Chris Walker Vs. Irony On The High Seas

irony |ˈīrənē; ˈiərnē| noun ( pl. -nies): a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result : [with clause ] the irony is that I thought he could help me.

I’ve always hated that Alanis Morrisette song “Ironic.” Come to think of it, I hate most of Alanis Morissette’s songs. No. I take that back. I can firmly declare I hate every Alanis Morissette song ever made. All right, you got me; I guess there was that one but… no, just kidding; still hate them all. I mean, how did she make a career out of an album about getting humped-and-dumped by the guy who wasn’t Uncle Jessie or Bob Saget on Full House? And then she played God in Dogma? The only remotely enjoyable part about that was if you heard her voice, and you were mortal, your head would explode. I was like, Oh yeah, I totally get that because my head feels like exploding every time I hear Alanis sing. Don’t even get me started on her version of “My Humps.” Oh, Alanis is funny now? Snore. Fuck Alanis Morissette.

But enough about the almost Mrs. Ryan Reyonlds and onto real irony. Irony, in the true sense of the word, is having a blast with me right now. You may or may not remember a couple weeks ago I wrote piece about catch-and-release fishing calling it a stupid “sport” for stupid people, and if you catch-and-release fish there’s a good chance I hate you. So, guess what I did this week?

I’m in Australia on business. I spent two glorious days in Sydney by myself, drinking overpriced cocktails and eating otherworldly tapas; now I’m on the Gold Coast for a convention in a musty hotel room, in a musty, ahem, “resort.” Yeah right. Anyhow, my distributor down here got my company to sponsor a convention-related event, and the event was — you guessed it — a fishing trip. Since I’m the only one down here representing my company I had to be on that fishing trip.

I’ve been fishing twice in my entire life. The first time was with my grandfather, who wasn’t a very good one, so it sucked and we didn’t catch anything. The second time was at a fish farm where you’re guaranteed to catch something. I caught nothing. Much like someone who was inappropriately touched as a child by a relative, I’ve been trying to push that second experience out of my mind since it happened. The fish caught by others from the fish farm, when cooked, were so disgusting they made me swear off seafood altogether. It seriously took me ten years to start eating fish again.

So, there I was on a fishing trip in the Gold Coast, out in the middle of the ocean. It was gorgeous but all I could think was, I’m on a stupid fishing trip; I had better catch something, I had better kill it, and I had better eat it. Considering my track record (0 for 2), I was sure I wouldn’t catch anything. I figured I’d get my fishing line tangled with someone else’s a couple times, finally bag it, and fume for the rest of the day, “Why didn’t I sponsor the golf trip?”

Then it happened. I couldn’t believe it; as I sat there, bored out of my mind, I felt activity on my line. I jumped up, reeled it in, and there it was: a trout. Victory was mine. As everyone congratulated me, the skipper took hold of the fish and shrugged, “Good job. Too bad it’s too small.” Before I could scream, Don’t you dare throw that fucking thing back, you motherfucker! I will butcher it myself and we will use it at bait for sharks before I throw it into the ocean! the hook was out and the fish was back in the water.

I was furious. I almost jumped in after the fish, to catch it with my teeth and destroy it out of spite before it could swim away, but, you know, there are sharks in that water. I thought about Jaws for a while. I thought about our captain getting eaten by Jaws and laughing about it. Then I thought about James Conway. At first I was like, Football? At a time like this? Several seconds later I realized James — “Jimmy,” if you will — Conway wasn’t a football player. He wasn’t even a real person; he was the character Robert De Niro played in Goodfellas.

I was trying to think of Quint, the character Robert Shaw plays in Jaws, who gets savagely chopped on by the finned titan. I wondered, if Jaws came onto the back of our boat, and just laid there with its mouth open, trying to eat legs and torsos, who would I try to, you know, kick into Jaws’ mouth? Probably the napping fat guy who kept throwing up. I imagined ever-so-slightly nudging him toward Jaws’ beady eyes with my foot while he was coming out of his sleep. He’d be all like, “Mwa, what?” and then chomp. Done. Everyone would be screaming and panicking. Quint would take a slug off his whiskey and laugh. You know, that kind of belly laugher that’s infectious. I would laugh. Before long everyone would be laughing. Except for the fat guy’s son because, you know, his dad is dead. But Jaws would laugh, too, and no one would care that the kid would probably end up in a foster home. And then the Kool-Aid Man would laugh… somewhere out there… busting through someone’s living room wall.

Obviously, the sea was getting to me.

After my traumatizing watch-it-go-back-into-the-water episode I did try and catch a fish worthy of slaughter but I eventually got bored and settled on taking pictures of the first mate gutting other people’s catches and birds eating fish guts (see below). I guess as much as white people love irony, irony loves ‘em right back. It’s a give and take relationship.

After I’d snapped a couple photos the first mate and I had this great conversation:

First Mate: “This isn’t grossing you out, is it?”
Me: “No, not at all. I love this stuff.”
First Mate: “Oh, that’s right. You’re American.”

We both just kind of looked at each other for a moment, and I think we both knew his comment made absolutely no sense, whatsoever.

Posted: April 4th, 2008 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Australia, Idiots | No Comments »