Restless Soul.

"A restless soul never finds what he's looking for."

I heard that phrase a couple weeks ago. It actually came from Vince Gill describing Merle Haggard, as Merle was being inducted into the Kennedy Center Honors. It's stuck with me--it's more than stuck with me. It's been at the forefront of my mind.

Those words describe how I feel about myself. I am constantly trying to discover the perfect life, the perfect ride. I've done a decent job so far. Managed to find an amazing girl to marry, got me a cute dog, family's good and all. But I am restless.

I want to move on to the next adventure. Not summiting Everest or anything like that, just quickly switching chapters in my life. Moving. Shaking. Some might suggest that I'm in the midst of one of those chapters right now, and maybe I am. But I am restless.

I am ready to move--in the general sense of the term. I want to be in motion. I want to travel, discover, explore--and when I'm unable to do that, I become restless.

I believe I'll find what I'm looking for. I'm too hell-bent on finding it not to. But when I do find it, will I realize that I've found it? Or will I be too restless to realize?


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Earl's Mailbox.

I tell ya, people are always asking me questions. It's cool though, I appreciate it. And I try and give an honest answer.

I've compiled lots o' questions from lots o' people throughout the years. Fly fishing questions, music questions, food questions, questions about this and questions about that. People that come into whichever shop I'm working at ask questions. People on the facebook asking me questions. People emailing me about one of my blog entries--asking questions. So I've decided to post some of these questions, along with my answers. As a general rule, I prefer to avoid too much seriousness in my writing by getting intoxicated.

So, I got me a day off today and have been drinking since 11am and listening to 80s metal. So here goes Earl's Mailbox.

(Please note that in order to protect people's identities, I've adjusted the questions appropriately.)

Q: If you're so damn all-knowing and particular about music, why do you listen to metal?

Earl: First off, it's 80s metal--not just metal. There's a big difference, which if you knew anything about metal, you would refrain from asking such a ridiculous question. Current metal lacks bandannas, spandex, partying all day, denim & leather, chicks, pyrotechnics, surprised guitar-solo faces, screams, kicks, songs about partying all day, fun drugs, triple-neck guitars, jumps, makeup, and partying.

So the reason that I listen to 80s metal is pretty self-explanatory...


Q: You say you like Scotch, what's your favorite?

Earl: I like the Johnny Walker Red. "Red??" you might ask? Yes, Red. It's only $30-$35 a jug--yes a jug (1.75ml), not a 5th (750ml)--and if you were to do the Pepsi Challenge with Red and Black, good chance you'd choose the Red. I'm not saying I don't like the Black, just can't justify paying the extra cash. More JWR for less money vs. less JWB for more money equals a no-brainer. If I've got a $60 bill in my pocket though, I may just buy me a bottle of Green Label. Mmmmm.

I tell ya, I've had some single malts that have blown me away. Sad thing is: can't remember the names of them and I'm sure I can't afford them. I do appreciate them, though.


Q: What's the difference between these pants and these?

Earl: Well, these are green and denim. And these are poly and tan. Both make you look fat and stupid.


Q: Are you ever going to move back to Missouri?

Earl: Hell, I don't know. Once I win the Mega-Millions I wouldn't mind buying a lake house there. But as far as an everyday lifestyle, I'm a bit reluctant. Creepy religion, humidity, bugs, not many trout, and the lack of good beer is definitely against MO.

On the other hand--my friends, family, great BBQ, the best Pad Thai, the Cardinals, Chiefs tailgating, Mexican Villa, and enormous lakes present a pretty good argument.


Q: What was your first live concert?

Earl: Kenny Loggins at Swiss Villa Amphitheater in Lampe, MO. That was with my best friend and his parents, though. First parent-free concert was Night Ranger with Great White opening.


Q: What was your favorite concert?

Earl: Wow, that's a great question. There are different answers based on different times and circumstances.

I've seen the Ramones several times, but the best was at Mississippi Nights, a small club that used to be on the Landing in St. Louis. Johnny Ramone spit on me. RIP, Johnny.

