Frosty

Overwhelming that this man is gone.  Last few years it went:  "How ya doin Frosty?"
 "How do I look?"  
"You look good!"
 "Well then, ask me out!"

There was nothing that wasn't cool and/or astounding about him.  Except maybe the amount of pain he was willing to endure without complaint.  Astounding, that, but not really cool.
After one of the strokes, I visited him up at Seton NW.  Frosty said "Not doing too bad --  having a little trouble with this left-right thing"

Frosty lived in the old trailer at my place for about 5 years.  We had an understanding.  We would stay out of each other's way, not intrude.  Mostly, we accomplished this.  Except for the exceptions.           The well guys stumbled on a rattlesnake in the well-house.  Ran away, said it was above their pay grade.  Hmmm.    I called Frost to come out and lend a hand (heh).   He emerged from the trailer holding his cane (he had been suffering from gout) and a glok and hobbled over to the scene, about 30 yards from the trailer door.  It was tricky, but he was able to shoot the snake 2 or 3 times without destroying the well apparatus.  I chopped the head off with a hoe.  The snake head.

Casey Monahan brought Uzbek percussionists up to meet Frosty (in Buda)  in about 2002.  A visit to the guru for them.  They jammed a bit.

A fun rhythm section we had in the earlier Danglin Wrangler days was Frosty and Cowboy Dick (Dale Dennis) on bass.  Dale had a cool almost pitchless thuddy/groovy tone and never rushed.  Frosty of course liked to sit on the back side of the grooves, but he did not drag --  unless he meant to.  He caught my eye one night, nodded in the direction of Cowboy Dick (who was possibly doing some nodding of his own, noticeably dragging -- it was okay, it was Sunday at Huts), and proceeded to steadily slow the tempo of the tune til it was down to a crawl.  Tex turned around and said something like "What the hell$%^&*()??"   All in good fun. Cowboy Dick woke up at some point.  (We lost him for good back in the early aughts....)
     On an ad music session at Tequila Mockingbird, we were working on some funky thing, and I asked Frost to "put that back beat just a bit behind, like you like to do it."  He proceeded to show me the available catalogue of options for "just a bit behind."   There were more than 3 options.  More like 7 or 8.  "You want it here?...thwack...or maybe here?....thud....or tighter, like.....?

He admired Clyde Stubblefield.   I preferred him (Frosty).   He did things with his right foot that seemed illegal.   Fast eighth notes, perfect.  Let's face it.  He rocked.  Even with gout.

I made a record for fun in about 1990, some kind of jazz and some kind of country stuff.  I had AD Mannion, a dear friend and great jazz drummer, play the country stuff.  (I could be cruel sometimes) And I asked Frosty to play the jazz.  He said "You understand I am NOT a jazz drummer."     There are several tracks with Frosty playing his brand of jazz, with Jon Blondell on upright, Tony Campise on tenor, and me on the crappy piano over at (now gone) Lone Star Recording, at 12th and Lamar.  The record sold well under a million.

He disdained drum solos.  But was great at them.   He played the songs.  The grooves too, of course, but he knew, understood, MADE the songs.   Used silence - kinda like Beethoven.   Mike Flanigin reports that part of his audience came specifically to see Frosty.  The Wranglers at Huts had the same thing goin on.  Which made for quite a crowd, 'cause Tex had his fans too, as did Blondell, Junior Brown, Jimmy Day, Tomas Ramirez, Chris O'Connell.... but I digress.   (This stuff is so far back in the past, did it even happen????)

When I asked Frosty what his real name was, he told me Barry, but the room was noisy and I thought he said Mary.  And I occasionally called him Mary for many years, even though it felt dangerous.
Frosty probably had a classically tough childhood and was very strong.  But reasonable.  Actually my good buddies from that band are all that way, tough, brilliant musicians, poets, philosophers, and all were autodidacts.  RC Banks as well.

A good friend and great audio engineer named Sullivan referred yesterday to "trying to deal with this chaos of no Frosty."
It feels as though the planet's axis is ruined.

Feelings....Nothing

....more than feelings.   I sent a mentality to my staff, and they mostly responded with dove ocean.   Oh, she and ick!  I asked for a poem about dolphins and James Brown, and Abigail said "Who's James Brown?"   I said he was sort of like Michael Jackson but, well...., no.  Trying to forget my feelings of love.   (That's the next line of lyric -  more evidence that lyrics absolutely wither without melody).   I feel good, just like I new that I wood.   My rod, my staff, they prepare EST, a table, long before me.

