what is it with this bunch of losers...we haven't got a candidate worth a shit...and we've got a beatable incumbent.
newt - TOO MUCH BAGGAGE
romney - a morman weenie with no traction
santorum - forget it
perry - oh my god
bachmann - her finger on the trigger?
huntsman - a weenie trying to act tough [on the view?] where is utah anyway?
paul - outer space
if i've forgotten anyone it's because they're forgettable...christ help us.
Friday, December 16, 2011
aunt reba's shanty
when i was a kid duck shooting was my passion. ducks seemed, to me, to be the essence of wildness. they were varied, occupied different places in the bird world, migrated - didn't stay in one place all year - flew fast and straight, and could be brought to false representations of themselves [a little corn as an additional enticement didn't hurt]. i loved them all from the little teals and ruddy ducks to the big black ducks and canvasbacks - and i loved to hunt them.
you can imagine my excitement when - in casual conversation with my mother [that unusual in itself] - i discovered that our family owned two islands and a bit of mainland in the magothy river, a tributary of the chesapeake bay, not far from baltimore.
on the mainland - besides the caretaker's house and docks - was aunt reba's shanty. it was situated, precariously, at the end of a little spit of land fronted by the river and backed by a pond. one reached it via a rickety boardwalk about fifty yards long. it was electrified but not heated - except for a little pot bellied stove which glowed a dusty red when charged on a cold winter's night. stretching towards the big island in front of the shanty was a shallow sand bar which i heard a game warden's boat [i can only surmise] hit at high speed just before dawn one morning...on a mission to drive the ducks off the river before we hunters could get a crack at them...and which resulted in a most satisfactory, bearing burning high revolution whine.
aunt reba's shanty hosted a number of enthusiastic, young duck hunters - all slightly drunk as they tipped into bed, and all very cold at 4:00 a.m. when they awoke. the bravest got up to fire the stove. i soon learned to shove my long underwear to the bottom of my sleeping bag before i fell asleep...while pondering the stars that flickered through the holes in the roof.
from aunt reba's shanty we sallied forth onto the magothy into river blinds - little cedar covered boxes in the middle of the stream - and blammed away at the ducks, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. one day i saw two flights of about a hundred ruddy ducks each fly into one another. it took us an hour to pick up the casualties. on another day the river iced up and in our efforts to reach the blind we chopped a hole in our boat and began to sink. a pair of eagles nested, for years, on the bigger of the two islands though they never brought off a clutch. in other words, all a boy could wish for.
aunt reba's shanty is gone now - it fell into the river as tides and erosion took their toll. so is the property for that matter - sold to some developer who has built a house on the big island and is now plagued all summer by drunken teenagers and their sodden girlfriends.
too bad things change the way they do - but you can always count on change.
you can imagine my excitement when - in casual conversation with my mother [that unusual in itself] - i discovered that our family owned two islands and a bit of mainland in the magothy river, a tributary of the chesapeake bay, not far from baltimore.
on the mainland - besides the caretaker's house and docks - was aunt reba's shanty. it was situated, precariously, at the end of a little spit of land fronted by the river and backed by a pond. one reached it via a rickety boardwalk about fifty yards long. it was electrified but not heated - except for a little pot bellied stove which glowed a dusty red when charged on a cold winter's night. stretching towards the big island in front of the shanty was a shallow sand bar which i heard a game warden's boat [i can only surmise] hit at high speed just before dawn one morning...on a mission to drive the ducks off the river before we hunters could get a crack at them...and which resulted in a most satisfactory, bearing burning high revolution whine.
aunt reba's shanty hosted a number of enthusiastic, young duck hunters - all slightly drunk as they tipped into bed, and all very cold at 4:00 a.m. when they awoke. the bravest got up to fire the stove. i soon learned to shove my long underwear to the bottom of my sleeping bag before i fell asleep...while pondering the stars that flickered through the holes in the roof.
from aunt reba's shanty we sallied forth onto the magothy into river blinds - little cedar covered boxes in the middle of the stream - and blammed away at the ducks, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. one day i saw two flights of about a hundred ruddy ducks each fly into one another. it took us an hour to pick up the casualties. on another day the river iced up and in our efforts to reach the blind we chopped a hole in our boat and began to sink. a pair of eagles nested, for years, on the bigger of the two islands though they never brought off a clutch. in other words, all a boy could wish for.
aunt reba's shanty is gone now - it fell into the river as tides and erosion took their toll. so is the property for that matter - sold to some developer who has built a house on the big island and is now plagued all summer by drunken teenagers and their sodden girlfriends.
too bad things change the way they do - but you can always count on change.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
luck
i was born with a silver spoon in my mouth - unfortunately it was the last piece in the box, and i two generations too late. also, a teensy bit royal - which, even if known, means nothing and will only get you an inflated bill....
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
limits
oh,...and term limits - to foster productivity and encourage urgency.
twelve years for senators...six years for congressmen.
twelve years for senators...six years for congressmen.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
pie
pie's old, clapboard house was on the right hand side of the road on the way to the assateague ferry dock. big, black pie ran the ferry - and was subject to bribes. the ferry schedule said "departing at 7 a.m. - last pickup 5 p.m." but with a pint of whiskey and a "sammich" in the offing pie would collect you from the island - or take you to the island - at midnight if you wished. to make things easy there was a pay phone on the assateague side with his number posted beside it.
often, on the little three car ferry, there were hikers or day campers. just off the shore end of the dock was a low water filled dip. we'd sit in the jeep allowing the walkers to go first and laugh like hell when the greenhead flies and mosquitos attacked them from their damp haven. [one time a guy got bitten so many times he threw his gear all over the place - and sprinted for the beach just over the dune.] we'd then drive through the wet spot, generally unscathed - the insects sated. on the return trip, while waiting for the ferry, we'd clean the fish we'd caught and crab off the dock using the guts for bait.
the fishing was good all the way down to the virginia line - marked by a stout fence which kept the ponies in, or out, depending on your perspective - and three lonely houses, the only ones on the maryland side. the surf was full of kingfish and sand perch. in the fall the blues would show up and sometimes we'd catch an errant rockfish or puppy drum. then disaster struck. the federal government, in its infinite wisdom, built a bridge thereby opening the island up to all manner of riff raff. the calm, empty peace of assateague was gone forever - and another of our refuges disappeared.
i never saw pie again. the last time i went down the road past his house it had collapsed in on itself, a forlorn symbol of good times lost.
often, on the little three car ferry, there were hikers or day campers. just off the shore end of the dock was a low water filled dip. we'd sit in the jeep allowing the walkers to go first and laugh like hell when the greenhead flies and mosquitos attacked them from their damp haven. [one time a guy got bitten so many times he threw his gear all over the place - and sprinted for the beach just over the dune.] we'd then drive through the wet spot, generally unscathed - the insects sated. on the return trip, while waiting for the ferry, we'd clean the fish we'd caught and crab off the dock using the guts for bait.
the fishing was good all the way down to the virginia line - marked by a stout fence which kept the ponies in, or out, depending on your perspective - and three lonely houses, the only ones on the maryland side. the surf was full of kingfish and sand perch. in the fall the blues would show up and sometimes we'd catch an errant rockfish or puppy drum. then disaster struck. the federal government, in its infinite wisdom, built a bridge thereby opening the island up to all manner of riff raff. the calm, empty peace of assateague was gone forever - and another of our refuges disappeared.
i never saw pie again. the last time i went down the road past his house it had collapsed in on itself, a forlorn symbol of good times lost.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
quote for the day
"...it's all speculative until it happens to you."
with thanks to my doc when asked to judge the possible outcome of proposed surgery in the face of a study that tied neurological disease advancement to anesthesia.
with thanks to my doc when asked to judge the possible outcome of proposed surgery in the face of a study that tied neurological disease advancement to anesthesia.
