BACK TO MY ROOTS

  As you all know this blog was a bust. The piece is a good one. But as a blog I could never get any momentum. So I'm going back to huntingwithsupermodels.blogspot.com. WSSP continues. Come visit.

40 AND COUNTING

  Leave it to NBC's DATELINE  to make WOODSTOCK look about as appealing as a visit to the proctologist. Yeah, I was there. Big fucking deal. That just makes me one of the 500,000 ( or less every day) geezer survivors of that muddy weekend. Brother Bird and I made the scene. He was fourteen. I was sixteen. Most of the crowd was in their 20's and up. So when Bird and I looked on this group it was in awe. The musicians were Gods. The congregation were sacred sinners. We were nothing but snot nosed kids, let loose by clueless parents. To this day my mother thinks we drugged her with an overdose of COPE in order to get permission. There was no way we were staying away.

  Now it's 40 years later. Christ! At 20 R. Kennedy and I drove his Caddy from the LES to play on a makeshift plywood stage, erected by locals in a chaotic field of RVs and minibuses. There was a full moon eclipse. We felt the vibe. We swore to each other we'd meet back in that field in 2009. Last week RK called from Hawaii to inform me he wouldn't be making the reunion. I live 10 miles from the site and I concurred. I wouldn't be showing up either. 

   When I see what's left of THEWOODSTOCKNATION pontificating about the old tribe, it just makes me sad. This is George Bush's generation. What a giant disappointment. I'm disgusted with myself that I ever thought this bunch was cool. The summer of 1969 was what they call a watershed moment in time. They landed on the moon. Charlie Manson wrecked havoc. The Beatles crossed Abbey Road and The Aquarian Exposition took place in Bethel. In restrospect it all looks too good to be true. It was. But Kennedy and I swore we'd be lame if we didn't meet at the site for the 60th. Just remember the guy sitting next to you is your brother. Right Bird?      

YOU'RE NOT JEWISH, ARE YOU?

   There's been big progress out at WSSP. The most pressing obstacle overcome has been the drilling of a 205 foot well. We have water (inside the house)! You can't imagine the joy of dropping off the kids at the pool and watching as they swirl out of sight, with a gentle gurgle. IT'S A BOY! Scatological humor aside, it's a major step towards habitation of the old farm house. Then, a few days after the well trucks pulled out, the flash floods hit. We sit in a little holler. The Shingle Creek crosses the road a couple of hundred yards up hill and a small drainage ditch almost hugs the house. We put a culvert in the ditch in order to drill the well, and decided to leave it for the extra real estate. Big mistake.

   It's been the wettest summer on record in the Northeast, but last week it got worse. Torrential rains pounded the ridges and water came down in buckets full. The road washed out, along with our new driveway and culvert. If the well trucks had still been on the hill they would've ended up in the wires. But, to our surprise and delight, the house was spared. Basement dry, work continued.

   I had hired a taper. Harold had decided to postpone rehab. for one last job. A bottle of vodka before coffee break, and two warm beers before lunch, Harold laid it on thick. He alternated between  "What a fucking mess." and "Beautiful!" Two days later he disappeared. We still haven't found him. Taper #2- Pat was a sneaky SOB who stole mud from the job sight to do a side job at lunch time. That's just not right. When I called him on it, he walked, leaving the taping to me. He said he could tell when a job soured. I can imagine he's had that feeling a lot. Oh well. I had control once again, whether I wanted it or not.

   Through all this SK has been coming and going, filling woodwork, painting, buying an ancient Chambers stove that weighs as much of a truck, and I even met her daughter TB, a cute as a button 13 year old shark expert, who can feed deer out of her hand. Hunting season could be problematic. Then, last week, SK was crossing Denison's Ford when a Hassidic Rabbi and a small boy waved her car down. The boy did the talking. "Are you Jewish?" "No." "Is your mother Jewish?" "No." Why the religious quiz?  SK wondered.  Then the young boy pointed up the road. Seems a gaggle of crock pots, cooking the feast, had thrown a breaker. The Lord would not allow them to throw the switch. SK was happy to oblige. The Little Green Man shall provide. Welcome to Sullivan County.    

   

WHEN CAMEL TOES ATTACK

  For personal reasons SK has decided to abstain from participating further in this blog. Don't worry. It's all good. Her collaboration on WSSP continues, but it will only be my voice heard on the blog. It's for the best. I can get into it and she seems not to like posting. She's self conscious of her readership. I have no such concerns. So be it. We give each other an out in most situations. Say she wants to go to a birthday party in Brooklyn that features pony rides for adults and I would rather stay on the mountain and dig out my eyeballs out with a dull spoon....no big deal. I kiss her goodbye, tell her to drive safe and be careful of the ponies. They can be mean and unpredictable. Which brings me to another one of her interactions with critters recently. SK fancies herself an expert with critters large and small. You be the judge.

