Field Notes

I've been writing (poorly, some would argue) for pay (way too little, I would argue) since about 1996, during which I have shamelessly pursued every little bit of swag, bling and/or complimentary product and service I could attach my greedy velcro fingers to.

To date I have managed to score exactly two expenses-paid trips to cover bass tournaments (both taken well over 10 years ago) and - way back when they first came out -  a sample pack of Terminator spinnerbaits.

And if you want to know how successful I've become as a bling-collecting outdoors writer since then, consider this: Earlier this year I wrapped one of those by-now tattered Terminators around a submerged log. Rather than simply snapping the line and tying on a new one from my well-stocked bag full of complimentary tackle, I went wading because A. my tackle box is neither well-stocked nor complimentary, and B. A five-dollar spinnerbait is still a five-dollar spinnerbait even if it's older than my first child.

The point is, writing - of any kind -  is a hard, lonely gig. You pay your dues by toiling in obscurity and poverty for years, patiently perfecting your craft and hoping that somewhere, someone will recognize your hard work and give you a shot. Because when you're a nobody in this business nothing is given: you earn it.

At least that's what I used to believe. Now I realize, of course, that I was a naive dumbass. 

Joe the Plumber to become war correspondent

TOLEDO, Ohio (AP) — Joe The Plumber is putting down his wrenches and picking up a reporter's notebook. The Ohio man who became a household name during the presidential campaign says he is heading to Israel as a war correspondent for the conservative Web site pjtv.com. Samuel J. Wurzelbacher (WUR'-zuhl-bah-kur) says he'll spend 10 days covering the fighting. He tells WNWO-TV in Toledo that he wants to let Israel's "'Average Joes' share their story." Wurzelbacher gained attention during the final weeks of the campaign when he asked Barack Obama about his tax plan. He later joined Republican John McCain on the campaign trail. At one stop, he agreed with a McCain supporter who asked if he believed a vote for Obama was a vote for the death of Israel.

That's right, Joe the Plumber is now Joe the Journalist, and he's getting a break that literally thousands of real journalists would gladly give half a reproductive organ for. Now I'm not bagging on Joe: he may be the next Ernie Pyle for all I know, but maybe he should get his feet wet by covering a city commission meeting or two before he heads into a war zone. It's ridiculous, it's a blatant publicity stunt and it's patently unfair to ink-stained wretches everywhere, but gimmickry is what modern America thrives on and Joe will probably end up parlaying this fraud into a regular column for Time or Newsweek and his own cable talk show.

I'm just worried that Joe also likes to hunt and fish. He's the shizzle right now now and provided he makes it back from Israel alive the editors of a certain outdoors magazine may want to capitalize on that fame by sending him on one of those plum destination assignments I've been fruitlessly begging and pleading for. Joe the Plumber flyfishes Patagonia. Joe the Plumber bags a record kudu on safari. Joe the Plumber shoots grouse over the Queen's dogs in England. Joe the Plumber gets three thousand words in the feature well every month to write whatever he wants while Chad the Blogger makes news by drowning while attempting to recover his last freebie spinnerbait... 

My primary deer hunting spot is an extremely popular and heavily-utilized public hunting area. Beginning in October bowhunters swarm this place, followed by legions of blackpowder hunters, who are in turn followed by division-strength hordes of orange-swaddled, cell phone-talking, cannon-toting sniper wannabes whose primary woodcraft skills involve walking around loudly and aimlessly, leaving truly prodigious amounts of trash strewn across the landscape and then gathering around their RV to bitch about not being allowed to drive ATVs on the area.

Ultra-deadly super predators they're not.

But according to a recent Newsweek article featured on Stephen Bodio's excellent Querencia blog, the modern hunter is so efficient and so effective that he is single-handedly responsible for no less than the wholesale reversal of the evolutionary process.

From the story:

It’s Survival of the Weak and Scrawny :Researchers see 'evolution in reverse' as hunters kill off prized animals with the biggest antlers and pelts.

