he drove to his city dentist he went to get his oil changed. The mechanic noticed his front tires were bald. $200 later he headed to Manhattan. Half way down the thruway he started to shake uncontrollably. His gums were turning black. The dentist took one look at him and made an appt. with the surgeon for the morning. GNJphn had brought his dog Girl. Girl doesn't "get" NYC so it took a 2 hour walk for her to take a shit. GNJohn was dying.
The next morning he had to move the car. He did- but close to a hydrant. The surgeon removed the tooth with much bone splintering and pressure, but no pain. The Doc was good. GNjohn drove back up on the mountain with a pocket full of vics., but not until getting a $115 ticket for that hydrant. After he got through telling me this, we got to talking about his father's mini-strokes and the aunt's skin disease. Not to be confused with the sister in law's flesh eating virus.
I ran out of gas tonight. But I had an extra tank. I'm sorry that's all I got. I can't compete with GNJohn for his holiday tale of pain and suffering. Oh yeah, the windshield wipers on the truck stopped working. I think it's the fuse. Am I getting anywhere? I guess no matter how much I gussy up the place and sit around watching John and Kate plus 8, I'll never really be gay. I takes a certain comittment that I just don't have. GNJohn showed the hole in his mouth off to post office girl Emily. He bragged that he was now a local. Emily sized him up. "You're just a poser." she said. "A local loses that tooth in a fight." That's my kind of committment. That's not to say that homo for the holidays can't compete with Gay for a Day in the straight community. Instead of watching Obama pray with the Rev. Homohater, take a homo to lunch. Spread the love.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
WHEN THE MUSIC STOPS
I discovered porn and hunting early in life. In the 50's if you must know. The so-called porn was tiny B&W booklets hidden in my old man's desk drawer. They were put out by PUP'S PARTS, an auto parts company. These quaint little tomes had busty babes in see-through nighties and racy cartoons, in various degrees of bad taste. Bird and I took every opportunity to sneak a peek. Smokie was too young. Hunting was tagging along rabbit, duck and pheasant hunting with the old man or lonely woodchuck hunting with an old long bow and target arrow. I eventually did get a chuck (cornered by my hound dog). The target points just bounced off. I literally had to knock it from the dog's neck with the bow and beat it to death. It sure wasn't pretty, but I think that still counts as a bow kill.
After puberty and the Vietnam years I soured on hunting as well as porn. In 1975 I was in the Mitchell Brother's SF. Nekid girls were everywhere. I got a job illustrating stroke books "in the style" of some dead illustrator. It was tedious work dictated to me by my boss, a homely Mafia princess in house coat and fuzzy slippers. "In today's story Nurse Nancy is giving Dr. Bones a sloppy blowjob. And Mike....." she said, singling me out from the Chinese gay guy and hillbilly from Florida. "Mike......please a little more graphic. Less artsy." I had a prudish way of squiggling over the nasty bits. The hillbilly, known for his giant, squirting dicks, just smirked. I got 10 dollars a drawing. On a good night I could make a C note. 8 hours of pouring through skin mags and putting the body parts together in a Frankensteinian approach to illustrative narrative was exhausting. At the end of a hard day, the last thing i wanted to do was go to a dirty movie.
Since I lived in the city and knew no one who hunted, I stopped hunting. Even when I visited back east, I took a less than serious approach. I borrowed gloves, coat, hat and gun from Bird, went up on his back hill for a couple of hours and then went back to the house to watch cartoons with my neices. VHS was yet to be marketed to consumers, but art students had half inch B&W video tape to play with. The first thing I did was video the wife and I getting busy. Tommy and Pam got nothing to worry about. (Don't worry #1. I taped over it.) Back in SF, my interest in porn started to heat up again.
The only place you could watch a dirty movie in bed was a motel. I decided to curated a series of artist videos that would air between the motel porn. The Motel Tapes were a big hit. I wasn't actually doing porn, but exploiting the already charged space around it. That's artspeak for I did the stuff that didn't turn you on. I thought about hunting again, but did nothing to get back into the woods. It wasn't until 1993, back in NY, that I took it up again. And when i did, I jumped back in with both feet. Typically, at first, pigeon holing it as art. I read magazines and replenished the gun cabinet. My first squirrels I skinned salted and stacked in cardboard ravioli boxes. I broiled the tiny critters with a little garlic. Mmmmmmm. Food, as well as art.
Now, some 15 years later, it's still art for me. But when the season's over I need new activities. I get my porn for free from the internet and my "hunting porn" on two cable TV channels- Versus and Pursuit. This quite bizarre line up of shows on chs. 603 and 608 is totally consuming me. There's Les Johnson, blastng coyotes at 600yards on PREDATOR QUEST. A hillbilly couple of champion archers on STAYING SAFE or the cute yuppy version DRIVEN. The later couple looks like they'd be just as comfortable hosting MTV's Spring Break House. Jello shooters on that dead buck anyone? There's a lot of product hype and Maxoderm and Enzyte hawking, but compared to Oprah or IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, it's no contest. The guests range from kids with cancer to CEOs of gun companys. WHITETAIL ADDICTION is my fave. It's do-it-yourselfer's show of giant buck kills. And all these shows are structured exactly like pornos.
First there's the set up. The plumber rings the doorbell. A little grunting and rattling from the stand. A pretty girl answers the door. A buck peeks out from behind a bush. Hmmmmm? Hmmmmm? In both hunting shows and porn the predictable plot proceeds with varying degrees of proficency, always accompanied by some horrible swelling music. Then.....AND ONLY THEN... when the music stops, and the camera zooms in for the money shot, death or ejaculation occur. Finally, two of my favorite pastimes combined as one. You'd think the animals would get hip to that music stopping.
After puberty and the Vietnam years I soured on hunting as well as porn. In 1975 I was in the Mitchell Brother's SF. Nekid girls were everywhere. I got a job illustrating stroke books "in the style" of some dead illustrator. It was tedious work dictated to me by my boss, a homely Mafia princess in house coat and fuzzy slippers. "In today's story Nurse Nancy is giving Dr. Bones a sloppy blowjob. And Mike....." she said, singling me out from the Chinese gay guy and hillbilly from Florida. "Mike......please a little more graphic. Less artsy." I had a prudish way of squiggling over the nasty bits. The hillbilly, known for his giant, squirting dicks, just smirked. I got 10 dollars a drawing. On a good night I could make a C note. 8 hours of pouring through skin mags and putting the body parts together in a Frankensteinian approach to illustrative narrative was exhausting. At the end of a hard day, the last thing i wanted to do was go to a dirty movie.
Since I lived in the city and knew no one who hunted, I stopped hunting. Even when I visited back east, I took a less than serious approach. I borrowed gloves, coat, hat and gun from Bird, went up on his back hill for a couple of hours and then went back to the house to watch cartoons with my neices. VHS was yet to be marketed to consumers, but art students had half inch B&W video tape to play with. The first thing I did was video the wife and I getting busy. Tommy and Pam got nothing to worry about. (Don't worry #1. I taped over it.) Back in SF, my interest in porn started to heat up again.
The only place you could watch a dirty movie in bed was a motel. I decided to curated a series of artist videos that would air between the motel porn. The Motel Tapes were a big hit. I wasn't actually doing porn, but exploiting the already charged space around it. That's artspeak for I did the stuff that didn't turn you on. I thought about hunting again, but did nothing to get back into the woods. It wasn't until 1993, back in NY, that I took it up again. And when i did, I jumped back in with both feet. Typically, at first, pigeon holing it as art. I read magazines and replenished the gun cabinet. My first squirrels I skinned salted and stacked in cardboard ravioli boxes. I broiled the tiny critters with a little garlic. Mmmmmmm. Food, as well as art.
Now, some 15 years later, it's still art for me. But when the season's over I need new activities. I get my porn for free from the internet and my "hunting porn" on two cable TV channels- Versus and Pursuit. This quite bizarre line up of shows on chs. 603 and 608 is totally consuming me. There's Les Johnson, blastng coyotes at 600yards on PREDATOR QUEST. A hillbilly couple of champion archers on STAYING SAFE or the cute yuppy version DRIVEN. The later couple looks like they'd be just as comfortable hosting MTV's Spring Break House. Jello shooters on that dead buck anyone? There's a lot of product hype and Maxoderm and Enzyte hawking, but compared to Oprah or IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, it's no contest. The guests range from kids with cancer to CEOs of gun companys. WHITETAIL ADDICTION is my fave. It's do-it-yourselfer's show of giant buck kills. And all these shows are structured exactly like pornos.
First there's the set up. The plumber rings the doorbell. A little grunting and rattling from the stand. A pretty girl answers the door. A buck peeks out from behind a bush. Hmmmmm? Hmmmmm? In both hunting shows and porn the predictable plot proceeds with varying degrees of proficency, always accompanied by some horrible swelling music. Then.....AND ONLY THEN... when the music stops, and the camera zooms in for the money shot, death or ejaculation occur. Finally, two of my favorite pastimes combined as one. You'd think the animals would get hip to that music stopping.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
THE HORRIBLE STINK OF THE ROTTING CORPOCRACY
I woke up at 5:30 am like clockwork. Got up. Turned on the twinkling xmas lights draped over Rudolph the red balled reindeer. Grabbed my gun. Turned on the Pursuit Channel and methodically made my way around the shack. Is that a rub on the coffee table leg? I swear I saw tracks in the closet and scrapes in the kitchen, under the coat rack. Ssssshhhhhh. Between ads for hardon pills and cream I thought I saw a big buck crosing the TV screen. I laid the gun barrel over the back of a chair and waited....
After two months in the woods I knew it wouldn't be easy to make the transition back to civilian life. I heard crows and looked up. Buzzards were circling the cieling fan. Was this the big one? Had I actually hit him? I followed my nose behind the woodstove and there it lay- not the monster buck, I had missed clean, but the foul coyote shredded carcass of the American system of government and finance. It seems an unethical hunter had gut shot his buddy and left him to die an ignoble death in the weeds. How could this have happened? Let's try to piece together the forensic evidence.
