I generally don't make a mental note of death dates.  Its intentional, since those anniversaries are generally too painful to celebrate.  But for the past week I've been pleasantly haunted by the spirit of my father, and before dawn this morning, I remembered a date long buried deep in my subconscious: 2/21/97.  With all due respect to Alfred Hayes, Earl Robinson and Joe Hill, a reworking of the song titled after the latter seemed appropriate.



I dreamed I saw Carl Root last night,
Alive as you or me
Says I, "Dad, you're sixteen years dead,"
"I never died," says he.
"I never died," says he.

"On East 80," says I to him,
Him standing by my bed,
"A bad car crash it killed ya, Dad"
Says he, "But I ain't dead,"
Says he, "But I ain't dead."

"They pronounced you dead at the scene,
We buried you," says I.
"Takes more than death to kill a man,"
Says Dad, "I didn't die,"
Says Dad, "I didn't die."

And standing there as big as life
And smiling with his eyes
Says Dad, "But what could never die
Is all that I taught you,
Is all that I taught you."

"Carl Root ain't dead," he says to me,
"Carl Root ain't never died.
If courage, strength or pride you need
Carl Root is at your side,
Carl Root is at your side."

Be it loss or gain, good or bad
In every joy and pain -
Where you can feel your heart beat strong
It's there you'll find Carl Root.
It's there you'll find Carl Root.

I dreamed I saw Carl Root last night,
Alive as you or me
But my dad is sixteen years dead.
"I never died," says he.
"I never died," says he.

“I’m not aware of too many things, I know what I know if you know what I mean.” –Edie Brickell

    The quote above is from the song “What I Am”.  I always call it “Philosophy,” but recently a new friend and colleague, Lindsey Uy-Johnson, set me straight.  She’s opening for Steve Martin here in Tampa in May.  Edie Brickell, not Lindsey.  And yes, Steve Martin the comedian.  And novelist.  He has also been known to pick the ever-loving shit out of a banjo with the Steep Canyon Rangers, as many noted musicologists have written.  More than likely, Danielle and I will have already fled Florida for the relative safety of our old Kentucky home by then.  Still, it gives me the warm fuzzies just knowing that its happening.

    Recently, I’ve discovered a great love for the pre-dawn bike ride.  There is something incredibly wonderful about pedaling 10-20 miles before the rest of Tampa, or even the sun, has arisen.  The flow of endorphins combined with the wind and the near silence seems to create the perfect conditions for epiphany.  So much so in fact, that it was less than a week ago that I publicly announced an intention to take my voice recorder along for such rides in order to attempt to capture those fleeting moments.  Of course, I did not make good on that promise today, and so this is a frantic attempt at recollecting and reconstructing some of the more interesting tidbits.

    It must have been Earl Guthrie’s status update on his issues with the over-categorizing of music that put me on a categorical kick of sorts.  Somehow combined with the Nicki Minaj emanating from my newly-formed Flo Rida Pandora station, this revelation sent me to a Stanford University Intro to Human Behavioral Biology lecture by the way of the YouTubes where I listened to Robert Sapolsky (a brilliant neuroscientist and professor of biology, neuroscience, and neurosurgery at Stanford University with an equally impressive beard) discuss the utility of categorical thinking alongside some of its more problematic aspects. The example that sticks with me the most is one where he describes the huge difference in a 65 and a 66 on an exam, despite the fact that the one point is really not all that different (depending upon how you look at it).

All of this culminated in a whole bunch of questioning, or at least thinking about, the categories that seem to haunt me these days: qualitative and quantitative, theory and practice, radical and orthodox, etc. etc. etc.  It struck me that I’m not sure where the lines are drawn.  In fact, the further I pedaled the more I became fairly convinced that I don’t know much of anything, and I blame my education for it.  One day in a criticism class near the end of my formal university schoolin' in Art, Dr. Esther Randall asked me (and the rest of the class) “What is Art?”  It hit me like a ton of bricks that I wasn’t entirely sure, and even now I remain quite confused in that regard.  When I returned to further my education, I studied Philosophy, where the whole faculty made me question everything under the sun, and this morning I realized that I’m rather unsure just how to define, or properly categorize, just what is and what is not Philosophy.  The same can be said for Sociology, and Lord have mercy, don’t even get me started on Criminology and Criminal Justice.  Surely there are those of you who are thinking….that’s a bit of a stretch, everybody knows that Criminology is the study of crime.  Yes, indeed.  But what the hell is crime?  If you think you know, I suggest a cup of coffee with Vic Kappeler, Mike Lynch, Jeff Ferrell, or any of a number of my other friends, mentors and colleagues “in the business”.

