{"id":3157,"date":"2017-10-31T14:21:37","date_gmt":"2017-10-31T18:21:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.f3winstonsalem.com\/f3\/?p=3157"},"modified":"2017-10-31T14:25:56","modified_gmt":"2017-10-31T18:25:56","slug":"boos-and-booze","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.f3winstonsalem.com\/f3\/2017\/10\/boos-and-booze\/","title":{"rendered":"Boos and Booze"},"content":{"rendered":"

Lend me your ear, my good man, and come closer as I recount you a tale of the events that preceded the dawn hours on the most haunted of days. \u00a0Twas a chilly Hallows Eve morn, as I recall, but that slight nip in the air did not disturb the congregation of men gathered together to do their physical bidding under the glow of moon, as the sun had not yet awoken from his dreary slumber.<\/span><\/p>\n

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From the listless repose of the First Pres parking lot, and the peculiar character of its temporary dusky gloom inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Moravian settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Flatline, and its rustic lads are called the Dash PAX throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by lazy fartsackers, during the early days of the settlement; others, that a rogue faction distilled Bourbon in the western outlands. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the Foothills than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure of a Nantan, without hair. It is said by some to be the ghost of an F3 Dasher, whose unresolved HC for a beatdown had been carried away by a FiA group, in some nameless AO during the Convergence, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the Foothills, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church (First Pres, perhaps?) at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the Nantan having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost runs forth to the scene of the Sad Clown Nomad jog in nightly quest of his hair, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the AO, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Nantan of Winston-Salem.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Editor\u2019s note: Any resemblance to a particular piece of Washington Irving\u2019s literature is purely <\/span><\/i>plagiarism<\/span><\/i> coincidental. \u00a0The thoughts and views expressed in the preceding paragraph are mostly <\/span><\/i>Mr. Irving\u2019s<\/span><\/i> the Q\u2019s.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

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Warm-o-rama.<\/b><\/p>\n

None. \u00a0It\u2019s freaking cold. \u00a0Nobody\u2019s warm. \u00a0And there\u2019s certainly no \u201co-rama\u201d.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Beatdown<\/b><\/p>\n

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Note: Waiting exercises were a combination of Coffin Planking, Al Gore, Jumping Jack-O-Lanterns, LBCs, and Running with Scissors.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

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Mosey to our favorite Parking Garage<\/span><\/p>\n