“The ugly fallout from the American Dream has been coming down on us at a pretty consistent rate since Sitting Bull’s time — and the only real difference now […] is that we seem to be on the verge of ratifying the fallout and forgetting the Dream itself.” – Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72
Turn around, puppy, she’s standing right there.
If you’re lucky in 2016, maybe you’re better off than your parents or grandparents. Maybe you got a better education, or are able to own a home. Maybe you’ve got a pension (ha, Google it). Maybe you’re simply able to negotiate a stroll without being harassed, beaten, tazed, or straight up shot dead. And maybe your own kids will be better off than you are. That’s what most parents hope for, anyway, but look at the rising costs and disappearing opportunity for nearly everything, and that hope might feel increasingly desperate.
Those of us lucky enough to be U.S. citizens have a heritage that’s the envy of the world. Millions of acres of wild land and clean water are bequeathed to all of us as a happy accident of birth, or the fortunate benefit of negotiating a long and costly immigration process. And in the absence of property or money or opportunity, we can at least pass this inheritance along to our kids, as long as we’re vigilant and the well isn’t poisoned.
And, you know, if it isn’t stolen by greedheads like the American Lands Council and their pet politicians, who are attempting to force the divestiture of our public land and water to the states, where they can be, or in some cases must be sold off to private interests who can keep your kids’ dirty feet from soiling it ever again.
Screw that. Start here, and here, but don’t stop there. Raise hell. Don’t be forced to tell the kids that you’re sorry, but you just didn’t do enough. It’s easy to type words about heritage and the home of the brave, but that doesn’t amount to a hell of a lot when they’re willing to set the dogs on you.
Suicide Basin is at it again…
Pretty sure a 63 foot water level drop in 48 hours is gonna wreak a little havoc.
From the NWS –
AT 522 AM AKDT...BASED ON REPORTING GAUGES
A GLACIER-DAMMED LAKE OUTBURST ALONG THE
MENDENHALL LAKE AND RIVER IS CONTINUING.
THE ADDED WATER FROM THE GLACIER-DAMMED
LAKE INTO THE RIVER SYSTEM WILL RESULT IN
CONTINUED RIVER RISES THROUGH FRIDAY EVENING.
THE RIVER IS CURRENTLY RISING AT AROUND
2 INCHES PER HOUR. ESTIMATED SUICIDE BASIN
LAKE LEVEL PRIOR TO RELEASE INDICATES THAT
MENDENHALL LAKE AND RIVER COULD SEE SIMILAR
LEVELS TO THE 2014 RECORD EVENT OF 11.85 FEET.
Better go put away the lawn furniture and get the livestock to higher ground, Larry.
Since ice-out the whole world’s brimful of water and overflows with each passing blow, it seems. Down low the trillium are blooming with wet feet, but nobody can tell whether the Hendricksons have read the memo, and we’re all standing around at the pull-offs looking sideways at each other and not daring to complain about too much water. When the sun finally emerges it’s instantly warm, and we groan and stretch and make note of the fattening buds on the branches, and oh did you see the stickjam blew out up there by the Wall Pool. Yeah, the pool that’s had a standing wave in it for weeks, right, and we’re off to have a look at this meadow or that little feeder, splash-crashing through widening potholes full of the same caramel-colored water that’s now carving off the oxbow up by Bill’s place. It’s enough to make a guy quit drinking just so he can start again.
Still no biscuit?
On the way home there’s a guy in red-checkered flannel way out in his yard, reclining in a lawn chair next to his burn pile and smoking a cigar. Damned if he isn’t going to burn something. Viking points for hanging tough, flannel man, might not rain tonight.
It’s worth a shot.
The final couple of work days before a fishing trip are probably best used as an exercise in patience, something fisherfolk are supposed to have in voluminous reserve, but for me they’re mostly spent almost telling coworkers to go piss up a rope. My brain checked out a few days ago, so making time pass by being productive, while laudable and maybe even expected, is a joke. So instead I’m left searching for alternatives, like:
- Chew off own face (not arms, I’ll be needing those)
- Create ridiculous new fly designs, give them names like “spleen venter” and “jeebus fucking fuck”
- Stand outside cafeteria window, grease ferrules while performing rod-section-up-the-nose trick
- Piss up a rope
- Write self-evaluation, give self high marks for “not murdering you all in your sleep”
- Tie on big pyramid sinker, practice double-hauling at lunchtime joggers
- Get head start on three-days-in-wool-and-waders body funk, offer hugs to middle management
- Attend status meeting, assign new names to coworkers like “Bait Bucket Joe,” “Pete the Pusillanimous Pinner” and “U. Barking Idiot”
- Stabby-type foul-mouthed blog posts, try to make keys fly off
- Take steroids, get huge, bend time and space
Any and all further suggestions are welcome in the comments. Well, they technically won’t be welcome until next week, but you get the idea.
To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the sizzling of their bacon!
Is it safe?
Just in time for Easter it’s Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor! The bacon, which represents awesome, is bound to the world-burger with the blood of the giant Hymir, here provided in a handy squeeze bottle.
Thor once went fishing with Hymir the giant, who refused to provide Thor with bait, so Thor struck the head off Hymir’s largest ox to use as such, even though he was planning on fishing flies anyway, because Hymir was an annoying dick. Thor’s offering was eaten by Jörmungandr the Midgard Serpent, whom Thor pulled from the water, whereupon the two faced off, Jörmungandr spewing blood and poison. Hymir went pale with fear, and as Thor reached for his hammer to kill the beast, Hymir cut the line, letting the serpent sink beneath the waves. Because Hymir was also a pussy.
Dude stop crying and get the net! Damn!
The texts are unclear, but one presumes that Thor then beat the living snot out of Hymir to give him something to cry about. The lesson I guess is that bacon is awesome, and you shouldn’t fish with giant whiny annoying pussies.
TASTES JUS LIKE CHIKKEN!!
To the lurching yappy meat puppet in the office across the hall, whom I’ll call “Dick” though it’s not the name on the door that you refuse to close while you’re hollering into your bluetooth growth like a big buttery dolt: tomorrow I’m going fishing, to a place full of water and chrome where this mocking clock has no meaning, with good company and good whiskey and fire. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while, but first there were the home repairs that got put off all summer, and a deadline, and then a foot of snow, and then Halloween and an election. But now suddenly they’re past, so I’m kinda keyed up you see.
photo by Ginseng Sullivan
Now normally when you heave into view and begin your noise about your bike, or shooting woodchucks, the two things that your pachinko machine of a brain has identified as our common interests (woodchucks? really?), I’m able to zone march straight to my happy place. That’s right, those nods and uh-huhs are about bright water and forest smells and was that a rise right there? Caddis? Even when you’re not talking to me, you’re still talking, Dick, and your HARF HARF laugh operates on some hellish frequency that penetrates walls and headphones. But I’m normally happy to just crank the volume and forget you and the oxygen you’re using. We’re good.
But today there’s a bluebird summery day blasting through the windows and my happy fishing brain place is making me want to chew my arms off, so I can’t go there, and I’m left with nothing for you but thoughts of twisting your head off like an apple stem, shoving your darling little espresso glass in your mouth and then kicking the whole mess into a steel garbage can with an oh-so-satisfying crash and rattle. And then rolling it down a hill in front of a speeding bus. A burning bus full of angry hungry bears. Shut up, this is my happy place, not yours.
Your soul is an old dirty bug jar,
Warren Ellis Technologies, where the future is NOW, DAMMIT