The Monkeyface News

Brigitte Bardot

                                 The Author here pictured kissing Brigitte Bardot

 

{If you are new to this site and have no idea what I'm talking about with this Brigitte Bardot stuff go here:   The Code Explained}

                                                Got her!

 

Sing in me oh muse and through me tell the tale of that fisherman,

who long ago plied the streams and rivers of our nation with flyrod,

who rolled ferrules for Scott,

who hand crafted his own graphite 8-weight, with custom eccentric cork handle,

who learned the art of fly casting from his grandfather...

who learned from his grandfather.

who learned from his.

 

{MFN parenthetic aside # 2,189:  My Gramps, Milton Watson, (the one everybody's looking at) in the 1930s posing with comedian George Mann.  Mann was the taller half of the Barto and Mann Vaudeville dance team ("the comedy kings of Vaudeville").  I guess the joke here is that all the other guys in the picture are standing up on a ledge in order to look down at Mann who stood 6 foot 6 in his socks. Mann's partner Barto was only 4 foot 11, so one can kind of imagine the nature of their act--which you gotta figure was pretty funny}.

A-hem where was I?  Oh right... the muse...

And tell me fair muse of the sad events which led this once proud fly-man to abandon the haughty aesthetics of his clan, and to take up the crude bamboo stick, and the duct tape, and the wire hanger. Those "tools of ignorance" (to quote Muddy Ruel) used in the capture of a slimy, algae-eating, bottom dweller.

      "...a slimy, algae-eating, bottom dweller."

 

And tell me fair muse how it came to pass that such a one as this, came to eschew catch and release, becoming instead, a rank thrower nets, a poker of poles... a harvester of sorrows!

Seriously though.  About halfway through yesterday's drift down the Trinity, Mikey turns to me and asks if I'd like to "try the flyrod," (as I had been complaining so vociferously about the 15 foot leader on the end of my bobber).  It's funny.  Kinda forgot how many thousands of hours I have logged fly fishing in my life. Started out at the age of 12.  My grandfather placing a newspaper under the elbow of my casting arm and telling me not to drop it.  After five minutes I was back in form.  I mean, I'll never be another Lefty Kreh, but still... I can drop the friggin bead-head within three feet of where I want it, 90 percent of the time.  And it was nice to remember that I possessed this ability.  Like a drunken Jedi, waking up one morning and remembering he was once pretty good with a light sabre.

 

                           Drunken Jedi

 

And then BAM!  Mikey put me on the fish and it was like... oh yeah... I remember this.  Why exactly did I give it up?

 

 

                                   Steelhead Mike D. and Friend.  Photo by Fishwife.

Now, sitting here at the MFN HQ, going over this past weekend's photos, I'm looking into that again--why I gave it up.  I think the reason I gave up fly fishing was because at some point it became impractical. Here I was living in SF with cool fish species all around me, plotting out my next trip to the Pleasant Valley Creek, or the Carson, wherein I would blow how much money on gas, lodging, food, etc? Meanwhile, pogies were thick in the drains, MF eels everywhere, rockfish, lingcod, herring etc etc etc. Feel me?

 

But the thing is, there really is no reason a pogie wouldn't take a fly.  Redtails and barreds readily do. Flyfishing for striped bass is, obviously, a common enterprise.  I wonder about grass rockfish and cabezon in tidepools. I mean why not?  Hell, maybe even a monkeyface would take a fly?  A kelp fly no doubt. Think of the possibilities here!

Anyway, this past weekend re-ignited the long dormant fires.  I felt kinda like Roy Hobbs out there. Now batting after a 15 year hiatus... Lombard of the Intertidal.

Anyway, here's a happy little video. (Scroll down) Don't be shy.  Give Mikey a call:  

                                    703-946-9567

Not only will he put you on the salmonids (in any river on the West Coast), he'll let you bring your accordion along for the ride... Seriously.

Kirk-out

  Having secured her first-ever Birgitte Bardot, the Fishwife serenaded her two favorite fishermen with accordion.
 

