Tuesday, July 27, 2010

That time of year again...

Once a year a plague is visited upon me and that time is again drawing nigh. The first full week of August sees the serene beauty of the Black Hills shattered by a ravenous horde of doctors, lawyers and retirees astride their overpriced Harleys. Yes, I am speaking of the Sturgis Rally, or as I like to call it: Bad-Ass Fantasy Camp.

And what better way to show what a tough guy you are than to have your $15,000 piece of crap Harley shipped to Sturgis while you fly in first class... wouldn't want to get any bugs in your teeth now, would you? And just to make sure everybody knows what a tough guy you are (if they didn't pick up on it by the fact that you're riding a Harley), be sure to cover yourself from head to toe in official Harley brand clothing, because until we saw your Harley headband, Harley T-Shirt, Harley Leather Jacket and Harley Leather Pants, we weren't really sure what kind of bike you owned.

Of course, there are a few actual bad-asses to be found. During the rally last year I was enjoying the buffet at the Kentucky Fried Chicken in Spearfish when a real live Hell's Angel let me have the last Original Recipe drum stick... no doubt he realized that a man eating chicken during the Dormition Fast was someone not to be trifled with.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Gourmet Tonic Water?

I'm not opposed to pricey spirits by any means. Though I drink my Jameson's without shame, were it within my budget, Laphroaig would find itself a regular place in my liquor cabinet. But the mind recoils at the prospect of a drink with Q Tonic in it. Perhaps if it were the last mixer on earth, and it was a particularly hot day, it might see the inside of my highball glass. Until that day arrives, however, I'll take my G&T with Canada Dry, please.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Liturgical

Thinking of this post from Frontier Orthodoxy got me to thinking about the liturgical moments in my life outside church. For me, these are almost always connected with fishing. I don't claim to be a great fisherman or even a good one but I do claim to have caught some fish and if, at the end of all things, something similar can be said about my soul, I'll be happy to count it as win.

Whitewood Creek is close. So close, I can see my home up on Houston St. as I fish in the valley below. With a toddler and an very pregnant wife at home, this is about as good as gets. When I walk the dog, I can hear the rush of the water and the sound makes me think of fishing, which is almost as good as fishing itself.

You have to watch your step wading up Whitewood Creek. The stream bed is what my dad would call "an ankle breaker", strewn with rocks, logs and the detritus of 100 years of mining and railroading. There are fish in this creek, pretty little brown trout that leap into the morning air chasing bugs so small you can barely see them. They aren't the biggest fish you can catch in the Black Hills and some anglers I know would find a trip to Whitewood a waste of time. A big catch in this fishery is 10 inches, something they wouldn't roll out of bed for. That's why I like it here. I like it too because the fish are dumb and hungry. So dumb and so hungry that they will take my flies, no matter how badly tied and how poorly cast.

There is a feeling that is like no other and that feeling is this: Fishing on a chilly September morning and seeing a fish rising up-stream. Looking down at your feet, seeing a caddisfly float past and knowing in your heart of hearts that this is the bug that fish is eating. Looking in your fly box and seeing a fly that you tied 3 months before and suspecting that this little bit of hook, feather and fur just might fool that fish. Tying on and feeling that pesky headwind dwindle and die as you start to cast. Not hurrying, keeping the four count rhythm, ever mindful of the tree behind you that has shattered so many moments like this in the past. Making the best damn cast you've made all morning if not the whole damn summer. The fly touching the water for an instant before it is pounced on in a strike as pretty as anything you'd imagine. In the brief, lopsided struggle that ensues, the fish flings itself skyward and you can see its a good one. The fish is in the net and you have a few seconds to admire the vibrant red spots that the brown trout get close to spawning time. The hook comes out easily and the fish swims away to be caught on another chilly September morning.


Monday, June 21, 2010

Hey Little Darlin

Some college acquaintances of my wife's at Celtic Connections in Glasgow.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Ominous...

Troubled times for a church that has been troubled more than most in Ukraine, according to the NCR, via the Anastasis Dialogue.

Friday, March 12, 2010

How something becomes kitsch, Soviet style

Interesting to see how this, from a popular Soviet musical (?!?) of the 1960s (The Blue Spark)



turned into the Brezhnevian version of a Lawrence Welk number:


Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Food for Thought

An interesting article on the Freakonomics blog regarding the primitive food movement:

Responding to the increasing complexity of food in 1870, John Cowan, author of What to Eat; And How to Cook It, lambasted Americans for eating “conglomerate mixtures”—ingredients “mixed in all shapes, in all measures, and under all conditions.” He insisted that these overly processed foods not only led to “a clogged brain” but also a “sickly and unenjoyable life.

And yes, this is yet another attempt to relaunch this blog.