Everytime I have heard someone rant about how they are not a racist, invaribly, they say two things:
- I am not a racist – I hate everyone equally.
- I don’t care what color you are; white, black, brown, yellow, red, GREEN…
They always throw in that green to make it seem like they were just listing off random colors and not skin colors and just so happened to land on green. Unless you want to count that time that Trixie was hungover and I asked her if she wanted a raw herring with a scoop of ice cream on top, I have never seen a person with green skin. That hot chick in Star Trek doesn’t count. That was make-up. Sometimes they add purple for emphasis.
You wanna know what else I have never seen? A living person with blue skin. But they have them. In Clayhole, KY of all places.
“The Blue Fugates of Clayhole” they are called. I’m serious. I mean it. Not just a blue tint. I am talking bright Smurfy blue.
I haven’t seen them because these folks did not sign up for the attention of sideshow freak status, so I did not investigate further. Google them. You’ll see. And, don’t forget to not adjust your monitor. That’s how they look.
It all started when some fellow named Fugate, who carried the recessive gene for iron-deficient or oxygen-deficient blood or whatever, in a “one-in-a-bazillion shot” married and had children with a woman who carried the same recessive gene.
I’m not so sure that in the hills of eastern Kentucky that the odds of him marrying someone with the same hereditary gene is all that coincidental, if you know what I am saying. But, as soon as you Google it…there you have it.
Other things in Kentucky are blue as well. The bluegrass. The bluegrass music. The uniforms of the University of Kentucky Wildcats. Now that I think about it, when Christian Laetner of Duke hit that jump shot at the buzzer against U of K many of the fans looked decidedly green.
I am in Lexington, home of that same university. And, boy did I have a day ahead of me. So much to see and do here in the Horse Capital of the World.
There is a Confederate soldier cemetery. There is the home of Henry Clay, who famously said, “I would rather be right, than president.” And, it turns out he was neither. It is a short drive through the scenic hills of the thoroughbred farms. Or, in the other direction, the birthplace of Lincoln. I am spitting distance from Daniel Boone National Forest. There are museums and historical markers littering the land. There are the distilleries of Jim Beam, Maker’s Mark, Four Roses, Wild Turkey and several other bourbons. I didn’t go to any of these.
I am in the Bible Belt, so there are some things that lean that way. There is a nearby shop called “Bibles & Tires”. They sell two things and two things only. Guess.
There is a highly-acclaimed miniature golf course here that is Bible themed. But, to be frank, mini-golf is stressful enough. I straight up can’t handle that much Jesus. I took a pass on that as well.
The hard truth is, I can’t see them all. I chose two. In the end, I went with my heart and the choice was easy.
The water tower shaped like a Dixie Cup (pic related)
Georgia Pacific wouldn’t let me get closer
And the bitterly disappointing Bondurant’s Pharmacy famous for being shaped like a pestle & mortar. But, with the decline of the neighborhood it is now a discount drive-thru liquor store. They painted it shades of Jetson car green in the weak hope that it would resemble a martini with an olive sticking out. It does not. (pic related)
I hate to end things on a sour note, so I saddled up the EM -50 Phantom Rambler and headed south…or west, maybe both…along the Bluegrass Parkway to the Famous Trappist monastery, Gethsemane. (pic related)
A note on the gift shop door invites you to celebrate Mass with them at 3:15 am. I shit you not.
As any of you who were raised by my father already know, Gethsemane is the hermitage home of writer and self-flagellation enthusiast, Thomas Merton.
For whatever reason, my old man is fascinated by those who choose the monastic life. Whereas, I am fascinated by Bill Murray movies.
In fact, there is a relatable quote from his movie “Stripes” that I have always kept with me as an inspiration when times were tough.
The character, John Winger, had lost everything; his job, his girlfriend, his apartment, his car, his pizza. The horizon was bleak. His best friend Russell Zisky remarked that John’s only options were to join a monastery or join the army.
Winger replied, “Did you ever see a monk get wildly fucked by some teenage girls?”
That’s powerful stuff.
Compared to those monks, I’m living the dream. With or without those teenage girls!
… it’s without 🙁
…but I have Trixie. She’s like…three teenagers!
Back in the gift shop, I bought some unGodly overpriced Monk’s Bourbon Fudge made by the monks…with bourbon….and it’s fudge.
I bought some really, REALLY, unGodly overpriced Monk’s Bourbon Fruitcake for the Old Man. But, I used his credit card, so it’s all right.
I asked the helpful lady who works the register if I could see any more of the grounds.
She said I could not. But, if I want to come back at 3:15 they would let me into the church to kneel and pray and stuff. I told her I would think about it.