Did you hear the one about the black widow and the beehive?
What is up with Old Soul Weatherstone? Either it’s taken a swerve toward somewhere between Castro, Polk and Folsom, or else I’m getting increasingly more redneck by osmosis from hanging out in Lodi so much. Don’t think I’m headed toward any kind of Tea Party epiphanies, though, probably because of early exposure to Truman Capote all drunk and talking scribble on Dick Cavett and the other teevee gabfests, but some of that Lodi vibe is rubbing off on me: Got a butch haircut, grew some semblance of a beard, and now I notice stuff that didn’t used to register. Or … Well, fuggit. I don’t know.
I do know that playing hooky to watch drunken and pilled-up celebrities of the day ramble through a chemical fog to Merv, Mike, Dick and whoever else might have messed me up considerably. That Capote appearance I remember really shocked me into a different perceptual baseline, what with him high as a friggin’ kite and going on and on in that nasal whine with the N’Awlins accent about some woman who’d Aqua-Netted her beehive into something hard as concrete, which was all right until a female Latrodectus hesperus, better known as a black widow spider, deposited an egg sac into said beehive, which hatched into a bunch of little spiders that got big enough to bite and prematurely direct her hair-hopper existence into an open-casket sendoff.
Actually, Truman Capote is partially responsible for turning me away from the gay-bashing trajectory of my childhood environment, in the way James Brown and His Famous Flames cured me of any racist tendencies. I’d picked up In Cold Blood as a 12 year old, because it was on everybody’s coffee tables, and the writing was so kickass that it inspired me to consider typing up stuff as a legitimate alternative to, oh, beating the shit out of strangers, not that I was inclined to do that sort of things but as an early adolescent I was filled with a lot of free-floating rage so sometimes that might be how things played out. Then, when I saw Capote talking on the teevee, I got really discombobbed.
One of these days, with a little hope before I get grimly planted in some suburban Forest Lawn, I hope to write something that lights people’s brains up the way Capote’s book ignited my late childhood but somewhat precocious brain. But I also hope that if I do get a guest spot on The Tonight Show With Kim Kardashian or Maybe Chelsea Handler, I’m mild-mannered and sober.
Did this post not make sense? Sorry. Here’s to the joy of life. —Jackson Griffith