Blogging Escher-Style...

I can log in to post a blog, but when I try to log in to respond to a comment, or to comment on anyone else's Blogger-based blog, it prompts me for my username/password, and then when I do that, it shows the comment being from "anonymous."

And then, when I try to post the comment, even as "anonymous" it then - in a nice little bit of circularity -  sends me right back to the Google sign-in page to start the whole futile process over again...

Any ideas? Is a wholesale move to say, Wordpress in the future?

Mallard's Infinite Playlist: Iris DeMent

I discovered Iris DeMent completely by accident a while back while noodling around Last.FM looking for other stuff. I had been on sort of a female folky/Americana/Alt-Indie Country kick and was listening to stuff by the likes of Patty Griffin, Lucinda Williams, Neko Case, etc, when I stumbled across her song "Easy's Gettin' Harder Every Day." The hopelessness of the lyrics and the tired sadness of her voice just blew me away (unfortunately it's not on YouTube).

I had never heard of Iris DeMent, but interestingly enough - even though I was quite the fan back in the day - she first gained widespread notice when her song "Our Town" was played in the closing scenes and credits of Northern Exposure during that show's final episode. Here's a cool version of that song with backing vocals from Emmylou Harris, or, as I like to call her, the hottest gray-haired woman in the world.

Her music must strike some note of bittersweet finality, because more recently another of DeMent's songs, her version of the hymm "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" was featured in the closing credits of the Coen Brothers' adaptation of "True Grit." Beautiful stuff, almost enough to make this secular heathen go find himself a god(s).

I wouldn't say DeMent has a classically beautiful voice. It is, admittedly, something of an acquired taste. Some may find it too twangy, a bit nasally, just a little too backwoods Pentacostal-sounding, but having come from exactly that kind of peasant hillbilly stock, I love it. I think it sounds like distilled heartbreak, a sine wave of working class hope and despair, the kind of music populated by Joe Bageant's  (and my) people. Good stuff.

I'm still poking around her body of work, but here's one of my favorites so far...



And if you're a Talking Heads fan (as I am) you might like David Byrne's (and Natalie Merchant's) cover.

Not Quite Back From the Dead...

But I'm getting there, albeit slowly. Every summer, it seems, I go through a period where I just sort of abandon the 'ol blog and let it swing in the wind for a few weeks.

This has been one of those periods, a combination of the boys and wife being out of school for the summer, a long list of around-the-yard-and-house projects (the "Stick-It-To-Big-Agri-Business Revolutionary Garden" is now up and running! In about six weeks look for the inevitable "Crawling-Back-To-Big-Agri-Business-After-The-Bugs-Ate-My-Revolutionary-Garden" sequel...) several trips, general summer malaise brought on by heat, the desire to read a few books and a natural regression toward my personal sloth-mean.

Plus, I'll be damned if I've really had anything to say the past few weeks, and if there's one thing that defines a useless and boring read, it's throwing up a blog post just for the purpose of throwing up a blog post.

So now, of course, I'm going to throw up a blog post just for the sake of throwing up a blog post. I am nothing if not consistent. I actually do have many fine blog topics lined up for your reading pleasure and/or ridicule. This just 'aint one of them.

One of the projects I've been working on the past several weeks is this...

It's a well-used 16-foot Carolina Skiff J16. This came about following an incident during the late duck season in which I very nearly drowned in about two feet of water and ice while busting through thick reeds with way too much decoy weight on my back. First I had a "You're shittin' me? I'm gonna die like this?" moment. I didn't. At least I'm pretty sure I'm alive. Then I had the obligatory "I'm too old for this shit" moment.

It was obvious I needed a boat. The places I normally hunted were simply getting too thick to reach by foot. Not only that, I've really been wanting a boat to take the boys and wife (who's a fishing fiend) out on local lakes. So I started cruising Craigslist and when I found the right boat at the right price, I bought it.

I'm hoping it will be perfect for my needs. Well, let me back up: first, I hope it floats. Once that's been established, then I'm hoping it will be perfect for my needs. I'm not a recreational boater and I'm not interested in that "my outboard is bigger than your outboard" status symbol bass boat crap. I just wanted a good, stable, basic boat, and I think I got it.