Once upon a time corporations and government hunted together. Each year they would don the blaze orange, load up the pick up trucks with apples and pumpkins and make their way to the mountains for a weekend of drinking, card playing and shooting around the bait pile. If it was brown it was down. Spikes and does were piled in the truck beds and back to the city they went. It was a system that seemed to work. With names like Madoff and Blogovavich, politicions, hedge fund managers and corporate execs took a little time off to hunt with each other. Deals were made. Pockets were lined. Bush came late and hunted from his tinted window SUV with the lights and heater on. He never even turned the radio off. Then, this year there were no deer. So they drank and their trigger fingers got itchy.
Poor people with late mortgage payments and hardly any meat on their bones were the first to fall. Because the bankers had the most powerful guns and the most ammo the politicians didn't dare draw a bead on them. But fat under gunned auto execs looked mighty tasty, sneaking through the under brush. Brokerage houses were easy picking and by the end of the season all bets were off. No one was safe. For now it's left to the scavengers. For me, I have laundry, wood to get in and a house to finish building. That should keep me busy 'til spring. Four months until turkey season.
After two months in the woods I knew it wouldn't be easy to make the transition back to civilian life. I heard crows and looked up. Buzzards were circling the cieling fan. Was this the big one? Had I actually hit him? I followed my nose behind the woodstove and there it lay- not the monster buck, I had missed clean, but the foul coyote shredded carcass of the American system of government and finance. It seems an unethical hunter had gut shot his buddy and left him to die an ignoble death in the weeds. How could this have happened? Let's try to piece together the forensic evidence.
Once upon a time corporations and government hunted together. Each year they would don the blaze orange, load up the pick up trucks with apples and pumpkins and make their way to the mountains for a weekend of drinking, card playing and shooting around the bait pile. If it was brown it was down. Spikes and does were piled in the truck beds and back to the city they went. It was a system that seemed to work. With names like Madoff and Blogovavich, politicions, hedge fund managers and corporate execs took a little time off to hunt with each other. Deals were made. Pockets were lined. Bush came late and hunted from his tinted window SUV with the lights and heater on. He never even turned the radio off. Then, this year there were no deer. So they drank and their trigger fingers got itchy.
Poor people with late mortgage payments and hardly any meat on their bones were the first to fall. Because the bankers had the most powerful guns and the most ammo the politicians didn't dare draw a bead on them. But fat under gunned auto execs looked mighty tasty, sneaking through the under brush. Brokerage houses were easy picking and by the end of the season all bets were off. No one was safe. For now it's left to the scavengers. For me, I have laundry, wood to get in and a house to finish building. That should keep me busy 'til spring. Four months until turkey season.
Monday, December 15, 2008
2 FOR 8
That's the tally. I shot under 2 does with the bow before hitting one. Then I shot a buck with the .243, missed the big one with the slug gun, missed a doe with the .243 and two more with the muzzle loader. It's probably my worst season for misses. But, the good thing is I haven't wounded anything, shot myself (or anyone else)and there's two days left to redeem myself. This deer season has been long and hard. Since October 15th I've hunted almost full time. I'm broke, worn out and trying my damndest to put another in the freezer. For those citizens who think it's so easy to shoot Bambi, try the last two days of muzzle loader season. One day it's 5 degrees and ice. The next it's 50 degrees and rain. The deer are all spooked. Tomorrow they're calling for snow. Please let it be so.
The deer are holed up in pockets. Sitting in a stand and waiting for them to stroll by may work, but chances are you have to sneak up on them. The weather plays the most important role in this. Rain is good. Snow is better. So for the next two days I'll move. I stink. (Who has time to wash clothes?) My gun is finally sighted in. (I hope and pray). I have a half dozen shots left, tape for the barrel and my legs are strong. From all accounts no one shot the big one. At sunset tomorrow it's all over. The dark winter begins. I hear the market has gone to hell and the world is a dangerous place. I have to go back to work and deal with all the problems out at WSSP. Has Detroit been bailed out? Do I care? Not yet......
The deer are holed up in pockets. Sitting in a stand and waiting for them to stroll by may work, but chances are you have to sneak up on them. The weather plays the most important role in this. Rain is good. Snow is better. So for the next two days I'll move. I stink. (Who has time to wash clothes?) My gun is finally sighted in. (I hope and pray). I have a half dozen shots left, tape for the barrel and my legs are strong. From all accounts no one shot the big one. At sunset tomorrow it's all over. The dark winter begins. I hear the market has gone to hell and the world is a dangerous place. I have to go back to work and deal with all the problems out at WSSP. Has Detroit been bailed out? Do I care? Not yet......
Monday, December 8, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
WHY IT'S SO GOOD FOR ME
Not to say it's so bad for you, or to be braggy. But, I just have to say, that today reminds me of why I'm on this earth. First, let me catch you up on my doing. Because of a hard freeze and deer season, WSSP is on hold. Morris is on the septic problem and I'm forced to trust him. I hope he's right when he says "It's gonna work, Mike." Luckily I have a very understanding client. So I'm free to hunt. Deer season wise it has been hit and miss. After my miss at the big one I have seen less and less. Now resigned to take does, I have only had small bucks in my sights. Yesterday i missed a 100 yard shot at a doe in the last 5 mins. of shooting light. I should of had her.
Last night it snowed about an inch and in the morning it was dead calm. I went behind the school house and saw nothing but turkeys. Around 11am Savage Lynch, Bird, Al Blanchard,and Bobby Rowe were coming up to put on drives. Around 10 am the wind kicked up and it started to snow intermitently. This was perfect weather for drives. A deer drive is when you try to spook deer towards standers. And in this kind of weather, (wind swirling snow) either can get a shot.
So we started driving Elijah's towards the cemetery. Al and I stood and Bird, Savage and Bobby drove. They saw a whole bunch of deer early and didn't shoot. Al saw one but his eyes weren't adjusted so he didn't shoot. And I saw nothing.
Second drive was Al and I on the back ridge above Ray Gilkey's pushing to Bird, Bob and Savage. I saw 4 turkeys and a 4 pointer at the end. No shots. Third drive was GNJohn's swamp. They pushed 3 does to me and Al. I could've had a running shot, but decided to pass. Bird saw nothing. It was time for lunch. Let me just say that I couldn't be hunting with four finer individuals. Savage brought bologna sandwiches and I cookd up a venison steak. Al drank water and refused to eat and Bird had an apple. Bobby munched on chips. Low maintenance to a man.
The last drive of the day was behind The Denniston Farm Foundation house on GNJohn's Mountain. It was a new drive for us. I laid it out with maps and diagrams and was certain everyone knew where to go. Right. As Savage and I pushed, the others took their places. Five minutes into the drive I saw two does on the snowy ridge. I settled in and laid the gun over a rock. I didn't want to miss. The doe moved. i moved. Just when I had her broadside...I clicked off the safety and.....A SHOT! I thought it was Savage. It wasn't. The does bolted. I got on the radio and alerted Savage. I tried to get on the larger doe to no avail. Then another shot. Definitely Savage this time. I called. No response.
I continued up the hill and found Al. He said Bird was in a different spot than we agreed upon. CHRIST! He was worse than the old man and ex-wife Melanie put together. As the light began to fade and the snow blew i made my way back to the truck. Bobby looked forlorn. "What's wrong little buckeroo?" I asked. Seems he had gone into woods with an empty chamber. Three doe had stood in front of him pleading to be shot. He pulled up his gun. Click. I told him it was a way better story than shooting one. "And you?" I asked Savage. He had missed the first doe and had shot again at another coming from the other direction. "You get it?" He pulled a fez of hair from his pocket. It was the tip of a deer's tail. Now that is shooting.
And this is why it's so good. I just spent most of a day with four men I would trust with my life, chasing deer up and down snow covered, wind blown ridges, and came home with the bloody tip of a deer's tail. Then we proceeded to drink and rag on each other, as we relived the entire day. Listen to the evening news and hear how bad it is. Go deer hunting with men you trust and see how good it is.
Last night it snowed about an inch and in the morning it was dead calm. I went behind the school house and saw nothing but turkeys. Around 11am Savage Lynch, Bird, Al Blanchard,and Bobby Rowe were coming up to put on drives. Around 10 am the wind kicked up and it started to snow intermitently. This was perfect weather for drives. A deer drive is when you try to spook deer towards standers. And in this kind of weather, (wind swirling snow) either can get a shot.
So we started driving Elijah's towards the cemetery. Al and I stood and Bird, Savage and Bobby drove. They saw a whole bunch of deer early and didn't shoot. Al saw one but his eyes weren't adjusted so he didn't shoot. And I saw nothing.
Second drive was Al and I on the back ridge above Ray Gilkey's pushing to Bird, Bob and Savage. I saw 4 turkeys and a 4 pointer at the end. No shots. Third drive was GNJohn's swamp. They pushed 3 does to me and Al. I could've had a running shot, but decided to pass. Bird saw nothing. It was time for lunch. Let me just say that I couldn't be hunting with four finer individuals. Savage brought bologna sandwiches and I cookd up a venison steak. Al drank water and refused to eat and Bird had an apple. Bobby munched on chips. Low maintenance to a man.
The last drive of the day was behind The Denniston Farm Foundation house on GNJohn's Mountain. It was a new drive for us. I laid it out with maps and diagrams and was certain everyone knew where to go. Right. As Savage and I pushed, the others took their places. Five minutes into the drive I saw two does on the snowy ridge. I settled in and laid the gun over a rock. I didn't want to miss. The doe moved. i moved. Just when I had her broadside...I clicked off the safety and.....A SHOT! I thought it was Savage. It wasn't. The does bolted. I got on the radio and alerted Savage. I tried to get on the larger doe to no avail. Then another shot. Definitely Savage this time. I called. No response.
