Monday, January 6, 2014

The Skank

     DISCLAIMER:  I should probably go ahead and get this out of the way, if for nothing else than to say - I WARNED YOU.  I started this blog two or three years ago, not sure which and it doesn't really matter now, with the simple mission of getting my story out, of saying what's on my mind, and hopefully, gaining and audience and adding to their happiness.  At first, it was a blast, it was fun, the photos came and went, the stories much the same...and then, it became work.  Real work.  I literally found myself forcing an to find meaning on every sunrise.  It was tough, made hunting not quite what it had always been, made it a grind versus anything like it should be.  About the same time I was trying to get some more viewership, thinking that would make it more worthwhile.  I approached a friend who also had a blog and discussed the situation.  Long story short, he didn't want to link to my blog from his site due to content.  At first, I was aggravated, but at the end of the day, he's my friend and the one or two references to drinking and the like were probably not the best thing for what he had going on.  So, I got to thinking, Who in the hell am I writing for?   

     Answer, mydamnself.

     After that, I started looking at my writing, looking at everything about it, and it dawned on me.  I'm not a it's all about the sunrise type of dude.  I'm me.  I cuss, drink, fart, have fun with my friends, get loud, and at the end of the day, come home to my family and attempt some semblance of sanity.

      Beyond this point you're gonna get me, for better or worse.  No, it ain't gonna be Penthouse Forums type stuff because let's face it, describing the morning as it was hot and wet, is just weird...and wrong...and pretty damned creepy and you should be ashamed.

The Skank

     For years I've written about a little piece of ground and water in glorified fashion.  I've exulted this duck hole as near perfection personified and to be sure, the day God stood above the Earth and waved his hands over Grey Duck, he had his big boy pants and thinking cap on.
     Watched over by towering tupelos and lined by merciless buckbrush, Grey Duck would have made Nash Buckingham speechless, and for years I tried to describe Grey Duck in Buckinghamian prose...and today, on January 6, 2014 at the ripe old age of 37, I'm done with that slant of colorful writing.

     In short, Grey Duck's a bitch.

     Decoys, waders, shells, dog stand, the list is long and distinguished, and makes for suffering.   Grey Duck's over a mile of merciless, pitiless Hell.  It's beaver runs and cypress knees, it's low-hanging vine and thorny bush, it's a wall of buck brush, a hat-floater, a soul-reaper, a chode-drencher...

     A true, in the flesh, dictionary defintion of a dick-dragger.

     About five years ago I came to the conclusion that Grey Duck should only be hunted on just the right kind of day.  A day like we had today.  Big front, strong north wind, sunny.  Wanna know why I decided that?  Because, I suck, I'm getting old and dammit, I've done enough to not have to go into that kind of Hell but a few times a year.

     But on those precious days, few as they may be, Grey Duck becomes the drug, the last beer, the skank at closing.

     Don't deny it, you had a skank.  Every college student does.  The chick - or DUDE, we're equal opportunity here - that you migrated to about once a month and found that for the next 4.6 hours, you just couldn't live without.  She/he/they turned you inside out.  Maybe that fluffy headed dude from US was singing 8675309, Jenny just right, who knows, who cares, but at just the right time you migrated back to the skank.  The person (remembering, he/she) that the next day was just as likely to hook up with that SAE or Kappy Sig down the road or your own damned fraternity brother (never did this to a brother, but I heard stories) as she would you.  Considering all that, every bit of it, you just sashay right up to her like a mule eating sawbriars, maybe even do the worm across the dance floor because you're drunk and looking for attention.

     Meanwhile, your fraternity brothers are behind you going, "Dude, do not do this shit again....Do not do it."  

    But, you do, with a smile on your face and no regret.

   That's Grey Duck.  Pretty and available when the situation is just right, enough of a sure thing to make you go back for more...and more....and more.

   But, I was 21 once and I remembered fumbling through life.  Remembered wondering if anyone, anywhere was paying attention, and I'm sure that Grey Duck and everything that involves hunting the hole is God's way of saying, "Dude, I got this, just enjoy."

     Grey Duck would probably be an easier deal if I asked anyone to go with me, but I have yet to know anyone who knew the secret handshake and afterall, she's my skank.

Until next time, Justin


Anonymous said...

I Like and miss Skanks!

PS - well done my old friend

Unknown said...

google earthing this