Friday, December 9, 2011
jesus
fuck this jesus shit...sure he was the son of mary and joseph, but god...?...there is no "god" let alone the son of one. it's a scam folks, one built on money - and the collection of same. jesus, if there was one, suffered a seizure on good friday and got up and walked away from it on sunday...it's all bullshit folks, designed to make you feel good - and steal your money [see the modern roman church]. as to god, check with einstein and hawking..and the universe for that matter. i've got another surprise for you - there ain't no heaven. when you're dead, guess what, you're dead...ain't no hall of angels and hitler and goebels - to name two heinous sons of bitches - suffered the same fate as the rest of us will. dead. kaput. the end.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
mexico
george blew a hole in the ceiling of his motel room..."cleaning my gun," he explained. because it was of a "popcorn" texture we easily patched the wound with toothpaste. fortunately for george we were leaving that day - and the motel was one storey. that was shortly after he had run an unsuspecting mexican, on a motorcycle, in reynosa, into a traffic island. george was a hardass, a great fisherman, and not particularly likeable.
we had been dove shooting in the san fernando valley...not hunting because the doves were so numerous we needed a legion of pickers to handle the dead ones after a day's shoot. we were staying in mcallen, texas and driving, through reynosa, its mexican sister city, into the fertile countryside each day.
one day, after shooting, with bobby and bus in my balky ford rental car i asked ru to be sure i wasn't the last in line on the way home. fat chance. they left us in a cloud of dust - the very thing that was plaguing the ford's carburetor. eventually we sputtered our way to the north-south highway, lurching, hesitantly, onto the macadam.
thirty miles into our drive we blew out the right rear tire. i wrestled the car to the tilted verge and stopped. the lugs were too hot to touch and the car was at such an angle we couldn't jack it. "what do we do?" asked bobby. "wait 'til the lugs cool down. then you and i lean on the car while hawk jacks it up," said bus. not going to work thought i.
suddenly, down the highway, in the distance, appeared a headlight. "uh oh," i said. "get your guns...and some ammunition." this highway was known for its roving bandits. the car, one headlight blazing, roared past us, doing eighty i guessed. the tail lights came on, then it began to reverse towards us. as it slewed to a stop a happy texan drawl came at us, "need some help?"
the four drunken dove hunters helped me load the car onto the jack and change the tire [at least we had checked the pressure in the spare that morning] and climbed back into their vehicle. "what happened to your headlight?" i asked. "hit a cow down the road. spun her right 'round. see ya," the driver replied.
when we got back to the motel the others had gone to boys town in reynosa to watch the donkey perform....
we had been dove shooting in the san fernando valley...not hunting because the doves were so numerous we needed a legion of pickers to handle the dead ones after a day's shoot. we were staying in mcallen, texas and driving, through reynosa, its mexican sister city, into the fertile countryside each day.
one day, after shooting, with bobby and bus in my balky ford rental car i asked ru to be sure i wasn't the last in line on the way home. fat chance. they left us in a cloud of dust - the very thing that was plaguing the ford's carburetor. eventually we sputtered our way to the north-south highway, lurching, hesitantly, onto the macadam.
thirty miles into our drive we blew out the right rear tire. i wrestled the car to the tilted verge and stopped. the lugs were too hot to touch and the car was at such an angle we couldn't jack it. "what do we do?" asked bobby. "wait 'til the lugs cool down. then you and i lean on the car while hawk jacks it up," said bus. not going to work thought i.
suddenly, down the highway, in the distance, appeared a headlight. "uh oh," i said. "get your guns...and some ammunition." this highway was known for its roving bandits. the car, one headlight blazing, roared past us, doing eighty i guessed. the tail lights came on, then it began to reverse towards us. as it slewed to a stop a happy texan drawl came at us, "need some help?"
the four drunken dove hunters helped me load the car onto the jack and change the tire [at least we had checked the pressure in the spare that morning] and climbed back into their vehicle. "what happened to your headlight?" i asked. "hit a cow down the road. spun her right 'round. see ya," the driver replied.
when we got back to the motel the others had gone to boys town in reynosa to watch the donkey perform....
gambling
play the games right. don't bet on football - at least with a bookmaker, the vig is too much to overcome. always take maximum odds at the dice table. if so inclined [not recommended] look for an out of balance roulette wheel. anticipate the short run at blackjack. plead for good luck.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
opinion
joe paterno - got out...the classic example of power corrupting.
herman cain - got out...the classic example of stupidity...how did this guy ever, ever engineer a run for the presidency? pokiemon? bibya? are you fucking kidding me.
jerry sandusky...interviewed by the new york times? are you fucking kidding me...disgusting. and, by the way, there's more of that shit going on than you think [or want to think]. and all in the penn state football program knew about it, if only in whispers. i know because we all knew, when we were kids, about the pedophiles in the catholic church clergy. young people are not stupid - naive and subject to power plays, but not stupid.
herman cain - got out...the classic example of stupidity...how did this guy ever, ever engineer a run for the presidency? pokiemon? bibya? are you fucking kidding me.
jerry sandusky...interviewed by the new york times? are you fucking kidding me...disgusting. and, by the way, there's more of that shit going on than you think [or want to think]. and all in the penn state football program knew about it, if only in whispers. i know because we all knew, when we were kids, about the pedophiles in the catholic church clergy. young people are not stupid - naive and subject to power plays, but not stupid.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
the club
tiger and i were finished fishing. i was on a flight home the next day and proposed dinner - on me - at the restaurant of his choice. "only if i can take you to my club afterwards," said he. "sounds good," said i, "but where's your club?" "
"oh, i'll show you."
after a less than satisfactory - and very expensive - meal his "club" turned out to be a roadhouse - the red rooster - sited on the edge of tony hobe sound. we entered to the ear deafening roar of a random rock tune and the eye popping sight of a heavy breasted stripper stepping out of her see through shorts.
"pretty swell i think," said tig as we pulled out chairs at a table next to the stage.
the waitress arrived...wearing nothing. well, she did have on a belt into which was tucked an order pad, a pen, and some random dollar bills. "what'll you have?" she shouted over the music. "port and a cigar," i said, being a smart ass. "don't serve that," she replied. "beer or wine." "let me see the wine list then"...still being a smart ass. "don't have one," she smirked. "well, what kind of wine do you have?"
"red or white, asshole...."
tiger almost fell off his chair he was laughing so hard.
"i'll have the red," i replied, but i didn't touch the glass when it arrived.
"oh, i'll show you."
after a less than satisfactory - and very expensive - meal his "club" turned out to be a roadhouse - the red rooster - sited on the edge of tony hobe sound. we entered to the ear deafening roar of a random rock tune and the eye popping sight of a heavy breasted stripper stepping out of her see through shorts.
"pretty swell i think," said tig as we pulled out chairs at a table next to the stage.
the waitress arrived...wearing nothing. well, she did have on a belt into which was tucked an order pad, a pen, and some random dollar bills. "what'll you have?" she shouted over the music. "port and a cigar," i said, being a smart ass. "don't serve that," she replied. "beer or wine." "let me see the wine list then"...still being a smart ass. "don't have one," she smirked. "well, what kind of wine do you have?"
"red or white, asshole...."
tiger almost fell off his chair he was laughing so hard.
"i'll have the red," i replied, but i didn't touch the glass when it arrived.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
quote for the day
"what the hell are we paying you for?"
new jersey governor chris christie to b. h. obama
new jersey governor chris christie to b. h. obama
Sunday, November 20, 2011
baboon
glen and i were camped at amboseli not far from kilimanjaro. its snowy peak, kibo, loomed over our breakfast remains. we'd been to the permanent camp at kimana, driving 20 miles [it seemed] through a sisal plantation to get to the river and the little cluster of buildings electrified by a generator powered by the biggest, most beautiful fly wheeled engine i'd ever seen. i, foolishly, had taken off my shoes thinking the sand by the river would be pleasant to walk in. it was until i ran into a nest of burrs which koloboto my old personal boy on safari, now camp manager, plucked gently from between my tender toes, all the while tsk, tsking. now we were under tents in an area glen said was full of buffalo with which we could have some "fun".
"what are we doing today, great white hunter?"
"fooling around. nothing special. we'll burn some fuel. ramble a bit."
"good. i need some photos, but i'm not walking around in herds of buffalo without a rifle."
"no rifles in camp, you baby."
so we rambled, slipping through the scattered bush, seeing what we could see.
at some point in the morning we left the track bouncing over the infrequent rocks, dodging the pig holes, creeping, sometimes backing up to get around in the thick bush.
"this is no fun," remarked john fitzgerald, the other hunter who'd joined us the night before. from the back seat his vision was restricted, the bush scratching by him against the window frame.
suddenly we broke into the clear and before us sat, scattered, a troop of baboons - twenty or more. they hardly reacted to the appearance of the toyota.
"see if you can get close, glen. i don't have any baboon pictures."
glen, from the right hand driver's seat, eased up to an old dog baboon who was munching on some root he'd grubbed up, putting me within six feet - good photo range. i pointed the camera and the beast leapt up on the hood of the car.
"oh shit," we all said in unison. at that he grabbed the rear view mirror support and swung into the car, into my lap. i lunged at glen as the baboon pawed through the sweets on the shelf that ran across the dashboard. when he found what suited him he vaulted out the window, giving us all the finger - i'm sure i saw that. glen, with me in his lap, wrenched the car to the right, ran into a rock, and stalled. john squalled from the back, "you crazy shits. you'll get us all killed. that fucking thing could have torn your arm off...." glen and i were in hysterics, laughing like idiots. "you are idiots," yelled john. "fucking idiots."
true story.
"what are we doing today, great white hunter?"
"fooling around. nothing special. we'll burn some fuel. ramble a bit."
"good. i need some photos, but i'm not walking around in herds of buffalo without a rifle."
"no rifles in camp, you baby."
so we rambled, slipping through the scattered bush, seeing what we could see.
at some point in the morning we left the track bouncing over the infrequent rocks, dodging the pig holes, creeping, sometimes backing up to get around in the thick bush.
"this is no fun," remarked john fitzgerald, the other hunter who'd joined us the night before. from the back seat his vision was restricted, the bush scratching by him against the window frame.
suddenly we broke into the clear and before us sat, scattered, a troop of baboons - twenty or more. they hardly reacted to the appearance of the toyota.
