Yeah, Jim Breuer doesn't hold a candle to the real thing.
But, there was a dark side to goat man.
"Along in the 1950's or so The Goat Man came through Jacksonville, Ga. Things were going OK until he started whipping one of the little baby goats. J.D. Williams, my father, who ran a store in Jacksonville, Ga., could not stand that sight. He immediately confronted The Goat Man and I thought there might be a fight over the issue. But The Goat Man moved on and Daddy returned to his store."
Don't forget the cart.
Man with just goats, idontknow.
Man with a cart, loaded Beverly Hillbilly style, being pulled by goats--legend.
Oh, and thank you.
and my jack russells,...
here's a goat man story.
"By now fewer than a dozen persons were still standing or sitting on the ground. Absorbed in his own thoughts, the Goat Man looked at the stars. Returning his gaze to his small congregation, he looked at Smokey, whose eyes had never left the Goat Man’s.
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Smokey. That’s a good name. For you look through a glass darkly now, but someday you will see clearly.” He stirred the embers on the fire and added more wood. “Smokey, come here and let’s see what The Great Spirit is showing you.”
Without hesitation, Smokey surprised himself by getting up and crossing the five feet to sit in the Goat Man’s lap. Though gnarled, the Goat Man’s hands were smooth as lanolin. His odor reminded Smokey of freshly bathed kittens. The Goat Man turned Smokey to face the fire. Dixie, a protector if needed, stood by Smokey’s side.
After dipping his fingertips into a cup of goat milk, the Goat Man covered Smokey’s face with his large hands and with the middle finger of each hand pressed against Smokey’s closed eyes. “What do you see, Smokey?”
“I see stars and flashing lights.”
“Look deeper. What do you see now?”
“I see the man with the sweet breath who hurt me!”
“Yes, and what is he doing?”
“He’s underwater in the river. His hands are inside a hole…a cave under a big rock. Why is he under the water?”
“He’s a noodler. He’s trying to catch fish with his bare hands. What do you see now?”
“The big rock fell on his hands. He can’t move! He can’t come up from under the water!”
“He’s wiggling, and wiggling, and wiggling, but he can’t get loose! Will he drown? Will anyone see him? Will anyone save him?”
“That’s his Maker’s decision. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. Jesus said it would be better for a man to have a millstone tied around his neck and dropped into the sea than to harm a child.”
“I see big bubbles coming from the man’s mouth!”
“Yes, and now he’s quiet and still, ain’t he? Quiet and still. Don’t worry, Smokey. He’s no longer in his body. He’s in another place. You won’t ever see him again, and he can’t hurt you. Ever again.”
The Goat Man took his hands from around Smokey’s face, and they both stared into the fire. They looked at the stars.
Whispering into Smokey’s ear, the Goat Man said, “You’ve been hurt, Smokey, but God has marked you. Do you know about the mark?” Smokey reached and touched a scar that separated his right eyebrow when he fell against a chair while playing hide-and-seek in Mam-Maw’s house.
“Yes, the mark,” the Goat Man said. “The mark is to remind you of God’s promise. The mark will disappear someday but not until you are an old man and have been healed of the hurt. You will have to become an old man before you can become a young man. Do you understand me?”
“No, you’re too young, but someday you will. Every bad thing that happens to you that you don’t understand leads to something good, either in the dream or in the reality to come. Joy comes from pain. Laughter comes from tears. Triumph comes from defeat. You can bank on it. You have a great adventure ahead of you, Smokey. You and me will meet again someday, somewhere. Here’s something to remember me by.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace of small shells and dropped it over Smokey’s head. “They’re pookas. A Cherokee Indian, a holy man, gave them to me. Never take them off. Not even when you bathe. They’ll protect you from further harm.”
Smokey saw his mother and father step out of the car that pulled alongside the encampment. Smokey and Dixie ran for the car. “Mama, Mama, I talked to the Goat Man!” Smokey rolled down the window and stuck his head out the window as the encampment receded. The Goat Man, illuminated by the campfire, was still standing, smiling and looking at Smokey.
