CHAPTER 1: EPIPHANY (INTERRUPTUS)

IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR THE BEAUTIFUL blonde sitting starknaked in that vintage '59 Cadillac Eldorado convertible at the corner of Hollywood & Vine this novel1 would probably never have been written.

Footnotes

1 Since this book is 100% factual, it is technically inaccurate to describe it as a "novel." Ordinarily, of course, such a minor semantic discrepancy wouldn't warrant a footnote (and surely not one of this magnitude). But to protect my credibility from even the slightest hint it might be tainted I'm determined to leave no stone unturned in attaining that crucial objective. Therefore I've taken the unusual step of digressing at some considerable length from my principal narrative at this early stage to fully explain why my truthful account of the Klutz Affair begins on what might appear to be a fatally false note.
     As I've said: The story you are about to read couldn't be truer. In most cases such an unambiguous statement would be sufficient to settle the seemingly simple issue of in which literary genre this book belongs. Unfortunately, however, the once straightforward word "story" itself has fallen victim to the vagaries afflicting the English language in this Era of Pseudospeak (a phrase I coined in response to the recent proliferation of such evasive conversational maneuvers as the substituting of lifestyle for life, role model for hero, credibility for veracity, etc.). Hence the words "true story" are now commonly (mis)understood to be an oxymoron—or worse yet—a typically misleading statement made by some sleazy author seeking to protect himself from allegations of literary malpractice when his readers discover they've purchased a work of pure fiction they were induced to believe was entirely factual.
     The "cultural" community has responded to this trend in consumer cynicism by repackaging its wares under a variety of clever new brand names. Thus we have the "docudrama," the "photographic painting," cinema "verité" and, most notably, the "nonfiction" novel—as mass merchandised by the entrepreneurial likes of Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, Tom Wolfe and Gore Vidal. The term "nonfiction novel" was coined to create the impression that, while a certain amount of fictional sugar is still required to coat the bitter pill of literary truth, unlike the purely nonfactual novels of yesteryear, penned by such "notoriously" imaginative writers as Rabelais, Chaucer and Melville, the "modern" product is rooted inextricably in the gut(ter) reality of 20thcentury life. The fly in this bestselling salve is, obviously, that even the most fanciful novels of the past—Swift's Gulliver's Travels or Kafka's Metamorphosis for example—emanated, consciously or otherwise, from the actual world in which their authors lived. Similarly, we can see in the most flamboyant of Picasso's "abstract" paintings and sculpture the unmistakable vestiges of the visceral environment that inspired them (ie., his "Head of a Bull," built from the handlebars and saddle of a common bicycle). What Swift, Kafka and Picasso were trying to tell us is: That from the first cave paintings and earliest storytelling until recent times, art was viewed as being that part of nature which, in the divine scheme of things, man is endowed with the unique ability to create—just as the beaver is born to build his dams.
     But that was before the onset of the Industrial Revolution, when humanity in general began its slide down the slippery slope of cybernetic enthrallment. As for the decline of artistic prestige, there is not much doubt it began with the advent of the printing press and moveable type. Not only were the once venerable scribe and calligrapher priced out of the publishing business, their economic injuries were compounded by the insult that by definition their handwritten transcriptions were inferior to those being massproduced by the very mechanical contraptions responsible for their redundancy! For painting, of course, it was the arrival of photography on the technological scene that sealed its doom. Overnight the graphic artist lost his pictorial reason for being—and ever since has been fighting for a lost cause in his futile attempt to convince a skeptical public that, as Picasso put it: "Art is everything photography isn't," and "One of my paintings is worth a thousand of your snapshots."

