Slow half hour at my neighborhood pond, but three bass hammered the Mini-Kng and black 3/8th-ounce. Throwing that Mini-King around, I finally got over my disinclination and tied on the other. I bombed casts out to the middle, nothing there like last time. All three hit in close; two rolled over wake.
Of course I was set on Merrill Creek Reservoir. I thiink it best that got dashed since I became out of sorts last night and haven't shaped back to normal, not related to the loss of that outing plan. Great day at work Friday, well, I move by turns of fortune that at least in 51 years have always ended well. (The secret to this, by the way, is contained in one word: reason.)
I like a strong mood conducive to physical action. On seldom occasion, this normal drive evaporates and I vascillate uncertainly in a no-man's land of a vaporous, jellyfish-variable breeze. How could Jimi Hendrix stand it? He sure praises it to the ends of the universe in "With the Power," but the guy depended on barbiutates to try to firm up his responses otherwise.
One night the wind wasn't right for him. He suffocated in the ambulance.
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