I can remember driving through Kansas in the pitch black with tornado sirens going off in the distance. The wind was blowing my Toyota 4-Runner back and forth across the road, and the 5×8 U-Haul I was towing felt like it was going to roll at any minute. I couldn’t see anything either, on account of the rain.

It was just me alone in the car. Screaming. AHHHHHH! AHHHHHH! AHHHHHH!

“I’m here, son,” my dad’s voice calmly said. It was about 1 a.m. when I called him.

I was terrified. Bad weather in the middle of nowhere with no one around. I don’t think I saw another car for an hour, and the view of the landscape only was visible when cracks of lightning illuminated the sky.

“There’s a tornado somewhere, and I can’t see it. I am going to die. I can’t see a thing. This trailer is about to flip. Fuck!”

That might seem a little dramatic, but inclement weather has been a fear of mine since I can remember. This was my nightmare. To be fair, I was going straight through Tornado Alley in May.

My dad didn’t get flustered or freak out. He remained calm and stayed on the phone. “I’m looking at the weather now. It looks like you should be through it in about 20 miles. And it’s moving west, so you’ll be in the clear after that,” he said with a hopeful tone in his voice.

He was right. About 45 minutes later, the sky was clear. I found a rest stop near Big Springs and pulled in to take a moment and calm down. It was about 2 a.m.

What was supposed to be an easy 10-hour first leg of my trek from Vail, Colorado, back to Fairhope had turned into 14 hours, with the last three being stressful as hell.

I dozed off.

“Son? You there? You OK?” I was startled a bit and looked at the clock on my dashboard. It was 3:30 a.m.

I had been asleep for a while. I looked at my phone and saw that the timestamp on the screen read 3:30 (give or take a few minutes). It was still counting. Dad never hung up.

We had been on the phone for almost four hours, and I’d been asleep for the last hour and a half. 

“I’m OK. I’m OK,” I said, wiping the sleep from my eyes and yawning. “I’m gonna stop in Kansas City and crash with a friend.” 

“Want me to stay on the phone?” Pops asked. “No. I think I’m good. It’s only about 45 minutes from here.”

“OK. Text me when you get there. I’m here if you need me, son. Love you,” he said. Then we hung up. 

That was something my dad said to us our whole lives. “I’ll be here if you need me.” As we got older and life got more complicated, he incorporated a second part to it: “I’ll be here even if you don’t.”

I know a lot of people say things like that. But he meant it. I would call my dad at 3 a.m. during grad school when I was writing a paper and needed a break. “What’s this one about?” he’d ask as soon as he answered.

“This is about the over saturation of sports coverage in the media and how that has impacted long-form narratives,” I replied. 

“Sounds like something too complicated for an old man like me,” he’d jokingly replied. 

I’d FaceTime him randomly when I caught a signal on a hike. “Check it out,” I said, panning the camera around so he could see the view of the Waipi’o Valley in Hawaii. I was hiking into the valley around 7 p.m. Island Time, which meant it was 12 a.m. back in Alabama.

“Too cool!” he said, his screen still black because he had answered in the middle of the night while asleep. 

“Doing some astrophotography,” I said. “I’m waiting until it gets dark to take some sick photos.” 

“That sounds cool, dude! Call me when you’re done so I know you’re safe,” he said. 

On days when I’d be slammed with work, or maybe sick and hadn’t talked to him in a few days, he would text me: Just checking in, dude. Here if you need me! Here if you don’t.

My pops was always there.

When I started my new job in July 2022 I was listening to a lot of Billy and the boys. I was really digging the 3-night set from Saint Augustine 2022 at the time, which I had the pleasure of attending. There’s also the show at Koka Booth Amphitheatre from 2022 that has a killer cover of “Willin’” that I couldn’t get enough of.

While I was working the jam portion of songs (i.e., no lyrics) would suck me in like a tractor beam. WOOOOHHHMMM. So I wasn’t paying attention to the lyrics like I normally do. I was in the zone analyzing data, mannnnnnnn! 

After my dad passed, I found this little playlist I had made on Nugs called Billy Beats. Not sure why I named it that, but I like it. Makes me think it’s some hip-hop crossover of Billy Strings.

Among the songs on the playlist are: “Willin’,” “Show Me the Door,” “Know it All,” “Watch it Fall,” and “Love Like Me.” Without fail, I listened to that playlist every night when I went to sleep…or I would turn on one of the Guardians of the Galaxy movies and listen to it like an audio book.

Anyway, while moving through all of the grief bullshit, I had one of those moments people sometimes talk about where they feel as if their loved one is speaking to them. An echo, if you will.

For me, that was finally ‘hearing’  the lyrics to “Show Me the Door.”

” I’ll be here if you need me. I’ll be here, even if you don’t.” Those are the first two lines of the chorus.

I would listen to the song OVER and OVER. I knew every part of it, all the way to the end where there’s stage banter among the band about looking for a guy named Joe (not your average Joe) in the crowd.

I’d cry listening to it because it was the mantra that my dad had recited to me my whole life. I have vivid memories of him saying this, like during that drive across Kansas or when I was writing a stupid paper for graduate school.

When I spoke at my his service I recited that mantra. Everyone in attendance felt it. Even if he never said it to them directly, they knew that was the energy he gave the people he loved. If someone there that day didn’t feel it, then didn’t know my dad for shit.

In December that same year, my wife and I took my mom to see Billy in New Orleans. It was night one of his two-night New Year’s Eve run. It was my mom’s first time seeing him, and she was SO excited. We stood in line and got her a poster from the show and other merch.

She proudly wears her merch and talks about that show. She always asks, “What’s the name of that last song he played? The one about the Cadillac?”

Of course, buried in his first set was “Show Me the Door.” I cried as soon as I heard the guitar start up and Billy sang the first few lyrics: “She ebbs and flows like water/And she feels just like wine…”

I cried. I’m crying thinking about it now.

I could feel my pops there with the three of us. I could hear him say:

“I’m glad to finally get to hear Billy Guitar. It seems like that’s all you listen to now. Maybe he’ll play that cool cowboy song! That fucker can play the guitar, Trippy! Look at him go.”

The song was written by Jarrod Walker and Christian Ward, and sung by Billy.

I’d like to thank you, Mr. Ward and Mr. Walker, for unknowingly creating a piece of music that brings my dad’s mantra to life in a new way. Thank you, Mr. Strings, for breathing life in to the lyrics with your voice and guitar pickin’. I always look forward to hearing it live.

I play it when I’m happy. I play it when I’m sad. No matter what I’m feeling, I can hear my dad:

I’ll be here if you need me, son. I’ll be here even if you don’t.

I was asleep when the text came. It was in our sibling group chat.

September 13, 2022. 3:27 a.m., Text from Mal: Hi guys. We are at the ER with Dad. Dad’s speech was slurred, and we called 911 around 11:30 p.m. He was fighting EMT and undergoing imaging at the hospital. They had to sedate and restrain him. A neurologist said Dad has a brain bleed but isn’t convinced this is the only problem. They are moving him to the ICU shortly, and Ann (my mom) is staying with him. I will keep y’all updated. Feel free to call me at any time.

Still dead asleep. Phone on silent. One hour had passed since the first text.

4:48 a.m., Text from Mal: They think the blood from the brain bleed is causing seizures and have put him on anti-seizure medication. He is awaiting a test that will determine if he is having seizures or not. We are still waiting for an ICU room. I have no cell service back there, so text me if you have any questions.

Crickets. Still asleep. Four hours had now passed.

7:12 a.m., Text from Ann (my mom): We are in Neuro ICU waiting. They took him back to imaging to do a test that will show blood flow in the brain. I hope he is calmer when they do this one. They want to make sure all parts of the brain have good flow. They have two machines that determine if he is having seizures or not. Presently, both are in use, but they are working on getting one as soon as possible. He will go from imaging to an ICU room.

It had been raining the night before, so Manhattan was hidden by the fog that had settled over the East River when I looked out of the window of our 15th-floor apartment around 7:30 a.m.

I slid my shorts on and pulled an old Billy Strings shirt over my head. Muddy was licking me and wagging his tail. He was extra excited about his morning walk since I had overslept by an hour. My feet slid into my Jordan, and I attached Muddy’s leash to his collar. We made my way to the elevator.

I hadn’t looked at my phone yet. I have a rule that in the morning I try not to have any screen time for at least one hour after I am awake. Although, I will turn on some low-fi tunes for Muddy and I’s walks to drown out some the city noise.

We made our way to the West side of Roosevelt Island, which faces Manhattan. I put in my earbuds and grabbed my phone from my pocket, tapping on the screen to navigate to the music app and start my low-fi playlist.

That is when when I noticed the 16 text messages stacked on my home screen. They were from our sibling group chat.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. My mind could not comprehend the texts. I still remember the fog rolling over me and Muddy as he took the world’s longest piss.

I texted my brother immediately.

7:58 a.m., Text between Justin and me

Tripp: What’s up?
Justin: Fuck, you tell me. Got that text at 2:30 a.m. and have been wrecked.
Tripp: I just woke up and saw it. Should we go to NOLA? I was thinking about changing my flight there. I don’t know what the fuck to do. * I had already booked a flight to Pensacola, FL, for the 15th to fly down and surprise dad for his birthday. *
Justin: Yeah, I was thinking you’d change flights there. I’m assuming Shai, Lauren, and I will go today. I don’t know anything about brain bleeds. I’m just shook.

Muddy and I made a hard pivot back to the apartment. I pulled out my phone and immediately started looking for a flight that was non-stop and could get me to New Orleans as fast as possible.

Boom. Delta had a non-stop leaving NYC in two hours.

8:24 a.m., Text to Bub: Got a flight. Departing at 10:58 a.m. and landing in NOLA at 1:30 p.m.

“I’ll get you,” he responded immediately.

I took the elevator back up to our apartment. The ride was so slow. I hate elevators, too.

I walked into the apartment and my wife was having her coffee on the couch. I didn’t say anything as I unhooked Muddy from his leash and made my way to the bedroom. I immediately grabbed the suitcase from under our bed and started packing.

8:25 a.m., Text from Mal: Dad in room 0986 in ICU. They will let us back in 30 minutes.

