While my peers are hiring sub-20 year olds that giggle a lot and show acres of leg, I’m the curmudgeonly sort that violates all the important federal statutes on hiring and discrimination by selecting anglers only …

…

Question 7) List the fourteen steps of the Software Development Lifecycle in alphabetical order, backwards and in Klingon, or the classic dressing for an Ausable Wulff.

Question 8) Where do you see yourself in five years, and if there are big fish there, would you tell me?

…

Mostly because world dominance starts with a steady job, and the only employees instinctively punctual are fishermen.

… because you don’t tell a fellow you’ll pick him up on some darkened street corner at 0530 and arrive late …

As with all my new hires there’s that rough patch where we get from angler to f-l-y  f-i-s-h-e-r-m-a-n. Not because I’m some kind of evangelical prick – so much as we can communicate fully. Both of us can use the same language, one of naked greed and accumulation.

So I’m delivering The Sermon, “… you won’t mind that rods cost a thousand dollars and waders are eight hundred … “ – when I’m brutally interrupted by a look of outright scorn and that 80’s standby, “…whatchoo talking bout, Willis!”

I realize that it’s not simply sticker shock, my new pal has already been introduced to the snooty form of fly fishing and been sorely used. Ascots, smoking jackets, and someone that insisted all other forms of fishing were unworthy.

To overcome this additional fear I’ll need to adopt that extra-soothing quality in my voice – that silky tone that has you checking your wallet and hindquarters for fear someone has his hand there …

“ … and flies are about the same as top-water plugs or swim baits, and all the really good bass fodder like Scented Flame-tailed Purple worms with the Gelatinous sparkly stuff have a fly fishing equivalent …”

And as my newfound pal is lulled into thoughts of warmth and safety, he mentions that along with his new Bass kayak he’s bought, he  just plunked down fifty bucks for an airbrushed, broken-back rainbow trout plug that he hasn’t dared try because he’s scared he might snag something and lose it …

Which throws me into a fit of cost-concious outrage, “Fifty Bucks, FIFTY BUCKS? forasinglefugginbassPLUG? Fifty gotdamned dollars for six ounces of balsa and a few Korean trebles?, OhMyFugginGawd, that’s simply insane – does your wife know about that (and does she have a sister that’s equally gullible?)…”

Which simply proves any perceived gulf between types of fishermen is utter BS, there’s one of us born every minute.

A cursory eyeball of the exam suggests fewer than half of the anglers I know would pass it, given there’s no section devoted to beer drinking or how to tell falsehoods. “Proud Papa” might have to bone up on some topics ancillary to fishing, and mighty damn quick …

Then again, some canny lawyer’s son might have a thing or two to say that might update the exercise, but with a couple grizzled scout leaders staring me down, I’d cave and opt for the expected answer myself.

As you may have guessed, my struggles with authority as a young lad precluded my taking part.

Large fish sipping naturals, a light breeze rustling aspen leaves, the burble of cold water over slick rock, and the gasp of pent up carbonation released in a rush …

… or in the case of us oldsters … never mind.

Girls don’t mix with fly fishing. Women might – but that tired old cliché of sub-twenty year olds roasting bottom on the sandy borders of some mountain freshet, eager to share a meaningful tryst with old guys that haven’t showered all weekend, that is a complete falsehood.

Same as the notion that you don’t need little blue pills for your … um …indigestion.

Slow learner?

- via US Magazine

Click the picture above to watch all that flesh and giggling tautness sneer at one another, complain constantly, backbite-fu, and generally piss all over our beloved sport and their Bachelor host (when he can’t hear) …

Remember, I watched it for scientific reasons, you’re the one with the penchant for complete (gag) trash.

A new study has revealed that the impact of a hatchery environment on steelhead trout is so profound that in just one generation genetic traits are developed that cost fish the natural ability to be able to survive in the wild.

Nineteen years of research on the Hood River in Oregon will have both scientists and anglers in an uproar once it’s common knowledge that we’ve been unknowingly selecting for big sea-run trout that like concrete ditches and prefer the taste of dried kibble …

… and will we be able to look that thousand dollar spey rod festooned with black nickle and dripping acres of rare and exotic dander, without feeling less the Man and so very shortchanged … perhaps dirty even?

We’ve known for some time that hatchery-born fish are less successful at survival and reproduction in the wild,” said Michael Blouin, a professor of zoology at Oregon State University. “However, until now, it wasn’t clear why. What this study shows is that intense evolutionary pressures in the hatchery rapidly select for fish that excel there, at the expense of their reproductive success in the wild.

-via Worldfishing & Aquaculture

In short we’ve been catching the social moths, the trollops, and the used car salesmen of the steelhead world.

What’s worse is the potty mouth diet we’ve been catering to … These being the Twinkie eaters, the migrating fish that dine at fish ladders and Chinese takeout rather than forage for a meal, and all those wonderful and intricate patterns that have proven so successful have been a colorful representation of the hatchery ditch followed by a shovel full of desiccated dog chow.

We sure showed them, opposing thumb and big frontal lobe really proving the difference this time.

