Fish On The Brain

My reading list for the next couple weeks...

The Founding Fish. McPhee, of course, needs no introduction. He's John 'Effing McPhee.

Something's Fishy. Likewise, Ted Williams. No one, and I mean no one working in outdoors journalism today has a pair of balls half the size of Ted Williams'. Big brass clankers. I don't see how the dude walks. He speaks and writes exactly what he believes and sees as the truth, regardless of who it may piss off. I wish we had a few more hook-and-bullet journalists like him around.  Sadly, with a few exceptions, we don't.

An Entirely Synthetic Fish. I've sort of half-ass skimmed through Anders Halverson's natural and cultural history of the rainbow trout, but this time I'm going to sit down and truly read it. Should be fascinating.

Sowbelly. Monte Burke is a staff writer for Forbes magazine, but I won't hold that against him, because he's a wonderful writer. I've read some of his stuff in the Drake and in other publications here and there. Sowbelly is a book I've been meaning to read for a few years, but for whatever reason I just haven't gotten around to it until now.

So there you have it. I've got fish on the brain. Now I just wish I had a few on my line...

This (sigh) is Modern Quail Hunting...

There's a video making its way across the digital ether that purports to show a "hunter" catching a "quail" with his bare hands while on a "quail hunt" in Texas. It's up on both the Field & Stream and Outdoor Life websites, and the fact that it is up on both Field & Stream and Outdoor Life, and represented as such, is, in my opinion, a sad testament to many things..

 Now I don't know the particulars of the video, where it was shot, etc., but just from a viewing of it, I feel a few clarifications are in order...

First, this guy's not a "quail hunter." He's some dude in a backwards baseball cap walking around in a field holding a shotgun.

Second, he's not on a "quail hunt". He's on a planted poultry shoot, in which a bunch of bros and bras walk around a forty or fifty-acre field, quite literally kicking up domesticated fowl that a few hours before were scratching for pellets in a flight pen.

And thirdly (and perhaps most importantly) he didn't catch a quail in his hand, despite what it looks like. What he actually caught was the bird equivalent of synthetic meat, a sad, ersatz bobwhite doppelganger, so bereft of any wildness that it will fly right toward a man, and so weakly and slowly at that, that the poor, brainless thing can be caught by hand.

And maybe I'm just stomping sour grapes here trying to make wine, but the fact that the two biggest remaining outdoor titles around (I don't count Sports Afield) would characterize the footage as a "quail hunt" and not recognize that it was an obviously half-tame, pen-raised quail I think speaks volumes to how little some of the people who work at those titles these days know about wild bird hunting. In contrast, I don't think Phil Bourjaily, who does know a thing or two about wild birds, would have made that mistake had he used the video in one of his blog posts.

But in a way, I suppose this video is a perfect metaphor for what modern quail hunting has become for so many, even in a place like Texas. No one, it seems (save an ever-dwindling core group of bird hunters) seems to give much of a shit about the underlying causes of why our wild quail are disappearing.

It's just too hard, too complicated, too much trouble, too much effort, too much thought, too much everything. So much easier to just say fuck it and throw a few more pen-raised birds out there for your crew to kick into the air, and, if you're really lucky, catch one of the sad, pathetic little bastards in your hand, in the process reducing the noble pursuit of a remarkable and beautiful wild bird into a thirty-second YouTube clip, good for a few laughs and no thought.

Abercrombie & Fitch Then and Now...

Abercrombie & Fitch then...

 A sweet little 50's-60's vintage A&F-branded Beretta 20-bore ASEL, widely regarded as one of the finest boxlock shotguns ever built and one of my dream guns (albeit in a slightly different configuration). Just one of many A&F-branded shotguns from many different makers over the years.

And Abercrombie & Fitch now...

Nope, no pics of half-nekkid, slightly homoerotic pretty boys. We all know what Abercrombie and Fitch is today, so no need. However, that scary, animatronic-looking dude above is the current CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch, and there is a pretty fascinating - if utterly repulsive - profile of the man (link above) on Salon that chronicles the evolution of how, exactly, A&F went from that, to that. It's worth a read, followed by a good crying jag and a stiff drink...   

