The Cramps – I Was a Teenage Werewolf:
This fred is worthlesss w/o the Misfists singing Halloween
Fish he got a hook in his throat. Fish he got problems.
SOO PUH DOO PAH!
it has come to this… kids don’t even trick or treat anymore. the last coupla years here… nada… nothing… a few brave souls have marched to my door, braved the tibetan kyoto monk death chant/hell rattle blasting from my speakers that, i admit, sounds really effing devilish, and faced my howling dogs and my zombie ass for the only currency children are capable of understanding: candy.
and yet there it is. free candy. all you want. for the taking. but here? now? not unless it’s slid under the bedroom door so’s not to disturb the next game of halo. halo? do you punks really think that’s badass? fuck. when we were kids, ya know what we did for fun? we stole our dad’s .22s, shoplifted a box of ammo and shot at all the dead dogs floating down the detroit river. you hit a bloated floater and the thing would explode like a depth charge. and halloween? when i was a kid, halloween was a gotdam combat sport. multiple pillowcases of candy belonged only to the strong, the fearless and the quick. if you were none of those, you best travel in a pack, twerp.
and what of the night before halloween — devil’s night. it simply does not exist. where will today’s american children experience the unalloyed joy of retribution, revenge and arson? oh… that’s right. they’re at fucking soccer practice. SOCCER!
you little wanna be whole food gangstas — jordan, brieanna and gage — yeah, i’m looking at yuo. i am also well aware that you’ve never thrown a punch, shoplifted or stolen dad’s booze. so consider this fair warning: there is candy on 36th street, but you gotta earn it.
punks.
photo by One Fish
Apparently not content with trashing the kid’s room and putting out their Kools on the floor, the Bush administration is shooting for a last-minute rogering of the Clean Air Act in the form of a new EPA rule weakening pollution regulations for power plants, allowing them to increase emissions without adding controls.
And as a special bonus, they’re also “expected to decide in November on another eleventh-hour rule that would allow more power plants to be built near national parks and wilderness areas.”
Whatever happened to just pardoning a few crooks?
While we can’t reveal our source on this exclusive scoop, we also felt it would be unfair to wait until the date of the story to reveal it to our loyal Busterites. And so, here are the unfortunate results of next week’s election:
FRI, NOV. 7, 2008
Obama’s Loss Traced to Donny Beaver
Single Nonvoter Tipped Election To McCain-Palin Ticket
“There are other ways
I used to think
to find my way around,
The woods and the caves and the bad woman’s ways that were always to be found”
~Bonnie “Prince” Billy, “Easy Does It”, Step Into the Light 2008
With the Stock Market taking a big ol’ dump all over my 401k, a lunatic from Alaska pretending to be Dick Cheney and just the rest of the madness from the past two months, I decided to get out of dodge. I took off for the San Rafael Valley and walked the Canelo Hills south of the San Ignacio de Babacomori Ranch. Quail season is open and it seemed like a good excuse to goof off with the dog for a few hours this morning.
First time I’ve had him out hunting, but he’s a rescue dog, so who knows what he’s done before. I have to say he aquitted himself well.
At the base of a juniper and oak scrub hill, he alerted up and started pacing back and forth. I wasn’t sure if he had a covey, a javelina or some migrants.
Nope, just a dead coyote. Thankfully he didn’t retrieve it for me.
Here’s a little of the Bonnie Prince for your weekend
“If we find our government in all its branches rushing headlong… into the arms of monarchy, if we find them violating our dearest rights, the trial by jury, the freedom of the press, the freedom of opinion, civil or religious, or opening on our peace of mind or personal safety the sluices of terrorism, if we see them raising standing armies, when the absence of all other danger points to these as the sole objects on which they are to be employed, then indeed let us withdraw and call the nation to its tents. But while our functionaries are wise, and honest, and vigilant, let us move compactly under their guidance, and we have nothing to fear. Things may here and there go a little wrong. It is not in their power to prevent it. But all will be right in the end, though not perhaps by the shortest means.” - Thomas Jefferson to William Duane, 1811
I discovered Deep Dark Black many, many moons ago. I was living in the Ham (Birmingham, AL) at the time and a local boy, D. Braxton Harris, released this little album of gold. It’s the kind of album that grabs you by the short and curlies and doesn’t let go. Just imagine if Hank Williams went Emo, sort of. Well, a few years go by and some rat bastard steals it from me. Or I lost it. I was heartbroken. Turns out D. Braxton Harris left his Birmingham home for Austin shortly after Deep Dark Black’s release, changed his name to DB Harris, and went Rockabilly on us. I looked and looked for a copy around town and nada.
