When I was younger, I really enjoyed flying my kites on the beach at Seaside in California. I had a big kite called a Hawaiian that was a huge dual-control delta wing, 1.5 meters tall and 3 meters across the bottom. It had so much surface that I could launch it in a 5 mph wind and, with an offshore breeze, put a wingtip in the water kick up a rooster tail. At one time, one of these was radar clocked over 90 mph.
One day, I went down to the beach and found it empty save my kite-flying mentor Corey. The wind was coming onshore at about 35-45 mph. Corey was sitting on top of a dune in his tuxedo jacket and tails and hot pink shorts, his long blond, trending to grey pony tail flapping in the wind.
Cool, I've got the whole beach to myself. I lay the kite down on the dune, pushing the bottom slightly into the sand. I rolled out the twin lines, hooked up the kite on one end and the wrist straps on the other. Slid my hands through the straps, squatted slightly and pulled the lines, bringing the kite upright. Then, elbows at my side, I gave just a quick tug, launching the kite.
The kite went straight up, I glanced over at Corey. Corey wrapped his arms around his knees and leaned forward in anticipation. Of what, I didn't know. He had taught me to fly kites, so knew that with my mentor there, all was well.
As I said, the kite went straight up. Normally, it will get to the top, reduce the angle of attack and then you start steering it from there. That's normally. Normally is flying a Hawaiian in a 7-15 mph wind. If you're especially daring and have a bunch of mass (i.e. over 200 lbs), you might fly it in an 18 to 20 mph wind. Weighing 125 lbs and flying a Hawaiian in a 35 mph wind is contraindicated in the instructions that hit the garbage, unread and unloved, along with the plastic wrap from the Kevlar lines.
The black, red and gold kite continued to rise. 60, 70 then 80 feet off the ground... I had only 100' feet of line. The kite is now at 90 feet and climbing. The straps have tightened around my wrists like a Chinese finger trap. My feet have left the ground. I'm flying.
I'm now the weight in a perverted human pendulum. The kite climbs higher and I'm 20, 30 now 40 feet off the ground and swinging forward. I now see that things are going from bad to worse. If I don't release soon, I'll either fly too high and drop to my death or, if I don't get that high, I'll be dragged across Hwy 101. My scream is torn from my throat.
I'm directly under the kite, the kite's angle of attack is neutralized, I drop quickly and I slam into the sand like the Great American Hero on his first day in the Super Suit. I'm down, the wind knocked out of me, but down. Oh shit, I'm still moving.
I've become a human sled. Acrross dunelets and flotsam, rotting seaweed and chunks of wood. My wrists are still locked in the straps, the kite is pulling ever forward. There is no fence between me and the highway and the Saturday morning tourist traffic. I'm actually going faster.
I realize that my struggles to release from the wrist straps have turned the kite. It's now going parallel to the ground, increasing its pull and speed.
There's a log in the sand about 40 feet ahead of me. I angle the kite so it will drag me to the log. Maybe I can grab it. 35, 30, 25.. The sand is abrading my stomach, filling my shorts. My eyes are mere slits and I'm spitting sand castles. I look at the log for a place to grab.. Oh shit!
Its not a log. Its the rotting carcass of a sea lion. A cloud of flies fills the air and the stench fights its way up my nose, against the wind. I pull in my right arm and rub the wrist strap off against my shoulder, my elbows digging twin furrows in the sand. Wham, the right strap releases and the kite tries to dislocate my left. Without the balanced control lines, the kite spins its death spiral into the ground somewhere near the Pacific Coast Highway.
The roar of a passing truck is in my ears. I'm not that close to the road, but I only realize it afterwards. I thought I was gonna be road pizza. I've stopped two feet from the corpse of the sea lion. Flies buzz around my head sensing fresh meat.
I take off the other wrist strap and stand up. Corey is standing there on the sand dune, laughing like a hyena. I pick up my kite and follow the trail my body has created in the sand back to where it all began. There's almost 150 feet of drag marks and I've gone more than 250 feet from where I started.
I ask Corey why he didn't stop me. He knew what was going to happen. The wind was too strong for that size kite.
"Man, sometimes you have to learn from the experience. You have to experience to have a life. 'Sides, it was a hell of a show."
Friday, July 23, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Snow Blower
Okay, for a fly fisherman, it’s getting close to when I have to pull out a chainsaw just to fish. You just cut a 3 foot circle in the ice and then a 25 foot long, one foot wide slot leading to the circle. Bob's your uncle, you can fly fish in the Winter in Nebraska.
But first, you have to get by the blizzards. Yes, I said the ugly word, blizzard.
For those of you that have never experienced a blizzard, go to your favorite ski slope at night. When they turn on the snow making machine, place a 50' wide fan behind it and crank it up to hurricane. Now stand there in the -10 degree weather with this in your face for 3 days. This is a blizzard. Wind chills down so low, atoms slow down. The upside, your mother-in-law will stay in West Palm Beach for Christmas instead of camping out in your spare bedroom.
Tuesday, we were scheduled to open Nebraska's Donner Party Season with a bit of wind and snow. Everyone makes a mad dash to the grocery store for toilet paper and milk. The only reason I can figure for this important combination is that folks sit around in their snow forts and make cocoa from chocolate-flavored ExLax. Just don't ask about the marshmallows. Really.. Don't.
Tuesday morning dawns and I call the snow line for work. SNOW DAY! Bonus. Let’s get the snow blower up to speed. I then remember the fun of using a snow blower in the wind. The snow comes back in your face, covering you from head to foot, you end up looking like the looser in a chainsaw ice block carving contest (I love chainsaws).
Hmm, okay, up in the man cave over the garage is a box with a cab for my snow blower. I bought it on Summer clearance sale a couple of years before. I get the thing down and install it.
It is a three-sided cab made of clear plastic with a steel tube frame that mounts on the handle bars. You put it on, step into the open back and plow away. Great. I take it out for the first test run that afternoon. Snow has covered my 120' driveway and I clear it away. Wind is at about 5 to 10 mph, snow blows back at me. Nothing, nada. Face is clear. Thing works like a charm.
Wednesday... another snow day. The difference being is that the wind has circled around from the North, the isobars tightened up and its howling. Snow's not coming down, its coming sideways. Three to five foot drifts cover my yard with two feet of blown snow over the driveway.
This is what my serious snow blowing machine was made for. Nine horse Brigs and Stratton behind a 29" throat, dual stage, six gears forward, two in reverse, power-drive, electric-start monster. Now outfitted with the ever important cab. Bwahahahaha!
I start up the driveway, wind swirls, blowing the snow 50 feet into the air. A few crystals make it past the cab, but nothing like it would be without it. I have about 3/4 of the drive done and am making passes up and down. On about the sixth pass, I turn the beast around in the street... and then... just as I pull the lever down to engage the power drive, a 50 mph gust catches the cab from behind.
The snow blower is now rocket propelled. It shoots forward, pulling me off my feet. I'm holding onto the handlebars as the monster goes mach snot down the driveway dragging me behind it. I'm now stretched out with my knees and toes making dual tracks in the snow. The Dickies insulated coveralls burst into flame, finally warming my frozen feet. I'm a snow blowing comet!
The snow chute on the machine spins like a top. Snow shooting out in all directions, flames out the back, the snow cone maker from Hell has a life of its own. I blast a chunk of snow through the neighbor's window, instantly flocking his Christmas tree. I think I’m flocked too.
More comes out the chute, not just snow, but the newspaper. It’s a frozen missile that takes out 17 tobogganers two blocks over. It’s like bowling with a shot put.
The crazed ice yacht takes the path of least resistance and whips around the house where the wind has cleared the snow. I crash through the fence, streaming wire like a Rorschach Christmas garland.
I then zip through the back yard where the dog does his business. Now the thing has become an instrument of mass destruction. Its shooting out tiny icy B.M.s.
The dog is running for its life. I'm afraid he's not going to make it. He then decides it’s a game, circles back and jumps for the snow coming out the top. Snow shoots down his throat, out the back end and writes Froehliche Weihnachten in Chinese characters on the side of the house (he's half dachshund, half Maltese).
And finally, as I'm about to crash through the garage, the cab flips over on top of the snow blower. The snow blower glides ever so calmly to a stop, I get to my feet, turn the machine into the wind, flip the cab back up before it can burst into flames from the heat of the motor, dump snow on my smoldering knees (hey, these coveralls look better in charcoal black), examine the pedicure on my toes, wonder where my boots are, and turn off the machine. The dog comes over and looks at me with that look of disappointment only a dog can muster. He pees on my leg.
I wheel the snow blower into the garage, wander into the house, and buy a ticket for the Bahamas, one-way. Never again.
But first, you have to get by the blizzards. Yes, I said the ugly word, blizzard.
For those of you that have never experienced a blizzard, go to your favorite ski slope at night. When they turn on the snow making machine, place a 50' wide fan behind it and crank it up to hurricane. Now stand there in the -10 degree weather with this in your face for 3 days. This is a blizzard. Wind chills down so low, atoms slow down. The upside, your mother-in-law will stay in West Palm Beach for Christmas instead of camping out in your spare bedroom.
Tuesday, we were scheduled to open Nebraska's Donner Party Season with a bit of wind and snow. Everyone makes a mad dash to the grocery store for toilet paper and milk. The only reason I can figure for this important combination is that folks sit around in their snow forts and make cocoa from chocolate-flavored ExLax. Just don't ask about the marshmallows. Really.. Don't.
Tuesday morning dawns and I call the snow line for work. SNOW DAY! Bonus. Let’s get the snow blower up to speed. I then remember the fun of using a snow blower in the wind. The snow comes back in your face, covering you from head to foot, you end up looking like the looser in a chainsaw ice block carving contest (I love chainsaws).
Hmm, okay, up in the man cave over the garage is a box with a cab for my snow blower. I bought it on Summer clearance sale a couple of years before. I get the thing down and install it.
It is a three-sided cab made of clear plastic with a steel tube frame that mounts on the handle bars. You put it on, step into the open back and plow away. Great. I take it out for the first test run that afternoon. Snow has covered my 120' driveway and I clear it away. Wind is at about 5 to 10 mph, snow blows back at me. Nothing, nada. Face is clear. Thing works like a charm.
Wednesday... another snow day. The difference being is that the wind has circled around from the North, the isobars tightened up and its howling. Snow's not coming down, its coming sideways. Three to five foot drifts cover my yard with two feet of blown snow over the driveway.
This is what my serious snow blowing machine was made for. Nine horse Brigs and Stratton behind a 29" throat, dual stage, six gears forward, two in reverse, power-drive, electric-start monster. Now outfitted with the ever important cab. Bwahahahaha!
I start up the driveway, wind swirls, blowing the snow 50 feet into the air. A few crystals make it past the cab, but nothing like it would be without it. I have about 3/4 of the drive done and am making passes up and down. On about the sixth pass, I turn the beast around in the street... and then... just as I pull the lever down to engage the power drive, a 50 mph gust catches the cab from behind.
The snow blower is now rocket propelled. It shoots forward, pulling me off my feet. I'm holding onto the handlebars as the monster goes mach snot down the driveway dragging me behind it. I'm now stretched out with my knees and toes making dual tracks in the snow. The Dickies insulated coveralls burst into flame, finally warming my frozen feet. I'm a snow blowing comet!
The snow chute on the machine spins like a top. Snow shooting out in all directions, flames out the back, the snow cone maker from Hell has a life of its own. I blast a chunk of snow through the neighbor's window, instantly flocking his Christmas tree. I think I’m flocked too.
More comes out the chute, not just snow, but the newspaper. It’s a frozen missile that takes out 17 tobogganers two blocks over. It’s like bowling with a shot put.
The crazed ice yacht takes the path of least resistance and whips around the house where the wind has cleared the snow. I crash through the fence, streaming wire like a Rorschach Christmas garland.
I then zip through the back yard where the dog does his business. Now the thing has become an instrument of mass destruction. Its shooting out tiny icy B.M.s.
The dog is running for its life. I'm afraid he's not going to make it. He then decides it’s a game, circles back and jumps for the snow coming out the top. Snow shoots down his throat, out the back end and writes Froehliche Weihnachten in Chinese characters on the side of the house (he's half dachshund, half Maltese).
And finally, as I'm about to crash through the garage, the cab flips over on top of the snow blower. The snow blower glides ever so calmly to a stop, I get to my feet, turn the machine into the wind, flip the cab back up before it can burst into flames from the heat of the motor, dump snow on my smoldering knees (hey, these coveralls look better in charcoal black), examine the pedicure on my toes, wonder where my boots are, and turn off the machine. The dog comes over and looks at me with that look of disappointment only a dog can muster. He pees on my leg.
I wheel the snow blower into the garage, wander into the house, and buy a ticket for the Bahamas, one-way. Never again.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Meandering
The following is an excerpt of a conversation discussing the previous post. It was pulled from the USENet Newsgroup Rec.Outdoors.Fishing.Fly with the authors permission.
Wolfgang: I recall a day on a stream somewhere in central Pennsylvania, lo these many years ago. There, upon the very bridge once traversed by the three billygoats gruff, stood a clutch of erstwhile fishermen who smelled of strong drink, and the truth was not in them. Eagerly and breathlessly, OH so eagerly and breathlessly, we watched the merry Frankster, standing stolid and steely-eyed in the foam and the froth, casting ever so persistently to the presumed fish which had long ago fled the wobbling shadows of the equally steadfast (and, admittedly, somewhat bloated) forms defiling the very asphalt above.....which latter, if you've ever seen it, you know is a pretty impressive (though not at all pretty) accomplishment.....asphalt ain't all that easy to defile.
Anyway, back in those days, the magnificent "bend like an oak or break like a" Reid was already (and justifiably) famous for having repeatedly (and with malice aforethought) pissed in the very face of death.
Um.....not real bright, some doubters might suggest, but panache, spelled with a capital.....uh.....whatever that first letter is, to the aficionado. We loved it. We ate it up. We waited with 'bated breath. We giggled in anticipation and elbowed each other in the ribs. We smiled. We laughed. We stank.
And then.......
Handyman Mike: Ah, yes and as I was passing over the mountain in central Pa. I came across 2 souls attempting to coax a trout or two from a small stream. I slowed down and told them there was a storm a-brewing with clap of thunder and bolts of lightning. Haven't heard anything said the souls. Then came the clap of thunder and the bolts of lightning. Climb in the back I tell these 2 souls. So they climbed into the steel flatbed body (not tin}. Wasn't real sure if we were going to get them to the Cherry Run cabin unscathed or fried..........Was a great clave that year for sure..........
Wolfgang: Hadn't thought about that day for a long time. I've had many great days on trout streams. Sharing that one on Cherry Run with Mark, catching numerous sparkling brook jewels, ranks high among them. Riding back to the cabin in the back of a truck, dodging lightning bolts, gave the whole experience a certain quotidian comico-mystical quality worthy of treatment by someone like McManus.....or maybe Traver would be a better choice. Yeah, I think so. The bear in the tent would be more in McManus's line.
The only disappointment I recall in the trip was that day on the bridge. There we were, with front row seats at a show that promised certain disaster, excruciating physical pain, blood, and general mayhem, and Frank........Frank, the chiseling bastard, did not float down the stream upside-down, Frank did not have a leg broken by a falling tree, Frank did not fracture his skull on a bridge abutment, Frank did not bleed out after perforating a major artery with one of his famous fighting craws, Frank did not disappear in a pool of quicksand. No, Frank lost his bug in a shrubbery and then walked out of the stream unscathed, saying, "next!"
I wanted my money back. :(
Wolfgang: I recall a day on a stream somewhere in central Pennsylvania, lo these many years ago. There, upon the very bridge once traversed by the three billygoats gruff, stood a clutch of erstwhile fishermen who smelled of strong drink, and the truth was not in them. Eagerly and breathlessly, OH so eagerly and breathlessly, we watched the merry Frankster, standing stolid and steely-eyed in the foam and the froth, casting ever so persistently to the presumed fish which had long ago fled the wobbling shadows of the equally steadfast (and, admittedly, somewhat bloated) forms defiling the very asphalt above.....which latter, if you've ever seen it, you know is a pretty impressive (though not at all pretty) accomplishment.....asphalt ain't all that easy to defile.
Anyway, back in those days, the magnificent "bend like an oak or break like a" Reid was already (and justifiably) famous for having repeatedly (and with malice aforethought) pissed in the very face of death.
Um.....not real bright, some doubters might suggest, but panache, spelled with a capital.....uh.....whatever that first letter is, to the aficionado. We loved it. We ate it up. We waited with 'bated breath. We giggled in anticipation and elbowed each other in the ribs. We smiled. We laughed. We stank.
And then.......
Handyman Mike: Ah, yes and as I was passing over the mountain in central Pa. I came across 2 souls attempting to coax a trout or two from a small stream. I slowed down and told them there was a storm a-brewing with clap of thunder and bolts of lightning. Haven't heard anything said the souls. Then came the clap of thunder and the bolts of lightning. Climb in the back I tell these 2 souls. So they climbed into the steel flatbed body (not tin}. Wasn't real sure if we were going to get them to the Cherry Run cabin unscathed or fried..........Was a great clave that year for sure..........
Wolfgang: Hadn't thought about that day for a long time. I've had many great days on trout streams. Sharing that one on Cherry Run with Mark, catching numerous sparkling brook jewels, ranks high among them. Riding back to the cabin in the back of a truck, dodging lightning bolts, gave the whole experience a certain quotidian comico-mystical quality worthy of treatment by someone like McManus.....or maybe Traver would be a better choice. Yeah, I think so. The bear in the tent would be more in McManus's line.
The only disappointment I recall in the trip was that day on the bridge. There we were, with front row seats at a show that promised certain disaster, excruciating physical pain, blood, and general mayhem, and Frank........Frank, the chiseling bastard, did not float down the stream upside-down, Frank did not have a leg broken by a falling tree, Frank did not fracture his skull on a bridge abutment, Frank did not bleed out after perforating a major artery with one of his famous fighting craws, Frank did not disappear in a pool of quicksand. No, Frank lost his bug in a shrubbery and then walked out of the stream unscathed, saying, "next!"
