Parenthetically Yours

A Long Time Comin'

Indulge me for a second. Beyond the politics, beyond the issues, beyond red and blue, history was made last night. The sight of men and women, young and old, black and white, embracing, sobbing told me that this was bigger than issues and, I’m ashamed to say, bigger than I’d realized. In the quiet darkness of the house last night I wept. I wept for a community and a culture that has now been more than symbolically, but literally released to their empowering destiny. Legislation has released them in bits and pieces—a shackle here, a human right there—over the past 100 years. But legislation only gives the potential for opportunity. The real hope for opportunity lies in the everyday interactions between man and woman, young and old, black and white—how we treat our fellow man and the opportunities we give each other. The citizens of our country extended a new level of opportunity, not just to one man or one family but to an entire generation and culture, not just for now, but forever.

My mother was a student at Little Rock Central High School during its historic integration. The stories I’ve heard from her about the private goings-on in classrooms, the hushed conversations, and the barbaric actions of some moronic students have always been a touchstone I return to whenever racial issues surface. It stings me, it always has. And when I hear Sam Cooke sing, it makes me cry. When the president-elect referenced the song in his acceptance speech last night, it was all I could do to keep from standing up in the middle of my living room and shouting “YES!”

I'd love say I voted for him and that I helped create this moment, but I didn’t. I may seem like a hypocrite, like I'm talking out of both sides of my mouth, but hear me out: I didn’t vote for Obama because it would have been merely a racial vote. I so desperately wanted to see an African-American as president in my lifetime, sooner than later, but I didn’t want to vote for anyone based on the color of their skin. That’s the point—to get beyond race. I voted my conscience on the issues. I’m proud of my vote. I’m also more proud of this country than I’ve been in a long time.

Somewhere in deepest south, one final chain has fallen from the hands and feet of plantation ghosts, releasing them to finally, finally, rest in peace.

I was born by the river in a little tent

And just like the river, I've been running ever since

It's been a long time coming

But I know a change is gonna come

 

It's been too hard living, but I'm afraid to die

I don't know what's up there beyond the sky

It's been a long time coming

But I know a change is gonna come

 

I go to the movie, and I go downtown

Somebody keep telling me "Don't hang around"

It's been a long time coming

But I know a change is gonna come

 

Then I go to my brother and I say, "Brother, help me please"

But he winds up knocking me back down on my knees

 

There've been times that I've thought I couldn't last for long

But now I think I'm able to carry on

It's been a long time coming

But I know a change is gonna come

 

(rw)

Gotta Keep on Rockin'...

I’m a prideful guy. I’ll just admit it and get it out of the way. I enjoy reading Important books and thoughtful essays by really smart people and having discussions about deep things—the environment, politics, the cultural importance of sports, and other nerdy subjects and I think pretty highly of my opinions. 

I love music too so I’m drawn to the Important artists—er, artistes—that have something universal to say (sing?) about life, love, and the general human condition. You know, the four B’s: Bob, Bruce, Beatles, and Bono. When people ask about my favorite song, I’m quick to answer “The Long and Winding Road,” by the Beatles and I’ve secretly longed to be the guy in “Born to Run” who promises Wendy to love her with all the madness in his soul and to die with her in an everlasting kiss. Epic, powerful stuff. That’s who I like to think I am.

But the truth is I'm not. Of course, I never mean to be phony, but recently I was listening to a local classic rock station (antenna’s broken. It’s either classic rock or conservative talk radio.) and I heard a song that with every passing word wrapped me up into a neater and neater package. I didn't know what to think. 

It was a song of hope deferred, of dreams fulfilled. It’s a story about a kid with delusions of grandeur but those delusions become reality. But after the dreams, the goals, the fame, he still remembers the kid with the big dreams and it keeps him striving for the best, to “stay on top.”

