A good retort to corporate spin is in the eye of the sockeye. Or Something. Go to Headwaters to see the large version.

Dorbach Burn, Scotland, Aug 21, 2010
Just for the record, “Burn” in Scots-talk means “creek”, but remember that “burn” is pronounced “bahh-err-ne. It’s sorta like in the American west how the word “creek” is pronounced “crick”. See, despite all our differences, we have a few things in common — such as the stubborn refusal of anglers to speak in anything resembling a language that non-fishing pedestrians can understand. In Scotland, this inside baseball shit is compounded by the fact that Scottish is in no way close to the American that I’ve been speaking and listening to for the entirety of my years. Two different languages and never the twain shall meet. Fer’inst: in certain bars — uh, pubs — in Glasgow, the preferred greeting to yr pals is something along the lines of, “Ay, wood ye git ay lood ay dees coonts!” So there’s that.

The Scottish highlands remind me of parts of Wyoming in that both are jammed full of lovely bits of contented, meandering nothingness — although in Scotland the backdrop is without the crushing heft of huge mountains — tho the Scots get a bit fiesty if you refer to their hills as just that — hills. Some advice: Let it slide. If they wanna call their hills mountains, fuck it. Let them. You don’t wanna start haggling over minor shit with a Scotsman as THEY WILL NEVER FUCKING LET IT GO! The other night, right before the gig, this punter comes up to me and says, “Ay… ye know wha laddie?
I dunno, what?
“In Sco-lund, we invented coont-ra music, man.”
Rilly?
“Aye… ’tis troo.”
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The Fucking Spey, Scotland, Aug. 20, 2010

Driving up from last night’s gig in Glasgow up to Kinloss (it’s up in the Scottish Hee-linds near Elgin) I didn’t fish the Spey. Too bad, because from the motorway, at least, it’s a swell looking river with soft green banks, a gentle gurgling gait and bits of ruined castle strewn all over its banks.

To make not fishing the Spey all the more painful,  the A95 travels along the river offering infuriating peeks every coupla miles — like when you’re driving in Montana along I-90 and are forced to gaze upon the Clark Fork every 45 seconds. My traveling companions, of course, do not give a fuck that the Spey is one of the “Big Four” Scottish fly fishing rivers. They do not care that the Spey is home to its own goddam style of fishing. They do not care that there is even a style of fishing rod called a (goddam) spey rod. I attempt to impress upon them the — you know — gravity of the situation:
“Ya know how regular fly rods are like 9 feet long?”
Silence.
“Well Spey rods are super massive, maybe like up to 16 or 17 fucking feet long.”
Silence.
“And they shoot lasers and… other stuff.”
Nada.
It had been raining buckets since we’d left Glasgow and as the Spey gradually opened up into it’s Spey-like size and shape, the goddam sun came out,  exploding the dew on the grass and tossing a spray of diamonds over the surface of the famous river like some bullshit magazine story. I felt sick. We drove right on by.

We drove right on by a few distillareies (Cardhu, Dahlwhinnie) and we did not stop to even glance at the Fucking Spey. It was infuriating, it was frustrating and I consoled myself, as always, by thinking that given a day or two, my own gear and the right flies, I could really do some damage on the Fucking Spey and show these highland hillbillies what’s what.

I’ve cultivated the ability to be really goddam obnoxious in a very short time — it’s like my “nuclear option”. I threatened destruction and finally convinced Rod, the driver, to stop for all of 45 seconds while I snapped a perfectly annoying shot of a perfect bridge over a perfect bend stood sentry by a perfect little fishing shed on the Fucking Spey. Another UK river I didn’t fucking fish.

Snapped a pic of Capt. K in action, pullin’ down trees on the local.

Winner (as determined by tarot reading, drunken darts, and/or falling entrails) gets not one but TWO old-styley BWTF stickers.

Have at it, fisha.

Thursday afternoon at my office.

NOW OPEN: the Buster Wants To Fish store at Zazzle.com! W00T! Let the world know what you want, or failing that, at least let em wonder.

