A Proper Dive...

Guiding is a funny business.  It can be incredibly rewarding and it can be incredibly frustrating.  It can be backbreaking rowing a boat and it's a long hard day even on the tamest rivers.   If you aren't rowing, you are still up early; prepping  and organizing.  Maybe you need to put together a box lunch for your clients--even if it is just running out to the nearest deli and buying something.  Maybe you need to grab some strike indicators or tie a handful of flies--just in case.  Check the oars.  Do the trailer tires need air?   ...and just one minute:  You forgot the ice for the ice chest.  Granted, you get to do it in some of the most beautiful places on the planet.

The hardest part of the day just might be your clients, though, especially if you are new to the business.  As a seasoned veteran, one can discreetly pick and choose who you want to spend your day with.  Sometimes it's the little white lie:  "I'm pretty well booked up for that week.  I just can't fit you in."   I suppose you can tell the client whatever you want. Chances are that if they made your day miserable, they probably weren't enjoying themselves either and won't be back.  As a newcomer struggling to make ends meet and pay for that expensive drift boat, you pretty much have to book whomever and whenever you can, however.

...and in all fairness, I know most clients aren't out there to make the guides day difficult.  More often than not, it's just a comedy of errors or a little miscommunication.  Beginners will put their reels on backwards or don't tighten the reel seat properly only to have the reel fall off while fighting the biggest fish of the day.  Knot tying can be a nightmare and yet there is always that one person who insists on doing their own rigging.  Knot after knot fails and they want to blame the tippet.  Maybe it's too old--or defective, they'd say, or the  rod is too stiff--although in some cases, that was true!  I was also guilty of all too often putting clients on water that was beyond their skill set, especially when I first started out.  I mistakenly assumed that if someone was willing to pay for a day on the river, they knew one end of the rod from the other; could cast a mile; and had a working knowledge of entomology.  More often than not, though, many were beginners or intermediate level anglers and they wanted learn.  That is a good thing but just the same, it rarely makes a day any shorter or less exhausting.

Then there are the truly difficult clients.  Everything is automatically the guides fault, despite the fact that they can't cast 17 feet and have a moth eaten selection of flies that look like they found them in a close out bin at a crafts workshop for the visually impaired.  You will end up spending as many as 12 hours in a small cramped space listening to a litany of tasteless jokes and offensive remarks, secretly hoping--praying actually that they will slip and drown in a rapid--although that is always bad for one's reputation.  ...and if the Fish and Game rules require a barbless hook, they will be continually trying to put on a barbed hook and arguing with you about that as well. They will insist on using a rod that is far too heavy or one that is far too light--because it's theirs.  Some of them will drink too much...and it will be a miracle if no one is impaled with a hook or a rod broken.

Funny stuff--this guiding business.  One of the sweetest older gentlemen I ever had the pleasure of guiding was also one of the most difficult.  He was a wonderful human being--even if he wasn't actually interested in  fly fishing.  It seems that he had recently retired and after years at a job that owned him, he was at a loss as to what to do with himself.  His wife however made no bones about it.  She did not want him underfoot and moping around the house so she bought him a rod and reel--and lessons; and then when he failed to take the hint, she hired me to guide him.  He and I bonded almost immediately. We shared a few laughs and we found some rising fish.  In fact, we found a lot of rising fish. I put him on a pretty spectacular bite.  He couldn't cast--and he didn't care.  He was having fun.  He couldn't see all that well either so he wasn't hooking a lot of fish but it was one of those days where the brain dead could catch a fish as long as they had a nervous tic.  The fish weren't going to hook themselves!  It turned out though that he was so arthritic that he would tip over on his back cast.  I spent the better part of my day trying to catch him every time he cast.  I lived in dread fear he would  slip or lose his balance.  I'm proud to say that he made it home safely and intact.  I however was exhausted.  You just cannot send clients home damaged. 

Now after a long day, it seems an unusually high number of the guides and river rats that I knew, myself included, would self medicate--usually at a local dive; and it seemed every river worth fishing had a proper dive within a few miles.  This "proper dive" concept is important.  You've been rowing all day.  Maybe you broke a sweat and you are in your ratty Levis so you'd probably stick out like a tuna rod in a float tube in a more upscale establishment.  More importantly, you need a place just sketchy enough that you won't get shot but that difficult client won't want to join you either.  ...and just as importantly, one needs to be able to afford at least a few rounds on the odd chance that you run into someone who has something to say.  Cheap is good--unless we are talking about gin or talk.  There is no evil or so foul on this earth as a cheap gin but that is another topic.  As for cheap talk, well, some anglers are renowned for their ability to, shall we say, "enhance a story" and add fish and inches to the days tally...  Personally I avoid them--and cheap gin.

 The Sac is a world class trout fishery that I guided on for a few years, going through a boat and a raft in the process.   Access is limited so most anglers end up floating it and it can be wildly unpredictable.  There were those days where every second or third cast resulted in a hook up.  Fish would be rising every 5 feet in a riffle that was the size of a football field.  Then there were those days that drove strong men to drink or at least seek the comfort and solace of other guides --who might also have a tidbit of useful information.  The bite would shut off so completely that you were convinced the river had been poisoned by a chemical spill--which did happen in the upper reaches; or the fish would move, which wasn't unusual.  Most of the trout were the progeny of steelhead that just stopped heading downstream once Shasta Dam began filling the river with cold water.  These fish would move into a slot to feed and then just as quickly drop back downstream, sometimes one hundred yards or more.  It was a guessing game as to where they would be on any given day, much less what they would be taking--and it could be incredibly frustrating.  It seemed natural that a person might want to wallow in self pity in front of a cold pint or at least talk to the other guides to get an idea of where the trout were and what they were on. I thought I had found such a place on the lower Sacramento River... I may have been mistaken.

There is a bar that almost fits the bill near one of the take outs on the river.  It shall for many reasons, remain nameless so let's just call it "the Dock". The beer was cold, the food was almost always edible, almost always hot and the price was almost always right..    What more does a person need?  It was a bonafide dive.  It's just that the "not getting shot" could have been an issue.  The first time I went in there, I thought this was the place!  A burger with fries was all of three dollars and three drinks cost less than what I would pay for one in the Bay area.  Granted it was too close to a trailer park or two and the owners son fancied himself an outlaw biker but those were minor details.  Most of the time, it was quiet, filled with a few folks ekeing out a hard scrabble existence and living paycheck to paycheck.  Weekends could get a little more lively with at least a shouting match or two, some dysfunctional family drama thrown in for effect and maybe even some good old fashioned fisticuffs.  Generally, though, the evenings were dead and the afternoons even quieter.  A few other guides and river rats would stumble in just often enough to keep me coming back.  It did sometimes get weird.  I suppose the people who like these small towns and backwaters might be a little antisocial to begin with.   I'm sure some have a few secrets to hide but an outsider (me) should keep their back to the wall, ears open and mouth shut.

