I married a wonderful and whimsical woman who consistently asks people in her presence to “tell me a story.”  Before we ever decided to commit to a relationship, we got to know one another through trading stories both verbally and in writing.  Ever since, we’ve been busily crafting our version of happily ever after.  Fairly recently she gave me a framed image of an old typewriter with the caption “Write your own life story” beneath it.  It hangs beside the doorway between my home office and kitchen.  As such, I see it several times daily.  Perhaps this is why I feel compelled to start putting some of my stories to paper (or at least a Microsoft Word document)? 

Or maybe it’s because I often think about Granny.  At her funeral Uncle Ross eloquently proclaimed that “she showed us how to live, and she showed us how to die.”  I’ve certainly done my best to follow her example in the former, so perhaps I’ll be fortunate enough to follow in her footsteps with the latter as well.  Ross similarly said that “sometimes you’ve got to go through Hell to get to Heaven”, and I believe that’s some Gospel Truth right there as well…with a caveat:  it is just as valid, in my opinion, that if you wanna get to Heaven you got to RAISE a little Hell as well.  Granny did both.  And I’m blessed to have been one of the few that not only heard her tell the tales, but also became a part of her fascinating story.

She knew it was fascinating, too.  Often, she would tell me “some day I’m going to write a book about my life.”  I told her that I’d help her if she ever wanted to get started.  I bet I’m not the only one.  She would sometimes ask, “if I wrote a book, would you read it?”  I always answered that I certainly would.  Again, I bet I’m not the only one.  It has been a decade now since she left this old world, and that book was never written.  Fortunately, many of us were privy to those tales whether as listeners or as present parties when they were written onto life’s pages.  Maybe it is not too late?  I can definitely tell a few of her tales as I heard them, and most certainly will in the coming pages. 

But, I feel rather compelled to tell a few of my own first. 

A few days ago, I spent a good deal of time on the phone with one of my oldest friends and a comrade in issues of crime and justice (both in and out of the Ivory Tower).  Eddy and I often take time out of our already busy schedules to attempt to solve at least a few of the world’s problems…theoretically, of course.  But this particular conversation was more personal than political and we discussed where we find ourselves currently and, to quote the late great Jerry Garcia, “what a long, strange trip its been.”  Ed explained to me how he’d found an old senior memory book and how under “where do you see yourself in 10 years?” he’d answered that he would probably have a PhD in Anthropology.  It blew him away.  He pointed out that if anyone would have asked him prior to this rediscovery of his senior memory book whether he would have ever thought he’d find himself working toward a PhD in Sociology at Kansas State University that his answer would have been unequivocal:  “absolutely not.” “Thought never crossed my mind.”

I responded to Eddy’s story with how much I loved my senior memory book, but that it had been a casualty of war---the drug war.  You see, my senior year I fell in love with a plant.  A plant many of us adoringly refer to as Mary Jane.  As such, my senior memory book had several references to this courtship.  Some of those “references” might have been considered “drug paraphernalia” and/or “evidence” under the wrong circumstances.  And it was just such wrong circumstances (and the total destruction of a Dodge Dakota pickup, two garbage cans and a braided steel telephone pole guide wire) that led to my senior memory book being thrown into some bushes in order to avoid potentially worse wrong circumstances.  Some might call such an action “tampering with evidence,” I prefer “self-preservation.” 

Suffice it to say that there is much more to that story.  I tell a little of it here simply to say that I envy Eddy’s discovery and wonder what it was that I said I’d be doing by 2005.  I’m pretty sure I didn’t predict anything about going for a PhD, but by the time I returned to retrieve my memory book the ink had run down the pages from the rain.  So this is an attempt at creating another memory book—one that hopefully will never have to be hidden in an attempt to avoid criminal charges.  (I’ll do my best to only write about those situations for which statutes of limitations have passed, and not include too much incriminating evidence).

I’m going to save this memory book in multiple places, and this is one of them.  Maybe sharing it in this fashion will facilitate some feedback, the same way passing that senior memory book around a classroom often did?  Maybe it will even create a compulsion for others to share some stories, or recollections/interpretations of those left here?  I haven’t yet decided whether or not to adhere to the social scientist’s ethical values of anonymity and confidentiality.  After all, this ain’t my dissertation and there’s a different type of “peer review” here in the “blogosphere”.  Similarly, I’m awfully fond of a quote that I stumbled across recently online:  “You own everything that happened to you.  Tell your stories.  If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

Likewise, I’m not certain how to order this thing.  It seems only appropriate to throw down some “once upon a time” in order to build up to a more current “happily ever after,” but memory is a strange thing and as such I simply can’t commit to keepin’ it chronological. Still, I like the idea of the “once upon a time” so I’ll go all the way back to the beginning the next chance I get to sit down and tell a story…   

I suppose this is what my good friend Ed Green would refer to as a bit of a coffee-inspired confession.  Except that the best parts of my cups of joe were probably pissed out nearly 12 hours ago, and the inspiration was as much a result of the music of Gil Scott Heron as Maxwell House.  Still, I've been experiencing even more of the Absurd lately as ever before and a whole lot less of what a great deal of philosophers have referred to as angst and despair.  Perhaps its what Powers (1997) referred to when he exclaimed "Its freedom baby, and it freaks me out!"  More likely its a strange convergence of facticity and authenticity dating back to one of the last cartoons I scrawled in a sketchbook while transitioning from Kentucky to Florida roughly three and a half years ago.  A blatant rip off of an R. Crumb piece and appropriately unfinished and juxtaposed next to Mr. Natural it asks "Can a criminal become a criminologist?"  The sketchbook ends with another angle of the same subject hunched over a computer and  surrounded by a trio of thought balloons reading "I hope so!" "Otherwise..." and "I'm screwed!"

