We’re not the reals..

  

Bob "Frizz" Fuller and Patrick Brayer at the Starvation Café in Fontana, California

Musician Patrick Brayer offers this remembrance:

there is no patchwork desert-songster personification that can be pulled from a hat that can do any other than truncate the life and times of  robert “frizz” fuller / to lay an image out that might begin to tell of the “him” might be, the bathwater warmth of the santa anas frisking a coulter pine, shadowless in in-patient struggle, amidst a bossa nova borax mesa / did he have the eggs of free-range hens and beef brains for easter breakfast? / did he eye the cranes, white nor pink, and carom through the desert by the quartz light of a tiki torch, searching for an imaginary woman, a trailer park figurine, a fatherless child in tow, slung to the hip, the night whipping the drooping flag of a mythic prostitute’s long hair / he once lived briefly at the orange hotel in ontario california, he once took the carpet off up to the cement, painted everything army barracks green, walls, table, salt shaker, everything, and then wrote “martians at the window (and you in my arms)” 

Read the complete remembrance: Frizz Fuller: “we’re not the reals”