Henry and Marge have been married for 27 years. Unfortunately, for 9 years, Henry’s been a birder. He’s spotted a jay. But he’s not sure if it’s a California Scrub Jay or a White-tailed Jay. She’s thinking, “Who the f*** gives a crap what type of jay it is!”
As a nationally recognized unlicensed behavioral psychologist who has spent nearly three decades studying unusual human habits, I have witnessed countless troubling obsessions. I’ve seen adults spend $14,000 on virtual farm equipment in online games. I’ve counseled men who believed professional wrestling was real. I’ve even met individuals who voluntarily joined local pickleball association boards. (What were they thinking!)
Yet none of these compare to the rapidly growing epidemic currently sweeping suburban America. I’m speaking, of course, about birding.
For those unfamiliar with the term, a “birder” is not someone who enjoys an occasional glance at a Robin while mowing the lawn. No, birders are individuals who become fascinated – some experts would say chronically obsessed – with obscure birds with multi-syllabic names like the Northern Black-Hooded, Double-Tufted, Wing-Crested, Hooked-Tail Sparrow. The problem is worse than you think.
According to recent studies, married men who think Birkenstocks with knee-high black socks is a good look and who have limited social lives appear particularly vulnerable. The warning signs often begin subtly. Perhaps your husband points out a bald eagle circling overhead (unless you’re in New York City, in which case it’s more likely just another pigeon). Then he purchases a bird feeder. Before you know it, your husband is waking up at 4:15 AM on a Saturday, covered in camo netting, to sit in a swamp, hoping to catch a glimpse of a breeding pair of North American White-Crested Sapsuckers.
How do you know if your husband has crossed the line from a casual nature-lover into a full-blown avian psychotic? Look for these critical warning signs:
First, listen to his vocabulary. If your spouse goes on at length describing the minor, indistinguishable plumage differences between the Kentish Plover and the White-Faced Plover, seek psychiatric help immediately. There is no rational reason a grown man should care about a plover’s feathers.
Second, monitor his accessories. If he has a pair of high-powered, military-grade binoculars strapped around his neck at all times – including while watching TV, driving the minivan, or taking a shower – this is not a fashion statement. It is a cry for help. If your spouse has obvious binocular tan lines around his neck, it’s time to panic. He may be beyond saving at this point.
Ordinary men discuss sports scores, riding mowers, or why their team’s prospects to “go all the way” look much better next year. Birders suddenly begin saying things like, “I heard a Black-Throated Gray Warbler this morning.” Or, “The snow geese migration patterns have been spectacular this year.” Or, “Quick! Get in the car! Someone spotted a rare Yellow-Bellied Something-Or-Other near the sewage treatment plant!” No rational person has ever uttered such phrases – or had any interest in being caught anywhere in the vicinity of a sewage treatment plant.
One of the most troubling signs occurs when family vacations become suspiciously bird-centered. Your spouse may believe you when you tell her you’re taking her for a quiet romantic weekend getaway. Then you arrive at a mosquito-infested marshland in the middle of nowhere because “a very unusual shorebird called the Lesser Bar-Tailed Godwit was reported there on Tuesday.” Some marriages never recover.
So, what should you do if you suspect your spouse has become deeply involved in birding? First, remain calm. Avoid direct confrontation (or direct eye contact). Do not ridicule his collection of birding field guides or expensive birder apps. You may be tempted to ask why he owns seven books that all appear to contain identical pictures of sparrows. Resist this urge.
He will have explanations. Lengthy explanations. Annoyingly boring, excruciatingly detailed explanations. Instead, gently encourage alternative activities. Suggest hobbies generally considered more normal among middle-aged men, like high-stakes sports gambling, fantasy football, arguing with Trump supporters on Facebook, day trading, or going to strip clubs with male friends in search of hookers.
This is a chart listing some of the more popular North American Sparrows. Did you know that there are 60 different species of sparrows in North America alone? How many species of sparrow can you name? If you can only name one – SPARROW – congratulations, you’re not a birder. You are a normal, sane person, with your priorities in order.
