Fly fishing is terminally funky, once you git it onya.
It’s not pipes and tweed and drinks at the clubhouse. It’s not sponsorships and rocket boats and jacket patches and applause. It’s wet wool and a squished sandwich and a dog-eared atlas. It’s bugs and mud and dead animal parts in the freezer. It’s alchemy and strange words and weird gadgets and bailing wire. It’s George Clinton’s head on your tying desk.
The glitzmongers would have you think it’s pricey and exclusive, but that’s crap. It’s just lying around waiting to be picked up. It’s not in a buffed leather case or a blister pack. Oh you can put it in a brand new bag, but there’s always a leaky bottle of Gink at the bottom. Always. So don’t act surprised, Super Genius.
They’ll try to call it art, but they’re wrong. It’s a pragmatic Rube Goldberg jam session. It’s Tesla and his BZZZ things. It’s Karloff’s monster and his lurch toward sunlight. It’s a backbone slip in an ass-deep run that keeps you standing dry. It’s what works, what makes you a madman. It’s about catching fish, and sometimes it smells funny.
Sometimes it’s a train wreck, until you fall into the groove. Even then it might not be pretty. But you won’t find it by searching for it, so stop trying so hard. There are no GPS coordinates. Relax, it’s danceable. It’ll glom on and rub off. Look at this Mayer punk. All he had to do was pick up an old skanky Meters tune.
Of course, having Steve Jordan around can’t hurt, so choose your fishing partners wisely. And make fun of his OH face if you want, but you’ll soon be sporting your own. We’ll make fun of yours here, but that won’t matter either.
Once it’s yours, dress it up any way you like. Strip it bare. Speed it up and throw some fuzz on it. Dig deep in the grooves left by others, and take what suits you. Have a good time. There’s a million facets, or just one big looking glass, and there’s nothing but wiggle room as long as you’ve got a hook.
Buster wants to fish.