A JOKE

So that's it. Like I said before, it ends in the middle. Once again, I'd like to thank those of you who have read these blogs- Luckymike and Christmo all the way through. I hope the combination of the two have given you some idea of who and what I'm all about. It's been a whole lot of fun for me. Now I'm going to take a break from the blabbing and go back to carpentry. Gotta make some money. A lot has happened in the almost five years since 9/11/2001. Friendly and i didn't last long in our now "War time" romance. I went broke. I got money again. I learned to play guitar, quit karate and even moved back to Brooklyn for a while. Oh, and Jeeves got breasts. I wish he had a blog. My next blog is holylgm.blogspot.com- pictures and songs. Hope you like it.
Let me leave you with a joke. "How is Kentucky Fried Chicken like sex? First you get a little leg. Then you get a little thigh. Then there's nothing left to do but put the greasy bone in the box."


THE END

GUIDE JOURNAL- LAST DAY

7:00am-"Christie." It's Artie. Where the fuck did he come from? The last thing I remember is stumbling off to bed around midnight, after falling asleep on the couch. Little brother Duke had sent me some "animal porn" (our code for pot) in the mail and i was banged out. After three weeks of drought I can see. PRAISE THE LORD, I CAN SEE! I get up. Make coffee.
7:30am- Art says he came in around 10:30 last night and I never woke up. I swear my asshole hurts. "What you do to me while I was passed out?" I ask. Art just smiles slyly. What happens in Glen Wild stays....
8:30am- Drive to Mongaup and hunt a place where we saw a monster last year. The can of bug spray does spray. Art punctures the can with his knife and we slather up. The mosquitos are already swarming.
9:30am- Hear some hens, but never see them. I think I hear a jake gobble but I'm not sure. I carry the pistol, and leave the shotgun at home. I just hope Art gets one.
11:00am- Move to another spot. See a hen along side the road. Art pleads with me to let him shoot her. NO way motherfucker. We pull over and call, waiting out the last hour. No luck.
12:00am- Whistle blows. End of season.

9/10

That morning i got up bright and early. Coffee. Listened to NPR. Hot and humid. They were predicting heavy thunderstorms later in the day. I went to Walmart and bought new underwear and white t-shirts. Then i went to Wurstboro and got a haircut, came home trimmed my beard and put on the $900 custom leather pants Friendly had given me back in the winter, while things were still hot between us. I hadn't taken a shower in a couple of days, knowing how much the girl dug the stank. If I was to win her back, I had to think outside of the box- so to speak.
1:00pm- Drive into city. Now, every time I crested the mountain I couldn't help seeing that insurance salesman laying dead in the road, forms stuck to his bloody face. Drive on pass, saying a little prayer. Made it into town in record time. No traffic.
3:30pm- Meet Friendly at E13 and Ave. B. We go in Cafe Bistro for a drink. It's tense at first. This is the first time I've seen her since I dropped her off at the bus station on her birthday, my gut filled with undigested steak.
3:45pm. Doesn't take long for things to thaw and immediately heat up. Never underestimate the power of smell. (note: this only works with phermonal sympathetics) With the wrong partner you get nothing but turned up nose.
4:30pm. Take it to the car and there's a sureptitious afternoon downpour, allowing us to go to the back seat and in no time have the windows so fogged the outside world disappears. She DOES have a big "C" tattooed on her lower back and thankfully no 666 labia ink. Take my word for it. The thunderstorm lasts only so long and we go back to the bar for some food and more drinks.
6:00pm- Decide to wander the EV, checking out record stores and ending up down by CBGBs.
7:00pm- The skys open up and again and we get soaked. We duck in a doorway and make out on someone's front stoop on E6th. The cameras should be running....it's sooooo romantic.
8:00pm- Have another quick drink and head back to the car. Both of us are soaked to the bone and there's a heavy thunderstorm bearing down on the city. I lose track how many times we screw in the back seat. We have the place to ourselves. Once in a while I can see the shadow of an umbrella float by.
10:00pm- I start up the car and AC. It's sweltering. Friendly cracks the window and sticks her sweaty head outside. Her hair is plaster across her forehead and i can see lightning reflected in her eyes, as one strike hits the power station up on 14th.
1:00am- We wake up naked, stuck to each other in the back of the car. The rain has let up. I have to work in the morning and it's a two hour drive home. She has to get back to Jeeves. I take Friendly to the L and head up the West side highway for the GWB.
3:05am- Make it home in one piece. Friendly and I had talked very little. She said she'd call in the morning and we'd figure out where to take it from here. The one thing that was for certain was that we'd started it all up again. I felt on top of the world. Fuck Jeeves and fuck work tomorrow. I'm sleeping in.

9/11
A little after 8:00am- The phone rings. "Ahhhhh." I say out loud, still half asleep. I know it's Friendly. "Hellooooooooo." I say. "Good. You're home!" the voice says. It's the old man calling from the lake. "Yeah. I took off today." I say wearily, disappointed it's not my girl. " Well NY's a mess. Some little plane just hit the World Trade Center." I can hear the TV in the background."What kind of plane?" I ask, trying to shake the cobwebs. "OH MY GOD!" the old man crys, as the second plane hit the towers.

GUIDE JOURNAL- DAY 30

4:30am- Alarm goes off. Get up. Make coffee. 67 degrees. Humid. Last night I got a messege from some strange woman asking me to pick Artie up down at the river to hunt in the morning and that his truck was broken down. NPR news. The troubles in East Timor.
5:00am- Pick up Artie. Bring him a mason jar full of coffee. I'm a good guide.
5:15am- Hunt just above his fishing camp. The mosquitos are insane. In no time we are covered in itchy welts. No gobbles.
6:00am- Drive to sewer plant. Walk road and call. It stinks enough to gag you. Nothing.
6:30am- Drive to my place. No bug spray, but I have hand lotion, which works just as good. Go to a third spot and still no birds. The cycles may be over. It's too hot to hunt anyway.
7:30am- Drive back to river and try again to jump Art's truck, to no avail. Go to Walmart and Artie buys a new battery.
8:30am- Art picks up fish and drops off my borrowed gun. He can't shut the ignition off without the battery going dead again. I think it's the alternator. When Art leaves i write blog and start making phone calls for the NYC clients. The Stone Ridge job has begun. Turkey season is over tomorrow. End Day 30.

GIRLS WITH GUNS

On Sunday I slept late. After two months of fitful sleep, a strange calm descended upon me. I had been invited by a local women's NRA chapter to cover an event they were having out near the PA line later that afternoon. My column was still running in The River Reporter and i had developed a few fans. The organiser of the female gun enthusiasts had called me repeatedly and I felt obliged to make an effort to find the place. I called Friendly and got her voice mail. I didn't bother to leave a message. No sense in running the risk of Jeeves lurking in the shadows. Let her come to me. It's always about the hunt.
The weather was perfect, warm and clear. The leaves hadn't begun to change, yet the smells reminded one that bow season was right around the corner. The acorns continued to fall on the roof, but now it was just a gentle breeze shaking them loose. The squirrels were gone. The depression, that weighed so heavily just a few days ago, seemed to have vanished. How could this woman have such an effect on me? I turned the radio on and daydreamed, trying to make out the directions along the Delaware river.
Two hours later I still couldn't find the place. Every time I stopped to ask someone about the gathering they gave me conflicting directions. I was just about to give up when I spotted a hand painted plywood sign- NRA and a yellow arrow pointing down a dirt road. I pulled up to a big meeting house and two rough looking women, smoking cigarettes, eyed me warily. I introduced myself and they told me I'd missed the event. One had a big .357 wheel gun on her hip and the other a single barrel 12 ga. cradled in her arm. I made my apologies and got the hell out of there. "Men. Can't find their ass with both hands." I heard one say. I had bad experiences with armed women. The estrogen was palpable.
Back at the shack there was another message from Friendly. "Hi love. Can't wait to see you tomorrow." My spirits rose. Maybe my timing was perfect. Maybe she had finally resolved to split from Jeeves. Maybe everything was going to be OK. Maybe?

GUIDE JOURNAL- DAY 29

5:00am- "Christie! We're late!" It's Artie yelling from the bottom of the loft ladder. He showed up last night, gave me a valium and i forgot to set the alarm. It's already light out. 65 degrees and sunny. Gonna be a hot one. Get in car and drive to diner.
5:30am- Stop at Quickway Diner for egg sandwiches and coffee. Three girls, still drunk from the night before, are dancing in the parking lot. It's a holiday weekend.
6:00am- Pull in Dark's place in Pine Bush. Split up and both call. Nothing gobbles. Don't even hear or see a hen. The mosquitos and flies are eating me up.
7:00 am- Drive to Montgomery and hunt various spots. Nothing. Can hear the drums of a Memorial Day parade way off through the woods.
9:00am- Drive back to Sullivan County. We've hit Ulster and Orange counties so far. Pass Bird and Itchy walking the dog at Wolf Lake. Buy beer for later.
10:30am- Pass a girl sun bathing in a very skimpy bikini on the way to one of our spots. This is almost as good as hearing one gobble. Bikinis are a raw sight in this neck of the woods. Hunt the rest of the morning fending off insects. Hear and see nothing.
12:00am- Jump start Art's car. Write blog. For those of you that are interested this blog will end on Wed. May 31,2006. Fear not. I've already started a new one. I promise I'll tell you where it is. End day 29.

DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON

By the next day i felt like new man. I went right from the dark stagnant waters of the tunnel of love, onto the brightly lit ferris wheel without a second thought. Hell, i still had some ride tickets left in my pocket and it looked like the midway was still open. Cotton candy anyone?
I had a previous invite to go into the city to hang with some friends on Saturday. Perry, Mark and John (those guys from Houston) were in town and we were to meet up for drinks at the Fish. It was a beautiful warm afternoon and just as i crested the moutain above Wurtsboro i caught sight of some papers fluttering across the West bound lane. Then i saw the car, a newish silver SUV over on it's side, wheels still spinning. The driver was face up in the middle of the road. I pulled over and ran across the road to the guy. He wasn't moving. An insurance form was stuck to his bloody face. I pulled it off and laid my finger tips against his neck, just like they had shown me in hunting guide's class. I swear i felt a pulse. By then there was a Hasidic guy in an orange vest over my shoulder. " I think he's still alive." I said. He bent down and felt for a pulse and shook his head. Must have been my own beating heart I felt through my finger tips.
Ten minutes later i was back on the road, like nothing had happened. The cops had shown and there was no reason to stay. It was surreal. Once in town I told the story and no paid the least amount of attention. All talk was of these Austrian artists who had been part of the World Trade Center studio program and had taken out a window surreptitiously and built a gang plank out the window on the 90th floor. Then one of them stood out on the plank while a hired helicopter flew around the towers photographing the work. The reporter who broke the story in the Times a week before
was at the table and everyone was snubbing her. Some big cheeze from the Port Authority had read the story and now the gallery was being sued. "There's an opening for the Austrian's on the 11th." Perry said. I said I had to be back in town for work on Tues., so would definitely make it.
When I got back home at 4:00am there were three messages on the machine from Friendly. "Christie? You there? Meoooooow!" Beep. "Hellooooooo. Where aaaaaare you? My pussy needs petting. Ooooooooo." Beep. "Can't wait to see you on Monday." OK. I admit it was a trap. So what. I couldn't wait to feel those steel jaws clamped against my ankle.