A much more insidious industrial innovation, but one of far greater consequence to all artists, was the technology making the production of interchangeable parts possible (it is to the Moron's credit, I think, that they have never quite mastered the practice of this exacting science) and its application to the manufacture of everything from 6shooters to atomic bombs (it was, incidentally, the coinage of that supremely ironic word—manufacture—which prompted me to coin the supremely counterironic Pseudospeak). Interchangeability requires all parts to be produced within tolerances of 3 or 4 decimal points—margins of error that, prior to the mid19thcentury, were quite unthinkable. In practical terms this means every part must be absolutely identical to every other part of the same description. This concept of producing an infinite number of exact replicas wasn't only an industrial watershed, its implication of perfectibility sent shockwaves throughout the artistic world. Henceforth the degree of truth and/or beauty reflected in the work of composers, playwrights and novelists would no longer be measured by the primitive thermometer of human emotion—or the divining rods of critics and reviewers—but by a micrometer calibrated in thousandths of an inch!
     The result of this fascination with flawlessness can be seen in the way contemporary films, television programs and musical events are recorded in an endless series of takes and retakes until the last microscopic blemish is removed from the final product. With the Space Age conversion from analog to digital data processing and the subsequent domination by the compact disc, computeraided design and desktop publishing over the cruder methods by which artists traditionally crafted their work, this relentless pursuit of perfection has reached such a fanatical degree of exactitude that any audio/visual phenomenon expressed in nonbinary terms is regarded as congenitally defective—as if the curvilinear contours of Mother Nature herself were to be viewed with the gravest misgivings for their lack of programmability! And God forbid that we should ever hear a rogue note escaping from the bosom of some invincible diva—or see a filmstar stumble over a line (or a prop!). In the New World Order of mathematical precision such manifestations of human fallibility are strictly verboten! Banished forever from our Electronic Eden are the telltale brushstrokes of a van Gogh canvas, the nostalgic surface noise (and beguiling distortions) of a mechanicallyrecorded Caruso platter—not to mention the virtuosic improvisations one occasionally had the good fortune to witness when television shows were broadcast live.
     The effect on literature of this crusade to expel the analog infidels from the Jerusalem of digital orthodoxy has been no less demoralizing. After all, despite its mellifluous pronunciational trappings, "literature" is nothing more than a high class synonym for fiction. And "fiction" has come to be synonymous with everything that isn't considered legitimate, truthful, wholesome, valid and, in general, culturally correct. For the average novelist writing the average novel this doesn't present a serious problem. Throughout its history the novel has been held in greater disrepute than all other artforms because of its overtly fraudulent character (and the proclivity of novelists to bite the hand that feeds them by, among other things, ridiculing the literary taste of their readers). But being no average novelist (and about to write what was certainly no average novel!) for me the de facto criminalization of literature was a matter of profound concern. As I indicated at the outset of this footnote: without your complete faith in my credibility there is no hope the facts I am about to reveal concerning the Klutz Affair will produce the radical transformation of human consciousness they were divinely ordained to so do.
     It was in this highly problematical context I sought to find some magic nomenclature that would distinguish my genuinely "true story" from the common herd of "nonfiction novels." But after ransacking every thesaurus I could lay my hands on proved futile, I had to face the fact there was no really viable option but to call this book a novel. By boldly seizing the initiative in this way I have also effectively preempted my critics from pointing out that: If a book looks like a novel, is written in the style of a novel and reads like a novel, it's not unreasonable to assume it is a novel. Still (as the more sophisticated reader will no doubt have noticed) I did manage to encrypt several clues to the literary nature of my book within the neoBaroque architecture of its manifestly nonnovelistic (long) title. But even if calling this most unconventional of bestsellers a "novel" is perceived as my capitulation to orthodoxy it seeks to eradicate;capitulation to the attitudinal orthodoxy it seeks to eradicate, doing so also has the effect of revalidating the credo by which its hero lived—and for which he died—namely: That every Moron is capable of living his or her life as if it were a work of art.
     Hence it can be argued that, rather than constituting a craven act of cowardice, advertising this Revolutionary Manifesto & SocioCultural Wakeup Call as a novel was in fact a discreet (and not entirely unvalorous) act of pragmatism by which I have managed to issue a call to arms, trumpet a battle cry, and silently fire an ideological shot that will resonate around the globe! In short: If I have indeed successfully cloaked this Civilizationsaving Literary Masterpiece in the dustjacket of what appears to be a trashy bestseller, I will at least have penetrated the brick wall of a mass mindset that has been systematically (mis)educated on the psycho/social perils of accepting gift horses from Trojans (or manifestos masquerading as light reading from American "novelists").