I continued up the hill and found Al. He said Bird was in a different spot than we agreed upon. CHRIST! He was worse than the old man and ex-wife Melanie put together. As the light began to fade and the snow blew i made my way back to the truck. Bobby looked forlorn. "What's wrong little buckeroo?" I asked. Seems he had gone into woods with an empty chamber. Three doe had stood in front of him pleading to be shot. He pulled up his gun. Click. I told him it was a way better story than shooting one. "And you?" I asked Savage. He had missed the first doe and had shot again at another coming from the other direction. "You get it?" He pulled a fez of hair from his pocket. It was the tip of a deer's tail. Now that is shooting.
And this is why it's so good. I just spent most of a day with four men I would trust with my life, chasing deer up and down snow covered, wind blown ridges, and came home with the bloody tip of a deer's tail. Then we proceeded to drink and rag on each other, as we relived the entire day. Listen to the evening news and hear how bad it is. Go deer hunting with men you trust and see how good it is.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
SHOTGUN SLUG BLUES
It started during bow season. I was seeing a lot of rubs. For you non-hunters a rub is when a buck scrapes the bark off one side of a tree to attract does and mark his territory. Not to be confused with a scrape which is a rubbed patch of earth that a buck pees on to mark his territory and attract does. Rule of thumb is a lttle buck will make little rubs on little trees, but only a big buck will tear up a big (3 or more inches diam.) tree. I was seeing big trees gouged.
So yesterday in a sloppy soup of snow, sleet and rain I decided to still hunt. I started out behind the church. Taking a slow, steady loop, I sat and walked, walked and sat. I went behind the two new houses and cut close to the Russian's with the new cinder block bomb shelter or White Castle. I came out by where Elijah's trailer used to be. Crossing the road, I cut behind the cemetery, where Bird had pushed the 8 to me last year. I was seeing big rubs all the way, but no deer. By noon I was in the back corner of the horse farm. I have permission to hunt this, but try to stay out during gun season. Too many other hunters. But the weather was so crappy I figured that I would be the only one crazy enough to be out. I was right.
I crested the hill and slid down the back side towards the river. I wasn't even paying attention, when I noticed a deer laying down the hill 10 yards in front of me. It was a buck. He was facing down the hill and never heard me. To walk up on any deer is a coup. To walk up on a buck, so close, is unheard of (for me at least). I hit the ground and peeked up. He was a nice four pointer. Not legal. When I peeked he caught me and scooted down the hill as silent as an owl. Now I was paying attention. Why couldn't he have been a big buck? I was carrying my Browning 12 ga. pump slug gun with open sights. In this weather I didn't want to carry my scoped .243. I'd killed bucks with this gun, with bad eyes. It was more of a challenge than the rifle. 50 yards was my max.
About half way down the ridge I hit a logging trail and turned right. The corner of the river was just below me and I was headng towards the road. Not 50 yards down the road I spotted a deer under a little hemlock. IT WAS A MONSTER BUCK! I'd walked up on two bucks in one day! Even with my bad eyes I could tell this was a nice buck. I shouldered the shotgun as he stood. I fired. He kicked and twisted like a fish, all four feet off the ground. Then he headed straight up the ridge, That's right, UP the ridge. I lost him immediately. I had never shot at a buck this big. All indications were it was a good hit. I chambered another shell and headed slowly down the road. I was sure he'd be piled up just up the hill. Yeah right.
The first couple of minutes of searching for blood didn't concern me. I'd hit plenty of deer and not found blood at the hit, only to find a dead deer 20 yards away. A half hour in and 200 yards up the hill I began to worry. Two hours later I was crestfallen. I kept playing it over in my head. He kicked. He hunched. He twisted. I know I hit this deer. No blood. No Hair. I came home and called Savage. I got his machine. I grabbed the .243 and went back. By dark I gave up.
In the aftermath of this terible event I consulted with the old man, Bird, and of course Savage Lynch. "Sorry Ost." he said,"I think you missed him. Must've shot right over his back." Of all the lousy scenerios this was the best. I couldn't deal with wounding and not finding this deer. I went back today and listened for crows and checked for any trace of hair. Nada. The old man said his old man always said that most deer are missed by shooting over their backs. He was a wise old coot. Savage said he heard of a guy that shot at a deer and four other deer hit the ground out of shear fright. I feel better knowing it was a clean miss. But I still feel like shit knowing I blew a chance of a lifetime. You have no idea how this affects a hunter. Now I'm really going to get serious.
So yesterday in a sloppy soup of snow, sleet and rain I decided to still hunt. I started out behind the church. Taking a slow, steady loop, I sat and walked, walked and sat. I went behind the two new houses and cut close to the Russian's with the new cinder block bomb shelter or White Castle. I came out by where Elijah's trailer used to be. Crossing the road, I cut behind the cemetery, where Bird had pushed the 8 to me last year. I was seeing big rubs all the way, but no deer. By noon I was in the back corner of the horse farm. I have permission to hunt this, but try to stay out during gun season. Too many other hunters. But the weather was so crappy I figured that I would be the only one crazy enough to be out. I was right.
I crested the hill and slid down the back side towards the river. I wasn't even paying attention, when I noticed a deer laying down the hill 10 yards in front of me. It was a buck. He was facing down the hill and never heard me. To walk up on any deer is a coup. To walk up on a buck, so close, is unheard of (for me at least). I hit the ground and peeked up. He was a nice four pointer. Not legal. When I peeked he caught me and scooted down the hill as silent as an owl. Now I was paying attention. Why couldn't he have been a big buck? I was carrying my Browning 12 ga. pump slug gun with open sights. In this weather I didn't want to carry my scoped .243. I'd killed bucks with this gun, with bad eyes. It was more of a challenge than the rifle. 50 yards was my max.
About half way down the ridge I hit a logging trail and turned right. The corner of the river was just below me and I was headng towards the road. Not 50 yards down the road I spotted a deer under a little hemlock. IT WAS A MONSTER BUCK! I'd walked up on two bucks in one day! Even with my bad eyes I could tell this was a nice buck. I shouldered the shotgun as he stood. I fired. He kicked and twisted like a fish, all four feet off the ground. Then he headed straight up the ridge, That's right, UP the ridge. I lost him immediately. I had never shot at a buck this big. All indications were it was a good hit. I chambered another shell and headed slowly down the road. I was sure he'd be piled up just up the hill. Yeah right.
The first couple of minutes of searching for blood didn't concern me. I'd hit plenty of deer and not found blood at the hit, only to find a dead deer 20 yards away. A half hour in and 200 yards up the hill I began to worry. Two hours later I was crestfallen. I kept playing it over in my head. He kicked. He hunched. He twisted. I know I hit this deer. No blood. No Hair. I came home and called Savage. I got his machine. I grabbed the .243 and went back. By dark I gave up.
In the aftermath of this terible event I consulted with the old man, Bird, and of course Savage Lynch. "Sorry Ost." he said,"I think you missed him. Must've shot right over his back." Of all the lousy scenerios this was the best. I couldn't deal with wounding and not finding this deer. I went back today and listened for crows and checked for any trace of hair. Nada. The old man said his old man always said that most deer are missed by shooting over their backs. He was a wise old coot. Savage said he heard of a guy that shot at a deer and four other deer hit the ground out of shear fright. I feel better knowing it was a clean miss. But I still feel like shit knowing I blew a chance of a lifetime. You have no idea how this affects a hunter. Now I'm really going to get serious.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
SEASON UPDATE
The last day of bow season was a bust. I hunted the afternoon out at WSS. It was rainy and warm. I saw one doe and six turkeys. Then on my way home, waiting to turn onto Rt.52, I saw a deer attempting to cross the road. Traffic was coming in both directions and this deer was not waiting. I laid on the horn to no avail. A car hit it broadside. I got out of my truck to see if the driver was ok. A woman, holding a cell phone, was shakey but unharmed. The deer did not fair as well. It was a spike buck and he was hurt bad. I had no gun and did not want to release an arrow into a flopping deer in the dark, on the side of a rainy highway. I grabbed my knife and headed for the buck. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING? Luckily the deer read my mind, struggled to its feet and disappeared into the woods. I had to remember I was no Savage Lynch.
Opening day of gun brought more rain and 60 degree temps. Shitty weather for deer hunting. I never saw a deer all day. Bird and Ginger hosted our traditional Opening Day Night Betheroo Birthday Party. Shewo came up and I cooked wild turkey and the backstrap of that doe I got last week. Mmmmmmmm! Many were in attendance, but sorely missed were Milawyer and his parents Vic and Georgia. Vic got a "honker" and was wiped out and Milawyer was in the process of extracting large sums of money from some nameless corporation back in West Virginia. A great time was had by all.
The morning of the second day brought high wind and cooling temps. I moved from my high stand down at GNJohns to a spot behind the cemetery where it was more protected. Through the thick woods I could see a doe darting back and forth. The rut was still on. Then I saw a big body and horns. It was the high six I'd seen during bow season, but he was too far and moving too fast. The doe circled and came right for me. I saw another deer behind her, raised the gun, and fingered the safety. The lead doe made me, stopped and started to head bob. Then what I thought was the buck stepped out giving me a shot. Fuck! It was another doe. The buck had vanished.
On Monday I hunted hard all day and never saw a deer. Yesterday I got in the GNJohn stand early. It had snowed Monday night and you could see movement a mile away. Aside from spooking four does off of Ray Gilkey's lawn I never saw a thing. At about 8:30 I decided to climb down and head for the mountain behind the old white Denniston house. Just before I crested the top I spotted 3 does feeding way off in the woods. I set up against a tree where I could see above and below me. I wasn't there 20 minutes before I heard crunch-crunch coming behind me. It was a buck. He crossed 10 yards in front of me and headed down the hill at a steady clip, oblivious to everything. I tried to get the scope on him to see if he had brow tines. He was a good sweeping four. At about 50 yards I was able to stop him with a bleat. He turned his head and I saw a brow time. I put the cross hairs on his front shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
He hunched. He kicked. He ran. Then I lost sight of him. After waiting about 10 minutes I followed his tracks in the snow. I saw where he spun. But no blood. I dropped my bag and tried to follow his tracks, but lost the trail in the briars. Still no blood. How could I have missed this deer? I circled the area for a half hour and was just about to give up when....there he lay against a tree. He hadn't gone 30 yards. He was a six with two broken brow tines. Phew! The wave of relief is indescribable. Aside from my aching neck and shoulders, and a near heart attack dragging the buck out, it was a perfect morning. Stay tuned.
