I wonder how one would go about finding a sponsor. I reckon I need a so-so boat, a newish truck & gas money, some rods & stuff, meal money, and an old gal who can fish dusk to dawn every 2-3 weeks. With the right gal, we could monetize a website.
Season starts mid-March. Best chop-chop.
It’s been raining here for about 36 hours straight, just your basic shower, no thunderboomers with wind, just dull-ass wetness falling from the sky. It’s a damn mud pit in the yard and the roads are, not impassable, but something you want to stay off of if you can. But I’ve got to go to the Walmart for prescriptions, so the attempt will be made. At least it’s not really shivery out there.
Did I say ‘kind of grim’ before? I did. Turns out the insurance company declined a gemzar-only routine. They will allow a gemzar+taxotere, and I will start that on Monday. If I didn’t have so many loose ends from a poorly-planned-and-executed life, I might be inclined to listen harder to the ‘fuck this shit, I’m going fishing’ devil on my shoulder. But I’d probably bog down before I got to the main road, and have to walk back. And there are more Corb Lund albums to listen to.
And I need to read this Rubicon book loaned by Otis, see how it ends:
“Yet alien as it was, the Republic still holds up a mirror to us. Its citizens were obsessed by celebrity chefs, all-night dancing and exotic pets; they fought elections in law courts and were addicted to spin; they toppled foreign tyrants in the name of self-defence. Two thousand years may have passed, but we remain the Romans’ heirs.“
Oh, fine…more depressing shit.