First Thoughts

Thought number one. Not in love, but working on it. The profile from below is not quite right and I need some red ball eyes or something to get the head shape better.

Eh, something will eat it.

I always knew that dude from Krull was a sicko.

cyclops bull shark... via chum.

beastialitor?

-Alex who will be trying to figure out how to work in a "do you want to see my one-eyed bull shark fetus?" at the bar tonight.

half empty

The splinters of ice in the whisky clinked lightly in the bottom of his glass as he stood in the dark and stared out the small dusty window to the front yard. Concrete, weeds and tan dirt stared back. The driveway needed to be swept.

A pealing-white van with a dent slowly clanked by as a few bits of refuse caught the breeze scratched their way across the carport. He took a sip from his glass and picked at a mosquito bite on his knuckle. He couldn’t remember the last time it rained and wondered where the little fuckers were breeding. A stack of old tires near a sprinkler, a neglected fountain, something, somewhere nearby, over the wall or across the alley. Standard blue collared yard shit- collected, stored, ignored by someone too thick to know that their trash was cultivating annoyance.  He poured the remaining contents of the tumbler into his mouth and scratched his knuckle against the seam of his pant leg.

He thought about how inefficiently he used dental floss and how blind people differentiate the denomination of paper money. He ran his eyes along the painted grain of the window trimming and wondered where the tree had been felled that produced it. He thought about the empty glass, the bottle on the counter, and having nothing to do at 1:45pm on a Thursday.

He felt the stretch of his shirt, the push of the ground and the condensation evaporating from his finger tips and for the briefest of moments felt the clarity of complete indifference.

He shifted his weight and heard something crinkle under his flipflop. He looked down, slowly bent and picked up the faded note and held it to the light:

Eggplant
olive oil
balsamic
garlic
basil
oregano
thyme
p chops
chipotle mar.

It was written in his hand but he didn’t remember the meal. He crumpled the list, tossed it at the trash can and missed.

He thought about his bucket of change; nickels, quarters, dimes and pennies - Maybe enough for a thousand miles of road if he rolled it himself. Eight hundred, if he dumped it in that green machine at Food City.

Go north, a small voice whispered in the cockles of his subconscious. It wasn't enough and he knew it. Not enough to get where he wanted to go.

The shards of ice tinked in the bottom of his empty glass.

He stared out the small dusty window to the front yard.

The driveway needed to be swept.

things...

Lately at the vise I seem to have been a little distracted. With the days warming I have been occupied with tying large things. Wiggly things. Long, swimming things and things that pop and push water like a greasy fat kid on a water park slide...

...all the while neglecting the most basic necessities of any fresh water fly collection.

The bugger is a staple and most likely the first thing you shakily stumbled through on a borrowed vise, forgoing the whip-finish for just a big blob of superglue. Everything eats buggers. I am low on buggers.

Thing #1 - tying buggers.

I like this beer. I like the label and it reminds me of wholesome things; of clean soil that lives in the little dents and cracks of rocks worn smooth by ancient water, of fields of golden tall grass in the afternoon, of soft Midwestern sunsets that I have never seen but imagine are very beautiful.

I like the name. MOTHERSHIP. It has incalculably size and potential, pushing through the interstellar nothingness at two-third the speed of light.

At a predetermined date the flight computer will fire the auxiliary thrusters and rotate the craft one-hundred-and-eighty degrees to begin the deceleration burn. The main drives will fire for eight years, slowing the ship to running speed before the flight crew is woken to make preparations for entering your mouth.

It is tasty in my mouth. Especially with spring rolls.

Thing #2 - drinking beer.

I saw my neighbor talking to the mailman and felt sorry for the guy. My neighbor is lonely and ruthless in his quest for people to talk at and the poor mailman has no choice but to walk through the mans front yard six days a week. Easy prey.

He stands holding his little blind dog, slippers kicking around the dust telling you about residents in the neighborhood steeling money from the dresser draws of dead people, about his "nigger friends" because "that's how we used to say it down south", about how young folk can't name any of the supreme court justices and that people used to know things.

