With An Elastic Boink

Odd is as odd does. Or so my mother always told me.

I'm sitting on the dew-soaked, grassy river bank with my great amigo, the renowned scientist, philanthropist and loony, Dr. Max Tunguska. It's a cool July day, grey and overcast, and there's a mist of thin drizzle in the air. The great man has his bare feet in the cool water, and is currently fiddling with his fishing rod.

So, Roth! he enthuses, How did that 30 Days Of Roth nonsense work out for you?

His slow, measured backward swing reverses with a flash of the wrist; it looks like it'll go a long way. And it does. The distance is good, but the heavy distant plop indicates that it's wide of the target. Max starts to wind it in, a wonderful quiet ratchetting that reminds me of dragonflies for some reason.

A lone duck cruises by, seemingly oblivious to us.


It's was pretty successful, thanks! I mutter carefully as I flash a fast-but-not-quite-accurate cast into the river. I miss my goal - some ten yards away - by a good twelve inches. Damn. I reel in the wet line and rapidly sinking hook to try again.

Met any nice folk? You know, new friends? His next cast fouls in the back of his collar, and he reaches back with a sigh to untangle the hook.

Well, I picked up just two new followers on the blog itself, I say without disappointment, but my general traffic was spiked for the entire month, and I met a load of new people who seemed to enjoy it.

What, like on Facebook? He's retrieved the hook, which is now firmly embedded in his thumb.

Yeah. Friends of friends, mostly. Lots of folk LIKED the entries and there were quite a few SHAREs. A dozen new readers, maybe? I grin, pleased with my booty. Real nice people. Considering where I started, I call that a good result overall.

The sun breaks through the clouds and we enjoy a brief moment of warmth.

Yep, hisses Dr. Tunguska, sucking his bleeding digit, you never know when that vital connection will come. Six degrees of separation and all that. He lets fly again, and within a second he growls and clickety-clicks in the wayward line. You could go viral at any moment, mate.

I have no idea what that means, but it sounds jolly exciting.

A kingfisher flashes past, a blue green dart that somehow feels like a good omen. I grunt a knowledgeable agreement, bluffing, and let heave another long cast towards one of the distant floats.

The line whizzes from the spool.

There is no accompanying plop.

Hey, I got one! I cheer, standing awkwardly. My knees creak; there are times I feel far older than my forty three years.

Which one is it?! ask Max, excitedly, also rising.

Not. Sure. I reel furiously, but the heavy weight of my quarry tests the line and my arm. Perhaps it's not ready? But, after a minute's grunting and clicking, the inflated rubber ring that carries the square box touches the bank with an elastic boink.

Kneeling, I flip open the lid, and I'm greeted with a hot waft of a delicious meaty aroma.

It's the Mighty Meaty! I reach into the box hungrily, and retrieve two slices of the piping hot pizza. Max pulls two cold cans of fizz from a submerged net tied to his big toe. He cracks each as we take out seats again, and I swap him one for a slice of heaven.

We clink our drinks, a silent toast.

I'm grateful for my good fortune, and the support of good friends.

It's looking like a nice day, mumbles my friend through a mouthful of crust, sauce, meat and cheese. The ninja jalapeños sizzle on my tongue and make my eyes water. Nice.

It usually does if you ignore the weather. Here's to the future.

If the pizza is to be believed, that future is looking tasty.

We'll fish for the other pizzas and the ice cream in a few minutes.


Odds are, when it comes to bizarre behaviour, we're pretty even.

But, even on average, we're odd.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012