Pale Blue Auto-Mobile
You need no ticket to make a place for yourself here where humor, black and otherwise, comes to you from the stage where the human comedy itself is being played, its performance trumping the things dark and tragic and found in the world of literature.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Beyond The Sea

He's mostly remembered for totally blowing a gig back in the sixties and now here he is living in the little clapboard next to the town dump. But of course it's a New England coastal town dump, so it's actually clean. Apparently some sort of seals or something come wiggling out of the surf at night and lick it clean.

Well, I suppose technically they eat a bit too, but it's better not to think of that.

I hear him through the window, this once proud songwriter, and he continues to plink away at the same damn note on the piano. I stand there for a good 15 minutes and it goes on: Plink. Plink. Plink. Finally I go up to his door, knock on it and he appears.

"What's with the same note, over and over?" I ask.

And he says, "Well, it's the right note."
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