WSSP 2008

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