Chad's First Law of American Wilderness

It was a damp, lovely, storm-cooled morning, so I decided to drag myself away from the desk and take a long, silent walk in search of 'shrooms, sheds and sanity. One out of three 'aint bad, if it's the right one. I walked far, far off the trail, pushing my way deep into the wild, lonely and rarely-visited corners of a nearby piece of public land.

And as I walked, and sometimes crawled through these hidden, overgrown and utterly forgotten areas, I ruminated -  as I am wont to do - on many things, and in doing so posited the following:

No matter how far off the beaten path you think you've trod, no matter how deep into the wilderness you think you've ventured, no matter how bold or adventurous you think you are, no matter how isolated, lonely or rugged the country, and no matter how arduous or lengthy the journey may have been, there will always, always be someone who has been there before you. With a beer in their hand. Because that's the American Way.

Moving On...

A few of you may have noticed that I am no longer posting blogs over at Field & Stream. It was an interesting almost five-year run, but all good things, or even mediocre things, must come to an end, and so must my time there. I am moving on to projects that best suit what I want to do as a writer (which does not include the kind of writing I was forced to do there) and I'm sure that F&S has already moved on to writers and projects that best suit its editorial needs and strategies, whatever they may be.

But don't cry for me. The idea of writing for Field & Stream was great. The reality, however, is that from the beginning I was never a good fit for that publication's current form, and it certainly was never a good fit for me. I saw, pretty much from the beginning, the writing on the wall regarding my future there. The only question I now have is why I waited so long to move forward. And for the record, yes, I walked away. Editors killed - ostensibly for budget reasons - the gundogs blog (admittedly, no great loss, at least from their perspective) but offered to keep me on for Field Notes. Seeing as how I'd rather open up one of my veins than continue cranking out that kind of SEO-optimized, regurgitated tripe, I declined their offer, made a counter-offer which they declined, so both parties shook hands amicably and walked away. No hard feelings. I can't say I learned anything new or really grew as a writer as a result of my time with F&S, but then again it's not really that kind of publication with that kind of editorial staff. I did, however, meet a few people through my association with F&S that I consider friends, and for that I'm thankful. You guys know who you are.

I wish Field & Stream well. It's a venerable title with an illustrious history and I hope they can somehow figure out a successful business model that maintains at least a tenuous link to that history. As for me, professionally, I'm staying busy. I've got a book proposal I'm working on that I'm very excited about and believe has a pretty damn decent chance at catching an editor or agent's eye, and I'm soldiering on with my freelancing, albeit with a slightly decreased focus on traditional hook-and-bullet titles and an increased focus on real reportage and writing on conservation and environmental issues, travel, etc. I will, however, continue to write about birds, fish, dogs and shotguns as much as time and markets allow. And of course I still plan on jumping into the e-publishing world, soon. I become more convinced with each passing day that for many writers it is the future.

This blog's not going anywhere, either, although it's way past due for a re-boot and I should probably try to use it as more of a traditional compendium for advertising and showcasing my work, rather than the online equivalent of a drawer full of random thoughts scribbled on the napkins that it currently is. Or not. With a name like "The Mallard of Discontent" I'm not at all sure how seriously any potential editors would take it...

Bass Surgery

"If our father had his say, nobody who did not know how to catch a fish would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching him"

                                                                      Norman Maclean, "A River Runs Through It"

"If I had my say, any dickhead who had no respect for a fish, and would kill it for no good reason, wouldn't be allowed to disgrace a fish by even picking up a fishing rod, much less catching a fish."

                                                                       Me

 Eating fish is a damn good reason for killing fish, to a point, and when my wife asked me this morning if we happened to have any fish in the freezer, I thought it might be a good excuse to run over to our nearby park pond, which I hadn't fished at all this year (in fact I've been fishing exactly once so far this year...) to see if I could surprise the family with a few perch fillets.

So I grabbed the three-weight fly rod, and almost as an afterthought, also grabbed the baitcaster I use most often for throwing light jigs (for you gearhounds, it's a Shimano Calcutta 50, the best small round baitcaster ever made, spooled with eight-pound Trilene XL and paired up with a G. Loomis GL2 PR 844C medium action saltwater popping rod). I thought if I couldn't catch any perch I might try to catch a few crappie.

