Brooklyn’s Dietz family began making kerosene lanterns for the railroad in the 1830’s, but Castor’s great-grandfather Augustus, who considered himself a visionary, did not see the railroad as much more than a fad. Not only were there the logistics of setting up those tracks and keeping them the proper and universally agreed-upon distance apart, what was to keep entire trains from hurtling off those skinny tracks whenever they came to what would necessarily be the occasional curve? And what about mountains? Had they even thought about mountains? And after the initial thrill had passed, who would risk transporting their valuable products, much less their persons, by means of such a dangerous, and no doubt expensive, conveyance? He saw the limitless expanse of the south, and its supply of very cheap labor, as offering a more likely future, so he sold his share in the business to his younger brother, Octavius, for $6.50, bought a horse with the proceeds, packed his wagon, and drove south, making it slightly past Richmond, Virginia, when the horse died. Not only was Augustus Dietz possessed of the visionary mindset, he also shared the visionary aversion to overwork, so there he settled. For his part, Octavius soon came to believe that he had been cheated by his older brother and set out on a freighter to seek his fortune even farther south, ultimately making his way nearly to New Orleans. Congenital seasickness finally got the better of him and he jumped ship in a small turpentine town on the Gulf of Mexico. He spent several difficult years making his way back to the family homestead in Brooklyn, only to be greeted on his arrival by his father, who opened the back door, and after Octavius, who had been practicing his first words during his entire sojourn, proclaimed, “The prodigal son returns!” replied, “I was hoping for the other prodigal son.” It should be noted that the sons’ names were not coincidental: their father was fond of Roman emperors. He was also barely familiar with Latin gender inflections, which led to his naming his only daughter Caligula.

But back to Augustus. Saying, “What else is practically effortless to grow and pays its way every day?” Augustus Dietz chose to raise chickens on his property, which turned out, some few years later, to be in the path of several hungry armies as they chased one another up and down the Eastern seaboard.  By war’s end, little was left of his chicken farm except for the dirt yard the flock had once scratched around in. To add indignity to this injury, the yard itself turned out to be on the wrong side of the tracks when the Chesapeake and Ohio, and later the Baltimore and Ohio, set up their lines. All day, every day, the windows and doors of his shotgun shack rattled when the freight, and later, passenger, trains passed. They say the Norfolk and Western was the last straw and that after that he just lay in his bed with his back to the door, taking no nourishment until his final shudder as the 5:02 from Lynchburg announced its approach to the Hull St. crossing.

Studies show that the visionary spirit skips a generation, and in the Dietz family that spirit chose to go into hiding for two, surfacing again in the precocious Castor, who at the age of eight petitioned Virginia’s eastern district court (the same court that several years thereafter told J. Lyndsay Almond to “suck it” [NAACP v. Button, 1963] when he tried to invent a basis for closing the state’s public schools rather than integrating them) to allow him to change his first name from Castor to Ottoman. His parents objected, based on the dual arguments that Castor was a fine, family name and Castor himself was a minor, “not even out of his short pants.” Castor asserted that he would rather be named for a swashbuckling former empire and a piece of furniture that is a visible sign of luxury and relaxation than for some old Greek twin in some second-rate myth whose part in the story didn’t turn out too well, anyway, and a medicinal oil that no one associated with anything fun or exotic at all and besides, it tastes yucky and used to come from the dried perineal glands of beavers.

It was slow week in the eastern district, and the court, never having heard the part about the beavers, granted the request, with the majority opinion writing, “Kid wants to name himself for furniture and wear a fez? Sure. Why not?” [Dietz v. Dietz, 1957] Eminent legal scholars have confirmed that the ruling also includes the first recorded use of the word “dickweed” as a pejorative, in reference to the dissenting justice and his opinion.

After years of trying to insinuate himself into the fringes of one or another of Richmond’s musical venues as a member of the Dietz Brothers, Ottoman, by now known as “Blind Squirrel,” * was heard by Jeremy Thudpucker (brother of Jimmy Ray Thudpucker, who achieved some fame as a character in the cartoon industry) when the Dietz Brothers were filling in one afternoon for the Salvation Army Band in front of the Ashland A&P. After noting that Ottoman had a car and a driver’s license, and asking if he had back problems or alimony, Jeremy invited him to join Jeremy Thudpucker and the Pucker-Ups, assuring him that Jeremy, as the band’s manager, had secured a contract from Western Auto playing at their Grand Openings across the greater south central states. Ottoman packed his gear immediately and joined the band, although Jeremy was disappointed to find that Ottoman was only part-owner of the car, so it did not convey.

