My Life As A Turkey: You Must Watch This.

If you're a hunter, nature lover, or motion photography buff, do yourself a favor and watch the magnificent PBS documentary, "My Life As A Turkey."  It's some of the best TV I've seen in years.

Hell, come to think of it, if you're NOT a lover of nature, you owe it to yourself even more to watch this, so you can understand why the rest of us are obsessed with the natural world.

Disclosure.  I'm not a TV guy, and I had no idea this was on the tube.  I'm in a motel room in Hays, Kansas by myself, scouting birds for a buddy who's arriving tomorrow.  Sitting on the bed, eating Long John Silver's (don't judge), flipping through the boob tube.  And turkeys - wild turkeys - are on PBS.  Cool, I'll watch that for 30 seconds or so.

And for the next 40 minutes (I caught it late), I was mesmerized.  The storyline isn't new - man bonds with animals, learns much about them, learns more about himself and the human condition.  But holy hell was it well done.

It was interesting, beautiful, funny, and sad, often all at once.  The cinematography was extraordinary - so much so that I'm waiting for the inevitable follow-up "The Making of Turkey Man." 

Whatever.  It's must see TV for the outdoor set, and it'll certainly make me think about that rooster or bob that I'm fixing to draw a bead on tomorrow.  Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.

p.s. As I grabbed the link for the series, I see that the PBS site has crashed.  I'm guessing it's because of the interest in this program.

Helping to Pass It On

Last weekend, Jack and I had the privilege of attending the Pass It On Outdoor Mentors Bust-A-Clay for Kids' Sake fundraising event.  It was held at Flint Oak, the renowned hunting and shooting lodge in southeastern Kansas.

Pass It On is a nationwide program that helps connect mentors to at-risk kids who aren't fortunate enough to experience the outdoors.  The group hosts camping, hiking, fishing, hunting, and shooting events that provide kids with activities and opportunities that they otherwise wouldn't ever experience.  It benefits the kids, the mentors, and helps stem the declining ranks of anglers and hunters.

Jack and I raised money for the group, and in turn, we were treated to a steak dinner, evening auction, and subsequent morning on the finest clays course I've ever had the chance to visit.  It's been called the Pebble Beach of clays shooting, and now I know why.  The grounds are immaculate, and the stations present pretty much every conceivable shooting opportunity.  And brother is it humbling.

But back to the kids.  Organizers say they raised nearly $40,000 for their group last weekend.  I sincerely believe that each and every sportsman should have at least one cause that they're willing to back with their monetary resources and old-fashioned sweat equity.  I think I found my new group.  Some of you contributed to the cause.  A sincere thank you!

Gun, Meet Upper Palate.

Snapped this little doozy off the back deck five minutes ago.  I know others to the north have it even worse than us -- and bretheren to the south are chilly too -- but this is about MY weather, dammit.  We're more than a week into spring and less than a week until April.  What gives?

These Are The Times That Try Men's Souls

Bird hunting season is behind us.

Fishing is sixty days away.

It's dark at 5:30 in the afternoon.

There's a foot of dirty, gray snow on the ground.

It's warmer in my freezer than it is outside.

Football season is over.

Basketball season has yet to get interesting.

Truly, these are the times that try men's souls.

So, what else sucks about this time of year?  Discuss.

I'm Back...

My sincerest apologies for dropping off the face of the earth.

It wasn't really planned, and I don't really have an excuse.  I wasn't despondent over the Husker loss (disappointed though), I didn't come down with some terminal disease (that I know of), and I didn't have some terrible accident.  I just unplugged.

Yeah, I honest-to-God haven't logged into my blog (or read any other blog) since the day I wrote my last post, almost a month to the day.  While I've missed reading everyone else, it's been a nice break.  I never wanted this blog thing to be a chore, and it was starting to feel that way.  So I took an unpaid sabbatical.

During that time, I've logged over 6,000 road miles while hunting in three states (shooting deer, quail, and pheasants), said goodbye to my wife's dear 98 year old grandmother, and enjoyed the Christmas holiday with my wife and kids.  It's been a busy month!

