From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part VI

Part VI – We meet the Amazing Woody and the lovely Grace

Bill and I had directions to an old trailer at a dirt crossroads where Woody was to meet us and escort us the rest of the way to the camp on Frenchmen’s Pond. We were to be joined by Woody’s wife, Gracie, and his pal, board member Pmag, for drinks, a steak cookout, some rod casting, a little fishing, some lie-swapping and story telling… it promised to be an all around delightful evening.

So off we went, back up 510 to the 502. It was a lovely late afternoon in May, the sun was shining, the temperature in the seventies, and I was filled with anticipation and thoroughly enjoying the ride through unfamiliar country.

We made our way to the trailer landmark at the crossroads and there, across the railroad tracks, was the Amazing One himself, standing next to some sort of all-terrain vehicle festooned with a Confederate Battle Flag, a prodigious plug of tobacco in his jaw.

“Waalll, howdy fellers!” (he spat tobacco juice; most of it dribbling down his chin) “Hell fahr, it shore is mahty fahn to meet y’all!”

He then apparently swallowed some of his chaw as he was racked with a spasm of uncontrollable coughing.

“You ok, Woody?”

Red faced, unable to speak, the only response was more hacking and hiccupping accompanied by a nonchalant wave of his hand meant, I assumed, to dismiss our concerns.

Woody, at this point, seemed to be in severe distress, but waved off all attempts to thump him on the back and – still unable to speak – hopped onto his ATV and motioned for us to follow.

It was a short drive across a scrubby, recently cut section of jack pine forest, down a hill and around a bend, and there we were at the legendary Voelker’s pond.

The camp was every bit as homey, pretty and redolent of past good times as pictures I’d seen and my imagination had led me to think it would be.

Woody hopped off his little car, having composed himself by this time, and seemed none the worse for wear other than a slightly detectable greenish tinge, and began to introduce us to his wife, Grace.

“Fellers”, he said - although it came out more like “Ferrers” owing to the chaw - “Ferrers, ‘is is ma w…”

“Woody! Why are you talking like that?”

“Aw, Gracie”

“And spit out that disgusting tobacco”

“Ye…(patooie) Yes’m”

“And stop saying, ‘Yes’m’”

“Yes’m…I mean OK, Gracie”

Grace turned to Bill and me with a smile and said “You’ll have to excuse Woody. He’s been doing this redneck routine ever since we moved here. Trying to fit in, I guess. Drives me nuts”

“But people around here don’t speak with a southern accent”, I said.

“I keep telling him the same thing, but he just goes on watching these stupid Hee-Haw tapes…”

“Aw, Gracie; yore embarrassin’ me in front of the fellers…”

“Woody! Stop it!!”

“Awww…”

We managed to persuade Woody that he needn’t be a redneck on our account, and he actually seemed somewhat relieved – likely at the prospect of not having to chew Red Man for the duration of our visit. I don’t know if he would have survived.

Bill and I had brought gifts. Knowing that the traditional camp cocktail was an Old Fashioned, I had picked up a bottle of green crème de menthe, it being the oldest fashioned liquor I could think of. I had also brought one of my custom made, collector’s edition Formerly Clark’s Moderator t-shirts; one of my most popular designs, “The Ralphie”, unworn and still in its original plastic bag.

On the back, of course, was emblazoned the Formerly Clark’s Moderator Maxim, “Power Corrupts…Trivial Power Corrupts Trivially” and the Formerly Clark’s logo. A great shirt.

To my disappointment, Woody seemed not much interested in either the crème de menthe – which he didn’t even use when he made the Old Fashioneds, substituting bourbon - or the t-shirt, and instead made a big fuss over Bill’s gift which was just an old, used English fly reel. It didn’t even come in a plastic bag. Nonetheless, Woody and Bill seemed to bond at that point and were inseparable for the remainder of the trip.

My feelings were kind of hurt, to tell you the truth, but I got over it.

Next: Part VII - We are joined by the only-slightly-less-Amazing Pmag

From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part V

Having told his tale, BHB offered to show me around.

The cabin was quite nice and beautifully located on what looked for all the world like a small lake, but which Woody insisted was actually the Dead River after the Hoist Dam burst in March of 2003. Whichever, it was really nice.

For those of you who know the area, the cabin is just off the 502 in Negaunee Township. The 502 is, in turn, off 510 – not the 510; just 510. Distinctions like that matter in the UP. It’s not as bad as in France, though, where if you called the 502 just 502 they’d pretend to not know what you were talking about. On the UP they will just correct you.

We had a wood fired Sauna by the lake/river front.

The inside of the cabin consisted of a living room, dining area, kitchen sleeping loft and small bedroom on the main floor. One floor below was a master suite with a private deck overlooking the lake/river.

“Having gotten here first, I just threw my stuff in the room downstairs. I thought it would be more comfortable for you near the kitchen.” Said Doctor Bill. It came as no surprise to me that my friend would exhibit that kind of consideration and unselfishness.

