Mikesells Makos: A Video

I have more to say about the subject of sharks and fly rods, but for now I leave you with this videographic deliciousness, edited from last weekends gopro footage.

Enjoy.

Also, be sure to check out Rick's play-by-play write-up over at Trouts.

-A

Thoughts, renderings, and Pulp Fly: Vol. 2 in the multiverse

As the modern age pushes another little bundle of joyful ones and zeros out into the electronic existence, I sit thinking of Morgan Freeman. In the multiverse, and its set of infinite possible universes that together "comprise everything that exists and can exist: the entirety of space, time, matter, and energy as well as the physical laws and constants that describe them," these things which you see before you do exist, physically, somewhere:

Tasty

In one reality humans consume information in a literal sense, and someone soon will be taking a nice big cold swig of extra pulpy Vol. 2, basking in the refreshing deliciousness of fresh fly fishing content. While they wipe some tasty prose from their chin with the back of their once sun-beaten forearm they stare out an office window and thank their deity for the shared experience of others.

---

A few realities away a child sits on a old pine bench on the porch of a cabin. He holds in his little hands a weathered book, he opens the cover and flips through a few chapters, letting the thick, rough edged pages fall between his fingers. His discarded waders and boots piled near his feet, which swing enthusiastically above the wooden deck.

An old man appears at the screen door holding a mixing bowl with sweet smelling , unknown contents.

The child looks up through the door. "You wrote this, grandpa?"

"No, just a part of it."

"Well, I bet it is the best part," the child replies and continues flipping through the old pages.

The old man smiles through the dusty screen as the sun pokes its orange fingers through the last remaining gaps in the tall trees that line the high mountain lake.

What Pulp Fly: Vol. 2 would look like existing physically

---

So finally we end with our own occasionally boring yet magnificently awesome reality, where right now the crack (or cracked out) editorial staff of Pulp Fly is working around the clock to bring you, valued reader, the newest, freshest, most bestest yet Pulp Fly yet: Volume Two, of which I am grateful to be a part:

This is what Pulp Fly: Vol. 2 looks like in our (and your) reality

As updates become available I will give them to you. For now, just try not to melt your brain thinking of all the awesomeness existing elsewhere, and focus more on the awesomeness existing here.

-Alex who may have shirked some semi-important duties while in the throws of graphic creation.

Enthusiastic corruption of the public good.

Mr. Smythe of fishingpoet.com had a couple video machines in Michigan. On these video machines, he took some videos, then passed the files along to Mr. Dunn and myself to put together our own edits.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy the goodness.



Word to your Marquette from AlexLandeen on Vimeo.



CRAZY IVAN from fishbeer on Vimeo.



Dunn. Landeen. Smythe. Looking for fish. from fishingpoet on Vimeo.


-Alex who is pretty sure that this level of videographic awesomeness has ever existed in one place before.

Hope you enjoy your fly juice extra pulpy.

I am proud to be a part of the soon-to-be-released e-book Pulp Fly. This electronic pile of fishy goodness may, in fact, be the most unique thing to be released into the fly fishing inderwebs since forever. Don't believe me? Well, you will just have to take a look for yourself after the release on Amazon on April 1st.

This little jewel also features the literary stylings of Pete McDonald, Matt Dunn, Matt Smythe, Bruce Smithhammer, Ralph Bartholdt, Alex Cerveniak, Bjorn Stromeness, Michael Gracie, and Davin Ebanks.

All stars, all of them.

Awesome.

For more information on the book visit PulpFly.com, and visit the Facebook Page.

Very excite, yes?

I have inside information. I can't tell you, because that would be cheating and potentially damaging to the parties involved, so I will leave it at that and just sit here feeling that little smugness that develops when you know things.

There are particulars that I can talk about, though. One is how Mr. Dunn has hung up his thirdcoastfly hat, in pursuit of other hats just as delicious, which may or may not have to do with that other thing I am not at liberty to talk about, but definitely has nothing to do with the appending storm of awesomeness that will be the Dunn-Smythe-Landeen Category 5 epicness about to befall the Great Lakes State.

I am excited to show how much suck can be snap-t'ed from a two-hander.
I am excited to drink beer and be educated.
I am excited to be poetried at.
I am excited to wreck someone else's kitchen in the pursuit of culinary perfection.
I am excited to cook bacon.
I am excited to eat bacon.
I am excited to feel how cold the water is that leaks through the hole in my waders.
I am excited to buy new waders.
I am excited to see the Pere Marquette, the jewel of western Michican.
I am excited to meet interesting and stimulating people of the midwest culture and fish with them.
I am excited to be the first kid on my block with a confirmed eat.

I don't even know what I should be doing right now. I could tie a silly fly. I could drink another drink. I could walk back into the kitchen and realize that there is nothing in the fridge that can dampen the hunger in my gut. The rumble. The tremor that develops in the days before history is made. The quake that opens your eyes before the sun and whispers sweet nothings about friends and fish and boats and waters and beers that punch you in the balls and writhe and flail and scream and pray for more.

It should be a week. It should be a month, or tomorrow. It should be closer than it is but time has a funny way of always moving at the same speed even if it feels like forever and an instant.

It's just one more experience to be placed in the jar on the dusty shelf of life. Just one more happening that matters only to a select few, as important as the creation of the universe, as impotent as a good story never told.

As least you wont have to worry about that. I might even take a pic or two while there.

-Alex who is very excite, yes?

What I done.

I cooked a burger of epicness.

Angus beef ground with garlic, worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, and sriracha; then topped with battered, fried onions, Anaheim chilis, Havarti cheese and Roma tomatoes and sided with a Dave's Signature Spicy Pickle is how it's done.