Weird is too kind--too mild a term, actually.  It was a Saturday and I had a break between clients.  I'd spent the morning sorting out my driftboat--organizing and cleaning up the bits of tippet and funk that can collect in the bottom of a boat.  It was a beautiful spring day and a cold beer sounded about right so I headed over to the Dock.   The place was empty with the exception of the bartender and one other customer, a despondent looking character who struck me as an alcoholic.  He was hunched over, elbows on the bar with his head in his hands and half a beer sitting in front of him.    I sat down a few seats to the left of him at the bar and nodded a hello.  He grunted. The beer sat there, getting warm.  Apparently he wasn't much of a conversationalist or was downright unfriendly, not that it mattered.  I'm going to go with "unfriendly" because about a half hour later another customer came in.  The newcomer was in a wheelchair being pushed by a dumpy middle aged woman.  At first, I thought the three of them knew each other. The drunk at the bar looked

over at the man in the wheelchair and said  "Get your ass out of that chair".  The newcomer, however did not know the drunk and looked puzzled.  He replied cautiously "Hey! I was in 'Nam and I got shot up pretty bad."  "So?" replied the drunk.  The newcomer ignored the drunk at that point and his companion wheeled him past me. The woman parked his chair just to the left of me and sat at the bar as well.   They seemed pleasant enough, maybe a little morose after that initial encounter and the ensuing small talk was hushed.

The drunk had ordered another beer and after 10 minutes or so, looked over at the newcomer, staring intently.   He then, very matter of fact, said  "You're a pussy."  What planet was I on, what god forsaken place was I in that someone would pick a bar fight with a paraplegic?  The newcomer, however,  had a pained look on his face--a look that suggested he had once before been accused of being a fraud; of sitting on a street corner with a cardboard sign that said "Disabled vet.  Will work for food".  He stammered, "No man.  I got shot up pretty bad."  The drunk spat back  "You're a pussy.  I was there."  A long drawn out silence ensued.  I wanted no part of that scene so I was the one with head down at that point but I could see the drunk fidgeting.  Suddenly something went flying over my head.  It was a leg, a fucking artificial leg, heavily tattooed.  The drunk had taken off his artificial leg and thrown it at the newcomer in the wheelchair!  Clearly I was on another planet. At any moment Elvis will enter the room. The drunk was screaming "You're a pussy.  You're a pussy!" and suddenly another limb went flying over my head.  Now the drunk is on the ground hopping around on his stump legs, still screaming at the guy in the wheelchair "You're a pussy.  You're a pussy!"  Had they been speaking Italian, this could have been a scene right out of Fellini or worthy of David Lynch.  I was in awe of the heavily tattooed prosthetics.  The entire scene was beyond surreal...

The drunk eventually calmed down. and hopped back up on his bar stool.  I have no idea what happened to the artificial legs.  I think the newcomer offered to buy him a drink and the two began trading war stories.  Meanwhile, I no longer guide but I am still searching for a proper dive to get a beer after a long day on the water --a place where the customers wont be throwing prosthetic limbs at each other.

Shark Fishing

I think every small boy dreams of catching a big fish.  I did.  It was too many days spent on the harbor breakwater watching others catch fish and the mandatory high school readings of Hemingway, Zane Grey and Steinbeck that drove me to that precipice.  I lived and breathed fish throughout my puberty, interrupted only by the infrequent romance, the even rarer girlfriend and subsequent break up, complete with resulting heartbreak--which was then naturally healed by more fishing. I dreamed of marlin and sailfish and epic struggles in the hot sun as braided line peeled off a reel the size of a blender.

Of course, it helps if one has a codependent or enabler and I had many.  I'm also pretty sure that I fished because my father didn't.  His dysfunction, his struggles with mental illness and the abuse that was heaped upon us at home must have shown on my face because the woodshop teacher at the high school reached out to me.  He reached out to pretty much every at risk child he met--and he was a fisherman.  More importantly, he surrounded himself with other fishermen.  I'm sure there is some sort of Biblical inference one could make but none of these fishers of men were even remotely saintly.  At best, they stayed out of jail and students thrived on their pranks and escapades.  Interoffice memos were all too often used to send soiled panties in sizes that could be measured in feet instead of inches to another unsuspecting but hardly innocent teacher.  Naturally, we adored them.

Taylor was part of that crew although he wasn't a teacher.  In fact, he was an accountant for the county.  That's not exactly the kind of occupation most of the group dreamed of but Taylor juggled his schedule and had enough seniority that he could work 4 days a week and fish three, leaving just about zero time for relationships.  That suited Taylor just fine.  Relationships--unless they were with other fishermen--interfered with one's God given right to fish.

In retrospect Taylor was socially awkward, more than a bit stiff and an introvert--which meant he was the stuff legends were made of; and Taylor fished for sharks.  Taylor fished for really big sharks--Threshers and Great Whites and the infrequent Mako or Hammerhead.  ...and Taylor had numerous records for big sharks.  He had one extraordinarily ugly ass wooden skiff that the students in the woodshop class had built for him.  It floated.  That was about it but he was happy with it.  The rest of us, however, referred to it as "the submarine".  It was a dull battleship gray--probably because gray was on sale somewhere and more often than not, had a generous coating of guts of one sort or another and the usual seagull droppings.

 Now being single was a plus in Taylor's world.  He would stop at nothing if it meant a shot at catching a world record shark.  He would routinely fill his refrigerator with  bait--not any old bait, though.  Mackeral and bonito the size that most people would have been happy to catch spilled out of the refrigerator.   The freezer was usually filled with 5 gallon buckets of  blood and gore that he picked up from a local butcher to later use for a chum line, the slowly melting block of offal leaving a distinctive trail behind the submarine.  It was the kind of thing that horrified a date, not that he ever had any -- and sent the sharks into a frenzy.

I suppose shark fishing is a lot like catfishing.  The more disgusting the bait or the chum line, the better it seemed to work.  Accordingly, one of Taylors favorite baits was road kill--although in Southern California that, more often than not, was somebody's missing pet.   He traveled everywhere with a pair of rubber gloves, plastic bags and a pile of old newspapers on the odd chance that he would find some good road kill...which is how I first heard about Taylor.  It seems he had been driving down an alley in town when he saw a dog sprawled out in the road.  He, according to most versions of the story, slammed on the brakes of his old  Chevy Blazer, jumped out, slipped on the gloves and proceeded to roll the dog up in the newspaper.  Most of us might even view this as a public service but Taylor hadn't noticed that the dog wasn't dead--not until it bit him.  It seems it wasn't hurt--or anything else-- just one lazy dog laying out in the sun. I never did figure out why he needed newspaper, though.  I suppose it was less of a shock to open the freezer and see last weeks LA Times instead of the neighbors cat?

Anyways, this cemented Taylors stature amongst our little dysfunctional group of anglers and wanna-be anglers, not that his reputation actually needed any further embellishment.  By that time, he had numerous state records and line class records.  He had long ago obtained a commercial fishing license and sold almost everything he caught to subsidize his habit--which meant he routinely put some very big sharks in the submarine to either be weighed or sold. 