Above is a picture of my modest but comfortable room and one of Bill's slightly more opulent suite.

After a couple of Two Hearted Ales, chosen to honor the location, and some conversation liberally laced with numerous poetical quotes and allusions that were absolutely mystifying as to their appositeness or indeed even their meaning, it was finally time to head out to the legendary camp at Frenchman’s pond where we were to meet the only slightly less legendary Amazing Woody for a cookout and some fishing.

From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part IV

“I can see by the look on your face, my faux-Gallic friend, that you are nonplused by my accent”

“Well, uh, yeah, Bill, I…”

"Doctor Bill, please!”

“…Doctor Bill. I was under the impression that you were from the Black Hills of South Dakota – indeed I’m pretty certain that you’ve claimed as much - yet you sound like Henry Miller”

“Ah, CI,

In the long journey out of the self, There are many detours, washed-out interrupted raw places Where the shale slides dangerously And the back wheels hang almost over the edge
At the sudden veering, the moment of turning. Better to hug close…”

“Bi…Doctor Bill, I don’t mean to be rude and interrupt, but how about an explanation that doesn’t rely on warmed over Roethke of dubious relevance?”

“You don’t like Roethke?”

“I like Roethke fine, that’s not…”

“…Winding upward toward the stream with its sharp stones, The upland of alder and birchtrees…”

“Doctor Bill!”

“Sorry! As Wallace Stevens said…”

“Bill!!”

“Doctor Bill!!!”

“Doctor Bill!! Stop it!!!”

“OK, OK. Jeez, you’re as testy in person as you are on the forum, aren’t you? Ah well, no matter.

I was indeed born in the town of Deadwood in the Black Hills of South Dakota, but at the age of five we pulled up stakes and headed east to NY where my father had been offered a position as a fish-scaler at the Fulton Market. This promised to be a significant step upward economically for the family, as in Deadwood my father was a self-ordained minister and we were dependent on the charity of the local Lutherans who – in common with Lutherans everywhere - did not have a charitable bone in their respective bodies.

We settled in Brooklyn, in East New York, and as I grew up I assumed a position of leadership on the streets, due as much to my quick fists as my nimble wits. My pals and I became known as “The Black Hills Bunch”, partly in homage to the place of my birth, but also due to the slightly higher elevation of East New York relative to our rivals in neighboring Brownsville. We were a wild crew, we were; feared and admired in equal measure.

Although my father and mother half-heartedly tried to rein me in, at this point I had become the primary source of support for the family which had grown to include my thirteen brothers and sisters as well as my great uncle, Black Hills Paul, a notorious drunk and ne’er-do-well.

I was surely headed for prison or worse, when in my nineteenth year a serendipitous occurrence led to an epiphany that changed my life.

Having mugged a local burgher and stolen, among other things, his brief case, I was ensconced behind a building housing a kosher slaughterhouse perusing its contents which consisted primarily of papers of neither interest nor value. I was about to toss the whole thing aside when I came upon a small leather-bound volume entitled “The Collected Poetry of William Morris”. Desultorily flipping the pages, my attention was arrested by the following:

Wearily, drearily,
Half the day long,
Flap the great bannersHigh
over the stone;
Strangely and eerily
Sounds the wind's song,
Bending the banner-poles.

While, all alone,
Watching the loophole's spark,
Lie I, with life all dark,
Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd
Fast to the stone,
The grim walls, square-letter'd
With prison'd men's groan.Still strain the banner-poles

Through the wind's song,
Westward the banner rolls
Over my wrong.

I was stunned! Clearly this was the voice of providence speaking directly to me! Eagerly I began to read another poem:

I am the handmaid of the earth,
I broider fair her glorious gown,
And deck her on her days of mirth
With many a garland of renown.

And while Earth's little ones are fain
And play about the
Mother's hem,
I scatter every gift I gain
From sun and wind to gladden them.


I had never read such beautiful words in my life! There and then I vowed to put aside my life of crime and wantonness and devote myself to courting the muse of poetry - and such I did."

"That’s quite a story, B…Doctor Bill (although the Morris poetry is worse than three-day old tripe) -- is any of it true?”

“Weeeeelllll, CI, I suppose it depends on what you mean by ‘true’. As Plato said, “Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history”.

“In other words it’s bullshit?”

“Every word of it, my friend…every word”.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

A Cloozoe Supervised Investigation yields, at long last, the unvarnished truth. But another in what will be a long, maybe too long, series of crack investigative reports to lay before you the essential facts needed before placing any orders with your Tackle Commodities Futures Dealer.

