This last week I received a submission from Rosanne Griffeth. The title of her story is “A Prayer to the Gods of the Fishing Dogs.” Go read it and then come back.

Clearly, the subject matter is what first drew me in. I’ve just come back from a fly-fishing trip in Washington (state) and have been walking down to the Long Island Sound almost every evening to do some surf-casting. (Alas, I don’t have a dog.) But of course I don’t accept every fishing story that authors send me.

Rosanne Griffeth has crafted a tightly worded story with strong, vivid images. Her descriptions are striking: “…the Labrador with the box head and chocolate drop eyes…” Her writing has a distinct voice. You can sense it in her vocabulary and word choice. It’s just different enough to suggest a simpler, perhaps older world.

What I like about “A Prayer to the Gods of the Fishing Dogs” is the portrait of ordinary life. It’s a fisherman and his fishing dog really living and in contact with nature. When Zeke passes in the last paragraph, the reader feels like they have known the dog. I could feel myself stroking Zeke’s “sharp black fur” for the last time. Sentimental? Perhaps, but it’s real.

Rosanne Griffeth has an impressive publication history. You’ll want to read her story “Mememto Mori” in Smokelong Quarterly. Read the interview also; you’ll learn a little bit about the other things Griffeth does other than write good stories.

If you want to read more of Griffeth’s work, I’ll direct you to her blog: Smokey Mountain Breakdown.

I love reading to my son.  Not just because its nice to spend quality time with one’s offspring, but because I’m able to read him some of my favorites.  Right now we are working our way through The Hobbit.  We had great fun reading the first three Oz books too.

My son has even introduced good literature to me.  He’s a fan of Captain Underpants and now I am too.  I wonder if Tom Hodgkinson has ever read the adventures of George and Harold.  Those two seem destined to be life long idlers.

I’ve also taken to writing my own stories for my son (one full length fantasy novel and a “chapter book”-sized SF adventure).  Now that’s do-it-yourself entertainment.

I intend to continue spending less time with the web site and more time with actual paper and ink. That means I’m focusing the bulk of my writing time on fiction (novels) and The Angler (the print magazine, coming soon!!!).

I’m also doing more idling. This idling takes various forms: reading, fishing, gardening, making beer and bread, etc. I’m currently reading All the Names by José Saramago and How to Fish by Chris Yates. I’m still studying the practical philosophy of Tom Hodgkinson; my copy of The Freedom Manifesto is never far away.

I did some fly fishing out in Washington (state) in the early part of the month (where I visited the Elk Head Brewing Company in Buckley). Since I’m within walking distance of a fabulous beach on the Long Island Sound, I’ve been taking the rods down and doing some surfcasting with my son in the evenings.

Denise is active this summer helping with community activities associated with the Garden of Eve Farm out in Riverhead. The first week the farm’s CSA (community supported agriculture) was doing its distribution, Denise went out to help members find their produce, pick their own (if they wanted), and she did some cooking demonstrations. Denise is posting recipes (and other items) to the Garden of Eve Farmer’s Diary. You must make some of her croquettes. We live on these things during the summer months when greens are in season.

Denise and I are in the process of getting our home pub ready to open for entertaining. The opening date for the home pub (tentatively called The Angler, but I might opt for The Bait & Tackle or The Rod & Reel, or some other fishing theme name) is mid-July. I’d like to time the launch of the home pub with the release of the first issue of The Angler and possibly the release of the long awaited print version of The Beer Hall Guide to Long Island.

Since I was a kid, I’ve fished with artificial lures or with bait.  In Louisiana and Florida I fished almost exclusively with bait.  My personality type though naturally disposes me to have an interest in fly fishing.  Fly fishing is cool.  It’s seems more of an art than bait fishing, though I would never look down on the bait fisherman or disrespect the level of art and knowledge involved in catching fish with bait.  Bait fishing isn’t shooting fish in a barrel.  Craft beer and brewing is a big part of my life, so it’s only a matter of time before I get into fly fishing.

Here’s a bit of synchronicity.  I have been trying to come up with a name for a four page digest I’m interested in printing.  In the past I’ve called this digest by various names with the word “Angler” squeezed in like The Angler’s Review and The Angler’s Digest and even Stories from The Angler.  The purpose of this little four page digest is to get the attention of readers.  It’s a lure (so to speak) that I propose to use to get people interested in reading my magazine (The Angler).  For a moment I thought to call this digest The Lure, but that just doesn’t quite have the sound I want.  Then it hit me.  The perfect name.  I’ll call it The Fly.  I’m not yet a fly fisherman, but as I said it’s only a matter of time.  I did a quick search of the Internet to see if there are any other magazines called The Fly (there is indeed; one in the UK, that will never be confused with my little digest), but more importantly I found an article from 2002 in All About Beer magazine called “A Beer Lover’s Guide to Fly Fishing.”  Enjoy!

Now I bake bread too. Baking and brewing beer. These are two activities that promote freedom and reduce anxiety.

The price of hops and malt has been going up. The newspapers report skyrocketing prices for food. Am I worried? Not really. Brewing my own beer is cheap. Even if the price of my ingredients doubles or triples, I’m still paying a lot less for the beer I drink that the folks who have to buy commercially produced beer.