...and were you wondering how the submarine came to be called the "submarine"?  I suppose it was designed --if one can call it that--to fish the less than challenging waters of  the Santa Monica Bay.  Surfers got excited if they saw a three foot swell and sailors dreamed of 8 knot winds.  Tame was an understatement--with a few exceptions--so the submarine had maybe 16 inches of freeboard.  If the wind did blow, you were going to get wet and be bailing furiously.  None of this ever stopped Taylor from filling the submarine with shark, though, and on one trip in particular he had landed a Thresher that was a rumored 385 pounds.  That was dangerously close to another state record so in the submarine it went.  Naturally, Taylor continued to fish and hooked and landed another Thresher that later weighed in at 425 pounds.  In the submarine it went, shark sticking out of either end of the skiff and the boat sitting so low in the water that the slightest chop would have sunk it. Taylor couldn't swim either, not that it would have mattered.  You see, he routinely shot the sharks before he put them in the boat.  It made sense.  These sharks were upwards of 14 feet long and the submarine was only 20 feet long so there just wasn't a lot of room for a shark to be flopping around.  The problem was the slick of blood and gore trailing out behind the submarine--and the sharks that smelled the blood.  On a good day, there was a constant posse of sharks tailing the submarine.  On a bad day, there would be even more...

Needless to say, I thought I had died and gone to heaven when I finally got invited to go fishing with Taylor on the submarine.  I was all of 17 and had never caught anything bigger than a red snapper.  The bait was bigger than most of the fish I caught. I was ready to be transported to the world of Hemingway and Zane Grey --except it didn't actually happen quite like that.  The submarine was fitted with a fighting chair but it was a budget model that looked an awful lot like a lawn chair.  Taylor was frugal almost to the point of excess.  In fact, he would sometimes shoot a shark just to get the stainless steel hook back.  Not every shark was headed for the fish market to later be sold as swordfish.  Some just weren't especially edible but Taylor couldn't abide the thought of having to replace a stainless leader and hook either.

Just the same, I was ready for whatever came my way.  I was now part of this cadre of insanely intent fishermen who for the most part, lived and breathed fish.  It was rumored some had gills instead of lungs and only a few were capable of maintaining relationships for any length of time.  The shortest version is that I now wanted to prove that I was worthy and I dutifully hung on every word of instruction that Taylor uttered.  He very carefully showed me how to bait the hook through the nose of the bonito, explaining that there was a reason it was sometimes called a bonehead...  I baited the hook and proceeded to play line out behind the boat.  Within minutes, I had a hook up.  I braced myself and set the hook.  My heart was racing, my feet were braced against the stern and I was praying that that tired fighting chair stayed together for at least one more fish.  Line was beginning to peel off the reel...and then suddenly everything went slack!  The silence was deafening.  Disappointment hung like a tule fog over the submarine and I slowly reeled my line back in.  I'll fast forward: The bait was virtually unscathed with the exception of a few teeth marks.  It seems in my youthful enthusiasm and being somewhat muscle bound in those days, I wanted to show Taylor just how strong and clever I was--and buried the hook so deep in the skull of that bonito that there was some question if the shark had ever even felt the point of the hook.  It had simply held on to the bait until it tired of our little game of tug of war. 

Taylor really didn't need to say much.  The look in his eyes said it all but he was willing to give me another chance although it seemed like an eternity before the next hook up.  This time everything went right though, and once again, I was in the fighting chair, wondering just what was at the other end of that line.  The reels we were using were the old Penn Senators, the size of coffee cans and the 125 pound braided line was peeling off the spool as if it were sewing thread.  For those of you who have never fished big game, these were stout fiberglass rods, the butt sections as thick as the grip on a Louisville Slugger--and it was bent over as if it had all the backbone of an overcooked pasta. 

This was the kind of fishing that adds a whole new meaning to the word "fear".  The submarine, already questionable as far as how seaworthy it really was, was now slowly being towed backwards.  One wake, one swell hitting us just right and we would have been just another snack item, another morsel for the other sharks trailing the submarine...  Needless to say, everything--or almost everything went right and I  lived to finish the story.  I don't know how long I fought that shark.  It wasn't epic by any means and didn't weigh much more than 175 pounds but that was 175 pounds of finely honed fighting muscle and 150 pounds bigger than anything I had ever caught before. Taylor, however was understandably unimpressed.  He had no children so that look of Christmas morning in my eyes--the excitement and sense of accomplishment never registered.  Instead he handed me a shotgun and in as dry and taciturn voice as any human could utter, simply warned me to not miss; not put a hole in the bottom of the boat--and don't hit the leader.  I often wondered if he thought he had to pay for every word he used because he used them so sparingly...

Pride is a funny thing.  I so desperately wanted to be part of this group of seasoned anglers and the last thing I wanted Taylor to know was that I had never even touched, much less fired a shotgun before.  I'd been to a Boy Scout summer camp and fired a few .22 rounds at the gun range there but that was nothing like the kick of a shotgun.  Granted, it was only a 20 gauge but I needed more than anything else to do this right.  Naturally, that meant I did almost everything wrong.  I practically touched the barrel of that shotgun to the head of the shark, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.  The ocean erupted into a geyser of shark bits and spray; and in a moment that will forever define Taylor --a moment that will always be etched in my memory, he stood there wiping off shark from his glasses and without ever raising his voice, simply said  "I think you got him".

a "beef" with a vegetarian...

Talk to any vegetable... Wasn't that from Frank Zappa?

I think I’ve had it with the “holier than thou” vegans.

It’s becoming the new religion for women (especially) that have trouble achieving orgasm any other way and their overly sensitive male partners. (Oh… did I mention something about the human male equivalent of a doormat? Did anyone mention burdensome neuroses yet? Thinly veiled anorexics hiding behind the guise of passionate activism?) When did vegetarians and PETA activists become Pentacostals? They’re beginning to sound like Jehovahs Witnesses and I want them off my doorstep!

I shared an exchange of letters with a “person” who described herself as an animal activist…

Puhleeze… Animal activist? Is that some sort of code word for PETA? Who knew? I rose to the bait. Her letter was so condescending…because I eat meat? Pardon me but the last time I checked, Homo sapiens was, in fact, an omnivore. Our digestive tract and the arrangement of our teeth seem to support that “conclusion”… Whether or not we eat too much meat is another question—as is the safety of the food chain.

However--excerpts from her letters as follows—and my responses and comments:

Well, I don't "preach" to my friends/co-workers because I feel that living life and leading by example is more effective… .I drive, but mostly because I have children… But I do drive a Prius,

(note: so does driving a Prius somehow absolve someone of responsibility for the state of the environment? Is the plastic and the geegaws and the energy used in the manufacturing of a Prius somehow not count???)

I will admit that I find it to be contradicting to be an environmentalist who eats meat, especially one as obviously knowledgeable as yourself.

(note: Hmmm… I find it a contradiction to have children when over-population has been such an issue.)

In addition to all the complaints you have about the destruction of land, you raised the issues of the multitude of water wasted and the harmful effects of feline feces, but you didn't correlate these issues with the drastic increase in water consumption by animal agriculture versus vegitation per capita (don't waste 1/2 gallon washing an extra plate, but order a meal that wasted 100 gallons), nor the water (and land) contamination from the overdose of antibiotics "fed" to agricultural animals and remaining in their feces, as well as our water.