GUIDE JOURNAL- DAY 28

4:00 am.- Alarm goes off. Get up. Last night Artie left me a bunch of phone messages about his truck breaking down, and work, etc. He said he'd meet me at the Quickway Diner at 4:30 am. I wasn't holding my breath.
4:30am- Pull in Quickway Diner. Two cars in parking lot, niether of which are Artie's. Buy coffee and drive to Dark's to hunt alone.
4:55am- Just getting light. Hens are cackling close by, as i load gun and sneak in woods. Sit quietly without calling. Wait to hear a gobble.
5:30am- Two birds fly from the roost, but still no gobbles. Where are those toms?
5:54am- Move to another spot and spook two more birds off the roost. Can't tell whether they are toms or hens. Most likely there are hens.
6:15am- Catch sight of something moving 100 yards through the woods. It's a big dark grey coyote. I make a call and he comes towards me. Just as he passes a big deadfall i get on him and fire. He spins and comes right at me teeth barred. I shoot again and miss. He turns and I roll him with the third shot. He drops, but gets right back up. i have to reload. In the process i lose sight of him and never see him again. I feel terrible. I know i hit him hard, but there's no blood trail and there's posted signs everywhere. I give up and drive home. Should've stayed in bed. End- Day 28.

SEVEN SEPTEMBER

I remember it was a Friday. I woke up in bad shape. It seemed like everything was falling apart. I could barely function. The folks were over at the lake, enjoying a beautiful, calm, warm morning when i showed up. The old man was watching CNN and Star was puttering around in the kitchen. I sat in the chair next to the TV, facing the elder. He was watching that stupid stock ticker, getting the figures on....then out of nowhere i started to sob uncontrolably. As wonderful and supportive as they both were, they didn't do well when faced with a half hysterical middle aged son falling apart next to the morning stock ticker. Who does?
I don't know why I felt it necessary to even be there, but I did. They did their best with me, but i could tell I was just making things worse. It was one thing to crumble in the privacy of my own shack, another to place my psychosis at the feet of the elders. I didn't stay long. When i got home i knew what i had to do. I called Friendly's cell. I took the chance and she picked up. "Hey you." she said in a cheery, chipper voice. "Let me pull over I'm in the car." Then I did a repeat performance of the drooling, sobbing mess i had become. To my surprise she was empathetic and calmed me down. It easily could have gone the other way. We talked. I started to breathe again.
"We should meet. I hate to see you like this." she said. Yeah. Yeah. I know you think it's a trap, but sometimes you just have to go with your gut. We made a date to meet in the EV on Monday afternoon. I had to do something...anything to shake myself out of the depression. Maybe just one more face to face would do it. I made myself something to eat and sat out in the screened porch, staring at the ASSHOLENEIGHBOR'S fence, writing in my journal: "So Baby- I'm writing this on Sept. 7, 2001, hoping there will be no more developments between now and Monday......"

GUIDE JOURNAL- DAY 26 & 27

DAY 26

7:00am- Get up. Drive to Exxon for coffee. 50 degrees. Sunny. NPR news- Skilling and Lay convicted in Eron trial. Recently watched "Smartest Guys in the Room." I highly recomend it. Still no word from Artie. Write blog. Pratice guitar and new song.
9:30am- Drive to lake to help Bird hook up water. The elder used to do this, but his health is failing and the task has now fallen to me. I'm a shitty plumber and every time I fix one thing two other things break.
12:00am- Go to Dutch's for lunch and three beers each. Want to take a nap but have to dig under the house to fix a broken pipe. Thunderstorms make it difficult to figure out what's leaking and what's just rain. I'm covered in mud.
5:00pm- Finally get water working. GNJohn, Slick, Kara, and two German friends , up for a day of fly fishing, show up for more drinks and dinner.
11:00 pm- Everyone leaves and I turn on the TV. I'm really drunk and decide to sleep at the lake. A show is on that sells really bad paintings. There's a hot girl standing next to this goofy artist, oooing and ahhhhing over the crappy work. I can't help myself. I call the number on the screen. "Hello. Yes. Would you like to bid on the painting?" the woman asks me. There's a picture of Elvis on the screen. The hot girl bends over. In my best drunk drawl I tell her how much I like the girl. "No. She's not for sale." the woman informs me. "But I want to bid on her." I insist. "Sir." The woman reiterates "The girl is not for sale." I'm not taking no for an answer. "But I really like her. She's puuurty. Can you have her bend over again? Puleeeze..." The woman hangs up. I take my pants off and stumble up to bed. End Day 26

DAY 27

8:30am- Wake up when Bird's truck pulls in the drive. I can't find my pants. He starts raking leaves and orders me to clean the mess from the previous night. Drive to Exxon for coffee and home to write blog. I need a shower. If I don't hear from Art I'm hunting those birds tomorrow. My head is splitting. Look in my pocket and find the website to that bad painting show from last night- Finearttreasures.net. Check out the babe. I think I'm in love. End Day 27

DON'T FENCE ME IN

By Labor Day dead squirrels littered the landscape. Red squirrels, grey squirrels, flying squirrels- all fell from that tree. Any time, day or night, if I heard an acorn fall, or that incessant chattering (that sounded so similar to Jeeves' accent)....well lets just say I was running out of shells. The gun was always loaded.
During the day I wrote...pitiful love songs. I was too depressed to work. Mr. Asser kept calling to get me to come back, but I kept putting him off. I couldn't face the grind. One of my ex students from the OSSS wanted to get married in the church, so for a little while i busied myself with that. I hoped it would shake be out of my funk, but it had the opposite effect. All the hugging and kissing and coochy-coo just made me feel worse. "Do you take- blah, blah, blah...." I smoked. I drank. I snorted. I popped...and still felt like shit. Nothing was lifting the oppressive fog. Then another acorn would hit the roof. Gunfire echoed across the valley.
Then, one hot morning an especially cagey grey squirrel shot across the high branches of the oak. I missed. BANG! Missed again. On the fourth shot he fell dead at my feet. A couple of minutes later there was a knock at my door. It was my ASSHOLENEIGHBORS. "DO YOU HAVE A SHOTGUN?" I thought he asked if I wanted a shotgun. "What kind?" I asked. "What?" he looked puzzled and angry. "Did you just shoot?" I told him I did. "WELL, WE WERE SWIMMING IN THE POOL AND SHOT HIT THE WATER! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" I guess that squirrel had led me out on a limb. I didn't tell him what i was shooting at and made some excuse about the wind blowing the shot. It was all bullshit. Thank God I hadn't hit any of his kids. The next week the chainlink fence went up. Finally the squirrels went silent. My property now looked like a minimum security work farm. The depression deepened.

LET'S GET SMALL

I live in a tiny hamlet, so when I started going to a shrink I had to listen to my Dr. complain about her clients: mean wife beaters with orders of protection in place, doormat drunks, poor souls trapped in a double wide, with a bunch of grubby rugrats in shitty diapers, who couldn't stop crying. At first I was lumped in with the rest- a recently divorced, clean shaven, hypomanic, bi-polar, manic depressive, with suicidal tendencies. After a couple of years of therapy I let my hair and beard grow back, started drinking and smoking again, and got in this thing with Friendly. I felt 100% better. I began to get my old sense of the absurd back. She said i was a breath of fresh air. "Tell me again how she wanted to get her pussy tattooed." the Doc. pleaded. Who was shrinking who here?
My 49th birthday in late August came and went without much notice. Then, the next day I got a phone call. "Hey you." It was Friendly. She no sooner got on the phone than i heard Jeeves in the background. "Sorry." she said, "Can I call you back?" Somethings hadn't changed. We finally had the chance to talk calmly. It was as close to closure as we were going to get. I told her I had started karate and had stopped seeing a shrink. "She should've been paying me." I said. She told me she got a tattoo (on her lower back) of a big C- "for Christmo." she said. We hung up with mutual "I love yous."
For a little while I felt better. It had been a tough summer. After Friendly left, Monkey Balls also decided it was time to split. I think I was bummming him out. I was totally alone and wallowing in it. I went back and forth on Prozac and practiced my karate moves. The big oak that shaded my house was loaded with acorns and the squirrels had taken up residence. Each morning, at the crack dawn, the acorns rained down onto my roof like machine gun fire. My nerves were becoming more and more frazzled. Then one morning I'd had enough. I loaded up the 20 ga. The bloodbath began.

GUIDE JOURNAL- DAY 25

8:00am- Get up. Make coffee. Out of half and half. Drink coffee black, and write blog. 45 degrees and sunny. Yahoo news: Cate Blanchet is playing Bob Dylan in a biopic and Joan Baez is living in a tree in LA.
9:00 am- Take a shower and a giant blood engourged tick falls out from between my toes. We're just visiting their world. I realize this is boring, but you just have to be patient. If all went well in court Artie will be back to hunt the weekend and we'll finish out the season with a flury of activity.
9:30 am- Go back to work in the church. WFMU is on the radio. Do laundry. The flies have returned with the warm weather and one keeps buzzing my head as i work.
10:00am. Hang laundry on the line to dry and feed cats. Find a desecated rat on porch. Toss it in the weeds. Feel my life is meaningless and boring. Maybe it's the lyme disease returning? Go to post office and get mail. Bills and credit card offers. This confirms my earlier notion that it's all so useless. FMU DJ plays an old Karen Black song. There's a lyric in it about me, prodding me to get off my ass and move on down the road. I think it's called ALASKA. I feel better. End Day 25.

LEAGUE OF SCUMBAG GENTLEMEN

The day after that phone message i started writing songs in ernest. I know this because at the time i kept a timeline journal of this particular period in my life. I quote:
"...hope this resolve (for her) to be single will release us from the bullshit. Wait for phone call. Begin writing songs in ernest." Two weeks went by with no word. I didn't want to push her and wanted to give her space to deal with Jeeves. After one particularly bad night I crack and leave a message on her cell. The call is not returned. Send letter and casette of new songs in the mail. No response.
A week later and I'm falling apart. I begin to worry that maybe something went awry. All the talk of Voodoo hitmen, 666 labia tattoos and Jeeves' nasty streak start to sink in again. She could be hurt....or worse. I start tripping. i leave a flurry of anguished messages on her cell and still get no response. Finally I can't take it anymore. I call the home phone. Jeeves answers.
"Hellooo." There's that accent. I try to stay calm and ask to talk to Friendly.
"You have a lot of gall calling my house. I thought she told you she didn't want to talk to you again?" I bite my lip and ask if she's OK?
"Of course. We are better than ever. We've been at the beach.....discussing you as a matter of fact." The guy is so full of himself i can't stand it. The calm vanishes. I let go with both barrels, laying out the entire affair.
"Well." he says, as i take a breath. "I hope you feel better. You certainly are no gentleman."
I say i love his wife and......He snickers and tells me to disappear. I tell him if she tells me too, I will. He gloats at my heartbreak. Guess I can't blame him.
"I'll have her call you." he sneers, and hangs up.
When friendly finally calls she sounds blase' and disaffected by the whole thing. She tells me she decided two weeks ago to go back to Jeeves and couldn't face telling me. She hoped i would get the hint. She sounds high. In a monotone she says "You must have known this could end badly." I flip and tell her i never want to see her again. I almost got my wish.

