I narrowly survived the weekend rapture; no, not that one…I’m talking about the rap I got across the head when the wife-person discovered I went fishing rather than attempt the lengthy Honey-Do list that was left for me.
The opportunity to
stalk accompany our local fly-fishing celebrity does not come every day, so it was off to a local un-named pond. Rumor had it that someone recently hooked a seven-pound bass, which was all it took to get tolerated invited on this mini-fly fishing expedition, especially since I had the in to this secluded property.
While my fly-fishing prowess ranks just below totally ineffectual, my mentor was said to have the ability to walk on water, although this day he was satisfied with being able to perch on a large downed log.
The timing of our fishing man-date was curious, not because the failure for the world to end, but another blogger claimed to have “scored a journalistic coup” on the target of his personal “man crush,” on the other side of the world.
While there was talk of this other guy’s “image as an avatar of manliness,” my guy takes the cake when it comes to being a real man—assuming the ample evidence of being un-shaven, reeking of cheap cigars, and smelling of fish still counts in these matters.
After his private time with his wannabe outdoorsman the other blogger dude gushed,
“I got to tell you. I’m more in love with the guy than ever.”
I, on the other hand, got all the rod handling I could handle in one day, and I have the sore right hand to prove it.
…from the spines of all the fish I landed. What were you thinking I meant?