Someone draw me a picture here. I’m not getting it: Are vegetarians eating plants that don’t need water? Is the rice they eat somehow grown without water or is it from other parts of the world that are routinely flooded by monsoons? Is it a genetically modified rice that can grow in a dry climate like California…without diverting water from somewhere else??? Are the hormones used in cosmetics different from the ones used in agriculture? Do they somehow not foul the water? Now I suppose that is moot if one doesn’t use cosmetics at all...

(my replies-- edited and somewhat rewritten)

the PETA stuff:

It's an empty noise if we fail to protect habitat.

It's a hollow victory if we don't look at all our impacts-- collectively --on wildlife and the environment especially given this self involved self absorbed consumer society that we seem to have become. I watched several ostensibly political correct old folks hiking at the Marin headlands this weekend. I am sure one had bad knees so she was using some pretty fancy aluminum hiking staffs--either that or she was buying into one more fad, one more consumer trend... The reality is that somewhere there is one incredibly ugly open pit mine where bauxite and aluminum ore is mined. (I believe most of it now comes from South America, heaping further abuse on the rain forests--or the Patagonia.) I have run into more than one smug, holier than thou "vegan" meanwhile knowing that the plow (and development) has done more to wipe out species like the San Joaquin Kit Fox (?) and burrowing owls and and... Water for agriculture has decimated many of the fish once abundant on the West Coast... but I don't see people up in arms about the waste in the Farm Bill that encourages these water diversions and subsidies-- and everything that comes with them. The Farm Bill just isn't that sexy of a topic. Puppies are…baby Harp Seals are--as are ”charismatic megafauna”. Michael Vick gets more press than the Farm Bill and yet the Farm Bill and the Army Corps of Engineers has done to wipe out or encourage the destruction of more creatures and more habitat than probably any other single factor...including eating meat or any laboratory experiments.

More wildlife is killed by cars than hunters. People "feel bad" when they hit an animal--but usually not enough to slow down or give up driving--and yet you see very few people doing anything about that--or creating wildlife corridors and safe passage... Is PETA going to start protesting the reckless slaughter of wildlife on our highways anytime soon…?

More Americans die--each month-- on our highways than have died in Iraq so I hope we are really protesting the immorality of the war rather than the "loss of life".

As much as I love a good red wine, there are numerous wineries that I am boycotting because of the way they till their fields--increasing erosion (and pesticide run-off) eventually choking everything in our streams.

Activism is far far more than not eating meat or "ethical treatment" of animals IMHO. I get really plugged in when I realize how much damage cats are doing to our native songbird populations (and many small mammals and reptiles!) for example. In fact, cat shit is a factor in the decline of sea otter populations because of certain pathogens in it ( sorry for the laypersons version) but we as a society would rather regulate fishermen out of existence (at a time when "some" people–decidedly overweight and unhealthy--should be eating more fish) than deal with irresponsible pet owners???I'm guessing you know all this. I just get plugged in and need to vent. I've spent way too much time in the woods , too much time watching things go downhill ... and realizing that too many children are far more in tune with X-box and Paris Hilton and "reality" TV than the natural world.

Did you ever stop to think that digitized music is about the worst thing that has happened to our ears? ;-) Analog is a continuous stream of "information" -- a wave whereas anytime anything is digitized it exists in (essentially) a world of x and y axiis. A smooth wave instead becomes a series of relatively abrupt (discrete) steps and each of those steps represents information that is left out. I think I have a good ear--and a terrible memory--but I am convinced that I can sometimes hear when notes are clipped or cut off. Listen to how a note lingers when played live on a stringed instrument ( acoustic of course) as compared to a digitized and compressed recording. It's a sweet sound, a similar feeling that a fisherman sometimes reconnects with when he or she chooses to fish with a bamboo rod rather than graphite or some other plastic resin fiber amalgam.

I'm rambling...

I'm not sure if I should keep fighting to protect the environment--or welcome another mass extinction. I was studying--reading voraciously--on climate change many many years ago. I think the earliest studies that I saw addressed heat build up and associated weather changes just on the basis of thermal massing in urban areas. Anyways... I think most paleontologists are in agreement that major climactic changes precepitated( preceded?) extinctions of the prevalent lifeforms (4 or 5 major extinctions to date: Precambrian, Cambrian, Cretaceous, Jurassic etc etc) Mull that over:” major climactic changes”--then read some of the material on the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute on "thresholds" and tipping points and "instability", all related to weather patterns and changes associated with human activity-- rather than volcanoes or meteors!!!Is this too much like preaching to the choir? :lol I was thinking about that this afternoon. I still drive--I pretty much have to haul tools and things around so I got a small truck--a 4 cylinder Toyota and I do my best to drive s-l-o-w-l-y which saves gas. I was watching these behemoth gas guzzlers fly by me and even the PC types STILL in single occupant vehicles and I thought well maybe the species Homo sapiens doesn't deserve to continue... I guess ride sharing is too weird--like a person would have to actually talk to someone and share space with them and acknowledge them ;-)

I think I am going to join the Christian Right and welcome the end--or support mandatory sterilization. The dumbest idea I've ever heard or read: Impeach Bush. Yes...that would leave Cheney "officially" in charge instead of just pulling the strings. Next time you see an "Impeach Bush" bumper sticker or whatever--think about that persons capacity for critical thought and understanding of our political system :lol

So what all this means is that I eat meat--and I am not wracked by guilt for doing so. Kosher dietary laws apply here—not because of any religious beliefs but a respect for this other lifeform that gives me sustenance by giving it's life. Many Native American peoples acknowledged that and gave thanks to that animals spirit. There is some interesting reading on the subject if it holds any appeal--hidden in books on fisheries issues such as "Totem Fish" and "Salmon Without Rivers" ( by Jim Lichatowich I think...) One issue that you may already be well versed in is the plight of the(Sacramento) Delta--and everything that lives in it and depends on it. Some of the solutions are so simple, it is disturbing that we collectively are so self absorbed that we can't implement more of them. Will you--can you --talk to your friends and coworkers about being more water conscious? I went out to dinner over the weekend and asked my partner NOT to get an extra plate because that was one more dish that would need to be washed. Don't take the glass of water unless you really are going to drink it... talk to your neighbors about xeriscapes and the added benefit of not having to mow a lawn ;-) freeing up more time for skating or whatever other activity that one could indulge in once free of the tedium of lawn maintenance…

Yes Yes Yes!!! I agree consumerism is bad--although I too have my quirks. There are compromises in my life and if I am living right ( I tiptoe around the edges of Buddhism) , I acknowledge those "compromises" and try to keep them to a minimum. Funny that more people don't see the trap that consumerism is--the rat race --the wheel that the hamster runs on --endlessly chasing it's own tail? I've been reading a little on macro economics as I believe there are some major structural flaws in our collective approach to economy. We aren't going to be able to buy solutions or throw enough money at problems in the future to make them go away. The Bush cabal (although this precedes this administration by many years--going back to the earliest Reaganomics)-has built a house of cards and of smoke and mirrors--that is headed for collapse or out of control inflation. Inflationary pressures are built into our very own banking system and the Federal Reserve. Some interesting stuff out there—starting with some old line communists and on the far right, Keynesian (sp?) economics.