The first time I saw The Mighty Mighty Bosstones was very memorable. I was young and it kind of defined me at the time.

AC/DC's Razor's Edge tour was incredible.

Dropkick Murphy's at St. Pat's is always amazing.

Willie Nelson performing at Red Rocks ruled.

Seeing DLR back with Van Halen a few years back was a blast.

Motorhead...Black Keys...Ray Condo...BR549...NOFX...

To answer your question, I don't know. There are hundreds of them. If I would have ever seen Johnny Cash live, good chance that would be my answer.

But I didn't...so it's Stryper.


Q: What's your best recipe?

Earl: A dozen chicken thighs, salt & peppered, grilled on top of charcoal and hickory, basted with Oklahoma Joe's "Night of the Living Sauce".


Q: What would you do if you won the lottery?

Earl: Throw a party.

Well, that's just a smattering. Keep asking me questions, and I'll answer them eventually. Albeit, on my nationally acclaimed blog post.

Thanks for asking and thanks for reading.


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Cool Things

I was just reading some reader letters from the local publication, The Mountain Gazette. The letters were answering the question, list "Cool Things You've Done". There were certainly some cool things listed, most of which had to do with outdoorsy-type accomplishments, which I dig. Summiting Everest, kaying a waterfall, winning a marathon...

Some though, totally random.

So here's mine...in no particular order.

1) Shot a bird on accident with my sling-shot.

2) Lost my virginity on a 3rd story hotel balcony railing. (Actually, she was on the railing. I was safely planted on the balcony floor. Yes, she.

3) Ziplined over the Costa Rican rainforest.

4) Played in a spectacular live rock and roll band for adoring fans.

5) Got married along a Colorado trout stream to a cool chick.

6) Rock climbed a 5.10.

7) Almost stepped on a rattlesnake.

8) Had a 1989 Ford Probe airborn more than once.

9) Have seen The Ramones live...four times.

10) Had a boulder fall on me and pin me face down in a river.

11) Moved to Florida for a year, but don't remember it.

12) Have had my nose broken twice from fighting poorly.

13) The time after losing my virginity was in the bed of a white S-10 going 90mph down a farm road. Don't remember who was driving.

14) Met Mike Shannon and two of the four members of Rancid. At separate times.

15) Had a grand slam. In fly fishing, that's a rainbow, brown, brook, and cutthroat all in one day.

16) Whitewater rafted crocodile infested waters.

17) Been arrested.

18) Been to 15 consecutive Cardinals v Cubs series. The trend was broken last year.

19) Have seen Styper live. Icing on the cake? White Lion opened.

20) Been attacked by hornets. Not Lucas Parks dressed as our high school mascot.

21) Took a month off to travel and fly fish Colorado.

22) Helped arrange and celebrate Dokken Day, 2010--a festival of all things 80s metal.

21) Realized that this list needs much more added on to it.





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I Suck.

Yea, I suck.

It's hard to write when you're neck-deep in your plan of attack for life. "Wth?" you ask.

My plan of attack on life involves traveling my face off while incorporating wonderful things that I love into my travels. Great food, different corners of the country, fly fishing, things and deals abroad, delicious beverages, interesting people, my beautiful wife, maybe a kiddo or two, writing bunches, and so forth and so on. In order to get that ball rolling, I had to put an immediate stop to my at-the-time current profession. So I went ahead and did that.

Now, I'm much more in line with the direction that I need to be headed. I'm tuned into fly fishing, travel, and although I've slacked on my own blog...writing. Things are swell.

I am now practicing patience and slowly directing my dream. I realize that I'm being vague on what that plan, or dream actually is. That's because I'm not 100% positive what it is just yet. I just know that it involves traveling, fishing, experiencing, living, and writing.

So, with that said, I'll try and update this site on a more regular basis. If anyone out there is interested in offering me a substantial amount of money to do the aforementioned things listed above, facebook me or something.


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D'nF'nD '11

Wow. I can't believe this time of year is upon us again so soon. It seems like just yesterday that we were all preparing for the celebration, the togetherness, and the warmth.