"Researchers describe what's happening as none other than the selection process that Darwin made famous: the fittest of a species survive to reproduce and pass along their traits to succeeding generations, while the traits of the unfit gradually disappear. Selective hunting—picking out individuals with the best horns or antlers, or the largest piece of hide—works in reverse: the evolutionary loser is not the small and defenseless, but the biggest and best-equipped to win mates or fend off attackers."

The gist of the article is that by selectively harvesting the largest and most impressive specimens hunters are, in essence, altering the natural evolutionary process by allowing smaller, weaker inferior animals to sneak in to breed and propagate their traits. It sounds plausible in theory, especially to a non-hunting public that assumes hunting involves walking into the woods, choosing the animal you want and then shooting it as it placidly chews its cud and gazes at you with its big brown deer eyes. In reality, it's a ludicrous assertion. For example, take a look at the age-class breakdown for any recent state deer season harvest and compare that data to the same harvest data from say, 30 years ago. If the article's basic thesis were true, by now we should be shooting whitetails with the body size of a dik dik, the rack of a pygmy goat and the brain of a TSA airport screener, right?

But here's a serendipitous juxtaposition between agenda and reality.

From the story:

"Elk still range across parts of North America, but every hunting season brings a greater challenge to find the sought-after bull with a towering spread of antlers."  

Field Notes:

"Perhaps the largest elk ever produced in the wild—a Utah bull taken in 2008 by a hunter on public land—has been confirmed as a new World's Record. The official declaration was made today by the Boone and Crockett Club."

And remember my public hunting area, which according to the article's reasoning should by now be thoroughly de-populated of dominant bucks? One evening recently I sat on the side of a hill on that area and watched through binos as one after another buck slowly walked into a small winter wheat field and began feeding. These bucks had been subjected to constant, unending hunting pressure for over three months and survived. I'm fervently hopeful that they all got busy during the rut and passed on their inferior genes to the next generation because I can get into that kind of evolutionary monkey-wrenching...

The reasons we hunt are many and varied, but a big one for me is the feeling that every time I slip into the woods I am connecting with something buried deep within my genome, something that allows me to see and feel - ever so faintly -   the ghostly after-image of an ancient memory seared so powerfully into the consciousness of our ancestors that it survives still, reaching across untold millennia to remind those of us who care to listen of whence we came.

But as it turns out, from whence we came may not be so far as we thought from whence we are... 

From the story:

Last week in Nature, scientists reported major progress in sequencing the genome of woolly mammoths. They reconstructed it from two fossilized hair samples. One was 20,000 years old; the other was 65,000 years old. Now, according to Nicholas Wade of the New York Times, biologists are discussing "how to modify the DNA in an elephant's egg so that after each round of changes it would progressively resemble the DNA in a mammoth egg. The final-stage egg could then be brought to term in an elephant mother.

 That's certainly interesting, but here's where it gets a little personal for us bipedal hominids...

The full genome of the Neanderthal, an ancient human species probably driven to extinction by the first modern humans that entered Europe some 45,000 years ago, is expected to be recovered shortly. If the mammoth can be resurrected, the same would be technically possible for Neanderthals.

Now I'm fully aware of the whole Neanderthal debate and whether they shared a common ancestor or were completely separate from modern humans and if they were too primitive and well, stupid to evolve in the face of  human competition. There's a growing body of evidence to suggest that Neanderthals were in fact highly evolved and adaptable hunters but who knows and really, who cares? Anyone who can bring down a mammoth with a spear is pretty damn advanced in my book and I consider them an ancestor in spirit if not DNA.

Even if cloning a Neanderthal becomes technically possible, I'm sure there are too many thorny bioethical questions for it to occur. However, I have a few suggestions just in case: First, our newly-minted Neanderthal needs to find these guys and whip their asses good. They're giving primitives a bad name. Second, our Neanderthal needs to attend the SHOT show as a living reminder that to be successful as a hunter doesn't require an endless barrage of mostly-useless crap. Third, the F&S Total Outdoorsman Challenge. Who's gonna beat him? You?