You nod and contribute the occasional "yeah" or "un huh" and think about the fact that the new issue of BloodKnot is out and you would like to check it out but you may never get the chance. You make your move and start slowly backing away towards the sanctity of your carport.

The Blue Collar Issue.

Thing #3 - reading BloodKnot.

Stick that in your schema and smoke it.

The End.


-Alex who needs to clean his bathroom but did all these things instead.

employing your vision

It is always the same when I close my eyes:

The popper bounces along.

chug.

The sun is bright in the southern sky and I can feel my skin burning an outline around my sunglasses. The line feels thick and heavy, tacky between my fingers.

chug.

There should be fish here. There should be fish everywhere and maybe I have caught a few but maybe I have just arrived. I can't be sure.

chug.

I don't hear wind, breathing, water, birds. All is silent. There is no soundtrack, no special effects, no foley.

chug.

Sometimes I manifest a take, a splash, a tight line that sends little diamond sparkles when it stretches taught away from the surface.

Other times I don't and the popper just floats, over and over through the same ripples and the same dancing sunlight through the same three of four seconds of river. Three or four seconds is not a lot of river when you think about it. It would be asking quite a bit for a willing fish to reside in those seconds. But all it takes is one. One second of flowing water to make a difference. Sometimes you wait days, months, years for that one second.

Sometimes it never comes. But on the good days it does.

chug.

ZAP GOO syringing

When gluing Puglisi-style post eyes on flies generally I use his method and use cautrery or a soldering iron to burn a little hole in the fibers then use a bodkin to slice a little ball of glue from the tip of the ZAP GOO II, placing it in the hole and spinning the bodkin while pulling it away to leave a nice clean little glue-ball in the hole for the eye. With Puglisi fibers, Congo Hair, and similar material this technique works great.

Lately I have been tying some baitfish patterns that have flash heads. I have noticed while using the above method to apply the glue has problems when trying to cleanly remove the bodkin from the flash without dragging a bunch of the flash around, making a mess. It is not too big of a deal, but if you are anal like me about finishing your flies then you may appreciate this.

I went to a medical supply store down the street and bought a plastic syringe for $1.50 and filed it with ZAP GOO. It works awesome for applying the perfect amount of glue, right where you want it without disturbing the flash fibers.

A slight hesitation before pulling the syringe away will help keep the GOO from stringing.

I have also found that if you wipe the tip of the syringe with a paper towel between applications it helps keep everything clean.

-A

[Update] If you leave a little GOO poking out of the tip of the syringe, it dries and keeps all the rest of the glue nice and uncured. It is easy to pick off when you need to GOO again.


Also cutting off the threaded sheath around the tip with a razor makes it a little less cumbersome.

Toilet wax applicator made easy

You may have already known that toilet bowl gasket wax works just as good as higher priced dubbing wax. And if you didn't, then I am here to tell you toilet bowl gasket wax works just as good as higher priced dubbing wax.

The only issue is one of application.

Just find an empty lip balm, twist the base till the push plate is back at the bottom, and smash the wax into the tube.

Now you have an easy, clean way to wax your thread... and a near-lifetime supply of said wax for around $3.

Happy dubbing.

hopper inspiration and minds to a simpler time... a wandering thought

When your small it's crayons. 97 million colors at your disposal and even one that was 'flesh' colored until the brass at Crayola realized that there were people running around out there in the world that weren't peach colored.

Just close your eyes and remember the experience of pushing those wax sticks over semi-gloss brown paper and never quite being able to get the shading perfect until it was too late, now your light-blue duck is just going to have to be a purple duck. Remember the crayon smell? I know you can.

Later in life after the safetys were removed from the scissors and the chairs grew metal legs we graduated to colored pencils. More color and shading control, the addition of wood and a sharp point capable of a higher degree of precision and drawing blood were a right of passage. The lines for coloring within were often lost, however, leaving the implement wielder to define their own boundaries, and often for the worst: For years the final product suffered as the creativity never seemed quite capable of overcoming the improper proportions of wildlife appendages...

