NADJA STERN

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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.

NUDE IN BED

pHOTO: hELMUT nEWTON

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...

SUNBATHING

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HOLLY WITCHY

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.

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.

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.

WATER HOLE

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.

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.

SHRINK IT AND PINK IT

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.

DEER DRIVERS

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.