Yes, Dokken Day 2011 is only 78 days away! Yep, I'm talking DD, not X-Mas. I zigged just when you thought I was going to zag.

2010's celebration was ridiculously awesome, and 2011's is going to be even bigger. The party plans have yet to be hashed out, but I can assure you that you're not going to be disappointed.

A quick recap to inform our friends new to the holiday: In 1988, Tom Bradley, the mayor of Los Angeles, proclaimed January 27 "Dokken Day" and presented the 80s metal band, Dokken, with the key to city. Not sure why, but I'm glad the drunk bastard did.

The way I like to picture it is, Tom Bradley got shit-hammered drunk one night with Don, George, "Wild" Mick, and Jeff (Dokken, Lynch, Brown, and Pilson, respectively) You've got a white-collar , African-American politician decked out in a neck tie and penny loafers hanging out with the fellas from Dokken. Tom lives down the street from the bandmates, who all live a nice, ranch-style subdivision home together. They've all been bowling and have had several Busch Lights and Rumplemint shots. Don, decked out in full spandex, teased hair, chain belt, silk headband, and a bowler's wrist guard, rolls a strike. Tom Bradley yells, "Don, you lucky fucker! Roll another one! If you don't get a strike, you have to take a shot of Schnapps for each one of us here!"

"You're on, T.B.!" Don retorts in a playful manner, "If I get it though, you're drinking them, cocksucker!"

Don positions his stance, slowly brings the bowling ball up to his chin supported by his non- bowling hand, and with an intent focus on that center pin, takes a deep breath and shoots one down the center of the lane. Crash!! All ten pins explode with the force that only a metal god can conjure.

"Drink up, bitch!" Don laughs.

Tom gracefully accepts his end of the bet and throws back five shots of Schnapps in quick fashion. His eyes instantly glaze over and he stumbles a bit while finding his way back to his plastic chair with his penny loafers stowed neatly under it.

"I tell ya what," T.B. suddenly says, "you roll a third strike and I'll give you the key to the goddamn city! You miss it, and I take over as lead singer and namesake of your band." he states confidently.

Don, who never backs down from a challenge--especially in the presence of his bandmates in the middle of a bowling alley--calls Tom on his ante-upping.

Once again, Don positions the ball in front of his face just below his eyes. Focuses on the lane, the pins, the encouraging words from Jeff, George, and "Wild" Mick, "Don...you can do this." they softly say. Nervous thoughts of his amazingly talented metal band changing it's name to BRADDLY. Don clears his head.

Then, with the determination that only an entertainer--a man--of Don's caliber can attain, he bowls that third strike. Don succeeds, as he has countless times before.

Mayor Bradley, with a defeated grin, reaches into his briefcase and removes a solid gold key the size of a ukulele. As the four band members stand in front of Tom with a confident swagger about them, they remain good sports and give a Tom a pat on the back and assure him that this gentleman's wager will not effect their friendship in the least. In fact, in a beautiful act of sportsmanship, George Lynch graciously asks Mayor Bradley and his wife over for a Sunday pot luck dinner to the band's house. "Wild" Mick Brown quickly offers his famous Chipotle Potato Salad for a side dish! This was well before the word "chipotle" became a popular culinary term. "Wild" Mick is considered a "trail blazer" in the art of fine cooking.

The next morning as the band members awake from a slumber fueled by the ravages of a night of pure rock and roll bowling alley debauchery, they start to piece together the events that transpired. They manage to remember the ultimate wager that evening, and while feeling triumphant that their leader once again came through for them, they couldn't help but wonder how their close friend, Tom Bradley, mayor of Los Angeles, felt that same morning. It brought a sense of concern to all four roommates.

Jeff flips the TV on to break up the worried feelings in the room, and to the band's amazement, Mayor Tom Bradley was on live television, holding an impromptu press conference. He was announcing his decision to proudly give the key to the city to the greatest rock and roll band the world had ever seen--as well as great friends and neighbors of his--Dokken. Mayor Bradley then ends his press conference by proclaiming that day, January 27, from that day forth, "Dokken Day".

