Musician, Freak, Dayjobber, Etc.

Jacaranda. Everywhere, jacaranda. Purple and lavender. Don't bother washing or rinsing; just repeat. We're getting reports out of Lawndale that a jacaranda was involved in a carjacking; word out of Hollywood is that jacaranda are IT this year. Blankets of lavender form under every grinning, purple-toothed tree; the hillsides appear oddly adrift on soft lavender clouds. A rainbow comprised solely of variations on the color purple adorns this fine city, and the sweet-scented air intoxicates insect and human alike, everyone -- hell, everyTHING -- half-assed drunk on the purple wine of spring.

Seriously, it's been raining jacaranda blossoms for the last three, four, eleven weeks -- it seems like it's been forever and I hope it continues indefinitely; it suits this place. Hi, hello, and thanks for tuning into the old weekly blog. Man, last week was nothing short of incredible. Let me try and remember everything for you...

Friday May 14th, I have absolutely no memory of what Nipper and I did; I know we did *something* -- a gig? a party? -- but for the life of me I can't recall. For all I know, we stayed home and watched movies. Kids, this is why you shouldn't smoke pot.

Saturday, May 15th, we partied DOWN with our good friend Terry Malloy, an eccentric character with the most amazing home EVER in Whitley Heights. Terry collects all kinds of weird shit: medical oddities, horror-core posters, 1950's - 1980's kitsch, bowling paraphenalia, etc. Just a way-fucking cool guy with a great girlfriend whose name escapes me now. Nipper and I brought Terry a birthday present of some weird Thai alcohol with -- I shit you not -- a snake in the bottle, tequlia worm-style. Except the snake was HUGE, like, at least 2 feet long, all coiled up and taking up most of the space in the bottle. It was pretty gross and definitely cool; Terry loved it. You can guess the rest, right? Everybody partied like crazy, and around 1:00AM-ish or so, Terry brings out the snake liquor and sure enough, we all challenged each other to do shots. I had one -- it was great! It tasted like very smooth tequila; it was very warming and quite tasty. It was still weird, though. Chalk up another excellent party thanks to Terry -- we love you, dude! Happy birthday, my friend.

The next day, Sunday May 16th, we slept in, hung out, then, in the early afternoon, Nipper brought me to a car rental place where I hooked up with a generic 4-door sedan for a solo camping and fishing trip to the beautiful southern Sierra. My plan was to hit as many streams over the next three days as needed to catch myself a rainbow, a brown, and a golden trout -- the Sierra Triple Crown. Anyway, with this goal in mind, I kissed Nipper goodbye, hit the road, and had a safe, gloriously uneventful drive up highway 14, to the 395, and on to the southern Sierra. I spent the night camped out at Kennedy Meadows, located on the Kern Plateau alongside the gorgeous South Fork of the Kern River. I nailed the awesomest campsite (I've been there twice before and know the cool sites), had camp set up by 5:00PM, then set out to do a little evening fishing. The river was a beautiful shade of iron-rust-orange, slightly opaque due to the spring runoff, but overall quite clear. The canyon was bewitching, with flowers and green grasses everywhere amongst the Jeffrey and Ponderosa pines. In the deepening twilight, I coaxed a strike or two out of various and sundry locations, fishing within a mile or so of the campsite, nothing too intensive or serious. I watched as a 12" rainbow struck at my artificial in a slow, deep curve in the river, quickening my pulse and signaling that, perhaps, I would indeed have good luck fishing during this trip. Later, fishless but happy, I went to Grumpy Bear's Restaurant, where I was the sole customer. I hung out with the part-owner, Diane, chatting with her about all kinds of stupid things while she fixed me an incredible cheeseburger. I headed back to camp in the darkness, spending the evening under semi-cloudy skies, watching the stars play peek-a-boo with the clouds until the wee hours of the morning.

I found myself awakening at the crack of nine the following morning, Monday, May 17th. Let me tell you, I love nothing more than waking up with a full day ahead of me with nothing to do except fish, hike, and eat. I fixed a quick breakfast (hot tea and two granola bars), secured camp for the day, then headed off for Troy Meadows to try and catch my first golden trout, the official state fish of California. Troy Meadows is about a 12 mile drive from Kennedy Meadows, and about 2,500 feet higher in elevation. The weather was still weirdly cloudy -- mostly high clouds that were more of a "dirty sky" look than a "potential rain" look -- making the morning chilly, especially at the higher elevations. I soon found the stream I wished to fish, packed up my daypack, and set off downstream. It wasn't long before I spotted some 'pocket water' that potentially held the prized golden trout. I worked a tight little pool, fairly cloaked in brush but with a little bit of wiggle room, and worked my presentation into a crystal clear pool. On my third retreive I felt the telltale 'bang bang' of a strike -- yes! Even though I didn't connect with that particular fish, I was very happy to know that I could, indeed, interest the fish in this stream.

