Frailty, thy name is fish-out-of-water (and vice-versa).

"So pick ME. Love ME. Choose ME.

Here's the thing about fishing: it's not fun.

What's so fun about sitting around for HOURS and waiting for some stupid creatures to get tricked into biting into the shiny, completely unnatural hook with some little piece of dead squid or shrimp or worm or, better yet, a fake, plastic, ENTIRELY unnatural piece of plastic that just LOOKS like it could be yet another mysterious yet unquestioned piece of free lunch just sitting in the water? Nothing. There's nothing fun about it. Perhaps if you had a good buddy or two with whom to crack open a couple of beers, sit and chat the times away, look at the beauty of the water and the coast. But then again, you could do that in a cool summer backyard evening. And at least home would be nine steps away from the backyard porch swing.

But here's why I love fishing: Remember in Cast Away when Tom Hanks' character, Chuck Noland, finally successfully made fire after trying fruitlessly for days on end? Remember how incredibly overjoyed he was and how he celebrated like it was 1999 B.C.? Remember the look in his eyes that told the audience that his faith in life was rekindled and that, thanks to this major step forward in technology, he decided to take a step away from giving up his life? Remember his pompous yet grateful declaration to nobody (or was it to himself?) that "I...I! I have made...FIRE!" Remember that? Sure you do.

Of the seven or so previous times that I had gone fishing, I had never caught a damn thing. I have spent hours upon hours of just standing on the pier, enjoying the sun, but feeling frustrated that the fish had somehow figured out beforehand that I was coming and therefore decided to collectively piss me off by ignoring me intentionally. Of course, this is not a new experience for me - it's basically middle school all over again, except this time, the people ignoring me can't speak English, so I was spared the searing pain of a repeat of all the ridicule of my glasses...and how I dress...and my weight. Um...excuse me while I call my mother.


Just like Tom Hanks, minus the beard and that stupid volleyball.

But I. I have caught mackerel. Six - count 'em - six mackerel on the first day that I successfully caught anything - I have decided to commend the day by naming it "Bloody Thursday." In tandem with my cousin and DKao, we collectively captured and slaughtered fourteen mackerel.

There is, however, one possibly tear-jerking part of the process: when you drag the poor fish's rapidly decaying body out of the water, it fights. Oh, does it fight - like Maximus for his chance at vengeance, like Ali to prove his invincibility, like Marshawn for those last few yards - it fights for precious, priceless, perspiring life. I hold its body down for a few seconds while it struggles to live. In the final seconds of this David versus Goliath battle (except Goliath destroys David, who evidently now has gills), it makes one final desperate gasp. And it is an audibly loud gasp.The first time I heard that final gasp for life, I actually felt bad. For four seconds. Why? Because I was fucking hungry, that's why. Stop it with your silly questions.

But alas, I deny it the chance to continue its sad, short little existence. Why? Because I am a man, and I must be pleasured.

(Wait a second.)

Okay, I can't think of a better way to put it. I am a man. And I must be pleasured. I will hunt these fish down for my entertainment and to shower myself in LoCal (or Lower California) aplomb. I will kill them for that last adrenaline rush and to remind myself that, yes, I am a man, and I can hunt for food, albeit using advanced modern technology to do so. But I am Chuck Noland without, well, the shittiness. Sorry, Chuck, but Wilson sucks. And I think he might be coming on to you.



And today? Four yellowfin croakers.

And oh, they are succulent. A little salt, a little fresh-ground pepper, some garlic powder, a little soy sauce, an overnight in the fridge, and 45 minutes in the oven later, be our guest.So suck it, Venice and Malibu. I may never be able to afford to live in your precious high-cost homes and your pompous reputations, but at least I have taken a minor victory in this pompous, much-too-sunny area known as LoCal.
(Photos courtesy of DKDog)