In All Seriousness...

It occurs to me that I may have given you the wrong idea. Don't worry, it's entirely my fault. So, please, allow me a moment to set the record straight.

I'm not much of a drinker.

It's true. Despite all evidence to the contrary - the copious references to adult libations, pervasive malt beverage images, incoherent ramblings and tenuous hold on the English language (no doubt interpreted as slurred sloppy-speech) offered here on these pages - I’m really a cheap date.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I do truly love a good brew and can think of few better ways to spend an evening than with good friends over glassware. But two's my limit (three if you twist my arm and I'm not driving) and I've been known to nurse that final pint a long time.

Why am I telling you this?

Simply put, I'm feeling a bit irresponsible characterizing recent trips as alcoholic binges. They weren't. You see, I don’t advocate wasting perfectly good fishing and travel time managing a hangover. That’s infinitely more suited to the office.

But you wouldn't always believe that by what you read here. And I'm not alone in this. A quick check confirms that my favorite digital fishing outposts are rife with similar content. My blogging buddies do it too.

So why is it that we like to boast about our drinking? Why do we celebrate the buzz and believe it makes for a better story? Perhaps it’s our sportsman’s birthright, passed down from our revered patriarch, Papa Hemmingway, to all who dabble with rod and pen. Perhaps it’s the brash young man in us, trying desperately to recapture our “wondrous college days” or to reassert our youthful invincibility to drink. Perhaps we believe that the ability to hold our liquor (or survive those times that we don't) makes us more virile.

After all, the most interesting man in the world stays thirsty. Right, my friend?

And we fly fishermen are the worst. You need only consider that our unofficial official beer is Pabst Blue Ribbon to realize that we’ve come off the tracks on the subject. Completely.

Think about it. Who wants the beer yips when there are 1/0 clousers in the air? Or a good snootful of Woodford when wading wild and wicked waters? And isn’t outsmarting finicky trout hard enough when you're stone cold sober? It is for me.

So when you read here the subtle (or not) influence of demon rum, or of the San Juan worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle, take the passage with a grain of salt (and slice of lime) and know that it’s all in good fun. That it's nuance and texture in storytelling. Okay, maybe there is a little basis in fact, but every now and then I have to act like an adult.

This is me, acting like an adult. In all seriousness, partake responsibly. I do, believe it or not.

There. My civic duty is complete, my public service message delivered, the record set straight, and we can now get back to our regularly scheduled sophomoric content.

I’ll drink to that!