I headed downstream, working a little pool here, an undercut there, a riffle here, getting strikes all the while. Then I spotted what I considered a fairly large pool for a stream this size. I grew excited and only slightly irritable. On my knees, I crawled up against the backside of a protective rock and presented my artifical up over the rock and into the pool below. Bam! I instantly connected with a feisty fish, which soon jumped clear out of the water, revealing a bright orange belly and deep golden-green sides -- a golden trout! This little devildoll tried every trick in the book: darting downstream then suddenly switching directions, potentially leaving the line limp and facilitating an easy throw of my tiny barbless hook; diving deep under rocks and undercuts, threatening the integrity of my 2-pound test line; jumping and thrashing wildly in an attempt to dislodge the hook. All to no avail. I kept my rod tip up and the line taut, and gently guided my little 7" finned friend into my net and up onto a nearby patch of wet, green grass, where she posed gracefully for a photograph (sorry if it's blurry; try this one, although it may be a very small image) to document this most blessed of events. I then released her back into the small, clear stream, where she immediately -- and quite briskly -- darted off into the shadows, safe once again and probably a little bit wiser for the experience.

I played around on this little creek for another hour or so, and caught and released one more beautiful golden trout, just a shade under 7". I didn't have the heart to try for any more; the stream was so small, and the environment so close human activities (the campground), that I just couldn't bear the thought of putting any more pressure on the noble survivors who call this stream home. It was close to noon by this time, and I had scored Round One of the Triple Crown with frying colors.

I decided to head back to Kennedy Meadows for another cheesburger, which I had courtesy of Irelan's Cafe. The burger sucked titanium nipple rings compared to the one I had had at Grumpy Bear's the previous evening -- a word of caution should you find yourself in this area craving cheeseburgers.

After the cheeseburger debacle (good band name?), I headed back to camp, dropped off the car, packed my knapsack, and headed upstream on the South Fork of the Kern river, following the well-worn Pacific Crest Trail (which runs from the Mexican border all the way to the Canadian border). It was about 1:00PM by this time, and the weather had cleared, revealing glorious, deep-blue Sierra skies featuring a unique band of "Sierra wave" cloud formations over the eastern ridgeline. That ridge of spaceship-shaped clouds hung there -- constantly modulating, constantly in static motion -- all afternoon long, my sky-bound companion. I hiked upstream nearly three miles, fighting the urge to fish the river where the trail passed close by -- I wanted to put a little distance between me and the campground in the hopes of more easily finding fish. I then proceeded to work my way upriver, patiently fishing, fishing, and then fishing some more.

The fish on the South Fork of the Kern proved themselves as wary, tactical geniuses, a worthy foe for the most competent of fisherman, let alone a bumbling klutz like me. Most of the likely-looking pools allowed me one or two casts, followed by maybe one strike (which I always missed), then *nothing* thereafter. Pool after pool, the same thing: one or two casts, a strike, a miss, then nothing. In one particularly delectable looking run, I watched in amazement as a 14" brown trout followed my artificial as I zig-zag retreived it, the fish flashing copper-gold in the afternoon light as she half-heartedly struck at my nefarious offering. Damn! My heart was racing, for of the three trout species I wished to catch during this trip, the brown trout was by far the most wiley and intelligent, and I secretly feared that I would not be able to entice one into my net. This particular fish displayed the rich brown coloration and hooked lower jaw characteristic of these fine creatures, and the thought that I had come thisclose to catching one caused my head to swoon and my knees to knock.

"Where there is one, there are others." I kept telling myself this throughout the afternoon as I worked that river real, real good. I've never fished with such focus and intensity before, yet with such utter calm and patience. Little events that usually bother me -- a snag, a tangle in the line, losing a cherished artifical -- didn't seem to matter to me this fine, sunny-blue afternoon. "It's all part of the game" I told myself -- and actually believed it. And so the afternoon slipped slowly into dusk, with more of the same comforting repetition of fishing, moving on, fishing, moving on, and so forth. Cast and retreive, cast and retreive, gather information, scan the water, cast and retreive, "shop and drop", move on; you know how it goes. I had a fucking blast, living out my workaday Monday splashing around on a beautiful stream in a gorgeous tree-filled, flower-strewn valley. Life doesn't get any better than this, my friends.

