A Slow Day in January

January 30, 2024

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Sammy, the local barber, plans to increase trade.  He’s going Uni-sex.  No more barber pole; just big, glossy pictures of beautiful people with beautiful hair.  Noticed my photo was not among them.

    

Apparently, women are willing to pay more than men for a cut.  And it’s not just a cut.  There is styling and coloring and who knows what else.  By his calculations, he should average forty bucks a head times 300 or so women in the district, say once month.  He figures just women alone will pull in about 1.4 million a year.  He was is a real good mood, so I slipped away before someone spoiled it.
 

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The gas station has a sign on the door; “Gone Fishing, Back When I Get Some.”
    

The next nearest gas is 70 miles away, so I hung around.  One of Bob’s kids came out to the pumps.  He’s about nine.  I asked him where his dad was fishing, but he’d been well trained. “Oh, just somewhere the ice is thick, the fish are biting and Ricky can’t find,” came the answer.  It was a great line, and both the coach and his kid should be congratulated, right after I figure out where he’s fishing.
 

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I stopped in at the grocery store.  The place was almost empty, so I picked up a few tins of sardines.  Now, if anyone sees you buying sardines they go on and on about how you can’t catch fish.  And in truth, I’ve been having a slow stretch lately. 

 

The minnows, the lures and I are all doing our best, but the fish aren’t having it.  I have tried for Lakers, Specs, Walleye and Perch in the past two weeks.  The sardines will be my first taste of fish.  Maybe that will change my luck.
So, I picked up the rest of the supplies and carried the basket over to the cash register. The gal on duty checked me through and did the bagging; chips on the bottom, then eggs and finally canned goods on top.  Same as usual.
 

See you on the lake.

Ricky