Like all middle-aged couch potatoes I yearn for lost youth and admire those that seek to regain it – from a safe distance of course…
I don’t swerve towards an old guy jogging on the side of the road, don’t belittle some poor housewife trudging smartly through the neighborhood intent on weight loss, if it feels good to them I’m all for it.
Late last year, Albert Argibay, a Wappinger Falls, N.Y., bodybuilder and state correction officer, was escorted by police out of the Planet Fitness gym he was a member of, after another member complained to management of his loud grunting during weightlifting.
I’m reading the above and it occurs to me I’ve committed numerous audio faux pas while fishing.
Fishing is an individualist sport – we got some initial pointers when we started and developed unique mannerisms after years of trial and error. Me? I’m a “curse-mutterer”, I’ll alternately ridicule my remaining physical skills, and comment on the dubious lineage of my quarry. Neither is complementary, but as my tone is low, only the guy across the crick has the opportunity for offense.
Poor knots or errant casts may increase the muttering to a high pitched whine, it never occurred to me that anyone was keeping score, other than the fish:
Oh My God, check out Fatty, yes..he’s tieing on a #8 San Juan Worm…yea, I’m gonna eat that, bring it…bring that WeakSauce..
I figured they were giggling at me, now I know they are trying to get my membership revoked.
Planet Fitness, a national chain, has a solid “no-grunting” policy in place and Argibay’s noisemaking — along with a resulting verbal tussle with management — cost him his membership.
OK, so my New Year’s resolution will be to chomp harder on the greasy cigar butt rather than mumble incoherently, but all my nymphs will be on treble hooks dipped in Garlic.

The Singlebarbed Legal department is
My raw unbridled envy with the electronics available to the bass boat crowd has me attempting to reproduce that functionality for the “old school” fly fisherman.
The New York Times has an interesting article entitled,
I’m thankful that mayflies live no more than eight or nine days as adults, figuring none of this horde will recognize me as the cigar chomping Torturer of Things Smaller than Him, from last week. They didn’t, instead I was forcibly recruited as an “aircraft carrier” for the many squadrons comprising the Mayfly Strategic Bomber Command.
I’m watching the
The only debate that has raged longer than, “..is tying your own cheaper than buying them..” – is the issue of human scent as relates to fishing. I’m reluctant to even mention the issue as it usually sparks a storm of partisans, ending in somebody mentioning someone’s mother in a non flattering tone.