At some point I decided to start heading back to camp, as it was beginning to get rather dark and it seemed the fish were determined to foil my lofty ambitions. With a mixture of sadness and resignation, I packed up my gear and hit the trail back to camp. Even though this fine stream had proved itself more than a match for me, I felt happy and satisfied that I had given her my all, that I had really *worked* this water, had got to know it's intricacies a little better, and had been rewarded with follows and strikes by some incredibly smart fish. It was my own damned fault that I didn't manage to bring any of them up and out of this incredible resource, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Anyway, I had already caught my goldens, and I had at least *seen* rainbows and browns on this particular stream, so I felt very happy, serene, and, honestly, hungry. The spaceship clouds continued to layer and hang over the landscape to the east, changing to a deep purple-pink at twilight, revealing unbelievable layers comprising the cloudform -- it looked like the kind of cloud you might see on Jupiter or, perhaps, Neptune. I cooked myself a camp dinner consisting of marinated steak, stovetop stuffing, a grilled anahiem chile, and some grilled squash, zucchini and mushrooms, all served with a nice hot cup of tea. The evening was spent listening to CD's via headphones (Mike Keneally and Miles Davis), sipping Southern Comfort, and watching the wide-open skies twinkle with their unfathomable infinity of stars. I slept like a loggerhead turtle.

The next morning, Tuesday, May 18th, found me breaking camp (and wind) at around 6:30AM, fishing the So. Fork of the Kern close to camp "one last time", then heading back down out of the mountains, eastbound, to the valley floor and highway 395, where I headed north to Lone Pine. Since I had missed the brown trout strike yesterday, my only real goal for today was to catch a rainbow trout -- wild or stocked -- so that I could 'at least' get two out of the three trout species I sought. I figured that 'at least' one of several eastside Sierra streams could make this dream a reality, and I planned on hitting Tuttle Creek, Oak Creek, and perhaps, if all else failed, Independence Creek with it's planter rainbows. I enjoyed a lesiurely breakfast in Lone Pine, took pictures of the awesome Margie's Merry Go Round neon sign, bought a few more artificals and other supplies, and chatted with no less than three tackle store owners about the local fishing action. I decided to hit Oak Creek first, just north of Independence, but first I checked out Tuttle Creek campground and the stream, itself. The camp was pretty beat-out and in a kind of boring location, and the stream was a raging torrent of whitewater meltoff completely esconced in willows, wild rose, and other impenetrable plant life -- it looked like a bitch of a creek to fish. Onward, fish-tian soldier!

The drive to Oak Creek was nice and quick; I stopped in Independence and called Nipper to let her know that I was doing fine, although, truth be told, I missed her softness and her companionship. A little, anyway. That accomplished, I found beautiful Oak Creek campground, picked out a killer, totally isolated site, and proceeded to explore the creek. My heart sank as I determined that Oak Creek was a raging whitewater torrent completely, utterly enshrouded with choking brush with steep, slippery sides. "There go my chances of catching a wild brown", I told myself dejectedly. I mananged to find one manmade pool -- it was formed by a concrete and steel spillway, perhaps designed to keep the upper stream free from trout planted below. Anyway, it formed a nice pool, about the length and width of a 1974 Cadillac El Dorado, and about as deep. I spooked a couple of small wild trout, and managed to coax a surprisingly vicious strike before putting the pool down. I vowed to return later that day.

Meanwhile, it was already getting to be around 3:00PM on another clear, beautiful Sierra afternoon, and I still hadn't caught my rainbow trout. Hell, I hadn't even fished that much this day. I decided to ask some locals for the lowdown, and headed off to the Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery to (hopefully) get some answers.

The Whitney Fish Hatchery was very interesting, featuring a large pond stocked to the brim with giant trout and char -- rainbows, browns, brookies. Unreal, the size of some of these monsters. I spent a couple of dollars on fish food and fed these crazy loons -- it was so cool to throw a handful of feed into the water and watch the fish just boil up around it. I fantasized about casting a Rapala into these artifically fecund waters and battling a six pound monster. I got your trout right here! I went into the beautiful building, built in the early part of the 1900's, but there was no one around. I grabbed some literature and split for Independece Creek.

I fished Independence Creek near the lower Gray's Meadow area; the stream level was MUCH lower and tamer than either Tuttle or Oak creeks had been, a very good thing. I was getting tired of finding these raging torrents masquerading as trout streams, and desperately needed some reasonable streamside action. I headed off upstream, watching for rattlesnakes and battling the brush, and soon spotted some likely water -- a van-sized pool ringed with alders and light grey boulders. Sneaking up on my knees -- again, I'm on my knees and, gee, ain't this fun? -- I approached a tree I intended to use for cover; I reached it, and got my gear out and made ready to fish. I made the first cast; nothing. The second cast; again, nothing. "Third time's a charm." I cast again, right near the head of the pool. Zig, zag. Drop, swoosh, zig, zag. Damn. Nothing. My heart sank and I began to retreive faster, anticipating moving onward.