That morning Mayor Tom Bradely proved to his close friends, Dokken, that being a gracious loser, actually makes you a triumphant winner...

The band and the mayor celebrated the following day with jello molds, casseroles, salads, and a delicious main course prepared by who else, Don Dokken.

That's kind of the way I envision the whole thing happening.

At any rate, I'll get back to you on the bad-ass details of DD'11. I'm guessing that although we'll all celebrate in our homes amongst ourselves and our families on the day of the 27th, the actual festival won't kick off until the following Saturday, the 29th--just so you know. So mark your damn calendars!

Thanks Mayor Tom Bradley! You won't be forgotten in this celebration of 80s metal wonderment!




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Way To Go, MO.

I'm a dreamer. But I dream about realistic, achievable things. I have a very crisp and vivid mind's eye, and sometimes what I'm seeing in my head is more romantic--more desirable than the reality of doing it. I tend to dwell on a memory or idea that is--in my head--exactly what I have to do right now.

For months I had envisioned going back home to Missouri. It was to be a perfect visit--obviously, seeing as how I'm dreaming about it. There was to be fishing at my favorite old spots, seeing friends that I used to get into trouble with, grilling meats and frying fishes in the parents' backyard, and spending very necessary time with my family. I had grown homesick. I had started to yearn for the things that used to be everyday life for me years ago. The visions of all these things in my head made me even more excited and ready to embrace my roots once again.

Well, I went. And with very few exceptions, it was absolutely perfect.

The visit started out swell. A good friend of mine, Bryan, took my dad and I out on his boat (my dad and I sold our boat, seeing as how I moved away) to our favorite launch on Stockton Lake. Since I cannot travel well with my conventional fishing tackle which is now in my garage in Colorado, my dad purchased a new $30 spin combo for me at the Bass Pro, or Pro Bass, or "Probe Ass" as it has become so affectionately called. After we arrived at our old honey hole, my new rig backfires before I'm able to make one cast, thus creating what us boat anglers call a "fiddle dee wa". It was an annoying beginning, but after 5-7 minutes of untangling my line from around the inside of my spool, I make my first cast towards this hallowed bank. On my second fling, I lace into a sizable white bass, the very species that we were hoping would be hungry this particular day. You see, white bass to some are a dirt fish. Possibly not a sport fish, and some do not consider them good eating. Those people are wrong and ignorant.

Here's a quick side note on the perception of certain fishes: Where I'm from, people love crappie. They are supposedly the most delicious fish, outside of the walleye. I disagree. Crappie do not have much taste, so most people--who likely don't like fishy tasting fish, prefer crappie. White bass, on the other hand, very much so have a fishy taste to them. Not overpowering, they just taste like a fish should. So me, and my friends and family who appreciate fresh, fishy tasting fish, prefer the white bass over the crappie. Hell, you're coating it in flour, cornmeal, salt & pepper, and cayenne--then dumping it in oil anyway, so a little fish taste certainly complements its crunchy, seasoned exterior. I do not turn my nose up at a crappie, mind you. I simply find it less tasty. Walleye are still the cat's ass when it comes to delicious fish sides. That can't be denied.

Okay, the white bass is tossed in the live well, and from then on we accumulate many, many more to accommodate the boat. The predominate species is the white bass--some in the 20 inch range--but also largemouth bass, walleye, and yes, crappie are added to the mix. Even a couple big, nasty catfish are thrown in. Several keepers are actually tossed into the boat by way of my fly rod. It's a little more work--especially when your fly line keeps getting tangled in the trolling motor foot controls--but well worth the effort!

A day and a half of this results in over 60 kept fish between the three of us. This is going to be fine fish fry.

The second day of fishing ended earlier than the first, due to the amount of fish that needed filleting and a few friends coming over to drink some beer with us. The picnic table was positioned just right in the back yard, two cutting boards placed on it, one electric fillet knife and one conventional for cutting rib cages out, cold Budweisers within arms reach, and country music cued on the CD player. Not pop country--I don't listen to that crap. No, good country. Our traditional fish cleaning country artists are BR5-49, Ray Condo and His Ricochets, and Willie Nelson. Any mention of Rascal Flatts and someone's getting a fillet knife in their thigh.

