[No spoilers, unless the post spoils Shittown itself.]
Having listened to the seven-episode podcast Shittown, I feel shitty. John B. McLemore is quite a story: an Ignatius J. Reilly come to life, with a far greater measure of tragedy. Whether McLemore’s life should have become a story is another matter. Shittown, I’ve concluded, is a public-radio version of the more grotesque forms of reality TV, registering compassion for those under examination while nonetheless turning them into spectacle — or the aural equivalent of spectacle.
As Elaine says: next time, we won’t get in line.
Friday, April 7, 2017
Shittown coda
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Oh, dear! What an unfortunate coincidence: My grandfather was John B. (Bundy) McLemore, as was his namesake son, my Uncle J.B. My middle brother, John, missed being a third one by one initial; he was named for both grandfathers, but his middle name (Owen) is for our Honeycutt grandfather.
Art imitating or informing life? Probably not. (I hope.)
Strange! Many people are misspelling the name as Macklemore, which sort of helps anyone named McLemore fly under the radar.
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