Well, my muse is sort of back, but it didn't take the form of a fish.

Despite my expectations of catching copious amounts of redfish and trout with my colleague and former friend Mark Gstohl, it turns out that he, as they say in the South, "has more bad luck than a possum at a possum eating hoohaahaa."

I place the lack of caught fish squarely upon his broad Southern shoulders. I did get to see a beautiful part of Louisiana via boat though, and watched some porpoises up close, along with raccoons and nutria, all of which it turns out are "good eatin" in the South. Anyway, I've been able to write a bit better after that adventure. Today I finished the book reviews and will start on the atlas tomorrow, and as they say in the South, "Three ducks ain't a quackle make feller." But in the end, the day fishing was so disappointing, especially the things I witnessed concerning Mark. When he wasn't delaying the outing by casting his hook and bait into the shore's foliage, he would just sort of stand there with a dazed look in his eyes rather than fish. I had to remind him more than once that when his bobber went underwater it meant a fish was biting the bait. Moreover, I noticed on several occasions that he appeared to be crying, though that could have been because he is a southern boy facing arctic winds from a boat. He did bring sandwiches though. As they say in the South, "Shhhhhhhuuuuuuucccccckkkkkks, whoooooooo caaaaaaaaaaannnnnn dooooooo aaaaanyyyyy bettttttterrrrrr daaaaaan' daaaaaaaatttttt????"