Granted, finding male friends willing to accompany a committed birder can be challenging. Many friendships end abruptly after the third consecutive conversation about the migratory patterns of the Black-Capped Chickadee.
Try inviting other couples over at your peril. Birders tend to struggle in social settings because they frequently interrupt conversations to identify birds outside the window. “Honey, pay attention. Karen was telling us about her hip replacement.”
“I understand, but that’s definitely a Red-breasted Nuthatch.” Turns out he was right, but that’s beside the point.
You can also attempt gradual rehabilitation. If he spends four hours watching birds every Saturday, reduce it to three and a half. Replace the remaining thirty minutes with sports highlights or yelling at professional golfers on television. Recovery can be a slow, arduous journey back to sanity.
In severe cases, professional intervention may be necessary. The National Association for Concerned Spouses operates a confidential bird-wife support hotline at 1-800-NO-MO-OWLS. Trained volunteers stand by 24 hours a day to listen compassionately while you explain why your husband drove 200 miles to observe a bird that looks nearly identical to twelve other birds he’s already photographed over 200 times.
Remember, you are not alone. Thousands of families are affected each year. But let me help you put this crisis into perspective. Birding, while irritatingly nerdy and mind-numbingly boring, is generally harmless – unless your spouse attempts to pet a raptor. In fact, it could be much worse. Your husband could have become obsessed with model trains.
See? It could be a lot worse than having a birder for a spouse. Your husband could have taken up trains as a hobby and taken over the garage… then the basement… then the living room…
With train enthusiasts, sooner or later, the entire garage gets covered wall to wall with train paraphernalia. Then the basement. Before long your home starts looking less like a mid-century two-story colonial and more like an 1850s pioneer village complete with tiny blacksmith shops, miniature livestock, and a thematically era-inconsistent model drive-in burger shop circa 1962, which he got on sale for only $450.
Before you know it your husband is walking around all day sporting an 1870’s era train conductor’s outfit complete with a genuine conductor’s whistle – which he blows at full volume every time the train comes into the station. If you notice your husband has run a stretch of model train tracks across the bed headboard in your bedroom, that’s a good indicator it’s time to contact a divorce attorney.
Compared to that, a few binoculars and an unhealthy interest in woodpecker mating habits doesn’t really sound so bad now, does it? So don’t freak out. And if your spouse suddenly shouts, “Quick! Grab the camera! A rare tufted thingamajig just landed in the maple tree!” Well… At least he’s outside getting some fresh air, in his favorite pair of Birkenstocks.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Game Show Host: Welcome everybody to another episode of the wildly popular trivia game Who Said What? Tonight’s contestant is Wilbur Deffinear, an 84-year-old retired construction worker from Chugwater, Wyoming. Welcome to the show, Wilbur! Are you excited?
Wilbur: I’m sorry, what did you just say? My hearing isn’t so good these days. I worked a jackhammer for 50 years. Turns out if you hold a tiny earthquake next to your head for half a century, there are consequences.
Host: (Smiling broadly) No worries, Wilbur. The game is simple. I’ll ask you a series of questions. If you answer correctly, you move on and the prize money keeps climbing. Ready to begin?
Wilbur: Begin what?
Host: The game, Wilbur. The game! Here we go. For $125: After what person is the standard unit of electrical power named?
Wilbur: (Leaning in) What?
Host: Correct! A watt — named after Scottish engineer James Watt. Good start!
Host: For $250: When you’re engaged in conversation and the other person appears not to be paying attention, what might the other person say in response to your question?
Wilbur: Huh?
Host: Yes! “Huh?” is absolutely correct! For $500, what rock group composed and performed the famous rock opera Tommy in 1969?
Wilbur: Who said what? Could you repeat the question?
Host: I’m afraid we don’t have time. For $1,000: A man is released from prison because the president has granted him a what?
Wilbur: Pardon me? What did you—
Host:Pardon is correct! Ladies and gentlemen, this guy’s unstoppable!
Wilbur: Not sure I’m at the right place. I was trying to get to my doctor’s office for my proctology exam. I got kind of lost…
Host: For $2,500: What famous, but enigmatic Beatles song from 1969 included the cryptic lyrics, “He got ju-ju eyeball, he one holy roller?”