I wanted my money back. :(
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Just another day
I was just asked about falling out of the boat last week. "Wasn't that on the Lower Sac?" Naw, went swimming on the White in Arkansas. On the Lower Sac, I got a hook embedded in the node of my trigeminal nerve (which got infected causing excruciating pain and Bells Palsey) on the Lower Sac. Did fall off a cliff on the Rapidan, which wasn't flowing as fast as the water on the Rapid when I slipped in went through a chute. I was savaged by the Savage where I stepped off rock and did a feeding duck routine, which was nothing compared to the flood on the Rapahannock, which rose so fast I almost didn't make it across. We really can't forget Penns, where there have been so many memorable spills, but none really can compare with getting hung by my net over the 60 foot cliff on the Severn. I think that was after the tree fell around me on the Gunpowder. I did have that white water rafting trip on the Madison, sans raft, but I've also done that on the Kern, where the combination of tequila and eggnog nearly got me arrested for chumming. There was that killer catfish and leech combo on the Sacobia River in the Philippines, or the mines on the DMZ in South Korea outside of Gosong. The butt luge down the hill to the Swiss Millstream in Germany rivaled the semi-drowning on the Platte in Colorado. So, no, I didn't fall out of the boat on the Lower Sac.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
I've looked at the White from both sides now
Okay, I'm down to Mountain Home, Arkansas for the FFF Southern Council Conclave. This event is close to, if not exceeding the national convention. I had some classes (i.e. spey casting in case steelhead start running up the Platte River at some time in the near future) and seminars. One thing that was cool, I was videotaped tying my Frank's Fighting Craw. The guy who did it is going to edit it and put it up on UTube in a month or so.
Yeh, yeh. Blah, blah, blah.... Come Saturday and after enduring all the camaraderie BS, I needed to go fishing, so it’s off to the North Fork of the White River in Southern Mo. This water looks a lot like Penns. About the same size and flow. Unfortunately, no fish. Nice diversion. On the way back from Missouri, I did see two signs side-by-side. Both had arrows pointing off to the side road. The first one was for a cemetery, the second… a taxidermist. At least they give you options.
Okay, Sunday, "bored" meeting in the a.m. and then time to go fishing again. Mark Borserine from Kansas says he wants to go out. Mark is an FFF Certified Casting Instructor and a hell of a fisherman (some guys can cast but not fish).
We meet up with Joe, our guide. Joe has an Arkansas jon boat. These are about 18’ long and only about 4’ wide. Really nice and stable. We tool on down the main course of the White River, primarily chuckin’ and duckin’ with a big, pink San Juan worm. This fishing is extremely productive but not really fly fishing IMHO. However, it’s a lot of fun, so we keep at it till the guide wants to go home. He doesn’t like being on the water after dark. Something about unseen logs and alligators. We did catch a bunch of fish in the 14” to 19” range.
On Monday, Mark and I have an all-day trip with a fairly famous White River guide on the White. We’ll call him “Eastwood” to protect the innocent. Yes, he is one of the finest guides on the White River, but we don’t want the following to be associated with him.
Early on, Eastwood commits two cardinal sins. One, he says that the weather and water conditions are perfect for catching big trout and lots of them. Its overcast and they are running 4 generators at the dam. Secondarily, after we had to duck under a stream-side limb, he mentioned that he’d been guiding for over 11 years and had never lost a client out of the boat.
Bwahahahahahahahahaha! He don’t know me very well, do he? I calmly replied “until today.” (cue suspenseful music in the background)
We head out and find out that since we’re “good casters,” Eastwood will eschew chuckin’ and duckin’. We will “cast like men!” Okay, here it is Thursday, that was Monday. That being said, casting 8 wt rods with sinking fly lines and weighted flies will stretch out joints that have not been stretched since high school and I am still sore.
One of the things that Eastwood boat has is a drag chain. This is a length of rope ending in a heavy chain that drags along the bottom, slowing the drift down river. Well, between a really nice stable platform in the Arkansas jon boat, the drag chain keeping us at the right speed, and finally, some booming 75 foot double hauls with a high speed strip of big fly, I’m finally fishing.
And then, then…the quietude was destroyed. I was standing in the front of the boat, minding my own business, as we drifted downriver. Since the chain was attached to the front of the boat, we were going downstream motor first. The running line was a bit stiff and it had tangled a bit in the bottom of the boat, so I was working to clear the tangle.
The boat decided to spin a bit, so was out of line with the current about 45 degrees when the drag chain caught on a log and the boat snapped back in line. Basic physics kicked in. See, I was standing above one point on the Earth. Physics says that unless I do something to change that, I will remain at that point, even if the object I’m standing on decides to abandon ship and move to another point in this space/time continuum. One thing that did act upon me was the gunnel, hitting me in the back of the knees.
Okay, now I’m airborne, doing a 180 degree spin from the vertical. I then hit the water, the first temp check is done with the back of my neck. Hmm, 52 degrees. Chill. I go under, do a divers turn, think “this will make a great story,” say hi to the 41lb 8 oz trout that was cruising under our boat, and come back up.
As I break the surface, I see the side of the boat and an oar handle reaching out to me. I grab at the oar, but it’s too far away. The next thing I know, I’m floating down the river with the oar beside me. Okay, now time for an inventory. I’ve still got the guide’s rod and reel in my hand. The fly has snagged on the gunnel so the line is now screaming like I got a tuna. I reach out and grab the oar. Can’t hurt. I even still have my hat on.
Inventory over, its action time. I remember my white water rescue training and put the oar under my left arm, streamward, switch the rod to my right, turn and put my feet together and float downstream, feet up. In this way, I can use the oar as a keel and my feet will bounce off anything that wants to pull me under. Using my arm as a fulcrum, I paddle myself over to shore.
Meanwhile, back at the boat, the quick snap had thrown Mark into Eastwood, tangling the two up. Eastwood pushes Mark away and he then tries to reach me with the oar, finally throwing it at me. Mark and Eastwood then try to turn the boat and come after me. Oopsy, the drag chain is still locked on the log. They get free and then head down to get me.
I’m about 50 to 75 yards downstream. The water was running at about 15,000 cfs, so I moved fairly quickly. I hand Mark the fly rod, Eastwood is relieved. It’s about 1200 bucks worth of equipment and its his. Oh, granted, he’s happy that I’m safe, but that’s a really nice rod. I can totally understand this.
They pick me up, but unfortunately, I’ve no spare clothes. They’re all 15 miles away at the campground. Mark loans me a pair of pants and a shirt. Mark and I are not the same size, so I look like some back country bum with a rope belt.
We fish the rest of the day without much luck. Yes, we catch fish, but more on the size that we got with the chuckin’ and duckin’. None of those 7 to 10 pounders we were looking for.
Oh well, I was fishing and not working.
Yeh, yeh. Blah, blah, blah.... Come Saturday and after enduring all the camaraderie BS, I needed to go fishing, so it’s off to the North Fork of the White River in Southern Mo. This water looks a lot like Penns. About the same size and flow. Unfortunately, no fish. Nice diversion. On the way back from Missouri, I did see two signs side-by-side. Both had arrows pointing off to the side road. The first one was for a cemetery, the second… a taxidermist. At least they give you options.
Okay, Sunday, "bored" meeting in the a.m. and then time to go fishing again. Mark Borserine from Kansas says he wants to go out. Mark is an FFF Certified Casting Instructor and a hell of a fisherman (some guys can cast but not fish).
We meet up with Joe, our guide. Joe has an Arkansas jon boat. These are about 18’ long and only about 4’ wide. Really nice and stable. We tool on down the main course of the White River, primarily chuckin’ and duckin’ with a big, pink San Juan worm. This fishing is extremely productive but not really fly fishing IMHO. However, it’s a lot of fun, so we keep at it till the guide wants to go home. He doesn’t like being on the water after dark. Something about unseen logs and alligators. We did catch a bunch of fish in the 14” to 19” range.
On Monday, Mark and I have an all-day trip with a fairly famous White River guide on the White. We’ll call him “Eastwood” to protect the innocent. Yes, he is one of the finest guides on the White River, but we don’t want the following to be associated with him.
Early on, Eastwood commits two cardinal sins. One, he says that the weather and water conditions are perfect for catching big trout and lots of them. Its overcast and they are running 4 generators at the dam. Secondarily, after we had to duck under a stream-side limb, he mentioned that he’d been guiding for over 11 years and had never lost a client out of the boat.
Bwahahahahahahahahaha! He don’t know me very well, do he? I calmly replied “until today.” (cue suspenseful music in the background)
We head out and find out that since we’re “good casters,” Eastwood will eschew chuckin’ and duckin’. We will “cast like men!” Okay, here it is Thursday, that was Monday. That being said, casting 8 wt rods with sinking fly lines and weighted flies will stretch out joints that have not been stretched since high school and I am still sore.
One of the things that Eastwood boat has is a drag chain. This is a length of rope ending in a heavy chain that drags along the bottom, slowing the drift down river. Well, between a really nice stable platform in the Arkansas jon boat, the drag chain keeping us at the right speed, and finally, some booming 75 foot double hauls with a high speed strip of big fly, I’m finally fishing.
And then, then…the quietude was destroyed. I was standing in the front of the boat, minding my own business, as we drifted downriver. Since the chain was attached to the front of the boat, we were going downstream motor first. The running line was a bit stiff and it had tangled a bit in the bottom of the boat, so I was working to clear the tangle.
The boat decided to spin a bit, so was out of line with the current about 45 degrees when the drag chain caught on a log and the boat snapped back in line. Basic physics kicked in. See, I was standing above one point on the Earth. Physics says that unless I do something to change that, I will remain at that point, even if the object I’m standing on decides to abandon ship and move to another point in this space/time continuum. One thing that did act upon me was the gunnel, hitting me in the back of the knees.
Okay, now I’m airborne, doing a 180 degree spin from the vertical. I then hit the water, the first temp check is done with the back of my neck. Hmm, 52 degrees. Chill. I go under, do a divers turn, think “this will make a great story,” say hi to the 41lb 8 oz trout that was cruising under our boat, and come back up.
As I break the surface, I see the side of the boat and an oar handle reaching out to me. I grab at the oar, but it’s too far away. The next thing I know, I’m floating down the river with the oar beside me. Okay, now time for an inventory. I’ve still got the guide’s rod and reel in my hand. The fly has snagged on the gunnel so the line is now screaming like I got a tuna. I reach out and grab the oar. Can’t hurt. I even still have my hat on.
Inventory over, its action time. I remember my white water rescue training and put the oar under my left arm, streamward, switch the rod to my right, turn and put my feet together and float downstream, feet up. In this way, I can use the oar as a keel and my feet will bounce off anything that wants to pull me under. Using my arm as a fulcrum, I paddle myself over to shore.
Meanwhile, back at the boat, the quick snap had thrown Mark into Eastwood, tangling the two up. Eastwood pushes Mark away and he then tries to reach me with the oar, finally throwing it at me. Mark and Eastwood then try to turn the boat and come after me. Oopsy, the drag chain is still locked on the log. They get free and then head down to get me.
I’m about 50 to 75 yards downstream. The water was running at about 15,000 cfs, so I moved fairly quickly. I hand Mark the fly rod, Eastwood is relieved. It’s about 1200 bucks worth of equipment and its his. Oh, granted, he’s happy that I’m safe, but that’s a really nice rod. I can totally understand this.
They pick me up, but unfortunately, I’ve no spare clothes. They’re all 15 miles away at the campground. Mark loans me a pair of pants and a shirt. Mark and I are not the same size, so I look like some back country bum with a rope belt.
We fish the rest of the day without much luck. Yes, we catch fish, but more on the size that we got with the chuckin’ and duckin’. None of those 7 to 10 pounders we were looking for.
Oh well, I was fishing and not working.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
HatEyes are Evil
These are the industrial strength magnifiers that clip to your hat brim. Just flip them down, bobs your uncle, instant magnifiers to tie on that fly. Not cheap crap, but optically ground plastic with a steel frame.
The evil downside. I've got a hat from a Pennsylvania flyshop (will be named in the personal injury lawsuit). The hat brim comes pre-curved so it will never work as semi-formal "gansta" wear (i.e. pool table flat brim, hat cocked 45 degrees to starboard or port). Due to this severe curve, the HatEyes will not slide up under the brim of this hat when I'm done tying on fly number 63. No big deal.
Okay, scene setter, I'm on a lake, middle of August, bright sunshine, 2 p.m., fish is directly ahead of me to the West, I inch back the fly, twitch, burn, HOLEY CRAP! MY UPPER LIP IS ON FIRE!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? MY NOSE HAIRS BURST INTO FLAME!!! CRAP!! BAD WORD, BAD WORD, BAD WORD!!! ITS THE HATEYES!!! THEY'VE TURNED INTO MAGNIFYING GLASSES AND MY UPPER LIP IS THE ANT NEST!!!
I swear to God. I now have two blisters on my upper lip. Each about the size of a pencil eraser and slightly square. Think its time to grow a mustache before Monday or I'm gonna take SO much crap at work.
Frank Reid
(maybe I just say I went to the dermatologist and had a couple of suspicious spots burned off)
The evil downside. I've got a hat from a Pennsylvania flyshop (will be named in the personal injury lawsuit). The hat brim comes pre-curved so it will never work as semi-formal "gansta" wear (i.e. pool table flat brim, hat cocked 45 degrees to starboard or port). Due to this severe curve, the HatEyes will not slide up under the brim of this hat when I'm done tying on fly number 63. No big deal.
Okay, scene setter, I'm on a lake, middle of August, bright sunshine, 2 p.m., fish is directly ahead of me to the West, I inch back the fly, twitch, burn, HOLEY CRAP! MY UPPER LIP IS ON FIRE!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? MY NOSE HAIRS BURST INTO FLAME!!! CRAP!! BAD WORD, BAD WORD, BAD WORD!!! ITS THE HATEYES!!! THEY'VE TURNED INTO MAGNIFYING GLASSES AND MY UPPER LIP IS THE ANT NEST!!!
I swear to God. I now have two blisters on my upper lip. Each about the size of a pencil eraser and slightly square. Think its time to grow a mustache before Monday or I'm gonna take SO much crap at work.
Frank Reid
(maybe I just say I went to the dermatologist and had a couple of suspicious spots burned off)
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Facebook Questionaires
If you're on Facebook, you've probably seen these friggen questionaires. People want to know more about you. Well... now they know a bit too much, so, I might have to....
If I’ve recently tagged you, please identify yourself the 10 digit number you’ll find on the tag below your dorsal fin.
1. Elaborate on your default picture?
Came with the frame.
2. What's your current state of being?
Semi-solid, but can be quite gaseous
3. Ever have a near-death experience?
Hey, it was only an “attempted murder charge,” or, as they called it in the Philippines, “frustrated homicide.”
4. Name an obvious quality you have?
Extreme good luck (otherwise, I’d be very, very dead)
5. What's the name of the song that's stuck in your head right now?
The Crawdad Song as sung by Burl Ives
6. Name a celebrity you would marry?
HAL 9000
7. Who will cut and paste this first?
Me! I’m already doing that.... Duh!
8. Has anyone ever said you look like a celebrity?
Yes, see question 3.
9. Do you wear a watch?
The watch isn’t the issue. It’s what the watch band is made of.
10. Do you have anything pierced?
Other people. See question 3.
11. Do you like pain?
No, but IV Morphine and Valium kick butt!
12. Do you like to shop?
Only in West Yellowstone, MT. Five fly shops centered on a microbrewery with great Carolina BBQ. I did have to pay for the damages and police barriers.
13. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?
Concealed carry permit.
14. What is your favorite lamp that you own?
Lamp, favorite friggen lamp!!!!???? Slowly I turned, step by step... See question 3.
15. How many TVs are in your house?
Uh uh. You’ve not Mirandized me so you’re not getting an answer to that.1
6. What is on your desktop background?
Black plastic.
17. What is the background on your cell phone?
Well, it was originally manufactured in a sweatshop in China using convicts as labor. These convicts were waiting to be organ donors for rich Europeans who didn’t want to wait on their national lists, but that’s neither here nor there. After that, it was shrink wrapped and put in a container ship that was owned by a front company for....
18. What was the last movie you watched in theaters?
Theaters are for theater, sides, I’ve not been allowed back in a theater since the Papillion incident back in ’73.
19. What was the last book you read?
ASN.1 Complete by Larmouth
20. Do you talk in your sleep?
Can’t, per National Security Directive.
21. Ocean or pool?
Ocean. To easy to spot the bodies at the bottom of the pool
22. Did you ever host a party that was busted by the cops?
Okay, back to question 3.
23. Current Crush?
Orange?
24. Favorite Color?
Orange?
25. Window seat or aisle seat?
Window with emergency exit. When crashing, I want to climb out on the wing and jump off five feet from the ground. Then I’ll live ‘cause I know I can survive a five foot jump.
26. Ever met anyone famous?
I’ve told you before, it was a misunderstanding and the restraining order is only valid in California.
27. Do you feel that you've had a truly successful life?
You would have to decide on which life you’re referring to.
28. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?
I prefer to stand it on end.
29. Ricki Lake or Oprah Winfrey?
Hmm, I work for a living, so, with millions of others, I can say... Who?
30. Baseball or Football?
And what do you have against naked curling?
31. How long do your showers last?
Fairly quick, though the thundershowers with the big piece of sheet metal for the noise and pelting myself with ice cubes tend to last a bit longer.
32. Do you know how to drive a stick?
Sticks have neither motors nor legs. You’re on crack.
33. Cake or ice cream?
Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, .... see question 3.
34. Are you self-conscious?
More on the level of self aware.