    After a hard day out at WSSP, there we were sitting on the front porch, having a beer, when we spotted a little black and white goat crossing the field. Now, usually this would barely raise an eyebrow, but the little Billy was in the pen with ostriches. As he got closer to the road, the big birds began to circle him, lurching to strike with their  beaks. I barked at the birds and they backed off. SK and I got in the adjacent paddock to herd the goat back towards the running sheds. This paddock contained two camels. SK was smitten. She cooed and scratched the camel's chin. I informed her that they were unpredictable and to be careful. She dismissed my concern and continued her camel foreplay. "They are sooooo cute." she squealed. 

   The little goat disappeared in the ostrich shed and and i returned to SK and her worked up camel. You ever seen a camel's member? It's as long as your arm and purple as Geezus. SK didn't seem to notice as she goo-goo eyed the beast and pranced back towards the house. What happened next is kind of a blur. All I remember is the camel rearing up on his back legs and....I don't know what was on his mind, but all I could think of was those videos of animals stomping the shit out of some dumb fuck, unlucky enough to be in the way. SK ran. I screamed. The camel kept coming.

Later on that evening I recounted the whole affair to my brother Bird. SK sat on the porch rubbing her bruised arm and side. "I knew something was wrong," SK explained to Bird, "when I felt his foot on my arm." Bird raised his eyebrow. "Honey, that was no foot."   

3 BIKES

SK

TONIGHT IN HELL

   I want to stay focused with this blog. It is about the reclamation of WSSP as art. But as we all know, art can be boring. So, as much as I hate my neighbors, they do open the door for me to talk about other issues. Their insidious, Satanic slant, wrapped in the banality of a hillbilly love pentagram gets me to wondering just what goes on in Hell? Here's what I think.

   I think Hell is 24/7 of Johnny Carson's TONIGHT SHOW. And since Johnny died he's been on his own down there. At first the Devil was totally excited to get such a big talent sitting behind the desk and paired him up with Sadam. Sadam was mean, overbearing and waaaay too pushy as a second fiddle. Even the Illuminati were tuning out (even though it is the only thing on). Everything changed last week. With the death of Ed McMann, Hell became a happening place once again. Even before Ed drew his last breath, he had lined up Farrah. But no one suspected what a line up Ed was putting together.

   In the green room sits David Caradine, Billy Mays and Karl Malden. There's a chair with Courtney Love's name taped to the back. But no one knows if she'll show. Johnny's monologue is sharp and his imaginary golf club is smacking them into Satan's many assholes. All the Popes are cheering and the child molesters, in the nose bleed seats, are bent over with belly laughs. Ed smiles knowingly. He's got a surprise for Johnny....AND the molesters. "I've brought someone special with me." Ed teases Johnny. Johnny looks frightened. Ed reassures him no ex-wives. Johnny wipes his brow and mugs for the camera. Then, in that booming signature voice, Ed lets the cat out of the bag. "HEEEEEERRRREEEE'S MICHAEL!" And in moonwalks Michael Jackson. The place goes nuts. A volcano erupts in Hawaii.

    When the show's over....not really.....it's never over, Johnny leans back in his chair and asks Ed how he'll top this? Ed winks slyly. " Does the name Madoff ring a bell? HEY-OOOOOoo." Stay tuned.    

ISH

   Anyone who lives alone knows, that you don't so much talk to yourself, as you talk to "things". I talk to the chair, the fucking computer, the cat (Ray is missing), the TV, the floor, the wall, etc. I have just spent a good ten minutes screaming at the computer and interogating Nicole as to Ray's disappearance. I'm getting nowhere. This is indicative of the way things have been going. I've made some references to the neighbors in past posting. Let me catch you up. But first a brief history.

   I bought WSSP by default, as the high bidder did not pony up the deposit. I think the high bidder was someone in my neighbor's house hold, which includes his wife and her boyfriend. I'm pretty sure it was the wife and or boyfriend. I don't think the husband was involved. But that's just a gut feeling. Even though the original condition of my house was dismal, the view across the road wasn't so bad. There was a little unpainted one car garage and a ramshackle 70's motor home next to a little parking area. It, of course had been part of the original farm. But years ago the land had been sold off to save the house. The house was sitting on less than a half acre. That's what I now owned.