GUIDE JOURNAL- DAY 24

7:00am- Get up. Make coffee. Haven't heard from Art. It's taking all the self control i can muster not to go down to Dark's place and hunt those birds. But I told Artie I wouldn't, so I stay home. Like all my business ventures, my guide business was way more art work than money maker. The few clients I had stopped calling and i never bothered to drum up anymore, prefering to just hunt and guide a few friends. 42 degrees and sunny. The weather is finally warming up. Yahoo news- Dylan is getting his own radio show and the horse that broke his leg running the Preakness is doing better. 50 million in stud fees is hanging in the balance. If they have to build him a fake leg they will. I saw Secretariet win the Preakness in 1973. I was working at the track as a hotwalker and still had shit on my boots at post time. The ticket taker pushed some rich woman with a goofy hat aside and ushered me and Luscious to the finish line. We got drunk and watched Johnny Unitas retire from the Baltimore Colts. That was the last time I was treated as such royalty. Write blog.
8:00am- Take a shower and start firring out the walls of the church. I ordered a sign- First Church of the Little Green Man- Baptisms, Weddings and Funerals. It should be done by July. I advise you to make reservations now.
9:00am- Pick up mail and buy cereal and yogurt at Rock Hill. Eat cereal and yogurt. Rip wood for interior walls and strip plaster. Client from NYC calls about building permits in Stone Ridge. Then she calls 4 more times.I sure don't want to do this job, but don't have much of a choice. I have to get some income. Take a good healthy shit. Some things money can't buy. End Day 24.

LET HIM EAT CAKE

Friendly was dope sick the day before her birthday, but still managed to get on the bus. I had a nice day at Wolf lake planned, complete with gifts and a cake with her name scribed in blue icing. Because it was her day i didn't bring up any of the many issues I had spinning around in my head. When we first hooked up I told her I could accept most things in this "relationship". The only thing i asked is that she tell me the truth. My experience with Dr. Stripper had taught me just how vulnerable i could be to surprises. Now, i found myself in the same situation, unable to believe her, no matter how much i wanted to. All the red flags were flying.
A few weeks before her birthday i had introduced her to my folks, when she assured me she was leaving Jeeves. Star busted my balls for the 17 year age difference and the old man asked her "Which one are you?", but otherwise they were happy if I was happy. I was happy...I think.
The day at the lake was perfect. We fucked AND made love, ate cake and layed in the sun. I gave her little gifts like a golden hammer charm and even cut one of the gold coins, from the folk's 50th, in half for her. For dinner I took her to a local steakhouse and we gourged ourselves. By the time we got back to Glen Wild for the sunset, Friendly'd turned silent. "I have to get the bus." she finally said. "I'm sorry." That steak was still churning in my gut, as i kissed her goodbye at the station. I felt confident we were over the hump. Things were going to work out.
The next night I went back to the lake to change the sheets and watch TV. She always called at least once a day, so i called home to get my messages. YOU HAVE ONE MESSAGE. "Christie. Hi. It's me. I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. Please don't call. I love you." I sat there, stunned. She had ended it with a phone message? What kind of crappy, chickenshit, cowardly....? I got in the car and went home. By the time I got home there was another message on the machine. "Hi baby. It's me again. I'm sorry for that message. I was under the gun- so to speak. The next time you see me I'll be a single woman. I love you soooo much. Bye." OK. False alarm. She WAS taking care of business. I cut myself a piece of her birthday cake and went to sleep a happy man.

GUIDE JOURNAL- DAY 23

4:00am- Wake out of a sound sleep. Bad dreams. I've decided not to take any more birds, but concentrate on getting Artie one.... or any possible paying customer. Last night watched DIG- film on Brian Jonestown Massacre and Dandy Warhols- two affected, self indulgent bands of the Nineties. Chuck and Jeeves are featured as some sort of experts on this genre. The whole bunch come off as creeps. The swarmy selfishness of both bands, as well as Chuck and Jeeves' ass sniffing adulation, really puts me off. I have dreams of both characters (Chuck and Jeeves), that at present are haunting the blogmoir narrative. Can't get back to sleep. Question my choice of friends and enemies.
8:00- Get up. Make coffee. 32 degrees and windy. Artie didn't show. Yahoo news- nothing worth repeating. Go to Wolf Lake to try to hook up water. Need plumber. Come back home depressed.
10:00- It's freezing cold for late May. GNJohn drops off lawn mower so I can at least cut my grass. Turkey season ends next Wed. That will also be the end of this blog. Just thought I'd warn you. End Day 23.

"NEVER TRUST A JUNKIE"

In April Y2K1 I was invited to lecture at SFAI. Over the years i had come and gone with little teaching gigs and in-class talks, but this was the first time I had been asked to do a formal lecture in the school auditorium. It even paid a thousand dollars. I was taking this one seriously. Just before I was to go, Jeeves took off to London with some Haitian Santera (who happened to live downstairs), to do a lecture of his own on American/Haitian/Brit Voodoo. With hubby out of the country Friendly caught the bus up to the Catskills for a little groin time. She was pale and skinny and recently had plastic surgery to remove some bags under her eyes and a varicous vein. But it wasn't her look that concerned me. She had this idea that the downstairs Santera had hired a hitman to kill her so he could get Jeeves'money. He had recently won some lawsuit (with the help of some black magic mumbo jumbo). It would all be laughable if it wasn't true.
As soon as she pulled into town Jeeves tracked her down and a big scene ensued via cell phone. She wanted me to take her back to the bus. I told her to call a cab. After numerous trips to the bathroom she calmed down. It was becoming obvious Jeeves hadn't known all this time about our affair and when he found out those gold teeth started to grind. I had a plane to catch. By the time i got to SF I was sick as a dog. I'd caught some flu and couldn't get out of bed. I told El Prof. about Friendly's voodoo concerns and he raised his eyebrows. "Don't discount that shit." he warned. That wasn't what i wanted to hear. Somehow I pulled it together enough to deliver my lecture called "Cultural Iconoclasticism", mentioning the Taliban's destruction of Afganistan's ancient Buddhas, International terrorism and my animal killing artwork in parallel. I was too sick to enjoy the positive response.
Once back in NYC, I crashed on Chuck's couch and immediately called Friendly. She now seemed fine, bubbly even. Something wasn't right. Then she dropped the bomb. She had been strung out on dope for some time and now she was facing it. I had to be patient. I was completely oblivious. It wasn't just the heroin use that bugged me. It was the sneaky lieing bullshit that got to me. Why not share? When i told Chuck all this he asked if she could get him some. He was no help. When I pressed the issue of her lieing to me she just shrugged her shoulders and declared- "Never trust a junkie." Somehow I think she thought it was my fault for not catching her. Boy, was I stupid.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAYS 21 & 22

DAY 21- Forget hunting. I'm getting some.

DAY 22

1:30 am- "Christie! Hey, you awake?" It's Artie. "NO Mutherfucker!" I reply from my bed. "Can I stay in the room?" Artie whines. "Go ahead." I relent and go back to sleep.
6:00 am- The wind is blowing and the house is freezing. Artie is already up. "Hey guide. You open for business?" I get up make coffee. 28 degrees and stiff westerly wind. As I write blog we debate where to go. Yahoo news- DaVinci Code is doing good at the box office. Reviews are less than stellar. I've already red Born in Blood and The Gnostic Gospels. No sense in seeing this crap.
7:00 am- Get in Arie's borrowed truck and head across the river. Pull in a dirt road and spot a bird heading into the woods. I give Art my gun and call. A hen answers and I think i see a Jake in strut. The hen comes in and Art shoots and misses. Then the jake come in. Artie has already given up and taken his mask off. I lecture him about taking illegal birds and he gives me 50 dollars to shut me up.
7:54 am- Come home and Art calls a guy he met in the local bar who sez he hears gobbles every morning. We get directions to his place. "Do you know where the Hoot Owl bar is?" Artie asks. I say I do and we head out. On the road to this guy's house we spot at least a half dozen gobblers in strut. We pull the truck in and try to circle the birds. But first i go in the house just to make sure we have permission. "Are you Mark?" I ask the guy on the ladder. He says it's Ok to hunt. By the time Artie camos up the birds are headed deep into the woods. They gobble a couple of times to my calls, but we never see them again.
11:30- Go back to thank the guy in the house and notice the name on the ladder- Lounsbury. I know this guy. It's Mark "Dark" Lounsbury. My brother Bird works for his brother Jeff. Small fucking world.
11:45 am- Drive back to my place. Arite tells me all about his wife hitting him with a frying pan and how he clocked her and that he has to go to court on Wed."Shouldn't be a problem." he assures me. I went to school with the chief of police. I make breakfast and pull out the fifty in my pocket. It's been a good morning. End Day 22.

50 PIECES OF GOLD

Star and C the E were married on New Year's Eve 1950. For their 50th anniversary sister Spunky organized a family get together at a toney hotel in Ct. Everyone drove through a blizzard in order to be there for the fesitivties. Even Star's 102 year old mother ME Jennings was there for the party. ME had recently faced being put in the home after residing with my parents for 30 years. Spunky called bullshit and ME went to live with her. At first the old man got his knickers bunched up because of this, but now things had calmed and all was good. Because the party was in a hotel, we all got rooms and got drunk, as the blizzard raged outside. The kids went from the pool, to the piano, outside to make snowballs, then back to the pool. The hotel staff frowned and whispered into their walkie-talkies as the Christmo clan celebrated.
When ME and the folks went off to bed, the brother's ordered 'gnac and lit big cigars as sis and the sis-in-laws crashed a wedding party in order to dance. Duke's wife Heidi, a big girl with a great laugh and a taste for free dancing, grabbed some stranger from the wedding party and gave him a spin. Then she stumbled across the bride, ripping her wedding dress. Not missing a beat, she took a little guy by the waist, threw him over her shoulder, opened the sliding door and tossed him in the snow bank. As the rest of the wedding party looked on horror, Heidi swayed her arms and spun in the middle of the floor, just happy to be alive.
The bros and i were half way through our cigars when Spunky showed up at the bar with a rather concerned look on her face. "Heidi got herself in a little trouble." she told Duke. Duke just shrugged his shoulders and made a toast to the folk's marraige longevity. "I'm serious." Spunky insisted. "They've called the cops." This was brother Smokey's town. When he heard "Cops" he got up from the bar stool. "I gotta go plow." he said, cigar sticking from his wary smile, leaving the rest of us to deal with Heidi and his cop buddys.
The little guy Heidi had throwwn in the snow bank was a lawyer with a midget complex. The bride in her torn dress was inconsolable and the hotel staff was back on the radios. I offered to handle it, and Bird told me to sit back down. He knew my way with cops. Duke ordered another congac and relit his cigar, while Spunky tried to calm the situation. Heidi wondered why the band had stopped playing and couldn't understand why all the fuss? The older kids were disgusted by the grownups, while the younger ones tossed snowballs at the piano, oblivious to the mess. Eventually everything worked out. Spunky, who was footing the bill, told the hotel staff that if they said word one about this to the folks she wouldn't pay. In the morning we met for breakfast. ME ate like a 102 year old horse and mentioned that the woman at the next table kept glaring at us. It was the bride. I fingered the roll of fifty gold coins in my pocket, wondering how Friendly's New Year's eve had been. To this day the folk's don't know the whole story. Lets keep it that way.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 20

