Communication Breakdown

I know, I know. Way too much time between posts. I've just got a lot of things on my mind. I lost a good friend when Ron DeFrang finally succumbed to cancer on Halloween night - I think.

Therein lies the point, the essential kernel of this post. I only found out about it a few days after the fact from my friend Jeff Anderson, aka 'Trunk Monkey'. And he moved to Iowa a few months ago. Nothing against the Hawkeye State, but fucking Iowa! How the fuck does a guy in fucking Iowa find out about a friend and colleague passing away before I do?

And the cruelest thing of it all is the utter lack of information about it. Most of the guys I play with here in Port Angeles are on Facebook, but the only other person on the planet who posted anything about it is my homey Coog, who hosted our band at gigs at his record store and was as plugged in to the local scene as anyone I could think of. And nobody called me, either. John, Eddie, Tom, Pete - not a soul. It's like there's this weird sort of radio silence around me. In hindsight, I could've broken the silence, and still could - all I have to do is pick up the phone. But I don't, perhaps because I think they're all grieving in their own unique ways. Or perhaps I'm just reacting to their silence with silence of my own. And no obituary, no funeral. Did anyone even bother to claim the body? It's almost like he didn't exist at all. Sometimes, I can't even picture Ron's face when I recall memories of him.

Perhaps I've reverted to that outsider status that I've always had here. Bands and musicians here don't know me. and I know why, that's because I know more players in the Seattle-Tacoma area and even more in Reno and Las Vegas than here. And some of those who do know me don't even acknowledge me as a 'real' musician because I play in Nevada instead of locally, which makes me some sort of poseur. My little brother has suggested to me that I need to stop consorting with the old burnouts and introduce myself to the Peninsula's original rock and metal bands. I've thought about Mac's suggestion, and it wouldn't be the first time that I did. but what band in their right mind would want to hire me knowing that I'm gone most of the year?

And one more thing before I go exile myself to Skyrim for a few days. I have two blogs, and a lot of ideas about things to write about. But I think that I have a hard time figuring out which blog to commit my thoughts to, depending on the subject. And eventually option paralysis sets in and I wind up just letting go of the idea rather than power through and put fingers to the keyboard. So maybe it's time to reduce, and close one of these blogs - and it'll probably be this one, with Joe Knows Jack Squat being the sole receptacle for my random thoughts and irritations. maybe I'll keep this alive for a while, then archive everything and close this blog. Now if you'll excuse me, I have vampires to kill.

A Little Bit More Death Than I Can Handle

It's been a rough summer for me. But I should be grateful that I'm alive. I just found out a few days ago that my dear friend Dave Herzer passed away, onstage up at Lake Tahoe, from a massive heart attack. It's just so fucking hard trying to put into words how you feel about a guy who you really only know one part of. I mean, I knew Dave the drummer, but I never really got to know Dave away from music. But then again, we're musicians. And for working musicians like us, music is all-encompassing - an obsession, really. Dave was a fun guy to be around. A really excellent drummer, a good singer, a sushi fanatic. Between him and my pal Mark Twohey, they were in my opinion the best drummers on the circuit, far better than me. I always felt like a plowhorse, and Dave a thoroughbred, when I saw him play.

And our paths have crossed and converged more than a few times. In the summer of 2009, just before I first filled in on drums for Steppen Stonz, and two months before I would join them full-time, I had all but joined Tracy Bing's band. Tracy is the pint-sized dynamo of a singer and leader of a band with three faces, depending on the type of gig they're playing. For most gigs it's the standard classic-rock of the Tracy Bing Band. For shows where a Fifties vibe is needed, she morphs them into Tracy & The Kingpins (which is probably what they're playing under right now at Hot August Nights in Reno). And they hit the rodeo circuit with a male singer in tow under the moniker Ricky & The Redstreaks. And no matter the name or style, they've always managed to stay busy. Tracy had yet to formally invite me to join, but the interview and grooming process was well underway. She had explained to me what she was looking for, and I guess that I'd given her the answers she was looking for. But Mike and Arthur would beat her to the punch by just a few days. I was packing up and getting ready to drive to that fill-in gig in California when she called me and asked me if I was available for a weekender elsewhere in California. To this day, I feel like I let her down, and that I still owe her an apology, even though I know I've apologized plenty of times since then. Eventually, Dave took that seat that I'd left wanting. Dave even covered for me on a few occasions at the Atlantis - Mike and Arthur loved his playing, though they told me that they'd wished he'd play a little closer to the sequence than he did.