As someone who somewhat exemplified labeling theory before I even knew it existed, and provided plenty of empirical support for its assumptions through juvenile delinquency and a rather prolonged adolescence (adultesence?) the question might have been as important as any possible answers to it. Lately though, I've been having trouble applying a proper label when asked to do so.  Students generally want me to be "Doctor Root," (though I've yet to earn the right, or is it a privilege?) or Mister or Professor.  None of these titles feels very comfortable in my skin and I wonder what kind of secondary deviance might result from my acceptance of any of them.  Still, as the saying goes, "I've been called worse."

As such, maybe Camus was onto something when he explained how "One must imagine Sisyphus as happy"?

Its weird the way philosophy can creep back up your spine (not unlike "the first rising vibes of an acid frenzy" to quote the Good Doctor Thompson) through the simple act of rearranging your books and more importantly being reminded of the words and lives and times of influences as varied as Jock Young and this guy in the same deep breath: 

Meanwhile, in a fit of fate (or just some cosmic sense of humor) the heavens opened up and turned several surrounding zip codes into a solid sheet of ice as if to say "chill."  Recently I kicked the Facebook habit, which means that this blog may never make it to another screen save the one I'm currently staring into and I'm alright with that...Sartrean keyholes, creaking floorboards and all.

I’ve buried more friends than I’ve married. 

A lot more. 

And since I was ordained online for fun nearly a decade ago, several of my friends have asked me to officiate at their weddings.  Each ceremony has been completely unique and generally befitting the folks making vows to one another.  I’ve quoted Flogging Molly, read poetry, witnessed love come walking in to music played by both friends and Muppets and have even had a perfectly timed clap of thunder put the fear of God in my heart as a bride’s mother blessed the rings.  Each of these has felt like a real celebration of life and love, and it has truly been an honor to be chosen by so many friends to “do the honors”.

Years ago, I was invited by the family to read a eulogy at a friend’s funeral.  He had passed unexpectedly and too soon.  Unfortunately, this seems to be the fate of many of my comrades.  It was painful and I stuttered and blubbered through most of what I had written.  But, at the end of the day, I felt some level of catharsis for having done so.  This was a first for me.  Every funeral I had attended to that point had followed the same format.  Preacher.  Music. Preacher. Procession.  Preacher.  Music. Preacher. Procession.

A few years later, I attended a life celebration for another friend.  This one also broke significantly from the same old song and dance.  There was music and art and the mood, while somber and certainly sad, was also one that facilitated a great deal of gratitude and reflection amongst the grieving.  Having attended far more funerals than I care to attempt to count, mixed amongst the standard script of “he looked so good, they did a good job” I’ve also heard lots of complaints from grieving friends and family.  “Can you believe they put her in that?” “She never wore makeup like that.”  “He wasn’t religious, why did they get that Baptist preacher?  And what about him turning the service into an old school revival?”  “She hated that song, I can’t believe they played that.”  “He wanted to be cremated, not buried” and so on. 

Often this is a result of premature death and a family left in shock attempting to discern what their loved ones wishes might well have been. Always it is due to a lack of a written testament of such. More often than not, I leave these services determined to ensure that such issues do not arise upon my demise.  But, life tends to get in the way and its never actually happened.  Currently, I am healthy as a horse and happy as a clam.  But that doesn’t mean that I might not get hit by a meteor, ran over by a bus, choke on a chicken wing or simply croak in my sleep tomorrow.  As such, what follows can be considered my living will—or at least the most up-to-date chronicle of how I’d like to be seen off for the afterlife (if there be any such thing).

First and foremost:  no preachers.  Unless Eddy Green converts to Catholicism or becomes some sort of Zen Buddhist monk for a minute like Leonard Cohen, I don’t want anyone proselytizing to my friends and family or pretending to have known me and/or the state of my soul.  Rest assured that I’ve done my best to live a good life mostly without any ritual or religious instruction.  If that’s not good enough then well, as the Grateful Dead so eloquently sang, “I may be going to Hell in a bucket baby, but at least I’m enjoyin’ the ride.”  Personally, I’d prefer to replace this part with story time.  Most of my friends and family have great tales to tell on me and a lot of them have continued to get better with age (the tales AND the friends and family).  I’d never want to force anyone to stutter and stammer through such a thing if they were all grief-stricken and whatnot, but if they felt so inclined I think it would benefit everyone in the long run to laugh and/or cry together while reminiscing about some of my greatest hits (and misses).

