I like words. Words are our friends. I remember reading, or at least, leafing through a dictionary when I was very young (and bored), and it seems like every time I looked through one, I’d find a word that sounded interesting. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that “word” rhymes with “nerd”, but that’s beside the point. What I want to say in this installment is that as much as I like words, I don’t have very many of them lately, for reasons that are best left unsaid. And so, loyal readers, today’s entry is not an essay, but a collection of blurbs. And just so you know, the word “blurb” can be used as a transitive verb, although I have yet to see an example of that in a sentence.
Dictionary: I remember finding the word “fart” in a dictionary. I don’t remember if it was Webster’s or Funk & Wagnall’s, but the definition read: “an odiferous zephyr.” I thought that was just about the funniest thing I’d ever seen. I still think it’s funny.
God & Physics: Frank Tipler says he has definitive scientific proof that God exists. In a series of equations that I can’t begin to fathom, he “proves” an almighty algorithm. This seems like a big waste of time and effort to me, because I don’t believe that the creature can understand the mind of the creator. And if I were you, I would beware the person who says they do.
Functionally Drunk: I found a website (here) that unabashedly caters to people of my ilk. There’s too much funny stuff there to list here, so I’ll just quote something I saw there that made me laugh out loud. “You know you’re drunk when you step on your own fingers.” Why is that funny? Because I’ve done it.
Just Good TV: I don’t watch much TV; I only get about 17 channels, and among those, 2 are Jesus channels, 2 are Spanish channels, and one is C-Span. But, now and then because I’m a nerd, I find myself watching America’s Funniest Videos. No matter how dorky you think it is, it’s the best reality show on TV. It’s not from AFV, but have a look at this clip and tell me it’s dumb.
Soothsayer: Check the archives of this blog for “Political Rant Vol. II,” and notice that I correctly predicted that Mitt Romney’s faith would be an issue, and then refer to the “God and Physics” blurb above. Al Sharpton knows God, and so does Ted Haggard and even Osama Bin Laden. That should give you pause.
My Team: My hockey team petered out tonight. I don’t pretend to be a sports writer, but if the Detroit Red Wings had played the first two periods of tonight’s game like they did the third, I would be a much happier person. Maybe next year.
Youthful Exuberance: I visited the Museum of Science & Industry in Chicago when I was much younger, and I still remember all of the cool stuff I saw. Of all the wonders there, the one that sticks with me the most was a slice of an entire human body about a quarter inch thick pressed between two pieces of Plexiglas. I know a little girl who visited there this month, and I hope she finds it as fascinating as I did.
I think I’m finished for tonight, and I’ve come up with my own sentence using “blurb” as a transitive verb. I blurbed you.
23 May 2007
16 May 2007
Bless the Children
I don’t have kids. I think I was probably 14 or 15 when I decided that raising children was something I did not want to do. I don’t hate kids, I just don’t want any. Because of this stance, I have been accused of being selfish for my decision, and have even had people insinuate that I am somehow committing a transgression against God himself for not going forth and multiplying. My decision to remain childless is my own business, but I say to you here and now: To have more than two children is to help destroy the human race.
There’s no doubt in my mind that overpopulation is the single largest problem facing every living person on this planet. Consider these (estimated) numbers: In 1802, the world population reached one billion persons. We know for sure that there were thriving civilizations at least 4000 years ago, so let’s work on the assumption that it took around 6000 years to produce one billion people alive on the earth at the same time. In 1928, the population reached 2 billion. What took 6000 years had been accomplished in just over 100 and it didn’t stop there. Just 70 years later, the world’s population tripled to 6 billion. That’s five billion children born in less than 200 years.
The fact is that unless every person on earth of reproductive age agrees to have no more than two children, which would keep the tally where it is now, we will continue to grow. Even if such a thing were possible (which it isn’t), there are still those who would cry “foul!” and assert that no one should be able to tell them how many children to have, and they’d be right. Selfish, perhaps, but right. The trouble is, though, that the planet we live on will support only a finite number of people no matter how great our strides in agriculture. The simple fact is that we are heading, no, rushing toward a catastrophe that will affect every single one of us.
