It was the luxuriant Miss Sophie Tucker who made this song into an anthem sung by the Eskimos up North to the penguins down South. Do fish salute? Sophie... no one like Sophie before her or since... and during... the only cat who came close was Satchmo, not Jolson. Oh that's chewable. Truly. Early morning, sitting in a cafe in Tivoli in the mystery of suffocating heat in Copenhagen, a city carved as an ice sculpture now melting. Jaws are dropping. Dank air. We were sitting outside because... we were. Hangovers come and go. The heat stays. "340 names?" He had sent me his diary, the list was pinned in the back cover. "340," he said, "and there's probably 100, 150 more, masseuses, hookers." Jobim was not singing. Jobim is not Sophie. "You made notes, you kept track of every woman you had sex with?" "No, I just remember every one, if she had a name, every one from my age 12 to age now. My family, the memories of my family. No time stretch, it's as if it all happened last week. One was a wife for 15 years, one marriage, solo. What did I get from all of that?" I said, you got a lot of sex, a lot of pleasure, a lot of 'here today, gone today'. Early afternoon, still sitting in a cafe in Tivoli, the suffocation is gone the mystery is gone the heat is the heat is the heat. Gertie. Sophie sings... Some of these days You'll miss your honey Some of these days You'll feel so lonely You'll miss my hugging You'll miss my kisses You'll miss me, honey When you go away "Why did she leave you, your wife, 15 years?" He said, No I left her. I left monogamy. In the end she left it too. I hurt her and then she hurt me. Sophie sings... I feel so lonely Just for you only For you know, honey You've had your way And when you leave me I know you'll grieve me You'll miss your little honey Some of these days Sophie was not a 'little' honey, she was a 'big' honey, very. Streaming... Monogamy is not a little hurt, it's a big hurt. It smothers the two with centuries of ignorant religious faith, superstitious faith, romantic blabber, it created the religious mysticism called adultery, it was a power-play by the tribes' top-guns to manage the serfs, no top ever sheathed his gun. "I discovered," he said, "that sex and love were independent of each other: love is love, vital and probably the most significant emotional plateau we brace on. Sex, for all its possible intimacy and deeply private communication is a super pleasure, the wonder in wonderful. It is to be shared and enjoyed." Turn not away, sayeth the dragon, or you will not see your life pass by. Early evening... same cafe, same table, same chairs but it's cooler, darker and cooler. Harry has large bright blue eyes, amazing to me that there isn't the slightest sign of fatigue dimming them after such a long day. Now we're drinking again to defend against the clenching onslaught of all the caffeine, all the Cafe Robusta. The Danes can dark roast with the best of them. "You never married again." Harry said: "I don't believe in marriage, just relationships." "What about the children that sex produces?" "There are some societies, like the Trobiands, where sex is a year-round daily activity and children are raised by the whole village." I'm running out of thoughts to pursue, it's a thoughtless pursuit and the alcohol is smearing it in pastels. Amazing... a water truck is passing by and spraying the street, cleaning the street. I swear there are icicles forming on nearby windows. I swear the climate is turning upside down, inside out. Soon, possible, laughter and happy days in the Arctic and its mate down South. "Why did you send me your diary?" "I have no use for it anymore. I don't look back, don't waste a moment on memories. Life is life in the present." "Harry, you live with a ghost and the ghost is you." "No," he said, "you are the ghost and I am flesh and blood." Sophie sings...