And lastly, he needs to hold the short-sighted scientists who created him in his extra-powerful grasp  until they either agree to clone a lady Neanderthal or convince Raquel Welch to break out the fur bikini.  

2008 is almost in the books, and with it go all those goal-oriented lies I happily deluded myself into stating at this very time last year. I now have a fresh and unsullied set of lies ready to go. All I need is a good hangover cure, a few spoonfuls of black-eyed peas, a short-lived sense of purpose and optimism and a week or two in which to stave off reality.

To be honest I get a little melancholy this time of year because I know that January is the final gasp, the last fading exhalation of the season before the deep freeze of late winter sets in.

But hey, I've still got two weeks of bow season, a couple more weeks of duck season if the water stays open and the quail and pheasant are still out there mocking me. Plus, the good folks at Cabela's just sent me their official February survival kit. They may call it a spring fishing catalog, but that and a warm, cozy bathroom is all I need to make it through those long late-winter days.

Happy New Year's everyone, and may all your hopelessly optimistic and ultimately doomed New Year's resolutions come to fruition for at least one fleeting moment. 

I generally try to refrain from blogging too much on PETA because quite frankly the group's antics don't warrant that much attention. As animal-rights groups go PETA is much less a genuine threat than say, the Fund for Animals or the Humane Society of the United States.

Why? Because given a choice between misguided half-nekkid chicks holding placards on a sidewalk or a team of fully-clothed lawyers in a courtroom I'll take the nekkid chicks. Pranksterism and publicity stunts may make headlines; legal action is what influences policy.

Having said that, did anyone doubt PETA would let Burger King's new "Flame" scent for men slide by without a response?

Of course not. So now I present for your culinary and olfactory pleasure..."Gore" the enticing new scent from PETA.

If there is one object that personifies the overwhelming techno-infatuation that is the hallmark of modern living it is, of course, the cell phone. Never in the history of the world has an item so trivial and unnecessary for survival become so important to so many people so quickly as these little bits of eardrum crack. But of course I'm a misanthrope who never really saw the appeal of talking to other people in person, much less on a cell phone. I fully realize and sadly accept the fact that my point of view is a distinct minority and that for the overwhelming majority of humanity the cell phone is as essential an item as, say, the liver.
 
How else, in these tough economic times, could you explain this:  
 
From the story:
A few days ago, we wrote about how an iPhone application that makes farting noises, iFart Mobile, had reached the number one paid application spot in the App Store and was making the developer nearly $10,000 a day. Developer Joel Comm shared some updated data with us today and it blows the other numbers away (pun intended): Christmas Day saw 38,927 downloads of iFart Mobile, making Comm’s InfoMedia $27,249 in net income! Yes, nearly $30,000 in one day — from a $0.99 fart appFor those who couldn’t believe that a farting application could make nearly $10,000 as it did on December 22, or that it was a fluke, this has to be a huge wake up call. The following day, December 23, actually saw another 13,000+ downloads (and thus, another nearly $10,000 made), and Christmas Eve saw an incredible 19,520 downloads — netting $13,364 after Apple’s 30 percent cut. But the real gem is of course Christmas Day. As Comm says in his blog post, “I had a hunch that Christmas Eve and Christmas Day would be higher. How much higher was anyone’s guess. All I knew was that a lot of people would be getting iPhones and iPod Touch MP3 players on Christmas Day.” Indeed.
 
It's not exactly a Christmas scene straight out of a Rockwell print, is it? The youth of America wake up, rush to the Christmas tree and eagerly tear into brightly-wrapped gift boxes that contain not BB guns or fishing poles or other archaic and dangerous items but...a farting cell phone.
 
Personally, this is the only kind of cell phone I'm interested in any more. Go ahead, yak on it as loudly and obnoxiously wherever and for as long as you want. Who's going to complain? Certainly not some schmuck with a farting Iphone... 

