The Explanation
(for those who require one)

And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather

Treading the Boards #10


Fred Willard, Carole Shelley and Shimen Ruskin in Little Murders, 1968.

2 comments :

justjack said...

"Ask me 'Knock knock knock.'"

"Don't fool around with me. I got enough pains in my neck. Are you going to say 'Come in?'"

"Ask me 'Knock knock knock'!"

"I know you, you bastard!"

"Ask me 'Knock knock knock'!"

"Knock knock knock!"

"En-TERRRRR!"

estiv said...

From Jules Feiffer to Jay Leno -- I'd hold that against Fred Willard if it weren't for the fact that the whole quasi-intellectual segment of popular culture went downhill as a unit (e.g., Mike Nichols's career as a director). Where else was he going to go?