How the hell is it that one can spend so much time pursuing education and still not even understand what it was they studied all those years? 

Which brings me back to Edie Brickell.  You wanna know what I know, if you know what I mean? I know that there are few things in this world more terrifying during a dark and somewhat slippery pre-dawn bike ride than an armadillo coming at you full speed ahead.

Though the armadillo might say the same about the two-wheeled blue-breasted freak rolling by screeching loudly, “Back you scary bastard…I am Ahab!”

I’ll probably never know.

“Too much to think about.  Too much to figure out.  Stuck between hope and doubt there’s just too much to think about.”

“I’m evangelical agnostic now.”

-Todd Snider

A drunken panhandler stumbles through the Occupy encampment asking for change, and receiving none.  Various activists mill around but most seem not to notice him or his humble request.  She does.  Explaining that she has no cash, she asks if he will go to the store with her so that she can get some.  He reluctantly obliges.  Pulling into the Neighborhood Wal-mart, she leaves him in the car with her husband while she buys a couple of bags of groceries: chicken, greens, flour, and a whole host of other things “necessities” she points out, ibuprofen, dishwashing detergent, and so on. He is flabbergasted and continually exclaims:  “How did you know?” On the way to his girlfriend’s home, who he says is handicapped and poor, she picks him up a bottle of whiskey, just in case that was what he wanted to begin with, “but at least he won’t be hungry either for a few days,” she explains to her husband.

A man sits in his wheelchair, scar tissue covering his face like a quilt and the intersections where it was sewn back together deep and painfully evident to any who can bear to look him in the eye.  For those who refuse to do so, his slurred speech is a constant reminder of his presence as he loudly uses awkward humor in attempts to explain the power of car accidents to maim and disfigure.  For dozens of people within earshot, he is a source of discomfort, anxiety and perhaps no small measure of annoyance, as their body language betrays. But for her, his is a voice that is literally crying out for help.  She walks over and tells him that he won’t be needing his cigarettes, his lighter, or any of the other random objects he is clutching in both hands.  Helping him put all of these items away in his carry-on bag, she explains how all he needs out is his boarding pass.  He thanks her, and shortly thereafter nods off in a deep narcotic sleep as the boarding pass flutters to the floor in front of him.  Her actions seem to make those around her just as uncomfortable as those of the intoxicated and mutilated man.

An elderly woman recovers from a stroke in her hospital bed, surrounded by family.  Tears roll down her cheeks as she laments, of all things, her hair.  She is African-American, with very thin grey hair.  Barely enough to cover her crown she does not want anyone to see her this way, and tries to explain, but the stroke has garbled her speech.  Holding a wig catalog, she moans and points to what she wants, indeed, needs.  A nurse clocks out from her shift and visits a wig shop around the corner taking care to match the bun to the woman’s fine hair.  She explains the situation to the shopkeeper, who advises her of what other accessories will be needed and gives her a 10% discount “because you’re doing this for someone else.”  When she returns, the woman and her family are awestruck and thankful.  Showing off her new “do,” the patient looks at her daughter and says perfectly, “You’re just jealous.”  The next morning, she has no problem stating how “it made me feel better.”

Standing outside the door is a man with a grocery bag.  He was told that a homeless man was waiting to be discharged from the hospital, but the clothes that he came in wearing were nowhere to be found.  The emergency room explained that this was likely “because they were nasty”.  In the bag is two sweatshirts, four t-shirts, four pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear, a pair of blue jeans, a pair of denim shorts, a pair of shoes and a belt.  This was his “honey-do” list for breakfast, and he’s bringing the bag at the request of his wife, who is currently busy complimenting her patient on how good her hair looks this morning. 

If you don’t know already, this woman is the woman that I love.  These random acts of kindness are perhaps random, but they are also part of her default setting.  From the mix of wonder, confusion, awe, anger and sometimes even shame in the eyes of onlookers and bystanders (myself included) at the profundity and power of such simple gestures and acknowledgments, I believe it might be ours as well. 