"see if you can get close, glen. i don't have any baboon pictures."
glen, from the right hand driver's seat, eased up to an old dog baboon who was munching on some root he'd grubbed up, putting me within six feet - good photo range. i pointed the camera and the beast leapt up on the hood of the car.
"oh shit," we all said in unison. at that he grabbed the rear view mirror support and swung into the car, into my lap. i lunged at glen as the baboon pawed through the sweets on the shelf that ran across the dashboard. when he found what suited him he vaulted out the window, giving us all the finger - i'm sure i saw that. glen, with me in his lap, wrenched the car to the right, ran into a rock, and stalled. john squalled from the back, "you crazy shits. you'll get us all killed. that fucking thing could have torn your arm off...." glen and i were in hysterics, laughing like idiots. "you are idiots," yelled john. "fucking idiots."
true story.
Friday, November 18, 2011
pallbearers
i won't have them because i don't want a funeral - certainly not a casket. just burn me up and cast the ashes into some water somewhere...but if i did have them here's a list of those i'd like to cart me around [some of them are already dead so it's an impossible arrangement]: stiles adkins, ruly carpenter, glen cottar, jimmy green, tom o'donnell, andy smith, john swan, tiger thouron...and here's why i'd be honored to have them serve.
stiles adkins was my best man. we met over quail guns. his mama, miss laura, was the queen of fenwick island who used to take on all comers at yahtzee - with a glass of vodka at her side - and cooked the best soft crabs ever...i once ate 23 at one sitting and broke out in red dots. [the crabs were illegal by today's standards - 50 cent sized.] stiles and i laid waste to the quail population in and around fenwick and laughed the whole time, all the while trying to figure out how to get laid and drinking gallons of beer. mister wilfred, his father, did not approve of our antics either in the field or in the bedroom [we wished] and, after finishing his bowl of chocolate ice cream would return to his beloved chickens - all 50,000 of them. a true narrow face man.
ruly carpenter is my best friend. he wasn't always - he used to beat the shit out of me on the football field and throw at my head on the baseball diamond - but when i began to date his younger sister we became close and have remained so ever since. together we've shot every imaginable species of local wild life - some i'm not too proud of - and caught at least one of every local fish. i've loved every member of his immediate family for - as he so amiably remarked at my son's, his godson's, wedding - "fifty years buzzard's been hanging around. can't seem to get rid of the son of a bitch." i'd trust him with my life.
glen cottar was one of the last true white hunters in east africa. i met him in 1970 and hunted with him in 1971. we hunted the serious stuff - elephant, lion, buffalo, leopard as well as the antelope and zebra and did well, without incident - which meant glen did everything right. we didn't fool with rhino because they were being poached - though we were charged by a couple. more important, we became friends and friendship forged in tight quarters - no matter the reason - tends to last. he taught me a lot about life and death and he'd be embarassed to hear it, but i loved him. i loved his wife pat, just as much.
jimmy green was a gambler and, to a few, a bookmaker. i first met him at the racetrack when i was a kid. he was more of a kid than i but he was already running bets for his uncle, a real bookmaker. jimmy was a hard drinker and a hellraiser. he quit drinking and was forever famous for the quote "alcohol is not your friend." his cigarette rasp would growl at the other end of the line, "we're headin' east [to atlantic city]. c'mon and go...i got bullets. you can pay me later." i'd always go. jimmy died some years ago - in a chair at his favorite venue, the race track - a fitting exit for an old friend.
tom o'donnell is another gambler - though strictly a horseplayer. besides adventures at the race track - like winning four 10 cent superfectas in one day and still losing $75 a piece - tom and i have fished together a lot in the surf, off shore, and in the keys. one day in jewfish basin tom hooked a nice permit which attracted the attention of a large lemon shark. i fought the shark with joey's push pole while tom fought the permit. both fish lost. t'snake [to his friends] is a kind and generous man - the good cop to my bad cop.
andy smith taught me how to bonefish. big and black as lawrence taylor, he lives on andros, the delaware sized island in the bahamas. fortunately for andros there are only 5,000 inhabitants - hardly a crowded place. besides bonefishing andy lobsters on the great bahama bank. because of the cubans he carries an ak-47...my kind of man and one i'd want at my side throughout any trial. he called me the other day after he heard of my newly acquired afflictions. "i haven't the balance to stand on the bow," i reported. "come sit on a cooler," he replied. "if you can cast 30 feet we'll catch fish." i think i'll go.
john swan...well, i'll tell you about swan. he's a brilliant artist in watercolors and oils [i rather prefer the watercolors] who has just produced a couple of books - both wonderful evocations of his talent...but i've got a bone to pick with him. he's a trout and salmon fisherman and whenever we fish in the salt he breaks my rods - that damn trout strike. he forgets to strip strike, gets all excited and bang, there goes another orvis special. he's chalked up four to date and i'm never again going to tell him, as i did last year, "you don't need to bring any rods. i've got two." he broke them both.
tiger thouron and i shot together for years. he also, kindly, asked me to salmon fish on his deveron river beats in aberdeenshire [where i didn't trout strike]. he was my son's other godfather - and a good one. sadly, we had a falling out late in his life which was never repaired - though i tried. we used to shoot in the morning, drink a lot at lunch, and play darts over whiskey until dinner. to give you an idea of the annual killing volume, we often managed 2000 ducks, 2000 pheasants, several hundred doves, one year 154 deer, and one carp which i shot - much to my later regret - under the ice in a flood plain meadow after a deluge and a quick freeze. tiger was a great friend.
major white, pure as the driven snow, i hope would serve as altar boy.
stiles adkins was my best man. we met over quail guns. his mama, miss laura, was the queen of fenwick island who used to take on all comers at yahtzee - with a glass of vodka at her side - and cooked the best soft crabs ever...i once ate 23 at one sitting and broke out in red dots. [the crabs were illegal by today's standards - 50 cent sized.] stiles and i laid waste to the quail population in and around fenwick and laughed the whole time, all the while trying to figure out how to get laid and drinking gallons of beer. mister wilfred, his father, did not approve of our antics either in the field or in the bedroom [we wished] and, after finishing his bowl of chocolate ice cream would return to his beloved chickens - all 50,000 of them. a true narrow face man.
ruly carpenter is my best friend. he wasn't always - he used to beat the shit out of me on the football field and throw at my head on the baseball diamond - but when i began to date his younger sister we became close and have remained so ever since. together we've shot every imaginable species of local wild life - some i'm not too proud of - and caught at least one of every local fish. i've loved every member of his immediate family for - as he so amiably remarked at my son's, his godson's, wedding - "fifty years buzzard's been hanging around. can't seem to get rid of the son of a bitch." i'd trust him with my life.
glen cottar was one of the last true white hunters in east africa. i met him in 1970 and hunted with him in 1971. we hunted the serious stuff - elephant, lion, buffalo, leopard as well as the antelope and zebra and did well, without incident - which meant glen did everything right. we didn't fool with rhino because they were being poached - though we were charged by a couple. more important, we became friends and friendship forged in tight quarters - no matter the reason - tends to last. he taught me a lot about life and death and he'd be embarassed to hear it, but i loved him. i loved his wife pat, just as much.
jimmy green was a gambler and, to a few, a bookmaker. i first met him at the racetrack when i was a kid. he was more of a kid than i but he was already running bets for his uncle, a real bookmaker. jimmy was a hard drinker and a hellraiser. he quit drinking and was forever famous for the quote "alcohol is not your friend." his cigarette rasp would growl at the other end of the line, "we're headin' east [to atlantic city]. c'mon and go...i got bullets. you can pay me later." i'd always go. jimmy died some years ago - in a chair at his favorite venue, the race track - a fitting exit for an old friend.
tom o'donnell is another gambler - though strictly a horseplayer. besides adventures at the race track - like winning four 10 cent superfectas in one day and still losing $75 a piece - tom and i have fished together a lot in the surf, off shore, and in the keys. one day in jewfish basin tom hooked a nice permit which attracted the attention of a large lemon shark. i fought the shark with joey's push pole while tom fought the permit. both fish lost. t'snake [to his friends] is a kind and generous man - the good cop to my bad cop.
andy smith taught me how to bonefish. big and black as lawrence taylor, he lives on andros, the delaware sized island in the bahamas. fortunately for andros there are only 5,000 inhabitants - hardly a crowded place. besides bonefishing andy lobsters on the great bahama bank. because of the cubans he carries an ak-47...my kind of man and one i'd want at my side throughout any trial. he called me the other day after he heard of my newly acquired afflictions. "i haven't the balance to stand on the bow," i reported. "come sit on a cooler," he replied. "if you can cast 30 feet we'll catch fish." i think i'll go.
john swan...well, i'll tell you about swan. he's a brilliant artist in watercolors and oils [i rather prefer the watercolors] who has just produced a couple of books - both wonderful evocations of his talent...but i've got a bone to pick with him. he's a trout and salmon fisherman and whenever we fish in the salt he breaks my rods - that damn trout strike. he forgets to strip strike, gets all excited and bang, there goes another orvis special. he's chalked up four to date and i'm never again going to tell him, as i did last year, "you don't need to bring any rods. i've got two." he broke them both.
tiger thouron and i shot together for years. he also, kindly, asked me to salmon fish on his deveron river beats in aberdeenshire [where i didn't trout strike]. he was my son's other godfather - and a good one. sadly, we had a falling out late in his life which was never repaired - though i tried. we used to shoot in the morning, drink a lot at lunch, and play darts over whiskey until dinner. to give you an idea of the annual killing volume, we often managed 2000 ducks, 2000 pheasants, several hundred doves, one year 154 deer, and one carp which i shot - much to my later regret - under the ice in a flood plain meadow after a deluge and a quick freeze. tiger was a great friend.
major white, pure as the driven snow, i hope would serve as altar boy.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
quote from anon....