HAVING come this far with me, you must (or should!) be asking yourself why I seem to be so completely paranoid on the subject of my credibility. Let me answer that question by asking you: Is not any "paranoia" I might be suffering from fully justified by the fact the intrinsic problems associated with writing a controversial book of this magnitude at my advanced age have been made that much more insurmountable by a global conspiracy to make their solution impossible? [See Appendix L for Salman Rushdie's expert testimony on this matter.] But setting aside for the moment your concerns over the state of my mental health, let us deal with the first of these "insurmountable" problems; one that involves nothing less than proving the very existence of the country where the amazing events chronicled in Morons Awake! took place!
     Throughout its 5800year history Moronia's status as an independent geopolitical and cultural entity has always been ambiguous at best. The principal reason for this is, of course, its size—or the lack thereof. Mapmakers are (understandably) reluctant to confer the mantle of statehood on a socalled "nation" whose borders, even at the "crest of its Imperial Wave," never encompassed an area of more than 13.4 square miles. Given the fact its name would occupy a space considerably larger than it would, we shouldn't be surprised if Moronia doesn't appear on the maps of medieval Europe. [In defense of those early mapmakers it must be mentioned that for much of its history Moronia was one of the more expendable pawns repeatedly sacrificed in the territorial chessgame played by the Persians, Greeks, Romans and Mongols.] Prior to 1454, the year Ambrose the First proclaimed himself "King of the Morons," it is probably true that "Moronia" was nothing more than another of feudal Europe's multitudinous ethnic enclaves—whose nationalistic aspirations rose to a height approximating that of the familiar turnip hills still dotting the Moronic countryside at harvest time. It wasn't until the reign of Ambrose XIII ("The Ferocious" 1612-31) and the establishment of the Moronic Defence Forces that Moronia enjoyed a degree of independence which might entitle it to a suitably modest claim of geographic fame.
     Unfortunately this scarcity of cartographic evidence to support my claim that Moronia is indeed a genuine microstate also extends into the postmedieval era. And, even in the Age of Enlightenment the Morons were always something of an embarrassment to those mapmakers seeking to perpetuate the myth that, since Europe was the cradle of Western Civilization, by virtue of their birthplace alone all Europeans enjoyed an intellectual and cultural superiority over those unlucky enough to be born in any of the globe's other 5 continents. While the exact reasons for it are still something of a chicken&egg enigma, the pejorative connotations universally associated the racial epithet "moron" have a history dating back at least to Darius the Great of Persia (492 B.C.)—so it is more or less understandable that even the most conscientious cartographers in this modern era of geopolitical egalitarianism have allowed their objectivity to become swayed by the ageold prejudice against everything remotely Moronic.  And, after several millennia of being invaded, pillaged and sacked (the absence of rape from this otherwise standard litany of microstatic horrors is explained in the chapter on Moronic Sex Life, Vol. VI of my History of the Morons)—not to mention the unrelenting ridicule they have endured for the alleged deficit in their cranial capacity—is it any wonder the Morons themselves are quite content to have their country expunged from the world's atlases—and thereby keep the secret of their existence (as wells as the Neanderthallike configuration of their foreheads) safely hidden safely under their hats?
     The best (and only) "documentary" evidence I've been able to procure on this issue of Moronia's actuality is the map I am including as Appendix M to this book—a map admittedly drawn from my memory; but, having spent 50 years exploring every square inch of its landscape I think I'm entitled to make the claim of knowing Moronia's geography as well as I do the back of my hand.
     On those rare occasion when Moronia is mentioned in print or casual conversation it is always in an allegorical context, not unlike such other mythic fairylands as Shangri-la, Herland, Lilliputia, Camelot, Atlantis and Oz.  In Moronia's case, however, its allegorical connotations are anything but flattering. It's name is rarely invoked except as a metaphor to describe a society comprised of incompetents, fools, knaves, lowbrows and cultural hooligans—and one whose most elite citizens pride themselves on the distance between the bridge of their nose and the point at which their hairline begins. It's true that with the thawing and end of the Cold War the Morons began to emerge from their paranoid shells. In 1990 Moronia not only sent a team of thumbtwiddlers to the Olympics—it managed to win a bronze medal in that exotic sport. But it's also true every trace of this historic exploit has been deleted from the official files of the International Olympic Committee as part of the global conspiracy to prevent the writing of this book! Similarly, the dressrehearsal visit of president Kennedy to Moronia prior to his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech in what was then West Berlin is totally missing from the historical record of that period. And, while the Annual Moronic Turnip Bowl has featured famous teams like the Chicago Bears, Denver Broncos and Los Angeles Raiders, the NFL insists they appear incognito—wearing the uniforms and assuming the names of such local favorites as the Moronville Hammerheads and Cretin City Imbeciles.
     Moreover, while Moronia enjoys a thriving tourist trade (all things being relative, in Moronic terms anything exceeding 75 foreign visitors per annum is considered a banner year) the testimony of these eyewitnesses on the matter of Moronia's existence is scarcer than hen'steeth.  Aside from the conspiratorial efforts of customs officials to debrief their returning nationals, in my own experience as Ambassador, those Americans who add Moronia to their European itineraries are extremely reluctant to reveal their reasons for so doing.  Their invariably evasive response to my overt (and surreptitious) inquiries was: "We're here by mistake," or, "We appear to be the victims of our bloody travel agent's incompetence" or, "I've no idea why I am wherever it is you say I seem to be."  The truth is, of course, all those who come to Moronia do so for only one purpose: To see for themselves the land of their Moronic ancestry!