35. Have you ever given money to a homeless person?
I pay taxes, don’t I?
36. Have you been in love?
See question 26.
37. What is your favorite part of the Day/Night?
I prefer dawn or dusk when the guards’ eyes are adjusting to the light.
38. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance?
Yeh, and they get really pissed when you drive off with one.
39. Can you tango?
Actually, yes I can.
40. Last gift you received?
I prefer to give gifts. Hmm, if you tell a German that his meal is a “gift aus Frank,” he’ll run screaming into the night.
41. Last sport you played?
See item 30.
42. What would you like to spend a lot of time doing?
Don’t you mean “who?”
43. Last wedding attended?
My daughter’s.
44. Favorite fast food restaurant?
Bill’s House of Greyhounds. Talk about your fast food.
45. Most hated food?
Spaghetti. Due to my eating habits (see item 28), it’s become a diet food for me.
46. Can you sing?
I didn’t tell ‘em nutin. Nutin, I say!
47. Last person that called you?
Houdini
48. What's your least favorite chore?
Paris Hilton. Oh, you said chore. Then, Paris Hilton fits.
49. Favorite Drinks?
Well, there’s one tall drink of water...
50. Have you been on a cruise?
How ‘bout, “Have you paid for a cruise?”
51. Are you a vegetarian?
No, I’ve got reinforced fenders and a scoop shovel.
52. Do you believe in Heaven?
Who’s version?
53. Favorite show?
With or without the telescope?
54. What jewelry do you wear?
Do these electronic bracelets count?
55. Are you eating?
No, digesting, maybe summarizing.
56. Do you eat the stems of broccoli?
I feed them to my dog so he gets broccoli farts. Scares the crap out of himself.
57. Do you make commitments?
No, but I’ve been committed.
58. Can you dance?
Okay, I see your plan. You’re trying to trip me up after question 39. It’s not going to work. Keep it up, and I’ll see that you’re assembling cell phones in China.
59. Would you ever have plastic surgery?
Used to. Now I just eliminate the witnesses.
60. What do you wear to bed?
You’re gonna tell that guy from item 49, aren’t you?
61. Have you ever done anything illegal?
Charges dropped due to lack of evidence and witnesses.
62. Can you roll your tongue?
No, but I can yours. Old fashion, cast iron curling irons work best.
64. What is your hair color?
Uh, platinum blond. Yeah, that’s it.
65. Future child's name?
Oh Crap!
66. Do you snore?
I was accused of snoring once. See item 3.
67. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?
Let me check the extradition laws and get back to you.
68. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?
Just a deer mount.
69. If you won the lottery, what would you do first?
Sign the friggen ticket! 9 times, NINE TIMES I’VE WON THE STUPID THING AND FORGOT TO SIGN THE TICKET!!!
70. Gold or silver?
Silver swords and golden axes cannot rend this helm of mine, but going to take your castle, with its wenches so divine.
71. City, beach or country?
See item 67.
72. What was the last thing you touched?
No fingerprints or DNA, see item 15.
73. Where did you eat out last?
See item 42.
74. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Grow up. What, you got some Entwash? You think I’m short, is that it?
75. How many siblings do you have?
My mom married and buried 3 husbands. I have no idea anymore.
76. Do you like your hometown?
Now that they’ve closed the prison, its just not that homey any more.
78. Speak any languages?
A kurve anya pichebe.
79. Play any instruments?
I just fiddle around... or a square, may haps a decahedron.
80. Do you miss your past?
The witness protection folks say to forget about it.
81. Do you miss anyone?
Yes, very, very much.
82. Do you like the snow?
Arrrghhh!!! Hydrogen Hydroxide, DiHydrogen Monoxide, dihydrogenated oxygen, DHMO.... that’s some nasty crap man...
83. Do you believe ex-s can be friends?
That’s what I asked the judge. See item 26.
84. Have you ever fired a gun?
Bwhahahahahahaha!
85. Have you felt sad in the past week?
The pits of despair.
86. Have you ever been back stabbed by a friend?
And he didn’t know about the cuirass I wear under the polo shirt.
87. Have you ever flunked a test?
Rorschach
88. Have you ever gotten a detention?
Detention? Didn’t you read about item 18?
89. What are you going to do after this survey?
Hit this ankle bracelet with a taser.
90. Last person you texted?
Old school texting (pen and paper) to the appeals court.
91. Name the people you have been friends with the longest?
Didn’t you read item 80?
92. How did you get one of your biggest scars?
Yah know, you really can “bust a gut” laughing.
93. Last person you said "I love you" to?
My bride
94. What makes you feel better when you are upset?
Either booze or exercise. But never, NEVER combine a 5th of scotch with a Bowflex machine unless you have an unlimited supply of ceiling tiles.
95. Where is your favorite vacation spot?
Watching the moving rocks in Death Valley.
96. Do you have a dog?
Will at about noon, see item 44.
97. Chocolate or regular milk?
Now, is this two nouns, one with an adjective? A choice of two adjectives for one noun? You're trying to trip me up again, aren't you. Yah know, that kinda pisses me off.
98. If you could die any way?
In my sleep like my grandfather, not screaming and wailing like the folks in the bus he was driving.
99. Who is your literary Role Model?
Smeagol
100. Are you ready for the future?
I’m ready for anything once I get off this floor. You know how much a taser on the ankle hurts?
If I’ve recently tagged you, please identify yourself the 10 digit number you’ll find on the tag below your dorsal fin.
1. Elaborate on your default picture?
Came with the frame.
2. What's your current state of being?
Semi-solid, but can be quite gaseous
3. Ever have a near-death experience?
Hey, it was only an “attempted murder charge,” or, as they called it in the Philippines, “frustrated homicide.”
4. Name an obvious quality you have?
Extreme good luck (otherwise, I’d be very, very dead)
5. What's the name of the song that's stuck in your head right now?
The Crawdad Song as sung by Burl Ives
6. Name a celebrity you would marry?
HAL 9000
7. Who will cut and paste this first?
Me! I’m already doing that.... Duh!
8. Has anyone ever said you look like a celebrity?
Yes, see question 3.
9. Do you wear a watch?
The watch isn’t the issue. It’s what the watch band is made of.
10. Do you have anything pierced?
Other people. See question 3.
11. Do you like pain?
No, but IV Morphine and Valium kick butt!
12. Do you like to shop?
Only in West Yellowstone, MT. Five fly shops centered on a microbrewery with great Carolina BBQ. I did have to pay for the damages and police barriers.
13. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?
Concealed carry permit.
14. What is your favorite lamp that you own?
Lamp, favorite friggen lamp!!!!???? Slowly I turned, step by step... See question 3.
15. How many TVs are in your house?
Uh uh. You’ve not Mirandized me so you’re not getting an answer to that.1
6. What is on your desktop background?
Black plastic.
17. What is the background on your cell phone?
Well, it was originally manufactured in a sweatshop in China using convicts as labor. These convicts were waiting to be organ donors for rich Europeans who didn’t want to wait on their national lists, but that’s neither here nor there. After that, it was shrink wrapped and put in a container ship that was owned by a front company for....
18. What was the last movie you watched in theaters?
Theaters are for theater, sides, I’ve not been allowed back in a theater since the Papillion incident back in ’73.
19. What was the last book you read?
ASN.1 Complete by Larmouth
20. Do you talk in your sleep?
Can’t, per National Security Directive.
21. Ocean or pool?
Ocean. To easy to spot the bodies at the bottom of the pool
22. Did you ever host a party that was busted by the cops?
Okay, back to question 3.
23. Current Crush?
Orange?
24. Favorite Color?
Orange?
25. Window seat or aisle seat?
Window with emergency exit. When crashing, I want to climb out on the wing and jump off five feet from the ground. Then I’ll live ‘cause I know I can survive a five foot jump.
26. Ever met anyone famous?
I’ve told you before, it was a misunderstanding and the restraining order is only valid in California.
27. Do you feel that you've had a truly successful life?
You would have to decide on which life you’re referring to.
28. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?
I prefer to stand it on end.
29. Ricki Lake or Oprah Winfrey?
Hmm, I work for a living, so, with millions of others, I can say... Who?
30. Baseball or Football?
And what do you have against naked curling?
31. How long do your showers last?
Fairly quick, though the thundershowers with the big piece of sheet metal for the noise and pelting myself with ice cubes tend to last a bit longer.
32. Do you know how to drive a stick?
Sticks have neither motors nor legs. You’re on crack.
33. Cake or ice cream?
Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, .... see question 3.
34. Are you self-conscious?
More on the level of self aware.
35. Have you ever given money to a homeless person?
I pay taxes, don’t I?
36. Have you been in love?
See question 26.
37. What is your favorite part of the Day/Night?
I prefer dawn or dusk when the guards’ eyes are adjusting to the light.
38. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance?
Yeh, and they get really pissed when you drive off with one.
39. Can you tango?
Actually, yes I can.
40. Last gift you received?
I prefer to give gifts. Hmm, if you tell a German that his meal is a “gift aus Frank,” he’ll run screaming into the night.
41. Last sport you played?
See item 30.
42. What would you like to spend a lot of time doing?
Don’t you mean “who?”
43. Last wedding attended?
My daughter’s.
44. Favorite fast food restaurant?
Bill’s House of Greyhounds. Talk about your fast food.
45. Most hated food?
Spaghetti. Due to my eating habits (see item 28), it’s become a diet food for me.
46. Can you sing?
I didn’t tell ‘em nutin. Nutin, I say!
47. Last person that called you?
Houdini
48. What's your least favorite chore?
Paris Hilton. Oh, you said chore. Then, Paris Hilton fits.
49. Favorite Drinks?
Well, there’s one tall drink of water...
50. Have you been on a cruise?
How ‘bout, “Have you paid for a cruise?”
51. Are you a vegetarian?
No, I’ve got reinforced fenders and a scoop shovel.
52. Do you believe in Heaven?
Who’s version?
53. Favorite show?
With or without the telescope?
54. What jewelry do you wear?
Do these electronic bracelets count?
55. Are you eating?
No, digesting, maybe summarizing.
56. Do you eat the stems of broccoli?
I feed them to my dog so he gets broccoli farts. Scares the crap out of himself.
57. Do you make commitments?
No, but I’ve been committed.
58. Can you dance?
Okay, I see your plan. You’re trying to trip me up after question 39. It’s not going to work. Keep it up, and I’ll see that you’re assembling cell phones in China.
59. Would you ever have plastic surgery?
Used to. Now I just eliminate the witnesses.
60. What do you wear to bed?
You’re gonna tell that guy from item 49, aren’t you?
61. Have you ever done anything illegal?
Charges dropped due to lack of evidence and witnesses.
62. Can you roll your tongue?
No, but I can yours. Old fashion, cast iron curling irons work best.
64. What is your hair color?
Uh, platinum blond. Yeah, that’s it.
65. Future child's name?
Oh Crap!
66. Do you snore?
I was accused of snoring once. See item 3.
67. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?
Let me check the extradition laws and get back to you.
68. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?
Just a deer mount.
69. If you won the lottery, what would you do first?
Sign the friggen ticket! 9 times, NINE TIMES I’VE WON THE STUPID THING AND FORGOT TO SIGN THE TICKET!!!
70. Gold or silver?
Silver swords and golden axes cannot rend this helm of mine, but going to take your castle, with its wenches so divine.
71. City, beach or country?
See item 67.
72. What was the last thing you touched?
No fingerprints or DNA, see item 15.
73. Where did you eat out last?
See item 42.
74. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Grow up. What, you got some Entwash? You think I’m short, is that it?
75. How many siblings do you have?
My mom married and buried 3 husbands. I have no idea anymore.
76. Do you like your hometown?
Now that they’ve closed the prison, its just not that homey any more.
78. Speak any languages?
A kurve anya pichebe.
79. Play any instruments?
I just fiddle around... or a square, may haps a decahedron.
80. Do you miss your past?
The witness protection folks say to forget about it.
81. Do you miss anyone?
Yes, very, very much.
82. Do you like the snow?
Arrrghhh!!! Hydrogen Hydroxide, DiHydrogen Monoxide, dihydrogenated oxygen, DHMO.... that’s some nasty crap man...
83. Do you believe ex-s can be friends?
That’s what I asked the judge. See item 26.
84. Have you ever fired a gun?
Bwhahahahahahaha!
85. Have you felt sad in the past week?
The pits of despair.
86. Have you ever been back stabbed by a friend?
And he didn’t know about the cuirass I wear under the polo shirt.
87. Have you ever flunked a test?
Rorschach
88. Have you ever gotten a detention?
Detention? Didn’t you read about item 18?
89. What are you going to do after this survey?
Hit this ankle bracelet with a taser.
90. Last person you texted?
Old school texting (pen and paper) to the appeals court.
91. Name the people you have been friends with the longest?
Didn’t you read item 80?
92. How did you get one of your biggest scars?
Yah know, you really can “bust a gut” laughing.
93. Last person you said "I love you" to?
My bride
94. What makes you feel better when you are upset?
Either booze or exercise. But never, NEVER combine a 5th of scotch with a Bowflex machine unless you have an unlimited supply of ceiling tiles.
95. Where is your favorite vacation spot?
Watching the moving rocks in Death Valley.
96. Do you have a dog?
Will at about noon, see item 44.
97. Chocolate or regular milk?
Now, is this two nouns, one with an adjective? A choice of two adjectives for one noun? You're trying to trip me up again, aren't you. Yah know, that kinda pisses me off.
98. If you could die any way?
In my sleep like my grandfather, not screaming and wailing like the folks in the bus he was driving.
99. Who is your literary Role Model?
Smeagol
100. Are you ready for the future?
I’m ready for anything once I get off this floor. You know how much a taser on the ankle hurts?
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Death of a Quilt Hero
No, it’s not the slow death of cancer or the quick one of using that fat quarter of imported brown batik to clean up after changing the oil in the car (hey, it looked like an oily rag). No, this was “death by Alex Anderson.”
Let’s roll back a couple of days. The blushing bride is going out of town, to, surprise, surprise, a quilt show. One of her requests of me was to take some of the 30 plus hours of Simply Quilts reruns that she’s recorded on the Digital Video Recorder (DVR) and transfer them to the DVD Recorder so she can save them to DVD.
No problemo, I’m a computer geek. I’ll download them from one system and upload them on another. Whoops, the cable company’s DVR won’t let that happen. The USB port is disabled.
Okay, do it the old fashion way. “What’s that Dear? You don’t want the commercials? But, but that means…”
“Yes.”
“You can’t possibly mean…”
“Yes I can.”
“I’ve got to WATCH the shows!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
So, I start recording them, one at a time. Without commercials, I’m cutting a half hour show down to between 19 and a half and 23 minutes.
Hour two, this isn’t so bad. She’s got a big smile.
Hour three, I’ve almost got her commercial breaks timed.
Hour four, hey, that technique to hand dye silk is pretty cool.
Hour six, oh for Pete’s sake. Will you look at the points on that guest’s quilt? They’ve got to be a quarter inch off each and every one! What was she thinking fussy cutting that stripe fabric on the bias?
Hour eight, DON”T LET NANCY KIRK IN FRONT OF A SEWING MACHINE!!! She’s a quilt historian, not a quilter.
Hour twelve, Okay Alex, stop smiling and stop talking to me like I’m an idiot. I know the how to use a roller cutter.
Hour fifteen….. Getting sucked in… Must stop.. but that technique on the Nigerian quilts is so cool..
Hour seventeen and a half… Alex, look at that hair style. What were you thinking?
Hour twenty two.. CRASH!! The door gets kicked in. Five male friends rush into the room and grab me. “It’s an intervention, Frank. It was either you or Brittany Spears and you look better with your head shaved.” “But,,, they’re going to demonstrate Origami quilting!!! Let me goooooo!!!”
Now, I’m writing from the drag strip. We’re waiting for the races to start. This being the first week of March in Nebraska, we’ve got a long wait. I said they were friends, didn’t say they were smart.
Hmm, I wonder if I can do a cigar silk type quilt out of these wrist bands.
Let’s roll back a couple of days. The blushing bride is going out of town, to, surprise, surprise, a quilt show. One of her requests of me was to take some of the 30 plus hours of Simply Quilts reruns that she’s recorded on the Digital Video Recorder (DVR) and transfer them to the DVD Recorder so she can save them to DVD.
No problemo, I’m a computer geek. I’ll download them from one system and upload them on another. Whoops, the cable company’s DVR won’t let that happen. The USB port is disabled.
Okay, do it the old fashion way. “What’s that Dear? You don’t want the commercials? But, but that means…”
“Yes.”
“You can’t possibly mean…”
“Yes I can.”
“I’ve got to WATCH the shows!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
So, I start recording them, one at a time. Without commercials, I’m cutting a half hour show down to between 19 and a half and 23 minutes.
Hour two, this isn’t so bad. She’s got a big smile.
Hour three, I’ve almost got her commercial breaks timed.
Hour four, hey, that technique to hand dye silk is pretty cool.
Hour six, oh for Pete’s sake. Will you look at the points on that guest’s quilt? They’ve got to be a quarter inch off each and every one! What was she thinking fussy cutting that stripe fabric on the bias?
Hour eight, DON”T LET NANCY KIRK IN FRONT OF A SEWING MACHINE!!! She’s a quilt historian, not a quilter.
Hour twelve, Okay Alex, stop smiling and stop talking to me like I’m an idiot. I know the how to use a roller cutter.
Hour fifteen….. Getting sucked in… Must stop.. but that technique on the Nigerian quilts is so cool..
Hour seventeen and a half… Alex, look at that hair style. What were you thinking?
Hour twenty two.. CRASH!! The door gets kicked in. Five male friends rush into the room and grab me. “It’s an intervention, Frank. It was either you or Brittany Spears and you look better with your head shaved.” “But,,, they’re going to demonstrate Origami quilting!!! Let me goooooo!!!”