Wilbur: Come again?
Host: Well, technically, it was Come Together. But the judges say, “Close enough.” Well done. Now, for $5,000, what were Ludwig van Beethoven’s last words?
Wilbur: I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.
Host: EXACTLY. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.” Because he was deaf. Well done again, Wilbur.
Wilbur: What did you just say? My hearing aid fell off. I can’t find it.
Host: For $10,000: Do you know the name of the first James Bond film villain?
Wilbur: No. Can’t say that I – …
Host:Dr. No! Correct again! This man is a cinema scholar!
Wilbur: I haven’t been to a movie since Reagan was shot.
Host: For $15,000: Can you tell me the first two words of the Four Tops’ smash hit song whose title ends with “Help Myself”?
Wilbur: I can’t… uh… sorry.
Host: “I Can’t!” Correct! The full title is “I Can’t Help Myself.” It topped the Billboard 100 charts for two weeks in 1965. How did you know that, Wilbur?
Wilbur: I have no idea what is happening…
Host: For $25,000: What famous Shakespeare line begins with the words “To be or not to be? That is the – blank?
Wilbur: Um, Question. What did you just – ?
Host: QUESTION. That is correct! From Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1. This is getting really exciting. Now, Wilber, for $50,000: What is the English translation of the French phrase “Je ne sais pas”?
Wilbur: Well, I don’t know. I’ve never been to Fran-…
Host: Wilbur, is there anything you’d like to say at this moment?
Wilbur: Yes. My hearing aid fell out when I first sat down. I haven’t understood a single word you’ve said the entire time. For all I know, I just agreed to join the Navy.
Host: Wilbur, no, much better. You just won $100,000!
Wilbur: I owe a thousand dollars? I don’t have that kind of money on me.
Host: (Handing him a massive, oversized cardboard check) No, you WON $100,000! Here’s your prize!
Wilbur: (Staring at the giant board) What is this?
Host: It’s a check!
Wilbur: A what?
Host: A CHECK!
Wilbur: (Nervously) Czech? No, no… I’m Polish on my mother’s side. I think there’s been a mistake.
Host: That’s all the time we have tonight! Join us next week on Who Said What? where we’ll be introducing a brand-new contestant who is technically legally blind and forgot his glasses.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I’m the proud owner of an extensive collection of priceless one-of-a-kind heirlooms, some of which I’ve owned since early childhood. Recently I decided to find out what they were worth. No doubt hundreds of thousands of dollars. So, when I heard that Antiques Roadshow was coming to Seattle, I knew this was my chance to determine conclusively just how valuable my rare compilation of artifacts was. The following is a transcript of my conversation with the appraiser on Antiques Roadshow.
Antiques Roadshow (ARS): Welcome to another episode of Antiques Roadshow. Good afternoon, sir. What do we have here?
Tim: Love your show. Big fan. By the way, I recently wrote this book called YOU’RE GROUNDED FOR LI-
ARS: We really don’t have time for you to shamelessly plug your book.
Tim: Why not? After all, this is my humor column.
ARS: Pardon me? Okay, what is it you have to show me, sir?
Tim: I have this rare coin my father gave to me when I was five years old. I think it might be early Mesopotamian, probably from the 5th century BC. It appears to be in really good condition. What would you say it’s worth?
ARS: Well, sir. I agree this coin is in excellent condition. However, on closer inspection, it appears that it does not date quite as far back as the 5th century before Christ. I would date it to around 1960.
Tim: Tim: Ah. So, late Mesopotamian.
ARS: It’s a New York City subway token. It says “Good for one fare.”
Tim: In cuneiform? Well, that’s disappointing. Okay, well, how about this item, then? I think it might be a rare impressionist painting. My mom had it posted on our kitchen wall when I was very young. It looks to me like it could be an early Monet or maybe a Van Gogh. Do you recognize the artist?
ARS: Hmmm, I’m sorry to say, I don’t, sir. But look here on the back – there appears to be some sort of signature. I glean the letters “T-I-M-M-Y” scrawled in reddish orange crayon. Does that name mean anything to you?
