Filed under: Uncategorized
A middle-aged couple joined us at the breakfast table. It was their first visit to Savannah as well. The husband’s birthday was that weekend. He was in love with trolley tours and had a deep southern accent. His wife’s ethnicity was ambiguous: variously Brazilian, Cuban, or Pan-Asian depending on the conversation. They said their daughter was a forensic anthropologist, working for the U.S. Army.
In the rainforests of Laos a man is working. He is digging a ditch for irrigation or for a planned road, it does not really matter the purpose – all that matters is that he is digging. As he digs, he feels the shovel press into something that is not dirt. It is a dead body. He sees the grey-green tattered clothes and the skeleton. He panics. Has he uncovered the evidence of some ancient and brutal crime? The authorities arrive. They make inquiries. They examine the corpse. The man in the ditch was not murdered, at least not in the traditional sense. Whether the corpse is that of the victim of a crime is a political question. The corpse belongs to a U.S. serviceman from the 1960s.
This sort of thing happens occasionally. When it does, the U.S. Army sends a team to determine the identity of the body. It is like “Cold Case Files” and “CSI” and “NCIS” all mixed together. It is surprising they haven’t turned the unit into a TV show, actually. It could star Jimmy Smits, he is unemployed, or perhaps Harry Hamlin. I once saw a great Lifetime original movie starring Harry Hamlin and his real-life wife Lisa Rinna. Harry played a sex addict and Lisa was his tortured wife. I highly recommend it.
We took a short trip out to Bonaventure Cemetery, as if the “Ghost Tour” wasn’t really enough.
It is only natural that the South should produce high quality forensic anthropologists and cemeteries. It is an exceedingly morbid place. The baroque gravestones, pendulous greenery, fruity cocktails, and fried food constantly remind you that the creeping hand of death hovers overhead.
For a change of pace, we had a relaxing picnic in Forsyth Park, location of the Savannah Jazz Festival, and watched Pee-Wee football practice. The Savannah Jazz Festival caters to a diverse crowd. Shitty soul-patch Stevie Ray Vaughn blues masturbation, free jazz, big band. You can hear what it would sound like if that girl you know who loves singing Showtunes in the shower fronted a large jazz band covering Ella Fitzgerald classics and sweet disco hits like “Knock on Wood.”
Tomorrow, we leave the sherry and brownies behind on our way to Atlanta.
2 Comments so far
Leave a comment