Bam! Something hit my artificial with authority, something strong, and something was on my line, like, *now*. I raised the rod tip and followed the line's action with my eyes. I couldn't quite see the fish, but I could see my line racing around the small pool. Suddenly, a rainbow trout burst from the surface of the pool, scattering dime-sized water droplets all around, in much the same way that Oxycontin scatters all around the bottom of Courtney Love's favorite Gucci handbag. The fish shook it's head from side to side and splashed back into the water, upside-down. I worked the fish in closer, only to reveal a nice-looking stocked rainbow trout, about 12" in length. I coaxed the fish into my net and proceeded to get a photograph. Quickly, I returned the fish to the water, releasing it into the upstream current where it dashed off into the unknown, a torpedo fired into the shadowy darkness.

Hell yeah! I had gotten two of the three trout I was seeking -- awesome. I could live with myself now. Everything else was gravy. The world could go on with it's business. I fooled around on the stream awhile longer and scored another planted rainbow in the same general size range, which I again photographed and released unharmed. I had a great time, the high, jagged Sierra granite peaks rising to the west (and still quite covered in snow) keeping me company and lending a comforting feeling of protection and solace. Satisfied, I headed back to camp with visions of catching a wild brown trout at the big pool on Oak Creek dancing in my head.

And that's what I did -- I re-fished the pool with the same results as earlier: a cast, a retrieve, a quick strike, then nothing. I went back to camp. I cooked myself an early dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables. I downed a beer or three. I went back to the big pool and hit it again -- same results. I grew anxious. It was soon closing in on 7:00PM -- still a good hour of daylight. I only had part of one more day to make this thing happen, so I made a decision, a result of my snowballing fish anxiety. I decided to lower the bar, so to speak. I decided to visit an old fashioned fishin' hole near the California Aqueduct, rumored to hold brown trout and rainbows of some size, too. No, it wasn't a pristine trout stream; in fact, it was a beat-up drive-up location fished regularly by locals, within clear view of highway 395. Hardly a vision of wilderness, but what the hell -- I was desperate for trout.

I reached the "sandpit" (as it was known) and proceeded to scope it out. Sure as sugar, I soon spotted dozens of large trout in this massive, open pool. I began making my presentations, the wind dying down as the sun sank below the granite wall to the west, soaking me in shadows. I had the place to myself, so I cracked open a can of beer and proceeded to work the pool. I had dozens of follows, lots of of strikes. I caught and released a nice 14" rainbow (no picture, sadly), an obvious planter that fought with a furious willpower belying it's lowly hatchery roots. Good times were had by all but the fish. I continued to work the pool until almost dark, when the action slowed considerably. I vowed to return the next morning -- on my way back to town -- and hit the sandtrap AND the aqueduct. Then I returned to camp, hung out underneath an absolutely *gorgeous* oak tree that stood streamside, and proceeded to drink beer after beer until the wee hours of the night. I slept soundly even though the wind camp up something fierce and rattled my tent all night.

I was up at first light the next day, Wednesday, May 19th, and, true to my word, found myself on the aqueduct just as the sun was coming up over the mountains to the east. It was freezing cold, a stiff breeze blowing from the north, making casting difficult, and making me shiver like liver. Fishing the aqueduct was kind of lame, me stupidly casting out into the boring, featureless concrete channel over and over again as the sun continued to rise. But it was my last chance to catch a brown trout and complete the Trout Trilogy. I actually had the good fortune to latch on to what felt like two incredibly large fish, but I was never to find out what they were -- I lost 'em both before I could bring 'em in close enough for a look (the aqueduct was rather muddy looking and seemingly quite deep). In my mind, I imagine they were both fierce browns, wiley enough to easily dislodge my hook and escape unharmed, but, in reality, they were probably a couple of smallmouth bass or perhaps a crappie or a sunfish or anything else that might possibly be in there. The freezing cold, the lame location, and the desire to return home (and shower!) helped me to decide -- then and there -- to give up the pursuit, acknowledge my defeat ("two out of three ain't bad"), and head for home.

Which is exactly what I did. I got back to LA fairly early, had a great hot shower at home, unpacked and returned the rental car, then picked up Nipper. We spent a nice Wednesday afternoon at the Los Angeles Zoo, screwing around like plushie animals and making ugly faces at all of the children. Later that evening, we had a great sushi dinner in Pasadena, then returned home, where I slept for almost 12 hours straight. I went to work the next day, stayed home that night (crashed real early), then, after work on Friday, May 21st, headed over to Nipper's where we went to an incredible party up in the Hollywood Hills, a benefit for Moveon.org. Willy Wisely played a set of rocking tunes against a backdrop of the whole Los Angeles basin far below, glittering in the night like diamonds, and good times were had, repeatedly. Saturday found us sleeping all day, watching TV and doing silly stuff, then partying that night at the home of Adam Marsland, where we hammed it up for a video Adam was shooting for his upcoming album. We had a blast, partying with all of our friends and just generally being goofy. We slept late the next day, Sunday, and went to an AIDS benefit for Lance Loud that afternoon at The Parlor. Kristian Hoffman, Alice Bag, Abby Travis, Brian Grillo and others performed that afternoon, and I feasted on homemade tamales and bud light. Later that evening, a bunch of us went over to Abby's house, where we were treated to all kinds of goofyness and fun -- we had an amazing time, to put it mildly.