Now, I’m writing from the drag strip. We’re waiting for the races to start. This being the first week of March in Nebraska, we’ve got a long wait. I said they were friends, didn’t say they were smart.
Hmm, I wonder if I can do a cigar silk type quilt out of these wrist bands.
Stories of the Full Reid gets rave reviews
The now internationally famous blog "Stories of the Full Reid" gained more accolades today. Writing from Facebook, a site with apparently billions of readers (billions, is that right? Have the staff research that.), internationally famous country star and fly guy, Clark Reid was quoted as saying: Clark Reid at 7:48am July 7 excellent
More breaking news as it occurs, if we hear it, and we're not asleep.
More breaking news as it occurs, if we hear it, and we're not asleep.
What Clark said!
Breaking News - Blogger Beats Everyone to the Scoop!
Clark Reid BLOGGING Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.
You heard it here first! Or, kinda first. Well, second, but no one reads the source, even though its got like a billion users...
Clark Reid BLOGGING Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.
You heard it here first! Or, kinda first. Well, second, but no one reads the source, even though its got like a billion users...
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Electric Fence (stolen from the web)
This one came to me via a USENet newsgroup. Author unknown.
Thought y'all should read this in case you're thinking of installing an electric fence!
We have the standard 6ft. fence in the backyard, and a few months ago, I heard about burglaries increasing dramatically in the entire city. To make sure this never happened to me, I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence. Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had, made for 26 miles of fence. I then used an 8 ft. long ground rod, drove 7.5 feet into the ground. The ground rod is the key, with the more you have in the ground, the better the fence works.
One day I'm mowing the back yard with my cheapo Wal-Mart 6hp Big Wheel push mower. The hot wire is broken and laying out in the yard. I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger. I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it, to throw it out of the way. It seems as though I hadn't remembered to unplug it after all.
Now I'm standing there, I've got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the 1.7 gigavolt fence wire in the other hand. Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover.
Time stood still.
The first thing I notice is my balls trying to climb up the front side of my body. My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain. Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over, I could feel the spark in my head. I was literally at one with the engine. It seems as though the fence charger and the lawnmower were fighting over who would control my electrical impulses. Science says you cannot crap and pee at the same time. I beg to differ. Not only did I do both at once, but my bowels emptied 3 different times in less than half of a second. It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement, where time is creeping along and you're all leaned back and "BAM, BAM, BAM" you just crap your pants 3 times; It seemed like there were minutes in between, but in reality it was so close together it was like exhaust pulses from a big block Chevy turning 8 grand. At this point I'm about 30 minutes (maybe 2 seconds) into holding onto the fence wire. My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can't let go. I grew up on a farm so I know all about electric fences... but Dad always had those "piece of crap" chargers made by International or whoever that were like 9 volts and just 'kinda tickled. This I could not let go of.
The 8 foot long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the permadamp Ark-La-Tex river bottom soil. At this point I'm thinking I'm going to have to just man up and take, until lawnmower runs out of gas. Damn!, I think, as I remember I just filled the tank! Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough. It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it.
Covered in poop and pee and with my balls on my chest, I think 'Oh God please let me die... pleeeeze let me die'. But nooooo, it settles into the rough lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there, like a big bore roller cam EFI motor waiting for the go command from its owner's right foot.
So here I am in the middle of July, 104 degrees, 80% humidity, standing in my own backyard, begging God to kill me. God did not take me that day... he left me there covered in my own fluids to writhing the misery my own stupidity had created.
I honestly don't know how I got loose from the wire... I woke up laying on the ground hours later. The lawnmower was beside me, out of gas. It was later on in the day and I was sunburned. There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot were the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.
Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep I realized a few things.
1- Three of my teeth seem to have melted.
2- I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek (not the left, just the right).
3- Poop and pee when all mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.
4- My left eye will not open.
5- My right eye will not close.
6- The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now. Seriously! I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something, because it was better than new after that.
7- My balls are still smaller than average yet they are almost a foot long.
8- I can turn on the TV in the Game Room by farting while thinking of the number 4 (still don't understand this!)
That day changed my life. I now have a new found respect for things. I appreciate the little things more, and now I always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.
The good news, is that if a burglar does try to come over the fence, I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him, and THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, which also reminds me to triple check before I mow.
Thought y'all should read this in case you're thinking of installing an electric fence!
We have the standard 6ft. fence in the backyard, and a few months ago, I heard about burglaries increasing dramatically in the entire city. To make sure this never happened to me, I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence. Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had, made for 26 miles of fence. I then used an 8 ft. long ground rod, drove 7.5 feet into the ground. The ground rod is the key, with the more you have in the ground, the better the fence works.
One day I'm mowing the back yard with my cheapo Wal-Mart 6hp Big Wheel push mower. The hot wire is broken and laying out in the yard. I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger. I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it, to throw it out of the way. It seems as though I hadn't remembered to unplug it after all.
Now I'm standing there, I've got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the 1.7 gigavolt fence wire in the other hand. Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover.
Time stood still.
The first thing I notice is my balls trying to climb up the front side of my body. My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain. Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over, I could feel the spark in my head. I was literally at one with the engine. It seems as though the fence charger and the lawnmower were fighting over who would control my electrical impulses. Science says you cannot crap and pee at the same time. I beg to differ. Not only did I do both at once, but my bowels emptied 3 different times in less than half of a second. It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement, where time is creeping along and you're all leaned back and "BAM, BAM, BAM" you just crap your pants 3 times; It seemed like there were minutes in between, but in reality it was so close together it was like exhaust pulses from a big block Chevy turning 8 grand. At this point I'm about 30 minutes (maybe 2 seconds) into holding onto the fence wire. My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can't let go. I grew up on a farm so I know all about electric fences... but Dad always had those "piece of crap" chargers made by International or whoever that were like 9 volts and just 'kinda tickled. This I could not let go of.
The 8 foot long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the permadamp Ark-La-Tex river bottom soil. At this point I'm thinking I'm going to have to just man up and take, until lawnmower runs out of gas. Damn!, I think, as I remember I just filled the tank! Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough. It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it.
Covered in poop and pee and with my balls on my chest, I think 'Oh God please let me die... pleeeeze let me die'. But nooooo, it settles into the rough lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there, like a big bore roller cam EFI motor waiting for the go command from its owner's right foot.
So here I am in the middle of July, 104 degrees, 80% humidity, standing in my own backyard, begging God to kill me. God did not take me that day... he left me there covered in my own fluids to writhing the misery my own stupidity had created.
I honestly don't know how I got loose from the wire... I woke up laying on the ground hours later. The lawnmower was beside me, out of gas. It was later on in the day and I was sunburned. There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot were the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.
Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep I realized a few things.
1- Three of my teeth seem to have melted.
2- I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek (not the left, just the right).
3- Poop and pee when all mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.
4- My left eye will not open.
5- My right eye will not close.
6- The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now. Seriously! I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something, because it was better than new after that.
7- My balls are still smaller than average yet they are almost a foot long.
8- I can turn on the TV in the Game Room by farting while thinking of the number 4 (still don't understand this!)
That day changed my life. I now have a new found respect for things. I appreciate the little things more, and now I always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.
The good news, is that if a burglar does try to come over the fence, I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him, and THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, which also reminds me to triple check before I mow.
The Squirrel (stolen from the web)
I will repost here a couple of stories I didn't write, but have been told are in my style.
Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won't Patrol Brice Street Anymore)
Author: Daniel Meyer
I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect ... I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it - it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular ... as he shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest.
Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage! Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...
I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.
But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.
I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in ... well ... I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn-t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle ... my brain was just simply overloaded.
I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however.
The RPMs on The Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment) so her front end started to drop. Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly-torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet.
By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked ... sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of ... so to speak. Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street and was aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.
So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me, shooting me the finger ... That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A somewhat shredded patrol car ... but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And some Band-Aids.
Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won't Patrol Brice Street Anymore)
Author: Daniel Meyer
I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect ... I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it - it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular ... as he shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest.
Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage! Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...
I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.
But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.
I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in ... well ... I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn-t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle ... my brain was just simply overloaded.
I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however.
The RPMs on The Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment) so her front end started to drop. Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly-torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet.
By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked ... sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of ... so to speak. Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street and was aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.
So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me, shooting me the finger ... That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A somewhat shredded patrol car ... but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And some Band-Aids.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Fathers Day Dreams (stolen from the web)
Found a new tool that every man needs for his tool box. Come on Fathers Day!!!!!!!New Nail Gun, made by DeWALT. It can drive a 16-D nail through a 2 X 4 at 200 yards. This makes construction a breeze, you can sit in your lawn chair and build a fence. Just get your wife to hold the fence boards in place while you sit back, relax with a cold drink and when she has the board in the right place, just fire away. With the hundred round magazine, you can build the fence with a minimum of reloading. After a day of fence building with the new DeWalt Rapid fire nail gun, the wife will not ask you build or fix anything else again.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Quitting Smoking
A couple of years ago I quit smoking. Relapsed, and today, 4 Mar 2009, is my quit day. Thought I would reprise what it was like the last time I did this:
April 12th – Quit smoking. It’s a Monday, got my 21 mg patch, life is good. A few craves. Not really that bad.
April 13th – Craves are really cranking up. Ripped my shirt pocket getting my cigarettes out. Turned out to be my Palm Pilot so I lit my stylus and all was cool. People around me seem to be crankier than usual.
April 14th – Cat walked across my face last night while I was sleeping. Now I’ve got to replace that damned skylight. Got in the car and snorted my upholstery. Smelled like smoke. Pulled a few threads out and put them in the lighter. Ahh, just what I needed. No cigs though.
April 15th – It’s my birthday. Fascinated by the candles on the cake. Burning.. nice… Friggen’ drivers in this state are damned idiots. Now I understand road rage. They were in their first week on not smoking. Amazing how easy it is to run an 18-wheeler off the road. Asshole. I flashed him so he could change lanes and he didn’t even bother with a courtesy flash back at me. The team’s secretary quit. Said she wouldn’t put up with my attitude. Family is still supportive but they put the dog in a kennel.
April 16th – Wife bought me a carton of cigs today. What’s up with that? I stuffed them in her bra. Told her I was a non-smoker. She packed up the kids and went to her Mom’s on the left coast. Hell, if she won’t support me, good riddance. Man, almost through the week.
April 17th – Rained last night. Water came pouring in the skylight onto the bed. Nail gun and that nasty looking avant garde poster the wife bought sure cured that shit. Police showed up. Hey, if a guy wants to stand on his roof in his BVDs and scream at the heavens while shooting nails at passing cars, it’s his God given right. Got out in time to get to work. Found out that they have non-smoking cells at the sheriffs’ department.
April 18th – I think the “flatulence phase” is all bullshit. Had nachos and beer last night topped off with some leftover deviled eggs. Doc says I should clean my system out so I had a couple of glasses of Metamucil. No problems that I noticed. Boss finally realized my brilliance and moved me to a private office and out of the cube farm. Very supportive office mates helped me move.
April 19th – Kinda jittery. Getting healthy. Guy at the gym told me I was supposed to take off the patches and replace them, not just put on another one. I super glued his sneakers to the Nordic Trac, set it on high then busted off the stop/start button. Friggen, self-righteous, no-neck health nuts. Had time to go to the gym ‘cause I lost my job. I wouldn’t have thrown that damn printer through the window if some inconsiderate asshole would have refilled it with paper when it ran out. Shame to loose the job. New secretary was really hot (in a septuagenarian kinda way). Full Week Done!!! Woo Woo!
April 20th – Arm’s in a sling. Gonna sue the grocery store. All’s I did was try to light a damn cinnamon stick and you’d thought I was a mass murderer. Took seven of the bastards to take me down and there’s one bag boy whose gonna walk funny for a while. Asshole lawyer of mine handed back his retainer. Told me I needed help. Screw him. He’s never smoked. Doesn’t know what its like.
April 21st – Man, 10 days. Look at my quit meter. I feel so much better now. I’ve learned to ignore the distractions like the banging on my door and the sirens. You know, if you inhale right, tear gas can give you a rush just like a cigarette. I feel like I have superhuman strength…
Entered into evidence on this day April 22, 2004 in the case of Maryland against Reid.
April 12th – Quit smoking. It’s a Monday, got my 21 mg patch, life is good. A few craves. Not really that bad.
April 13th – Craves are really cranking up. Ripped my shirt pocket getting my cigarettes out. Turned out to be my Palm Pilot so I lit my stylus and all was cool. People around me seem to be crankier than usual.
April 14th – Cat walked across my face last night while I was sleeping. Now I’ve got to replace that damned skylight. Got in the car and snorted my upholstery. Smelled like smoke. Pulled a few threads out and put them in the lighter. Ahh, just what I needed. No cigs though.
April 15th – It’s my birthday. Fascinated by the candles on the cake. Burning.. nice… Friggen’ drivers in this state are damned idiots. Now I understand road rage. They were in their first week on not smoking. Amazing how easy it is to run an 18-wheeler off the road. Asshole. I flashed him so he could change lanes and he didn’t even bother with a courtesy flash back at me. The team’s secretary quit. Said she wouldn’t put up with my attitude. Family is still supportive but they put the dog in a kennel.
April 16th – Wife bought me a carton of cigs today. What’s up with that? I stuffed them in her bra. Told her I was a non-smoker. She packed up the kids and went to her Mom’s on the left coast. Hell, if she won’t support me, good riddance. Man, almost through the week.
April 17th – Rained last night. Water came pouring in the skylight onto the bed. Nail gun and that nasty looking avant garde poster the wife bought sure cured that shit. Police showed up. Hey, if a guy wants to stand on his roof in his BVDs and scream at the heavens while shooting nails at passing cars, it’s his God given right. Got out in time to get to work. Found out that they have non-smoking cells at the sheriffs’ department.
April 18th – I think the “flatulence phase” is all bullshit. Had nachos and beer last night topped off with some leftover deviled eggs. Doc says I should clean my system out so I had a couple of glasses of Metamucil. No problems that I noticed. Boss finally realized my brilliance and moved me to a private office and out of the cube farm. Very supportive office mates helped me move.
April 19th – Kinda jittery. Getting healthy. Guy at the gym told me I was supposed to take off the patches and replace them, not just put on another one. I super glued his sneakers to the Nordic Trac, set it on high then busted off the stop/start button. Friggen, self-righteous, no-neck health nuts. Had time to go to the gym ‘cause I lost my job. I wouldn’t have thrown that damn printer through the window if some inconsiderate asshole would have refilled it with paper when it ran out. Shame to loose the job. New secretary was really hot (in a septuagenarian kinda way). Full Week Done!!! Woo Woo!
April 20th – Arm’s in a sling. Gonna sue the grocery store. All’s I did was try to light a damn cinnamon stick and you’d thought I was a mass murderer. Took seven of the bastards to take me down and there’s one bag boy whose gonna walk funny for a while. Asshole lawyer of mine handed back his retainer. Told me I needed help. Screw him. He’s never smoked. Doesn’t know what its like.
April 21st – Man, 10 days. Look at my quit meter. I feel so much better now. I’ve learned to ignore the distractions like the banging on my door and the sirens. You know, if you inhale right, tear gas can give you a rush just like a cigarette. I feel like I have superhuman strength…
Entered into evidence on this day April 22, 2004 in the case of Maryland against Reid.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Put a head on it
Hydration whilst fishing is important. When you hydrate, you can fish longer. This is not only important in warm weather, but even in cold weather. That's how we get to today's story.
Camelback backpack bladders are a wonderful invention. They are used extensively by the military to keep our soldiers and airmen going with plenty of liquid. I also use one to keep me going on the stream, but I learned a very valuable lesson from a "friend."
This person, who shall remain nameless, gently poured a four bottles of fine microbrew beer in his Camelback before heading a stream. The beer got a bit shook up as he walked, rod in hand. The bladder pack started to swell under the pressure. This "someone" noticed that the straps to the bladder pack had gotten tighter and tighter, and, by the time he realized that he had to do something about it, the bladder was so swollen he couldn't get it off. He started flailing around, trying to get to his knife to cut off the straps, but the straps were pulling his shoulders back so far he couldn't reach anything. Then again, he couldn't have held his knife even if he could reach it 'cause he had lost the circulation in his arms. His hands started to blow up as big as the pack and turn a loverly shade of puce. I'm told he looked like cross between a camel and a tyrannosaurus, big hump and useless arms with a really nasty look on his face, bulging eyes and all.
Relief finally came when the tap from the drinking tube blew off, striking him in the throat and then the now free tube flipped around like a fire hose with no one holding the end. Now the hose is beating him about the face, spraying 64 oz of beer into his eyes and one good shot directly up the left nostril.
The pressure released and, after a few minutes to return the circulation to his arms, this "someone" ripped off the Camelback, stabbed the crap out of it with his knife (to ensure no one else could be injured by such a vile device), and buried it in the woods. He then walked back to his truck, drank the other two beers and decided that he'd go back to carrying bottles of Gatorade in the back of his vest.
Camelback backpack bladders are a wonderful invention. They are used extensively by the military to keep our soldiers and airmen going with plenty of liquid. I also use one to keep me going on the stream, but I learned a very valuable lesson from a "friend."
This person, who shall remain nameless, gently poured a four bottles of fine microbrew beer in his Camelback before heading a stream. The beer got a bit shook up as he walked, rod in hand. The bladder pack started to swell under the pressure. This "someone" noticed that the straps to the bladder pack had gotten tighter and tighter, and, by the time he realized that he had to do something about it, the bladder was so swollen he couldn't get it off. He started flailing around, trying to get to his knife to cut off the straps, but the straps were pulling his shoulders back so far he couldn't reach anything. Then again, he couldn't have held his knife even if he could reach it 'cause he had lost the circulation in his arms. His hands started to blow up as big as the pack and turn a loverly shade of puce. I'm told he looked like cross between a camel and a tyrannosaurus, big hump and useless arms with a really nasty look on his face, bulging eyes and all.
