clear creek

I thought I'd make a run at fishing in southern Indiana. Try my luck at some smallmouth bass fishing. Zack, the fly fishing guy at JL Waters, told me Clear Creek has some good smallmouth fishing and I read a good DNR report that confirms this. So I went to check it out twice this week and I think I'll head back tomorrow. I got skunked the first day but yesterday I picked up two Long Eared Sunfish and a fat shiner. Hopefully I'll get some smallmouth tomorrow. I'm fishing the section near Ketchum Road a couple hundred yards upstream from Cedar Bluffs. It's a nice creek. Smells like the Brandywine. Reminds me of my youth.

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it's a bonanza!

Sometimes you just find a lot of good stuff on the internet all at the same time.

There's a lot of crap on Youtube, but these movies are great. They're mostly bluegrass and "old timey jazz" performances and jams, but there's also a fantastic rendition of Folsom Prison Blues by some young looking folks.

philosophy

This is a great article about free will and philosophy's relationships to the sciences. I seem to remember that it was this kind of stuff that got me interested in philosophy. My sophomore year in college I think. I was pretty intrigued by a passage in The Brothers Karamazov where one of the characters claims that all our actions are just the wiggling of nerves in our brain. I wish I new philosophy of mind and metaphysics better. And The Brothers Karamazov.

I got the link at Leiter Reports.

stunt pilot buck jones

Tell me Mr. Buck Jones, where is it that you go? You and your flap, flap, flappin' little leather wings, dipping and diving and swerving and flying around my head at noon. Don't you know little buddy, don't you know that bats aren't supposed to fly around during the middle of the day? You probably have rabies. I'm glad you don't bite me.




I hit up Gravity Head on Friday night with Ryan, Yaniv, and Chris then left directly from New Albany on Saturday morning. Unfortunately, yet again, I decided to take 441 straight through the Smokies because I wanted to go to the fly shop in Cherokee. I knew it was a mistake but I always forget about how bad the stupid fucking traffic is in the Gatlinburg area. Sean and I hiked into the site at the bottom of Forney Creek, slightly less than 3 miles from the end of the Road to Nowhere. Luckily I had packed steaks and a growler of Bell's Hopslam to ease to my frazzled nerves. Sean had a good bit of single malt and we got pretty tight that night. We cooked the steaks on sticks over the fire.







The wild pigs were real bad in camp. The ground was all torn up throughout and the little bastards even had the nerve to come rooting around while we slept. The rooted up the area where we cooked and where I was laying next to the fire.

Sean I explored the area on Sunday, walked down to where Forney Creek empties into Fontana. Pretty weird landscape. Ran into a group of backpackers that were on the wrong side of the river and too chicken shit to cross it. Who knows how they got there.





I did a good bit of fishing that day but only ended up with a 6-7" rainbow under the bridge at the junction of Bear Creek trail and Forney Creek trail. But I did catch it on a Hares Ear nymph I tied myself. Which was pretty cool.

After a couple pulls on Sean's signature backcountry whiskey vessel (a metal fuel bottle), he set off down the trail and I hit the creek again but came up fishless. There was a pretty serious hatch on, maybe Blue Winged Olives, but the fish just weren't feeding on the surface.

The next day I hiked up Forney Creek about 4 miles to the confluence of Jonas and Forney Creek. It's a neat hike which goes past some old logging camps and early white settlements. I spent the mid-day with a bat I named Stunt Pilot Buck Jones. I seriously think it had rabies. I also spent about 2 hours fishing up Jonas Creek which was extremely brushy. It was tough making my way upstream. But the little fish were hungry and I missed a lot of strikes. I think mainly because they were so little they couldn't get the hook in their mouth. But also probably because I'm slow.




Daniel showed up sometime in the afternoon and we fished a bit I think but not too long. He had stopped to see Sean on his way up and Sean told him about the steaks so lo and behold he packed some in too. That was cool. So we cooked steaks (on a grill this time) and shot the shit about his new life as a PhD student at Clemson studying fisheries biology. He told me some cool stuff about Shad and fish ladders.