I gave myself a strict 45-minute time limit, which means I had to be back to the house by 8 a.m. to get to work. As luck would have it, the pond is already starting to moss up with weeds and algae, so flyfishing was largely an act of frustration. So was casting jigs for crappie, and after a mere thirty minutes I was done and walking back to the car. The bass are spawning right now, however, and as I walked around the pond I noticed a decent-sized female sitting on a bed, shadowed by a smaller male. I hadn't brought any bass tackle with me, but rummaging around in the bottom of the tackle bag produced exactly one loose worm hook and exactly one mangled plastic lizard (which, coincidentally, is my all-time favorite plastic bait for pitching to bedding bass).

I thought what the hell, tied it on, cast past the bed, and slowly twitched that lizard right across her nose. It disappeared, I set the hook and I was fast on to six pounds, 12 ounces (I weighed her later) of pissed-off bass. It was fun. That tiny little Calcutta handled her like a champ, and as I brought her out of the water I realized that this was the largest bass I'd ever caught on that reel. No camera, of course, and no scale, either. I very rarely kill bass, and never kill large bass, so I figured this one would just have to live on in my mind. I opened her mouth to extract the hook, and that's when things started going to hell.

The hook had penetrated the area directly in front of her gullet, way back in the very back part of her throat, and it was deep. It was basically as far back as it could physically be without being swallowed. I tried, repeatedly, to get it out, but there was simply no way I could get enough leverage with the pliers to loosen it. I could either cut the line and let her take her chances with the hook, or kill her and take her home. If I cut the line, she'd probably live long enough to spawn, but the way the hook was situated in her throat, every time she tried to swallow it would come up almost like it was on a hinge and block whatever she was trying to swallow. She'd eventually starve to death long before the hook rusted out. So that wasn't a very attractive option.

Then again, neither was outright killing her. I've never kept a trophy bass, and certainly didn't want to start now. I was in a quandary. If I could just get to a pair of wire cutters I could cut that hook, but my wire cutters were at home. Home was, literally, only two minutes away. If I could keep her alive until then, I just might be able to save her. So I took out the one tackle box I had thrown in my big tackle bag, filled it with water, laid her in it, grabbed my rods and started running like hell for the car. I looked a sight...

I threw everything in the car and took off, hoping not to run into the park ranger as I sped through the park. I wondered what he'd think if he stopped me and found a live bass sloshing around on my floorboard. Some eighty seconds later I pulled into the driveway, grabbed the tacklebag (technically a waterproof gear bag, so it still had most of the water in it), ran to the back yard and put the big female into our water garden.

I slowly moved the old girl back and forth, and was greatly relieved to see that her gills were moving, she was staying upright and overall seemed to be as well as could be expected under the circumstances. I let her go and she immediately disappeared into the water lillies. I gave her an hour to make sure she wouldn't die, then grabbed a pair of wire cutters and a big-ass dip net...

The hook was still there, obviously, so I grabbed the wire cutters and went to work...

I pushed the barb through, then snipped the shank of the hook, took it out, and then eased out the rest of it. It only took a second, and she was good as new...

I weighed her, held her for a few seconds, then let her swim back down to the bottom of the water garden...

And here's the offending object, post-surgery...

Right now she seems to be doing well. My wife's goldfish, on the other hand, are terrified. I'll keep her in the pond for a little while to make sure she doesn't end up a delayed-reaction  floater, then take her back over to the pond and release her.

I just hope I don't go through all of this trouble only to have some asshole catch her again, probably on a big hunk of bait hurled out there with some Wal-Mart bubble-pack rod and reel combo, and kill her for good this time.

Too Late To The Party...

You may recall my screed-ish blog  from yesterday (I'd link to it, but hell, it's right below this one...) singing the praises of journalism's Brave New World. Uh, just never mind all that. I was drunk and optimistic when I wrote it. Now I'm sober and realistic, and I realize we're all doomed.

