I finished S-Town last night around 3 a.m. and I cannot stop thinking about it. John B. McLemore is going to haunt me for a long time to come. Oddly enough, I related to him deeply. Emotionally, we're a lot alike. Some of the circumstances in his life were reflected back to me, albeit in a distorted way, and I saw hidden pieces of myself in him. It was both comforting and scary. For me, who grew up right on the Tennessee/Alabama state line, I've known the people in this story my whole life. I went to school with them. I worked with them. They were my neighbors. The accents, those undeniably southern phrases and inflections, sounded like home to me. All the drama, the death and secrecy, I could have watched unfolding from the front porch of my childhood home. Because I grew up in a Shittown, too. John B. McLemore could have easily been a character in a Flannery O'Connor short story. The south has a habit of spitting out eccentrics like that. And I love them all. They are my soul mates, kindred spirits who have managed to find themselves in the "Christ haunted south" as Flannery would say, among endless monotony, where every dirt road leads to either a high school football game or a Klan rally. You find ways to cope. This whole story just broke my heart to pieces. I don't know what else to say.












