Sometimes the allure of a lure isn't always in the action, color or potential catch... but in the acquisition of the lure. Here, let me tell you the story of how the Russian Mob sold me a lure... at least, that's how I remember it.
It was a cold and misty February morning when Mark and I set out on an adventure: the 2010 Spring Fishing and Boat Show. My only goal for the day: to find a lure that would be unique and unseen in the Thames, or the waters of Southwestern Ontario. Like any other fishing trip: I might succeed, I might fail, but that's why it's called 'fishing', not 'catching'.
I checked the antique displays, and I inspected every vendor with deft and inquisition. "Life like" and "realistic" were the words dejour, but nothing made me want to bite. Onward I slogged through rivers of lures, allured by none.
Then my interest was peaked; before me stood a stunning blonde with excellent posture and assets to match. Politely dismissing her from my line-of-sight revealed a collection of lures that glistened and shone like none before them. Made from common but expensive materials such as brass, copper and stainless steel, polished and machined so finely as to evoke erotic dreams of machine shops, enticing me to purchase with dreams of bountiful angling in my head.
Polite discussion about the curvature of the finely machined metal, how the brass ball bearings lightly caress the propellers to create water tension and turbulence only hightened my desire for purchase. Each feature aroused an even greater desire to clench just one cold metal apparatus in my hands, as my own.
Finally, about to burst with the anticipation of securing my prize, I plead for purchase. With a winning smile melting my inhibitions, the Russian mistress of my angling dreams crushed my hopes and desires like a snapped line: they're not for sale, the Russians are merely seeking Canadian investors.
Immediately plunging into a deep dark depression, I hoped to satiate my desires by burying them in food, greasy pizza that was once my hot mistress would now taste bland and cold, but onwards I continued to the cafeteria. The day would wind on and on as I sauntered past displays of "life like" and "realistic" lures that held no promise for me, the one I did seek would not be mine, she was being held captive in a Russian jail.
At last, the speakers descended from the stage, and the shopkeepers started to close up shop, and I decided to visit the Russian captors of my precious once more.
To be continued...
It was a cold and misty February morning when Mark and I set out on an adventure: the 2010 Spring Fishing and Boat Show. My only goal for the day: to find a lure that would be unique and unseen in the Thames, or the waters of Southwestern Ontario. Like any other fishing trip: I might succeed, I might fail, but that's why it's called 'fishing', not 'catching'.
I checked the antique displays, and I inspected every vendor with deft and inquisition. "Life like" and "realistic" were the words dejour, but nothing made me want to bite. Onward I slogged through rivers of lures, allured by none.
Then my interest was peaked; before me stood a stunning blonde with excellent posture and assets to match. Politely dismissing her from my line-of-sight revealed a collection of lures that glistened and shone like none before them. Made from common but expensive materials such as brass, copper and stainless steel, polished and machined so finely as to evoke erotic dreams of machine shops, enticing me to purchase with dreams of bountiful angling in my head.
Polite discussion about the curvature of the finely machined metal, how the brass ball bearings lightly caress the propellers to create water tension and turbulence only hightened my desire for purchase. Each feature aroused an even greater desire to clench just one cold metal apparatus in my hands, as my own.
Finally, about to burst with the anticipation of securing my prize, I plead for purchase. With a winning smile melting my inhibitions, the Russian mistress of my angling dreams crushed my hopes and desires like a snapped line: they're not for sale, the Russians are merely seeking Canadian investors.
Immediately plunging into a deep dark depression, I hoped to satiate my desires by burying them in food, greasy pizza that was once my hot mistress would now taste bland and cold, but onwards I continued to the cafeteria. The day would wind on and on as I sauntered past displays of "life like" and "realistic" lures that held no promise for me, the one I did seek would not be mine, she was being held captive in a Russian jail.
At last, the speakers descended from the stage, and the shopkeepers started to close up shop, and I decided to visit the Russian captors of my precious once more.
To be continued...
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