This morning finds me in the Texas Hill Country with my children, visiting my parents.  Mrs. Scampwalker will join us tomorrow, along with NotHemingway and his growing family.  It's shaping up to be a great week.

Today, I will take my son Jack deer hunting for a fat whitetail doe.  Expect a post in the near future on that one.

So yeah, I'm back.  Thanks to those of you who wondered, or maybe even missed me.  I missed the blogosphere.  A belated Merry Christmas, and an early Happy New Year.  I'll not be a stranger.

Saturday Night I'm Going To Party Like It's 1978

It was probably the late 1970s or early 80s, and I was sitting around the dinner table, dining with my parents and brother. On this particular evening, we had the TV tuned to the local news -- mostly as background noise.

It was a rare night that I wasn't enjoying my meal -- a casserole of some sort (of which I'm still not a fan today). "I hate casseroles," I muttered to my plate and no one in particular.

Across the table, my father's fork audibly dropped on his plate. "Young man, hate is a strong word. You can dislike your meal all you want, but you're not allowed to hate it. The only thing you're allowed to hate is that man right there."

My father pointed to our small Emerson television. Barry Switzer, coach of the Oklahoma Sooners, was talking. And that was my indoctrination into Husker football.

Of course, Dad wasn't entirely serious about hating Coach Switzer. In fact, in the years since then, I've always had a fondness for the Sooners. Back then, the Cornhuskers and Sooners were the two heavies that could always be counted on to fight for the Big 8 championship, and most likely a national one.  Epic battles between the brash, foul-mouthed Switzer and the bland, choir boy Tom Osborne.  My allegiances never faltered from the Huskers, but I did always secretly love (and love to hate) Coach Switzer.

Then came the Big 12, and like everything else in sports (and life I suppose), it became all about money and power. Our yearly duel with the Okies ended. And the power (and money) shifted to Dallas and Austin. I'm not here to debate who's at fault -- there's plenty of blame to go around, and what's done is done.

I pondered all of this last Friday, as I watched the Huskers drub the Colorado Buffaloes (always an enjoyable thing) from our seats in Memorial Stadium. Both teams will soon head off to different conferences and different futures. While the game was great, something felt amiss. I'm no longer able to look forward to annual games against the K-State Wildcats, Kansas Jayhawks, or Missouri Tigers -- the schools where my co-workers and hunting buddies attended. Their stadiums are all a short drive from home.

I'm trading that for far-flung Ohio State and Michigan -- great schools, for sure, but I don't know a soul from either institution.  They're strangers to me.  That'll change over time, but next year is going to be weird.

But for the next week, I'm going to set that all aside and fondly anticipate Saturday night's throwback throwdown between two historic (and hopefully future) powerhouses. And however things turn out, I'll be satisfied that the old Big Eight had one final, proud curtain call.

Gimme Back My Bullets, EPA

Ok, guys, here's a real quick, painless way to write your Senators and Representative and encourage them to prevent the EPA from adopting a complete ban on lead ammunition.

They're using the Toxic Substance Control Act of 1976 as their basis, except the law specifically calls out ammo as exempt from the rules.  Make no mistake --the Obama-appointed people behind this proposal are more interested in a de-facto gun ban than saving any kind of wildlife.  Not only that, but there's never been any legitimate, peer-reviewed study that I've found that connects wildlife mortality to the ingestion of lead.

The NSSF has the full story here, and you can send an email or letter to your elected officials here.  Do it now -- the whole shebang takes less than a minute, and it could help save the future of our sport.

Hey NSSF,I Know My Sport Is Dying, But Do You Have To Remind Me?!?!

There's word today from the organizers of the annual SHOT Show that they've redesigned the logo for the king of all shooting and hunting trade expositions.  The new logo, shown at left, is allegedly "strong," "clean," "inclusive" and "modern" -- all good things, apparently, to the National Shooting Sports Foundation.

