The night had just started to fall (PAF…BOUM!). A few weak reflections blinked like the bedridden old folks when the priest enters their rooms. And me, I returned with a happy heart after hours of benediction in my dear river.
The fish? Oh… A few, not very fat, but so what. Every minute spent in the water is a minute less spent at the office of le Mouching, far from it’s infernal rhythms.
At the corner of the rue du Marechat Petain and the impasse Maurice Thorez I ran nose to nose, into four shady characters, whom I immediately recognized, thanks to the insignias on their caps: The head of a lion (in very bad taste). Read more…
“Hello my little Fleche?… It’s me, your Grandma… Listen my little Fleche… I always read your stories in the Mouching… Yes, I really enjoy them… especially the ones that are a little risque’… yes… very well. Listen, you seem to love it so much that I would like that you teach me how to fish with flies… It sounds like a lot of fun… What?… What’s my age got to do with it? Hold on… let’s be polite my little one… Tomorrow? OK, that will be fine, after my siesta I’ll be at your house!”
Well, my dear readers, I have to tell you that the Grandma in question celebrated her 96th birthday last month and that she ignores such numbers, spits on them and that Solange (that’s her name) continues to act like she was 30 years old. Read more…
Usually when I leave my studio to go fishing I’m not very talkative. I’m not exactly a bear, but to clear my head there’s nothing better than to concentrate on casting my fly without making tons of knots and, if you’re half blind like me, to strive to see fish when there are practically none and, finally, to maintain my balance on those dumb rocks that are as slippery as soap from Marseille.
On that day, in the middle of MY river, in MY favorite spot, there was a guy installed; he looked rather amiable, not the kind of show off thinking “look at me, I am the perfectly attired fisherman!”.
I approached the character and discovered that he was using a fly that gave him slim chances of attracting a fish, even a drunk one. Read more…
Junior, everyone in the neighborhood knows and adores Junior. We should mount a statue with flowers for my friend, for his services rendered to the community. Think about it! The incredible number of adolescents in distress that he straightened out, the young druggies or dealers of all sorts, apprentice gangsters and river rats. He taught them to pull themselves together, stand tall and work hard instead of finding themselves in prison; right there, on North First Street: “You dismantle the rotten motor of this Chevrolet and you reassemble it, you do it like this… all nice and clean, like when it left the uterus of it’s mother!” Read more…
When I discovered the piece of ginger nestled coldly at the back of my fridge, I was filled with regret. The poor morsel had it’s members trembling with cold. And then, all of a sudden, it was like a vision, a thunderbolt… almost mystic. My piece of ginger left it’s vegetal envelope and was transformed, before my eyes, into a little frog with a light ochre skin.
Be assured dear readers that I had not abused any substances, that day, of which the law disapproves. Read more…
Watch ’til the end and you’ll have a fantastic week!
THE real cool part is the bodysurf at the begining of the film, the best thing, feeling the water, the speed of the wave against your body, than it’s beautiful, the waves, the swell, the surf, the music, everything makes you feel you are somewhere else but in front of your screen, daydreaming. Zangs Films, for the ones who are into that: Pat Towersey is in the water, RonRomanovsky at the mike.
Something disagreeable has happened to me.
Something that proves, if one still needs proof, to what point the french administration is archaic and blind. I know that this has little to do with the highly captivating subject of fly fishing, but we must defend the honor of our dear hexagon, our dear France.
Without a word of thanks, nor encouragement, “they” returned to me by mail, the synopsis (see below) which is, if less than perfect, never-the-less superior to a great number of stories that one sees on the big screen (poor public!).
Briefly, the story is as follows: The film starts in an ultra secret tunnel dug in the desert of Nevada. There we find a group of private scientists, encouraged by an oriental scholar; they are on the point of putting the final touch on a discovery that, without a doubt, will devastate the planet and it’s inhabitants. The idea (like all the great ideas) is quite simple.
Simply put, these scientists have developed a variety of food products that have the property of being entirely digested by the body without any waste product. No more time spent in rest-rooms. No more suspect traces on the back crotch of your pants; a real liberation for humanity. Whats more, little by little, it seems that what we call the asshole will serve no purpose. Because function creates the organ, a theory, not out of the question, is advanced that this orifices will end up by disappearing from our structure. Thanks to a spy (magnificently played by Juliette Binoche) the manufacturers of toilet paper got wind of the research in the Nevada laboratories. A war without mercy takes place. Homosexual soldiers are at the forefront of the fighting. Action, non-gratuitous violence, love scenes exactly as they should be. There you have it; the broad strokes of the scenario that they refused.