All threads that bitch about new, existing, or old members will be posted/relocated here. Keep this shit off the General forum, because no one wants (or cares) to hear your opinions. Now go back to the other forums and post something worthy of reading.
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By pbrstreetgang
austrotard wrote: Sun Apr 25, 2021 2:36 am
sate: every bit of fly tying kit went last year... I kept some scissors. prolly six months ago went to clean out all fly fishing bookmarks and found most were no longer anyway. funny that. it's like the whole world decided to get serious or some shit. I wonder why...
Did Dave Carne comfort you as sadly discarded/rehomed things?
User avatar
By CC Riebeeck
austrotard wrote: Sun Apr 25, 2021 2:36 am relates: guilt and dust RUST
Bamboo is overrated...
We’ll wait...
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cc the Hinge
User avatar
By fallen513
looks like watered down iced tea mate...
User avatar
By CC Riebeeck
fallen513 wrote: Thu May 06, 2021 12:13 pm looks like watered down iced tea mate...

That be 18 yr old “tea”
Ask Skullion

And it ain’t no sour mash that tastes the same going in as coming out and used to seemingly great effect by good ‘ol boys to grease theyz sistas

User avatar
By -G-
CC Riebeeck wrote: Fri May 07, 2021 10:43 am
fallen513 wrote: Thu May 06, 2021 12:13 pm looks like watered down iced tea mate...

That be 18 yr old “tea”
Ask Skullion
Meh, ever tried warm black velvet? :coffee
User avatar
By austrotard
confession: how my mates see me...
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relates: how teh suck sees me...
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elates: I know, right?
User avatar
By CC Riebeeck
More than 20% of Murcanz supported the putsch...
So mathy, right?

What are the odds the statistics are similar here...
“oh look, a white squirrel...” Bubba said from his room at 999 Queen St. W
User avatar
By Obie
Confession: None of The Siblings know when MaryLou got Benji, maybe he’s ten, maybe fourteen. MaryLou’s constant companion since my grandfather died a couple years ago. Benji eats rotisserie chicken out of a cut crystal bowl.
MaryLou’s been pathologically self-involved as long as I’ve known her. The Siblings- Patty, Suzie, Bridget, and Paul- inherited the same pathology, each with a lifetime’s experience undermining the other for MaryLou’s attention. Dad gave up that game early, moving in at fifteen with a folkie family from school.

I wasn’t surprised MaryLou sprung for a commissioned portrait of Benji.

I wasn’t surprised the commissioned portrait replaced the family photo in the living room.

I knew The Siblings were a little envious of the dog’s station. Benji provided MaryLou undivided attention and unconditional love, concepts Marylou appreciated, but couldn’t really understand. I loved the story of Benji’s portrait replacing the family photo, it was the perfect thumbnail sketch of how my father’s family functioned. Told that story to anyone who ever asked about my father’s family. And when Marylou died, I knew that portrait was destined for the dumpster.

And so, I wound up with new artwork for the tying room.
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By Obie
Confession: my aunts and uncles are shitbags. Five siblings split Marylou’s house and its contents four ways, leaving Dad in the lurch. I’m disappointed, but not surprised.

Dad spent his lifetime sticking up for each of The Siblings. It wasn’t important to any of them. I’d give anything to have Dad back; they’d give Dad up for anything. Writing the Fuck You letter was gratifying- they’ve profited off my father’s death, they can’t un-ring that bell. I congratulated each of them on their New Things, each item a sad small story of sad small people who value things over each other. I hoped each new acquisition would be a reminder of the ugliest parts of their nature. Real Telltale Heart shit.

After that, I went fishing. It was too nice a day to waste on anger.
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I met my father fishing. The version of my father that wasn’t in the office six days a week. Or on the road. The guy who’d talk about growing up, shooting pigeons and trapping muskrats with Mike and Steve on land given over to subdivision. Turkey hunting way back in the national forest with his buddy Dave, prying civil war bullets and cannonballs from gnarled, stunted shortleaf pine. The version of Dad that could discover and appreciate and express joy or fascination or wonder. The guy that relished life, instead of just punching a clock. I liked that version of Dad most.
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I don’t think he ever fished here. There was always a dog-eared, coffee stained flyfishing guide parked next to the emergency brake on our fishing trips, its back pages dotted with county maps of wild trout streams. But I didn’t fish here with Dad, and I don’t think he’d have the patience to lose flies in brush for the sake of small rainbows.
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Think of how much better you’d understand of your parents if you were privy to their childhood. I never asked The Siblings about growing up- I’m not sure they want to share their war stories, I’m not sure I’d get an honest account. Their funny stories of their childhood are really thinly veiled trauma, of physically or emotionally absent parents, of five kids navigating the world largely on their own. No wonder they’re so fucked up.
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I wonder if The Siblings know how my father turned out so differently. It’d require them to wonder, to think about another person, and that isn’t their wheelhouse. It had to be the family Dad chose. It had to be Jane. According to Marylou her and my grandfather found for my father a very nice lady who took care of wayward boys, like it was a boarding school or Jane was some fairy godmother. Jane had nine kids of her own. Nine kids in ten years, and she still took in another. Maybe that was all Dad needed to learn to act selflessly.

When my mother met her, Jane came to the door in a gold polyester kaftan emblazoned with the sun in his glory. Jane was the one singing Pete Seeger tunes on a thrift store guitar. Marylou’s life was circumscribed within little boxes. No part of me believes she would’ve given Jane the time of day.
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Dad was in and out of the hospital from the time I was fifteen until he died, a couple weeks before my seventeenth birthday. That offers a limited number of life lessons you get to extract from your father, maybe down to Don’t Smoke and Don’t Take A Minute For Granted. Maybe that’s enough. For the longest time I figured I was supposed to figure out all the rest on my own. Twenty years on, I’m beginning to realize that isn’t entirely the case. It’s just a decision I made.
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The Siblings blame their fuckups on shitty parents. Being raised on transactional love, being sent to boarding school at an early age, lighting cigarettes and freshening drinks for parents who otherwise ignored them. I’m not faultless, I’ve used Dad’s death to justify some fuckups. Differences of degree, not of kind. But maybe you don’t have to inherit your parent’s damage. Maybe you choose to.
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By austrotard
confession: watched the aretha franklin film last night.

relates: just to see the glossing over...

elates: pirated of course.

lates: bread and circuses.

sate: keto and omphaloskepsis.

eta: 16:20
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By Average Joe
I was in the mood to have a party this past weekend, so I invited my brothers, nephews, and a couple of friends up to the family place in Mendocino. Ended up with a nice group of ten guys.

The locals were happy to see us.
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Did a little gambling.
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Along with some drinking.
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And a bit of shooting.
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It was pretty muddy.
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The food turned out OK.
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Other than the Caesar salad. One star at best.
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Had a great time.
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User avatar
By Lando
The horse lady and Cesar salad. Perfect.
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