Psychologists and I have an uneasy truce; they insist I’m unbalanced, I mention they’re on the third wife and none of their kids are speaking to them, neither of us wins, and both sides retire undeterred.

The rest of you don’t get off so easily, “angling psychology” is big business now, and the competitive fisherman needs a personal sports psychologist to hone that predation instinct. There’s no shame in treatment anymore, a cursory examination of your fly box yields precious insight into all your angling foibles, and the medical community will have you fixed up in no time.

Unbridled expressions of raw passion diminish our capacity to concentrate, focus on, and precisely execute complex tasks. At a practical level, emotional outbursts during a tournament waste valuable fishing time.

I disagree, swearing personalizes the angling experience, an amateur can waste valuable time chaining together a lucid string of profanity, whereas the professional has most of his remarks memorized, a practiced delivery allows him to focus on killing this fish, rather than everything within earshot.

Several tournament fishermen start the day by doing physical stretching exercises, a practice common in most athletic events. Top athletes in other sports also have an individualized set of mental exercises they use regularly.

The Doc is dead right, stretching exercises are important both before and after fishing; my routine stretches the speed limit to get there, a waistline-stretching orgy of salted pigflesh and eggs when close, and the post-fishing ritual of stretching the boundaries of truth and falsehood to anyone within range.

…you may see yourself as a fast-paced, intuitive fisherman. Many successful competitors are. However, a sports psychologist could help you recognize how and when you might carry these tendencies to extremes and show careless, impulsive, overly spontaneous behaviors that actually diminish effectiveness.

While intuition suggests “the rose is worn in front,”  your preference for female underwear may be the reason you only fish dry flies, daylighting this to a caring sports psychologist will free you of elitist tendencies and enrich your fishing experience. Impulsive acts can be productive, but not while wading or drinking.

I’m comfortable with my skewed view of the world, and would as soon skip the entire séance as it cuts into fishing time. When my feeble skills start to wane I’ll pay a visit to BALCO Labs and tell them Barry sent me.

Technorati Tags: Sports Psychology, BALCO, Barry Bonds

I’m guessing TC’s maimed finger has made him vindictive, it’s the only reason SingleBarbed is hosting the Maybelline fingernail polish ads all week.

I don’t think it’s a commentary of the kind and type of blog denizen we’re attracting, but if the population is now skewed to mostly women, I have little issue.

If the Trout Underground lightened up on the gratuitous soft porn posts, some of these nice gals would return. Pop always mentioned that, “I should feel as comfortable on the street corner as dining in the Governor’s Mansion” – and if the main event is discussion of Window treatments, so be it.

I’ll see you at the Macy’s line, say 5:00 AM?

Technorati Tags: Maybelline, fingernail art

I always hated those horror movies that featured gelatinous monsters that squeeze under the door or ooze through a keyhole.

Why did the cheerleader always insist on walking the beach at night, everyone knew she was a food group based on the eerie soundtrack, if she’d taken off the Walkman she’d have known it too.

So why is it anglers share the same fate? There’s no soundtrack to warn us, but there’s ample proof something icky, sentient, and pissed, is headed our way…

I got it easy, as any colony based organism that is oozing across the stream bottom is going to pick the young fellow next to me – he’s less stringy, showers more often, and probably needs little accompaniment, at most a light Chianti or lukewarm Pepsi Light.

Foreign mussels and bunker oil is a tad offputting, but when the Violet Tunicate makes his move on my arse, I’m gonna stab his multi-threaded ocular ganglion with a lit cigar.

… would’ve saved the babe in the movie, except she thought they stank. Youth, shows you what they know.

Brownliners are surrounded by ooze, the hard part is determining the sentient and malevolent species. All of them move real slow, so there’s ample time to escape and evade.

After fighting off some particular sneaky Rock Snot, I had to ask myself, “what hideous crime did anglers commit that has all these oozing multicellular colonies wanting to get even?”

It came to me in a flash, if they was any bigger, we’d be eating them. Hell, we ate almost everything else in the water, in many cases we ate it twice..

Little wonder the gelatinous horde has a chip on its collective shoulder..

Technorati Tags: rock snot, violet tunicate, sentient ooze

The SingleBarbed “Double Helix” award goes to the folks that married stem cells with dinosaur DNA to perfect the Tyrannosaurus Nugget. Hell yes it’s a crowd pleaser, as even the family canine can get in on the action.

While ancient DNA and laboratory cultures may save fisheries from extinction, prehistoric halibut could taste like toilet cleanser – you have to grow it first and find out, no?

Researchers were startled to find that most dinosaur-cultured meat lacks cholesterol, the prevailing theory is that since everything was chasing everything else, meat lacked time to grow any.

My, what big teeth you have, Grandma..

Technorati Tags: double helix, chicken nugget, big portions

My numerous adventures on the Little Stinking netted me an invite to  the ranks of the landed gentry, but since I am a member of the working press of Brownlining, I have to use the servants entrance.

As Singlebarbed Dogwalking Services are the stuff of local legend, I get to care for Little Meathead and Big Meathead this week. This is heady stuff, as any dog reference is worth ten times the blog traffic that fishermen generate.

“Little Meathead” is a 60 mph hurricane, he eats, craps, and chases tennis balls in a single breath. “Big Meathead” is an old gal, she can burst up to 6 mph – but has to sleep afterward.

I’ve got 12 acres of walnut orchard bounded by a steep drop into the creek, and while I’m focused on Little Meathead killing everything, Big Meathead perches precariously on the bank. I see the peril, and start to form the “No” with my mouth – too late, Big Meathead is gripped by the Dark Matter surrounding the Little Stinking, and goes arse over teakettle down the bank and into the creek.

Little Meat thinks that ride is for him and does likewise. So I’m topside and dry, and they’re looking at me wondering why I don’t join them. 

I try my best “Nice Doggy, C’mere” – and it fails horribly. Big Meathead knows that she can’t make the climb back up, and I know I’m going to have to slide down the bank, grab her and carry her back up.

Did I mention I’m in my work clothes?

I make it to the water’s edge, and repeat the “Nice Doggy” bit, Big Meat wants no part of being carried, and remains in the center of the effluent with Little Meat swimming around in circles.

Briefly I consider my options… I could say, “Jeez, I dunno what happened to them, I showed up and they were gone.” Or I could go wading – in my work clothes.

I’m the Pied Piper of Idjit Dogs, and a casual onlooker would’ve seen me swearing, wading up the creek with two canines swimming behind me. Naturally the first suitable flat spot offered numerous handfuls of Poison Oak, just to make the occasion  memorable..

Technorati Tags: dog walking, Poison Oak, swearing, more swearing