In 1973, a movie was produced called “Soylent Green.” It is a bleak and terrifying glimpse into the future of a world overpopulated and starving, decimated by climate changes. (Sound familiar?) Natural foods are available only to the very few rich, while the general populace subsists on wafers manufactured by the Soylent Company. The twist is that the wafers are made from the dead (an inevitable consequence of being alive). The more people there are, the more dead there will be, and since living people have to eat, well…it is the only logical solution to feed an overpopulated world that has procreated itself to the point where it cannot feed its ever increasing numbers.
Nature has ways of culling the population in the form of disasters and diseases, and we humans do a pretty good job of killing each other off as well. Unfortunately, we are able to replenish ourselves at a much faster rate. Perhaps the most fundamental right of people is to reproduce, and there is no moral solution to overpopulation. I am sure, however, that an immoral one will come along. You may say that I am foolish and cynical, and I hope you’re right, but make no mistake: If we do not stem the current rate of reproduction, the world of “Soylent Green” is the horrific, inexorable destiny of our species.
Epilogue:
I started this essay after reading about a “drop box” for unwanted infants in Japan, and got off on the tangent of overpopulation. I’ve been wanting to write about it for some time, and I finally found my impetus. Read about the drop box here and ask yourself if this is a good idea. I’m not even going to touch the abortion issue save to say that planning is the key to solving this problem we all face, no matter what the Catholics say. And for those who think I’m being a shrill doomsday prophet, you need only look to the millions starving in the world right now and tell them I’m wrong. Better yet, feed them anti birth control literature and tell them it’s God’s will that they are born to starve.
There’s no doubt in my mind that overpopulation is the single largest problem facing every living person on this planet. Consider these (estimated) numbers: In 1802, the world population reached one billion persons. We know for sure that there were thriving civilizations at least 4000 years ago, so let’s work on the assumption that it took around 6000 years to produce one billion people alive on the earth at the same time. In 1928, the population reached 2 billion. What took 6000 years had been accomplished in just over 100 and it didn’t stop there. Just 70 years later, the world’s population tripled to 6 billion. That’s five billion children born in less than 200 years.
The fact is that unless every person on earth of reproductive age agrees to have no more than two children, which would keep the tally where it is now, we will continue to grow. Even if such a thing were possible (which it isn’t), there are still those who would cry “foul!” and assert that no one should be able to tell them how many children to have, and they’d be right. Selfish, perhaps, but right. The trouble is, though, that the planet we live on will support only a finite number of people no matter how great our strides in agriculture. The simple fact is that we are heading, no, rushing toward a catastrophe that will affect every single one of us.
In 1973, a movie was produced called “Soylent Green.” It is a bleak and terrifying glimpse into the future of a world overpopulated and starving, decimated by climate changes. (Sound familiar?) Natural foods are available only to the very few rich, while the general populace subsists on wafers manufactured by the Soylent Company. The twist is that the wafers are made from the dead (an inevitable consequence of being alive). The more people there are, the more dead there will be, and since living people have to eat, well…it is the only logical solution to feed an overpopulated world that has procreated itself to the point where it cannot feed its ever increasing numbers.
Nature has ways of culling the population in the form of disasters and diseases, and we humans do a pretty good job of killing each other off as well. Unfortunately, we are able to replenish ourselves at a much faster rate. Perhaps the most fundamental right of people is to reproduce, and there is no moral solution to overpopulation. I am sure, however, that an immoral one will come along. You may say that I am foolish and cynical, and I hope you’re right, but make no mistake: If we do not stem the current rate of reproduction, the world of “Soylent Green” is the horrific, inexorable destiny of our species.
