Theodore Putala
The View from Above (and Down in the Groove)
There’s the thought, maybe I should grow out of my MacGowan loving phase anyway… for my own good. Grow up, as my brother tells me sometimes.
This is about living, and open mic nights, and playing “Rainy Night in Soho.” Not knowing when the song will end, or what lies next…
Wednesday night, after changing mom for the second time, always a protest, an insult, a scoff, a sarcasm, “you’re such a prince…” huff, a mumble as I leave her room, I got down to the open mic night. It’s a straight shot down the road. I’ve had one beer. Have eaten earlier. It’s a straight shot, except for two corners close to the house, streets for driving 25 mph, quiet. I’m not even going to play anything. But I’ll bring the guitar, putting it in the back corner of the large banquet room of Bridie Manor overlooking the wide churning Oswego river, dark in the night like motor oil reflecting the streetlamps of the bridge.
Irish Wake
Shane MacGowan in corner, strumming a guitar:
Oh, Kitty, my darling, remember,
that the doom will be mine, if I stay,
’tis far better to part though it’s hard to,
than to rot in their prison away…
Lincoln, sitting silently, chin in hand, leaning slightly forward, just like the portrait painted of him.
Enter Kennedy, walking in, as if to a press conference, but slightly slower. Lincoln, after a pause, as Kennedy stops, as if to look around: “You too? Well, that’s okay. I was kind of expecting you anyway.” Lincoln rises. Reaches to shake hands. “You look good. Welcome.”