“Daddy, I’m hungry. Let’s go get hamburglars.”
“We have to go straight home, Smokey” his mother said. “We have to take Grandma back to her old home. Her Cousin Willy has died.”
Smokey shivered, sat very still, and said nothing. Dixie grasp his hand and held it all the way home."
Our favorite goat. The thing I find most interesting about goat man is the number of lives he touched. Isn't it interesting the people we think will never forget us often do exactly that while sometimes the people that we forget remember us well.
A man and his goats remembered on the web years after his death.
"Occasionally, McCartney was attacked and mugged during his trips around the country. During one such attack in 1969, three young men assaulted him while he slept in his cart. He suffered three broken ribs, and two of his favorite goats were killed. Following this incident McCartney retired to his Jeffersonville mission and sold his remaining goats. In 1978 his home burned down, after which he purchased and lived in a bus.
In 1985, during one of his final journeys away from Georgia, McCartney set out on foot to California, hoping to meet the actress Morgan Fairchild, whom he wanted to marry. En route to California, he was again mugged and hospitalized for his injuries. Following his return to Georgia, he left the road for good in 1987. He spent his final years as a local celebrity at a nursing home in Macon, where he died at the age of ninety-seven on November 15, 1998."
"You take a fellow who looks like a goat, travels around with goats, eats with goats, lies down among goats and smells like a goat and it won't be long before people will be calling him the Goat Man.
Which is pretty much what Charles McCartney had in mind back in the Depression when he pulled up his Iowa stakes, put on his goatskins, hitched up his ironed-wheeled goat wagon and hit the road for what turned out to be a three-decade odyssey as one of the nation's most endearing eccentrics and by far its most pungent peripatetic roadside tourist attraction.
It is a tribute to the indelible image he created that although he had abandoned the goat life 30 years ago and settled down in a school bus in the south Georgia town of Jeffersonville, outside Macon, when Mr. McCartney died on Nov. 15 in a Macon nursing home, he was still known as the Goat Man. He was 97, or a decade or so younger than he'd taken to claiming to be.
A man given to gross exaggeration when simple embellishment would suffice, Mr. McCartney also claimed to have visited every state except Hawaii: His goats couldn't swim that far, he explained, and if they could, they'd just end up eating the grass skirts off the hula dancers anyway.
Whatever the scope of his travels, Mr. McCartney, who averaged seven miles a day and had a regular route between Iowa and Georgia, spent most of his time creating traffic jams throughout the South, primarily along the old Dixie Highway running through Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia and Florida.
As many who grew up in the South in the 1940's, 50's and 60's could attest, when the Goat Man came to town it was an event, one that inevitably produced a story and a photograph in the local paper.
Someone would spot him and his 30 or so goats coming down the highway, his wagon piled high with interesting junk, word would get around and pretty soon parents would be driving their children out to meet him, those familiar with the drill taking the precaution of staying upwind of the Goat Man.
As Mr. McCartney, who never took a bath or washed his clothes, once boasted, nobody but his goats could stand the smell of him.
*According to research by Darryl Patton and Jimmy Hammett, who collaborated on a 1993 Goat Man video and a 1994 Goat Man book, Mr. McCartney had a colorful life even before he became the Goat Man.
Growing up on a farm outside Sigourney, Iowa, he was considered such an odd child that the family goats were about his only true friends, which helps explain why he took off at 14, married a 24-year-old Spanish knife thrower, served as her exhibition target for a couple of years, then returned to Iowa and married at least twice more.
The last marriage ended when he sold his goat-weary wife for $1,000 to a farmer she'd already grown sweet on.
By then, Mr. McCartney, who had been forced to trade a farm he'd inherited to pay off a grocery bill, had begun his goat excursions, initially taking his wife and young son, Albert Gene, along on short trips and attracting so much attention that he was soon printing up postcards with his picture on them to sell to the gawkers.
Toward the end of the 1930's, he struck off on his own, beginning a series of annual circuits and soon making Jeffersonville his home base......."