Bluegills to Orcas

First a mountain lake, then SeaWorld. Honestly, I kind of dig San Diego. Like you, I admire towns that aren’t afraid to show a little leg.

I now pick out clothing of a certain texture, the kind that won’t reveal the spilled egg yoke, ketchup, motor oil and other fluids that seem to plague me more and more, as I sometimes get a tad careless, or don’t even care at all.

This means that — this season — smooth linens are out and vintage sea captains’ sweaters are in.

And if you insist on wearing your stains, be sure to layer them.

Increasingly, night crawlers and meal worms are an issue. More on that in a moment.

For such a homebody, I seem to be getting around a lot lately, right?

There’s Suzie’s cozy mountain cabin, the one with the ghosts and the creaky floors.

You should see us celebrate a summer sunset up there — like lipstick, a little smeared. Or the catch-and-release of a baby bluegill.

To me, fishing is the closest thing to sex that isn’t sex. I love setting up the lures, the lines. My knots are lousy and my luck even worse.

Yet, I love fishing. And I really love, once I’ve caught one, the joy in letting it swim away.