louie louie

“What you are, you are by accident of birth; what I am, I am by myself. There are and will be a thousand princes; there is only one Beethoven.”
—Beethoven

I do not have anything to say about Beethoven, the man who freed music, that has not already been said.

I was introduced to Beethoven in my early twenties by two newspapermen, Ed Frisbie and Fran Ortiz, both of whom worked at the SF Examiner where I was a copyboy. We would sit around the M&M Tavern at 5th & Howard and talk about the late quartets, the Grosse Fugue … and I would try to soak it up and I’d go buy pieces they recommended … and I’d listen to them when I tired of Bowie, Roxy Music, and Captain Beefheart.

I am forever grateful to the two of them.

Fran was a great news photographer whose works – four pieces as a matter of fact – were chosen by the New York Museum of Modern Art for their retrospective of twentienth century photojournalistic excellence. He was a gentleman, a kind man, a great cook, and quite the ladies man: he gave me a lamb recipe for the first time I had a woman over for a serious dinner date. It worked.

But this is not really a story about Fran, or Beethoven, but about Ed Frisbee, one of the most serious drinkers and most entertaining story-tellers I knew in my early life. It was another era. I had a lot to learn about booze.

Read the rest of this article at my old site, Sun Pop Blue. Recipe included! (in the comments)

I occasionally like to dredge up an old piece from Sun Pop Blue, my old site, to post on here. There is a treasure-trove of material there. I thought I would share this piece on the statistical evidence that any man who wears a baseball cap around town, not playing baseball nor fishing, but as everyday wear, is most likely a minute-man.
BTW, if you listened to the Audioboo about this subject, there isn’t much in this story that wasn’t in there.

This poor girl is in for a big surprise … or, looking at her body language, maybe she got the surprise last night.

Many years ago, I was the member of a club that met on Tuesday evenings. Mutual friends introduced me to an attractive, tall blonde woman, whom I shall call T. I was immediately smitten.

It turned out that T was the coffee and snack person for the weekly gathering, but didn’t have a car. Naturally, I offered to pick her up and drive her and the goodies to and from the meeting.

Over the next few weeks, we got better acquainted and my hopes for a more intimate relationship were bouyed by our conversations about music, the seventies, her claims that she was a total pervert … you know, the usual.

I didn’t make a move because the time never seemed quite right. I was coming off a painful divorce and still sort of in shock, I guess.

Anyway, one day after the meeting I was helping T pack up the supplies and she said,”I don’t need a ride home, Knox, I’m getting a ride with D——.” And indicated some tall doofus in a baseball hat
standing near the door.

My heart sunk.

I bid T adieu and drove home to my big empty apartment. I called my friend J in Philadelphia. I had met J online. She was a musician, in a relationship, but we had become friends and she had helped me learn the basics of web design, html, and all of that. This was almost eighteen years ago, now that I think about it.

In her day, J had been pretty wild. She was the kind of girl who would sleep with the UPS delivery man as he delivered a parcel to her home if she thought he was cute. I must say I really respect a woman who is honest about her sexuality, whatever form it takes.

I mention that just to indicate that J knew a little bit about men in all their varied splendor, the good, the bad, the skilled, the inept, and so on. By the time I met her, she had met her mate and they are together happily to this day.

She answered the phone and asked how I was.

I said, “Terrible! I was driving this girl to and from the meeting every week and I really liked her and tonight she told me she was getting a ride “home from some asshole in a baseball hat.”

And she said,”Knox, listen to me. Premature ejaculation. I have the facts and figures to back it up. Trust me … if he is wearing a baseball hat, we are talking premature ejaculation every single time!”

I said,”Really?”

And she said,”Oh yeah. Without fail.”

And then we talked about other stuff for a while. And I guess I felt a little better.

Several years later, T had become a hairstylist and she was cutting my hair. She was married to someone, but not D—–.

I told her the story of my phonecall that night of my heartbreak at her unwitting behest. And when I got to the part where J said “Trust me Knox, if he’s wearing a baseball hat, premature ejaculation every time,” T had a shocked expression on her face.

She said,”He had that problem!”

So girls … now you know.

On a related topic, a rich Danville friend of mine, a married woman was trying to set a friend up with another mutual friend. She asked me what I thought. I said,”He’s cheap.”

And she said,”Forget it. Cheap guys are always lousy in bed.”

And I said,”Well, just remember, I’ve been a spendthrift all my life!”

Never worn a baseball hat.

Just sayin’ …