Dear Reader, as promised by Himself, no stone will be left unturned to bring to you (plural or singular) the very best that our investigative skills might produce. Toward that end, we were tasked with seeking to find the true maker of all those silly reels stamped with a “D”. You know, the ones that have had their value artificially and rapidly inflated by a bit of chatter.
So, we sent out feelers to our operatives and confidential informants (“C.I. in warrantspeak), questioning whether the man born in Coventry, England in September 1860 could have possibly produced what is claimed.
Tips started coming in and were quickly discarded. Some suggested the reels were made by the Devil, thus stamped “D,” but this was soon rejected. Others spoke of Dante or his cohort Beatrice, but the reels seem newer than that, and likely not of Italian manufacture.
Then we struck gold. A meeting was arranged with a completely unreliable C.I.. At the meeting held in a Sunoco Station in the Catskills, the C.I. spoke softly, eyes darting back and forth to maintain security as taught by the Chief Inspector himself (a completely different type of C.I.), and he told a tale of a secret hollow in Joisey that might hold the answer. At first, thinking he was speaking of the Jersey Islands, we immediately assumed our British-speak role and responded, “Beautiful! Spot on, Sir!” disrupting all other diners within 1/4 mile. Advised the informant was referring to New Jersey, we reverted to the normal Sunoco-site language and the hushed tones required of all such investigators.
The location of the hollow in question was written in white ink, carefully scripted on the flat of a Taylor Quad to avoid the slightest chance of detection. The C.I. was paid with the usual payment received by any participant in an investigation performed on behalf of you, Dear Reader, and we parted our ways. He back to Formerly Clark’s, and yours truly over to Mikey’s for a touch of coffee.
Days later, and with all proper surveillance equipment in place, we headed off in the night to the location in question having carefully de-scarfed the rod section holding the vital information. The clue was now pocket-sized.
Three days later, two of them spent in traffic in New Jersey, we arrived. We awaited the fall of night, or nightfall should you prefer one word when four can easily do the descriptive job, then watching shooting stars, space trash and worried by a forecast for acid rain, we slid down a slick mud and skin piercing gravel embankment into the very den of the “D”. And “D” could well have stood for total darkness, Dear Reader, since during the whole of the night we could see nothing, save a strange fire that would glow, dim, glow, dim and so forth. You get the picture. Occasionally sparks would fly off and we feared that Beelzebub himself was in charge. Sidebar for a moment. I just realized that I have been using the editorial “we,” that some of you may find to smack of talking of myself in the third person. Tough – get over it.
Now back to our modest adventure.
As rosy fingered dawn approached (I am not referring to Dangerous Dawn from Paterson, but adopting a literary image), we could finally see a small creature across the hollow. Muscular and covered in hair, we momentarily speculated that we were beholding a Yeti, in troll-like form. But then, as the sun began to rise our vision cleared. There the creature was, resplendent in a Pink (yup, we using that word again) Tutu, bent over an anvil, Vulcan’s very hammer in hand, banging away. From time to time, he, or perhaps it, would grunt, pick up a small object with tongs and place it over the glowing embers of a charcoal fire, and then back to the anvil with more work to be done.
Having been up all of four days, mostly stuck in traffic, we grew weary, leaned back against a tree and dozed off. I assure you this well deserved rest was not caused by medicinal nips from the nickel silver flask always carried with the Cloozoe surveillance kit. Speaking of nickel silver flasks, I have been able to collect eight of them, all bench made by Flaggon of Pewksberry who started his career as an arbor pin maker for Heaton. They are stamped “FOP” on their bottoms and are simply the most beautiful bench made flasks ever made. One, and only one in my collection, features the famous and rare red agate screw top and is, believe it or not, left hand wind. Keep an eye out for these and if a couple of us discuss them back and forth who knows what will happen to the value. Sorry. I hope you’re still with me since the end, the truth, is in sight from what we next saw at the site and will shortly reveal to you.
We awoke to the croaking of a two-headed toad that had apparently emerged from the small stream running nearby having finished its feast on Luna moths. It was a strange land we were in. I said to myself, here’s a maze trod indeed through forthrights and meanders, by your patience I needs must rest me. (I ain’t going to look it up but I think that’s a rough statement uttered by Gonzago, a member of the Genoa Bar in The Tempest. I simply, because of my responsibilities to you, Dear Reader, had to throw in something of legal nature. It’s part of the job description.
Looking about, the strange Specie Tutuman had vanished, the embers had died to the flat color [colour for our international readers] of a properly oxidized non-swiss ferrule and all was silent, save the alternating hiccups from the toad’s two mouths.
Across the hollow stood the evil black anvil with a small object perched on top. We extracted photographic equipment necessary to capture the evidence and approached cautiously. Through the sparse and toxic weeds we spied vast numbers of bent, rusted and unfinished horseshoes, all bearing a stamped “D”. Odd we thought, but took careful note of the evidence. Scattered here and there were hand-forged fishing spoons with names engraved upon them. “Hendrikson beater,” “Creative Cahill,” and one, with a small hinged compartment labeled “real cow dung.”
An object stood upon the anvil, a hammer at the ready, and we carefully took the above photograph submitted for you, Dear Reader, to preserve the scene and provide you with demonstrative evidence.
We previously, using gifted intuitive skills, had thought long and hard on the fact that many of these “D” marked reels were held together by what is known as the “Horsehoe Latch.” The clues were coming together.
The object upon the anvil, as you may see, is a hand-crafted fishing reel, the inside stamped boldly with the infamous “D.” Cleverly disguised, it has a latch made to look like a 19th Century telephone. Not the giveaway Horseshoe latch.
The final proof. A loud fart from the rim of the hill above us startled us and drew our attention to a modest shack, teetering on the brink. A scream pierced the silence of the glade. “Free me, free me!!!” a female voice proclaimed. In response an inhuman grunt was heard with words believed to be, “screw you Roberta, bring me more breakfast, I’ve been hammering out more stinking reels all night long.”
Out came our telescope, and when extended and placed to the eye, one could see over the door, hanging loosely by a single hinge, a worn and decrepit sign of no welcome that said, “Defazio’s Domain – Keep Out – Right Wing Central.”
So we finally have the answer and have now given it you, Dear Reader, for all time. It is Dezazio the Farrier himself, and his infamous “D” that is imbedded in these very reels as it is upon the shoes he fashions for the feet of animals. Before word should get out, we advocate that the three of you who may have come across this news unload quickly any such reels on the closed market, before the crash in value takes place and you’re wiped out.
This small piece is just another contribution to help you, Dear Reader, in your quest for the best.

