I went to Borough Park this week for a mammogram at the junction of Fort Hamilton Parkway and 65th St., across from 3 Brooklyn Guys grocery store. The scenery was not pretty, not with the snow heaped up in filthy mounds and nowhere to park but the hagiographies of Buddhist sages that I read while in the waiting room melted my heart and made all my hair stand on end.
Life is really really strange. That morning I had been watching a video over and over again of Johnny Horton singing The Battle of New Orleans, for pretty obvious reasons that include costuming, charisma and a voice I couldn't get enough of. It was kind of strange that one of the sonographers at the lab looked a lot like Horton, Brooklyn style, and kind of strange that the day before I had been watching videos of Dylan and the exterminator that showed up to treat the apartment upstairs was a ringer for Dylan (with Adam Sandler's brown eyes.) I've looked for explanations of synchronicity but don't think I'll find one that can answer for the profound strangeness of things. How does anyone explain how Horton foresaw his death at the hands of a drunk driver and had to live in the suspense of waiting for that to happen for months, behaving a little like a paranoid schizophrenic? Poor man. He was so resplendent, he reminds me of the winning team in a Aztec ballgame.
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