When I'm finished it's hopefully going to be my family fishing and fun, cast-n-blast rig. Right now, however, it's sort of in pieces. I took out all the seats and decks, yanked off the motor (a 25-horse Mariner tiller-steer), scrubbed it down inside and out, bedlinered the interior (it looks sorta blue, but it's actually gray), flipped it over and then coated the bottom and sides of the hull in an ultra-tough epoxy paint that the airboat guys cover their hulls with. It didn't have a rear deck when I bought it, so I'm planning on making one from plywood and fiberglass, and if I really go wild I might make a poling platform just so I can say I've got the only redneck flats boat in northwest Oklahoma.

Now I'm debating whether to go ahead and paint the whole thing camo, or just use grass and burlap to cover it during waterfowl season. At any rate, Tess is pleased she won't have to walk so far and stand up to her boobies in ice-cold water and I'm pleased that in the future if I do manage to drown myself while waterfowling, I'll at least have the dignity to drown at a respectable depth.

Incommunicado...

                 "Nothing like this way out in west Texas, Galveston Bay is a whole other world."

                                                                       Jimmy Buffett, from Who's the Blonde Stranger?


If you've been wondering about my lack of posting activity or my complete lack of e-mail response (for those of you who have e-mailed me) over the past week or so, now you know the reason why...

My wife and I decided it was time the boys see the ocean (or gulf, for you sticklers) so last week we packed up and headed down to one of my favorite spots in the world, Galveston Island. Touristy? Yes, but that's OK. I like the place, anyway. I'm mostly a churlish, anti-social bastard when it comes to tourist destinations, but I make exceptions for Europe and anywhere I can fish.

So that's what we did. A little fishing, a little sightseeing, a little seafood and a whole lot of beachcombing. Had a great time. My eldest son caught several nice redfish and landed, after an extended fight, a big jack crevalle that - more than once -  I thought was going to spool him. It was great fun.

I've always liked Galveston, my wife and I even spent part of our honeymoon there, and since my new addiction to saltwater fishing, it's also the nearest outlet I have to scratch that itch. I'm already trying to figure out how I can go back down in July or August and fish for a few days.

Maybe it's the long-dormant Parrothead in me coming out, but if I ever get too old to keep up with the dogs, or if the birds ever disappear and with it my reason for living on the plains, I'm packing up and spending the rest of my days somewhere beside the sea, drinking beer and fishing. I can think of very few things I'd rather aspire to...

Anyway, if you've tried to get in touch with me the past ten days or so, be patient, I'll get back to you eventually, after I unpack, go pick up the dogs, mow the yard and wade through the pile of bills that were patiently, implacably, awaiting my return. Cursed reality...

So What's Worse...

Getting no rain at all and the possibility of wildfires? Or getting rain, but with a little extra mustard...

Weather Synopsis...The forecast for later today calls for a potentially significant severe weather outbreak with very large hail, damaging winds, and tornadoes. At this time, it appears that central and eastern Oklahoma will be under the greatest risk of severe weather this afternoon and evening, east of an advancing dry line. We encourage you to monitor available sources for the latest weather information throughout the day. Storms are likely to hold off until early afternoon at the earliest, so whether you will be at home or at work, this morning is a good time to review severe weather safety procedures. Over western Oklahoma and western north Texas, there will likely be strong winds and extreme wildfire conditions behind the dry line this afternoon.

There are a helluva lot of things I can say about living in Oklahoma, but one thing I can't say - ever - is that the weather is boring and predictable...

Truest. Poster. Ever.

From the demotivation website...

Karma Giveth, Taketh Away, Then Giveth Again...

A week or so ago I was fishing a small state park pond behind my house when I stumbled upon a tangled mess of spinnerbaits, perhaps six in all, that had obviously fallen from someone's tackle box.

Having been in that boat before, I left them, figuring that someone might be looking for them. But the next day, when I went back to fish again, they were still there, in the same spot. I debated leaving them yet again. They weren't even decent spinnerbaits, just cheap, generic no-name baits like you get from the dollar-a-bait bin at the big box stores. But I figured if whoever lost them hadn't found them by now, they probably weren't going to. So I threw them in my bag and went on my way.


