Why The Brown Mountain Lights Hate Me


I’ve never actually seen the Brown Mountain Lights.  For those of you who don’t know, The Brown Mountain Lights are these “alleged” lights in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.  I could explain more about the background and supposed causes of these lights, but you’re adults and can read and I’m not here to give the Brown Mountain Lights any more free advertising than they’re already getting.

Anyway, apparently the Brown Mountain Lights hate me.  That’s the only explanation I can come up with.  I have spent countless hours sitting in parked cars, lounging on picnic tables at mosquito-infested overlooks, and leaning against metal guardrails in sub-zero temperatures all for nothing.  I’ve poured my heart and a decent part of my cold, black soul into seeing this elusive and mysterious phenomena, but the Brown Mountain Lights have been total dicks about it.  They haven’t even had the decency to meet me halfway on anything.  Seriously, they haven’t showed up for anything at all!

And I’ve totally gone above and beyond on my end.  There was the time I initiated a hard-target search of the area by sort of giving state and local authorities the impression that I lost my six-year-old nephew.  Now, in retrospect, I was in the wrong to lie and say my he was my nephew when he was really my cousin.  And I can honestly say I didn’t know exactly where he was, so assuming he may be lost in the particular nine square mile area where the Brown Mountain Lights have been most reported wasn’t technically incorrect, regardless of what the news media would have you believe.  And get a load of this!  This is how shitty the Brown Mountain Lights are.  Over 350 people, including lots of highly-trained search and rescue personnel, scoured the landscape day and night (very important) for almost eleven weeks and not a single one of those 350 people saw a single one of the Brown Mountain Lights!

Then there was the time I stole borrowed that helicopter to do aerial surveillance and ended up crashing strategically landing it in the banquet room of a Cheeseburger in Paradise.  Some people say that was the reason that particular Cheeseburger in Paradise closed.  But I heard from a stoner who lived in his van a reliable source that the restaurant closed because they had a big roach problem.  I mean, they had a big problem with roaches.  I can imagine a big roach problem would maybe be a draw for certain restaurants.  Sort of like the big cockroach in Beetlejuice.  Or I guess that was more of a beetle.  Anyway, point being, a Bell 47 helicopter smashed through gently lodged in the banquet room wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back of that restaurant.  In fact, that was probably the most media coverage that restaurant had gotten since it opened.  So you’re welcome, Jimmy Buffet.

Now I realize that this might be an it’s-not-you-it’s-me situation.  And I would be cool with that if only the Brown Mountain Lights would be stand up enough to tell me that to my face.  Instead, I think the Brown Mountain Lights have been actively avoiding me.  And don’t get me wrong.  Some of my tactics for trying to spot the Brown Mountain Lights have been less than legal preferable admirable.  Sure, burning down 40 square acres of forest was initially (and I’m sure continually by some) frowned upon by the U.S. Forestry Service and other law enforcement agencies.  But love makes people do crazy things, am I right?

 

♠ The title for this essay is courtesy of Ernie Cooper.  If you have an essay title you’d like to suggest, email it to BatDocBlog@gmail.com.  You might see your essay title in one of my books, and I’ll be sure to thank you in the book for it!

About BatDoc

I’m a dynamic figure, often seen scaling buildings and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train and bus stations on lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention and reducing high-traffic areas. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees and write award-winning plays about pastry. I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I make meatloaf. I have been known to woo women with my sensuous and god-like electric air-guitar playing. I can pilot riding lawnmowers up severe inclines with unflagging speed and accuracy and can cook 30-Minute Brownies in 20 minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Brazil. Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon River Basin from a horde of ferocious smaller-than-your-pinky-finger fire ants. When I’m bored, I build full size models of airplanes out of Popsicle sticks. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, I repair TVs and VCRs free of charge. I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Last summer, I toured Wisconsin and Minnesota with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me. I can hurl coat hangers at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read War and Peace, Moby Dick, and Great Expectations in one day and still had time to repaint the exterior of my house that afternoon. Though not a narc, I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I can recalibrate and repair gas lines with blinding speed and precision, and I don't require a face mask. I still find time to sleep eight hours a night; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation to Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me. I balance; I weave; I dodge; I frolic; and my bills are all paid. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a jello mold and a toaster oven. I used to breed prize-winning killer dolphins. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, performed open-heart surgery, and have spoken with Elvis. I have been to Area 51 and seen the complex. I enjoy cake and my best friends are Edmund the Penguin and Dr. Narco the Intelligent Thermos. I tied Jose Canseco in home runs last week, and I’m mere words away from completing a New York Times crossword puzzle I started on in 1988. Volumes and volumes of written works have been produced about me, but they were all lost in the fire. I am an extrovert. I’m marginally more popular with feminist than Rush Limbaugh. I don't scrape my vegetables onto my grandmother's plate when no one is looking. Hard as it may be to believe, I have never lost a pole-vaulting competition. I was nowhere near the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963. I’ve never hit a silver-medalist in the knee with a club. I wear sensible clothing, and I did not mastermind Julius Caesar's death. That was Cassius.

Posted on July 21, 2014, in A BatDoc Original, Original Series, Short Essays and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. roberthenryfischat

    Reblogged this on robert's space and commented:
    kittyhawk pls.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: