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.