Opening day of gun brought more rain and 60 degree temps. Shitty weather for deer hunting. I never saw a deer all day. Bird and Ginger hosted our traditional Opening Day Night Betheroo Birthday Party. Shewo came up and I cooked wild turkey and the backstrap of that doe I got last week. Mmmmmmmm! Many were in attendance, but sorely missed were Milawyer and his parents Vic and Georgia. Vic got a "honker" and was wiped out and Milawyer was in the process of extracting large sums of money from some nameless corporation back in West Virginia. A great time was had by all.
The morning of the second day brought high wind and cooling temps. I moved from my high stand down at GNJohns to a spot behind the cemetery where it was more protected. Through the thick woods I could see a doe darting back and forth. The rut was still on. Then I saw a big body and horns. It was the high six I'd seen during bow season, but he was too far and moving too fast. The doe circled and came right for me. I saw another deer behind her, raised the gun, and fingered the safety. The lead doe made me, stopped and started to head bob. Then what I thought was the buck stepped out giving me a shot. Fuck! It was another doe. The buck had vanished.
On Monday I hunted hard all day and never saw a deer. Yesterday I got in the GNJohn stand early. It had snowed Monday night and you could see movement a mile away. Aside from spooking four does off of Ray Gilkey's lawn I never saw a thing. At about 8:30 I decided to climb down and head for the mountain behind the old white Denniston house. Just before I crested the top I spotted 3 does feeding way off in the woods. I set up against a tree where I could see above and below me. I wasn't there 20 minutes before I heard crunch-crunch coming behind me. It was a buck. He crossed 10 yards in front of me and headed down the hill at a steady clip, oblivious to everything. I tried to get the scope on him to see if he had brow tines. He was a good sweeping four. At about 50 yards I was able to stop him with a bleat. He turned his head and I saw a brow time. I put the cross hairs on his front shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
He hunched. He kicked. He ran. Then I lost sight of him. After waiting about 10 minutes I followed his tracks in the snow. I saw where he spun. But no blood. I dropped my bag and tried to follow his tracks, but lost the trail in the briars. Still no blood. How could I have missed this deer? I circled the area for a half hour and was just about to give up when....there he lay against a tree. He hadn't gone 30 yards. He was a six with two broken brow tines. Phew! The wave of relief is indescribable. Aside from my aching neck and shoulders, and a near heart attack dragging the buck out, it was a perfect morning. Stay tuned.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
NOT LIKE ON TV
I started seeing deer at first light. Three does were under the apple tree. Two more came from the woods. Another bunch came across the road, dog barking. By 7:30 am I bet I'd seen 15 does. One skulking through the woods at a steady clip looked like a buck, but I never saw horns. Then, off to my right a decent sized doe was heading for my stand. I clipped my release on the bow string and waited. By the time the doe was standing right under my feet, another had appeared in front of me and two more behind me. I leaned to my left, hugging the tree, drew back and fired. The deer crashed through some brush to my left and took off up the hill. 50 yards out it stopped, slowly turned and headed back to me, now farther out. I saw blood coming from her side. I had hit her way too far back. But she was quartering away, so I felt confident I'd hit vitals. The deer laid down, head up. She was too far for a second shot. I waited for her to die.
45 mins. later, she got up, stumbled, got up again and disappeared into the pines. Fuck! Wounding a deer is bad enough. Losing a wounded deer is every hunters nightmare. I decided to back off and call Savage Lynch. He said the hit sounded good and that most likely if I just let her lay, she'd die. Nonetheless he was willing to drive up the mountain with his dogs Bonnie and Duchess. Bonnie could use an easy one. We found the bed and as soon as the dogs got on the trail a doe jumped up. It was my deer. Fuck again. She crossed the road and ran across a big lawn. I knocked on the door to get permission to follow the deer. The increasingly horrified look on the woman's face, as I explained my dilema, said it all. "YOU WOUNDED ONE OF MY DEER?" Tears were welling up in her eyes. Luckily her husband stood behind her, calming her and assuring her that it was the ethical thing to do. Now I felt worse.
It didn't take Savage and the dogs long to spot the deer under an apple tree not 10 yards off the lawn. I'd warned the woman that she may hear a shot. Savage pulled his scoped .357 from it's holster, as I held the dogs. He shot. He missed. He shot again and hit it in the ass. "She was curled up." he explained. "I was aiming for her head. I put 6 shots in a pie plate at 100 yards." I believed him. But he couldn't hit shit at 10 yards. "Give me your knife." he said. My old man explained that it was a Lynch thing. "Now you know what I've been putting up with for 60 years with his father."
When I went back to thank the PETA woman, her eyes were red and swollen. "I've been crying all this time." she moaned. I told her she'd done the right thing. She said she didn't know how I could hunt. She wasn't angry. Just perplexed. I didn't know what to say to comfort her. I thanked her again and left. It's part of the deal when you hunt. Once you let that arrow fly you are committed. A miss is a miss. But a hit means a kill one way or another, if possible. If it wasn't for Savage and his dogs I easily could have lost that deer. It wasn't pretty but it was successful. Tomorrow is the 13th. I still have a buck tag. Lets hope I can put the arrow where I want it.
45 mins. later, she got up, stumbled, got up again and disappeared into the pines. Fuck! Wounding a deer is bad enough. Losing a wounded deer is every hunters nightmare. I decided to back off and call Savage Lynch. He said the hit sounded good and that most likely if I just let her lay, she'd die. Nonetheless he was willing to drive up the mountain with his dogs Bonnie and Duchess. Bonnie could use an easy one. We found the bed and as soon as the dogs got on the trail a doe jumped up. It was my deer. Fuck again. She crossed the road and ran across a big lawn. I knocked on the door to get permission to follow the deer. The increasingly horrified look on the woman's face, as I explained my dilema, said it all. "YOU WOUNDED ONE OF MY DEER?" Tears were welling up in her eyes. Luckily her husband stood behind her, calming her and assuring her that it was the ethical thing to do. Now I felt worse.
It didn't take Savage and the dogs long to spot the deer under an apple tree not 10 yards off the lawn. I'd warned the woman that she may hear a shot. Savage pulled his scoped .357 from it's holster, as I held the dogs. He shot. He missed. He shot again and hit it in the ass. "She was curled up." he explained. "I was aiming for her head. I put 6 shots in a pie plate at 100 yards." I believed him. But he couldn't hit shit at 10 yards. "Give me your knife." he said. My old man explained that it was a Lynch thing. "Now you know what I've been putting up with for 60 years with his father."
When I went back to thank the PETA woman, her eyes were red and swollen. "I've been crying all this time." she moaned. I told her she'd done the right thing. She said she didn't know how I could hunt. She wasn't angry. Just perplexed. I didn't know what to say to comfort her. I thanked her again and left. It's part of the deal when you hunt. Once you let that arrow fly you are committed. A miss is a miss. But a hit means a kill one way or another, if possible. If it wasn't for Savage and his dogs I easily could have lost that deer. It wasn't pretty but it was successful. Tomorrow is the 13th. I still have a buck tag. Lets hope I can put the arrow where I want it.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
11/11 2X2
Let me just say that some of my favorite people were born on 11/11. Ray Gilkey, Emma Lee, and Iman (one of my two Black godchildren), to name three. Happy Birthday! Now lets get down to business. Enough politics. Enough real estate woes and Hatfield and McCoy feuds. Enough talk of economic down turn and government bail out. The rut is in full swing. It's time to spend all day in a tree and shoot that big boy. Fuck the rest of it.
This morning I went back to my stand behind Elijah's. I've moved it closer to the action, between two houses, in a brushy field with apple trees. Even though I live near big stretches of woods, I've decided to get up close and personal on these deer this year. It's safe with a bow, I have permission and I've got a bird's eye view of all the action. The problem is that most of the deer are still too far for a shot. I barely feel comfortable at 30 yards. That's my max. I have to get them in. This morning that changed.
I'd seen 6 distinctly different bucks in this spot. Most were legal, but small. But I did see one high six that I wanted to take. Hunting this spot I listen for the dog across the road barking. 9 out of 10 times this means deer are coming. The dog barked and a minute later I saw a big bodied deer walking towards me. From 50 yards I could see a white rack. It looked like the six. I clipped my release and waited. He was coming right for me, nice and easy. At 15 yards I saw a sweeping rack, with a good spread and.....4...... what? only 4 points! He strolled right under my stand. I could've jumped on him. I wanted so badly to grow brow tines on this buck. Three or better on one side is the law in this county. I'm trying my damndest to comply. I had to let him walk. No bragging rights on shooting, even a big 4 pointer. It's still early.
Savage Lynch swears by the 13th as peak of the rut. He's probably right. All I know is for the next week I'm in the woods. Gun opens on Saturday. Fuck the crazy neighbors. Fuck the building inspector and fuck the new President and his new puppy. I'm so over the Obama years. I'd love to talk supermodels, but for now that's a foreign subject. You'll have to settle for hunting. It's light by 6am.
This morning I went back to my stand behind Elijah's. I've moved it closer to the action, between two houses, in a brushy field with apple trees. Even though I live near big stretches of woods, I've decided to get up close and personal on these deer this year. It's safe with a bow, I have permission and I've got a bird's eye view of all the action. The problem is that most of the deer are still too far for a shot. I barely feel comfortable at 30 yards. That's my max. I have to get them in. This morning that changed.
I'd seen 6 distinctly different bucks in this spot. Most were legal, but small. But I did see one high six that I wanted to take. Hunting this spot I listen for the dog across the road barking. 9 out of 10 times this means deer are coming. The dog barked and a minute later I saw a big bodied deer walking towards me. From 50 yards I could see a white rack. It looked like the six. I clipped my release and waited. He was coming right for me, nice and easy. At 15 yards I saw a sweeping rack, with a good spread and.....4...... what? only 4 points! He strolled right under my stand. I could've jumped on him. I wanted so badly to grow brow tines on this buck. Three or better on one side is the law in this county. I'm trying my damndest to comply. I had to let him walk. No bragging rights on shooting, even a big 4 pointer. It's still early.