Gone is the earnest, shotgun-toting upland hunter with a boot-polishing, panting golden retriever at his side.  I wasn't a particularly huge fan of the old logo, but it made me proud that my sport was was represented in such a high-profile icon.

“Times change and trade shows change, reflecting current buying and selling trends,” said Chris Dolnack, senior vice president of NSSF.  "By eliminating the hunter and the dog, the logo now better reflects the diverse audiences of today’s SHOT Show."

Did you really have to use the word ELIMINATING, Chris?  I mean, I get it.  Hunting is but one portion of the shooting sports pie, and upland hunting is an increasingly smaller crumb of said pie.  Deer hunting, target shooting, tactical and law enforcement are where the money's at these days -- hell, I've even got a black gun.  So I understand businesses need to adapt to where the green is, which is probably why the new logo features a green target.  Fitting, eh?

But still... I just feel so... eliminated.

The New QU

When I arrived home from work yesterday evening, a new (and very different-looking) Quail Unlimited magazine was sitting on the counter.  Gone was the cheesy cursive masthead logo, and gone was the terrible, amateurish cover photo that usually adorned the increasingly thin magazine.

It was replaced by a rather hefty book with an updated logo (even though the stylized quail head looks a bit like a pissed off chicken) and a lovely photo of a covey rise by esteemed outdoor photographer Terry Allen.

The magazine -- and ,much of the organization itself -- is now administered by Steve Smith and Village Press, the same guys that publish and edit Pointing Dog Journal, among other titles.  I haven't had much of a chance to read the magazine, but in flipping through it, I'm betting it's going to stay a little longer in my "reading library" than the old QU magazines.

While I'm still not quite ready to throw my money -- and sweat equity -- at the organization again, this step is nonetheless promising.  Mr. Smith can put together a magazine, and more importantly, Village Press has mailing lists and marketing savvy that just may help save this once-proud conservation group.

Lagniappe Isn't What It Used To Be

Over the weekend, my lovely bride and I were catching up on DVR'd episodes the tremendous miniseries Treme on HBO.  For those unaware, it's HBO's latest original series, this one based on post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans.  The writing, the acting, the music, the whole scene -- is terrific.  It's original programming like this that keeps me from canceling HBO -- hell, from axing all of pay TV.

I've always had a soft spot for the Crescent City... the first time I met her, was on an overnight bus trip back in college with my fraternity.  I had passed out on the trip from San Antonio (not entirely because of sleep deprivation) and my first sight of the Big Easy was a very unsettling above-ground cemetery.  I've loved -- and dreaded, in a lovely sort of way -- the town ever since.  So while many are "Vegas" people, I'm a New Orleans guy.  I'll take real, historical, authentic 1700s-era glory, decadance and depravity -- for Steve Wynn's version anyday.

But that's neither here nor there.  In Treme, John Goodman, fat bastard and raconteur extroidanaire, said, "Lagniappe isn't what it used to be."  I belly laughed, as I often do - Treme is one of those shows that anyone can relate to, but to natives -- and the more that you've been there -- well, you just see it in a different, richer way.  Don't take my word for it -- Goodman is priceless:


My wife had no clue wat lagniappe was though - and I'll bet there are plenty of you who join her.  "LAN-yap" is simply a little something extra - a free gesture, or a bit of swag, if you will.  I learned it the first time I was in New Orleans (not far from Treme, just off Congo Square), when a bartender graciously gave a cluster of us frat boys a Sazerac on the house one afternoon.  Thankfully, I was sober enough to remember it and use it once in awhile in conversation.

I think you should too. And while you're at it, give a little lagniappe, will y'all?  God knows this world could use some.  It has a way of returning the favor.

Contemplating 1, 10, and 41

May 14 oughta be a national holiday around here. 

For one, it marks the first anniversary of this little mishmash of thoughts known as 8 More Miles.  A little over a year ago, I promised myself that I'd carve out a little space (and time) for me to write about whatever the hell I wanted to write about, and do it somewhat consistently.  By that standard, I think I've succeeded.

