The Begats

My brother called me just now because he’s totally stoked about the Bible miniseries on the History Channel. He’s like “They say they’re going to cover everything from the beginning to Peter!” Then he pauses and says, “So, I guess that sucks for Paul. Well, at least we probably won’t have to sit through Revelations, right?”

And then he says, “God, I wonder how they’re going to do all that boring shit in the Old Testament, where it’s just lists of people having kids…” then he stops. As if he’s just considering right then how one might dramatize generations of begetting. “Wait,” he says. “No, that would be the greatest episode of the series. Just generations of men fucking their wives. Give each couple like fifteen seconds of screen time and fill the whole show it it.”

“Could they do that on The History Channel?” I ask.

“Well, they should try!”

Just Some Stuff I Want to Say

This has been the roughest couple of days I’ve had blogging in a long, long time. I can’t sleep. I’m having trouble making sure I’m eating enough at the right times so that I don’t get sick. I feel like shit. Every time I see there’s another comment here, I hide from it for as long as I can before I come to look at it.

I don’t say any of this because I want your sympathy. What I want is just to give you some context for the apology I’m about to offer. In the old days, I used to love these long discussions, because I was an idiot and I thought you really could just hash this shit out in public and some good would come of it. Some minds would be changed.

But the truth is that I don’t believe that’s true and I haven’t for a while. I don’t believe big messes like the one we had here actually change minds. I think they’re just cathartic and terrible in equal measure. Often just terrible and hurtful.

In part, in order to be effective, the person moderating the comments has to have a generosity of spirit and a level of kindness and understanding that is completely outside of my ability. From where I’m sitting, it seems like you’d have to have an inhuman generosity of spirit. So, if you got in that comment thread and it sucked, yes, I knew and I am sorry. It’s just not something I can do–guide a conversation like that in ways that keep everyone on track and everyone, including myself, from feeling like they’re being attacked. I also don’t have the ability to not take shit personally. If it hurts me, it hurts me and I’m going to react.

So, that fucking sucks.

But I also want to say this–tempers were running very high, mine especially. And I know there were a lot of people just watching the shit storm from the sidelines and then forming opinions of the people involved. Or feeling like this incident solidified feeling they already had. That it “proved” something about someone, whoever the someone was to you.

One fight one time in one place is not the whole of who a person is. It doesn’t settle or prove anything about a person. We change. (Though, as I said, I doubt because of shitstorms like this). Or we hold one opinion that seems stupid or out of character but otherwise we’re fine and wonderful people. Or whatever.

God, this post is making me just want to burn this blog to the ground.

But I guess what I’m saying is that, if you want to use the internet to decide who the bad guys or good guys here in town are, don’t solely use moments like these to decide. People aren’t just their fuck-ups.

A building is an animal with a memory like a rain bucket, and when the endless frozen rains of a German December steep and widen a building’s sleepless bones, certain visitors are bound to come a-calling.

Amelia Garretson-Persans

I’m Sad I Don’t Watch Wresting Any More

Because, apparently, the WWE is making fun of the Tea Party and feuding with Glenn Beck.

Weirdly, what this means more than anything is that the Tea Party and Glenn Beck are massively unpopular with the WWE’s audience. Not what I would have thought. But you know they know their audience. Which means that the most valuable commercial audience–boys 13-30–are lost to the Tea Party. Probably not a good sign for its longevity.

On Chris Wage’s Cunt

Chris thinks it’s stupid that people are upset about The Onion’s joke calling Quvenzhane Wallis a cunt. More bafflingly, he “thought the onion’s joke was hilarious.” Ha ha ha. No. Even setting aside for a moment–which we will come back to–what the joke calls Quvenzhane, it’s still a joke that takes a nine-year-old girl hostage in order to point out how horribly women are treated by Oscar commentary and then shoots the hostage! Ooops, guess what, The Onion and Chris? Once the hostage is dead, you’ve lost your leverage.