And the party continues -- we went out Monday night to catch the last night of The Shakes' residency at The Echo, hung out with some far out and groovy people, then went out for Thai food and promptly got food poisoning. It was bad enough that I stayed home from work on Tuesday -- me and my convoluted bowels, that is. I'm better now, thanks for asking. Then we caught a show by Jennifer Finch's (L7) new rawk band The Shocker, because I was feeling better and I thought, what the hell, why NOT be out partying five straight nights in a row? Why not, you ask? BECAUSE IT WILL KILL YOU, I say. I am exhausted and completely out of my mind, in need of at least two nights of staying home and just blobbing out. And that is what I intend on doing.

As for the upcoming holiday weekend? Shit, the shows and parties just keep happening, there's just too much to mention here and this blog is already retardedly long. So, until next week, I bid you a fond farewell, dear reader. Be safe, have a great holiday weekend, and remember: architecture is frozen music, so build yourself a padded cell today. xoxox kErrY xoxox

"Oh, you're here." I once heard those words blandly spoken by a daughter to her mother while I was having breakfast at a cafe in the small oil town of Taft, California on Mother's Day, 1993. Mom had just shown up at the cafe and joined her daughter and family for their special breakfast. So why was I in Taft having breakfast on Mothers Day, 1993? Read on, readers.

I had just returned from a 5-day solo backpack/fishing expedition to the most remote, wild stream in ALL of Southern California: the Sisquoc River. It took me two days to hike in, then I spent two days fishing -- and was totally skunked! I had a great time anyway, but the remoteness required solid concentration and awareness. It wore on me after a few days, frankly.

Anyway, the weather was iffy the whole time, and on the 5th day of the wilderness adventure, the clouds finally solidified into a solid, grey mass, and it began to rain. Heavily. I packed up my stuff and hiked out in a single day -- close to 15 miles, my longest-ever backpacking day.

The trailhead was near the small farming community of New Cayuma, where I had left my trusty car several days prior (under brilliantly blue and sunny skies, no less). Exhausted from hiking 15 miles non-stop in the pouring rain, over very rough terrain, I reached the car and collapsed. It was raining cheesburgers and french fries as I drove from the trailhead on the muddy dirt road out to the main highway, lonely Highway 166. After having eaten reconsituted foods for almost a week, I was craving something fatty, something bad for me. I knew there was a small market in New Cayuma that made incredible, homemade sandwiches, and I had mine all planned out: ham and swiss cheese on a french roll with lettuce, red onion, tomatoes, and pickles, all washed down with a nice chocolate milk. Yeah, baby.

As I pulled into the empty store parking lot, my heart sank, for two reasons: 1) the store was closed, as in, out of business, and 2) my car died. Just like that, boom. The car was dead. Nothing. I had lights and battery power, but the starter wouldn't turn, nothing would happen.

As luck would have it, a CHP officer pulled into the parking lot literally a moment later, asking if I needed help. How lucky can you get? He called AAA and within a half hour, a tow truck was there. The tow truck operator was a nice guy around my age, and he hooked me up and I said "Where's the nearest city?". He said, somewhat ominously, "Taft." We drove onward through the rain and fog towards Mecca, the city of Taft, all the while chatting about streams and trout fishing. He recommended a local mechanic, motel and restaurant, all within walking distance of each other, dropped me off at the motel, then brought my car to the garage -- how cool is that?

By this time, it was close to 8:00PM and I was exhausted and filthy. Unfortunately, I had no clean, fresh clothes with me, but I took a nice hot bath and changed into the least filthy of my clothes and went out and had the best cheeseburger of my life.

The next morning, the garage called me at the motel, told me I needed a new timing chain (mine had finally snapped), and that they would have me up and running by early afternoon. All good. So, I went out for breakfast, and that's where I overheard the daughter tell the mother -- in the most unemotional, bland voice you'll ever hear -- "Oh. You're here." I laughed into my pancakes, enjoyed a strange little chuckle, picked up my car, and headed back to Los Angeles, safe as Susan.

I have no idea why I felt compelled to write the above story; I just did. Thanks for reading it. So, last week...hmmm, seems like ages ago. I vaguely remember an Abe Lincoln Story rehearsal, and a birthday party for Johnny of Quazar and the Bamboozled (which featured an awesome, unannounced performance by buzz-band The 88), and a kickass show by the great musician and composer Mike Keneally, featuring a guest appearance by Reeves Gabrels; read a fairly detailed report about it here (hopefully this link will work for you), and a performance by The Urinals and Misfortune Cookie (featuring the great Joe Nolte of pioneer LA punk-poppers The Last). And I remember drinking. I remember Mama. I remember sissors, and toothpaste, and even a small Yorkshire Terrier.