But Dave died doing what he loved - playing, entertaining. I will grieve for his wife and his children, but I'll also grieve for his most beloved: Marsha. for those of you who knew Dave, you know what I'm talking about. For those who don't, allow me to explain. "Marsha" is a snare drum. A very, very expensive Brady Drums snare from Australia. Seriously, this one snare drum alone cost more than what I paid for the kit you see me play PLUS a fair chunk of the cymbals and hardware. And Marsha was his pride and joy. And very rarely would he let other drummers use it. I think it was at Hot August Nights in 2010 when he let me play with Marsha. We wound up sharing my kit that week, because Tracy & The Kingpins were playing a special early shift at the Nugget while Steppen Stonz played their regular evening hours. And Dave decided that while he would play my kit (which makes the transition from one band to the next soooooo much easier), he couldn't live without Marsha, but graciously decided that I should be allowed to enjoy Marsha's delights as well. To be totally honest, I felt in that moment that he truly accepted me as a colleague in the circuit. And by the way, Marsha was fucking awesome. So much better than the Sixties-vintage Ludwig student snare that I use to this day.

Rest in peace, Dave - I'll miss you.

I've just had to deal with a little more death than I can handle this summer. I mean, I knew that my grandfather would go sooner or later - he was 96, after all - but even then it was a totally wrenching, draining experience at his memorial. I just wasn't ready to lose anyone else. Joy and I have been pretty depressed ever since we'd heard of Dave's passing, and to this day I still have a hard time believing it happened - almost as though I expect Dave to post 'Fooled you!' on his Facebook page any day now. But I know that's not gonna happen. I need to celebrate my friend's life, and do the best I can to honor his memory.

Goodbyes, Continuances, And The Simple Joys Of Playing By Yourself

It's been barely two weeks since my last post, but it feels like an eternity. So where the fuck have I been? Well first off, I'm home from my latest extended run to Reno with Steppen Stonz. While it's always fun, it does get to be a grind after a while. But spending time with my grandbabies - I know, they're eight and seven, and their cousins Soren and Sascha are five and three, but Cody and Ellie will always be my grandbabies, the closest I'll ever get to actually having children of my own - tends to make it all worthwhile. And a quick shout-out goes to my favorite new sit-down restaurant, Genghis Grill. There are two of them in the Reno/Sparks area - one in Spanish Springs, just east across the ridgeline from Michelle and Bill's place in Sun Valley, with the other in the far south of the Truckee Meadows, down in Damonte Ranch. Genghis Grill is Mongolian Grill, where you select your proteins, vegetables, and sauces of choice - piling the first two into a small bowl, packing as much in as you can, with the sauces going into smaller cups you take to the grillmaster, who stir-fries the lot together, working his way around the 6' wide circular grill, then piles your order into a bowl packed with a carb of your choice (rice, pasta, or tortillas) to be sent to your table. I love this stuff, and they love me right back. After my first visit, I signed up for their frequent-visit 'Khan's Klub' card, and it's rewarded me handsomely - one free meal and a second at reduced price. If only there was a Genghis Grill anywhere close to Port Angeles. The two Reno locations are the only ones west of the Colorado River. And after that, the next closest locations are are in Denver and Phoenix. I have some limits on how far I'll drive for a good dinner.

NOTE: My all-time favorite fast-food chain is Chipotle Mexican Grill, where fast food meets the Slow Food Movement in a truly unique way - I can't recommend this place enough. By all means - stop reading this and go find the nearest Chipotle and order a burrito with their carnitas - while Chipotle is vegan-freindly, their slow-braised pork would make the most hardened vegan weep with joy. It's that good - so get going, already! I can wait for you to get back. Oh, and you're welcome.