Wage acts like Quvenzhane’s appearance in the joke is incidental–that the joke can somehow be about her and yet have nothing to do with her. In that regard, I think Wage is being an idiot. A joke about a person that the person the joke’s about can’t honestly and spontaneously laugh at is probably a joke a lot of people are going to find, unsurprisingly, doesn’t work. A joke about a woman that the woman who is the center of it can’t laugh at and probably shouldn’t even hear unless she’s got a team of people around her to put it in context for her (as Wage seems to acknowledge this joke would take–“So yes, she probably has heard about it. What horrible things exactly are we imagining have happened as a result? A brief explanation by her parents that it was a joke poking fun at institutional sexism and the vacuity of celebrity viciousness in general? A more in-depth conversation about the power of the word “cunt” and how its colloquial usage is pernicious and should be avoided, and how the Onion turned that on its head to make a rather biting point?”) isn’t a joke with a woman as the subject of it. It’s a joke in which the woman is an object. It’s not a joke for her. It’s a joke about her.

And one, if she hears it, she’s just supposed to learn to think is funny. It’s cruel to make jokes about people they can’t willingly laugh at (I keep saying things like “willingly” and “spontaneously” because we are taught from an early age to laugh at things we don’t find funny, things that often hurt us, because people tell us to. I’m trying to differentiate between what people laugh at because they feel pressured to and what they would laugh at if no one was judging them.), but often cruel jokes are hilarious. So, I’m not opposed to cruel jokes.

But when you’re making a joke about someone and you don’t care if that person is in a position to laugh at it at all, then that’s not just comedy–that’s comedy that uses, in this case, a little girl as an object. Again, I say, it’s not surprising that people would find that not funny.

But I want to make another point as well. It is very, very difficult to make a true statement funny. It’s not that it can’t be done, but, if you’re going to attempt it, you need to be prepared to fail miserably. Which, in this case, The Onion did. Wage makes the same mistake when he says, “Because calling a 9 year old girl a cunt is a horrible, horrible thing to do.” Chris, no one thinks that.

Okay, not no one. A very small pool of people in this world genuinely think that calling any girl a cunt is actually horrible. Women get called cunts our whole lives and when we get confused or put off or upset or angry, and we look to the very same people who I’m sure would tell Wage that they think calling a nine year old girl a cunt is horrible, they tell us the people who call us cunts don’t mean it, or we just need to understand where they’re coming from. Or that they’re just joking. (We’re coming back to this in a second.). We get the message over and over again, loud and clear, that there’s nothing wrong, not really, with calling us cunts. Because we are.

You’re incredibly fortunate if you live in a situation where it’s obviously funny to call a nine year old a cunt because of how horrible it is. Because most of us don’t live in situations where people think it’s that horrible at all. They just think it’s true.

For them, The Onion joke was funny for that reason–because The Onion just went ahead and said what everyone else is thinking. But again, then the joke only works if we’re saying that that it’s not important that the person at the center of it be able to laugh at it. It’s funny because it’s true, in this case, works because the people who think it’s funny think so little of women. Could you make a joke in which the punchline is “so-and-so is kind of a cunt” and have it be funny to the very people who regularly get called cunts? I think so. This was, as evidenced by its reception, not that joke.

Why not? I’ve actually been giving this a lot of thought since I read Chris’s post last night. Why doesn’t this joke work for me? And I think that it goes beyond that I find calling a nine year old girl a cunt distasteful (which I do, but I laugh at distasteful shit all the time) or that I find it gross that a little black girl who’s going to spend her whole life being hypersexualized by popular culture gets labeled a cunt, even as a joke, straight out of the gate (which I do and you can find good and useful commentary about that all over the internet). It even goes beyond the fact that I live in a culture where women are cunts so how is a statement of fact really a joke?

And it’s this: Every time I’ve been called a cunt, when the dude who called me a cunt got called on it by someone he respected, his excuse was that he was joking. Every damn time. Can’t she take a joke? And yet, obviously, he wasn’t joking at all. He meant it.

So, The Onion is trying to land a joke that is more complicated than Wage gives it credit for. There’s already a non-joke joke in wide circulation that is “Ha ha, I called you a cunt, but I say I was joking, even though I meant it, so that makes it okay.” Most women are going to hear it in their lifetimes. The Onion wants to make a joke that is “Ha ha, I called this little girl a cunt, but I’m joking in a style that looks like I mean it, so that makes it okay.” In order to land the joke The Onion was attempting to land and not have it veer into the non-joke joke which is the more culturally familiar one, The Onion would have to be the fucking Mike Tyson of comedians (See? In a paragraph about landing punches, I stick in a notorious rapist and it stings and is funny, because I’ve just spent all this time building it up and because we’re talking about how women can’t get away from this idea that we’re just objects for men to use however they want, so hello Mike Tyson. But I didn’t attempt that in 140 characters and I accept that it might not be funny to you.).