The next morning we headed down the creek a couple hundred yards to a big, deep pool I found the day before and fished around it for a couple hours with no exciting results except that I lost 4 rechargeable batteries out of my camera in the creek. They went deep down under some rocks and I couldn't retrieve them. Nothing like pollutin' to make you feel good about yourself.




We decided the fishing in the Smokies sucked and that we'd head down to Panthertown where I knew the fishing would be better. The hike out was on the longish side for a fishing hike, ~7 miles, and the first bit was pretty uphill and the last bit was pretty down hill. The worst part was that Daniel had to hike the whole thing the day before going the other way. But we did run across Silas the Horse Wrangler.

We were seated on the trail after the long uphill having a drink and a snack and we hear something loud coming around the corner. I yell "HEY BEAR! HEY BEAR!" Thinking it might be a bear running down the trail at us. It turns out if was a dude on a horse with a pack horse in tow. He laughed at me. He says, "You thought I was a bear? That shit don't work man. The Park Service tell you that's what you're supposed to do. But it don't work."

He had long gray hair and long gray handlebar mustache. The rest of his face was very freshly shorn however. He wore denim overalls and no shirt. His small but obvious gut hung out. He was quite good on the horse though. There were trees across the trail ahead. He noted that the trail crews were lazy and that he knew because his brother worked 'em. He rode his horses down into the hollow and up the steep side around the trees and back onto the trail. He might have been Eustace Conway for all I know. I'm just going to call him Silas the Horse Wrangler.

Daniel and his serious vehicle.




Act II sometime soon.

on my way

I haven't slept well in a week. I've been too busy. I've been too excited. For Spring Break! Show me your titties baby! Panama City Beach! WOOOOOOOO! Just kidding. I'm going to North Cackalack. I'm going to the Smokies. To Forney Creek. For a week. With Daniel Hanks. And Dr. Séan O'Connell. I'll be in the woods for one whole week and it will be incredible. The forecast is good, highs near 70. That probably means good insect hatches. Blue Winged Olives, Quill Gordons, Blue Quills even. Many a trout will be deceived. And that's not all. I kick the whole thing off tonight with a visit to the opening day of Gravity Head 2007: Gravity Madness, March isn't just about basketball anymore!, at, of course, Rich O's in New Albany. Where I will sample many high gravity beers and after hours of tedious deliberation with myself, will select a favorite of which I will purchase a growler. I will then pack that growler into the woods on Saturday night and Dr. Séan O'Connell and I will drink it down and cook steaks on sticks over a fire.

See you in a week. I will return with pictures a plenty and hopefully zero Rattlesnake bites.

the session #1: stouts

Stout: the beer that means something. That's my motto at any rate. And it's a damn fine motto if you ask me. We all search for meaning in this life and when it's found you should make it clear to the world, OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE. Shout it out from the top of your lungs: I LOVE BURNT BARLEY BABY.

Searching for good craft beer in the Midwest is kind of like playing a giant game of Capture the Flag. Sure, there's good craft beer to be found, but you're not exactly walking on roads paved with golden malt, verdant hops and crystal clear spring water. The roads are paved with corn. Literally. One hundred bushels crushed for every linear mile. It's a kind of earth-friendly filler. We power our cars with it. We make our roads with it. Hell, I wash my hair with it every other day, gives it that wholesome Midwestern shine.

But look long enough and hard enough and you can find the flag. Soar through the cornfield with eyes peeled wide. Hark! A settlement! Perhaps their victualers brew a strong and dark drink, roasted and toasted to keep our bodies strong. OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE I scream from the top of my lungs. I've found some stouts and I drank them down and here I will of them write about.

Dr. Stan Hieronymus thought it was a good idea to have a beer blogging carnival and I couldn't agree more. So this is my little piece of participation. Click the pictures for grand versions.



