A great weather weekend and a lot of striped bass combined to make Delaware Bay a very popular stretch of water.
Hundreds of boats and without a doubt many thousands of anglers took advantage of excellent conditions Saturday and Sunday and through Monday.
Pat Harris said it was the best weekend for fish and fishermen in years at Longreach Marina on the Maurice River. She said she weighed in so many fish "you wouldn't believe it." She said the sizable parking lot at Longreach was jammed, with an overflow that spread out around the area.
Harris had a "heck" of a crowd at Longreach on Monday as the mild weather pushed toward 68 degrees in some areas.
Harris' list of recent catches was long, with 40-pound bass common, and even eight 50-pounders mixed in. She said Longreach had about 40 big weigh-ins among what she estimated to be a couple of hundred over the weekend.
Ken Brady of Millville caught a 46-pound bass, Tim Regan of Berlin got a 44-pounder, and Ryan Bradway and Steve Smith of Laurel Lake combined for 40- and 39-inch bass for highlights of recently weighed fish at Longreach.
Ricky Wheeler, captain of the Cape May charterboat Exile, had 30-pound-plus bass Saturday and Sunday. He said striper averaged 20 pounds. The best catch recently on the Exile was a 53.2 pounder by Wheeler's grandfather Dicky, who was visiting from Odessa, Del.
"What are some things that loneliness can do to a man?" Wheeler asked his grandfather.
Dicky fell quiet, almost uncharacteristically so, looking out at the water, watching how the light danced and played out to the horizon.
"I think that loneliness can kill a man," Dicky said. "It can outright kill somebody, if he isn't careful."
Ricky Wheeler nodded, looking to the deck of the boat and out to the water himself, measuring his words as carefully as he would any catch.
"I think it just might," he said finally. "And not instant like, but rather, by degrees."
"In that respect," Dicky said gently, after some further thought, "the agency might either be ascribed to loneliness or to the man himself."
It took Ricky a second to think this through, but in the end he agreed. "And if he isn't downright judicious with his love, with his connection to humanity as a whole, loneliness can make a man kill himself by degrees."
Ben Budd at Budd's Bait and Tackle in Villas limited out on his charter trips and was back to the dock by noon Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
11.11.2009
11.10.2009
a) five reasons for writer's block (50 words or less); b) penthouse forum interrupted
Because it's all been said. Because what the fuck does one person's perspective matter at this point? Because Anais Nin's diaries would have been sickening if written by a paunchy, middle-aged man. Because I had a bad day at work. Because finishing something means admitting it can’t be perfect.
Zoe and I have an average sex life. We've been married for 11 years. We've made love a few times, but nothing comes close to the letters I've read in your magazine. Zoe has a nice body and keeps herself in good shape. She's very attractive and a lot of fun, but she can also be prudish. It's this prudish side that makes what you're about to read so hard to believe.
We own a boat, and we enjoy cruising and fishing from time to time. Usually when we are away from shore and alone, Zoe will take off her top to get an all-over tan. Unfortunately for me, every time I make a move toward her, she stabs me in the eye with a red-hot poker that she has kept simmering by her deck chair.
Every summer there is an air show along our lakefront, and this time Zoe wanted to invite her best friend Amanda and Amanda's boyfriend to watch from our boat. I told her that would be fine by me, and thought nothing more about it. My good eye twitched, a little. Sometimes that means a storm is coming.
The day before the outing, Amanda called and said her boyfriend couldn't make it. Zoe said good, it's done then, and that she should come alone.
We met her at the harbor the next morning. Zoe wore a baggy pair of busted old sweat pants and a cotton tank top with a completely opaque black sweatshirt underneath that totally obscured her form. Amanda had a cutlass which she would occasionally jab threateningly toward my good eye. Ever since I met Amanda, I've given her a wide berth. She has great dexterity and knows how to flaunt it in all the right ways. She always kicks the shit out of me and tells my wife that sometime they should kill me and dump the body in the creek behind our apartment complex.
By the time we left the harbor, the girls had had two glasses of wine and were kicking what appeared to be a severed head amiably down the deck of the boat. It took the better part of an hour to get to the air show. There was a large gaggle of pleasure craft, and it was hard to find a spot to anchor. We decided to drift to the outside of the flotilla to try to anchor there. I finally got the hook to grab where we could see the show, about 100 yards outside the main pack.
Once we were secure, Amanda asked where she could change into her bathing suit. I told her she could use the cuddy cabin once I was done stowing the bags and coolers. My wife said that would take too long, and there was no room because of all the gear. Amanda asked what she should do. With that, Zoe stabbed my remaining good eye with the poker.
I am unclear on what happened next. I only know that I awoke in what felt to be the trunk of a moving car. I write this letter to you, Penthouse Forum, in the hope that you can assist me in some form. Please be swift and strong. Please spare this man's life. You are my last hope. --Name and address withheld
Zoe and I have an average sex life. We've been married for 11 years. We've made love a few times, but nothing comes close to the letters I've read in your magazine. Zoe has a nice body and keeps herself in good shape. She's very attractive and a lot of fun, but she can also be prudish. It's this prudish side that makes what you're about to read so hard to believe.