A few days later I was fishing a different public pond, caught a bass, and in the course of digging through my tackle bag for the digital scale and camera, I took my main spinnerbait box out the bag and put it on the ground beside me.

You see where this is going, right? Now fast-forward a few mornings later when, while reorganizing my tackle bag, I realized my spinnerbait box was missing. A frantic search of my garage turned up nothing, and with a mounting feeling of dread, I remembered that I had left my spinnerbait box sitting on that pond bank. To make matters worse, I had taken a six-weight fly rod with me that day, and yep, you guessed it, I had shoved my bass fly box into my spinnerbait box.


I hopped into the car and rushed back the pond, but as I walked the bank I knew I wouldn’t be finding my spinnerbait box. At least fifty of my best, most expensive spinnerbaits, gone.

Plus my entire collection of bass bugs and flies, wiped out. And nope, I don’t get 'em for free. As a certified bottom-rung nobody, I pay full retail just like you. I was sick. It's going to take me a long time to replace what I lost, so as the saying goes, let the purpose of my life serve as a warning to others.


Now the pragmatists among you may chalk this up to my own stupidity and nothing more, but I don't think so. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty damn stupid. But I think in this case the Karmic fishing gods are punishing me twenty-fold for the unpardonable sin of stealing another man's fishing tackle. It's a clear sign: I should have just left those damn, cheap-ass spinnerbaits lying there for some other sucker to pick up. Lesson learned...


So remember, if you find a piece of lost fishing tackle, no matter how small or cheap it may be, just leave it alone, because no matter how tempting free is, you will pay for it one way or the other. Take it from me. Don't mess with your fishing Karma, it's just not worth it. You've been warned...

I wrote that a week or so ago. Every word gospel truth. People who don't fish can't really understand how traumatic losing your beloved (and pricey) tackle can be. To those of you who think it silly to be devastated over the loss of a few spinnerbaits and flies, well, I can only assume you've never had to pay nine freakin' bucks for a titanium Terminator.

But I digress. I commiserated my tale of woe to fellow F&S blogger Tim Romano who had experienced the same unfortunate thing last year. Two days later I get a package in the mail from Tim, and in it is a box containing a nice assortment of bass flies that went a long way toward replacing the flies I had lost.

Tim's a class-act and a super-nice guy (and if you haven't picked up a copy of Flyfish Journal of which Tim is art director, go do so immediately. It's a great rag.) and he certainly didn't have to do what he did.

Thanks, Tim, truly. When we hit RMNP this summer for greenback cutthroat I'll have to buy you a...oh, I dunno, whatever it is that dudes in Boulder buy each other. Chai tea? Soy beer?

(I kid, I kid...Tim knows I think Boulder's a cool town...) 

The End is Nigh...

Don't say you weren't warned...

http://www.salon.com/news/religion/index.html?story=/news/feature/2011/05/10/rapture_may_21

Spring is finally here -- but apparently, the apocalypse will be fast on its trail. That's the word from a slight but outspoken group of spiritual devotees who believe that the world as we know it is coming to an end.

Maybe you've already encountered the literature: pamphlets, subway ads, billboards on the side of the highway. "Judgment Day is coming" reads one billboard, which features a man praying in silhouette against a sunset backdrop. These are the works of a peculiar breed of Christian activists who've taken to the road to preach their belief in the fast-approaching End of Days. The self-appointed harbingers are not tied to any particular church -- they claim organized religion has been corrupted by the devil -- but rather to Internet- and radio-based ministries. And their lone mission is to tell anyone and everyone that the end of days is May 21. That's when, they insist, God's true believers will be lifted into heaven and saved, during a biblical event widely referred to as the Rapture.

Which is bunk, of course. It's impossible for the world to end on May 21st. Why? Because I haven't caught a bluefin or a tarpon, and it specifically states in my Contract with Life that regardless of eschatology, the world will not be allowed to end until I catch both a bluefin tuna and a tarpon.

So don't worry, we're all safe, for now. Actually, we're all safe indefinitely, because the chances of me being able to afford to go catch either one are exactly one rung lower than nil. So party on, you can thank me later...

But it does segue nicely into perhaps the most obvious addition yet to Mallard's Infinite Playlist...