UPLAND BREWING COMPANY (Bloomington IN)
Chocolate Stout

The head fades quickly and a sharp, shiny, metallic scent wafts up to slice at my nose. Dry, grainy, chocolate malt asserts itself and I feel cheated. Plastic chocolate pinches my mouth and lingers unwelcome.

BARLEY ISLAND BREWING COMPANY (Noblesville, IN)
Black Majic Java Stout

"I won a silver medal at the GABF this year in the 'coffee flavored' category, naaa naa na."

"You're an idiot. You don't know how to spell magic."

"It's a clever play on words. And it's trademarked."

"You are made of too much coffee. At first you appear to be rather viscous. But you're not. It's all lies. You've always been a lier. It all started at the hotel in Key West. You weren't going to the store to buy limes. You were doing unspeakable things for a fix in the alley behind the Lazy Gecko. More or less in plain view. People staring in disbelief. WHY DIDN'T I END IT THEN? You're not a bad beer, you just need to beef up a little bit. Fill out in the hips. In the butt. A little bit of body and a dash of residual sugar would go a long way in combating your acrid java ways."

"I don't even know who you are."

BELL'S BREWERY (Comstock, MI)
Kalamazoo Stout

Dear Kalamazoo Stout,

You smell like the wedding cake of King Edward the VIII. Delicate yet sumptuous. Creamy yet nimble. I wade through your waters in ecstasy. I dream of taking you away on a romantic trip to Pennsylvania Dutch Country where we can lay nestled in each other's arms until daybreak.

With love,
Matthew Daniel Dunn, Esq.

FOUNDERS BREWING COMPANY (Grand Rapids, MI)
Black Rye

This is definitely not your father's stout. Mainly because I'm not sure it's a stout at all. But I bet you father would enjoy the way the spicy spicy spicy nose slaps you around like a stripper's tits. That sweet stripper smell. Mysterious yet comforting. Picante! Again, unfortunately, much like our friend Black Majic (sic), Black Rye needs to put on an extra pound or two. She kicks so much game that she needs a little bit of junk in the trunk to give her a solid foundation. To kick all that game.

NEW HOLLAND BREWING COMPANY (New Holland, MI)
The Poet Oatmeal Stout

Not very stout
Sweetish nose about
to shellac my tongue.

It smells like candy to me- too smooth
Ryan thinks Carafa malts are the culprit.

TWO BROTHERS BREWING COMPANY (Warrenville, IL)
Northwind Imperial Stout

Fruity. Diacetyl I dare to conjecture? Do you contain anise? Licorice? You are strange.

Ryan, Brian, Yaniv, the Stinks... without you, none of this would have been possible.

blueberry compote and fireworks: a biannual meeting

I drove to the center of our country today. At 99 miles an hour. Chewing tobacco is primarily a driving hobby for me. Keeps me awake. Keeps me sane as I throttle through frozen corn fields and truck stops. Dodging woodchucks and the cop's drop and Midwestern transvestite hookers who walk balding in high heels along access roads fighting 30mph wind gusts and the gas station attendants who tell me: "She...he...it, whatever. It walked in here, used the bathroom, and walked back out. Got no damn idea what the hell the story is. We called 911." These are good Christian people who also chew tobacco and hunt deer and wear camouflage jackets.

On the long straight trip from the Kansas City International Airport (with daily flights to Paris) we met the Fireworks Magnate, an honest to goodness Tycoon-Robber Barron who completely looked the part except for the jeans and sweatshirt. Told us we were buying the wrong stuff, the kid's stuff. We were wary of the pitch but soon came to realize he spoke the truth. Owned 52 stores in 10 states. Worth $43 million. That is if we could believe the huge hag of a Midwestern slut who checked us out and gave us $10 in fireworks for free as she copped Ian's knob and jerked on Ryan's chain. I stayed out of it. You can get worts through that kind of contact.

