It was dark and cold—cold, like a doctor’s hands requesting a cough. When the door opened, a mass of humanity came stumbling through what was proving to be the much too narrow a door. They immediately identified themselves as Pig Farmers. Their leader stepped forward and hugged me like a bear would treat a gazelle (if they were ever to meet). He stank of hope, good times, and bad decisions. Introductions were directly bypassed for other activities, none of which would prove responsible.
The morning came too quick, like a…well, you know what that’s like. The stale stench of bad coffee was like an aphrodisiac to the huddled masses of the fly-fishing expo. Penned up like animals on a conveyor belt through the aisles and booths, the desperation in their eyes screamed for freedom. Freedom proved to be a bitchin’ bad tattoo in the parking lot. The idea of a bad fishing tattoo that has nothing to do with fishing was too juicy a mind romp to pass up.
Freshly inked and in an alcohol/endorphin frenzy, I found myself in a derelict warehouse amongst a group of the foulest fly flingers in the 828 and beyond. The mix of glue, epoxy, detritus, and dyed animal skins was reminiscent of what Rome must have smelt like as it burned. With no warning, the circus was brought to a fevered pitch by the bear man pig farmer from the night before.
What was chaos, was now controlled chaos. One vise. One bag of materials. Many tyers enter. One tyer leaves…victorious. Somehow what was iron was made into lead by an oversized drunken animal that seized victory under a cloud of controversy and an oversized bobber cooler.
In the harsh light of day our indiscretions lay there before us in a haze of gluttony and sloth. What Iron Fly was is still not clear. But what we became is as clear as a beam of light to the uninitiated. VIVA EL PIG FARM!