Epilogue:
I started this essay after reading about a “drop box” for unwanted infants in Japan, and got off on the tangent of overpopulation. I’ve been wanting to write about it for some time, and I finally found my impetus. Read about the drop box here and ask yourself if this is a good idea. I’m not even going to touch the abortion issue save to say that planning is the key to solving this problem we all face, no matter what the Catholics say. And for those who think I’m being a shrill doomsday prophet, you need only look to the millions starving in the world right now and tell them I’m wrong. Better yet, feed them anti birth control literature and tell them it’s God’s will that they are born to starve.
11 May 2007
Ghoulish Capitalism
Capitalism, by definition, is the practice of seeing an opportunity, taking advantage of it and then exploiting it for profit. It is the foundation of American economics and the cornerstone of families like the Rockefellers and the DuPonts; first or second generation immigrants, who come from humble beginnings to rise to the top of the American dream. We admire these people for their ability to see an empty space in the demand and come up with a supply. Kudos to them, I say, and I’m certainly not naïve enough to think that they built their businesses without stepping on any toes. However, I think that sometimes the capitalistic infrastructure permits weasels into the hen house.
Fred McChesney is one such weasel. From the Associated Press: “Within hours of the [Virginia Tech] rampage, the Phoenix man began buying dozens of domain names (CampusKillings.com, VirginiaTechMurders.com, SlaughterInVirginia.com) in the hopes of selling them later to the highest bidder.” Even URLs using victims’ names have been purchased by strangers for sale later (at a huge profit), possibly to family members wanting to create an online memorial for their lost loved ones. Can you imagine, as a parent of a murdered child, having to pay to use the name you gave that child in order to create an online homage?
McChesney (and others) claim that it is capitalism, pure and simple. They believe that they are pursuing a victimless endeavor by exploiting victims. McChesney says "What I'm doing is the equivalent of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, period.” Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe I’m just blinded by the sheer thoughtless audacity of this practice, but I don’t understand what the hell that means. It would seem, in an effort to be clever, he is justifying his actions by cloaking a non sequitur as a rational explanation.
I was talking about this with a friend today, who seemed baffled by my outrage. He likened these actions to a funeral director trying to sell caskets, but again, I didn’t see the parallel. There is a definite need for funeral directors, and fortunately for them, they are in a business that has an endless, guaranteed clientele. Perfect capitalism. But I failed to see how McChesney and his ilk even remotely compare to legitimate funereal businesses. At the very best, these URL sellers are ghouls, victimizing not only the dead, but the living as well.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m sure the Rockefellers and the DuPonts stepped on some toes to build their empires, but part and parcel of the “American Dream” is hard work. In retrospect, the openings they saw seem like gaping holes to us, but there is no doubt in my mind that they attained their goals (and fortunes) by recognizing opportunity and then working hard to make their dreams a reality. McChesney, however, can make no such claim. I can imagine him gleefully snapping up domain names as the tragedy unfolded, slavering over his keyboard with dollar signs in his eyes, utterly unfazed by the senseless carnage from which he hopes to profit. There is no empathy for the victims, only greed, easy money at the expense of another, with no effort whatsoever.
Loyal readers of this blog know that I do not discuss my personal religious beliefs, but in this case, I will make an exception. I hope there is an awful, agonizing, endless hell for people like Fred McChesney. Maybe, before he gets on the elevator going down, he can explain to St. Peter the whole “Titanic deck chairs” thing.
Read the AP story here.
Fred McChesney is one such weasel. From the Associated Press: “Within hours of the [Virginia Tech] rampage, the Phoenix man began buying dozens of domain names (CampusKillings.com, VirginiaTechMurders.com, SlaughterInVirginia.com) in the hopes of selling them later to the highest bidder.” Even URLs using victims’ names have been purchased by strangers for sale later (at a huge profit), possibly to family members wanting to create an online memorial for their lost loved ones. Can you imagine, as a parent of a murdered child, having to pay to use the name you gave that child in order to create an online homage?
McChesney (and others) claim that it is capitalism, pure and simple. They believe that they are pursuing a victimless endeavor by exploiting victims. McChesney says "What I'm doing is the equivalent of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, period.” Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe I’m just blinded by the sheer thoughtless audacity of this practice, but I don’t understand what the hell that means. It would seem, in an effort to be clever, he is justifying his actions by cloaking a non sequitur as a rational explanation.
