christmo

A JOKE

2006-05-31T20:11:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-31T19:57:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-31T15:34:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-30T12:57:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-30T09:34:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-29T15:57:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-29T13:07:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-28T14:07:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-28T10:55:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-27T10:43:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-27T10:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-26T08:10:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-25T12:11:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-25T08:23:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-24T14:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-24T07:40:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-23T10:55:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-05-23T09:00:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-22T13:31:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-22T08:07:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-20T12:41:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-20T08:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-19T10:42:00.000-04:00

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.

(:

2006-05-19T08:32:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-18T11:18:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-18T09:16:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-17T10:05:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-05-17T08:56:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-16T11:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-16T10:38:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-16T08:40:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-15T08:34:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-14T18:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-14T09:19:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-13T11:53:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-13T09:25:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-12T11:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-12T09:10:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-11T14:09:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-11T08:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-10T12:18:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-10T08:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-09T08:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-09T07:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-08T12:10:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-08T11:41:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-07T13:15:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-07T11:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-06T12:08:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-05-06T09:32:00.000-04:00

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.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 5

2006-05-05T11:43:00.000-04:00

4:55 am- alarm rings. Get up. Coffee. 55 degrees and partly cloudy. BBC news- Top story- 3/4 of East Timor capitol empties after rumors circulate that out of work soldiers are going on a rampage. Rumors turn out to be false, but it's too late to stop people from hitailing it into the woods.
Drive to Ray's and immediately hear the bird gobbling up on the ridge. Then I hear the one across the river. I position myself between the two and call. A jake and 4 hens fly across the river to me, but no tom. The one on the ridge shuts up.
8:30 am. Call it quits and head home. More coffee. Write blog. Smoke last night's roach and eat a piece of the bird i shot on Wed., who I've already smoked in the meat smoker.
9:45 am. Take gun out of car and replace with guitar. Go to Kiamesha Lake for 10:00 am lesson. Work on bar cords, scales and run through Melissa by the Allman brothers. I suck.
11:00 am Lesson's over. On the way home a monster tom walks in front of my car just above the one lane bridge. I rush home, grab my gun and camo and drive back to the spot i saw him go in the woods. I load the gun and make a call. He roars back. I have to get in the woods a bit in order to make a legal shot. He's just over a little rise. I camo up and creep to a large rock. Just as I peer over the top he makes me. He's standing right in a clearing. I don't even have time to raise the gun before he's gone. Drive home dejected. End Day 5.

BACK DOOR MAN

2006-05-05T08:59:00.000-04:00

Not only did I restart the thing with Shewho, I also had another affair going with this French woman, who was also married. Let me just say that it was not Izzy Stein's wife Fi-Fi. That would be wrong. This woman had a thing for inviting me out with her and her husband and playing footsy under the table or sitting on my thumb at the bar. You know how the French can be. It's all about the game. I played along, unencumbered by any sense of morality. She also had a very annoying habit of parting her fur coat, dropping her drawers and squatting to pee on the street. That may fly in Paris but on the LES it's frowned upon. "Yo homes! What up?" Sorry. She slipped her collar.
I was on the downward slide, so when Yummy came around and was single, over 30 and seemed to want what i wanted, I jumped at it. I broke it off with Shewho (again) and Frenchy, and decided this may be the last chance I would have to build a mature relationship. Yummy was a high end waitress at MK, The Royalton and later Inochine. She made good money and hated every minute of it. I could relate. I parted company with The Fish and got another gig working the door of Ace Bar on 6&B. I'd had knives and guns pulled on me at The Fish, and even been maced once, but was never hurt. A couple months after I started working at Ace I threw out an unruly drunk and in the process cracked a rib. That was it for me and door jobs. As much as i hated the prospect, I swallowed my pride and called Bimmy about getting another carpentry gig with the outfit he was working for. I was getting too old for the night life.
This was the beginnning of my ten year run with Asser and Assoc., one of the premier historical renovation specialists in Manhattan. Our prime stomping ground was the upper East and upper West sides, with most of our clients residing in The Dakota on W72nd. It wasn't unusual to cross paths with Yoko, ride the elevator with Lauren Bacall and fix Graydon Carter's broken table before coffee break. Joe Namath and Connie Chung were clients as was Carroll O'connor's kid. One day we were to send in our stripper (paint- not clothes) and we got word there was a problem. Mr. O'Connor was indisposed in LA. Turned out he had OD'd the night before. "Pack up your tools and make sure you leave by the back door. Yoko's on the war path. Someone talked to her in the hall." the boss commanded. All I said was "Hi." That how glamorous life was back then.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 4

2006-05-04T12:35:00.000-04:00

4:55 am- alarm goes off. Hit it and go back to sleep.
7:45 am- get up. Coffee. Write blog. 55 degrees and clear. Slight NE breeze. Democracy Now news: The top story is Steven Colbert's routine at the Washington Press Corp shindig. I haven't seen a piece of political theater this good since Andy Kauffman called bullshit on "acting" stoned with Michael Richards, on that show Fridays. And that was 20 years ago. With George Bush sitting 10 feeet to his right, Mr. Colbert ripped into him, his wife, the press, the politicians in the room and the entire sick society in general. You could hear a pin drop in the room. The look on Bush's face was worth the price of admission. I hope Colbert doesn't cheat on his taxes or cruise highway rest stops. Who's next year's guest? Dave Chapelle? Whoever booked Colbert is now being fitted for cement boots.
Instead of driving down to Ray Gilkey's I decide to hunt the upper ridge. I cross the neighbor's fence lines and call from high in the forest. Only the one across the river answers. After an hour I move down to the river to try to entice him to fly across. He answers, but holds his ground. At 11:00 am I give up and head home. No sense in being greedy or getting my feet wet. As soon as i get in the house there's a knock at the door. It's Slick (my producer), back from his month in Argentina. We catch up, email Greg in PA about the lead tracks that we have to mix for Lucky 13 and comiserate about our pitiful sex lives. I feel better knowing a good looking 30 year old guy, with money and talent isn't getting laid either. The noon whistle blows. End Day 4.

WHO'S CRAZY NOW?

2006-05-04T09:00:00.000-04:00

Dr. Stripper was a helluva liar. I could've caught her bent over the sink with the plumber's johnson up her ass and she would somehow spin it to her advantage. What, you don't want me to have an open drain? Eventually I figured out who she was banging and it happened to be a friend of mine....not a close friend, but a friend. Even though i'd done exactly the same thing to other men, this point of the triangle i now found myself impaled on was not at all comfortable. When it all fell apart DS seemed fine with it. I, on the other hand, was a complete mess. In fact, considering the time we were together, my reaction was way over the top. I was depressed, angry and above all pitiful. I hadn't seen a shrink since my divorce with Lucious. It was time again.
As the not guilty verdicts in the trial of the cops who kicked Rodney King's ass was read and South Central LA went up in smoke, I sat blubbering in the psychiatrist's office. Then I got my car towed. That was it. If it wasn't a nervous break down it sure felt like one. I was such a mess Star sent my sister Spunky down on the train from the CT suburbs to look after me. I could barely get out of bed to light a joint. I had no money, no job (except for my two night per week door gig), no girlfriend, my car had been towed and the landlord was taking me to court for my illegal sublet and RELIGIOPATH was only half done. Spunky made me tea and toast and looked after me like a sick pup. My family has never let me down. Of course THIS book's not over yet.
Spunky methodically laid it out. First get the car back. Forget the bee-otch. and deal with the landlord in court. Now why didn't I think of that? It took a few months, but eventually i started coming back to life. Playing lawyer, with my dark suit and empty briefcase helped. "You honor I'd like to ask for a continuence."
"Granted."
I won my case, got my car back, kept working on the book and at the Fish, and still couldn't forget the bee-otch. Maybe Shewho could help. She was married by now but it didn't seem to matter to either of us. That point on the triangle, i had to admit, felt better. It DID help. I rationalized that this wasn't really cheating for me. I was single afterall. My shrink told me to be careful with my choices. I crossed my legs, peered down my nose at her and nodded solemnly. Lets go with that.

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 3

2006-05-03T09:57:00.000-04:00

4:55 am- Alarm goes off. I get up. Coffee. 38 degrees. Clear. No wind. ET news: The top story is Joey Buttafucco and Amy Whatshername sitting across from one another and airing their 15 year old dirty laundry exclusively for ET. Joey's family had a cabin just down the road from our's at Wolf Lake. I'm a few years older than JB so I'm sure Bird and I tormented his chubby ass as a kid. Everyone has one of those cutesy pie rustic signs outside their house at the lake. The Christmo sign is MAUWRA. The Buttafucco's was PIT STOP. Joey and Amy still can't agree on who's fault it all was that she put a bullet In Joey's wife's head. My question is why we should care? If it was me, I wouldn't give them any more attention. I do wish i had stolen that sign. EBAY would be all over it.
Go back down to the river but it's silent. Then I hear a gobble back on the ridge. i climb the hill, sweating and panting. I'm over dressed and out of shape. I set out a jake decoy and call. Nothing. Then I hear the one back across the river. GNJohn called me last night to tell me he was renting his property to some turkey hunters for the weekend, so I have to get this bird before Saturday. I decide to head down to the river again. On my way down the hill i catch sight of something moving through the woods. It's a hen. I stop and make a couple of calls hoping a tom is trailing her. One gobbles close by. Bingo! I find a fat tree and set up. Then another gobble- closer. It must be the two from across the river. In 15 minutes I get them close enough to see tail feathers fanned out, but too far for a shot. They hang up and gobble like crazy. They're waiting for me to come to them. Now's the tricky part.
It's a chess game now. I call sparingly and increasingly softer, giving the toms the impression I'm moving off. It works. They fire up and come closer. Now they are right below a rock drop off. Their gobbles shake the tree branches. Steady. Then i catch sight of a big head, just below me. Then another. I slowly swing the gun. They catch sight of my movement and stop dead in their tracks. I only have a second to settle the sights and shoot. FUCK! Miss again! I pump another shell in the chamber and fire a second shot at the flying bird. He drops. I rush down the ridge and and put my foot on the dying turkey's neck. I check my watch. 7:00 am. End Day 3.

DON'T BE LIKE CHRISTMO

2006-05-03T08:19:00.000-04:00

For our first date I took Dr. Stripper up to Wolf lake for an over night. After DS passed out on the breakfast table, as I, Bird, Itchy, #1 and #2 looked on in horror, the girls asked what was wrong with that lady? I heard Itchy tell her two young daughters "Don't follow your uncle's example in relationships. I don't know what's wrong with the lady. Your uncle doesn't even know her. Why don't you girls go down to the dock. We'll go swimming later." The two stared wide eyed at the passed out, green bellied, pale, pierced woman, shrugged their shoulders and went down to the lake. Turned out it was just a little hypoglycemia.
After a couple of months of sleep overs, she moved into my apartment. This wasn't the smartest play on my part. I really DIDN'T know this woman, but this hadn't stopped me from setting out the welcome mat in the past. First, it was the phone thing. Every NA and AA sucker who was about to fall off the wagon had my number (or rather DS's number) now. "It's for you." was scratched on my forehead. Then there were little things like she didn't share. If she cooked a meal, she only cooked for herself. I'd go in the kitchen, poke around on the stove and she'd cover her food with an arm and growl like a hungry dog. Back off MF. In the larger world we were at war in the Persion Gulf, people still wore 8-Ball jackets and sneakers that blew up with a squeeze to the tongue, and SCUD STUD became part of the lexicon. Gas was $1.50 per gallon and I drove a Chevy Malibu with a big 350 V8 named Ralph. We had agreed to be monogomous. I, at least, was keeping my part of the bargain.
By Valentine's Day of 1992 things were starting to unravel. The 18 year age difference was becoming a problem. i just wanted to chill at night, watch a little cable, get some take out, have sex and go to sleep. DS, on the other hand, wanted to see every band that played CBs, go to obscure indie films, check out the flavor of the month in the art world, and then go to another meeting. "Be home late." Kiss. Kiss. If I did see her, it was only the back of her head, sitting at the computer, working on another paper for grad. school. Forget the cut out red constuction paper heart and doily. Sex? "Sorry honey, I had a little while i was out."
Eventually we decided she should move out. We "loved" each other. There was no reason we couldn't still be a monogomous couple, right? She took over Chuck and Nona's apartment on Clinton St., when they moved uptown to E3&D. I'd had my suspicions that she wasn't telling me everything, and when she moved those suspicions intensified. I even brought up the subject once, but she poo-pooed me and then we had sex. I guess i was wrong. Funny how the little brain works. Then one day i dropped by unannounced at her place. She buzzed me in with a "Hi Baby. Come on up!" I didn't remember saying it was me. She answered the door all done up and juicy. Hellooooooo?

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 2

2006-05-02T11:55:00.000-04:00

4:45 am- phone rings. It's Art Gormley. I let the machine pick up. "Christie! You awake? It's Art. I'm working all kinds of crazy hours. How'd you make out yesterday? I should be coming up on the weekend. We'll hammer 'em then. OK. Good luck." Click.
4:50 am- phone rings again. "I forgot to tell ya. Gary and Matt each got one yesterday in Pennsy. 20 lbs each. OK. See ya on the weekend." Click.
4:51 am- I get up. Coffee. BBC news- Top stories- The genocide in Darfur and yesterday's illegal immigrant walkout in the US. 34 degrees and partly cloudy. No wind. Repeat the same routine as yesterday- go down to Ray's, only this time forget the ridge and set up closer to the river. Only one bird is gobbling far off, across the Neversink. By 6am he's shut up and i can't raise him. Go home. More coffee. Write blog. Drive to Montgomery and creep back to the same spot where I saw the tom yesterday. Spook a hen going in. She flys down towards Bird's house. Call for at least and hour. No gobbles. Loop around towards the pines and see a big pile of fresh feathers. They look like a tom or jake. In all likelyhood it was a coyote kill. Set up on top of the ridge and call. Just about to fall asleep when i hear a "putt". It's a jake coming in behind me. When I turn he makes me and walks away. I probably wouldn't have shot him anyway. A deer tick bites me in the right wrist. I never have the safety off the gun.
Yesterday afternoon GNJohn showed up with a pitcher of margarittas and around 10pm Junie Bogart (Milawyer's brother) with a friend of his, dropped by with a bottle of sake and some killer weed. If Art hadn't called i never would've gotten up this morning. This afternoon i have to move my woodpile, mow the lawn and have the church chimney assessed by an expert. But first I have to light that roach left over from last night. End day two.