In Defense of Bamboo Rods As An Investment Strategy

This is the second in a series of hard-hitting and incisive analyses of some of the major developments in the sport today. These detailed whitepapers are designed to provoke thought and stimulate debate… or, maybe it’s stimulate thought and provoke debate… well, maybe it’s just provoke… among you, the recognized cognoscenti and, as noted earlier, the final authorities on all things bamboo.

...................................................................................................

In Defense of Bamboo Rods As An Investment Strategy


Well, let’s see… there’s uhhh… hmmmm.

I, uhhhh… lemme see… I, uhhhh… well… hmmmm. Wellll…

Anyone? Anyone?

From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part III

Upon crossing the Mackinac Bridge onto the UP, one enters the picturesque village of St. Ignace, where seemingly every other ramshackle store featured a hand-painted sign advertising in large letters, “PASTIES”. I couldn’t help but wonder how many strip clubs there could possibly be in the UP to support all the pasty establishments. But after a diligent, extended search failed to turn up a single such club – and I looked hard, selflessly willing to delay arrival at my ultimate destination in the spirit of rigorous academic inquiry – I decided that perhaps the UP was home to a huge pasties manufactory and wholesale distribution center, much the way Castroville in California supplies the world with artichokes.

It further occurred to me that perhaps the various pasty establishments had photographs of their offerings being worn? Perhaps even live models! I veered back onto the road – still possessed of the aforementioned spirit of disinterested inquiry - and decided to pose as the owner of a chain of strip joints in need of lots of pasties, and go check out the wares.

Imagine my surprise to learn that in Yooper parlance pasties are not like those in the first picture but rather foodstuffs as in the second one. They were created to be eaten for lunch by Cornish miners but their appeal has apparently spread, since I didn't meet a single Cornish miner during my entire stay on the UP.

Having - with some admitted disappointment - gotten to the bottom of the pasty puzzle, I continued on. The initial part of my trip across and upward through the UP took me along the northern shore of Lake Michigan. It was a warm, sunny day (the last such day I would see) and the lake was almost as blue as the Caribbean.

The Driggs River crosses route 28 somewhere between Seney and Shingleton and I intended to stop and commune, or perhaps even do a little pre-arrival fishing there. My host-to-be, the Amazing Woody, had assured me that it was marked with a sign. But although I reëxamined the map quite a few times, and drove back and forth along a ten mile stretch of route 28, I never did find a sign identifying it. This was mystifying since I slowed at every small bridge and saw signs for, among other notable bodies of water, “Duffy’s Creek”, “Ya, Sure, Brook”, “Busta’s Trickle”, and “Clyde’s Mud Puddle”…but no Driggs. Perhaps the explanation is that anyone but a “troll” (Yooper-humor-speak for anyone who lives “below the bridge” – get it?) could find the Driggs without assistance, but Clyde’s Mud Puddle would be otherwise easily missed by even the most astute cognoscenti of UP high-lights. At one point I came upon a decent size, if somewhat muddy stream about where I reckoned the Driggs ought to be and followed a logging road along it for a way until I found myself axle deep in good, wet, clingy UP clay and figured I’d better try and get out of there, so my only lasting reminder of the Driggs, if such indeed it was, was the drying clay thickly caked on the wheels and undercarriage of my car, large hunks of which would break off every few miles for the rest of the trip.

Arriving at last at our rented cabin on the shore of a small lake which Amazing Woody insists is a river, I was pleased to see that Black Hills Bill had already arrived and was coming out of the door to greet me.

He looked much as I had imagined he would – vigorous and distinguished. The last picture is a close-up taken of him upon the occasion of his being granted a long-delayed doctorate in post-structural deconstruction and obfuscation from the Millard Fillmore Academy of Literature and the Tonsorial Arts, a correspondence school with accreditation pending in three southern states.

