The takeout was a dirt ramp. We had permission but I’m not sure why. Up above there was a collection of single-wides, derelict RV’s, rusted farm implements, and a Glastron ski boat on blocks.

When there came a godawful squealing we thought the winch on the trailer had seized up. We stopped cranking and listened and the sound was coming from up the hill. Just then a man came down the ramp with wild hair and bib overalls and half of his uppers.

“How’d y’all do?”

“Good!”

“Bass or catfish?”

“All bass.”

“White’uns or them regulars?”

“Regulars.”

“Crawdads?”

“No, flies?”

He tugged at his asscrack and pondered that and then he went on about he and his boy and a mess of yella cats they’d caught awhile back. When the squealing started again we turned and looked up the hill, and then back at him.

“What’s all that racket?”

“Dinner.”

“Your dinner?”

“Yeah. We got up on a hog.”

Austin, how about you?

Tulsa, that’s a nice place. Driven through there a couple of times.

Nope. Going fishing.

Really? Never fished the Kenai but I’ve heard of it.

FIFTY pounds? Wow, that’s a big one.

Nope, never done that.

Mostly fly fishing.

No, with flies.

That would be tough. Hard to cast an egg sack with a fly rod.

No, no problem. I’ve got plenty of room.

Want some gum?

No, seriously, I’ve got a whole pack.

No, your breath’s not THAT bad, take one.

You’re welcome.

No, it’s an iPad.

Yeah, pretty cool. Great on long trips.

Mostly reading books and watching movies.

No, haven’t seen that one.

Nope.

Nuh-huh.

Yeah, didn’t like that one. Not much of a Will Farrell fan.

The Road.

A father and son after the apocalypse.

The end of the world.

Excuse me?

No. I don’t have extra headphones.

Because there’s only one headphone jack.

Probably so I wouldn’t have to share my movie with a meddlesome bait-chucking Okey with foul breath whose walrus ass is hanging over my armrest and taking up half my damn seat.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled knees-bent running-about chasing fish and not blogging antics for this word from Haber Dasher’s Sleeve Garters & Pomade.

Three new scalawags have joined the ranks, you might spot them before we get around to introducing them. This is because we’re lazy and forgetful, and fishing season is warming up and we’re sorta distracted. Enjoy.

Thee’s Picks
Ted Leo and the Pharmacists — Brutalist Bricks
Seems like every other Ted Leo record is a flat out classic. This is that record. Straight ahead, literate, spikey punk n’ pop with lotsa charm.

Pantha Du Prince –  Black Noise
Super chilled, blissed out kinda barely there electro squibs n’ blips. It’s hard to find an electronic record that won’t bug the shit out of you after two listens. Black Noise has never bugged me. Not even once.

Scout Niblett — The  Calcination of Scout Niblett
Scout Niblett kicks so much ass it’s not even funny.

Alasdair Roberts and Friends — Too Long In This Condition
Another trip the middle ages where plauge abounds, there’s nothing to eat and the king wants to put your head on a pike. Good times.

Grinderman — II
Makes me yearn for the Birthday Party, but I’ll take a spasmodic Warren Ellis and a yowling Nick Cave over Arcade Fire any goddam day.

Otis Gibbs — Joe Hill’s Ashes
Good pissed off political folk punk. Imagine if Billy Bragg was born a shit-kickin’ good old boy.

Will Oldham and the Cairo Gang–I don’t care what anyone says,Will Oldham is not turning into the Eagles.

Bacon’s apparently still stuck in 2009 Picks

Pelican — What We All Come to Need
Chill metal and no lyrics. Badass for solo fly swinging sessions on the iPod and way better than listening to jetboats ferry Dudes around all day.

Bill Callahan — Sometimes I Wish I Were an Eagle
Skeena 2010 soundtrack, powerdrive north to see some old friends, eighteen cups of Tim Horton’s rotgut coffee eating holes in my ulcer and no-hands pissing in a Houston park and ride’s gravel. Sun was rising over the Bulkely Valley and I was feeling the only kinda religion that matters. The tune ‘Faith/Void’ kills it: ‘It’s time/to put God away.’

Atmosphere — Blood Makes the Blade Holy
Sluggo proves he can still rock the wordwork and bring it back to the Lucy Ford days.

The Moth Podcasts Dunno if this qualifies as a record, but the stories are hilarious, often tough or uncomfortable and real. I do a lot of driving to rivers. I can’t stand pundit radio, right or left. And if I gotta hear NPR’s Click and Clack EVER again…NOTE: Sadly, The Drive-By Truckers’ The Big To-Do didn’t make this and a podcast did. A fucking podcast. Pretty much because The Big To-Do was weak-ass and proved Patterson Hood’s ego never shoulda fired Jason Isbell. We suffered through Brighter Than Creation’s Dark in the hopes TBTD would show promise, but well, I’m calling it: R.I.P DBT.

