Sunday morning

It ain't the same with Dr. Jazz gone. Cruising back from breakfast at Nobby's this morning, I was listening to the jazz station and although the DJ was playing traditional jazz, without the Dr.'s personality and especially his musical taste, the show wasn't the same, not even close. Sad, sad.

I'd gone to Nobby's wanting to visit with Millie, the waitress who's been serving me damn near 30 years, but she's now working every other Sunday. Try again next week, maybe. I have three favorite spots for breakfast -- Fat City, Golden Touch, Nobby's -- and the latter is the farthest away.

Before the traditional jazz show came on, I heard Doug Baker sing. Such a gentle, pretty voice -- for such a self-destructive character. There's an extraordinary documentary out about him. Anyway, Baker always brings to mind my neighbor in Multnomah Village, 1967, a jazz musician who used to play vibes for George Shearing but who got canned for drugs. He had a trio in town now. His music was soft, gentle, romantic -- and he was another of this self-destructive, over-the-top addict personalities. I recall one morning he came over after being up all night with some drugs to share, which he said was called "rocket fuel." He'd never tried it before, wanted company. I offered him coffee instead, and he declined and went on his way. The difference between this guy's music and personality and lifestyle, like Baker's, was astounding.

If you live long enough and pay attention, nothing in the human arsenal can surprise you any more. No atrocity, no perversion, no heroism, no sacrifice. As my dear late mother used to say, and say often, "People are more interesting than anybody." Yes, she had a bit of Yogi Berra about her.