But although Black Hills Bill’s (or Doctor Black Hills Bill, as he insists on being called) appearance jibed with my preconception, nothing could have prepared me for the effect his opening remarks were to have:

“Chief Inspectuh! It coitainly is a pleazhuh to meetcha! In da woids of da Belle a’ Amhoist,

SOFTENED by Time’s consummate plush,
How sleek da woe appeahs
Dat t’reatened childhood’s citadel
And unduhmined da yeauhs

From the Archives - Road Trip to the UP - Part II

It was with great relief and a sense of having made substantial progress toward my destination that I bid adieu to Ohio and crossed into Michigan, although five hundred miles remained from that point to Negaunee in the northwestern Upper Peninsula. To put that in perspective, Wyoming – which I’ve driven across more than once and think of as a big western state – is 364 miles across from east to west. (And by astonishing coincidence measures exactly the same from west to east!)

I immediately encountered much more fodder for contemplation than in the entire state of Ohio. One is first struck by the complete and utter absence of foreign cars. I had anticipated this, but it still proved to be somewhat jarring to behold as I live in an upscale town in NJ where the automobile breakdown by make goes: Lexus – 36%; Mercedes – 23%; Others (BMW, Jaguar, Range Rover, Humvee, Infiniti, Porsche, Volvo, etc) - 40.999999999%; Toyota - 0.000000001%. The Toyota is mine.

It was as if a space ship owned jointly by the Big Three and the UAW zapped them all with a super-destructo ray leaving nothing behind but a few particles of imported leather, a handful of melted GPS devices, and a stray Starbucks cup and I was relieved every morning I spent in the state that no one had spray painted graffiti on my car during the night.

The speed limit went up to 70 mph, which made sense for a state in which the automobile plays such a prominent role, so I immediately upped my pace to a comfortable 85. One noticeable discordant note, though, was that gas prices immediately increased fifty cents a gallon as soon as you crossed the border. This surprised me greatly, as I assumed any state relying so heavily on automobile manufacture would do everything in its power to encourage their use including maximizing the efficiency of gas distribution and minimizing the tax on same, but such was not the case.

Michigan is expensive in another way as well. At every construction stretch along the highway there are signs reading “Kill or injure a worker - $7500 and 15 years”. Here in NJ you can kill a worker for $5000 and injure one for only $1500 – less, if you know the right people – although admittedly they don’t give you fifteen years to pay it off; it’s strictly cash on the barrel-head, delivered in a paper bag to a guy with a crooked nose.

I refueled just off the highway in a tiny crossroads town a little north of Saginaw at a gas station/general store which sported a large sign boasting “Second Largest Selection of Beef Jerky in the Country”. This suggested, of course, an obvious question and being the preternaturally curious guy I am I asked it of the clerk: “Where can I find the First Largest Selection of Beef Jerky in the Country?” He merely looked puzzled - clearly the sign in front had been there so long it had become as invisible to him as wallpaper. So I explained helpfully, “You have a sign out front claiming to have the Second Largest Selection of Beef Jerky in the Country. I was wondering who had the First Largest”. He paused, looked thoughtful, rubbed his chin and replied “Must be the place in Alger”. Hearing this impressed me mightily given the unlikely but now confirmed fact that both the first and second largest selections of beef jerky in the country were not only both to be found in Michigan, but in little towns within 50 miles of each other.

My thirst for arcane knowledge thus slaked, and my appreciation for the state growing by the minute, I thanked him and continued my journey. A little farther north, my radar detector burped. I had drifted up to a nice, steady 90 mph so I backed off a bit while scanning the road and woods ahead for any signs of the constabulary. I rounded a curve, and there he was, still a few hundred yards in front of me and busy with another customer that he had pulled over. I might have been a bit blasé about slowing down quickly, but did have it down to 70 by the time I drew abreast of him and passed him. Did you know the sheriff’s deputies in Michigan have double-barreled radar units that point forward and backward? I didn’t. As soon as I had passed him he pulled out, fired up the flashers, and pulled me over.

There are lots of kinds of cops and you can usually tell which kind you’re dealing with by their eyes. Maybe it’s not really their eyes, but the lines around their eyes. Of course if they are wearing mirrored sunglasses, you can’t see their eyes or the lines around them, but any cop who wears mirrored sunglasses is a hard-ass and you already know everything you need to. This particular sheriff’s deputy was of the decent sort: weathered, late middle-aged, with eyes that had seen everything from whole families mangled in wrecks, to the remnants of drunken domestic brawls at ramshackle trailers in the woods. He had eyes that would never be surprised by anything they saw ever again, but you could tell that the things he had seen had bothered him and always would. He called me sir, wished me a good morning, and without any tricky cop crap told me straightforwardly that he “had me at 82 mph back there”. I called him sir and wished him a good morning in return and apologized. When he returned to my car with the ticket he told me that although he “had me at 82 mph” he had written the ticket for 75 and that as such it wouldn’t impose any points on my license. I thanked him. He looked at me with those sad, wry, cop’s eyes of his and the merest hint of a smile and said, “Don’t thank me too much – it still carries a $110 fine”, wished me a safe journey, and we both went our ways. It was worth the $110 to meet him.