Amanda came in and knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what to say and was so pressed for time that I felt speaking words would take away valuable seconds. I handed her my phone where she read the text thread.

“The fucking traffic is going to be insane. I have to make this fucking flight,” I said to her. “I HAVE to make it.” 

I had to complete one of the most important tasks of my life—get to LaGuardia Airport in heavy traffic in time to make that flight. The one that started boarding in less than 2 hours.

“What can I do for you?” Amanda asked. She is the best.

“Nothing right now. I just have to get to the airport.”

I don’t remember what I packed. It could have been Halloween costumes or 78 tubes of toothpaste. I just remember zipping up the suitcase and calling an Uber. The app said the estimated time of arrival was 9:45 a.m.

I started doing calculations in my head.

“Okay. 9:45 a.m. is really like 10:00 a.m. Security is another 15-20 minutes max. Walk to the gate…let’s say 10 minutes for cushion.” 

That meant I’d get there at 10:30 a.m. It would be tight, but doable. I don’t think I texted anyone during that ride to the airport. Not that I can remember.

I know I was stressed going through security because it meant I would be without my phone for a few minutes. I had been checking it non-stop. I put it in its own separate bin and told the agent that I was waiting on an important call from my family.

When it slid out on the other side of the conveyor belt, there was a new text.

10:01 a.m., Text from Mal: They are putting the EEG on Dad now. This will tell them if he is having seizures. He will have this on his head for 24 hours.

“Okay. Progress. The medical staff is taking it seriously,” I thought.

The next thing I knew, I was walking toward a gate. Boarding had started, and the current zone was high, but at least they were still boarding! 

There would be no last-minute desperate plea with the gate agent to let me board.

10:27 a.m., Text to Bub: Boarding now. Hit you up when I land.

I got in line. I was probably second to last passenger as the folks in front of me made their way down the jet bridge. I was the person the rest of the seated passengers silently applauded since it meant the cabin door could now close.

I walked down the aisle but had to pass my seat to find an empty overhead compartment. About 10 rows back, I found one and jammed my suitcase filled with who-knows-what inside. I got back to my seat next to the window and slid my backpack under the one in front of me. My phone vibrated.

10:37 a.m., Text from Bub: Love you, lil bro. Can’t wait to see you.

I sent a text that I was about to take off. Unfortunately, the plane didn’t have Wi-Fi, or so I thought. The text didn’t go through. It also meant no updates or communication.

I pulled my headphones from their case that was clipped to the top of my backpack, which jutted out slightly from underneath the seat. My palms started to sweat, and I could feel the tears starting to build at the bottom and corner of my eyes.

I slipped on my headphones, connected the Bluetooth to my phone, and started looking for my go-to “plane song.” In 2017, I adopted “Thank You” by Alanis Morissette.

The song was one that my mentor, Berta, played during our Mindfulness course in grad school. She passed suddenly from an aortic aneurysm in 2017 while the class was still ongoing. 

But Berta had this energy about her. She was so calming and present. That song was one of the last things she played in class before her departure from earth.

Since I hate flying, I always try to find songs that I feel will “chill me out.” This song makes me feel like I can hear Berta talking to me. “You’ve got this. It’s just a flight. Feel what’s making you anxious and then remind yourself it will pass. What a great day today is,” I’d imagine her calming voice saying.

I put it on. But I wasn’t calm. I couldn’t hear Berta. My brain was just full of scenarios.

“What if something happens, and I don’t make it in time?” “What if he wakes up and sees everyone and asks where I am?” “What if he dies, and I am not there?”

The plane started to vibrate as it was gaining speed down the runway. I was scrolling through my phone when I came to one of my most-played songs, “A Few Words for the Firing Squad (Radiation)” by Run the Jewels (RTJ).

I hit play. The beat started.

BUM. BUM. BUM. BUM. BUM. DAH. DAH. DAH. DAH.

Then EL-P’s verse started. The levees holding back my tears were growing weaker. Then Killer Mike’s voice hit.

“When my mother transitioned to another plane, I was sitting on a plane/ Tellin’ her to hold on and she tried hard but she just couldn’t hang/Been two years, truth is I’ll probably never be the same/Dead serious, it’s a chore not to let myself go insane/It’s crippling, make you want lean on a cup of promethazine…”

The levees gave way. Tears started streaming down my face.

“Dad, hold on. Listen to me, motherfucker. Fight. You are a fighter, goddammit. I’m coming to you. We are all coming to you. You are not going out like this!”

I said this over and over in my head. I don’t remember when the liquid from my eyes stopped, but I remember thinking the only reason was that my tear ducts had nothing left to secrete.

There are some people who take pride in not crying. Or, they think it’s a sign of strength to hold back tears. Others simply don’t cry because it’s not how they are wired. And that is OK.

I know people throw shad at those that cry openly, especially dudes that cry. Aside from the scientific research that shows this action “releases oxytocin and endogenous opioids, also known as endorphins,” this is not an act of weakness.

So, to those that think this, or judge guys like me for crying, I I’d like to pause my story to offer you two words that I bet you can guess without finishing this sentence: FUCK YOU!

I hope you catch me crying and give me a side eye. As my boy Jimmy would say, “That’s that Bama in you.”

I played the RTJ song again. And again. And again. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know what it was. That song still rocks me to my core to this day. And truth be told, it did even before that plane ride.

Both El-P and Killer Mike are really special in that song.

It was about 12:30 p.m. CST when I heard the DING and the crackling of the intercom wake the sleepy cabin. I could hear it over the sound of my RTJ repeat symphony.

“This is your flight attendant speaking. Wi-Fi is now available. Please keep all phones switched to Airplane Mode and follow the instructions in your Delta mobile app to connect to the network onboard.”

I was connected before the voice that was projecting throughout the cabin finished.

No messages popped up when I connected, but I felt my phone start to vibrate in my hands. It felt like a bunch of information was about to pop up.

BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.

Then a few texts came through.

12:10 p.m., Text from Mal: Taking him now to get another CT scan.
12:10 p.m., Text from Shai: Any results from the first ones?
12:10 p.m., Text from Mal: Yes, they are doing another to make sure the area is not continuing to bleed.

“These must have come through at 11:30 p.m. EST, so this was happening at 10:30 a.m. CST,” I thought. I couldn’t do the math on how much time had passed between the first CT scan and me taking off, and the most recent CT scan (second)..

If Shai was asking this question at 10:30 a.m. CST, that meant that she, Justin, and Lauren were on their way to the hospital.

“They should be there by now,” I thought. I tried responding, but not texts went through.

Suddenly, I felt the wheels of the plane touch down on the New Orleans airport tarmac. It was only 12:59 p.m. Had we really arrived that early?

I thought pops had pulled the plane closer with his brain.

He used to always ask me for my flight itinerary when I traveled. He’d text a bunch of short sentences with question marks. “Flight number? Airline? What time do you leave? Have a layover? Weather OK? 3-hour flight…Not bad dude!”

When I’d arrive at my destination, he’d always say, “Made great time! Strong tailwind!”

So when I landed early in New Orleans, I could hear him saying, “Great time! Strong tailwind. Now get your butt over here!”

I knew he wanted all five of us there when he woke up.

My brother-in-law, Josh, picked me up. Justin was already at the hospital with my siblings and my mom.

I’m ending the story here. I don’t know if I am ready to go in to everything that happened after I arrived. Maybe someday, but not today.

You might be asking what was the point of this story.

The answer: I just wanted to share with you what it was like to be in a suspended space in time saturated with uncertainty. In a state of pure helplessness. I don’t mean for it invoke fear, but more or less to serve as a voice to let you know I know how you feel.

Some of you might already know this feeling. I am sorry for that. Some might be experiencing it at this moment. I am sorry for that as well. Some will face it in the future. 

To be honest, I just wanted to say, “FUCK THE 13TH!”

Today will actually be the last time I say this. That is because I have a niece entering the world today.

Excited to meet her.

I like to think that pop’s had a hand in replacing this shitty day with one that we can celebrate moving forward. 

Pay-per-view wrestling prices were no joke back in the ’90s, especially for a 9-year-old.

“Dad, can I have $35 to watch WrestleMania?” I asked. “Thirty-five dollars to watch wrestling? Are you kidding me!?”

That was a hard no from Pops. So, I called my Mamaw (my grandmother).

“Mamaw, can I have $35 to watch WrestleMania?” I asked. “What is that, darlin’?” she replied. I told her it was this awesome wrestling event being shown on TV, but I had to pay to watch it.

“I can’t give you $35, darlin’,” she said. “But I have some chores around here that need to be done, and I’d be happy to pay someone to do them.”

There was a tone in her voice that let me know I was the one who could do those chores. My guess was that they pay for the labor would be $35.

I put the phone down and ran into the living room where my pops was lounging and watching TV. “Dad! I need you to take me to Mamaws. NOW!” I sprinted back to the phone, “Mamaw? Dad is bringing me over to your house now. I’ll see you soon.”

My dad laughed and said something to the effect of, “Anything for that, Trippy.”

Dad and I got in the car and started making our way from Fairhope to Lake Forest. The familiar sound of sports radio immediately filled the car, and I rolled my eyes. I never fully appreciated, or understood, listening to sports on the radio until I was older — but that’s a story for another time.

As the car wound through the neighborhood of dense trees and winding hills, I knew we were almost there when I saw the hole in the side of the red-dirt hill. 

The hole is right by the stop sign on the street where Mamaw lived. It wasn’t a special hole by any means. The Alabama weather had almost eroded the entire hill it was on on. 

But I knew that was where some kids died.

Growing up, Mamaw told me a group of kids had been digging a tunnel on the hill when it collapsed on them. The ones inside didn’t make it. They died, she said. Of course, this wasn’t true. But she knew I wanted to explore it, and a story about kids dying was a pretty strong deterrent.

I wonder why I never wanted to go spelunking?

Mamaw was standing on her porch waiting for us when we pulled up. Against the carport wall was an assortment of items, including a leaf blower, a rake, a blue mop bucket with rags and dish detergent inside, and a little cooler with a bottle of white grape juice, some sliced apples, and sharp cheddar cheese.

I got out of the car and ran to give her a big hug. My dad was still sitting in the car, listening to whatever sporting event was on. Mamaw motioned for him to come in before hollering, “Get your butt inside, G.B.!”