I was talking about this with a friend today, who seemed baffled by my outrage. He likened these actions to a funeral director trying to sell caskets, but again, I didn’t see the parallel. There is a definite need for funeral directors, and fortunately for them, they are in a business that has an endless, guaranteed clientele. Perfect capitalism. But I failed to see how McChesney and his ilk even remotely compare to legitimate funereal businesses. At the very best, these URL sellers are ghouls, victimizing not only the dead, but the living as well.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m sure the Rockefellers and the DuPonts stepped on some toes to build their empires, but part and parcel of the “American Dream” is hard work. In retrospect, the openings they saw seem like gaping holes to us, but there is no doubt in my mind that they attained their goals (and fortunes) by recognizing opportunity and then working hard to make their dreams a reality. McChesney, however, can make no such claim. I can imagine him gleefully snapping up domain names as the tragedy unfolded, slavering over his keyboard with dollar signs in his eyes, utterly unfazed by the senseless carnage from which he hopes to profit. There is no empathy for the victims, only greed, easy money at the expense of another, with no effort whatsoever.
Loyal readers of this blog know that I do not discuss my personal religious beliefs, but in this case, I will make an exception. I hope there is an awful, agonizing, endless hell for people like Fred McChesney. Maybe, before he gets on the elevator going down, he can explain to St. Peter the whole “Titanic deck chairs” thing.
Read the AP story here.
07 May 2007
New Blog
My anonymity is gone. I had to come out into the open and use my real name. While this blog will remain the fluffy thing that it is, I have a serious one now that is my showcase for things I've actually published other than in the blogosphere. You can find my new blog here, or with the link on the right side of the page. Thank you for your visits, and as always, please leave a comment if you like what you see.
Fortuna Mala
Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. I know it’s an old saying but it is true, isn’t it? Sometimes the day seems like it’s going to be normal, then there’s that one thing that happens that makes you wish you could just raise your hands and say “Stop! Stop right there!” And like a movie director, you want to put everything in its original place and take it from the top again, but you can’t. So you slog through the day knowing that the world you live in is going to bite you every chance it gets. How I hate those days.
I’m what you would call poor, but I don’t live under a bridge (yet). I know that many people have it so much worse than I do, but that doesn’t make it any better when one of the dark days rolls around. It would be foolish to think that life should be an endless parade of good things and warm feelings; if that were the case, how would we know what “good” was? No, you have to take the sour with the sweet. When I was a child, if I needed an aspirin, my mother would crush one between two spoons and then put some honey on it, and I have to admit that I kind of liked the taste. So doesn’t it seem logical that if your outlook on life is based on the premise that you know things won’t always go your way, you shouldn’t be too disappointed, right? Wrong.
The Roman goddess of luck was called Fortuna. On the days she smiles, she is indeed a goddess, but when she doesn’t, you should just stop what you’re doing and go back to bed. On those dark days, doesn’t it seem like you’re not the only one who’s being tormented? Doesn’t everyone around you act like they have a pitchfork poking them? Even the kindliest looking people reveal themselves to be monsters. I saw a grandfatherly old man today in the grocery store parking lot place his bags in his car and then push his empty cart away, waiting long enough to watch it bang into another car. Then he got in his and left. In that same grocery trip, I saw a young couple with a full basket in the express lane, directly beneath a sign that said, in big letters, “10 Items Or Less”. Since I’m poor, and needed to buy only a few things, I stood in line behind them. When it was finally my turn, I nodded at the couple and said to the clerk, “What a couple of expressholes.” She laughed, and said she had told them this was the express lane, but they said “There’re two of us”, so apparently, they figured they were entitled to 20 items. But this essay isn’t about my bad day; it’s about all of ours.
The aforementioned Fortuna eventually came to be depicted on a wheel that was partly submerged under water, and we humans must ride her device throughout our lives. Like the adage it spawned, if your head is above water, you’re doing all right. But since wheels turn, sooner or later you’re going to be gasping for breath and hoping the wheel is in high gear. For some people, it’s stuck in a skid, burying itself deeper and deeper, making a…rut.