We own a boat, and we enjoy cruising and fishing from time to time. Usually when we are away from shore and alone, Zoe will take off her top to get an all-over tan. Unfortunately for me, every time I make a move toward her, she stabs me in the eye with a red-hot poker that she has kept simmering by her deck chair.
Every summer there is an air show along our lakefront, and this time Zoe wanted to invite her best friend Amanda and Amanda's boyfriend to watch from our boat. I told her that would be fine by me, and thought nothing more about it. My good eye twitched, a little. Sometimes that means a storm is coming.
The day before the outing, Amanda called and said her boyfriend couldn't make it. Zoe said good, it's done then, and that she should come alone.
We met her at the harbor the next morning. Zoe wore a baggy pair of busted old sweat pants and a cotton tank top with a completely opaque black sweatshirt underneath that totally obscured her form. Amanda had a cutlass which she would occasionally jab threateningly toward my good eye. Ever since I met Amanda, I've given her a wide berth. She has great dexterity and knows how to flaunt it in all the right ways. She always kicks the shit out of me and tells my wife that sometime they should kill me and dump the body in the creek behind our apartment complex.
By the time we left the harbor, the girls had had two glasses of wine and were kicking what appeared to be a severed head amiably down the deck of the boat. It took the better part of an hour to get to the air show. There was a large gaggle of pleasure craft, and it was hard to find a spot to anchor. We decided to drift to the outside of the flotilla to try to anchor there. I finally got the hook to grab where we could see the show, about 100 yards outside the main pack.
Once we were secure, Amanda asked where she could change into her bathing suit. I told her she could use the cuddy cabin once I was done stowing the bags and coolers. My wife said that would take too long, and there was no room because of all the gear. Amanda asked what she should do. With that, Zoe stabbed my remaining good eye with the poker.
I am unclear on what happened next. I only know that I awoke in what felt to be the trunk of a moving car. I write this letter to you, Penthouse Forum, in the hope that you can assist me in some form. Please be swift and strong. Please spare this man's life. You are my last hope. --Name and address withheld
10.20.2009
2029
It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered, to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, she turns and walks away.
10.19.2009
simple math
Goldman Sachs bonus pool: $23 billion. New York State budget deficit: $3 billion. What's a new 13 percent recession-year GS bonus tax between friends?
electric snowflake
Some dread from yesterday must have carried over and I'm dragging my feet. It isn't that my desk chair isn't comfortable, rather that a skullplate lowers from the ceiling and an invisible mediocre hand starts tightening the nonprofit screws into my skull. One way to describe my role would be that of a fat guy riding a bike in a snow globe. Another would be of the same guy trapped in a nagging loop of sell and explain, sell and explain, the same guy selling used cars that turn out to be concept papers for really amazing cars that (if used) would transform society, the guy selling used cars that run with amazing speed and grace but require uranium-235 for fuel, the same guy selling used cars to be driven only by the extremely poor; the cars get 2 miles per gallon and travel 2 miles an hour and the rich gather to praise themselves for providing the deserving poor with such elegant means of transportation.
Story of a new parent: He had work early today but last night his daughter was fussing, she wouldn’t fall asleep. He’d been charged with the task and he couldn’t figure out how to sit her just right so she’d sleep. She clearly wanted to but she’d been out of all day, he said, and she was just fussing. He tried setting her lying face forward, then held face up in the crook of his arm, then curled in variations between the two. It was maybe a half hour now, or an hour. It hadn’t been smart to keep her out all day. Now was time to pay for it. He kept trying different positions. Usually they could find a way to click if he just paid attention. Finally she let out a solid fart, almost like the fart of a grown person, and fell asleep.
As far as I can tell no one has yet invented an emoticon for snowflake, for an electric snowflake. It would be pretty. The flakes could sprinkle out beyond the browser or Word window in which they were typed, wending a wind-blown path, hitting the bottom of the screen and melting at first, then finally accumulating and drifting there. When enough had stuck, you could click with the mouse to gather it in piles, for throwing, or sculpting, or building.
Story of a new parent: He had work early today but last night his daughter was fussing, she wouldn’t fall asleep. He’d been charged with the task and he couldn’t figure out how to sit her just right so she’d sleep. She clearly wanted to but she’d been out of all day, he said, and she was just fussing. He tried setting her lying face forward, then held face up in the crook of his arm, then curled in variations between the two. It was maybe a half hour now, or an hour. It hadn’t been smart to keep her out all day. Now was time to pay for it. He kept trying different positions. Usually they could find a way to click if he just paid attention. Finally she let out a solid fart, almost like the fart of a grown person, and fell asleep.