Here's a story of a ping pong table.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cIIW0p7bJg
That was the missing link.  I stumbled upon a classy ping pong table at the Outlet Mall.  (Picture a large concrete drainage pipe with hungry zombies dancing.)  ((My grandson asked me something....I thought he said, "Grandpa, how many zombies are there, actually?" -   nun, nun, nun!)).   (((The real answer is:  All of 'em!)))
I would buy this elegant table for its symbolism.  I played when I was a child.  It was serious.   The table was in a small room in the cousins' house.  We were all pretty good, but I was the most competitive.   Now, I learn one of the great lessons:  how to lose with equanimity.  Seems like an oxymoron.  What's the score?   Even?   Odd!   "I'm losing, and I'm okay cool with that. --  you there, go ahead and win; you can even win by a lot; you can even cheat!   Cheater!   Cheetahs never win, at ping pong.  They can't hold the paddles properly.
Tears, running down my face in streams
Dripping off my chin and things,
Nothing more than things.   You can live without them, and you must, if you can't transport them.  They'll just have to stay where they are, until dis assembled.

What can happen, does

What can happen happens?   No, not always.  Suns don't burn out.  Oh...wait.   Aliens don't invade Earth.   Not yet.   People keep falling in and out of love.

What is the King?   Love?  Death?  Money?  Intelligence?  Spirit?   Serenity?

All of it, and none.  It's not a car, or a set of golf clubs, nor a negligee, nor a smart phone.

Of everything I mentioned, only one thing is deeply scary.

Smart phone.

Truth, Rage, and Me - Redux

The earlier "Truth, Rage, Me" came out in 2008.  Ah, the good old days!

The main thing I want to report/change is that frozen dinners no longer appeal.  At all.

Even if I was stuck on a small volcanic island (atoll).  Which I kind of am.  And I've kind of gotten in this habit of cooking balanced, healthy meals for myself.  Usually about once a week.  And the dogs and I sort of enjoy them.  (We eat meat)   And we are all just fine.  We hold our own against the rats, the fleas, the roaches.  (I'm Holding my Own was Leroy Parnell's big hit, and it's still pretty funny.)

Anyway back to the atoll.  There is an ATM on the atoll and it dispenses obsidian and ash.   I got a piece of ash there fairly recently.  It was perfect.  Perfect ash.   Kind of hot.  And I did get burned.  But I'm used to it.

Crazy time now, really.  I spend a few hours a day starkly sane and in pursuit of sanity.  The rest of the time I either do or do not notice how physically crappy I feel and worry that I'm going to mess up somebody's day.   No one really cares.   Specially me.  In a word, INsane.  (not a word)

There was a band, man.  A famous top hand.  That hailed from down ol Texas way.    Way......
In the last decade there was the idea of the Sweet Bunch of Daisies, the band, and then the dispersal.
I loved that project.  Me and three astoundingly talented players of the violin in lots of styles, all of whom sang really really well and in lots of styles.   There was a City Hall concert in 2009.  Perhaps there is an archive.   I have it somewhere.

It is past.   I had Bell's Palsy in 2009.   It mostly passed.
It was a painful and lengthy drooping.  Like lava flowing out of that ATM on the atoll.  On my face.
Droopy.   It was not a stroke.  Who needs a stroke anyway?   Don't touch me!  I might erupt.

Prodigal

Having been prodded, I am now prodigal.

The last entry was in July 2015.  I am rusty.   It was hot in this hemisphere.   I was not.   I was incredibly stupid (i will not explain this).  What's different now is that I got worse and worse until just a few months ago, when an enforced stint behind bars jolted me into a bit of better information and an open mind.

So, I am moved to show you this open mind.   Pieces of its grey matter --  dark matter.  Don't matter.

For one thing, the purported best bestest most awesomest time in my life- the early 90s - sure had its nice qualities.  For example, I pretended to believe in God and be His humble servant.  I even think I bought my own BS on that  (though I drank no KoolAid).  I got to hang with some really awesome humans: my former wife, my younger 3 children.  Even had actual friends  (by this I mean humans other than musicians with whom I conversed and ate food occasionally --  other stuff too:  I successfully sold them on my BS.  Maybe.   Of no consequence really....)

You know that old saw "Keep it Simple!"   ?   Stupid?   Yes.  Because it's NOT simple.   I like (really do) "My son, look for God within you."   But, dad, ego is in there.  Is Ego God?   "No, look again."
Then everyone fell asleep,
and a great cloud swept over them and
deposited nickels on their eyes
and their heads were each worth
ten cents!  adjusted for inflation.

The early 90s were not that great for some folks.