While Dad slowly made his way to the porch, Mamaw gave a speech on the chores that needed to be done.

“I haven’t been able to get my car washed in almost two weeks,” she said, hands on her hips with an expression of disbelief that it had been that long. The car didn’t seem dirty to me. It was parked in her exposed driveway, surrounded by tall pine trees, so the only dirty things were a few pine needles.

It’s important to know that my Mamaw was the most moving-around-can’t-stay-still woman I ever knew.

She woke up every morning at 5 a.m. and walked around her hilly neighborhood with a little baseball bat in case a dog ran up on her. Then she would go to the gym by her house. Then she would come home and clean, even if she had cleaned the day before.

Vacuuming, ironing clothes, washing sheets, cooking — she’d take a break to watch her soaps, but even then she’d wind up doing something.

I mention all this to let you know that the car most definitely had been washed in the past two weeks. If I’m honest, she probably washed it the day before. There’s no way in hell she was just sitting in her house looking at a “dirty” car.

“Now, you see all these leaves and pine,” she said, pointing to the pine needles and leaves that covered her driveway. “Scottie (my uncle) can’t make it until later this week to blow the driveway off. And Tripp, all this garbage is driving me crazy!”

Keeping her driveway clean was pointless. 

This was because anytime the wind blew, the damn thing was covered in pine needles and leaves. She could have blown it off herself before pops and I got there and it would have been covered up 15  minutes later if a light wind rustled the pine trees above.

But she made it sound like this was something that needed to be done, and I was the only one who could do it.

By the time she finished explaining everything, my dad had finally made his way to the porch. She eyed him over. “Son, come here,” she said, pulling his face close so she could inspect it. “When was the last time you got your haircut and beard trimmed? Go on in the kitchen, and I’ll be in there after I finish telling Trippy what I need done.”

My dad smiled and headed inside.

You see, my Mamaw was a retired beautician/stylist. She cut my dad’s hair, my brother’s hair, my nephew’s hair, my hair — you get the picture. I swear I didn’t let anyone cut my hair until I moved away for college. Even then, whenever I’d come home from school, I’d tell her I needed a trim — even if I didn’t — so I’d get to spend some time with her.

So, my dad knew when we were headed to Mamaws that he was going to get freshened up without even having to ask.

“Okay. I am going to cut your dad’s hair in the house. You have all the stuff you need out here. I even packed you a little cooler for snacks,” she said with a big smile. “And if you get tired, come on in and take a break.”

I could see my dad through the window already seated in her kitchen. He was facing the TV, which he had already adjusted so he could seamlessly move from the radio version of the sporting event to the televised version.

Once she was inside, I got to work. I knew I had to do a good job because Mamaw had a standard. She was a perfectionist. A neat freak. She was the G.O.A.T of keeping shit clean.

When you came to her house, your shoes came off and you placed them either right next to the door or in a corner where they were out of the way so that someone wouldn’t “trip and break their neck.” When you finished your plate, you better be sure to wash it off and leave it in the sink — but don’t you DARE think about putting it in the dishwasher because Mamaw had a system. 

Only she knew the intricate techniques for loading her dishwasher the right way.

I will skip all the boring details about how I washed a car that I wasn’t even tall enough to reach above the windows, or I almost flew backward when I hit the leaf blower on full power to clear the carport. 

Just know that I tried really hard because I wanted that $35. But, also because I wanted Mamaw to have a clean car and clear carport.

I walked inside to get her so that she could come inspect my work. My dad was now on the couch in her den, watching sports and eating a cut-up apple and some slices of sharp cheddar cheese. 

My Mamaw was just sweeping up my dad’s hair in her kitchen.

When I close my eyes, I can see her sweeping hair. I watched her do it in the salon she worked in when I was really young, then at her house in Mobile, and at the house in Lake Forest. She held the broom with her hands stacked on top of one another and leaned over as she swept. Sometimes she would hum a song.

Her hands were worn from raising kids and grandkids, hard work, yard work, and everything in between.

She was so amazing.

When she finished sweeping, I took her by the hand and led her outside. I was so proud of the work I had done and was so excited to show her. 

As she made her from the porch to the carport she put both of her hands over her mouth like she was shocked. Her eyes got real big. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed with excitement. 

“The car looks so beautiful, and all those nasty pine needles are off the driveway. You did such a wonderful job, Trippy.”

She even made a point of walking up to her car and gawking at how clean it was (she would have had it a thousand times cleaner). Mamaw spared no expense to show you how much she appreciated something, and more importantly, how much she appreciated spending time with family. 

“Let’s go inside where my wallet is.”

As a 9-year-old, I felt so good about myself. It felt awesome to have helped my Mamaw. I’m sure my parents wish I had the same sentiment about doing chores around our house. Sorry, mom.

Mamaw grabbed her purse and pulled out her tan billfold wallet. It was worn and loved.

“I only have $40,” she said, rubbing two twenty-dollar bills together. I started to go ask dad if he had change, but she stopped me. “That was $40 worth of hard work, don’t you think?,” she asked me, shooting me a wink and smile. 

When it was time to go, the three of us walked to the car. “Where are you going to watch the wrastlin’ match, Trippy?” she asked. “I think I am going to have some friends over and watch it in the downstairs room on Dad’s TV.”

“Hot dog, that sounds like a good time,” she said, clapping her hands, laughing, and smiling all at once.

She gave dad and I each a big hug for our send off back to Fairhope. Every time she hugged you it has so much power and love in it. Whether we were going 2,000 miles or the short 15-minute drive home, the hugs were always the same.

“I love you,” she said to each of us after receiving our hugs.

As we drove off, she stood on the porch and watched. She waved, and I waved back. I rolled down the window and screamed, “Love you, Mamaw.” She screamed back, “I love you too, Trippy!” 

I kept waving as the card moved further away, and she kept waving back. I always used to watch her when we’d drive off.

I’d look back to see if she ever stopped waving or turned around to go inside when our car faded out of her sight. But she never did. As long as I was waving and our car was in her view, she watched us until we disappeared.

She never turned her back on the opportunity to see her family, even if it was an image of them driving away. She never turned her back on the people she loved.

Two weeks later, when the title screen for WrestleMania XII flashed across the screen, I was lying on the couch eating apple slices and sharp-cheddar cheese. “Anything else before the show starts, Trippy?” she asked. “No ma’am,” I said. “OK. I’ll just be in the living room if you need anything.”

There was no one like my Mamaw. My brain is packed full of all the amazing memories I have of her. 

Spending time with her. Laughing with her on a road trip to Arizona, or talking to her in a hotel room in Montgomery when we were running from a hurricane. Crying in her kitchen when I thought my brain was broken. “Don’t cry darlin’,” she’d say, “Or else I’m going to start crying.”

She was loyal and strong, unwavering in her faith and her belief that family was the most important thing on the planet. I loved her so much.

She was the best. I mean, when I met my best friend, Ron, in the sixth grade, one of the first things I wanted to do was let him hang out at Mamaw’s. And we did! We went over there and spent the night. She made us the world’s best scrambled egg and cheese sandwiches while we played PlayStation in the den. She loved Ron.

Anytime I went over there, without fail, she’d ask. “How’s Ron? How’s his momma and daddy? I love that Ron.”

Her cooking was LEGENDARY, too. Dirt cake, crunchy potato casserole — I could go on and on. Literally, I could take this story in 1,000 different directions because I have a thousand memories of her. 

For that, I am extremely grateful to the Universe for giving me the best Mamaw.

July 21, 2017, Text from Dad: Aunt Kay and Mamaw just got their postcards! You wouldn’t believe how excited they are! Aunt Kay at office! Mom (Mamaw) at house! She called me. Sure she has called her brothers and sisters.

I sent her a postcard from Scotland when I visited in 2017. The card had a bunch of sheep on the front and said, “Scottish Traffic Jam.” Dad said she laughed and laughed. I sent her another one when I was in Ireland of a picture I took of the Northern Irish landscape. She kept them both.

No surprise, though. She had an entire wall of her grandkids and great-grandkids accomplishments. Whether it was art someone had drawn for her, a clipping from a newspaper article with one of us in it, or any other things we gave her went on that wall. 

I bet it spanned 10-feet tall. It got to the point where she had to use a ladder, and eventually she tapped some things along the baseboards. When you have 7 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren I suppose space does fill up pretty quick.

My postcards got prime location on the fridge, though. No big deal.

August 28, 2024, Text from LaLa: Mamaw got her card. I just read it to her and just laughed.

I wrote another postcard this July when I was in Northern Ireland. We were visiting the Giant’s Causeway and I saw a card that had a little map on the front with cool markers of famous places in the area. 

I wrote the card while sitting in the cafe that was located in the visitors center.

On the card, I told her how it was tradition to send her a card when I was traveling aboard since I did seven years ago. 

I wrote how much I loved her laugh. Man, that laugh could cure the shittiest of days and make the best days even better. I wrote about how she was the best Mamaw. I told her how much I loved her.

When I finished, I put the card in the mail drop located in the parking lot of the Giant’s Causeway. I wanted it to be super authentic with a postage mark from the area. 

I mailed in on July 20th. It arrived at Mamaw’s on August 25th. I’m glad she got to read it. Thank you, LaLa.

I love you so much, Mamaw. Give Dad and Papaw the biggest hugs for me. Check in from time to time, ya hear?

I’ll be sure to eat some apples and cheese for WrestleMania XLI in April.

My dad had a steep learning curve. He hated to see me like this.

As I’ve learned from watching my brothers and sisters with their children, being helpless as a parent has to be one of the worst things ever. They just want to make things better. To shield them within reason from any pain or hardship. And that’s exactly what my dad wanted… and it broke his heart when he was powerless to help.

But he tried. So hard. I love him so much for that. I am so fucking lucky.

“What’s wrong, son?” my dad asked me very empathetically while I had my head buried between my legs in the car as a massive panic attack coursed through my body. When I didn’t respond, he asked me again, this time with panic in his voice. “What’s wrong?” 

“QUIT. FUCKING. ASKING. ME. THAT. You are only making things worse!” I screamed back at him.

Boy, that had to have made him feel like shit. Like I didn’t want his help. Like I was pushing him away. I still remember that exact moment like it was yesterday.