Second:  Music.  Lots of it.  Songs about love.  Songs about life.  Songs that will make people cry and songs that will make people laugh.  Danielle knows the ones that move me and the ones that make me move. Having been blessed with a lot of talented musicians as friends it would be wonderful if any should survive me that they play a tune or two, but again, I’d never force such a thing on anyone so perhaps ask them kindly and see what happens.  Also, art.  Maybe cartoons of me, and/or a big badass oil painting like the old royals, Presidents and whatnot used to commission.  Maybe a slightly surreal nude portrait (tastefully done, of course) of me lying on a Muppet-skin rug (preferably Animal).  Whatever.  Get creative.  And make it weird.  And funny.  A thing’s not worth doing if its not worth doing weird and funny.

Third:  I do not want to be buried.  The idea of being shot up with formaldehyde and/or whatever else they use, made up and then sealed in an airtight vault under the ground for all eternity (or until the Earth explodes) really just creeps me out.  Burn me up.  I understand that cremation really freaks some folks out.  Set their minds at ease by reminding them of the “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” thing.  Maybe even play a clip of Will Ferrell singing “Dust in the Wind” from the movie Old School.  

There are many ideas I have had for what to do with my ashes, one that I stole unrepentantly from the Reverend Steve Jenkins and potentially involving multiple Federal crimes.  So, it is likely not feasible.  But, if anyone should feel compelled to put some of me in a little Quikrete and rappel down Jefferson’s face at Mt. Rushmore to insert me on the edge of one of his nostrils as a booger, that’d be AWESOME.  If that’s too much trouble, just put me in places I liked to be, or maybe just thought I might like to see some day.  Do NOT keep me in an urn somewhere, at least not ALL of me.  And if you must do that, make the urn a Folger’s coffee can, or some other very modestly priced receptacle.  (Just because you’re bereaved doesn’t mean you have to be a sap.)

Finally, I am not opposed to a memorial marker somewhere.  But I’d prefer it to be sculpture and not a standard slab of marble with my name carved in it.  I spent many hours soaked in booze, tears and snot while clutching a tombstone with the name “Carl Root” etched into it and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.  So, should anyone feel the need to make some sort of memorial space for me, perhaps it could be a tree with a sculpture beneath it?  Currently, I think I’d prefer it to be somewhere near the old man in Root’s Branch cemetery in Manchester, KY but that's pretty out of the way, so maybe another one could be placed somewhere closer to anyone who might want to visit such a thing?

If I haven’t ridden in a hot air balloon by then, I’d like to leave the funeral home (or wherever this celebration of my life might take place*) that way.  Since I’m probably not going to befriend Johnny Depp in this lifetime (or anyone else with that kind of loot) it would be pretty badass if someone could load a shot of me into a 12 gauge shotgun shell or two and fire me out of the old Mossberg in mid-air. 

(*If there are no legal obligations to having this whole shindig take place outside the creepy confines of a funeral home, I’d prefer it.  Ideally, they could just put me in a coffee can and let friends and family transport me to a place more conducive to the shenanigans above.)


O.K. then!  Hopefully this wasn't too weird for anyone. Now that its on the Internet it must be true.  

“We lost one of the good guys.” – Wendell Hess

Chris was a Weaver and a good man. He was...he was one of us. He was a man who loved quoting movies, and Budweiser, and as a painter he explored the homes and businesses of Central and Southeastern Kentucky from London to Lexington, and up to Louisville. He died.. he died as so many young men of his generation before his time, and in your wisdom, Lord, you took him. Just as you took so many bright, flowering young men at Khe San, and Lan Doc, and Hill 364. These young men gave their lives, and so did Chris. Chris who loved movies. And movie quotes. And so, Christopher Weaver. In accordance with what I think your dying wishes might well have been....I’m going to watch The Big Lebowski, have a tasty bourbon in the home you gave a green light, maybe have a few burgers, a few laughs, and undoubtedly shed at least a handful of tears at your early departure. Goodnight, sweet prince.

For Labor Day, I always include a section about violence associated with American labor history in my course on terrorism and it generally coincides with a discussion of the role of policing associated with this history in my course on social forces and policing society.  This year, while going back over the materials and seeing where the internets might take me, I stumbled across a TED talk by Mike Rowe, the host of the Discovery Channel show “Dirty Jobs”. It was certainly not my intention to follow Mr. Rowe’s lead and pick up my very own dirty job, but as fate would have it….

Currently, Danielle and I are on a mission to pay down our debt before becoming serious about finding a home of our own. As such, we’ve become rather budget-conscious. My own employment situation has been less than full-time and certainly uncertain as of late but teaching a couple courses as an adjunct provides me with some free time.  So, the other night I decided to see whether or not I could find another part-time job in order to pick up a little extra loot to send off to the fine folks at VISA and Mastercard.   Since we’ve had luck finding everything from cars to housing there in the past, my first stop was Craigslist. 

Within about 10 minutes I’d found a couple of potential positions including one labeled “Automotive Plant Cleaning”.  This was around 9 pm Weds. night, if I recall correctly.  Hardly ten minutes after submitting an email indicating interest, my phone rang.  “Is this Carl?” the voice asked immediately. “Yes it is,” I said. “I was just checking my email one last time and saw that you had inquired about the cleaning position.”  She went on to explain to me how the job was at the Toyota plant in Georgetown, that it was pretty nasty and hot and asked if I would be interested in attending a basic safety meeting and orientation the following morning.  Stunned at the quickness with which this had all transpired, I agreed and wrote down the address.