I’m going back to salmon roe goober and florescent marshmallows, food befitting some fat-bottomed fish struggling for breath on the cobble, trying to gasp out more fart jokes …

As a means of belittling us

According to the Australian National Insect Collection researcher responsible for officially ‘describing’ the fly as Scaptia (Plinthina) beyonceae, CSIRO’s Bryan Lessard, the fly’s spectacular gold colour makes it the “all time diva of flies”.

- via PhysOrg.com

… which begs the question, do we need to preserve our living or dead angling masters by renaming the animal kingdom, and what attributes should cause us to petition the Royal & Ancient Bug Society for a name change?

While most of us might want to pass on their legend akin to the Paraleptophlebia RonJeremy, neither your fishing buddies nor science are likely to be that kind …

Reminder: You’re dead and don’t get to pick.

I would think a big “blue bottle” would be an appropriate final tribute to a Brownline master, only because both spent most of their career walking on dung, damp or dry being the only real distinction.

Author and angling great, Ernest Hemingway might get his own Mosquito, given his propensity for sucking on cigars and strong drink, and fishing whenever the aforementioned pairing intersected with branch water or an ocean.

Avarice and ambition have turned fishing’s historically colorful cast from yeasty and wild outdoorsy types – to white collar, politically correct professionals with a passion for six legged sex. Outside of a thinly read book or two, nothing from the last half century is likely to have the personality or the mass appeal for immortalization via bug avatar …

… but there’s hope for the next generation of “sports”. “Them as inherits” are less inclined to follow in our footsteps, and could shrug off a dime stint at a federal penitentiary as light enough to snort …

Only bad boys and born-again Christians being worthy of real fame, given our penchant for looting, gunfire, and confession.

Hostess and fly fishing have an enormous amount of shared lore which has been lost on recent generations due to their insistence on healthy streamside fare.

Wonderbread started our interdependence on synthetics, being the first manmade material able to claim “lighter than air” and enjoying  a speedy adoption among the dry fly enthusiasts.

It didn’t matter that “lighter than air” only applied to swallowing the meal, once down it was as leaden as anything spawned of a test tube.

Poptarts and Twinkies ushered in the purely chemical era, where we no longer feared food stains on our vests and could wad sandwiches and delicious desert snacks into the smallest of pockets, there to lie dormant for an entire season.

Flat, round, polygonal, or simply mashed, Wonderbread retained sandwich content in a semi-sterile envelope that allowed sunlight and a sweaty angler to warm it to room temperature and beyond – allowing us extra miles afield without fear of starvation, food poisoning, or empty calories.

Twinkies were synonymous with the notion of the floating strike indicator, as its delicious buttery shell once dubbed, “the Golden Life Preserver of Snack Foodage”, by countless anglers who’ve gone in over their heads yet were yanked to the surface complements of the protective shroud that was Twinkie buoyancy …

Both Ray Bergman and noted outdoorsman and baseball legend, Ted Williams likened the Twinkie to a culinary abomination, yet characterized the desert as the “Bamboo Rod of Parking Area Fingerfoods.”

We all recognize that we’re supposed to fill our vests with healthy fare; 5 Hour Energy Shots, Koolaid, and Pop Rocks, but considering what we’ve built on its greasy foundation, won’t you consider buying a box simply for old time’s sake?

… then again, all that could change in the blink of an eye …

With magazines hawking exotic venues and vendors hawking esoteric fibers and elaborate clothing rituals, there’s no question with each passing decade there’ll be less and less of us casual fishermen – and more and more of the monied “Professional” angler, even if that label applies only to Saturday and Sunday.

Which suits the younger crowd and vendor community just fine. They’ve struggled mightily to redefine the sport with Big City professionals, and like ten-speeds and blue jeans, our traditions are no longer expensive enough nor are they testimony to the agonies and suffering that pro-sports requires.

With global warming and all the critters and toxins dribbling off our streets, clothing, and tires, Mother Nature has no chance alone. That fat old bitch has had her day, and Pro-Anglers© will need newer and hardier quarry to make brief moments afield worthy of gasps back at the watercooler.

Along with the antiquated Norman Rockwell notion we’ll toss the entire environmental angle as well. What few natural species remain will be gasping in some rivulet where we can toss vended ice cubes to lower the temperatures enough to sustain traditional trout, an offering that shows fealty to those “What Came Before” and absolves the angler of all environmental guilt and his responsibilities for same …

We don’t fish the Outdoors much anymore, given the “clean room” garb we’re forced to wear to leave the pavement.

… and into this niche will fall most of Academia, whose grant monies dried up within the “Great Belt Tightening” – and we’ll get a vast crop of DNA based startups promising to restore ancient extinct species back to fenced pastures and overly warm brooks …

And after the novelty of it all wears off, there’ll be the monied crowd asking Disney staff could they take one into the parking lot and shoot the sumbitch, and do they want steaks or chops, and who stuffs a T-Rex ?

… and while we pick on hunters, given their propensity to blow acres of sunshine through everything, our monied professional fisherpeople, whose yen for extreme knows no bounds … they’ll be close behind.