The rest of the trip through lower Michigan was uneventful. Nice country, and increasingly full of those unmistakable aspects of light, land and flora that let you know you are “up north”. I arrived soon enough at the Mackinac Bridge (which I’m told is pronounced “mackinaw” and is sometimes spelled that way, too) and headed across the straits to the Upper Peninsula. I got a kick out of being able to see both Lake Huron – the redheaded step child of the Great Lakes – and Lake Michigan simultaneously as illustrated in the two pictures at the top taken from mid-span.

From the Archives - The "Best" of Cloozoe

Being too lazy to write new stuff, from time to time we will re-publish some of Cloozoe's Greatest Hits. At the request of an overwhelming fifty percent of our readers (Zen Cane) we''ll kick things off with Part One of the longest story never completely told; Cloozoe's report on his May 2007 fishing trip to Michigan's Upper Peninsula with Black Hills Bills, Amazing Woody, and featuring a cameo appearance by Pmag.

Picture of Ohio, one of the top 46 most beautiful states in America

Trip to the UP, Part I

Apologies to all of you who understandably have no interest in hearing about someone else’s fishing trip. My companions insisted I produce this report since they apparently very much like to read about themselves. I warned them – sternly - that my version would contain truth of the un-shellacked variety, as I owed no less to both the historical record and my well-earned, unchallenged, and rigorously guarded reputation for exacting veracity. I further warned them that they might not even recognize themselves since they clearly share the rest of the human race’s capacity for self-deception and both harbor delusions of adequacy. They professed to be unconcerned: “Hell, there’s no such thing as bad publicity; just make sure you spell our names right”.

So, Emazzing Wouldie and Blak Hils Bil, here it is – you asked for it.

My journey began a week ago, last Thursday morning, with a drive northwest to Interstate 80 in Pennsylvania and – three hundred miles later – into Ohio. Only three things about Ohio piqued my interest:

1. They have the audacity to charge a toll on interstate 80 and they've renamed the section within their borders “The Ohio Turnpike”. I assume the reason they get away with it is because one doesn’t have to pony up until getting off the turnpike at one end of the state or the other and most people would gladly pay any fee within reason to leave.

2. In Ohio all the signs for roads with one or two digit designations indicate the route number inside an outline map of the state showing its proportions to be roughly square, whereas the roads designated with three digits show the proportions of the state as a pronounced rectangle, with the result that it is now much wider than it is tall. Apparently no one could figure out any other way to squeeze in the extra digit other than to distort the map.

3. Fulfilling a boyhood dream, I passed by the birthplace of Rutherford B. Hayes, near Sandusky. I didn’t visit it, since I had dreamt only of passing by.

Hayes, a Republican, was the nineteenth president of the United States and there are a couple of things you should know about him. He was the first and - until recently - only president to take office despite losing the popular vote which tallied 4,300,000 for Tilden to 4,036,000 for Hayes. Hayes's ultimate election depended upon contested electoral votes in Louisiana, South Carolina, and Florida. If all the disputed electoral votes went to Hayes, he would win; a single electoral vote would elect Tilden. Months of uncertainty followed. In January 1877 Congress established an Electoral Commission to decide the dispute. The commission, comprised of eight Republicans and seven Democrats, (can you guess, dear readers, what happened next?) determined all the contests in favor of Hayes by – surprise! - a vote of eight to seven along party lines. The final electoral vote: 185 to 184. Then - as now - the big money was solidly behind the Republican party. Some things never change.

Hayes’s other notable achievement was his decision to withdraw federal troops from the south in the name of restoring "wise, honest, and peaceful local self-government", thus effectively ending the Reconstruction era. The "wise, honest, and peaceful local self-government" in turn paved the way for the Ku Klux Klan, wholesale lynching and other acts of terror, and ushered in nine decades of state sanctioned apartheid and disenfranchisement of black people. In the south, those nine decades are referred to as "the good old days". Hayes’s withdrawal of the troops was a manifestly political maneuver intended to bring southern voters into the Republican fold. But the Republican party at the time was too closely identified in the southern mind with the devil, Lincoln, and Hayes’s stratagem went for naught: the south remained solidly Democratic until 1964 and the passage of the civil rights act which was supported overwhelmingly by non-southern Democrats, 94%-6% (and to be fair, almost as overwhelmingly by non-southern Republicans, 85%-15%) at which point the always fragile coalition of northern liberals and southern Dixiecrats began to crumble and all them Yaller Dawg Democrats started jumping ship. Note: Only 7 southern Democratic Congressmen and 1 southern Democratic Senator (Ralph Yarborough of Texas) voted for the measure. Not a single southern Republican did so, further laying the groundwork for the seismic political shift of the south to the staunchly Republican region it remains to this day.

Ohio does, though, rank among the forty six most beautiful states in the country, albeit toward the bottom of that group.