The next morning was my first experience with an employment agency.  The woman at the front desk informed me that the guy I’d been told to ask for was not there today.  She told me to take a seat.  I did, and in a few minutes a couple of younger guys strolled in laughing and joking about having found fifty pounds of copper wire and being dead tired from partying all night.  One of them exhaled heavily as if exasperated and said, “I’m hoping to go to bed after I leave here.” The woman at the desk looked at them both with a sideways glance and a look in her eyebrows that read “Are you serious?” She looked at me and just shook her head, as apparently my eyebrows were saying the same thing. 

Eventually, we were asked to come to a room in the back and fill out applications and assorted other materials indicating availability, position type and pay desired and also a checklist of assorted skills. Before we could finish, the guy who wasn’t there today showed up and asked us to follow him.  He took us past the front desk and down another hallway into a small conference room.  Three other guys sat at the table with what appeared to be syringes sticking out of their mouths. We were told to open the plastic packages on the table in front of us and to remove the drug tests inside.  The “syringes” were actually a sort of sponge attached to a piece of plastic used to take a sample of saliva for drug testing. 

One of the guys I came in with, who seemed to be having a hard time holding his head up and not slurring his words, looked noticeably anxious about this process.  One of the other applicants who was in the room before us was nervously joking about his, saying “Uh oh, I don’t see any lines.”  Our interviewer(?) proceeded to hand out packages of information, essentially Xeroxed copies of slides from a Powerpoint presentation, and explaining to us that “there will be quizzes.” The potential for yet another test earned a groan from at least 2-3 of the folks in the room, and he responded with “don’t worry you can use your notes.”

As he proceeded to read every other slide in a rapid-fire manner, it occurred to me that I wasn’t retaining very much of this info, and that it was a good thing that this upcoming quiz was open notes. We watched a video of people doing the random tasks that would be required of us.  I pulled the drug-testing swab out of my mouth and inserted it into the receptacle that it came with waiting to see what would happen next.  Nothing happened.  No negative, no positive, nothing.  Apparently, I had failed to collect enough saliva so I had to try again.  After doing so, I received a couple of lines which indicated a negative test for cocaine, amphetamines, methamphetamines, PCP, opiates and another substance I can’t recall…maybe THC?

The whole process took about 45 minutes and if anyone failed the quizzes on safety regulations, expectations and the like, they were allowed to take it again.  One guy raised his hand and said “This thing is showing that I’m positive for PCP.  I’ve never even seen PCP!” Our guy just laughed and said “everyone pass your drug test forms forward.”  These were the forms where we indicated that the spit in the plastic thing was, in fact, our spit and we gave permission for this agency to test it. He placed our forms in a folder and then walked around the room with a garbage can telling everyone to throw their tests into it.  “Everyone passed,” he declared and the relief from the crowd was palpable.

We were given maps of and to the Toyota plant in Georgetown and told to visit the Security office the following afternoon to receive our badges/nametags. Also, to pick up a pair of steel-toe boots prior to our first day, which would be in two days, on Saturday.  One of the younger guys asked “What if you can’t afford steel-toe boots right now?” “You have to have them to work at Toyota,” was the response he was given. I told him about a brand new pair of size 11 Rocky steel-toes that a guy in Georgetown was selling on Craigslist for $40. All but one of us showed up the next day to get our badges, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t miss my first day of work.

Having not used my alarm clock for some time, I set the thing but forgot to turn it on. Still, I woke up with a few minutes to spare, brushed my teeth frantically and drove like a lunatic to Georgetown. Following my map, I found the appropriate entrance (there are several) and rolled up to the gatehouse.  There was no one inside, but I saw a noticeable pad like the one that we used our badges on to gain access to the plant, so I held mine to it.  A flashing light came on, but the gate didn’t move.  Recalling the emphasis they had put on punctuality a couple days before, I assumed that this meant I was just too late, turned around and drove back home.  On the way, I contacted the employment service and left a message on their voicemail asking whether or not I should try to go in the following day.  Later in the evening, they responded to tell me that I could, but to be sure to be on time.

So, the next day I woke up around 4:20 am, drank a cup of coffee, threw on some old clothes and my new steel-toe boots and made the trek to Georgetown again.  Same results at the gatehouse, but in my rear-view mirror I saw other people turning down a road before the gate.  I decided to follow them.  After passing several large parking lots with locked gates, we turned into an open lot.  With about ten minutes to spare, I found a parking spot, grabbed my lunch and headed toward the turnstiles.

After swiping my badge and gaining entrance to the massive compound that is Toyota, I quickly caught up to a couple of women who seemed to be in as big a hurry as I was.  “Are you going to Paint 1?” I asked them.  “Yes we are,” one of them replied.  “Is this your first day?”  When I responded that it was, they said “maybe you’ll work with us up in the penthouse,” and proceeded to laugh it up while telling me how it wasn’t what you might think. After following them inside I recognized a couple of the guys from my incoming class. One of them was fairly helpful in pointing me in the direction of the things I needed: a lint-proof suit, a hard hat, safety glasses and a padlock, while the other seemed annoyed that I had to ask.