I always feel like a piece of shit.

Riding down Highway 98 in Fairhope in the passenger seat of his white Ford Expedition. The windows were down with the humid Alabama air rushing in, only making it harder to catch my breath as the moisture made the air feel heavier. And Pop’s hand resting on my back to let me know he was there.

We eventually arrived at the E.R. at Thomas Hospital. Pops parked in the parking lot (say that five times fast) and didn’t say anything. He didn’t rush out of the car to carry me inside, or go into the waiting room to tell them his son was freaking out. He just sat there.

I’m really choked up thinking about it right now.

I know how bad he wanted to get me into the hospital to make sure I was OK. I know how hard it was for him to sit there and do nothing. But he did. He just sat there with me in the car.

After a few moments, I looked up at him with bloodshot eyes and tears coming down my face and asked, “Can we go home, please?”

“Sure, son,” he said with a smile.

He put the car in drive and headed toward home. “Is it OK if I stop and go into the gas station real quick?” he asked. “Sure,” I replied, totally exhausted from the adrenaline that had just burnt through my body for no reason in particular.

My amygdala didn’t go into fight or flight because a tiger was chasing me, or some shit. I was literally sitting on the porch drinking a beer when my brain decided to go haywire.

Anxiety is so cool.

Dad pulled into the station right by Gulf City Cleaners, a dry cleaning spot, and got out of the car. A few minutes later, he came out with a bag full of snacks and two big fountain Cokes. There were Reese’s, PayDays, Almond Joys, Zapp’s chips – all sorts of shit. He made sure to cover his bases.

No snack left unturned!

“Let’s watch a movie when we get home. Or we can hit the hay. Either way, we have snacks,” he said with the biggest smile on his face. Onward we went.

That was it. He acted like the incident never happened. And that’s because that’s what I needed. I didn’t need to explore and talk about the past 45 minutes immediately after it happened. I needed someone to listen and treat me like I was “normal.”

When we got home, I gave him a big hug and said,

“Thank you and I’m sorry.” He didn’t let me go but squeezed me tighter. “I am always here for you, son. Just tell me what you need.”

I grabbed the Reese’s and PayDay from the bag, laid down on the couch, and turned on the TV. “You took the PayDay?!” he said. “You little fucker.” We both laughed.

“How about we watch that movie with all the cool music,” Pops suggested. “The one with that little raccoon.”

He was talking about Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 1 (GoG); a film that neither of us had planned on watching when it was released. But we both arrived there with a little help from the Universe.

There is a large sequence of events that eventually led me to see GoG Vol. 1. It involved the premature birth of the first child for one of my best friends, graduate school, my love of fountain Cokes and movie theater popcorn, and an extreme amount of humidity suffocating the air outside.

“Dad! You and Mom HAVE to watch Guardians of the Galaxy,” I told him during one of my afternoon walks with Coltrane. My dad was a lot like me in that he would give anything a chance, especially if one of his kids recommended it. I sensed hesitancy in his voice, though.

“Isn’t that some superhero cartoon?” he asked. “I don’t know if I want to watch that shit. Seems chooky.”

“But it’s got great music! The songs we used to listen to while driving down the road in the Trooper,” I countered before singing the lines, “IF YOU LIKE PINA COLADAS… GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN.”

“Does the movie have some old jukebox or boombox on the cover?” he asked. He was referring to the Awesome Mix Volume 1 mixtape that Peter Quill, AKA Star-Lord, keeps loaded in his Sony Walkman at ALL TIMES during the film.

“Yeah. How did you know that?” I responded.

It turns out that my oldest sister, LaLa, and her family had given Pops the soundtrack from GoG Vol. 1, and the cover art was in fact a view of the Awesome Mix Volume 1 mixtape inside of the Walkman!

I think she either gave it to him for his birthday or just because – since LaLa is one of the kindest humans on the planet.

“That music is fucking GREAT! LaLa gave me that CD, and I have been cruising in the car with the windows down. Your mother and I will watch it.”

“The little raccoon. Rocket. He is my favorite character. He’s like me!” I blurted into the conversation.

“A raccoon?” my pops asked. “He must be a cool raccoon, dude! Gotta go! Love you!” And he hung up.

So, let me tell you why I love Rocket and why my dad came to love Rocket.

There is a scene in the movie where Rocket, a cyber-genetically engineered raccoon, takes his shirt off. You can see he has experienced some type of physical trauma. His body has scars, metal nodes, apparent implants, and patches of fur missing.

The charming and witty Star-Lord, the eventual leader of the Guardians played by Chris Pratt, sees these marks, and his facial expression is one that I can best describe as shocked.

Of course, this had to have come from Rocket’s appearance and not from the fact that he had found himself in the midst of a talking raccoon, right?

Fast forward to later in the movie when Rocket is drunk and arguing with Drax, another Guardian embodied by the incredibly talented Dave Bautista. Drax calls Rocket vermin in the exchange, and Rocket responds by saying:

Keep calling me vermin, tough guy! You just wanna laugh at me like everyone else! He thinks I’m some stupid thing! Well, I didn’t ask to get made! I didn’t ask to be torn apart and put back together, over and over and turned into some…some little monster!

That scene hit me like a ton of bricks.

In 2005, I was diagnosed with a mental health disorder. I was 18 years old. It was tough to wrap my head around the diagnosis. I experienced a period where I tried to rationalize why this happened and what I did to cause it.

Maybe some of you reading this can relate.

I tried to hide my disorder, but it always managed to poke its head out. Whether I went into a full-blown panic attack that resulted in me asking the closest human if they could drive me to the emergency room, or a rush of intrusive thoughts that left me paralyzed and needing a ride home, I always had to explain why.

That sucked.

People often reacted with that look that Star-Lord gave Rocket when he saw his cobbled body. A look of confusion and shock.

“So, does that mean you are like, crazy?” a person once responded with a terrified look painted on their face.

I got a lot of different reactions and expressions. None felt great. They sent my brain into hyperdrive and questions just filled my mind.

“Am I broken? Am I crazy?” I mean fuck, you can really make yourself believe you are “some little monster” if you let your brain ride the roller coaster long enough. If you think of the way people often respond.

I talk about this diagnosis and its impact in the Shaynee Lee story.

You are probably wondering how Rocket intersects with my pops and why he gave a shit about the character. That’s a fair question.

My family has been there for me every step of the way since my diagnosis. I am very grateful that the Universe gave me these people. They are a large reason I am here to write about this. Them and Coltrane.

In those early days, I would have complete breakdowns. Paralyzed in fear in empty parking lots, texting my family to come find me. Waking Pops/Mom up at 2 a.m. to take me to the E.R. Losing my shit and moving further into anxiety when people asked, “What’s wrong.”

Like I said, my family members had a steep learning curve.

But overtime, through communicating what worked and what didn’t work, my family became so good at navigating those episodes that they should all have awards. 

When I’d ask my dad what was wrong with me, he’d say, “Not a fucking thing! You are Greenberry Taylor da turd (no spelling error). There is no one else like you.” My mom said the exact same thing, minus the profanity.

So, when I told pops that Rocket was like me – he got it. 

“Ain’t no thing like me, except me! That raccoon is too cool!,” my pops texted me. 

Yup. Ain’t no thing like Greenberry Taylor da turd except me. 

Editors Note: I was told by the robot that delivers my mail on the moon that James Gunn reads this blog religiously. So, a quick shoutout to Mr. Gunn for creating characters and a trilogy that is one of my favorites of all time. I know my dad would have loved Volume 3. 

I wish I was a great creator of images like Wyatt. His artwork and designs were incredible.

I was working on our Music Festival collection last month, creating designs inspired by my days attending music festivals and jam band concerts as a patron. They play off of the heady and trippy culture I love so much.

A nod to the gear I sport, and the attire I see others wearing as I cruise through the lot, or shuffle through a sea shoeless, spinning, dancers in the crowd.

While looking for inspiration in old photos from festivals, band merch from shows, and gig posters we have hanging in our house, I came across a photo I took of the Sharpie they gave out at Wyatt’s celebration.

I immediately went to my desk where I keep the Sharpie and pulled it out.  And it just clicked (pun not intended. This Sharpie has a cap).

I spent a lot of my early life going to festivals and shows. I still love them, and attend when I can. Right now all of our money is dedicated to Billy Strings and Run the Jewels. We love you BILLY and RTJ!

So my original inspiration for the Music Festival collection was heavily influenced by a culture of color, vibrance, and loud, if you will.

While looking at the Sharpie I thought about Shaynee and about Wyatt. I started thinking of all the adventures I had with them. In the moment of reflection, I realize that I have spent more time working shows at this point in my life than attending them.

The world I operated in the last decade in was behind the scenes. It was filled with stage managers and crew, lighting designers and sound engineers, guitar techs, tour managers and bus drivers, and artist transportation and hospitality. 

The style of clothing is much different from the heady/trippy vibe.

Think about a show you’ve attended in the last year, or EVER. Have you ever seen the crew load in the heaviest gear imaginable in cases to set up, and then stay to watch them breakdown and pack up? Or have you seen the lighting/sound engineers programming and lugging their gear?

Ever noticed the photographers moving around the crowd, snapping frames and capturing moments? No way you’ve seen managers – they’re in the back working on payment, next stops for the performer and more. 

Maybe you’ve seen the techs come on stage to trade instruments with an artist, or noticed them on the side of the stage tuning and working. Perhaps you have seen flashlights in the background illuminating a path for artists to follow as they come-and-go from the stage. 

The answer to these questions is most likely NO. And that’s OK. They are the invisible inventors and mechanics that make your experience possible. And the gear they typically rock is most definitely NOT heady or trippy.

There are a lot of black t-shirts, black shorts, black pants, black dresses, and black shoes. 

I stopped working on the Music Festival collection, and instead created something for the invisible inventors and mechanics. The creators of the crowd’s experience. The ones that make it heady and trippy. The people I spent the last decade of my life around

It is very personal, to be honest. I used Wyatt’s love for markers and sketched The Bo-Hawg name and Pig Fish out using a Sharpie.

The sketches are raw, filled with blank spaces where I didn’t go back and fill in areas all the way, or imperfect shapes made of lines that are too long, or jagged. It’s a real sketch. Just like you might do while doodling. 