Anyway, I was doing some additional perusing on the Amazon Kindle Singles website last night while drinking and charting out the rest of my life, when I discovered, much to my chagrin (because it was an idea I also had) as well as my delight (that someone else thought it was a good idea, too, and jumped on it) that a story idea I'd been kicking around in my head for a while had apparently been kicking around in someone else's head, too...

The proposed Keystone XL pipeline has enflamed the bitter fight over America's energy future. Opponents of the 1,700-mile pipeline, which is designed to bring oil extracted from Canadian tar sands down to the US, say it represents a furthering of a dead-end oil-based energy policy that is unsustainable and poisonous, and have turned the permit requests to build the pipeline into an environmental litmus test for President Barack Obama. Supporters of the Keystone XL say it represents a step toward America's energy independence. Beyond the Beltway, the real story of this pipeline is one about American frontiers - the lengths to which we go for oil and the intrusive effects that quest causes all the way down the line. Steve Mufson, a reporter for The Washington Post, journeyed by car along the length of the proposed pipeline to see what this policy debate looks like at the ground level. Each segment of his trip touched on different issues: climate change and the oil sands; the U.S. energy trade with Canada; the North Dakota shale boom and its woes; prairie populism in Nebraska and pipeline politics; the Ogallala aquifer and the threat of leaks; Native Americans and their desire to protect land, water and burial sites along the old Trail of Tears; the fight of ranchers and farmers against a Canadian company’s right to eminent domain; and why both oil sands producers and Texas refiners want to see the pipeline completed. As long as the world relies on fossil fuels for transportation and industry, we will face unappealing choices. The Keystone XL pipeline serves as a larger metaphor, illuminating the vast energy infrastructure it takes to sustain the American lifestyle and the debatable choices we must make in pursuit of short-term comfort. Which risks, now and in the future, are we willing to take?

It's a great concept, and I'm glad someone did it. My idea (which, BTW, is not the story pitch I alluded to in yesterday's blog) was similar, but I wanted to start at the Montana border where the pipeline will enter the US, then travel the length of the proposed route down to the Texas gulf coast. My plan was to begin in the early fall during Montana's upland bird season, with the dogs in the truck and a kayak strapped to the cab, hunting, fishing, photographing and interviewing my way as closely along the pipeline route as possible, taking a look at the issue in much the same way, but with a slightly different, more outdoorsy, hunting/fishing-based conservation perspective.

But now such a story looks a bit redundant (although I hasten to add that if there are any cash-infused editors reading this who think otherwise and would like to send me on such an odyssey, feel free to call me...). Seriously though, this looks like a good read, and a good example of the kind of journalism the format is capable of. Think I might check it out... 
  

The Revolution Will Be E-Published

 "The past is never dead. It's not even past. Unless you're a book or magazine publisher."

                                                                                      Fake William Faulkner


I have often bemoaned (and often on this blog) the alleged decline of the printed word. I've mocked and/or bitched about e-books, I've mocked and/or bitched about the general state of journalism and publishing, and I've mocked and/or bitched about the current state of magazines. In general, I suppose I just like to mock and/or bitch.

But I'm rapidly changing my tune, at least in regard to publishing. It's becoming increasingly clear to me that reports of the death of good journalism, and the opportunity for writers to do said journalism, are greatly exaggerated. It's also becoming evermore clear to me that in this new paradigm, writers wield more power and influence, as well as sharing more of the profit, than they ever did in the old and increasingly-terminal traditional publishing model.

Here's an interesting story (via The Passive Voice) in the New York Times about the rise of Amazon's Kindle Singles, which is a unit within Amazon that publishes novella-length journalism known as e-shorts.

From the story

David Blum does not have a regular table at the Four Seasons or host celebrity parties at the top of the Standard Hotel. He does not get a lot of fawning press. After he was fired by The Village Voice and left The New York Press, Gawker Media in 2009 pronounced him “a sad bumbling doctor for dying New York City weeklies.”

But four years is an eon in the digital realm, and in that time Mr. Blum has transformed himself from doctor of the dying to midwife of the up-and-coming. As such, he is a man whom authors want to court.

Mr. Blum is the editor of Amazon Kindle Singles, a Web service that is helping to promote a renaissance of novella-length journalism and fiction, known as e-shorts.