Two weeks ago I stumbled upon it on itunes. Steve Jobs, beers on me pal. Give it a listen. It’s definitely worth gittin’.
Here’s some reviews from 1999:
Southern Gothic Narcotic Country. “music that’s so beautiful, it doesn’t matter who or what the reference points are. Spare, intimate, and invariably winsome, Deep Dark Black makes for perfect late-night-driving music” – The Onion
“Deep Dark Black envelops the listener like a warm bed on a dreary Sunday morning, inviting him to remain still, even in the specter of responsibilities awaiting ahead.” – No Depression
“Here I sit obsessively hitting the repeat button as I marvel at the thing that is Deep Dark Black…This is simply one of the most beautiful, stirring, disturbing, almost unbearably sad albums I have ever heard – all the things I could hope for and more…It has been a while since I fell so deeply and hopelessly in love with a CD.” – Sophie Best, PBS-FM 107.6, Melbourne, Australia
It’s like the 67th or 68th edition of the annual WA/OR/ID/MT “Burning Pram” blowout this weekend. It is a comfort to know that some things
a.) remain cool
b.) are fueled by creativity and passion rather than $$$
Burning Pram is still known as “thee greatest night in fly fishing” and weird and beautiful things happen every time. Like this… More photos as we get ‘em…
“Fiery colors begin their yearly conquest of the hills, propelled by the autumn winds. Fall is the artist.”
- Takayuki Ikkaku
You’ve just killed a moose. Hungry, you’ve a hankering for nothing quite as much as some hot soup, flavored perhaps with wild leeks whose flat leaves you see wavering nearby. Why not take the sharp end of a dead limb and scoop a small hole in the ground? Why not line this concavity with a chunk of fresh hide? Then after adding the water and other ingredients, why not let a few hot clean stones do your cooking while you finish dressing out the animal?
- Bradford Angier, How To Stay Alive In The Woods
Rock Creek Road is like an asteroid belt in 2-D. My rig doesn’t have blasters so Chet cracks a couple beers and I do my level best to dodge the holes in the road. Forty five minutes later we’re in camp and standing next to the trailer counting the dead and wounded, the Trout Slayers have taken the worst of it. Next time we’ll keep the beer cooler in the rig. Meh, live and learn.
Camp Souphole, Bitterroot Flats
Ken roles into camp as we’re rodding up. We drink more beer and watch him set up his tent then go fish for a few hours above the Microburst. Before day’s end Carl, Nice Guy and Caveman have arrived and set to adding their accouterments to the camp.
Though it rains nightly the clouds burn off every morning before we leave camp. Blue skies keep the hatches down so streamers, attractors and nymphs are the rule. Rock Creek holds 3 species of trouts, 2 of char and the mountain whitefish. There is no shortage of fish and they are not offended by the lack of dry fly fishing.
It’s impossible to cram more than a day of fishing into a day of fishing. I know this but can’t help myself cause these are my first days on a trout stream this year. Despite fishing like an asshole I catch fish; lots of little browns, cutts and a few rainbows.
Sculpty the Woolly Head Sculpin
The big trouts come to a well fished streamer. I throw a wool head sculpin with a spankin’ new 6wt that I bought just before the trip. It’s a beauty of a stick that casts fat smooth loops where ever I want it to. Yeah, yeah there’s a recession on but I had to replace the six that I lost on Clark’s Fork last year. Besides this one has had my name on it for awhile now.