Relapse...

It's hard to stay pure. Damn hard, especially when it's early May, the wind's blowing like hell, the water's all turbid and roiled, just like you like it when you know the bass are close to the bank and just waiting to slam that spinnerbait slooowly rolling by, and you're standing there with your flyrod, because you want to capture the purity of experience.

It's hard to stay pure. Damn hard, especially when cast after cast, strip after strip brings nothing but new combinations of the seven dirty words and there's no room for your pitiful-looking backcast or your laughable water-swatting roll cast that doesn't so much roll as tumble a few feet before collapsing into a tangled mess.

So you snap, say to hell with purity. To hell with the new, the difficult, the exciting and exotic. Your redneck id rises up, demands results. Action. Fish. You turn around, walk back to the car, break down the flyrod, stuff it in its case, grab the baitcaster and seven-foot spinnerbait rod that just happens to be sitting there and - like a dieter sneaking into the Krispy Kreme - skulk on back to the water, all high-minded piscatorial ideals sent scurrying away by the desire, the need, to just. Catch. A. Fish.

And the first cast, the first freakin' cast! The suddeness of the strike is like a splash of color in a grayscale world. You feel that familiar jolt of unbridled savagery and you are finally, finally, into a fish. A good one. Not huge, but good. You cast again, and this time the spinnerbait disappears mere feet off the bank, right in front of you. You feel the violence spread into your arm. You judge the serious weight on the line and make the calculation that - in the parlance of our times - you have done hooked yourself a hawg.

The fight is brief, violent, wet and right at the rod tip. You lip her, gravid and huge, bring her half out of the water. No time for dicking around trying to get the hero shot. You slip the spinnerbait out of her yawning maw, hook the digital scale in the corner of the mouth, gape at what it tells you and then quickly slip her back into the water.

You move her back and forth, then release. She stays there for a second, suspended, brooding with those thick, hulking shoulders. Mottled sunlight and shadow play on the water, give it a rainbow kaleidoscope quality. And then, just like that, she's gone. Your high, however, remains.

  If, as they say, the tug is the drug, and we are but willing junkies, then I guess it doesn't really matter what conveyance we use to fall off the wagon. Fly rod, baitcaster, hell, they're all good...

Not Valuable, Just Sorta Cool

A few years ago, I - for reasons of pure nostalgia - started collecting old paperback sci-fi novels of the kind I used to rummage for in the local bookshops of my hometown. They certainly weren't worth anything, but it was cool - in that bittersweet way that looming middle-age tends to foster - to thumb through their yellowed pages and look at the now-vintage and hopelessly dated cover art. Frankly, it kind of reminds me of myself...

Just a harmless, mildly eccentric (and cheap) pastime, but soon it started to spread beyond the sci-fi pulpies and classics into pretty much anything I liked to read. I just like old books. Some of them, like my slipcased, 1965 Lord of the Rings trilogy are worth a fair bit of coin. Most are not, but I was in ye olde hometown this weekend rummaging, and came home with a few books, these three among them.

The copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five is an early 1969 printing Dell (under the Delta imprint) softcover. This makes my fourth version of that title, and it's a really nice clean copy, though I still mourn the loss of the mint hardback book club edition (with dustjacket) that I found in an OKC bookshop for fourteen bucks and stupidly passed on...

The copy of A River Runs Through It  is an early trade paperback published by The University of Chicago Press. It's my third version of that particular title, along with the requisite movie tie-in edition and an old large-print softcover edition. A first-printing of the original hardcover wouldn't be worth quite as much as what a first-printing Vonnegut would, but it'd be close.

The copy of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast is nothing special, a 1965 Bantam printing, but since I don't currently have a copy, and since Paris is just about my favorite non bird-hunting or fishing place in the world, I brought it home.

I brought home a few others, nothing of note, really, just interesting titles. I haven't had any amazing or even mildly exciting book discoveries lately, but I keep looking because you never know what you'll find on those musty, dusty old shelves, and it keeps me out of those sterile, soulless, wincingly well-lit wi-fi hotspot/bongo drum venue/hipster cafes known as the big-box bookstores.

Ok, so I went there, too, but only to cruise the remainder tables...