Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

You might think that dumping buckets of blood and fish guts into the ocean while occasionally hauling in a 300 pound mako shark is cruel or boring, but I disagree.

My grandfather took me to my first shark tournament weigh-in when I was a little kid. I came home with the dorsal fin of a 400 pound tiger shark and kept it in the basement freezer for years. Every time a friend visited, I'd ask, "Wanna see a shark fin?" What a thrill.

At this point, it's become a tradition to drive to Ocean City each June and watch the redneck extravaganza unfold, as the hunters of the sea bring their catches back from the depths to be weighed. The final weigh-in is Saturday. Check out my photos from the 2005 event here.

But the real mullets and American flag bandanas start flying after the weigh-ins are done at 5:00. Hell, there might even be an ad hoc "hot bod" contest---a typical occurance at these things. But at some point, the blazing sun, sloshing Budweiser and cluster fuck of redneckery hit a saturation point for me. I mean, I love getting into the spirit of white trash, but I just can't hang after a while. I grew up middle class, so there's always that disconnect. And I never had a girlfriend named Tammy or Crystal who smoked menthol cigarettes like the rest of the shark tournament fans. Oh well.

More later ...