Now we can flood old NFL stadiums and fish for stuff with FANGS …

It’s no surprise that a decade of unemployed scientists and the sudden dearth in academic grants would get most of the Ivy League to invent an indigenous industry that could promise to employ millions of the dispossessed.

We’ll be all smiles having applied responsible science to genetics and species restoration, we’ll be sure that all Meglodons released will be Triploids …

… which won’t save many swimmers, but by the time we realize we’re sharing the planet with a couple more apex predators, it won’t matter much.

I suppose if I owned a boat I’d feel worse, but the article concludes that even short bursts of noise can distract fish while feeding, and they’ll make more errors in judgment and ingest things they shouldn’t …

The foraging mistakes are consistent with a shift in attention when exposed to noise, and in the natural environment these mistakes could be costly: increasing the chances of ingesting harmful items, and affecting the risk of predation if fish have to forage for longer to compensate for reduced efficiency.

I’m not so sure science was expecting to be serving information to the enemy, fellows like myself reading the conclusion and hanging on every word …

… but in elementary school we learned we could unnerve a good hitter at the plate by yelling, “hey batter-batta, SWING ..”, and anyone watching golf has to believe science, given anything louder than a duck fart sends a dimpled ball through someone’s picture window and muttered curses by even the most practiced golfer.

Can we induce a fish to eat something the wrong size, wrong species, and if so – how far away from the fishes maw do we trigger the underwater equivalent of a car alarm?

Taking it a step further, if we run out of the hot fly can a tantrum at the precise moment make something less worthy, extra-tasty? It’s certain we swear often enough in critical situations, perhaps we need to do so much louder …

I suppose SIMM’s will break the thousand-dollar barrier when it adds zippers and Sensurround, and then we can race each other out of parking lot to set hook while fiddling with the volume on Walkürenritt …

Like all religious zealots, the Monday after the last bleat of festive horn becomes so much more important, given you’ve sworn never to eat sweets again, promised most of your fishing weekends to ardent gym workouts, and are revitalized knowing neither processed white flour nor the Devil have a grip on your vitals …

I’m not going to belabor the point nor burst your sweaty bubble. Like every other attempt you’ll find out for yourself that Tofu and Seaweed tastes like gummy boat bottom, fresh fruit and veggies is a close second, and nothing you’ve found tasty or flavorful is on your permitted list, at least not without a couple hundred sit-ups.

While you’re tooling aimlessly through the city streets tempted by all the bright colors and considering breaking fast – knowing you love the paper hats, hot grease, and fries, perhaps you’d consider exercising a bit of will power and purchasing your new fishing license instead.

Yes, amid all that sugar and remorse you’ve overlooked the fact that you owe once again.

… and the completely certain thing is that if you chance even a single trip, despite being heeled with all the proper credentials for the last 35 years, a warden will show. You’ll be apprehended while protesting mightily, and after you display all those conservation memberships in your wallet and on your bumper, they’ll throw the book at you.

Given that bleak economic outlook, and if they’re not buying fishing tackle, where are “manly men” spending those precious dollars budgeted for recreation?

Plastic Surgery.

“Typically people think of celebrities and high profile men going under the knife,” said Stephen Baker, MD, an ASPS Member Surgeon based in Washington DC. “And while that may be true, the typical male cosmetic surgery patient that I see is an average guy who wants to look as good as he feels. Most of my patients are ‘men’s men,’ the kind of guy you might not think would have plastic surgery.”

-via American Society of Plastic Surgeons

Statistics released today suggest we’re about to jettison the whole woodsy thing in preference for looking woodsy. Actually “being outdoorsy” having all manner of discomforts including; no street lights, mosquitoes, and cold at night …

For us anglers it’s no longer appropriate to hoist the fish of a lifetime with outstretched arms. Instead, a Hero pose includes a Botox stiffened expression, ample cleavage, liposuction, and male breast reduction …

The list is comprised of the fastest-growing surgical and minimally-invasive procedures from 2009 to 2010. Criteria for inclusion: Procedure performed on at least 1,000 men in 2010. (Surgical procedures are listed in bold).

1. Facelift – 14% Increase
2. Ear Surgery (Otoplasty) – 11% Increase
3. Soft Tissue Fillers – 10% Increase
4. Botulinum Toxin Type A – 9% Increase
5. Liposuction – 7% Increase
6. Breast Reduction in Men – 6% Increase
7. Eyelid Surgery – 4% Increase
8. Dermabrasion – 4% Increase
9. Laser Hair Removal – 4% Increase
10. Laser Treatment of Leg Veins – 4% Increase

Once our angling media spots the trend, Fly Fisherman will regale us with an annual “Gutz & Buttz” Issue – rival to Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit Spectacular – and we can jettison strike indicator articles in favor of Top 10 lists featuring; Best dressed, Best Unsmiling Pose, Most BreastMeat, Best Thousand Yard Stare, and Tightest Montana Guide Ass …

… which with obligatory centerfolds will sell millions of copies on both coasts (and none in the center)  … giggle …