The band got along pretty well for a while, but there always seemed to be some confusion about the split, and then Jeremy went missing during the second break of a four-set gig they had at the grand re-opening of the Western Auto store in northwest Fort Worth. He went off behind the store for “just a minute” with a young lady who said she wanted to show him her tattoos. When last asked about the matter, the band said that it’s sorry, but it hasn’t gotten around to looking for him yet.

A while after the loss of Jeremy, and noting a lack of cohesion among the other members of the group, some of whom “wouldn’t even share a damned cigarette with a bandmate, not even after all the cartons he’s bought for them,” Ottoman asked to be released from his contract and, after some negotiations about which parts of the PA belonged to him and whether “somebody paid for all those damned cords, too,” or not, found his freedom.

Meanwhile, Ottoman’s brothers continued to loiter at the edges of pockets of interest in Richmond, releasing several compilation CD’s of their own live performances: “The Attic Tapes” and “Heaven’s Not Even in Sight” (as The Dietz Bros.), as well as “Count Floyd and his Suffering Assholes,” and “Bleeding Hearts and Assholes.”

While it would be untrue to call the Dietz brothers outlaws, it is certainly the case that they operate according to their own idiosyncratic mores, characterized once by a polysyllabic friend as the “depilated posterior determinant,” i.e., “You ain’t got a hair on your ass if you don’t …” which has led to the liberation of a library’s worth of a college radio station’s unopened complimentary A&R LP’s and to successful ninja-esque assaults on any number of early seventies’ rock royalties’ backstage regions. Most of their tales turn on Nehemiah C., or “Count Floyd,” as he is occasionally referred to. There is the story called either “the greening of the shrubbery,” or “never let an asshole get his hands on a can of spray paint,” depending on which member of the family is telling it. And there is the birthday goat, in which Nehemiah C. found an unsuspecting goat bleating in his living room when he returned home from work on his birthday afternoon.

In his later years, Ottoman Dietz appears to have visited Cuba at least once, and to have explored amateur ethnomusicology (or at least its lesser relative, ethnomusicography) during his visit, if the translations of several indigenous folk songs that I have come across are any indication.  Judging from his subject matter, the dates and locations of his notes, and the bragging he did about it later, he may have associated himself with Ry Cooder’s entourage when Cooder recorded “The Buena Vista Social Club,” but Cooder does not list him in the album credits. In fact, Cooder goes to some length to avoid referring to him at all. (It is worth mentioning that Cooder did not return my phone calls, even after the restraining order had expired).

Music has been a demanding lover, not tolerating other romances. There has been the failed marriage or three, and the idle flirtation with eastern mysticism, but only Serena has been able to fight Music to a draw in which each keeps a snarling distance from the other. Ottoman has done his best to keep them out of the same room, and Serena has been more than happy to agree. Serena worked in the restaurant two stories below his efficiency apartment up north until it seems, based on the trail of small claims judgments against him, Ottoman finally persuaded her to move with him to Florida. Serena has a reputation as a sweetheart, except when Ottoman has been drinking again; she and Ottoman have been reported to spend much of their free time at the Food Court with a couple of cups of coffee, people-watching and making up stories about the shoppers they see.

I am told that Ottoman continues his quest for competence, but that the direction matters less than it used to.

Ottoman has also taken to making noises by humming in falsetto as he presses his upper teeth to his lower lip. While those within earshot are less enthusiastic about his latest instrumental breakthrough, his discovery has distracted him happily for quite some time. His supporters say that at least it smells better than when he was farting “Smoke On The Water,” but others insist that you still don’t want to get too close to him before he has brushed his teeth.

The story of Ottoman Dietz leads inevitably to the question of Ottoman Dietz. That question has been most eloquently and succinctly articulated as a strangled “Why? Just why?” by his brother, Nehemiah C., who has also on occasion followed his question with what seems to be its most reasonable answer. His response is Zenlike in both its profundity and in its frustrating simplicity, and he typically frames it in the following manner: he gazes into the distance, nods his head briefly, then shakes his head and looks at the ground. He looks back at the horizon, sucks air into his mouth through the gap between his front teeth, and shakes his head again before he says, with an air of resignation, “Because you just never know.”