A few minutes later some supervisors showed up and asked “is this anyone’s first day?”  I raised my hand and they told me that I would be going to “the ovens.” The oven turned out to be the closest I’ve ever come to working in a coal mine.  It was a long dark shaft that the cars come through to be dried after having been painted.  Our job was to scrub the paint off the walls, sweep the dust off the floor and then lay levels of aluminum foil all around.  I was sent to the far end with a guy who promptly either passed out or fell asleep in the floor on the other side of the oven. Nearly an hour or so into it, I realized why this was “the oven”.  It was 100 degrees in there if it was a degree and I was already soaking wet with sweat, a little bit light-headed and fantasizing about making a break for the parking lot as soon as the opportunity arose.


Instead, during my first break I had water and a Zebra cake and caught a second wind.  But, after another half-hour I was contemplating lying down like the other guy. At some point, I was called out of the oven. Thinking I was in trouble for being slow, it was a relief to be asked “how do you feel about sweeping and mopping?” Anything sounded better than what I was doing, so I probably sounded rather enthusiastic about the prospect. “We’re going to move you to another unit, if that’s alright,” he told me. We hopped on a golf cart and drove across the plant to a massive room with mostly stainless steel floors and all sorts of rails on the floor where Toyota Camrys are transported from place to place. 

 

When I arrived, I was told to “just stand over there for a minute.” In front of me about 8-10 feet away a man and woman in blue were lecturing a short fairly obese woman about her inability to “get the job done.”  “That floor has to be clean in four hours,” they told her. They took turns explaining how she had to do the job right, and that so far she’d been failing in that task. She was crying and apologizing to them saying, “Please don’t fire me, I’ll do better” all while I stood a few feet away putting on the new pair of gloves I’d been handed.

I was introduced to the two supervisors by the guy on the golf cart, and they told the tearful woman that “Carl here has been kind enough to volunteer to come up and help us today.”  He thanked me, handed me a broom and walked away.  The woman with him explained to me that we need to sweep and mop the whole area, which was HUGE.  Our first task was the stainless steel floor.  My job was to wipe down all the equipment and the lights, basically dusting, so that my chastised colleague could sweep. Two other men, who spoke only Spanish, were following closely behind with mops.

My new coworker thanked me profusely.  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.  I tried to reassure her.  “We’ll get this done, don’t worry,” I said.  For the next few hours we swept this massive floor with the kind of broom you’d use to sweep your kitchen.  It occurred to me that a good push broom would be worth its weight in gold.  We finished the stainless steel floor in short order and moved to the orange floors.  As best I could tell, the orange floors designated the path that the cars took as they made their way through this section of the plant for whatever reason. These floors were equipped with all sorts of rails, which provided a whole universe of nooks and crannies for paint dust, and we were instructed not to leave any such dust unswept.

The rails divided the first long section of floor into thirds, and since my colleague was clearly struggling and slower than I was, I decided to do two of them at once.  “Wow, you’re fast!” she said and “Thank God you came up here to work with me today, you probably just saved my job.”  We went to lunch and she showed me pictures of her son who had recently turned one year old.  “I can’t lose this job,” she explained, “because of my baby boy.” It occurred to me that when I arrived the supervisors seemed to be indicating that she should have been able to complete the task that four of us had already been working on for the better part of three hours by herself in four hours. This confused me, since the four of us still had a long way to before being finished.  She thanked me for pointing that out and confided in me how “I have a slipped disk, that’s why I’m slow. But, I can’t tell them or they’ll let me go for sure.”

Another woman told me how “they have air-conditioning here, they just turn it off on the weekends to save money.” I mentioned that I’d passed a few dozen big orange coolers throughout the plant, but none of them had any paper cups and none that I’d checked had any water in them.  “Those are for the people that work here through the week,” she explained.  After scarfing down a bologna sandwich and a Gatorade, I caught my breath enough to recognize that sweeping a concrete floor in steel-toe boots for several hours in this heat was not much less grueling than my initial gig in the oven.  Thirty minutes vanished in a hurry and we went back to it. 

When we returned one of the supervisors had brought a vacuum cleaner and pointed to a series of dust-filled rails.  “You can use this or the broom, just whichever is easier for you,” he said.  It reminded me of the first time I’d been handed the keys to an excavator after having dug a few ditches with a shovel.  Eagerly unrolling the extension cords and tying them together I found the first open outlet and the vacuum whirred to life.  It was the kind with shoulder straps so you could wear it like a backpack.  Before strapping it to my back, I pointed it at a rail full of dust.  There was no noticeable impact, so I put the nozzle to my hand.  It had suction, but not much.  I pointed it at a small dust ball on the floor. Still nothing.  Rather than wasting time fiddling with this contraption, I went back to the broom.