Relief finally came when the tap from the drinking tube blew off, striking him in the throat and then the now free tube flipped around like a fire hose with no one holding the end. Now the hose is beating him about the face, spraying 64 oz of beer into his eyes and one good shot directly up the left nostril.
The pressure released and, after a few minutes to return the circulation to his arms, this "someone" ripped off the Camelback, stabbed the crap out of it with his knife (to ensure no one else could be injured by such a vile device), and buried it in the woods. He then walked back to his truck, drank the other two beers and decided that he'd go back to carrying bottles of Gatorade in the back of his vest.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Weekend
Spent the weekend taking down Xmas decorations. Figured out it was easier using a chainsaw on a 10' Xmas tree to get it out the door as it was netted coming in the door. It's alright, it was an electric chainsaw. Waited till the bride and daughter had left the house for a "tea party" and plugged that sucker in. Soon found out that chainsaws and drywall don't get along.
For the handymen in the crowd, why do they put wiring and plumbing in the walls right behind the best place to set a Christmas tree? Reminder, circuit breakers will pop when you step in water that is running over a cut wire. Also blew up the shop vac and my belt buckle flew off and impaled itself in the wiff's new curio cabinet. Now I've got to cut some glass for the cabinet and glue that little hummel guy back together.
Got the water stopped with a wine cork after turning it off downstairs. Put a wire nut on both ends of the wire. Guess the upstairs will just be a storage room now with no power. Put the wiff's quilt rack in front of the wall. The hole and bulge only shows a little bit at the top. Drywall kinda slumped when the wall filled with water.
Used the crockpot to brace the nice tile on the wall in the kitchen on the other side. Wiff never uses that so she'll not notice. Wiff came home and never saw it.
Crap, she wants to start to make pot roast in the crockpot in the morning. I left the house and the new architectural interest point at 0430 for work.
For the handymen in the crowd, why do they put wiring and plumbing in the walls right behind the best place to set a Christmas tree? Reminder, circuit breakers will pop when you step in water that is running over a cut wire. Also blew up the shop vac and my belt buckle flew off and impaled itself in the wiff's new curio cabinet. Now I've got to cut some glass for the cabinet and glue that little hummel guy back together.
Got the water stopped with a wine cork after turning it off downstairs. Put a wire nut on both ends of the wire. Guess the upstairs will just be a storage room now with no power. Put the wiff's quilt rack in front of the wall. The hole and bulge only shows a little bit at the top. Drywall kinda slumped when the wall filled with water.
Used the crockpot to brace the nice tile on the wall in the kitchen on the other side. Wiff never uses that so she'll not notice. Wiff came home and never saw it.
Crap, she wants to start to make pot roast in the crockpot in the morning. I left the house and the new architectural interest point at 0430 for work.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Study Break
My wife took the kid to work with her to leave me some peace and quiet so I could study. I was working on an advanced degree and no one had told me how tough that Masters stuff was. I needed all the study time I could get. They left out the door at 11:30, at 11:40 I had the pontoon boat in the venerable fishing car, along with a selection of rods and new flies to try out.
Got to the lake by noon. There was a bit of a wind picking up but not too bad, about 10 to 15 knots. I filled one bladder on the pontoon boat and while starting to fill the other, the wonderful, new car-battery-powered inflator crapped out. No worries Mate, I had a small hand pump for just such emergencies.
Unfortunately, I forgot the old trick of "try it at home first stupid." Pump, pump, pump.. gasp, gasp, gasp. It was like powering the QEII with a Briggs and Stratton.
After trying to beg a few shots of pure O2 from the paramedics having a picnic there (no dice), I was ready for another attempt. But first, I tried to convince them that I could fill the thing up with all that extra oxygen on the ambulance. Again, a big no.
As an analyst, I sat back and surveyed the situation, ran a Franklin T and chucked the whole damn thing back into the wagon. I would just fish from the bank.
This unnamed lake contained some state record size smallies that were stocked in there the previous year. I'd caught 4 in the 1 to 3 lb range earlier in the week in the shallows with a crawfish pattern. The water was very low and all the shore structure was revealed. I went to a point and climbed out on to an old, 3-foot-diameter cement culvert pipe to see if I could spot any fish in the shallows. I did see some movement about 20 feet away but couldn't tell if it was bass, carp or drum.
I cast to the spot with an unweighted size 14 nymph and stepped back. As I checked my footing I heard a muffled crack that I also felt through my feet. My movement must have broken loose the pipe from its position (it was just there as fill cement) and I immediately started an ESPN quality log rolling demonstration. The pipe started to spin down the side of the point and the water was coming up fast. With about 6 inches of pipe left above the water it finally stopped. Outdoor Games, here I come! I decided discretion was the better part of valor and attempted to vacate my post. I was thankful that I'd been wearing my new water shoes as opposed to my old clodhoppers. Gave me a much better feel as that monster rolled under me. I stepped off the pipe and the rock I stepped on rocked under my foot and I dropped straight down, straddling that culvert pipe like a bull rider.
Since I was wearing shorts, I immediately discovered what cement can do to the inside of your thighs. I also killed a ground squirrel when that disk went shooting out of my spine. I did find out that bone is actually harder than cement, because my tailbone imbedded itself in that culvert like a well placed piton.
By this time, the paramedic picnic crew was starting over to check on the old fart nailed to the pipe like a congressman on pork. I waved them away and stood up smiling. Well, at least I thought it was a smile, but probably looked more like the grimace of a rabid baboon. I finally got to my feet and moved to more secure ground.
During this whole thing, I still had my line in the water and noticed that it was moving of its own volition. I had a fish on the line and a fight on my hands. It wasn't moving that fast so I figure it was a drum.
I got the fish on the reel and fought it in. Turned out to be about a 14 inch catfish.
I got him up by my feet and reached into my vest for the pliers. At this instant, the little S.O.B. flipped over and spiked me in the ankle.
Gosh, I'm glad I was wearing my new water shoes as opposed to my old clodhoppers. My old clodhoppers would have stopped that little @$#%^& and allowed me to stomp it into fish meal. As it was, I reached down and unhooked the wretch and flipped him back in the water.
Again, the analyst in me took over and I sat back (well stood back, as sitting was out of the question), and surveyed the situation. Less than 15 minutes at the lake, my boat half inflated, compressor needs Viagra, hamburger meat for thighs, tailbone snapped with the Berlin Wall stuck to my butt, S shape of spine reversed, festering wound in ankle, one fish caught.
Then again, one cast, one fish. Makes the day a success in my book.
Got to the lake by noon. There was a bit of a wind picking up but not too bad, about 10 to 15 knots. I filled one bladder on the pontoon boat and while starting to fill the other, the wonderful, new car-battery-powered inflator crapped out. No worries Mate, I had a small hand pump for just such emergencies.
Unfortunately, I forgot the old trick of "try it at home first stupid." Pump, pump, pump.. gasp, gasp, gasp. It was like powering the QEII with a Briggs and Stratton.
After trying to beg a few shots of pure O2 from the paramedics having a picnic there (no dice), I was ready for another attempt. But first, I tried to convince them that I could fill the thing up with all that extra oxygen on the ambulance. Again, a big no.
As an analyst, I sat back and surveyed the situation, ran a Franklin T and chucked the whole damn thing back into the wagon. I would just fish from the bank.
This unnamed lake contained some state record size smallies that were stocked in there the previous year. I'd caught 4 in the 1 to 3 lb range earlier in the week in the shallows with a crawfish pattern. The water was very low and all the shore structure was revealed. I went to a point and climbed out on to an old, 3-foot-diameter cement culvert pipe to see if I could spot any fish in the shallows. I did see some movement about 20 feet away but couldn't tell if it was bass, carp or drum.
I cast to the spot with an unweighted size 14 nymph and stepped back. As I checked my footing I heard a muffled crack that I also felt through my feet. My movement must have broken loose the pipe from its position (it was just there as fill cement) and I immediately started an ESPN quality log rolling demonstration. The pipe started to spin down the side of the point and the water was coming up fast. With about 6 inches of pipe left above the water it finally stopped. Outdoor Games, here I come! I decided discretion was the better part of valor and attempted to vacate my post. I was thankful that I'd been wearing my new water shoes as opposed to my old clodhoppers. Gave me a much better feel as that monster rolled under me. I stepped off the pipe and the rock I stepped on rocked under my foot and I dropped straight down, straddling that culvert pipe like a bull rider.
Since I was wearing shorts, I immediately discovered what cement can do to the inside of your thighs. I also killed a ground squirrel when that disk went shooting out of my spine. I did find out that bone is actually harder than cement, because my tailbone imbedded itself in that culvert like a well placed piton.
By this time, the paramedic picnic crew was starting over to check on the old fart nailed to the pipe like a congressman on pork. I waved them away and stood up smiling. Well, at least I thought it was a smile, but probably looked more like the grimace of a rabid baboon. I finally got to my feet and moved to more secure ground.
During this whole thing, I still had my line in the water and noticed that it was moving of its own volition. I had a fish on the line and a fight on my hands. It wasn't moving that fast so I figure it was a drum.
I got the fish on the reel and fought it in. Turned out to be about a 14 inch catfish.
I got him up by my feet and reached into my vest for the pliers. At this instant, the little S.O.B. flipped over and spiked me in the ankle.
Gosh, I'm glad I was wearing my new water shoes as opposed to my old clodhoppers. My old clodhoppers would have stopped that little @$#%^& and allowed me to stomp it into fish meal. As it was, I reached down and unhooked the wretch and flipped him back in the water.
Again, the analyst in me took over and I sat back (well stood back, as sitting was out of the question), and surveyed the situation. Less than 15 minutes at the lake, my boat half inflated, compressor needs Viagra, hamburger meat for thighs, tailbone snapped with the Berlin Wall stuck to my butt, S shape of spine reversed, festering wound in ankle, one fish caught.
Then again, one cast, one fish. Makes the day a success in my book.
Seven Steps To Successful Fly Tying
Take it one step at a time. Like me, I tried to do fly fishing on the cheap. I love the sport but, due to the nature of military service (ya think I was in it for the money?) I couldn't afford all those nice things right off the bat, so I've been slowly building up (read terminal gear whore after many years).
Tying flies. I decided to learn to tie flies 'cause it had to be cheaper than buying those little bitty things. If you get the urge to tie flies to save yourself some money, here is my foolproof 7 step plan to tying flies:
Step 1: Find a nice comfortable seat at a table. Put something like plexiglass over a 2x2 foot area of the table to protect it from damage. Do not use a clamp vise on your dining room table. The spouse will find the damage, trust me.
Step 2: Get something to keep yourself organized. I use an old ashtray (don't smoke anymore) to keep small things in 'cause it has nice little indents in the sides to keep all my tools from rolling around.
Step 3: Reach into your bag and get the duct tape that you keep handy for those fishing emergencies.
Step 4: Have some one (you trust) tie you to the chair using the duct tape. Ensure that all is secure and a piece goes over your mouth.
Step 5: Have that person (you really trust) reach into you back pocket, take out your wallet and burn all the money in there in the ashtray.
Step 6: Send the person off to the ATM to max out your cards. Please make sure he has your PIN numbers before he ties you up.
Step 7: Have your buddy burn all the money from the ATM in the ashtray while screaming "Fly tying, Bad!" over and over again. Voila! You're done!
This simple 7 step plan will save you the time that you'll spend hanging out in petting zoos trying to trim that yak, stopping for road kill collection of a charcoal black ground squirrel and expounding ad nauseum on how unfair the penalty for importing polar bear pelts is to a true fly tying artist. I won't even go into the prices that people pay for a chicken skin. Or the problems that can occur when an improperly stored road kill has its own "hatch" (never, my God, never mention maggots to my wife). Burning your money in one swell foop is also cheaper in the long run. It gets it out of your system quickly and is good for your neighborhood fly merchant.
The Reid Seven-Step-Method is available as a book on tape.
Tying flies. I decided to learn to tie flies 'cause it had to be cheaper than buying those little bitty things. If you get the urge to tie flies to save yourself some money, here is my foolproof 7 step plan to tying flies:
Step 1: Find a nice comfortable seat at a table. Put something like plexiglass over a 2x2 foot area of the table to protect it from damage. Do not use a clamp vise on your dining room table. The spouse will find the damage, trust me.
Step 2: Get something to keep yourself organized. I use an old ashtray (don't smoke anymore) to keep small things in 'cause it has nice little indents in the sides to keep all my tools from rolling around.
Step 3: Reach into your bag and get the duct tape that you keep handy for those fishing emergencies.
Step 4: Have some one (you trust) tie you to the chair using the duct tape. Ensure that all is secure and a piece goes over your mouth.
Step 5: Have that person (you really trust) reach into you back pocket, take out your wallet and burn all the money in there in the ashtray.
Step 6: Send the person off to the ATM to max out your cards. Please make sure he has your PIN numbers before he ties you up.
Step 7: Have your buddy burn all the money from the ATM in the ashtray while screaming "Fly tying, Bad!" over and over again. Voila! You're done!
This simple 7 step plan will save you the time that you'll spend hanging out in petting zoos trying to trim that yak, stopping for road kill collection of a charcoal black ground squirrel and expounding ad nauseum on how unfair the penalty for importing polar bear pelts is to a true fly tying artist. I won't even go into the prices that people pay for a chicken skin. Or the problems that can occur when an improperly stored road kill has its own "hatch" (never, my God, never mention maggots to my wife). Burning your money in one swell foop is also cheaper in the long run. It gets it out of your system quickly and is good for your neighborhood fly merchant.
The Reid Seven-Step-Method is available as a book on tape.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Twelve Days of Christmas for Fly Tyers
By Mike Connor
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, Two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Twelve Tawny owls, Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, Two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Twelve Tawny owls, Eleven prepared pheasants, Ten Brahma capes, Nine perfect moleskins, Eight hare´s ears, Seven squirrel bodies, Six Golden plover, Five lovely snipe, Four Woodcock wings, Three Dun hens, two starling skins, And a partridge in a pear tree.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Full Combat Shopping, Part 2
On my trip to beautiful Montana, I have my tying kit with me, but after fishing all day and rehydrating all evening, I'm too tired to tie. So, in standard male shopping mode (get to the store, purchase, leave), we pull into West Yellowstone. I need to buy some flies, get a Yellowstone license and info on Slough Creek in the Park.
We hit the fourth shop on the main street of town. We figure that you don't want to go to the first place you see, as they are there to grab the truly desperate. So by going to the 4th place, we'll have weeded out the places catering to the wanna-be fly fisherman. Hmm, that brewpub is up the street a bit. Maybe we'll go there after we get the stuff we need. This should only take 5 minutes.
My fishing buds and I line up at the counter to get our licenses. There's a fan blowing from the back corner of the store. A nice... cool...breezeARRRGH! I can smell it! It's... It's FEATHER PHEROMONES!
A shudder runs through my body starting at my wallet. I.. must.. resist...I...am...in... mall...uh, male shopping mode. Leave the store NOW! But I can't...A little switch has been flipped in my brain. My fishing buddies have seen this before and start screaming "INTERVENTION!" But it's no use. Jekyll and Hyde, Kent and Superman, Parker and Spiderman. They've all gone through it. I change. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
I shake off their restraining hands as I'm inexorably drawn to the back and sides of the store. Bins and bins of flies greet my eyes. Size 16 extended body grey drakes, tungsten cone head laced Autumn Splendors, even hair wing PMD emergers.
My fingers act on their own, pick up a gross of little plastic cups and proceed to fill them. Size 20 bead head pheasant tails embed themselves under my nails. I ignore the pain and follow the scent trail. There it is, the fan. It sits in front of the hackle display, seductively oscillating, calling my name "Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk" in a susurrating whisper. And next to the fan, the mother load. The discount bins. Oh, you evil fiends!
My bleeding mitts paw through the bins. 10 packs of chenille for 5 bucks, pink raffia for scuds, peach baskets full of half-priced hackle. Bwahahahahahahah!!!!
There is more. I move down the wall, grab two empty peach baskets and start pushing full skeins of variegated chenille into them. Suddenly, I now have two fly shop clerks as personal shoppers. They recognize the signs. Two others are restraining my buddies by explaining the Yellowstone fishing regs in extreme detail. A fifth keeps pointing the fan at me.
I turn the corner and confront a confused 6-year-old. He looks in my baskets. I can tell he wants my stuff. "Mine, Mine, all mine!" I gurgle as I get to the selection of plastic nymph body forms. I clear the rack. The small child follows. I run to the checkout counter, trampling the young man in my haste. I must put my scent on the items and mark my territory. Ah, time for the plastic.
The clerk swipes my card as 4 registers ring my purchases. I grab my loot, license and run. I have the scent now, it pours from the other shops. I run across the street and am struck by a chevy with Florida plates pulling a 5th wheeler. The bumper wraps around my thigh. I'm unaffected. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
In the next shop, the story is the same. The first shop has sent out the alert. I'm greeted at the door by the whole staff. Oval stickers with river names, a gourd with trout painted on it, a wading staff that doubles as a whiskey flask. I move on.
Ah, there's the microbrewery. Time to rehydrate. This also affords the local constabulary time to put up road blocks for all the streets I'll cross and get the parade permit for my growing troop of bearers.
I hit the streets again and find the specialty shop that sells custom dyed hackle, caribou, pine squirrel, even whole beaver pelts. As a bonus, they've cornered the market on Zelon. But no longer, its all mine. More peach baskets, the plastic begins to smoke. Time to go, time to rehydrate. Again and again, shop to shop.
Three hours later, the final shop, more flies. And then, there they are. My personal Holy Grail of Fly Fishing. Light falls on them through the skylight. It's a religious moment. I approach, touch, fondle... A bin full of, dare I say it, size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies (hook barbs pre-crimped). The credit card bursts into flame from the friction. My day is done.
(WARNING: This is a work of fiction. It is a federal offense in most states and a hanging offense in Montana to attempt to explain the Yellowstone fishing regulations to another person. Do not attempt this at home.)
