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AP via Yahoo News: Scientist finds Gulf bottom still oily, dead.

Anyone surprised?

Meanwhile, from the Biloxi Sun-Herald: Infant dolphins dying in high numbers

Baby dolphins, some barely three feet in length, are washing up along the Mississippi and Alabama coastlines at 10 times the normal rate of stillborn and infant deaths, researchers are finding.The Sun Herald has learned that 17 young dolphins, either aborted before they reached maturity or dead soon after birth, have been collected along the shorelines.This is the first birthing season for dolphins since the spill.
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Damn. We lost New Orleans blogger Ashley Morris

Some of his impassioned & articulate rants in the aftermath of the Katrina disaster:

Fuck You, You Fucking Fucks (Warning: Contains the "F Word")

Sinn Fein

American Biafra

I only had a priviledge to meet him briefly at such events as the Krewe du Vieux and the big March on 11 January 2007. I'll miss his wit and wisdom on line.

If you hadn't encountered his writing before, check out his "greatest hits" on the website.
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Two short musical obits I posted elsewhere on LiveJournal:

John Arpin, amazing ragtime pianist

Doc Paulin, trumpeter bandleader; over 100 years old (he may never have been sure when he was born himself).

Speaking of things musical and dating back more than a century:

Via [livejournal.com profile] keeper1st: Recording and playing back a ragtime piano performance on pre-1903 style phonograph cylinder YouTube video

And for more video of old audio technology, check out a way nifty film clip of Duke Ellington making a record in 1937
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Richard B. Allen, jazz historian, mentor, friend, 1927 - 2007

"Allen is not only the curator of the Archive of New Orleans Jazz, but he is, in a sense, the curator of present-day New Orleans jazz itself." -- Whitney Balliett, The New Yorker, 1967

"You left out bon vivant!" -- Dick Allen

Mother

Apr. 2nd, 2007 02:42 pm
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13 November 1930 - 2 April 2007

Missed

Jan. 6th, 2007 02:06 am
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Some tragic deaths here in New Orleans lately.

I didn't know Dinerral Shavers, drummer with the Hot 8 and educator, but I enjoyed hearing him play a number of times. I first heard him while he was still in his early teens at most, the youngest of the band-- my friends and I predicted he'd go far. He was shot by a teen who had an argument with his stepson.


Tad Jones died without violence but with no more sense, falling and hitting his head in a chance accident. He'd been doing important music interviews since his teens, and was nearly done with his book on Louis Armstrong which fellow music historians eagarly anticipated, sure it would far eclypse everything previously published on the subject. I had him on my radio show for the centeniary of Armstrong's birth-- which he discovered the real date of. I won't get to have his erudite presence on a followup show after publication. At least the publisher, family, and friends have made a commitment to see it into print.

I went to his funeral and played with the band on his final trip to the tomb in Metairie Cemetery today.

For a while I wasn't sure I'd be emotionally up to it, as I got news of the shooting of two old friends. Times-Picayune: "Killings bring city to its bloodied knees."

Helen Hill and Paul Gailiunas were, as pretty much everyone who knew them observes, as nice a pair of people as anyone could care to meet. They were shot at their home in Bywater. Last I heard, Paul is in the hospital expected to live; Helen was pronounced dead on the site. They have a 2 year old son.

CartoonBrew tribute to Helen Hill.
Obit in S. Carolina newspaper.
YoniYum post

Tragedy.
Lots of people are shocked and sickened.


At present it is little consolation to note that we all die, but at least these people avoided the even greater tragedy, and LIVED first.
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Film maker Stevenson Palfi, Times-Picayune obit First aquantance among the post-Katrina suicides. A friend of friends. I have happy memories of him at some of the music & discussion salons the late Al Rose used to give. His films are likely to outlive anyone who ever met him. RIP, man.


O'Neil Broyard, owner of Saturn Bar The Saturn Bar in the Upper 9th Ward was one of the city's more bizzare downscale sights -- worth seeing if one's nose could take it. The retro-exterior was one of the local sights used in the film "Ray"; the interior was perhaps too strange for anyone this side of David Lynch. A neighborhood dive bar jam packed with garage sale packrat finds, paintings which alcoholic beatnick artists of generations past used to pay their tab, taxidermy and neon... During the September of Exile, a friend on the phone responded to the news that Bywater was listed as one of the areas flooded with the comment "Well, the Saturn Bar is probably cleaner than it's been in our lifetimes." comments on neworleans livejournal community with link to an interview with "Mr. Neil".

Ciao, Gam

Jun. 19th, 2005 01:09 pm
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My last surviving grandparent is gone.

My maternal grandmother died at age 96. This was not unexpected.

Read more... )
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Last month I mentioned using the phrase "far out" to describe something at a gig.

Well, the situation was when a sax player was invited to play a couple numbers in a band he used to play with.

I should mention he's had problems with alcohol.

He eagerly brought up his horn, but was confused and delusional, generally not being able to follow where in a tune the band was, but playing with considerable enthusiasm and volume.

As he took a vocal on a number that used to be a specialty of his, his arms started shaking severely.

He waundered away with his horn, then back to the band, playing things that didn't go with the music.

He wouldn't stop playing, so we ended the set a early.

He said he was glad to play with us. I told him "It was far out."

Afterwards, one band member wondered if he was having strokes right there on stage. I guessed it was Delirium tremens. It sounds like we were both close, I hear it was likely Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome.

This past week the poor fellow went into a coma. And now he's dead.

Bye, Frank.

It turns out Doc had supplied me with something nice to say to Frank the very last time he played.

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