---Secrets---

"I have a (insert casual friend or fishing buddy here) who fishes this obscure spring creek in (state, province, kingdom, mountain range, etc.).  The place is full of huge, stupid trout.  Access is (usually dang near impossible), but the rewards are well worth the effort.  Best of all, nobody knows about it."

I have personally heard at least a dozen versions of the above story.  In response, I have borne gifts of beer, cash and false-hearted friendship.  I have set out adhering to detailed instructions only to find a wetland capable of supporting a toad or two, much less the arm-length trout promised.  I have perpetuated myth, gone shifty-eyed for effect, and flat-out lied.  Secrets, conspiracies and falsehoods are as much a part of fishing as the fish themselves.  Indeed, there are those who may not lie, but we mustn't forget the well-equipped angler who catches no fish.  They do exist, but the liars and stinky-handed bandits are in the majority, fooling trout (and each other) with double-dealing deceit rivaling the devil himself.

Dedicated to the "flower" button on my camera - and my favorite fishing buddy.

While fishing in Montana this spring, a thirty-year Madison River veteran told a story I have not yet borrowed until now.  One day of no particular importance, this guide's client lost a trout of respectable size on the Madison.  As one might expect, the trout made off with the guy's fly.  It happens every day.  On the Madison, it probably happens between a dozen and a hundred times a day depending on circumstances both known and mysterious.  The following day, the guide and his client fished the same stretch and managed to hook a fish in the same hole.  Once landed, it was clear that this fish was the same as yesterday's.  Though odd, these things do happen.  This instance was  exceptional because the client somehow managed to hook the eye of the fly the fish had taken the day before.  It's a mouthful, but read it carefully.  It's like winning the amazing story lottery without losing a few fingers in the process.

A few miles down the road all was silent except the hum of truck tires on the highway.  I thought of the story, and it occurred to me that it was so good, it was worth telling regardless of its substance or lack thereof.  I smiled to myself just as the other guide started telling some story about a guy running naked through a field.

This is not a Golden Trout because they don't get this big.

Like all the other line throwers out there, I have stories and secrets of my own.  The stories are spring runoff while the secrets are a whispering inlet buried beneath river's roar.  As others blow their own cover, their secrets evolve into stories about how the fishing was never that good anyway.  I'm content with  the mutual investment represented by the exchange of information between longtime river partners.  The fish matter less, and any outing is likely to be memorable.  In fact, that is probably what makes a secret worth telling, and at the same time, worth keeping.

Because my employment takes me all over Utah and Idaho, I have had opportunity to add obscure creeks and overlooked waterways to the book.  Some are dreadfully distant, others are simply too cozy for more than one angler at a time.  All have fish, and in my book, they all fish very well.  Even better, most of them were enjoyed in complete solitude.  

Though it looks more like a coven of witches preparing to pounce on Marvin Payne's unsuspecting head, it is a crude sketch of BLAD Creek.

I was blessed with fantastic fishing on Friday on a stream roughly between Boise, Los Angeles and Dallas.  Both caddis and sulphur-colored pale evening duns hatched in abundance. Trout rose eagerly, and I was pleased to find what appeared to be a self-sustaining Brown Trout population.  Just as the sun bid farewell to the east, a feisty brown took cover in submerged roots.  I lost my fly, and concluded the day in thoughtful satisfaction.

As I made my way back home, I listened to KSL's Friday the thirteenth "special."  The topic was conspiracies.  I thought of giant stupid trout swimming eternally in inaccessible northern waters and in the imaginations of those awaiting that seemingly inevitable rise.

The Busy Boxcar

We were rained out on Thursday, but Saturday went well.  The guys that ran the sound board did a decent job most of the time, and they managed to keep the volume to a reasonable level.  The Busy Bee is not much bigger than a double-wide, so volume could quickly become a problem.

Live at the Busy Bee

The Busy Bee does not pay particularly well.  We live off tips, and we live off even less than that when the tip pitcher is stolen.  The following band made a big deal about how we got ripped off, but I am not convinced we did.  In my mind's eye, I see a lonesome beer pitcher standing proud, full of intention and purpose.  Alas, through some unknown misunderstanding, the tips never come.  The smoky night creeps along beneath the glow of neon as an absentminded bartender grabs the pitcher and escorts it to the blinding washroom.  The band plays on, and of course, the missing tip pitcher goes unnoticed.

South Salt Lake's Finest

As a side note,  I don't accept money for tunes anyway.  No altruism here, it's all insurance.  If I so much as pick up a penny tossed in pity, Farmers won't cover the mando should the unthinkable occur.  This is one law of a select few I live to the letter.  I'll never forget how my agent laughed over the phone when I asked him about the lemonade-soaked laptop.  I was irritated with Farmers and S.B. at the time, but I took perverse comfort imagining the never-sleeping, perpetually sticky hands of destruction clawing their way towards S.B.'s future.