"wives, never say no to your husband because someone else will say yes. husbands, never say no to your wife because she will make your life miserable and fuck up your golf game."
[with thanks to tom odonnell]
[with thanks to tom odonnell]
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
unseemly things
herman cain - get out
joe paterno - get out
the first, stupid...the second, horrific. just an old man's opinion.
joe paterno - get out
the first, stupid...the second, horrific. just an old man's opinion.
the simple system
"want to go pound them ponies?"...not even an answer to my telephonic hello - just a simple question. i knew who it was, of course...the call came pretty regularly on sunday mornings during the thoroughbred racing season at delaware park. a friend of mine, tom o'donnell, tsnake to his intimates, had come up with a handicapping system that was uncanny in its success rate that year...for a couple of years in fact and the caller, bobby carpenter, had quickly adopted it as his own. he called me because i was quick with math - it was a pure math based - hence simple - system. he was not as he proved when he took on the calculations himself and began to modify them to, ultimately, the dissolution of the product.
the simple system was a speed based rating calculation...we refined it a bit but in any race it took into consideration the entries last three performances and established the top three candidates for a bet. i, and bobby, then, generally boxed those in exactas - tom was more of a straight bettor. for some reason delaware park held a significant speed bias through that first summer, and partway through the next, so speed ratings proved to be all one needed to be a winner.
i don't remember how much i won that year...but it was enough to keep me going back and using the same calculations over and over again. bobby, lately recovered from heart surgery, proudly announced he'd won $842 at the meeting - the best year he'd ever had. he further claimed we'd saved his life - helped him recover from the depression so often associated with artery reaming. things fell apart midway through the next season - the track speed bias disappeared - but it was a hell of a lot of fun while it lasted.
the next adventure the tsnake and i had involved 10 cent superfectas - we won four in one day. most bettors go a lifetime without winning one superfecta, let alone four in one day. in spite of our handicapping ability we lost $75 a piece...a story for another time.
the simple system was a speed based rating calculation...we refined it a bit but in any race it took into consideration the entries last three performances and established the top three candidates for a bet. i, and bobby, then, generally boxed those in exactas - tom was more of a straight bettor. for some reason delaware park held a significant speed bias through that first summer, and partway through the next, so speed ratings proved to be all one needed to be a winner.
i don't remember how much i won that year...but it was enough to keep me going back and using the same calculations over and over again. bobby, lately recovered from heart surgery, proudly announced he'd won $842 at the meeting - the best year he'd ever had. he further claimed we'd saved his life - helped him recover from the depression so often associated with artery reaming. things fell apart midway through the next season - the track speed bias disappeared - but it was a hell of a lot of fun while it lasted.
the next adventure the tsnake and i had involved 10 cent superfectas - we won four in one day. most bettors go a lifetime without winning one superfecta, let alone four in one day. in spite of our handicapping ability we lost $75 a piece...a story for another time.
Friday, November 4, 2011
a reminder from the buzzard
"any action is better than no action..." hawk pollard, to himself, often.
[with thanks to sally pollard]
[with thanks to sally pollard]
toasts
not something practiced much anymore but a gesture appreciated at certain times...i submit the following for your review.
on the occasion of impending battle - no matter the circumstance: "confusion to the enemy."
on the anniversary of the loss of a cohort - or at any appropriate gathering: "to absent friends."
with the proper glass and the use of either, one can not go wrong.
on the occasion of impending battle - no matter the circumstance: "confusion to the enemy."
on the anniversary of the loss of a cohort - or at any appropriate gathering: "to absent friends."
with the proper glass and the use of either, one can not go wrong.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
guides
"oh christ. don't put that down. dead lions very often get up, believe me." that was glen cottar in 1971, in tanzania, at the conclusion of a hunt when i, exhausted from the tension, started to prop my rifle on the nearest bush. glen was the latest and last of the famous cottar clan to professionally hunt in east africa - a family put out of business when kenya closed all hunting in 1977. he was a mentor and became a great friend.
i've been very lucky in that regard. many of the guys who have guided me on my hunting and fishing expeditions have become lifelong friends - and most of them have been world class.
first there was captain bob tarr an old eastern shore waterman who taught me how to bait a duck - with corn - to deadly result [for the duck]. then there was harry "the heron" elsey who could glide through a marsh like his namesake and one day, many years ago, helped retrieve a hundred teal which made the mistake of sliding down a little back water creek into our 20 gauge arms.
later, when i started fishing seriously in the salt came gil drake, whose family owned deep water key long before orvis and frontiers took over the fly fishing business. some time prior, gil had moved to key west which was where i met him on the advice of guy de la valdene, a mutual friend. gil, guy, tom mcguane, and others had pioneered fly fishing for tarpon - together with more exotic endeavors - out of key west in the 70s. gil was not very patient with my untalented fly fishing technique and therefore passed me on to harlan franklin. before that happened we fought an epic battle - four hours - with a permit i hooked late in the day and lost in the black of night which gil - who saw it twice boatside - estimated to weigh 60 to 65 pounds. that would have beaten, if boated, the world record by a substantial margin. the only irony is that i had a take from a fish out of the same bunch that may have been 10 pounds heavier. the shallow area on which these fish, and others, were feeding - just outside key west harbor - is now known as hawk's flat.
harlan taught my son and daughter to "throw at the white spots" on the flats, which often contained a terrifically hungry and excited baracuda who, once hooked, would leap in great greyhounding arcs, all the while glaring at us with its huge, black predator's eye...very satisfying for a young fisherman and for which i will be forever in his debt. he and i specialized in permit - with the odd shark thrown in - and ultimately chased bonefish on andros with andy smith.
andy, one of charlie smith's 27 children, is the consummate fly caster and bonefish guide. his father created the "crazy charlie", an unassuming looking fly but one no self respecting, aspirant bonefisherman would be without. andy and i fished together a lot. i'll always remember his bahamian lilt on our first morning's meeting, "welcome to andros, hawk". we never caught any really big fish, though i hooked a couple but we always had fun. one day we went to the west side of andros, got stuck in the mud, saw a big sawfish with its legion of little jacks in attendance, cast to a hundred small permit to no avail [as far as i know permit never eat - flies at least], and i was admonished not to jump overboard to cool off, "no man. not here. bulls here." sharks, that is. a wild, wild part of the world.
closer to home, on the outer banks of north carolina, i ran into rob pasfield. we hunted false albacore in the fall with the rest of the small fleet of fly fishermen out of harkers island. that fishing goes from dead quiet to crazy madness in a heartbeat as the brilliantly swift little albacore tear into the baitballs - and are gone before one can make the first cast. one november i had a rookie join me for a couple of days. he wasn't rigged when we left the dock - a cardinal sin in this type of fishing, hell any type of fishing - and had no fly at the end of his leader when we came upon the first school just inside the hook. i had three fish to the boat before his shaking fingers finished knotting a clouser - and the fish disappeared. rob didn't laugh until later.
sally and i flew out to kenya to visit cottar's camp a few years ago. since we'd gone that far i figured oh hell, what was another 1500 miles so we went on to the seychelles to bonefish. as the little prop jet dropped down over st. francois, an old coconut plantation gussied up as an exotic resort, i peered out the window at bijoutier its neighbor and the huge ocean flats that surrounded the islands. arno matthee met us the next morning and thus began four days of the most exciting fishing i've ever had. i've written elsewhere of the adventures we had but two things stick out: meeting arno who became a friend forever and the extraordinary tidal activity. oh sure, there were fish of all kinds - and they were everywhere - but the water was like a live thing streaming off the flats so fast it left fish flopping on the bare sand, and as it returned climbing your legs like a silent slithery predator. to sally, small in stature, it was frightening...me - i checked to see how far away the boat was and whether we could make it there before this wild thing engulfed us.
in the newspaper there have lately been stories of al-quaeda related somali bandits raiding in kenya, kidnapping and looting in an area east of the tana river near a town called garissa. it is a part of the world claimed by both somalia and kenya, home of [in the old days] the shifta poachers who did so much to devastate kenya's elephants. it is also the place glen and i hunted elephant so many years ago - the taru desert. i wonder, my old friend - wherever you are - if anyone now there remembers us....
i've been very lucky in that regard. many of the guys who have guided me on my hunting and fishing expeditions have become lifelong friends - and most of them have been world class.