4:00 am- Shewho gets up and goes downstairs to sleep on the couch. Yesterday she fell crossing a slippery fence line and twisted her knee. I figure it's either the knee or my snoring and farting that's rousted her from my bed. I can hear the wind blowing, so burrow deeper in the covers and go back to sleep. The dog whimpers.
7:30 am- Shewho's beautiful, insane dog wakes up and starts barking, as Shewho climbs back in bed with me. I wasn't snoring, she informs me. She was just too hot in the loft. I'm glad to hear it wasn't my snores or farts. I've lived alone too long.
8:30 am- We get up. Make coffee and toast a bagel. 45 degrees. Windy. Write blog and let Shewho read it. She's heard it all before and God bless her she's the most non-judgemental person outside of my grandmother I've ever met. I decide to hunt down at Bird's while Shewho stays home and paints watercolors. Yahoo news- They're still talking about a zoo bear eating a monkey in full view of a bunch of kids. Welcome to the Grizzly House. Just mother nature at work kids.
10:00 am- Load the gun and climb the hill behind Bird's. I call in my usual spots but nothing answers. It's still windy. Maybe the cycle is over. I go up in the pines and find a bunch of turkey feathers and shit. This is where they are roosting. I sit down and call and even try a crow call, in order to get a shock gobble. Then a fire whistle goes off and i think I hear one way off, down the ridge. I listen intently. Must have been a woodpecker. I'm ready to give up when i hear it again- a little stronger. I call as loud as i can. He answers. Bingo.
11:00- The bird is coming on strong. i call softer and softer to give him the impression I'm moving off. Then I stop entirely. This drives him nuts. I shift the gun to my left knee and feel for the safety. The whiteout on the front sight helps. Then I see his big head stick out from behind a deadfall. He's in full strut, dragging his wingtips on the ground and hollering. Steady. I put the bead on his neck and squeeze. Down he goes. End Day 20.

MERRY XMO

By Christmas Friendly and I were in full swing. She would show up on the bus at 2:00 am or we would rendevous in the city in the Neon or the Gramacy or on some poor schmuck's windowsill in the Dakota. "I'll take care of the Rosenthal's today." I would tell the boss. One time Deniro called and left a message. Friendly was impressed. Bar bathrooms or the back seat of taxi cabs also served us well. Our lust knew no bounds. After the first time in that motel, i told her to tell Jeeves about our affair. She said she would. She lied. After six years with XMY I was ready to spread my little wings. The Mrs. and i had a lot of things in common, but a taste for hot bathroom stall sex wasn't one of them. Friendly, on the other hand, was ready at the drop of her leopard patterned thong. She was a slut of the highest order. And i mean that in a good way. After a while i didn't care what she told Jeeves.
Jeeves? I couldn't figure him. He was an odd duck to look at- full gold teeth (uppers and lowers), a weird page boy do, bad tattoos, and of course that pompous "I'm better than you." Brit accent. He had some success years ago in a few punk bands, but now fancied himself an artist. I didn't dislike him....but. As time went on I figured he just didn't give a shit. He DID have a thing for dressing up in women's clothes and according to Friendly liked to switch teams. TMI baby.
Friendly also had her own twists and turns, that had nothing to do with Jeeves or me. She was a trained nurse and a semi-retired dominatrix. Much to my (and Jeevsie's) dismay she still kept a few high end clients who would show up in NY from time to time. One guy was some sort of Earl or Duke who just wanted Friendly to cop dope for him and watch as he fixed, dressed in a dog collar and pinafore (he not her), his hairy ass wagging in the breeze. He set her up in a hotel room for a weekday tryst and she called me to join the fun. She insisted on her own room and gave me a key. I went off to work at the Dakota and she to her twist. We met back at the hotel, washed off our respective grime, and called room service. The Earl picked up the bill.
About this time i started writing poetry again. It had been years since I rhymed. For some reason the church work, hunting, the commute, and marraige didn't inspire me to pour my heart out on the page. A couple of months with Friendly and i was giving Lord Byron a run for his money. One afternoon she was late for our hotel meet. She showed up amped and apologetic. "It was Jeeves' birthday." she told me as she disrobed. "I got him a hooker." OK. You got my attention. "And what did you do while the hubby was occupied?" I asked. "Oh. I just passed condoms to them and took pictures.' Luckily this was before digitals were wide spread. Some pimply kid at Photomat was having a helluva a day. "The hooker was the cutest little guy. He said he just got out of the Army." she informed me, lighting a cigarette. "Shall we call room service? What are you doing for Christmas?"

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 19

7:45 am- Get up. Drive to Exxon station and get coffee. Yesterday i fell asleep on the couch after taking a painkiller. I had this dream that Star and Christmo the elder had gotten divorced and I was living with Star in a large rambling house she had gotten in the settlement. Also in the dream were Bird, and all Christmo the elder's hillbilly relatives, who were hitting on Star. I had to defend my mother, so searched and searched for my gun, but couldn't find it. Then I got lost in the house. I couldn't get from point A to point B without extreme difficulty. I then called my father to scream at him and my sister Spunky answered the phone. I went off on her and she calmly replied that our father was doing fine. "Thanks for your concern."(Just like her to go with the money.) Then I woke up and immediately called my parents. The elder had just gone through another chemo treatment and said he felt fine for a one armed, one eyed man who had to pee razor blades every five minutes. Then the line clicked and it was Slick, drunk in NYC. "I just saw Aunntie Morgan." he said, referring to his ex- super model girlfriend. "She's very happy with her new boyfriend. Do you have Greg's # in the city? It's going to be one of those nights." I told him I was on the other line and didn't have Greg's #. "She could've lied about her happiness." he whined. I told him to hang in there. Then Bird called and said we should take the old man to Maine to attend Duke's kid Esak's graduation party, no matter how bad he feels. "Remember how we took Gramp to Canada when he was sick?" I did remember and thought it was a good idea to take the old man on a road trip. Star would never forgive us if we brought him back feet first.
Write Blog. 45 degrees and rainy.
9:00 am-Democracy Now- Some South American writer who answers Amy Goodman when she questions him about inspiration- "I only write when my hand itches." I'm working on a bosa nova on the guitar. Shewho emails me and says she's on the way.
10:00 am- Go to store and buy salad fixings and coffee. Decide to stay dry and forgo hunting today. That dream is still haunting me. My hand itches. End Day 19.

(:

Halloween weekend Y2K Friendly and Jeeves came up for a visit. The X had moved in with GNJohn and Mario in their new house down the road. I didn' t know those guys and was persona non grata by X decree, so it would be a while before I was welcome. God only knows what she was telling them about me. That same weekend, X's friend Michaela Angela Davis and her daughter (my goddaughter Eleni) also came up for a visit. XMY gave them permission to visit me. I may not have had kids but i had some great godchildren. We spread newspapers on the floor and spooned the guts out of pumpkins, carving crooked smiles in the shells. The XMY stayed down the hill stirring a cauldren of poison tea.
I hadn't had a drink for six months and barely smoked pot anymore. I replaced the Zolloft with Wellbutrin and that seemed to do the trick. Junie Bogart had lent me a bow and I began bow hunting. All in all I was feeling pretty good. So good, in fact, that when Friendly bought some wine and a bottle of rum I decided- what the hell? MAD and Eleni split and the adult party started. Sure I'll have another.
As Jeeves and i sat out on the porch discussing the difference between killing an animal during the hunt or as part of a religious sacrifice, Friendly's long legs buckled and she hit the floor. Instinctually I found myself gathering her up in my arms and laying her down on the guest bed. Jeeves didn't move. "Thanks Christie." she smiled in her drunken haze, stroking my cheek. "You're the best." I didn't know the deal between her and the Brit. Maybe it was a greencard gig? They seemed tight. I couldn't tell. I was definitely out of practice with married women I wasn't married to.
Friendly eventually crawled off to sleep with Jeeves, but around dawn I felt a presence in the room. "Christie? You awake? Where's your aspirin?" I told her and she came back with a glass of water and a pill for me. Before she went back to bed she planted a big soft kiss on my parched lips. How long had I been walking in the desert? It was sort of like riding a bicycle. A smile crossed my face. The sun streamed in the window. The birds tweeted a beautiful song. Now, how could i get Jeeves deported?

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 18

4:00 am- Alarm goes off. Get up. Out of coffee and the Exxon station isn't open. Make tea. Yech! BBC news- a bunch of Brit twits yammering about one thing or another. I can't pay attention. That accent drives me crazy. No wonder that tea tastes bitter. My brain starts to swell. 45 degrees and clear. Moon is out. Last night Bird called and told me he heard one gobble when he went out for wood. Artie was supposed to show up last night with Oxycontin and pot for my back but never showed. I'm not 100%, but feel well enough to hunt.
4:45 am- Drive to Montgomery. Hunt the hill behind Bird's. Nothing gobbles.
6:30 am- Cross the road to hunt that property. Suburbia is spreading, but there's still some ground to hunt. I see a pair of ears sticking out of the tall grass out in a field. It looks like a deer but then stands up and shakes the water off it's fur. It's a big coyote. I squeak on the slate and his ears prick up. But then he takes off on a full run away from me. Must have smelled me.
7:30 am- Head back to the car and that hawk dive bombs me again. Four Guinea hens cross my path. Drive back to Glen Wild. Buy cup of coffee at the Exxon station. Write blog.
10:00 am- Confirmation hearings for CIA head Gen. Hayden are on the radio. What a joke! Shewho is supposed to come up for the weekend but i don't want to get my hopes up. The past three weekends have been a bust. I understand. Hubby and kid come first. Return emails and go back in the woods. Never see nor hear a thing. Less than 2 weeks left in the season. Six years left in the blogmoir. End Day 18.

OUT OF THE WOODS

The century was grinding to an end and like clock work I went back into therapy. My new shrink diagnosed me as bi-polar/manic depressive. Putting a name (or names) to it didn't make me feel any better. I knew it was situational but that didn't help either. She suggested I go on anti-depressants. Itchy's boss Dr. Bob suggested i try Zoloft. He said it would take a month to kick in. After two weeks I felt like i was going to jump out of my skin. My mood shifted from twitchy panic attacks to deep sadness and crying jags. After taking to my bed and not answering my phone for days, Bird showed up with a six pack. I fell apart in front of little brother, sobbing, snot running down my face, in such despair I couldn't maintain. Poor Bird. He had no idea what to do with me. The only thing that calmed me down was pot. "Jesus Christ. Roll one for God's sake." Bird advised.
When Bird left I called Dr. Bob and he said to up my dosage of Z. Bad move. Another week went by. Just before I put the 12 ga. between my knees, I leafed through my family photos. Then I slid a shell into the chamber. I was waiting for some sign to prevent me from clicking off the safety. None came. My finger caressed the trigger. Then.....

