Busy Busy Busy.... A small overview.

Lack of posts, lack of fishing, planning a wedding, and work have been keeping me from posting as much as I would like.

I have still been able to make it to the "Meth Lab Trailer Pond" but the carp still have been testing my skills. By that I found out I lack in skills.
The Bass seem to be calming down, but still aggressive during the colder times of the week.
Yesterday when I was out I was unable to catch a bass, yet I hooked into 2 carp, and caught an asshole turtle. This proves that a Crazy Charlie will catch anything.

My giant Midas Cichlid, Butt Head, died

Also I was in San Diego last month, an amazing time with friends Christian, Tessa, and their baby Sophia, and with my now Fiance Jamie, for a tattoo convention, Well it was more of a vacation for me, I spent most of my time running around San Diego fishing, and drinking. I got ahold of an old Friend of mine, Alex Anzaldua, whom I used to beat up when I was younger because his older brother is a good friend of mine.

The man Alex Anzaldua himself

Alex and I hit up a boat from Seaforth Sportfishing, and I was SUPER impressed with this company! It may not be fly fishing but every now and then I still love to grab some traditional gear or my deep sea gear and remember what got me into fishing in the first place. I have been on many charters in S.D. in the past and they were fun, but the staff and knowledge of Seaforth is second to none. Many Sheeps Head, Sculpin, Rock fish, few Ling Cod, and many other types of fish were caught. From 27 people on the boat, over 225 fish were taken home on a half day trip.
I have never had this much fun before on a San Diego charter before, 5 stars in my opinion. I would recommend this company to anyone, 100%!

The pier fishing was a load of fun, fish the waves just as you would nymphing a river with an indicator you may catch small fish as well, Like my super tiny Halibut

Top to bottom:

1. Turbot
2. Calico Bass
3. Lizard Fish
4. Halibut

Work is getting busy again, I don't want to talk about work.

So just a little info for your reading pleasure, if you like to hear what I have to say that is!

-Kyle

Crappy Times.....

Working, trying to make money, but still times are hard.
As much as I really hate to do this, I must put this fella up for sale.......
As much as I wanted to get out on the salt, to try to catch some tarpon or shark (maybe it's a bit of jealousy) like Alex has, alas I have not been able to break this guy in. Its all new and will stay that way unless I win the Lottery.

Loop Opti Salt 12wt rod
TFO prism 11/12 reel
Scientific Angler Tropi-core 475 grain line

If you or anyone you know has any interest I will take a reasonable offer.

kyle@fatguyflyfishing.com

P P P POW!!!!

Alex Aaron and I went to Patagonia.
Pre-spawn bass can be fun. Toss a fly in their area and piss them off, results are as follow!
Alex and I were at Sportsmans getting ready for the trip, Alex found a crappie jig in the discount bin. It was a green head with a bright magenta marabou body. Alex said "Buy this and throw it all day you will catch the fish."
I said, "I don't want it, its too damn big and too bright for these fish."
Alex kept bugging me to buy the damn thing, and now I am glad he did.
I dropped it and watched the bass circle it for a bit, then he sucked it up!
I tossed it to another bass right after and BAM!!!! Another one.... almost.... It broke me off.

So throwing for fish that just are not interested in anything, I remembered that I pissed off 2 bass and landed the smaller one on some super ugly bright colors. I put a fly on that Aaron tied for me a few years back, Yes it was ugly and bright, I pulled that guy out with it. I am satisfied!
Now for my stupid photo with my big bass of the day!

Another another preview of things to come...

Enough never is, and if I die under a smothering pile of too much I will die a happy man. This weekend I will be back in CO covering the Carp Slam, doing my damnedest to bring you the real story--the dirty brown filth that will inevitably have to be foul-hooked and dragged backwards and upside-down till close enough to be beaten into submission.

I know a large fish will sooner break a man than be turned into a trophy, and with cash and prizes and fame on the line, I cannot imagine and am excited to be able to witness first hand the last acts of these soon-to-be desperate men.

May carp have mercy on your souls.

-Alex who knows that this weekend, in some form of another, asses will get kicked on the Platte.

Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride:

The twig of a man sat behind thick glasses typing at an outdated computer terminal as Kyle and I pushed through the glass doors.

In keeping with the way all great things do, my Colorado partying and fishing extravaganza had come to an end: Out of the water and grass and happy sunshine into the artificially lit sterile depression of the Colorado Springs Greyhound Bus Terminal where the time-clock-smile under the spectacles looks up from behind the bulletproof sneeze guard.