My first movie in a while.  Nothing crazy, just a nice day on the water.  Oh yeah, the sound track is Marty Robbins doing the old standard.  Fishwife on accordion.

Meanwhile, the herring are here.  No major spawns yet but they're sitting in the deep channels storing up fat, getting ready to spawn... more on this in a few days.

--Kirk-out

  

 

Death And The Side Note

 

 

 

Joe Frazier is dead.  There is no god.  Joe Frazier is dead.

Lotte Lenya is not the music for this... gotta switch to something else... James Brown?  Sam Cooke? No, I figure both of these guys were Ali fans.  What?  Maybe I'll download some deep Gullah music... let's see.

... yeah.  Oh yes... you guys gotta hear this... friggin Gullah music... this is great.

Joe is gone.  TKO in the 14th round.  Didn't quite make the bell.  Maybe there is a god.  Maybe she is a god of high irony.  Standing there in her monumental stilettos, filing her nails, laughing at us all.

 

Proof Of The Non Existence Of God

 

How is it possible? How could there be a divine being, if Joe Frazier was not allowed to outlive Muhammad Ali?  Not allowed that sublime (though admittedly hollow) pleasure granted to those who survive their enemies: dancing on their graves.

The story of Joe Frazier is... the movie that will never be made.  The poem that will never be written. The justice that will never be served.  

 

 

I know...

 

let's sit around and be inspired by the greatness Muhammad Ali.  His political heroism. His anti-establishment leanings.  His universal handsomeness. His swift and graceful punches.  His way with the camera and the language and the zeitgeist and the... you just keep going on and on with guys like this... (Alexander, Caesar, Elvis.) and let's just go ahead and forget, or slough off as a side note the other guy.

The guy who got upstaged.  The guy who didn't naturally smile when the camera rolled.  The guy who
never even considered that there might be a short cut to success called luck.  The guy whose people, the Gullah, were so othered by the mainstream they they weren't even considered black; they were like a species of Venutian--given to deep spiritualism, and the kind of ancestor worship that is governed by secret, close-guarded and ancient rules. The same kind of tight lipped self regulation that governed their social structure. A deeply underground culture.  And then throw into this culture a manchild warrior of the shadows. One who arose to prominence through no great overabundance of talent, but through that most protestant of the slave owner's values (one that they themselves hardly upheld):  The (so called) work ethic.  

 

I know...

 

... let's just go ahead and forget the average Joe.... Frazier.  

And all the bullshit he was up against.  And how he had nothing but balls and calluses to count on.  And how the deck was impossibly stacked against him.  And how, given all that, he went ahead and gave it his best shot anyway.  And how through nothing but his own sheer will, he forced himself into global recognition--this Venutian, this shadow man, this champion of the swamp people.

 

 

Yeah... let's just forget that story and opt for the one about the rock star, the guy who got all the chicks, the champion who was so great he interrupted the linguistic history of that word and intermittently supplanted it with his own name.

Or not.

Maybe we tatoo this gullah motherfucker on our backs. To quote Brando as Terry Malloy:  "I still remember that night..." Only I've only seen it in reruns.  1971... everyone always talks about how fast Ali was in his prime. How beautiful. True. No doubt.  But what the hell was Frazier that night if he wasn't fast and beautiful?  I'll tell you what he was, in case you never saw it.  He was a bobbing weaving blur of unstoppable violence.  He was Attila the Hun swooping out of the Russian steppe, he was Zulu manhood at Isandlwana, he was the greatest fighter in the history of boxing for one night.  

Yeah.  I remember that night, Joe.  Even though, as I said, I only saw it in reruns.

Y'all feel me, here?  Joe Frazier. Joe Frazier. Joe Frazier!

Is dead.

              Show your face coward!

 

I am filled with a new respect for death.  That's all I can say.  George Foreman whose punches literally lifted poor Joe off his feet, couldn't kill him, Ali couldn't kill him, but death?  Death took him by TKO in the 14th round.  What a nasty bitch death is.

 

An Army Of Fraziers

 

Now just imagine they lift their shields and you realize it's an army of Joe Fraziers coming at you.