Sam Tsu Says: Plan your disasters to the last detail, or you'll someday stand in a puddle, pile of one thousand bricks, or ashes perhaps, laughing telephone in hand.

My beloved and I were the hot act at the care center on Monday night.  I sounded terrible and drifted in and out of the correct keys during my breaks.  I was also off-beat.  Oddly, I found the elderly quite intimidating.  I have played for them several times before, but it has never been like this.  No screaming, stomping, fighting, or anything.  Just a few muffled claps.  We payed homage to Flatt & Scruggs, Gillian Welch, The White Stripes, and The Cross-Eyed Child himself.  I left the care center far richer than the night I left the Busy Bee.  One elderly resident named Ralph remembered us from our last visit nearly a year ago.  He remembered fiddlin' Eddie, April's Bandits and everything.  To the Busy Bees, I am likely no more than a dream from the pint, and if that, I am the part that made all those unusual sounds with that funny little guitar.  Nevertheless, I am at peace.  I chose the off-beat the day I chose eight strings.

And now I choose to finish.  And that, my friends, is power.

Chrome Dreams II

I find old rockers fascinating.  The likes of Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger, and others is not entirely unlike the fat lady at the circus.  A few weeks ago, Sir Paul happened to be on PBS.  I found myself drawn to the spectacle, completely oblivious to the music.  Here is this man as old as my grandfather with his face pulled as tight as a drum, dressed in Seventeen Magazine style.  As hard as he tries, he's not fooling anybody.  Sir Paul moves like a senior.  I write this as respectfully as I can.  Sir Paul was a Beatle, and his contribution to rock and roll is unequaled.

Then there is Neil Young.  He's old like the others and he knows it.  He has written about youth and aging since his early days, and continues to do so.  Recently, he has written songs about his empty nest, his father's death, and he even seems to anticipate his own passage.  The thing that I find striking is the quality of his new material.  In the fall of 2007, Neil released Chrome Dreams II.  In my opinion, this is some of Neil's best material to date.  Amazingly, I remember thinking this in high school when Neil released Harvest Moon.  Even back then, I thought he was an old man with his best years behind him.  It just occurred to me that Neil is like a volcano that refuses to go dormant.  There are other giants out there, long since cool, standing as a monument to the past.  Neil's still spewing fiery slag everywhere, and when he's done there will be nothing left.  Of course, he said it better years ago:  It's better to burn out than to fade away.  -And he lives it.

Notes...

 - What you just read is the worst CD review ever.  Chrome Dreams II is good.  It has elements of much previous Neil Young stuff:  Harmonica, solid lyrics, lap steel, and a fair amount of screaming from Old Black.

 - Yes, there was an original Chrome Dreams.  It was never officially released, an I don't think Neil ever acknowledged its existence - until the release of Chrome Dreams II.  I've read the original was destroyed in a fire, and I have also read that Chrome Dreams refers to a drawing.

 - On a completely unrelated note, I am playing at the Busy Bee on Saturday and the Gallivan Center on Thursday at noon.  Following these, and one or two other scheduled dates, I am officially retiring from public music exhibitions.  It's good to know what it's like, but now is not the time, and dive bars are not the place.

Shelter me from the powder and the finger...

 

A Book Review From The Soap Box

...Or the demise of modern American Literature in popular culture

I recently read Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier.  I picked it up at an airport, motivated primarily by my enjoyment of his earlier novel Cold Mountain.  Thirteen Moons is adventurous love story set in the Cherokee Nation.  The timeline covered is relatively vast, as the story is told by the 100+ year-old protagonist.  A young boy is sold into servitude by relatives following the death of his natural parents.  Against all odds, he becomes wildly successful, is adopted by a Cherokee Chief, fights in the Civil War with his tribe, loses his fortune, and eventually finds it again.  Mr. Frazier includes interesting events that appear to have historical significance, yet he also includes a bold disclaimer pertaining to locations, individuals and events.  In the end, it can only be accepted as a work of fiction.

Despite raving reviews from the Los Angeles Times, and The Boston Globe, I disliked this book.  On a scale of -3 to 3, zero being neutral, I would give it a -1.  It would be possible for me to recommend a zero, but I will not recommend anything lower.  There is one word that came to mind repeatedly as I read:

contrived |kənˈtrīvd|

adjective

deliberately created rather than arising naturally or spontaneously : the carefully contrived image of party unity.

• giving a sense of artificiality : the ending of the novel is too pat and contrived.