During the two hour process of preparing fish sides for the following day's fry, my good friend Jeffrey shows up with his Weber grill and three slabs of spare ribs.

Now, earlier when I said that I have a vivid mind's eye and dream about realistic things that make me incredibly happy--this is certainly one of those things. But it actually was better than how I envisioned it. Hickory smoke and fish stench in the air. BR5-49, sizzling ribs, and an electric fillet knife providing the soundtrack. Comrades that I see way too little of these days. It was one of those times that I have to take moment to absorb it all in. And I did. And then grabbed a can of Budweiser with my red, slimy hand and took at hearty quaff, and grinned in satisfaction.

The following evening was perhaps the crux of the visit. After a couple preliminary beers during the Nebraska/Mizzou tackle football contest with some old friends, it was time to prepare for the evening's festivities. 60+ fish equals 120+ fish sides. These were to be fried. Bryan, who has become an avid hunter, supplied venison loin that my dad was to hickory smoke on the grill. After old friends pulled into the gravel driveway one by one, Bud Lights were inhaled like the good old days and stories of the past were repeated like they are each time we meet up. A competitive game of horseshoes quickly led to further preparation for the night. We instinctively split into groups. Some get wood ready for the large fire, some help prepare the grill, and some assist in creating a fish frying station in the backyard.

Like usual, there was more food than all of our hearty appetites could consume. And like usual, an S.O.S. went out when the beer supply became thin. The crisis was quickly averted when my best friend, Kevin, showed up fashionably late with two cases of cold beer. To my recollection, there was much beer and laughter alongside a blazing campfire. Pickup trucks and lawn chairs circled the pit, and sing-along 80s metal provided a familiar backdrop.

It's different now, yet the same. My parents' backyard has always served as the stage for incredibly successful get-togethers. My friends and I, once being the kids that populated these shindigs, are now much more few and far between. People grow up. They move away. They move on. But there are still a few soldiers that carry on. The parties are less--especially now that I live 700 miles away. But when word gets out that a fiesta is in the works, there is always a swell crowd that delivers. My parents' backyard now has less of "us", but more of our offspring. 4 year-olds chasing each other around and playing tee-ball has replaced 22 year-olds doing keg stands and running through the fire. We still get together, though. We're not as rowdy, but we still have just as much fun.

Nice job, Missouri. Way to come through.






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Twitchy Left Eye.

I try not to talk about work too much on this thing. When I get home from a trying day--which is most all of them--the last thing I want to talk about is work. But there are some real characters out there that I just have to bring to everyone's attention.

Let's recap on what exactly it is that I do. I sell coats to dipshits. The end.

Sure, I've got to put up with a boatload of totally unnecessary micro-managing and bullshitting just to keep the corporate jackweeds off my back--but apparently that's not too uncommon.

Let's get back to the dipshits.

Now, if you've ever worked a job in the service industry--a job where they really emphasize the term "customer service", then you may get my drift on this bit. If not, please take note so you don't fall into this category of dipshitness.

I'll start with a fairly minor one. This happened today.

Loud, annoying phone-talking guy decides to walk into the store while still on his incredibly important and loud phone call. I make it a point to greet everyone who enters the store while on their phones just so they have to acknowledge me for one second during their cellular conversation. Sometimes it takes more than one greeting to get a reaction, but it's worth the effort because I get satisfaction from interrupting them. Loud, annoying phone-talking guy walks right up to me, puts his index finger out, as to say "Just a sec, chief.". I am in a not-so great mood to begin with--mainly because I hate my job--so I give him a "go to hell" scowl that was more genuine than he, or anyone could have known. He finishes his conversation with an "I'll have to pass this time, big guy, but maybe we can---blah blah blah (he started talking in frat-boy golf lingo that I don't understand).