Savage Lynch swears by the 13th as peak of the rut. He's probably right. All I know is for the next week I'm in the woods. Gun opens on Saturday. Fuck the crazy neighbors. Fuck the building inspector and fuck the new President and his new puppy. I'm so over the Obama years. I'd love to talk supermodels, but for now that's a foreign subject. You'll have to settle for hunting. It's light by 6am.
Monday, November 10, 2008
"YOU'RE PANICING, MIKE."
Some people have shrinks. Other's confide in men or women of the cloth. Still others tell all to someone close, taking solace in the words of wisdom of a friend, spouse or family member. For me, I rely on the tried and true perspective of my honeydipper- Morris Cooper. No one can calm my nerves and relax my furrowed brow like an experienced septic man.
Not wanting to incriminate myself, I can't tell you what particular septic system I'm talking about. Lets just say it's in the western part of the county. I made the calculated risk to purchase an old farm house on a postage stamp size piece of property with an old spring well and barely discernable septic. Being a good citizen I got the place engineered. But being engineers they designed a system for a small municipality. Fuck that. So I called up Morris and asked if he could put in a bare bones, workable "upgrade of an existing system"? "No problem." he said in his trademark growl.
Then, after he put it in, all hell broke loose. The asshole, hillbilly satanist, neighbors dropped a dime to the building inspector. I dealt. Then a camera appeared, trained on the house. I dealt again. But what really made me start to twitch was the new system immediately filled with water. I called Morris. He reassured me that this happens all the time. I felt better. But two weeks later the water is still gurgling out of the waste pipe. Prozac does not fix this. So I called Morris again. In a doctorly tone he told me "You're panicing, Mike. Give it some time. Things will settle down. That new ground has to set. Every thing's gonna be OK." And, Goddamnit I believe him. Worse case scenerio we have to put in a curtain drain in the Spring. In with the good. Out with the bad. Yes, I still wish my neighbors would die in a fiery car crash but I trust in my honeydipper. My shit is his bread and butter.
Not wanting to incriminate myself, I can't tell you what particular septic system I'm talking about. Lets just say it's in the western part of the county. I made the calculated risk to purchase an old farm house on a postage stamp size piece of property with an old spring well and barely discernable septic. Being a good citizen I got the place engineered. But being engineers they designed a system for a small municipality. Fuck that. So I called up Morris and asked if he could put in a bare bones, workable "upgrade of an existing system"? "No problem." he said in his trademark growl.
Then, after he put it in, all hell broke loose. The asshole, hillbilly satanist, neighbors dropped a dime to the building inspector. I dealt. Then a camera appeared, trained on the house. I dealt again. But what really made me start to twitch was the new system immediately filled with water. I called Morris. He reassured me that this happens all the time. I felt better. But two weeks later the water is still gurgling out of the waste pipe. Prozac does not fix this. So I called Morris again. In a doctorly tone he told me "You're panicing, Mike. Give it some time. Things will settle down. That new ground has to set. Every thing's gonna be OK." And, Goddamnit I believe him. Worse case scenerio we have to put in a curtain drain in the Spring. In with the good. Out with the bad. Yes, I still wish my neighbors would die in a fiery car crash but I trust in my honeydipper. My shit is his bread and butter.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
44 HALF BLACK
The shining eyes of Obama youth are upon us. In a world changed over night, a future promises your children and grandchildren a chance to say I was there when... As for me, I started last night with a phone call to the folks to see if they voted. "After chemo." my mother said. Priorities. Then the old man got on the line and told me how he voted for McCain because Obama only thought about himself. He's usually perceptive about this kind of crap, but this time I felt he was way off. What he took as self centered, I take as ego and confidence. And for a guy who didn't exactly like the Navy, he's way too impresed by McCain's military experience. As if to say crashing planes and being a POW makes for good Presidential training. I got disgusted and told him to put mom back on the line. She voted for McCain also, but for some reason it didn't bother me as much. She told me she just liked underdogs. I gave her a pass.
Then I went over to Slick's for a election results party. We kept flipping between CNN and Fox. It was painful. But at last my eye medicine arrived and all looked better. As Obama started to look like a shoein, I asked if John Stewart was on? Bam! It had just started. My TV clock was ticking away. Colbert and Stewart were in full effect. It was official. Two little Black girls were about to take up residence, with their parents, in the White House. In January 2009 the 44th, half black, half white, President of the United States will be sworn in. In the meantime, everyone is holding their breath. Yes we can.
I came home, flipped on ch. 13 and watched McCain's concession speech and Obama's acceptance speech. If that stiff armed old coot had been half as relaxed and gracious during the campaign as he was leaving it, I would've voted for him. By the time Obama got to the call and response portion of his "Yes we can." speech, I had had enough. Will the dashiki's and red bowties appear? Is Obama the selfless, compassionate leader he appears to be? Or is he some sort of meglomaniac, leading an adoring throng of lemmings off the cliff? I'd guess somewhere in between. I have a dream. We give him a chance.
Then I went over to Slick's for a election results party. We kept flipping between CNN and Fox. It was painful. But at last my eye medicine arrived and all looked better. As Obama started to look like a shoein, I asked if John Stewart was on? Bam! It had just started. My TV clock was ticking away. Colbert and Stewart were in full effect. It was official. Two little Black girls were about to take up residence, with their parents, in the White House. In January 2009 the 44th, half black, half white, President of the United States will be sworn in. In the meantime, everyone is holding their breath. Yes we can.
I came home, flipped on ch. 13 and watched McCain's concession speech and Obama's acceptance speech. If that stiff armed old coot had been half as relaxed and gracious during the campaign as he was leaving it, I would've voted for him. By the time Obama got to the call and response portion of his "Yes we can." speech, I had had enough. Will the dashiki's and red bowties appear? Is Obama the selfless, compassionate leader he appears to be? Or is he some sort of meglomaniac, leading an adoring throng of lemmings off the cliff? I'd guess somewhere in between. I have a dream. We give him a chance.
Monday, November 3, 2008
PRESIDENT MUMIA ABU JAMAL
Back in the 20th century I was crossing the Denniston Ford bridge, on my way up the hill to my shack, when I heard a man on the radio speaking the truth. Because he was articulating some very perceptive and complex thoughts on politics in America I took note, and turned up the volume. I had never heard this man before. I sat in my driveway, the car running, listening to this voice. I said to myself- Now here's a man that should be President. When he ended, another voice came on and told me who the voice was. Live from death row- Mumia Abu Jamal.
On this election eve, I reset my deer stand to a spot just behind where Elijah's trailer used to sit. I didn't see anything tonight but I have high hopes for the morning. There's a couple of apple trees and a few fresh scapes. The bucks are heating up. But I digress. We were talking politics. We are poised to elect the first Black President of the United States. If we don't we're all fucked. But if we do, where are we? Barack Obama is no Mumia Jamal, but he's all we have at this point. This man is articulate, empathetic, astute, and politically a pure genius. But.....
Millions of dollars have been spent to elect this man. Barrack Hussain Obama is a Christian accused of being a Moslem. Has he made any effort to embrace his Moslem brothers? No. Against the war in Iraq, Obama plans to escalate the war in Afghanistan. Does he have an exit strategy for Afghanistan? No. Has Obama taken any of these millions of dollars and given them to Haiti or Congo, or Dafur, or any other country, cause or issue, black, white or otherwise? No. Will President Obama pardon Mumia Abu Jamal? Who knows. Pray for Obama.
On this election eve, I reset my deer stand to a spot just behind where Elijah's trailer used to sit. I didn't see anything tonight but I have high hopes for the morning. There's a couple of apple trees and a few fresh scapes. The bucks are heating up. But I digress. We were talking politics. We are poised to elect the first Black President of the United States. If we don't we're all fucked. But if we do, where are we? Barack Obama is no Mumia Jamal, but he's all we have at this point. This man is articulate, empathetic, astute, and politically a pure genius. But.....
Millions of dollars have been spent to elect this man. Barrack Hussain Obama is a Christian accused of being a Moslem. Has he made any effort to embrace his Moslem brothers? No. Against the war in Iraq, Obama plans to escalate the war in Afghanistan. Does he have an exit strategy for Afghanistan? No. Has Obama taken any of these millions of dollars and given them to Haiti or Congo, or Dafur, or any other country, cause or issue, black, white or otherwise? No. Will President Obama pardon Mumia Abu Jamal? Who knows. Pray for Obama.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
IT'S A BOY!
I don't have photos yet, but as soon as I do I'll let you see them. They sexed my neice Dr. Katestandingstraightandtall's little nugget and it's a male child. I couldn't be more tickled. Not that a girl wouldn't have made me just as pleased, but as Bird put it, our nephews Tappa-Kegga-Wade, Bayonet Esak, and Blinky are such disappointments, it will be nice to start fresh and mold Little Booger into something we can all be proud of. Bird is already buying deer dragging wagons and child sized wood splitters. I have cuddly coyote skins and rattling horn rattles for him. His parents Dr. K and her husband Nurse What'shisname? assure both the grandparents and more importantly, the granduncles and aunts that we will all participate in raising the golden child. We may have to keep the little sack of germs away from my parents until 1/2 way through happy hour. After that, both the GGs will be pickled enough that no germs can get through.
Now the only looming issue is location-location-location. The storage locker in Syracuse is too small to properly raise a child. Oh! And the naming. Everyone says that Little Booger is not suitable. They even frown at LB. Personally I don't see it, but hell, I'm flexible. My next choice would be Osterhout. Being a traditionalist Dr. K took Nurse ?'s last name as her own when they got married, leaving Osterhout like an abandoned cat caught in the crawl space. Naming the kid Osterhout would seem like a logical solution to this. Osterhout What'shisname? has a nice ring to it.