Crazy and addicting things, these blogs are.  They are no doubt narcissistic -- a wonderful place to contemplate the glory of me.  But as much as writing my own posts, I love checking in on an almost daily occurrence to see what others -- yeah, those guys (and gals) to the right -- have on their minds. 

And the comments... well, they're what keep me doing this.  So thanks to those who have read and actively participated in this little endeavor.

The second 5/14 observance around here is Dottie's 10-year-old birthday (yes, I remember her exact birthdate, for reasons you'll soon learn).  She's about the best bird dog and companion that a guy could ever hope for, and traipsing this big country with her in search of birds has been more enjoyable than I could ever imagine.  Is she a "finished" bird dog?  It depends on your meaning of finished.  She's rock-solid on point, but once the gun goes off, she's in search of the next covey.  That's not her fault -- I'm no more steady to wing and shot than she is.

And I'm pretty certain she's got a couple more field years left in her, too.  She's still got the same drive she's always had -- but her lemon markings are whiting out and her eyes are slowly getting milky and starting to betray her youth.  Of course, that's much easier to notice when there's a 15-week-old mini-Dot chomped down on her ear.  I know that this fall, she'll provide tranquility in the chaotic midst of breaking in a new pup.

Finally, I'm 41 today (there's that narcissism again).  While last year's birthday was a two-day to-do with Reckless Kelly, I'm taking it easy this year.  There's not a damn thing I need -- I'm blessed with a fine family, close friends, an incredible job, a free country, and an abiding faith. 

So I think I'll just take the afternoon off, pick up my son from school, and hopefully he can shoot the Tom Turkey that's been teasing us all season.  Wish us luck.

"Social Media" My Ass

Southwest Flight 17 from Kansas City to Dallas touches down on runway 13R, and it immediately begins. Twenty-some-odd rows of six people reach for their iPhones, Blackberries, and Droids as soon as rubber meets runway. We make phone calls, check emails from the office, text loved ones (legitimate and otherwise), update Facebook walls, tweet our most mundane thoughts, and let the world know our location on apps like Foursqure. This, in the 21st Century, suffices for social interaction.

At a bar the other night with a few buddies, the conversation lulled, and we all impulsively reached for our phones -- seeing if there's anything important we might have missed in the last fifteen minutes. I take my laptop into a work meeting so I can keep up with emails while I half-assed pay attention to the meeting going on around me. Riding shotgun with my wife last Sunday, I find myself checking my work email -- on Christianity's highest of high holy days -- instead of enjoying the beautiful spring day.

Please stop this bus, I want to get off.

The World Wide Web -- the great liberator and disseminator of information and communication -- seems to be limiting our ability (or at least willingness) to have good, old-fashioned, face-to-face analog communication. This is becoming more and more acute as the internet moves from our homes and offices into the palm of our hands. The world is literally at our fingertips -- and yet we're all becoming more insulated and antisocial.

I'm no luddite. I like technology, gadgetry, and anything else that makes my life easier. And I, for one, don't want to go back to the days of IBM Selectric typewriters, rotary phones, paper maps, and VHS tapes.

But back in the day (and by this I mean 2003, for chrissakes), I used to spend my down time at the airport walking around, checking out the pretty girls, or maybe even starting up a conversation with the random guy sitting next to me at the bar. Now it's spent staring at a tiny display, hoping to keep up with everyone else who is trying to keep up with me.

It's not going to change, of course. And it'll more than likely get much, much more pervasive. But we're forgetting that you can't spell "technology" without "no."

And the latter is a word I need to keep in mind the next time I think about reaching for my smartphone.

Quail Unlimited: Fun Times In Albany

As I write this, dozens of outdoor industry leaders, conservationists, landowners, hunters and assorted muckety-mucks are descending on Albany, Georgia for the Annual Quail Unlimited Conservation Celebrity Event.