Creek’s Softer Side of 2010 Pick

Cotton Jones
Tall Hours in the Glowstream has been getting all kinds of attention from me the last few months and is clearly my pick of 2010. Call it Cosmic Country. Call it indie folk. I just call it good. The album is based on the river that flows through the band’s hometown. River music, indeed.

Wook’s Picks

The New Mastersounds – Ten Years On
More badass Brit funk and soul. Reworked Grace Potter’s already great “Nothing But the Water,” got Grace to sing it, and made it even better. Catch them if you can, but wear your greezy pants.

OK Go – Of the Blue Colour of the Sky
Geek pop was never so much fun. Well, since TMBG. Whatever. Highlight: “WTF?”

John Butler Trio – April Uprising
Pissed off legions of neo-hippie fans by producing 15 tightly-written songs, mostly under 5 minutes long, while still showcasing some tasty guitar stuffis. “One Way Road” is one damn well-crafted tune.

Jimi Hendrix – Valleys of Neptune
I hesitated, having been repeatedly bummed by the flood of Weekend At Jimi’s-style posthumous releases, but this ain’t them. This includes the final throes of the Experience, following Electric Ladyland. It’s nothing shiny and new, but it’s got the voodoo stank, and I don’t imagine there’s much of that left lying around.

Cee Lo Green – The Lady Killer
Gnarls Barkling Cee Lo gets a nod just for “Fuck You,” which rightly got a lot of attention. Way beyond a novelty song, it’s HQ Motown with about the best hook ever, and good luck getting it out of your head. Huge props for the video production too. I need me some backup singers.

Now aint that some shit?

Salty’s Picks

I’m feeling pretty pedestrian after reading the above picks. I’ll easily  second Wook’s OK Go and Cee Lo selections. Other stand outs for me this year were Vampire Weekend’s Contra (best tracks IMHO are Giving Up the Gun, Diplomat’s Son and Giant).

California, or at least a certain idealization of California,  seems to loom large in my picks this year. Neo-surf rock from Wavves went into heavy rotation and Best Coast sounds a bit like Neko Case moved to Hermosa Beach and got a tan.

Albums not released in 2010 but that I discovered this year include Richard Hawley’s Lady’s Bridge, found via the trailer for Exit Through the Gift Shop, and Canadian roots music from Stan Rogers and The Beaton Family of Mabou.

Speaking of retro soul, hard to miss JC Brooks and the Uptown Sound’s cover of Wilco’s “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart”

Then again, I’m probably just losing my edge.

A look at some of the titles strewn around the Buster offices.  Maybe you’ll get some gift ideas, I dunno.

Note: We’re not including The Alaska Chronicles here until Gaper does something with the throne he’s built with his extra hardbacks. It was funny at first, but now he’s adding strange found objects and animal parts to it and it’s starting to smell weird.

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.

Have at it scamps

Zane Lamprey is a hometown boy with a travel TV gig called “3 Sheets,” and with a name like Zane Lamprey, he really oughtta be a fisherman. Zane gets to travel around and get drunk for the show, and it occurred to me in the course of reading this that it’s really not all that different from most fishing trips. This interview sounds like almost every riverside campfire conversation I can remember, and I can only assume it’s because you’re all a bunch of demented drunks.

A long cold hinterland winter here in Freestonia doesn’t mean that the fishing stops entirely, but it does slow down, and that means increased exposure to the noisemakers. You know, the ones that force-feed us the narrative of our lives, that thin clammy broth of postures and judgements and cheap shiny plastic crap that we can’t live without. The noise comes from the tubes, the mailbox and the halls of power in 30-second sound bytes and bumper sticker platitudes, telling us what’s important, what should be dismissed with scorn, conveying our targets for rage and humor. Even the goddam Olympic Games, something that’s supposed to celebrate the hard work of dedicated amateurs, shows up shrinkwrapped in disposable computer-animated bubble packaging that’s obviously been designed and focus-grouped years in advance, complete with instant blowdried celebrity hero toys ready for tomorrow’s water cooler worship. Collect ‘em all, $14.99.

(Haha see, Shaun stowed away on Tuesday’s delivery and stocked all this sk8punk stuff in the dead of night, because he’s a subversive nutty scamp®. What can we do? On sale now.)

The noise is the anthem of the Transnational Lizard People, who purely through the power of cash have erased the importance of place, allegiance to country, recognition of borders, and necessity of breathing, eating, drinking and being of this place where we plant our feet. They recognize no law, no neighbor, no change of season or migration. They experience no hunger or sickness or fear. No disaster matters, except as an opportunity to pad those numbers. Their decisions and actions bear no consequence, aside from possibly being hauled before a Congress of their own creatures for an afternoon show trial, let’s get it over with so we can all go get drinks. With any luck they’ll soon have cash-powered spacecraft so they can all lift off and blast each other with beams of numbers that used to represent something of worth, and be free of the bothersome bounds of the human experience. Man, we’re all such a nuisance.