I don’t have any insightful advice about how to deal with the bad days. As I’ve noted, a return to bed is a good idea. So is bourbon, but be careful because that can make a bad day much, much worse. If you don’t have to leave the house or touch anything hot or fix something critical (like the toilet), you should be fairly safe, but keep in mind that the wheel is always spinning. If you forget that, Fortuna will make sure that it only takes a half turn to remind you.
Notes: Find more information on Fortuna here and here.
I’m what you would call poor, but I don’t live under a bridge (yet). I know that many people have it so much worse than I do, but that doesn’t make it any better when one of the dark days rolls around. It would be foolish to think that life should be an endless parade of good things and warm feelings; if that were the case, how would we know what “good” was? No, you have to take the sour with the sweet. When I was a child, if I needed an aspirin, my mother would crush one between two spoons and then put some honey on it, and I have to admit that I kind of liked the taste. So doesn’t it seem logical that if your outlook on life is based on the premise that you know things won’t always go your way, you shouldn’t be too disappointed, right? Wrong.
The Roman goddess of luck was called Fortuna. On the days she smiles, she is indeed a goddess, but when she doesn’t, you should just stop what you’re doing and go back to bed. On those dark days, doesn’t it seem like you’re not the only one who’s being tormented? Doesn’t everyone around you act like they have a pitchfork poking them? Even the kindliest looking people reveal themselves to be monsters. I saw a grandfatherly old man today in the grocery store parking lot place his bags in his car and then push his empty cart away, waiting long enough to watch it bang into another car. Then he got in his and left. In that same grocery trip, I saw a young couple with a full basket in the express lane, directly beneath a sign that said, in big letters, “10 Items Or Less”. Since I’m poor, and needed to buy only a few things, I stood in line behind them. When it was finally my turn, I nodded at the couple and said to the clerk, “What a couple of expressholes.” She laughed, and said she had told them this was the express lane, but they said “There’re two of us”, so apparently, they figured they were entitled to 20 items. But this essay isn’t about my bad day; it’s about all of ours.
The aforementioned Fortuna eventually came to be depicted on a wheel that was partly submerged under water, and we humans must ride her device throughout our lives. Like the adage it spawned, if your head is above water, you’re doing all right. But since wheels turn, sooner or later you’re going to be gasping for breath and hoping the wheel is in high gear. For some people, it’s stuck in a skid, burying itself deeper and deeper, making a…rut.
I don’t have any insightful advice about how to deal with the bad days. As I’ve noted, a return to bed is a good idea. So is bourbon, but be careful because that can make a bad day much, much worse. If you don’t have to leave the house or touch anything hot or fix something critical (like the toilet), you should be fairly safe, but keep in mind that the wheel is always spinning. If you forget that, Fortuna will make sure that it only takes a half turn to remind you.
Notes: Find more information on Fortuna here and here.
04 May 2007
Phunny Phish Phobia
I like to fish. I like it a lot. Before I moved to Florida, I fished in Michigan, and it was lots of fun. I wasn’t a rabid fisherman, but on occasional summer days, one of my buddies and I could pack all of our fishing gear AND a case of beer into a canoe and paddle around one of the lakes that dotted the area around Fenton, Michigan. We would find small streams and wade into them, looking for mussels to use as free bait. Once on the lake, we would spend the afternoon swilling beer and catching bluegills, sunburns and buzzes. It was great, and on a good day, we would bring home a mess of fish to clean and fry, and I’m here to say that there is nothing like a big pile of fried bluegills with macaroni and cheese.