In trying to summarize and contrast their differences I thought of this... Imagine, if you will, an army of Joe Fraziers coming at you.  Now imagine an army of Ali's.  Is not Frazier's army the more intimidating? No weaknesses. No flash. No possibility of an opening due to ego.  An army of Gullah myrmidons plodding steadily forward towards your inevitable annihilation.  

Don't get me wrong.  I'm an Ali fan.  Everyone's an Ali fan.  But Ali's "gorilla" was such a remarkable fighter, such a remarkable American man, such a great--if seldom told--story.  Was he horribly bitter about Ali?  Unfortunately yes.  Spiteful?  Occasionally. (Like when he said:  "Ali ain't got Parkinson's he got left hook-itis, and I gave it to him.")  Capable of saying stupid shit, like all fighters? Yes.  But let me ask you this rhetorical question.  Has there ever been anyone in the history of sports who had more heart than Joe Frazier?  I think not.  And doesn't it break your own heart to see the look on his face when Futch throws in the towel after the 14th round in Manilla?  My god (who doesn't exist) that face, not the swollen eyes but the look of helplessness, the misery of having tried beyond all measure and failed... it is a soul crushing thing to behold.  No doubt, and I mean no doubt at all.  If Futch hadn''t thrown the towel, Joe would have fought till he died.

I searched the internet for the picture of Joe Frazier that I had inside my looseleaf notebook when I was a kid. He was sitting on a leopard-skin rug (or was it a sofa?) in his living room.  Couldn't find it.  If anyone out there has access to this picture please forward the damned thing to me.

Anyway, gotta go check the crab pots.  In parting I offer this picture of Smokin' Joe as I think he'd like to be remembered: 

 

                           Champion of the world.

 

Kirk-out

Back to the fish soon.

I promise. 

 

A Letter To Myself

      The author manning the helm (sorry about the beard, mom, it's an experiment)

 

I gotta get back into posting more regularly.  But honestly, my commitment has waned.  Got a bunch of other things going on.  All of them concerning fish, mind you, all of them taking up a lot of time.

I wrote that and then went back in the MFN archives and actually revisited old posts.  My Gawd I really am the Marcel Proust of the internet! (By sheer volume of pages).  Jaysus H. Christopher! There must be a thousand pages worth of MFN posts.

                                                       Proust reclines.

 

Two years ago I was sitting in the Occidental Cigar Bar with my dear friend, lubber and total non fisherman, Eric Rodenbeck.  I was bemoaning, as I was wont to do at the time, what seemed like my lack of options in life.  My band was going nowhere, my Fish and Game job was spiraling down, my writing career was mostly in the trash bin--literally.  And then for the 30th time in the previous five years Eric said:

"Will you please do me a favor and start a blog."  

"What, you mean, give away my writing for free?"  

"No. I mean, start a fucking blog. You're the perfect person for it, and you'll enjoy it."

So the next day, Oct. 8th 2009, despite a deep and all pervading luddism, I waded through the Typepad instructional stuff and somehow managed to get a post up on the internet.  200 some odd posts later I'm still here.  Huzzah!  I'm drinking a toast to myself.  Or maybe just a second cup o' joe.  Here's to me! Skol.

Somehow the two year anniversary of the MFN went by and I didn't even notice it.  Not acceptible.  Shit, if I'm not going to give myself props no one is.

How about this:  Next year, on the anniversary of The Monkeyface News I'm going to throw a party.  Keg of beer on me.  Paella on the beach.  Everybody else provides something: crab, shrimp, fish, mussels, eels, clams whatever.  Get some instruments, surf boards make a fire and have a ball.  Maybe we'll even call Annette Funicello.  How's that sound?

I'm liking it.  

I'm also liking some of these ancient posts.  Remember this one:

Leopard Shark Ceviche

And remember when I used to actually write about SF history:

Harry Meiggs

And those unique examples of outraged environmentalism:

Embassy Suites

And those strange meandering diatribes, which include elegies to rain, clams, and baseball:

Praying For Rain

And happy little inner city posts like this:

Ode To Shit Creek

Want to talk sustainability?  How's this:

The "S" Word

I could go on and on (I'm not even listing the 30 some odd movies) but I won't... I'm just taking a moment to reflect on this friggin' thing.  With the idea that I might actually inspire myself to post a little more regularly. 