Tim: That’s funny. That’s my name.
ARS: Intriguing. You don’t think by any chance this might be one of your childhood finger paintings, do you? Perhaps from when you were, say, two or three years old? And below it: “Timmy: B minus for originality. F for effort.”
Tim: Critics were brutal back then. Fair enough. Maybe it is one of my early works. So, what might its worth be, to the nearest thousand dollars, give or take?
ARS: To the nearest thousand dollars, you say?
Tim: Yeah, just spitballing, I mean.
ARS: I see. Well, then, “just spitballing,” I would estimate its value at roughly ZERO thousand dollars – give or take zero.
Tim: Seriously? Well, that sucks.
ARS: We don’t say “sucks” on Antiques Roadshow, sir.
Tim: Sorry about that. Okay, what about this? I am fairly certain it’s a rare Native American hand-woven rug. From my limited research, I would say it’s Navajo. Perhaps traced back to an ancient Anasazi cliff-dwelling tribe from the 11th or 12th century. What do you think are its origins?
ARS: Pier One Imports, sir. But that’s just an educated guess.
Tim: What makes you think that?
ARS: I don’t know, sir. Perhaps the sales tag that says, “Clearance item. 50% off – Pier One Imports.”
Tim: So, you’re telling me it’s not an ancient Navajo rug?
ARS: It’s about as Navajo as the man currently arguing with me.
Tim: I must own SOMETHING in here of historic value. Okay, how about this ancient collectibles box? My mother gave it to me when I was six. I’m thinking it might date back to caveman times, but you’re the expert, doc, so what do you say?
ARS: I’d estimate its worth to be every bit as valuable as that “young Picasso” finger painting you showed me previously. Definitely not prehistoric.
Tim: How can you possibly conclude that so quickly?
ARS: Several clues, actually. First, I’m fairly certain plastic was not invented during the Neanderthal era. Secondly, just because it has an image of the Flintstones painted on the lid doesn’t make it prehistoric. Finally, it’s a lunchbox. With a thermos inside.
Tim: Well, what about this rare photograph of Abraham Lincoln? Again, I’m no expert, but this looks like it might have been taken during his second Inaugural Address.
ARS: This is a movie poster of Daniel Day-Lewis from the film Lincoln.
Tim: But it looks just like him! How can you be so sure it’s not authentic?
ARS: I will admit the resemblance is uncanny. But what gives it away for me is the 40-point type to the left of Lincoln’s chin, where it says “LINCOLN – A Steven Spielberg film – Opening November 9th.”
Tim: So, what you’re telling me is that all this stuff I’ve been saving for decades is junk. Even this rare antique Japanese tea set?
ARS: Yes, even your “Hello Kitty” tea set, correct.
Tim: Well, this is really disappointing news. So, there’s nothing here worth anything? Not even this autographed copy of my book, YOU’RE GROUNDED FOR LIFE?
ARS: Autographed, you say?
Tim: Yes, absolutely.
ARS: Then, um, no, sir. Not worth the paper it’s printed on, I’m afraid.
Tim: So, I don’t have anything at all of any value? Is that what you’re telling me?
ARS: Well… the subway token is still good for one fare.
Tim: To where?
ARS: Anywhere but back on this show.
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If you want to look wafer-thin and svelte, with the sunken cheeks and flat stomach that aspiring young Hollywood starlets long for, then have I got a weight loss plan for you….
As an expert on most things, I find people are constantly approaching me asking all sorts of questions like, “Why is it that cats always land on their feet?” and “Which is better, cake or pie?” [Answer: Cake], and “Why are you following me?” (I get that last one all of the time.)
Another question people are always asking me is how they can lose weight. Constantly trying to slim down has become an American obsession. But I recently stumbled onto an amazing weight loss solution that sheds the weight not in weeks or months but HOURS! Incredibly, it doesn’t require rigorous exercise, draconian starvation diets, weight loss supplements, or even Ozempic. If you want to have the sunken cheeks of a Parisian runway model, just do what I did. Within days, people will be staring at you in envy, quietly wondering, “How did he lose all that weight?” and “Is he dead?”