And while I was hot-and-eager to get back to Port Angeles, I couldn't stay long - which was a bit depressing. I wanted to get back into the groove with Willis, but family comes first. Last Saturday (June 23rd), we laid my grandfather to rest at the Mountain View Cemetery in Tacoma. It was a good chance to visit with family members I hadn't seen in a long time, and I was pleasantly surprised by their reactions to our arrival at the service. Y'see, while I'd made it clear on my Facebook account that I was going to be there come hell or high water, I guess that most of my family had written me off as a no-show, because let's face it - I'm a professional musician, my schedule isn't written in ink, it's written in water during a hurricane. My cousin Briana was the first to see us pull in, and while she was already tearing up for obvious reasons, she cried just a little harder - tears of joy this time (no pun intended) when she saw us emerge from my truck. Ther service was a wonderful opportunity to reconnect with my father's side of my family. And it got me to thinking - I know, thinking isn't much good for me any more.

My cousins all have good lives. Of my generation of the Franklin family, I'm the only one without a good job. Uncle Dickie's sons (Brian and Jimmy) are firemen in and around Tacoma like their dad was, while his daughter Jennifer is a teacher in California. Aunt Suzie's son Josh is in the Army, stationed in Hawai'i - the lucky bastard. Aunt Anna's kids are in engineering (Briana) and tech (Michael). My sister works for the hospital here in Port Angeles, in the admittance office - I usually see her when Joy needs to go to the ER. Me? I'm still the dreamer, I guess.

I have no regrets about the path I chose, but I know that my family still looks at me in askance occasionally - as in "what the fuck is wrong with you?" I could've been an engineer myself - I was fascinated by airplanes when I was a kid, and I still am. When I was maybe nine or ten, I got the chance to take a summer-school course for gifted kids about aviation engineering, held at the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma. I remember loving every minute of it, but later Gifted classes back home in Port Angeles pretty much wiped that taste out of my mouth - I quit the gifted-student classes in middle school immediately after learning that while I would spend the enitre school day in these special classes, I was then expected to go back to the 'regular' home-room class I was assigned to (that I would otherwise not be a part of whatsoever) and get all my homework from that class on top of  the work in the Gifted class - some fucking gift!

I lost interest in school after that, and never really got excited about classes until I got out of high school and into college up at Peninsula College, where I got my Associate's Degree (in that old standby, Liberal Arts) in 1989. A third year at PC followed at my own expense when I wasn't accepted to any of the State Universities here in Washington, and I almost took a fourth when I wasn't accepted to any State University again, other than a provisional admittance to Central Washington University, that would've only allowed me to enroll in January 1991, when I got accepted to Washington State University (damn right I'm a Coug) at pretty much the last minute - late July of 1990, to be exact. This late date of acceptance meant that I wasn't able to get financial aid - the pool of money available to needy students like myself was already long gone. My parents arranged a bank loan for me, but in hindsight I never should've gone, and just taken that fourth year at PC and tried again when there was more financial aid available. I had some good times there, as I've mentioned in past posts, but while I'm still proud to be a Coug I just wasn't ready. Maybe I never was.

Okay, I got way off on a tangent there. As I'd said before, I was really looking forward to rehearsing with Willis, it just never really got off the ground this weekend just past. Seven weeks between rehearsals is way too long. I'm just grateful that Eddie, Tom, and John are as understanding as they are. But the usual schedule just didn't happen. Our normal Friday evening rehearsal was scrapped because Tom was going to have to work all weekend in Port Orchard, but Eddie had found a guy who could possibly be the lead singer this band could really use, and wanted to get some sort of rehearsal/audition in. He tried to arrange space for us in the garage of the RV park he lives in now, out in Carlsborg. But circumstances that I won't bother to discuss canned it, and our otherwise-normal rehearsal space is unavailable, again for reasons I won't discuss.

After this, Eddie told me that rehearsals for this weekend were scrapped, but on Sunday at about four in the afternoon, just as Joy and I were heading to Wal-Mart, Eddie called again and said that practice was on again, now at John's place. John lives with his brother, and his brother is a drummer himself, so at least I didn't have to bring my gear. Our old pal Ron DeFrang filled in for Tom, and I got to meet this new singer. And meeting this guy once again showed how small the circle of working musicians is in Puget Sound. I don't remember his last name, the first was Shane, and he knew us through my old friends Just Dirt. And yet another crazy occurrence between Eddie and myself came up in conversation. I mentioned the time I'd spent playing with Backstreet Romance, with Rocky Holbrook (who's on my shit list in perpetuity) and Loriann Davis (who Joy and I still absolutely adore), and Eddie told me he'd done a spell with them as well. What the fuck - we've been crossing paths (albeit unaware of the other) for almost two decades now, playing in the same bands at different times!