first there was captain bob tarr an old eastern shore waterman who taught me how to bait a duck - with corn - to deadly result [for the duck]. then there was harry "the heron" elsey who could glide through a marsh like his namesake and one day, many years ago, helped retrieve a hundred teal which made the mistake of sliding down a little back water creek into our 20 gauge arms.
later, when i started fishing seriously in the salt came gil drake, whose family owned deep water key long before orvis and frontiers took over the fly fishing business. some time prior, gil had moved to key west which was where i met him on the advice of guy de la valdene, a mutual friend. gil, guy, tom mcguane, and others had pioneered fly fishing for tarpon - together with more exotic endeavors - out of key west in the 70s. gil was not very patient with my untalented fly fishing technique and therefore passed me on to harlan franklin. before that happened we fought an epic battle - four hours - with a permit i hooked late in the day and lost in the black of night which gil - who saw it twice boatside - estimated to weigh 60 to 65 pounds. that would have beaten, if boated, the world record by a substantial margin. the only irony is that i had a take from a fish out of the same bunch that may have been 10 pounds heavier. the shallow area on which these fish, and others, were feeding - just outside key west harbor - is now known as hawk's flat.
harlan taught my son and daughter to "throw at the white spots" on the flats, which often contained a terrifically hungry and excited baracuda who, once hooked, would leap in great greyhounding arcs, all the while glaring at us with its huge, black predator's eye...very satisfying for a young fisherman and for which i will be forever in his debt. he and i specialized in permit - with the odd shark thrown in - and ultimately chased bonefish on andros with andy smith.
andy, one of charlie smith's 27 children, is the consummate fly caster and bonefish guide. his father created the "crazy charlie", an unassuming looking fly but one no self respecting, aspirant bonefisherman would be without. andy and i fished together a lot. i'll always remember his bahamian lilt on our first morning's meeting, "welcome to andros, hawk". we never caught any really big fish, though i hooked a couple but we always had fun. one day we went to the west side of andros, got stuck in the mud, saw a big sawfish with its legion of little jacks in attendance, cast to a hundred small permit to no avail [as far as i know permit never eat - flies at least], and i was admonished not to jump overboard to cool off, "no man. not here. bulls here." sharks, that is. a wild, wild part of the world.
closer to home, on the outer banks of north carolina, i ran into rob pasfield. we hunted false albacore in the fall with the rest of the small fleet of fly fishermen out of harkers island. that fishing goes from dead quiet to crazy madness in a heartbeat as the brilliantly swift little albacore tear into the baitballs - and are gone before one can make the first cast. one november i had a rookie join me for a couple of days. he wasn't rigged when we left the dock - a cardinal sin in this type of fishing, hell any type of fishing - and had no fly at the end of his leader when we came upon the first school just inside the hook. i had three fish to the boat before his shaking fingers finished knotting a clouser - and the fish disappeared. rob didn't laugh until later.
sally and i flew out to kenya to visit cottar's camp a few years ago. since we'd gone that far i figured oh hell, what was another 1500 miles so we went on to the seychelles to bonefish. as the little prop jet dropped down over st. francois, an old coconut plantation gussied up as an exotic resort, i peered out the window at bijoutier its neighbor and the huge ocean flats that surrounded the islands. arno matthee met us the next morning and thus began four days of the most exciting fishing i've ever had. i've written elsewhere of the adventures we had but two things stick out: meeting arno who became a friend forever and the extraordinary tidal activity. oh sure, there were fish of all kinds - and they were everywhere - but the water was like a live thing streaming off the flats so fast it left fish flopping on the bare sand, and as it returned climbing your legs like a silent slithery predator. to sally, small in stature, it was frightening...me - i checked to see how far away the boat was and whether we could make it there before this wild thing engulfed us.
in the newspaper there have lately been stories of al-quaeda related somali bandits raiding in kenya, kidnapping and looting in an area east of the tana river near a town called garissa. it is a part of the world claimed by both somalia and kenya, home of [in the old days] the shifta poachers who did so much to devastate kenya's elephants. it is also the place glen and i hunted elephant so many years ago - the taru desert. i wonder, my old friend - wherever you are - if anyone now there remembers us....
Thursday, October 27, 2011
opinion
for the republican candidates....
how about this for tax reform: flat tax between 15 and 20% [ no deductions] - the experts can figure out where - for all taxpayers - individual and corporate - onshore and offshore. no tax on the first $35 - 40,000 for individuals - the experts can figure out where [corporations no break]. home mortgage interest deduction for those [no matter what their filing status] making $350,000 or less [to stimulate the housing industry]. standard deductions for small businesses [35 or fewer full-time employees, part-timers excluded] - the experts to determine what qualifies as a deduction - i vote for the current rules. [small businesses are, after all, our job mills.]
debate that you meatheads.
how about this for tax reform: flat tax between 15 and 20% [ no deductions] - the experts can figure out where - for all taxpayers - individual and corporate - onshore and offshore. no tax on the first $35 - 40,000 for individuals - the experts can figure out where [corporations no break]. home mortgage interest deduction for those [no matter what their filing status] making $350,000 or less [to stimulate the housing industry]. standard deductions for small businesses [35 or fewer full-time employees, part-timers excluded] - the experts to determine what qualifies as a deduction - i vote for the current rules. [small businesses are, after all, our job mills.]
debate that you meatheads.
occupy wall street
just wait until these knuckleheads - at least in the northeast - run into a cold rain or below freezing temperatures or a serious snowstorm...then we'll see who occupies whatever. i'll bet the organizers are the first to bail. my advice...go home or to washington where you ought to be protesting whatever the hell it is you are protesting...at least the weather will be a little warmer for a little longer. you bloody idiots. in the meantime i urge my readers to pray for a hard winter.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
from alexandra fuller
.
..a few stereotypical british characteristics [not sure they are particularly good ones but they could go a long way towards describing my father]: "an allergy to sentimentality, a casual ease with profanity, a horror of bad manners, a deep mistrust of humorlessness...."
..a few stereotypical british characteristics [not sure they are particularly good ones but they could go a long way towards describing my father]: "an allergy to sentimentality, a casual ease with profanity, a horror of bad manners, a deep mistrust of humorlessness...."
tattoos
i'll bet none of you has ever tattooed a thoroughbred horse...well, i have. more than a thousand as a matter of fact. why would anyone do such a thing you ask? for identification purposes, that's why. when i, newly graduated from college with a totally useless degree in english, decided to strike out and seek my fortune i thought it best to start where [i thought] the money was...in those days that would be the race track [horses, of course]. through my teenage years i'd worked at the local track which ran, conveniently, during the summer so i had some connections. before long i found myself a night watchman's position guarding the preakness cup at pimlico race track in baltimore maryland - all the while waiting for the tattoo crew to show up so i could take on the position of tattoo technician [trainee]. i'll get to the part later why it was so easy to find the latter position - you can guess why the night watchman's job was open - boredom anyone? after stumbling through my reversed days and nights for two weeks, to my great relief, the crew arrived and i began my new career.
thoroughbred horses - at least those which go to the track - are tattooed on the inside of their upper lips. that's why if you watch pre-race activity closely you'll see a horse pause before a guy in the paddock who will reach up and roll its upper lip, look down at his program, then nod to the groom and look for the next suspect. i say suspect because there are multiple reasons to believe the horse before that guy is not the one named in the program...the one being bet on by the public. what if the groom bridled the wrong horse back at the barn? what if the horse was shipped in and the trainer didn't bother to check its i.d., i.e. the tattoo? you get the picture. anyway, tattooing was fun and simple for a strong young man until i got hurled around a stall by an obstreporous 4 year old which i should have known better than to try and tattoo to start with [most animals are tattooed at 2 or before their first race - this one had escaped that indignity for obvious reasons]. aside from that minor diversion, when asked, i accepted the position of horse identifier [junior] at the chicago circuit of three race courses.
once i got over the excitement of living in cicero [al capone's old hangout], having my one room apartment partially invaded and therefore carrying a gun at all times, watching, amazed, as a small tornado threw a starting gate through a wrought iron fence, and lunching in the jock's room surrounded by big name athletes i settled in to [junior] identification duties and the odd day of actual tattooing - at $4 a horse - all the while trying to cope with my [senior] identifier's extreme alcoholism.
then one day a groom brought to the paddock a dead horse - at least one whose owner claimed was dead - and the whole business of "horse identifier" came into focus. before the first race i would write the jockey club registration numbers of each horse on my partner's program. he would then, as the horses paused before him, roll their lips and confirm they were who the program said they were. suddenly one number didn't match...wrong horse. great consternation...calls to the stewards...scratch...money refunded...steward's hearing...alleged nefarious activity, etc., etc. great excitement actually.
shortly thereafter i declined an invitation to stay [over an illinois winter season] and "work the standardbreds", having realized the money wasn't where i thought it was, and returned home.
the other day i was visiting a friend's farm and an inquisitive sway-backed old nag wandered up to the fence i was leaning against. reflexively i reached up and rolled its lip. there was the tattoo...maybe one of mine?