THIS brings us to what is possibly the major reason why Moronia's existence has been (and remains) one of life's most impenetrable mysteries. Like Ireland and Poland, Moronia suffers from a chronic case of brain drainage. Since it first became possible to do so (see Chap. 48, Vol. IX, History of the Morons for an elaboration of the radical effect Roman roadbuilding had on the provincialism of the Moronic mentality) the best & brightest Morons have always sought to improve their prospects by putting as much distance as they possibly could between themselves and their birthplace (see ibid for an exegesis on the comparative effect on Irish, Polish and Moronic genepools resulting from the chronic skimming of their intellectual cream). The Moronic brain drain was accentuated during the turnipfamines of the 17thcentury with the result that dozens (a number of considerable statistical significance in Moronia's microcosmic scheme of things) of Moronia's most enterprising citizens made their way to Australia, South Africa, Canada and, of course, America.  Having adopted English as its national language in 1627 by virtue of Ambrose XV's admiration for Shakespeare (since 1512, when Ambrose III toured England as an anthropological curiosity, every Ambrosian prince has been educated at Eton and/or Cambridge) most Morons have emigrated to countries that were once part of the British Empire. The influx of Morons during our own colonial period partially explains the Special (but always furtive) Relationship that has existed between our nation and theirs since the pilgrims first set foot on Plymouth Rock. As a matter of fact, one of the Mayflower's Moronic crewmen jumped ship to marry a buxom puritan wench (aptly named Duggsanne D'arse); but this intriguing tale of miscegenational romance has—it should come as no surprise—been erased from our New England history books by a cabal of editorial silence much older than the one now operating against me.
      There were also the Revolutionary War exploits of General Ignatz Cloots who, in addition to his military talents (it was he who first taught us to shoot at the Redcoats from behind trees) brought with him the seeds and secrets of Moronic turnipculture that turned the nutritional tide at Valley Forge and enabled Washington's army to march forth thereafter on a stomach filled with that most mundane of mannas the Morons call their "Root of Life." Like most MoronAmericans (he was posthumously awarded U. S. citizenship in one of Washington's first Presidential acts) Cloots' contributions to the making of America have been swept neatly under a rug of racial bigotry.
     Americans of Moronic ancestry have also occupied more than one seat on the U. S. Supreme Court (can there be any doubt the Dred Scott decision was the work of a Moron?), in both houses of Congress, the boardrooms of many, if not most, of our major corporations and the Chancellor's office of more than a few IvyLeague colleges. Notwithstanding these distinguished achievements, most Americans are anything but eager to acknowledge the presence of Moronic skeletons in their genealogical closets—or hanging from a branch of their family tree). Nevertheless, during my recent travels through the 48 states I've managed to obtain several sworn and notarized affidavits from a few intrepid souls willing to admit they were dyedinthewool Morons. By the time you read this book those documents will no doubt have come under attack as being a hoax. [As a matter of fact they've been suppressed by our lawyers.—J. P.]  And I certainly won't be surprised if those brave souls who provided me with them are coerced into recanting their testimonials—or claim they were "led astray" by my "devious way with words." As with everything else in this book, I will leave it for you to decide whether or not the items in question resound with the unimpeachable ring of pure truth.
     Of course none of the problems associated with establishing Moronia's existence I've discussed so far would be nearly so intractable (or vexatious) were it not for the cooperation of the Morons themselves in the conspiracy to cover up the Klutz Affair. How simple it would be for anyone doubting my claims to merely pick up a telephone and place a call to The Tourist Board of Greater Moronia, The Moronic Chamber of Commerce or any ordinary Moron listed in the Moronville telephone directory! Unfortunately a solution of such simplicity didn't escape the attention of Moronia's Federal Investigation Bureau (FIB). Within hours of learning I intended to blow the lid off the Klutz Affair FIB Director Jedgar Ballbraker ordered a Code Purple Alert—thereby putting the entire Moronic telephone system into a "counterespionage mode" by which all incoming and outgoing calls are routed via the exchange of a sympathetic microstate; where they can be monitored for clues as to my whereabouts. Shortly after escaping I did try to reach a few of my more intimate Moronic acquaintances—only to be told by the operator that: "All the lines to Moronia were temporarily out of service." On all subsequent occasions I've been informed the destination I was calling didn't exist! But once again: I will let you be the judge. The Moronic telephone directory (as reconstructed from my photographic memory) has been included in this book as Appendix O; thereby providing you with the opportunity to dial any number of your choosing— with only this caveat: All calls to Moronia originating from the United States are connected directly to a CIA counterintelligence team operating from a basement office in the State Department. Consequently I strongly urge you to use a public phone; and one from which you can make a quick getaway; unless you want to put my "paranoid" allegations of an international antiMorons Awake! conspiracy to the acid test by deliberately risking your own arrest, prosecution and neck simply to prove whether or not I'm making all of this up. [Once again, alas, our legal department has put its foot down on this appendix to "protect the privacy rights of innocent Morons."—J. P.]
     But securing the telephone system was only one of the emergency steps Ballbraker took to isolate Moronia from the outside world. For a Moron of his slightly less than average intelligence, imposing a nationwide communications blackout in this age of ubiquitous satellitedishes and miniaturized radio/TV receivers wasn't quite as difficult as it might at first seem. In 1940 the Gestapo outlawed the use of private radios in what was then Nazioccupied Moronia to hinder the operations of the Moronic Resistance Movement (MRM). Consequently, throughout WWII the Morons received all their news from speakers wired directly to the Propaganda Ministry's Broadcasting House. With the Soviet "liberation" of Moronia in 1945 the KGB found it advantageous to maintain the status quo of such a tightlycontrolled communication system.  And when television became a fact of Moronic life in 1950 every screen was similarly tethered by coaxial cable to the Propaganda Ministry's tightly controlled programming hub. When the KGB exited as part of the Soviet withdrawal from Moronia in 1955, they left their protege, Ballbraker, behind (as the Gestapo had done in '45) to become the first dyedinthewool Moron FIB Chief. As a "temporary" measure for insuring Moronia's domestic tranquillity during its delicate transition to being a neutral microstate located in the noman's land separating the cold war superpowers, Ballbraker retained the NaziSoviet ban against all wireless communication. Consequently it didn't require a PhD in national security matters to perfect the incommunicado status in which Moronia sought to wrap itself during the best of times.