   As soon as I mowed the lawn, even before I ripped off one asbestos shingle, the caution tape and spray painted "NO TRESPASSING" warning went up across the road. My house is about 30 feet from this property. I tried to nip it in the bud. I introduced myself, told the wife, and eventually the husband, my plans to restore, and either keep or sell. They seemed cool about my presence and I went forward, working on the place. Then the upside down, scowling Satan went up, as did posted signs on every tree, more caution tape, 3 bikes, and a jungle of high grass. It would be comical if it was happening to someone else.

   It's now two years later. I sold it to Samm a year ago and have worked on it since. The house is on its way to becoming really nice home. As an art work it is holding it's own. Major drainage and water issues have been overcome, but still we do not have a drilled well. We have a toilet. We do not have a flush. AND we still have neighbor issues. WHATTHEFUCK? I don't get it. Then today, it came to a head. No guns were involved. I simply turned it over to Samm, and her ease with people, and diplomacy. The husband called me this morning and gave me his wife's cell #. "She'll know what it's about? I asked. "Oh yes." he replied. Two can play at this game. I gave the # to Samm. She was scared, but she did it. I kinda insisted. 

   I was prepared to have her be a bitch or maybe open negotiations. Neither happened. She held her twisted ground with a litiny of reasons. The caution tape? Oh that's because someone sued a neighbor for 2 million dollars and won. Satan? It's so hard to decorate the barn for Halloween- they just leave it up. The bikes? Oh they'd been dropped off at sis's and she hoped someone would take them. The grass? They just like it long. "She's sweet." Samm said.

    I was not prepared for such evil.   

       

DREAM TEAM

  I became an  artist so I could work alone. I've always been a bit of a control freak. And why the fuck not? I know what I'm doing and I know what I want and how to do it.....that is most of the time. In fact it wasn't until the 80's that I was forced to admit that i couldn't do it all. It came as quite a shock. But then I realized that relinquishing a bit of control to others could be rather satisfying. And when one goes into  full on collaborative mode all kinds of good shit happens.

   Now, as in all collaborative projects, what matters most is who you are working with. When I started MO DAVID GALLERY my "stable" included Tony Labat, Karen Finley, Tony Oursler, Les Levine, Robin Winters, David Ireland, Stelarc, Katherine Sherwood, and others. When I started my band PURPLE GEEZUS, it included guitar legend Jerry Williams and infamous rhythm section THE WORKDOGS (Rob Kennedy and Scott Jarvis). When I started my church THE LITTLE GREEN MAN it was with Carlo McCormick, THE WORK DOGS, organist Jerry Williams and a congregation of L.E.S. luminaries too vast to mention. But what has anyone done with me lately?

   Well, WSSP has been one of those tough projects made easier by having a great crew. First and foremost there is lead carpenter and right hand man Al Blanchard. Al can do it all and usually does. Al helped me put the steeple on the LGM church and wouldn't take a dime for it. I bought him a 12 ga. turkey gun. This year he shot his first tom with it. It had $100 tag on his leg. Payback. Then there's electrician Steve Snyder. He comes in bitches about the cold, cusses the neighbor, pulls a wire and gets the job done before you can turn around. Brother Bird is a hired gun, when I need him and new member Jason "the kid" K. is a plumber par excellent. Morris Cooper is my septic/shrink. Bill Goetz my well driller,  and of course who could forget my architect, designer and co-pilot Shewho. Dimensions? Who needs dimensions.  I can't say this bunch makes my life easy, but without them I'd never be able to do this one. They are the dream team. Gotta wreck of a house you want to save? Call me. Bring it on.     

ABRACADABRA

SK

SLAB TO SHINGLE....

....in less than two weeks. After two years of restoration work on the old part of WSSP and site work on the half acre parcel, Al Blanchard and I put up the addition in no time at all. And, to be honest, Al set the pace and did most of the framing and sheathing. AND don't forget the roof. Al has been so happy not to be picking away on the old structure, he even agreed to put on the roof. There aren't too many roofs Al will agree to do these days. He's a master at it but, anyone who has put on a roof will tell you, it's a particularly hot part of Hell. So now, the house looks like Samm's computer rendering.

   Then there's the weather. A southern jetstream is wrecking havoc. It's wet. Yet, the LGM was smiling when Al put the last shingle on the ridge, and the sky's opened up. To help with the overflowing springs, we've transplanted high swamp ferns, a blueberry bush and a bunch of water sucking flora onto the wettest parts. The property is taking shape. Then there's the neighbors.... 