As far as moving closer to the grandparents and ME, this once again seems like a no brainer. I have a very flexible schedule and a first aid certificate from my hunting guide's license, just in case the kid swallows any bullets. Me and Little Osti can hang out, play with the cats and.....I'm sure we'll think of something to keep occupied. The parents can work and go about their business confident that the BOY! is well cared for. Plus I have plenty of runway model friends who would love to accessorize with a rugrat for a day or so. The kid's got a bright future. March is just around the corner. Bring it on.
Now the only looming issue is location-location-location. The storage locker in Syracuse is too small to properly raise a child. Oh! And the naming. Everyone says that Little Booger is not suitable. They even frown at LB. Personally I don't see it, but hell, I'm flexible. My next choice would be Osterhout. Being a traditionalist Dr. K took Nurse ?'s last name as her own when they got married, leaving Osterhout like an abandoned cat caught in the crawl space. Naming the kid Osterhout would seem like a logical solution to this. Osterhout What'shisname? has a nice ring to it.
As far as moving closer to the grandparents and ME, this once again seems like a no brainer. I have a very flexible schedule and a first aid certificate from my hunting guide's license, just in case the kid swallows any bullets. Me and Little Osti can hang out, play with the cats and.....I'm sure we'll think of something to keep occupied. The parents can work and go about their business confident that the BOY! is well cared for. Plus I have plenty of runway model friends who would love to accessorize with a rugrat for a day or so. The kid's got a bright future. March is just around the corner. Bring it on.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
WHITE HALLOWEEN
Thanks to global warming our weather patterns are so screwed up, that, instead of my breezy milkmaid costume, I will be layering housecoats and going trick or treating as Homey's sock of shit. Up here on the moutain the fields are covered in icy white, while down in the valley the grass is still green. I've never seen it this bad so early. What's to come? I don't think I want to know.
Last night I went over to Paradise Pond for a end of the summer season fish fry at Heche Kaban's. Luckily I have snow tires. In attendance were Heche, Kate, Himynameisjames, and Savage. Over the din of conversation Barrack Obama strained to make his points to the American people. There were subtitles on the power points. The guy always looks good and is so unflappable as to seemingly be Zen like. Forget President. I think he should aim higher and go for messiah. Can you vote for the rapture?
Down in the swamp I saw 20 does and two spike bucks. With the early snow, the deer are on their feet and stuffing themselves with a bumper crop of apples. It won't be long before the rut starts to kick in. (I always think election day is the start). My strategy is to resist taking a doe from my swamp stand, and wait for something big to arrive. I ran this theory by Savage and he nodded in agreement. I can try to take a doe from another stand in order to restock the larder. In the meantime I'm working on my costume and trying to stay warm. Trick or treat.
Last night I went over to Paradise Pond for a end of the summer season fish fry at Heche Kaban's. Luckily I have snow tires. In attendance were Heche, Kate, Himynameisjames, and Savage. Over the din of conversation Barrack Obama strained to make his points to the American people. There were subtitles on the power points. The guy always looks good and is so unflappable as to seemingly be Zen like. Forget President. I think he should aim higher and go for messiah. Can you vote for the rapture?
Down in the swamp I saw 20 does and two spike bucks. With the early snow, the deer are on their feet and stuffing themselves with a bumper crop of apples. It won't be long before the rut starts to kick in. (I always think election day is the start). My strategy is to resist taking a doe from my swamp stand, and wait for something big to arrive. I ran this theory by Savage and he nodded in agreement. I can try to take a doe from another stand in order to restock the larder. In the meantime I'm working on my costume and trying to stay warm. Trick or treat.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
THE DUCHESS SLEEPS IN THE BED TONIGHT
Savage Lynch and I have dined together the past two evenings. Junebug's in France. On Tuesday I went over to his place with a case of Smithwicks (courtesy of Milawyer) and half a turkey breast, from the one I shot last week. He had prepared a ravioli in a delightful red sauce. We Q'ed the bird and got hammered. Then last night SL called and asked if I had eaten yet? I hadn't, but was planning to cook the other half of that breast, in a canned soup, marsala mushroom sauce. He brought what was left of the Smithwicks, a bottle of sake and some venison backstrap. We never even cooked the deer. Then we watched the World series and talked deer hunting. At some point during the evening's lively discussion I asked if he had noticed how buff Sarah Palin looked? It seemed like the RNC must've hired Queer Eye to detail her every morning. "OK Gov. Bend over. Let's wax that pooter. Gotta look vice presidential."
Savage agreed. Neither of us would vote for her, but hypothetically speaking, we'd fuck her. I could see her in lab coat and tight skirt, clipboard in hand...... Savage saw her more as stern librarian with a ruler. It must be those glasses and that bun do. The media was all over the 150k new wardrobe. It just further confirms my theory of the gay makeover mob. I heard there's a porno of her on the internet. My dial up fried trying to locate it. Once we exhausted Palin we went back to hunting and tracking. Savage Lynch's dog, Duchess had just found her 100th deer, on a deer search tack. She's 14 years old. The dog is amazing. It's a low to the ground, wired hair dauchsund. In her old age she looks like a bearded alien. But you can't deny that all those years tracking have tuned this dog directly into the zone. She can smell a dead, or dying deer from two towns over.
As Savage pounded the sake and I finished off the Smithwicks, the Rays lost to the Phillies. Near the end Savage took to saying "If he gets a hit I'll have another drink." Then before the guy could even finish his ups, the bottle was tipped and the glass was filled.I asked if Duchess got any special tretment after finding her 100th? "She slept on the bed that night." Savage said with a grin. Then he asked if I wrote the blog when I was working? I admitted that I wrote it less when I was on the work tip. That made me feel guilty and I thought, there's gotta to be something to write about...
Savage agreed. Neither of us would vote for her, but hypothetically speaking, we'd fuck her. I could see her in lab coat and tight skirt, clipboard in hand...... Savage saw her more as stern librarian with a ruler. It must be those glasses and that bun do. The media was all over the 150k new wardrobe. It just further confirms my theory of the gay makeover mob. I heard there's a porno of her on the internet. My dial up fried trying to locate it. Once we exhausted Palin we went back to hunting and tracking. Savage Lynch's dog, Duchess had just found her 100th deer, on a deer search tack. She's 14 years old. The dog is amazing. It's a low to the ground, wired hair dauchsund. In her old age she looks like a bearded alien. But you can't deny that all those years tracking have tuned this dog directly into the zone. She can smell a dead, or dying deer from two towns over.
As Savage pounded the sake and I finished off the Smithwicks, the Rays lost to the Phillies. Near the end Savage took to saying "If he gets a hit I'll have another drink." Then before the guy could even finish his ups, the bottle was tipped and the glass was filled.I asked if Duchess got any special tretment after finding her 100th? "She slept on the bed that night." Savage said with a grin. Then he asked if I wrote the blog when I was working? I admitted that I wrote it less when I was on the work tip. That made me feel guilty and I thought, there's gotta to be something to write about...
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
AMERICAN GODIATOR
Yesterday, Sunday, is the traditional day of prayer for American Christians. And even though preachers are supposed to keep it in their pants, many of them pontificate politically from the bloody pulpit. Remember Barack Obama's Rev. Wright? Now that B.O. has distanced himself from his more radical Christian brethren, the McCain/Palin bunch have picked up the righteous sword of the Lord and is swinging it wildly in a dark room. After a week of divisive rhetoric on the campaign trail, (did I see some nooses tucked under the folding chairs?) McCain's Rev. blessed the campaign and called for "Our God" to prevail. Forget mending fences. Forget bringing the country together. Jesus is going to the matresses.
As in most things political I see entertainment value in this approach. Grab that rattlesnake, practice speaking in tongues, and don the skimpy thong. My God can kick your God's ass any time, anywhere. It's time for Republican Christians to put up or shut up. In this corner we have TURBO JESUS and his partner SPARKLY MARY. Across the shark pond and urine dipped pungee sticks we have MAU-MAU MOHAMMED and 70 smoking hot virgins with rocking tits. Lords, please prepare yourselves for battle. LETS PARTY!
Although the big two, should, and will get the most air time, that's not to say we can't have great battles between, say, GO-GO GINEESH and the EVIL GHOST OF L. RON HUBBARD or SLICK JIMMY JONES and SARAH PALIN vs HAYSTACK BUDDHA and MUDFLAP GHIA. The matchup possibilities are endless. Once and for all lets see who is the most omnipotent. Then his (or her) God will reign supreme. End of debate.
As in most things political I see entertainment value in this approach. Grab that rattlesnake, practice speaking in tongues, and don the skimpy thong. My God can kick your God's ass any time, anywhere. It's time for Republican Christians to put up or shut up. In this corner we have TURBO JESUS and his partner SPARKLY MARY. Across the shark pond and urine dipped pungee sticks we have MAU-MAU MOHAMMED and 70 smoking hot virgins with rocking tits. Lords, please prepare yourselves for battle. LETS PARTY!
Although the big two, should, and will get the most air time, that's not to say we can't have great battles between, say, GO-GO GINEESH and the EVIL GHOST OF L. RON HUBBARD or SLICK JIMMY JONES and SARAH PALIN vs HAYSTACK BUDDHA and MUDFLAP GHIA. The matchup possibilities are endless. Once and for all lets see who is the most omnipotent. Then his (or her) God will reign supreme. End of debate.
Friday, October 10, 2008
VAGINAROO
I've been sick. I got a nasty head cold and a case of pink eye. The past week, I've hardly worked. Every day i drive out to WSS, just to check on the place, and note any changes in the terrain. Items of note - orange eyes painted in the scowling Satan and another set of eyes faceing north. Seems to be a theme. I nailed a card to the door. It says- Jesus says, love thy neighbor. It's my new tact with these people. I want to love them so much they choke on their.....I'm trying.