Nothing happened. There was no sign, no phone call, no celestial voice, no thunder clap, no misfire. I just sat there. Then I pumped the shell out in my hand and tossed the Zoloft in the garbage. Day by day i felt better. My bottom had always been way below the sub-basement. Could this have been it? I needed a project and found it by writing an outdoor column called "Out of the Woods" for a local newspaper- The River Reporter. Expanding my "hunting as art" work, I applied for my NYS guide's license, and in the winter passed the test. This brought the missing performance element into the series. I was far from happy, but at least i was able to function. Y2K came and went and no planes fell from the sky. In the summer a beautiful Persian kitten showed up on my doorstep. I named him Monkey Balls. Then JW's old girlfriend Friendly called and asked if she and her husband Jeeves could come up for the weekend. Why not? I could use a little company.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 17

8:00 am- Get up. Make coffee. Last night I threw out my lower back bending over to pick up a log for the fire. The pain is so excruciating i can barely walk. Baby steps to the computer. Write blog. Yahoo news- Paul McCartney and his wife call it quits. 45 degrees. Slight breeze. partly cloudy. Want to go in the woods, but can't move. Call GNJohn who gets my mail and brings me some pain killers.
9:00 am- Pain killers start to work. Good thing Greg is gone. A hand full of pills and another 12 pack and I wouldn't be able to reach the cattle prod. Two deliquent tax bills come in the mail for the property i sold in the fall. I call the treasurer who tells asks me if i know who i sold the place to. "Don't you know?" I ask increduously. "Sir....there's no need to shout." the woman shouts. "Excuse me. But do i have to do your work for you? How many people do you get to pay taxes twice? You're wasting my tax dollars sending fradulent tax bills to me. The postage alone is....." She hangs up on me. I told you this county was corrupt. Gotta go lay down. End Day 17.

IS THAT YOUR WIFE?

The first thing I did as a single man was call Greg out at the Slab Farm. One of the Osss students- Christian, had decided to stay and work for me. First job was to chauffer me to PA. After a night of playing music and drinking, we continued on to Chicago, where we parted company. He kept going back to SF and I hung with Paul and Sarah. At first i felt great- still jazzed over the school and relieved about the break up. But, then as if on key, the malaise started to creep in. I flew back to NY, went back to working and the commute. The grind took it's toll. I liked the school house, but missed my own bed and the church. I began to question whether we were really doing the right thing. Shouldn't we give it another try? My own character flaws were glaring. Could it have all been my fault?
'99 was a watershed, not just for my personal life, but also for the area as a whole. Two large properties owned by the Concord Hotel, that had sat vacant for years, were seized by the county for back taxes and were to be auctioned off. Two friends of XMY were poised to bid on the farm across from the church. Then at the last minute it was removed from the auction and sold to RNSpanky. I flipped and bitched all the way to the Federal courts on that one. Sullivan County is notoriously corrupt. The polititians are sleazy at best and mobbed up at their worst. I was swimming up stream. XMY's friends (GNJohn and Mario) didn't blink, ending up with the other large property down the road. It was a shrewd move and in the long run served them well. Can't stop progress.
Time went by and as the leaves changed XMY and i began to talk...a little on the phone. She was every bit as tough as those Federal judges. Then one Sunday I called her from the schoolhouse and we got in a big argument over the phone. I was getting fed up with having to deal with her on the phone and decided it was time for some face time. "I'm coming up." I said, slammed the phone, grabbed the Sunday Times and headed up the road. Just so happened RNSpanky and his wife and kid were driving down the road in their big Hummer. They stopped and we introduced ourselves. He had a cute blond wife- Curlie Jean and a little daughter named Maddy. He was friendly enough. I hoped he didn't know i had talked to the FBI about his real estate practices. Just as he was about to leave he asked "Is that your wife sitting with that rifle across her knees, on the picnic table?" From the Hummer's running board I could just make her out through the trees. Yep. That was the sweet little .243 cal. I had given my Mrs. Yummy for her last birthday. "Ex wife." I said and went back to school house. No. It wasn't all my fault.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 16

8:00 am- Get up. Make coffee. Greg's still asleep, whimpering like a little puppy. 45 degrees and driving rain. I don't even consider going in the woods. I'm too exhausted from fending off Greg's advances. Last night he informed me that I'm just too uptight and he likes it when i sob. i tell him the sobbing is out of fear, not enjoyment. God knows what goes on down in PA. Thank goodness he's leaving today. I can put the cattle prod away.
8:30 am- Greg gets up. Yesterday we drank Coronas, smoked reservation Jacks, told stories and watched TV all day. When WAG THE DOG came on I remembered the time I was working in the Dakota for Jane Rosenthal (the producer) and how she and her husband Craig Hatkoff (the investment banker), were hosting a big Dem. fundraiser for Bill Clinton. W.T.D. had just come out and as i remember it Monica Lowinsky had just been picked up on pop culture radar. The secret service had to check our tool bags every day as we put the finishing touches on the Rosenthal/Hatkoff place. I was working on the fireplace surround. "Check this out." I said to one of my fellow carpenters. I had written- PRESIDENT BILL CLINTON STOOD HERE. on the back of the oak flooring just before installing it. Then Deniro came in the door and introduced himself as "Bobby.' Hillary just glared. We all knew who everyone was.
9:00 am- BBC news- Al Sistani has lifted the fatwa on killing gays in Iraq, but kept the one on killing lesbians in place. That doesn't seem fair. I play Greg some old Church of the Little Green Man tapes and we drink coffee and smoke more rez. cigarettes.
10:00 am- Greg takes off to the city to hang with Alec Morton ( Raging Slab's aces bass player and son of CNN's Bruce Morton). He invites me along, but I have a city-phobia these days, so beg off. The rain comes down harder. End Day 16.

O TRIPLE S

In the summmer of 1999 I made a deal with El Prof. and SFAI to run a conceptual summer school session for 20 students from SF. It was called The Old School for Social Sculpture. Everything went into overdrive to prepare for it. I called my more famous artist friends like Kiki Smith, Buddy Orange, Alix Lambert, Linda Montano, etc., to get them to partake and got things ready. I set up a campground in the back of the school house and Mrs. Y prepared a menu for their 10 day stay. I told her I would hire a cook, but she would have none of it. "I don't want anyone in my kitchen." she decreed. I knew this was potential trouble. But what could I do? The Mrs. had a bad habit of not letting anyone help her do anything, taking it all on her shoulders, and ALWAYS finding the appreciation lacking in the end. It was a character flaw I found difficult to get around.
The day before the students arrived we had a big fight. Mrs. Yummy kicked a big dent in my innocent little Neon and threatened to jump ship. I was forced to admit it was all my fault....again. I crossed my fingers that i had quelled the talk of mutiny. All went swimmingly at first. The students were bright, fun and thrilled to be able to smoke cigarettes anywhere they wanted. The faculty came and went in 24 hour shifts and i scrambled to keep everyone happy. Then I made the mistake of not being a hard ass about the dinner schedule. "DON'T YOU KNOW YOU CAN'T SERVE FISH LATE? YOU ASSHOLE!" Sorry. "And who's that woman? And why are you talking to that girl? I'M LEAVING!" Sorryyyyyy. Ah fuck it.
I was on such a high at being able to pull off this school, hang with my friend El Prof., groove with the students, (even the pretty girl ones) I had lost my patience for placating Mrs. Y. By day 5 it had all gone to hell in a hand basket. When i wasn't arguing (and trying to hide it from my guests) I was having the time of my life. It wasn't fair. Then one of the prettier faculty members showed up. That was it. Mrs. Yummy's scalp peeled back and a creature not unlike that Alien critter leaped for my throat. By the time i took the last student to bus at the end of the 10 days, I was once again single. "You can just stay down at the schoolhouse. I want a divorce." she told me. "Fine." I agreed. Summer school and my second marraige was over. So much for the high.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 15

4:00 am- Alarm goes off. Get up. Make coffee. Artie is supposed to meet me at 4:30 and we're going to go down to my brother's and hunt. By 4:45 am he's a no show. 40 degrees, rain and wind. This is the worst weather for turkey hunting. The rain and wind shuts them up. I crawl back in bed.
8:00 am- get up again. Write blog. Start fire. Greg is still in the sack, sawing logs. All day Sunday people kept stopping by. First it was everyone from the previous night's party, Urs, Gunn, Teena, Ginger, Aretha, Chad, Slick, Ling Chow and a South American guy called El Runt (who sings like Frank Sinatra). Then Art and Gary Gormley; and finally Nona, a friend of hers and there two kids show up. Nona's husband Chuck is in Israel trying to solve their problems. Good luck.
Nona's little boy- 7 year old Mandrake and his buddy Michael are making a minature golf course in my lawn. He comes in amped up and muddy. "Christmo, I have two questions for you. First, what is that you keep putting on your lip?" I tell him its stuff for my fever blister. He nodds, satisfied with my response. "AND. Who built that stupid fence?" I tell him my asshole neighbors. ASSHOLENEIGHBORS rolls off his tongue. He goes on for a good five minutes about what I should do to my asshole neighbors in response to the fence. The kid is alright.
8:30 am- Art shows up as I'm putting on my boots. He demures going along and I head for Bird's alone. The woods are amazing. The dogwood and lilac are in bloom. The smell alone is worth the trip. Nothing gobbles, but i don't care.
11:00 am- Starts to rain again. I head home to continue drinking, watching TV and smoking cigarettes with Greg. End day 15.

THE ELEPHANT MARRAIGE

They wheeled me out of the xray room with two cracked vertebre and a bad case of constipation. I was one lucky motherfucker. Leaning on Mrs. Y and Christmo the elder I got in the car and we all drove home. Every bump sent a teeth grinding shock up my spine. By the time we got home I was drenched in sweat and felt like i was going to pass out. Two days later i was so backed up from the painkillers i called Bimmy to ask how I could get things moving again. "X-lax and apple juice." he said and sent me a post card of a bronze surfer holding a 20 foot board. "Bet that turd's as big as this board, huh?" he scrawled on the back.
For the next couple of months i would hobble around the house in a molded plastic brace and feel sorry for myself. I couldn't work. Mrs. Y watched after me for a couple of days, then she went back to work in town. I had had tunnel vision for 4 years, commuting working, working and commuting. It took a broken back to get me to sit down and take stock. All talk of breaking up ceased. The pity factor kicked it and I worked it for all I was worth. "Honey. Could you fluff these pillows for me? I have this itch I can't reach. Ought oh. I dropped my pen. I'm a little thirsty. Honeeeey?" Mrs. Y played along just so far. Then her BPD (border line personality disorder) would kick in and we'd be off to the races...broken back or not.
I had so much time to think i had to find something to think about. My neighbors were selling a little school house down the road. It had been for sale for a while, but all of the sudden i thought I should buy it. My idea was to make it into a conceptual art school. Every day i picked up my cane, and walked down the hill to talk to the old couple. It only took a month to borrow the money and set a price. i called El Prof out in Cali and asked if he could get the art institute interested. To my surprise they were. I became obsessed with starting this school. After the broken back I couldn't climb the stairs to sleep in the loft. I now slept in the guest room. Our marraige was crumbling but neither of us could face looking at the beast. "I'm not an animal. I'm a.....a..... a marraige."