I went up to Callahan’s the other night for a pint with Rich. One of the regulars at Callahan’s (all the regulars know I’m “the beer guy”) started telling me about this doom and gloom story he had read in Newsday. Prices going up, food, gas. “I don’t want to drive my car anymore,” he said shaking his head. My response: “Stop reading Newsday. And try looking at the rising gas prices as an excuse to drive less. It’s not an inconvenience, it’s an invitation to freedom.”

Bread making isn’t as much as a economic savings as brewing, but it’s fun to make bread and the result is better tasting than anything you can buy at the supermarket. Of course, you shouldn’t be going to the supermarket. Supermarkets (any kind of “super” store for that matter) are evil (just look at chapter 25 in The Freedom Manifesto if you don’t believe me). They offer “choice”, but they ensnare us in a cycle of dependence.

Why did I leave the farm? I was reading The Freedom Manifesto last night and wondered what it would be like to return to Oklahoma and the idyllic setting of my childhood — the fields of wheat, the garden, the chicken coup, the barn, the milk cow, etc. I am descended from a long line of self-sufficient people. My grandfather didn’t have a career. He grew up on the farm and stayed there all his life. He worked hard. He did very well for himself.

Our biggest ball and chain is our mortgage. As long as we have to pay for the mortgage we will be slaves to our jobs. The jobs I do are not boring. I’m pretty lucky actually. I can dabble with being free since I think I have more “free” time than most people, but I didn’t always have this much free time. I had to make some sacrifices. The first sacrifice was the fifty percent pay cut, but Denise and I managed. It’s amazing how much you can cut out of the budget if you have to. We don’t have TV (a connection to cable or satellite TV service). The main reason is that we don’t want to spend our money on it. Also we have better things to do with our free time than watch TV (brew beer, make bread, play games, read, etc.)

The message of The Idler is to get off the career track and enjoy yourself. If I have a message to weave into The Angler it’s how do we make the first steps along the road to freedom. What’s the first step?

Last Monday I ordered a “Strubbe Doedel”. The beer had a nose full of grapes. If I didn’t know better I would have thought the bartender dosed my glass with verjus prior to pouring the beer. Strubbe is the name of the brewery. It’s in Ichtegem, in “the heart of Western Flanders” — a place I long to spend enormous amounts of time in. The full name of this beer is “Couckelaerschen Doedel” which is why they probably only printed the word Doedel in the beer menu. At the time of drinking the beer I had no idea of the story behind the beer, so I made a note and looked it up when I got home (and to an Internet connection).

The Strubbe Doedel is 6% ABV. This is what the brewery web page says: “Brewed with French summer barley, hops from Poperinge and a mix of Scottish delicate herbs (hence the name)…” Yes, that would explain the name! Am I supposed to conclude also that a mix of Scottish delicate herbs tastes like verjus?

Usually, I arrive at The Ginger Man at about 4:50, so I have about forty minutes to sip my glass of beer before catching a bus up to Midtown. Occasionally I strike up a conversation with someone at the bar, but normally I scribble in my notebook. Since I’ve resuscitated my podcast I have taken to writing out notes for future installments of Radio Beer Hall. Last Monday I was just about to start scribbling about Strubbe Doedel when a guy says, “Excuse me, is that Delirium Tremens?”

The bartender, a good looking young lady with curly hair and a toothy smile, had dispensed my Doedel in a twelve ounce Delirium Tremens bowl — you know the glass, the one with the pink elephants.

“No,” I say. “It’s Strubbe Doedel.” I affected my best Flemish accent which probably sounds more Austrian than anything since I’ve decided that all German-looking words ought to be pronounced the way Arnold Swartzenegger would in one of the Terminator films. Arnold is on the mind since all the Manhattan busses have Sarah Connor ads emblazoned across their wide sides. Evidently one of the cable channels is doing Terminator as a series. The chick playing Sarah Connor is really buff and looks great holding that stainless steel antitank gun. Exactly what I want to see on the side of a Manhattan bus. Also I just realized that I’ve never actually had any cause to spell the word “Swartzenegger” before. It’s not a word recognized by my word processor’s built-in spell-checker which only goes to prove that Sarah Connor is right — we should fear the day when machines rule the world. (Relax, have a homebrew.)

The guy sitting near me at the bar at The Ginger Man is about six-foot, two hundred pounds and has short brown hair. He looks like he might have spent some time in the military, but at the moment he looks more like he’s had several pints already. “I’ve never heard of that. Is it Belgian?” Clearly, he’s trying not to slur his words.

I confirm this and admit that this is my first time to try it.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

Then I proceed to give him a run down of what I think I find in the beer. The verjus aroma is over powering, but it’s not in the palate. I detect some of those nice Belgiany flavors — fruity sweetness in the taste, but surprisingly dry in the finish for a beer with such an apparent sweetness. It’s light bodied. Is that cherries I’m tasting? Hint of oak? Who knows?

The guy nods his head as I go through my sniff and scratch routine (it’s my head I’m scratching). When I’m done, he says, “I don’t go for the Belgian beers anymore. Got burned out. I used to live in Brussels.”