THE RISE OF THE CELEBUSLUT

2006-05-02T08:11:00.000-04:00

Karen Black, the lead singer for the band (not the actress), coined the term "minor cultural icon" ; referring to herself. Her husband Sammy Morita came up with "Availabist", meaning anyone who would show up and do almost anything at a moment's notice....usually at church. Before Bijou Phillips or her little sister- in- legz Paris Hilton, even had enough growth down there to put razor to their peach fuzzed pumices, Dr. Stripper, Karen, Friendly and NYC grrrls like them were working poles at The Babydoll, and Billy's, crapping on rich Frenchmen in tacky dungeons, and playing sexy dress up at their day jobs. These weren't your run of the mill, single mom, just trying to get by, exotic. No, these young ladies were on the tip of the so-called Sex Industry- babes with bods and brains, who had all the power. Forget a purse containing The Star or People magazine. More often than not, their pretty noses would be buried in The Story of O or some heavy tome written by Deluze and Guatarri on coffee break. "What do you think of this footnote? Hand me that eyeliner, sweetie. We're just like coal miners, aren't we?"
Like most men in my position, i didn't mind DS working as a stripper..... when we first got together. I was cool with it. I admited if i were a good looking young female i probably would've gone that route also. It was relatively easy, and you came off shift with a pile of cash. It sure beat carpentry. So what if you had to grind your privates into some creepy 50 year old's tented lap? This all changed one night when I went down to The 'doll to pick up DS after work. I was a bit early, so went in to have a beer. That's when I realized just how square I really was. The Doctor was still in the operating room, attempting a tricky 50 dollar bill extraction from a very sick patient. HEY MOTHERFUCKER! THAT'S MY GIRLFRIEND WORKING YOUR JOINT! DS turned, waved and rolled her eyes, as if to say- I'll just be a second, honey. Just got to finsih this one thing.
To my credit, I was chill. I knew kicking up a fuss would get me nowhere, so i swallowed it until later. Then, when i finally broached the subject, to my surprise the Doctor was agreeable. If it really bothered me, well, she could get a waitress job or maybe be a checkout girl....."Don't worry baby. I'll quit if that's what you want." she assured me, batting those big fake eyelashes and showing me her new belly button piercing. "You're more important to me than any stupid old stripper job." I lapped it up. Boy, was I gullible. OK. How about a lap dance?

HUNTING JOURNAL- DAY 1

2006-05-01T13:43:00.000-04:00

It's taken two years of writing to get to this point in the 'moir. That's not unusual for a 53 year life. What is a bit out of the ordinary is it's taken you just as long to read it. It's like shooting a film and broadcasting the dailies- no editing. Now the end is in sight. I'm up to 1992 in the narrative and hope to finish by the end of turkey season- May 31, 2006. The reason I put the chonological narrative at the end of the book is i wanted you to get to know me and my everyday routine before i laid out my personal history. I hoped that would make you care a little more for the narrator. For the next month I want to share both. In the morning (if I don't have a hot gobbler going) I'll continue with the life story. In the afternoon i'll give you the turkey report- my day to day.

Day One
Up at 5am. Coffee. NPR news. Top story is the immigrant walk outs about to take place. Socialists and turkey hunters take off May Day anyway. Weather is clear and 38 degrees. No wind. Decide to hunt Ray Gilkey's farm down by the Neversink River. 50 yards from the car I hear one gobble on the ridge to my left and two more gobble across the river. Decide to go after the one on the ridge. I set up and make some calls. He answers my calls but seems to be moving away, up the ridge, instead of down towards me. After 20 minutes he shuts up. I decide to move closer to the river and see if i can entice the ones gobbling on the other side to fly across. To my surprise i easily fire them up and they sound like they are coming my way.
I set up on the edge of an old orchard, leaning against a large tree. I have a clear view down the fence line. They're coming. I put the gun on my knee and look down the barrel. I've forgotten my glasses, which usally wouldn't be too much of a problem, but for a large piece of stiff grass laying across my gun barrel between the front and back sights. I can't see shit close up and this grass is right in the way. The sights are nothing but a fuzzy blur obscured by this stalk. The turkeys are 20 yards out and i don't dare move a muscle. I settle the gun where i think the sights are and squeeze the trigger. The lead bird explodes into the sky. I pump another shell into the chamber and try to get on the fleeing turkey. I shoot. I shoot again. I never touched a feather. What a tool I am.
Come home disgusted in myself. Another cup of coffee. Write blog. Drive to Montgomery to hunt behind Bird's house. I can see a hen far off in the field and as i creep along a stone wall I catch sight of the top of a tom's tail feathers, fanned out in strut. I crawl against a tree and call softly. I see a hen and another, and another. There are hens everywhere but i can't get a clear view of the tom. I call and wait. Nothing. I wait over an hour, hoping to get a shot or at least hear him gobble. Not a peep. Eventually I move off making a loop around the property. I never see another turkey. On my way out of the woods at 11:45 am a hawk dive bombs my head and almost takes my hat off. I look up to see her nest 40 feet up in a tree. It's an incredible sight. The noon whistle blows as i unload my 12 ga. and get in the car. End Day One.

RELIGIOPATH

2006-05-01T07:41:00.000-04:00

Shewho and I went back and forth. BB and I did the same. Then, one day i was talked into being in this underground movie being shot by Chuck's wife Nona. There had been a big shift in the community of drug takers on the LES. Once they reached their 30's many of the more serious users went on the wagon. Nona was was one of the pioneers in this climb up the 12 steps of sobriety. She, along with Sailor Ricky Kern and many of the better looking junkies and speed freaks went to meetings, got tattoos and had a lot of sex amongst themselves. Chuck and i were accepted by the group and God bless 'em they never tried to turn us. Someone had to keep the torch burning. We filled some sort of vicarious role in this bunch. At picnics we had our separate beer cooler and stash of pot. They may have been having more sex than us, but we still got high. Tattoos were about even.
Nona was shooting this film- DIRTY down at Max. Fish, a bar on Ludlow St., where Chuck and i now worked the door. As I waited for my shot, a pretty little redhead came up to me and asked if i wanted coffee and a bagel? This was Dr. Stripper. Following the government's example of making sure someone is well enough to execute, I'd just about gotten to the point where I felt comfortable in our relationship to break with Baby-Baby. Shewho was seeing someone else (who she'd eventually marry) and the redhead seemed like just the excuse I needed to jump both ships. In restrospect I can see how stupid this all was. At the time i thought it made sense. I hit the water paddling.
Dr. S was in the program and following my sober friends' lead in giving up things, i decided I would give up all this philandering. I had no desire to stop drinking or smoking, but cheating was something i could do without. It was also at this time i began work on my first memoir- RELIGIOPATH. I was about to turn 40, had a 22 year old girlfriend, who had just moved into my new place on 7&C (after my free ride ending on 6&A), and realized it was time to take stock. My job at the Fish paid me barely enough to survive, so everyday i walked down to Spring and B'way, to PAPER offices, sat down at the IBM and started banging out the story. Dr. S was also a wannabe writer and this inspired me to keep up. The band had broken up. I'd begun doing little KK paintings on book covers and we were about to do our first LGM funeral for the late Richard Hoffman, whose apartment i now rented. RH is tattooed just above a lotus flower on my lower back. The future looked good through my rose colored glasses. What did I know?

HOW TO DRAW A TURKEY

2006-04-30T10:41:00.000-04:00

For those of you who don't get the reference, the title refers to the recent documentary about artist Ray Johnson- HOW TO DRAW A BUNNY. Ray was a bit of wierdo, with an up and down career, plenty of artworld friends, who had nothing to do with anything close to playing by the rules. I didn't know him but he was in the EV while I was there. A few years back he'd had enough, went out to a bridge near his Long island home, and jumped. One of his signature images was a wide eyed rabbit.
Yesterday Christmo the elder, Mother Star and Brother Smokey came across the New England hills to attend our Aunt Bobbie Devine's funeral here in Kerhonkson. I told them i'd attend only if Shewho (who was scheduled for a visit) didn't show. By 11:00 am I found myself teary eyed in the family pew. Funerals are one of the few places where Smokey and i can still be the youngsters in the room. I wasn't that sad, but i find it difficult not to get sucked in when the rest of the room is sobbing. Aunt Bobbie was missed by all. We had some cold cuts, coffee and cake afterward and I went home and fell asleep with a stomach ache. Star called and said Smokey had a queasey gut also. I think it was the ham.
I laid on the couch into the evening, watching TV. At about midnight I went to bed. Then, at 3 am I woke up with a start, the sound of a two stroke ATV whining in my ear. I looked out the window and saw the 10 foot flame of the neighbor's bonfire. The ATV circled it mindlessly. In my half sleep my first thought was to load the gun and pick him off in the fire light. My stomach was turning and my breath smelled like death. Thinking bettter of murder, I called the cops. Now i couldn't get back to sleep. For some reason i thought of Ray Johnson, wishing there was a local bridge high enough to give me some peace. Must've been that funeral.
Recently I've started guitar lessons. I hate it. After playing by ear for 4 years, writing song after song, I'm back at square one, stumbling over the frets and sounding like a 10 year old with his first guitar. It sucks to be reminded just how little you know. I feel worn out, rundown, squeezed through the ringer. Then, just to make it worse, i went on a website- ST911.org.- Scholars for Truth. These eggheads posit the theory that the 911 attacks were planned by our government and even the towers and WTC #7 were rigged with explosive squibs by George Bush's brother's security co. (who just happened to have the WTC contract). I usually don't go in for this kind of conspiracy theory stuff, but....... Could it be? Maybe it wasn't just the ham turning my stomach.
Tomorrow is opening day of turkey season. I have a drawing hanging in my kitchen of a running tom turkey. It's done in crayon on brown paper. I did it in 1963, copied from a hunting magazine, years before i even saw a turkey. How could i have known that turkey hunting would become a passion equal to my art? For the next month I'll get up before dawn, and hit the woods until noon. Over the years an old student of mine- Eddie, has video taped me hunting, holding churches, and talking about my work, documenting my appoach to lifestyle as art. Someday it will become some sort of little documentary about a guy who had plenty of artworld friends, had nothing to do with playing by the rules, was a bit of a wierdo, wrote this blog and lived for turkey season every year. Guess I better go buy some shotgun shells. If nothing's gobbling, the neighbors are fair game.

LA FAMILIA

2006-04-29T07:36:00.000-04:00

Despite of what BB felt about my little circle of cohorts, for lack of a better word i considered them friends. I had stopped showing under Christmo but hadn't stopped curating. I'd even curated a group show of my various psuedonyms- Richard Mauwra, Kristan Kohl, and MO David, called HETERONYMIC, at Hallwalls in Buffalo. Cathy Howe, the director was one of my few supporters, and a year later she asked me to curate another show. This time I decided to organize it solely based on friendship. Like PAYOLA, the common denominator was something other than my subjective eye involving artwork. If there was a person whom I considered a friend and they in turn considered themselves an artist, I invited them to participate. I called the show NEPOTISM.
Unlike any other group show I'd ever heard of I paid the artists. I even paid Gary Okie 50 bucks to use his name and head shot, and I did the work. Cathy scored a grant for the show and printed up a catalog. Izzy and Chuck wrote essays and every artist had a picture of themselves in the catalog. Then Cathy invited me to do a church and a Purple Geezus show in Buffalo. Once again the caravan of 70's gas guzzlers left Manhattan for the hinterlands. Today, with the internet, everyone looks the same. Kids get off the bus from Bugfuck, Ohio looking the same as the Brooklyn hipster with a bad junk habit. Back then the Lower East Side musician or artist looked marketly different from the rubes of Buffalo. "Look Ma! MTV people!"
Cathy put us all up at a funky hotel with a bar in the basement. Although i'd included both Shewho and BB in the show, i didn't invite either on the trip. I needed to administer to my flock and could use a break from my mess of a love life. I hung the show and we did the PG gig to a less than enthusiastic crowd. What plays in NY should sometimes stay in NY. The band went looking to score and it being Buffalo and June 1st, it started to snow. By the time the church service was scheduled there was six inches on the ground. The intrepid heroin searchers got lost and ended up at Niagra Falls along with Chuck and all the church programs. The whole thing was a complete disaster. I think four people showed up for church.
Big Nose Julie was from Buffalo and had showed up for the HETERONYMIC opening, ruining that one for me. This time a stranger came up to me and introduced himself. "Don't you remember me?" he asked. I admited I did not. " I was Julie's roommate in SF." This was Julie #1's roommate. He's the one who told me she was now a district attorney in Northern California. There must be some vortex created by the falls that sucks the Julies (or their emissaries) into Buffalo. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if Cookie was going to show up. I called BB and told her I loved her. I called Shewo and told her I loved her. Then I went back to the hotel, watched the band shoot up, packed up the trucks and cars and we all returned to Manhattan. That was the last time I was in Buffalo.

PS- Everyone was pleasantly surprised over Gary Okie's cool little paintings. I had another psuedonym.