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 14

2:00 am- We're still in Slick's basement. The disco ball is spining and GNJohn is on the wheels of steel. Most of the evening has been spent dancing/holding up flamingo armed Ginger in her party dress. Ginger got into the G&T and has decided to tell me over and over how much she liked me (before I cut my hair). Her large armed germanic boyfriend looks on helplessly as we twirl on the dance floor.
2:30 am Greg downs a hit of E. I do a line of coke and we leave. Slick is out of beer.
3:00 am: Watch some Tv. Greg opens two more beer and they never touch our lips. I crawl off to bed.
4:30 am: "GREG! WHAT THE FUCK?" Sorry.
I mean to get up and hunt with Artie, but know better. Don't set alarm.
5:00 am Art stumbles onto the porch and grabs the gun I left for him, scaring the cats.
8:00 am. Get up. Make big pot of coffee. Write blog. Forget the news. I could care less. I'm not too hung over.
9:30 am- Greg gets up. Turn on TV. The Paul Newman movie Slapshot is on. "I'm in this movie." Greg informs me. Turns out it was shot in Greg's hometown- Johnstown. He's the 12 year old stick boy in the locker room. You can't make this shit up.
10:30 am- Go to store and buy eggs and bagels.
11:00am- Make breakfast and open first beer of the day. Call Star and wish her happy Mother's day. Greg calls his mom too. End day 14.

SHOCK TO THE JANGLES

In 1998 I'd put enough money aside to do a major push on the church. The steeple had deteriorated to the point that the leakage was threatening to undermine the foundation work i had already done. I called brother Duke and hired him to come out of the woods of Maine and help me with the job. We erected scaffold up the bell tower and ladders to the very top. With kneees shaking i pulled out the old weather vane and replaced it with a brand new one. We were strapped off with harnesses but one wrong step and it would all be over.
Mrs. Y and i had devolved into a routine of days apart and weekends fighting. People say marraige is tough, "You have to work at it.", But sometimes no matter how hard you try it just ain't happening. We may have wanted the same thing on many levels, but the way we pushed each other's buttons wouldn't allow us to attain those things. It was a drag and both of us were showing the strain of frustration. In the past my solution would've been to seek out another relationship. But those days were gone. I didn't have the taste for it anymore.
Then one Saturday morning we broached the subject of calling it a day. It was emotional and after a couple of hours we let it sit. I grabbed the chainsaw and decided to trim some tree branches in order to clear my head. There was one big ash branch overhanging the telephone line i needed to get rid of. With Mrs. Yummy's help I extended the ladder to the max, and climbed up with the saw sputtering. As she steadied the ladder I cut the branch. When the heavy leafed end dropped, the part that supported the ladder sprung up......Oh shit!
When the ladder hit the house it bent in half, catapulting me straight back. I flew through the air landing flat on my back, between a rock pile and a wood pile. The chainsaw was still running, competing with Mrs Y's screams. I hit the ground with such force it was like someone had hooked my testicles up to the house current and flipped the switch. The last thing I remember was looking up at that new weather vane. The wind was out of the west.
In the hospital I pulled Mrs Y close to me and told her that if I was paralyzed she should remember what we talked about earlier in the day. She told me to shut up. The old man (who had been at the lake with Star) asked her why she kicked the ladder out from under me? She didn't find the question funny. Then they wheeled me into the xray room.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 13

8:00 am- Get up. Coffee. It was raining so hard last night i didn't even think twice about sleeping in. If I hadn't killed two birds I'd be in the woods right now, but that, combined with the lousy weather, keeps me warm and dry. 50 degrees. Rain. No wind. NPR news- Top story: NSA Gen. Whozit? replaces Porter Goss as head of the CIA. What do they say about Fascism being the perfect meld of corporate, government and military power? Cyanide cap anyone?
9:00 am- Greg calls from PA and can't get through because I'm on line writing my blog. He emails me. Slick is having a birthday party and promises psychedlics and model type babes. You'd think it was Greg's birthday. He's coming out of those Pennsy hills for the estrogen hits and mushroom tea. Hope we don't scare those skinny girls away.
10:00 am- Go to store to pick up oven bag, apples, an onion and some turkey seasoning. I've promised Slick I'd roast a turkey for the festivities.
11:00 am- Stuff bird with apples and onion, sprinkle on seasoning and put in oven. Call Star to get cooking time. The old man wants the turkey report. "It's in the oven." I tell him. "20 minutes per lb." Star informs me. "Love you." she says. "Love you too." I say back. I know I'll be too wasted to make Mother's day. Star knows too. Every day's Mother's day in this house. A man's gotta do....End day 13.

FAMOUS IN COOPERSTOWN

The only connection I kept in NYC was my column at PAPER. I didn't play music anymore. I didn't show in art galleries, nor do churches or curate. All my energy was devoted to working for A&A, trying my damndest to stay married and renovate these two old buildings. More and more, when I wrote my column I wrote about this life style of hunting and woodstoves and foot shuffling hillbillys, who wouldn't know a Klub Kid if they hit 'em with the pickup truck. The editors were starting to distance themselves. Izzy and and I were still friends, but i could tell my days were numbered. The day i submitted my deer huinting story in Cooperstown sealed my fate. You may have heard it before.

Ray Key lives on the farm that his grandfather, and his grandfather before him lived on. He, his wife, kids and grandkids care for about 100 head of milk cows, work in the bank, drive the school bus, run a trap line for fur, and keep the skunks and bats of Cooperstown at bay, as the area's prime nuisance trapper. When Ray's not doing one of his many jobs he's hunting. He can see a bedded down deer a mile away and hear a turkey gobble in the next county. When I started hunting again Ray became my mentor.
"Buddy, you take the low spot. We'll put Davey up high and let the city boy go down the middle." Ray instructed, driving a pickup truck filled with slug guns and hunters about to make the afternoon drive above lake Otsego. "Whatever you do, don't go down towards the river." Buddy added for my benefit, as we lined up with our guns and radios, about to drive the woods towards the sitting old timers. I nodded and knocked the snow off my hat. Five minutes later the radio crackled. "Let's go. Over."
It was the last Sunday of the season. I hadn't even seen a buck all season and wasn't too convident I'd see one now, as i picked my way over deadfalls and across half frozen puddles. The snow was coming down wet and heavy. I heard a shot up ahead and stopped in my tracks, scanning the woods. A red fox bolted across my path, causing me to tense up. I continued down the ridge slowly. Then I saw a flash of brown. The snow stopped for a minute and the sun came out long enough to light the deer better than a Hollywood director. Light glinted off his antlers. I raised the gun and fired. He bolted and I shot again. He hunched and kept going. A third shot never touched him. Of course he headed right for the lake.
By the time i had followed the bloody tracks under a swingset and into a motel parking lot, the deer was already in the water. From high on the bank I could see that big rack heading for the other side. I was crestfallen. I drug my sorry ass down the bank to the shore and watched in silence. Then, just as i was ready to head back to the other hunters, I spied a boat and oars. I had two shells left.
"Who's that asshole out fishing in a snowstorm?" one of the hunters asked as they followed the lake road, looking for me. "That asshole's Christmo." Ray said pulling the truck over. For the next two hours the hunters and anyone who happened to be driving along Lake Otsego that Sunday watched as i chased that deer across the lake (and back). I didn't know deer floated when killed, so was trying to herd him to land before taking a shot. "City boy's not too smart, is he?" Ray commented later.
As the sun began to sink and the wind kicked up, blowing the snow across the rocking bow of the boat, I knew it was now or never. I tried to steady my gun on my knee and squeezed the trigger. A water spout shot up 100 yards out. Missed. I had one shot left. I didn't wait. pumping another shell in the chamber, i lowered the sights down the deer's back and shot again. Another water spout. I was sick. Missed again? But then the deer's antlers tipped into the water. I had caught him in the back of the head. An inch higher and I would've missed. Still fearing the deer would sink i rowed franticly to the dead animal and wrapped a rope around his antler's and towed him in to the cheering hunters and horn blowing tourists on the road. We got the hell out of there and drove back to the Key farm jubilent. Ray turned to my old man in the truck. "You teach that boy to hunt? At least he had a length of rope. May be hope for him yet."

PAPER fired me a year later without even a gold watch.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 12

8:15 am- Struggle awake. Last night i went over to Junie Bogart's place, watched the Yankee game and got into the sake. A old friend from high school, Dr. Mel Rosenwasser, is the hand specilaist for the Yanks. The announcer tells us he's working on Hidecki Matsui's broken wrist. Junie and i acknowledge Mel's genius and have another drink. Earlier in the day i had thought about how many Rays I knew- Ray Gilkey, Ray Key, Wray (Milawyer), Wray (My grandfather). Then i got paid from the NYC couple. I folded the check and put it in my pockect. When I went to the bank to deposit the check I saw it was made out to Ray Christmo. I had never mentioned any Rays to the client. What gives? I couldn't deposit the check.
9:00am-Coffee. Write blog. 55 degrees and rainy. Don't go in the woods. We are to bury Ray Gilkey's ashes at 10:30 am. Don't bother listening to the news.
!0:00 am- Go down to the farm and help Ray's son in law and Junie dig a hole for Ray's box. Junie has brought a knife Ray gave him and the antler of a little buck he shot on the farm, to put in the hole. I brought a cut in half gold dollar coin that was part of the 50 my folks gave each of their kids on the occasion of their 50th anniversary. I won't tell you who has the other half. I fall in the mud trying to get a bucket of water up the hill and drench myself. Ray's daughter say's a few words and everyone wells up. I already look like i've been crying because of the bucket of water in my face. We fill in the hole and that's that. I'm still hung over from last night's sake binge. Maybe tomorrow i'll do a little turkey hunting. End day 12.