Then I bought a plane ticket to Michigan to hang out for a few days of epicness.

Let's get weird!
Let's get weird!
Let's get weird!



-Alex who has all kinds of awesome going on.

Port Sulphur, In Some Particular Order of Epicness

Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

The sound of the wrapped push-pole reminded Alex of a guiro as it slid through the guide’s gloved hands.

Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

The boat crept along through stained water near the bank where birds and small creatures watched suspiciously. Alex removed his sunglasses and squinted into the glare as he wiped water spots from his lenses with the tail of his shirt. There were small faded purple stains on the yellow/green fabric. Fish blood. Why did it turn purple? He didn’t know. Those bonitos always seemed to bleed but he liked the stains. They added legitimacy to the garment. He snugged the glasses back on his face and looked back over his left shoulder at the man on the poling platform.

 Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

Shane Mayfield stood above the outboard and stared at the clouds. “Burn off, you mothers,” he said again. The sun’s rays snuck through the grey checkerboard, brightening the landscape and briefly illumination the muddy shallow bottom before being once again blocked by the hanging vapor.

Something unseen ran from the boat leaving little swirls of mud hanging in the water. Cody pointed.

“Sheepshead,” Shane said, and again turned his attention toward the sky. “C’mon you mothers. Burn off.”

Alex stood on the casting platform and stared at gray reflections on the brackish water.

Two days. How long is that? Can you build a relationship with a landscape in 48 hours? Is a three-night -stand getting serious? Will she expect you to call? Come on, baby. Let me see what you got under that blue dress in that stained water. We’re just gonna pole around your marsh for a while, take a little look-see. No harm in that, is there?

Shake the dust off.

"The Red Drum (Sciaenops ocellatus), also known as Channel Bass, Redfish, Spottail Bass or simply Reds, is a game fish that is found in the Atlantic Ocean from Massachusetts to Florida and in the Gulf of Mexico from Florida to Northern Mexico.^"

Get Some.

Halloween bringin' it.

-Alex who has a hundred points and a gold star for the person (besides FGFF crew) who can tell me where the boar on the pumpkin is from.

Fall Time

"People are going to be like, 'Aren’t those gourds straining your neck?' And I’m just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, 'It’s fall, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.'"

You should read this.

A thing you should do.

Step 1: Purchase and slow cook to perfection 10lbs of beef ribs.

Step 2: Eat 10lbs of beef ribs.

Step 3: Be awesome.

-Alex who is feeling pretty awesome at the moment.

'bout damn time

I rolled into the deserted parking lot at 2:05PM, the lesbians long gone. The sun, aware of my return, had run away to hide behind the thick, daunting thunderheads. Within five minutes of my first oar stroke the deluge began.

The wind screamed at the water and powerful rain beat dirt to mud as lightening raped the canyon. The fat drops which found their mark slid harmlessly off gortex. I had come prepared for this fight, ready to wait it out and let the heavy puncher wear itself down.

After thirty-five minutes I emerged from cover with a perfection-looped frog and my game face on as the sky lowered and a medium precipitation set in for the full twelve rounds, but this time the final bell would sound the victory of the perpetual underdog.

Today, I would find, the slimy bastards were hungry. Very hungry.

'Bout damn time.

This fish jumped a foot and a half above the surface to eat my frog, which was stuck in some tules. Thanks for the assist, (and for Maxima 20lb fluorocarbon).

It's amazing the difference a little raise in water level can engender.

-Alex who loves him some rain-soaked hot frog-on-lip slammin' topwater LMB action.

Carp Slammed 2011

“Carpin’ is hard.” – Michael Gracie

“This shit is easy.” – Nate Taylor

“It’s all about the beat.” – Trevor Tanner

August 28th 2011, 12:20AM
I wouldn’t say that Bruce Smithhammer and I ran from the uniformed officer in the lobby of the Hyatt hotel but we did walk fairly quickly toward the glass revolving doors with a I-don’t-know-that-guy look on our faces as Gracie retrieved the line, reel, and fly rod from the polished tile floor. The Bombay martini in the Peaks Lounge seemed to have weakened Will’s resolve, but we weren’t going to let him change his mind. You bought this ticket, my friend.

A preview of things to come...

Soon...

-Alex who bought new pants just for the occasion.

There are fishing trailers...

...and then there are fishing trailers.


GEOFISH TRAILER 3min from MOTIV FISHING on Vimeo.

This. Looks. Awesome.

sweet tie from DeadDrift

Click the image to watch.

Large Talons

Not Particularly.

But Osprey's? Oh yeah they do and the guys at The Caddis Fly got to meet one up close. Lucky.



-Alex who applauds the rescue and thinks it was a good idea they called in a professional.

Manly behaviour

How it's done.

Skirt steak, lamb chops, sweet potatoes, shrimp, asparagus. All on the grill. All ready to plate at the same time.

That's pro.

Happy 4th.





-Alex who learned from the best.

It's more awesomer than what you had for dinner.

-Alex who knows that you know he is right.

The Big Ass Florida Post

It was good pho, and the first time I had been to this particular restaurant. The woman gave me grief about putting the hot sauce directly in the broth, saying that it is cooked for eight hours and if us white boys make it too hot we won’t be able to enjoy the flavor. Whatever. Don’t tell me how to eat my pho just because you are some sort of expert.

The obligatory fortune cookies arrived with the check, and I asked for a to-go to take home the remainder of my delicious broth (because it kicks ass with ramen noodles). She shot me a sideways, judgmental glance and headed back towards the kitchen.

I opened my cookie and smiled, sticking the little piece of paper in my pocket.

That was two days before I left.