The beauty of the Internet (or the bane, depending on what side of the argument you're on) is that you can sit at home in your pajamas and anonymously view the creative weirdness of other anonymous souls without having the slightest bit of context or backstory for what you are viewing.

When you think about it, modern humanity isn't linked by common goals, dreams or desires. That's so 20th-century. Forwarded joke e-mail pics depicting giant rattlesnakes, drunken peccadilloes, trail-camera mystery monsters and the singular obsessions and unfortunate mishaps of others is the glue that now binds the global community. Who hasn't received those captionless, authorless photographs that endlessly swirl through the electronic ether and settle in our in-box, captured moments of some unknown soul's life suddenly digitized and exposed to the eyes of the world without benefit of explanation? So we're forced to make our own reality for what we see.

Like this photograph:

I have absolutely no clue as to the who, what, when, where or how of this photograph. It simply appeared in my in-box, almost lost in the blizzard of spam and mundane chatter that comprises my life. My first thought upon viewing it was "I didn't know any of the guys from ZZ Top hunted" followed by "Man, that's tacky as hell. Who would take the time and trouble to do something like that?"

Who, indeed. I looked again, and a story started forming in my head. A story of a lonely neighborhood widower: a guy with a wife who left him, a son in another state, and buddies who are slowly disappearing from deer camp. He doesn't hunt much these days, and he spends most of his time sitting alone watching the neighborhood punks fall off their skateboards. But there's one that keeps hanging around, a skinny kid with a desire to hunt, a mom who works two jobs and a dad who skipped out long ago. The man knows this kid is desperate for a role model but is either too proud or too ashamed to come out and say it. One day, as he's sitting in his recliner looking at the dusty mounts on his wall, reminders of good years long past, the man gets an idea...

Pure fiction, of course, and cheesy, hackneyed fiction at that. For all I know this dude is an enforcer with the local chapter of Satan's Disciples and the Santa getup is merely a convenient way to confuse the Feds while he's making his weekly smack run. The point is, pics like this are a blank canvas for your imagination.

So give me a Christmas story for this picture. It can be as cheesy, heartwarming, stupid, funny or ridiculous as you like. The only requirement is that it must be a complete and total fabrication and it must reference the elements in the photo.  Pour yourself a big glass of egg nog, add your favorite libation and start lying...    

My home state of Oklahoma is famous for many things: tornadoes (gratuitous self-promoting tornado pic can be found here), Sooner football, quail hunting, Garth Brooks (if you're into chubby yodelers in big hats) and the self-aggrandizing stupidity of our lawmakers.

Like most states, we pride ourselves on our uncanny ability to elect (among a population of over three million souls) a group of people so profoundly unfit for public service that when we do finally realize just how badly we've screwed up, we make amends by electing them again...and again...and again.
The result is proposed legislation like this.

From the story:
Two state lawmakers say they'll sponsor a bill to repeal state taxes on the sale of guns and ammunition in Oklahoma. Rep. Eric Proctor of Tulsa and Sen. Kenneth Corn of Poteau say the tax may be a barrier for people needing protection. Proctor says repealing the tax would have little affect on the state treasury and the people shouldn't have to pay a tax if they need a gun to protect their families. Proctor says he was asked by a constituent to file the legislation

Far be it from me to say bad things about a piece of allegedly pro-gun legislation, but this bill reeks of pandering, a cheap political stunt designed not to address a real issue, but to bring attention to the politician(s) proposing it so he or they can use it as an example of what gun-rights stalwarts they are. The idea that Oklahoma's 4.5 percent sales tax is some insurmountable financial barrier to obtaining a gun and/or ammo for self-defense is, quite frankly, a load of bull, and the (Dis)Hon. Reps Proctor and Corn know it. They are well and truly shining examples of what George Bernard Shaw meant when he quipped that "Democracy is an institution that insures we are governed no better than we deserve."

I would say the bill doesn't have a chance of passing, but I've overestimated the intelligence of my state legislature too many times to say that again.

