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Chuffed, I am!

Picture taken by the the significant other.

I realize the timing for this entry is as odd as it gets, but then again: life has proven itself to be stranger than fiction on most every occasion.

Just in case you’re wondering who the hell Jimmy Carl Black is: well, here he is playing the drums in a fantastic version of Frank Zappa’s King Kong:

Early in the morning of August 27, Gaby’s dad passed away.

As I write this, Gaby’s on that flight, crossing the Atlantic.

Fridi’s lust for life was incredible and will always be an inspiration for me.

A memory I will cherish forever. The first time he came over to Belgium was also the first time we met in person. At that point, Gaby was already living with me.

One grey snowy day the two of us were walking down the street and he all of a sudden came to a halt. Fridi looked at me solemnly, grabbed my right hand, and spoke to me in Spanish. “Mano” was about the only word I understood — my Spanish was pretty much non-existent at the time. When he finished, he gave me a faux stern look, and I grinned sheepishly and uttered “si, si, heh heh!”

When we arrived home, I told Gaby as best I could what he had been talking to me about, even though I hadn’t understood most of what he had said. She smiled for a moment, then responded: “He meant to tell you: ‘I hereby offer you the hand of my daughter.’”

I’ll miss you much Fridi, as will countless others.

Last year, these two weeks were marked by the loss of Emma. As such they were recovery days rather than holidays.

This year things are different, though strangely similar. Gaby’s again pregnant, over six months now. We’ve been lucky. The kid’s a kicker, and so far he’s passed all the hurdles that come with a pregnancy. His big sister, no doubt, is watching over him. It looks like, three months from now, I am going to be a dad. I’m elated, scared shitless, and anxiously awaiting the month of November.

Yesterday, we got news that Gaby’s dad is not doing well. As in: “this may well not last too long.” Cancer is an ugly son of a bitch. Treacherous. Vile. Merciless.

As my two weeks of holiday commence, we find ourselves hunting down cheap airplane tickets to Argentina. To be there and, perhaps, to say goodbye. And with every new belly kick, we are reminded that there is new life awaiting us. Coming back.

Come November.

Frank Zappa on Varèse:

[...] the thing that is fantastic about what he wrote for normal instruments is that he got sounds out of them that nobody had dreamed of before. For instance, “Deserts”, which is probably the starkest of the pieces in terms of the way they deal with the raw material, there’re special overblown chords that produce difference tones, which you wouldn’t be able to get any other way – you know what I’m talking about? If you take two intervals and play them very loudly on a woodwind instrument – for instance, this one spot where two piccolos are playing either a Major second or minor second apart, very high octave – when you blow it real hard you hear a third note that’s not there. To know in advance what’s going to come out and to plan your composition to achieve effects like that was something that people just hadn’t thought of doing before.

Click to enlarge:

Poster for a barber-shop singing camp aimed at (American!) teenagers. Gaby was in charge of the hairdo’s and the typography whilst I spent a Saturday afternoon drawing open mouths of various persuasions. Fun!

My favourite is the blue-scalped Goth, though it must be said the dorky “Will Someone Release Me From These Dumbass Glasses” kid has a certain je ne sais quoi as well.