They failed.

I’m not saying it can’t be done. I’m not even saying that it can’t be done in 140 characters. But The Onion didn’t do it. They threw “I called this little girl a cunt, but I’m joking a a style that looks like I mean it so that makes it okay” and they landed “I called you a cunt, but I say I was joking, even though I meant it, so that makes it okay.”

I have a theory as to why, too. And that theory is because they had no idea that “I called you a cunt, but I say I was joking, even though I meant it, so that makes it okay” is as prevalent as it is. I don’t think they had the first idea that they were playing right up against an incredibly common trope. Much like Wage, I’m pretty sure that they thought the joke was “I’m saying something so horrible about a little girl that we’ll all laugh because it is so horrible.”

So, what backfired on them, I think, is that they thought they were making a funny original joke about things that are too horrible to say, when really, they were just making a more sophisticated version of the non-joke joke. Probably a wider variety of women on The Onion’s staff would have helped this.

Which brings me to my last point–if you’re going to make jokes ostensibly in defense of women, I’d prefer it if they not disparage any woman to try to get their laugh. But, fine, whatever. If, however, the point of your joke requires that the woman at the center of it probably not hear it, because it would upset her and she wouldn’t understand, and it requires the use of a word as a joke that most of us get called “as a joke” all the time, don’t pretend like it’s a joke about how terrible women have it. There isn’t actually any concern for how women have it in the joke. If you think it’s a problem that we’re objectified and that slurs are routinely tossed at us, you don’t objectify and toss slurs at us in order to protest our treatment.

Don’t pretend like, when a joke relies on objectifying a woman and calling her a cunt, and women are grossed out by it, it’s because women just can’t see what’s so funny about it. Maybe there’s a whole painful context to the joke you’re not aware of. Maybe Quvenzhane’s parents can come by and explain it to you.

Desire in an Age of There Being Nothing Left to Want

Ha ha ha. You know that’s how you’re about to get sucked into some terrible academic treatise. If there’s a “in an age of” in there. Project X is with the Head of Project X. I still want to have a “real” book published. I guess I want the whole nation to have a chance to hate me. I don’t know. But look at this

Just as her new novel, “Doc,” was being released in 2011, she got word that her publisher was not interested in any more books from her. She had been with Random House since 1996 and published five novels with the New York house. During that time, she had won an Arthur C. Clarke Award and an American Library Association Readers Choice Award. Entertainment Weekly had chosen “The Sparrow” as one of the 10 best books of year.


Stunned and confused, she remained quiet about Random House’s decision because she had to begin her book tour for “Doc,” a western about John Henry Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Ironically, given her publisher’s termination of their relationship, the novel received very positive reviews and was chosen as one of The Washington Post’s top five novels of 2011.

And, yes, I know, it’s borrowing trouble, at least somewhat, to worry about this shit. But I feel like the thing I aspire to is vanishing as I aspire to it. And I don’t know how to adjust my wants so that I want something more plausible, more actually possible.

I don’t know why feeling like I do good work isn’t enough, but it isn’t. I want people I don’t know to think I do good work. I want to read stories to strangers.

And yet, I’ve done that.

So, I don’t know what my problem is.

When we were younger, half a lifetime ago, I taught The Butcher to drive. We went out in my car after I got off work and took off through the country. We were right on the western edge of Illinois then, so it was common to be driving flat and straight for what seemed like eternity and then, without warning, you’d curl down into a landscape defined by the whims of a river–bluffs and crooked roads and trees–and then, just as quickly, back up and out into that eternal flatness again.

When we were down among the river’s things, it sometimes felt like we were just missing something that would blow our minds–that just around the next bend, just over the next hill, something beyond what we could imagine for ourselves was waiting. And we never did come across it. Not once on any of those drives. It was just us and the longing for something we couldn’t articulate, something no one else had or knew of. Something that would say this drive, this day, this life was worth it.

That’s how I feel about writing sometimes, like I hope I’m doing something that will take the Butcher and me someplace we didn’t even know we wanted to go. When I’m feeling incredibly reckless, I hope our other brother will be there to meet us.

But other times, I feel like I’m chasing ghosts. Nothing left to be caught.


–Wow, Seth MacFarlane sucked last night.