HAVING by now hopefully persuaded you to at least consider the possibility of Moronia's existence, it is time to deal with the questions that will have been raised upon the publication of Morons Awake! concerning the bonafides of my own identity! Failing to "neutralize" me before I could finish writing this exposé of the Klutz Affair, my conspiratorial persecutors must now attempt to assassinate my character with an allout campaign of misinformation that will probably be orchestrated along the following lines:

1. While admittedly Morons Awake! might now and then strike a minor chord of truth concerning the current state of civilizational affairs it is clearly a work of fiction—and as such should be liberally dosed with salt by anyone foolish enough to read it.

2. As evidenced by the "biographical" material contained in Morons Awake! itself, the selfportrait of "Mordecai J. Goldberg" that emerges is of a man whose claims to being what he himself asserts are manifestly unbelievable for the reasons specified hereafter, namely that:

(a) All State Department Foreign Service employees are, contrary to what is stated in Morons Awake!, mandatorily retired by policy and Federal statute at the age of 60;

(b) Assuming "Moronia" is in fact a country—and one with which the United States has diplomatic relations—the notion that any intelligent person could (or would) have served as its American Ambassador for 50 consecutive years is, on its face, a conceit and an absurdity;

(c) The sheer brilliance with which Morons Awake! has been written proves beyond any reasonable doubt it cannot be a first novel, and;

(d) Even if, by some miraculous exception to the foregoing rule, it was a bestselling first novel it certainly couldn't have been written by a septuagenarian for the simple reason that, as everyone knows, no man in his mid70's has written—or ever will write—a bestselling first novel.

