GO BACK TO HUNTINGWITHSUPERMODELS

www.huntingwithsupermodels.blogspot.com

WITH MUPP AND SAVAGE (and Paradise Pond 8)

THIS WEEK'S UD FEATURE

www.upstatediary.com

MEDITATIONS ON THE ORIGIN OF THE ASCETIC OR TALE OF THE WET ASS MEAT HUNTER

 The beauty of writing a blog is you do not have to run such a title past an editor. Cheeky gives me the paw over the eye, the cat equivalent to our "thumbs up" and I go forward.

   In many ways this has been my worst season ever in the deer woods. I couldn't get the bow string back on a good buck, I passed on an 8 I had a good shot at and I killed a button buck by mistake. My self identification as a Trophy Hunter has been modified to desperate meat hunter. How the mighty have fallen. Lets spin towards Avid Locavore. The front end of a Nor-Easter is already upon us and I barely saw a deer all day. The roads were too icy to make it to Mr. X's Mystery Farm, so I holed up in back of the house. The sleet turned to rain. Luckily I found an empty hut and sat out the morning relatively dry. It was then I thought of today's blog theme.

    Firstly, I'm not hunting for wet ass meat. Rather, my ass is constantly wet as I hunt for meat. And this got me to thinking about the parallels with asceticism and the not so obvious fact that religion and art probably come directly out of hunting. Those little striations on that clam shell from 400,000 years ago were probably done while waiting for something to show up, by a guy with a wet ass. And these kinda thoughts don't enter the inner conversation until late in a very trying season. When they do, it makes the sit easier. My legs were crossed, muzzleloader in my lap.. I twisted in yoga-like moves, in order to see movement through the dripping woods. Nothing. Nothing. The ascetic prays. I fantasize a big, juicy doe. If I had a clam shell, I'd be scratching it. 

   Tomorrow we're suppose to get snow. This could be a game changer. After this storm passes I'll get back to the farm. But, in the meantime I'll play the wind, still hunt from hut to hut, and see what happens. The profundity of my thought patterns will ebb and flow, as the wet snow falls down my neck into my ass crack. I'll walk down the hill on the road in the morning and hunt the mountain back. It won't be easy and I may never see a deer, but I guarantee you, as the barb wire tightens, the hair shirt itches and I pour more pebbles into my boots, there's nowhere I would rather be. And that is my version of spirituality.                  

CHEEKY

IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE FAILURE

A little over a week left in deer season and it's not looking good. Gun season ends at 4:29 pm on Sunday. Then we switch gear and pick up the muzzleloader until Dec. 16. That's it for 2014. Every day matters at this point and today I'm pretty much shut down with pouring icy rain. Of course I can get out there, in the hut or under the treebrella, but long hours in the pouring rain usually is fruitless. Deer like to move in this shit as much as we do. I've often compared deer hunting with art making, with all it's inherent frustration and eventual futility. In many ways it's worse. I can always come up with something, art wise. Try as I might I can't make a deer materialize. Then step back and look at an art "career" of 40 years, and yes, art gets the prize in the failure department. There is no end but death. And even then (ask Shewho, who handles two dead artists, will tell you) careerism is never over.
   Deer season begins on Oct. 1 and ends on Dec. 16. Because of no work this year, it has been a total immersion season. I challenge Marina Abramovich to sit in a tree 11 hours a day in 9 degree weather, 7 days a week, trying not to cough or move, in any of her so-called endurance pieces. Simultaneously the good and bad thing about this is it is limited to a season. There may be a season for art world market artists, but for me there is none. It stretches out endlessly, promising nothing. And this is where deer hunting varies. Every turn of the head, click of the second hand, crack of a twig, promises a chance at redemption. Will that wide 8 (or an even bigger one) materialize out of the nothingness. It's happened before, I constantly remind myself. And then it's over.
   To combine hunting with my art is asking for nothing but isolation in a world of anti-gun, anti-hunter mindset, that permeates the ultra-liberal world of "the arts". You think facebook is filled with PC types? Doing this type of work and expecting the art industry to embrace it is ludicrous. Why I don't accept this is another issue altogether. And once again the parallels in not accepting my defeat in the deer woods are apparent. Persistence, perseverance, bone-headed stubbornness, call it whatever you want. When the season is over, if I come up empty, I will go through my grieving, my depression, my feeling sorry for myself, and then I will get back in the studio and try to make sense of the mess of a bed I have made for myself. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Lets just say- I am one lucky man.      