Ever since we built this monkey house we’ve wanted to offer Buster shirts, but the conversation always seemed to wander off into the bushes. Doing it ourselves was a cool thought, but there’s a cash outlay to consider and then handling, etc, all of which gets in the way of fishing, dammit. So what the hell, we’re going to try Zazzle and see how it goes. Cafepress was a bit cheaper, but one of the things I gathered while reading a BAZILLION GODDAM OPINIONS JEEBUS KILL ME NOW about these on-demand services was that Cafepress had some quality control issues, so we’re going with a slightly higher cost for a service with a rep for better quality.

*Aside: there’s a freaky subculture of t-shirt geeks out there, writing impassioned reviews and carrying on at great lengths about printing processes. After a while I glazed over like when the bamboo nuts get to testifying about tapers, and then I gave up. Just google t-shirt reviews, I dare you.

Here’s the thing: assuming of course that you’re willing to drop 20-some clams on a (admittedly sweet ass) shirt, we’re depending on you, our faithful and beloved guinea piglets, to tell us if the print or garment quality disappoints. Design changes are quick and easy, so feel free to suggest them too, but if Zazzle is the wrong choice then we want to know it, and fast. If they step up, we’ve got more design ideas to roll out (probably the coolest thing about these services is the ability to quickly offer new designs). We’ll announce new designs here when they happen. Maybe we’ll also occasionally retire some designs too, so you could end up with some sort of collector’s item of dubious value, which should not sound at all strange to fly fisherfolk. Cool, ja?

Yeah we know, the shirts are a bit pricey after tax and shipping.  Sorry, that’s just how it is. Buster’s not getting rich on this (or anything else, for that matter). I ordered my black tee today, so I’m drinking cheaper beer for a week or two.

We’re starting simple. Right now there’s just a couple of designs, and one color per shirt style. The only reason they aren’t all black is because the ladies’ styles aren’t currently available in black. Which is wrong. Anyway, we can make more colors available if you want, just holler. Also, there’s a sweet bumper sticker.

No, the graffiti design doesn’t have the Buster URL on it, because we think it says all it needs to say. Let em google it if they’re so inclined.

The hoodie is STUPID expensive, but it looks great from here. We wants it, precious.

CUIDADO, CHIQUITAS! The ladies’ shirts run small, according to Zazzle, and should be ordered two sizes up. No, we don’t get it either.

Also also, we want to see photos of you in your Buster gear (well, no guys in spaghetti straps, por favor). Preferably in some interesting locale, maybe also reading Gaper’s book. Because we know that Buster has the best looking and most intelligent readers in Blogtopia. It’s true.

“When people ask what my best work is, it’s the bus. I thought you ought to be living your art, rather than stepping back and describing it.”

- Ken Kesey

Sunny and 75° is a pretty bitchin’ forecast, unless you live around a bunch of glaciers.

The lack of rain in the last week or so has shriveled up the muskeg flows into mere trickles, shadows of their former selves. A few of the smaller ones look like urban footpaths now, except for the flyblown humpy carcasses and the lack of little blue bags covering the omnipresent piles of bear poo.

The glacial systems, mostly larger rivers with a network of little feeders, are in total shock. Spewing out meltwater like brown blood, most of those aren’t gonna be fishable for WEEKS.

Damn.

While driving through the rainless rainforest one day – in shorts and a wife-beater tee – I had a song from a decade or so ago pop into my head, and I’ll be damned if I can get rid of it. Hopefully, the forecast of rain will bring some change to the brain radio and I can forget about burning a pig on an old mattress.

I wonder if jayj has holes dug all over his backyard…

With a permanent summer internship here at Buster, paid in tepid Schmidt Lights, the original Primos de los Matador, prolly the 8th or 15th Buster contributor and the Hodag of the Northwest, we’re mega-proud to announce the addition of R. Horatio Nailknot to the (dis)respected staff of Buster substance abusers.

Recognize the mug? Bet you do. Moneygrip got to third at least once with your sister and he’s locking it down on your mom right now with smoovetalking mad baritone logics, all like: “Hey sweet pancakes, maybe it’s about time we floured up that taco.” Yr. momma’s all 17 and bouncy again.Damn.

Welcome Horatio, and dogspeed. Don’t disappoint us by succeeding.