Sunday, April 25, 2010

more brazen indifference than ninja tactics

bass fruit
The suburban camouflage of collared shirts, buttons and khaki could only conceal our position for so long, and the level of contempt in the HOA woman’s eyes could have drowned a rat. She didn’t give a shit about the fish, only that we weren’t one of them. Even her dog looked mad. But it’s fine, she was three hours late to the party and our buggers and streamers had already yanked a few specimens of forbidden fruit out of her chemically treated pond.

“Do you live here?”

“No, but I got permission from, uhhh, Sandy... Sandy Johnson? Maybe you know her?”

“The homeowner has to be with you if you are going to fish. You are trespassing. Please leave.”

Aaron the trespasser.
It’s okay, I’m no anarchist and I don’t generally get off on breaking the rules, but I will when I feel it's necessary for the keeping of sanity. She wasn’t telling us anything that we don’t already know but sometimes you just have to go catch some pond slobs to prove that there is more to fly fishing behavior in Tucson on a weekday afternoon than organizing gear, hanging out at the fly shop or sitting at the vise on the couch watching TV... even if I have to endure Miss I-walk-my-dog-around-the-lakes-every-day-to-drive-out-leaching-scum-like-you and her judging eyes.

It’s okay, she looked divorced.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

our savior!

'nuff said.

(starring Aaron's ass)

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

how they roll in Finland

After receiving my little goodie bag  Mr. Graham sent me a few photos... and this was the least disturbing of the bunch. Go figure.

The "tramp stamp" placement is a winner, but for future reference to those sending me sticker photos, lets have a little less man-butt, and maybe a little more chick-butt.

Just sayin'.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Updating ourselves

Found a jar of taxidermy eyes sitting on a dusty shelf in my studio... awesome.

Myself, Aaron and Kyle, respectively.

Monday, April 12, 2010

fun filler

Mmmm, tasty. Something is totally going to eat the crap out of this. I didn't realize how colorful that dubbing was until I got it under some good light, it looks like a freaking carnival.

"Hey dad, can I go on the Twister ride?" No. You don't have any tickets left. "Yeah, but I really want to!" I don't care. I told you that the basketball rim wasn't round, but you went and blew all your money anyways. "Oh, come on! Give me ten bucks!" Shut up and eat your corn dog and leave me alone.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

the empties

I bought another fly box today and there was no reason for it. It’s nothing special - Just a plastic CF box, the kind with the push-in foam slots… for some reason I felt I needed it. I don’t.

I love the idea of organization, the thought of having everything where it should be and within easy reach at a moment’s notice. I don’t own a label maker, I have always wanted one but on some level I don’t think it would help much.

I think a perfectly organized, fully stocked fly box is a thing of beauty, but as many beautiful things it can never last because there is always a grey area, always a few flies that have a place in more than one classification, in more than one box for many different situations. There are always gaps, holes, slots left unfilled whether by usage or lack of filler. It feels unacceptable in my mind, but it is an unavoidable fact of my life.

The fly box is the mouth of a fisherman's passion. 
Have you ever had a fly box that was so perfect that you didn’t want to use it? Just the thought of removing one of the splendidly organized, perfectly placed flies would leave a bead of sweat shaking on the tip of your nose as the pliers moved in for the days selection. I never have, but I think I would like to have a chance at the experience.

In a perfect world, I might have ten of everything arranged in boxes zipped neatly in a bag, organized and labeled by type of fly as well as geographical application. Then again I may find myself held captive, trapped by the possibilities, paralyzed by the thought of having to pick the right one and ending my day sitting on the bank crying and shaking uncontrollably in a chaos of maybes and hopefuls, having not thrown one cast all afternoon. At least when you only have only ten flies with you, one of them has to be the right one.

It seems easy to measure a fly-fisher by their boxes; where they routinely fish and for what, the methods used, and even which in their arsenal have been recently deployed by the remaining clinch knot left secured to the eye to get in the way and be annoying clipped upon second or third deployment.

But can a persons fly box can be a preview of their other, non-fishy life? An unruly dry fly box and a messy kitchen? An overflowing mess of hastily tied buggers and a heap of laundry to wash but no detergent?

Will a precise box of nymphs arranged by color and size live with file cabinets, weekly pill organizers, and post-it notes? A color-coded pantry? A DVD collection in alphabetical order? A salad shooter? ( I wanted one of those when I was a kid... the idea of being able to shoot salad was always appealing) Can a procrastinating, lazy bum have a wonderfully flawless fly collection? Because when one is not fishing, a collection is all it is; an accumulation of animal parts tied to pointy metal that have no practical use when not around water, no matter how meticulously arranged.

And what about those damned empties? If I tied for a month straight and bought the gaps, enough to fill every last one, I would probably just feel organizationally disabled and buy new boxes anyways. It can't be just me, can it?

-Alex who hopes not.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

you probably don't want to look at this (again)

(If you are Orvis brass, you probably are here to look at this.)

As we here at FGFF know, Kyle is a monkey. If you covered yourself epoxy and rolled in all the leftover clippings from Singlebarb's whole career as a fly tier you would probably be close, in density at least. Then he showed up with another bottle of Nair....

I decided not to take an 'after' photo, because Kyle just looks like a five-foot-ten-inch tattooed infant. It's kinda creepy.

I took part in this event for scientific purposes only, a bit of morbid curiosity pushing my hands into the protective gloves. After it was all said and done, Kyle disappeared for a half-hour and upon his return in response to my raised eyebrow all he said was "they are very smooth." Gross.

Saturday, April 03, 2010

An Easter cartoon for you.

-Alex, who was going to tie you an Easter fly until he realized he was out of rabbit.

Friday, April 02, 2010

Craigslist Score

I love it when this happens.

...for less than the price of a good night at the bar. Kick-ass.