Formerly known as the "Celebrity Hunt," the event has traditionally been QU's biggest single fundraiser. This year, it's quite a feat that they've been able to even pull off the shindig. For the past year or so, the organization has been mired in financial turmoil, most of the leadership ousted, their headquarters up for sale, and their print magazine on hiatus.

Traditionally, the annual celebrity event has been a way for QU to recognize its sponsors and treat its major benefactors to a leisurely weekend of plantation hunting with actors, athletes, and politicians, most of whom are quail hunters too.

This year, I imagine things won't be quite as laid-back. New QU president Bill Bowles (formerly of Wynfield Plantation and currently of Quail Country, two of the finest Georgia plantations out there) is inviting any member to this years wing-ding.  While the openness is commendable, I suspect that during private conversations, he's getting a testy earful from sponsors, the board of directors and state chairmen.  I hope so, actually.

Nevertheless, I wish Mr. Bowles the best of luck. I firmly believe that as sportsmen, we should choose at least one conservation organization that we can support for the benefit of the wildlife that we care so deeply about.

I fear however (pardon the pun) that the QU bird has already flown the coop. While a few big-name sponsors -- the lifeblood of funding for any conservation organization -- are holding fast to QU, others have left. Dozens of chapters, many of them historically the strongest in the QU arsenal, have dissolved their affiliation with QU or disbanded altogether. Quail Forever, an affiliate of Pheasants Forever, has gained momentum and chapters. And handful of refugees from QU have formed the Quail and Upland Wildlife Federation, but as far as I can tell, it has yet to take hold.

Hopefully, good will come out of all of this. I've always been of the opinion that we've had too many national "boutique" conservation groups that are segmented to one specific species of animal. All of these different groups compete for a sportsman's dollar, spending precious resources on advertising, recruiting, and administration costs. If I were king (a scary thought indeed) there would be one national group (perhaps the NSSF?) that lobbies the government on national and regional issues that affect sportsmen and gun owners. That would leave state and local groups to focus on conserving and improving habitat in their local area.

It's a grassroots idea, and one that the existing conservation organizations probably wouldn't much care for. But who needs another DU gun case or PF hat? Nix the overhead and administration, and put those dollars to work for the critters that are most important to us locally.

A Pollyanna approach? Perhaps. But there are legitimate signs that this philosophy is already working. More on that later, so stay tuned.

SHOT Show: What I Came Home With

I'm recently returned from Las Vegas, that shining city of excess.  I'm not much of a fan of the city -- all that glitter is paid with someone else's gold -- and gambling has never held any allure for me.  There are some nice restaurants in town, but they're typically shrines to far-off TV-chefs who made their names elsewhere.

Vegas played host to SHOT Show, which, for those who are unfamiliar, stands for shooting, hunting, and outdoor trade.  Nearly 60-thousand industry-only types descended on the Sands Convention Center this year and traipsed 700,000 square feet of guns, hunting gear, and everything associated with it.

It's truly a sight to behold -- bikini-clad booth babes hawking the latest in killing technology to gawking, mostly-middle-aged white men who can't believe their good fortune.  The "trend" of the show this year -- as it's been for at least the last couple of years -- is the amazing popularity of military and law enforcement gear -- also known as "black guns" or "tactical" weapons.  Why?  It's probably a combination of things.  They certainly look cool and menacing, but it's also a response to a Presidential administration that's considered hostile to the Second Amendment .  Also, I guess, it's a reflection of a citizenry that has become used to seeing its countrymen carrying these weapons in far-flung regions of the world.  (Side note: given all of this, don't you think SHOT's logo of a bird hunter with a boot-polishing, panting dog seems a bit, uh, quaint?)

For those not aware, there's a huge, self-flagellating debate raging in the shooting and sporting world on whether or not these tactical weapons have a place in hunting.  I think if anyone even casually observed the SHOT Show floor, they'd realize that (right or wrong) the debate has pretty much been decided.