...and nothing has changed, really. These days it's not strangely colored cats and dogs hung with magnets on the refrigerator door but bugs tied on lines sitting on water with a more distinct purpose. I am not saying that "muffy's" portrait was a waste of time, sweetie, the fact that it looks more like a Dali painting than an anatomy drawing does little to affect its potency in extracting smiles from mommy and daddy, however the fish seem to be a little more critical.

Anyways, the point I was somehow getting to is that I like foam. I like playing with foam. I like jumping in foam. I like tying flies with foam. There is something about the colors and texture that take me back to a more simpler time, when the only think I was worried about was what friends house I was going to ride my bike to, or what I was going to spend my $5 weekly allowance.

So when Mr. Dunn over at Third Coast Fly brought the Hopper Fishing Blog to my attention, I just became inspired. And being inspired in a wonderful feeling these days, even though I don't do a lot of hopper fishing on the rivers that don't exist around here.

This is what adult kindergarten looks like

-Alex who is a big kid now.

a hard reentry

Today I stood above the sink for fifteen minutes with a flashlight and a pair of hemostats trying to dig out the cause of the hellish metal din that had been recently affecting the garbage disposal. After finding it and a few minutes of close inspection I still have no idea what it used to be.

I stood over the recently unpacked pile of gear and flies sitting on the kitchen table, just staring. My eyes wandering from thing to thing and I picked up a battered foam toad and turned it over in my hand. The green thread around the shank is frayed and broken, the thin ends unruly, sticking out every way like the weeds that pester the mesquite trees in my front yard. A rough mouth does that. I toss the fly back into the pile.

I did a load of whites.

I found a tangled leader while digging through my toiletries bag looking for chapstick. I untangled it and put it back even though I know that's not where it goes.

An editor for a local magazine called me and wanted me to take a photo of something but I am motivationally challenged and have feet that are a few shades darker than they used to be and don't like sitting at my computer.

It's almost been a week, now.

Havana Club and soda with a lime and one more cast?... No? Damn.

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.

Sometimes it would be awesome

When I am at home having a drink alone and writing stuff for things I sometimes wish Morgan Freeman would come over and read aloud what I have written. I feel it would just make it so much easier to edit my work if that would happen every once in a while when I am struggling with some overabundance of verbiage. You know what I mean?

I'm just sayin'.

-Alex who is currently having a drink alone and writing stuff for things.

It's one of the important things for special ocassions

Do you remember the game "what doesn't belong here?" Well, there are those that may have a little problem with a philosophy of mine when it comes to drinking and fishing. These are the same people who look up from their iced tea at last call and cast a criticizing eye while shake their head when I tell the bartender that yes, I will have another. What are you doing in a bar, anyhow? Don't judge me.

But don't get me wrong, drinking all the time while fishing is just stupid and a waste of alcohol. It must be spared for those special times of great relevance. To help, I made you a quick list of a few examples of proper times to take a nip:

It's a beautiful day!
The weather suck.
Your floating line floats.
Your sinking line sinks.
You catch a big fish!
Someone else catches a big fish.
You lose a big fish.
Someone else loses a big fish!
You catch a lot of fish!
You get skunked.
You don't lose one fly all day!
You lose all your flies and are pouty about it.
Your float tube doesn't sink!
Your float tube sinks.
You don't get a fly stuck in your eyeball.
You do get a fly stick in your eyeball.
There is no one at your favorite spot!
There are 127,453 people at your favorite spot.
etc...

Using examples like these and exorcising a little restraint will ensure you have a good time without over doing it. And always remember to drink responsibly.

-Alex who just wants to make the world a better and safer place.

When things get strange at the fly shop

He just wanted an olive beadhead, but the box had had enough and decided to fail at the most inopportune moment as the chenille-wrapped force gained momentum and stormed the gates. But the battle was over before it begun leaving both sides unaware what the next move might be. May I suggest it be a subtle one.