My new weight loss plan worked with shocking results. Here’s the secret: My wife and I booked a 25-day vacation, starting with a week touring London on our own, then flying to Istanbul to join an organized tour of Turkey and Greece, including nine days of island hopping through several Greek Isles in the Aegean Sea. Fabulous, I know. We arrived in London, jet lagged, but otherwise fine. The following morning, we had a typical London breakfast of badly prepared eggs, bacon, and toast. But I decided to go one step further, by ordering a fresh fruit salad, which my wife opted to skip.
Fast forward four hours – cue food poisoning and the worst diarrhea of my life. Over the next three days, I must have lost every ounce of bodily fluid inside me that was not technically blood. Not to be too graphic, but let’s just say that my oral and posterior cavities competed aggressively in a race to empty all of my bodily fluids in a gushing exodus from my body.
To suggest that I was experiencing the human anatomy’s impersonation of Niagara Falls would be a ridiculous comparison. Because it was way worse than that. A more accurate description would be the eruption of Krakatoa (or for you millennials who’ve never heard of the historic Krakatoa eruption of August 26, 1883, feel free to substitute Mount St. Helens’ blast. And read up on your history, please!)
I could not leave my hotel room for days. I estimate I used approximately 18% of the city of London’s entire toilet paper inventory. I was so weak I fainted and collapsed on the floor attempting to reach the bathroom in the middle of the night, only to be awakened by my wife hysterically screaming, “Tim, you fell on the floor!!!” (True.)
Ah, the jaw-dropping sights of Istanbul, Turkey. The historic Hagia Sophia church / mosque, built in 532 AD, the world-famous Basilica Cistern, built during the 6th century by Byzantine Emperor Justinian I, and the chaotic traffic of riverboats along the stunning Bosporus Strait, were just a few of the many unbelievable sights… I missed out on seeing.
After three days of not being able to stand the sight of food, lest it trigger another case of projectile vomiting, I slowly regained my strength. By the time we flew to Istanbul to join our Turkey / Greek Isles tour group, I was feeling almost back to normal. But then on the very first day of our tour, as we walked among the ancient ramparts of Istanbul, it suddenly struck me again. DOWN GOES FRAZIER! DOWN GOES FRAZIER!I started feeling dizzy, nauseous, and in desperate need of finding a bathroom. Perhaps this is a good time to point out that in Istanbul, most of the public toilets are squat toilets. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, kids, seriously, you need to pay more attention in social studies class.
By 3pm on our very first day of the tour, I told our trip leader I’d need to skip the Welcome Dinner that evening. By 6pm, I was pretty sure I’d have to miss out on the Istanbul walking tour the following day. By 9pm, I was in the Emergency Room of a local hospital. Three hours later, having had my body pumped full of IV fluids, I was taxied back to our hotel. Six hours later, the following morning, after fainting en route to the bathroom for a second time in less than a week, Michele had to get a wheelchair to take me to the lobby and back to the ER.
On this second visit, doctors were now worried about the possibility of a stroke due to my severe dehydration and / or a risk of sepsis due to the aggressive intestinal infection that by now had spread to my bloodstream and my urine. Not good, I know.
Four hours later, after filling me with more IV fluids and antibiotics, they discharged me again. Ultimately, we had to bail on the rest of our bucket list tour and fly home, experiencing literally only five hours of what was supposed to be a 16-day tour. It turns out that In the space of less than a week, I had lost 11 pounds. If I had ever desired that “heroin chic” look of a 90’s fashion model, I totally nailed it.
On the bright side, I received an insane number of caring, concerned Facebook comments from close to 200 people, some of whom I had not seen nor heard from in years. Of course, there was no shortage of people trying to help me laugh at my situation, with actual comments like…
A selfie photo I took in the Istanbul Hospital’s ER while I waited to be treated. I have to say, my wife was a saint, making sure I received all the critical medical care I needed. I was very, very lucky she was there to advocate for me, because my brain was in a total fog (yes, even more than usual) for much of this.
