2000-06-15
Dear Diary:

Sometimes at night when I cannot sleep, I'll slip in here, boot my computer and open my ICQ for random chat. I try to pick people who list things in their profiles that I haven't experienced.

Gotta love those fishing books, eh. So one night I tapped a guy on the shoulder whose profile said he was an avid deep sea fisherman. I had visions of another Ernest Hemingway, eh, someone who could give me his own personal version of "The Old Man and the Sea."

Gamely, I made my opening sally. "So I read you're a deep sea fisherman. Have you done it a long time?" (Lame, I know, but you have to start somewhere.)

The chat screen is blank. Then, with excruciating slowness, the letters Y . . . E . . . S . . . appear. I wait for more. Nothing.

Alrightee then.

I take a deep breath, sally number two issues forth.

"So do you live near the ocean?"

The chat screen is blank. Then, with excruciating slowness, the letters Y . . . E . . . S . . . appear. I wait for more. Nothing.

Alrightee then.

Clearly, if I give Mr. Chatty a yes or no question I'm going to get a one syllable answer. I can handle this. I'll just hit this guy with something that can't be answered yes or no.

"So tell me, what's the best fighting fish you've ever landed?" I asked him, meanwhile thinking, "There, let's see him answer that with one syllable."

Oh yeah, I was little Ms. Smug.

The chat screen is blank. Then, with excruciating slowness, the letters T . . . U . . . N . . . A. . . appear. I wait for more. Nothing.

Alrightee then.

Two, count 'em TWO syllables in that answer, AND the right fish species, but I certainly hadn't landed a Hemingway. Two more questions, two more painfully slow monosyllabic replies.

My will to live was slowly ebbing out through my fingertips. I politely bailed after 20 minutes, a humbled, broken woman ...

Sometimes, though, you really luck out, you connect with someone who has the gift of words, you tap into something they love. There was a night ... one night I hit a guy from Pennsylvania who lived to fly fish in Montana, a guy I christened Mr. Fish Puke.

And Mister Bister, he was so into talking about it that I could grok how it felt to stumble out of a tent on a damp, chilly morning, have icy water running by your waders, the fight of the fish. He made it so vivid I could almost see the exhausted fish in his hands, feel the quick twist as he unset the hook and set it free. Now THERE was a guy who could chat.

"But why Mr. Fish Puke, Marn?" I can hear you asking, and thank heavens for that because I was having a hard time working that in.

See, this guy said that an avid trout fisherman keeps a little suction thingie with him, and he sucks out part of the contents of the stomach of the first trout he catches so he can see what they're eating and fine tune his fishing flies accordingly.

You know, I've done some odd things in my life, but harvesting and studying fish puke as part of a hobby is not one of them.

Come to think of it, I don't have any puke-related hobbies.

Now what are the odds of that?

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.