As much as I would love to say that I am defined by Dylan, that I’m aligned with the social worldview of Bono, that I can most easily relate to John Lennon, I can’t. I’m just a regular guy--a guy who prefers chicken fried steak to chicken cordon bleu. I’m neither a genius nor an artiste. I’m a kid who spent his mornings, afternoons, and nights playing air guitar in a mirror to KISS ALIVE and Van Halen II. I’m the middle-schooler who imagined what it would look like to see faces illuminated by the 100s of lights beaming from behind me on the stage, who wasted dozens of wide-spaced, spiral notebooks practicing his autograph and sketching band names in my textbooks.

I am the Juke Box Hero.

(rw)

 

Now THAT'S a ticket I can support!

It's from a 2004 photoshoot...but SOOO current I almost want to call it prophetic. Almost.

(rw)

Dream Weaver

I just woke up from a ridiculous night of dreams. But first, the back story.

I flew to Seattle last night. Five hour flight. We left Nashville at 4:45 p.m, squarely between lunch and dinner. When we landed, it was 7:40 in the Emerald City. That’s 9:40 back home. Short story, I was hungry as a hostage. We all were. So naturally there were problems getting checked into the hotel. By the time we sat down at a table, it was 10:10. To my body it was past midnight at this point. The better parts of our temperaments won out, though, and we stayed fairly jovial throughout. But we were hungry. Crazy hungry.

When you’re Crazy Hungry you crave things you’d never consider putting in your mouth. Last night I would’ve devoured a cold Mediterranean pasta salad, cherry tomatoes and all. That may not sound shocking to you, but when Katie reads it she’ll drop her fork and pass out (I don’t know why I’m assuming she’ll be holding a fork). Cold, vinegar-y pasta salad makes me shudder. The damp, squishy pasta, loud tart flavors…I’m getting a little nauseous just describing it. The truth is that it’s not the taste that does it for me, but the combination of temperature, texture, and taste. The three T’s (yeah, I just made that up). If you have a 3T combo of cold, squishy, and vinegar—well, that a recipe for vomit, not a salad.

But I digress. I would’ve eaten it last night. Crazy hungry makes you crave bad food too. I’m on a bit of a healthy kick lately…cutting down on breads and sugars, making better choices, taking vitamins/supplements every day, etc—but all I wanted was deep fried bread and melted butter to wash it all down. I settled for a cheeseburger and garlic fries. Hit the spot. That is until around 5 a.m.

That’s when I woke up from this dream. I swear on the grave of Duane Allman that I’m making none of this up. I was with the band doing a show in some far away place. It seemed foreign but everyone spoke English so it had to be Canada. (Eh?) While we were there, two older ladies who were driving us around wanted to show us this incredible phenomenon that their town was known for. The next thing I remember is we’re in this beautiful field overlooking a waterfall and a serene, picturesque lake. The only other people that were gathered for the event, which happened every night at sunset, were the families of around 200 little girls (between, say, 5 and 12 years old) dressed in their prettiest, frilliest, girly-est pink princess dresses. They all had little white dogs too. Small ones. Scotties, shih tzus, pomeranians, yorkies, pugs, etc…but they were all white. We sat around for a few minutes waiting for sunset and right as the sun began to hide itself behind the curve of the horizon (directly behind us, opposite our view of the lake), the far edge of the lake caught fire. I was both beautiful and frightening. Then we noticed the fire was moving toward us. At this point all the little girls and their dogs lined up like they were getting ready to take a group photo with the lake of fire as the background. Their parents seemed calmly oblivious of the fire blazing closer and closer as they watched their daughters with pride. Then, before any of us could react, the fire engulfed the girls and dogs. I was freaking out but couldn’t do anything. It all happened so quickly. My heart was racing, some of the guys were crying, but the parents started clapping as if it were a masterpiece performance. Then as quickly as it started, the fire burned out as the sun fell completely below the horizon. There were the girls, completely unharmed, along with the unsinged puppies. They were clapping, jumping up and down, hugging their parents, celebrating. I looked at the two ladies who brought us to see such a thing and they said, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Canadian do things differently.

(rw)