Part of the fun during the show is when a co-worker/fellow gun-nut and I walk the floors and kick the tires of new and coveted firearms.  An even bigger part of the fun is finding someone in a booth that is willing to reciprocate a "friends and family" discount on a shiny new gun or piece of gear.  So suffice it to say that over the next few months, I hope to fill my gun safe with a couple new pieces -- maybe even one of those black guns.

But undoubtedly my favorite part of the show is rekindling friendships with friends in the industry.  The outdoor industry is a small fraternity, and I've made some incredible friends over the years.  SHOT serves as "old home week" for many of us.  It's a chance to shake hands, catch up, trade gossip, sling some bullshit, drink some whiskey, and plan hunting trips for the coming year.

These are friends that have helped you out, both professionally and personally, over many years.  For me, they're comrades with whom I've shared deer blinds, covey rises, hunting camps, and all things associated with them, both good and bad.  And here we all are, plunked down into Sin City, the antithesis of the Great Outdoors.

And you know what?  It doesn't matter one damn bit.  It's not the shiny toys I have after I get home from SHOT -- it's the friends I've collected over the years that matter most.

Of Purple Fenceposts and Passing Lanes

When you leave the familiar

And cross the line to everywhere else

Your soul leaps to a higher plane and gives your body

A free ride without so much as a ticket or a hand stamp

-Joe Ely, Bonfire of Roadmaps

Half of the fun of being an itinerant bird hunter is in the getting there -- seeing the places, meeting the people, and sampling the ways of the locals.  In fact, for me at least, it's a sure-fire antidote from the homogenous Wal-Mart culture of 21st-Century America.

Purple fenceposts, for example.  I don't remember when I saw my first one, but it was shortly after moving to Kansas after stints in Texas, Georgia, and Nebraska -- and never once do I recall seeing one prior to that day.  I assumed -- and I've since learned that I'm not the only one -- that a purple fencepost indicated allegiance to the Kansas State University Wildcats, whose color is the somewhat off-putting purple.

Somewhere along the way, I came to learn that these purple splashes mean "No Trespassing."  Kind of a unique way to express sovereignty -- and much easier to erect than a barbed wire fence and harder to remove than a plastic sign.  I was surprised though that growing up just one state to the north, I had never heard of such a practice.  The always-reliable internet research indicates that "purple laws" are on the books in Arkansas, Missouri, and Texas -- though I've never actually seen purple postings anywhere but the Sunflower State.

Anyhow, it's one of those customs you'd never learn about by traveling I-70 at 80 miles an hour.

And speaking of roadways, here's another custom that I think ought to be emulated nationwide.  Down in the Lone Star State, Texans driving at highway speeds on a two-lane road readily pull over on the shoulder to let faster-moving vehicles pass (with a friendly wave as thanks, mind you). 

And why the hell not?  The shoulders are wide, smooth, and often extensions of the road themselves.  I've always thought it was courteous and (in most cases) the safest way to keep traffic moving and not stacked up.  No Texan that I've asked can tell me whether or not it's entirely legal, but no one really seems to care.

Two examples of practical necessity, conceived by real people in the real world.  In this day and age, we need more of that, don't we?

Save The CRP

If you're not a farmer or hunter, then chances are you've never heard of the Conservation Reserve Program, better known as CRP. It its essence, it's a USDA program that incentivizes farmers to convert highly erodible cropland or other environmentally vulnerable acreage to grassland, trees, filter strips, or bottomland buffers. For more than 20 years, this program has been a major force in reducing soil erosion, enhancing water supplies, improving water quality, mitigating flood control, and increasing wildlife habitat of all varieties.

In my estimation, it's a poster child for how government and the private sector ought to work. But today, the program is in jeopardy. According to Pheasants Forever, over 4.2 million acres have expired, and over the next five years, another 21 million more acres are slated to expire. The reasons for this exodus from CRP are varied, but an increase in grain prices (thanks in part to increased ethanol demand) is certainly a significant culprit.

