I’ve been thinking about the fishing trip I was on this past summer, how difficult, unpleasant I found it to be. The small boat on rough water and lack of the sonar devices most everyone else on the lake had made me thinking of the David Foster Wallace essay title: ‘A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again’. I found myself humming Taj Mahal’s ‘Going Fishin’ to pass the time.

Now, as many things viewed in retrospect, I remember a not unpleasant experience resulting eventually in reasonable success. I think now of the small plaque in the fish camp’s cleaning building that offered the fisherman’s common plaint: ‘Tell Your Own Lies’. Multiple meanings in that, I guess.