The American left never misses a chance to act like brainless little twerps. Here are some examples from the Soros gang in reaction to the election of Donald Trump.

(Hey, is George paying that $15 an hour wage yet?)

Brilliant Strategy Department:

Nothing persuades people to rally to your cause like…

Delaying them for hours on the way home from work.

Work. Employment. You know — that thing the people who pay the taxes do while you plan your protests.

 

Those fall evenings are pretty chilly, so you’ll want to start a cheery blaze.

 

One surefire way to get street cred — and maybe get a gig as a protest coordinator — is to get in a cop’s face. Be sure to have your friends close by to capture the special moment when the dedicated public servant decides he’s had enough.

I wonder if this representative of the cisgender patriarchy realizes he’s oppressing a minority?

Rules for weenie radicals: Always show the courage of your convictions by wearing a mask.

(And for God’s sake zip up your fly, Boston Guy Fawkes dude.)

Here is the supreme sacrifice — a social justice warrior throws his bike at the fascist troops. Oh, wait, it’s someone else’s bike.

Is this her natural expression?

Jared is cool as a cucumber in our Uncle Sam formal outfit ($2695 at Neiman Marcus)

Dear Progressives: This is why you lost. Nobody likes being harangued — especially through a bullhorn.

Not for nothing, but if you spoke English your sign might be a little more effective.

I guess they were all out of Pol Pot hoodies

Cher said she was moving to Jupiter, but here she is, looking like Michael Jackson — which pretty much amounts to the same thing.

So what do you want? An award?

 

 

Now in glorious Blu-Ray, “The Slumber Party Massacre” demonstrates, once again, why it is vitally important to keep a neat tool bench.

Why is it of vital importance?

Because you never know when a fiend armed with a drill with a very large bit will crash your slumber party and require repelling.

The Blu-Ray edition of Amy Jones’ 1982 slasher classic has some very amusing interviews that make the claim that the flick is much smarter than it appears to be.

This is a little like the fellow who said the music of Richard Wagner isn’t as bad as it sounds.

The screenplay was written by Rita Mae Brown, a minor feminist figure of sorts who writes mysteries to pay the bills.

(These are the “Mrs. Murphy” mysteries, featuring a postmistress and a cat. I have not delved into the series, though I think I’m on safe ground when I say they don’t involve driller killers.)

Ultimately the bl — er, credit for TSPM goes to Roger Corman.

Which means whatever subtle nuances were built into the original story were pretty much obliterated by the need for blood and mayhem and of course gratuitous female nekkidity.

Indeed, before the party has even started there are eight breasts and two butts.

The breast total winds up at 11, by the way. (The odd number reflects a couple of profile shots and one grope.)

There are a few moments of slapstick that almost work, but for the most part, the best you can say is that TSPM is a competent piece of low-budget moviemaking.

In the exciting interview extra, actor Michael Villella, who played the killer Russ Thorn, wears an ascot and a sort of smoking jacket and talks about how as a Method actor he brought the part to life, enduring cold swimming pools and other indignities.

This is almost as good as the film itself.

Summary: Eleven breasts, two nekkid butts (in shower). Tight pants on everyone, even the killer. Gravity-defying 1980s hair, also on everyone. Many many many “Oh don’t open the door” moments. Corpse in refrigerator. Death by pizza delivery. Post-mortem pizza eating. A paltry two quarts of blood. Dramatic piano playing by heroine. Discussion of Los Angeles Dodgers roster.  Girl’s basketball. Playgirl magazine. Stupid creepy next-door neighbor. Almost everybody dies. Magic portable drill that never needs charging. Short.

Everybody should see “The Slumber Party Massacre.” And hardly anyone will want to see it twice, glorious Blu-ray or not.

 

I was given a Temple Fork Outfitters Tenkara rod (the 10’6″ Soft Hackle model) for my birthday, and it remained in the wrapper until the giver was around to show me what to do.

I have since deployed the thing with great success on the Housatonic River, mostly for smallmouth bass.