Chet’s on the hatch! Rock Creek
BWO’s and mahogonies finally come off under the partly cloudy skies of the fourth day. The bugs first appear when I’m working a streamer down a fast and narrow run. By the time I make my last swing through the tailout I see trout rising on the other side of the stream. For two hours I work upstream through a slick of flat water pinched between the main current and the bank. The cutts and their inbred hybrid cousins rule the run. I’m all for genetic purity but I can’t help but dig on those hard fightin’, high flyin’ cuttbows.
Camp Souphole, Kelly Creek
After five days on The Creek it’s time to bug out. Camp Souphole is re-deployed to the mountains of North Idaho a few hours to the west. The higher elevation and greater exposure to the weather coming in off the North Pacific make for a cooler and wetter conditions. The only thing between us and the elements are wool, down, canvas, fleece, gore-tex, gallons of propane, two chainsaws and half a cord of freshly bucked firewood. Risk of exposure held at bay we settle in for a night of consumption; brats, beers and brownsauce.
The rest of the boys have four more days but I have only one more day before I go home to Mama and Baby. Me, Ken and Nice Guy hike three miles upstream then work our way back down with streamers and wet flies until the hatch comes off late in the day. My last casts are over large trout rising to tiny mayflies.
Well you gotta understand
We only do these things because all we are is
Bad kids all my friends are bad kids
Product of no dad kids
Kids like you and me
Walter Trout & The Radicals
Politico says that McCain leads Obama among sportsmen
According to a Congressional Sportsmen’s Foundation poll to be released Wednesday, John McCain leads Obama by 45 percent to 31 percent. That’s only about half the 27-point edge respondents say they gave George W. Bush over Kerry four years ago and far short of the 65 percent gun owners gave to Bush over Gore’s 15 percent in 2000…. Fishermen are a little more Obama friendly, but favor the Arizona senator by a 44-to-31 margin.
OL: It’s been said that the collapse of the West Coast ocean salmon fishery (a $150-million industry) may be a graver threat to our economy than the Bear Stearns collapse. What steps should the federal government take to help salmon stocks recover?
Then remind you Buster hearts the fall dining options.
Gotta pretty good feeling the rest of the humps cashed in the last of the year’s sick days and are out rowing their way through riverine exploratory hunches and what nots as well, so um, you oughta just go do some fishing yourself, no?
great place to tie the next best fly
Pros:
In the basement- nice in winter, and summer
In the basement- can play Kid Rick and Zappa nice and loud
Cons:
Cat box is right behind where the photo was taken.. odd smells
Hatfild (the cat) likes to much on some Pheasant Tails after a good dump!
From Zac C
Sends yours to salty@busterwantstofish.com
There is a Raymond Carver story called “So Much Water So Close to Home” wherein a wife discovers — in dribs and drabs — that her husband and his buddies happened upon a dead body on their weekend fishing trip to the Naches River in WA. The fishermen, so intent on completeing a rare fishing trip together, simply tie the body off and keep fishing. They eventually report their findings but, as they say, first things first. The wife, however, is appalled.
This story was illustrated in Robert Altman’s Short Cuts as well as in an indie film called Jindabyne. The most affecting treatment, however, comes from Altman’s stark prose.
He called the others and they came to look. They talked about what to do. One of the men-my Stuart didn’t say which-said they should start back at once. The others stirred the sand with their shoes, said they didn’t feel inclined that way. They pleaded fatigue, the late hour, the fact that the girl wasn’t going anywhere.In the end they went ahead and set up the camp. They built a fire and drank their whiskey. When the moon came up, they talked about the girl. Someone said they should -keep the body from drifting away. They took their flashlights and went back to the river. One of the men-it might have been Stuart-waded in and got her. He took her by the fingers and pulled her into shore. He got some nylon cord and tied it to her wrist and then looped the rest around a tree.
The next morning they cooked breakfast, drank coffee, and drank whiskey, and then split up to fish. That night they cooked fish, cooked potatoes, drank coffee, drank whiskey, then took their cooking things and eating things back down to the river and washed them where the girl was.
A body was recently turned up along a river in Washington. Again, it was found by a fisherman. Nooksack Mac, echoing the characters in Carver, has a few questions.