THE TAIL OF THE SELF HATING CHRISTIAN

2006-04-28T08:19:00.000-04:00

That hellish night in 1989 should have broken BB and I up. In fact it had the opposite effect. We tried to prove to each other that it was an anomoly and we could work it all out. One of the things i did from my end was start seeing Shewho. I couldn't bring myself to break up with Baby-Baby and once again got involved with a woman with a boyfriend. Only this time i knew the boyfriend, making it that much worse. I rationalized my duplicity with hot Shewho sex and by becoming a more solicitous man on the homefront. Maybe this was the way to go. Of course i was kidding myself. I WAS getting really good at that.
One of the members of the congregation was Izzy Stein, the publisher of PAPER magazine. We had become friends and he asked me to write a column for his mag. PAPER was what I would consider a trendy homosexual fashion rag. They covered club kids shenanigans and the downtown NYC scene in all its vacuousness. It wasn't what i would consider a perfect fit for me, but what the hell? It wasn't like any other magazine publisher was inviting me to write. "Write what you want." Izzy said "Maybe a religious column would be good." This guy was crazier than I thought. The 90's were right on the doorstep. For the next ten years i would write a column called THE HOLY CORNER for PAPER. Here's one. I think you'll recognise the style.

GRUNTING INTO THE FUNKIES
Life in the secular world: Banned from teaching for giving LSD to my students, I'm forced to work with my back not my brain. I'm currently building a spiral staircase in a large building- the stairway to Hell. This, combined with the fact that a certain assoc. editor (Chuck) told me last month's column was too long, too subjective, had nothing to do with religion, and even the proof readers didn't know what the fuck I was talking about, has put me in a funk.
Lets change the name of the rest of the century to the Funkies. Funkie-one, Funkie-two, etc. I think I've seen enough to know what's ahead: bosses. Bosses who pay and bosses who don't; bosses who flatter and cajole, exploit and demean and promise one more day on the site...one more day. The Boss of the Funkies has us by the shorthairs.
Life in the religious world: They've ground up the bones of Junnipera Serra and the Catholic church is selling the macabre relics at $200 a bottle. Cooler than a chunk of the Berlin wall and twice as holy. Cardinal O'Connor has verified the exsistence of the Devil in Ozzy Osborne's music and Elizabeth Clare Prophet and her sect are being evicted from their Montana doomsday caves for inadequate plumbing. If the world ends why would you need a toilet?
The Funkies ain't gonna let up. The boss will tell you who's the Devil, who's a saint and who ain't. Well this ectomorphic, caucasian, self-hating Christian biped carpenter calls bullshit. I've never pretended to be scholorly, objective, or even comprehendible for that matter. The pragmatic development of certain skills implicit to my survival in a self-created hostile environment has severely curbed my cerebral development. My brain will never get big enough to figure out its own existence. The first thing I learned is I'm not alone. The last thing I'll learn is I'm totally alone. So if you want to give me a little advice you'll find me on the spiral stair case, five steps below limbo, one step out of Hell. Funky.

*Reprinted without permission from PAPER magazine.

BLACK MONDAY

2006-04-27T08:50:00.000-04:00

When the old man's company went public he gave each one of his children 500 shares of stock. This stock did amazingly well throughout the 80's. When things got tight I would sell a few shares or more often put things on my Visa cash reserve account. As long as the stock stayed above a certain point the bill never came due. In 1989 the market crashed. The next day Mr. Margin came calling. My NYSF grant never saw the light of day. The margin call was the exact amount of the grant. By the time I got back to NYC I was completely broke. Easy come, easy go.
BB was having a show at Postmasters gallery when it was on Ave. A. It was a big deal and she looked to me to be the supportive boyfriend. I fell a little short on this front. Even though my efforts had shifted into playing music, i still wanted the acceptance of the the art world and it was not forthcoming. The couple who ran Postmasters had looked at my work and turned up their noses. I, in turn, copped an attitude. My glum mood spilled over into Baby-Baby's opening and subsequently into the after party at my apartment. By the time we went to bed it was down right chilly. I was just being an asshole.
My history of violence had never been a secret between us. She knew all about Honey and even the slap of Big Nose Julie. I had confessed all, not wanting to repeat any of it. A particular tidbit I had told her about Honey tossing cold water on me in my sleep BB had tucked away, recognising it may come in useful at some point. About 2 am, deep in dreamland, a spagetti pot full of ice water hit me in the face. I don't know if I was awake or still asleep, but my arms were working. My fist caught BB square in the eye before the bell even sounded. Furniture went flying. The TV crashed to the floor. Her long fingernails scratched my arms. Her nose was bleeding. I had my girlfriend in a death grip before the cobwebs cleared enough for me to realize what was going on. I wanted to kill her and in the blink of an eye could have snapped her neck and gone right back to sleep. The rage I felt is indescribable.
By morning we lay exhausted on blood encrusted sheets. BB's eyes were swollen shut. She looked like she'd been in a car wreck. We both were so horrified by our actions, neither of us knew what to do. My rage was only equalled by my guilt. The series of events that led up to this seemed so inconsequential, and out of balance with the place we now found ourselves. A crushing sorrow fell over us. All I wanted to do was crawl in a corner and die. If I've learned anything over the years it's just how fragile everything can be. Like a fucking butterfly wing.

THE KNIFE OF THE SAINT

2006-04-26T09:09:00.000-04:00

Shewho and I tip-toed around our obvious mutual attraction for a while. She was involved with a friend of mine from back in SF and even though BB and I didn't live together we were definitely trying to build a solid reletionship. For the time being it remained just flirtation. The band had recorded and was shopping a cassette (CDs hadn't been invented). We decided to hold church services only when someone in the congregation died. The buzzards were circling. We wouldn't have to wait long. I'd recieved an NEA grant in 1984 and again in '87. Miamigo, who had landed a teaching job at SFAI, invited me back to Cali to teach. The timing seemed good to get out of town. The EV was getting smaller and smaller.
Even though I'd lectured numerous times at the art institute, I'd never had an official teaching job. Thankfully, the administration turned over enough times to allow me to slip under the radar. They'd forgotten who I was. It didn't take long for me to blow it and get kicked out of The Bunker by allowing my class to paint a mural on the white walls. Not wanting to impose on Miamigo, I rented a room at Bishop McCloud's youth hostel. The room came with a lovely young lady who happened to be the daughter of a the head of the Canadian Hell's Angels, who was currently serving life for killing two Mounties. We hit it off and decided to split the cost of the bed. Rule of thumb was any indescretion over 50 miles outside of town wasn't considered cheating. I was completely innocent. The Bishop looked after the Hell's Angel princess and in turn the HA's kept an eye out for him. He insisted the FBI had him under surviellance, because of his massive blotter acid art collection (which I wrote off as paranoia). Turned out he was right. In the ensuing years he'd be arrested twice and beat it twice. The Bishop had good lawyers in the family.
One night we sat in the living room, listening to vintage SF garage rock and testing the blotter when The Bishop handed me a large knife in an ancient wooden and cloth weave scabbard. "What's this?" I asked. "Junnipera Serra's knife." he said smiling. Father Junnipera Serra was a Spanish missionary who is considered the founder of the old SF mission. I held in my hands the blade of the man who was the emissary of the Pope and Spanish empire in the new world. How much indiginous blood stained the steel? "Where'd you get it?" I asked slipping it from the sheath. The Bishop's eyes twinkled. "I was a student at Santa Clara. We got drunk one night and broke in the museum. Like it?" That was an understatement. "I'll trade you a Kristan Kohl painting." I proposed. I think the thing creeped out The Bishop. He agreed to the trade. The next day I recieved word that I'd been awarded a NYS Foundation grant and bought 12 squares of blotter (6 dosed, 6 plain paper). I had idea for a class project called "Acid Test". Could my students tell which contained the LSD?

DOORMAN

2006-04-25T08:11:00.000-04:00

Doorman is one of those jobs particularly germaine to NYC. It probably started with the velvet rope bullshit of Studio 54 and spread from there. Any half way popular club became even more so if you put out the rope. It was all an illusion. Tell the people they can't get in and that's just what they want to do. Chuck was king of the doormen. He worked some of the prime spots in the EV- 8BC, Carmelitas, Underchine, etc. These places actually were fun and hip, but the doorman was mostly window dressing, a glorified ticket taker. I would go to all these places and hang with Chuck. The first night he worked Underchine the manager spied a bunch of us heading for the toney place and leaned into Chuck, advising him "See these guys? These are the types we DON'T want here. OK?" Chuck smiled, nodded to the manager. And gave us the VIP treatment through the door. Friends always got in.
Forget that TV image of the giant LA bruiser with a clipboard on steroids. In the EV those guys were called security. Sometimes there was a whole crowd working the door- a pretty girl with the ubiquitous "guest list", a couple of security men, and the minor celebrity doorman. You couldn't deny the power the doorman held. He could part the crowd like the Red Sea, letting a hot girl (or boy) or a crowd of personal friends in the front door, clutching a mess of free drink tickets in their sweaty palms. My first doorman job was at the club 4D. Some enterprising moneymen wanted to export the scene up to the east 50's. They hired the owners of 8BC to run the place, who in turn hired half the EV to work there. It didn't last long. It was about as hip as The Olive Garden on a Tues. night. Some things you can't export without them spoiling in transit.
The next spot i worked was Hotel Amazon. This was a Friday night hotspot held in an old school on Rivington St. The music was hip hop and the crowd was a mix of white, black and Puerto Rican hipsters carrying box cutters and guns. I worked the inner door with a big security guy by my side. Leonard Abrams (the EV Eye publisher) along with a cokehead name Whazzu rented the place and probably pocketed 10K every week. They even hired Cookie to work one of the many bars. It was boring standing on your feet all night, trying to keep kids from bum rushing, but it was an easy $100, and i did get a bit of the minor celeb. trickle down. When it was slow I could chat up the ladies. One in particular kept showing up, batting her pretty brown eyes.. You may recognise a pattern here. Her name was Shewhocannotbenamed. Trouble was on the horizon.

CHURCH RETREAT

2006-04-24T08:53:00.000-04:00

I always had a pretty good built in asshole detector. Living in NYC, it was always turned on. You can't pick your fans or your congregation, so now with a band and a church, a lot of new "friends" had come into the picture. I felt most of them were pretty good folk. Baby-Baby would disagree. Her detector's needle was always in the red at church or PG shows. "You really like those people?" she would ask incredulously. I had to admit I really didn't know most of them, but i was willing to give them all a chance. I reminded her that our Lord had associated with theives and hookers. "Yes, but he tried to save their souls, not join the party." She had a point there.
When the weather turned hot i decided to invite a bunch of my new buds up to Wolf Lake for a weekend party. The band brought their equipment (musical and otherwise). I was driving a 1971 Caddy that we loaded up with amps, drums, guitars, booze, drugs, and freaks. It was a throw back to 1967. A girl name Zoe in a flower bikini, carrying a pink boom box and bottle of tequila nodded in the back seat, as the men folk rolled joints and marveled at trees and roadkill. Baby-Baby sat next to me, quietly steaming. The artist Buddy Orange and his pregnant wife drove a big station wagon filled with more members of the congregation- Sammy Morita, Karen Black, Karen Carpenter, Carolyn Kennedy, Gary Okie and Dave East. Some rode motorcycles or piled in alienist Bond and Ruby Ray's van and headed north. All in all there were over 30 of us sweating and swaying in that 20X20 cabin by night fall. Even little brother Duke showed up. "Here. Eat this." I said handing him a tiny square of paper. I was always taught to share my toys with my siblings.
The hot tub was filled, dominoes laid out, beers cracked, the band set up, the girl with the pink boom box danced, I put the meat on the 'Q and Baby- Baby cleaned up after all of them, acted the perfect hostess and quietly stewed, waiting for it all to be over. Roger Corman would have been impressed at the gathering. Gary Okie took one of the boats out for a little pre-dawn fishing and and tipped it over losing his brand new video camera. I tossed most of the previous night's dinner in the laurel bushes, making a spectacle of myself. Someone scrawled a note on the front door. QUIET PLEASE! MINISTER PUKING. Pregnant Allie Orange bitched and ran Buddy's ass ragged, her hormones raging. She was carrying the future. No one gave a shit.
In retrospect Baby-Baby was right about most of them. They were selfish, self-centered primadonnas who cared only about who was buying the next round. They didn't help with the dishes, left their wet bathing suits laying all over, drank half a beer then opened a fresh one, flushed tampons down the toilet, didn't kick in for the food or gas, spilled wine on the old man's Malcolm Forbes quotation book, and left menstrual blood and cigarette burns all over the sheets. But hell, nobody's perfect. This was the first of many retreat and i for one had a great time. Sure I lost my pants and Allie Orange grated on me as well, but remember - blessed are the forgiving. BB moped the foor in resigned silence, rolling her eyes when I defended the group. It was tough being the Rev.'s girlfriend. I didn't deserve her. Now if I could only find little brother Duke.

FARM PLATES

2006-04-23T09:48:00.000-04:00

On this cold rainy Sunday it seems a good time to pull the history train into the station and address the congregation. And, let me just say i agree with a congregant who writes: "No comments? If you had any readers there should be a few..." Where are those folks who used to love to argue amongst each other, regarding my lack of literary skill? Do I have to turn on the Mr. Anonymous button? Come on people. Am I boring you? Too self serving? Too self effacing? Dozing off with my personal history high (low) points? Or is it that I'm just so good at what I do, you read it and and smile to yourself feeling there's nothing you can add? That should get you to hit the buttton.
Recently I've been spending quite a bit of time working on the church. The windows are almost all in. The floor is being patched. On Friday i put the sill in the front door. With the addition of my paintings and objects, the space is transforming into a kind of artsy chapel. A stuffed coyote with a voodoo doll dangling two of my braids between his teeth, leaps from the altar in front of four large colorful collages. The pews are set in their original spots, (discovered when I washed the floor). Ray Gilkey's organ has been polished and plugged in. I'm going to get a sign for out by the road. THE CHURCH OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN- Baptisms, wedding and funerals. Full cradle to grave service. Book now.
Good neighbor John (not gay neighbor John) drove his truck up the other day to show off the ultimate in rural living status symbol- Farm license plates. As everyone knows i live for these kind of things. I adopted two roads in order to see those signs everyday as i drive by, read the Boy Scout Handbook cover to cover in order to get my hunting guide's license and spent a year in seminary just so i could hang that sheep skin on the wall of my church. I was jealous. GNJ knew this and gloated as his new plates sparkled in the sun. Cheapo insurance, a dollar a year in registration fees and the beautiful simplicity of FARM on the bottom of the plate. Who wouldn't want a set of these?
I've got some asparagus coming up (all that's left of Mrs. Yummy's garden), and Paris and Nicole could count as livestock. The front lawn is more hay than grass, and after my 9000 mile trip the Neon is sounding more like a tractor everyday. So what if I only own an acre of land? If the church can be art why can't this place be considered a farm? GNJ said they didn't even ask how much land he had. Monday I'm going to step in some cat shit, put Ray Gilkey's hat on, put some asparagus in my pocket and go to DMV. Jealous yet?