“Hang in there, Tim. This too shall pass. ; ) “
“Sorry about being stuck in a Turkish Hospital. Look on the bright side, Tim. At least it wasn’t a Turkish prison.”
“Tim, I need to lose ten pounds in time for my wedding next month. Can you text me the fruit salad recipe that caused you to get sick?”
“Hey, buddy, if you don’t pull through, can I have your golf clubs?”
Things like that. What can I say, human suffering sometimes brings out the best in people.
I’m pleased to report that I am back at home and on the mend. I am regaining strength by the day. But please don’t tell my wife. I plan to use this recent health scare to get out of housework for at least the next six weeks.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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If watching NFL football is too intense for your temperament, might I suggest fishing. No, not going fishing. Watching fishing – on TV. Just relax as you watch two drunk guys in a boat talk about the one that got away. Ideal for anyone who’s having trouble falling asleep.
Are you tired of traditional sports being too…well, sporty? Have you ever watched a high-stakes curling match and thought, “This is just too much excitement for my blood pressure?”
If so, my friend, I have the perfect solution for calming your dangerously overactive sports-viewing lifestyle: Fishing. On TV.
That’s right – fishing. But not the kind where you have to leave the house at the crack of dawn to go interact with nature, apply sunscreen, and swat pesky mosquitos. No, I’m talking about the televised spectacle of watching other people sit in a boat, drink beer, and every twenty minutes or so say something like, “Hey, I think I got a bite” – in a thick Texas drawl. This isn’t just a sport. It’s a lifestyle. A very slow, deeply uneventful lifestyle.
Now, you might say, “Isn’t watching fishing about as exhilarating as changing a light bulb?” To which I say: Exactly. That’s the point.
Fishing shows are the perfect remedy for anyone who finds professional bowling a little too fast-paced, or thinks golf is just a chaotic mess of sudden movement and over caffeinated whisper-commentary. Fishing is for the truly refined viewer who longs for a steady heart rate and the occasional glimpse of camouflage outerwear.
What To Expect When You’re Expecting . . . . Nothing
The beauty of fishing shows lies in their utter predictability, in that absolutely nothing will happen for 28 of the 30 minutes. You’ll tune in to see two guys named Dale and Bubba in Nowhere, Tennessee sitting in a boat with the color palette of dishwater. They’ll be wearing enough Realtree brand camo gear to confuse a passing deer into filing a restraining order.
For the first seven minutes, Dale will explain his revolutionary new jigging technique, which is identical to last week’s jigging technique except this time he’s wearing different lucky socks. Meanwhile, Bubba is laser-focused on the depth finder and his cooler of Busch Light. There’s a real “will they, won’t they” tension in the air, reminiscent of a Jane Austen novel if Jane Austen had been heavily into largemouth bass and gas station jerky.
Eventually, the camera will cut to a close-up of a bobber, because frankly it has more charisma than the hosts. The bobber floats. Still floats. Continues to float. Now we’re ten minutes in, and the only thing that’s happened is Dale coughed once, and Bubba accidentally cut his thumb with a fish hook, which was, if we’re being honest, the episode’s climax.
When watching fishing on TV, start slowly. The popular show Deadliest Catch may freak you out. Start with a show that’s a bit more sedate, like Backyard Fishing for Guppies. Nobody’s ever died in that show, as far as I can tell, not even guppies.
The Thrill of the Catch
Every once in a while – maybe once every three episodes – someone actually catches a fish. This event is treated with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the birth of a royal baby. The camera zooms in dramatically as Dale reels in a bass the size of a well-fed guinea pig. He holds it up proudly, as if to say, “Behold! I have conquered nature!” Bubba high-fives him and accidentally drops his beer overboard, triggering a good-natured chuckle that lasts roughly five minutes longer than it should. The show is brought to you by Skoal Chewing Tobacco – “The choice of professional anglers.”
And that’s the magic of fishing shows. It’s not about the fish. It’s about the journey. A very slow, meandering journey that involves zero cardio. And if you have to take a ten-minute bathroom break, trust me, you won’t miss anything while you are gone.