Advice Requested

I know we have our own advice columnist, the inimitable DeFazio, but this seems a bit outside his areas of expertise.

I've started looking into various services that would allow me to re-configure Cloozoe's International House of Pancakes as a regular forum/bulletin board; with categories, search features, private messaging, the ability for all members to start their own topics...you know, kind of like Formerly Clark's but without the sanctimony, limitations, Pat Garner or Bulldog.

I quickly learned that there is a dizzying array of options available at prices ranging from free to cheap. Does anyone out there have any experience/expertise in this area? Anyone capable/willing to help with the graphic design? I'd be glad for your input. Post here under comments or email me at cloozoe@optonline.net

Breaking News! Pittsnogle Located! Named 'Country Living' Editor!

Legendary Primitive, Melvin Pittsnogle, Joins Editorial Staff of Cloozoe's International House of Pancakes

March 18, 2009. Ponchatoula, LA

After an exhaustive search, the famed recluse and eccentric was found living under the I-10 bridge just outside Ponchatoula. Once sufficiently sober to speak, he agreed to sign on as Country Living Editor for Cloozoe's International House of Pancakes, the internet's pre-eminent epicurean-literary-anarcho-contrarian-flyfishing-grooming-tips website.

"We're truly thrilled to have Melvin on board", said J.A. Cloozoe, Editor-in-chief. "I think anyone familiar with his work would agree that there is absolutely no one like him. Plus he works cheap."

"Howdy fellers", said Pittsnogle. "I don't know what a editor is, but ain't nobody knows more about livin' in the country than me, I reckon. That Cloozoe feller tole me he ain't never even skinned a possum!"

###

No embargo - For immediate release

Dear DeFazio - Answers to your most Intimate Questions on Love, Life & Grooming

Dear DeFazio,

With spring almost upon us, I’ll soon be wearing more spaghetti straps, low-backed tops and strapless gowns. The problem is, my back and shoulders are quite hairy and I find the extensive waxing required too painful. Any suggestions?

Sincerely,

Hairy in Harrisburg



Dear Hairy,

Vigorous body hair growth is a sign of a healthy supply of testosterone and nothing to be ashamed of, regardless of your gender. In fact, many members of the opposite sex are actually quite attracted to the hirsute, natural look. I think I look terrific in a strapless ball gown, and I got more hair than an orangutan. When you got it, flaunt it!

Regards,

DeFazio


Dear DeFazio,

Maybe you could help settle a little disagreement between my wife and myself. We’ve been happily married for thirteen years, and I’ve always been scrupulous about doing my share of the housework, driving the children to soccer games, attending parent teacher conferences, etc. Just recently, one of the neighbors invited me to join his regular Thursday evening poker game. It’s a friendly game for very low stakes and it sounds like fun, but my wife likes to relax in front of the TV at night and expects me to keep the kids occupied so that they don’t disturb her. She says I can’t go. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’m so upset I may actually work up the nerve to ask her to reconsider. Any thoughts?

Nervously,

Wannabe Poker Player


Dear Wannabe,

Yeah, I got a thought: I think you should unbutton your pants, look down and see if you still got a pair. What the hell’s wrong with you?! What your wife needs (and secretly wants) is a good, swift kick in the slats. Tell her you will be going to the poker game, and - oh yeah – you’re probably going to be hungry when you get home, so she should wait up and make you a little snack. You might be horny, too, so tell her after she’s done doing the snack dishes, you’ll expect her to set aside another five minutes to attend to her wifely duties. Then she can watch TV or whatever else she wants to do, as long as she keeps her trap shut and doesn’t bother you.

Got that, pussy?

Disgustedly,

DeFazio

.......................................................................................................

Got a problem with love, life, or grooming? Dear DeFazio is here to help! Send your questions along with $5.00 in cash to:

Dear DeFazio
c/o Cloozoe’s International House of Pancakes
237 Easy Street
Truth or Consequences, NM 87901

If your question is chosen for publication, you will be billed an additional $5.00

In Defense of the 000-weight Rod

This is the first in a series of hard-hitting and incisive analyses of some of the major developments in the sport today. These detailed whitepapers are designed to provoke thought and stimulate debate… or, maybe it’s stimulate thought and provoke debate… well, maybe it’s just provoke… among you, the recognized cognoscenti and, as noted earlier, the final authorities on all things bamboo.
...................................................................................................

In Defense of the 000-weight Rod


Well, let’s see… there’s uhhh… hmmmm.

I, uhhhh… lemme see… I, uhhhh… well… hmmmm. Wellll…

Anyone? Anyone?

News Flash – Henry Parkhurst Wells had Worms!

The first in our continuing series on Fly-fishing patent attorneys, submitted by Contributing Editor, Cwfly.

As Cloozoe well knows, my starting point with Patent Lawyers must begin with Henry Parkhurst [call me “Parky”] Wells of Brooklyn, New York. But then he might have been called “Park,” reminding the well-read reader of the short lived debate on Formerly Clark’s over whether Harold Steele Gillum was called “Pink” or “Pinkie.” Certainly by the time of Mr. Gillum’s death he was called Pinkie since that is how the New York Times referred to him.

