Callum Z. Blabber has had some time off this week, from the daily grind of updating former and current guests of Loveless Motel, or luring new ones. Far from getting away as originally planned, he's found himself stuck in his Aluminum City quarters, going through old boxes of shit he should have tossed years ago, cleaning cat boxes in "the cat room", and otherwise busying himself while his money sits unspent in his surprisingly healthy trust fund. His guilty pleasure, pursuit of a latent career in cabaret as a one man band has been on hold but he's even carved out a few hours of time to practice, despite the complaints of his nearby neighbors who complain that the thin tin can walls of a trailer seem to amplify the sound. He's shrugged off the complaints and invited a few of the biggest complainers in for drinks and mini-concerts, and things have calmed down. His medley of Piaf tunes is particularly popular - he brings some of his pals to tears with his version of Non, je ne regrette rien, but they liven back up when he transitions to L'Accordeoniste. Some of the guys are Certified Hustlers - it's like being in home territory. Since he can't sing and play the harmonica simultaneously, he hands out lyric sheets. It's a fucking party!
Of late, he's taken a few cat naps, something he looks forward to on a daily basis, because he's been having a series of wild dreams in vivid color. Not an imbiber of some of the drugs that float around the social hangouts around the resort, he's not quite sure what the source of the dreams are; there seem to be no familiar faces, and definitely no situations - just outrageous situations far out of reach of even some of the creations of Snap Wadmacher at Shutter Bug Camera Shop, but he's not too worried.
Maybe he'll be able to use some of what he can remember as Loveless Tourist Rag fodder the next time he has to come up with a marketing campaign. Time for another nap.
HEY CAL! WAKE UP BUDDY! WE'RE CLOSING FOR AN HOUR SO THE SPOOGE PATROL CAN COME IN AND HOSE THE PLACE OUT!
Begrudgingly he snaps out of his dream, looks around and sees empty chairs around him, and the houselights up at the little movie theater at After Midnight Arcade. "How long have I been sitting here?" "Buddy, you've been sitting here asleep for 8 hours,6 showings of this flick, your dick is hanging out and you're startin' to smell a little...better get a move on. See ya around. Can't wait to read your story about this one, Cal!"
The accordionist
The prostitute is beautiful (lit. Girl of pleasure)
Over there on the corner
She has a client
Who fills her stockings up (pays)
When her job is done
She goes on her way
Looking for a bit of dreams
At a dancehall in the suburbs
Her man is an artist
He's a strange, little guy
An accordionist
Who knows how to play the java (a dance)
She hears the java
But she doesn't dance
She doesn't even look at the dancefloor
And her loving eyes
Follow the vigorous playing
And the wiry, long fingers of the artist
It gets under her skin
From the bottom, from the top
She has the urge to sing, it's physical
All of her being is tensed
Her breath is held
it's a work of art shaped by the music
The prostitute is sad
Over there on the corner
Her accordionist
Left to be a soldier
When he comes back from war
They will have a house
She will be the cashier
And he will be the boss
How beautiful life will be
They'll be true big-shots
And every night for her
He'll play the java
She hears the java
That she hums softly
She looks again at her accordionist
And her loving eyes
Follow the vigorous playing
And the wiry, long fingers of the artist
It gets under her skin
From the bottom, from the top
She has the urge to cry, it's physical
All of her being is tensed
Her breath is held
It's a work of art shaped by the music
The prostitute is alone
Over there on the corner
The girls who are sulking
The men don't want
And too bad if she dies
Her man is never coming back
Farewell to all of those beautiful dreams
Her life is fucked
Nevertheless her tired legs
Take her to the dive (dancehall)
Where there's another artist
Who plays all night long....
She hears the java
She listens to the java...
She closes her eyes...
Those wiry, vigorous fingers
It gets under her skin
From the bottom, from the top
She has the urge to yell out, it's physical
And so to forget
She begins to dance, to turn
To the sound of the music...