PAYOLA

2006-04-22T09:32:00.000-04:00

The reason Baby-Baby was sitting at that front table all alone was her boyfriend happened to be playing bass in the band up on the stage. I left with her phone number and within a matter of weeks the boyfriend was out of the picture. We had actually met a couple of years earlier. BB was an artist and held down a job as the desk person at one of the more successful galleries- International With Monument. I remembered. She didn't. She had completely blown me off when i came in with my slides under my arm. I didn't hold it against her. I had done the same thing to almost everyone who came in my gallery with the same agenda. I just dealt with it differently.
Being sensitive to any artist looking to show work, I decided to present an option to anyone coming in with slides. It would go something like this- They would ask "Are you considering any new artists?"
I would respond "No. I'm sorry we aren't"
"Can you at least just look at my slides and resume?""No." (It's very uncomfortable to look at someone's work while they are standing in front of you.) "But, I'll tell you what i will do. I'll rent you wall space at $30 per square foot."
Blank stare. Then I would proceed to tell them about a show I was putting together called PAYOLA. For a minimum of $30 you could show a small work in a group show. Want to show a larger painting? Pony up the cash.
"Don't you want to see my slides first?"
"No. That's OK. You can show anything you want."
I made about $3000 that month and got reviewed by the Village Voice. They said it was no worse than any carefully curated group show.
My relationship with BB was a good one on many levels. She was from the same area upstate who, like me, had left to become an artist. Her Italian family ran a florist shop and sold Xmas trees around the holidays. She was a classic beauty, with dark hair and eyes and a good teeth. She also had a prominent nose. BB had a much better show career than I. She was connected and it made me jealous. Even though I was stepping back from that world i still wanted its approval. It was a constant point of contention between us. We didn't live together but rarely spent the night apart. She kept her apartment on E11th and I kept mine on E6th. The band was happening. The church was growing. Summer was coming. I had a new girlfriend. Maybe a Wolf Lake retreat was in order.

BIRTH OF THE LGM

2006-04-21T08:23:00.000-04:00

The Church of the Little Green Man was named after The Green Man bar in the movie Wicker Man, which we happened to be watching that day in my apartment. Chuckles and i were the prime functionarys. Chuck made a few calls and we found a place that would host our first service. Gary Okie ran a club called Darinka on First and First. I called Bimmy, Hoss and Horrible Uncle Pee-Pee and we had the church band. We rigged a dollar burning flame, xeroxed a couple of dozen programs and invites, wrote a hymn or two and we were ready to petition the Lord once again.
The last thing I wanted to do was some parody of a church. There was already churches like The Church of the Sub Genius and Performance art ministers like Rev. Billy, who filled that role. I wanted this to be a "real" church...whatever that meant. It was the Xmas holidays by the time we held our first service and judging from the enthusiastic congregation we had hit on something. No one knew what to expect and we had no idea what we were doing, so it seemed like a perfect fit. The money burned. The people filed in and took their seats. The Casio SK 50 was fired up and we took the altar just about the time that acid was kicking in.
BNJulie and i had finally called it a day. She wouldn't leave Rochester and it just didn't seem fair to me, now that I was single. Those pheromones had done a number on me. Whatever you call it- love, lust, need, when it went away I took it hard. The final scene had the two of us standing in the pouring rain on E8th St., after I had discovered Rochester was still in the picture. She was great at turning on the tears when cornered. I wasn't having it and let loose with a bitch slap. That was it. The tears stopped and it would be years before I saw her again. I blamed myself for being too weak to contain my emotions (and right hand). I don't know who she blamed. Probably me, also.
Luckily the distraction of starting a church and a rock band took my mind off of my miserable love life. i still painted Kristan Kohl paintings and Chuck wrote an article for High Times about the discovery of a cache KK paintings found in a bowling alley in Millbrook. She did more work dead than alive. Purple Geezus played all the local venues- CBGBs, The Palladium, The Cat Club, and any number of bars and one night stands that would have us. When the holidays were over, the church went on hiatus. Then, one night playing a small seedy place called The Love Club I met a girl sitting by herself at the front table. "Hi, I'm Christmo." I said sitting down. "Pleased to meet you." she said sticking out her manicured hand. "I'm Baby-Baby."

CHOICES

2006-04-20T08:35:00.000-04:00

By the time the New Museum show rolled around MO David,Inc. was out of business. The NM show included Ulay and Marina Abramovitz, Linda Montano, James Lee Byars, Buddy Orange and Kristan Kohl. They showed evey painting KK (I) had done in a two year period. It was my first museum show and a big deal. The disappointment of the gallery closing was tempered by the excitement of the upcoming show. All the Christmos came into the city for this one. Even Milawyer showed up. I blew them all off to get laid. Sorry.
Like the feeling I had at Woodstock in '69, I was sure this was the beginning of something big. And, just like Woodstock, the show CHOICES was essentially the end of me showing within the institution. I had laid it all out- the context of gallery, the content of paintings. It was politely recieved and everyone moved on. The EV art scene was declared dead and galleries began closing at an accelerated rate. A few of the more commercial spaces moved to Broadway, but the spark of the EV had been extinguished by gentrification, and 2 year commercial leases doubling and tripling. Chelsea was still a few years away from becoming a player. It was time to try something new.
The art scene may have been dead but the party was far from over in the EV. I had recieved an eviction notice from the landlord because he had discovered I was subletting Oursler's apartment. I promptly ceased paying rent and waited for the knock at the door. I didn't know it then, but the knock wouldn't come for four years. Without having the burden of rent, I worked sporatically, and began writing songs. After a couple of phone calls i hooked up with a band willing to try my stuff. Two rehearsals later Purple Geezus was formed. BNJulie couldn't decide whether to break up with me or Rochester. Eventually she decided to stay with him and lie to me. I bought it hook, line and sinker. You believe what you want to believe.
I stashed all the KK paintings at my folks' and Bird's place and went back to my empty, free apartment. Cookie forgave me for my cheating ways and we stayed close. I would cry on her shoulder about my suspicions regarding BNJulie and she would tell me it would all work out. When I left, she took two little dolls in her grasp, and stuck pins in their eyeballs. One afternoon a bunch of us were snorting speed, shooting heroin, dropping acid, drinking hard whiskey and watching TV at my apartment when someone had the idea of forming a church. I was the obvious choice for minister. Someone said "We can charge a dollar to get in." Then another voice spoke up. "NO. They can BURN a dollar."

KK 1952-1985

2006-04-19T08:52:00.000-04:00

I had succeeded in creating this art dealer persona to the extent that few people in NY had any idea that I was an artist. I had not shown any work in NYC and was feeling the need to switch gears. I made the rounds of the gallerys to no avail. No one had any interest in showing an art dealer from California with a degree in theology and a dead cow. People want to keep things simple. If they know you as one thing they don't want to confuse the issue. My ego was suffering under the strain of chatting up the rich weekenders cruising the EV in search of a bargain. I decided to give myself a show, but not as Christmo. I invented a fictitious artist- Kristan Kohl.
Kristan Kohl was a German woman, painter of the post-pattern abstraction school. Having her be a German would allow me to make excuses for her absence at openings. I ordered some high end stretcher bars and canvas and went to work. I'd never painted before so I had to keep things simple. I made KK a monochrome painter. Then something strange happened. I found that i really enjoyed doing these paintings. I put a circle here, a squiggle there, added another color. Before i knew it KK had some style going on. Her work was maturing.
I told my friend Chuckles the Clown, who happened to be an art critic at the EV EYE, about my ruse and he promised to review the show and not narc me out. I actually sold a small painting. Then I decided to kill KK off. Again, with the help of Chuckles who wrote an obit, I started representing "the estate of KK". I put an ad in Artforum and kept the scam going. KK now being dead, her prices went up. I moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan, scoring Tony Oursler's old pad on E6th and A. BNJulie moved over to E11th and we continued our tryst. Now, she was the only one cheating and i was trying my damndest to remove Rochester boy from the picture. Then, one day i got a call from Marcia Tucker at The New Museum. She wanted to include KK in a show. My cover was blown.

ORGAN DONOR

2006-04-18T09:03:00.000-04:00

I've put churches in empty building shells, bars, strip clubs and even churches. In every case you need an organ. Usually the Casio SK 50. Yesterday I put an organ in my church. And not just any organ. Slick bought Ray Gilkey's organ, and not having any place to put it brought it over to the church. Two keyboards, pedals, stops and a whole bunch of colored buttons and levers don this celestial music maker. It's only fitting that I've spent the past week emptying the contents of the church, mopping the floors and putting in windows on the south side, deciding it was time to start using it, not as a church, but as my studio. I hung the large collages, set up coyote and turkey sculptures and readied empty floor space in order to make new work.
For a good amount of time I've resisted using the church for anything other than storage as I picked away at the repairs, planning to someday hold services. But as the years started piling up, and the congregation moved on, I realized maybe using this building for it's original purpose wasn't in the cards. Why shouldn't I utilize this beautiful space for something other than a gathering "for the quickening of mortal souls"? Why not go right back to my artistic roots and set up a traditional studio, a display gallery and still have enough space to do a wedding or funeral if need be? Then, when we plugged in the Ray Gilkey Memorial Organ it all coalesced. Why had I waited so long? Maybe for this very moment.
Light is streaming in from the southern sky, bathing the wood floors that I continue to mop, removing years of grease and dirt layered on the surface. Raw plaster scars, hidden and preserved under crumbling wallpaper, form veined fingers running floor to cieling. Everything glows in the golden light. A couple more windows. A few floor patches. Keep cleaning. I can feel an appreciative sigh emitting from the timbers. I touch the ivorys of the organ and it moans off key. Ray's presence fills the space. Don't worry old timer. I'll take good care of your organ. I press the button marked Bosa Nova. Ray would be pleased.

THE THREE JULIES

2006-04-17T09:02:00.000-04:00

There was another girlfriend I didn't mention- Julie number one. We never lived together and it only lasted a few months. In fact she wouldn't even warrent mention if her name hadn't been Julie. J#1 was a radio stringer and law student from LA. She was tall, skinny, and had a big mop of soft curly hair. We were a mismatch from the start. I would tell her of my work and plans to go to seminary and she would either glaze over or go into lawyer mode and cross examine me until I cried. We eventually broke up with no hard feelings. I heard she was a big shot DA in California.
Julie #2 (Cookie) you already know about and Julie #3 (Big Nose Julie) lived over the gallery in NY. It was lust at first sight with BNJulie. I'd never heard of pheromones at the time, but that's what must have been happening. From the first time we swapped spit we couldn't take our hands off each other. She worked for a design firm in Soho, dabbled with the camera and modeled once in a while. I had a girlfriend in Brooklyn. She had a boyfriend in Rochester. A tall, lithe Polish/Mexican mix, she wore her hair close cropped and favored wife beater T-shirts with black bras and of course that beautiful big nose. She'd come down to the gallery around closing, her bra strap would fall off her shoulder and I'd make some excuse about going to an opening, leaving Cookie watching TV in Brooklyn.
I can't say I never cheated before. I'd had one night stand strays before, even as far back as Sweets. But this was my first "affair". Two women. Two birthday cakes. Two Xmas presents. Two storys to keep straight. Same name. At first it was a blast. The EV was wide open. Afterhours clubs, gallery openings, the odd rich person party, drugs and booze everywhere. You almost needed two girlfriends just to keep up. I stopped doing coke and switched to meth. One tiny line of speed did more than a gram of coke. I had to save my penneys. Speed was much more economical. At 32 I was so full of myself I felt I was indestructable.
Then, as anyone whose ever seen Behind the Music knows, the good times never last. Show after show at the gallery flatlined. I'd get a little press, maybe sell one or two pieces, but never made enough to get out of the red. Being a dealer in NYC was a bit different than my let's pretend world of SF. The "real" artworld was a scary place. I showed good artists, some who are very successful today, but back then i couldn't give it away. I hired an assistant- Mr. B. Nickass, who I thought could help with my presentation, and I went back to working carpentry to pay for him. He had his own agenda AND he wouldn't sweep the floor. He's a prof. at Columbia today. Cookie and I broke up after i fell asleep over at BNJ's place and came home at dawn. The cracks were becoming visable.

1984

2006-04-16T10:54:00.000-04:00

My one and only role as an actor was as Winston Smith in the high school production of George Orwell's 1984. When the year finally rolled around I looked for similarities of fact with fiction. Of course I had to pay homage to Mr. Orwell in titleing one of my performances 1984. 2 plus 2 is 5. True story.