“This sucks,” my coworker kept saying.  “How the hell are we supposed to get all this crap out of here?”  “I’m going to go down here to the other end,” I suggested “and you start here.  We’ll meet in the middle.”  It was tedious as hell, and every so often one of the supervisors would stop by to show you a spot that you had missed and to reiterate that there could be no dust on this floor.  Eventually, I recognized that I was all alone.  A few minutes later, my colleague returned with a pale face after having “puked my guts all over the bathroom” as she put it.  This wasn’t terribly surprising for me, as I’d been fighting the urge to puke or pass out most of the morning.  She swept for a few more minutes and then dropped her broom and made another beeline for the bathroom.  When she returned the second time, she was shaky and I said “if you want to leave I’ll tell them what happened.”  “I can’t walk out,” she told me, her voice quivering with nausea, fear or both.

By the time she left for good, it occurred to me that four of us had been working incredibly hard for at least six hours on this task that was apparently meant for one person to complete in four hours.  With my back and feet aching, one of my fingers almost literally worked to the bone, and my head pounding from an alarm that went off a few feet from us for what seemed like days, I decided that if there was any human alive that could complete such a feat, we’d all watch it take place on some ESPN show.  By the second and final break (third including lunch) this whole thing had become a personal challenge. While I still really wanted to find my car and never look back, I couldn’t allow myself to be so defeated by dust and a broom.

It was 2:30 when I returned to the floor, and everything I had heard was that 4:30 was quitting time.  Once I finished cleaning out all the tracks/rails, there would be only two more stretches of orange floor probably 50 yards long and 10-12 feet wide each.  These had far fewer rails, mechanical devices and crevices. It would be a lie to say that I was looking forward to it, but the decreased level of difficulty was something of a relief, to be sure.  Unfortunately, every rail became a mountain.  I had to travel to the water fountain nearly every ten minutes and it occurred to me that in spite of having consumed two 32 ounce Gatorades and at least 40 ounces of water, that I had yet to go to the bathroom for anything more than a moment to unzip my lint-free suit, drop my pants and peel off my sweat-logged drawers to sit down and try to catch my breath.

Finally, a supervisor came by and told me how “as people finish their jobs on the other units, we’ll get some of them to come over here and help you.”  By 4:15 I was calling them liars, bastards, whores and tyrants in my dehydrated and utterly exhausted mind.  At precisely the point when I could sweep no more, and barely stand, the cavalry arrived.  A blonde woman who appeared to be about my age, a younger Latina and an older man formed a flurry of sweeping all around me, and in the next twenty minutes mission impossible was complete.  Or, at least complete enough that we were allowed to clock out and leave.

On the way out, I joked to the blonde how “I’ll be lucky to find the parking lot when I leave here.”  Little did I know how true that statement would turn out.  Apparently, I made my way out a different door than I came in, and walked to the nearest parking lot.  Walking from one end of the other and back again twice, my car was nowhere to be found.  I thought that it must have been stolen.  My cell phone, like myself, was nearly dead, and I called Danielle to explain my predicament and why I was late.  

Eventually, I found my way back to Paint 1 and walked around the outside of the building, thinking I must see something familiar eventually.  Instead, I must have walked at least a mile to find even more unfamiliar territory.  Finally, I wandered back into the building and stumbled around until I saw a man on a golf cart.  “Hey man, I don’t mean to sound like an idiot…but, I am,” I told him.  “This is my first day, and I have lost my car.  No idea where I parked this morning.”  “Where did you come in?” he asked.  “Gate 3.”  He took me to Gate 3 and fortunately, I could see the Gold Dust (my car) parked just beyond the turnstiles.  “Much obliged, sir!” I told him as I dragged myself zombie-like to collapse in the driver’s seat.

The Grateful Dead was as appropriate as ever, and I sped my way home to Danielle and dinner.  She was not the least bit impressed or overjoyed about my recounting of the day’s events, and after watching me limp around and seeing the extra toes I’d gained in the form of blisters on my feet, she stated emphatically how “you’re not going back to that place.”  

I laughed.

I told her about the oven, and how it was like a coalmine only with paint dust.  “Did you wear a mask?” she wanted to know.  “No,” I answered honestly.  “They didn’t give me one. In fact, I don’t recall seeing anyone with a mask.”  “You’re not going back,” she exclaimed a little bit louder and more seriously this time around.

I laughed again.

Recounting my rescue from the oven, I told her about how I arrived to see the girl being reprimanded, how she was crying, about her baby and her back and her eventual early exit.  “You’re not going back to that place, and I mean it.”

Still, I laughed.

“O.K.” she said, “I’m going to get a job there with you.”  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I responded and she inquired “why not?” “Because you might die in there,” I told her.  “Well if you go back, I’m going, too…and I’m going to call the labor board, that’s ridiculous,” she went on.

I laughed once again.

“You laugh,” she growled “but I mean it.  You’re not going back to that damn place.  I’m serious.”

Still laughing, I finally caught enough breath to explain how I had been wondering all the way home how much respect she was going to lose for me when I confessed that I didn’t think I could stand to go back and try this job for another day.  So, much like Mike Rowe, the guy from the “Dirty Jobs” show, my experience cleaning the paint booths at Toyota turned out to be one shift.  With the nearly $100 I made for 11 hours after taxes I will have paid for one pair of incredibly uncomfortable steel-toe boots, the half tank of gas I spent driving back and forth to Georgetown and my lunch.  