thoroughbred horses - at least those which go to the track - are tattooed on the inside of their upper lips. that's why if you watch pre-race activity closely you'll see a horse pause before a guy in the paddock who will reach up and roll its upper lip, look down at his program, then nod to the groom and look for the next suspect. i say suspect because there are multiple reasons to believe the horse before that guy is not the one named in the program...the one being bet on by the public. what if the groom bridled the wrong horse back at the barn? what if the horse was shipped in and the trainer didn't bother to check its i.d., i.e. the tattoo? you get the picture. anyway, tattooing was fun and simple for a strong young man until i got hurled around a stall by an obstreporous 4 year old which i should have known better than to try and tattoo to start with [most animals are tattooed at 2 or before their first race - this one had escaped that indignity for obvious reasons]. aside from that minor diversion, when asked, i accepted the position of horse identifier [junior] at the chicago circuit of three race courses.
once i got over the excitement of living in cicero [al capone's old hangout], having my one room apartment partially invaded and therefore carrying a gun at all times, watching, amazed, as a small tornado threw a starting gate through a wrought iron fence, and lunching in the jock's room surrounded by big name athletes i settled in to [junior] identification duties and the odd day of actual tattooing - at $4 a horse - all the while trying to cope with my [senior] identifier's extreme alcoholism.
then one day a groom brought to the paddock a dead horse - at least one whose owner claimed was dead - and the whole business of "horse identifier" came into focus. before the first race i would write the jockey club registration numbers of each horse on my partner's program. he would then, as the horses paused before him, roll their lips and confirm they were who the program said they were. suddenly one number didn't match...wrong horse. great consternation...calls to the stewards...scratch...money refunded...steward's hearing...alleged nefarious activity, etc., etc. great excitement actually.
shortly thereafter i declined an invitation to stay [over an illinois winter season] and "work the standardbreds", having realized the money wasn't where i thought it was, and returned home.
the other day i was visiting a friend's farm and an inquisitive sway-backed old nag wandered up to the fence i was leaning against. reflexively i reached up and rolled its lip. there was the tattoo...maybe one of mine?
Thursday, October 20, 2011
a fishing story
this came to me from jim harker. please, jim, pardon the odd deletion.
"...here is a story about the best two days of fishing i ever had. years ago my brother ed, rest his soul, and i owned a 20' grady white cuddy cabin with a 4 cylinder i/o that on a good day could run to the 40 fathom ledge off ocean city, md. on 45 gals. of fuel. no sat nav, radar, gps, but with a vhs radio that could just about reach the guy in the boat at the end of the dock while in port. our life raft was a fancified inner tube. our tuna tower was standing on top of the cuddy holding on to the bow line. no penn internationals ever came aboard.
men have no brains when it comes to fishing, and we were no exception. 40 miles plus to blue water and the weed line was our goal, albeit the weather had to be just right. when the seas were 3-4 feet we pounded out our fillings trying to get out with the 40' posts and rybos. it was worse on the way in when afternoon breezes were in our face[s] and there was a 3-4 hour run to the inlet.
there was one weekend however when the weather was good and gas was still cheap. we headed out with a box of ballyhoo, a couple of large rigged squid and some home made teasers....that weekend we caught and released 17 white marlin and one small blue. incredible. at one point we had three fins in spitting distance. chaos ensued. oh to have known how to throw a fly. the last one we hooked came along side and i grabbed the bill to release it. it stared up at me with a large dark eye as if to say what the hell are you doing. after this we agreed that this was the last time we would target marlin....that was the best weekend [of] fishing i ever had. now i mooch off younger brother john who has a 32' offshore fishing boat with every imaginable electronic device and piece of tackle. the fishing is great but it will never be the same as in a small boat alone on a big ocean. it was the adventure as much as the fishing."
"...here is a story about the best two days of fishing i ever had. years ago my brother ed, rest his soul, and i owned a 20' grady white cuddy cabin with a 4 cylinder i/o that on a good day could run to the 40 fathom ledge off ocean city, md. on 45 gals. of fuel. no sat nav, radar, gps, but with a vhs radio that could just about reach the guy in the boat at the end of the dock while in port. our life raft was a fancified inner tube. our tuna tower was standing on top of the cuddy holding on to the bow line. no penn internationals ever came aboard.
men have no brains when it comes to fishing, and we were no exception. 40 miles plus to blue water and the weed line was our goal, albeit the weather had to be just right. when the seas were 3-4 feet we pounded out our fillings trying to get out with the 40' posts and rybos. it was worse on the way in when afternoon breezes were in our face[s] and there was a 3-4 hour run to the inlet.
there was one weekend however when the weather was good and gas was still cheap. we headed out with a box of ballyhoo, a couple of large rigged squid and some home made teasers....that weekend we caught and released 17 white marlin and one small blue. incredible. at one point we had three fins in spitting distance. chaos ensued. oh to have known how to throw a fly. the last one we hooked came along side and i grabbed the bill to release it. it stared up at me with a large dark eye as if to say what the hell are you doing. after this we agreed that this was the last time we would target marlin....that was the best weekend [of] fishing i ever had. now i mooch off younger brother john who has a 32' offshore fishing boat with every imaginable electronic device and piece of tackle. the fishing is great but it will never be the same as in a small boat alone on a big ocean. it was the adventure as much as the fishing."
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
from w.c. fields
"i always keep a supply of stimulant handy in case i see a snake, which i also keep handy."
Saturday, October 15, 2011
a parrot's view
i had a friend who had a parrot. when asked, innocently, "polly want a cracker?" the parrot would reply,
"and you can fuck off too...."
not bad for a parrot.
"and you can fuck off too...."
not bad for a parrot.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
quail and turtles
stiles adkins and i, together with mr. bun marvel and earl "dead bird" tingle used to hunt quail west of fenwick island back in the 1960s...we were pretty good at it because one year we killed 454 - all walked up over two dogs. now, the 2000s, there are housing developments where we hunted...needless to say, the quail are gone. miss althea, mr. bun's wife, was a meticulous house keeper. one day, bun's idiotic nephew reckoned he'd had a great duck shoot and arrived at the back door with a peach basket full of what he thought were carcasses. in the kitchen he unveiled his bag...of crippled coots which skittered all over the floor. "what d'you think bun?" asked jack. "finest bunch of malyards i ever saw," replied bun. "but you'd better kill 'em." miss althea's comments are not recorded.
later in life i graduated to hunting quail on horseback behind wide coursing pointers. not recommended unless you have very strong thighs...getting on and off a horse twenty times a day will tax even the strongest.
finally we began hunting out of jeeps...behind wide coursing pointers. easier on the thighs and you could cover more ground. the shooting was good but i often hearked back to the old days with bun, dead bird, and stiles when one could walk out the back door and start hunting.
which reminds me; our newspaper ran an article the other day on the stunning event - one that had never happened in recorded history...that a turtle, what sort i don't recall, had come ashore on a local beach to lay her eggs. bullshit. we used to walk around them in the fall while surf fishing when we were kids - has nobody got any sense of history or the enduring pull of nature?
later in life i graduated to hunting quail on horseback behind wide coursing pointers. not recommended unless you have very strong thighs...getting on and off a horse twenty times a day will tax even the strongest.
finally we began hunting out of jeeps...behind wide coursing pointers. easier on the thighs and you could cover more ground. the shooting was good but i often hearked back to the old days with bun, dead bird, and stiles when one could walk out the back door and start hunting.
which reminds me; our newspaper ran an article the other day on the stunning event - one that had never happened in recorded history...that a turtle, what sort i don't recall, had come ashore on a local beach to lay her eggs. bullshit. we used to walk around them in the fall while surf fishing when we were kids - has nobody got any sense of history or the enduring pull of nature?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
for all you harried housewives
"there cannot be a crisis next week. my schedule is already full." henry a. kissinger
[with thanks to sally pollard]
[with thanks to sally pollard]
Saturday, October 8, 2011
sharks
the first serious shark encounter i had was on assateague island about forty five years ago. i was surf fishing and moved from casting off the beach to standing on a partially exposed sand bar. the tide was low and i had only to wade through knee deep water for about thirty feet to get to my new ankle deep casting platform. when the incoming water got to my knees i turned to wade back. the slough was now twice as wide as before - and twice as deep. i looked north and saw a dorsal fin - a big one - making its way towards me, coursing back and forth, hunting. the shark went by and as soon as it got far enough - i thought - down the beach i started ashore. in the deeper water i tried not to splash too much but before i could get far the shark turned, heading back towards me. i retreated to the relative shallows of the bar. i spent ten anxious minutes before the fish - eight or ten feet long, i could see it clearly as it went by - finally turned to deeper water and i splashed, half swimming, to the beach. that shark, though sizeable, was probably a, relatively, harmless sandbar type unlike the similarly large bull shark andy smith and i saw one day in the middle bight of andros. that dark fellow was following four tarpon. no chance for one of you, i thought, shivering slightly. a bull shark is a serious beast. andy had warned me when i wanted to jump overboard earlier. "no, man. not here. bulls here."