Although CRP was reauthorized in the current farm bill, its success will depend on the rules for implementation. As it stands, there is no provision for a new CRP general signup to re-enroll or replace acres that have expired. Without allowing for new enrollment, we'll continue to lose these vital acres. Of course, someone -- the taxpayer -- has to pay to put these new acres into CRP. But this is an investment in the future.

I've never been accused of being a tax-and-spend liberal, but the CRP program is almost universally hailed as a success. If you've ever walked a section of CRP, the quality of land and wildlife diversity is self-evident. Whether you're a hunter, conservationist, or environmentalist, this is one program we can all get behind. To weigh in on the issue, contact your Congressman, email CRPcomments@tecinc.com, or click here to read more.

Words to Live By

"To brag little, to lose well, to crow gently if in luck, to pay up, to own up, to shut up if beaten. These are the virtues of a sporting man."

I wish I could remember where I stumbled across that quote -- it was undoubtedly some online outdoor publication. But to me, it sums up more than my philosophy afield -- it's how I strive (sometimes successfully) to live my life.

The author is Oliver Wendell Holmes, the 19th century doctor, poet, and intellectual. He's probably more often than not known for his son, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., a universally respected Supreme Court Justice.

Anyhow, this particular quote by the elder Holmes first appeared in The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (don't you just love that name?). It was a series of essays that appeared in the Atlantic Monthly magazine 152 years ago. I've enjoyed reading the text, and I'm struck at how much it resembles a modern-day blog. No, really, it does -- stick with me here.

The essays recount conversations that Holmes had at breakfast with his boarding house table-mates. To protect the innocent and not-so-innocent, he refers to them by pseudonyms -- "the Schoolmistress," "the Professor," and so forth. And his topics veer wildly from religion to societal commentary to medicine to the outdoors to gambling (the latter is where my quote comes from). Very blog-like. And why not? Hell, John Quincy Adams is Twittering these days. I'd encourage you to peruse it -- the man's got a way with words.

None of this is meant to somehow compare my random noodlings to one of the preeminent thinkers of the 1800s. But it sure is interesting to realize that some old Boston fuddy-duddy in tintype really isn't all that different from me. As Ollie would say:

"A thought is often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times. It has come to you over a new route, by a new express train of association."

Where'd My Paper Go?

Call me a grumpy old bastard, but does everything inevitably HAVE to go digital?

I say this as I make the acquaintance of my new 80GB Zune, a replacement for my 20GB iPod that some inconsiderate asshole helped himself to out of my truck a few weeks ago, along with a couple of nice hunting knives. To be honest, I'll miss the blades more than the effete devil spawn of Steve Jobs. Actually, the iPod itself was pretty nice... I just hated iTunes. Anyhow, I digress.

My music is all digital, and it took me forever to make my 1,000-plus CD collection that way. Now, those discs that I've been pridefully collecting since college are now collecting dust, resigned to ignominy in a hall closet. Liner notes? Forget about them. I'm one of those music nerds who like to peruse the artwork and band shout-outs, and I haven't experienced that since Reckless Kelly's 2005 Wicked Twisted Road (which was quite cool, since there were tiny little working dice embedded in the spine, and I got my own personal shout-out). And forget about walking into that great, but frighteningly weird, record store to browse. There's just no way that iTunes can offer you the experience of walking into a dimly-lit store replete with funky-smelling gonesh sticks, freaky King Crimson b-sides, and flippant attitude. Sure, digital opens up some amazing doors, and lets me have an entire record collection (records? yep, I'm old) in my truck at my fingertips. But at what price?

Digital has even robbed us of the simple pleasure of the ticket stub. We went to see Gomez play last night, and my shitty excuse for a "ticket" was a printed out 8.5 x 11 piece of paper with a bar code and ads all over it. Nothing to save to prove to your buddies that You Were There When. Hell, I used to proudly put my now-obsolete ticket stubs in my now-nonexistent CD jewel cases.