There is something seriously wrong when a single house --seven bedrooms-- in San Francisco is listed on the real estate market for $55,000,00.00

I agree --almost totally-- with the "non confrontational" approach. I sometimes end up speaking to some very conservative groups and it becomes a matter of phrasing things in a vocabulary or a manner that they get. For example, I am an advocate of conscientious "Catch and Release". Creatures regularly escape from predators--and we are pretty much an apex predator--so there is this biological basis for the practice. There are also fecundity issues with many cold water fishes (a trout carries about 600 to 800 eggs per pound of body weight whereas some carps have 100,000 per pound of body weight) so the practice (release) is generally encouraged. Fishermen can become pretty sanctimonious about releasing a fish-- supposedly unharmed-- but 80% of them actually have no idea how to land or safely handle a fish and unintentionally injure the fish. I try to stress the careful handling of any living creature but for those people who have so little respect or understanding--I just break it down in terms of numbers: If that fish dies, there will eventually be fewer for them to catch in the future. The practice makes even more sense in terms of genetics although fishes are far more adaptable and "genetically plastic" than most people realize. The size of a fish in a river can often tell me what the winters are like ;-) Ranchers--even though they can be my nemesis-- "get" some of the genetic components: they put their prize bull out to stud rather than turn it into lumpy gray imitation meat product to be sold in fast food chains.

Are you a vegetarian?

I was once--not for any moral issue as death--and rebirth and regeneration are very much a part of this cycle, of this planet. Yes your point about water is well taken--but also forgone. I have been fighting to restore some measure of sanity in the Klamath Basin (are you familiar with the issues up there?) One big one has been water diversions--to grow low value crops --nutritionally and economically—and it strays into an arena that includes NAFTA and the global economy. Farmers are competing with imported foodstuffs that we know now can be so tainted (as if there ever was any doubt). I speak and I testify (at various hearings etc) when I can on these issues and one item that does get brought up is that it takes something like 1500 gallons of water to "raise" 1 pound of beef. The entire Klamath Basin: fish, birdlife and open space is being devastated not for simple economics but to subsidize a lifestyle that is actually being lost to outsourcing and cheap imports--and to buy conservative votes (referring to stories in the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post detailing Cheney and Karl Roves involvement).

At this point I'm typing to hear myself type… but part of where I come from or how I came to be was a series of transforming experiences: I spent a month in the wilds of Alaska--back before it was such the outdoor adventure destination that it is now; and I was peripherally involved with the creation of the Van Hoosear Wildflower Preserve. Alaska was an eye opener in terms of the cycle of life and death. Bears do unspeakable things to salmon. The waste--or what we think is waste--and carnage is actually part of a larger cycle; and the salmon feed an entire series of organisms on the forest floor. The stench of decaying fish and the visuals can be pretty harsh (it's not Disney) but somehow things all fit and work together and the challenge is to understand this and our failure is not grasping or understanding all the small pieces. (hatchery raised fish are a disaster in every sense of the word--and aquaculture is right up there in terms of toxicity and unsustainability). The folks that spearheaded the formation of the Van Hoosear Wildflower Preserve recognized that grazing plays a key role in some ecosystems. Where we have gone wrong is the number of grazing animals that are confined to one small area... Anyways the large grazing animals--the big herds of elk, deer, antelope and buffalo are gone so they encouraged the judicious grazing (with domestic horses) of their property to control non native plants and to encourage those natives that evolved with grazing mammals. I don't hunt--and I think SOME hunters have real issues about sexuality and guns and feelings of powerlessness and impotence --but just the same I have lately been supporting some hunting groups. I support them because I am looking at this prey predator balance that mankind has turned so upside down ( a “kinda favorite” movie is Koyaanisquatsi sp?) Oh yes… a hunter who actually knows what he or she is doing is far more humane than sending an animal to a slaughterhouse... A portion of Kosher dietary laws recognized that the animals suffer--and ironically the suffering changes the way the animal tastes as the build up of lactic acids changes and attacks muscle tissue. Anyways, we collectively have been killing the apex predators allowing these other creatures populations to spiral out of control which then snowballs. Cormorant numbers are obscene because of all the artificial impoundments humans have built and in turn all the things that are eaten by cormorants suffer.

Most people are terrified of sharks, people kill them for sport and for their fins and livers--so seal populations --which were eaten by sharks--are out of control. The seals then eat the salmon and steelhead which are REALLY in trouble because of habitat loss: dam building, agribusiness, logging and water diversions. Some fairly savvy enviros that I work with are now scratching their heads over the Marine Mammal Protection Act and the firestorm that may come from changing that --if they want to address out of control seal populations to save the last of the salmon and steelhead.

What really is out of control is us. Population-- followed by greed. Deep down inside I think some of the most radical NeoCons also realize this. Unfortunately their solutions involve war and holocaust with the survivors being white, wealthy and male dominated--clones so to speak. They are not afraid of climate change as it has the potential to wipe out one third of the worlds population--most of whom will be poor and non white--the most vulnerable--while they move to higher ground. Have you seen any of those Pentagon studies or the leaked portions--that deal with the impacts of climate change? The goal seems to be making the world safer for wealthy white men-- where women are chattel...reserved for breeding. That is the real Bush/NeoCon agenda in my opinion. It has also been hard for me to support ANY groups that don't address over-population--and more locally--work to limit development as that becomes or feeds into a larger pattern of habitat destruction. I mentioned Michael Vick in passing. PETA groups have been protesting --but I think they might have missed the bigger target: almost ALL pro sports encourage similar values and bloodlust: winning is everything and at whatever cost… Vick is only a symptom of some values gone horribly astray that are endemic. Look at video games: they make killing a sport--and detached from any sort of reality. In fact, Nvidia makes chip arrays for gamers--and for the next generation (F 17) fighter jets. The NFL is the problem--not Michael Vick--and the people that directly or indirectly support the NFL. Is PETA prepared to take on the NFL? (not that we can speak for PETA--only for ourselves) I played football--I'm a big muscular guy even at this age--and I thought it was one hell of an ugly brutal sport. Yet we have this larger society that values it, worhsips it even. Sick sick-- those ultimate fighting things and kick boxing that are on TV nowadays. TV (and mass media) is an evil in and of itself--and I have not owned one since 1974. (Might be time to read or reread Noam Chomskys "Manufacturing Consent"…) The "feminized male" is not an answer either, unless we--when it comes down to fighting for those things that are worth fighting for, do so by throwing lattes at each other and scratching their eyeballs out ;-) Some things ARE worth fighting for.

Enough "ramble". Don't encourage me ;-) ...so I eat meat--even red meat--and speak out against globalism, Farm Bills, outsourcing and over-population. There is method to my madness: eating meat removes these destructive animals from the habitats they are destroying and --given the tainted food chain, hormones, antibiotics and Mad Cow-- may speed my own demise, thereby making room for another living creature ;-) ;-) ;-) I haven't quite bought into the whole electric/hybrid/plug in technology thing yet. I have concerns about manufacturing processes (materials used) toxicity of batteries, disposal and I guess the larger environmental footprint. I agonized at replacing my old van knowing full well it would end up in the waste stream. What do we know about hybrids and plug ins--and their overall footprint ie energy to build, battery disposal etc etc.. ? Are there breakthroughs in battery technology that are not so lethal as some of the lithium iode and metal hydrides and lead acid? In an effort to minimize my environmental footprint, I bought down the most stripped down model truck--stick shift-- free of gimmicks and gadgets and too much plastic that I could find--only to find out air conditioning is standard!!!