We hit the fourth shop on the main street of town. We figure that you don't want to go to the first place you see, as they are there to grab the truly desperate. So by going to the 4th place, we'll have weeded out the places catering to the wanna-be fly fisherman. Hmm, that brewpub is up the street a bit. Maybe we'll go there after we get the stuff we need. This should only take 5 minutes.
My fishing buds and I line up at the counter to get our licenses. There's a fan blowing from the back corner of the store. A nice... cool...breezeARRRGH! I can smell it! It's... It's FEATHER PHEROMONES!
A shudder runs through my body starting at my wallet. I.. must.. resist...I...am...in... mall...uh, male shopping mode. Leave the store NOW! But I can't...A little switch has been flipped in my brain. My fishing buddies have seen this before and start screaming "INTERVENTION!" But it's no use. Jekyll and Hyde, Kent and Superman, Parker and Spiderman. They've all gone through it. I change. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
I shake off their restraining hands as I'm inexorably drawn to the back and sides of the store. Bins and bins of flies greet my eyes. Size 16 extended body grey drakes, tungsten cone head laced Autumn Splendors, even hair wing PMD emergers.
My fingers act on their own, pick up a gross of little plastic cups and proceed to fill them. Size 20 bead head pheasant tails embed themselves under my nails. I ignore the pain and follow the scent trail. There it is, the fan. It sits in front of the hackle display, seductively oscillating, calling my name "Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk, Frrraaaaannk" in a susurrating whisper. And next to the fan, the mother load. The discount bins. Oh, you evil fiends!
My bleeding mitts paw through the bins. 10 packs of chenille for 5 bucks, pink raffia for scuds, peach baskets full of half-priced hackle. Bwahahahahahahah!!!!
There is more. I move down the wall, grab two empty peach baskets and start pushing full skeins of variegated chenille into them. Suddenly, I now have two fly shop clerks as personal shoppers. They recognize the signs. Two others are restraining my buddies by explaining the Yellowstone fishing regs in extreme detail. A fifth keeps pointing the fan at me.
I turn the corner and confront a confused 6-year-old. He looks in my baskets. I can tell he wants my stuff. "Mine, Mine, all mine!" I gurgle as I get to the selection of plastic nymph body forms. I clear the rack. The small child follows. I run to the checkout counter, trampling the young man in my haste. I must put my scent on the items and mark my territory. Ah, time for the plastic.
The clerk swipes my card as 4 registers ring my purchases. I grab my loot, license and run. I have the scent now, it pours from the other shops. I run across the street and am struck by a chevy with Florida plates pulling a 5th wheeler. The bumper wraps around my thigh. I'm unaffected. I am Fly Mall Shopper Man!
In the next shop, the story is the same. The first shop has sent out the alert. I'm greeted at the door by the whole staff. Oval stickers with river names, a gourd with trout painted on it, a wading staff that doubles as a whiskey flask. I move on.
Ah, there's the microbrewery. Time to rehydrate. This also affords the local constabulary time to put up road blocks for all the streets I'll cross and get the parade permit for my growing troop of bearers.
I hit the streets again and find the specialty shop that sells custom dyed hackle, caribou, pine squirrel, even whole beaver pelts. As a bonus, they've cornered the market on Zelon. But no longer, its all mine. More peach baskets, the plastic begins to smoke. Time to go, time to rehydrate. Again and again, shop to shop.
Three hours later, the final shop, more flies. And then, there they are. My personal Holy Grail of Fly Fishing. Light falls on them through the skylight. It's a religious moment. I approach, touch, fondle... A bin full of, dare I say it, size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies (hook barbs pre-crimped). The credit card bursts into flame from the friction. My day is done.
(WARNING: This is a work of fiction. It is a federal offense in most states and a hanging offense in Montana to attempt to explain the Yellowstone fishing regulations to another person. Do not attempt this at home.)
Full Combat Shopping, Part 1
Okay, I'll admit it; I'm your basic male shopper. I need a pair of pants, I pull into the mall, go directly into the one store that I know sells the ones I like, grab a pair off the rack in my size, buy them and walk out. Done. That's the way it should be.
Sometimes, I'm unable to walk directly into the store that I want and I'm forced to "walk the mall." Okay, eyes forward, ignore the cell phone salesmen, no I don't want rain gutter covers, no, my non-existent jewelry is clean enough, thank you very much. Get to the store, purchase, leave.
Well, in all honesty, sometimes the window displays do pique my interest. "We have Tank Bras!" Hmmm, I guess it would be nice to keep the bugs off the front of your M1 Abrams. I hold firm and keep walking. But sometimes, once in a great while, I'll get hooked.
On my recent trip to Montana, I only spent more than 20 minutes of my time in three towns (hey, it's a FISHING trip), Bozeman, Ennis and West Yellowstone. Let's throw out Bozeman 'cause I only used it as my point of entry and exit.
Note to self: check on validity of the TSA (Trout Safety Administration). These guys stopped me in the parking lot at the airport in Bozeman and went through my fly boxes searching for and confiscating any flies on which I'd not yet crimped down the barbs. They also took away my extra set of waders because of possible zebra mussel infestation. They looked official, so I guess it's for my own good. I did happen to see "Senior Inspector Mike Smith, TSA" the next day enjoying himself in a drift boat.
Makes my heart glad to know that even government employees can get a free day off to go fish, though I don't know how they afford it on their salaries.
Okay, where were we? Oh, yeh, we've chucked out Bozeman from this oh so scientific survey and that leaves us Ennis and Yellowstone. According to the sign entering Ennis, the population is 660 folks and 1,100,000 trout. Ennis has two major fly shops. West Yellowstone, according to US census information, has 1,650 permanent residents. It also has five major fly shops (hmm, all centered on a microbrewery).
A quick bit of math leads us to the conclusion that the mandatory ratio of residents to fly shops in Montana is 330 to 1. This holds true for both Ennis and West Yellowstone, so probably works throughout the state. As a comparison, within the city limits of Baltimore, there is one, count 'em, one fly shop for a population of 651,154 deprived souls. It's just not fair! Time for a full Senate investigation.
There is even one fly shop half way between Ennis and Quake Lake, in the middle of nowhere, that has more flies in one place than any other store I've ever been to, bar none. Mmmm, flies... Oops, sorry, drifted off for a minute.
As a final note, there are also fly shops in most of your lodges along the Madison, some of which are very good. This is a good thing. Lucky for me, at one of these lodges, I was even able to find some size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies that looked exactly like the ones that had been confiscated in Bozeman. Figure the odds (I knew they couldn't be mine as, on close inspection, I found that the tyer had crimped the barbs). They also sold used waders. Great shop.
Sometimes, I'm unable to walk directly into the store that I want and I'm forced to "walk the mall." Okay, eyes forward, ignore the cell phone salesmen, no I don't want rain gutter covers, no, my non-existent jewelry is clean enough, thank you very much. Get to the store, purchase, leave.
Well, in all honesty, sometimes the window displays do pique my interest. "We have Tank Bras!" Hmmm, I guess it would be nice to keep the bugs off the front of your M1 Abrams. I hold firm and keep walking. But sometimes, once in a great while, I'll get hooked.
On my recent trip to Montana, I only spent more than 20 minutes of my time in three towns (hey, it's a FISHING trip), Bozeman, Ennis and West Yellowstone. Let's throw out Bozeman 'cause I only used it as my point of entry and exit.
Note to self: check on validity of the TSA (Trout Safety Administration). These guys stopped me in the parking lot at the airport in Bozeman and went through my fly boxes searching for and confiscating any flies on which I'd not yet crimped down the barbs. They also took away my extra set of waders because of possible zebra mussel infestation. They looked official, so I guess it's for my own good. I did happen to see "Senior Inspector Mike Smith, TSA" the next day enjoying himself in a drift boat.
Makes my heart glad to know that even government employees can get a free day off to go fish, though I don't know how they afford it on their salaries.
Okay, where were we? Oh, yeh, we've chucked out Bozeman from this oh so scientific survey and that leaves us Ennis and Yellowstone. According to the sign entering Ennis, the population is 660 folks and 1,100,000 trout. Ennis has two major fly shops. West Yellowstone, according to US census information, has 1,650 permanent residents. It also has five major fly shops (hmm, all centered on a microbrewery).
A quick bit of math leads us to the conclusion that the mandatory ratio of residents to fly shops in Montana is 330 to 1. This holds true for both Ennis and West Yellowstone, so probably works throughout the state. As a comparison, within the city limits of Baltimore, there is one, count 'em, one fly shop for a population of 651,154 deprived souls. It's just not fair! Time for a full Senate investigation.
There is even one fly shop half way between Ennis and Quake Lake, in the middle of nowhere, that has more flies in one place than any other store I've ever been to, bar none. Mmmm, flies... Oops, sorry, drifted off for a minute.
As a final note, there are also fly shops in most of your lodges along the Madison, some of which are very good. This is a good thing. Lucky for me, at one of these lodges, I was even able to find some size 8 Kauffman's golden stone nymphs with Madam X-style rubber legs and custom angora/silk/Angelina fibre dubbed bodies that looked exactly like the ones that had been confiscated in Bozeman. Figure the odds (I knew they couldn't be mine as, on close inspection, I found that the tyer had crimped the barbs). They also sold used waders. Great shop.
Scientific Study Reveals Hypnotizing Feather Effect
A recent study has indicated that chicken feathers give off certain pheromones that can actually hypnotize men and women, causing them to purchase ungodly amounts of fluff at outrageous prices.
When stored in large quantities in enclosed spaces, the pheromones (from the feathers) cause memory loss and induce the nesting syndrome (similar to the one squirrels have before the onset of winter, i.e. storing food), therefore perpetuating their species. This "nesting" leads to very large agglomerations of feathers. It is posited that the pheromones may come from a symbiotic bacteria and these agglomerations serve to gather large quantities of bacteria together where they breed and further affect the afflicted with memory loss.
Additionally, anechoic chamber tests have also revealed that these feathers emit a very high-pitched sound, heard only by a select few breed of men and women known as "fly tyers." One researcher commented "It's like some ungodly siren song. I was almost lured in myself until I saw the price tag. I could have spent 85 dollars on a chicken neck and not gotten enough meat for lunch."
When recorded and played backwards on an LP, the sounds are heard as chants "buy me, cut me, whip me, tie me!" In order to overcome the so-called "feeding frenzy effect" that these feathers cause, one must wear a full, military-grade gas mask when entering a storage facility and use ear plugs to avoid being pulled into their grip.
Studies have also indicated that aliens have inhabited the earth, helping to spread the effect that these feathers have on the human population. They are called FLY SHOP CLERKS. They can sometimes be heard babbling in their own language, using words like isonychia and meniscus.
One surprising find in this study is the affect on the integrity of those affected. It was found that these same pheromones cause a pathological need to secret these feather purchases away when taken home (or at least blend them into the existing stash), and when asked by a significant other if the feathers are new, the reply is "I've had them for a while."
When stored in large quantities in enclosed spaces, the pheromones (from the feathers) cause memory loss and induce the nesting syndrome (similar to the one squirrels have before the onset of winter, i.e. storing food), therefore perpetuating their species. This "nesting" leads to very large agglomerations of feathers. It is posited that the pheromones may come from a symbiotic bacteria and these agglomerations serve to gather large quantities of bacteria together where they breed and further affect the afflicted with memory loss.
Additionally, anechoic chamber tests have also revealed that these feathers emit a very high-pitched sound, heard only by a select few breed of men and women known as "fly tyers." One researcher commented "It's like some ungodly siren song. I was almost lured in myself until I saw the price tag. I could have spent 85 dollars on a chicken neck and not gotten enough meat for lunch."
When recorded and played backwards on an LP, the sounds are heard as chants "buy me, cut me, whip me, tie me!" In order to overcome the so-called "feeding frenzy effect" that these feathers cause, one must wear a full, military-grade gas mask when entering a storage facility and use ear plugs to avoid being pulled into their grip.
Studies have also indicated that aliens have inhabited the earth, helping to spread the effect that these feathers have on the human population. They are called FLY SHOP CLERKS. They can sometimes be heard babbling in their own language, using words like isonychia and meniscus.
One surprising find in this study is the affect on the integrity of those affected. It was found that these same pheromones cause a pathological need to secret these feather purchases away when taken home (or at least blend them into the existing stash), and when asked by a significant other if the feathers are new, the reply is "I've had them for a while."
Felonious Flymphs
(With apologies to Johnny Carson and Jack Webb.)
"Excuse me officer, I need your help."
"What's the problem, sir?"
"I've been fleeced."
"Fleeced? "
"Yes, some one stole my flymphs."
"You were fleeced of your flymphs? What are flymphs?"
"Fly fishing flies."
"You were fleeced of your fly fishing flymph flies."
"That's right, and they were my favorites."
"Where were these flymphs?"
"Flat on the floor of my Fleetwood.
"Okay. You were fleeced of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were flat the floor of your Fleetwood. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea on who may have fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood?"
"Floyd Fleming."
"Figures. Do you know where Floyd Fleming is?"
"He flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"Do you know what Floyd Fleming, who lives in Flat Key Florida, does for a living?
"Yes, he works for the whaling fleet cutting blubber from whales. He's the fleet flenser."
"Let me summarize. Fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"That's correct. One more thing."
"Yes."
If I ever catch fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming who fleeced me of my favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of my Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida..."
"Yes?"
"I gonna flay him."
"Excuse me officer, I need your help."
"What's the problem, sir?"
"I've been fleeced."
"Fleeced? "
"Yes, some one stole my flymphs."
"You were fleeced of your flymphs? What are flymphs?"
"Fly fishing flies."
"You were fleeced of your fly fishing flymph flies."
"That's right, and they were my favorites."
"Where were these flymphs?"
"Flat on the floor of my Fleetwood.
"Okay. You were fleeced of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were flat the floor of your Fleetwood. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea on who may have fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood?"
"Floyd Fleming."
"Figures. Do you know where Floyd Fleming is?"
"He flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"Do you know what Floyd Fleming, who lives in Flat Key Florida, does for a living?
"Yes, he works for the whaling fleet cutting blubber from whales. He's the fleet flenser."
"Let me summarize. Fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming fleeced you of your favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of your Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida."
"That's correct. One more thing."
"Yes."
If I ever catch fleet-flenser Floyd Fleming who fleeced me of my favorite fly fishing flymph flies that were on the floor of my Fleetwood and flew home to Flat Key, Florida..."
"Yes?"
"I gonna flay him."
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Warp Drive Chocolate Pie
Many moons ago when I worked for a super-secret government agency, I was going through the directories (this before the era of computer security) looking for new applications. Found a directory aptly named "menus." Hmm, thinks I, this could be the gold mine I was looking for. I open the directory and what do I find? Recipes. Oh well, lets check them out. One nugget I discovered was the recipe for Warp Drive Chocolate Pie. Five minutes to make, a lifetime of creamy chocolate memories.
I wrote down the recipe and smuggled this top secret piece of information home. Made it and found out I'd made one huge mistake. Do NOT try to eat a normal size piece of this pie. You have to slice it into 1 1/2" pieces. Too rich.
Take one 12 oz pack of semi-sweet or dark chocolate chips and put in a blender with 5egg yolks. Remember, just the yolks. Add in three tablespoons of brandy, kahlua or Gran Marnier. Blend this mixture on low for one minute.
Heat 1 1/2 cups of heavy cream just to boiling (about 3 minutes in the microwave). Pour this into the blender with the chocolate mixture and blend on high for one minute.
Pour this into an Oreo cookie or Graham cracker crust (8" available from most grocery stores). Chill three hours uncovered in the fridge.
A caterer friend of mine in the UK served this to the House of Lords. For the first time ever, he was asked for the recipe of one of his items, this pie. He also made a rasberry drizzle out of fresh rasberries and powdered sugar (just heat, mash together and sieve) to drizzle over the top. You can do this with an orange flavored one too if you use the Gran Marnier.
Warning: Do not try this at home!
I was showing the ease of this recipe to my family at my mother's house. She had a square blender and the mixture was sticking in the corners after I put in the heavy cream. I used a rubber spatula to try to get it to mix better. Oopsy! The spatula caught in the still moving blender blades, the full contents of the blender exploded skywards, rendering a perfect outline of my head and shoulders (I was leaning over the blender trying to avoid this by watching what I was doing) on the acoustical ceiling of my mother's kitchen. That outline is still there, 15 years later.
I wrote down the recipe and smuggled this top secret piece of information home. Made it and found out I'd made one huge mistake. Do NOT try to eat a normal size piece of this pie. You have to slice it into 1 1/2" pieces. Too rich.
Take one 12 oz pack of semi-sweet or dark chocolate chips and put in a blender with 5egg yolks. Remember, just the yolks. Add in three tablespoons of brandy, kahlua or Gran Marnier. Blend this mixture on low for one minute.
Heat 1 1/2 cups of heavy cream just to boiling (about 3 minutes in the microwave). Pour this into the blender with the chocolate mixture and blend on high for one minute.
Pour this into an Oreo cookie or Graham cracker crust (8" available from most grocery stores). Chill three hours uncovered in the fridge.
A caterer friend of mine in the UK served this to the House of Lords. For the first time ever, he was asked for the recipe of one of his items, this pie. He also made a rasberry drizzle out of fresh rasberries and powdered sugar (just heat, mash together and sieve) to drizzle over the top. You can do this with an orange flavored one too if you use the Gran Marnier.
Warning: Do not try this at home!
I was showing the ease of this recipe to my family at my mother's house. She had a square blender and the mixture was sticking in the corners after I put in the heavy cream. I used a rubber spatula to try to get it to mix better. Oopsy! The spatula caught in the still moving blender blades, the full contents of the blender exploded skywards, rendering a perfect outline of my head and shoulders (I was leaning over the blender trying to avoid this by watching what I was doing) on the acoustical ceiling of my mother's kitchen. That outline is still there, 15 years later.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Full Combat Fishing
There I was at 30,000 feet without a parachute. The flight attendant was out of olives for my martini. Oh, wait; this is a fishing war story, not an Air Force one.
