"GOOD EVENING. . ." He peered beyond Storyville's spotlights. "Charlie, turn the mike down." Charlie left a ringside table, yanked his beard, swivelled some dials, and clipped off a few decibels from the loudspeaker.

The man in the spotlight then smiled and introduced Mort Sahl, "The world's only working philosopher."

Mort made his way through the tables and on to the stage, his crimson, V-necked sweater glistening in the light. He wore an unbuttoned, button-down shirt, a few hairs showing at the opening near his throat. He was from California.

He then launched into a discussion of the "philosopher" from M.I.T. who stole $18,000 because he felt rejected, defined modern day isolationists ("Let's pick up our water and get out of the canal"), and explicated the credo of the modern radical ("I am going to change the world. . .as soon as I get dad's permission."

He discussed every article in the Daily Record at rapid pace, returning to his themes from time to time. He forgot the paper for a while to recall a meeting at the University of California of the poetry club, when Truman Capote spoke.

As he recalled it, Capote flew up from Hollywood to read a selection ("realistic") from his works. The club was perfectly still in its awe as Capote began, "Grass." The poet waited several minutes, then said, "Green grass." The audience was thrilled. Capote caught their fever, "Green grass growing." Rapport was complete, reader and audience were exhausted with the beauty and strength of the poem, but Capote gathered himself for a final burst, "Blades of green grass growing in a meadow."

Sahl said that after this, the club president recited one of his works, of the "neo-realistic school." Sahl heard only a word of it before he left the meeting. It was "Weeds'."

The audience liked Mort. Those who didn't find him funny found him interesting. Mort is a young man, intensely serious, very sensitive, and able to laugh at himself and the world. No mean feat.