Here's an idea: instead of eliminating the state sales tax on guns and ammo why doesn't Oklahoma (or any other state) instead earmark those funds for something that would truly benefit the state's gun owners? Perhaps the creation and maintenance of public shooting ranges in suburban areas where shooting opportunity is limited or non-existent. Or maybe the funding of state youth shooting programs to get more youngsters involved in the shooting sports. Maybe habitat improvements on public hunting areas? Anything other than simply creating yet another tax exemption based on a completely specious argument cooked up to generate a little publicity for attention-seeking legislators.

But things like that involve creative thought and a genuine concern for one's constituency, which is of course pure anathema to the empty suits we keep sending to our state capitals. Are there similar bills in other states across the nation, or is Oklahoma alone in its innovative solutions to non-existent problems?

As a mostly incompetent hunter, I've never had qualms about applying any manner of vile, foul-smelling liquid on my person or clothing in the vain hopes said liquid would increase my odds of shooting a deer.

If someone claimed that secretions collected from the pre-hormonal glands of the Mongolian Cud-Spitting Yak simply drove rutting bucks crazy, I'd have one hand over my mouth trying to hold down breakfast while the other spritzed warm yak musk all over my body.

But as strange as the hunter's penchant for bad-smelling stuff is, at least it has a purpose, and even the most die-hard hunter doesn't use said scents recreationally simply because some smells are best avoided in mixed company. You know, things like estrous doe, fox pee, the scent of a greasy fast-food hamburger turning to carbon under a thermonuclear heat lamp 

Huh? From the story:

Burger King is hoping to be known as more than “The Home of the Whopper.” This weekend, the fast food chain rolled out “Flame,” a new men’s body spray billed as “the scent of seduction with a hint of flame-broiled meat.”

That's right: a hamburger-scented cologne for men. Because nothing screams manly, virile seduction like the tantalizing scent of a flame-broiled Whopper. At least that's the underlying message of Burger King's extremely funny online ad for "Flame" which can be found here. Keep clicking the spray bottle for further campy poses by the creepy Burger King dude.

Now I'm all for anything that celebrates blatant carnivorism, and I'd love to see PETA's apoplectic reaction, but come on: I've been inside a Burger King and while the amalgam of scent that assaults your nose may not be quite as revolting as the aforementioned love sweat of the Mongolian Cud-Spitting Yak, it certainly doesn't conjure up images of sweet lovin' on a plush rug in front of a roaring fire. To me it has a more robust "where can we eat for three bucks and get the hell back on the road?" boutique to it.

So the question is: would you rather smell like a hamburger prepared by a sullen minimum-wage teenager with a penchant for luggies or the liquid waste products of various and sundry wild animals? I'm up in the air on this one...

Chad Love: Biathlon Snipers

In keeping with the spirit of a recent Gun Nut blog and reader comments on the Canadian Women's Biathlon Babes calendar, I give you a related news item that may quench (permanently) any lustful musings on the admittedly intoxicating combination of hot women and guns if you happen to run into the wrong hot woman with a gun. 

From the story:

Russia's top investigator is claiming that the Georgians employed mercenaries during their August war -- including female snipers from Ukraine and Latvia...That sounds an awful lot like the mythical "white tights" -- the exotic female snipers of Chechen war lore who were said to pick off hapless Russian conscripts. As the story had it, these stone-cold, blue eyed killers were said to be from the Baltics -- or Ukraine. They were sometimes described as Olympic biathletes recruited as mercenary sharpshooters by Chechen commanders.

Personally, I find the idea of gorgeous Baltic snipers stalking the battlefield to be uhhh... titillating. Dead is dead no matter how you slice it, but if you're gonna go it's better to be sent on your way by a vision in white than some giant, hairy, ill-tempered Slavic dude named Drago. Are the White Tights real? Who cares? They sound dead (pun intended) sexy to me.

Who needs tacky calendars showing plasticized bikini model bimbos striking stripper poses with racks when you can ogle women who really know how to shoot? But ogle with some respect. You never know when war might break out between Canada and the United States.