WOMAN AND POCKETBOOK

TROPHY 2014

SHROUD (early phase)

KERN GIRL

CUDDLE DEATH OF THE BUTTON BUCK

I'm outta gas- figuratively and literally. I came out of the woods last night to that sickly sweet smell of poverty: my propane tanks on empty. To say it's been a rough season would be an understatement at this point. I have a constant crick in my back from long cold hours on stand and everything around the house has gone to hell. As other hunters seem to be having a banner year, the hardest hunter I know (besides myself) Savage Lynch is in the same boat. Yesterday he shot Bambi and the day before I shot his mother....at least that's what I thought.
    Since the last week of bow season I've been hunting that big 8 over at Majestic, with no luck. I haven't seen horns in a while and in this weather (fog and rain) I'm lucky to see a deer. It's not like I haven't been here before, but after last season's big bucks, it seems especially crushing. So on the weekend I decided to take a doe. Shouldn't be a problem, right? I'm sure you have a whole bunch under your bird feeder in the backyard. Well, I've seen deer and had shots, but they've all been little butterballs. A large doe seems to be as illusive as that 8. So when I saw a medium sized deer a couple of mornings ago, I was ready to pull the trigger. I took my time, watching the deer feed a 100 yard circle for about an hour. When "she" came down the pike I pulled the gun up at 50 yards. When the vitals were offered I pulled the trigger dropping the deer in "her" tracks. Then I poured myself a cup of coffee, thanked the LGM and the deer, and congratulated myself on a good shot, deciding to let the woods settle down and see if a buck would show. It was at this point I noticed something strange on the head of that deer- two little antlers. I'd killed a button buck by mistake. Damn!
   I'm usually so careful to look at the head, not wanting to shoot a spike. But these horns were so small and I was so certain it was a doe, that I didn't look when it got close. If the DEC agent assigned to my blog wants to arrest me, go ahead. I deserve it. Take me away. That's how things are going. Thankfully the gas man just showed up. I spilled a whole cup of coffee on him, just trying to be nice. I can wash my dishes, take a shower, and butcher up the little buck today. He'll eat good, and by this evening all the evidence will be gone. He didn't deserve a 30.06 in the chest. Cheeky sniffs his ear on the porch and looks at me with puzzled dismay. I know. I know. Always look at the head.

PARIS

HAPPY THANKSFERGUSON

Like the original guests of the European White Person's 4:00 pm sit down dinner, on the last Thursday of November, the American Indian, it looks like the Afro-American has also participated in one too many Thanksgivings. That old turkey bone is stuck firmly in everyone's craw. In the words of our President- "We live in a world of laws. We must trust the system." I don't really know he said that, but it was something like it. The problem of course if the system only really works for rich white or black, and esp. not poor black. In America the Indians are fucked. The Blacks are fucked. The poor are fucked. And they all use the same lawful system.

    But right now this is the farthest thing from mind. All I care about is snow is coming and I still haven't laid eyes on that dark, wide 8 since I couldn't close the deal with the bow. But others have been luckier. Waders and Trevor 2 both shot 4s, Milawyer got a 6, Mupp scored an 8, RNButch also got an 8 and PhotogGeorge scored the holy grail- a giant 12 (a couple posts ago). Savage Lynch and I are both empty. And this is because he and I are both what you would call Trophy Hunters. I know it sounds dirty. It's right up there with Studio Artist. I wasn't always this way. In fact I was initially such a lazy, casual hunter, I'd thrill at shooting a spike. But shit changes.
     Over 20 years I took a few good bucks and two monarchs last year. I was spoiled. It was also due to becoming proficient at recognizing sign (rubs and scrapes) and hanging in there to the degree that I actually succeeded in killing two big bucks that I was targeting. The feeling of accomplishment is indescribable. Nothing comes close in my little world. So I chase that feeling. And, I'm sorry, a little six just will not do anymore. HAPPY THANKSFERGUSON.