Mostly (imagine that being said in an Eric Cartman voice if you'd be so blind), I've been planning a little trip to the Golden Trout Wilderness, on a quest for a trout fishing Triple Crown. I'm attempting to hit no less than 4 streams in 5 days in pursuit of 3 species of trout: rainbow, german brown, and California golden. It should be fun, to say the least. All of my internet fishing buddies are telling me that this is PRIME TIME to hit this area. Plus, it's pretty close to Los Angeles, an added boner in my book. So that's happening in a couple of days -- I can't wait.

You know, nature really does affect me in sometimes musical ways. I can't explain it -- never could -- but it does, somehow. I need a little of that right now. And with that oddly obtuse statement, this author shall bring this blog to a divine close. Thanks for reading. Don't be sad when you miss me next week -- I'll be thigh-deep in a Sierra creek, skylarking and making eyes at the riffles. And remember: architecture is frozen music, so build yourself a seven-sided tee-pee on a high, windy, wildflower-strewn ridge today. xoxox kErrY xoxox

Slammed. Rocked-out. Befondled. Befuddled. Bedraggled. This is me, after a solid nine-day break from the so-called rat race: exhausted, tired, somewhat cranky, and a touch resentful that I have to return to this ball-and-paycheck I affectionately call my day job.

Enough of this sadness; back to last, glorious week. The first order of business was a wacky party that Nipper and I were invited to by the fabulous Willie Wisely, whom you all know and love (and who just released an album produced by Linus of Hollywood, don't 'cha know). Man, to say we had a blast would be like saying the San Andreas Fault is capable of destroying Los Angeles. We partied like it was 1999 -- again. Willie and his band rocked the house -- that is, until some shedwood mother from a block or two away brought her three year-old child to the party -- her three year-old CHILD, people -- to complain about the noise. What responsible parent would EVER bring their child to a party -- after midnight, no less -- to complain about the noise? Gee, lady, ever consider picking up a phone and calling the cops anonymously, like most people with brains? Other than that -- and even though the band had to tone it down a bit -- we had ourselves a bad-ass time -- thanks, Wisely and Kay, for inviting us. Minnesotan's rule.

Okay, so, after the social scene of Saturday, your author was ready for a little outdoor time. I had the location all picked out: a relatively unexplored area about 300 miles north/northwest of Los Angeles, and an officially designated wilderness area. NOTE: I had mentioned this place by name in an earlier blog entry; since visiting the place, I feel compelled to protect it, so I have removed all prior references. For those of you who've already read those blog entries, I beg you, please keep this place to yourself. It is truly a unique and fragile area and I wish to help keep it as pristine as possible. Thanks!

So, anyway, my Monday morning drive "up country" was awesome -- crystal clear skies, warm temps, and no traffic at all. I took the incredibly scenic backroads all the way, with the exception of a few short stretches on Interstate 5 and Interstate 101. I saw lots of either turkey vultures or California condors -- I couldn't tell for sure -- feeding on roadkill, and many wildflowers were found whispering in the gentle breezes in the vast fields through which I passed. I encountered no problems stocking up on beer and food in the small town near the wilderness area, and I also bought an Adventure Pass while there (so I could legally camp in the area). I had no hassles finding the car campsite -- it's almost 50 miles from the nearest sizeable city -- out in the middle of freaking nowhere, frankly -- but on all good paved or graded gravel roads. Beautiful, scruffy oak-n-meadow country -- typical California. Gorgeous. While driving to camp, I stopped at a tiny feeder creek that ran under the road and spotted a 6" rainbow trout hiding in the culvert pipe -- a good sign, or so I thought. I also saw dozens and dozens of salamanders in the stream, too, and a few frogs. Lots of birds and wildlife everywhere. I spent a happy first night in camp, having ridden my mountain bike WAY up above the camp just around dusk, revealing amazing views up and down the river canyon far below as the sun set in the west. Later that night, I could see the eyes of either deer or coyote shining in the light of my headlamp as I scanned the meadow around the campground. I slept soundly, except once, when I was awoken by some animal scruffing through some leaves near my tent.

Anyway, this campground is NOT very near the stream I wished to fish -- you need to hike a long mile DOWN DOWN DOWN into the nearby gorge. So, I woke up around 9:00AM on my second morning -- Tuesday -- packed my fishing gear and some food and water ("snack, tackle, pot"), and hiked down to the stream. It's a long, hot mile across overgrown, sometimes-exposed chaparral hills -- tough country. It was worth it though, because at the bottom of the trail was the stream, all sweet, cool, and running at a nice flow. I hiked downstream about a mile or so, fishing various little pools, riffles, and undercuts, etc. At one large pool, I spotted some kind of chub (no, not Oprah Winfrey), a type of suckerfish, about 10" long -- but no trout. I got no follows on my trusty lures, no bites, in spite of lots of nice pools and runs and undercuts everywhere; I had the feeling I was gonna be skunked this fine spring day.