Don't even get me started on the daily newspaper (they call it a "paper" for a reason, folks). It seems as though my local rag, along with countless others around the country, is falling victim to (among other things) free versions online. While I may also contend that lazy journalism might be to blame, I still miss having the tactile analog version to read with my cup of coffee. After all, have you ever tried to balance a laptop on your knees during your morning constitutional?

I am a grumpy bastard... I need to get off of this damned blog and get back to configuring my MP3 player and checking out a few message boards. Adios.

Obituary Overload

There's nothing like a bunch of punchlines dying to put you on notice, is there? Even as I write this, on the breezy confines of the Casa Scampwalker veranda, there are sirens -- a damned lot of sirens -- going hopefully to save some poor unknown bastard from the icy clutches of death.

But none of us escape it, do we? We make light of it -- mock it, really:

Farrah Fawcett goes to heaven. God grants her one wish. Farrah says, "Please take care of my children, and keep them from harm." So God strikes down Michael Jackson.

They say death comes in threes. Leave it to Billy Mays to throw himself in for free.

If God punishes us for whistling through the graveyard and making light of death, I'm a dead man bound for hell. But this recent spate of high-profile dirt naps has everyone thinking, doesn't it? How will the world remember you? Will you even be remembered? What's it all about?

Will you be remembered as the faithful, background sidekick like Ed McMahon? I'm still of the age that I remember Ed... always there... always quick with a laugh or a rejoinder (YES!) if Johnny's gag fell flat.

Do you hope to be eulogized like Farrah Fawcett, the bombshell that everyone wanted to be (or just plain wanted)? And though I never really paid attention at the time, she was by almost all accounts a good actress and fought a courageous fight against a horrible cancer.

Or are you going to be like Michael Jackson -- who somehow came to represent both the best and worst in humanity?

Hell, even Billy Mays, that (somewhat) lovable, loudmouthed huckster got his ticket punched. At least he knew what his life was supposed to be, and he lived it well.

But the death that brought it home for me was Marianne Stovall. She was an administrative assistant of mine back in a previous life, and she was only 58 -- but cancer doesn't care much about age, I guess.

Thankfully, I don't have a clue about when or how I'll die, and I'm not entirely sure what, if anything, people will remember about me. But I know I'm more attuned to it today than I was a week ago. And for that, I can thank Ed, Farrah, Michael, Billy, and Marianne. Godspeed. All of us.

Garden & Gun: Get It

Here's a mashup for you...

Take equal parts of Southern Living, Texas Monthly, Gray's Sporting Journal, and a chicken-fried version of the New Yorker, and what do you get? You get Garden and Gun, one of the few magazines I look forward to reading cover to cover, every single month that I've been fortunate enough to receive it.

To the uninitiated (or uncouth), it seems like an unlikely combo... I get laughs when people see it proudly layed out on my desk. But once they crack it open (hoping to mock me), they begin to understand that this little book is not about begonias and .44 magnums.

It's a "lifestyle" magazine, to be sure. But I invariably cringe at that word... I mean, what asshat out there describes himself as leading a "southern lifestyle" -- or ANY lifestyle?!?!? That's a word for no-talent, just-out-of-school marketing punks that have no, well, lifestyle of their own. Anyhoo, I digress.

Back to Garden and Gun. Please tell me what other magazine you know of that has the editorial stable of Sid Evans (EIC) and David DiBenedetto (ED), along with contributing editors like Roy Blount, Jr., Pat Conroy, Rick Bragg, and Winston Groom? (If you don't know them, shame on you. Google them first (see?) then buy the damned magazine already.) Add to that some of the best outdoor writers plying their trade on a freelance basis (see Phil Bourjaily and Eddie Nickens) and this magazine is a sure bet.

Of course, no magazine is a sure bet these days. In fact, thanks, to the recession and corporate ad slashing, most mags are thinner than double-ply asswipe these days. G&G is hanging in there, and you need to know about it. Get a subscription. Buy it on a newsstand or during a layover. At the very least, visit their blogs. Trust me, pal... this day and age, we could all use some old-school southern sense.