Sippican Cottage

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A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything

A Voice That Would Scarcely Reach The Second Story Of A Dollhouse

My MP3 player freaked out at some digital outrage, probably visited on my Fronkenshteen pixelbox by my inquisitive son, and I had to press the big button that goes all Carthage on its ass. I lazily swept the dustbin of songs on my desktop back into it, and the juxtapositions are jarring, to say the least. My wife says if she hears “Freddie’s Dead” one more time, Freddie’s going to have company.

I don’t need a lot of entertainment while I’m working because I never hear much of it. The machines and the earmuffs drown it out, so I can listen to the same old stuff over and over.

Blossom Dearie appeared during a ceasefire, and I actually stopped for a moment and listened to it. It’s like applause, except she’s dead and I just glued something instead of clapping. But the sentiment was there for a fleeting moment. Hope it carries her another furlong through the hearafter… er, hereafter.

I like the mistake better.

4 Responses

  1. My, my, my. Ain't she somethin?

    One of the things that you eventually learn about volume is that if what you're putting down is worth listening to, people will quiet down for the privilege of hearing it. It's been a great challenge for somebody with a voice the size of mine to learn to dial it down, but the rewards are incalculable.

    Blossom Dearie made generations of horn players sit up and pay attention. What a great find indeed, and thanks for reminding me of this great, great artist.

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