 

GUILTED, FLATTERED AND CAJOLED

In Public!  OK, in my defense, I would like to point out that blogging is the MO thing and I'm the reticent newbie.  So to start with, I'll dip my citygirl painted toes into the blogosphere with pics of WSSP doings and plannings.  Unlike MO, who spends all day every day IN the project, I'm generally stuck in the city with visions of drywall dancing in my head.  So naturally, I've cooked up a virtual version of the house on my computer so I can move walls, pop windows in and out, change colors at will, and even landscape the property.   So far it has one tree - just for scale.

It's nothing like being there but it helps me pretend.  

SK

THREE BIKES FOR SATAN

  Let me sincerely apologize to those of you who faithful visit my blogs only to see the same old post day after day. It's the fucking computer's fault. And when I say this I mean not only the machine, but the connection, blogspot, the phone company and any and all things attached. I've been trying to post for over two weeks, to no avail. My "cookies" were fucked up in some way. Do you know what cookies are? Good. Because I don't have a clue. Finally Samm fixed it. Seems she'd rather do that then make a post of her own. This is supposed to be a collaborative blog. When I hear that word I reach for my gun. I cajole, flatter and encourage my collaborator. But does she pony up? I don't think so. For years she has felt no shame in guilting me into regular blog postings. Whatthefuck?

   Anyway here's the update. Today Al Blanchard and I put up the rafters on the addition. You heard right. Since I've been gone, we've gotten up the addition. And I've lined up a well driller. I don't want to speak too soon, but the LGM willing, we will have a drilled well and plumbing soon. The pace has picked up. We've cut drainage ditches everywhere and so far so good. Samm has been coming up on the weekends doing layout and painting. Two weeks ago she saw the neighbor (yeah, that one) pushing a bike up the road. She leaned it against Satan's nose and disappeared back down the road. Then a little later she came back with another one, never saying a word. The next morning there were three.  I can only speculate that it is some sort of offering to the dark lord. Maybe at night he wraps his six legs around them, and pedals up and down the midnight ridges.  Yes, we still have some issues to resolve.   

FOOTPRINT

FOR MO FOR AS LONG AS YE BOTH SHALL LIVE + D.I. 9-7-79

   That instruction is typed on the top card of a mason jar containing a hand formed "turd" of wallpaper from David Ireland's house- 500 Capp St, SF. Every once in a while it "pops" from the pressure. I just got word that D.I. had died on Monday. Of course the jar popped. 

   I met David in 1978 when he was working on 500 Capp and I was stumbling around trying to figure out how I could make getting to know a 12 year old art. We clicked immediately. He let me do a church and a whorehouse in 65 Capp. I have the "65" address numbers. His influence on my work is incalculable. Recently I told him that. In typical Ireland fashion he told me how I had influenced him. The man was gracious to a fault. 

   David Ireland went back to school when he was forty. He started doing beautiful complex prints. Then cement paintings. He caught up with art history and started to make his own. In the late 70's he was 50 and well immersed in 500 Capp St.- a house rich in history and surface. He gently revealed it all and placed himself squarely  at it's center. He lived in his sculpture.

   With 65 Capp he took a totally different approach, transforming a sad salt box into an architectural beauty, redefining the rules as he went. But always, David's gift was that as artist, as an accessible artist, lacking in pretense and revealing in his role, and place in the world. You could tell it baffled him. It was contagious. In his words- "You wanted to talk and write dirty and felt you couldn't while your parents were alive." 

I will miss him mightily.

-MO

   

WSSP 2008

FLIP THIS ART

   In my practice, I've redefined many things as art. A cow, a church, a rock band, a school, a Thai boy, all fell under this rubric. But, to be honest, when I purchased WSSP, art was the furthest thing from my mind. I knew real estate prices were beginning to slip, but the bubble had yet to burst. I had just come off of a big house transformation up in Stone Ridge, for a NYC couple with deep pockets. And was about to begin moving GNJohn's ancient barn across the road to it's new home (see:watchthehousegrow.blogspot.com), and saw WSSP as a money maker. Buying at such a low price seemed to position me to attack it with labor and maybe 50k and flip it. Man was I dreaming.