–It made me sick to my stomach to see poor Christopher Plummer not only being linked to a movie he hated, but being linked via Nazi joke to a movie he hated.

–Adele was amazing

–Yesterday was a day of dog barf. I gave her Pepto to settle her stomach and this morning discovered a pile of vomit in my room with the Pepto tablet right in the middle. Which means either that her digestive tract is not working or she barfed it up yesterday shortly after I gave it to her and I just managed not to notice all day.

–What makes me feel old is when I read a book and two people are supposed to be attracted to each other even though one is a broody uncommunicative weirdo. I would LOVE to read a book about two broody uncommunicative weirdos falling in love. Or a book in which the broody uncommunicative weirdo starts opening up and thus the heroine begins to love him, instead of where the heroine begins to love him and thus he begins to open up. But I’m sure I found books like that wonderful when I was younger. All that “only I understand him!” junk.

–I have completed my major overhaul of Project X. It may insinuate that Ridley Wills II is a werewolf at the end. But I didn’t name him. I can’t decide if I will or not. But I’m proud of it.

–And I feel anxious about it. Like, okay, I’m writing at a level I’m proud of. But nothing is happening. Which isn’t true, but it’s so slow. Things are happening so slow. And what if I die?

–Ugh, see? This is why I need books about broody weirdos that aren’t just Beauty and the Beast retellings. I need stories in which the broody weirdo comes to realize that, even if she dies, it will be okay.


Down So Low

True confession–I had no idea who Tracy Nelson is, even though my coworker loves her and told me that I am ruining my life by not listening to her.

And you know what? She’s right.

Social Anarchist

The other day, I decided that I’m a social anarchist. As far as I can tell, social anarchy isn’t a defined thing, but I ran it past the Professor, who laughed and told me to go reread Mill, and she seemed to buy it.

This came up, in part, because I broke my stupid rule about reading Pith comments and, in the middle of being insulted, I started to get fascinated. The dynamic is, somewhat, that commenters feel free to say terrible things about me, justified by the fact that they think I’m terrible. But the funny part is that they then are limited themselves to terrible me, because no woman who fit their definition of nice would read those comments and want to subject herself to them.

But that’s not the whole of it. There’s also the way the comments lay bear people’s social hierarchy expectations. It’s in part because people are anonymous that it’s easier to see, I think. When you’re face to face with an older white guy, for instance, and he kind of naturally takes the dominant role in the situation, it’s sometimes hard to tell if that’s just because of confidence, expertise, or whether it’s just the belief that, in any given social situation, it’s his job to be the leader.

But when those cues are missing–in other words, when you can’t tell he’s a white dude because it’s the internet–the presumption of being the social top dog stands out. And the anger at not being properly recognized as social top dog also stands out. Seriously, the next time you’re tempted into a long raucous comment thread, check out how many comments are “I’m always an asshole, but I am very, very upset about you being an asshole and I am, in fact, going to call you on being an asshole and then, be an even bigger asshole when you don’t shape up.”

We probably establish social hierarchy all the time by sorting out who gets to speak the most and who gets the most attention, but because in person it feels more natural, it’s not as easy to see it happening.

And, weirdly enough, I’m pretty sure I’m a terrible social anarchist in many ways, but I do believe in the knocking down and poking fun at of those social hierarchies.  Even at the same time that I reinforce a lot of them, all the time.

But there’s something funny to me about being a terrible social anarchist, so I’m sticking with it.

I Have Feelings about BATTLESHIP

I think they may be feelings that mean I’m old. But it stars a dude who looks too much like Channing Tatum Channing, who is already bordering on vaguely unrememorable and he’s a complete fuck-up. His brother, though, is Erik the Vampire, who commands a ship. This brings up the first problem I have with BATTLESHIP. Why would any girl date an unremarkable fuckup when his brother is Erik the Vampire, who surely has room for a concubine or seven? Second problem, and I didn’t get that far in watching it, but there’s a disaster and the boat Erik the Vampire commands is destroyed and the boat the Japanese are commanding is mortally wounded (I’m not a sailor, so I assume there’s some sea lingo for this situation I just don’t know). Who can command the other boat–that appeared to come out of nowhere–, now that Erik the Vampire is dead?!?! Competent Japanese commander who seems to have his shit together and who is not piloting a crew who’s running around going “Holy shit!!!!! The next in command is Poor-Man’s-Channing-Tatum-Channing!!!! We’re all going to die!!!!!” (This is almost word-for-word dialog from the movie. I shit you not.) or the generic fuck-up whose crew fears being under his leadership?