Cookie and I got a four floor walk up in Brooklyn. Our nut had gone from $200 to $1000 plus with the move east. The pressure was now on to make a buck. My first show was the artist Stelarc. This Australian was known for having himself suspended from hooks passed through his skin, in various spots around the world. I had shown his photos in SF and figured this was a good show to open with in NYC. I was right. I got a blurb in the Village Voice and steady traffic right out of the gate. I didn't sell anything but was confident this would change once I became more established. One Sunday Cookie sat the gallery while i went upstate to attend a bachelor party for a friend from high school. Bird and Itchy now had two little girls- #1 and #2. It was great to be home.
We spent the day drinking and playing volley ball. When it got dark I was ill prepared for how cold it got. I borrowed a pair of brown overalls and Bird and I went in search of a bar. When we pulled into Montgomery we noticed a big crowd spilling out of Clare's (our favorite teenage drinking spot). I was impressed that Montgomery had become such a party town. It looked like Daytona Beach on Spring Break. I cinched up my baggy overalls and with visions of wet T-shirt contests headed for the front door. Before I knew it a uniformed police officer stepped in my path. "Where do you think you're going?" He asked in that cop way. The question took me by surprise. "To get a drink." I said. "Let's see some ID." he commanded. So this is what the world had come to? Big Brother was now asking to see your papers a block before the bar. Times HAD changed. I was incensed. "I don't have to give you any fucking ID." I responded indignantly. Well sir, we'll just have to see about that.
I was slammed to the ground and handcuffed by a half dozen burly men in Izod shirts and wind breakers. The cop stood by and watched as they stuffed me in the back of a squad car. The cuffs were too tight and I was too drunk to stay quiet. I launched into tirade, pointing out just how unfair it was to stop a citizen bar patron a mile outside the bar and ask for papers when all i wanted was a cold fucking beer, you cocksucking, squirrely dicked, piece of shit, mutherfucking...... Out of the corner of my eye I spied Bird talking solemnly to a cop. "Who's that asshole?" the officer asked. "That's my brother, Christmo." Bird answered shaking his head. "Can't pick your family." the cop said putting his hand sympathetically on my bro's shoulder.
The squad car drove me a full block to the old Academy building and deposited me where I had attended elementary school and helped my grandfather clean those shitty toilets. The cell they put me in was where I had cleaned the erasers. All these fond memories came flooding back. Then i remembered I was in jail. I could hear Bird pleading with the cops to release me. "I know." he agreed "He's an asshole. I know." What the...? I was willing to stay in protest just to prove my point. What would Martin Luther King do? It just wasn't right. What had happened to this town since I'd been gone? Power to the people- esp. the drinking public.
Then Officer MIlo (the guy who asked for my ID) strode up to the bars. "You're lucky you have such a good brother. There was a bomb threat and we'd be within our rights to search you for that bomb....if you get my drift." I didn't say a word. A bomb threat? Huh. Well I guess I really didn't have to stay in jail as as a form of protest against the totalitarian Montgomery police state. Officer Milo unlocked the bars and released me into my brother's custody. I was thirsty and a bit worked up over the whole incident. "We gonna go to Clare's?" I asked innocently. Bird didn't say a word the whole ride back to his house. #1 and #2 were sound asleep. "You know that cell is where we used to clean eraser with Gramp?" I said trying to lighten the mood. Talk to the hand. 2 plus 2 is five.

LAST YEAR I HAD A HEADACHE. BUT I'M ALRIGHT NOW.

2006-04-15T12:07:00.000-04:00

Every denomination had their little quirks. The Franciscans were all hairshirt, flowers and Birkenstocks. The Jesuits were dry eggheads. The Baptists were bloody fire and brimstone and the Presbyterians huggy, covered dish and hot tub folks. I fit in as best i could with everyone and every time I presented a paper i looked upon it as an opportunity to do a little performance. For Hindu class i brought in a goldfish swimming in his bowl, that I carried in a bowling ball bag. I removed the bowl, lit a cigar and launched into a critical diatribe against following gurus. I got a C in that class. I wanted to get a lion and chain him up in the commons, but it would've cost $1000 to rent one from the local lion safari park and I DID want to graduate.
In June of 1983 I decided one year in Seminary was enough. I took my CTS and bolted. The SF gallery was becoming boring and i was searching for something to inspire me. During my period on Holy Hill I had adopted a boy from the Christian Children's Fund. This piece was only about me sending money to the kid and recieving letters, none of the one on one, like with Darrell. After I graduated I stopped sending the money. The period in Seminary dictated the amount of time I would send the checks. Cookie and I had settled into a calm domestic pattern but I wasn't mature enough to appreciate it. I longed for those late night visits to the emergency room and make up sex. I needed a vacation from myself.
In the Fall we flew back east to visit the folks and check out the NYC art scene. I'd heard through the grapevine that NYC artists were establishing a new gallery district in the East Village. When i saw the funky little storefronts bordering Tompkin's Sq. Park I knew this was the place for me. I hustled some funds from an old friend in Woodstock and sent Cookie back to SF to pack up. By the time I'd rented a storefront on E9th and Ave. A and set up shop, the money person got cold feet and left me hanging. Luckily the old man's company had gone public in the 80's and he had the cash to save my ass. By Jan. 1984 MO DAVID, INC.- NYC was open to the public. By luck I'd hit another scene smack on the tip.

PETITION THE LORD

2006-04-14T08:05:00.000-04:00

I applied to Seminary school with my MFA, steaks from my dead cow, the mud from my boot and the blood of seven people. I was honestly surprised when they rejected me, stateing that it seemed to them that far from being a Christian I was anti-Christian. What the....? When I had first climbed Holy Hill in Berkeley and checked into attending Pacific School of Religion, the admissions office lady informed me that with my graduate degree and the tuition I was a shoe-in. So what was the problem?
I called the school to complain. I chose my words carefully. "What the fuck is this all about?" I asked nicely. "You Goddamn people said I was more than qualified. This is complete bullshit. Yes. Yes. Alright. I'll do that." CLICK. I think it was the first time any perspective seminary student had ever kicked up such a fuss. The poor woman in the office informed me that there was an appeals process and that I was more than welcome to make my case in writing. "God bless you, sir." she said fearfully and hung up.
So I did appeal, and to my even greater surprise they now accepted me with a full scholarship into a one year program called a CTS (Certificate for Theological Studies). This would allow me to study in any one of the ten seminaries under the auspices of The Graduate Theological Union. It would also be my choice which level of study i chose. I could hang with the new post-grads. in Old Testament class at PSR or trade up to study Advaita Vedanta Hinduism with the Doc. Divs. at the Jesuit School. It was perfect for me. Because i was basically doing this as a performance, a year was a good section of time and after that i could decide whether or not to continue on for a M.Div or D.Div.
Every day i took the BART from SF to Berkeley and went to class. I read the Bible, stopped smoking pot (in order to retain a little of it), wrote long papers and talked God. I dug it. Although I enjoyed my time in grad. school at SFAI it quickly ceased being a challenge academically. I hadn't been to a "real" school since UT Knoxville. I wanted to see if I could cut it. PSR was a real test for all those brain cells doing the work of their fried brothers. I struggled to keep a B average in order to retain my scholarship. If the subject ever came up I would always state that neither was I Christian nor Anti-Christian. I was a free agent. Take your best shot.

SF CONFIDENTIAL

2006-04-13T09:19:00.000-04:00

It didn't take long before Cookie had moved into the basement with me. She was a college student at State, well read, smart, pretty, with a husky voice and a ready giggle. I was a lucky man. But most importantly, Cookie was mellow. We didn't even argue, let alone get in screw driver throwing fist fights. She went to class. I picked up carpentry jobs and scheduled shows in the gallery. She wanted a tattoo, so i had the cow's brand tattooed on her leg. True to her name , she got a job selling cookies downtown and then quit and got a better job at The Condor Club as a cocktail waitresss.
The Condor was a strip club at the corner Broadway and Columbus. They hired a lot of students to strip and wait tables, but the real star was Carol Doda (and her giant breasts). Carol was a silicone pioneer and the whole place was built around her tourist friendly fake tits and sequined piano burlesque act. The manager was a guy named The Beard, a surly MF who would constantly harangue Cookie to "Stand up straight. Stick 'em out! Ya got a great pair. Show 'em to that folks!" I told her he was just trying to improve her posture. She DID have a great pair!
Like the local woman who kidnapped a corpse, whom she fell in love with and drove across the country , staying in motels, having nightly sex with the decaying snatched body, the story of The Beard's demise is classic SF Confidential. After a frantic call from Cookie, I drove my little MG over to North Beach to pick her up and the place was swarming with cops. Seems the Beard had talked one of the younger strippers onto Carol's shiny piano after closing the night before. The piano was rigged to decend from the cieling with Carol swinging her famous mammeries. The Beard had mounted the girl and the piano and must have accidentally hit the switch and was either too drunk or too high to notice as the baby grand made it's ascent. His big head got caught between the ivorys and cieling. The poor girl got caught under The Beard until the fire department came in with the jaws of life.
Cookie gave her notice that night and never went back. We were doing OK financially and now she could afford to concentrate on school. I had applied to Seminary in Berkeley and was awaiting their descision. I realized just how ignorant i was about theology and also wanted to have a credential of sorts, if I was to continue with the religious themes in my work. We pulled into the driveway in front of the gallery and Cookie climbed out of the MG, a bit slumped. I didn't miss a beat. "Stand up straight. Stick 'em out! YA GOT A GREAT PAIR! COME ON SHOW 'EM TO THE FOLKS!" Cookie just smiled and shot me the middle finger. If she'd only argue with me a little she'd be the perfect woman.

50 %

2006-04-12T09:29:00.000-04:00

There was no such thing as an artist run commercial gallery in SF in 1980. Aritists of my generation came of age during the heyday of the so called alternative space. Places like 80 Langton, A.R.E., and La Mamelle recieved NEA grants and were run by granolafied committee. They did not sell art like the chic downtown spots and these downtown galleries did not handle any of the younger generation. In fact the whole idea of selling work was poo-pooed by the SF Conceptualists and us younger Fashionists and Contextualists went along with this mindset. We were happy to have our yearly show at one of the Alt. spaces and produce work outside of the system. What was missing was a bit of glamour for the youngsters.
Once again, a little gold leaf on the front window and a half way decent mailing list and i was open for business. I had monthly shows and openings then let the place sit, open only by appointment. I wrote a couple more articles for the LA magazine High Performance under the name MO David and enjoyed my new role as art dealer. To my surprise i actually sold a few things. I found it easier to talk up someone else's work. All I had to do was put my ego on hold and take my 50% off the other end. My monthly nut was less than $200 for my apartment AND my gallery. I didn't have to sell much to stay in business. I could put the sharkskin suit on and talk the talk.
About the time I was finally getting over Honey, ( I pine for even the worst of them.) I met a long legged, pink haired 19 year old in spike heels and party dress. El Estudiente and i were out of school about a year and one night we both went after this girl after one of MO David's openings. The three of us ended up back at his place above Terminal Fun (by the bus station), doing thick lines and 'gnac. Mi Amigo poured some Corvousier in her shoe and drained it. She was impressed. I held back and made my move around dawn. I proposed marraige and we called my family back east with the good news, high, drunk and giggling. I nicknamed her Cookie as we hit the street, leaving Mi Amigo pacing the floor and hitting the heavy bag. The little birds were chirping and the sky was blue by the time I got back to the gallery with my new fiancee. I can still hear the rustle of crinolin as that 50's party dress hit the floor.

ITCHY PALM SUNDAY

2006-04-11T09:25:00.000-04:00

As the readers of this blog can tell, I'm winding down. From here on I'll be giving you the chronological account of my life, until we end up right where we started. Forget the happy endings or resolutions. Right now I'm just trying to fill in the blanks. Forgive me if I repeat myself, or if you know me well enough to already be way too familiar with many of these years. In order to cleanse the pallet a bit, let me catch you up with what's been happening recently around the Ponderosa.
The TV has barely been shut off since i got that satellite screwed to the front of the house. One of the side benefits of this is that when the phone rings I can see who's calling displayed on the screen. My mish mash of rotary phone, lap top and now satellite dish is becoming more and more efficient. I no longer have to use the tin can and string.
The production of my CD- Lucky 13 is sort of dead in the water. Greg is MIA. Jail? Dead? Shaking with the sugars? Who knows? Slick (my recording engineer/producer) broke up with the super model and is preparing to go to Argentina to visit some rock star friend and get bikini waxed. On Palm Sunday eve he called to invite GNJohn and I to go out to dinner at some new local spot with a big group. I don't usually go in for this sort of thing. It's always a let down- bad food, small portions and too expensive. Plus Kung Fu Hustle was on. But, Slick made it sound like fun and i felt obliged to accept. He said he'd pick GNJ and I up at 8. At 8:45 GNJ called to inform me that Slick had forgotten us and was now at the restaurant apologizing and begging us out. GNJ was pissed, ego bruised, and his elbows went akimbo. No way was he gonna go now. I was relieved, engrossed in Kung Fu Hustle, and farting loudly on the couch. I was also surprised at my reaction to being stood up. Is this what they call enlightenment? Phone call after phone call followed. The TV told me I had no reason to pick up.
The next day Slick emailed me with the story, and explanation of why he acted so badly. "I'm sorry i forgot you guys. I was just getting ready to go when Spanky (my rich neighbor and Carlito's boss) showed up in his big silver Mercedes. He had my friend Dave the dentist and the guy from Scarface in the car with him- the actor who played Manolito in the movie. They wanted to play guitar and Dave told them to check out the studio. So we smoked a couple of joints and ended up playing Dylan covers until I was late. I rushed around (stoned) and headed to the restaurant, forgetting all about picking up you guys. Sorry."
You see, there's absolutely no reason to leave the couch or turn off the TV. Life is swirling around outside, but I could give a shit. Poor GNJ took it hard and didn't sleep well. I clued him into my enlightened state (and rolled a joint) and he felt much better. Spanky's big silver Mercedes is kicking up dust as it climbs the road up to his mansion across the road. Carlito blows the horn as he drives by in his truck. The Gormley brothers dropped off a stringer of trout. My gaseous enlightened state is bothering no one and SCARFACE is on this afternoon. THE WORLD IS YOURS. I can see you calling.

