I reach for another smokie and come up empty handed. Have I really knocked down an entire package of spicy encased mystery meats in one sitting? Damn... A year removed from my failed experiment with P-90X and perhaps I've finally bottomed out. Maybe I should enlist for one of those fat camp shows like "Biggest Loser." Or better yet, I could enroll in Camp Hope from "Heavy Weights," one of my all-time favorite childhood movies. You know, the one where all the fat kids from "Mighty Ducks" go to some Shangri-La in the woods and jump on a giant water balloon to get skinny back before childhood obesity had been identified as an epidemic and was merely comedic fodder for Hollywood screen writers?
Remember when you first saw the previews for that movie and made it your earthly life's mission to jump on "The Blob" at least once before you died? And remember how you marveled at the ingenuity of those pudgy bastards when they pulled the licorice rope out of the hole in the bed post and the treasure chest full of confectionery treats out of the secret compartment in the cabin floor? And in the end, evil fitness-freak Ben Stiller AKA Tony Perkis and his yes-man Lars put them through the grinder before the chub-squad rebelled, prevailing healthier and happier in the end?
Except, that's not how the story goes. Sure, everybody walks out smiling, but the fat kids are still fat at the end. Looking back, wasn't the whole premise of the movie to make them un-fat? How did I miss that? It sure seemed like a victory back then when Gerry Garner (AKA Carp from Mighty Ducks) drove the winning rally car across the finish line to defeat Camp MVP for the first time in history as the 90's dramatic end music roared in the background. Perhaps this was the beginning of the end for a generation of gluttons like me who learned quickly that it doesn't matter what your BMI is, as long as long as your life is set to the right soundtrack.
What does this have to do with fly fishing, you ask? Cool it, Chester. This is my blog, and I'll write about whatever I damn well please.
Truth is, the back channels of my brain only move in one direction. When not consumed with calculating the proper refund (less the coupon discount, plus the tax of course) for Mrs. Smith's Kitty-Cat Dish Towels, they are incessantly at work trying to solve the complex algorithm devoted to determining my next fishing day and location. Inputs to said algorithm include work schedule, no less than 3 weather forecasts, USGS flow charts, multiple fishing reports, lunar tables, hatch charts, roughly 273 FISH HEAD updates per day, and not least of all, the "honey-do list." Yes, it's true, you have to be a fucking Rain Man just to go fishing these days. Sometimes the levee protecting these back channels breaks. And when it does, I find myself pounding Slim Jims and lamenting the ethical shortcomings of Aaron Schwartz. Who, to his credit, is apparently skinny now.
I did manage to host a little "Camp Hope" of my own the other day. Cue 90's victory music (not to be confused with 80's montage music)...