3. Any objective reading of Morons Awake! must result in one (or more) of the following statements about its author being true, to wit; That "Mordecai J. Goldberg is:

(a) An unproduced playwright seeking to blame his lifetime of failure on the socalled "decline" of the civilization that so obstinately refuses to appreciate his theatrical "genius;"

(b) A former cardcarrying communist who, with the demise of Marxism, hopes to promote a new form of utopian ideology in which the cultural proletariat becomes sufficiently sophisticated to appreciate the kind of literature (as epitomized by Morons Awake!) only high browed authors of his elitist ilk are "divinelyinspired" to write;

(c) A sexual psychopath whose perverted modus operandi consists of treating his readers as if they were personally participating with him in a "literary love affair;"

(d) A cheap publicityseeker hoping to cash in on the current feeding frenzy among those of the geriatric set who console themselves by reading "deluge" novels in which a wrathful God extinguishes the bonfire of 20thcentury vanities with a suitably apocalyptic flood shortly after their own alltoobrief candles have (mercifully) burnt themselves out;

(e) A frustrated teacher, student or parent excoriating the entire educational establishment for its role in America's deintellectualization;

(f) An Oscar/Pulitzer/Nobelprizewinning author of bestselling novels, plays, films and primetime television shows who inexplicably feels the urge to vent his misanthropic spleen on the entire human race for the annoying habit it has of celebrating its own mediocrity with cliches like, "If God didn't share the average American's (or Bolivian's, Frenchman's, Syrian's, etc.) antiIntellectualism why did he make so many of us?" or, "Since all men are created equal their opinions about everything, including art, are as valid as any expressed by those proclaiming themselves to be 'experts' simply by virtue of their lifelong dedication to the study of those socalled 'laws and principles' of aesthetics."

     Ironically my success in avoiding capture throughout the 5 years it took to write Morons Awake! by assuming a false identity has contributed in no small measure to the difficulties I now face in reestablishing my previous persona. Since it was necessary to wipe away almost every vestige of my former self in order to masquerade as an ordinary, lawabiding American citizen it is turning out to be much more difficult than I imagined it would be to verify my credentials as the man I was before the Klutz Affair turned Mordecai J. Goldberg into Public Enemy Number One.  The efforts I made on my own behalf to cover 70 years of biographical footprints have since been augmented by the various governmental entities who have conspired to extirpate every reference to me contained in their bureaucratic archives; the result being that, for all practical and/ or official purposes—"Mordecai J. Goldberg" has ceased to exist. All the requests I made for copies of my birth certificate, scholastic transcripts and State Department personnel files have been rejected because: Since there has never been a Mordecai J. Goldberg it becomes axiomatic any request for his "records" is nugatory.G Even the name of the small New Jersey town where I was born and raised has been altered from Mount Olympus to Excelsior! And the few childhood friends I made there are now unwilling to remember me as the "smart Jewboy" they relentlessly taunted because his doting parents referred to him as their "wunderkind." [Although I must concede the possibility they might 't have recognized me because of the extensive plastic surgery I underwent in London shortly after my departure from Moronia—the results of which are proving to be not all that easy to reverse! In addition to the medical complexities of restoring my nose, eyelids, cheeks and chin to their pristine state, the fact is that over the past 5 years I have grown rather too fond of my new face. Not only did that Harley Street wizard transform my (somewhat) stereotypically Semitic features into the chiseled ones of an Alpine ski instructor, he managed to remove some 20 or 30 of my 70plus years in the process! So it shouldn't be all that surprising if I'm reluctant to sacrifice the unintended cosmetic benefits of my metamorphosis on the altar of novelistic credibility. I am, after all, only human; and there are limits to the suffering one can be expected to endure—no matter how noble the cause for which one is martyring one's self.]