Okay, I'm on a nine-day pilgrimage to the storied waters of Montana. Salmonfly hatch on the Madison just below Quake Lake. Just gonna wade out here to the middle of the stream, what the? Wade? WADE? If I wade out there, they'll be rifling my vest on my bloated body in Ennis, 40 miles downstream. This is definitely "big water."
Okay, so I'll fish from shore. I'm gingerly sitting on the bank (I'd broken my tailbone the week before I left whilst falling down the stairs) and a salmonfly lands on my shirt. I pick him up, examine him, weigh and measure (about 6 pounds and 27 inches), photograph and then play catch and release. In this case, catch and release means chuck him in the river. Well, I guess this is like chumming, 'cause a huge brown slams it after about 10 feet. Hmmm. Momma Reid didn't raise no dummy. I tie on a salmonfly dry with a Kaufmann's Golden Stone dropper on 2X tippet. Pull out some line, drop the fly into the current, and WHAM!
Now, Bubba Brownie ain't dumb either. He wants to show off his catch to all his buds that live downriver. He proceeds to take off at a 45 degree angle into the big water, heading for the opposite shore. I decide to follow and do a "River Runs Through It." Useless wading staff in my left hand and rod held high in my right, I'm heading north at full tilt.
By the way, what's with this river running north stuff? Seriously screws with your sense of direction.
'Bout this time, my buddies call me on the walkie-talkie and say its time to go. They get no answer from me, as I'm now water skiing behind this fish, a Montana sleigh ride. My silence worries them, as they believe I may have a penchant for falling in the water. Don't know where that comes from.
I endeavor to get below the fish, but between the 800 CFS of the current and the snot covered bowling balls I'm wading over, it's a loosing cause. I ship a little water over the top of my waders. No, make that a lot of water. I now have three rainbows and a Rocky Mountain Bonefish nipping at my shirt buttons. Step, slide, step, step, YEHOOO. We're going in boys!
Found a hole. Now I'm floating. The wading staff makes a lousy tiller. Got. To. Keep. Tension. On. The. Fish. I lift my feet up and head downstream in the proper whitewater safety position. I don't worry about sweepers because I'm now about 20 yards from shore and speeding up.
I pass three drift boats and get a thumbs up from all the guides. I grab for the gunnel of the front boat. It's my last chance at salvation. As my outstretched fingers reach for the prow, the sport in the front gives me a high five, slapping my hand away. "Great fish, fight 'im bud!" he hollers as I slip past my last hope of not inhaling the whole river.
My life flashes before my eyes. Most of the scenes highlighted are similar to this, i.e. up to my eyeballs in water. Hmm, sounds like a trend.
Just then, my heels hit bottom. I'm not out of the woods yet, as the current is pushing me towards my lunch date in Portland, Oregon. I jam the wading staff into the bottom, get my feet under me, and stand up. Ops check, all parts attached, fish still on the line. I fight my way to the bank and drag the fish with me. If he thinks he's gonna pop my tippet after all this, he's wrong. After four tries, I get him close enough to net. I pop out the fly, hold him in the water, get out the camera (waterproof) and try to sit on the bank. EEEEYOWWW!!!
My body uncoils like a switchblade as I remember that busted tailbone that is now bearing my weight. 24 inches of brown trout flies through the air like a flapjack. I spin back down the bank, catch the fish in the net, plop him down for three seconds on the bank, snap a pic, and then hold him in the current as we both huff and puff for five minutes.
About this time, I recognize the plaintive calls for me coming from the walkie-talkie in the Ziploc in my wader pocket. They're ready to call out search and rescue. I tell them that I'll meet them on the road. They drive up, only to be greeted by my soaked self, 300 yards downstream from where I started. Then again, these guys have both fished with me before. No surprises.
"Didcha land 'im?"
"Yup."
"Get in, its beer time."
"Okay."
Hmm, this is only my first fish of the week. Wonder what the rest will be like.
Good joke: Great MacGyver Cookie Recipe
Okay, I'm on a nine-day pilgrimage to the storied waters of Montana. Salmonfly hatch on the Madison just below Quake Lake. Just gonna wade out here to the middle of the stream, what the? Wade? WADE? If I wade out there, they'll be rifling my vest on my bloated body in Ennis, 40 miles downstream. This is definitely "big water."
Okay, so I'll fish from shore. I'm gingerly sitting on the bank (I'd broken my tailbone the week before I left whilst falling down the stairs) and a salmonfly lands on my shirt. I pick him up, examine him, weigh and measure (about 6 pounds and 27 inches), photograph and then play catch and release. In this case, catch and release means chuck him in the river. Well, I guess this is like chumming, 'cause a huge brown slams it after about 10 feet. Hmmm. Momma Reid didn't raise no dummy. I tie on a salmonfly dry with a Kaufmann's Golden Stone dropper on 2X tippet. Pull out some line, drop the fly into the current, and WHAM!
Now, Bubba Brownie ain't dumb either. He wants to show off his catch to all his buds that live downriver. He proceeds to take off at a 45 degree angle into the big water, heading for the opposite shore. I decide to follow and do a "River Runs Through It." Useless wading staff in my left hand and rod held high in my right, I'm heading north at full tilt.
By the way, what's with this river running north stuff? Seriously screws with your sense of direction.
'Bout this time, my buddies call me on the walkie-talkie and say its time to go. They get no answer from me, as I'm now water skiing behind this fish, a Montana sleigh ride. My silence worries them, as they believe I may have a penchant for falling in the water. Don't know where that comes from.
I endeavor to get below the fish, but between the 800 CFS of the current and the snot covered bowling balls I'm wading over, it's a loosing cause. I ship a little water over the top of my waders. No, make that a lot of water. I now have three rainbows and a Rocky Mountain Bonefish nipping at my shirt buttons. Step, slide, step, step, YEHOOO. We're going in boys!
Found a hole. Now I'm floating. The wading staff makes a lousy tiller. Got. To. Keep. Tension. On. The. Fish. I lift my feet up and head downstream in the proper whitewater safety position. I don't worry about sweepers because I'm now about 20 yards from shore and speeding up.
I pass three drift boats and get a thumbs up from all the guides. I grab for the gunnel of the front boat. It's my last chance at salvation. As my outstretched fingers reach for the prow, the sport in the front gives me a high five, slapping my hand away. "Great fish, fight 'im bud!" he hollers as I slip past my last hope of not inhaling the whole river.
My life flashes before my eyes. Most of the scenes highlighted are similar to this, i.e. up to my eyeballs in water. Hmm, sounds like a trend.
Just then, my heels hit bottom. I'm not out of the woods yet, as the current is pushing me towards my lunch date in Portland, Oregon. I jam the wading staff into the bottom, get my feet under me, and stand up. Ops check, all parts attached, fish still on the line. I fight my way to the bank and drag the fish with me. If he thinks he's gonna pop my tippet after all this, he's wrong. After four tries, I get him close enough to net. I pop out the fly, hold him in the water, get out the camera (waterproof) and try to sit on the bank. EEEEYOWWW!!!
My body uncoils like a switchblade as I remember that busted tailbone that is now bearing my weight. 24 inches of brown trout flies through the air like a flapjack. I spin back down the bank, catch the fish in the net, plop him down for three seconds on the bank, snap a pic, and then hold him in the current as we both huff and puff for five minutes.
About this time, I recognize the plaintive calls for me coming from the walkie-talkie in the Ziploc in my wader pocket. They're ready to call out search and rescue. I tell them that I'll meet them on the road. They drive up, only to be greeted by my soaked self, 300 yards downstream from where I started. Then again, these guys have both fished with me before. No surprises.
"Didcha land 'im?"
"Yup."
"Get in, its beer time."
"Okay."
Hmm, this is only my first fish of the week. Wonder what the rest will be like.
Good joke: Great MacGyver Cookie Recipe
Monday, November 24, 2008
Lyin' in Winter
Okay, there are folks who enjoy fishing in the middle of winter. Some are called "ice fishermen," others "steelheaders." I use the collective noun; insane masochists.
I've been ice fishing before. I was the third man in a two-holer ice tent. If you've never seen one, imagine a nylon-fabric porta-potty on the middle of a frozen lake, all surrounded by little flags stolen from a Smurf golf course. At least, that's what it looks like. Some of these tents and shacks are very fancy, with solid sides, sofas, TV and hot and cold running maniacs. More on that.
It was Nebraska in late January. I was invited to join Henry and John to fish. As a fly fisherman, I show up with my fly rod and a chainsaw. I figure I can cut a long, keyhole shape in the ice and get two or three casts before the guides freeze up.
The guys invite me into their tent. My 8'6" five weight won't fit, so I leave it at the door. I keep the chainsaw, noting the crazed look in the eyes of these erstwhile "friends." Self defense, 'doncha know.
The interior is sparse. Two upturned 5 gallon buckets in a line with a kerosene space heater in the middle. They are facing two holes in the ice. Two fishing rods that have been taken away from their mothers too soon sit on little stands; the lines go into the water.
I need a hole. Hmm, never had cause to utter that sentence before. I mention this to Henry, he steps outside the tent and brings in "the drill." This isn't your standard Black & Decker. The drill has a 2 horsepower gas motor on the top, handles designed for hands wearing boxing gloves and a 9 inch bit. Not 9 inch long, but 9 inches across. This is the WMD evidence that we were looking for in Iraq.
John pushes things back and Henry pulls the rip cord, the tent fills with smoke and noise. Okay, we got your basic shock and awe going here. I'm shocked that the thing will start in the minus fifty degree temps and awe gonna get out before I'm overcome by carbon monoxide.
Henry centers the bit between the other two holes, pushes a lever and poof! We have a three-holer. 14 inches down and he's into the lake. He takes the drill outside and then starts to explain the technique.
"Okay, those holes outside are John's and mine. You fish out of your hole here. We don't have the gear to set you up outside."
"Those are more fishing holes? I thought the local CSI had been out here tagging evidence from some bizarre Inuit gang war. How do you get the fish in? You've got no fishing poles."
"Well, the flags are tip ups. When the flag goes up, we run out and pull up the line. Right now, we have them set for bigger, cruising fish. We don't want to catch tiddlers."
"You catch tiddlers on your tip-ups?"
"No, we don't want to catch tiddlers on the tip-ups. That's why we use a flasher."
Okay, thinks I, these guys are suffering frostbite between the earmuffs. I warily eye my two tentmates in their knee-length parkas, as I slowly move to the back corner of the tent.
"You flash the fish?"
"Yes, we put the probe down the hole and we can see the fish with the flasher."
"You put the probe down the hole so you can see the fish with the flasher and not catch tiddlers with the tip-ups."
"Exactly!"
"Okay, I think I've got it. What I've got, I've no clue. What do you use for bait?"
"Wax worms."
"Those look like maggots."
"No, no. They're totally different."
"Well, they don't seem to have much action."
"You have to warm them up."
"How do you warm them up?" asks I.
"Just pop a few in your mouth and hold 'em in your cheek." He then raises his mitten to his mouth and coughs up four wriggling worms into his palm.
"I think I'm gonna spew!"
"Don't worry about it. They're wax worms. Perfectly clean."
"You're sure about this?"
"Of course, been doing it for years. Since I've started warming up my bait, I've trebled the amount of fish caught."
John is besides me nodding seriously. He opens up a little cardboard can and shakes a tablespoon full of chilled, flesh colored rice krispies into my glove. I summon up my courage and pop them into my mouth.
"Mmbule, mrammblu bebeme nbm mammods?"
"What?"
I move the wax worms around with my tongue playing sheepdog and finally herd the suckers into my cheek. "I said, what's the difference between wax worms and maggots? You said they were totally different." The wax worms are starting to wake up and one escapes out the corner of my mouth, plopping onto the ice and squirming away.
"Marketing. No one in the US would buy maggots so they changed the name to wax worms."
John takes the pepper shot full in the face. He now looks like a genetically altered Medusa with maggots instead of snakes. None the less, they are both laughing hysterically.
This is the ice fishing initiation. Henry just had a few "wax worms" in his palm to keep them warm. With a bit of slight of hand, just spit into the mitten and voila, there they were.
I, on the other hand, am not laughing. I still have one little bugger caught behind a crown and a second is heading for my sinuses. Now I know where they got the idea for so many movies along the line of Alien. That sucker nested up there. Finally hatched out during a big presentation I was giving at work.
Time to get down to fishing. John hands me a spare rod. It's about 18 inches long with a little bitty reel attached. I remove my gloves to bait the hook, picking a couple of live ones out of John's hair line.
Since there is no room up front, I lean over the space heater and finally set up on my hole. Plunk, in the water with a bobber the size of a kidney bean. Hey, this isn't so bad. A couple of "friends," we're fishing and chatting away. Even after my appetizer, I'm starting to get hungry.
As a matter of fact, I smell something cooking. Doesn't smell very good. More like burning plastic bags. Smoke curls up around my face. John looks over and casually comments, "fire."
"What?"
"You're on fire."
I look down, and my parka is up against the space heater. Flames are licking up from my groin to my chest. I calmly assess the situation. Ah, yes. Stop, drop and role. I remember that from kindergarten. Unfortunately, there is no room in the tent for this maneuver. I believe its time to quietly exit the facility and find a snow bank.
Translate: The scream that I emit draws sharks in from the South Pacific and sets off car alarms for a 50 mile radius. Many Nebraskans head to their tornado shelters. I throw the rod and reel, which takes the path of least resistance and drops straight down through the hole in the ice. I proceed to beat myself across the stomach and chest whilst doing a great impression of the Tasmanian Devil in a confined space. I finally head for the exit.
I hit the door doing about Mach 10. The Velcro closure decides to hold fast. I, and now the whole tent with me, am now moving across the windswept lake. The tent finally catches on its two other occupants. It molds around them like a second skin. They don't move, John thinks he has a nibble. The Velcro gives and I burst through the door.
As I exit, I figure out that the flames were oxygen starved in the tent. I know this, because as soon as I hit the outside air, I turn into a human comet, a flaming blue head trailed by a stream of grey smoke. I head for the nearest snow bank and discover the true meaning of windswept. Ain't no snow banks for hundreds of yards around.
Kids are playing hockey. I head out, head down and hip check a ten-year-old into Kansas. I enter the flagged minefield of Henry and John's tip-ups. Slaloming through, I manage to snag every one of them with my mukluks. I look like a Wisconsin limousine kitted out for a wedding. One tip-up is attached to a state-record walleye that flies through the air, flash freezes, shoots across the lake, and trips a figure skater who does the first ever quadruple Lutz. Unfortunately, she lands in one of John's ice holes and is never seen again.
I finally dive for the ice, rolling and spinning in inaugural Winter X-Games break dance competition. The officials hold up their signs, 2, 1.5, 2 and a 0.5 from the French judge.
The flames out, I look back and Henry and John haven't moved. The tent site looks like a plane crash debris field. My 5 weight is broken and forms a cross over the hole that the skater disappeared through. John raises his rod and brings up a 6" yellow perch.
I think I'll stick to fly fishing and class V rapids, it's safer.
I've been ice fishing before. I was the third man in a two-holer ice tent. If you've never seen one, imagine a nylon-fabric porta-potty on the middle of a frozen lake, all surrounded by little flags stolen from a Smurf golf course. At least, that's what it looks like. Some of these tents and shacks are very fancy, with solid sides, sofas, TV and hot and cold running maniacs. More on that.
It was Nebraska in late January. I was invited to join Henry and John to fish. As a fly fisherman, I show up with my fly rod and a chainsaw. I figure I can cut a long, keyhole shape in the ice and get two or three casts before the guides freeze up.
The guys invite me into their tent. My 8'6" five weight won't fit, so I leave it at the door. I keep the chainsaw, noting the crazed look in the eyes of these erstwhile "friends." Self defense, 'doncha know.
The interior is sparse. Two upturned 5 gallon buckets in a line with a kerosene space heater in the middle. They are facing two holes in the ice. Two fishing rods that have been taken away from their mothers too soon sit on little stands; the lines go into the water.
I need a hole. Hmm, never had cause to utter that sentence before. I mention this to Henry, he steps outside the tent and brings in "the drill." This isn't your standard Black & Decker. The drill has a 2 horsepower gas motor on the top, handles designed for hands wearing boxing gloves and a 9 inch bit. Not 9 inch long, but 9 inches across. This is the WMD evidence that we were looking for in Iraq.
John pushes things back and Henry pulls the rip cord, the tent fills with smoke and noise. Okay, we got your basic shock and awe going here. I'm shocked that the thing will start in the minus fifty degree temps and awe gonna get out before I'm overcome by carbon monoxide.
Henry centers the bit between the other two holes, pushes a lever and poof! We have a three-holer. 14 inches down and he's into the lake. He takes the drill outside and then starts to explain the technique.
"Okay, those holes outside are John's and mine. You fish out of your hole here. We don't have the gear to set you up outside."
"Those are more fishing holes? I thought the local CSI had been out here tagging evidence from some bizarre Inuit gang war. How do you get the fish in? You've got no fishing poles."
"Well, the flags are tip ups. When the flag goes up, we run out and pull up the line. Right now, we have them set for bigger, cruising fish. We don't want to catch tiddlers."
"You catch tiddlers on your tip-ups?"
"No, we don't want to catch tiddlers on the tip-ups. That's why we use a flasher."
Okay, thinks I, these guys are suffering frostbite between the earmuffs. I warily eye my two tentmates in their knee-length parkas, as I slowly move to the back corner of the tent.
"You flash the fish?"
"Yes, we put the probe down the hole and we can see the fish with the flasher."
"You put the probe down the hole so you can see the fish with the flasher and not catch tiddlers with the tip-ups."