Anyhoo, this practice shouldn't have happened. Why, you ask? Well, this Shane fellow just wasn't up to it - albeit not for lack of talent. He's diabetic, it turns out. And he'd ridden his bike the ten or so miles from Port Angeles to Carlsborg. And he did so far earlier than was scheduled, so he spent most of the day riding around Carlsborg waiting for rehearsal to start. And did I mention that he's diabetic? And that he hadn't eaten all day? By the time rehearsal finally rolled around (and someone finally decided to tell me about it - at the absolute last fucking second), Shane was a mess, and nearly passed out while trying to sing. But I did notice the talent. Eddie wouldn't have even given him the time of day otherwise. But Joy seemed to notice something else - and she won't tell me what it is. And then there was Ron. And Ron is as Ron does - he doesn't know the material Willis plays, and we wound up just jamming the stuff we played together in Dirty Joe, most of which Eddie doesn't know. Ron tried to play some of our stuff, but he just doesn't know it that well. After rehearsal, Eddie, John and I talked about it for a while. We figured we could get some extra time in during the week and get back up to speed for when Tom came back. And we'll keep inviting Ron to come by for the occasional rehearsal, if only to comfort the dying. I've already been to one too many funerals this year for my tastes. But Ron only has a few more months left, and as Buddy Rich once said of his dying friend Gene Krupa, one should give flowers to the living.

But there is one advantage to this sort of slap-dash rehearsal: I don't need to bring my gear. My kit is set up in the basement, and I find myself with the chance to just..... play. Just go down to the basement, turn on my mp3 player, put my earbuds in, pick a song, and play. That's how I taught myself to play the kit, after all. I found myself playing this 80's chestnut. Or was it a 70's chestnut? Whatever decade it was, it was Jefferson Starship's "Find Your Way Back". Then I rolled into "No Way Out" from Stone Temple Pilots - a song that I think will work its way into Willis' playlist. At least if I have anything to say about it.


And I found myself actually having fun playing! I could just woodshed for a while, no pressure, no drama, no worries. No playing quietly to avoid the wrath of casino managers, no Motown. Now if only my thumb hadn't started to go numb while I was playing. Gotta go buy some new gloves when I head back down to Nevada again in a few weeks.....

Oh well. I need to go get some sleep. Get some rest, then go back down to the basement in the morning - well, morning by my standards, anyway.

Cheers, y'all.

On My Own Mortality

(Post originally written on June 12, 2012)


I sit here in my hotel room, really the front room of the bandhouse of the Atlantis, and I face a major crossroads. A few days ago – Thursday, to be exact – I received word that my paternal grandfather Richard J. Franklin had passed away. He'd lived a very full ninety-six years, and was only a few months away from celebrating his ninety-seventh. He was the last of my grandparents to pass, the first to go being my maternal grandfather, passing on my seventh birthday after a long struggle with emphysema. Both of my grandmothers died in a haze of Alzheimer's-related dementia, scarcely cognizant of the world around them. I do consider myself blessed that Grandpa Dick lived a long and healthy life, even recovering from the loss of his wife and finding a new love, who my family embraced with open arms. He lived long enough to meet Joy, her children, and even our first two grandchildren.

But what I found myself totally unprepared for was that loss, the finality of it. An entire generation of my life, gone. I mean, I'm fully aware of the concept of mortality, don't get me wrong. I have vague memories of my great-grandfather, all we ever called him was 'G.G.'. He passed away before I was really understanding of the concept of death. I remember my friend Shannon Allen, her mother and mine were (and still are) best of friends. She was hit and killed by a careless driver not more than a block from my house in Port Angeles. I wasn't there, I didn't see it happen. But I remember the whole family in tears, while I shed none – why?

I remember Grandpa Forrest. Frail, rattling, wheezing, his smoking habit having gotten the best of him in the end. Grandma Gen, scarcely able to remember her own name by the time Grandpa Dick sent her to a Lutheran nursing home. To this day I still regret that I never went to visit her, even though I know why I chose not to – I wanted to remember her as she had been, before the disease robbed her of her memories, her thoughts, her self, fingers flying in random patterns – cursing in the sign language she'd taught for years, rather than out loud. Grandma Jennie, stubborn and independent to the last, but then too losing her memories, thoughts and self. But I didn't cry for them either – why?