Life in the Salt Mines

Rough couple of weeks... way too much work and not enough play but this is not to say that I have joined a monastery. It's not in my blood.

Friday the GF and I manage an evening out--in a local dive. It's a bonafide dive: the bartenders are surly and the interior desperately needs attention. This is also one of those wierd nights where the sum of the parts somehow isn't adding up. We've gone out to hear a favorite band and normally I would describe them as edgy, progressive, intelligent and defying categorization. Friday, however the lead singer has a badly done Elvis look and he is strutting as if he really is a rock star. You know the look and the type: spandex, long hair that keeps beat to riffs that were popular in the late 70's. The problem is that this guy is dumpy, balding and in polyester. I suppose that could be a new look--a new trend but I/we aren't ready for it yet... We went-- to listen. Now I need to close my eyes and I am even embarrassed for this new "persona" middle-aged wanna be rock star. Bring on the groupies!

Groupies are not neccessarily a bad thing--as long as we are all clear about what is at stake. This also assumes a person, regardless of how shallow or gullible, is "disposable". Anyways, the bartender seems to have found a fan, a "groupie" or at least a young woman who is more than willing to bend low very low over the bar and to flirt as long as the drinks keep coming. She is attractive, albeit a little plump and wearing something that makes her look pregnant. Am I getting that old? Is that the ultimate in kink--sex with a woman who is 6 months pregnant or just another bad fashion choice? Bartender--a drink for the young woman in the circus outfit...

I'm rambling: so far none of this is truly out of place--and I have yet to meet a bartender who has taken a vow of celibacy. People dress badly and go out in public dressed that way--and Taipei is the ultimate in bad fashion choices but more on that at another time.

This is where it gets wierder though. The young woman is getting sloppy drunk. Are we surprised? The bartender has been pouring doubles and what might even be triples...gin and tonics--and somehow he is upset that this young thing can't hold her liquor? Wait-- is the real problem that, despite the fact she is reeling stupidly drunk, she still doesn't find him attractive?

All this ties together because I have been thinking about and admiring breasts for the better part of two weeks. It must be the sudden turn in the weather. Breasts are these amazing things: the shapes and the variety absolutely fascinates me: things like the color of a nipple or the ratio of the size of the nipple to a breast but I digress. This young woman was wearing a very low cut blouse that she used to advantage... Silly man--that bartender--but then again it wasn't his liquor that he was giving away.

So I end up in Los Angeles. I have a love hate relationship with Los Angeles. I go there because I have to and yet I can't help but admire all those things that are so wonderfully shallow about Los Angeles. Small doses of "shallow" are perfectly acceptable in my world. This too is also the sign of a graying boomer: I can't help but appreciate how few garments most of the young women are wearing. Were I to paint clothes on a nubile body, they would not be anymore revealing of the form underneath and the challenge is to not gawk or drool. Interestingly enough, doors are not slammed in my face. I must have some sort of moxy or "boomer cool" that keeps the young ones paying attention...

Letters from Texas

(this is another older piece sometimes subtitled "Letters From Across the Cultural Divide)

I’m writing fromTexas, Houston to be more exact and there is a glimmer of understanding and some sort of insight as to how George W Bush was foisted upon us… It’s a strange state both in a physical sense as well as a mental state--a state of being and non being. Texas is an enigma and understanding that will bring one closer to understanding how this current administration has perhaps come to and stayed in power. Take a minute to look at Texas origins from it’s dubious standoff at the Alamo, cowboy roots and boom days as a one time major oil producer. Long before liberals vented about the Gulf of Tonkin incident, Texans gave us the Alamo. Just who were these heroic Texans fighting off at the Alamo? Revisionist history offers us multiple perspectives but it seems the land was somewhat dishonestly "liberated" from Mexico...and it's been one scam after another ever since.

I pick up the Houston Chronicle and it reads like a cross between Pulp Fiction and the National Enquirer. I’m not quite sure if it’s a gritty violent city, fraying around the edges or if this is the ultimate in yellow journalism. This much I do know: The city has a hard scrabble feel to it with tar paper shacks and rundown homes ringing the downtown area, reminiscent of tobacco alley; and the oil fields represented a boom and bust mentality whose collapse seems to have taken the heart out of the city. Each day there is another story of malfeasance, corruption and incompetence making headlines; and each day a jaded population, a population seemingly without hope whose dreams have been dashed and are as dry as the abandoned wells that dot the landscape, shrugs each story off with a naive belief in a benevolent god or a sense and sigh of resignation because these are the same scoundrels in the news that sold snake oil elixirs and rotgut whiskey to indigenous peoples generations earlier. The fraud, the shady dealings and subsequent collapse of Enron is only one of many equally sordid tales.

This mornings paper opens with a story about air quality in the region which is the ultimate oxymoron: on bad days the air clings to you like a cellophane wrap, acrid and stinging. This is not the photochemical smog of the Los Angeles Basin; it is tainted with benzene and 1,3-butadiene and the stench of refinery operations. The poor, the elderly and the disenfranchised live closest and downwind of the refineries. Nor is this cowboy country although a few play at pretend cowboy. This is oil country turned suburban with a few roughnecks here and there. Thick stands of Southern pine and Oaks once dotted what is --or once was-almost bayou country. It seems there is water in every low spot and gully with tremendous storms sweeping in off the gulf. The water is still there but the trees are being cleared and the land is denuded. "Cleared" is not the right word--slash and burn is a more apt description...or defoliated in something that resembles that resembles the widespread use of Agent Orange in Southeast Asia. This is another wonderful irony: subdivisions have names like the Woodlands and street names such as Camden Forest but every tree in sight has been mowed down to build... Each new subdivision is an ugly scar on the land--a gaping clear cut and a wound that won't heal; and they spring up like a pestilence.

There is a downtown and this is one of the largest cities in the United States but it seems more a monument to the people that sell concrete, to the contractors that could influence planners and to some of the worst traffic engineering I have ever seen. Towering overpasses lead to nowhere and then turn back, looping on themselves in a eerie aerial ballet. A mile and a half later I am still on some sort of on ramp and watching traffic move in every which direction except for the one that seems most logical. Of course if you sell concrete or profit from this sort of boondoggle, it is starkly beautiful and shoppers are trapped in some sort of retail purgatory as they attempt to get from mall to mall. One has to experience this in person to appreciate the unearthly and haunting beauty of this dance of poured concrete. Pillars loom pale white and today the air has been cleansed by a squall, creating and redefining this sculptural tableau. A passing thought-is there any way I can capture the surreal-ness of this on film without creating a traffic nightmare or spending the night in jail? As I drive--nay hurtle--down the roadway I am also distracted by an older section of freeway propped up on rusted metal girders and I-beams and I find myself thinking that maybe this isn't all that much older--that the condition of this section of the roadway might have something to do with the air quality...