I also bought a smaller one for use in small trout streams.

It’s a fixed-line rod, no reel, and it telescopes out. When in the closed position it’s easily stuck in a day pack.

Backpacking anglers love them. So do more sedentary types.

Meanwhile giant snakes are everywhere, especially on the Housatonic. It’s so warm and dry that even the snakes need to cool off.

So fishing upstream of the Amesville Bridge, on heightened snake alert, I beheld an enormous serpent.

It rose up out of the river, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.

Well…that’s a little exaggerated.

But it was still a big snake, just hanging around waiting for some oaf like yours truly to come blundering by.

Also upstream of the bridge, a comprehensive effort by those mysterious Rockpile People.

I see this everywhere I fish — rocks arranged in piles, for an unknown purpose.

These intrepid Rockpilers braved the evil serpents and put up a whole mess of them.

And finally, first trip on the Lower Lake on Mt. Riga with the pontoon boat. The TFO rod landed my first big largemouth of the year, as well as a fairly hefty crappie.

 

 

I frequently have Snake Alerts when fishing, and it is always something I have spotted in my peripheral vision — a root, or old piece of hose.

I leap in the air, my pulse gets going, and that’s that.

But the other day on the Blackberry River, I looked down and beheld — A SNAKE!

An honest-to-God coiled-up underwater-type snake.

Which insisted on following me around. I gave it the slip. It hung around, looking for me.

Because it is an evil serpent that wants to bite me. Never mind it’s about three feet long tops, and about the diameter of my thumb. It is an manifestation of Satan and I don’t want it messing with my trout fishing.

The Hendrickson hatch has begun in Northwest Connecticut, and the other night I was fishing single dry flies and catching mostly stockers on the Blackberry River in East Canaan.

I also made the acquaintance of a truly large rainbow trout, which I have named Mongo. (I name all large fish Mongo. It’s simpler than thinking up new names — Hercules, Samson, Ralph — and trying to remember them. Plus I am almost 100 percent certain the fish doesn’t care what I call him.)

The pool in question is right above a breached dam, and a favorite spot for bait and spin fishermen. I usually skip it, but as I walked by I noticed the large number of trout holding and the presence of Mongo, who left my bank as I strolled by and swam lazily into a different lie.

So I went out in the pool, expecting every fish to scatter. They did, but came back quickly enough.

Except Mongo, who settled in about ten feet away from me and yawned at my offerings.

I bumped the damn fish in the face with a nymph and he shrugged it off.

I photographed him, sort of, with the point and shoot through my sunglasses. Not ideal, so I have added a helpful red oval around Mongo.

He’s a big one. I have since witnessed two slingers hook Mongo and fail to land him. The second time it was a pair of guys who failed, largely because they wouldn’t get in the water. For the price of wet feet, they could have had a trophy trout.

But Mongo is still with us, and thank goodness for that.

Notes: The Blackberry is heavily stocked and heavily fished. The stocked brook trout responded particularly well to my “Meat Lovers” trio of sucker spawn, San Juan worm and crayfish. As the season progresses, most of the stocked trout will be hauled out and the net will show stream-bred and/or holdover rainbows and browns. These fish will be in the less accessible stretches of the river, which are a pain to get to and not that easy to fish, with a substantial canopy and extra-slippery rocks that make wading difficult.

 

I knew that someone had remade “I Spit On Your Grave,” the immortal rape ‘n’ revenge exploitation flick made in the late 1970s in Kent, Conn.

I did not realize that the remake had spawned two sequels.

So I didn’t know what to expect when I popped “I Spit On Your Grave 3: Vengeance in Mine” into the DVD player.

One thing about the original — it had a budget of about $12 ($43.64 today).

Spit 3 has pretty good production values. So when Angela (Sarah Butler) indulges in some creative plumbing with the personal rear end of a child molester, it is very realistic.

There’s some plot that detracts from the story, and a really crummy cop, but mostly it’s angst and revenge.

So if that’s your thing, see this flick. If not, you haven’t missed anything.

