Well well, it’s been a while. So much is happening. I feel I say that every time, but only because of the mere passing of time between posts.

I’m eating a bagel, looking over a lake in an undisclosed location in Massachusetts. Undisclosed not because it is some sort of hidden place, but because my enemies want me dead. Not really dead, I hope, but they’ve made it known they’re still around to harass me. They feel simply because we had something, somewhere some time ago (a decade now) that they know me, and that I should feel afraid of them. Perhaps I’m just paranoid. If there were anyone to be paranoid about knowing your whereabouts though, it would be them.

Bagels are the lifeblood of humanity and the backbone of our society, and I think it is high time they get their due credit. Ducks are floating through the water. No one ever talks about how ducks walk on water, but no one’s ever seen Jesus do it. Can any other animal do this? I think we underestimate birds, the only living species that can walk on water. Well, float, but it’s the closest and good enough for me.

I would say coffee is the lifeblood of humanity and so on but I think that goes without saying. Everyone who is anyone (or the other way around or something?) knows about coffee. It’s the wine of the morning, the summer afternoon beer of the morning. The late night, just-one-more-cocktail drink of the morning. I could drink coffee all day long if I knew I would sleep at night, not become a schizophrenic, or have my ass fall out from underneath me at any point past four cups.

Here’s a trick, buy a reusable keurig cup, and just fill it with regular grounds. Fast and cheap coffee.

Here’s another trick, your Keurig is built to not quite fill your cup. This is especially haenous if you’re using store-bought K-cups, wait for the biggest cup button (how is this really determined?) and then just raise and lower the handle, hit the smallest button, wait for it to fill to your desired ammount and shut it off. Each K-cup can handle a bit more than what the machine seems to think you need.

Fuck and bless those machines.

I hate fishermen.

My grandfather was one, so it may seem odd to say.

Perhaps I mean, it shouldn’t be allowed when your living room, and the chair in which you sit is mere yards away from some asshole who probably got up way too early, bought their “bait” and is now floating by you in your shorts while he tries to catch a poor fucking fish just trying to make it another day. I understand and appreciate the methodical, meditative nature the act of throwing a stick and string over and over and over and over and over again into water at random brings for people. But I cannot understand aside from survival, what you have to trade in order for it to remain so.

They have to perform the mental gymnastics (my new favorite phrase at the moment) in order to maintain this calming “act.” By fishing as they do in this lake, where there is nothing but small fish and frogs at best, they have to prepare a lure which is usually a live worm skewered on a hook, then spend hours paddling, and sending the worm out again and again, enduring its crucifixions as well now as the intense G-forces for hours on end while it waits to be swallowed by a fish small, but ten time’s its own size. That brings the end to this poor worm’s short life, an artificial ecosystem of sorts, forced on by humans who can’t read or write or draw so they fish. Then they forget the worm when they hook the fish, which they can tell because it seldom happens, and when it does, it is such a violent act, that it’s tough to mistake.

The fish’s mouth upon eating the worm, unsuspecting, is now in turn skewered by the hook, the side of its mouth punctured and in its fight or flight reaction, flees the predator which is most times an overweight, light beer-swilling simpleton, who, with no skill, tact, or grace, begins using the invention of gears and mechanics to pull the fish in. Almost always, especially in these types of waters, the fish is no bigger than a coaster, or an ashtray, and often half the weight of a good ashtray. They pull the fish up from its atmosphere, like taking your helmet of in space, and hold it up for a picture. Most sadistic of all, oftentimes they toss the fish back into the water after removing the hook (if possible without decimating the fish’s already obliterated mouth from dozens of other Neanderthals before them.

This ritual continues until the “big one” is caught, or the sun goes down, or the beer runs out.

These particular fishermen in kayaks (one standing) are literally feet away now, fazed not of me typing away in my shorts, unfazed by them in turn. Fuck these people. Give a home some privacy in exchange for missing these fish you think live here. You and your vests and hats and paddles in a crusade for, for, for what? It’s cute, really. You actually had to seek out that gray and white camouflage kayak. Was that in the window, on a rack, or did you have to ask for it, or did you special order it? You don’t even know I’m writing about you and your silly nets and neon clothing. Is that so others can see you on the water? Or so the fish can see you?

It’s still early, for me at least. 9:11 a.m. It’s overcast, perfect for fishing they say, because they know the poor fish run to ground when its hot by the edges or top. There is no skill to this type of fishing. They aren’t even exercising. They could easily be paddling shore to shore for some cardio, lose some of the beer weight, but they just sit there floating like morons across the still lake, disturbed only by their invasive presence as they not only kill nature,

but invade the privacy of anyone home enjoying their bagel and coffee trying to enjoy a fucking Sunday morning.