 

                                                        A recent tour.

 

In truth what's happened of late is that with my tours taking off and an increasing number of my customers coming to the site, I have decided only to post stuff about fishing and foraging.  And the problem is... I don't always want to do that.  In fact, some of the best posts up here have nothing to do with fishing at all.  

So that's the plan.  For the record: The Monkeyface News will now resume it's discussion of all those things it's author finds interesting.  Regardless of whether or not there is a fish involved.  

Sorry that's the only way forward.

Tune in Tuesday morning for a Monkeyface eulogy to a fallen warrior.  One of the greats has left us for Valhalla and since no one really seems to be getting it, I'm going to eulogize the guy myself.

Kirk out.

 

 

 

 

Clan of the Cave Bear

 

 

                                             Unfortunately, I could not retain the blue.

Doing what I can as far as fish skin tanning is concerned.  And I have to say I'm pleased with the result. Lingcod, as it turns out, makes a much more workable fish leather than monkeyface eel... if for no other reason than that the pelt is generally wider.  I have so far been unable to figure out a way to retain the blue in a blue ling--it appears that may not be possible.  

Thing is, there is a lot more info on fish skin tanning online than there was 10 years ago when I started doing it with monkeyface eels but all of that info pertains to taxidermy and for my purposes most of it doesn't really apply.  What I am doing is taking the dried skins, pressing them (by means of c-clamps and boards) to book binding cloth, and then using them as the spines of my hard-cover Monkeyface News editions.  (A great Christmas gift by the way!)

So all I need are strips of skin, totally degreased, dried and flattened.  They don't need to be soft or even particularly pliable.  I got an e-mail from a taxidermist a while back in which I was informed that what I had created was not leather so much as a "dry preserve."

All I know is I made the first eelskin-bound MFNs ten years ago and they are still holding up quite well. Perfectly, in fact!

                                    "Still holding up quite well!"

 

Anyway, the challenges of doing this in an apartment in San Francisco with no access to a hose or a backyard (that I can use), never ceases to amuse me.

Since a lot of people have been asking me for my fish skin "tanning" recipe, I will go ahead and give it here, with details about the challenges of doing it in an urban environment.  Again, I'm not sure if this meets the criteria of true leather (any skin tanning guys out there?)  The final product is a sheet of stiff, greaseless, skin.  Perfect for the spine of a home made book, for hat band, or for jewelry.  I'm still working on the hat band but will no doubt post a few pix when I'm done.

 

Kirk's Guide To Inner City Eel (and lingcod) Skin Tanning

 

 

1.  Go out and catch eels.  Or hold your breath and raid the dumpster at Princeton Launch ramp for discarded carcasses.  {Note:  no denying it, cabezon skins are the prettiest by far!)

2.  After skinning or salvaging your fish skins, take a fillet knife and scrape the hell out of the inside of them.  This process will awaken atavistic talents you never knew you had.  Your ancestors spent untold thousands of hours engaged in this scraping process so be aware that cave bears, and dire wolves may suddenly appear in your dreams.  

Daryl Hannah handling some skins and flashing some sexy cro-magnon thigh in Clan Of The Cave Bear.  Let's see, what do you think is closer to the reality... the picture (above), or this one (below):

... much as we'd like to think that cave women looked like runway models, I think it's probably unlikely.

 

3.  After scraping off every single mote of flesh from your skins, rinse them copiously in the sink, try to get off as much slime as you can.  Then go home and soak them overnight in a heavy Dawn dishwashing soap/water solution.  Use twice/thrice as much as you would use to wash a dirty pot.  Mix the skins and soapy water together and leave overnight.  

 

 

           Dawn now offers this product for monkeyface degreasing only.

 

4.  In the morning take the skins out and rinse them in the sink. Long, disgusting strings of mucous will slide off the skins.  I do not find that this clogs my sink, but I suppose it is possible that it could.  In fact in the old days, when I lived in a funky old Mission District apartment it did!  So take the necessary precautions (do this with a hose outside--unless, like me, you have no hose outside).  