Since I moved to Florida, however, I have realized that there is much more to fishing than a canoe, a twelve pack and a Zebco 202 rod/reel combo. In the small lakes up north, I could count on bluegills, crappies, or maybe a catfish now and then. I even pulled up a huge snapping turtle once. But down here, in the brackish water of the Halifax River, when your line tugs, you don’t know what’s on the other end. The fish here have teeth. Big teeth. They have sharp fins and stinging appendages, and they are much larger than bluegills. Gone are the days of pulling a fish into the canoe and removing the hook from a palm-sized bluegill, formerly considered by me and my buddy as a “monster”. I now need special tools to remove hooks because I like having all of my fingers. Just last week I hooked onto something REALLY BIG, and by the time I fought it to the dock I was standing on, I could see that it was a stingray that was four feet across. (That’s big) My line snapped as it came out of the water, which is good, because I was wondering how I was going to get my hook out of it without ending up like Steve Irwin. Really. I’m not scared of the fish here, but I do have a healthy respect for them. And that reminds me of a funny story I wanted to relate about fishing and phobias.
One of my buddies here, Tony, has a boat, and he’s taken me out several times to fish. It’s a small boat, a 14 footer, too small to go into the open ocean, but perfect for the intracoastal waterway that covers most of the east coast of Florida (and the entire eastern seaboard). Mosquito Lagoon is where we go, but as long as we don’t get too near the islands, we aren’t bothered by bugs. Anyway, not too long ago, he called and invited me to go fishing, and I of course agreed. Another of his friends (let’s call him “Bob”) was going with us, so we three got some bait and launched the boat for some fishing fun. It takes about 40 minutes by boat to get to our favorite spot, and during the ride, I got to chat with Bob, whom I had never met. He was a younger guy with a pleasant disposition, and we passed the time of the ride making small talk, watching porpoises, and hoping that the fishing was going to be good that day. (Porpoises spoil the fishing. If they’re around, the fish aren’t.) When we finally got to our spot, things got funny in a hurry.
We were using live shrimp for bait, and after we anchored, it was time to prepare the lines with devilishly tempting morsels that would hopefully help to fill our live well and later, our bellies. I baited my hook, and Tony baited his. Bob didn’t do anything, but he was watching Tony bait his hook with the oddest look on his face. He looked like he was in a trance. Tony threw two lines in, and then he baited Bob’s hook. Because I’m an idiot sometimes, I said to Bob, “What, are you scared to touch the shrimp”? He was a little sheepish, but he did answer, “Yes. Yes I am”. I said, “Really”? “Yeah”, he said. “Really”.
The incongruity of this situation was almost too much for me to bear. I didn’t want to laugh and make Bob feel bad. He must have sensed that I was wondering why he was fishing when he wouldn’t bait his own hook, because he explained his reasoning. He said he had been “finned” by a catfish as a young boy, and has since had a fear of touching live aquatic creatures. He was very good natured about it, and I got the feeling that a day of fishing might just help him get over his aversion.
It’s been my experience that the fish in the Halifax River are notorious bait-stealers. Tony and I have gone through 6 dozen shrimp in less than 3 hours. I think every fish I actually land costs me about 9 shrimp. The same thing held true that day, and much to my surprise, Bob actually said at one point that he would attempt to bait his own hook. Tony and I offered silent encouragement as he prepared to stick his hand into the bait bucket and pick out a shrimp. I think he had been thinking about it so as to not seem so squeamish. Now, in case you don’t know, live shrimp don’t like to be picked up, and they are very quick. You have to plunge your hand in the bucket and grab, or else they’ll just avoid it. Bob got his nerve up and slowly, gingerly stuck his hand in the bucket.
He pulled his hand out of that bucket so fast you would have thought he’d been electrocuted. He also let out an involuntary squeal that caused Tony and I to lose our composure and burst out laughing. We weren’t being mean, but it was just too funny to suppress. Bob laughed at himself too, which was good. He was scared, but at least he tried. We were still chuckling about it when Tony got a fish on. From the way his pole was bent, Bob and I could see that it was a fairly good sized fish, but not a monster. After just a couple minutes, Tony landed a sheepshead that was about a foot long. Sheepsheads are interesting looking fish. They’re striped like a zebra, and they have teeth that look exactly like human teeth. It’s almost as if they have little dentures. Anyway, as Tony landed the fish in the boat, it was flipping about, obviously unhappy about being hooked. I wasn’t watching the fish, though. I was watching Bob, who didn’t have the look of abject terror, but when the fish flipped near him, I thought he was going to jump out of the boat. There was no doubt that he was really afraid of fish. He was laughing, but I could tell it was the nervous tittering of someone about to freak out.