I had no intentions of pilfering through my closet to find clothes for someone less fortunate this morning.  In fact, my goal was to read a few hundred pages of social movements literature in hopes that I could begin writing a theoretical framework section for a dissertation that voices my discomfort and displeasure with what I perceive as a whole lot of theory without practice. 

Ain’t life funny? 

Some of my more philosophically and/or sociologically-inclined comrades might accuse her of “hacking at the branches,” but this Root remains convinced that she’s the most radical human being he’s ever had the good fortune to encounter.  Often, I’ve given her a hard time for being such a habitual rule-follower.  If the sign says “Don’t step on the grass” not only will she not do so, she will quickly voice her displeasure at me if/when I do.  She’s a stickler for protocol, regulations, guidelines, etc.  Still, in terms of kindness and humanity, it hurts my heart a little bit to recognize that she may be one of the most deviant people I know.  Fortunately, it heals quickly with the realization that she loves me.      

​

2/8/13

Last night I dreamed of Bohemia, or at least as near to it as I’ve ever been.  Richmond, Kentucky around the turn of the millennium, and for nearly a decade after was a very special place to be.  There was a living, breathing and vibrant counterculture that existed in such numbers as to almost be “taking over the town” not unlike a certain band of cowboys from Hell. This not-terribly-hostile takeover was signaled by names like “Art Attack” and “Boom Boom Tattoo Room”.  (Remember when Big World and a bomb floated down Main Street to the Gap Band?)  Music cried out on every corner, from every bedroom and basement ranging from folk and bluegrass to jazz, metal and all sorts of weird, wild hybrids.  A creative class of folks played Pied Piper to an entire community for years, wrapping art, music, and camaraderie in an atmosphere of sex, booze, drugs and business that existed in broad daylight and darkness of night for anyone willing to see it.  We had the cure for the common clothes well before Macklemore went shopping.

Many nights we wandered the streets like gypsies from the Buddha Belly where a jazz quartet had the whole room swinging two doors down to M.F. Hooligans where mosh pits erupted and Jagermeister flowed endlessly to a melodic metal sound and down the hill to the first incarnation of the Paddy Wagon.   Then, for the dedicated, or delusional, up another hill to the Bear and the Bull for $1 Beam shots and foot-stompin’ bluegrass from Finger Lickin’ and the Goods.  Generally, the night wasn’t complete without a quick sleaze-through of the Manhattan, and by closing time a clarion call was issued for all these players, patrons, and other nocturnals to meet at a mutually-agreed upon location.  Oftentimes, that was my house: the Big Spooky.  Well, OUR house, to be sure.  A 200 year old, 3-story home on Main Street that truly looked like one of the haunted houses from the old Scooby Doo cartoons. 

Eddy Green would continue to convince anyone within earshot to accept whiskey as their personal savior, and would hold pride to their head should they dare refuse such sweet salvation.  Steve Sturgill could make you believe it was summertime in the dead of winter, and Wendell Hess managed to cause many an irregular heartbeat.  The crowd (or mob, depending upon whom you ask) was as eclectic as the music.  There were bikers, Peacemakers, and Bad Moon Boys, Shadetrees and so on drinking beer with fraternity boys and sorority girls.  Tattoo artists and body piercers shooting shots and the shit with attorneys, small business owners and college professors.  Random elderly couples would wander in from time-to-time to say “We’ve always wanted to see the inside of this house, do you mind if we take a look around?”  Many times, Monti Weaver would give them the grand tour.  The Big Spooky, as well as the folks in it on any given Sunday, howled at the moon and defied both gravity and authority.

Then, on Monday, we’d go back to work, or school, or whatever.  Building homes, teaching classes, slinging booze, ink, and vintage clothing…maybe even manufacturing high explosives, depending on the time of year.  It was possible to see Trevor Jones riding a skateboard down the sidewalk with a feather boa, maybe even a fur coat, as John Ryan Sparks chuckled through the smoke.  A few unfortunate souls recognized that in Richmond, sometimes a Cool Breeze might not be the most pleasant experience.  And yea, there were ninjas. And pirates.  And pirate-ninjas! The Thanksgiving feast is something I still think about to this day. 

Not that it was all kitties and ice cream.  There was blood spilled.  My own more than once, and I had it coming at least once.  A few folks went to jail, and more than a few to the graveyard.  Still, there was something wonderful in the air, and I wonder if I’ll ever breathe deeply in such an atmosphere again, or if we were merely riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave like Gonzo poets?