So the rest of my time I sit in the chair, play guitar, write songs, watch TV, drink, smoke, and sleep. Shewho's in London, drinking 100 year old scotch and snorting coke out of baby's belly buttons. There's no recession in her world. Thank god she's working. Watching as much TV as I do, I'm bound to come across something good. This week's favorite is an ad for an Aussie hair product. I have no idea of the name, but the commercial is a classic. It shows a nurse comforting a man (or woman) in a kangeroo costume. The kangeroo is pregnant. Then, without warning, out pops a bottle of shampoo from the kangeroo's VAGINA! I swear. It does not come out of the pouch. Full on vaginaroo. I only saw it once. I'm sure they pulled it from the air ways. You can't catch this kinda stuff unless you are serious about your TV watching. It's like getting in the stand day after day to finally get a peek at that big buck. Perseverance pays off.
So the rest of my time I sit in the chair, play guitar, write songs, watch TV, drink, smoke, and sleep. Shewho's in London, drinking 100 year old scotch and snorting coke out of baby's belly buttons. There's no recession in her world. Thank god she's working. Watching as much TV as I do, I'm bound to come across something good. This week's favorite is an ad for an Aussie hair product. I have no idea of the name, but the commercial is a classic. It shows a nurse comforting a man (or woman) in a kangeroo costume. The kangeroo is pregnant. Then, without warning, out pops a bottle of shampoo from the kangeroo's VAGINA! I swear. It does not come out of the pouch. Full on vaginaroo. I only saw it once. I'm sure they pulled it from the air ways. You can't catch this kinda stuff unless you are serious about your TV watching. It's like getting in the stand day after day to finally get a peek at that big buck. Perseverance pays off.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
OCTOBER 9, 1900
I'm standing on my roof, twisting the stove pipe, trying to find the incescent rattle, when Bird pulls in his 1981 classic Buick Riviera pimpmobile. "Do you know what day today is?" he asks, carryng a 12 pack of Bud. "Gramp's birthday." I say automatically. I didn't know until he asked. I climb down off the roof and we get to drinking and talking. Across the road Carlito is rustling the camels, a goat, and his new puppy. We toast our grandfather. He would've been 108.
One of my great disappointments in this world is that my paternal grandfather did not live long enough to see me as an adult. If we had stayed out of jail we would've been a force to be reckoned with, two of a kind, separated by a mere 52 years. Bird and I cover the latest, in and out of the family circle. I've been stressed as of late, what with building inspectors and surveillance cameras out at WSSP and an overall feeling of oncoming alzheimers. Maybe it's just a head cold and good pot, but i seem to be forgetting all kinds of shit. Last night I went to Rock Hill to get honey, lemon and Jack Daniels and drove all the way home without getting the Jack. That's not a good sign. Where are my priorities?
Then mom calls and she tells me that we moved out of our trailer and into our big house on River Road in Montgomery on Gramp's birthday in 1954. Bird was a little over a month old. Trailer trash to homeowners in one shot. I wish Gramp could see us all now. He'd get such a kick out of the camels and all of our trials and tribulations. Happy Birthday old timer. 108 and counting.
One of my great disappointments in this world is that my paternal grandfather did not live long enough to see me as an adult. If we had stayed out of jail we would've been a force to be reckoned with, two of a kind, separated by a mere 52 years. Bird and I cover the latest, in and out of the family circle. I've been stressed as of late, what with building inspectors and surveillance cameras out at WSSP and an overall feeling of oncoming alzheimers. Maybe it's just a head cold and good pot, but i seem to be forgetting all kinds of shit. Last night I went to Rock Hill to get honey, lemon and Jack Daniels and drove all the way home without getting the Jack. That's not a good sign. Where are my priorities?
Then mom calls and she tells me that we moved out of our trailer and into our big house on River Road in Montgomery on Gramp's birthday in 1954. Bird was a little over a month old. Trailer trash to homeowners in one shot. I wish Gramp could see us all now. He'd get such a kick out of the camels and all of our trials and tribulations. Happy Birthday old timer. 108 and counting.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
DEAD DEER HANGING
When I returned to hunting (after a 20 year absence) I needed an excuse to kill something other than the simple joy of the hunt. My excuse was art. I was living on 7&C on the Lower East Side, but every chance I got I drove up to Wolf Lake and hit the woods. I started small. After so many years of living in cities, I didn't know how I would feel pulling the trigger. Grey squirrels were the first to fall. Squirrels are small AND tastey. Broiled up with a little onion and garlic- MMMMMmmmmmm. Then I took the skins, salted them down, and put them in a stack of cardboard ravioli boxes, tails hanging out. Then came turkey and coyote and deer. I was back.
Most of these early pieces are gone now. Maggots and mice got to everything. My sparse taxidermy technique did not preserve the carcasses well enough. The only pieces to survive were the ones that were taken right down to the bone. So in the late 90's I began biting the bullet and getting specific animals mounted by a professional. I have a leaping coyote, a branch straddling turkey and a full deer skin rug on an ironing board. Then, last season I had an idea. Why not get a mount that looks exactly like the animal does when you shoot it? A dead mount.
Yesterday my taxidermist called me to say my deer was almost ready. I opened the door to his shop and there was my 8 pointer, hanging just like I had seen him last December. My taxidermist, Fernando Neves, said it was fooling everyone. Someone had actually dropped a dime to the game warden to tell him Neves had an illegal deer hanging. The job was excellent. Yesterday I shot another big, tagged tom, in the same spot in WSS that I had killed one in the Spring. I hung him from my tree behind the kitchen and just before I was to begin plucking him I decided he would be my next mount. This shit's not cheap. I learned years ago you have to spend money on your art (even if you never sell it). It's an act of faith. So when this bird is mounted, wings splayed, hanging from one leg, I'll cut my beard and add it to his. That should please just about everyone.
Most of these early pieces are gone now. Maggots and mice got to everything. My sparse taxidermy technique did not preserve the carcasses well enough. The only pieces to survive were the ones that were taken right down to the bone. So in the late 90's I began biting the bullet and getting specific animals mounted by a professional. I have a leaping coyote, a branch straddling turkey and a full deer skin rug on an ironing board. Then, last season I had an idea. Why not get a mount that looks exactly like the animal does when you shoot it? A dead mount.
Yesterday my taxidermist called me to say my deer was almost ready. I opened the door to his shop and there was my 8 pointer, hanging just like I had seen him last December. My taxidermist, Fernando Neves, said it was fooling everyone. Someone had actually dropped a dime to the game warden to tell him Neves had an illegal deer hanging. The job was excellent. Yesterday I shot another big, tagged tom, in the same spot in WSS that I had killed one in the Spring. I hung him from my tree behind the kitchen and just before I was to begin plucking him I decided he would be my next mount. This shit's not cheap. I learned years ago you have to spend money on your art (even if you never sell it). It's an act of faith. So when this bird is mounted, wings splayed, hanging from one leg, I'll cut my beard and add it to his. That should please just about everyone.
Monday, October 6, 2008
BAD BOYS. BAD BOYS...
About 5 years ago Bird and I started making a yearly pilgrimage to Bugfucknowhere, Maine to visit little brother Duke, for our version of a road rally- The Sandy River 500. We took whatever wrecked cars were still running and drove them maniacally around a field (where the garden used to be) until antifreeze was streaming out of hoses and parts were seizing up. With the price of scrap going through the roof, Duke's collection of junkers had disappeared, as had our race. So this year the women folk- Ginger, neice Betheroo, Smokie and sis-in-law Boola all came on board for a weekend of drinking and lobster devouring.
Bird and Smokie both drive big, shiny, gas guzzling, white trucks. We might as well have plastered them with yellow ribbons and McCain/Palin stickers. We looked like ugly American leaf peepers. So it was, stopped in Springfield, Mass., getting gas that America raised it's ugly head. I noticed the bubble gum top of a police cruiser tucked under an overpass, as Bird and Smokie filled up the rigs.
I didn't think much of it until the lights and siren came on and the prowler headed right for us. In front of the cop, walking briskly, then on a full run was a young, baggy pants, Black gentleman, with his hand in one pocket of his hoodie. In the blink of an eye cops (dropping sticks, grasping guns) and more patrol cars appeared out of thin air. Mr. baggy pants zigged, zagged, and then headed right between Bird and Smokie. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Bird's SUV. The engine was running. All that kid had to do was jump in and take off. I didn't think of this until later. I was too busy wringing my hands and squealing like a little girl.
Bird's first instinct was to stop the kid. Then he saw the bulge in his hoodie and thought better. Smokie actually made a move for him and Bird screamed "Smokie, NO!" Just like a good bird dog, Smokie stayed put. The kid crossed the lot, a few more streets and when he headed up the bank, for the highway, a Suburu clipped him at about 30mph. He went down hard. Cops, with guns drawn, kneed and cuffed him. Phew! We were all safe. Here's the thing. Maybe that kid was one bad, murderous mutherfucker. Or, on the other hand, he could've had nothing more dangerous than a little stash of pot in his pocket. Innocent until proven guilty obviously does not protect you from being blindsided by a Suburu. Bird and Smokie jumped in the trucks and off we went before they closed off the street. We were all giddy with the excitement, drawing different scenerios. What if Smokie and Bird had tripped him, and he had a knife or a gun? What if the cops had started shooting? Or what if he just had a little weed, escaped unharmed and was back home at his moms, watching the debate at 9pm? I told my brothers if they had needed me I had their backs. They both smirked. "What about the pot in your pocket?" Bird asked. Oh yeah. Better just stay put in my passenger seat. Pass me the melted butter. My lobster's getting cold.
Bird and Smokie both drive big, shiny, gas guzzling, white trucks. We might as well have plastered them with yellow ribbons and McCain/Palin stickers. We looked like ugly American leaf peepers. So it was, stopped in Springfield, Mass., getting gas that America raised it's ugly head. I noticed the bubble gum top of a police cruiser tucked under an overpass, as Bird and Smokie filled up the rigs.
I didn't think much of it until the lights and siren came on and the prowler headed right for us. In front of the cop, walking briskly, then on a full run was a young, baggy pants, Black gentleman, with his hand in one pocket of his hoodie. In the blink of an eye cops (dropping sticks, grasping guns) and more patrol cars appeared out of thin air. Mr. baggy pants zigged, zagged, and then headed right between Bird and Smokie. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Bird's SUV. The engine was running. All that kid had to do was jump in and take off. I didn't think of this until later. I was too busy wringing my hands and squealing like a little girl.