This is not to say there aren't moments of beauty and redemption. Wildflowers pop up where they can. I think they are Black-eyed Susans, Milkmaids and Indian Baintbrush. I'm not sure what this area might have looked like before the Anglos began their bloodletting on the landscape--perhaps bayou country with trees dripping Spanish Moss painted cool gray and sage but the few flowers showing themselves speak to me of hope, optimism and an enduring nature. Sometimes I catch myself fast forwarding my thought processes and wondering how quickly Mother Nature might reclaim this land and accordingly I find a bright spot amidst the urban decay and detritus of civilization. Decay provides an opening for rebirth and regeneration. Decay in whatever form is compost for some other--and hopefully higher purpose. The homeless sleeping under freeway overpasses only re-affirm my dire interpretation of the direction we are headed in politically and as a society. We have lost our way and our will. However, for every ill-mannered, racist and unemployed oil field worker amidst the grit and squalor and the maze of tract homes I also meet some of the warmest, friendliest people albeit somewhat "simple" according to my jaded West Coast and somewhat "urbane" world view. They find solace in their religion and embody a generosity of spirit that I see in few other places.

This is important because I am here to help my mother and stepfather through a bout with cancer and a knee replacement. My mothers artificial knee will work as designed although it is a relatively difficult and painful procedure but the prognosis for the stepfather is grim--at best. He has smoked for 50 years and sometimes as many as 3 packs a day and cancer coursed through his body undetected until recently. It would have perhaps remained undetected until the bitter end had he not started getting lost in the most unlikely places. His wife--my mother-- was living in dread fear of Alzhiemers or dementia and insisted that he be tested and tested again. Routine physicals had failed to turn up anything until a CAT scan revealed an enormous tumour on the brain at which point the family physician began looking at other parts of his body in an effort to see if the cancer had spread or where it had started. 3 packs a day...was there ever any question?

The cancer ward is an experience in itself. At first glance it seems to be overflowing with bodies ravaged by tobacco. Gravelly voices betray a lifetime of smoking although the oxygen bottles and wheezing might provide a clue as well... Meanwhile it's too late to experience regret or remorse. We all were invincible in our youth and at that age there is little wisdom we can offer until each of us comes face to face with our own mortality. Accordingly there is an atmosphere of resignation lit around the edges with the faintest rays of hope. There is an easy grace to the room and an aura of peace. They have gambled with fate and their lives, challenged medical science, tested actuarial tables and apparently--have lost. Therefore the patients in the clinic, for the most part accept their role in their own abbreviated lives.

The people in the clinic fascinate me. Some of it is morbid curiosity. I want to hear their stories in all their gory details and in a bizarre homage to Van Gogh, I also want to see their scars. I want to tell their stories and despite the fact that it seems most Texans are permanently attached to a cigarette, there are other patients with other types of cancer. The skin cancers and the brain cancers seem to shout out "Look at me--if you can..." The scars from repeated surgeries leave a road map of wasted lives, devastation and struggle sometimes tattooed across the skull or face. I can't help but admire these peoples bravery, facing a relentless adversary that if left unchecked will slowly eat away at them. God help the vain and the shallow whose measure of their net worth or the worth of another is only skin deep. The scars also tell a story of incredible pain--and in some cases--of more to come. There are two men missing what seems to my untrained eye enormous “chunks” of their heads. Bright pink and purple scars outline the missing portions and the top of one mans head reads like a badly done topographical model: “This depression is where the artificial lake will go-- behind the golf course and country club...”and for a split second I wonder what it is like to be them. I have had a hard enough time just accepting the fact that I am now “middle aged”. Repeat after me: “I want to live so badly that I am willing to have enormous sections of my body slowly carved away.”...

Most of the time I THINK I feel their pain but of course it is so much easier to resign yourself to someone else’s fate. It is the youngest women in the clinic that tweak the edges of empathy and pull at the heart strings that hurt me the most though. I am sorry to be so blunt and even selfish but we aged individuals have for the most part led good lives--or at least had the opportunity. My own life has not been lived according to the mantra of “What if?” or “I should have...” and accordingly I personally have few regrets. My death, whenever and however it comes, is another adventure in a life that has been what an older generation referred to as an “E ticket”--a wild ride. Meanwhile there is a young woman, a very attractive brunette with doe like eyes and a head of thick hair and it hurts to even acknowledge her. Her face, her countenance is both radiant and pained, even annoyed but it is the hurt and the confusion in her eyes that is so hard to bear. Every patient except perhaps for the heavy smokers will ask at one point “Why me?” and the answer is and will always be ”Why not?” but I cannot be so jaded and callous as to tell her this. Somehow I want to take the hurt and the confusion away but I am not sure that I have the tools or the skills, much less the emotional strength.

Smoking itself fascinates me as I catch myself wondering about addiction and self destructive behavior. Pardon my bias but you--smoker-- stink and it's the bitter smell of stale ashtrays while the walls are sticky with layers of tar and nicotine. It's the stench of last night and countless other nights overflowing the ashtray; butts sitting in an equally stale drink now tea colored. Can you taste food anymore or are your tastebuds completely gone? This is important only to me: in the pursuit of my own very hedonistic life I treasure texture and taste. Just the same, I think I know what it is to self medicate and to struggle with addiction so I keep my opinions to myself; and I can't help but stare at the patient disconnecting the oxygen bottle to sneak a quick cigarette. It's a prop, a security blanket, a nervous habit and a fix that extracts a heavy toll.

There is a young waitress, too young--working in a sad cafe, the kind of place that no matter how hard they try the food will always be rubbery and most of the booths will sit empty. Everything about her shouts out dysfunction--not that it's a badge people wear; and unleashing my prejudices it's not hard to imagine her pregnant with her fourth child all too soon. She too has a look in her eyes --pleading, wanting someone--me perhaps to take her away from this place. Were I less ethical I would perhaps prey upon that vulnerability but it is her mouth that diverts my attention. It has been a long time since I have seen teeth that tobacco stained and crooked-- and it seems so out of place in this day and age. I can't get that out of my head and this image, this theme replays itself--that of an angel fallen from grace, an angel descended from Applalachia doomed to a meager existence in a trailer park or manufactured home.



So now I am flying back to Texas again-- this time to bury my stepfather. Delicious irony that I am on a flight that sometimes seems right out of the twilight zone. At any minute I expect to see a short Mayan woman boarding the plane with a wooden cage full of chickens. No smoking is allowed in the friendly skies of the imagination but we make exception for the practice of Santeria and the bathrooms will be filled with milagros... Standing next to me is a Diane Feinstien (Californias fossilized senior senator) look alike and if her hair was pulled back any tighter I think her forehead would tear. I'm not sure if that look on her face is grim determination or years of bible belt upbringing... but I enjoy the spectacle of passing bodies further refining my lifelong study of body types and body language --and making up stories to fill in whatever blanks. Earlier, at the coffee counter was a “princess wanna-be“. She oozed refinement, breeding even and perhaps even a priviledged background ,but her posture, her slouch tells me her lot in life has not been easy. Maybe she is just self conscious about her breasts-- which she seems to be trying to hide...