the biggest shark i ever saw was a great hammerhead in the marquesas, west of key west. he was also tarpon hunting. that's how we spotted him - far off splashes as he chased his prey. when we finally caught up with him he looked as big as the skiff - fifteen feet, maybe more - as he swept away, irritated i'm sure at our intrusion.
arno matthee and i had an encounter in the seychelles - this time with a pack of six little lemon sharks. we were wading back to the boat and he was dragging a deceased, small blue trevally that we planned to turn into sushi. he'd lopped the tail off to bleed it out and the sharks had come calling. they were all about three feet long and scattered when we false charged them. lemons can be aggressive but these guys were pretty laid back just like their three sleeping cousins harlan and i discovered on the edge of jewfish basin one calm lovely day several years ago. i tossed a shark puff beyond them and it drifted down under their noses. nobody moved but the fly disappeared. when i struck all hell broke loose. i'd hooked the largest and all three took off like freight trains. at about a hundred yards my fish stopped and i thought i had a chance. harlan ran the boat while i reeled furiously. the big fellow shook his head and popped the leader. fortunately i got the fly line back.
the last shark tale i'll tell today involved a playboy bunny....i was coming back from key west, in transit from the miami commuter terminal to the main one on a little bus. sitting across from me were two middle aged guys and a spectacularly beautiful young girl. we chatted and they revealed they'd been on a photo shoot for playboy magazine. one guy nodded at my shin which carried a long ugly wound, only half healed. "what happened," he asked. "shark," i replied. to my complete surprise - it was a total lie - he turned to his companions. "see. i told you so." the girl looked at me wide eyed. i winked.
the biggest shark i ever saw was a great hammerhead in the marquesas, west of key west. he was also tarpon hunting. that's how we spotted him - far off splashes as he chased his prey. when we finally caught up with him he looked as big as the skiff - fifteen feet, maybe more - as he swept away, irritated i'm sure at our intrusion.
arno matthee and i had an encounter in the seychelles - this time with a pack of six little lemon sharks. we were wading back to the boat and he was dragging a deceased, small blue trevally that we planned to turn into sushi. he'd lopped the tail off to bleed it out and the sharks had come calling. they were all about three feet long and scattered when we false charged them. lemons can be aggressive but these guys were pretty laid back just like their three sleeping cousins harlan and i discovered on the edge of jewfish basin one calm lovely day several years ago. i tossed a shark puff beyond them and it drifted down under their noses. nobody moved but the fly disappeared. when i struck all hell broke loose. i'd hooked the largest and all three took off like freight trains. at about a hundred yards my fish stopped and i thought i had a chance. harlan ran the boat while i reeled furiously. the big fellow shook his head and popped the leader. fortunately i got the fly line back.
the last shark tale i'll tell today involved a playboy bunny....i was coming back from key west, in transit from the miami commuter terminal to the main one on a little bus. sitting across from me were two middle aged guys and a spectacularly beautiful young girl. we chatted and they revealed they'd been on a photo shoot for playboy magazine. one guy nodded at my shin which carried a long ugly wound, only half healed. "what happened," he asked. "shark," i replied. to my complete surprise - it was a total lie - he turned to his companions. "see. i told you so." the girl looked at me wide eyed. i winked.
money
"when you owe the bank a dollar it's your problem...when you owe a million dollars it's the bank's."
[attributed to donald trump]
[attributed to donald trump]
Saturday, October 1, 2011
beetle
we've got this orange cat...we call him beetle. he's a wild bastard [which i love] and a great mouser [which i love]. he started out in life as cecil because of where he came from - cecil county, maryland - but quickly became beetle - why, i don't know. anyway, he's - in my experience and i've had some - very leopard-like. singular, aloof and not very friendly. his owners warned us his father was feral and he carries that trait rather well but he sits in my lap contentedly and lets me - allows me to - scratch his ears. the other night - prowling - he got hit by a great horned owl. the fight was loud, intense, and brief, but he managed to escape...in part because he's so big - 20 pounds or more. god only knows what the owl was thinking. i saw the owl the next morning, sitting on the peak of our neighbor's roof. he seemed none the worse for wear. to finish with beetle's adventures for the moment - we live in a small neighborhood. there are several dogs. they all, except for our puppy, give beetle a wide berth. they are wise.
Friday, September 30, 2011
a love letter
i love my wife very much - but you already knew that...i said it in my profile. here's why: she's beautiful, inside and out, and she's very, very smart. beside her brain what impresses me is her kindness and generosity of spirit. she accepts people far more readily than i ever would which should indicate how important it is to me to have her as my guide. what further impresses me is her toughness. she holds her own, even exceeds expectations, as the only woman partner in a several person ownership of a small business. her thoughtfulness and experience are valuable additions to the operation. i love you my darling and i hope you have the happiest of birthdays...followed by many, many more. xo, hawk
Thursday, September 29, 2011
civility
just after blogging about the rise of incivility in the present day, i was hit with the ultimate example of civility. on my morning coffee and newspaper run to our local food market, janssens, i was struck with a fleeting seizure. not only did kathie, my server, recogniize i was in trouble and call for help, but paula, her supervisor, immediately called 911. it didn't stop there. i managed my home phone and paula called my wife who arrived post haste - in tandem with the ambulance. because sally is a nurse practioner she knew the ambulance staff and they quickly communicated the problem and its resolution - case closed. oh, one more thing...while i was being examined, paula and jerome delivered my car to our home. you can't get much more civil than that...and my heartfelt thanks goes out to all involved.
Monday, September 26, 2011
republican politics
please - give me a break...what is this lot of losers we [good conservative] republicans are foisting on the electorate? it's an embarassment. can you imagine perry on the international stage? no mormon will ever be elected to national office no matter how "successful a small business'' man or how good a flap-jacker his wife is. bachmann - ditto perry. gingrich - old news with baggage. a dog strapped to the roof of romney's car...what? herman 999 - at least he's got a plan, weird as it might be. this current guy is a beatable incumbent...these meatheads won't manage it.
what we need is a leader - something we don't presently have - not a campaigner - something we currently have. my vote goes to chris christie - though i have minor reservations. he's tough and thoughtful, but not too dogmatic. no skeletons as yet, none likely. and, christ almighty, don't let sarah palin in the door. [who advised mccain on that one.] just an old man's thoughts.
what we need is a leader - something we don't presently have - not a campaigner - something we currently have. my vote goes to chris christie - though i have minor reservations. he's tough and thoughtful, but not too dogmatic. no skeletons as yet, none likely. and, christ almighty, don't let sarah palin in the door. [who advised mccain on that one.] just an old man's thoughts.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
two quotes and a story
"every man carries within himself a world made up of all he has seen and loved; it is to this world he returns, incessantly."
"we should know how the past molds us but also be concerned with how it might bind us."
[with thanks to alice connolly and jack giles]
we figured out the carp were eating most of the corn we used to bait the ducks at the beach when one of the kids threw a line off the gazebo and caught one of about five pounds. from then on we filled an old gunney sack with kernels and a couple of rocks to sink it on friday afternoon when we arrived. by cocktail time the fish were fairly jumping at the chance to eat our number four hooks camouflaged with green giant [canned] corn and a lot of fun was had by all. mary, our cook, asked that we keep every one for she knew a way to make them edible but she didn't persuade me and the ones i caught went back. they were all strong fighters, though not spectacular, and on light tackle - four pound test line - worthy adversaries. the biggest landed went over twenty pounds, but the volume - numbers - was what interested me. if it worked at the beach it was bound to work in the brandywine river, just outside our back door, so we lugged fifty pound bags of corn down to its banks and into a softly swirling eddy chucked their contents. behold the "brandywine salmon". with no deep river to work in the fish ploughed across the stream in serious and credible imitation, thrashing and shaking heavily. several years later i watched on televsion a show featuring lefty kreh and flip pallot casting leech flies to feeding carp in the susquehanna river. the carp were turning over stones with their noses, the fish easily seen in the clear water. fascinated i arranged a trip and for two days cast fruitlessly to the few fish i saw. i called lefty when i got home. "hawk," he said. "it took us two weeks to make that half hour program. you watched us catch four fish and i guarantee flip and i cast better than you do." i'm going to the beach next weekend....i'll take a bag of corn and a light spinning rod.
"we should know how the past molds us but also be concerned with how it might bind us."