   Take my word for it, you can't build a house for less than $150,000. A year into the process I had nothing more than a good looking facade. And now we were hearing such terms as "sub-prime" , gas was $4 per gallon, and house prices began a free fall. How could I get out from under this? My solution was to include WSSP in a show I was doing at Marianna's Apartment in NYC.  I had at least $75,000 in  at this point. And to my great surprise (and never ending  gratitude) the artist Samm Kunce bought the place, with the eventual understanding that the two of us would colaborate on finishing it as sculpture. The journey was just beginning.

PROVENANCE

As far back as people in these parts can remember, it was the Hunt Farm. Thirty acres of rock strewn fields, some hardwoods and a little one story house on a back road between White Sulfur Springs and Youngsville. At some point they decided to put another story on the old homestead. But instead of ripping the roof off, they cut the supporting 2x4s and jacked the roof up about four feet. What was an attic now became a full second story. You can see the cuts. A third of the house sat on a hand dug basement and laid stone foundation. The rest sat on the ground. Eventually they had TV, phone, a furnace in the wet basement, storm windows, asbestos siding, and concrete steps. They didn't have hot water, nor much of a place to take a nice morning sit down. Priorities.
In the early sixties one of the Hunt girls inherited the place. Erma Hunt married a Rozengrant. It was about then that they lopped off the house with a half acre of land. It became the Rozengrant house. The rest of the land was sold to Robertson up the road and then Peters. (My present neighbor.) They were dirt poor, but by all accounts the kids went to school clean. In 1997 Erma got sick and died. Soon thereafter, Mr. Rozengrant went to live with one of his daughters. I met him last year. He's dead now.
When i first started gutting the place i found dozens of putrid canned peaches, hundreds of empty dog food cans and quite a few religious tracts. It seems Erma was a practicing Baptist. It took two 30 yard dumpsters just to get the place workable. Not much was salvagable. But once i got down to bare wood I found old newspapers glued to the inside of the rough cut side boards. Dec. 24, 1899 was the oldest. Now that Samm and I are taking more of an art/archeological approach, we're saving everything. Yesterday I found a little gold St. Jude's medal buried in the dirt. "Pray for Us" was inscribed in the front. Amen.

-MO

RUNOFF

SK

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE.....

.....but none in the house. At this writing I have no well line, no plumbing. For weeks I've been trying to get the plumber out to WSSP and get a well driller lined up. As with many aspects of this house, I had no idea how difficult this could be. On the outside we're surrounded by water. Springs dot the hillside. A runoff stream empties into The Shingle Creek across the road. And every time it rains a little more real estate washes into the road. Oh, the plumber's wife has to have open heart surgery, while no well driller will touch the job. "Wires are too close." "Slope is too much." "Can't have that runoff going into the creek." "You're looking at $10,000...at least." It's back to the spring. And wait for the plumber's wife's surgery.
In the mean time, Al and I have put on the stairs off the porch and cut in the little loft windows. From the exterior the place looks amazing. But aside from electric and woodstove, we have no systems. The septic has cleared, but has yet to be tested. There's still more "earth art" to be done. I want to catch a couple of small springs with cisterns for the garden and put in more curtain drain. We are literally carving up the property in an attempt to divert the water away from the house. So far it seems to be working. I just got off the phone with the excavator. He says maybe Friday.

BUYER BEWARE

The first engineer I called about doing a site plan for the property said that. "Buyer beware." he monotoned. He said it was impossible on a less than a half acre lot to engineer well and septic. He said I'd bought a worthless piece of property. That was unacceptable. Needless to say I did not hire that engineer. The next engineer, who did do the plans wasn't much more encouraging. And he cost $2500. Almost from day one I knew this could be a terrible mistake. Not only did I drop 30k, over the past two years I have poured my, and now Samm's money into this project. Not to mention a lot of sweat equity.
The next stop was the NY State Board of Health. The man there was more encouraging. He gave me some key phrases. "Upgrading existing systems." he said with a wink. I told him a cold water spring line came in the kitchen..."That's your well!" he said cutting me off gleefully. I told him the septic was still a mystery. He didn't seem that concerned. "We like to work with people." He smiled, shook my hand and showed me the door. I went forward.

Looking back on this now, maybe I should've eaten the $30,000 and moved on. Naw.

-MO

IN THE BEGINNING

The project started with the purchase of 192 Midway Road White Sulfur Springs, NY. I bid $24,500 for the property. The winning bid was $30,000. But when that bidder failed to come up with the 20% required by the auction house, the property went to the next highest bid- me. With back taxes and fees, it came to about $30,000. This is what it looked like at time of purchase. It looks much different today. This blog will try to document this ongoing collaborative project between Samm Kunce and myself.

MO

WSSP 2007