My first lure choice was a gold-beaded nymph with a black band and copper wiring along it's 'tail', with a small splitshot above. Nothing. Then I tried my trusty yellow and red spoon -- no luck. I tried a couple of Rapala's -- floaters and sinkers -- still nothing. By this time, it was getting close to 1:00PM, so I broke out lunch, stripped down to my Mighty Mouse boxer shorts (my lucky fishing underwear!), and splashed around in the ice cold creek for an hour or so, forgetting all about the fish (or lack thereof). I decided that it just wasn't in the cards for me to coax any fish from this stream, so I decided to relax and enjoy the awesome scenery. I even caught a small turtle with my bare hands!!!

Soon, I decided to head back upcreek to locate the trail back to camp, and for some reason decided to tie on my black and gold Panther Martin spinner (a kind of lure, for you non-fisher-persons). I flashed it into a TINY pool, one that fed UNDER a HUGE boulder, and wildly so -- the water was bright blue with all the oxygen in it. As soon as I cast the lure -- directly into the little waterfall that fed the pool -- a fish struck the lure, but I missed the strike. Dang! I tried again -- casting into the same basic spot -- and this time got a follow by a nice 8" rainbow trout. I was stoked -- there were trout in the creek! I fished the HELL out of that little pool, spending at least a half-hour working it all different ways before finally losing my lure in the trees.

Before I decided to head back upstream, I tied on one of my rainbow-trout colored jigs just for laughs (these things usually aren't used in waters like this, FYI). I jigged a cute little bubbling pool for a few moments more, with no luck, so I continued up-canyon. While hiking, high on a rock ledge and maybe 15 feet above the stream, I spotted a 12" rainbow trout swimming in a narrow pool in the gorge below. I cast my jig down into the hole and BAM! I immediately hooked into this respectably sized trout. I fought her for almost 10 full minutes -- strong fish! -- and brought her up to the surface for a good look. The trout was not exceptionally colorful, but a beautiful fish nonetheless. Sadly, she had all but swallowed the jig, and I had to keep her. Anyway, I was one happy boy -- the creek had NOT skunked me and I had pictures to prove it!!! I continued upstream, fishing here and there, but had no more luck. I found the return trail, soaked my shirt and hat in the creek to keep me cool for the long, hot hike back to camp, and made it back in about an hour or so. I had a nice cold beer and relaxed, happy that the river gods had looked fondly upon me this fine April afternoon.

Suddenly, this other camper -- the only other one at the campground (along with me of course) for that matter -- walks by with his fishing rod. He says something to me like "Hot enuff for ya?" or whatever, and I said, "Sure. Hey, where are you going fishing? I just pulled a rainbow out of the creek a mile or so from here. In fact, I just put it on ice." He said "No way!" He asked to see the fish and I showed it to him, and he was blown away. He was like "Dude, almost NO ONE catches rainbows here, it's almost all brown trout. That rainbow trout you caught is amazing!!!" So I was like a hero to this guy -- for a moment anyway. He was a pretty cool dude, in his early 30's, a party type but seemingly with a good head on his shoulders -- he had a kickass camping set-up and seemed to know his shit. His name was Dave. He said he'd been coming there since the early '80's. We shared a few beers (and some other stuff, cough cough), and then he says he's decided to let me in on a little secret. He tells me there is a massive pool within 10 minutes of camp that almost no one knows about. I was pretty burned out and tired from my morning hike down to the creek and back, but I told him I'd follow him to the pool -- IF I didn't burn out totally. Anyway, he leads me down this barely noticeable path away from camp; it was around 6:00PM or so, getting late afternoon -- you know the vibe. Soon, the totally overgrown path goes WAY STEEP downhill. I'm thinking "I'm a bit beer buzzed here, what the FUCK am I getting myself into? I don't even know this weirdo. Where is he taking me, someplace to kill me?" We walked for maybe another 10 minutes, sliding down STEEP ASS hillsides, then Dave says "Shhhh. We're there."

