“A cat asked Coltrane, ‘When you’re out there doing that wild solo, what are you hearing?’ And he said, ‘The bass.’” –Mike Watt
The four count rhythm between ten and two never worked for me.
Putting a bass line to it kind of does. Jamerson to start and maybe when things get going something else. Or this. Or Shakespeare.
Contrived? Maybe. But it beats thinking about a metronome.
The point is, how do you know Emile isn’t a crazy glue sniffer? “Building model airplanes” he tells you. Well, we’re not buying it. He sneaks into your house once, that’s all it takes. The next thing you know, there’s money missing off the dresser, and your daughter’s knocked up. I’ve seen it a hundred times.
Hey, if you want me to take a dump in a box and mark it guaranteed, I will. I got spare time.
North Federal Highway, Boca. Established: Sometime back. Closed: 1993.
(Quinn + 25′ Mako bought at gov’t auction + dull dolphin + block ice + Busch.)
I took this picture to disprove the myth. Look a banana on board, while catching fish. Ha ha!
Since I took this picture my magazine got sold and moved to Florida, my cat got messed up, I got tagged doing 80 in a 45, and I broke my best rod hours before my best trip.
I have brought this on myself. As the late great John Belushi said, “that’s not bad luck that’s dumb luck.”
The Last Straw: One of my best buds drunk dials me and I listen to the message for the vicarious value, and he’s doing laundry by himself at midnight because his dog threw up on the bed and his wife is vexed. He is drinking rum and listening to Hootie and the Blowfish. So vile and absurd is the mental imagery that I cannot process it.
Enough. Whatever I did to offend the gods of fishing and sensibility, whatever demons of poor choices in music I have unleashed, I take it back.
The swans kick the crap out of the geese, the geese beat on each other, and everyone pretty much leaves the ducks alone.
The swans at the one pond had four cygnets in the spring but two of them disappeared. The raccoons got to them, according to a third party observer.
Unless you count creek chub, the carp are the only game fish in the ponds and the one creek. Every few days two old European guys, I believe they are Hungarian, set up long carp rods, rest them on stands, sit in lawn chairs and smoke hand-rolled cigarettes.
The carp seem to do what they want to do when they want to do it and when they just loaf around it’s a long day for the Hungarians and me, too, and the bird watching is a pretty cool diversion.
We have Facebook. Welcome to The Suck.
WTF?
Can’t believe it’s been over a month since it all went down. Changing out some spent line from a reel I haven’t since used reminded me of it. I looked through my photo records of Andros and this one stuck out.
A stake through the heart, purist.
Props and maybe a free hat* or something to anyone who knows the score.
*(Hat or t-shirt may be slightly used.)
Respect the panfish.
Ron Jeremy once said of his life’s work, “Put a mirror under her nose and if I see fog, I’m going in.”
There are some parallels here. If it hits a fly, I am going to cast to it without shame. When a gil or sunny hits a popper on a three-weight and turns its side to the fight, the rod bends all the same.
Did we not see this coming?
The Chicago Sun-Times called out BP three years ago for dumping toxins into Lake Michigan.
A Wikipedia page lists a long litany of offenses, mentioning that Mother Jones twice named BP one of the world’s 10 worst corporations.
Another report says BP’s safety record is worse than you imagined.
I fully realize it does nothing now to care and express anger after the fact. Do we need to refocus our conservation priorities? What good do slot limits and cutting up the little rings on plastic six-pack holders do if one careless, or possibly malevolent, corporation can so effortlessly undo any collective environmental gains?
And who else has the potential to take a dump in our backyard?
Footwork.
Released.
Smithhammer
Pete McDonald