We all had a good laugh about Bob’s fish phobia, and we did pretty well that day, as far as fish caught. Sometimes we get skunked fishing, but with Bob there, it wasn’t dull at all. We drank beer and baited Bob’s hook and took his fish off when he caught one. In a way, I had to admire Bob for at least trying to face his fear. He loves to fish; he just won’t touch them. He’s like a tightrope walker who is afraid of heights. I gotta give him credit for that.
Since I moved to Florida, however, I have realized that there is much more to fishing than a canoe, a twelve pack and a Zebco 202 rod/reel combo. In the small lakes up north, I could count on bluegills, crappies, or maybe a catfish now and then. I even pulled up a huge snapping turtle once. But down here, in the brackish water of the Halifax River, when your line tugs, you don’t know what’s on the other end. The fish here have teeth. Big teeth. They have sharp fins and stinging appendages, and they are much larger than bluegills. Gone are the days of pulling a fish into the canoe and removing the hook from a palm-sized bluegill, formerly considered by me and my buddy as a “monster”. I now need special tools to remove hooks because I like having all of my fingers. Just last week I hooked onto something REALLY BIG, and by the time I fought it to the dock I was standing on, I could see that it was a stingray that was four feet across. (That’s big) My line snapped as it came out of the water, which is good, because I was wondering how I was going to get my hook out of it without ending up like Steve Irwin. Really. I’m not scared of the fish here, but I do have a healthy respect for them. And that reminds me of a funny story I wanted to relate about fishing and phobias.
One of my buddies here, Tony, has a boat, and he’s taken me out several times to fish. It’s a small boat, a 14 footer, too small to go into the open ocean, but perfect for the intracoastal waterway that covers most of the east coast of Florida (and the entire eastern seaboard). Mosquito Lagoon is where we go, but as long as we don’t get too near the islands, we aren’t bothered by bugs. Anyway, not too long ago, he called and invited me to go fishing, and I of course agreed. Another of his friends (let’s call him “Bob”) was going with us, so we three got some bait and launched the boat for some fishing fun. It takes about 40 minutes by boat to get to our favorite spot, and during the ride, I got to chat with Bob, whom I had never met. He was a younger guy with a pleasant disposition, and we passed the time of the ride making small talk, watching porpoises, and hoping that the fishing was going to be good that day. (Porpoises spoil the fishing. If they’re around, the fish aren’t.) When we finally got to our spot, things got funny in a hurry.
We were using live shrimp for bait, and after we anchored, it was time to prepare the lines with devilishly tempting morsels that would hopefully help to fill our live well and later, our bellies. I baited my hook, and Tony baited his. Bob didn’t do anything, but he was watching Tony bait his hook with the oddest look on his face. He looked like he was in a trance. Tony threw two lines in, and then he baited Bob’s hook. Because I’m an idiot sometimes, I said to Bob, “What, are you scared to touch the shrimp”? He was a little sheepish, but he did answer, “Yes. Yes I am”. I said, “Really”? “Yeah”, he said. “Really”.
The incongruity of this situation was almost too much for me to bear. I didn’t want to laugh and make Bob feel bad. He must have sensed that I was wondering why he was fishing when he wouldn’t bait his own hook, because he explained his reasoning. He said he had been “finned” by a catfish as a young boy, and has since had a fear of touching live aquatic creatures. He was very good natured about it, and I got the feeling that a day of fishing might just help him get over his aversion.