We arrived at the house and played with the kids for a couple hours. Taught them how to gamble some and then Brooke took our money in a cutthroat game of Uno. She has a strong poker face. Bailey refused to play with us. She's kind of snooty. But she did show us her Cinderella (?) magnet things which was cool because Cinderella looks pretty hot in her skivvies.

The Missouri State Wrestling Championship was a nemesis far too young and sinewy for us to challenge, particularly in a blizzard, so we ended up driving around for a while in the snow. We'd head to the the Flat Branch Brewpub and gorged ourselves. Purchased four growlers of brewed-fresh beer and sat awkwardly as Mike Pell heckled our waiter: "That group there, they're gonna to skip out on the check. That's what they do. That's how they make their living. They travel around the middle parts of our fair nation buying growlers and obscene dinners then they dash out the door like so much fart in the wind and you're stuck holding the bag for a cool $200."

"Sir, you're going to have to keep your voice down or I'm going to cut you off."

"Cut me off! CUT ME OFF! I'm a doctor you son of a bitch, this is prescription!"

"Regardless sir, you'll have to take your seat now or I'll call the manager."

"Mike, dude, sit down, you're creating a scence."

"You wanna scene, I'll give you a scene!"

He flipped over the table like it was a child's toy. It knocked his wife clean out of her chair and onto the ground where his hot bowl of tortilla soup proceeded to scald her eyes and she screamed.

He picked up a chair and threw it through the side window and slipped out through the hole like so much fart in the wind.

During the commotion we took the opportunity to skip out on our check. As per the norm. Like so much fart in the wind.

Chris drives fast on the snow covered back roads. They're hilly and curvy and the speed limit's 45mph. He takes it all at a cool 60. He's got a Suburu, all wheel drive. No worries. Ryan drinks most of his growler on the ride home and my knees rub sore on the dashboard.

We gamble until four in the morning. Small stakes. I was down $20 until we started playing blackjack. Cedar the sad one-eyed-dog was good luck for me. I mounted a counterinsurgency. The growlers were gone so we started on the Boulevard Pale Ales and the Schlafly. I had a glass or two of the Evan Williams Single Barrel Bourbon and Ryan took a pull off the bottle.

The kids woke us up the next morning well before noon. Ryan said "Don't let me drink bourbon anymore and don't let me play blackjack drunk." So we made Belgian Waffles and a blueberry compote, eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes. We were, unfortunately, out of beer, so I had to take some bourbon as my digestive. It's a rough life.

We lit off fireworks and played more poker and then made a run to town for provisions. Went to Walmart and Ian took picutres of Fancy-Manhattan Ryan pushing the cart around. Ryan was ashamed. We bought a couple cases of beer and ping pong paddles, balls, and a net. All we had was the table. But if you're only going to have one thing for ping pong, the table should probably be it. We managed to get another meal at Flat Branch because none of the same people were working. We skipped out on that check too.

Snowy back roads and scary driving. We're back at the house. Ryan loses $5 to Ian in ping pong. Mike Pell and Dianna arrive and we play beer pong which I pretty much dominate. We play more poker. We play Oscar which I insist on calling Joachin Phoenix, or just Joachin for short. We light more fireworks. This is when we realize the Fireworks Magnate was right. We should have bought bigger fireworks. I eat some ice cream with the left over blueberry compote on it.

We are drunk. Again.

The next day we take it easy. I enjoy an egg sandwich on a blueberry bagel which is way better than it sounds. We gamble. Chris drinks several beers before 2pm. We decide we need some activity, dammit. Need to flex our muscles. We sneak into the athletic facility and Ian and I lift weights for an hour. That's fucking dedication yo. I haven't missed a workout in a month. Chris kills everyone in racquetball. I really suck at racquetball. We go home and make a massive pasta and sausage dinner and an inordinate amount of salad which no one touches. It was going to be good too: spring greens, cucumbers, red onions, avocado, and crushed pecans. But after you stuff your fat face with pasta and sausage, the salad isn't terribly appetizing.