This champion finally ends his cell phone conversation that he obviously wanted everyone within earshot--and then some--to hear, walks up uncomfortably close to me, and states, "Let's do some shoppin'!" My scowl increases to where no man in his right mind would think that I am even minutely happy at this point. While he stands there smiling, I stand with a look that all but screams, "Are you fucking kidding me? I don't get paid near enough to deal with fucktards like you." That's exactly what my look said...and then my left eye started twitching.

After I stand there, in dipshit-shock, he says, "What's your name?" Then he looks at my nametag ( I hate...once again, I hate...wearing a nametag) "Matt? Craig. I need to buy a casual, but cool jacket that I can wear if I want to learn to ski, but that also looks good with a suit, like if I get off work and meet some clients over at Elway's. Also something that I can run or ride my bike at night while it's snowing. I just moved here from Cali, lost 40lbs since February, and I'm out shopping like a chick!"

No shit. Nice job, Craig. Way to suck at living.

This brings to mind the man-shoppers that I have come in the store. Now, this is not intended to poke fun at gay dudes--that would not be as big of a deal. But I have a substantial amount of seemingly heterosexual men that enjoy spending a Saturday afternoon not playing basketball together...not drinking beer together...not watching baseball together...but shopping for clothes together. Yes, they carry around their little bags from the mall that have Aeropostle--or what the fuck ever that place is called, The Gap, The Navy, The Puma, and all the other mall stores that cater to man-shoppers.

"Hey Vinnie, you got Saturday off? Sweet! Me too! I realize that there's a game on TV, or we could head up to the mountains for a little fishing, or hell, we could even just spend the day in a bar tying one on.......but I'm wondering if you would just like to go to the mall, do some shopping? You know, for clothes and stuff? The two of us. That sound cool?"

Then some crazy lady comes in to the store, wondering if we sell body warmers? I don't know what a body warmer is. There is no such thing, so she's probably confusing it with something else. "Are you talking about hand or foot warmers? You know, those packets that you put in your gloves or socks in cold weather?" I ask.

"No, god no! It's a body warmer! You know, a piece of clothing!" Like I'm the idiot.

"O--kay. Like arm warmers for runners? Sleeves?" I'm at a loss.

"No! It's armless! It's an armless body warmer! C'mon!! I see them everywhere! Don't tell me you don't have them!" She's almost yelling at this point.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I have no idea what a sleeveless body warmer is." I say while keeping my cool and appearing completely genuine.

"Here! This! This is what I'm talking about!!" As she grabs a hold of a garment on a rack.

"A vest??" I say in utter amazement.

"Yea, whatever! Vest, bodywarmer...whatever! That's what I need!" still talking like I am a complete moron. My eye: twitching.

One more. Stay with me on this winner.

Guy is looking at luggage. I ask if I can help. He says, "I bought this piece of luggage yesterday, and I'm wondering if it's going to be big enough."

"Okay, I gotcha. What are you planning on packing in it" I reply.

"I've got six reels that I'm traveling with, and that's all I'm taking in this piece of luggage." he states.

"Alright, have you tried packing them in there yet?" giving this yutz the benefit of the doubt thus far.

"Yea, I brought 'em. They're in there." opening the carry-on to show me that all reels fit perfectly.

"Okay, so you bought this yesterday, and decided to bring your reels in to see if they'd fit in this exact same piece that you just bought?" Trying to make sense of it.

"Yea, I'm just not sure that they're gonna fit." he says, revealing that he is still uncertain that his cargo will fit into this piece of luggage that they are, in fact, fitting into right in front of both our eyes.

"Well.......it looks as though they fit in this piece....that you have already bought, pretty well....." I say with a hint of caution, in case I'm dealing with a mentally disabled person, or there is possibly something obvious that I'm overlooking during this conversation.

"Yea, I don't know if they're gonna fit, man."

At this point, I am completely speechless. I throw my hands up, as to say, "Sorry bud, I don't know what to tell you. You bought this same piece of luggage yesterday, but decided to bring your six fishing reels in here to see if they would fit in the display model--which they obviously do, without a hint of doubt, instead of....................." My left eye starts twitching. I walk away.




Please, please, please....stop being so goddamn stupid. Thank you.






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