Blair Menace: 2011

Sunday, November 27, 2011

The Ghost of John the Baptist

The house squatted on Lexington like a big pink skull, leering blindly out of its dirty window eyes, and the kudzu crept up the sides like black cobwebs. It was, of course, abandoned - empty for years, and doomed to be only irregularly inhabited by ghosts, rats, and drunks. Behind the house, we were well on our way to being quite drunk ourselves, between the whiskey and wine and the full moon.
It was one of those nights, stiflingly hot and dead calm; far-off voices floated on the air, mingling with the crickets and the traffic. We had been moseying back to my tent, nestled deep in a nearby kudzu patch, when I copped an earful of joyful singing from the back of the big pink skull. Was that an Otis Redding song? Having most of a jug and no immediate plans, we followed the sound around back to investigate. Four or five old guys, obviously well-lubricated themselves, huddled in a circle, bottles in the air, while one, gazing skyward, rasped “These Arms of Mine” out into space. We sat down in the dirt and joined in. I noticed that another guy was singing to himself in Spanish, eyes closed, swaying on his seat. Two others nodded their heads, stomped their feet, and swore. Next to them sat John the Baptist.

Friday, October 14, 2011

A Brief History of Broken Noses

According to legend, Jack Palance died with the longest recorded string of broken noses in recent history: twenty-one times, starting with his failed career as a boxer and then as a stunt-man and famous cowboy actor. He also broke some pretty famous noses of his own, notably that of Marlon Brando. Male model and margarine spokesman Fabio was riding on a roller-coaster when a pelican slammed into his face, shattering his manly schnoz. Paula Abdul tripped over her chihuahua.

I mention these merely to make the point that we cannot control our surroundings, that fame and fortune are no better defense against destiny than fear or strength or protective headgear. Whether it be the brick wall of a YMCA gym, a hurled beer can, the elbow of an anonymous booty-dancer, or the fist of a wrathful woman, there will come a day when it has your name on it, or at least the name of your nose. All you can do is duck, and if that fails, at least stay awake until the concussion wears off.