Friday, September 7, 2012

fishing

One of the joys of growing up in Utah, aside from the wonder that is cracked and bleeding dry skin, or being taught that dinosaurs and humans coexisted, was waking up on those magical days when your dad wanted to take you "fishing", or, in his words, "beating you senseless with dreary monotony".1

Fishing is sort of like playing baseball: you sit around picking grass waiting for your dad to take you home.

My dad loved fishing because it gave him an excuse to sit around camp on sharp rocks tying knots with invisible fishing line instead of working at his job where he made hundreds of dollars a minute and sat in comfy chairs while people fanned him with palm fronds.

The most important part of fishing is selecting your "bait", or, as they call it in the medical community, "the placebo". Some people would have you believe that it doesn't matter what you put on the end of your line, that you'll never catch a fish in your entire life because A. fish aren't native to the 5x5 ponds that are the only form of water in your desert home state, and B. even if they were, fish usually avoid places where legally blind kids covered in snot are throwing rocks in the water.

I have something to say to those people: you're right.

The second most important part of fishing is filling up your bubble. A bubble is a device which can never be sealed once opened, and helps you fish by spraying water on people behind you whenever you cast.

The best part of fishing, of course, is gutting the fish making your dad gut the fish. Next best is informing your dad that you would rather starve than eat that horrific thing, then listening to him mutter something about disputed paternity.

I love fishing. I must have gone five four three times with my dad, and I loved every minute of those drives away from the mountains.

1. Those were not his words. About fishing at least. Possibly about church. Okay. Definitely about church.