The Truth!

I discovered a new sport today that is unlike anything that any of you could possibly imagine.

It all started at work today when a student asked if I knew a particular teacher and I responded that I did. He then informed me that this fellow was a redneck because he and his friends went “noodling” (pronounced noodle-ing).

I shuddered at the thought of what noodling could be. I mean with a strange name like this and the fact that it involves rednecks, well be careful not to let your imagination run wild.

Quickly my mind was retrieved from the gutter when the student told me that noodling was barehanded cat fishing. I looked it up on line and discovered that this is actually quite popular though you stand the danger of being nicknamed Nubbins all in the name of Noodling (Noodlers are known to loose fingers in this sport). There is a tournament in Oklahoma, imagine that, that is the World Series of barehanded cat fishing.

How does one noodle? Its’ simple.

When catfish spawn, the females borrow into the muddy banks of streams, rivers, lakes and ponds and then lay their eggs in the afore mentioned burrows. After the females lay their eggs, male catfish come along and fertalize the eggs and then hang out in the holes, guarding the eggs until they hatch.

Enter the Noodler. This individual will wade into the water and search for these dark, deep holes that are in the bank. After finding a whole, the Noodler will cram his hands into the hole grabbing the fish and pulling him out of his hole and out of the water.

I looked at some of the fish that were caught by noodlers and could only exclaim,” great googly moogly.” It is not uncommon for these noodlers to catch sixty even one hundred pound plus catfish. The pictures of these beastly fish, like something out of pre-historic times, were incredible. Imagine a man armed with nothing more then his bare hands and a can of beer, purely for the man, pulling a one hundred pound fish out of its’ hole in a muddy murky bank with nothing other then his hands.

So if you like sticking your hands in strange places, this might be the sport for you. But for all future Noodlers beware. These holes in the pond are not all catfish burrows. Beavers, snakes, snapping turtles, and other animals with sharp fangs and teeth live in muddy holes in the banks. And no one wants to be known as nubbins. Imagine trying to explain how you got that nickname. “I was out noodl’n and then….” You get the picture.

The Internet is back.

On Saturday night the net went down and we were not able to get it back until today. How have I lived without the internet for the past five days, I do not know.

One thing that I have found interesting is the recent scandal with James Frey’s book “Million little pieces”. As it turns out, Frey embellished and even invented things in his popular memoir. Despite the scandal, it seems that people are undeterred and think that this is a great book and are still buying it.

If he can write a book, that is partly made up and call it a memoir, then I can my own drug addict alcoholic come clean autobiography and pass it off as real. So here goes.

“One Big Square: How I got addicted to booz and dope and got clean”

By Chris Rusch

(The following is a complete and utter fabrication. The names have not been changed but no one ever did anything that follows)

The sun had gone down on a cool South Eastern Idaho afternoon. Our small caravan of cars was just pulling into campsite as the last vestiges of day slipped below the horizon, turning the sky and the large cumulous clouds red.

One thing that I had gotten used to was how cold it could get at night in Idaho. I learned that this had to do with the fact that where we were was very dry, so the heat produced by the sun throughout the day quickly dissipated when the sun went down because there was no moisture in the air to trap the heat. I put on my blue checked insulated flannel shirt after getting out of Hugh’s truck.

Our group would go to a campground like this for one reason, and after a grueling week at school, I was ready to find some relief and to mellow myself out with various fermented liquids, i.e. beer and hard liquor.

I was never much one for marijuana. I smoked it once in high-school and it really rubbed me wrong. Instead of a mellow sense of euphoria, paranoia set in, making the time I was under the influence of the THC miserable. A few weeks ago, my friend Jeremy offered it to me claiming that I must have gotten a bad strain. I smoked it again, but the same thing happened. From then I would not touch the stuff.

Greg and Ryan were pulling coolers out of the truck bed and setting them on the ground. Grant and Justin were getting a fire going while Heidi, Lisa, Sherrie and some other girls that I cannot remember were milling about smoking Marlbro Lights. “Gross”, I thought. Despite my own problems with drinking, smoking was something that I always thought disgusting. The smell alone would make me nauseous. It was enough to make me stay away. No one wants to make out with an ashtray.
But that did not matter. Once the music got started, I would drink a few Red and Whites followed by some rum and Coke.

Hugh put the Led Zeppelin’s unnamed fourth album and “Black Dog” began blaring out of the speakers. That was my cue to get my Friday night started……….

So there you go. The first installment, or part of an installment in my fictitious junkie auto-biography. Why don’t you all e-mail me suggestions, or leave them here and I will put them in future blogs, who knows where it will go from there? Maybe Oprah will endorse it and I can quit my Job.

Chris