I tell him I need to get to Holbrook. He tells me that he needs $117.01. A card swipe and sloppy signature get me a ticket to Albuquerque, then a ticket to Holbrook with a tasty 3-hour-layover meat product sandwiched in between. Delicious.

I give Kyle a manhug and send him on his way and take a seat on the curb just as the 10pm bus arrives. It’s an Autobuses Americanos brand of transportation. Oh boy. I stow my gear, and take a seat. Bruce Willis in Spanish on the televisions, and with a pair of seats all to myself we depart.

We arrive at Albuquerque at 4:15am without incident, (except for when I dozed off and freaked out because I thought I had somehow slept for 20 hours and ended up in Mexico.) and myself and my gear took a seat in the lounge/restaurant/game room/gift shop. My Holbrook bus was scheduled to arrive at 7:25am, and it was time for a snack.

It was probably the lack of sleep and ass-numbing chairs that clouded my decision making process, but it was not until after the fact that I realized ordering the “breakfast mini-chimichangas” was a bad choice.

Red or green sauce? How about the shit-your-pants-in-line-for-the-crowded-bus-sauce? You have that? Gimme some extra of that goodness! Mmmm, yeah! That’s the stuff.

As President Hot Sauce is giving the State of the Bowel’s speech in my pants, a Greyhound employee informs me that that the bus I am planning to board is going to be completely full, so it would be a good idea for me to place my bags in the line forming behind the loading door so I am “included in the initial count.” Lovely….

I notice people start to mill around the door as the supposed transport arrival time drew near, but I have faith that my luggage will successfully hold my place in line and I make a tactical decision to remain seated close to the toilet.

The bus ends up being over 2 hours late, and I smile from inside a bathroom stall when a nasal squeak over the PA lets everyone know that the bus has arrived and to please get in line. I have been sitting in here for 45 minutes, firstly because I have found the toilet seat more comfortable than the plastic coated steel butt-mare out in the lounge/restaurant/game room/gift shop, and secondly due to the super-happy-not-so-fun-time -mini-chimis.

Still not believing that the well greased machine that is Greyhound is quite ready to go, I slowly wash my hands and face and follow the litter box smell over to my bags and check the time: 9:45am.

The herd is antsy and jumps as the large metal door swings open, and a man in blue suit walks in and past the group without a word. False alarm. Wait, wait…. No, he is coming back. Could it be?

He opens the door again, stops, and extends his hand toward a young woman standing at the head of the line. Here we go. My turn comes, and out to the bus I go, into a window seat just barely more comfortable than my throne in the men’s room.

A couple minutes later, we are at maximum capacity and a weary, crumpled looking woman in a grey suit stands in the aisle looking confused at the faces that stare back at her from the seatless expanse.

A bus employee walks up behind her, and they chat for a second as the woman angrily waves her hand around, in obvious seat envy. Whether the trip was over booked, or a ninja passenger slipped in is unknown, but doesn't matter at this point.

The bus employee walks to the back of the bus and stops beside a man sitting next to a little girl, and after determining that man is the girl’s father, asks if he would mind letting her sit on his lap until the first stop, giving the woman a place to sit until a seat opens.

Yes! great! fine! fantastic! Good idea lady! Let’s get this show on the road! And while you’re at it, tell that cute woman two rows up that she is welcome to come sit on my lap too. Hell, at this point I don’t care is the prison-tatted gangster next to me has to spoon with a fat guy to get this circus moving. Desperate times, you know the story.

Yes, everyone thought it was a grand idea… everyone except the guy who matters most: The Driver, who apparently didn’t think it was a grand idea at all, and who argued with the employee and even a few passengers about it before walking down the steps and out of the bus, for good, apparently, because a few minutes later the employee informed us that the driver has quit, and they are going to have to call in someone to drive the route.

What? Oh come on… Seriously? Your joking, right?... Right? No, you are not joking, and we are actually getting off the bus, and being herded back into the terminal. I re-claim my stall and wait, while the automatic flushing device keeps me awake enough to know that I am not dreaming, and this may actually be some sub layer of hell. No, not hell itself, but defiantly on the right path to get there.

45 minutes later, we are back in line listening to what can only be described as a third-grade roll calling session as the new driver butchers last names and lets their owners back out to our tandem-axled chariot.