Amazon Kindle Singles is a hybrid. First, it is a store within the megastore of Amazon.com, offering a showcase of carefully selected original works of 5,000 to 30,000 words that come from an array of outside publishers as well as from in-house. Most sell for less than $2, and Mr. Blum is the final arbiter of what goes up for sale.

It is also a small, in-house publishing brand — analogous to a grocery store that makes an in-house brand of salsa to compete with other manufacturers. Mr. Blum comes up with his own ideas or cherry-picks pieces from the more than 1,000 unsolicited manuscripts he receives each month. He then edits them and helps pick cover art. 

Amazon Singles usually pays nothing upfront to the author (there are rare exceptions) and keeps 30 percent of all sales. Yet it is an enticing deal for some authors, because Singles now delivers a reliable purchasing audience, giving them a chance to earn thousands for their work. (A quick calculation shows that the authors make an average of roughly $22,000, but the amount varies widely by piece.)

“Every day I become more obsessed with how brilliant the concept is,” Mr. Blum, 57, said over coffee at the Lamb’s Club in Manhattan, crediting the idea entirely to Amazon. For him, the brilliance is that authors can now share in the profits instead of getting a flat fee. “The idea that writers would participate in the publishing model is just very bold,” he said.

The rest of the story is well worth a read. I have to admit that I had never heard of Amazon Singles. If I'm understanding it correctly, it's sort of the same model that Byliner is using for its longform journalism and fiction offerings. I'm sure the selection process is fairly subjective, but for those authors chosen (and who have the coin and time to do what amounts to a spec piece, with no guarantee of payment) it could be a great opportunity to do the kind of deep journalism that is increasingly disappearing in the traditional publishing world. And share in the profits if it sells well.

But what's really exciting, to me, anyway, is the fact that we haven't really begun to scratch the possibilities this new publishing reality can offer, possibilities that are often squelched by the endemic lack of vision, creativity and originality shown by many editors. As an example, here's a verbatim response I recently got to a feature pitch I sent the editors of a publication that shall remain nameless to protect the stupid.

Sorry man...it's a nay. Basically, the feedback I got boils down to -- a pitch on that kind of story has to be much more specific...i.e. it can't be framed as an adventure piece that will tell a story about the area, unless there's a specific angle to the area that we can turn into a searchable headline. Or you have to be able to pull a tips and skills or gear story out of it. Sorry, I fought for it.

Without giving too much away, because I like the idea and plan to pitch it elsewhere, this was a story I envisioned as a sort of reported first-person account of an ecologically unique and threatened area, told through the lens (or literary device, if you prefer) of a bird-hunting road trip. I was thinking a high(ish) concept literary non-fiction piece. The New Yorker, with a shotgun. Pretentious, maybe, but an important and worthy story. But all they saw was no searchable headline and a fatal lack of appropriate gear and tips sidebars. 

And these publications wonder why they're struggling? I responded and said thanks, but that I obviously just don't get the business model XYZ is using, because the day I pitch a story idea based solely on its merits as a searchable headline rather than its merits as a story is the day I should probably just take up something enjoyable, like woodworking.What's that old saw? "Against stupidity even the gods contend in vain"...

And the thing is, I and every other writer have reams of such examples. Seriously, some smart, snarky writer really needs to start a Slushpile Hell-inspired blog, but with dumbshit/weird/outlandish editor responses instead of dumbshit/weird/outlandish writer queries. It'd freakin' kill...

But I digress. The point is, I look at entities like Amazon Singles, Byliner, or even the regular Amazon Kindle Publishing, and I see so much potential to get good, worthy and important work out there without having to deal with the idiots who still control so much of the traditional publishing world, especially in niche publishing genres (like outdoors titles) that have largely turned their backs on real, meaty journalism in favor of brainless, single-serving crap. 

Take my rejected story idea, for example. This is just an example for the sake of example, but rather than continue beating my forehead against the drawbridge of the dunces (they prefer to be called "gatekeepers") why not just say screw 'em and go find a way to get it done on my own? Pitch the story to Amazon Singles or Byliner, or publish it entirely on my own? And if I don't have the money to do it on spec (and who the hell does?) then go find myself a patron for a literary grubstake to get the idea off the ground, maybe go to the the stakeholders (there's another PR term) that have a vested interest in seeing such a story published and pitch a partnership with them. 