In short, the search for part-time employment continues.  Any suggestions?

Monday September 9, 2013

3:22 AM

Trying to fall back to sleep, I found myself pondering why I am antiwar.  Much like this guy, I am so opposed to it that I’m certain I can say now that I’m against whatever our next military adventure might be, whether Syria, Iran or Timbuktu.

This wasn’t always the case.  Nor did I always think that war was a racket, much like two-time Medal of Honor recipient Major General Smedley Butler of the USMC.  In fact, growing up playing with G.I. Joe action figures, I initially thought war was pretty cool.  I’ll never forget how that changed.

My uncle Orie Thomas fought in World War II, “the good war”.  He wasn’t a big part of my life, except in stories, due to the fact that the war changed him profoundly.  For the worse.  His ex-wife, Esther, raised me along with her two daughters and a grandson.  Occasionally we would go visit him “in the holler,” and he always seemed like a nice enough guy in spite of the horror stories I’d heard of him.

Memory fails in recollecting the actual time/date, but it was elementary school—maybe as early as 3rd grade, but probably no later than 5th.  Orie had come to stay with us for a few days after a procedure at the VA Hospital.  I was happy to have him around. I showed him my baseball card collection, and he told me stories about some of the legendary players whose cards I could only dream of ever acquiring.  At some point, I got up the courage to ask him about WWII.  I was not entirely naïve about the subject for my age.  Certainly I was into G.I. Joe and had read my fair share of Captain America comics, but at the time I was actively reading about Stalin for a book report.  Still, I didn’t expect the version of history that I received.

Perhaps he could tell that I expected him to romanticize, and more than likely I said something about how I might join the Army, or the Marines.  Instead, I got the kind of story Dalton Trumbo was advocating in Johnny Got His Gun. He recounted to me vividly his memories of death and destruction, mayhem and mutilation.  The thing that stands out the most in my mind, even today, was how he explained the process of piling the dead bodies of his fellow troops all around him on a Jeep.  Apparently, this gruesome gig was his detail more than once.  The story chilled me to my core, and I still can’t imagine what the reality must have been like.

He told me that he had seen enough war for our whole family, and that he didn’t think that military service was a good idea.  I never looked at G.I. Joe the same again.  Or my little green Army men, for that matter.  As such, I have a radically different idea of what it might, or should, mean to “support the troops”.  None of which involves more war.

It occurred to me sometime last night (7-5-13), or perhaps between then and early this morning that I can't not sociology in public.  I do it privately, of course, but its become this thing that I'm not certain I can turn off without massive doses of powerful intoxicants (which I'm generally not inclined to imbibe anymore).  It would probably be annoying to announce, or otherwise share with those around me, so I'm not certain what makes me think that blogging about it is any less offensive.  Still, here goes something.  

In the not-so-distant past, I’d have been so immersed in whiskey, rock and slamdancing, that if a sawed-off denim-wrapped little Misfits clone had answered Danielle’s apologetic inquiry about whether or not she was invading his space with “Would it matter if you were? I’m just so angry right now” I’d have indulged his announced anger with my own bourbon-fueled and hypermasculine response—an open invitation to violence (if not an outright desire for it).  Instead, this time, I was content to sit at the bar and sip a watered-down Maker’s Mark while pondering the significance of this young man’s “presentation of self”.  “What would Goffman think?” I wondered, as I seem to do more and more frequently these days.  (I blame Eddy and Heather Branham-Green.) 

Similarly, I thought about the effortless manner in which my wife negotiates such circumstances.  Surrounded by at least a dozen subcultures that all seem to blur together in the weird humidity resulting from this recent Kentucky monsoon season, she danced, smiled and laughed her way through and around angry skinheads, scary skaters, burly bikers, greased-up greasers, and I suspect even a few halfway hysterical hipsters.  If the whole world is indeed a stage, as Willy and Erving suspected, Danielle dances across it as if no one is watching, which makes it impossible to take your eyes off her.

We had barely arrived at the Green Lantern when flashing red, white and blue lights provided the ambience.  A couple of cars crashed into one another just beyond the parking lot in an automotive foreshadowing of what we would find inside.  I wonder whether or not this event is on YouTube already, as a dozen smartphone-wielding smokers converged on the scene nearly as quickly as the cops.  Despite the heavy police presence, I felt a bizarre kind of calm watching the bikers, skaters, skins, and probably a poser or two bear witness digitally.  My mind flashed to the research of Drs. Linnemann and Wall, and I wished they could experience this surreal situation as it was rapidly unfolding.  Then, a Pabst Blue Ribbon was thrust into my hand by my good friend John Dale.  A high-powered mutant never even considered for mass production, John Dale manages to maneuver this complex cultural burgoo as well as my wife (even if he’s not as skilled a dancer).    

We made our way inside just in time to catch the Brassknuckle Boys busting out “Appalachian Industry” with as much intensity as the collision of cars outside earlier, the lyrics being even more impactful:

"Well, there's a meth lab up on the hill,
just around the corner from an old moonshine still
and a shiny new prison down the road.

For some folks its a place to live,
For others its a job that's stable.
But, for everyone in this goddamn town
Its putting food on the table.

