Fishing

I can't really call myself a fisherman anymore, since it's rare that I actually do it, preferring to spend most of my leisure time working out at the JCC and snapping towels at attractive older Jewish men in the locker room ( I go for that sultry look). But, I got a call from my brother in law, Rick, who farms cotton and grain in the RGV when he's not otherwise performing magical feats as the greatest shallow water fisherman in the Laguna Madre. Rick was calling from somewhere near Marker 6 along the intercoastal to report how many big trout/redfish/flounder he had landed, his custom that he enjoys immensely since it irritates the shit out of me while I'm otherwise engaged in pushing some piece of paper around my desk. So, he casually mentions that our mutual friend, Tony, had brought a couple of "business associates" down with him from Crested Butte to fish at South Padre and he was taking Tony and these two guys to some of our choice wading spots. "Yeah, one of these guys is pretty important with the economy or something," says Rick. "Really," I said, calmy gnashing my teeth over Rick being there catching fish and me being here just off the phone with "Wes from Met" who wanted to interest me in selling voluntary disability products in San Antonio. "Yeah, this guy is kind of old and he looks like he goes about three bills on the scale. I've got him wading over in the arroyo where you and I got stuck and walked into all those stingrays. I think his name is Voelker or something." I sort of gulped some of that Central Market Free Trade Bat Shit Infused Java I was drinking and said, "Uh, Rick, did you say Voelker? As in Paul Voelker?" "Yeah, yeah that's him--Paul Voelker." A slight bead of sweat develops nicely on the back of my neck. "Rick, listen to me closely. Turn the boat around and go get Paul Voelker. If that fat son of a bitch croaks due to sinking up to his teeth in mud or gets hit with a stingray we're all in deep shit. And you'll catch all sorts of hell form those fuckers at the next CCA banquet. Hell, they may not even let you buy into the raffle for a Shallow Sport." Rick was working on his second or third Pacifico but did sense my concern and eventually did retrieve Big Paul, alive though still large and full of microeconomic theory.



The WSJ reported the next day about how Voelker is consulting with Obama and indicated that he is fond of "disappearing" to go fly fishing. I can attest that both my brother in law and I did our part in keeping Voelker alive to dick around with the economy for a while longer. We should at least get a "Change" coffee mug or rainbow decals out of the deal.