| 30 march 2001 New review ! Grodie!
| fish don't watch lure commercials Brian Kirk is our guest columnist today. With all of this unseasonable rain, cold, and misery we've had in NC this week, it's kind of nice to imagine ourselves...here. Spring is here. It’s time to go fishing. I call my friends and gather my gear. Of course, I’m guaranteed success, as I’m armed with a $27.99 (plus shipping and handling) box of fishing lures. Roland Martin himself personally guarantees that any clod with a fishing pole and these special lures will catch more and bigger fish. And just to be extra safe I also purchased the $30.00 lure kit offered by the Banjo Minnow company. Fisherman from all over the country have sworn in front of God and everybody, on national television, that fish will literally jump into the boat if you’re sporting one of these life-like fish catching gems. We’re heading for some family property in Virginia. It’s more or less a farm, but a trout stream borders one side for 40 acres. It’s definitely less river and more stream , but still. We’re going fishing! As we pack up our cars/trucks I notice that all of us have brought our spouses/significant others. I’m immediately turned on. Women who fish? Yeah, baby! My excitement soon diminishes as I hear Brad’s fiancée mumble something about the full-nude clubs in West Virginia. The women aren’t there to fish, they’re coming along as chaperones. Since we’re going to be mere miles from the West Virginia border, they decided to come along to make sure we’re really going fishing -- for fish. Fast forward three hours, 100 miles, three potty breaks, a produce stand stop, a Virginia Lottery stop, and a McDonalds stop. We’ve finally arrived! We breathe the fresh country air, which reeks of cow manure. A dopey looking brown cow saunters up, chewing, and dumps next to my truck. It splatters. I now need to wash my driver side door. The women become invisible. Someone yells, “Grab your stuff! Last one in cleans all the fish!” There’s a brief mock swordfight, followed by all of us running willy-nilly into the stream. Each of us has all of the necessary fishing gear: net, stringer, two poles each, fishing vest, smokes, beer, pockets of tackle boxes, shorts, boots, and a goofy hat. Adam reaches the stream first, but not before hitting the electric fence and briefly levitating two feet off the ground. Note to self: graphite fishing rods conduct electricity. We wade upstream so the fish aren’t tipped off to our presence. I, of course, am using my secret $30 fishing lures. The fish, however, seem unimpressed. Meanwhile, unnoticed, the women find more comfortable spots downstream. They gossip. They sun. They await our dead floating alcohol-soaked bodies to wash ashore. My high-dollar fishing lures aren’t working. Brad, on the other hand, catches a monster. It’s what we call a number 99. Meaning, 99 more of those and we’ll have a meal. Over the next six hours, the four of us catch a pile of fish, none worth keeping. We also catch a serious sunburn and hangover. We’re sore, bruised, fishless, beerless, waterlogged, and ready to go home. Some of us are bleeding. Paul has a lure stuck in his scalp and is in need of medical attention. Our girlfriends wonder if we wouldn’t have been better off among the naked West Virginia girls, and we return home. Maybe next weekend, the fish will think my lures are as cool as I do. Winston-Salem-based Brian Kirk is a network guru, can fix things you never even knew were broken, is nice to small animals, and just read Fast Food Nation . No more ground beef for him. |