Used to live in Brussels! Burned out on Belgian beer! Surely my ears are playing tricks on me. How does one live in Beer Paradise and become jaded about Belgian beers in general? I could only conclude that this fellow didn’t really experience the true depth of Belgian beer culture. If you stick to the main streets, sure, all you’ll find is Hoegaarden, Leffe, and Stella. I could see someone getting tired of these same old offerings, but Cantillion Gueuze? De Dolle Oerbier? Westvlateren 8? Mon Dieu, non! Ce n’est pas possible!

The guy goes on to say that he prefers hoppy beers. Okay. Now I understand. He’s a true American, drinking American craft beer with true American hops. God bless America.

“I respect that,” I say, trying to wipe the stupid look of surprise off my face.

“I get a better buzz from hoppy beers,” he says.

“A better buzz?” What is this guy talking about?

“Quality of buzz is very important,” he says. “You know that hops are a type of cannabis?”

“Actually, yes. I’m aware that hops are in the same family, but they don’t actually have any THC.”

“Right,” he agrees, “but it’s not all about the THC. If you take pure THC in capsule form, it’s a completely different experience from smoking a joint. I think that the hops in beer give a better buzz.”

THC in capsule form? You learn something new every day, I guess. “The better buzz could be because highly hopped beers, like IPA, generally are brewed to be more alcoholic,” I suggest.

“That’s not everything,” he says. “There’s no scientific study to prove it, but I still think I get a higher quality buzz from hoppy beers. Scientists should study this subject more.”

I decide to be diplomatic. What harm is there in believing that you can score a higher quality buzz off drinking American craft beer? In my book, that’s a harmless delusion. “I guess I don’t think too much about the quality of my buzz anymore. I just like the taste of beer. I don’t really drink for the buzz.”

“Aw come on,” he says looking annoyed. “Why deny it? It’s not like this stuff tastes that good. If you didn’t get a buzz from it, you wouldn’t be drinking it.”

Never disagree with anyone who is working on their Xth pint of IPA. “I’m not saying that the buzz doesn’t enter in, but I believe that there are at least two kinds of people. Normal people and supertasters. Supertasters can get a high off flavors and aromas.”

“Are you saying you are a supertaster?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but I know when I taste a good beer or take in the aroma from a world class glass of ale, the experience transports me. If I get a buzz too, then that’s a bonus.”

“You’re a lucky man,” says my bar mate, and he raises his glass in my general direction.

I hoist my tiny pink-elephant embossed goblet in his direction — peace is restored.

Date of transcription: 7/21/96

Bill Lane was interviewed at 347 Old Neck Rd S, Center Moriches, New York. After being advised of the identities of the interviewing agents and the nature of the interview, Bill Lane provided the following information:

On the evening of July 17, 1996, Bill Lane was will his daughter, Sarah Lane, on their fishing boat approximately three miles from Fire Island (exact location unknown). Between 8:30 and 8:45 p.m., Sarah Lane saw what she described as a streak of light, like a shooting star, descending vertically in the sky. She was facing northwest looking back toward the Island. She informed Bill Lane who, when he saw the streak of light, slowed the boat.

The streak of light disappeared and about three seconds later he saw a deep orange flare that expanded, but not in the shape of a ball. Bill Lane did not hear anything at that point. The body of fire descended in the sky and formed three tendrils of flame and smoke. Several seconds later he heard a rumbling, like the sound of thunder. He watched as the fire descended. There was a smoke trail following the fire mass.

At that point Bill Lane changed their course to go in the direction of where the fire mass came in contact with the ocean. He says that they didn’t know what the fire mass was. He estimates that it took between ten and fifteen minutes before he and his daughter encountered debris floating in the water. He saw bodies of victims still strapped to their chairs. He and his daughter slowly trolled through the debris field “searching for survivors.” He says they searched for two or three hours before being advised by a Coast Guard Ship where to take the bodies they had collected from the water.

Bill Lane lives at 347 Old Neck Rd S, Center Moriches, New York. His daughter, Sarah Lane, lives at the same address. She was not available for an interview, but can be reached at the same number.

Investigation on 7/19/96 at Center Moriches, New York
File 235X-NY-8307483
Special Agent Curtis L. Turner
Special Agent Gordon M. Zimmerman
Date dictated 7/21/96

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I still have a few more stories that will be appearing in “indecision” (hopefully before the end of the year).  After that, I’m going to close “indecision” and “elevation” and open a new issue for January 2008.  I’ll also be opening up the submission desk again, but I’ll be revising the submission guidelines somewhat to reflect a more focused editorial preference.  (For example, I will no long consider stories that reference industrial beer.  I’m sorry, but there are too many stories with B*d and C*rona, and my readership just isn’t interested in that swill.)

The online version of The Angler should whir along nicely, but the real focus of my effort will be the print version.  My current plan is to release a print issue of The Angler every four months (essentially three times per year).  If all goes well, you should be holding the first print issue of The Angler in March 2008.  Each issue is going to run about a hundred pages.  What’s going to be in it? you ask.  Stories.  Lots of stories.