Bird's first instinct was to stop the kid. Then he saw the bulge in his hoodie and thought better. Smokie actually made a move for him and Bird screamed "Smokie, NO!" Just like a good bird dog, Smokie stayed put. The kid crossed the lot, a few more streets and when he headed up the bank, for the highway, a Suburu clipped him at about 30mph. He went down hard. Cops, with guns drawn, kneed and cuffed him. Phew! We were all safe. Here's the thing. Maybe that kid was one bad, murderous mutherfucker. Or, on the other hand, he could've had nothing more dangerous than a little stash of pot in his pocket. Innocent until proven guilty obviously does not protect you from being blindsided by a Suburu. Bird and Smokie jumped in the trucks and off we went before they closed off the street. We were all giddy with the excitement, drawing different scenerios. What if Smokie and Bird had tripped him, and he had a knife or a gun? What if the cops had started shooting? Or what if he just had a little weed, escaped unharmed and was back home at his moms, watching the debate at 9pm? I told my brothers if they had needed me I had their backs. They both smirked. "What about the pot in your pocket?" Bird asked. Oh yeah. Better just stay put in my passenger seat. Pass me the melted butter. My lobster's getting cold.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
This is an industry term used by gun and clothing manufacturers, who are constantly trying to break into the "woman huntress" demographic. Sounds dirty, don't it? Back in the early 90's I taught my Brooklyn born second wife Mrs. Yummy to shoot and hunt. It was a big mistake. You haven't lived until you've had a screaming match with your significant other, in the middle of the winter woods, over which tree you told her to stand against. Remember you are both heavily armed during this heated exchange. Couples therapy? I'd like to see some Manhattan shrink moderate, while the Mrs. is threatening to shoot the dog for not putting up a pheasant. "Lets all go to that quiet place now. Can you lower your expectations when it comes to the dog? Is there another way you can express your feelings of betrayal?"
Lucky for me, Shewho would much rather stay back at the shack, painting clouds or baking cinnamon buns, than grab a gun and join me. Hunting's not for everyone. Some supermodels take to it. Others can't wait to have a cigarette back at the truck or think they are in danger of losing those high end painted toes after 20 minutes against a cold tree. I was gonna go out yesterday, but Al B. showed up to put up my gutters and the afternoon was blown. Today I have to work and I'm heading north tonight. No time to shoot and clean a bird. Oh well, the season just started. As I write this the camels are doing some sort of dance in the field across the road. What does that mean? I have no idea. But I've learned to pay attention to the farm animals in order to predict changes in deer or turkey movement. Tonight's the debate. Let's see what Sarah has to say about shrink and pink. In the meantime here's some more likely customers.
Lucky for me, Shewho would much rather stay back at the shack, painting clouds or baking cinnamon buns, than grab a gun and join me. Hunting's not for everyone. Some supermodels take to it. Others can't wait to have a cigarette back at the truck or think they are in danger of losing those high end painted toes after 20 minutes against a cold tree. I was gonna go out yesterday, but Al B. showed up to put up my gutters and the afternoon was blown. Today I have to work and I'm heading north tonight. No time to shoot and clean a bird. Oh well, the season just started. As I write this the camels are doing some sort of dance in the field across the road. What does that mean? I have no idea. But I've learned to pay attention to the farm animals in order to predict changes in deer or turkey movement. Tonight's the debate. Let's see what Sarah has to say about shrink and pink. In the meantime here's some more likely customers.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
IN WHAT REGARD, CHARLIE?
Right up there with "What's the frequency, Keneth?" Sarah Palin's question to the question of her take on the Bush Doctrine, in the horrible midwestern nasally whine, left Charles Gibson frowning over his gramma specs, and the rest of the country shaking their heads. The obvious fear is that dotering old fool McCain gets in office, croaks, and the reins are left to SP. God help us.
It's the opening day of turkey season and I have to drive to Monsey, to go bathroom fixture shopping for Shewho. My bevy of supermodel hunting buddies don't seem to be interested in Fall turkey. I don't blame them. It's not as much fun as Spring turkey. No big toms in strut. No gobbling. Hell, I don't even know where the flocks are. So the girls are staying home practicing their grunt calls and waiting for deer season. From the diaphram girls. Less lip.
Nonetheless, once my porcelin duties are over, I'm going to grab the shot gun and drive out to WSS. I've seen birds out there, and really just want to get back in the woods. Thurs. night Bird, Ginger and I are heading up to brother Duke's in Maine for The Sandy River 500. We're making a pitstop in CT to see the folks and watch the Palin/Biden debate. "The question is to Ms. Palin. Gov., a moose is crossing a bog, 300 yards out. You are shooting a Win. .300 mag. He stops. His vitals are partially covered by a blueberry bush. It starts to snow. In a matter of seconds you will not be able to see the moose, as it is headed for Russia. Do you wait until the squall passes, hoping the moose will still be there when the skies clear or do you take the shot through the Bush?" That one, I'm sure she could answer.
It's the opening day of turkey season and I have to drive to Monsey, to go bathroom fixture shopping for Shewho. My bevy of supermodel hunting buddies don't seem to be interested in Fall turkey. I don't blame them. It's not as much fun as Spring turkey. No big toms in strut. No gobbling. Hell, I don't even know where the flocks are. So the girls are staying home practicing their grunt calls and waiting for deer season. From the diaphram girls. Less lip.
Nonetheless, once my porcelin duties are over, I'm going to grab the shot gun and drive out to WSS. I've seen birds out there, and really just want to get back in the woods. Thurs. night Bird, Ginger and I are heading up to brother Duke's in Maine for The Sandy River 500. We're making a pitstop in CT to see the folks and watch the Palin/Biden debate. "The question is to Ms. Palin. Gov., a moose is crossing a bog, 300 yards out. You are shooting a Win. .300 mag. He stops. His vitals are partially covered by a blueberry bush. It starts to snow. In a matter of seconds you will not be able to see the moose, as it is headed for Russia. Do you wait until the squall passes, hoping the moose will still be there when the skies clear or do you take the shot through the Bush?" That one, I'm sure she could answer.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
MY P-P-P-PITIFUL GENERATION
I consider "MY" generation to be five years either side of my age- 51-61. This bunch, I'm sorry to say, is in charge. And it is this generation, who has royally fucked up the post 9/11 oportunity to make U.S. right with the world. Given the small amount of perspective my age affords me, plus knowing a good many old timers, I know from what I speak. Money has gotten us in this bloodthirsty mess. But money won't get us out. It's like we're riding one of those centrifugal force machines and the faster you go the less you see. But all the change drops out of your pockets, when the floor falls away.
The post-hippie, pre-punk niche that W and I fall into is a sort of cultural vacum that history has never paid much attention to. There's no defining identity, so there never seems to be a generational mindset onto which one can assess blame. We run amok with no consequences. Wars. Financial disaster. Torture- a matter of policy. Masters of what?
I am ashamed of this bunch. Do I not have some sense of responsibility for my peers? No, I don't think so. When anyone who had a pulse could get a mortgage at a low rate, would any bank give me a loan? No. I am not now, nor have I ever been part of this system and I thank them for not letting me play. I have no credit. I also have no debt. I manage just fine.
Tonight I called the old man to get his 2 cents. He, said he made two mistakes in his life. One was re-enlisting in the Navy during the Korean War. And another was moving from a samll town, empathetic, basically honest culture, to a more cut throat, greedy, urban/suburban culture. My whole life, I never realized that. Everything revolves around trust. He said he had no trust in this government. The whole bunch had let him down also. That DID make me feel like apologizing for my pitiful generation.
The post-hippie, pre-punk niche that W and I fall into is a sort of cultural vacum that history has never paid much attention to. There's no defining identity, so there never seems to be a generational mindset onto which one can assess blame. We run amok with no consequences. Wars. Financial disaster. Torture- a matter of policy. Masters of what?
I am ashamed of this bunch. Do I not have some sense of responsibility for my peers? No, I don't think so. When anyone who had a pulse could get a mortgage at a low rate, would any bank give me a loan? No. I am not now, nor have I ever been part of this system and I thank them for not letting me play. I have no credit. I also have no debt. I manage just fine.
Tonight I called the old man to get his 2 cents. He, said he made two mistakes in his life. One was re-enlisting in the Navy during the Korean War. And another was moving from a samll town, empathetic, basically honest culture, to a more cut throat, greedy, urban/suburban culture. My whole life, I never realized that. Everything revolves around trust. He said he had no trust in this government. The whole bunch had let him down also. That DID make me feel like apologizing for my pitiful generation.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
THE APPEARANCE OF THE UPSIDEDOWN ,SCOWLING SATAN (CONTINUED)
So after talking to the old timer, he assured me it wasn't his son's doing. He said his son was a sweetheart and would never paint this thing. He said it was probably the wife and her boyfriend. Boyfriend? Then he went on about that. I didn't want to know. What I did know is that fucking pentagram was in my face and I DID NOT like it one bit. I worked until 3:30 then came home. Do I starting packing to work? You know, I try to be a good neighbor. So who better to vent to than Good Neighbor John about all this. At 4:30 he was sound asleep. I woke him up and went on a tear, showing him a picture of the thing on my camera. In typical yawny tones he didn't know what the fuss was about. That just twisted me up more. He was absolutely no help.
I came home and luckily Shewho called. I didn't want to tell her about the whole mess. All I wanted to do was discuss her role as Candy, but I felt obligated. Shewho's the bank. In typical form she took it in stride, leaving it to me to thresh out.
Hunting season is coming. Turkey opens on Oct. first. A little reminder to the supermodels- book early. Rut's coming.
I came home and luckily Shewho called. I didn't want to tell her about the whole mess. All I wanted to do was discuss her role as Candy, but I felt obligated. Shewho's the bank. In typical form she took it in stride, leaving it to me to thresh out.
Hunting season is coming. Turkey opens on Oct. first. A little reminder to the supermodels- book early. Rut's coming.
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