FASHIONISM

2006-04-10T08:44:00.000-04:00

The dictionary definition of missionary is "the spreader of good news". Of course dictionarys were written by church friendly scribes. I'm sure a few natives would argue just how good that news was. The metaphor I used in my appropriation of the word was one of institutional representation, informing "the natives" of the word. In this case the word was ART. Like Rev. Dicks preaching to that white artsy crowd, my fervor was directed at that passerby in front of the department store window or the Monroes or even tattooist Lyle Tuttle, who never looked at those bandages as being anything more than a way to stave off infection, tossing them in the garbage. My role was to show the way.
Eventually i realized this pretentious attitude had to be tempered with something akin to an opposite. A year after THE CHURCH I set up a similar one night performance. This time instead of a minister i would hire a prostitute and set up a different kind of institution. Honey and I were still together, but not for much longer. David Ireland had bought another house in the mission, a big old victorian on South Van Ness and 20th St. He offered me the filthy basement apt. and garage for cheap. A month of gutting and painting and I had my pad. I sat down at my IBM and wrote up my perspective of the SF scene under the pen name MO David and sent it off to a NY magazine called COVER. To my surprise they published it under the title SF FASHIONISM.
My time in Berkeley had been productive. Along with the tattoos I also decided to put my mark on a cow. I registered a simple brand design with the state of CA, bought a cow and branded her as part of a spoken word piece at an alternative space. When the cow broke through her fence and got hit by a truck, I salted and preserved the steaks as objects. Typical of any of my breakups I went into a deep funk. This time I went to Europe instead of the shrink. I made a pilgrimage to Duseldorf, Germany to meet Joseph Beuys. He was in NY. I went to Paris and in an Arab hotel, drunk on cognac, came a little too close to cashing in. By the time i got back to my SF basement I knew what I wanted to do. I would open a commercial gallery in the garage. Once again the context would be my content. The gallery would be my art. I called it MO DAVID.

COME AS A CHEF

2006-04-09T09:23:00.000-04:00

My choice of career and subsequent path I was taking in establishing myself as an artist led me to investigate the institutions of both art and religion. What was a gallery or a church or good or evil? The times of the Jonestown suicides and the Moscone/Milk murders falling so closely to each other, as well as my personal situation being fueled by coke and domestic violence all played into the work I would do during this period.
I was on a roll. I hadn't yet ventured into music but my visual and word oriented pieces were beginning to pile up and mutate. I did pornographic newspaper collages, curated shows in places like abandoned department store windows and "performed" in punk clubs and alternative spaces. I started using the information i gathered in pieces like Missionary in order to build a sparse narrative that i could perform in public. In a genre later called "spoken word" I laid out the larger peices I was working on in a kind of sing-song, prop infused personal play. Then, once again, the morning paper led me to another approach. A black minister, Rev. Willie Dicks had himself nailed to a cross in an Oakland park in protest over the recent mess in Guyana. He delivered a message of fire and brimstone to a predominently black congregation gathered to witness this crucifixion. He chatised his community for following Jim Jones so willingly. I called him up.
My idea was to establish a church for one night with the Rev. Dicks as the man on the pulpit. David Ireland and I were working on a property that he had purchased at 65 Capp St. It was a little one story salt box shack that would be perfect for what i wanted to do. He agreed to let me take it over for that night. I rented some pews, got an organ player from the New Wave band The Units, lit the place with candles and had the front window stenciled in gold leaf with the words THE CHURCH. I left the message to Rev.Dicks. A one page program was printed up with a short explanation of what was to take place. I didn't have a clue.
I stayed in the background, merely the architect of the evening. The congregation was now predominently white so Willie switched gears. His sermon ebbed and flowed, stitched together with messages of love and responsibility as it got darker and darker in the space. The candles twinkled on the rafters overhead as the artsy crowd tried to figure out what the hell they were doing sitting in these pews. You could hear a pin drop as the good Rev. paced back and forth building to a crescendo. Then, as the organ swelled Willie summed it up with this apocalyptic message: "In the great barbeque to come, it's better to come as a chef than a rib." Amen.

HONEY' S TAT

2006-04-08T09:01:00.000-04:00

I was still in grad. school when I began recruiting people to have my designs tattooed on their person, recieving the "bloodprint" as my object. Tattoos were not accepted into pop culture, like they are today. Sailors, criminals, and some adventurous hippies with butterflies and dragons on their butts, were about all you saw of ink. Lyle Tuttle was one of the few tattoo artists in the city. He also had a little museum filled with flashes and crazy prison machines collected over his career. I got him to do my two small tattoos and we hit it off. When I started bringing him other customers he promised to teach me how to tattoo.
Honey was a student in a class I TA'd at the art institute. She was 5''5" and 110lbs of exotic beauty. I'd been single less than a year, but in twentysomething years it seemed like a lifetime. New Wave was rearing it's chicky yellow head. The times were mutating into a kind of punk-lite. At 25 I felt old and out of step with hair cuts and fashion. Honey took care of that. In no time she'd dyed my hair and got me a thrift store sharkskin suit and pointy boots. Honey worked at a trendy Berkeley boutique filled with "Sinbad pants" and slutty dresses. I was her passive manikin, standing still while she dressed me up like Tom Waits on a three day bender.
It seemed only right that Honey recieved one of my tattoos. I'd tried doing a tattoo myself, but found i didn't have the touch. My hand shook and I couldn't tell how deep I was digging into the skin. Thank goodness my subject was a bit of a masochist, who didn't seem to mind the pain. Lyle did Honey's circular tattoo on her smooth shoulder, as I readied the big sheet of rice paper for the print. By the dawn of the 80's I was about half way through the project and was now out of school, working carpentry, dealing a little coke and living in Berkeley. Dan White and Jim Jones were household names and that sharkskin suit was in need of a good drycleaning. LOOK OUT! Here comes that left hook.

ART= GOD

2006-04-07T21:30:00.000-04:00

Everything up until this moment, the one where I wondered if the mere act of getting to know someone could be art, was foreplay. I sat here on that ratty couch, Ray staring at me, the smell of little girl urine filling the room, a bunch of strangers trying to figure my motives for being there amongst them, and I figured it out. Art = God, pure and simple. I wasn't religious, never had been. But, right then and there I realized I could have no higher calling than this. Little did I know it came with a vow of poverty.
For the next three months i took this kid fishing, horse back riding, kept in touch on the phone and through letters and tried not come off like a creep. I tried to explain to him what i was doing was my "art". He stared blankly at me and wondered where we we going next? I bought him ice cream and a pair of sunglasses. Ray eventually begged off and we were on our own. Eventually little objects began to reveal themselves: a chunk of mud from my boots, a stick fishing pole that resembled a cross, a pencil from Candlestick Park. (Darrell got to throw the first ball in at a game. Vida Blue pitched. The Giants lost.) I took some pictures from horseback and started a diary.

5-22-78 NEW SUNGLASSES. DARRELL ENJOYED THE SOAPBOX DERBY- THIS IS THE FIRST TIME- I FEEL....I'M LESS ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT THIS OUTING. MAYBE BECAUSE WE DIDN'T SEEM TO PRODUCE ANY RELICS- BUT IT'S STILL TOO EARLY TO TELL. SOMETHING COULD POP UP.

A few days after the soapbox derby i developed some sort of poison ivy on my thumb.

5-25-78 THUMB IS SORE AND ITCHY- I'VE BEEN PUTTING GAUZE AND ADHESIVE TAPE ON IT WHILE AT WORK. TODAY WHILE HEALPING DAVID (IRELAND) PUT IN A DOOR- A DOVE FLEW IN THE OPENING CUT IN THE WALL AND PERCHED ON THE LADDER.

I saw this as some sort of sign. Hokey as it all was, it seemed to make a great deal of sense at the time. The dove was injured and flew into the back yard where one of the client's cats caught it and ripped it to shreads. I still have a feather and that chunk of mud from my boot. One day I called the Sunnyside and an unfamiliar voice answered the phone. The Monroes had left with no forwarding address. That was the last I saw of Darrell. I had a heart and (fishing pole/cross) tattooed on my left shoulder and the dove and hand tattooed on my forearm. When I pulled the tattoo bandage off the tattoo there was a perfect reverse image printed on the paper. This would be the inspiration for my next piece- 12 tattoos on 12 different people.

MISSIONARY (THE EXTENDED FAMILY AS SCULPTURE)

2006-04-06T08:51:00.000-04:00

I'd been in the Bay Area three years and moved four times. When Luscious and I broke up I moved from our tiny Mill Valley apt. back into SF. I rented a cold, spooky collection of rooms in the American Can Co. building down on Third St. It had been the Doctor's office and looked like something out of a Nazi death camp movie. I didn't last long there. Luckily El Estudiente and his girlfriend were also looking for a place. I came on board and we found a big, cheap loft on Florida St. in the Mission.
I'd only had two girlfriends, and married one of them. Now that I was single again I should of taken advantage of this status to get a little. Instead I threw myself into my work. This became a pattern in my life. Coming off the high of the Motel Tapes and discovering for the first time, artists like Joseph Beuys and Yves Klein, I realized this was the direction I wanted to take my art. Sitting in the studio staring at blank walls in order to come up with a painting or object did not appeal to me. In a field with no rules this was just too boring. My direction was delivered in the morning paper.
A 12 year old boy by the name of Darrell Monroe had been stumbled across by a reporter looking for a human interest story. The kid was sweeping Night Train and Ripple bottles from Minna Alley in an area of town known for its homelessness and SRO hotels. The reporter's slant was that the boy, who lived with his family in the Sunnyside Hotel, was a good samaritan, taking the clean up job on himself just because "Someone has to do it." The beautiful simplicity of the act caught my attention. It also caught the attention of the local media outlets, and the mayor's office. I called the hotel and set up a meet with Darrell and his folks.
There was nothing sunny about the Sunnyside. Junkies, drunks and SSI geezers rented rooms by the week. Jim Monroe, Darrell's father managed the place. I sat in their little office and chatted up the fam. They were used to the attention by now. Darell had been on the evening news and the mayor had given him a good citizen commendation. They thought I was just another reporter. The kid was quiet and had a chubby smile. There was also another guy there- Ray. Ray was the self-appointed muscle in the Sunnyside, a friend who didn't want to see anyone taken advantage of. He eyeballed me suspisciously. Like a scene out of the Exorcist, Darrell's little sister stood there like a statue and peed on the floor. What the hell was I doing here?
I had no idea what I was doing talking to these people. I had some vague idea of collaborating with the boy sweeping up the alley. Beuy's concept of "Social Sculpture" and "Everyone an Artist" had inspired me, but I hadn't gotten any further than setting up the meet and greet. Then, just as I was about to make my escape i had an epipheny. What if I made the process of getting to know the boy the rubric of the piece? Could that be art?

THE MOTEL TAPES- THE BIRTH OF CONTEXTUALISM

2006-04-05T09:04:00.000-04:00

As I said, in these days there was no such thing as consumer availability of video cameras. Neither were there VHS, BETA or any other type of decks on the market. So of course there no Block Busters down the street. What we had in class was a couple of reel to reel B&W portapacks and a "studio" camera (also B&W) and 3/4 deck. With this crude, bulky equipment we made tapes that were part home movie, part art film and part confessional diary. Even though it wasn't a medium I was immediately comfortable with, the idea of being on "TV" fascinated me....even if that TV just sat in a dark art class.
Another thing that was not readily available to the general public, to be viewed within the confines of their homes, was pornographic movies. These were the post-Deep Throat days of the Mitchell Brothers and Larry Flynt. It was still considered unusual and trendy just to go to a porno, let alone have a private screening. But, one venue that DID exist to see porn in private was the Adult Motel. These motels had internal cable systems that ran to each room and a couple of big 3/4 inch decks in the office. You could rent a room, pick from a menu of porn flicks, and have your own private party. I saw this as perfect territory for my video art.
The Caravan Lodge in SF had a pool, a bar and an internal video system. I ran my idea of producing short artist tapes by three of my fellow students and told them of the motel context. They were on board. Then I booked some free studio time at a Marin County community cable station and in one day we had produced four short COLOR videos. I had contacted the Caravan, telling them my idea of inserting the artist videos between the porn. They were suspicious, but because they sometimes had to rewind the porn, they agreed to play our tapes in the "rewind time". They also agreed to give us one room and the use of the bar and pool for the opening. Punks, students, and even the SF conceptual heavy weights showed.
I wasn't the first or by any means the last artist to show work outside of the gallery or museum context, but this piece more than any other I'd done up until then, took advantage of an existing system and put fine art before the public outside of the art context. Everyone liked this piece. This would inform the way i worked for years to come. The content was not, by any means, the most important aspect of the art work. It was all about context. Anything would work given the proper setting.

SCHOOL DAZE

2006-04-04T12:10:00.000-04:00

I was four years out of college, married and getting set to be divorced before I returned to art school. This four years did more to prepare me for the life of an artist than any time I spent going to class. When I decided to go back it was for all the right reasons. No longer was I avoiding the draft, chasing girlfriends or escaping from the tar mop. This time I was buying myself time to refine my chops as an artist. Luscious had met someone at Jr. college, who paid a lot more attention to her than I did. I used this as an excuse to call an end to it. Of course when it did end I was a mess. I went to a shrink to help get over the hump, who happened to know of an agency that would pay for my classes at The San Francisco Art Institute. It was called Vocational Rehabilitation.
Voc. Rehab. was set up to help G.I.s coming back to "the World" with training for things like truck drivers and air conditioning installers. There was nothing that said they couldn't pay for art school. So it was in 1977 I matriculated at SFAI sucking on the government teat. They paid my tuition and gave me a stipend for art supplies. All I had to do was keep seeing the shrink and not flunk out. After a while I just mailed in my pay vouchers to the psychiatrist who cashed them without ever seeing me. We both felt I was cured. I got the money for my "art supplies"out of the school store by standing in front of the door and offering to put Marin County house wives' expensive paints and canvas onto my account in return for their cash. This was the beginning of my conceptual career. My art was becoming invisable.
After being too late for Woodstock and Haight-Ashbury, I finally hit a scene right on the tip. SF in '77 was in the throes of its punk rock hey day. It wasn't unusal to see the Dils playing in some drawing class or The Mutants crashing around in the SFAI auditorium. A healthy cross pollination existed between artists and musicians. We all stole off each other. Long hair got spiked and dyed. Clubs sprang up everywhere with names like Valencia Tool and Die, The Deaf Club, A-Hole, Mabuhay, Club Foot and Temple Beautiful.
In class I met El Prof. (then El Estudiante) Karen Finley, Debora Iyall (Romeo Void), Sally Webster (The Mutants) as well as visiting artists like Chris Burden, Bill Wegman, Linda Montano, David Ireland, David Ross, etc. The driving force behind the class was artist Howard Fried, an enigmatic, bearded video/conceptualist who sometimes just sat in a chair and stared at the wall as we blew joints and entertained each other. After a year they let me in graduate school without a degree. The divorce was final and I was finally producing mature work. I bought a hot IBM selectric typewriter and began to write and do video tapes. It would still be a few years before video cameras became available to consumers. My first tape was called "School Days"- a grainy B&W piece shot with a bulky port-a-pack. I give it half a star.