It's not like I'd ever been taught not to cry. I'd always been taught to express myself, good bad or otherwise. But at the same time, I've always found myself holding in those emotions, even when all those around me were letting them out. But I actually found myself able to let something out, even though it was hardly public – alone in my stepdaughter's house in Sun Valley, just north of Reno. And today I learned that Grandpa's funeral will be a week from Saturday in Tacoma, and that I'll be able to attend. I hope that I will finally be able to cry.

I think that I need to take stock of my life. By no means am I successful. Hell, I moved back in with my mother and stepfather two-plus years ago, although it wasn't because I wanted to. Between being laid off from work and my wife's declining health, going home was the best thing to do. I have no children of my own, but Joy's three kids accepted me well enough. And I've been a part of the lives of my stepdaughter's two children pretty much from birth. Cody is eight now, a rambunctious pile of energy, only marginally constrained by a mild form of Asperger's disease (a form of autism) and a speech impediment, while his sister Elizabeth – Ellie – is a tiny, bird-bright seven-year-old, already the princess-in-training. And I can already see a sort of Lenny-and-George dynamic forming between them – Ellie the brains, Cody the muscle. I have two bands that I play in, one here in Nevada, the other back home in Washington. The band here in Nevada, the singers have been working together for forty years now, and they act like an old married couple. The band in Washington is still in development, but there are already positive signs. I've had a reasonably successful marriage, eighteen years and still going strong despite Joy's poor health. We're lovers, best friends, partners in crime and in business. To be quite honest, I think she may be the only person in this world who completely gets me, totally understands me and all my weirdness.

The other night – in fact, it was just Sunday night – I was playing video games with Cody. Well, I was doing the playing, he just wanted to watch me run through 'Fable II' on his mother and stepfather's Xbox 360. He snuggled up next to me, put his head on my arm as I slew bandits and hobbes (the game's version of goblins, or orcs, or whatever), then eventually fell asleep. Just having lost the last of my grandparents, I felt warm and comfortable with my grandson, my little buddy at my side, and Ellie just a few feet away, also quietly asleep. I want to be a good grandparent for them, like mine were for me. I want them to remember the good times we shared as fondly as I do the times I spent with mine when I was a little boy. Whenn I'm gone, I want them to remember their 'papa' as fondly as I remember my grandmas and grandpas.

But that leads to the final problem for me. I've still yet to lose my fear of dying. I know that it's inevitable, that we all go sooner or later. But it terrifies me. And especially the lifestyle I lead – always on the road, eating shitty food, always driving from one place to another, never home for any length of time. If life were fair, let alone perfect, I'd die quietly in Joy's arms, slipping into the abyss embraced by the woman I love and cherish. But I'm always afraid that I'll die in some hotel room, alone and unnoticed until far too late for help to arrive. But I also know that this fear isn't reasonable, nor would succumbing to it be any fair to those I work with. Therefore, I need to confront my fears, look death in the eye and see it for what it is. But I'm way too much of a chickenshit to do anything particularly death-defying or even mildly dangerous. So what the fuck do I do?

I carry on, that's what I do. I shoulder my burden, complete the task at hand, then go home to the one I love, where I'm truly comfortable, even though I get squirrely soon enough and long for the open road. I understand the inevitable, but I'd still rather not deal with it. I still have a life to live, after all. I don't see a need to be morbidly afraid of dying – but what's difficult is truly embracing that thought. I hope I can someday, and just live as gracefully as I can before going off the the great beyond.

Goodbye, grandpa. May you rest in peace.

John McDaniel, RIP

At least we were on good terms when he passed. Calvin notified me earlier today, left me a message on my cellphone. I'm sure I'll learn more later. We all knew he was sick, something was wrong. But he never let on, not one tiny little bit. For as much grief that he gave Powerlight, and myself, I'll miss the old fart. Rest in peace, John.

Calvin had told me that he'd made an offer to purchase the agency from John's survivors (his widow and ex-wife were his 'employees' in the agency), I wonder if he'll follow through on that? If Calvin is running the agency, he could probably get the Atlantis to fire Cockbreath McPothead. Not that it matters that much to me. Dean Brownell's new band starts rehearsal on Monday, and I have more important issues. Like training and educating a new singer.....