War is hell, but you can't have too many buggers, can you?

- Alex who reminds you that forewarned is forearmed.

Post Script -I am driving to Vegas today for the SHOT show... if anyone wants join a solo fat guy for a drink drop me a line.

As if you weren't enough of a jerk already...

It's bad enough watching your friend beat the local piscatorial population like a red headed stepchild while you are picking weeds from your hook and tying the next crap thing on your tippet, but now when you splash your way back to the bank you know he will bring some brand of proof of how much of your ass he actually kicked.

It is probably bullshit, as most likely any number you have ever come up with when asked, but there is just something about seeing the lie as an actual number that might be just enough to push you over the edge toward uncontrolled strangulation.

I think I might just mount a ten-foot long ticker above my pontoon to make sure that everyone within an eighth of a mile knows how much of a douche I am.



-Alex who counts fish and lies about it in the traditional way.

Bordem can drive you to make a "Worst List"

I am VERY bored, I just got off the phone with Alex awaiting my arrival in Tucson on Wednesday, and due to my phone being dead I decided to post. These are the lists of shit that comes to the top of my head all the sudden, if you disagree with anything well I don't care because this is my opinion.

Worst Movies I have seen:

5. The Matrix
4. Jason X
3. The Village
2. Dude Where's my Car
1. Batman and Robin

Bands I have heard:

5. Europe
4. Yanni
3. Metallica
2. Journey
1. ICP

Actors:

[Addition by Alex: 6. Nicholas Cage]
5. Ashton Kutcher
4. Keanu Reeves
3. Steven Seagal
2. Pauly Shore
1. Andy Dick

Songs:

5. Separate Ways- Journey
4. Country Music, all songs
3. The Final Countdown- Europe
2. St. Anger- Metallica
1. Everything else from Metallica

Places to live:

5. Congo
4. Afghanistan
3. The ocean
2. Antarctica (unless GWAR is there)
1. France

Kyle- Who will make a "Good List" soon enough

It is happening all over the place and it's driving me insane.

I know some of the waters. I have stood in the same spot, on the same bank. Things are happening right now, maybe someplace I know and maybe not but it doesn't really matter when one is not there. Big, nasty hungry fish that know the solid water well and rebel against it and I am no part of it.

Time is against us now and all I want for Christmas is poundage on the end of my line and at this point I don't really care who's lap I have to sit on.

Is there still time? I think so. Five hours there and five hours back but the clouds are looming and the ice is starting to crickle-crackle its way into the still water between the rocks, under the boat docks and into my head. Is this really the end of the season for me? Are the White Mountains really so close and yet so far? Can my shitty truck muster the mechanical fortitude to make it to the pines? Maybe, but probably not. I fear I may have procrastinated too long, and my wallet is a little light and there is no one to blame but myself.

This is the eleventh hour, people, and if you are there make the best of it, great, but don't call me to tell me how awesome it is because if I should perish in a vain attempt to locate and cast a line while strangling you, the blood will be on your hands.

-Alex who should shut the hell up and go to bed.

Gobble gobble.... whatever.

I have never been crazy about turkey. As I reflect upon holidays past my most fond face-stuffing memories revolve around a centerpiece of spiral cut ham dripping with honey peppercorn deliciousness, or maybe a torso-sized prime rib sweating spice all over my potatoes, mashed or scalloped, never mattered much to me, but I do have a thing for scalloped potatoes. Don't even get me started on Duck confit... my god the deliciousness! But being thanksgiving American standardly, this year turkey we had.

So the deed is done-a carcass on the cutting block, a sink full of dishes and fridge waiting to be filled with right and left overs. The stripped bones fill a pot to simmer for broth and soup. A ziploc or ten filled for late-night snackery:  bare feet standing in a pair of boxers in the warm glow of of the refrigerator bulb a bottle of squeeze-mayo in one hand and a turkey leg in the other- But these days only a dream that comes true if you remember to take your goodie bag back to your lonely bachelor pad.