HYSTERICAL PREGNANCY

It didn't sit too well when i left the A&A company Xmas party and had to drive home alone, leaving the Mrs. to take a cab back to McNally's place. I was getting tired of driving 80 miles by myself to a dark, cold house, scrounging something to eat, starting a fire, listening to the radio, then getting up at 4am and doing it all over again. Mrs. Y wasn't a morning person and the few times we tried the commute together it didn't quite work out. The next day i had another plan. "What if you quit your job, and stay home?" I proposed." I'm making enough to cover the nut. Maybe we can even think of getting pregnant?" I was expecting a fight, but to my surprize she accepted my offer. Careful what you wish for.
Rich, poor, smart, stupid, nice, and not so nice people have kids every day. It's as natural for humans as shitting in their own nests and going to war. But, for Mrs.Y and I it was a very heavy and considered step in our relationship. Neither of us had ever had kids, or for that matter even considered it. We didn't waste any time getting down to business. And before you could say "How are we ever gonna pay for this?" Mrs. Yummy thought she was preggers. But something didn't seem quite right. Like that wedding....it should have been a joyous occasion for both of us. But there was that boinked on the head, 1000 yard stare. I went to the Exxon station and got the test kit. By the time she emerged from the bathroom a relieved smile crossed her face. False alarm.
That winter was one of the toughest of the century- cold and snowfall wise. We heated by wood and the house was barely insulated. Growing up in Brooklyn, Mrs Y never learned how to drive. When i took the truck to the city each morning she was trapped. "Make sure you pick me up cigarettes." she said, kissing me goodbye. We had no TV and during those dark winter days my city girl wife began to go stir crazy. God help me if i ever forgot those yellow American Spirits. On the weekends I continued work on the house and was exhausted most of the time. After all week in solitare, Mrs. Y wanted to play. "Sorry honey. I've got a headache."
The tables turned. I was the girl.
By the time spring rolled around the Mrs. insisted on learning to drive and getting a job (waitressing again). It was time to start the garden and Mrs Y threw herself into the task. She had been watching gardening videos for two years and was chomping at the bit to grow something. I was encouraging. The homefront was getting tense. When the job and wheels didn't lighten the mood, the garden was the only thing left. She borrowed a tiller and went at it, digging up a chunk of lawn. I built a fence to keep out the critters and we watered and waited. With the warm weather the chill of winter became a distant memory. Maybe we could try again with that baby thing? Fugettaboutit!

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 11

3:00am- Wake up at the sound of rain on the roof. Turn off alarm and decide to sleep in again.
7:00am- Get up. Forgot to get coffee yesterday so get in car and buy a cup at the Exxon station. This time forgoe the butter slathered hardroll. 45 degrees and rain. No wind. NPR news- Top story: Still at war in Iraq and Afganistan. Puff piece on fallen soldier of the week. Every soldier that dies seems to be a football star, loved by the entire community, lived to hunt and fish and had a great sense of humor. What, no assholes join the service? Or are they the ones that escape without a scratch? I have to meet a potential client in Stone Ridge at 11:00 am so don't bother to go in the woods. This NYC couple want me to jack up and move their house, as well as do a complete renovation. I don't want to do it, but need the money so i probably will. They think I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to tell them otherwise.
10:45 am- Stop at The Christmo Angus farm and excavating service down the road from the job. They may be relatives back in the woodpile. Meet a giant bearded man feeding a humongus black bull. This is Claude E. Christmo. We exchange pleasantries and discuss the job. Claude E. says he can do it.
11:15 am- Clients show up with site engineer and we talk foundations. Rain stops. The bugs have come out and I swallow one. All goes well. They want to hire me more every time I tell them I'm not sure I want to take this job.
11:55 am- Meeting's over. I stop my car to take a photo of Christmo Lane. Could this be where Grampa Jeisbert came from? Stop in Wurtsboro for a haircut. End day 11.

NOT WHIPCREAM SEASON

By turkey season of 1994 we were in our new house. I took some time off from Asser and Assoc. and gutted the place. Underneath the asbestos and crappy paneling was the original church carraige house. It was post and beam construction and definitely worth saving. What i originally thought was a tear down, became a rennovation. Mrs. Y crashed at her friend Keith McNally's (Lucky Strike, Odeon, etc) place, worked at Vibe and came up on the weekends. I went into hunt and demo mode. I was in hog heaven. There was a 120 acre farm owned by the Parker family (Concord hotel) right across the street and a beefalo farm owned by an old farmer (Ray Gilkey) who Junie Bogart knew and introduced me to. I could walk right out the door, load the gun and listen for gobbles from my driveway.
I hadn't cut my hair nor beard (that had turned white) in the previous two years and looked more like a hillbilly than the hillbillys. The last thing I wanted was for my neighbors to see me as a city slicker. Just like moving from SF to the EV as an art dealer, or going to seminary or even being in a rock band, it's always a good idea to hit town as the thing you want to be percieved as. I saw myself as a local and was accepted as such. Because I immediately began work on the house and church, that had sat fallow for so long, my neighbors were friendly and appreciative. "What a good job you're doing." they said.
When I went back to work I commuted. I got up before dawn, and hit the woods. On a good day i could shoot a turkey before 6:00am, be on the job site on the upper east side by 8:30 am, and home in time to watch the sun set. Oh yeah, the place faces due west. Mrs. Yummy was pleased. I also, was one happy man. Little things like parking my truck in my own driveway, the silence at night, land to hunt, and the vibe of the structures, more than made up for the isolation. It didn't matter that you couldn't get a cappucino or take out, politics leaned far to the right and when i asked the slackjawed girl at the local custard stand for whipcream on my root beer float she informed me- "Sorry sir, whipcream is not in season." None of this mattered. I felt I was finally home.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 10

Don't bother setting the alarm. Sleep in.
7:45 am. Get up. Out of coffee. Drive to town to buy coffee and hard roll (with too much butter). 45 degrees and drizzly. Democracy Now: Top Story- Yale's Skull and Bones Society reportedly stole the head of Indian leader Geronimo from his grave site and has it buried in the basement. Christy's auction house sells a Damien Hirst sheep in formaldehyde for over $3 million. I can't give my work away. Yesterday's bird is plucked and sitting in the fridge. Write blog. Throw away hard roll.
Decide not to hunt today. Instead drive to Callicoon to find a sign painter to make a sign for the church. I hope to be open for services by summertime. The sign painter is not home. I leave a note and head home. Make a smoked turkey and avocado sandwich and do laundry. This afternoon I'll continue patching the church floor.
11:00am- Sun comes out. End day 10.

A LETTER TO THE FATHER

My second prayer was answered. The seller in PA got greedy and never signed the contract. We were off the hook. In the fall of 1993 I called the owner of the Glen Wild church and we made a verbal deal over the phone. He told us he'd carry the paper and we could have until April to come up with the down and close. It happened that fast. When I hung up the phone I realized there was no turning back.
After the Hell the landlord had put us through by renting to crackheads, the first thing we did was stop paying rent. We needed every penney to make the down payment. I knew from previous experience the system would bog down for at least six months before the Marshal came calling. We had time. Every weekend we drove up to Glen Wild and poked around. If i had hit SF and the EV on the tip, we were about to hit the Catskills ahead of the rush. All around us were tumble down bungalows, run down Hasidic camps, and old farms gone to seed. Real estate had hit rock bottom. Our timing couldn't have been propitious.
Then, in the early spring as the day of the closing approached i recieved a call from the owners' son. "Christmo? Hi. Listen I'm sorry to have to tell you this.....but the deal is off. My father won't sign. He's gotten so nostalgic over the place and my mom....I'm so sorry. I know how much you want that church. If it was only up to me...." I was stunned. In our hearts and heads Mrs. Yummy and I were already there. We hadn't paid rent in months and were about to be evicted. Our bags were packed. How could this happen? I was beside myself with grief. Then I shook it off, grabbed a pen and paper and wrote a letter to Florida. (This was way before I had email).
A week later the phone rang. "Christmo? Hi. I don't know what you put in that letter but my old man signed. We're back on. See you next week." In my best Hallmark card mode i had laid it all out to the reticent father. I told him how my wife and I wanted to move from the city, build a family, and there was no one else on earth who would be a better custodian of the old church. I had the will and the chops to save this structure. It was all from the heart. OK. Maybe the kids part was stretching it a bit, but not out of the question. In any case the letter had the desired effect. Dad signed. We were about to get our church.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 9

4:00am- Wake out of a sound sleep. Wierd dreams about a giant hour glass. I lay there contemplating whether or not I want to get up.
4:30am- Alarm goes off. Hit it and try to go back to sleep.
5:15am- Give up and get up. Coffee. 42 degrees and cloudy. No wind. NPR news- Top Storys: #1- U.S. and Israel are pressuring the world banking community to freeze out the Hamas government, hoping to get them to give up their terrorist ways. Obviously the Palestinians are not the good credit risk Nazi Germany was for the Swiss bankers a generation ago. Not enough drug and munitions factorys in Gaza? Story #2- Freakazoid David Blaine doesn't hold his breath long enough to break the world record of 8 mins. 28 secs., after staying in a ball of water for a week. I think I saw a floatable drift by. My finger tips get wrinkly just listening
5:35am- Walk behind the school house. Hear one gobble twice on back ridge but then he shuts up. I call a couple of times but he doesn't answer. Three deer are feeding in a field and I think of what GNJohn told me yesterday about RNSpanky's plans to buy Ray Gilkey's property and mine it for gravel and sand. I think that's what I was dreaming about before I woke up. It makes me sick to my stomach just to think about it. The rich care nothing for ancient game trails and eagle nests. I'll never understand how....wait. Did you hear that? There it is again. He's close.
6:15am-I make a couple of calls and he roars back. He's on top of the ridge and coming down. I catch sight of the bird in full strut, gliding through the woods like a feathery beach ball. I drag the striker softly across the slate and he answers every yelp. I'm on the edge of a field. Then I lose sight of him as he descends towards me. The deer raise their heads at the ruckus, then lift their tails and shit. The tom hits the field all puffed up, stretching his neck out and gobbling. His head turns from red to white to blue, then back to white. What a show! I've put whiteout on my front sight, but my eyes are no better. It's still blurry but at least brighter. I breathe deeply and steady the gun on my knee. As he steps out from behind a tree and gobbles one more time, I pull the trigger.
6:50am- Weigh bird and hang him in the tree behind the kitchen. 20lbs. 8 inch beard. Write blog. Second cup of coffee. End Day nine.

CAN'T EAT THE VIEW

The 50 acres in PA was vacant land. We would have to start from scratch- drill a well, string electric, dig a septic, etc. I felt I was up to the task. It was my dream to build a little shack and a meeting house style church. Greg and his wife Elyse had built a recording studio in the chicken coop and went on tour with bands like Motley Cru and Lenny Kravitz. I had no such cache. If we moved to PA I would have to scramble to make a buck along with everyone else with a pick up truck and a hammer. The spot was 6 hrs out of the city. A commute was out of the question. Still, I couldn't wait to get started. We called the real estate agent. They hadn't yet signed. Dear God: Please let them sign.
Then one night I got a phone call from Florida. It was the owner of the church in Glen Wild. He told me that his mother had died over the summer and his father was now willing to sell the property. Hmmm. I told him I wasn't relly interested anymore, that we were moving to PA, but we'd take one more look. Mrs. Y and I cranked up the Malibu and drove up on the weekend. It was a dark rainy day. The house was a crappy, asbestos sided one story with a smell left over from the 50's. The church was filled with lawn mowers, old cans of paint and broken furniture. It leaked and listed to one side. We poked around silently. I told Mrs. Y about the certificate BB and I had found with the Christmo name on it. We couldn't find it. I don't think she believed me. All she was concerned about was where the sun set. The sky was gun metal grey and I didn't have a compass. I had no idea and couldn't have cared less. All I cared about was how I could pay for this place.
We drove back to the LES in silence. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but my wheels were turning. Glen Wild was 80 miles from NYC, making the commute possible. my brother lived 20 miles away and Wolf Lake was a ten minute drive. Both buildings were in rough shape, but had a septic, electric and well already in and even though the church was a mess.....what a beautiful mess. "What do you think?" I asked as we pulled onto the Palisades. "I think we have two weeks before we can get out of the deal in PA." That's all I had to hear. Dear God: If it's not too late I'd like to change that prayer.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 8

4:30 am- alarm goes off. Get up. Make coffee. 38 degrees, clear, no wind. Yahoo News: Top story- Keith Richards has head surgery and searches for Paris Hilton are slipping. Hit search. Just trying to do my part to help.
5:00 am- Art shows up. Haven't seen him since last turkey season. He catches me up on his past year. He and his wife got into it. She hit him in the back of the head with a frying pan and he clocked her, knocking out some teeth. "She got an order of protection against me. Christy, can i borrow a gun? The cops took mine."
5:15 am- I lend Art a gun and face mask. Get in Art's truck and drive to a place were we always see birds. There's now roads cut through the woods and a construction trailer and dozers on the hill. Suburbia is encroaching. We make a few calls and spook one out of a tree. No gobbles. Our hunting ground is shrinking.
For the next couple of hours we drive around, hitting different spots but come up empty. He wants to go over by an elementary school and check the surrounding woods. I have to insist we stay away from schools, prisons and police stations with our (excuse me- my) loaded 12 gauges. Art reluctantly complies.
9:30 am- Try to raise the one across the river and even he is silent. Art's had enough. He decides to go trout fishing and I find a warm spot, against a big oak and fall off to sleep.
11:00 am- wake up with ants crawling up my back and decide to call it quits. Haven't heard a gobble all morning. Walk back to the house and write blog. No coffee left. I need a shower. End Day 8.