It would be less hilariously offensive if the Japanese leader died or seemed less incredibly competent. But as it is, at the end of the world, they don’t rely on the leadership of the only living person who actually has leadership skills but instead focus on a guy who, in a just world, would be getting cuckolded by his brother while he was being too dumb to notice. Did I mention that Erik the Vampire is supposed to be his brother? It’s befuddling. Like who were their parents supposed to be? “Our dad is Baldur, the most handsome of all the gods. Our mom was a pile of mashed potatoes shaped into a snowman that vaguely resembled Channing Tatum Channing?” There’s just no way that those two men are brothers. It’s like the casting director threw up his hands and was like “I spent all my time getting Liam Neeson in this film and then looking at Erik the Vampire. I don’t have time for sensicle casting decisions!”

Okay, so yes, that part is really racist.

But Potato Dude as a trope interests me. Because I come from the era of movies about male fuck-ups–STRIPES, ANIMAL HOUSE, REVENGE OF THE NERDS, (hell, GOONIES, and STAND BY ME, also to some extent and maybe THE LOST BOYS as the horror version of the trope). But these were all about groups of male fuck-ups who everyone acknowledged were fuck-ups and the adventures we were watching were their fuck-ups coming to some final head. And, yes, often it worked out just fine for them. But they weren’t heroes.

But I wonder about this idea that a guy who already has so much–a good career, the Admiral’s daughter, a brother who watches out for him, etc.–and who continues, as Liam Neeson’s character points out, to squander it ill, should be given even more chances and more responsibility for people because, eventually, he will become a hero. How many chances are you supposed to give to a fuck-up in order to guarantee that, when the chips are down, they will come through?

What a weird fantasy to sell about men.

I am a Sentimental Fool

I picked up the things I needed framing last night. I’m going to make the Butcher help me hang them this evening and then I’ll get pics for the curious. I was surprised by how much I was moved by seeing the poster from Poetry Sucks in a frame. It just made it somehow seems like a real thing. I mean, it was, but… I don’t know. Last October was really amazing in so many ways. I just hope I get a chance to do more awesome stuff like that.

And the Tarot Cards look terrific. I can’t even begin to tell you.

The Informal Bubba Census

Beth and I were talking about this over on Twitter–how I find it a little weird that I knew a lot of Bubbas and Bubs in Illinois, but don’t know any down here. And she, from Mississippi, remarked that she only knows one Bubba, though she knows a Taco and a couple of Taters.

This got me wondering if Bubba, though used in pop culture as a kind of ubiquitous rural nickname, might, in real life, have a regional concentration. In other words, I wonder if there are more Bubbas in the Midwest than in the South?

So, dear readers, here’s what I want to know–have you known any Bubbas or Bubs and from whence did they come?

(Can I tell you how disappointed I am to have looked up the definition of the word “whence” just now? I always thought it was “where” but with some time implications. So, if I asked “From whence did your Bubba come, sir/ma’am?” you would know to answer “Charleston, IL, in the early 80s.” But now it appears that I’m only asking from where your Bubba came. Which is kind of disappointing. Whence, you could have been so much more.)

The Old Dog has her Routines

She gets up. We either go for a walk or we don’t. But she does go outside. Then she gets a treat. Then she waits for me to be done in the kitchen and she gets to lick out what’s left of the wet cat food from the can. Then she either joins me on the couch while I blog, or she goes and sleeps in the Butcher’s room. Today she wanted to go sleep in the Butcher’s room.

Yesterday, the Butcher got a new bed.

Oh my god. That reminds me. Did I tell you all about my parents’ crazy obsession with getting the Butcher a bigger bed?

Their last two visits, they’ve been talking incessantly about how much they enjoy the children at their church. And they’ve been calling me trying to suss out any information they can get about whether the Butcher has any special friends. And then, out of the blue, they decided to buy the Butcher a bigger bed.

I’ve been teasing him about this for weeks–since they announced the bed-buying scheme–because it could not be any more obvious that they are doing everything they can to get some more grandchildren short of starting a rumor that the Butcher is the Greenman and letting him loose around a bunch of chicks dancing the Maypole.