Suddenly, we're standing on this ledge, about 15 feet above this MASSIVE pool. Mecca. The most beautiful little gorge I've ever seen. Godhead. Pure love. Then -- I shit you not -- I saw what was easily a 28-30" monster brown trout cruising the pool, clearly the undisputed king of this prime territory. We didn't even spook this monster; it just kept swimming back and forth, back and forth. I told Dave, "Hey, this is your secret place, you fish it first." So, he pulls a total 'kErrY move' and immediately gets his line all tangled up. I said "Dude, you're blowing it, man, I'm gonna fish this opposite end of the pool while you get your gear in order." Dave was totally cool, like, saying "go for it, man". Meanwhile, the massive 28" brown kept swimming at the head of the pool, mocking me. Mocking us; all of us -- including you. Anyway, I still had my silly little trout jig tied on from earlier in the day, so I cast downstream into this mammoth pool (easily over 100 feet long), let the jig sink a bit (the pool had to have been at least 25 feel deep in some places), then started my herky-jerky water buffalo jackoff retrieve. I could clearly see the jig in the clear water -- zigging and zagging wildly -- but no fish following it. Then, with the jig practically under my feet, the water around it BOILED and suddenly a 12" brown trout snapped and swallowed the jig right at my feet...the fight was on! Dave yelled something mundane like "all right dude!!!" and got his net ready. Meanwhile, the brown trout fought and fought and fought, peeling line from my reel like there was no tomorrow. I swear, it was OUT of the water more than it was IN -- it jumped 4 or 5 consecutive times in a row -- an unparalleled aquatic aerial display. I kept my rod tip up, trying to keep the fish out in the open water and away from the dangerous, line-cutting rocks, and worked it over to Dave, who then netted it, pretty as pie. Once again -- sadly -- the fish had swallowed the jig and had to be kept. My recent fight with the 12" brown trout had spooked the pool and -- in the fading light -- we split back to camp, while the 28" giant brown trout continued it's relentless patrol. Dave took this picture of the fish once we got back to camp.

The next morning -- Wednesday -- I woke up extra early and went back to the massive pool by myself. Sure enough, the giant fish was cruising, cruising. I made a couple of presentations that definitely caught his attention, but this massive fish wouldn't hit my lures. I could only fish for about a 1/2 hour 'cause I had to get back to LA. The vision of that monster 28" brown is haunting me as we speak; you would not believe the size of this thing, that it could exist in such a small stream. Unreal. And then I had to return to reality, sadly. I spent most of the day driving back to LA, again taking the backroads, and got home around 9:00PM.

The very next day, Nipper and I headed for Las Vegas, where we spent a couple of days hanging out with my Mom (my Dad was visiting Vermont at the time) and doing all the things we like to do while in Vegas: thrift shopping and catching shows. We saw the one and only Lou Rawls "live in concert" and had a total blast -- what a voice! We also found some very cool thrift store clothes, including a killer atomic pattern shirt for me. After a couple of fun-filled days, we headed off to Death Valley Junction to hook up with some dear friends at the Amargosa Hotel and Opera House, where we stayed the evening. The hotel was cool, very old-school -- I could imagine Gram Parsons holed up there, shooting balloon after balloon of skag. Later that evening, we all enjoyed a somewhat silly and amateurish performance by California living legend Marta Becket and her trusty sidekick, Tom Willett. It was incredibly fun, a truly uniquely Californian experience. Later that night, we all went to a nearby Nevada poolhall-slash-bar and had a late, great dinner. After that, some went to the casino to try their gambling luck, while some went back to the hotel to consume beers and enjoy the warm desert night. At around 2:00AM, when everyone was crashing out for the night, I walked a short ways down the road to an old cemetery and hung out by myself for an hour or so, awash in moonlight and deep in thought about the people buried around me in this makeshift graveyard. Total old west vibe -- it was a very cool experience.

The next day found Nipper and me taking the scenic route through Death Valley back to Los Angeles, where we arrived safe and sound. We both slept for about twelve hours straight and, just like that, my week off was over. Done. Kaput. Except for one very cool thing.

About a year ago, I'd composed a song "in the style" of Mike Keneally, called "Mylk of Mygnysya". Well, Keneally's European drummer, Schroeder, had offered to play drums along to the track. How could I possibly refuse this offer? So, several weeks ago, I mailed Schroeder a 'drumless' version of the song for him to play to. When I got back from Death Valley, a CD from Schroeder was in the mail. All I can say is HOLY SHIT! Schroeder KICKED TOTAL ASS on this song, completely transforming it into something I'd never even imagined. I love it!!! THANKS, Schroeder, for the excellent drumsmanship -- you rule! If and when I upload this new version, you -- dear reader -- will be the first to know.

And that brings this lengthiest of blogs to a close. Sure, there's things I should mention about this upcoming week -- an upcoming Abe Lincoln Story performance on local indie radio station KXLU; my new roommate Don of The Dons; some other music news regarding a certain local band that plays 1920's music exclusively that I'm considering joining; how cool the new Tribeca album is sounding. Maybe I should even mention a secret link to my recent review of the new Todd Rundgren album (shhhh, it hasn't been officially published yet). I should mention all of these things, but this blog is already stupidly long. You understand, right? Right. You're bloody well right. You've got a bloody right to say.

Okay my little crayfish, until next week, remember: architecture is frozen music, so build yourself a rustic structure in a remote California canyon and fish till your knees bleed. Remember to hike your own hike and respect nature or it'll rip you to shreds. xoxox kErrY xoxox