The design is imperfect. Or perfect, depending on how you look at it, I guess.

I digitized the sketches. Then I found the image of Dave MF Wyatt written in Sharpie that he had made and was given out at his celebration. I cleaned it up and made it high quality. 

And to be honest, it isn’t really a collection. I printed a bunch of shirts for my 

Originally, for those that knew Wyatt, I created merch and sent it to them with an alternate design. I put The Bo-Hawg text on the front of the t-shirt and the Pig Fish on the back. Where the O.G.design typically has the name written underneath the Pig Fish, I put Dave MF Wyatt — in his original writing. 

I did a few hoodies, too. Those have the Pig Fish on the front, Dave MF Wyatt on the right sleeve, and The Bo-Hawg on the left.

I probably sent out about 20, a mixture of tees and hoodies. People LOVED the design. I wore my shirt to Governors’ Ball and had a ton of people ask me about it. The same thing happened when we were in Vegas for Dead and Company’s shows at The Sphere.

I realized while everyone might not understand the Dave MF Wyatt part, the simplistic color scheme – black and white – and sketching style is dope. It just is. It’s classic. 

So, I printed up some more and sent them out to friends, and friends-of-friends that operate in that world. That grind it out so they can help the artists create a show that blows the mind of concert goers. 

I did a large order of t-shirts, and have some extras. A lot of people in the merch business will call a small amount a “limited run.” Sounds sexy, but these are simply extras.

If people really like them, maybe we can do a reprint and make a truly limited collection. But for now, all we have are the extras. 

I feel good selling these. A nice introduction between my pops and Wyatt, since they never met while on this earthly plane. It is a true design that moves toward the goal of evolving the Pig Fish.

For those that capture one of these t-shirts, in the words of Dave MF Wyatt

“Thank you SO hard.”

P.S. – If you are a friend of Wyatt’s, we can get you some merch. They are made-to-order, so it takes a minute. All proceeds of your purchase will go to the organization we support, Evermore. The only way to access this item is through the link on this blog, and entering Wyatt’s Instagram handle as the password when prompted. 

I tapped the green felt twice. It was Friday night in Vegas and I was feeling lucky. My fingers aren’t as chubby as my dad’s, but memories of us playing Blackjack flooded my brain.

“Hit me low,” he’d say to the dealer, tapping his two fingers on the table.

I started to cry. I’d say it was weird, but it’s Vegas. People probably thought I was on a losing streak. But also, I could give a flying fuck. 

I left the table, making my way through cocktail waitresses and a cacophony made up of slot machines, players’ cheers and sighs, and people singing Grateful Dead lyrics. 

I got back to my hotel room and turned on Game 4 of the NBA Finals. The Mavs were massacring my Celtics. I was already sad thinking about Blackjack, but then I had one of those moments where I expected my pops to text me.

“Luka is kicking our ass! We will get them in Game 5! Having a good time? Win any money player? Concert good? Looks cool dude!”

That’s the text I was expecting. But I knew deep down my phone wasn’t going to deliver that text.

I knew Father’s Day would suck. And it does. This is the second Father’s Day without my pops. Last year it was the heels of his death that I was sad, but the weight I feel this year wasn’t present. I suppose the reality of it has just become more solidified as time moves on.

The weeks leading up to today are just primers for making it worse. There are fucking advertisements everywhere, basically inescapable reminders that I won’t be celebrating. I tried to think back on past Father’s Day for some good memories.

Of course, I beat myself up for the last one we got to celebrate with dad. Or should I say the one where everyone else but me celebrated with him.

It was 2022 and I had a headache. My sister Shai was having the celebration at her house, where my other four siblings and their families would be. We had planned a little cookout with one dad’s favorite desserts to cap the day: homemade ice cream.

But I wasn’t there. I had a migraine and stayed home. I play it back frequently. My sister Mal leaving the house with dad. “Not feeling good dude,” she said, peeking her head in my room. “No,” I replied in a sickly voice. “Ok. If you start feeling better you can come over whenever.”

I heard her start to leave and my dad said, “Trippy still not feeling good? He’s not going to be able to come?”

What an absolute piece of shit.

That’s what I say to myself when I think about that Father’s Day. I could have pushed through that migraine. It wasn’t bad enough to stay home. What a selfish decision I made. There’s a photo with my four siblings and pops and I’m not in it.

My siblings and family all tell me not to think like that. They say it’s OK, reassuring me of family events they missed because they were sick, or maybe one of their kids wasn’t feeling well.

I know it’s not a kind thing to say to myself, but it’s the reality that comes when someone you love is no longer here. A common pitfall to focus on all of the things you did wrong or didn’t say, losing sight of the good memories.

After the text didn’t come Friday night during the Celtic massacre, I searched my phone for the phrase “Father’s Day.” I found a string of texts dating back to 2016 where I wished pops a good day. They were so lovely.

I usually was working the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival on Father’s Day, so a lot of the texts were, “Happy Father’s Day from the Roo!” In fact, the festival is happening right now. Dad would respond saying he loved me. I would call him later in the day to chop it up with him, and then the next day I’d ask how his day was.

The texts made me smile. They made the shitty feeling that engulfed me earlier when I was beating myself up about a migraine slowly disappear. And that’s a large part of who my dad was.

He always tried to make people, especially his family, feel better.  I know he saw me beating myself up and said, “Don’t do that, son. Please don’t do that to yourself.”

He was witty, and kind. He gave WAY more than he received. He would move mountains to help the people he loved, or a total stranger. He was more interested in making people smile than himself. He cooked the best seafood ever.

He had an infectious laugh and sense of humor, but also a fierce loyalty that flipped a “don’t fuck with them” switch if he felt his crew was threatened or mistreated.

He was cut from a different cloth. 

Today sucks. But I know exactly what he would do on this day. Before receiving calls from his kids to wish him a happy Father’s Day, he’d send us a group text to my siblings and I, and it would sound something like this.

“Happy Father’s Day to Jeff, Chris, and Jack (those are my 3 sisters’ husbands), and to Justin! I’m so lucky to have four men that are great fathers to their children! I hope they have a great dad. I love you all so much. Dad.”

So, I will make an effort to remember how much I loved my dad today. To remember how much my brothers and sisters loved my dad. To remember how much everyone loved my dad. I’ll focus on my pops, and not that stupid migraine.

WAIT! I forgot to finish my story about Friday night! 

After I rode the intense reality wave of dad being gone, and the Celtics losing big, I got up to grab a shower. I needed to wash the smell of cigarettes (gross) out of my hair. I was reaching in my pockets to set out my wallet and whatever else was in there on the counter when I found a $25 chip.

I thought for a moment. I slid put the chip in my pocket, slid my shoes on, and made my way back to the casino. 

Wearing my tie dye Bill Walton Portland Trail Blazers t-shirt (rest easy, big dude), I found a Blackjack table that was empty. It has a different dealer, thank God. The one from earlier wasn’t very friendly. There was no banter or small talk, and when I started to cry simply they simply said, “Please don’t get water on the cards.”

I sat down at the table and the dealer smiled. I placed the $25 chip down and the dealer laid out the first card…a 2 of spades. Not great, but I was still in the game. Next came a face card, the Jack of diamonds. Ouch. 

I was sitting on 12 and the dealer was showing a face card, but didn’t have Blackjack. I tapped my two fingers on the green felt to signify I wanted another card.

This time, as the dealer was preparing to pull the card I said, “Hit me low.”

Boom. Face card. Bust.

I spent an entire month of the year with Wyatt for 4-years in the California desert. I have so many stories that I could fill up this whole blog and there would still be some left over. A lot like my pops, actually. 

For the other 11-months I didn’t get to see him, we’d talk on the phone or text. I was at graduate school at the University of Florida from 2013-2015.

When I first got there I asked him if he wanted to come visit for a football game. “Florida Football,” he said in a tone that suggested he was intrigued before finishing with, “I’d rather eat a bucket of fucking razors.” 

I laughed so hard.

I’d get texts from him asking if I was “taking my crazy pills.” Asshole. He walked me through the process of buying a used bike from the 1980s, fixing it up, and selling it to a “sucker.” When I told him I flipped it for $80, he responded, “I would have gotten $160..sucker.” Asshole. 

I got a job as a sports photographer. I hustled my way into the gig, which made my pops, brother, and Wyatt very proud. I would send the three of them photos from different events. 

My pops always fired up and would look for me on the sidelines, shooting me a text, “See you dude! Blue hat?!” I’d send him shots from the game and he would tell me how awesome the photos were and then send them to all his friends and my family. Wyatt would say, “Looks blurry.” Asshole. 

November 7, 2015. A shitty fucking day.

“Dave Wyatt just died please call me.” That’s the text I got from Shaynee on that day.

I was on the sidelines shooting the Florida vs Vanderbilt football game. There is no reception in the stadium, especially when it was at capacity with nearly 90,000 people.

I had felt my phone vibrate toward the end of the third quarter, but assumed it was sports updates that randomly pushed through in a moment of cell reception clarity. There was a timeout that occurred late in the fourth quarter after Florida’s Jordan Sherit laid a monster hit on the Vandy QB. 

I went to look at my camera, not my phone. I wanted to see the image I captured. “Did I get the shot!?” Oh yeah. I fucking nailed it. I knew my mentor would be so proud when I posted the gallery of the game later that night and he saw the hit that jarred the helmet loose and spit and mouth pieces flying as a result. 

I figured the phone wasn’t a big deal. I finished photographing the game and made my way back to the press room. I took apart all of my camera gear, ejecting the SD cards from the camera bodies before placing them and all of the glass back into my case. I hooked my laptop up, plugged in the SD card reader, and placed my phone next to it. 

There were 7 missed calls from Shaynee. She NEVER calls. Ever. I went to see if there was a voicemail, but checked my text first. I remember seeing the words “Dave Wyatt is dead.”

I didn’t freak out, or cry, or run to call Shaynee. Instead, I calmly placed my computer in my backpack, grabbed my camera case, and started walking toward Weimer Hall. My house was equal distance, but for some reason I made my way to this strange building on the university’s campus. 

It is three stories and has this crazy atrium in the center with a courtyard. There is weird art. Sounds are amplified and accompanied by echoes. I sat on a bench near some foliage. 

