Out of thin air (or "Pulling posts out of my ass")

Ah....yes.  Writer's block.

I've noticed a trend over the last (almost) year of writing this blog.  Work.  Work gets in the way of my creativity. Don't get me wrong, I like my job.  It just gets in the way of fishing and blogging, that's all.  And when things get a little more stressful than normal, my usual laminar flow of creativity gets just a touch turbulent.

Of course, there are those out there who revel in their retirement and rub our noses in it, which doesn't really help...("A day in the life" by Mikes Gone Fishing ) , but since there is a possible trip to the driftless in the works...I guess I can forgive Mike.  For now.

So what does one do to cure this kind of slump?  Well...start a stream of consciousness post like this one.  After a short time, you have either worked yourself into the mood to type.  Or not.

In tonight's scenario, a trip outside (mid post) to walk the dog led to the unmistakably brilliant idea of building a fire, letting the dog run the yard (off leash), making myself a little work space with lawn furniture, and of course, cracking a(nother) beer. All that's left is to settle in, enjoy the fire, and reap the benefits of that wireless network that took me sooo long to get right a couple of years ago.

Yeah buddy.  Now we're cooking with Crisco.

Add  a picture from your little creative heaven and "Wala!" you have worked yourself into a completely pointless blog post.  It's too late to turn back now, I'm invested.  The problem is this, after a good solid description of how hard I worked to get comfortable...then what?

What about those recent fishing outings that I haven't mentioned yet?  Well, let's see...there is that recent outing with my boy who, once again, out fished me.  (a subject that is getting less and less humorous to me).

To him, the story never gets old and size clearly matters.

"Walk softly, but carry a big bobber"  or something like that...
Take kid fishing.  Kid catches bigger fish than you.  Kid gloats.  *Fun*
I didn't get skunked...but....the browns I caught were all smaller than "G's".  And, as he very astutely pointed out: two of my trout "might" have equaled HIS one trout.

Kids.  I swear.  Sometimes I'd trade him for a case of beer and a good sandwich.

So to shake the ego blistering delivered by Mr. Big Trout...I went off on my own the next night.  On the same creek.  Call it an act of redemption if you need to, but for me it was necessary.

I certainly didn't set any size records, but I did catch fish.  Enough to be satisfied that I DO still know how its done.  But, I also managed to (inadvertently) work myself into some ugly dreams later in the night.  First, a photo of my prize:

Sure, he was small, and the #16 Elk Hair Caddis barely fit in his mouth, but he was all heart!  With big acrobatic leaps this little trout was pound for pound (OK...ounce for ounce...) the most fun fish I have caught in a while. I'm convinced he was part tarpon.  I have also been led to believe that when a stream carries all sizes of fish, that it is relatively healthy.  This is encouraging to me as the stream I was on frequently offers me concern that it just isn't ever going to get any better.

Yeah, about those dreams I mentioned.  Well, loyal reader, if you know me at all, then you also know that I am not a big fan of spiders.  As discussed before ( S.P,I.D.E.R.S ) - I don't like them.  Period.  I am still fascinated by them, so I am inclined to photograph them when something catches my eye.

...just start counting the creepy little bastards then try to sleep soundly....
The problem with bringing home a photo like this, is that for those of us who don't really like spiders, it is fodder for an overtired mind to twist and contort into funky dreams.  The kind of dreams that are worth mentioning, but not worth typing about in detail about because they weren't very fun.

And finally....

Just because I think it is morally wrong to end a blog post talking about nightmares...I have to share at least ONE recent picture if Manny.  He had surgery earlier this week.  He is doing fine, but seems to weigh less with out that big sack of....sack.   We still call him Manny.  Just not "Manly".

(insert maniacal laughter here)

The dreaded "Cone of Shame" (This is NOT a portrait of a happy dog)
And there it is folks: In the spirit of The Seinfeld Show, I have successfully pulled off a post about nothing in particular. Thanks for reading along.

Til later,


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