With everyone in place and accounted for, and no mention of the missing mystery seat-stealing phantom, we pull out of the parking lot and 5 hours later when we pulled into a dusty Circle K parking lot in Holbrook AZ, I shed a single tear of joy.

2 hours after that I was in a cabin in the White Mountains: Rods were again emerging from tubes, waders drying in the porch, and a cold New Belgium brew in my hand, my stomach quelled by a very large container of pork fried rice. Oh man, it was totally worth it.

A cliché, but still a winner.

Hi there little fella! Now go tell your mama what I done.

Who put crawdad parts in my Makers Mark? Damn hooligans.

Sometimes you just have to throw mice.

A fine Hawley Lake evening.

-Alex who's ass has been forced to see a shrink.

Plates, Wind, and Pat Spain's Memorial Wildlife Park and Beer Garden

Every once in a while your standard day-trip to the lake turns into something completely different.

Sometimes things go bad. Your boat sinks, you forgot to remember the beer, you end up in the woods with large hairy rednecks who think your mouth is "purdy". Bad times.

But occasionally and with a bit of luck, the gods smile upon a lowly fisherman and guide him to the high life.

The day started off like many others like it, windy as hell. The bass fishing was slow, and every cast and gust were followed by a string of obscenities. Aaron forgot his fins, and ended up catching some plates from the shore, in between laughing and filming my sorry wet ass out on the water. A few hours later, tired from kicking but mostly from swearing at the mother that is nature, Aaron and I quit out early to hunt for better conditions.

As I was making our way back to the dock side of the lake, I came to a fork in the road. I have heard that when this happens it is a good idea to take the fork, as it might come in handy later, but in this case after a short mental deliberation I decided to leave the fork and make a left, taking us away from the water and the wind that abused it.

Parker Canyon is a small lake surrounded by rolling hills and mostly shrubbery. There are a handful of cabins/houses that sprinkle the countryside to the east of the water. Most of the cabins are vacation getaways and stay locked up for a good portion of the year, but there are a few year-rounders like the famous Pat Spain. And Pat has a secret.

After a short dirt road jaunt and park, we were greeted by a smiling face and lead into the garage for a beer.

Movement caught my eye out the small garage window overlooking the side of the house. Aaron points his beer and says, "Hey Pat, there is a turkey in your yard!" Pat took a swig of Budweiser, and wiped his chin. "Yep."

We moved to the yard where, sure as shit, a young thanksgiving dinner on legs greeted us with little interest, obviously accustomed to the company of humans. And it even did tricks! (see video below)

As we made our way to the small covered table Pat waved toward the near hillside, "And then there's them." As Aaron and I followed his hand out into the trees we saw a handful of javelina nosing through the dirt.

Unbelievable. I have spent many, many hours in the past roaming the countryside with various types of weaponry in hand looking for these specific brands of wildlife, often returning with nothing more than a handful of dirt in my pocket and a bad case of monkey butt, and here they are side by side in the middle of a Monday afternoon hanging out in Pat Spain's Memorial Wildlife Park and Beer Garden. Amazing.

Pat told us there are also deer, and the occasional mountain lion and black bear that grace the Garden with their presence, and told a great story about a black bear that managed to break into the crawl space of his house, and chew through the wires that power the vent fan over his stove, leaving a large pile of smoking hair before making its hasty retreat. Pat doesn't fly fish, so I didn't ask if he has any bear fur caddis flys available to trade.

5 beers and a couple glasses of wine later, we moved inside for and a snack of ribs, brauts, cantaloupe, and yogurt covered strawberries (hey fat guys need their vitamins too) accompanied by show tunes on the radio. There is just something awesome about drinking Merlot and chowing glorified hot-dogs while Frankenstein's half-retard monster sings "puttin on the ritz" in the background. Makes me smile just thinking about it.

As the evening closed in around us, with full bellies and minds we wished Pat and his lovely wife a good night and made for the open road, more fulfilled than a couple bass on the fly could ever hope to achieve. And just think, if it wasn't so damn windy we would have never had the pleasure. Makes you think.

 

The Great Pat Himself.

"They never make ground-bird bird feeders."

Wind is a jerk.

-Alex who doesn't sail or fly kites.