We gamble until 2am as we finish the last case of beer.

The Mid-Missouri Distinguished Juniata College Alumni Biannual Meeting of Philosophy and Leisure was a success.

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space debris and my one deep breath

Cramped and covered by whirling space debris, there is no escape. We’ve filled up this earth with crap and now our offal extends into the last frontier. There’s nowhere that’s open, there’s nowhere that’s free, there’s nowhere with wide open windows peering clearly into deep space. It’s cluttered up with junk and I’m claustrophobic and beginning to pant and sweat. Crouching down in a tiny closing box, my chest is tight. I can’t breathe.

I took a trip to Florida once, way out past Key West. The Dry Tortugas are a small group of small islands that sit in the Gulf of Mexico about 50 miles from the nearest electric light. I thought I was getting away from it all. I was but a speck upon a speck upon the deep blue sea, free to feel space all around me. At night we laid on the beach in the sand drinking scotch, the warm sub-tropical waters lapping at our feet. The dark was pure dark. Whole and encompassing. Complete to the horizon. Stars melted together in patches of pale yellow breaking up on the edges. Single brilliant pin pricks of light lived there. The milky way lay draped over it all like lace.

Drunk and sandy we watch the sky for signs of life. But all we see are satellites, streaking through the night.

A single pin prick rattled loose.

They tell us that the critical density of space debris has been reached. 10,000 so-called detectable objects are about to begin a spontaneous ramshackle game of busted billiards until all that’s left is a cloud of dust to envelop the earth. A busted old satellite and an astronaut’s wrench are going to collide in four days, a less than dramatic catalyst for the calamity. Well fuck that man. I don’t want to have anything to do with it. But there’s nowhere else to run. We’re covered in this shit like so much smog laying low on Los Angeles. But unlike the blessed city of angels we can’t just up and leave the cesspool behind, dashing for the Kern River Plateau at 100 miles per hour with a bottle of cold beer in one hand and a fly rod in the other. No. That’s not an option. All we can do is lay back and bask in the crap. There is no escape. Space debris surrounds us.

Laying there on the beach I thought I was free. My chest could finally expand to its full proportion and take in freedom wholeheartedly. But then one rattled loose. And another. They’re blocking my escape. They’re blocking my deep breath.

I have been purified in the waters of Lake Minnetonka

Prince can rock it out. Prior to last night's knock-down drag-out half-time spectacle he was merely the sum total of "Little Red Corvette", "1999", and "Ronnie, Talk to Russia". Needless to say, I've never been terribly impressed with the guy. But virtually everything about his Superbowl performance stoked the spark that feeds the fire for Prince inside me now. In a completely heterosexual way.

He can play the guitar like nobody's business.

He played in a downpour and it didn't phase him. It may have only added to the allure of the performance.

He finished with Purple Rain in the rain.

Dude can sing. There didn't seem to be any backing tracks last night and his ad-libbing was awesome.

The silk screen silhouette shots with his weird guitar made him appear to have a giant pointed cock thus reinforcing the notion that he is a rock and roll juggernaut.

He is a very expressive performer.

He had hip replacement surgery in 2006.

Prince is a consummate professional.

The take home message here is that if you want to ensure your halftime show rocks, even in a downpour, you should hire Prince.

Also, my favorite commercial was the Map Monster.

Kate and Cate

Kate Winslet and I are rolling around in bed, a little bit of slip and dip. It’s nice. She’s very beautiful you know. And easy. Not in a slutty way, but in a to-hang-out-with way. She’s always got some sort of craft activity to do or she’ll bring up the desert island again and my favorite three albums are scrutinized a new. She powers our relationship, like a little lustful ball of fission she shines surely. Without her we’d sit around in silence, drinking beer and whiskey and watching TV on the internet. There wouldn’t be a relationship. Just two people sitting around in relatively close proximity to one another.