Or, for a slightly different example for the sake of argument, if you're a non-profit, say a conservation group, and you've been stymied and frustrated by not being able to get your message into the pages of the magazines that make up your key demographic (for example, see my experience above), then give them the finger (most of them, hemorrhaging money, advertisers, readers, and influence, are becoming utterly irrelevant, anyway) and go partner with a talented freelancer to write your story, publish it electronically and then promote the hell out of it online. Bypass the antiquated system that is failing you in favor of one that serves you. Be nimble, creative and open to experimentation and new ways of telling and distributing a story. You know, basically everything that traditional publishing isn't. 

Freelance independent advocacy journalism. Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn't it? But I think it's a coming thing. Or not. But what's painfully apparent is that the primacy of the traditional publishing model is most assuredly a going thing. As in going away. And I'm increasingly thinking that, for many writers that's not a bad thing at all.

What a dog bite looks like...

I've lived with and owned dogs all my life, and while I've been nipped at, growled at, and accidentally bitten a few times while breaking up dog fights, I've never been flat-out attacked by a dog. Unfortunately, I can't say the same about my oldest son, who was chased down and attacked by a neighborhood dog a few days ago. The two puncture wounds are deep and nasty. So deep and nasty, in fact, that our doctor put him such a high antibiotic dose that when I tried to get his prescription filled, my pharmacist looked at it, looked again, and said "He wants him to take both of these at the same time? I'm going to call and make sure."

He's doing OK, but the leg is obviously sore, and we've got to keep a close eye on it to make sure it doesn't get infected. Scary stuff. The dog's owners are neighbors, our sons play together, and they were naturally horrified and deeply apologetic. I don't think the dog will be running free any more.

Bad News, Everyone!

 One of the smartest, funniest shows on television has just been cancelled, again...

From Slate's excellent Bad Astronomy blog

There is a hypothesis—out of favor now, but it had its heyday—that the universe was cyclical. Big Bang, expansion, slowing, stopping, shrinking, Big Crunch … and then kaboom, another Big Bang, and here we go again.

Art imitates life. The TV show Futurama exploded in to the geek community, rose in popularity, then was canceled. Then it was reborn, only to be canceled again. And then for a second time it was reborn from its ashes. But this cycle may be the last. Perhaps it’s entropy. Perhaps it’s a network executive who thinks Scruffy hits too close to home. Whatever the underlying mechanism, Futurama has seen its last cosmic expansion. It’s been canceled again. Again. And probably for no raisin.

To say I love Futurama is like saying Nibbler loves to eat, and that Popplers are tasty. How often do you get a geeky, hugely scientifically based cartoon that is also incredibly funny? And it wasn’t just funny, it was smart. But that’s no surprise, given that executive producer David X. Cohen has degrees in both physics and computational science. Many of the writers had degrees in science and math, and that was reflected in the show. Not that is was all science all the time. When was the last time an animated show made you cry? If you answer “never,” then you have either never seen “Jurassic Bark,” or you have had your soul surgically removed. Chunks of granite weep openly at the end of that episode.  

Over its long run, Futurama has had way too many incredible scientific joke and plot points to point out individually. It is one of the few TV shows to actually respect the edicts of time travel. (Heck, it set up a massive later time travel plot line in the opening scene of the pilot.) It featured black holes, exploding stars, galactic governments, and more.

What the hell? I am crushed like a girder in Bender's hands. I've loved Futurama since its first run on Fox lo these many years ago, and my oldest son is a huge fan as well, despite my wife's parental disapproval of Bender's gratuitous use of the word "ass" in virtually every episode.

It was smart, it was funny, it was subtle and it was sharp: high comedy masked as low, which meant that it was doomed to never do well with that vast, all-important lowest-common-moron demographic. And unlike "The Simpsons", which I stopped watching or caring about years ago, Futurama has been consistently excellent throughout its run.

I'm not a big TV series DVD collector, but like "Arrested Development", this might be one to make an exception...