I just read a comment on Facebook from Stacey Campfield, joking about how he was getting his canoe ready to go to Nashville today.
I found it very tacky. Folks’ homes have been swept away, raw sewage was frothing down neighbourhood streets.
And I thought about the post I wrote last night, which too, could be conceived in poor taste. But in an effort to absolve myself and draw a line of demarcation between that post and the sick jokes I figured I’d better explain.
I’m a writer. I write about a lot of things. But this blog has always–first and foremost–been the corner of my writing world dedicated to telling the absolute truth about my experiences. No embellishments, no farragoes (aren’t those slightly different), no lies. I write fiction elsewhere. Here is the truth. Starting with always using my real name. I meant it to differentiate this not only from my other work but also from confabulouus blogs like the infamous Gas Guy, the humourous Nashville Knucklehead and others who never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
There were floods here in Nashville. But this time they didn’t hit where I live. I don’t mean that to brag. I just mean that for me to write about the terribleness of something that didn’t happen to me would be, to my mind, pimping out the tragedy of others to make for a blog entry. What happened to me was watching other people’s tragedy on the news, listening to the the news anchors harangue the chairman of Hands On Nashville while detailing the scope of the tragedy. It was sad. Sad for the problems but also angry making at the young anchor who sounded excited to be witnessing a Real Story. That’s what happened to me. That and a late wet drive to an empty IHOP.