STANDESAMT UND ALTES RATHAUS MUENCHEN by Adolf Hitler

TWITLER

 Along side all the "real" art world market news like Warhol's "Triple Elvis" going for something like 400 Billion Dollars, there is also the auction report of a modest little water color by one of the world's most evil men, Adolf Hitler, going for $161,000. Not bad for a frustrated artist turned tyrant. According to the news feed someone owns about two thousand Hitlers. What with annihilating the Jews, taking over Europe, fighting the Americans and Russians on two different fronts, and trying to keep Maria Braun in leiderhausen, how did he have time to do two thousand works? One of my favorite AH quotes is "Once the Polish question is settled, I want to retire as an artist." If only.
    If Hitler lived today he would have a facebook page and a twitter account. He would be able to do sieg heil selfies  on Instagram and post his watercolors and plans for "The FinalSolution" on his various pages. Sure he'd have to compete with ISIS and Assad, but I don't think those guys do watercolors. This would be his signature work, what sets the little dick tater apart. Maybe then he would've been able to moderate his bitterness. History has it that the academie rejected the young Hitler. But the academie has rejected many a young artist. Few take it so hard. I may be reaching but I think this could be at the root of his madness. Being a recognized artist was more important to Hitler than he could properly articulate with his art, without social media. Why couldn't he and Rosenberg form a little collective and show their work salon style in the beer halls, instead of shitting all over humanity? If only.
   And now it is not only legal to collect Hitler, it is lucrative. How is this possible? Two sisters auctioned off the piece in Nuremberg, saying they would donate 10% to "disabled children". A buyer from the Middle East purchased the watercolor, with offers coming in from across the globe. It's not a bad little painting, but it's a fucking Hitler! Why would anyone want that on their wall? #I'mfuckingflabergasted.

SHEWHO'S PIE

CHEEKY

CHEEKY CRAPPED THE TUB

And he got on the roof. This week has been brutal for both of us. While the kitten stays at home evacuating Fancy Feast from one end of the house to the other, i get up at 4:30 am every morning and hit the woods. This morning it was 14 degrees with an intermittent wind out of the SW. I'm seeing nothing to speak of....a doe here, a little four over there. The truck broke down a week ago and I haven't dealt with it. I limped home with screams coming from under the hood. There it sits. The worst of it was last night, when after a long day freezing my ass off, seeing nothing I came home to a world of shit...literally. What? You can't foul your litter box with your runny excrement? I think that was my bottom.
   Speaking of "bottoms" I haven't even had time to comment on my old editors at PAPER MAGAZINE scoring Pop culture's version of the big buck- Kim Kardasian's ass. Like Franco in Madrid's tourist brochure, you won't find much mention of me in PAPER's historical compilations, but I was there. I wrote THE HOLY CORNER from 1989-1999. Every month they send me a free magazine. I have 'em all. Except this one. The ass cracking of the internet has somehow stopped my comp. issue. I'm sure it's just an oversight. I reminded DH that it was I who suggested Paris Hilton's dog's ass on a cover in the 90's and was politely shot down. Not soon after my column was scratched.
Coincidence? I think not.
   Anyway, Cheeky's massive runny shits seemed to have subsided for the time being, but I'll never step in the tub again without checking. Tonight he somehow got on the roof. I had to coax him off straddling a step ladder, waving a flashlight. Then the phone rang. It was Shewho. I hadn't seen her all week. Tonight was to be our big date night. We were going over to Kate O's for a dinner with arsty folk. We were both psyched to get off the mountain. She was calling from the side of the road in WSS. Black ice had closed 52. She'd baked a pie ferchristsake. So here I sit. Where is that fucking cat?

GEORGE'S 12

IN THE WOODS

TRAGIC WARDROBE MALFUNCTION

  It's been a slow season. The weather has sucked. It's been too warm and when it isn't windy it's raining. And it's a full moon. All of this has led me to look at the kitten when the alarm goes off for some indication of whether or not I should get up. This morning in my dreamy state he had his paws wrapped around my beard and his moist little nose right up against my.....I think it was his nose. By the time I turned off the alarm he had righted himself, and was yawning, sitting on the pillow. This morning I didn't even ask. 30 degrees and calm. I was getting in the stand.
   I'm hunting Mr. X's Mystery Farm and headed for the high stand. All the sign was on the low side, but this stand had paid off in the past in the morning, so that was my choice. I was a little late getting in, but didn't kick anything out on the way. The sun was already up by the time I settled in. Around 7:00 I heard crunching. A doe crossed behind me and headed into the hemlocks. A good start. I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned back. All the bullshit of real life started to drift away. The previous day I had dealt with my lousy bank, put on my storm windows, swept out the shul, cleaned the litter box....then I heard crunching again. This time it was coming right in and was close. I stood up. By the time I had my bow in my hand I saw horns. I clipped the release and realized this was a shooter. He was a big mature whitetail with a heavy, chocolate brown rack with 4 inch brown tines. 8 or 10-it didn't matter. He was in front of me before I knew it. He looked right at me and stopped. I froze. He did the head bob, sizing me up. If he continued I could draw. He did. I drew. At least I tried. This is where it gets tragic.
   Hunting from a tree stand one has to always wear a safety harness. And the leg straps have a tendency to slip down. When I drew back on the string the twisting torque of my body was arrested by the strap on my right leg, cinched in my pant. Had my arms shrunk? Was the bow fucked up? I struggled. And in this struggle the buck caught all the movement, spooked, spun and was gone, leaving me holding my.....bow.
   I know I talk plenty about the beauty of failure in hunting and the parallels it has with art, etc., etc. Well it's all  bullshit. I had the biggest deer I've ever seen 20 yards broadside and I could not get the bow string back in order to make the shot. I'm sick of failing. I seem to come up with new ways of fucking up nobody has ever heard of. "Your leg stopped you from pulling the string with your arm? Huh?" Don't worry. I get it. I'm way more disgusted with myself than you could ever be. My old man would've been philosophical about it all. "It just wasn't meant to be." Well he's dead and I have a long season ahead of me. The good news is I saw another, smaller 8, from the same stand this afternoon. The rut's kicking in. I'll be in the stand from now until just before Xmas, or until I put my hands on that big rack. Now if I can just figure out which end of the cat is hugging me during the night......  