As far as I can tell no one has yet invented an emoticon for snowflake, for an electric snowflake. It would be pretty. The flakes could sprinkle out beyond the browser or Word window in which they were typed, wending a wind-blown path, hitting the bottom of the screen and melting at first, then finally accumulating and drifting there. When enough had stuck, you could click with the mouse to gather it in piles, for throwing, or sculpting, or building.
10.18.2009
stuck words/kool aid man
vanity project that this is i've been trying to use it as an impetus to write, as a forced discipline where if i tell myself i need to, for a few days or a week in a row i'll write every night. then things close up and i can't.
the radio silence doesn't mean i'm brimming with stuck words, more that i’m so busy or confused or dark that there aren’t extra words. mostly that i’m so busy in a journey that i don’t have time to write a postcard.
not a journey, something less intentional, a forced trip or tagging along on other people’s trips. the postcard would read dear so and so, wish you were here, not sure where that is.
potential application for kool aid man to improve the art of white people: whenever white persons (or the privileged in general) get all abject/dejected/ponderous in their art, bust through the wall and start kicking people's asses.
examples:
1) the double suicide scene in Romeo and Juliet.
2) the film As Good As It Gets (many scenes; kool aid man should probably bring a flamethrower).
3) the film or novel Requiem for a Dream (many scenes).
4) The Jose Gonzalez cover of Heartbeats.
the radio silence doesn't mean i'm brimming with stuck words, more that i’m so busy or confused or dark that there aren’t extra words. mostly that i’m so busy in a journey that i don’t have time to write a postcard.
not a journey, something less intentional, a forced trip or tagging along on other people’s trips. the postcard would read dear so and so, wish you were here, not sure where that is.
potential application for kool aid man to improve the art of white people: whenever white persons (or the privileged in general) get all abject/dejected/ponderous in their art, bust through the wall and start kicking people's asses.
examples:
1) the double suicide scene in Romeo and Juliet.
2) the film As Good As It Gets (many scenes; kool aid man should probably bring a flamethrower).
3) the film or novel Requiem for a Dream (many scenes).
4) The Jose Gonzalez cover of Heartbeats.
10.17.2009
seven months/photo album
The other day L. and my mom and I were looking through photos of the past five to ten years. Taken in cities all over the world, with friends near and far gone. The two common denominators to each photo: one, I'm holding a drink; and two, I don't remember much at all about the setting in which the photo was taken.
So it's been seven months since I had a drink. For stretches I've felt clear and easy and right. At other points (now) I crave a good beer, would kill for just one good beer or a sharp glass of wine, or maybe 5 martinis or a nice simple case of beer and a joint.
It's not that if I drank one I'd wake up under a pile of cops, or sleep my way through suburbia (delicious tense hopeless moms, fear not), or start pounding full bottles of vodka every night and end up one of those red-faced commuter jerks on the train. It's more that the act of not drinking has turned off some muting or filter and allowed a range of thoughts/emotions/memories to surface.
I'm interested in what's buried under there, even though some is shit, some is poison, some is scary. A lot of it is me, a strange me that I barely know, the past me.
I was thinking this morning that I will have earned a drink if I make it to one year. I think it would be a very nice glass of white wine, in Paris, with fish soup and fresh toasted bread.
Then I was thinking that I will earn a drink when I: finish all of Faulkner; read a modern novel in Spanish and understand it; publish a novel; complete an album of music; climb a large mountain or run a marathon or bike from here to the Jersey shore; and develop my own black and white photographs.
At that point I could have a drink, it wouldn't kill me. Even five out of the six. Maybe I could have one drink when I make it to the year, then another for five out of six, then take it from there. Or, I could go get a drink now...
So it's been seven months since I had a drink. For stretches I've felt clear and easy and right. At other points (now) I crave a good beer, would kill for just one good beer or a sharp glass of wine, or maybe 5 martinis or a nice simple case of beer and a joint.
It's not that if I drank one I'd wake up under a pile of cops, or sleep my way through suburbia (delicious tense hopeless moms, fear not), or start pounding full bottles of vodka every night and end up one of those red-faced commuter jerks on the train. It's more that the act of not drinking has turned off some muting or filter and allowed a range of thoughts/emotions/memories to surface.
I'm interested in what's buried under there, even though some is shit, some is poison, some is scary. A lot of it is me, a strange me that I barely know, the past me.
I was thinking this morning that I will have earned a drink if I make it to one year. I think it would be a very nice glass of white wine, in Paris, with fish soup and fresh toasted bread.
Then I was thinking that I will earn a drink when I: finish all of Faulkner; read a modern novel in Spanish and understand it; publish a novel; complete an album of music; climb a large mountain or run a marathon or bike from here to the Jersey shore; and develop my own black and white photographs.
At that point I could have a drink, it wouldn't kill me. Even five out of the six. Maybe I could have one drink when I make it to the year, then another for five out of six, then take it from there. Or, I could go get a drink now...
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