Butt Huts, bacon, blow-up dolls, and booze: Wrinkleneck XX

For Aaron and myself, May 13 2009 5:55am was the beginning of a great adventure. As the sun pushed its way into the cool air from behind the purple scribble of the Rincon Mountains I fought my way into the shower to clean myself one last time, letting the soap and steam dismantle my hangover. Out in the garage in the fumes and darkness awaited our steel chariot, its suspension already complaining about the ridiculous amount of gear stuffed within, and dreading the moment that we strapped our asses into its sun cracked seats and kicked that pig to the high pines.

To the rest of you, it was just Wednesday: The middle of a week, in the middle of another month of your life.
We turn the key, put in some tunes and fast forward:

Drive, left turn, right turn, drive, biscuits and gravy, drive, onward, upward, dirt road: GO GO GO!!! All systems functional, drive, turn, drive, flat tire…. Fuck. Alright, gimme that wrench, no that wrench…. Jack, twist, turn, pump, tighten in cross pattern. Back up, back out, forward, full speed ahead to Reservation Lake, sitting in thin air at 9000 feet in the top of the White Mountains of Arizona.

The dirt road angrily spits tan plumes as we bumped into camp to meet the other early arrivals. Nutty like a Payday bar these people, already set up directing traffic, beers in hand. We get the camper backed in and cranked up, the poker tent erected, and the polls assembled. We were ready, and in the failing light found just enough time to walk down to the lake and catch a fish. A few hours later in the black-tar mountain night, with a beer in hand and a poker game on the table, we put Wednesday to bed with a buzz.

Thursday, May 14: The first day of the Wrinkleneck. From dusk till dawn, trucks and trailers slow-roll between the pines looking for a flat spot to call home. Committee members walk around in a daze resigned to the fact that if it isn’t ready now, it’s too late. The cooks in the chow tent are getting organized for dinner and anyone person fortunate enough to have passed under the radar is fishing.

I have been told that the early bird gets the worm. I don’t know much about birds, but I can tell you that fishermen who get up at the buttcrack of dawn have a better chance catching large browns. Before I had even scratched my balls and farted myself awake someone had pulled a “twenty something inch” brown out of the cove right near where we were camped. Inspired and confident with a handful of buggers and a pocket full of beer, Aaron and I push out to get ours.

But throughout the morning, reports trickle in and contrary to earlier events the word is “small”. Little rainbows, eager for bug of the black and red variety, but nothing of size. Our morning outing showed the same. We returned to shore for a simple lunch of shrimp scampi over pasta and mixed greens and hit the water again full of good food and renewed confidence.

But water is impartial to the feelings of man, and big fish don’t care if you think you are a badass. To them, you are just another bug in the water to refuse.

Dinner of fried chicken, beans, macaroni and cheese with a whisky chaser took the edge off and prepared the men once again for the card table. There is something beautiful about poker by lantern light.

Friday, May 15: Big Fish Friday. Any White Mountain lake is game, and weigh-in closes at 5:30. Simple enough. One new rule that was added this year is that the fish must be of salmonoid family of fishes, and it was a hot debate at the committee meetings, but founding father Alex Duncan gave it his blessing, so it remained. I personally feel it didn’t make any difference due to the fact that in the 20 years of the event I don’t believe anyone has ever weighted anything but a trout.

But on the other side of it, the fish were small this year, and that sucker fish I pulled out of the Black river 2 weeks prior would have totally won the Fly Fishing division this year. In fact, everyone was so keyed in on bringing in only big fish, practically no one weighed in anything. I was told later that a fat 13-incher may have clenched the Rookie division for Aaron, more than a few that size were thrown back. Oh well, such is life.
The big fish, a 2.5lb rainbow, was pulled up by hardcore bait-fishing aficionado Steve Weinstein out of Sunrise Lake. No surprises there, on the lake or the man.

Other notable Friday events:

My father and I were beaten out of the horseshoe tournament in the first round by the team that ended up winning the whole thing. Now, I kick ass at a lot of things; throw me on a pool table, or bowling lane and I could have probably showed these fools a thing or two but I have never been that great at the shoes…. Sure, I only throw one or two games a year, but I expect better from myself. There is no excuse for that level of suckery.

Aaron drew a big cock and balls on the back of a fellow Wrinklenecker’s dusty vehicle. (more on that later)
Duncan just happened to pick the magic cigar out of the box and won “Meme- The Midget Love Doll”

Aaron’s manliness was questioned and his man card was at stake when his fart’s potent-ness was questioned by an upwind competitor, which is a serious accusation. I think Aaron almost shit himself twice trying to prove the guy wrong.