It could have been a ham sandwich, but not this year. Turkey soup is alright, I guess. Pot pies are tasty, but I can't seem to convince my father the importance of filling the bottom of the bowl with the crust as well as molding it over top. I can handle a mix of wheat and white flour, but c'mon people, don't get all crust-skimpy on a guy.

I would say that a dark meat burrito is my favorite, fresh salsa with extra diced jalapenos, cilantro, sauteed onions and bell peppers, melted cheddar and jack cheese and some stuffing or mashed potatoes for filler. A big 14 inch hand-made-with-lard tortilla, warmed and wrapped tight with one leak-resistant folded end. Damn good. Would it be better with prime? Yea, probably.

So, another turkey day done and gone. Beer drank, stuffing unstuffed and football watched. Thanksgiving is about family and leftovers, and I am thankful for both. I just think turkey is overrated.

-Alex who is already drooling over the turkey-crushing Christmas dinner spread.

It could happen to you...

It is not quite the evening yet, and night has hours yet to be born from twilights womb. The summer sun still lingers annoyingly high, but the nine-to-fivers have parked the car and are looking for the remote, adding ice to their second scotch and water.

The temperature matches the colors as grays become reds and the landscape seems to deepen.

Someone, somewhere, has cracked their first beer. If you listen carefully, to can hear the kacheeeesk and the slurp that inevitably follows.

They may be partying, they may be just hanging out, or they may be sitting on the couch watching Forensic Files. Whatever they may be doing now, 3 hours and ~8 beers later they will be at the computer.

A bookmark click here, a Google search there, winding their way closer... They might even have a blog, and on this blog a blogroll, and on this blogroll, your site may be listed.

“Oh, lookey,” they say, “a new post,” slurp, “let’s go take a peek."

Their fingers follow along as their eyes are forced open wide enough to keep the words from smashing together. They laugh, they cry, they have an idea, a thought that must be voiced in type, tick, click, tick goes the keys as their intoxicatedness spills onto the keyboard.

They giggle at their cleverness as their hand moves the cursor toward the “Submit Comment” button and engages. Convex becomes concave as their inebriated mental state is forced into textual existence.

The deed has been done, you have been drunk-commented, and even with spelling errors and keyboard-topography mistakes, you may not even know it.

On the phone, it’s easy:

Ring....
“Hello?”
“Drrrrrrr”
“Dave… your drunk, aren’t you?”
“Maybe… hehe.”

Problem Solved.

But in this electronic age there are many more forums for the inebriated communicator. Drunk texts, drunk emails, drunk tweets…. And with proper grammar often flying out the window even in states of complete sobriety, how is one to know?

Has your blog been subject to drunken commenting? Has someone left their skewed mark on your page? Do you even care? Does it matter? Is it better that way? They do say that ones true feelings come out in times of intoxication....

-Alex who knows how easy it is to get in trouble with the click of a mouse.

I Prefer............

I prefer a glass of whiskey over a mug of coffee on a cold winters morning.

I prefer Old Crow and Jim Beam over Bushmills or Jamensons

I prefer my 7 1/2' #4 over my 9' #4 fly rods

I prefer the floor rather than a bed

I prefer tying San Juan worms over buying them, C'mon who the hell cant tie one of those?

I prefer graphite over bamboo

I prefer vacationing in Colorado rather than living here, Its much more of a treat to come here on occasion rather than being spoiled by living here

I prefer standard transmission over automatic

I prefer ponds and rivers over large lakes

I prefer shitty beer over high priced crap that tastes like shit other than beer

I prefer beer over water

I prefer women who like to fish rather than women who like to bitch alot

I prefer dead animal over that hippie shrubbery shit (no point of being a vegetarian)

I prefer, on a hung over morning, to pee outside or pee like a woman instead of standing and aiming

-Kyle who hates to stand and pee on a hung over morning

A Tip