Backblog #1: Fishing in Bemidji, MN

Some important stuff has happened in the last few months or so that I thought I should comment on, so I'm going to take some time and cover my blogging backlog a bit in the next few days, time and memory permitting.

My first makeup entry has to be about my trip home to Bemidji, MN.  About a month ago, Liz (G.F.) and I flew up to the great white North for a week long trip.

The nice thing about summer in the great white north is that it's actually not white at all.  It is in fact green as can be, with blue lakes and bluer skies.

And bugs.

But overall, a paradise to be sure.  We were fortunate to have great fishing weather and took advantage of it on two occasions (both within the bounds of Liz and my 24 hour licenses).

The first trip out proved to be a bit of a debacle, as we ended up spending an hour trying to start the boat motor to no avail. Much to my father's dismay and embarassment, we were eventually forced to row out a short bit from the landing in an attempt to salvage the evening. In spite of our makeshift fishing location, however, I managed to catch a rather large walleye. Dad caught another, though smaller, walleye as well. We ate both the following night.

We went out to the same lake the second evening with a newly serviced motor (oily gas was the culprit) and were able to travel out to what has always been a decent spot. There, Liz hooked what we assume must have been a northern pike, because it snapped her line clean up at the reel after an intense fight. Later, my dad caught a rather large northern after a similar battle, further cementing our theory. The northern was released, as he was too big to be pickled well and would be of more use to the lake's ecosystem than he would be to us. (Big predators prevent the lake from being choked out by tiny, inedible fish.) There were many bullheads caught on both outings as well, but those were thrown back as they taste like dirt, bottom feeders that they are.

Fishing was never a great interest of mine as a kid growing up in Minnesota. Though the grubbiness of the activity never bothered me (unlike Liz, who refused to touch a leech to bate her hook.) I would usually get bored almost immediately upon settling into the quietude of the rural evening.

However, and I'm not sure when it happened, but somewhere in the six years since I've moved to Los Angeles, I have grown to love fishing. I love the relaxation, the rural air, the sound and smell of nature. I love the idle conversation with my dad, which often climbs into higher philosophical subjects, as our conversations always have. I love that all of this is interspersed with the hopeful promise of the catch, the momentary thrill of a fish pulling down your bobber, the strategy of setting the hook, and the eventual battle against an alien, and most primitive of creatures.

It is a dialectic of the crude and the beautiful, of the physical and introspective. And, though I still for the life of me can't remember how to tie a hook no matter how many times I'm taught, I look forward to my annual fishing excursions almost immediately upon returning to LA every year.

Next in the Backblog: A little piece of heaven...

PEARL JAM

You know, I was never one of the folks who thought that they fell off. The only records I have are Yield and Binaural, both of which are excellent and both of which are fairly recent. Sure, they went their own way, and that meant sliding off of MTV and pop radio a bit, but if you know me you know I hate commercial radio anyway.

I had no idea how amazing they are, though, until I saw two shows this week. One was the Sunday performance at the forum, and the other was the KROQ contest show at the tiny Henry Fonda Theater in Hollywood. And let me just say... HOLY SHIT.

BOTH shows were magical.

What makes it so amazing? Rabid fans who know every lyric and are singing in unison at the top of their lungs is one part of it. Great songs well played is another. The energy on stage though... not campy, and not an act. Honest rock and roll energy in the tradition of Springsteen. Sets that go on for ever. Long, multiple encores. Eddie pouring his wine into people's glasses, like rock and roll salvation.

I now understand where the fans get their obsession... what drives them to travel with the band from city to city, singing along the whole time. And I can honestly say that I will see them every chance I get from now on. They have vaulted from a band I really like to one of my all-time favorites. I am a fan for life. Well done, guys.

Of course, the person who really gets the most credit is Liz, my awesome GF who bought tickets for the stadium show and listened to KROQ for three days (without vomiting!) to win the theater tickets. I'm a lucky guy to be in a relationship that constantly helps me grow in ways I don't expect. Now if I can just get her to love CRACKER, we'll be set.

The Conundrum of the Blog

I've noticed an inherent flaw in my blogging habits.  It is a grand paradox:  I get my best blogging inspiration when I'm incredibly busy with cool shit, which is exactly when I don't have the time to write in a fucking blog.  Goddamn it.

A new effort must be made, however.  While getting wonderfully lit up on leftover booze and pop at a pal's house tonight, I received a request for more entries. So here I am. Half way drunk, and pondering my blogospherical existence. I hope he's happy.

The irony here is that he and I live a minute's walk away, but mutual busy schedules keep us from taking advantage of the proximity.  Thus forcing internet correspondence.

And yet, the same over-loaded life keeps me from blogging as well.  Oh cruel gods of space, time, and internet.  Why do you taunt me so?!

Thanks to said friend for a grand evening of film nerdity and camera-borrowing. You know who you are, and you know we should do that more often.