Once I am on the plane I inventory the crew out of habit. It's been a while but here is the first stewardess I've seen that would actually qualify as attractive. Her anorexic co worker, however apparently had a bit part in the remake of the "Night of the Living Dead". The pancake make-up and the harsh light of high elevations does not improve her look. Meanwhile the pretty one even smiles. Does that mean we have crossed into some sort of international airspace where happiness is not determined by capricious boundaries such as red state blue state? Interestingly enough my own obsession with breasts draws my attention to the fact that the zombie stewardess doesn't have any breasts either-- and I spiral away, lost in thought and debating with myself which came first: the chicken or the egg? Earlier in the lobby something --someone-- annoyed me and I let loose. I let loose, as in releasing a gaseous flatulent cloud hoping to foul the airspace of whatever it was that annoyed me --or whomever’s--only to realize that the most stunning, attractively put together woman is walking behind me. "Put together" hints at my own misgivings: she could very well add new meanings to “high maintenance". I am momentarily embarrassed, but in doing a quick reality check, I remember that at my age I am invisible to women of her age. Just the same, I look for a dog or a “more senior” citizen to pin the blame on... and I have just added another dimension to “passive aggressive“.

In the beginning God created turgid prose...

I stand up in front of God and man—it’s like a bad Alcoholics Anonymous or NA meeting--and I say with less than sincerity “I am an addict”. I am addicted to the play of words and ink on paper. I am addicted to the slow scrawl of text across a monitor and so I struggle to write. Instead I stare off into space, knowing that there was something I was supposed to do this afternoon. Once upon a time there was something I wanted to say—something I needed to say but I long ago stopped feeling. Meanwhile disjoint images play across my memory trying to shape themselves into some sort of coherent whole. Once upon a time I even had a life and now I am storm tossed --the detritus of human civilization washing up on a nameless beach upon which small children play, building sandcastles with minarets fashioned from the empty tube of a tampon applicator and a feather of an oil soaked bird. This is the wreckage of a life and the chaos left in my wake. Blown by the winds of fortune and misfortune alike I no longer try to make sense of my own existence and instead I wobble aimlessly about an axis I never had. I have also become the person I said I would never be…

I suppose I could define my life as a series of misadventures and missteps that I was somehow never held accountable for; and in doing so embellish tales of the ordinary into something far more fanciful. Ah but for this moment, the life I’ve lived in my imagination is far too wondrous: men nobler and lovers more numerous and more beautiful. In more grandiose moments I suppose I could even define my life by the women that have passed through it but herein lies the truth or something as close to the truth as I am willing to tell: “passing through”. I have made the failed relationship an art form. Sometimes in very dark moments I think that I have even made failure an art form in itself-- singlehandedly snatching defeat from the throes of victory and losing far more money than I could have ever earned.

All of which begs the next question: how much turgid writing and self pity will you the reader have to wade through? Does it seem Ennui and Angst are the gods of modern literature, the foundations now upon which we build our own personal mythologies? We collectively have redefined art as one more cliché amongst the clichés of our own lives and lacking anything that truly resembles an original thought --we collectively self destruct in front of a television audience. So it makes some sort of sense that we take pathos and place it upon a pedestal. We are victims in search of either a victor, a cause or a perpetrator, lost in our own self absorption.

So this then becomes the refrain of this century: “It’s all about me—and it always has been and I suffer deeply and alone in my hurt and you can’t possible know what it is I feel”. This too is my story --an ordinary life infused with imaginary meanings and non-events; of great impotence and somehow it meant something to me.

I suppose somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I had great talent and imagination and if the truth must be known—we all do. That is--we all convince ourselves of wondrous abilities, talent and prowess, which may or may not exist and the ego blinds us to whatever that truth might be; and it just might be that we are creatures of infinite possibilities and incredible imagination and that gift is crushed and taken away, rendered lifeless by the conforms of society and by the tedium of our own existence. I suppose it is a restating of the obvious but creativity suffocates in a world in which every day begins to look like the next. In a consumer society it is the tedium, the struggle for ordinary goods and un-needed services that renders us sterile and so we begin looking for small miracles, minor differences and defining ourselves in terms of adventure. My day is different because the weather is different.

I digress. Once upon a time I painted. I am not sure that this actually means anything except to say I saw things—differently—and perhaps as they were and not as I wanted them. This is the sort of thing that describes an illustrator, not a great artist: a faithful reproduction of the object in front of me lacking in any sort of imposed greatness or deeper meaning. All of which may have been wonderful had I applied myself but to this day I seem to lack any sort of discipline. I don’t think I’ve ever really applied myself to much of anything except for woodworking , fornicating and fishing. Odd combination now that I think back upon it.



I'm in one of those moods.

I caught myself wondering where all the socks go that disappear in the laundry too. How much lint can a single shirt give off before it is no longer a shirt? In fact just lint itself is pretty amazing-- the break down of a loose amalgamation of fibers that once formed a single strand. Maybe thats a metaphor for a society that never was especially cohesive but a loose amalgamation of disparate groups thrown into the kettle together...spun together--and now just spun!

When you flyfish you can think about things like that. You watch the bamboo bend, the rod load and think about bamboo being another collection of fibers--this time all working together. I like bamboo--not that I can afford it or that it performs especially well--rather that it is a humble grass given new meaning and new purpose by the hand of man, a craftsman--and risen or elevated from that lowly origin to be placed upon a pedestal... Perhaps there is more metaphor in that?

I like to think of water cascading against rock when I fish. I watch each wave, rivulet and rapid. Ultimately, stubbornly the rock gives way. Change is inevitable but I take the moment to savor the polish of the rock as it gives way. Interestingly enough each wave or wavelet has it's own shape and voice--and noticing that has perhaps made me a better fisherman? Anyways I like to think of the water taking the rough edges off the rock. Isn't that the ultimate irony--that old school pyschoanalysis suggested water as a metaphor for sexuality?

Is that perhaps why we flyfish? Playing in the " metaphoric water" of unexplored sexuality and yearnings or taking away the rough edges of the ying and yang--the duality of spirit?

I am also having the time of my life lately. I now have a very kind and very supportive woman in my life who enjoys my warped sense of humor, adventure and irony. I have also taken to spending time in womens bars when I work in certain parts of the county. Very very interesting to say the least--and an exceptionally lovely brunette that I HAD ASSUMED was a lesbian--made a pass at me the other day... I like it when women, especially exceptionally attractive women make passes at me...and at my age that happens less and less. As well--so much for making assumptions about a person.

However it, this supposed womens bar, is always a never ending source of edification and a cross section of humanity that sums up all the issues we each struggle with in our own lives. There are the most lovely young things in there and they might as well be wearing a tattoo that says "Dysfunction"--that says their preference in partners is/was the result of trauma--and not genetics. There are those that might as well sport a tattoo that reads "This is the best way I could think of to get back at my parents" and then there are those who are just being true to themselves...

There's this funny little gay guy who stops by once in awhile. He is barely 5 feet tall--if that, and he has these enormous Dr Spock ears and I wonder if he has found or ever will find his soulmate... It's a gentle reminder--even a little bittersweet-- that my lot in life has not been so bad. What's it like--being homely, short and gay in THIS society where we worship youth and beauty? What's life like if you aren't 6-1 and cut, muscled, toned or whatever slang we now use to describe a hardbody? What is life like when you don't look like Brittany or Brad--and live/play/color outside the lines?