The Couchville Zombie

Ha, y’all, I think the Couchville story is going to be a good one. There’s a zombie, of sorts. And ghost lights. And it’s a better ghost light story than the story about Fort Negley I wrote, so I’m going to have to come up with something better for that.

I’m sorry to go on about these. I just have such fun writing them and I love the anticipatory delight of waiting to see what y’all think.

I tried to watch Cadillac Records tonight, but I got to the part where some girls show up at the hotel room and I was just like… I don’t know… not in the mood to watch a story about men getting laid. It’s not that I don’t mind those stories, but when it’s my evening, to do with what I want? I went outside and looked at the flowers instead. I think men can get laid without needing me to be an audience for it.

I get like that now. It’s hard for me to stick with something if I get the feeling I’m not the audience. I just lose interest.

Whew, Doggies

I am so relieved to have that grouchy cat back that it’s about all I can think about. That and the shape of the Couchville ghost story. It’s hard, this late into things, to come up with ghost stories that don’t feel repetitive to me. But I guess I can only imagine so many reasons people would haunt places.

You know what’s weird? In 1918, Nashville was home to one of the worst train disasters in U.S. history. Over a hundred people were killed. They estimate that over 50,000 people came to look at the wreck on the day it happened, as rescues were going on. And, for context, in 1920, Nashville had just over 100,000 people in it. Now, certainly, some of the folks who came were from surrounding communities, but those surrounding communities were not that big. So, basically, we’re talking that somewhere between a third and a half of the population of the area came to see that wreck on the day it happened.

But I’ve never heard, nor have I found online, any instance of there being ghost stories surrounding that wreck.

It makes me wonder what the mechanism for something becoming a ghost story is. I find it hard to believe that there’s not been one strange occurrence in the whole White Bridge area, no doors opening for seemingly no reason. No cats staring weirdly at nothing. No voices mumbling in an empty room, even? And, when that ordinary, inexplicable stuff happens, no one at all connects it with the tragedy of historic proportions?

I find that strange.

Where Was Couchville?

If you’ve driven around town, you’ve probably encountered Couchville Pike and you know, if it’s got a “something” pike formation, it’s a road that probably went to that “something,” and usually that “something” was a place. So, Couchville.

Comparing the TSLA map to the Google Map, I think I have a pretty good guess. But I’m not sure. Also, extra credit to those who can point out Bryant Grove. Every site I found that gives a location for it, gives a different location–west or east or south of Couchville.

The Best Post You Will Read about Bo Diddley Today

First, it’s this kind of writing I sit in jealous delight of.

E. McDaniel is the name the songs were published under, spirits having no use, apparantly, for songwriting credits.  Bo Diddley is something else.  Something deep, something in the air, in the land, something that Jes Grew, that may have been sleeping until it chose to inhabit E. McDaniel, but which now stands Paul Bunyanlike astride the continent, one foot on either side of the Mississippi Delta, facing north toward Chicago, grinning in his cowboy hat.

It’s how there’s a medium length sentence that kind of strikes you as funny. Then there’s that short declarative sentence. And then there’s that long, winding sentence with both that delicious “Paul Bunyanlike astride” and “grinning in his cowboy hat.” That’s a sentence I just want to cheer at the end of, it does such a good job of putting an image in my brain.

Second, while I’m sad I didn’t get this in a letter ages ago, I am delighted that I get it in a form I can share with you without feeling like I’m letting you peek at something that’s not your business.

It Was Like it was Me Day over at SouthComm Yesterday

1. I had a column in the City Paper. Graph I hope sticks with you:

No astute politician, male or female, would make a joke involving the forced undressing or groping of women (regardless of their political persuasion) in front of a group that included women who had any power. Very, very few women, if any, want to sit around and hear people tell jokes that imply some kind of sexual assault. A person can only tell that joke if she feels pretty confident that the audience is receptive, and if she’s fairly certain that the people who won’t like it can’t really do anything about it.

2. I had this post at Pith about media bullshit. Favorite line?

You just read a post by a woman referencing posts written by women, and you didn’t die of exposure to woman cooties and you got to think a little bit about some things you probably weren’t thinking about before you read this post.

3. I had this post positing that Jesus was an illegal immigrant. People disagreed. Note to self: a lot of people in Nashville know a shit-ton about first century politics in the Middle East.

4, And this post about the domestic violence unit and how they’ve known for at least a year and a half that this could be a problem.

And I watched that “For Memories’ Sake” documentary again and sent the filmmaker a bunch of in-depth questions about the film so I can write about that for Pith. And then, today, I hit them with my park review of the awesome Moss Wright Park up in Goodlettsville.

Whew. No wonder my blogging over here has been sucking lately.