I’m out on the beach again, as I’m inclined
to do most Tuesday mornings before work. “I
have a history of takin’ off my shirt,”
keeps spinning in my head and I curse the asshole
DJ who played that song on the radio
along with the damned Barenaked Ladies who
had the audacity to write it. “One Week.”
Ten thousand misheard lyrics … something about
Harrison Ford eating chicken, then playing
golf with Akira Kurosawa. Oh, man.
Have you ever seen Seven Samurai? It
is one of my favorite films, but this is
not about that masterpiece of Japanese
cinema. This is about Pensacola
and how much of a difference one word makes.
“Beach.” With it? Paradise. Without it? Oh … just
one of the five most dangerous “small towns” in
the nation. Look it up sometime – three people
were just butchered on Deerfield Road in some sort
of ritualistic witchcraft, according
to authorities. What does that even mean?
Who are these people? What’s gotten into them
and made them believe they have the right to kill?
This isn’t Sparta. Seriously. This is…