HANG UP YOUR TAMBOURINE

2006-04-03T09:13:00.000-04:00

Luscious and I spent two winters in a little cabin in Bearsville, NY. We heated by wood, had a cat named Axel, Shawna the lab, a black and white TV, a rotary phone and a record player. I worked as a carpenter's helper and Luscious got a job as a salesgirl/seamstress in Woodstock. We thought of having a kid but instead got an insane Irish setter named Kelly from my brother Bird. I taught stone lithography at the local art association in town and didn't do much in the way of expanding my own work. Luscious was 19 and I was 22. We were too busy playing house and figuring out ways to pay the monthly nut to enjoy being young freespirits in paisley shirts and bell bottoms. We did have a little time to drop some acid and screw alot. It wasn't all like our parent's life.
Vietnam was winding down. Nixon had been ousted by Watergate. Paul Butterfield and Albert Grossman were neighbors. Lee Marvin walked around town with a hawk on his shoulder. Gas lines were forming. Shag haircuts and glitter rock were becoming all the rage and i still had an itch to to see the Pacific. Woodstock seemed old fashion to me. I was realizing that we were late to the scene. Gasoline was 50 cents per gallon and we thought if it went any higher we wouldn't be able to eat. Even with these extreme prices we decided to load up our brand new, shiny red, 1975 pickup truck, give away the crazy irish setter and head for SF. Surprise! We were late to that scene also.
At 22 I thought it was all over. Glassy eyed vets, wounded either physically or mentally came home, buried their uniforms in the bottom of trunks and tried to get jobs in a shitty economy. The hippies were gone. Long hair was no longer a sign of anything more than good folicles. We landed in Haight/Ashbury amongst Hell's Angels, burnouts, and a few enterprising gays painting the Victorian houses bright colors. Where were those babes in peasant blouses playing tambourines? Luscious and I began to look at each other like strangers. The little incident of her screwing my best friend was still stuck in my craw. I guess I wasn't quite mature enough to let it go. She got bored and enrolled in junior college night classes in Marin. I got a studio in an old ship building warehouse in Sausalito and when i wasn't picking up the odd carpentry job, I spent long days staring at blank walls. So this was what an artist did. The beret didn't quite fit.

THE FOOLS OF APRIL

2006-04-02T10:28:00.000-04:00

Sweets may have had something about her seasonal break up theory. With the lady bugs, horsefly swarms and no-see-ums, brought on by the warming days of early spring, come the emails and phone calls from people i don't hear from all winter. These are the folks that don't have the time or inclination to read this blog, so I don't get cut off mid sentence, half way through a anecdote, with "I read that on your blog." That's one of the draw backs of blabbing every day in this format. I don't have much to talk about. The first one to call was my old boss Mr. Asser. After the obligatory "How's the wife and kids?" he got down to the real reason for the call. "Christmo. It's been a tough couple of months for me friend- wise. They're dropping like flies." Having gone through a similar fall, I could relate. But then he laid out how they were dying.
Mr. Asser is from PA, so he went down to Pittsburgh to attend a Super Bowl party with a good buddy. His host was the life of the party, a man with a wife and two kids, a good job, house and by all accounts every reason to live. When the Steelers won everyone went nuts with joy. The next day, as this man's wife went to the store to buy a few last minute items for a trip they we departing on in a couple of hours, he pulled down his granfather's antique pistol from the shelf, stuck it in his mouth and pulled the trigger. No note. No reason. Just like that. What would he have done if the Steelers lost?
Another friend of Mr. A's had a heart attack and a third pulled over on a bridge to help a woman change her tire. An 18 wheeler full of office furniture clipped him as he bent over to loosen the lug nuts. "I gotta tell you." My old boss continued, "If my dog dies you move to the top of the list." Maybe that's a list I'd rather not be on.
The next one to contact me was Bimmy, my old bass player from Purple Geezus. He lives in Haiwai. He also used to work for Mr. Asser. I told him about the death list and our old friend desert rat Horrible Uncle Pee-Pee (Jerry Williams). Bimmy loves to talk and so do I. As we were both overlapping each other's conversation, the line clicked and went dead. He called back. "We're tapped. The wife is doing a lot of protest work involving Army recruitment. We're starting to peek above the radar." I think the FBI just got bored hearing us talk over each other's sentences and pulled the plug. I told him about my Nashville experience and we both had a good laugh. "Well." Bimmy said "If you don't make it when you're young and pretty, you have to wait until you're old and venerable. No one wants middle age ugly. It's that or pull grandpa's gun off the shelf." It's funny 'cause it's true.This stuff always comes in threes. Trout season opened yesterday. It's only a matter of days before Art Gormley shows up with the stocking truck. You remember Art? NOW THAT'S A FOOL!

SAINT PAUL AND LAFAYETTE

2006-03-31T07:54:00.000-05:00

Baltimore in the early 70's was the same one that John Waters mythologizes in interviews and films- same thrift stores, same bizarre characters. It was the first city I had ever lived in. I rented a hardword floor slum of an an apt. at the corner of St. Paul and Lafayette streets, infested with cockroaches and crawling with rats in the back alley. One of my roommates was an ex Coast Guard sailor a little older than myself and the other a young acid head just out of highschool. I hung with the sailor. The three of us attended art school on Mount Royal Ave.
I got a dog I named Shawna, a little female labrador pup whom i took everywhere with me. I didn't take to the city immediately but did like that fact that all i had to do at school was draw. I had learned stone lithography in Knoxville and continued working in that vein. In the fall two friends from up north showed up on their motorcycles. They were on their way south to Florida. One ended up as Milawyer. The other disappeared without a trace. We hunted rats with broomsticks in the alley and smoked copious amounts of pot.
In the spring i got a job at the local track, mucking out race horse stalls and cooling them down. I was Hotwalker. The job started at 4 am and ended by 10 am. Sometimes I'd just stay up all night, go to work, then class, and sleep in the afternoon. I liked the horses and my fellow workers- a trainer as young as I and a crazy Irish jockey who was always drunk by noon. I moved to the Overly, just outside the city limits, with a vegetarian hippie couple in an old farm house surrounded by suburbia. It was all that was left of the McCormick spice family estate. The trip to Florida with Sweets put the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. On the last day of class I met Luscious. Within a week we'd moved in with one another. Nixon had just ended the draft. I worked hard on my art and didn't really need teachers to tell me what to do. With the draft over there wasn't any reason to stay in school. When the horses moved on to the northern tracks of Jersey, Lusious, Shawna and i packed up the '49 Ford pick up truck and headed for NY. Within six months we'd be married. I was finally a Hippie and it looked a whole lot like my parent's life.

BIG ORANGE BLUES

2006-03-30T09:02:00.000-05:00

It didn't take long for that tiny diamond ring to go from my pocket to Sweets' finger and back to my pocket. As the Knoxville sky greyed and the roads iced up I pawned the ring for 20 bucks on Cumberland ave. I should've recognised the pattern by now. The shorter the days became the lonlier I got. Barry (my giant dicked roommate) tried to cheer me up. He even let me borrow his motorcycle for the day. That's when I ended up in that Sevierville jail. By Xmas break I was a mess. Then only reason I'd applied to UT was because of Sweets. Without her in the picture I had no reason to be in this giant, fraternity and football-centric institution. The freaks i found in Tenn. weren't the LSD hipsters of Cullowhee, but hardcore Quallude and heroin junkies. A whole bunch of them lived next door. I sublet my apartment and dropped out of school.
I went north for the winter and worked as a roofer in Ct. In the Spring I returned to school with a hardon for education. The Selective Service office was hot on my tail. That winter breathing roof tar and freezing my ass off, worrying the army would come knocking, made school (even without a girlfriend) look pretty good. The junkies next door kind of adopted me. Heroin was never my drug. It made me sick and I didn't have the patience to get beyond that point. Qualludes on the other hand.... Sweets and I remained friendly but it was obvious we ran in different crowds. Skeezy, arm scratching, nose dripping, .38 spec. packing drug addicts with attitude didn't fit in at the sorority house.
There was a big overhang porch on our house. When the weather warmed we set up some ratty lawn furniture on the roof of the porch, ate 'ludes, drank 40s and sunbathed. As our pastey white skin turned lobster red, Neil Young blasting, we cut class and peroidically rolled off the roof into the bushes. Scratched, but unhurt, we would climb back up, pop another 'lude, crack another beer and stare at the sun. As much fun as this all was I knew i couldn't keep up the pace. I applied to The Maryland Institute in Baltimore once more and this time got in. It was 1972. Forget college. I'm going to Art School.

DIMPS' SPRING

2006-03-29T08:49:00.000-05:00

The mountains 50 miles south of Ashville, NC are much like upstate NY. Geologically speaking I guess they would be considered the foothills of the Smokies. Cullowhee was no more than a post office and coffee shop engulfed by a college campus. WCC was what was known as a "suitcase school". It was a place where the parents of Chapel Hill, Hickory and Greensboro could send their kids who weren't bright enough to get into Duke or UNC. On the weekends everyone packed their bags and went home to mommy and daddy. Mommy and daddy were 1000 miles away for me, so when i could pin down Sweets I headed for the stateline and crossed the mountains into Tenn.
From the beginning Sweets and I had this propensity to periodically break up. It was always a mystery to me. Like I said I followed her lead. Recently she told me it was a seasonal thing, that she always broke up with me in the winter and we got back together in the spring. I have a hard time believing i was just a victim of lack of sunlight. But I don't have a better theory.
UT was a sea of orange cowboy hats and umbrellas and Sweets shined there. She pledged at Phi-Mu and was some fraternity's "sweetheart". The whole scene gave me the creeps but I tried to hide my disgust. "GO VOLS!" Football was a religion and I went to a different church. During the week in NC I went to class, smoked pot, hung with what few "freaks' i could find and worked very hard at getting rid of my virgin status. My hair grew. My politics shifted farther to the left as Nixon hammered Cambodia. I ate way too much LSD one night and pissed myself, laying against a propane heater in a shack up in the hills. When I hit that dog with my car and brought that girl back to the trailer I busted my cherry. Romantic, huh?
Since high school Sweets had called me "Dimps". She still does. I hated that nickname coming from anyone's lips but hers. Still do. The love we had for each other couldn't overcome the obstacles and different directions our paths were taking but you couldn't tell me that.. Nonetheless we remained in touch (through that winter break up) and in the spring i applied to UT. I went back north for springbreak, left my VW on the side of the road in Va., got in a car wreck with Milawyer (then just Mifriend), and like clockwork Sweets and I got back together in April. In the summer I bought a 1951 Ford pickup and an engagement ring for my love and we headed for Knoxville together. Big mistake.

CHRISTMO'S COMPLAINT

2006-03-28T11:26:00.000-05:00

The period of time between my grandfather dying and hooking up with Sweets wasn't that long, but as emotionally dry as a sack of lime. I felt abandoned- lost. In fact thinking back on it, outside of beating up on my little brothers I'd had no physical contact with anyone in quite a while. It's a puberty thing. Once those years start to encroach it's hands off. You can't remember the tickles and snuggles you enjoyed as a sprout. It's all part of the maturing process but no one informs you of that. If your parents do touch you it's as punishment. Toughen up son. Here comes the real world.
Sweets and I were hot for one another from the git go. She'd had other boyfriends but she was my first girlfriend. That fact alone gave her the upper hand. A little bit of experience goes a long way when you're 15. I was always playing catch up and trying my damndest to get in there. High school was a bitch. I was smart but it was a different kind of smart. The bells, regimentation and even the architecture of the educational system in 1960s America alienated me. I didn't want to play along, so I didn't. I was always kicking the slats of my cage. Sweets on the other hand was smart in a way that fit in. She got good grades and didn't mind playing along with all the bullshit. We were just wired differently. We made a pretty good team most of the time.
As I got older i kept doing my little drawings and even became captain of the wrestling team. After school I got a job as a janitor at the local elementary school. It was the same job my grandfather had before he got too sick to clean the toilets. Because I was tall and skinny wrestling was the one sport I didn't suck at. Then one night sitting at the Howard Johnson's I lifted Sweets' Tarryton from the ashtray and took a deep drag. Then I looked up to see the assistant coach glaring at me. He'd always had it in for me and this gave him the excuse he needed to get rid of my ass. That ended my wrestling career. I really didn't care. Now I could eat.
By the time we graduated Sweets had been accepted at UT Knoxville and i got in WCC Cullowhee, NC. The only reason I applied there was it was 100 miles across the Smoky mountains from my girlfriend. That, and the fact that in order to stay out of the Army I had to attend college somewhere. In 1970 the draft was in full effect and my number was 33. If I blinked Uncle Sam would have my ass. NC was a helluva lot better than Saigon. I got in my 1959 VW, waved goodbye to the family and headed south to the world of higher education. I was still a virgin.

