Monday, January 17, 2011

His name was Robert Paulson

I think it wise if I begin with a bit of a disclaimer. This is likely to be a long rambling diatribe that may not necessarily get to the point - if, in fact, it has a point. You, loyal reader, may want to find a better way to use your time. Perhaps your fingernails need a trim?

That having been said, I'm not quite sure how Ben and I came to discuss the ceremony of our own funerals.

We had been on the river since 8:30, and were enjoying a terrific day. Bitterly cold air, heavy snow, and the annual broadcast of the NFL playoffs had conspired to keep other fishermen off the water. While the fish weren't exactly on the bite, there was enough attention paid to our flies to keep us feeling like men. Our fire gave us much needed respite from the elements, and a hot riverside lunch warmed us in a way that food rarely does.

As an aside, it's amazing just how comfortable a winter steelheader can be when he or she takes the time to prepare for the day (a future post on the blog perhaps).

To the point ... How did we come to discuss our impending funerals?

As Ben and I so often do, we amused ourselves - while we slowly froze - by quoting from some of our favorite films. For Izaak Walton, it was lyric poetry. For us it was Fight Club, Pulp Fiction, and The Big Lebowski.

For no particular reason, we seemed to focus this day's recollections on Fight Club. Specifically, we joked about a scene in the film immediately following the death of the character Bob (a lovely, brutish man who had bitch tits). In the scene, the film's enigmatic and nameless narrator cradles his dead friend's head, and recites Bob's name to the assembled members of the fight club. In short order, everyone begins to chant.

"His name was Robert Paulson. His name was Robert Paulson. His name was Robert Paulson."

Ben and I thought it might be amusing to have someone chant our names during the church service for our funerals, and we made a pact to make it happen. Think about it. "His name was Michael Daley. His name was Michael Daley. His name was Michael Daley." It's all the fun of an Irish wake with just a hint of creepy cultishness. My family would flip. Good times. Good times, indeed.

In honor of our blood oath, Ben and I named our landing / fish handling glove - a washcloth given to my daughter when she was still an infant - after Fight Club's most amusing and strangely effeminate character.

I understand. In death a member of Project Mayhem has a name. His name ... is Robert Paulson.

Today, Robert saw one fish taken on the swing ...
And another taken on a nymph - caught by a dirty ass nympher.


Shaq said...

Rule #1

BKill said...

Unless the club is threatened by a billion dollar, multi-national corporation that is intent on building a biomass facility on its banks ....

Nushranger said...

The club must celebrate the good news!