Fictional Interviews II / portland organ

"It's mine. I own it," he explains, gesturing towards the organ.

It leans passively against the wall, and when it's turned on, it makes a sound that makes it clear that the portland organ is stressed out. The portland organ has seen better days: that much is obvious.

When he gets drunk and plays the organ, he comes up with these amazing little sermons on life and responsibilities and organ playing technique. His lyrics are like, "I'm a canoe," and shit.

We lined up this interview w/ the Portland organ without his knowledge by leaving mics running in the room. Sucker.

BAI: Portland.
PO: Sir.
BAI: Another round.
PO: Indubitably.

Another round of the finest English porter was brought. We then debated the quality of, and marketing schemes behind, various tobacco cigarettoes.

BAI: Your woman ain't working in the sewing factory I see.
PO: Ayup. She is out with her friends.
BAI: At Jupiter.
PO: Maybe. Why, you wanna go there?
BAI: Lotta hot chicks there.

A helicopter passed by the window outside.

BAI: The helicopter is my spirit animal, you know.
PO: Yes, I've heard that.
BAI: So why don't you record some tracks for us.
PO: Well... recording music is so 1999.
BAI: Touche.
PO: But I suppose one should.
BAI: Maybe you could record the Portland organ in the woods, like 42.
PO: Yeah. Budget please.
BAI: Can't help you.
PO: Well, Tascam it is then.
BAI: You still have a four-track that works? Record on that.
PO: (drinks) It doesn't work.

I couldn't get the conversation back on the topic of the portland organ. Eventually he got up to mix rye and coke and I sat on the organ's bench. It blended seamlessly back into the furniture and then completely disappeared.