His response to the teasing has been “It’s not like they erased my memory of how to use condoms.” Yeah, try using a condom in a magical woods full of dancing Maypole fairies, the Butcher. Come on. Don’t be ridiculous.

Anyway, where was I? Yes, the bed. It’s too tall for the dog to get in by herself. So she paced around until I lifted her into it. We’re going to have to get her some steps.

Which, yes, the Professor did say we should do about my bed years ago, but that was obviously silly and this is obviously a good idea and a necessity.

Dizzy, My Head is Spinning

I was attempting to drive home from Gallatin, doing interstate speeds, when all of a sudden, I was hit by a wave of dizziness. And then, a few minutes later, another, and then, as I was searching desperately for an exit so that I could get off the road before I passed out, another.

I never did pass out. But I had the slowest drive home, ever. Then I ate and it seemed to improve, though I still had these intermittent moments where it felt like things were going to start spinning, but they didn’t.

I had chalked it up to low blood sugar because of the massive improvement once I ate.

But then, this morning, I’ve had a couple of bouts where my ear–inside my ear–feels really hot all of a sudden, and then I feel like I can’t quite tell what way is up. It doesn’t last long enough to develop into me being actually dizzy. But it’s enough to make me wonder if I’ve got some kind of inner ear infection. And yet, this is so much better than yesterday, that I’m going to give it a day and see if it doesn’t clear up completely.

The thing I want to talk about, though, is that I don’t really feel like I have a fucked up relationship to food. And yet, a year ago, when the doctor told me my Vitamin D levels were low, I didn’t really take it seriously because how could a person like me not be getting “enough” of anything? Oh, ha ha ha ha. And then a year later, I have dangerously low levels of Vitamin D. And then, yesterday, even though it was dinner time and I’d been basically snacking my way through the day, I didn’t eat because I wasn’t hungry and it’s not like I need to eat or anything, right? Ha ha ha. Again.

I think I nourish myself poorly, though not always intentionally, because it’s hard for me to believe that this body, which is so much, could lack things–could be malnourished.

And then I had the unfortunate opportunity to hear all about my Aunt and Uncle’s new diet, because I called to try to confirm a legend that my Grandpa’s uncle ran booze during Prohibition, which involves them going gluten-free and drinking at least 100 oz. of whatever liquids they like (as long as they’re gluten free) a day. So, three liters of Coke? Perfectly fine. Hell, I guess three liters of potato vodka is technically allowed, if you can drink it without dying. So, it’s like gluten-free but with a fad-diet twist.

Which I should go on immediately, because I’m fat, like my uncle.

They’ve been on their three-liter diet for a week.

But even aside from that, a thing that completely bums me out about PCOS is that I thought that it would buy me some “Something’s wrong with Betsy. We never talk about what’s wrong in our family, so let’s never talk about her” space. But no!

So, bleh. I don’t have anything more profound than that to say. Just that it stood out to me that, in a 24 hour period where I seem to have completely fucked up my blood sugar to the point of giving myself waves of dizziness by not eating enough, it’s still very important for me to hear about how much I should diet.

He literally said to me, “Being fat is fun until it isn’t.”

What the fuck? When does the fun start? Am I being cheated out of the fat-induced fun? I kind of feel like it. I have fun, don’t get me wrong. I’m just not seeing how being fat has brought that about.

The mysterious buildings

weird fairvue buildings

I upped the contrast on these buildings so that you could better see details. Noe how they just continue on down the road. Fairvue is behind me, so they line the road coming up to the house from the Nashville road. Behind them now is a golf course and then, down the slight bluff, is some backwater from the Cumberland river.

There’s a door on the bottom, small windows on each side of the bottom floor (they’re covered with a grate now, but I couldn’t tell how original that detail was). then, on the second floor, there’s a door (you can kind of see it behind the tree) and some slotted brickwork at the top. Here’s a closer view:


I had thought maybe they were pigeon coops, but why the hell would Isaac and Adelicia Franklin need like ten pigeon coops? I now have another theory. I think they’re tobacco barns. This guy took a picture of a slightly larger red tile tobacco barn in Georgia and it looks pretty similar. The only thing that makes me doubt this theory is that, if you look at that top picture, you can see that the third building down has no roof–it’s technically more a ruin than a building. And when I drove by, it appeared to have a second floor–not something a tobacco bard would need. Unless the staves were still in the building and when the wall caved in, it appeared to be a floor? I don’t know. I’m guessing some of you might.