chunky

Fat Bitches love snacks.

Damn, girl you chunky.

moping

Had planned to leave for the river today. Ended up getting an email and it turns out that I will be flying out Tuesday to hang with some Remington folks in NC and shoot some photos while playing with machine guns. Yeah... so no fishing this week.

I can't say it sucks because it will be a fun job, with a nice paycheck, but I was looking forward to playing with the switch rod and sticking my toes in the sand.

So I moped around the house a little and ended up sitting down on the couch and reading the Chronicles of Cod blog in its entirety.

 If you have a bored afternoon, throw it in your reader.


Also read this recently. Classic.

If you have the means I highly recommend tracking one down.

Then cook some bacon.

And some beans.

And bonk a brook trout.








-Alex who promises actual water-involved happenings soon.

Loose Juice.

I do not feel, at this moment, what I would have classified for at least the last few years of my life, as normal.

I find it hard to concentrate. Occasionally I will catch myself staring at a point in space and then not be able to remember what I had been thinking about before that moment.

I find it hard to get excited about things. Not in a depression kind of way, I don’t think, more in a bored-to-tears kind of way.

I quit dipping a little over three weeks ago and I think that may have something to do with it. There seems to be this empty space in my being now. A little spot on the shelf of my existence where something has been removed and all that remains is a small round mark, a depression in the dust where the surface has remained clean, spared by the footprint of the object that rested there for many years which is now gone.

Nothing else I have found, through thorough research, fits into that particular space. I would recommend getting addicted to nicotine, if only for the experience of quitting. It is a hell of a thing, for sure, and I think everyone would be better for knowing it.

There is a working television in the “living” room now, which is strange. And some stereo equipment that doesn't sound half bad. Lately I have even been seen leaving the confines of the studio to venture out into this great “living” room to sit on the couch, eat a meal, or even watch some television (even though this television is substantially smaller than the one in the studio.)

Yes, it is indeed strange.

Also, I once again have a laptop, which means I can use to do “computer related” things out in this “living” room. Like now as I sit on the couch, out in the house, open to all and everyone who might make their way into this domicile; exposed to the world; vulnerable, even.

I have two packs of Juicy Fruit sitting here next to me. For the last two hours the juice has been loose, so to speak. As far as modern gum goes, I feel that Juicy Fruit is lacking. It doesn’t have the stamina in flavor or texture that Orbit or Trident possess but there is something satisfying, even comforting, in chewing it. I have been adding a piece to my mouth each time I feel the experience dwindling below tolerable levels. I currently have 5 pieces in my mouth. There is no one around and I am chewing it as annoyingly as I can manage.

There is a light on in the kitchen which is illuminating the table where a pile of fishing gear sits waiting to be put away or stuffed back into bags and packs in preparation for travel to water. There is more of it than ever before, which I suppose should be a thing to rejoice about, as I should finally be starting to feel complete as an angler, right? Should I climb to the mountain top and yell out “Hey! I have all the shit, now! All that bullshit that I was told that I needed to enjoy the great sport of angling with fly! So I am ready, oh lord of the long rod! Take me into your bosom and let me suckle the rewards!”…?

I think not.

A couple weeks ago I was filling my pontoon, getting ready to push off for some low-water bass action when two old men drove up to the water in a battered old truck. There was a 12-foot aluminum boat sticking out of the bed.

One of the men stepped out of the truck and looked over in my direction. He took a couple steps toward me and then stopped, a foul expression on his grizzled face. “Think you got enough rods?” He asked, pointing to the full 3-rod holder attached to the deck on the back of my pontoon.

“Nope,” I said, and laughed. “I can think of a couple more I could use today.”

He turned and helped his friend remove the boat and place it in the water then went back to the truck to grab their bags. As he walked back past again he stopped in front of me and said one more thing: “You ask too much.” Then stepped into his boat and pushed off.

I ask too much? What? At the time I figured that he was just old and mad at the world and young punks like me for messing everything up.

Upon further reflection maybe I do ask too much. But what of it? What is wrong with asking? I think it is expecting too much that is the problem.

I think I will fish this weekend at a place I have never been. I am excited about that. I can concentrate on that. It feels good and normal and I shall ask for great everything but expect nothing more than average anything.

-Alex who thinks that is the way it should be.

C'mon lefty, make yourself useful.

-Alex who wonders if it is strange to throw big deer-hair bass bugs with a two-hander...?

Nah.