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.