The synapses in my brain were ablaze, and I was prematurely grateful that people I knew personally had survived a close call. The gist of it was this: a man with a gun had interrupted a rock concert. His tone was serious enough that I raised my metaphorical antenna just in time to hear him utter the name of someone I knew. A male DJ was talking, but not in the lighthearted, peppy way that typifies the morning drive time. I suddenly became aware of the fact that there was no music playing on the radio. Yet this distinction made me no less invested in the culture itself, and no less destroyed on this particular morning when my view of reality - and the world - would change forever.Īs my son exited the car and waved goodbye, I smiled and turned on the radio but left the volume low while I continued to worry about the direction of my research. In reality, I considered myself an amateur anthropologist. But there was little question that I was obsessed, and moved stealthily through this world for a number of years in the guise of a hot chick in a leather miniskirt. I was not a musician, and yet, having refused to sleep with strangers who were, I had failed to be a proper groupie. 8, 2004, I drove my young son to his kindergarten, my mind awhirl at the thought of what lay in wait for me when I returned home: a mountain of index cards, stacks of books whose themes seemed at odds with one another, but the ideas from which were intent on lodging themselves in my brain and demanding closer inspection.Īlthough I’d entered graduate school to study theater history because I loved the literature of modern drama, I also suspected that there were some unresolved issues from my past - some lingering questions about my participation in the bacchanalian tradition of rock 'n' roll as a teenager. Or at least that's how I felt about Dimebag Darrell.
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They charge toward an impossible brass ring that hangs above a moat full of hungry crocodiles. Yet those who aspire to the title of “hero,” even within the realm of pop culture, dare to do what most of us cannot or will not do, because we lack the gift, or the courage.
Some of our idols are worthy of our attention, and some are not.
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Whether or not you confess to a belief in God - be it a big man in the sky with a long white beard or the divinity of Wordsworth’s “waters, rolling from their mountain-springs” - as Americans, the majority of us live in an unashamedly polytheistic landscape of reality TV stars and professional athletes on trial.
It is a far cry from the Christian dogma of Exodus 20:3: “You shall have no other gods before me.” My Abbott brothers.In Hinduism, "upasana" is the word given for the practice of idol worship. I do love you” We hugged again.❣️ I can never thank you two enough for the beautiful life you both have given me. The last time we saw each other in Tampa, back in April, I told you that I knew you loved me because Darrell loved me, but that sometimes you just loved me” You gave me a big ol’ Vinnie Paul style hug and said “your right. and to know in the end here in this world, that Riggs still felt the same.
through thick and thin even when I wasn’t sure. Vinnie has always been my “big bro Riggs” for 43 yrs. Darrell has always been my heart through thick and thin even when I didn’t know, even when I made mistakes, he forgave me 100%. I will always love you both and I will always fly your flag strong and proud. you both carried me through your lives and gave me your all. I love you two so differently but yet both so dearly. but the emotions are so much more powerful than anything that I could ever say. Thank you all❣️ I wish I could put into words what Dime and Vinnie mean to me. It has taken me a while to reach out and thank everyone for all of their love and support.
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