Kate Winslet likes a good pint of beer. Stouts mostly, but she’ll settle for a porter. She pulls hardier than I on a pint glass held high, frothy head all over her lips.

Then one day all drunk up, who should I see but Cate Blanchette. “Hello Matthew, long time. How have you been?”

“Very good Cate, very good. I’ve been seeing Kate Winslet. She really is a peach. How’s Andrew?”

Sounding like Kate Hepburn: “Well he’s fine, just swell. With the kids right now in the south of France.”

“That’s nice. I really must be going now, too-ta-loo!”

“Too-ta-loo to you too Matthew!”

But just then I remember that I wanted to ask her about London this time of year so I shout: “Kate! KATE!”

But there’s Kate Winslet, standing behind me a few feet to the left of my right shoulder. Where the hell did she come from? “I heard that you son of a bitch.” Her whole humming body a deep dark frequency. “You thought she was me. You thought that I was Cate Blanchett. You thought she was Kate Winslet. Well she’s not. And I’m not. I’m Kate Winslet. She may have nicer tits than me, but I’m a far better actor than that no-good bow-riding cunt of a slut! Do you hear me Cate? DO YOU HEAR ME YOU FUCKING DYKE!”

Without thinking the following escaped my lips: “She’s also much more beautiful than you are. In the face and what not. Maybe. It’s actually hard to tell you’re both so damn beautiful. And the tits, sure, the tits too. But your ass is spot on honey. Really fucking spot on.”

“Don’t ‘spot on’ me you lousy fuck. You’ve got a tiny little prick. Ha. Hahahahahahaaha.”

The bottom line of this story is that I have a hard time with the difference between Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett.

Wolf Run

Wolf Run is a special place for all sorts of reasons. This little creek is a tributary to the west branch of the Clarion River in Elk County. It was early January and I went fishing with my brother, father, and cousin Ricky.

the now slightly more common double posting: a fairy tale of new york

Like a giant cock, the Lincoln Tunnel is stroked by a river. Manhattan meiosis feeds gametes to spew from the tube all over New Jersey. Once a fertile Garden State, ready for the receiving, now she’s small and cold and old and wizened and overflowing with sperm.

I left Ryan somewhere in the East Village. Half liters of dark lager at a small mysterious German beer hall where loud near-Asian pop music tumbled from the walls. Graduate school took a toll on my teeth. You know, lack of dental insurance and all that chewing tobacco.

“I would take care of his daughter’s wedding on his deathbed he made me promise. My brother. Now I’m broke. I was in Pakistan for 8 days and paid for the wedding myself. But a promise is important to me. A promise this is everything.”

“What do you think of Musharraf?”

“Good for the army, no good for Pakistan.”

This guy had insights. I had to take advantage.

He stomped through the streets in his cab like a madman, ducking and dashing through traffic and crashing, finally, into the back of big black as we approached the tunnel. The car behind crashed into us. It registered a 3.0 on the Oeschle scale. I saw it coming so I braced myself. Made it through without a scratch. The black BMW M3 convertible fared slightly worse. Dented the bumper. A long yellow line like Zorro’s Z.

BLKICE66 on the license plate, he struggled from the car with both arms raised yelling “WHAT THE FUCK MAN!” He was a very large man but not particularly athletic. A tangle of three foot long dreadlocks fell drapingly over his spherical shape from under his dark blue corduroy bucket hat.

I sat in the back while the cop did his paper work. Unfortunately this was no place to catch another cab and regardless, I don’t think my new Pakistani friend was in any mood for me to skip out on the fare. So I sat tight.

Like so much ejaculate we hurtled from the tunnel at one hundred and three miles per hour, a yellow blur in the night. I was scared for my life. I should have buckled my seat belt. But at this point I was very reluctant to move freely about the taxicab.