Appalachian industry meets Appalachian poverty,
They'll still look at you and say:
love it or leave it,
be thankful for what you've got
and don't be too surprised when they come to take your guns."

Folks were whipped into a frenzy, a few were tossed around like beach balls at a Jimmy Buffett show, and a bath of Pabst Blue Ribbon awaited all who might try to wade into the melee.  Danielle and I stood in the entry way watching it all go down, and I heard the bartender announce with a certain level of anxiety that “we’re already out of PBR…” at nearly the same time as the band asked for five of them.  Chris “Spit” Ward, who taught me most of what little I know about tattooing was skillfully plugging away on the bass guitar, contributing to the chaos circulating in front of the stage as the band tore into a high-speed cover of “Sunday Morning Coming Down” and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”.  Watching the crowd react almost instinctively to the music, singing along as intensely as they bounced around and into one another, I was reminded of the work of Drs. Cox and Tunnell with Edward L.W. Green involving “Songwriting and Social Justice”.

As such, I wondered to myself whether it was the topics discussed in Dacey’s lyrics or some other frustration(s) leading to all this energy, angry or otherwise.  We left a little early out of hunger, but as we entered our cab, the lyrics to the song “Fighting Poor” gave me hope that, as the Who argued, “the kids are alright”: 

"Raised on the values of the Working Class,
we've got no future and damn near no past,
been knocked down but never hit the floor
we're the ones they call the Fighting Poor!

Don't try to change us we're not changin',
you'll never be like us is why this war is wagin,
save your fuckin' breath cause we're not listening,
you're always gonna be a bitch to the system,
Bitch to the System, Bitch to the System,
That's what you fuckin' are is a Bitch to the system...

They knock us down, down, down some more
We're the fuckin' members of the fighting poor,
for those who know struggle,
for you this song,
no matter what they do you will always be strong

Raised on the values of the Working Class,
try to make a future and forget the past,
we know we are going to have to always fight
but we are not giving in cause we know we are right"

Danielle and I’ve only been home now for about a month. Simply due to good fortune and not any intentional synchronization of watches, our homecoming coincided with an Eddy Green roadshow to celebrate the release of his newest album “No Place Like Home”.  This has made the return one hell of a lot more pleasant.  Downright groovy, in fact.  Earlier today I explained to a friend how the climate here was so much warmer than that in Florida.  Of course, this explanation relies upon a much broader conception of “climate” than the merely meteorological.

Certainly familiarity plays into this warming climate.  A different form of community and perhaps even, dare I say it—culture.  Personally, professionally, creatively and even recreationally the Bluegrass reminds me a whole lot of a meme that made me smile when I felt like crying some time ago:  “If you don’t feel it, flee from it.  Go where you are celebrated, not merely tolerated.”  To say the least, I’ve had Kool in the Gang in the back of my mind for weeks.  However, there are exceptions to every rule.

A few folks along the way seem to have either forgotten who I am, or think that perhaps I have.  Reactions range from a sort of distancing or wariness to outright hostility and anger. I assume this is just what happens when someone goes away for a while and becomes institutionalized (or at least perceived to have been institutionalized?) In my lifetime, the only examples I’ve really seen of this are when people go to the military or prison. More often than not, these folks come back home different than when they left.  Sometimes they are respected and admired for it, other times feared or hated.  Almost always, though, it seems that they are misunderstood due to the imposition of some template or other.  Friends fresh out of the military have explained to me how uncomfortable they are with the “hero” label and subsequent treatment in a very similar fashion to those just out of prison who have struggled with the stigma of being an “ex-con”.  It strikes me that something akin to this phenomenon is happening here after my time served in the Criminology Department at the University of South Florida.  Likewise, where Danielle is concerned after her great success as an RN at Florida Hospital. 



For example, some want to insinuate (with varying degrees of couth) that I (or we) must think I’m better and/or smarter than they are.  On more than one occasion, I’ve been accused of “lecturing” or treating someone “like a student”.  Perhaps my speech pattern has changed as a result of living in Florida for a couple years?  Maybe due to the culmination in my education?  Or, might it be just as much a statement on how these folks perceive me, or think that I perceive myself?  Regardless, it is as fascinating as it is frustrating.  Particularly in light of the fact that I know very little about most everything, but have recently learned a whole lot about one little thing in the grand scheme. As such, there is an interesting paradox whereby the more I learn the less I know.  Whatever this phenomenon, it feels like being fragged by my own comrades in the class war, and I’ve yet to figure out how to properly respond.

Suggestions?

 Is this what is/was meant by that old cliché “you can never go home again?”

On our third day, Danielle made breakfast, and I think she could teach the kids around the corner at Surrey's a thing or two.  Perhaps she could trade a few secrets for one of those juices?  After breakfast, I decided to see just how difficult assembling those barstools would be with a bit more hand-eye coordination while Danielle and Reagan went back to the thrift shop to be sure nothing important was missed.

Shortly thereafter, we made our way to "The Fly," but not before grabbing some wine and a couple six packs of NOLA beer: Lazy Magnolia's Sweet Potato Cream Stout and Pecan Nut Brown.  Since it was a beautiful day, quite a few folks had decided to take advantage of this park: