| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
|---|
My dad never had anything to do with me until I was 15 and got into some trouble in boarding school. He came to pick me up and for the first time he really talked to me, man to man. He took me home with him which made it the first time since I'd hit school that I got to go home with one of my parents for any extended length of time. I told him about this kid at school, Jenkins, who was basically a happy idiot. Jenkins' father took him fishing, though, and his stories of fishing with his Dad made me jealous. Here's this little know-nothing kid who I'm outwitting academically, athletically and in all other conceivable directions but his goddamn Dad takes him fishing. How does a guy rate that kind of treatment? My old man wouldn't have taken me across the street, much less on an all-day fishing trip. Jenkins, that smarmy little bastard, I wanted to strangle him because his father loved him. I told all this to my old man (in the same conversation where I handed him the news that his only son was a faggot) and my Dad took me fishing. I was so happy out on the water that I felt enraged at my own idiocy, for feeling so happy about something that clean and pure. I shouldn't be that happy about anything that doesn't directly involve drugs or my dick. I've gotta take Brendan fishing. I hate fishing. I don't know much about it. But there's the old stereotype about a kid going out fishing with the old man that's just so damn wholesome. So my kid can put on his high heels and get his ass into the boat and we'll catch a bunch of catfish or galoshes or something. Anyway I miss my Dad and see him in my dreams sometimes. I know rationally that it's just a series of dreams but sometimes he does seem to come to me when I need him most. I'm always glad to see him even if he's just a spook whispering in my ear from the afterlife. |
|
I'd like to do one of those fishing trips that involves getting up at some ungodly hour. Catch a few fish before the sun comes up and get the hell out of Dodge. Go have breakfast at some truck stop. Go home and go back to bed, sleep all damn day. Now THAT'S fishing. It's not going to happen tomorrow or anything. And as hot as it is outside, I doubt it'll really happen until fall. But when we're ready to start ripping helpless aquatic lifeforms out of the water, I might drop you a line and ask what kind of gear would be best. Oswald wants to know if they make fishing poles with pink glitter. I told him they make fake worms with pink glitter. The boy's already color-coordinating the tackle. He's going to be a terror on the lake. |
i love fishing, but i don't like killing fish which is a lovely combination [pilate, new orleans? you will come? yes? and maybe bring crimson?] |
|
|