FLAMING MADONNA

CHEEKY BEFORE THE OPERATION

THEY SNIPPED MY CHEEKY

   I've been a cat lady since I moved up here 20 years ago. First came Cali. She had kittens: Itchy, Bitchy and Twitchy. After that came Monkey Balls. He was a blue Persian with giant nuts. I never got his glorious testicles removed, and he subsequently would disappear for months at a time. The last time I saw him was New Years Eve 2000. He had changed personalities. I blamed it on Y2K. He meowed so much I kicked him back out in the snow. I never saw him again. Then Marta (Nicole) and Tommy (Paris Hitler) sought out a port in the storm after Carlito took off for San Salvador on vacation, showing up and refusing to leave. After that came Ray Gilkey, Mr. Kitty and Spooky Cat. I think that brings us up to date. If I've forgotten anyone i apologize. They are all gone now, never leaving a trace. I'm assuming some sort of cat rapture is in effect around here.
    So for the time being it's just Cheeky and me. And because this kitten is both an indoor and outdoor cat i decided to get him neutered. It was tough. I sat him down and we had "the" talk. He looked at me blankly, all big coal black eyes and tilted head. "It's for the best." I promised. "It's a very simple procedure....virtually painless.... you won't even....."Then he batted my nose with his paw and and jumped into my leather bag. Ooooooh that scamp.
    The next day i dropped him off at the vet. He took it like a trooper, never even meowing in the truck. As the girl at the counter filled out the form i inquired as to the disposal plans for the soon to be freed testes. "We throw them out. Why?" she asked with a frown. "Well Xmas is coming up. I thought maybe my taxidermist could make a couple of earrings for my girlfriend." She went back to the paper. "I'll ask the vet."
   Today Shewho picked up Cheeky at the vet's and brought him over to my place. He was fine. I was so worried he would change personality without his balls. But no. He was the same old Cheeky, doing the monkey leap and chasing his tail and going for my nipple (weening can be difficult). I was so glad to have him home. "Are there any instructions?" I asked Shewho. "No. He may lick back there and if there's spotting let them know. No baths." Who the fuck would bathe a kitten after it had been castrated? "Oh. And the girl gave me this." she said, handing me a small bag. "She said you'd know and wished me Merry Xmas. What's that about?" I just shrugged and hugged my clipped little kitten. Ho Ho Ho.      
   