My chubby little fingers clicked Shaynee’s contact and the line started ringing. She was crying when she answered. She gave me the details – a heart attack at age 46. 

It didn’t compute. Not Wyatt. He rode a bike up the California coast. He didn’t drink soda. He didn’t smoke cigarettes. He was always moving around, never staying still. How could this happen?

We hung up and then I lost it. The sound of my disbelief mixed with ugly crying and screams were amplified by the atrium. It echoed for passersby. I reached for my phone and started going through all of our texts and the voicemails he had left. 

I missed a call from him earlier that week. I had planned to call him back on Sunday. Fuck.

The celebration of his life was going to be held in Los Angeles at the Fonda Theatre, an iconic music venue. I had no money, though. Literally, zero. I didn’t realize the significance of it at the moment. It didn’t feel real. 

I told Shaynee I couldn’t afford it. She said, “ You have to be here.” My lack of accepting Wyatt’s death was obvious to her. I think she saw me using my financial situation as a way to escape reality for a little longer.

She knew I would never be able to live with myself if I didn’t go. So she did the most Shaynee thing ever: Used her Southwest points to fly me from Florida to L.A. I told you, Shaynee is the best. 

I have been to funerals and “celebrations of life” but nothing compares to Wyatts. 

They were handing out Sharpies with his name on them, pins and stickers made out of his art were everywhere for the taking. The Fonda’s marquee said, “Godspeed ‘DMFW.’ So let it be written, so let it be done.” There were food trucks and beer. There were old friends and new friends. 

It was packed. Dave Mother Fucking Wyatt (DMFW) was a legend!

There was an open mic setup on stage. People got up and told stories. REAL STORIES. Not the bullshit you usually hear…”They were a person of high faith…blah blah blah.”

I got up and talked about how I thought he was an asshole at first, using those exact words. Then I talked about how I grew to idolize this guy. How I was mesmerized at how he squeezed so much out of life and loved so hard. 

All of the people that spoke told the best stories, and they all carried a similar theme. 

People plastered DMFW NASA inspired stickers on the Hollywood Stars in front of the theater. They wrote messages with sharpies all over LA. His friends sent out merch, which was a black t-shirt with DMFW written in white letters in the ACDC font, one of Wyatt’s favorite bands. 

He literally was OOZING out of that place. It was an actual celebration of his life, and really quite magical. You connected with everyone in that room. The people talking about him were engaged with one-another, trading stories and enraptured by each other’s wild tales of our friend. 

There was none of that bullshit small-talk you might have engaged in at other funerals. 

I remember at my pop’s service people didn’t know what to say, and I get that. Death is not a comfortable thing. But I got questions like, “How is New York?” I would have much rather heard a story about my pops. Some adventure or memory a person had with him. 

When Shaynee called me to come work the show that next year I told her I couldn’t do golf carts. It would be too weird. She said I needed to be there and got me a job moving ice and water.

Wyatt would have clowned the shit out of me for taking the manual labor job over the Cush golf cart gig. He would have said I was being soft, but I know he wouldn’t have been able to go back out there at night without me. Not so fresh after.

Going out to the desert was awesome, though. Shaynee was right (of course). I wore my DMFW shirt and it was like having an all-access pass to meet the coolest people. I got to hang out with Derek, Jimmy  Reno, Aissa, Jason, and so many more. These were Wyatt’s PEOPLE. 

He always talked about getting me to come to KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas and drink beers. “My friend Aissa will hook us up. Drink beers. My buddy Jimmy Reno will be there. Derek, of course.” I now know all of these people, and Wyatt is the link that binds us. 

They all have the fucking best stories of him, and I love that they tell them so freely and often. They give off the same kind of cool vibe as he did, but of course there is only ONE Wyatt.

Living in New York I see Yankee’s hats everywhere now. At this moment I am thinking about Wyatt telling me about taking his Harley across the country and stopping along the way to see MLB stadiums and catch games. His goal was to go to all the stadiums. He loved baseball. My dad loved baseball.

This might come as a shocker, but the only things I know about baseball are that the games are fun as hell and they are the only place where a beer and hotdog truly live in harmony and make each other better. *

Miss you so hard, buddy. I hope they enjoy this book of fiction.

* A note to all of The Bo-Hawg’s baseball sponsorship partners – because we have A LOT who read this blog – don’t pull out on us because of that comment that I could easily change if I really wanted to.*

I love a good direct question. 

“Hey new guy. Who the fuck are you?’

That was Dave Wyatt’s first question to me.

I met him in 2012 at a festival safety meeting the night before the show started. Shaynee had brought me on to work late night golf carts, and Wyatt was part of the four man crew along with Steve and Matt. 

I’ll never forget being the “new guy” and watching Wyatt walk into that meeting rocking a black hoodie with a punk-band logo painted on the front, a New York Yankees flat bill, camo cargo shorts, mid-length socks, and some sneakers. 

He was definitely the “cool kid.” Regina George, if you want a movie comparison — minus the wicked soul. Was she wicked, though? Tina Fey, can you weigh in? Tina Fey is a HUGE fan of the blog I heard, and reads it religiously. 

I never have been one to bend-the-knee to the cool kid. Hold on. That is a lie. I did do this from time-to-time up until the 5th grade. 

I remember some kids didn’t invite me to a party or some shit like that and I was tripping out that it was my clothes, personality, or appearance. My pop’s saw me start to bend that knee and conform so that I could be cool. He quickly impart wisdom appropriate for a 5th grader.

“If they don’t like you, fuck them. There is no one else like you. Remember that.” The eloquent phrasing of my pop’s cannot be understated.

So when Wyatt asked me his direct question, I responded with, “Greenberry.” Just my name and nothing else. 

I wasn’t angry or anything by his directness. His tone and body language wasn’t that of a person who was threatened or trying to embarrass. He was genuinely curious of whom this new person among his familiar circle of friends was. And that’s fair.

“Greenberry,” he repeated back to me with his dumb-Wyatt-faced expression I grew to love. “Bullshit.” 

I pulled out my license and handed it to him so that he could inspect it for himself. “Greenberry…BUSH,” he said looking at me, followed shortly by, “No fucking way. That’s rad.”

After that, I was “Little Greenberry” and he was Wyatt.

For show days, we’d start around 4:30 pm and close down shop about 5:00 a.m the next morning. During show hours we would drive artists, VIPs, and other folks to stages and various locations on site. At night, we were released into the madness of the mad exodus of show-goers. We were tasked with getting them to their personal vehicles, campsite, or ride-share. 

We were not allowed to charge people for rides, nor did we ever. Our job was to help people get from Point A to Point B. However, we could dictate who we picked up. And we most certainly had a hierarchical view on what patrons had priority to ride in our chariots.

It went like this: 1) disabled individuals, 2) sweet elderly people that had taken their son/daughter/grandson/granddaughter to the show, and 3) people that were visibly distraught because they had forgotten where they parked. 

The last mother fuckers to get a ride were the people yelling, “I’ll give you a $100 just to get me to XYZ.” It’s not hard to envision what this person looks like or sounds like. Wyatt and I despised them and would cruise past these individuals waiting for the follow-up comment, “Fuck you then!” they’d scream as we drove past.

Later when they still hadn’t found their way, we’d pull up to them and ask, “Didn’t you scream ‘fuck you’ to me earlier?” If they were cool and offered some sort of “my bad” we would give them a ride. If they were not, we would punch the gas and leave them hoofing it to wherever they couldn’t find.

If it was slow, meaning no stragglers or people in sight, the whole crew would meet up and talk. 

I honestly didn’t engage with Wyatt much the first year I worked the show. I was on the brink of an acute agoraphobic episode — mentioned in the Shaynee Lee story — that would set in about a month later, so I was suffering a lot of panic attacks and therefore withdrawing from people. 

When we’d get home at sunrise, Wyatt and Steve would always ask me to come have a beer — I never did. Wyatt didn’t give up, though. He never did. Not for the people he cared about.

I made it back to Alabama after the month in California. This is where I would spend the next year of my life wading through the agoraphobia and all of the awesome stuff that comes with that. 

Shaynee encouraged people to reach out to me. Wyatt was surprisingly one of those individuals that reached out. At least I thought it was surprising at the time. He sent me the following text:

“Hey buddy. Heard you went crazy.”

“Is this mother fucker serious? Maybe he really is an asshole,” I thought. So, that’s exactly what I texted him back. “Fuck you asshole,” I wrote. A few minutes later, my phone was ringing and the name WYATT was on the screen. I answered reluctantly.

Tripp: Hello?
Wyatt: Hey buddy. It’s Dave.
Tripp: Cool. What’s up?
Wyatt: Just checkin’ in on ya. Shaynee told me what was up. It sounds fucking rough.
Tripp: Yeah. It really sucks *starts to cry*
Wyatt: I know a lot of people that deal with mental health stuff. It will be OK, buddy. Are you seeing a therapist or anything?

Ok. Now I was confused. 

Was Wyatt being nice? Was it the same guy that tried so hard to get me to hang out and drink beer at the buttcrack of dawn after we just worked 12-hours straight? 

So much can get lost in translation, man. And that’s exactly what happened when I read his text. To be fair, I knew Wyatt, but I didn’t really know him. Like, I didn’t understand his humor, sometimes a little dark, and how effectively he used it to disarm serious situations and move into a deeper conversation. He was so awesome, ya’ll. 

I grew to love that sense of humor. I miss it a lot. I miss Wyatt. A lot.

Shaynee, Wyatt, and the rest of the crew were with me (even though very far away) throughout that whole year. Wyatt would always say, “When you get out to California to work this year…” And I would be like, “IF I get out to California.” He would just let out a LONG sigh and then say, “You mean WHEN, little Greenberry.”

Surprise. I got out to California. 

 Shaynee picked me up for the airport, even though she had a million things going on at the office. She dropped me off at the place I would be staying and I waited for cool friend Wyatt to get there.

He rolled up on his motorcycle — spoiler, that is not how he died — busted in the house and said, “Come here you little mother fucker!” and wrapped me in a big bear hug.

His essence was this mixture of “I-care-about-the-people-I-love-so-hard” and “fuck-all-the-people-who-are-dicks.” He knew EVERYTHING about music. He knew everything about baseball, which I don’t care about but I appreciated how much he loved it. 

