Well, it's Sunday here, and bright and early this morning, a friend called with a rather unusual question.
"Hey!" He said. "The lake's frozen."
"Yeah," I replied. "That sort of thing happens in winter."
"No.. no.. no...," he said. "You don't get it. I actually drove on it this morning."
Of course, my chum's one of those rugged, unshaven, Northwoods sportsmen who has been known, on more than one occasion, to cover himself in doe urine and trundle his way through knee-deep snow with a shotgun in his hands. So, the notion of his experiencing such glee over a small, frozen body of water should come as no surprise to me, and I knew right away what was coming next: "Dude. Let's go ice-fishing."
Now, far be it from me to criticize someone for their outdoor hobbies and whatnot, but there are certain things I just won't do. For example, I won't play "tickle the badger." However, topping the list is my utter lack of desire to sit on a frozen lake and stare into a freshly-drilled hole while waiting for a small fish to bite. Granted, there is usually whiskey and no uncertain amount of Slim Jims involved, but booze or no booze, the closest I come to ice-fishing is possibly numbing my digits lingering over talapia in the frozen fish section at the grocery store.
So, needless to say, I had to tell my friend no. I don't need to be reminded that it's winter in Wisconsin. If anything, I'll crank up the heat, put on some shorts and sandals, make a margarita and pretend I'm somewhere else until June.