Jim Murphy ended up on the ground in a choke hold when he decided it was a good idea to tackle Mike Leed. Roger Haines who was also involved in the assault, denies all involvement in the plot, claiming he was only trying to help, which is a total crock. After the event, Leed was quoted saying “I guess he just wanted to roll around in the dirt a little.” The following day, when questioned about the incident Murphy had no comment.

Saturday, May 16: The Team Event. This is the big day, where the hackers step away from those who can’t and the men are separated from the boys.

At 0630 the breakfast bell chimes and the stench of hangover and ball sweat slowly makes its way to the Bloody Mary bar to refuel.

Some are already on the lake, others still lay in their beds fighting against the rising sun and the nausea that accompanies it.

I stagger through the woods, and down the road. The sun is bright, oh so bright but the smell of frying bacon calls to me, keeps me moving forward; right, left, right, left, one foot in front of the other.

Aaron is already seated under the tent, and with a small-child-sized pile of breakfast I make my way over to discuss the days strategy. A half hour later with a flask of Makers, we’re on the water.

Our team consists of Aaron, my father and myself. Aaron and I chose the boat to cover more water, while my father trolled deep in the orange “pontoon”, and within half hour, he radioed with some good news: A 16 inch brown, the largest fish in competition from Reservation Lake thus far. We troll over and add it to the live well. A good start.

The remainder of the day Aaron and I pulled in 12-13 inch rainbows and kept a big-fish rotation in the well. By lunch, my father’s fish was rumored the largest so far and we seemed to be sitting pretty, but Aaron and I heard tales of large stringers, so we ate a quick chicken fried steak lunch and beat feet back to the boat.

The afternoon held no noteworthy fish on the line, and at 5:20 we weighted in, carrying the fish to the scale in a rubbermade full of lake water (Aarons idea) for maximum release-alive-ability. One fellow relaxing near the scale looked up and said, “this ain’t the bassmasters, dude.” Well, maybe it should be. After getting our weight, 40.5oz, we successfully released the fish.

Roger, who was manning the scales did a good job of keeping us in the dark, and we went to dinner with mixed feelings. Did we do enough? Fish hard enough?

Yes, we did. Overall winners for the second year. A victory for fat guys everywhere!

The auction went great, and raised a record amount for the Send a Kid to Camp foundation, Aaron won a pair of gloves and a chest pouch, and my father won a Garmin GPS unit, which I quickly stole from him.

The party was hardy, and the men were in high spirits as the auction ended and the after party began. The lantern was lit, and the poker action was once again hot.

Remember the dick and balls Aaron drew on that truck? Well, apparently once drunken people see some junk drawn on a car, they feel they have to follow suit. By now, there are 10-12 vehicles in the vicinity with dicks on them. Nobody seems to care. And I know that in the hungover, in-a-hurry-to-leave state these guys will be in tomorrow morning, there will be a few overlooked dicks flying down the highway.

But as Mike Leed said, “after a weekend like this when you’re packing up, you don’t care about a big veiny cock on your windshield.”

The Butt Hut

Duncan with his "little" prize

Breakfast, bitchin'

A fantastic example of a "walkin piss"

-Alex who think that about sums it up.

-Authors note: This is only a small portion of events that transpired at Neck XX, and if you feel you have been neglected, get over it. Remember, "no whining."

Photographically Speaking: A flashing on The River Black

I sat down to write a trip review about the Black River, but I am sure most of you folks have seen plenty of photographs of rivers, and the fish that inhabit such waters, and have read enough stories of people blundering in and around them. So I decided to make this post about the documentation itself.

As a photographer, I spent a lot of time thinking about the way things are seen. Photography is about the capture of light and the way it plays with the surface of a subject.

Natural light, in my opinion is the best for capturing the soul of just about anything. Food, lit from above and behind by indirect sunlight looks much more appetizing than lit by say, a studio strobe. Take a person and set them beside a shaded window in the warm afternoon glow and you have brilliance ready to shoot.

Flash photography is great due to the ability of the photographer to move the light source and adjust its strength to get the perfect combination of highlights and shadows, and when combined with natural light it can be very powerful.

This cow skull, which Aaron named "Elmer" was sitting in our camp site when we arrived at the river, and I knew sooner or later it would end up in a photo. It was just the when and where I had to figure out.