For the Die-Hard Fans
There is no shortage of fishing-viewing options. There are dozens of fishing shows and even several streaming channels devoted entirely to fishing. In fact, you could literally spend the rest of your life just watching the endless stream of fishing shows on YouTube alone. (My, what a sad life you must lead.) Here are some popular shows you may want to add to your binge-watch list:
Bassmaster – Because watching a guy in sunglasses yell, “It’s a big one!” and then haul up a fish the size of a pork BBQ sandwich is pure adrenaline.
Fly Fishing the World – A travel show disguised as a fishing show, where you mostly watch a guy stand in freezing rivers in Iceland and talk about how spiritual it is to wave a stick at passing salmon.
Deadliest Catch – The rock concert of fishing shows, except it’s just crusty guys yelling in the rain while tying knots with one frozen hand and swearing at crabs as their boat gets flooded by 25-foot waves. Will first mate Earl go overboard again? You’ll just have to tune in to find out.
But be warned. Deadliest Catch might be too intense for beginner fishing viewers. There’s action. Swearing. Sometimes people fall overboard – usually Earl. It’s basically Die Hard with barnacles. You might want to start with something lower octane, like a YouTube video of a guy organizing his tackle box alphabetically. Or re-reading this article…
When Fishing Is Just Too Dang Exciting
Of course, if watching other people fish on TV is too much of a thrill ride for your elevated blood pressure, perhaps Lawn Mower Wars is more your style. It features suburban neighbors competing to mow their yard in less time. Sponsored by Scotts Turf Builder, of course.
Now, if watching people fish is still too much excitement for your delicate immune system, don’t worry. You still have other options. Consider stepping down to even more sedate sports:
Watching Paint Dry: The Championship – Now with time-lapse slo-mo instant replay.
Grass Growing Invitational – Sponsored by Miracle-Gro and attended by absolutely no one.
Live Birdwatching (from a webcam pointed at an empty tree) – Where the motto is, “We think a chickadee showed up last Thursday.”
Fishing shows are the ultimate televised sport for people who think “thrill rides” should involve couch cushions and a tub of rocky road ice cream. They offer everything you could want: near silence, somewhat hilarious beer ads every eight minutes, and the occasional Walleye or Chinook salmon in its final throes, realizing too late that it probably shouldn’t have chomped on that lure that looked like a minnow.
So grab your remote, your Snuggie, and a six-pack of whatever’s on sale. The lake is calling, and by lake I mean your couch. And by calling, I mean whispering softly, with a yawn.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When I was young, I was taught to be kind, polite and avoid disappointing others. But I’ve learned (the hard way) that trying to constantly please other people by saying YES to their sometimes unappealing invitations and requests can lead to rather awkward moments. I am hardwired to be a people pleaser. In fact I once took off (almost) all my clothes in public – just to avoid disappointing the crowd that had assembled to see me humiliate myself. Don’t believe me? Well, it’s true.
I tend to say Yes to most invitations, even when I really want to say No. Not long ago I received an invitation to attend a fundraising event to save – I honestly can’t recall the critter – let’s say the Western Spotted Otter – when what I really wanted to do was lie on my couch and watch football. (I’m confident my $25 donation helped save a few spotted otters.) Maybe it’s just as well I attended the boring fundraiser, as my team lost in overtime.
Every week I’m confronted with situations in which I say, “Sure, I’d be happy to… Attend your party / Donate to your cause / Read that 500-page book you insist on lending to me / Fill out your 80-question survey / Feed your cats while you’re away for two weeks,” etc… when what I really want to do is give them a more HONEST RESPONSE. I’ll explain with a few slightly altered examples that are all eerily close to actual invitations I’ve received.
A friend invited me:“Tim, a group of us are going on a 3,000-ft. elevation gain hike up Mount YulNevaMaykit (okay, so I made up the mountain’s name – I think it was actually called Mount KillaMeNow). We plan to stop at an Iranian-Vietnamese restaurant on the way home. I know this place that makes the best fried chicken testicle soup.”
My actual response: “Gosh, that sounds like fun. Thanks for inviting me. My calendar looks clear. Hey, do you think that restaurant might have a Caesar salad?”(I’m a bit of a picky eater.)
