"Time to go fishing," said a noted member of the mining community, who may or may not be raising a pack of white wolves somewhere in Arizona. So I took that advice and paid a visit to the lake after visiting the sick.
It was good to get out and try my luck against the watery opposition and perhaps you know the feeling, that sense of quiet excitement, maybe this time you'll catch the best fish ever. Or not.
This time fell into the "not" category, though I tried my best with the kind of juicy worms that fish are known to love. But they weren't having it, if they were even there at all.
Still, getting out by the waters of the vast inland sea that is Lake Whitney made a welcome change and no one else was catching anything either, by way of consolation.
We were in it for the Texan air, with its hint of sage, cedar and mesquite, taking a needed break from Chelsea Handler and all the other NWO stooges gloating over Alabama.
Don't worry, fish. There will be a rematch, you may be sure of that.
Fish on,
LSP