When I go on fishing trips, there is always a little battle in my head with how much camera to bring. Do I want to leave my "trip Nikon" at home and just throw a point and shoot in my pocket? Or will I be kicking my own ass when some once-in-a-lifetime photo comes along and I don't have my gear to capture it to the best of my ability?

On this trip I brought a Nikon D70, with a SB800 flash and a remote cable. The cable allows me to hold the flash off to a side and get more contrast and shadows which I feel always lends itself to more interesting looking images.

One thing I like to do a lot, is hold the camera down by the ground and shoot up. While it is usually not the most flattering way to photograph people, I find it more interesting to look at than your usual straight-on images. A photograph of something from an angle that people don't see it from in everyday life is a great way to add some snazzieness.

Is it a pain in the ass to cart around a camera like this out in the field? Sure, but sometimes the results are worth it.

Aaron floating a bugger. Lit by the flash while the camera was held just above the water.

Popping the flash with a slow shutter speed at dust gives the water and rocks in the foreground more dimension while still allowing that "flowing" look.

If after all this, you are sitting there thinking, "yea okay, that's neat and all... but how was the fishing?" We caught quite a few little smallmouth on beadhead buggers and reservator leaches. All hanging out where you would expect them, in slow holding water under cover. You have to get a ways up or down the river away from the camping adn people to find the bigguns, and apparently we didn't walk far enough. But overall the trip was a blast.

I plan to do some technique and gear articles about field photography in the future, so if this interested you, stay tuned.

-Alex who wants to help you take better photos.

My Big One, Your Big One, The Big One.

When I was a child my mother was always trying to get me to eat my vegetables. I spent many a stubborn evening at the table with crossed arms and a locked jaw against the never ending healthy onslaught. My mom, being the crafty women she is would use a combination of trickery and guerilla tactics in the kitchen such as blending carrots into mashed potatoes and stuffing chicken with broccoli. She even went so far as to hide peas in noodles when making macaroni and cheese. I would like to think that I could always tell, but I have a feeling now that I ate way more vetetus than previously suspected.

This fellow pictured on the left David Kinney, and in a way, he is a lot like my dear old mom.

A print journalist turned novelist, Kinney abandoned the broadsheets and took a trip to the sandy beaches of Martha’s Vineyard to document the fishing, drama, and colorful personalities involved in the annual striped bass tournament.

In an email to me, Kinney called his work an “unusual sort of fishing book.” I cannot validate this statement due to the fact that I am unqualified to tell you what a “usual” sort of fishing book may be, but I can tell you it was most defiantly an entertaining read.

Summed up, Kinney's book The Big One, is very much like a legume-concealing Velveeta smothered noodle.

No, I have not lost my mind…. Just bear with me for a moment.

The Big One, is a deliciously entertaining tale full of big bass, questionable behavior and general fishing shenanigans, but also hidden within its pages is a very healthy serving of Vineyard history.

I am not usually big on reading history, but like vegetables are good for your body, history is good for your mind. Without history, great stories are meaningless and you can never truly know place or its people without knowing their past. And David, being the Pulitzer Prize winning writer that he is, knows this.

Though I may liken the Vineyards yesteryears to green beans, the literary feast of Yukon Gold potatoes and baked ham with spicy Dijon contained within The Big One wouldn’t be complete without it.

And I tell you, after reading it I am still hungry and my minds mouth is left watering for more.

-Alex who thinks this may be the strangest book review ever.

A quick word about being hardcore.

You want to go fishing but it's windy, so what? Your buddies want to head down to the river but it's snowing, so what? Your standing in water somewhere, there is freezing rain dripping down the crack of your ass and you haven't been able to feel your toes for what seems like months.... so what?

My father (left) once told me that if you havn't peed in your waders, you havn't been fishing long enough. He fishes with a pint of Johnnie Walker, a pocket of cigars and a wine opener with a glass in his cooler, just in case. He is hardcore like that.

You only have so long on this plane of existence, so get out and do some shit. Nobody cares to hear the story about how once you were going to go fishing, and it was going to be sweet, and you would have caught some sweet fish but it was too whatever outside so you pussed out. Nobody cares about that crap.

Get out, catch fish or don't, be miserable if need be, but make a story for fuck sake. Do things, kick ass, be awesome in any way that you can. Success doesn't matter, it is the attempt that counts.

A man is judged by what he does, not what he would have done if conditions were perfect.

-Alex