Mister Gallimaufry
With apologies to Mister Cash—who will, no doubt, spin in his grave—I intend to belt out “Folsom Prison Blues” for the singing portion of my audition tomorrow night. As for the monologue, I shall perform a few paragraphs from Mister DeLillo’s White Noise . It is a very good thing that the author will not be in attendance. (Not that he is expected.) You see, I am preparing to deliver the piece as Mister Skilling might. You know Mister Skilling. No, not the one who is currently incarcerated over the Enron scandal. The Skilling to which I refer is the legendary meteorologist of “ Chicago’s Very Own ” TV news. There is indeed a reason, albeit semi-logical, for the choice of wielding my world-famous and fiercely disputed (as being world-famous) Skilling impression by way of DeLillo’s written words. (I can’t speak for his spoken words. For starters, I’ve never heard him speak.) Nay, there are, in fact, several semi-logical reasons. (Several at minimum.) But then, there are several semi-lo