STUDY

KATE ORNE'S GREAT NEW SITE

www.upstatediary.com

AESTHETICIZED GARBAGE

I've consistently searched out cheap (re:free) art supplies. It started with the book cover paintings. This was the Kristan Kohl series KK52. The fictitious Kohl, having been long dead, was resurrected with this methodology. Books had become a throwaway item on the streets of NYC in the late 80's. I took advantage of this break down in society. With effortless wandering through the East Village i would find discarded books, each yielding two small canvas boards. I began painting upon and simultaneously collaging, through cutting and "skinning" the glued canvas and cardboard. With this series I retro-dated all previous KK work 1952 and was reintroduced to the practice of "hunting" and "skinning". These small works brought me back to actual animal hunting and brought me to the sticks.
   These days the activity of hunting is no different than any other in my art making regime. In fact the object making aspect of the "trophy" has become less and less interesting to me. Yes, I still want to kill the big buck, but the taxidermy, or even blood and bones, aspect of this niche has diminished. And in it's place has manifested the henge.
    My first henge is the ongoing Wheel Barrow Henge. Try finding a broken wheel barrow in these hills. A useless wheel barrow sticks around about as long as a recently deceased ebola corpse. Once damaged beyond repair, the caste aside barrow is scrapped or thrown out. But more than likely, in any cancerous state the loyal triad is still in service. More duct tape and air in the tire and good as new. Plus the deserted bungalow colonies and abandoned farms, where I unearth these treasures, are also disappearing. Soon a beautifully golden patinaed, rusted tub will be a thing of the past. I started this henge none too soon. And this has led to a craving to continue the circular motif. Proposed henges include: Satellite Dish Henge, Riding Lawnmower Henge, Boat on Trailer Henge and the already started Shine Kit Henge. Because of my upcoming nuptials here at the church, Shewho has put a NO MORE HENGES order into effect for my yard. I need some open field space, preferable with roadside visibility. Ring any bells?
   In the meantime I'm also working on traps. I have a fish trap and pigeon trap, neither of which work, which goes along with my perpetual motion machine and solar powered work lights. Implicit in all this work is that it not work. So you can imagine my delight, when rooting around in some abandoned sheds, looking for wheel barrows i came upon three, what looked like, hillbilly minnow traps. It wasn't until I got them home that I realized they were actual art. Someone had constructed, spray painted and fretted over these sculptures visually. In my search for crap to make my art out of I had inadvertently stolen somebody else's work. Why was it hanging there in that shed? I have no clue. I may have some competition in the Catskill trash heap/art supply store/gallery I call home.    

GLITTER CANNON

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

SHINE KIT HENGE

INTERNET CHIMP

SOCIAL MOB RULE OR IN YOUR FACEBOOK

As a former user of facebook and Myspace I feel I can comment confidently on the phenomenon of social media. I tried it. It's not for me. I can appreciate all the positives as far as reaching people with ease. Some people (I won't mention names) immediately stopped reading my blogs, after I left facebook. If I wasn't there shoving my link in their face, allowing them a simple click, they weren't  that interested. I dig it. You're busy. It's fine. Read me or not. I honestly don't care. And this is why I left the giant circle jerk that is social media. I cared too much what you thought. I waited for your "likes" and if they weren't forth coming, I felt bad. I questioned what I had posted. Was it no good? Was I no good? I'm a one way transmitter. I really don't want to discuss. Let me keep my illusions.
    And these days the term "social media" might as well be "social mob". It can be measured very simply. It's in the numbers and everyone from the national news to the Yahoo feed pay attention. Just ask that poor kid who shot that white deer or any other schmuck that may want to go against the grain and post on fb. Immediately fb is up in arms. I know, it's egalitarian and I like that part of it. But it is also bullying in it's heavy handed, PC, we are the world and know best, goody- goodyness. I'm a feminist, but do I have to worry about the newest "Perfect Body" ad campaign by Victoria's Secret, just because "social media" tells me i should? Since when did women start paying attention to unrealistic body types? Come on people- they're supposed to be unrealistic. And last, but by no means least, the social hysteria involved in keeping a Maine nurse under house arrest because she went to West Africa to help with the ebola crisis. She has no symptoms and should not be quarantined.  Why don't you all shut the fuck up and pay attention to the science, not the mob.

  Otherwise the rut is starting to heat up. I had a four pointer run four big does right behind my stand over at Majestic a couple of nights ago. A front has gone through and the weekend should be cold. This may get the shooters up on their feet. If I only had a cell phone I'd try Instagram. But that ain't gonna happen any time soon. Looks like this is all you get.
 

MORGANE

MIME WEDDING

EMERGENCY PRE-HALLOWEEN WEDDING

I got the call late on Friday. Old friend R. Kennedy and his Brazilian sidekick ********** were on tour hyping the latest CD from their band The Jam Messengers- GUILTY and were in a bit of a pickle. *********girlfriend ******** was driving her car, schlepping them from gig to gig, and 2 shows into a 17 show tour the strain of being on the road was already starting to show. It seems ******** being from the south, had taken a chastity pledge and had somehow forgotten to tell ********. Purity Balls had turned blue and in desperation Kennedy called me to see if I could help. ******* could no longer sit at the drums.
    I listened patiently. "I don't know what I can do." I said, sympathizing with the sitch. "How about marrying them?" RK suggested. "I don't think this tour can continue without doing something." Rob moaned. I could hear LIKE A VIRGIN playing in the background. Well, we did have a Halloween party scheduled for Sat. I guess it theoretically could work. If they could somehow secure a license before the county clerk's office closed for the weekend.....well my credentials were in order.