5. Having rinsed all the mucous and soap off the skins, wad them dry with a towel.  And then pin them out (inside of skin facing up obviously) on a board--the way you would do with a squirrel.  (As wide as possible).  I find upholstry tacks and little finishing nails work best.

 

                        Monkeyface eel pelt, left.  Lingcod (voered in salt) right.

 

6.  At this point I get sort of obsessive.  It would be perfectly fine to cover the moist, pinned-out pelts with borax, and leave in the sun to dry, but I myself put in an extra step.  I cover the pinned-out skins with salt.  Then take the board with salted skins on it and put it on top of my truck in a sunny location (which can be hard to find in SF).  

 

                                Inner city fish skin tanning!  This could be you!

 

7.  Leave the skins all day in the sun, then take them somewhere and hose them down.  I did this in my buddy Loren's driveway a few blocks away.  

 

8.  After rinsing off the skins (still pinned to the board, mind you), I then covered them in powdered 20 Mule Team Borax, and put them back on the truck for another day of drying.  Actually, this last time I left them up there for two days.  After letting the borax and the sun do their respective things, I took the planked skins, and rinsed them off in another hose (what a drag the landlord won't let me use the friggin hose!)  When Loren's not home, the nearest sprocket I have access to is like 7 miles from my apt!)

 

                                                    Ling cod book spine.

9.  Take the rinsed skins, (no salt, no borax) and put them back on the top of the truck to dry. At this point they will actually look like animal skins--not like curious strips covered in white powder.  The neighbors will now begin to give you weird sideways glances.  They will greet you with raised eyebrows, whispering to each other as they pass... etc.  Bah! To these rank conformists, they will never dream of mammoths and cave bears!  

 

      We dream of Cave Bears

 

10.  When the skins are totally dry, pull out the nails... and voila, you will have tough, papery fish skins that can be used in various ways (that part is up to you).  I know there are leather oils that can be applied at this point to soften the skins and make them more pliable, but for my purposes--gluing them to binder's cloth--I want them as stiff and oiless as possible.  If you want to do the binder's cloth thing, cover the meat side of the skin with glue, press it to the binder's cloth and then sandwhich it (between two boards) with c-clamps, as such:

 

11.  Leave the boards and clamps for 24 hours (oh yeah, cover the top of the skin in cellophane to prevent it from sticking to the top board!) and then loosen the clamps and pull out your finished product:

 

                                Monkeyface eel skin pressed to book cloth.

 

 

12. Voila!  And that folks is everything I know on the subject of eelskin tanning... or dry preserving if you prefer.

 

Yikes... started writing this at 5:00 in the morning.  Time to move on...

 

Golden Gate Paddle-Crab Derby 2011

 

                  My contribution: two crabs (one really, since the second was a rock crab)

 

You can go ahead and read between the lines here.  Had I slammed the crabs yesterday there would have been no Daryl Hannah, no eelskin post, just me posing with a bag full of dungies.  But alas.  Poseidon afflicted me with a massive dose of squack.  Both of my promars were broken, and so rather than functioning as a sub-aqueous "roach motels" (bugs check in but they don't check out), they were more like... turnstiles.  You feel me?  In other words I spent the day feeding crabs--not catching them.  Had I brought the back up hoop net this would not have been an issue.  All the hoopnetters did great!  But I did not.  And so my total catch for 3 hours of floating around was: 2 crabs.  

Some of the homemade trophies handed out at The Golden Gate Paddle Crab Derby 2011, despite my paltry haul, I scored the trophy, far left for largest claws!  A handsome addition to the storied halls of my trophy rooms. 

 

Nevertheless, a good time was had by all and I somehow managed to avoid the usual "yard sale," face- plant coming back in. (Maybe because the damned kayak is easier to land with no crabs in it!)

Considering going out right now for a few hours... we'll see, thing is... it's such a good poke poling tide... hmmm decisions, decisions...

Kirk out.