“Did you go get your creds (credentials) yet,” he asked, letting me go and giving me a look over to make sure the crazy hadn’t eaten me alive. “Not yet. Shaynee dropped me off.” He looked at his watch and then back at me, “Still go time. Let’s go get them.”

It wasn’t until I was locking the door to our house that I realized there was no car, just the motorcycle. Wyatt reached into the saddle bag of his bike and pulled out what looked like one of those old-timey helmets that people wore in sidecars on black-and-white movies. He, of course, had some macked-out helmet on with a face shield and shit. 

“Dude. What do I hold on to? What if I fall? I would fuck my face up!” I said. He gave me an ambiguous two word response, “Don’t lean,” and the he shoved the helmet into my stomach. 

I shit you not that’s how I got around the California desert for an entire month. On the back of his motorcycle. He instructed me to hold on to these TINY rails, but I bear hugged that fool anytime we were on there. It was truly terrifying.

The part that really sucked is whenever he’d ask if I wanted to do something I would get so excited only to be met with raw fear that I had to hang onto him while riding this death trap!

“Want to go in a little early and check out Ghost with my buddy Derek?” A new band I’d never heard of? Hell yeah. Wait…fuck, I have to ride on the motorcycle.

“Want to go see #42? That new Jackie Robinson movie?” Oh hellll yeah. I love movies. Get me a coke (death water, as Wyatt called it) and popcorn. Wait…fuck. I have to ride on the motorcycle.

That was my response for an entire month. He was a pretty good driver, I guess. I’ve never ridden on another so I do not much to compare it to. When we would head in to work, he would zig-and-zag through gridlock traffic. That was cool. One time someone ALMOST HIT us by trying to change lanes in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Wyatt swerved and missed. 

He pulled up next to the car, which had “FESTIVAL NAME OR BUST” painted on the back and window. He pointed his hand down, tapping his pointer finger toward the earth, creating the universal sign to roll your window down. 

While that was happening, he turned around and said, “Give me your helmet real quick, little Greenberry.” His voice was calm and composed. The car next to us rolled their window down. It was some turd with his friends blasting shitty music.. 

Wyatt then twisted his hand in half circle motion, like he was turning an invisible nob. Now he was signaling them to turn the music down.

“What,” the kid said, pulling his douchey shades down the bridge of his nose and making eye contact with Wyatt’s shielded face. “You guys almost hit me and my buddy here. Could have really hurt us.” The kid shot back with an insincere apology, and shrugged his shoulders. 

Wyatt chuckled and shook his head. BAM! 

I could feel the air breeze on my face as he swung his right arm down with brute force. He was holding my helmet — the really safe one he was letting me borrow — and made direct contact with the driver’s sideview mirror, completely shattering it.

The people in the car didn’t say anything, but their faces said it all. “Holy shit this guy is going to kill us.”

After completely destroying their mirror Wyatt said, “Sorry isn’t going to put the next motorcyclist you hit back together.” At this point he had flipped his cool helmet shield up so they could see his face. “Sorry about your mirror, but you didn’t seem to be using it. You better get that shit fixed so you don’t almost kill someone again. Have a blessed day.”

He handed the helmet back to me and we zig-zagged through traffic until we made it to our destination. I released my death-grip from around his waist and got off the bike and handed him my helmet.

“Told you this fucker was tough,” he said while giving the helmet a thump and then grinning at me.

Read DMFW Part 2

She went straight back to work.

“Shaynee for Dragon,” she said into the walkie-talkie. “Go for Dragon,” the walkie-talked yelled back.

People named Dragon? Vans? Float? Walkie-talkies? What world had I just walked into? The only word that wasn’t new was Van.

Alex got me hooked up with a credential, a moment I will never forget because I felt SO FUCKING COOL. I am embarrassed to say that I did put it on like a necklace at first. What a dork! Alex was a good dude and wasn’t going to let me go out like that. 

“I’ve got an extra carabiner you can use if you’d rather have that,” he said, gesturing to how he wore his credential hooked to his belt loop.

Good looking out, Alex.

I was then introduced to my white, 15-passenger van. I would develop a love-hate relationship with this vehicle over the next decade. Optimal for traveling with multi-passengers and napping. Not optimal for anything else. But hey, I drove these suckers in major cites. I’m pretty much on the same level as Loyd Christmas. “

It’s OK. I’m a limo driver!”

Next, I got my walkie-talkie. It was marked with a piece of bright orange gaffer tape around the antenna that said, “Greenberry?” I loved the question mark. People never know if that is my first or last name. It drove my pops crazy.

One time I was with him at a doctor’s appointment. We were in the waiting room when the person at the front desk called out, “Mr. Greenberry? Mr. Greenberry, are you here?” He didn’t say anything.  “Mr. Greenberry?,” the voice now irritated and impatient called out one last time.

Pops let out a deep sigh, stood up, and walked over to the desk. “I don’t know who the hell Mr. Greenberry is, but Mr. Taylor is right here.” I guess after 65 years that shit gets old. I will let you know how I feel about it in 30 years.

Back to Shaynee

I had my creds and van, so the only thing left was float. To my disappointment, it was not an actual float, which I really did believe I would receive as some sort of decor for my van since this was a music festival on the beach! However, float is a word used to describe cash that a driver is “floated” to cover gas, and if you are lucky, an off-site meal. 

It was about 4 o’clock once I was all set up. Since my shift didn’t start until 6, I really wanted to go see Primus and The Roots. I walked back in to the trailer and politely asked Shaynee if I could watch some music before my shift. 

She looked down at her watch and then back up at me. There was skepticism in her eye. 

“Sure. Remember, you start at 6 p.m., so be back by then. Have a great time at the show. The Roots rule.”

I watched both shows — both absolutely incredible — and made sure I was back at my van by 6 p.m. I radioed what I will call headquarters from now on. This is the trailer I visited earlier. It’s where the coordinator on duty fields calls from drivers, creates a list for scheduled rides, and SO MUCH more. 

Seriously, I don’t know if they even stop to breathe.

“Greenberry for Shaynee,” I radioed. Silence. I tried back a few minutes later. “Greenberry for Shaynee.” This time, I was met with an unfamiliar voice. “Who is this?,” the voice asked. “Greenberry. I was hired today and met Shaynee….” but was cut off before I could finish. 

“Ok. Hang tight and I’ll radio back when we need you.” No name or anything, just instructions to “hang tight.”

Around 7:30 ish my walkie-talkie came alive. “Jason for Greenberry.” Ah. The voice did have a name! Jason was the overnight coordinator. He proceeded to send me on runs where I picked-up/dropped-off artists, crew, and sometimes celebs. 

I finished my first night of work around 6:00 a.m. It would have been a little earlier, but I spent an hour searching for Marlboro Lights, a brand of cigarettes that no longer existed.  

You see, in 2006 a federal court found the tobacco industry guilty of using deceptive wording such as “light” to promote them as healthier. So, the tobacco industry used colors to replace the term. 

The product did not change, but when you walked into a store you had to say, “Hey, let me get a back of Marlboro Blues. The light blues. All cigarettes aren’t bad for you. The color is light, so the cigarette is healthy. They smell really good, too.”

Had I known this information, and had the person asking for this brand JUST SAID NO as a teenager, I would have been sitting pretty at 5:30 a.m.

The D.A.R.E. Campaign failed another one of America’s youth, I guess. It was so effective, though. *Packs one-hitter. Resumes writing*

Anyway, I finished at 6 a.m. I had called a friend that was staying in Gulf Shores a few hours before my shift started and asked if I could crash. They were cool and said yes. I laid down on the paper thin carpet covering concrete and immediately knocked out until about 4 p.m.

When I woke up, I got in my van and made my way to the trailer, which factoring in traffic and parking took me about an hour to go less than a mile.

I walked in and Shaynee looked up from her computer. 

“I did not expect to see you again. Jason said you did a good job. Keep it up.” 

I was curious as to why she was so shocked that I showed up after I was literally just hired. Later I would learn that people are often onboarded, get their credentials (which get you access to pretty much anywhere), do one shift, and then ghost Artist Transpo.

A lot of these people are volunteers. So, Shaynee’s first question now made a lot of sense to me. 

I did the same routine starting at 6:00 p.m. the following night, which was the closing day for the show. I recruited my best friend, Ron, to come work with me. Shaynee loved Ron and his laugh. We got to work the graveyard shift together.

It was so cool. I got to drive some of my favorite artists, but I won’t put them on blast. I will say that they were all super nice and friendly. Down to earth, bro.

When my final shift ended, Ron and I caught some shuteye before returning our vans. Once we dropped off our sweet rides, we walked into headquarters. Shaynee got up and asked if she could talk to me outside. This is a phrase you come to fear if Shaynee ever utters it in your direction, but I was new and had no clue what “Can you come to the office and talk to me” usually meant.

“You did a really good job. Would you like to work at Bonnaroo in a few weeks,” she asked, taking a drag from her Parliament.

I could not believe she just asked me to work BONNAROO! I was/am a huge fan of the festival, having attended in 2005 as an attendee.

“Of course. That would be awesome. I’d love to. Thank you so much.”

Later that year I went on to work Bonnaroo and Austin City Limits. I think there might have been another, but I am unsure. The next year, I got the call to come work a well-known show out in California in late spring/early summer. I was super excited.

I had no idea I was on the brink of a mental breakdown, though.

You see, I have been diagnosed with some mental health stuff over my years, starting when I was 18 (2005). Talking about this with people wasn’t something I did openly like I do now. It was very taboo, and also hard for people to understand. They always looked at you differently. I didn’t want my new friends to look at me that way, so I grindded through a series of panic attacks, manic episodes, and intense fear for a month.

I was in California without a car, working graveyard shifts with people I didn’t really know, including Wyatt, and living with people I didn’t know in a large house. If you know about mental health,  then you know those are a lot of variables that cause uncertainty, which is pretty much fuel for the fire.

Somehow, I made it through California. Shaynee had invited me to work the festival in Alabama where we met the previous year in May. I thought it would be cool because that is my hometown and a lot of uncertainty would be removed. 

I was wrong.