"Exactly!"
"Okay, I think I've got it. What I've got, I've no clue. What do you use for bait?"
"Wax worms."
"Those look like maggots."
"No, no. They're totally different."
"Well, they don't seem to have much action."
"You have to warm them up."
"How do you warm them up?" asks I.
"Just pop a few in your mouth and hold 'em in your cheek." He then raises his mitten to his mouth and coughs up four wriggling worms into his palm.
"I think I'm gonna spew!"
"Don't worry about it. They're wax worms. Perfectly clean."
"You're sure about this?"
"Of course, been doing it for years. Since I've started warming up my bait, I've trebled the amount of fish caught."
John is besides me nodding seriously. He opens up a little cardboard can and shakes a tablespoon full of chilled, flesh colored rice krispies into my glove. I summon up my courage and pop them into my mouth.
"Mmbule, mrammblu bebeme nbm mammods?"
"What?"
I move the wax worms around with my tongue playing sheepdog and finally herd the suckers into my cheek. "I said, what's the difference between wax worms and maggots? You said they were totally different." The wax worms are starting to wake up and one escapes out the corner of my mouth, plopping onto the ice and squirming away.
"Marketing. No one in the US would buy maggots so they changed the name to wax worms."
John takes the pepper shot full in the face. He now looks like a genetically altered Medusa with maggots instead of snakes. None the less, they are both laughing hysterically.
This is the ice fishing initiation. Henry just had a few "wax worms" in his palm to keep them warm. With a bit of slight of hand, just spit into the mitten and voila, there they were.
I, on the other hand, am not laughing. I still have one little bugger caught behind a crown and a second is heading for my sinuses. Now I know where they got the idea for so many movies along the line of Alien. That sucker nested up there. Finally hatched out during a big presentation I was giving at work.
Time to get down to fishing. John hands me a spare rod. It's about 18 inches long with a little bitty reel attached. I remove my gloves to bait the hook, picking a couple of live ones out of John's hair line.
Since there is no room up front, I lean over the space heater and finally set up on my hole. Plunk, in the water with a bobber the size of a kidney bean. Hey, this isn't so bad. A couple of "friends," we're fishing and chatting away. Even after my appetizer, I'm starting to get hungry.
As a matter of fact, I smell something cooking. Doesn't smell very good. More like burning plastic bags. Smoke curls up around my face. John looks over and casually comments, "fire."
"What?"
"You're on fire."
I look down, and my parka is up against the space heater. Flames are licking up from my groin to my chest. I calmly assess the situation. Ah, yes. Stop, drop and role. I remember that from kindergarten. Unfortunately, there is no room in the tent for this maneuver. I believe its time to quietly exit the facility and find a snow bank.
Translate: The scream that I emit draws sharks in from the South Pacific and sets off car alarms for a 50 mile radius. Many Nebraskans head to their tornado shelters. I throw the rod and reel, which takes the path of least resistance and drops straight down through the hole in the ice. I proceed to beat myself across the stomach and chest whilst doing a great impression of the Tasmanian Devil in a confined space. I finally head for the exit.
I hit the door doing about Mach 10. The Velcro closure decides to hold fast. I, and now the whole tent with me, am now moving across the windswept lake. The tent finally catches on its two other occupants. It molds around them like a second skin. They don't move, John thinks he has a nibble. The Velcro gives and I burst through the door.
As I exit, I figure out that the flames were oxygen starved in the tent. I know this, because as soon as I hit the outside air, I turn into a human comet, a flaming blue head trailed by a stream of grey smoke. I head for the nearest snow bank and discover the true meaning of windswept. Ain't no snow banks for hundreds of yards around.
Kids are playing hockey. I head out, head down and hip check a ten-year-old into Kansas. I enter the flagged minefield of Henry and John's tip-ups. Slaloming through, I manage to snag every one of them with my mukluks. I look like a Wisconsin limousine kitted out for a wedding. One tip-up is attached to a state-record walleye that flies through the air, flash freezes, shoots across the lake, and trips a figure skater who does the first ever quadruple Lutz. Unfortunately, she lands in one of John's ice holes and is never seen again.
I finally dive for the ice, rolling and spinning in inaugural Winter X-Games break dance competition. The officials hold up their signs, 2, 1.5, 2 and a 0.5 from the French judge.
The flames out, I look back and Henry and John haven't moved. The tent site looks like a plane crash debris field. My 5 weight is broken and forms a cross over the hole that the skater disappeared through. John raises his rod and brings up a 6" yellow perch.
I think I'll stick to fly fishing and class V rapids, it's safer.
Stress Relief
I use one of two techniques to relieve stress, exercise or alcohol. This is especially important in Nebraska in the Winter when you need a chain saw to fly fish. Learned a valuable lesson, do NOT mix these two techniques. Whatever you do, DO NOT drink a half a bottle of single malt and get on a BowFlex.
By the way, anyone know of a good source of cheap ceiling tiles?
By the way, anyone know of a good source of cheap ceiling tiles?
The Float Tube
A few years back, I got my first tube. It was a "surprise" birthday present from my loving wife (I suspect she had a boyfriend and wanted me out of the house or she had gotten my signature down well enough for the insurance papers).
I say surprise because it truly was. I had filled out the order form and used one of my daughter's alphabet magnets to secure it firmly to the fridge. This had been a standard, if useless tactic of mine for years. A very subtle hint on my birthday wishes. My lovely bride of course always knew me better than that. Saw right through this clever charade. Normally got me things she knew I really needed and wanted. Like that bathroom cozy set that can turn a toilette seat cover into a bear trap.
When she trotted it out for my birthday, well actually, she came in to the living room, dropped the form in my lap and told me to "order the damn thing," I boldly informed her of the extra costs associated with a tube, i.e. breathable waders, vest, flippers. She immediately agreed that these items had to go with the tube. Well, not immediately. I first explained the purpose of the different items and she gradually built up a mental picture of her masterful husband in waders, flippers with brand new float tube firmly ensconced on his hips.
I did have to get the less expensive waders though. Had to pay for that emergency room visit for her right about then. She had this terrible episode characterized by hysteria. Almost couldn't breath, it hit her so hard. Kept saying something like "donut hole."
When the whole package arrived, I immediately took the whole kit and kaboodle down to the lake. On the way, I stopped off at the gas station and gave my tube its first breath of air. Just left it in the trunk, didn't even bother to take it out and inspect it. Filled and off to the lake! Fish beware!
When I got to the lake, I pulled my waders out of the back seat and quickly donned them. Put my rod together, hooked up a crawdad fly and finally, the last step, I put on my flippers. I then went to the trunk and got the tube out. Well, not exactly just then. See, I'd filled it while it sat in the trunk of the car. It was now too large to get out of the trunk. All's I wanted to do was a bit of fishing, but my spatial cognitive skills had been less than perfect. That's something else my bride always told me.
I found that if I deflated the float tube about 1/3 of the way down, I could get it back out of the trunk. Didn't really have to deflate it that far, but it took that much air out of the thing before I figured that one of the "D" rings was caught on the trunk spring. I could go back up the road to the gas station and fill it back up, but it still looked pretty full so I decided to go for it.
It was about 200 yards from the parking area to the lake. About 150 yards across the field, I discovered that you can walk much better if you carry the tube over your shoulder and take off the flippers. You can understand my need to get at the fish had slightly clouded my judgment. No more hanging out on shore with those other slobs, I had a boat.
I finally got down an area that looked like a good place to launch. I had talked to a friend with a float tube and had heard of the problems with mud at a launch site. Not this bubba, no sir. Found a good rock ledge to launch from. There was a rock in calf deep water that dropped off to about 12 feet. You couldn't see the bottom but I figured it was the same distance swimming to the bottom as at my high school swimming pool.
I stood on the ledge, had my tube around me, my rods in my right hand and I launched. I needed a bottle of champagne to drink or break on my tube. It was a joyous feeling. Right up until I found out what that little crotch strap is for. See, when I stepped out off that rock, my butt hit the saddle of the tube, the tube folded up like a chocolate taco and I shot through the bottom, right past that dangly little strap. Didn't even have to worry about a life vest to slow my hi-speed passage through that torus from hell.
Had to let go of the rods as I felt them flex in my hand and was afraid to break them. Came up struggling for air. Be amazed at the water temp in Omaha, Nebraska in the third week of April. I now know how Jesus walked on water. The water was cold as ice and as soon as he hit it, he was on his feet moving. Felt like I was in one of those "polar bear clubs."
I reached out and quickly grabbed my tube and dragged it back with me to the rock ledge. One of my two rods had caught on the right side handle by the reel and I was able to quickly retrieve it. Unfortunately, it was the cheap rod. The good rod was at the bottom of this rock ledge somewhere. This is how I learned how deep the water was.
I stripped off my boots and waders and dove in before I realized how cold, cold could get. Water was a bit chilly to say the least. On my fourth dive, I found a rod and brought it to the surface. It was a wonderful three-dollar Zebco. Went back down and finally found my rod after about two or three more tries.
Now I had a bit of a problem. Hypothermia was setting in. An inability to stop shaking was my first clue. But ever the fisherman, I thought, "wonder what other rods are down there?" I shook off that thought put my wading boots back on, piled my stuff in the tube, SECURED IT WITH THE CROTCH STRAP, and headed back up to the car. The air temp was a brisk 40 degrees with a good wind. I did have to stop after about ten feet and drain the water out of the float tube cover. That area not filled with inner tube from the deflation was now filled with water. Added about 60 lbs to the whole package.
When I got to the car, I dumped my stuff in the trunk but didn't have anything to dry off with. My jeans were soaked and the only thing dry was my sneakers that I'd left in the car.
I now knew there were three opportunities to die on this day. I'd just lived through one, a drowning. I was in the middle of another, hypothermia. I got my clothes off and covered myself with a small rucksack. I then found a rag t-shirt under the seat that I used to check the oil. I turned the engine on and luckily, the car hadn't had much of a chance to cool down and the heater was soon up to full speed.
Now, I figured there would be one other way to die on this day, the most horrible of the three. Not the panic of the drowning, not the slow loss of consciousness of hypothermia, but the death of a thousand I-told-you-so's. If the mother of my children found out about the fact I couldn't get more than three feet from shore without killing myself, what chance would I ever get to go out on a quiet morning and go fishing by myself? She had already insisted that I wear an international orange hat to keep me from turning into the marine version of the lane turtles on the interstate, on a no-wake lake no less!
Couldn't go home. Explain my new oily-t-shirt-and-wet-underpants outfit to the wife. Not on your life. Couldn't go to a laundry mat. The mid-west populace does not look kindly on some shirtless blue Pict in chest waders wandering into the laundry mat and scaring hell out of old Aunt Sally.
But, as a fisherman, I had the answer, duct tape. I had to get my pants and shirt dry. I duct taped my blue jeans to the inside of the hood of my car. This was rather fun as I was now wearing the t-shirt as a toga wrap-around. I then duct taped my flannel shirt to the heater underneath the passenger seat dash. I closed the shirt up with tape so all of the hot air would have to go through the shirt.
Hopped on the highway and took an eighty mile drive to Lincoln and back.
Got back to the lake and in a secluded area checked out my handy work. All, except for the seams of the shirt collar, was dry.
I went home and strolled in, bold as brass (and smelling of gas). My wonderful wife queried me about my fishing. I answered quite honestly that I'd not gotten a bite all day (except frostbite). The poor woman will never really understand me as a fisherman. Her next comment was "I don't know why you just don't fish from the bank. That outfit looks like more problems than its worth."
Ah, but I got a tube!
I say surprise because it truly was. I had filled out the order form and used one of my daughter's alphabet magnets to secure it firmly to the fridge. This had been a standard, if useless tactic of mine for years. A very subtle hint on my birthday wishes. My lovely bride of course always knew me better than that. Saw right through this clever charade. Normally got me things she knew I really needed and wanted. Like that bathroom cozy set that can turn a toilette seat cover into a bear trap.
When she trotted it out for my birthday, well actually, she came in to the living room, dropped the form in my lap and told me to "order the damn thing," I boldly informed her of the extra costs associated with a tube, i.e. breathable waders, vest, flippers. She immediately agreed that these items had to go with the tube. Well, not immediately. I first explained the purpose of the different items and she gradually built up a mental picture of her masterful husband in waders, flippers with brand new float tube firmly ensconced on his hips.
I did have to get the less expensive waders though. Had to pay for that emergency room visit for her right about then. She had this terrible episode characterized by hysteria. Almost couldn't breath, it hit her so hard. Kept saying something like "donut hole."
When the whole package arrived, I immediately took the whole kit and kaboodle down to the lake. On the way, I stopped off at the gas station and gave my tube its first breath of air. Just left it in the trunk, didn't even bother to take it out and inspect it. Filled and off to the lake! Fish beware!
When I got to the lake, I pulled my waders out of the back seat and quickly donned them. Put my rod together, hooked up a crawdad fly and finally, the last step, I put on my flippers. I then went to the trunk and got the tube out. Well, not exactly just then. See, I'd filled it while it sat in the trunk of the car. It was now too large to get out of the trunk. All's I wanted to do was a bit of fishing, but my spatial cognitive skills had been less than perfect. That's something else my bride always told me.
I found that if I deflated the float tube about 1/3 of the way down, I could get it back out of the trunk. Didn't really have to deflate it that far, but it took that much air out of the thing before I figured that one of the "D" rings was caught on the trunk spring. I could go back up the road to the gas station and fill it back up, but it still looked pretty full so I decided to go for it.
It was about 200 yards from the parking area to the lake. About 150 yards across the field, I discovered that you can walk much better if you carry the tube over your shoulder and take off the flippers. You can understand my need to get at the fish had slightly clouded my judgment. No more hanging out on shore with those other slobs, I had a boat.
I finally got down an area that looked like a good place to launch. I had talked to a friend with a float tube and had heard of the problems with mud at a launch site. Not this bubba, no sir. Found a good rock ledge to launch from. There was a rock in calf deep water that dropped off to about 12 feet. You couldn't see the bottom but I figured it was the same distance swimming to the bottom as at my high school swimming pool.
I stood on the ledge, had my tube around me, my rods in my right hand and I launched. I needed a bottle of champagne to drink or break on my tube. It was a joyous feeling. Right up until I found out what that little crotch strap is for. See, when I stepped out off that rock, my butt hit the saddle of the tube, the tube folded up like a chocolate taco and I shot through the bottom, right past that dangly little strap. Didn't even have to worry about a life vest to slow my hi-speed passage through that torus from hell.
Had to let go of the rods as I felt them flex in my hand and was afraid to break them. Came up struggling for air. Be amazed at the water temp in Omaha, Nebraska in the third week of April. I now know how Jesus walked on water. The water was cold as ice and as soon as he hit it, he was on his feet moving. Felt like I was in one of those "polar bear clubs."
I reached out and quickly grabbed my tube and dragged it back with me to the rock ledge. One of my two rods had caught on the right side handle by the reel and I was able to quickly retrieve it. Unfortunately, it was the cheap rod. The good rod was at the bottom of this rock ledge somewhere. This is how I learned how deep the water was.
I stripped off my boots and waders and dove in before I realized how cold, cold could get. Water was a bit chilly to say the least. On my fourth dive, I found a rod and brought it to the surface. It was a wonderful three-dollar Zebco. Went back down and finally found my rod after about two or three more tries.
Now I had a bit of a problem. Hypothermia was setting in. An inability to stop shaking was my first clue. But ever the fisherman, I thought, "wonder what other rods are down there?" I shook off that thought put my wading boots back on, piled my stuff in the tube, SECURED IT WITH THE CROTCH STRAP, and headed back up to the car. The air temp was a brisk 40 degrees with a good wind. I did have to stop after about ten feet and drain the water out of the float tube cover. That area not filled with inner tube from the deflation was now filled with water. Added about 60 lbs to the whole package.
When I got to the car, I dumped my stuff in the trunk but didn't have anything to dry off with. My jeans were soaked and the only thing dry was my sneakers that I'd left in the car.
I now knew there were three opportunities to die on this day. I'd just lived through one, a drowning. I was in the middle of another, hypothermia. I got my clothes off and covered myself with a small rucksack. I then found a rag t-shirt under the seat that I used to check the oil. I turned the engine on and luckily, the car hadn't had much of a chance to cool down and the heater was soon up to full speed.
Now, I figured there would be one other way to die on this day, the most horrible of the three. Not the panic of the drowning, not the slow loss of consciousness of hypothermia, but the death of a thousand I-told-you-so's. If the mother of my children found out about the fact I couldn't get more than three feet from shore without killing myself, what chance would I ever get to go out on a quiet morning and go fishing by myself? She had already insisted that I wear an international orange hat to keep me from turning into the marine version of the lane turtles on the interstate, on a no-wake lake no less!
Couldn't go home. Explain my new oily-t-shirt-and-wet-underpants outfit to the wife. Not on your life. Couldn't go to a laundry mat. The mid-west populace does not look kindly on some shirtless blue Pict in chest waders wandering into the laundry mat and scaring hell out of old Aunt Sally.
But, as a fisherman, I had the answer, duct tape. I had to get my pants and shirt dry. I duct taped my blue jeans to the inside of the hood of my car. This was rather fun as I was now wearing the t-shirt as a toga wrap-around. I then duct taped my flannel shirt to the heater underneath the passenger seat dash. I closed the shirt up with tape so all of the hot air would have to go through the shirt.
Hopped on the highway and took an eighty mile drive to Lincoln and back.
Got back to the lake and in a secluded area checked out my handy work. All, except for the seams of the shirt collar, was dry.
I went home and strolled in, bold as brass (and smelling of gas). My wonderful wife queried me about my fishing. I answered quite honestly that I'd not gotten a bite all day (except frostbite). The poor woman will never really understand me as a fisherman. Her next comment was "I don't know why you just don't fish from the bank. That outfit looks like more problems than its worth."
Ah, but I got a tube!
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