If you couldn't tell, that last picture with the huge fish was a lie.  I left my thumbs in the picture and tried to make my changes obvious to nearly everyone who took a close look.  I was going to say something about it earlier, but I have been too busy with vacation, work and other distractions.  I couldn't just leave it alone either, lest some lurker take me serious and send my mug all over cyberspace as an example of an authentic fool in the flesh.

The real fish was quite nice.  Here's the honest picture:

The days are getting noticeably shorter.  I used to fancy myself as a man justly appreciative of all seasons.  I have noticed over the last three years or so that the warm weather is gone before I am ready to let go.  While I am in the truth-telling mood, I'll just accept that I have great respect and admiration for some seasons and mere toleration for others.  For example, spring is a wasted word in these parts that best describes a nasty breakup between two redoubtable and contrasting forces whose passion and poor memory assure their eventual reconciliation - and subsequent parting, et cetera.

I had a friend named Randy in elementary school.  We were about the same size, and we both had mothers that fixed us up in collared shirts with horizontal yellow, navy and maroon stripes.  I met him on the first day of first grade.  By the end of that unforgettable day of firsts, Randy and I were best friends.  Had I been privy then to the knowledge that comes from thirty-three years of stupid mistakes, there would have been red lights, bells and sirens blowing in my head.  Alas, seven years is a special number for suckers (just read about Jacob in the bible), and by the end of that first week, Randy and I were bitter enemies.  The first grader's weekend healed Friday's ill will, and Randy and I started afresh, beginning a miserable cycle that would last five years, separated only by summer's amnesia.  I now laugh at the irony of my eager anticipation of Junior High.  Randumb was off to Euclid Jr., and Farter was off to Powell.  Knowing the hellish experience of Junior High, I rest at ease knowing he got his, I got mine, and pretty-much every seventh-grade adolescent male to creep along the locker-lined labyrinth of budding breasts, changing voices and bearded ninth-graders got theirs too.

That was probably the low point. Nevertheless, there were plenty of nasty surprises on the long twisty road from purgatory.

Eventually, I discovered the risk-free, careless world of the third person.  I had two friends who happened to be together as boyfriend and girlfriend.  I liked them both, and I was held in constant wonder at their star-crossed dilemmas of love, misunderstanding, misfortune and inevitable parting.  As no wall can hold the living tides, no force could prevent the eventual reuniting of sour luck and biological trickery.  One waltzes, the other foxtrots, and all can see clearly but the blind dancers, hobbling in sore-footed bliss.  I found it enjoyable and entertaining because I was the third person.  One night after another unfortunate parting of ways, I saw a big opportunity I might-should-have taken.  The opportunity, had I taken it, would have been enjoyable no doubt, but it would have moved me into either the first or second person in a deadly triangle of three dubious individuals all fighting for either the first or second person.  I did the right thing and went home kicking myself, occasionally stopping to peck at the dirt and cluck.  Looking back, I see it as nothing other than the age-old cornucopia of trouble, and one I was lucky enough to pass on.  Probably better to be chicken than be blowing the empty goat's horn in despair - though in reality both are table fare.

And so it is with the seasons.  Good night.

Memories of the Beaverhead

Just over a year ago, we hit the Mother's Day caddis hatch on the Beaverhead River.  Our timing was perfect and the rewards were commensurate:

This nice brown was one of many that could not resist the caddis.

The action was steady.  D's smile reflects the catch -  an honest two-hander!

The skill of deception and the delicate presentation cannot be underestimated.  It also helps to be the first one to hit the water.  

---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.