The Piano with No Black Keys

Last night I played a piano with no black keys, on which the in-between pitches (those elusive F, G, A, C and D sharps) had to be picked out from among the endless stretch of rough white canvas. Then Conan O'Brien appeared, and because I've always fantasized of preforming on his show, I asked if I could play him a tune. Boy, did I know where to place those off color notes. Though he was quick to shake my hand and leave, he pressed a post-it into my babysoft palm before departing. I could tell he really liked it, especially the part where I sang about sleeping with all the nuns from my orphanage. As I watched him bob off, I noticed that Mr. O'Brien was very short, shorter than I was, and I realized then that I must be dreaming. This was after receiving two literary rejection letters (the emails came through as I lay drunk and dozing in bed), and so I think my brain was trying to make up for things. Thanks brain. I owe you one.