But here’s the thing: we’re not all where we’re supposed to be, fretting over today’s manufactured outrage on one side of an aisle or another, shaking our heads about who’s fucking whom and oh how could he do such a thing? Sometimes we very deliberately dash out of the pasture and do things that the handlers never counted on. See, there are no blue lines on their demographic maps. They can’t conceive of a shade of green in winter-dormant cedar and water that’s deeper than the one in their veins. Eventually we’ll probably be rounded up and put down for the greater good of the herd, but we likely won’t hear them coming.

Since it’s some sort of unofficial last hurrah for summer’s mad knees-bent running about behavior, and also because part of the joy of this weird pursuit is in the characters you meet.

“We had just been invited to join an all day golf scramble and drinking bash hosted by a whole medly of fraternal lodge organizations. Elks, Moose, and Eagles strolled about the first tee. Most of the people were meeting for the first time; our identities seemed secure, but since you can’t be too careful we traded our fishing hats for the fezzes of three staggering-drunk Shriners from Anaconda, then filled out our name cards as Methyl, Ethyl, and Nitrate Blitz.

Not all of the Blitz Brothers were strangers to a golf course. One of them had even played in college. Ethyl had the distance, Methyl the hot irons, and Nitrate, to his bemused delight, found that he could putt. Just like lining up the eight ball for a bank shot, he said. The Brothers for as long as they could maintain their momentum atop the bell curve of enhanced perception were like besotted Jedi knights: the force was with them. The tournament was a scramble, a format ideally suited to their condition.

On the holes that ran with the wind the Brothers were absolutely splendid. They birdied the first and third, then Nitrate drained a thirty-foot putt for eagle from the fringe on the par five sixth. First prize was two hundred dollars, and the Blitz Brothers had already decided to spend it all in one place – like maybe Idaho. Then, on the eighth, Methyl was driving the cart in the rough searching for a hooked ball and lighting a cigar when he should have been watching where he was going. All three brothers hiked the tall weeds to the car, then stopped at a drug store, bought a postcard, drew a map to the cart and signed it with a sketch of a scuba diver, then continued fishing toward the Big Hole River, where it was deemed by popular acclaim to be cocktail hour, and time to switch to gin.”

-from True Love and the Woolly Bugger by Dave Ames, 1996

Put it on a Ritz

How to Catch Carp by Russell Tinsley, from the anthology Fishing Secrets of the Experts c. 1962

Canned carp is prepared buy cutting off the carp’s head, fins and tail and cutting the skinned meat into chunks.  One teaspoon of salt is added to a pint jar of water holding the fish chunks.  This is cooked under ten pounds of pressure for two hours.  The bones soften like tuna and salmon.

So Buster’s got this good pal named Gaper – you might’ve heard of him, he wrote some stuff once about a thing. Anyway, Gaper recently had a little winter sport mishap.

Wait no, that’s not right.

Close enough. His knee’s all blowed up so it’s the knife for him, which will leave him largely immobile and heavily wasted, so we’ve shanghaied him into the ranks here at Buster. Because we’re not above taking advantage of the addled or the infirm. Or our friends.

And believe us, the amount of overlap in those three categories is so goddam reliable you could set your watch by it.

What this means for you: More stuff to read. You win. No whining.

What this means for us: More incentive to slack and go fishing (yeah yeah we know, as if we need it, shut up).

We’re pumped. Gaper’s a helluva writer and he’s pretty damned funny even when he’s not medicated. Whatever it turns out to be, we’re sure you’re gonna dig it. Welcome, brother.

So WATCH THIS SPACE for Gaper’s painkiller-fueled musings about stuff. And fishing. And stuff. COMING SOON!

Unless you’re camped out, hung over and/or drunk you wouldn’t think much of my cooking. Enter the pop’n fresh pastry smothered with dulce de leche.  Doesn’t look like much but it tastes gooood.

1 tube of pop’n fresh pastry or Krusteaz biscuit mix
1 can sweetened condensed milk 

Let can of sweetened condensed milk – unopened – sit in pot of boiling water for two hours.
Bake pastry in covered cast iron skillet for ten minutes.
Carefully open can, pour over pastries.
Enjoy with your fav bourbon.

Justin Townes Earle – Your Biscuit’s Big Enough For Me:

The Blues Brothers – Rubber Biscuit:

• 2 cups flour
• 4 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons shortening
• ¾ cup liquid (all milk or half milk and half water)

1. Mix dry ingredients and sift twice.
2. Work in fat with fingertips or cut in with two knives.
3. Add the liquid gradually, mixing with a knife in a soft dough.
4. Toss on a floured board, pat, and roll lightly to one-half inch in thickness.
5. Shape with a biscuit cutter.
6. Bake in hot oven (450-460 degrees F.) twelve to fifteen minutes.

Spike Jones – Pass the Biscuits, Mirandy