It was the second day of the festival when the agoraphobia smashed me like a Mack Truck. I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time, but it was enough to shake me to my core. Paralyze me with fear.    

Ironically enough, one of my teeth was fucked up and I had an infection that needed a root canal. I used that as my excuse and got out of working the show.

Shaynee texted and checked in on me. My new friends like Dayne, Dragon, T-Germ, and Skeo did the same. They all asked if I was going to do Bonnaroo. I made up some dumb excuse to get out of that. I hid what was really going on.

Eventually, I wrote Shaynee a letter and mailed it to her home in L.A. I told her everything that was going on. That it was agoraphobia and how sorry I was for lying and dodging her after all she had done for me.

In true Shaynee fashion, she wrote me back. Her letter was packed with empathy and understanding. 

Shaynee put in a lot of effort from very far away to help me and be there for me. Part of that was rallying my new friends (Shaynee’s long-time friends) and having them reach out to me. T-Germ sent me Halloween cards…during August and September. Dragon and Dayne called. Skeo stopped by Alabama to visit me. That Wyatt guy sent me texts.

She was working a show in Orlando, Florida, and asked if I wanted to come. “You don’t have to work, you can just come hang with,” she said. “Can I bring my sister,” I asked. “Of course,” she responded. 

Mallory drove me to Orlando from Alabama. About a 7-hour drive. I freaked out MULTIPLE times on the way down there, but we made it. Shaynee greeted me with a great big hug and I introduced her to Mal. Then she pulled me aside and said, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you feel uncomfortable, just let me know.”

I get emotional thinking about what Shaynee did for me. She didn’t invite me with any expectation or intention. She did it to help me!

I got out of the house! I rode in a car! I was around people! I went to Disney! 

Of course, it was very hard and I immediately relapsed when I got home. But that let me know Shaynee Lee was a mother fucking ride-or-die. A person who was genuine, compassionate, and awesome.

The rest is history. I spent the next decade of my life growing up with Shaynee and all my new friends. Going on adventures. Traveling. Introducing Coltrane to a whole new world.

Eventually, Shaynee accepted a full time gig out in L.A. Emily sort of inherited Shaynee’s shows (Em is the human not eating a sammy in the photo above). Em looked out for me. She still looks out for me. She is also the  best.  

And so is everyone else I met during that period of time. They are all my ride-or-dies.

I do not say this shit lightly, though. These are people I can count on. People I love deeply, and I know love me back. People I know that when my chips are down, I can bet on them to have my back. 

They are there when my life is fun. When life is shit. When close friends die, like Wyatt.

When dad died, the effort to support me was there, too.

You’d be surprised who shows up to support you. Some people cannot make it, and I get that; so there is no love loss there. But if you’re five hours away and it’s a weekend…yeah. You can get in the fucking car. You can make an effort.

Since festivals are happening all of the time, most of them were working. Seriously, Google “music festivals” and I guarantee you that you’ll see they are pretty much happening every month. 

A lot of them were right in the middle of a show when pops passed away. Literally impossible for them to leave. But my friend Annel Photoshopped a photo of pops we wanted to use for the main picture at his service. She was working a show in L.A., but she made time. She removed a seatbelt that was across his chest. The photo was at the front of the church. Thank you, Annel.  

Dragon came, though.

Dragon is on tour A LOT, but he flew down for pop’s service. He was there for the service and to say hello my family and I afterward, but then had to fly out a few hours later. He was in town for less than 24-hours, and was set to go out on the road in a few hours after his return.

Him being there let me know ALL of my festival family (that’s what we call each other) were there. Aside from the donations they made in my pop’s name, and the dozens of texts and calls, they all made sure to say, “We send our love with Dragon.” He was kind of like an ambassador for the group. 

I bring this up to reinforce just how much these people care about me. They are truly the best. And I would not know any of them if it were not for Shaynee Lee.

I will forever be grateful to for her friendship. Thank you, Shaynee Lee. Now, please come see me in my office in New York.

The year is 2011. I have a press-pass for a music festival in lower Alabama. The lineup is bananas. We’re talking Paul Simon, Foo Fighters, Primus, Flaming Lips, Widespread Panic, My Morning Jacket…and that’s just the surface.

It’s day one of the festival and I am feeling pretty good. I know there is a slim chance an artist might actually talk to me in the interview tent, even though I am not the music writer for the  Lagniappe, the newspaper I am working for. 

Sure, it feels like 1,000 degrees and I’m sweating my nuts off while manning the Lagniappe booth but I was there for the tunes, mannnnnnn.

Suddenly, a figure I barely recognize steps in front of the booth. They are wearing all black. A strange choice since it’s a million degrees in Alabama…in May…and we’re on the beach! I squint my eyes as the figure reaches out their fist for a dap. 

I never turn down a good dap. Never.

“Greenberry? Or Tripp,” the voice says. “Uh. Tripp,” I reply. “It’s me, Ryan. Chavez. From Spring Hill.” Ryan and I both went to Spring Hill College for undergrad, but he was a few years older. Our paths never really crossed, and the times when they did were, let’s just say “foggy.” 

“Oh shit. What’s up, man,” I asked. “Working sound over at the Breadboard Stage. You?

“Just working this booth. Hoping for some interviews later,” I replied.

Clearly he could see I had the sweetest gig. I was perched under my white pop-up tent that was situated on the blistering asphalt located in between the wooden boardwalk and beach. I was lucky enough every once in a while to get a swift wind that would blow sand right into my face. 

All of my meals were crunchy. Perfect.

“Do you want to make some money,” he asked. “Nah. I’m good,” I said, gesturing the the press-pass. I could see the envy in Chavez’s eyes as he looked over the white tent that was my domain for the next three days. “Ok. Just wanted to check. Pay is $100/hr,” he said as he turned to walk away.

The press-pass quickly lost its luster. The power of the tunes began to fade, mannn. The crunchy meals I had the privilege of eating were no longer appetizing. 

I love music. Love it a lot. But I was 22 with a low paying job, which I loved but low paying none the less. I was living above my sister’s garage (which was awesome, Shai). A gig paying $100/hr was insane. It could change my life. 

Ok. Maybe a little dramatic on the “change my life part.” By life changing I mean that I would be able to afford high quality “goods,” and fill my car up with gas on a regular basis instead of hitching rides with Shai in her green Honda minivan blasting Ice Cream and Cake.

Lowkey though, that song still slaps. And that green minivan went HARD.

There was only one problem: I was the only person scheduled to man the tent all weekend. 

I had volunteered, despite the uproar from others dying for the chance to fry like an egg on the blacktop while festival goers strolled by with cold beverages, funnel cakes, and smiles plastered on their faces.

I told Ryan I needed to make a quick phone call.

I’ll give you three guesses who I called, and the first two don’t count.

“Get your Lagniappe! Step right up and get your Lagniappe,” Pops was screaming as he slammed a paper copy of the newspaper against his palm. 

I called him to ask for his advice. He responded with, “Holy shit! $100/hr!? Your mother and I will be there in 3 hours. Cash money, dude!”

I can guarantee you that the two of theme gave out more copies of the Lagniappe than a 10-man army. He and my mom acted like they had a quota to hit. They sounded like two newsies from the 1920s out there. 

Get ya paper! Hot off the press! Get ya papers!

With pops and my moms holding it down, Chavez came to get me and we started walking. I still remember the stroll because we came to a backstage-looking area and got stopped by two huge security guards. Chavez flashed his credentials. We got a head nod followed by the two sweetest words you can hear in production (outside of a silent gesture): You’re good.

“So you’ll be working artist transportation,” he said. Did he just say artist transportation? My job was going to be driving the actual artists on the festival bill?

Me and Paul Simon cruising in a black SUV on the way to pickup Julio down at the school yard before the press could get to him flashed in my head. Les Claypool giving me a high five as he exited my imaginary luxury automobile, sayin, “Love the rumble of the diesel, good buddy. Thanks for the lift,” danced in my brain.  

We arrived at a white trailer. A dude named Alex walked outside, shook Chavez’s hand, and then greeted me. “Let’s go meet Shaynee and see if we can get you setup,” he said.

And then we walked into a totally different world.

The trailer was nice and cool inside, a welcome change from my previous circumstances. Those god awful fluorescent overhead lights had been shut off, replaced by random lamps that were radiating soft, warm light throughout the strucure. I think there were some Christmas lights too. It smelled like a mixture of sunscreen, lemongrass and lavender, and musty trailer. 

It was a vibe.

Suddenly, a deep, booming voice accompanied by static filled the room. “Dayne for Shaynee,” the voice echoed from a long distance, walkie-talkie situated next to a laptop decorated with stickers, most notably a Hello Kitty one. 

Someone behind the laptop grabbed the walkie-talkie, but I didn’t see who! It was like that scene from E.T. where Eliot sees the Reeses Pieces get grabbed! “Go for inaudible,” a nice, calm voice radioed back to whomever this Dayne/Dwayne guy was.

The two exchanged some nonsensical talk about gas, float, and Lamberts. When the conversation was over, the tiny human from behind the computer stood up and walked toward me. She did not introduce herself, but I figured this must be Shaynee. 

“Are you a volunteer?,” she asked. A fair question.

I was rocking my most righteous festival gear that day: a t-shirt I had scored from Voodoo Fest 2007 when I worked as a volunteer, white soccer shorts — never played, love the shorts — patterned Chaco sandals, and a backwards Kelly green Celtics hat. The t-shirt was navy blue and had a cool Voodoo logo from that year on the front, and LAGNIAPPE written across the back.

So, yeah…I looked like a volunteer.

“Nope. I am a journalist,” I proudly responded. No response from the small human. Not impressed. 

Next question. “Do you listen to  XXXXX,” she asked, sharpening her eyes on me.  * band name redacted for Shaynee’s safety*

“I do sometimes, but XXXX is more my style,” I said, asserting my knowledge of jam bands that I was sure would impress after the failed journalist response. * band name redacted because my response would trigger a natural connection, and the fan bases are often at war arguing over superiority *

“You’re hired. You’ll be doing the graveyard shift. 6 p.m. – 6 a.m. Alex will get you set up with a creds, a van, some float, and comms.”

“I’m Shaynee. Nice to meet you.”

Read Shaynee Lee Part 2