So it was, that on one day's notice we here at the CLGM joined in holy mime matrimony ******** and *******. Shewho and I came as the " Mimes of ISIS" and I was able to administer the wedding vows in silence, letting my white gloves do all the talking. They tied the imaginary knot and I hope they will live happily ever after. The congregation witnessed the event in full costume, I signed the papers and the newlyweds took off today, heading for Maryland. Did they have sex last night? I guess those of you who can make the Fredericksburg gig will have to let the rest of us know how ******** straddles that stool tonight. For those of you who are about to fuck....we salute you.  

MISS HITLER 2014 CONTENDER- ALINA VORONINA

NAZI NEWS

It must be that so much time has gone by, and the global educational system is so poor that the young people in power these days just don't realize what exactly happened during WWII. The latest example of products in bad taste is a Swiss company offering "figures of history" creamer top collectables in the form of Benito Mussolini and Adolf Hitler. All you savy collectors out there that snapped up the Walter and Jesse dolls in the Breaking Bad collection at Toys R Us better get on it. Both the creamer company and the doll makers have pulled these products. One has to wonder if this was the end game all along. How else would these guys get press?
   It's one thing for knowledgable individuals in government to grant actual Nazis lifetime Social Security benefits and another for seemingly clueless execs. to try to make money off of the image of one of the most notorious mass murderers in history. I don't know which is worse, but if I had to choose I'd say giving SS to the SS is pretty bad. How do you justify even a penny coming out of the SS coffers going to an old Nazi? I'd say "heads should roll" at SS, but in light of all the beheadings lately, that would be in bad taste. As long as my check comes on time, I'll keep quiet.

   I haven't been hunting hard. It's been warm and the action has been slow. i did let a nice 8 pointer walk last week down at GNJohn's orchard stand. Now I'm second guessing that decision. I had a perfect broadside, 10 yard shot and judged the wide racked deer to be too young. I think I'm watching too much "hunter porn" on the Pursuit Channel. I forget that this ain't Iowa. It's a good chance that will be my last opportunity. Savage Lynch hasn't even seen a buck, let alone a shooter. In the meantime Nazis and Social Security items top the news alongside Ebola and ISIS. Don't forget Halloween Party this Sat. 8pm. Costumes optional. Sieg Heil!

PIG

DRUNK CHIC

HALLOWEEN PARTY 143 Old Glen Wild Rd Glen Wild, NY 12738 Sat. Oct. 25 8pm

AMBIKA

UNKNOWN WOMAN

SS# ... .. ....

  In August I turned 62. I know for years I've said I was 10 years older. It was a lie. As a 62 year old I am eligible for social security. Hard to believe that even with all those zero columns the US government is going to cut me a monthly check from now until I croak. It won't be much, but hey anything is welcome. It's not like I'm on the government teat. I paid money into the system that now will dole it back out to me. On Wed. I applied for and was accepted into the Social Security system. So in honor of this event I retired from writing www.huntingwithsupermodels.blogspot.com. It now stands along side my other blogs in cyperspace- Luckymike, Christmo, Holylgm, Parishitler, and Mohuntingwithsupermodels, all on blogspot. If blogspot ever goes under I'll lose 10 years of writing. Read 'em while you can.
   This new blog is named after the Alaskan TV personality's on-air resignation, "I fucking quit.....in order to concentrate on my marijuana farm full time." I have no such farm, but it kinda summed up what I feel these days. There's no way for an artist to retire and that's one of the big reasons i picked this path. I've been semi-retired since I was about 30. Who needs to work like a dog all their life, just to retire, get sick and die? Everything in moderation....especially work. But I can quit so many things. I can quit sweating my career. I can quit worrying where my next dollar will come from. I can quit bitching about people not returning phone calls or emails. I can quit belly aching over minuscule bullshit and concentrate on what matters in life. I can quit even pretending that I will quit smoking pot, drinking or watching internet porn. Retirement ain't so bad.
    So, in quitting one thing I am starting anew with another. In many ways you'll hardly notice the change. I'll still search out great photographers and beautiful women. I'll still post the art I'm working on (and hopefully include more of other artist's work). I'll continue to hunt, do churches, piss off the neighbors, have opinions about stuff, and write it down here. So welcome to my golden years. I'm just waiting on the check.  

POINT BLANK

CHEEKY