Two coils, for overall grossness.

 

 

March 31 — Another secret stream, secretish, anyway. The last time I named it I got a lot of squawking from self-righteous nimrods who should know better.

Well, bite me, self-righteous nimrods. (Which would be a good name for a rock band, incidentally.) It’s Sages Ravine, truly in the Northwest Corner of Connecticut, and accessible only via a half-hour hike from the top or from an unmarked pulloff on a state road below, with room for two cars if they are small.

The winning combo today was a bead head black Wooly Bugger, size 12, and a Deer Hair Sedge (light and dark, sizes 16 and 12) up top. I also used a brown Wooly #12, a Copper John #14, and sucker spawn #12 with success, but nothing was as consistent as the black Wooly and DHS.

The fish chewed all the hackle of the Wooly (see photo).

I saw a caddis — at least it looked and acted like a caddis — hit the water and start skittering around. A brookie of some heft shot up and gulped it.

So for the last half hour I imitated that behavior with the DHS, large and small.

I also offer my first 2016 entry in the exciting “Aaagh Snake!” series of photos, which features pictures of inanimate objects that look for a moment like a giant evil nasty snake. Previous entries have included lengths of garden hose, fan belts, and, like today, roots.

I am under strict orders not to publicize this brook trout stream. So I will only say that it is somewhere in New England, unless it’s in New York, or maybe Pennsylvania.

The hiking is arduous, with the very real possibility of being treacherous. If I turned an ankle or something it would be very difficult to get out.

I tried to capture the steepness of it in these pix.

There are some legitimate 8-10 inch brook trout in here.

I really like hitting the small streams this time of year — before the understory grows up and I find myself in the middle of a thicket of prickers.

 

 

Some photos from two recent expeditions on small streams in search of brook trout.

Wachocastinook (aka Riga) Brook, March 12:

Sages Ravine, March 17

 

In both cases the winning fly was a soft-hackle wet fly, size 14, yellow.

 

These guys are seeing things. You aren’t.

 

I recently re-read Tom Wolfe’s “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” and, a couple years earlier, Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road.”

Looking back at these books as a middle-aged man with over a decade of sobriety, I expected to have a different opinion or reaction than I did as a stoned teenager or drunken college student.

(Er, um, drunken graduate student also.)

One thing stood out to me — Neal Cassady was psychotic. Not a holy angel spouting beatitudes. A lunatic.

When  the “Electric Kool-Aid” subjects Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters drove their school bus cross country in 1964, with Cassady at the wheel, they filmed everything. They recorded everything too.

Of course they didn’t synch the audio recordings with the film footage.

Which meant that at journey’s end, Kesey and Kompany had miles of footage and tape to edit together.

They tried, but it was a mess, and ultimately the project fizzled.

In 2011, Allison Ellwood and Alex Gibney’s “Magic Trip” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival.

The Sundance Film Festival audience routinely enjoys the most appalling crap. They liked “Magic Trip.”

The directors managed to put together a more or less coherent account of the fabled trip, and even synched up some of the sound with the pictures.

Which is why I say, without any doubt, that Cassady was a complete whack job.

Where Allen Ginsberg heard an angel speaking, I hear babble from the padded cell.

It may just be a difference in perception — but I don’t want this guy driving the goddamn bus. Especially not while wearing headphones and shaking his head and waving his hands around.

The wheel, Neal.

Or is it “The Wheel, Neal”?

Anyway, despite the best efforts of the filmmakers to restore the footage and add to the myth of the Pranksters, “Magic Trip” boils down to the longest home movie of all time.

Hint to future psychedelic warrior/filmmakers — people who haven’t taken LSD can’t see what you are seeing, so shooting a lot of footage of people standing around in bathing suits will not be very interesting.

It’s probably a good thing that the Pranksters didn’t have modern digital equipment. They would have wound up with 1000 hours of shaky camera footage of people in bathing suits staring at the sky or at a stream or at the mud — not a miserly 100 hours.

Eyes on the road, cowboy