I will briefly explain:

 - Thirteen Moons and the Native American in popular culture.  The use of "moons" to measure Native American time is overdone in various media, including literature.  So overdone in fact, it is used frequently in parody.  Mr. Frazier uses the moon and its phases to measure time throughout the novel.  He also uses various Cherokee names for moons as an attempt at symbolism.  I found it transparent and, well, contrived.

 - Sex.  Sex.  Sex.  Two people love each other. We'll make it clear with sex.  Not just once, but hundreds upon hundreds of times.  On top of mountains, on sunny rocks in rivers, you name it.  Sex is the easy way out.  It is a cheap shot.  It's Jerry Springer.

 - Rags, riches, rags, riches.  A tiring cycle with a happy ending.  What happened to Hemingway? Steinbeck?  Melville?  The list goes on and is unbelievably long.  The timeless classics are crafted with care and reveal tiny bits and pieces of intricate humanity in a way that begs interpretation and contemplation.  The entire story seems somehow trite.  The lone white boy, adopted by a Cherokee Chief, eventually growing to fight the evils of Manifest Destiny and the wicked machinations of Jackson, O'Sullivan, et al.

And that is the end of the review.  Here's where I go off-

Within hours of putting a novel down, I have the inclination to discuss it.  Thirteen Moons was no exception, so I unloaded my disappointment upon my beloved.  It turns out we both share a good deal of dissatisfaction with many novels of the day.  Once the water had boiled to steam, it was apparent that our disgust relates to lack of creativity, the abuse of cliche, devaluation/abuse of profanity and graphic sexual encounters.  Far too often these "tools" are used to resolve plot deficiencies or compensate for general literary weakness.  Should you choose to disagree, I would recommend Shakespeare's Richard III.  Shakespeare paints a scenery of darkness and evil using common, yet well-placed words.  Even today, his words ring in the ears and stir the soul.  Consider the often elusive opening:

Now is the winter of our discontent 

made glorious summer by this sun of York;

Wow.  Talk about the archetypal metaphor!  The disfigured Richard refers to himself as the winter-ending sun as he plots to overthrow his brother's kingdom.  Read it.  An hour could be spent discussing a single sentence at the climax of the play composed of about seven words.  With my limited understanding of Shakespeare and literature in general, I have not been able to identify any cheap shots or short cuts.  Though there my be cliches of which I am unaware, The opening sentence of this play has taken life unto itself.  It does this because it lives.  You likely know exactly what the "winter of our discontent" feels like.  Prior to Shakespeare, this had not been placed into words.  So profound it is, that Steinbeck used the line as a title for one of his novels, and  Steinbeck was no hack.

Richard III

Just this morning, I read Isaiah chapter 2.  Is it any wonder that the likes of Robert Hunter (lyricist for the Grateful Dead) mined the bible for language and symbolism?

19: And they shall go into the holes of the earth, for fear of the Lord and for the glory of his majesty, when he ariseth to shake terribly the earth.

20: In that day a man shall cast his idols of silver, and his idols of gold, which they made each one for himelf to worship, to the moles and to the bats;

22: Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils: for wherein is he to be accounted of?

Isaiah chose uncommon, yet appropriate symbolism, and these are the images that stick.  The act and reason for throwing one's idols to the moles and to the bats is clear.  So clear in fact, I have been thinking about idols, moles and bats all day.  Had I read some impotent regurgitation reviling idolatry, I'd have probably bought a motorcycle by now.  I have ideas about verse 22, but I am not completely sure.  The imagery of breath within the nostrils stuck, probably because it is somewhat uncommon, and it possibly references the creation of man found in Genesis.

I'm too busy for senseless posts like this, and I'm the fool for expecting meaning out of a little piece of fiction.

Oxblood Oxfords

The title of this silly little post is compliments of my good mother, who decided to honor my "red" shoes with a truly dazzling color.  As I polished them tonight, it struck me that they are nigh ten years young.

As much as I'd like to polish them with sentiment, they're really just nice Italian shoes that I bought off a discount rack.   Here's what I remember:

 - I bought them for about $80 US.  It's not much now, but that's somewhere near $300 in '98 dollars.  That was a good chunk of rent in those days.

 - I wore them to my sister Katie's wedding.  I remember this because my grandmother commented that my shoes reminded her of her father.

 - I wore them when I interviewed once with Merck, and twice with Pfizer.  They're not particularly lucky shoes.

 - I wore them to work at the University of Utah on the day I found out I had to pull a bunch (tons in a very literal sense) of coaxial cable out from under the floor.  Fine day to wear the nice shoes, thought I.

