"Carl's Lounge" (Off-Topic Discussion, Traditional Knife "Tales & Vignettes")

My fathers nickname that he uses with my baby sister is peanut. Guess which knife she got a couple years ago. I think she will love it. Congratulations again.
 
Congrats LKJW of new family member.

In past 3½ weeks I've learned one thing: How wonderous thing human beings shoulder is... especially when you bust it painfully and are recupating.... Next time I rather bust knee again than shoulder... anytime Mr Murphy :P

That also lead discovery how wonderous EZ open knives are and how lucky I am to have atleast one of them and two traditionals that can be opened pincher hold with left hand even a) you're right handed and b) they're not >EZ openers. Like Copperlock. Love it!
 
Thanks! And yeah, get better. Shoulder injuries suck. Both mine still pop every time I move from football.
 
Thanks guys. Feeling better and I am already of pain killers. Life already looks better. I don't like eating medicines.
 
LKJW said:
Both mine still pop every time I move from football.
Click to expand...

Don't move from football.




th_chair.gif



;)


thejamppa, glad you're starting to feel better. :thumbup:

~ P.
 
The recovery sucks, then you pop it again, then it hurts again...it becomes a painful cycle, I dread popping mine out cause putting it back in hurts lol.

Get well soon, make sure to do any exercises they tell you to rebuild the muscles.
 
You just got to do it Lethal Weapon style. ;)

Robert.B said:
The recovery sucks, then you pop it again, then it hurts again...it becomes a painful cycle, I dread popping mine out cause putting it back in hurts lol.

Get well soon, make sure to do any exercises they tell you to rebuild the muscles.
Click to expand...
 
LKJW said:
Part of the writing I do is about fishing. If you like fishing, this might give you a chuckle. We've all been there... :)
http://www.theonlinefisherman.com/component/content/article/5826-the-disorganized-fisherman

I think I have clearance to post this sort of thing here, if not, apologies and please take it down.
Click to expand...

Better yet, just share the story in this thread, pasting it right into a post. That way, you're contributing here, and avoid any appearance of trying to drive traffic (clicks) to boost a metric on an external site.

~ P.
 
I am not an organized person. I wish I was. Sometimes, this lack of organization pays off...there is usually a pocketknife within reach at any given time. I will never have to buy another fishing lure as long as I live (I still will of course...I can't find most of the ones I have). When I fish for trout, I wear a vest and try to keep things reasonably situated. When I fish for bass, I wear a backpack full of quickly discarded lures, dry rubber, and bug spray that may be older than I am.


Normally when I'm fishing, I disconnect from my present-day self and connect with something very ancient and very not "me". Bass fishing is a different beast.

When I fish for trout, I fish like I don't exist. If I sense human presence (and they don't share a common ancestry), I quickly move in the opposite direction. Bass fishing is a different beast, and I don't mind stopping to shoot the breeze. And that usually means I end up talking to a fellow with six rods and a tackle box with every lure in its place, by category, like a store display. I have my backpack and I know not to reach into it quickly. Slowly, I am guaranteed a few hooks in the fingers. Haste results in massive amounts of blood. My wife knows not to reach into the trunk of our car without looking where she is reaching first. There is a popper stuck to the roof of the car that will never come out.

I accept this. My wife tolerates it. I tell you all this as backstory. This is really the story of the time I decided to become an organized fisherman.

I'm not sure why I had the dang fool idea in the first place. Maybe I got one too many rips on my hand. Maybe I wanted to be able to find a lure without searching through the chaos of my trusty blue backpack. Whatever the reason, several years ago I went to a sporting goods store and bought a nice little tackle box. I spent a Saturday putting it in order. It was a thing of beauty, the crankbaits arranged by color, the hooks in their own little box, splitshot of all sizes. I was proud. And I was ready for a Sunday of fishing.

Sunday morning, I loaded up my stuff. My good old trusty bass rod. The hat my wife won't let our daughter touch. And my tackle box. My shining, organized, Cadillac of a tackle box. It looked like rain. I threw some of my motorcycle rain gear in, transferred my old Imperial fish knife. I was ready.


Note highly-organized (and new) tackle box. This might not mean much to you, but it does to me. I made the girls look at it a hundred times as I built, rebuilt, and built it again. Hey man, this is bass fishing; you have to take it seriously.

It started raining when I got to the lake. Perfect. I rarely see anyone at this little lake (nope, sorry, it's a secret), but the weather promised a day of solitary fishing. My tackle box and I were ready. I started the walk in, mild darting thoughts about how I liked having a hand free. But man, that tackle box was a thing of beauty.

Then it started to RAIN. There wasn't much wind and the drops came down like tiny bombs. My smelly hat kept my face dry. My plastic pants and jacket kept me dry. I was in heaven.

I was walking the trail about forty feet above the water, steep embankment be damned. My eyes were everywhere, looking for likely holes and wondering. Wishing. My eyes were ready for fishing. I was wet, muddy, and cold enough that I knew dinner was going to taste extra good. My thoughts were flighty; I was in the zone. Me and my tackle box. I may have been wet and muddy, but what's a little mud to an organized fisherman?

I don't recall exactly how it happened. I would guess I hit the edge of the trail a little wide and the mud didn't help. What I do remember is thinking as I rocketed down the 45 degree descent to the water that my tackle box was in real trouble.

If I'd been twelve I would have loved it. I would have gotten back up and done it again. But I was not twelve. I managed to grab a tree, with shoulder popping grace, about three feet from the water I was about to body surf. I was shaken. I was now really muddy. But, like any crime scene, the most grisly aspect stood out. There, by the tree, was a pile of tangled lures and a very muddy tackle box. An empty tackle box.

I shoved everything back inside and spent the rest of the day fishing and pricking my fingers on hooks. When I got home, I showed the girls my tackle box - the one I had made them look at a hundred times the night before. They looked at me with that special 'this man is a lunatic' look that fishermen get used to. I took a hot shower and washed the mud off. Then I went out to the garage and dumped the clumped contents of my tackle box back into my backpack (mud and all), accepting what I should have known all along – there are organized fisherman and disorganized fisherman. And I may not be able to reach into my sow's ear of a back pack without hurting myself, but I'm not a silk purse kind of guy anyway.
 
That was a fun story, Dan. (Said the man comfortably sitting at his computer sipping an evening drink.)

Well written, too.
 
My other passion.
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Nope, not my truck. I prefer old Chevys. Of course, being my fat ass self, and 6'3", no small trucks for me. I am only driving full size trucks from here on out. Nothing else. Just bought a 2003 single cab Silverado 4wd. Should be ready to drive about as soon as I am.
 
Frank, I just joined you with a couple fingers of 17 yr old single malt.

I got my regrind back from Don Hanson III, today. Awesome. Pics tomorrow.
I'm celebrating . . . this Glengoyne is smooooooth. ;)
 
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