BOB'S YOUR UNCLE

2006-03-27T09:15:00.000-05:00

After a week home the post-trip depression is starting to wane and I'm beginning to move from the couch. The illusion of accomplishment that you get from driving 500 miles a day is a bit harder to achieve surfing 250 plus channels. You sit on your ass either way. I know I have to go back to work and dread the prospect. A friend called yesterday to inform me- "You're in the Whitney." I asked in what respect? Seems some collective hung an old poster of a welcome home party for Chuckles the Clown when he was sprung from a Mexican prison after doing six months on a peyote charge. I was one of the MCs. My name is on a piece of paper in the Whitney Museum would be more accurate. I get no satisfaction from the information. Maybe that depression hasn't quite gone away.

My grandfather's youngest brother Bob was an artist. He was also gay. No one in the early Christmo family could be considered an intellectual but divorce and homosexuality was a start. Bob was a friend of Helena Rubinstein- the makeup queen and worked in Provincetown, Cape Cod- a traditionally gay bastion. My father said he never wore socks or underwear. I met him once and can't remember much about him except the dirty tennis shoes and lack of socks. He painted Pennsylvania Dutch designs on furniture for Peter Hunt. I guess you could call that art.
In the last few years of his life the Docs carved up Gramp pretty good. He had a colostomy that gurgled and stunk and caused him much discomfort and embarrassment. I can still remember that smell masked by cherry pipe tobacco. He'd fall asleep in his chair and i'd do my homework at the dining room table. I was too young and oblivious to realize just how sick he was. When he took to his bed I stopped going over to his house. He didn't want me to see him so helpless. When he died I didn't go to the funeral. It was about this time i started to draw and began to think about being an artist. I took off my socks and underwear in order to get in the mood.
My parents were very encouraging of my artistic attempts. They knew with Gramp gone i needed something to occupy my time. I was shy and insecure. The praise I recieved for copying Mad magazine cartoons and travel brochures was much sought after. I wasn't athletic and too young for girls. When I wasn't drawing I spent hours in the fields behind my parent's house or walked the Wallkill river banks daydreaming. We lived on the edge of what today is suburbia. To the left were new houses to the right was farm land and holsteins. I gravitated to the right.
If you do the math I've been an artist for 40 years. Eventually i put my socks and underwear back on and by the time I was 14 or 15, girls began to fascinate me as much as racing that '49 Chevy through the corn fields. The only problem was i was so painfully shy I would never have the balls to talk to one. If Sweets hadn't talked to me first history would have taken a much different turn. And man that girl could talk. In no time love was in the air.

MAKING SENSE OF THE SPACE TIME CONTINUIM

2006-03-25T17:24:00.000-05:00

After calling my plumber and finding out that his uncle, with 13 patents under his belt and a bad case of alzheimers, has died and he can't fix my pipes because he has to go to the funeral in Rochester, I switch off the cold line and turn on the hot. Then i run out of propane. Now no hot. I can still flush the toilet from a bucket filled in the bathtub. I go to make coffee and the pot crumbles in my hand. I have to heat water to wash and make coffee on the woodstove. I also have to cook my food there. I decide 12 years is long enough to go without TV and in my sorry cold water state order satellite TV with my credit card. No heat, hot water, coffee maker, or gas stove, but 250 channels are coming. I turn on the radio. This still works.
Earlier in the day i went to the drugstore to get my latest disposable video camera developed and as I waited I picked up a copy of Jane and Essence magazines. The editor in chief of Jane is an old friend Brandon Holly and the editor in chief of Essence is mother of my god daughter Eleni, Micheala Angela Davis. Both magazines are complete crap but the ladies look good. It bugs me all day how they can be so successful, look so good, and produce such garbage. If I hadn't of gone to the drugstore i wouldm\n't have given it a second thought. I order more propane and get in a giant argument with Dawn (the evil shebitch who works for the propane company CES). This does nothing but delay my delivery. I stink and am beginning to itch from lack of a shower.
On the radio is an interview with McCauley Caulkin. I remember my sixth degree of separation to Mac is Geoffrey Mayo the producer of Caulkin's first film- ROCKET GIBRALTAR- with Kevin Spacey and Kirk Douglas. I did a lot of work for the Mayos back in the day. A kid in the drugstore said "Back in the day." And the girl at the counter said "The day is over." On Friday I call about the propane. Dawn tells me the truck has broken down. I swear I hear giggling in the background. Then DirectTV calls informing me that their installer is sick and I'll have to wait a day for my TV. The plumber is still at his uncle's funeral. I hear no giggling.
On Saturday morning Mercury begins to slide out of retrograde and The propane, plumber and TV guy all show up at once. Within an hour I have hot water, fixed pipes and a stove that works. I bought a coffee maker at the drugstore instead of the magazine so I make coffee, sit down and pick up the remote. It's tuned to channel 547. I give you one guess what movie is on. That's right. ROCKET GIBRALTAR. What gives?

THE TREE

2006-03-24T11:23:00.000-05:00

Wray Christmo's parents Andrew and Elsie divorced when he was barely out of short pants. This just wasn't done in those days, so you know Andy must've been a bit of an asshole. Elsie kept the kids- Wray, Otto, Bill, Maime, and little Bob. That's as much as i know about Great Grandfather Andrew. Far as the rest of us Christmos are concerned Wray is the beginning of the line. That family tree was planted on a shady tree lined street in Montgomery, NY. Everything else was cut up for fire wood.
As I said I bonded early with my grandfather and kept that bond until he died when i was 13. We were inseperable. He taught me how to fish, work with power tools without cutting my fingers off, butcher a deer, drink coffee and drive before I was 10 years old. When Maude died we became even closer. I was his mini-me. He was my escape from my parents, three brothers and one sister. If he had lived we would've ended up in jail together.
He always had some scheme going to make a buck. During deer season we butchered all the local's deer. In the summer we raised nightcrawlers in his basement and I sold them to the fishermen who pulled carp out of the Wallkill. He gave me his old '49 Chevy when I was 10 and I sold it to a friend for $12. We put the car in a corn field and used it like a tank blasting through the stalks and running into trees. I feel sorry for kids sitting in dark bedrooms clicking away at video games and smoking joints. They should be outside driving junk cars into things and smoking joints.
Wray and Maude had four kids- Wray, June, my old man, and little John. Wray fought in WWII and came back a stone cold theif and junkie. June never got along with Gramp and sided with Maude in all things. My old man idolized Wray almost as much as I did. And John? That's another story in of itself. I'll get to him later. If the term had been used in those days the Christmos would have been considered classic dysfunctional. As the term wasn't used they were just considered normal.

THE CHRISTMO NARRATIVE

2006-03-23T08:00:00.000-05:00

The earliest mention of any Christmo on the tree is found in A HISTORY OF THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. This book traces grandpa Jeisbert Christmo during the French and Indian War and through the Revolutionary War. JC was what today would be called a civilian contractor. He worked as a horse wrangler, boat builder and Indian killer. By all accounts he was a colorful character. "He was a large man, with a powerful frame, and resolute and determined in all his actions. The negroes and domestic Indians recieved no mercy at his hands when they had given him provocation." I assume not much provocation was needed for JC to kick some negroe or Indian ass.
History is written by the victors. The "American Hero" mantle laid on old JC is well deserved only if you figure the extermination of indiginous people and the enslavement of Africans is a small price to pay for eventuual manifest destiny. Here's another account of JC's grandmother in a little tiff. " There was a clasp knife in her pocket, hanging on the chair. Just as she laid hold of it the negro sprang upon and seized her. When she screamed a large dog she had rushed in, seizing the negro by the throat. At last he got loose and rushed down a ravine, followed by the dog, urged by the voice of his mistress. She then climbed the ladder to the second floor and sat there with a child in her lap and a cutlass in her hand." Seems like like those quarrelsome negroes and indians were causing trouble everywhere.
More than 200 years later I live in the same neck of the woods as JC and his grandma. The only Indians left are moving back from Oaky exile and trying to put a casino at the racetrack. And the negroes? Fucked as always. Grammy Christmo's crys of encouragement as Fido goes for Black throat still echo off these ridges. Some things never change.
But these are the infamous Christmos of literature. The earliest family members I can report on were born at the beginning of the 20th century. They would be my grandfather Wray and grandmother Maude. Regarding this branch of the tree i have I have nothing bad to say. True, they both died when i was still young, but the time I spent with them is filled with fond memories; espec. regarding Wray. My grandfather and I bonded on a deep and profound level. It probably had something to do with my father going to Korea two days after my birth and not showing up again for 14 months. Far as I knew that skinny, bald old man (of 52 years) was my daddy.

THE STORY

2006-03-22T15:22:00.000-05:00

The story goes back all the way to the beginning of Luckymike.blogspot.com. That's when I finished Lucky Mike (the memoir) and realized no one was going to publish it and started re-writing the whole thing in public. So if you haven't read Luckymike in its entirety, now's a good time before I get back into the narrative. This is the format for the complete narrative- Luckymike is the first part. So if this was a book Luckymike would be the front. Now turn the book over and upside down and Christmo is part two. So it ends in the middle.
The various plotlines i will pick up again revolve around past relationships beginning in the late sixties up to the present: Sweets in highschool and early college, First wife Luscious in Woodstock and later California, Honey in Berkeley, Cookie in the Mission and later Brooklyn, Julie 3 in the EV, Baby-Baby- in the EV and Upstate, Dr. Stripper also in the EV, Second wife Mrs. Yummy in the EV and Glen Wild, and Friendly and Shewhocannotbenamed wherever and whenever. Ya follow?
But before all that I think it's only right to go back to the very beginning with a little family tree. Stay with me now. We're almost done with all this.

THANKS TO THE PEEPS

2006-03-21T08:15:00.000-05:00

I yanked and yanked on that Neon's reins but the pony smelled her stall and headed straight for Glen Wild. One broken pipe, two meowing cats and a pile of bills waited for me. GNJohn and Carlito, a guy who wanted to photograph the church and another who wanted to buy Ray Gilkey's trailer showed up during the day. Everything seemed fine and I have to say it was good to be back in the sugar shack. I started a fire and soaked it all in.
This trip wouldn't have been half as much fun without staying at people's houses and reconnecting with many I hadn't seen in years. Here's the list. Special thanks and an open invitation to all of them if a port in the storm is ever needed.

1. Greg- Costello, PA. A special fund for bail money has been set up in your name. Vera has the key to the strong box. "Com'on GREG! Why'd you stop?"
2. Milawyer, Mrs. Milawyer, Rocky, Blondie and Mr. P., Wheeling, W. Virginia. This family gets the award for the most comfortable and gracious digs on my whole trip. Don't worry I won't tell any of my other friends your address.
3. Al Bunetta- Prez. of Oh-Boy Records, Nashville, Tenn. Watch WALK THE LINE for a recreation of my meeting with Al. It's exactly the same except for the listening, and ensuing successful music career.
4. Sweets, Yoko and Little Dog- Dallas, TX. Proving once and for all your first love never leaves your heart. Feed those dogs some steroids and move back north. We promise not to make fun of your draaaaaaawl.
5. The Family Rock- Don, Leanne, Tiberious, and Aris- Austin, TX. Tiberious is the only other person I've ever met who has a fear of fruit like myself. That alone will bring me back to TX. We have to stick together.
6. John, Mark, and Perry- Houston, TX. These guys are a lot of fun. Even the gay one- Perry is cool. Thanks for the eye medicine.
7. Miguel- Mexico City. Take away Ray Pettibone's girlfriend, the smog, the traffic, and fear of getting my car jacked and MC was a groove. Donde esta bano? Next time I'll stay more than a day.
8. JW- Yucca Valley, Ca. For a man who doesn't eat cooked food and lives in a litter box he's surprisingly healthy. I WILL tell all my friends your address. Paris and Nicole are very excited about coming to visit.
9. TR, Thu, Calder and Miller. Somewhere, Ca. 210 bpms and a certain pose and your morning crap comes out like a warm sticky bun. These people are visionaries.
10. El Prof. (Miestro) and Monasita- SF, Ca. The Simon Cowell of academia, I once asked him how Monasita could grow up so well adjusted? I seemed to be such a disappointment to him, I wondered how Mona survived his criticism. "She never disappointed me." was his simple reply. I'll try harder.
11. Pepe Duzades- SF, Ca. The current resident of The Bunker who graciously let me stay while I was in town. I think I left some Chinese food in the fridge. Help yourself. Does the Dean know you're down there?
12. Paul and Sarah- Chicago, Ill. My most recent chance to be an uncle. I hope it's not a pony.

So that's it. I'm home safe and sound. Now back to the story.

WAIT A MINUTE.

2006-03-20T14:19:00.000-05:00

The skys were clear all the way from Chicago to Erie, PA. Then, just as I hit the NYS border down it came again. More snow. So much for the Vernal equinox being less than 24 hours away. I wanted to make it home. I really did. But as it got dark and that road iced up...well 150 miles west of Binghamton I found a motel. Then I thought- what's the hurry? What was waiting for me but a cold house with all the water disconnected. Why hurry? In fact I could turn right and head south if I felt like it. I still had a little money. Who would care?
So I sat on that motel bed and took stock. I poured some of that homemade tequilla in a plastic cup and picked up the guitar. HBO. A hot shower. Nice big bed. In my pocket was a card with my fortune I picked up in SF. "DON'T BE SO IRRITABLE. BE MORE OPTIMISTIC, FORGET YOUR FEELINGS. YOU WILL FIND LIFE HOLDS MOST THINGS YOU DESIRE. YOU HAVE POWERS OF ATTRACTION." In the other pocket was a 88 million power ball ticket I bought in Iowa. I could of already won. Should I continue home in the morning or head for Florida?
In the morning there was that omipresent inch of snow on the car and the wind was whipping. I had purchased a warm thrift store coat in Chicago for $1.50. I pulled up the fur collar and started the car. Well? Which way? I never did tell you about the virgin de Obregon did I? First I have to look up the Iowa lottery. Then I'll decide what direction to take. Happy Spring.