People do not give it credence that a 14-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avenge her father’s blood but it did not seem so strange then, although I will say it did not happen every day. I was just 14 years of age when a coward going by the name of Tom Chaney shot my father down in Fort Smith, Arkansas, and robbed him of his life and his horse and $150 in cash money plus two California gold pieces that he carried in his trouser band.
I always try to take solace that the world needs clowns, and so that’s what I was doing: filming my clownish behavior, with the hope that I might, down the road if it airs, make a few people laugh. Granted it will be middle-class people with access to cable who will be doing the laughing, but they too need relief, which is what we often hear during elections.
Over the past months, many of the things I like have disappeared. My favourite restaurants close, and my favourite brands are discontinued. The media are eager to inform me that I am out of step. The only television channel that doesn’t tell me this is BBC4, and that’s because I am told nobody but me watches it. I like BBC4, which probably means it is doomed. Bad programmes drive out good, just as bad shops and bad restaurants drive out good, and sickly sweet orange flavoured vitamin tablets drive out plain.