 - I managed to get a toe jammed in a Trax rail walking downtown with the old man & brothers.  There was a nasty scuff on the toe, long since buffed to a glistening sheen.

 - These shoes are churchin' animals.  Watch out!

I don't think I'd care much about these shoes if they didn't look so dang good.  I couldn't resist the urge to figure shoe-years out.  I reckon the average shoe lasts maybe two years.  Since 80 is ripe old age for people, we'll just extrapolate.  Forty shoe-years per earth year.  That puts these fine oxfords at 400 shoe-years old!  Since the result is so rewarding, I'll stick with this formula in favor of a more believable (and therefore boring) one.

As wonderful as these red shoes could be, I would be remiss should I fail to disclose flaws inevitable.  The heel treads are worn down to the stacked leather, and the inner leather lining at the heel is worn completely through.  The laces have worn into the tongue, and there are a few deep scratches that insist on remaining.  Now that I think about it, they have another flaw worth mentioning.  They are slow.  They're not uncomfortable, but the boot-stomping Sam could catch the red-shoe-wearing Sam in short order.  In fact, that is one reason why they wound up getting jammed in the train tracks.  I was trying to walk fast, and drove the shoes to protest.  That was about a hundred shoe-years ago, so I don't remember it clearly anyway.

I'm beat.  I wonder what I'll think about this when I read it awake.

This weekend has been a whirlwind of music, smoke, fish and snow.  Tuesday night's outing at the bar turned out to be a lot more fun than I had anticipated.  First of all, the benefits were killer.  Both significant other and I were admitted without having to fork over the $7 cover, and I was given three drink tickets redeemable for three cheap beers.  As a non drinker, I traded them for friends.

We were the final act of the night, playing from around 11:00 to midnight.  The crowd was loud, and mixing at the soundboard was one-of-a-kind.  We played to a screaming inebriated crowd.  Without pickups, my little mando was drowned by the booming bass and ringing guitar.  I'll need to either get a pickup installed in my old Weber mando, or I'll need to break down and get an electric if I am to be heard.

The old man tunes at Burt's in the dark, smoky "musicians area"

We played about twelve songs that lyrically covered the most important things including church, love, loss and a giant ship filled with religion.  Musically, it was an amalgamate of various sounds favoring the bass and the guitar.  The banjo and mando needed to step into the marvelous world of electronics to compete.  I would guess we sound much better during our practices, though a few beloved in attendance claimed we sounded great.

Warming up on stage

With my lack of experience performing, I was unsure what to expect.  I discovered that the well-oiled audience is a grateful and forgiving one, and that the teetotalers in the band were the ones that came through in the end.  The whole ordeal was a lot of fun and I would gladly do it again when the next chance comes.  It's looking like I'll be at it again sometime near the end of May.  Maybe it will finally be warm by then.

The other half of the whirlwind took place in Montana on the Beaverhead and Madison rivers.  I don't have any pictures yet, but I'll post them when they make their way to my inbox.  Dad, uncle, cousin, brothers and I caught probably around one hundred fish over the duration of the trip.  I got a cold (probably from Burt's Tiki Lounge), but managed to fish through it.  The weather was freezing up until the minute it was time to head back to Utah, but the objective was to catch fish.  We reeled them in in great numbers, so the trip was an overwhelming success.  In the future, I will probably be making this trip with Springbar tent and kids in tow.  I'll be the happier for it, though a time will come when I will surely miss the days of responsibility-free fly fishing.  I have seen entire afternoons spent on the bank as father and offspring stare and contemplate massive tangles of unruly nylon as trout rise free of threat or concern.

Of All The Things I Could Be Doing...

...I decide to sit down here and write a blog entry that will inevitably take about six times longer than I intend to spend.

I was in Boise two weeks ago, Portland for two days last week, and I am off to Montana to fly fish tomorrow.  Oh yea, and I am heading off to the bar tonight when I am normally heading for bed.  Have I packed? Have I practiced? Yet here I sit content with a belly full of hot dog and Frank Sinatra singing "Pennies from Heaven" just for me.  And suddenly it occurs to me that I might be happier this very second than I will be tomorrow in the car, or the day after as I freeze in some Montana river.  I tip my hat (circumspectly) to those who never leave the house.  While I am in a hat-tipping mood, I will dive into the purpose of this post.

I tip my hat to the only man who single-handedly created a genera.  The cross-eyed child.

I tip my hat to my Senior Prom date.  The sixteen year old girl who fell in love on an April afternoon while dreaming atop a cooling slab of granite.  She who in three days will wake up alone as a bride of eleven years. 

With nothing redemptive to add, I sign off in record time to head for the waters as Jonah once did, wickedness at the heel and unknown adventure at the toe.