It’s been my experience that the fish in the Halifax River are notorious bait-stealers. Tony and I have gone through 6 dozen shrimp in less than 3 hours. I think every fish I actually land costs me about 9 shrimp. The same thing held true that day, and much to my surprise, Bob actually said at one point that he would attempt to bait his own hook. Tony and I offered silent encouragement as he prepared to stick his hand into the bait bucket and pick out a shrimp. I think he had been thinking about it so as to not seem so squeamish. Now, in case you don’t know, live shrimp don’t like to be picked up, and they are very quick. You have to plunge your hand in the bucket and grab, or else they’ll just avoid it. Bob got his nerve up and slowly, gingerly stuck his hand in the bucket.
He pulled his hand out of that bucket so fast you would have thought he’d been electrocuted. He also let out an involuntary squeal that caused Tony and I to lose our composure and burst out laughing. We weren’t being mean, but it was just too funny to suppress. Bob laughed at himself too, which was good. He was scared, but at least he tried. We were still chuckling about it when Tony got a fish on. From the way his pole was bent, Bob and I could see that it was a fairly good sized fish, but not a monster. After just a couple minutes, Tony landed a sheepshead that was about a foot long. Sheepsheads are interesting looking fish. They’re striped like a zebra, and they have teeth that look exactly like human teeth. It’s almost as if they have little dentures. Anyway, as Tony landed the fish in the boat, it was flipping about, obviously unhappy about being hooked. I wasn’t watching the fish, though. I was watching Bob, who didn’t have the look of abject terror, but when the fish flipped near him, I thought he was going to jump out of the boat. There was no doubt that he was really afraid of fish. He was laughing, but I could tell it was the nervous tittering of someone about to freak out.
We all had a good laugh about Bob’s fish phobia, and we did pretty well that day, as far as fish caught. Sometimes we get skunked fishing, but with Bob there, it wasn’t dull at all. We drank beer and baited Bob’s hook and took his fish off when he caught one. In a way, I had to admire Bob for at least trying to face his fear. He loves to fish; he just won’t touch them. He’s like a tightrope walker who is afraid of heights. I gotta give him credit for that.
02 May 2007
New Look
To the readers of this blog, I am happy to present my new look. Maybe I’m getting old, but I found the old format difficult to read. That green font thing just wasn’t cutting it for me. I like big black letters against a white background, and that’s how I’m going to write from now on.
It took a little doing, but I managed to get my links back after reformatting. I had a little trouble with my counter, but I think I’ve got it to where it should be. And speaking of that, I noticed that I get hits from all over the globe, which is really surprising, and not all together unpleasant. For those of you who do visit frequently, I would like to ask that you leave a comment, either positive or negative, or leave a note on my messenger thingy. I’ve changed the word identification feature for commenting, so you don’t have to type any gobbledygook in to voice your opinion.
So you know, as I revamped this page, I passed up the opportunity to use advertising to promote my blog. This may or may not be a mistake. Call me naïve, ignorant or even stupid, but I like to think that people read my ramblings because they like them, and not because I have ads on my blog. I mean, really, how often do you visit a blog and decide that it’s a really good idea to click on the “Get Rich Telecommuting!” ad instead of reading the content?
In the next few days, look for posts about:
1. Funny phobias
2. Apartment living
3. Porn then and now
It took a little doing, but I managed to get my links back after reformatting. I had a little trouble with my counter, but I think I’ve got it to where it should be. And speaking of that, I noticed that I get hits from all over the globe, which is really surprising, and not all together unpleasant. For those of you who do visit frequently, I would like to ask that you leave a comment, either positive or negative, or leave a note on my messenger thingy. I’ve changed the word identification feature for commenting, so you don’t have to type any gobbledygook in to voice your opinion.
So you know, as I revamped this page, I passed up the opportunity to use advertising to promote my blog. This may or may not be a mistake. Call me naïve, ignorant or even stupid, but I like to think that people read my ramblings because they like them, and not because I have ads on my blog. I mean, really, how often do you visit a blog and decide that it’s a really good idea to click on the “Get Rich Telecommuting!” ad instead of reading the content?
In the next few days, look for posts about:
1. Funny phobias
2. Apartment living
3. Porn then and now
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