But I delay too long, wondering what to write next, so it’s back to our subject. Parky was a member of the New York bar, perhaps Bar, who had the guts to play with guts. As far as is known (to me and with only minutes of research), Parkhurst, as he was probably called at Amherst, lived alone in Brooklyn in his later years – his sister but a few city blocks away. He was born in Providence, the son of Dr. Phineas Parkhurst Wells (Parky the Elder). I am uncertain if lawyer Parky had a Juris Doctor degree; if so, then no doubt father and son were known as Dr. Parky the Elder and Dr. Parky the Younger. It really doesn’t matter anymore. What does matter is our Parky’s contribution to fly fishing – no pancake patents here – through his advocacy for Julius Vom Hofe and his own reel designs.

Although few read anymore, and one can hardly rely on the accuracy of what is written, I commend Parky’s Fly-Rods and Fly-Tackle. After all, the review in The New York Sun noted, “The value of the author’s instructions and suggestions is signally enhanced by their minuteness and lucidity.” It doesn’t get any better than that. It is within the green cloth binding of this book that one will find Parky’s detailed description of lonely nights spent in the Borough of Brooklyn with his collection of worms. Here the reader can find the proper way to disembowel a silk worm so no time is wasted on your own pet project. Furthermore, one might be drawn to The American Salmon Fisherman. The Atlantic Monthly noted, “The author is alert and companionable.” Sounds like Cloozoe to me. Both those quotes are actually, believe it or not, accurate. They may be found at the back of a modest book, Practical Lawn Tennis, 1893, written by one Dr. James Dwight (another sporting-physician). Makes one wonder if the 19th Century physicians and lawyers were doing anything other than playing tennis and fishing. Coupled with the adverts for Parky’s books, one will find such interesting publications noted as, How to Get Strong and How to Stay So, by William Blakie, How Women Should Ride, by De Hurst, and another Blakie favorite, Sound Bodies for Our Boys and Girls. Quite a library there!

A Warm Welcome to Our Contributing Editors

It is with great pleasure that Cloozoe's International House of Pancakes (we're regretting the name more with each time we have to type it) presents its editorial staff. Without undue modesty but -- at the same time -- with a profound lack of humility, we may fairly state that no expense was either spared or underwent; that each of the editors was chosen for their splendid erudition and sterling character; and that the selections were made only after the most exhaustive search among the first few people who came to our mind.

Drake - Executive Editor, Sergeant-at-arms

Black Hills Bill - Poetry Editor; Sage; Crank; Director, Outreach to Mormons Program (Emeritus); Resident Expert on Snow.

Cwfly - Legal Affairs; Historical Oddities; Squid

Ted Golden - Economics; Antiquities; Stewart Granger Fly Rods

DeFazio - Host: Dear DeFazio - Answers to your intimate questions on relationships, dating and marriage; Grooming Tips

Amazing Woody - Jack Pines

Melvin Pittsnogle - Country Living; Pathos

Tina Brown - We really have nothing for her to do, we just felt sorry for her so we put her on the masthead


Owing to the fact that the contributing editors have each generously agreed to work for a sum toward, or indeed at or below, the lower end of the conventional compensation range and that in a few instances they perhaps haven't actually in so many words even agreed to accept the position, we felt it only fair; nay necessary, to be relatively liberal in terms of our requirements of them. We have none. We require nothing. In fact they don't have to contribute a damn thing if they don't want to. Wouldn't surprise us in the least. Virtually worthless bastards. Fuck 'm.

Greetings!

Greetings to all Formerly Clark's Forumians. Although henceforth Cloozoe's IHOP -- in keeping with our wide ranging interests, oil-slick deep expertise and the specific strengths of the Contributing Editors -- will deal with a veritable cornucopia of topics... as a special welcome gift to our old mates, we've made use of our unparalleled investigatory skills to uncover startling information about the soon-to-be ruling troika of Formerly Clark's Classic Fly Rod Forum. Remember...you read it here first.

Formerly Clark's New Owners...Dangerous Communist Conspirators or Merely Pretentious Bumblers? You Be the Judge!

Did you know…

That “Doctor” Todd Larson not only displays an inordinate fondness for adverbs but that his supposed PhD was actually purchased from a fraudulent diploma mill run by Bernie Madoff?

That Pat Garner ran afoul of the Humane Society when it was learned he sternly addresses his cat as “Sir” and forces it to sit through interminable, officious, error-riddled lectures on the finer points of mouse-catching and yarn-tangling before feeding it?

That Jeff Hatton’s penchant for referring to himself in the third person almost cost him his life when -- struck by a cramp while swimming -- his frantic cries of “Save the Gnome! Save the Gnome!” sent potential rescuers rushing off into the woods in search of a wee person being menaced by a unicorn?

~

The foregoing is a Cloozoe's International House of Pancakes exclusive.

~

©2009 - All Rights Reserved