What I wanted to say as an Honest Response:Let me get this straight. You want to inflict pain and suffering on me over several hours, only to “reward” me with a dish so disgusting that it would make my cat vomit? How long have you secretly harbored a death wish for me?”
My friend: “I’ve got a great investment opportunity – if you have just $20K to put down.” Me: “Gosh, I would love to. But I can’t afford to right now. Thanks for thinking of me.” Honest Response: “Are you on crack? Seriously? Are you? Did you mistake me for Warren Buffett’s nephew? How about I invest $7.00 for a Starbucks skinny no foam latte instead?”
A relative of mine texted me:“Heard this fascinating podcast about Robert F. Kennedy Jr. He makes a lot of sense. You should really listen to it. He has some innovative ideas about how we can live to 150 by banning all vaccines and adhering to a strict diet of cauliflower, oysters, and tobacco-onion juice. The audio interview is two hours long but it goes by fast.”
My actual response:“Thanks for this. I will try to watch it in the next day or two. I have been curious about Robert F. Kennedy Jr. I had thought he was a bit of a kook, but maybe I’ve judged him unfairly.”
My Honest Response:“Thanks for this. I was looking for a way to help me get to sleep faster. This looks like just the ticket. Ever since you first voted for Trump, I was concerned you’d lost your mind. And your most recent text officially confirms it. If you never hear from me again, don’t worry. It just means I’ve blocked you on every device I own.”
An acquaintance emailed me: “Tim, as a humor writer, I thought you’d get a kick out of a humorous play I wrote that I think is hilarious. It’s based on the time my cat tried to eat some geraniums I bought for my wife. Then it threw up on her lap. What a riot. Can you read my manuscript and give me suggestions on any tweaks you might recommend? Do you think I should submit it to The New Yorker? Or the New York Times?”
My actual response:“Nick, I am honored you’d like me to read your play. What a hysterical premise. A cat throwing up. I don’t know if that’s ever been written about.”
My Honest Response: “Nick, you asked me for suggestions. Here’s one: Never even think about writing a humorous play ever again. Miraculously I’ve somehow survived to page 75. At what point does the humor start? I totally think you should send this to both publications – along with a sincere apology cover letter for wasting their time. Does this help?”
A friend called to ask: “Tim, my daughter Empress is going to turn 23 next month. I’d like to help her celebrate this milestone birthday by throwing her an epic music festival in our backyard with some local rock bands. I’m asking guests to donate $150 to help make this a birthday Empress will never forget. I think a music festival is just the kind of therapy that will help her overcome the funk she’s been in ever since she failed to realize her dream of becoming a TikTok influencer with five million followers. Can I put you down as a YES?”
My Actual Response:“Wow, what an exciting day you have planned. I would love to attend but I’ll be out of town that weekend. But thanks for the invite, Jill.” (You didn’t actually think I’d say YES to such an insane invitation, did you?)
My Honest Response:“Um, Jill, first of all, 23 is not exactly a milestone birthday. Second, Empress? Who names their kid Empress? Was the name Queen Aphrodite already taken? Third, I really believe you need to think much BIGGER if you want to impress your darling Empress. I recommend asking each person to donate $5,000 in bitcoin. If you get a mere 200 suckers people to say yes, you probably can convince Elton John to come out of retirement and perform. And doesn’t your little social media drama queen deserve it?”
LinkedIn Recruiter: “Tim, I saw your profile on LI. You look like you’d be a great fit for this job.” Me: “Thank you very much. Actually, I’m retired. But if I think of anyone, I’ll let you know.” Honest Response: “Do you need glasses? Because you apparently failed to read my LI headline, where it reads, “RETIRED.” Besides, my PT job as a Walmart greeter keeps me very fulfilled and busy.
Of course, the next time someone texts me insisting I watch a “must-see” four-part PBS documentary series titled “Comic Sans – The Forgotten Font”, I won’t insult them with a snide, sarcastic, but honest reply. Knowing me, I’ll send back my usual, polite response: “Thank you so much for thinking of me. Sounds amazing!” – right before I press the DELETE button.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
