Like a desiccated Christmas tree standing in the living room long after Christmas has come and gone, shedding its needles, gathering dust on its ornaments, lights unplugged, inert, incongruous, embarrassing, increasingly ridiculous, so does our seasonal Grinch reblog sit like a decrepit squatter at BoFN’s default top spot, like The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave. Post-Christmas, that’s sad enough. Post New Years, well, that’s just pathetic.
As I look around the BoFN circle, expectantly, hoping that someone, anyone, will clean that mess up, the collective silence wordlessly communicates its discouraging reply: “Don’t look at me, bud.”
The only way to “clean that stuff up” is to post something else. But no drafts are lined up in the queue, meaning that no-one, not even the indefatigable Fannie, is going to bail me out here. So, looks like it has to be me.
A squeaky inner voice urges,
Take courage! It can’t be that bad. With that long-winded intro you’re already 1/3 of the way there–assuming anyone even keeps track of the BoFN Word Count™ these days. And that’s maximum word count, bruh. Believe it or not, there is no minimum word count. Technically, all you need now is a funny name, a graphic, and a vaguely relevant caption.
OK, I’ll take my encouragement where I can get it.
Ladies and gents, I give you John Haley “Zoot” Sims:
Uh, dude. When I said “technically” that’s all you need I didn’t mean stylistically that was going to suffice. Seriously. It’s got to at least approachBoFN standard.
So much for trusting that squeaky inner voice.
OK, then. Zoot Sims played with basically everybody in the jazz world it was possible to play with, including some forgotten players like (trigger warning here–no, really! I mean that literally) bassist Trigger Albert.
You can hear Zoot come in on sax at 1:08. I should mention that Herman “Trigger” Alpert, conforming to the delightful twists and turns typical of our BoFN subjects, eventually gave up music in 1970 and became a professional portrait photographer, which had been his personal passion.
Zoot passed on in 1985, just shy of 60, and was buried in Nyack, New York.
Kind of abrupt, bruh. You still got more than 100 words left.
What about that word count doesn’t matter thing, inner voice? I don’t know why I’m even listening to you any more.
Let’s just get through this. Almost there. Pretty soon that moldy old Christmas tree will be in the dumpster and we’ll have a fresh start for 2018!
(Sigh.) Our man Zoot also had a solo in one of the most arresting pop songs in history, “Poetry Man” by Phoebe Snow. Check Zoot coming in at 2:30:
But Zoot might best be represented playing with the other giants of jazz:
Doin’ good! 30 words left!
Shut up. I have to do the PSA for Dave.
D’oh. Carry on!