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I (among other Minor Men) flushed the quarry out. He spelled my name right, too.

I think I went too far in responding to old Stanley and apologized. When we call people out or call them names we're really doing it to ourselves. I'm not sure whether I find that observation about this race of knuckleheads sad or funny. Tragicomic, I guess.

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I (among other Minor Men) flushed the quarry out. He spelled my name right, too.

I think I went too far in responding to old Stanley and apologized. When we call people out or call them names we're really doing it to ourselves. I'm not sure whether I find that observation about this race of knuckleheads sad or funny. Tragicomic, I guess.

It all just reminds me that I wouldn't give old Stanley the fucking time of day. If he sat next to me at the bar, I'd grab my drink and sit in the next room.

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I (among other Minor Men) flushed the quarry out. He spelled my name right, too.

I think I went too far in responding to old Stanley and apologized. When we call people out or call them names we're really doing it to ourselves. I'm not sure whether I find that observation about this race of knuckleheads sad or funny. Tragicomic, I guess.

It all just reminds me that I wouldn't give old Stanley the fucking time of day. If he sat next to me at the bar, I'd grab my drink and sit in the next room.

I don't know, man. Maybe it's my penchant for self-criticism or guilt, and I wouldn't tell you how to live---but I think it's easier to call other people out than look in the mirror. It's even easier to talk shit than play good, as is evidenced by all the wanking opinionating (including my own dumbass chimings in) on the Intraweb.

Besides, the fact that we're all giving Stanley the time of day is proof positive that, like it or not, he gets under our skin. That makes him the winner at this game and a master puppeteer.

Edited by fasstrack
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I may have mentioned this before, but my only in-person encounter with Stanley, aside from a weird phone call from him in which he tried to get me to agree that Lester Bowie was a charlatan, then rang off abruptly when I said that I didn't think so at all, was at the Village Vanguard back in the mid-1980s, on the night Thad Jones the then-new director of the Basie band had made his debut in that role. (I was in town to interview Jones on that occasion, and it proved to be one heck of a long strange funny evening, but that's a story I eventually hope to tell in full, along with other similar ones, within the pages of a book.) In any case, Kenny Burrell was at the Vanguard, Thad wanted to see his old Detroit buddy, so we went. Between sets, Burrell spotted Thad, his face lit up and he began to make his way to Thad's table, but he was intercepted by Stanley, who avidly embraced Burrell and began to shower him with loud, grandiloquent praise while he continued to held Kenny in a vise-like hug -- all of this, it seemed clear to me, designed to proclaim to all present, as though his goal were to assemble a living billboard, that Stanley was on the most of intimate terms with the likes of Burrell. Certainly, Stanley's words of praise were pitched at a level that brought the ears of just about everyone in the room into play. Kenny, I believe, found this scene annoying and embarrassing; I know for sure that Thad and some others at our table (among them Tommy Flanagan) did.

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I (among other Minor Men) flushed the quarry out. He spelled my name right, too.

I think I went too far in responding to old Stanley and apologized. When we call people out or call them names we're really doing it to ourselves. I'm not sure whether I find that observation about this race of knuckleheads sad or funny. Tragicomic, I guess.

It all just reminds me that I wouldn't give old Stanley the fucking time of day. If he sat next to me at the bar, I'd grab my drink and sit in the next room.

I don't know, man. Maybe it's my penchant for self-criticism or guilt, and I wouldn't tell you how to live---but I think it's easier to call other people out than look in the mirror. It's even easier to talk shit than play good, as is evidenced by all the wanking opinionating (including my own dumbass chimings in) on the Intraweb.

Besides, the fact that we're all giving Stanley the time of day is proof positive that, like it or not, he gets under our skin. That makes him the winner at this game and a master puppeteer.

Nah..he just gets on my nerves. I look in the mirror all the time, but this isn't about me.

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I'm just now joining the party, though I hardly seem to have the energy to wade through that lengthy JC thread.

Before I dig in (sooner or later), are we SURE this really IS Stanley Crouch?? Seems like the possibility of an elaborate hoax.

It's Stanley unless Lois doesn't know who she's asking to come to the forum.

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Stanley seems like the kind of guy who enjoys trying to make other guys squeal like a pig.

Well, he must be having a ball with all the attention he is receiving here and at JC because the squealing has been long and loud.

No one is squealing, madame Fuller, and if he is having a ball, it's because the likes of him cares more about being paid attention to than he does about the nature of that attention. His apparently insatiable ego is so inflated that it has taken to the air and made him look down upon us mere mortals. He is a blathering Hindenburg.

BTW, may we ask that you keep your deck of R cards neatly tucked in you bosom? We don't like to play that here.

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Who could read a whole book written in that style? I could never make it through his liner notes, or even this last post.

Anyone here read Manchild in the Promised Land? I have around 60 times since it came out when I was a kid in the Bronze Age. Remember Brown talking about how Johnny D., the pimp and gangster in his bulding taught him about 'gittin' over'?..........

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