[with thanks to alice connolly and jack giles]
we figured out the carp were eating most of the corn we used to bait the ducks at the beach when one of the kids threw a line off the gazebo and caught one of about five pounds. from then on we filled an old gunney sack with kernels and a couple of rocks to sink it on friday afternoon when we arrived. by cocktail time the fish were fairly jumping at the chance to eat our number four hooks camouflaged with green giant [canned] corn and a lot of fun was had by all. mary, our cook, asked that we keep every one for she knew a way to make them edible but she didn't persuade me and the ones i caught went back. they were all strong fighters, though not spectacular, and on light tackle - four pound test line - worthy adversaries. the biggest landed went over twenty pounds, but the volume - numbers - was what interested me. if it worked at the beach it was bound to work in the brandywine river, just outside our back door, so we lugged fifty pound bags of corn down to its banks and into a softly swirling eddy chucked their contents. behold the "brandywine salmon". with no deep river to work in the fish ploughed across the stream in serious and credible imitation, thrashing and shaking heavily. several years later i watched on televsion a show featuring lefty kreh and flip pallot casting leech flies to feeding carp in the susquehanna river. the carp were turning over stones with their noses, the fish easily seen in the clear water. fascinated i arranged a trip and for two days cast fruitlessly to the few fish i saw. i called lefty when i got home. "hawk," he said. "it took us two weeks to make that half hour program. you watched us catch four fish and i guarantee flip and i cast better than you do." i'm going to the beach next weekend....i'll take a bag of corn and a light spinning rod.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
a quote
there's a lot of damn politicians who ought to think hard on this one.
"those whom the gods would destroy, they first make drunk with power."
[with thanks to gil drake]
"those whom the gods would destroy, they first make drunk with power."
[with thanks to gil drake]
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
fun
where'd it go? is it the fact that i'm getting older...has it drifted away in this new - maybe not so new - pc world or has it just slunk 'round a rock like a feral cat? we used to have so much fun - a magician "in the round" at an eight adult dinner party - four of us, on a freezing january day, mooning the federal agents flying over us as we shot ducks on the chesapeake bay...fun, man, fun. fun went away some years ago - maybe just took some time off, but everything seems somehow more sober now. i'll give you an example of the pc business that so confused me it took all the fun out of catching them, and they are a fun, beautiful fish to catch and to eat. i'm talking about dolphin. that's what we used to call them, then they became dorado for some reason, now they're mahi mahi, just to separate them from the proper, air breathing lot. for christ's sake...who can keep track. one thing sally and i had fun with the other day was shooting dice at the local casino. years ago she and i and my friend harry, a cop, went over to atlantic city one evening. sally hadn't played the table games too much so we started with craps, won and went on to blackjack, won and went on to baccarat. won there too. as the sun came up behind us, traveling home on the ac expressway at "cop speed", sally in the front seat on my lap singing with me at the top of our lungs to rock tunes on the radio...hurling the thousands we'd won all over the place 'til we came up on a toll booth and harry told us to cool it...that was fun. anyway, we'd played blackjack the other day and, typical of these non-fun times, were down to our last $200. i said let's go...sally said no, let's go to the craps table. so we did - and won $1590 in twenty minutes. a glimmer of fun. and that's it, i guess. fun has become a glimmer, fading as it ages in the speed of today's world, the hurly-burly of life. too bad. we could use more of it, don't you think?
Monday, September 19, 2011
for rivers
,
i wrote this for a friend who lost her dog, rivers, in a tragic accident. i should repeat here that i dont believe in god or creationism.
a dog is a marvelous beast.
god's wits were with him when
he dipped the cauldron of creation
and spooned a canine mix.
there is nothing in the animal world
so distinctly animal - and yet,
so nearly human.
a dog complements our every waking
moment, and guards our sleep.
he laughs when we laugh, plays
when we play and is reflective...
or sad, in turn.
in truth, he mirrors us, and,
always forgiving, is the perfect
foil for our faults.
a dog's time on earth is, by design,
far shorter than a man's,
his life a quickened version of our own.
the lucky ones have several dogs
and learn a little from the best.
in each, perhaps, they see their own
days spun a little faster.
remember, a dog does not know or
fear death. to him each day is a new
adventure, to be put to rest at night.
rivers never lost a friend,
had his heart broken or spent a
sleepless night.
what fired his spirit, sparked his eye,
spiced his life,
was his love for you.
what made it all worthwhile
was that he knew he was loved
in return.
i wrote this for a friend who lost her dog, rivers, in a tragic accident. i should repeat here that i dont believe in god or creationism.
a dog is a marvelous beast.
god's wits were with him when
he dipped the cauldron of creation
and spooned a canine mix.
there is nothing in the animal world
so distinctly animal - and yet,
so nearly human.
a dog complements our every waking
moment, and guards our sleep.
he laughs when we laugh, plays
when we play and is reflective...
or sad, in turn.
in truth, he mirrors us, and,
always forgiving, is the perfect
foil for our faults.
a dog's time on earth is, by design,
far shorter than a man's,
his life a quickened version of our own.
the lucky ones have several dogs
and learn a little from the best.
in each, perhaps, they see their own
days spun a little faster.
remember, a dog does not know or
fear death. to him each day is a new
adventure, to be put to rest at night.
rivers never lost a friend,
had his heart broken or spent a
sleepless night.
what fired his spirit, sparked his eye,
spiced his life,
was his love for you.
what made it all worthwhile
was that he knew he was loved
in return.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
look up
we dont live in the deep country but we have some open spaces around us. those spaces are populated by a remarkable variety of birds. just the other day - besides the regular lot of sparrows, cardinals, and crows - i saw swifts, swallows, nighthawks, hummingbirds, doves, a red tail hawk, and a cooper's hawk. we used to have turkey buzzards by the score but i haven't seen any lately and i have a theory about that...we do, now, have eagles [three that i've seen] and i believe they have driven the buzzards off. they do, after all, feed on the same things. i'm slightly worried for our cat - and our new puppy - over the eagles. two, a nesting pair i assume, i have spotted soaring high above our house. the third flashes through our back yard from time to time...he's the one that worries me. beetle, the cat, was hammered by a great horned owl not long ago...it happened in the middle of the night - i was awakened by the fight - but beetle was too fat to be carted off and $600 later, recovered from the talons wounds. i'm sure it was an owl because i saw him sitting on the peak of our next door neighbor's roof at daylight shortly after...looking quite pleased with himself. all this bird life reminds me of the old days - forty or so years ago - when we'd pack the surf rods and coolers in the back of an old land rover i had and head for the beach in the fall to chase the bluefish. once there, when we looked up from the migrating fish, we'd see ducks, monarch butterflies, and hawks all making their ways south...signalling the onset of the winter to come.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
a quote for one to ponder
"forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit" virgil, the aeneid
loosely translated: perhaps one day it will please us to look back on these things.
translated in more scholarly fashion: a joy it will be one day, perhaps, to remember even this.
to further quote the scholar: " it is about loss, about overcoming the worst, but the word 'perhaps' is important. it may not be a joy to remember. it may be a bloody misery." fagles
[with thanks to dick dupont]
loosely translated: perhaps one day it will please us to look back on these things.
translated in more scholarly fashion: a joy it will be one day, perhaps, to remember even this.
to further quote the scholar: " it is about loss, about overcoming the worst, but the word 'perhaps' is important. it may not be a joy to remember. it may be a bloody misery." fagles
[with thanks to dick dupont]
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
what the fuck
ever happened to civility? the only good thing to be said about incivility is you can usually see it coming...under one of those damn baseball caps. more about that later. i was born in europe during the forties and, believe me, as a youngster i was subjected to the severest civility lessons one could imagine - such as always standing when a lady entered the room, offering your seat on a crowded bus, and looking directly at a person when introduced - even to the extent of holding a woman's hand just a half second longer when you first met her. oh, and doffing - there's an old fashioned word for you - your hat as you shook hands...which brings me back to baseball caps. they are never doffed - at least in my experience...usually worn everywhere, inside and out, backwards and forwards - most of them adjustable so they'll fit all sizes of pinheads. if i or my wife, who's small in stature, ever get banged into, practically knocked over again by some stupid teenager in a backwards worn baseball cap as happened the other day on the way into a restaurant they're gonna have to call the cops on me....and mind your back in the parking lot when some idiot on her cell phone comes hurtling after you. i could go on...and on, but i'll close by saying that i think the thing most contributing to incivility on the modern world is the cell phone - and all the nattering nabobs on them. the wickedest part of the whole cell phone scam is one can hardly live without one -- though i manage to. it's uncivil in the extreme - what with the whole world howling about you, civility sucked up and whisked away in a vortex of noise.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
henry beston, the outermost house, 1928
for the animal shall not be measured by man. in a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. they are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.
Friday, September 9, 2011
hunting
long ago i decided to avoid the hunter versus non-hunter debate as i felt it unwinnable by either side. you either were or you weren't.
i am a very comfortable hunter. i cannot articulate properly my deep sense of focus, of involvement, of being, while hunting to the non-hunter and have come to believe that the act of hunting, the fact of being a hunter is so deeply imbedded in my genes, so primal, that it is inexplicable. the very activity may even precede language itself as a way of, a source of, life and therefore have no need of verbalization.
i am a very comfortable hunter. i cannot articulate properly my deep sense of focus, of involvement, of being, while hunting to the non-hunter and have come to believe that the act of hunting, the fact of being a hunter is so deeply imbedded in my genes, so primal, that it is inexplicable. the very activity may even precede language itself as a way of, a source of, life and therefore have no need of verbalization.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
REALIZATION
the wind howls
and ceases.
the snow swirls
and eddies.
the world is white
and very pure.
here comes the plow.
and ceases.
the snow swirls
and eddies.
the world is white
and very pure.
here comes the plow.
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