The perfect song

I woke up this morning at about 3:15 pm and sure enough there was some buzzed out sorority sister lying naked right next to me. “Get up, you booty short wearing non-debutant!”


She snapped out of her drunken stupor, mascara smudged, and looked at me with surprise.


“How am is the saXXXXX man supposed to compose daring new inventive saXXXXX compositions when you fake blonde communications majors are always trying to flogg my hogg?! Get out!” I began to cook myself a hearty breakfast of three hamburgers and a bowl of molasses oatmeal as she collected her high heeled uggs and frilled skirt.

After she left I stared at my saXXXXX the entire time I ate my meal. I knew I’d need my strength. After I was done, I’d clicked my thirty-two track tape recorder on (I need all thirty two tracks to record at once because if I only record on one track the tape can catch my notes fast enough and some of them spill onto additional reels.) I picked up my sax and began what was a playing style that was surely unique to this universe- no, unique to the multi-verse!

I stole staccato from Sanborn. I took the rolling niotes from Rollins. I picked giant sounds from gEtz. I mashed them all together in a dazzling display of saXXXXX luminosity and began a seventeen hour solo. Sometimes notes were flying out so fast that the sound molecules could not snatch them up fast enough and one note had to piggy back on the air molecule of his parent.

There were times where I didn’t pause to breathe for 45 minutes. One note was so long that my clock actually stopped and waited for the note to end before ticking away another second because if it registered as any longer it would have disrupted the time-quantum relativity field. I invented new sounds that had never been played. My G’s mixed with A’s and my C’s initiated threesomes with D sharp and the slightly effeminate e flat. I buzzed and whirled and whirls and scuzzed. There were sounds coming from my saXXXXX that not only had never been created before, but were so pure they were beyond human ear processining.

Hour after hour I played, at times competently abandoning structure, basing my rhythm on the quotient of pi divided by 7. Other times I was so on the beat that I hit the timing so perfectly it causes the signature bars to move one spot to the left to accommodate my perfectionist playing.

As the hours rolled on I found myself achieving a transcendence! I was eventing new notes! The H-note! The Y-note! Even the 17 and a half note! At some point I lost all connection with the physical world and my saXXXXX and I merged, creating surely what was either the voice of God, or at least what is in his iPod.

Sometime later I blew so hard that the bell of my saXXXXX exploded off the instrument and blasted through the wall, damaging a nearby passing helicopter. But at that point, it didn;’t matter- my saXXXXX had been rendered useless until I could repair it, but I had recorded what not even Charlie Parker could have done- Over the past 37 hours, I had created saXXXXX music divine.

I went to listen to the playback on my tape from the session when horror struck. My notes had been so good that they had blown the fuse on my recording system causing it to light on fire and burn the tape to ashes.

Despondant, I wandered out into the hallway of my apartment building, pondering one all encapsulating plunge. Then my neighbor, Jim Falkin, tapped my on my shoulder. He had been suffering from the final stages of kidney failure, but now h seem sprite and vigorous. “Tom, you won’t believe what happened!” Jim slapped me on the back, “Last night, my kidneys grew back! I’m 100% healthy!” He smiled and walked away, chugging a handle of Jim Bean.

Next my other neighbor, Anthony Wilkes smiled and handed me a coffee. The spots over his faced had faded and his usually fail body had seemingly grown new muscle. “Tom, my AIDS has been cured! I woke up this morning and found that I felt so much better! The doctor says he has never seen anything like it before! Oh wonderful day!”

On my way out the apartment lobby, I ran into Judi, the gruff lesbian who lived above my unit. For some reason, she had replaced her form hiding men’s dress shirt with a v-neck blouse and her Sears-brand slacks had been removed in-lieu of a curve highlighting Dolce and Gabbana “A-line skirt.” Her no nonsense cropped mullet had grown out into luxurious silky locks and she had replaced her thick rimmed glasses with ocean colored eyes. “Tom,” she allowed herself a wry smile, “Won’t you come up to my apartment? I’ve been dying to learn about jazz and try out some new wine I’ve had imported from Italy.”