THE CRACKWHORES NEXT DOOR

After the wedding Mrs. Yummy and i went back to the city and settled into our routine. She quit waitressing and scored a job as a photo editor at a new Hip Hop mag. called Vibe. I continued my carpentry gig and with our duel incomes we began to squirrel a little money away. On the weekends we drove upstate to hunt or hang at the lake. All my siblings had kids by now and i began to seriously consider taking the breeding plunge. But wait. I'm getting a little ahead of myself. First lets look at some real estate.
The apartment on 7&C was nice, big enough for two and still cheap, but the area was in the throes of growing pains. Gentrification had hit Aves. A and B pushing the dealers farther east. E7 between B&C was institutionalized heroin country with plenty of junkies and crack heads living in the squats that had yet to be swallowed up by real estate speculators. The little old lady that lived next door to us died and the place became infested with crackwhores on welfare. Landlords knew the city would pay top dollar to house them, so why bother finding good tenants? Then an enterprising bunch of young coke dealers took over the front of the building. In the morning I would put on my Carhart overalls and go off to work. The coke dealers were dressed exactly the same. They just didn't lift as much as me and stayed much cleaner.
The second time the CW neighbors set the place on fire Mrs. Y and I began discussing the possiblility of leaving town....actually buying a place. Never in all my years had i thought i would own property. I had no credit, and hardly any money, but it was becoming clear a move was in order. The first place we looked at was the old church i had stumbled across years before with Baby-Baby. I even talked to the owners. They said they would never sell, but took my number and we headed off to the Slab Farm in PA. There was a 50 acre piece across the road that was on the market. It was straight up with incredible views. I fell in love with the place. We made an offer and waited for a response. After 20 years of city living i was ready to go back to my roots. And, to my surprise, Mrs. Yummy was just as ready to come along. I prayed they would accept our offer.

HUNTING JOURNAL-DAY 7

Reset alarm to 4:30 am. When it goes off i hit it and fall back asleep.
4:45 am- Knock at the door. It's Art's brother Gary. Coffee for two. Gary's hunting down by the sewer palnt and I'm going after the one behind the schoolhouse. 32 degrees and calm. Light frost. Yahoo news- Top story: 3 Florida construction workers die after falling into quik set concrete. Are we still at war?
Nothing gobbles from the roost. Tom turkeys go through three cycles when they are very active, searching out hens. When they stop gobbling it usually indicates the end of a cycle. Weather can also be a factor. Sudden changes in cold or hot, wet or dry, can also shut them up or fire them up, as the case may be.
8:30 am- Finally one gobbles across the river. I walk home and get my hip boots. It's time to go after this one. A bald eagle flys down the river, infuriating a nesting pair of geese. Blue birds, gold finches, cardinals and fly catchers are everywhere. By the time I get across the river he shuts up.
9:30 am- Finally he gobbles but won't answer my calls. He must be henned up. I can't interest him. Walk up hill to the egg farm. It stinks to high heaven. They have a bad habit of emptying the chicken shit down the hill. The tom moves off and goes silent. I walk by Ray Gilkey's new head stone on my way back to the car. He's to be scattered right next to his uncle Andrew Jackson- "A Friend to All." Give up and go home. Write blog and drink the dregs of the coffee. End Day 7.

THE FUTURE EX MRS. CHRISTMO

Yeah, there were signs. Sure, there were clues. OK. OK. The red flags were flying. I have no excuse. I was blinded by love. There was the time Yummy threatened to shoot Duke's dog Luther for not flushing a pheasant. Only Luther's sad smile saved his ass. Then there was the day at the lake she got pissed at me for something and stormed off for the bus. Problem was she took a boat. I have no idea where she thought she was gonna catch that bus. Even the family was beginning to notice that maybe the girl had some issues. Despite all this, wedding plans were made and as the day approached everything seemed to fall into place.
My first marraige to Luscious was in a Justice of the Peace's basement. I never went in for the fairy tale nuptuils, but Yummy deserved better than a bar for a backdrop with a plaque informing the gathered "Don't throw your butts in the toilet and I won't piss in your ashtray." We looked for a church but couldn't find one we liked. (We hadn't bought our's yet.) We settled on the top of the hill behind Bird and Itchy's, right under my tree stand. Duke's wife Heidi climbed up in the stand with her guitar and provided the music. From that day forward that stand became known as Heidi's stand, taking it's place beside Smokey's stand, the woodroad stand and the hemorroid stand.
I hired Hoss, Bimmy, Alien Bond and a few others as the wedding band, asked a Presbyterian minister to say a few words and got Mike Wild to butcher and slow cook a pig all day on giant homemade boiler/barbecue. It should have been written up in Hillbilly Bride Magazine. It was by far my best wedding to date. The family, the LES hipsters, inlaws and outlaws all showed up. If you look at the pictures in the wedding album you can tell everyone is having a blast. Everyone, that is, but Yummy. She looked incredibly beautiful, radiant even. Keiko Bonk brought flower lais all the way from Hawaii. And we both wore them. I had a shit eating grin on my face in every shot. But Yummy stared at the camera like the proverbial deer in the headlights. The poor thing just couldn't relax.
Around midnight the party moved to Wolf Lake and in a repeat performance of my wedding night 20 years previous, i partied with my friends as my new wife went off to bed- righteously pissed off. Chuck, Nona, Gary Okie, the band and i don't know who else stayed up all night, drinking, smoking and toasting the happy ....(well, half of the happy couple). I swear to God if i ever take the plunge again I promise.....

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 6

Alarm goes off at the same time. I really should change it, as the dawn is coming earlier every morning. Get up and make coffee that tastes like the inside of a shotgun shell. Keep meaning to buy a new coffee maker, but never do. NPR news- Top story is Sen. Patrick Kennedy going into rehab after hitting a DC security barricade with his car. He says he's addicted to anti-depressants. As someone who's tried 'em all, they seem a lot of things, but addictive ain't one of them. In a statement Sen. Pat sez- "I thought I was cured." I don't know what the guy's eating, but the fact that he kept eating it should've been the tip off he was still on the stuff. 40 degrees and calm.
This has been one of the best opening weeks I've ever had turkey hunting. Every morning I've heard and seen birds. Even though I've missed four shots I did get one bird. There's been no wind and the soft green leaves have popped with the warm weather. I decide to walk to the high ridge on my rich neighbor Spanky's land. RNSpanky has always given me permission to hunt his property. He's one of the good neighbors, unlike the assholes on the ATVs. From this high spot i can hear three birds gobbling. One is down by Ray Gilkey's trailer, another behind the school house and of course old reliable across the river. I head for the one above the trailer.
8:00am- After calling sporadically the only bird that doesn't shut up is the one across the river, but because GNJohn has people down there I back off and see if I can raise the one behind the school house. Plodding up the ridge I catch sight of two toms and a couple of hens in a field. They see me too. I back track and rush up the hill, hoping to cut them off. As I reach the top I freeze. There they are, coming right for me, but I'm in the open and my glasses are fogged up. I drop to one knee and raise the gun. They stop. It's a long shot. They start to slowly move away. It's now or never. I squeeze the trigger. The two toms jump and then calmly saunter off.
9:30 am- I go home and draw a turkey on a large piece of white paper, set it against a tree 30 yards out, load the gun and shoot. The gun is right on. I can't even blame my weapon. I'm not on anti-depressants and the fogged glasses is a lame excuse. I won't even go there. Let me just say I thought I was cured of being a bad shot. I wish there was a rehab. for this stuff. End day 6.

SHOOT!

So it was i started back on that road to matrimony. But first I took up hunting again. I don't really understand what the connection was, but as soon as I proposed I had an incredible urge to load the gun and hit the woods. For years i'd done little more than "hypothetical hunts" with my brother and father. It was all about getting the shot and not taking it. None of my urbane friends hunted. But now something pure and primal came over me. I wanted to get the shot... and take it. I had to get back in the woods.
It had been about 20 years since I'd hunted seriously, so I started small. I borrowed Star's little Browning .22 auto and went in search of squirrels. Then, not only did i clean, cook and eat them, I made art pieces with their salted hides and fuzzy tails. This was all the excuse that was needed to turn a past time into an obsession. I rediscovered the joy of sitting by myself in the cold dawn and warm twilight listening for the snap of a twig or a flash of movement.. Then Yummy mentioned how she would like to learn to hunt also. Why not? I was excited about teaching the future Mrs. Yummy how to make a clean shot, gut and pluck a bird and cook it up.
By now the old man had turned me onto turkey hunting and there was no going back to squirrels. I devoured outdoor magazines, learned how to call and loaded down with camo. Yummy dug the camo fashions and was a natural shot. In the beginning it was all good.... a loving couple walking afield with loaded firearms. What could be more wholesome? But then it came time to pull the trigger on a live animal and not everyone is wired for that step. Add to that the fact that it was no longer possible for me to spend a peaceful day in the woods...alone and I was questioning the monster I created. If i made a move for my hunting boots Yummy was already at the door wagging her tail and panting like an excited bird dog.
"Relax. He's just over that ridge." I whispered in my love's ear, as she hyperventilated and ground her teeth. "I know. I know." she hissed back. The tom gobbled a sphincter loosening rumble and stuck his head up. I waited for her to shoot. And waited..... and waited. Finally I said "Shoot." The tom heard me, ducked his head and disappeared into the laurel. "Why didn't you shoot?" I asked in a calm concerned tone. It was the wrong question. She laid into me with both barrels, (figuratively speaking). I was a lousy teacher, a miserable boyfriend, the bird was too far, too close, too alive. What did I expect? How could anyone even consider marrying me? "I'm going back to the car." she said, and got smaller and smaller as she steamed across the field. Ahhhhh. The peace and quiet of mother nature.