PLASTIC surgery wasn't the only way by which I totally altered my postMoronia persona. Shortly after learning of the Klutz Affair I embarked on a secret program of weight reduction, dietary supplements and musclebuilding that would eventually provide me with more than just a new (and sexier) physique. It gave me the stamina I had a hunch might be needed in the event my knowledge of the Klutz Affair forced me to become a fugitive. By the time I arrived in London for my plastic surgery I had lost more than 40 pounds of sedentary flab and replaced them with the lithe musculature of a decathalete. The plain truth of the matter is, that throughout my 5 years on the run, I never felt or looked better. Along with my newlyacquired Nordic mein, Greek god's torso, full head of hair and enlarged penis (to quote my Harley Street surgeon, "In for a penny in for a guinea!") there was, of course, my above average height of 6'2" to go with my Godgiven intellect, scintillating wit and seductive character—all of which combined to give me the appearance (but only when I prudently opted to do so) of being a paragon of (middleaged) male virtues.  Regardless of your sex (or, pseudospeakingly, "sexual preference") I'm sure you can appreciate the therapeutic effect of the aforementioned attributes on what was already the rather robust lovelife of a septuagenarian. In summary then: Can I really be blamed for refusing to become again who and what I once was merely to make a point about which the more perceptive readers of this book have already made up their minds, to wit: That the "credibility" of Morons Awake! will, as with any other literary masterpiece, depend more on the persuasive powers of its artistry than on any efforts of mine to prove I'm telling the truth?   Since most of the human race isn't yet capable of understanding (let alone answering) such a profound question, this one act of vanity in what has been my otherwise unblemished record of public service (if not outright martyrdom for the cause of bettering mankind) will indeed make the task of convincing the average reader she, or he, is not being hoodwinked as usual, much trickier than it would ordinarily have been.
     Consequently it's become necessary for us to take one last look at my "credibility obsession" before we return to the corner of Hollywood & Vine—but this time we will do our peeking from an oblique angle that will, I think, prove to be not only informative but entertaining as well. I plan to accomplish this by letting you in on some of the best kept (and most intimate) of all artistic secrets. As one who was himself sublimely ignorant of the behindthescenes machinations involved with writing a novel before I undertook the authorship of this one, what better way is there to enlighten you than by describing the miraculous manner by which my own eye was directed to the keyhole of literary intrigue.

     As I say, before writing Morons Awake! I hadn't read a really decent novel since my undergraduate days at Princeton. And initially, of course, I had absolutely no intention of putting the Klutz Affair story in a fictional format. An idea so apparently counterproductive would never have dawned on me. After all, at that juncture in my life the only writing I had done was confined to the factual realms of history, politics and anthropology. But that is where, once again, divine providence took the conception of Morons Awake! into its own immaculate hands. A few days after Ballbraker had so indiscreetly spilled the Klutz Affair beans to me during one of his bacchanalian crossdressing orgies (repugnant affairs in which, for strictly diplomatic reasons, I was compelled to participate) he invited me into the archival bowels of his FIB headquarters to inspect the evidence routinely removed from Klutz's apartment following his murder. Although he didn't reveal his motives, it was plain to me Ballbraker was hoping to pick my (Jewish)American brain—a standard Moronic ploy—for clues to the significance, if any, of the enigmatic collection of objects left behind by the late Jack F. Klutz. A collection whose monumental ramifications I had no difficulty appreciating from the moment I first laid my astonished eyes on them! Concealing my amazement from Ballbraker wasn't easy. The sight of such incredible artifacts made my knees buckle! My heart was pounding with excitement!  And it was all I could do to prevent my hands from reaching out and fondling those mythic objects to discover if they were indeed tangible; or only products of my overeager imagination! But, applying my 50 years' experience of diplomatically deceiving people, I was able to keep Ballbraker in the dark concerning my true opinion about the importance of the "evidence" in the Klutz case. Shaking my head with just the right amount of nonchalance I told him, "I'm just as puzzled as you are about this 'legacy' (the poorest word I could possibly have chosen!) the mysterious Mr Klutz seems to have left behind."
     It was at that point Ballbraker showed me what appeared to be an ordinary manuscript bound in the covers one associates with some artistic project or, perhaps, an unpublished doctoral thesis. Playing Dr Watson to my Holmes he asked, "What do you make of this?" I glanced at the title, which was typewritten on one of those inauspicious redbordered rectangular labels. It read: "THE AVERAGE WOMAN'S GUIDE TO WRITING A LITERARY MASTERPIECE." I couldn't believe my eyes—or my ears! What Ballbraker had shown me was nothing less than the Rosetta stone that, in a single stroke, had deciphered the cryptic meaning of the Klutz Affair—and now he was asking me what I made of it! Once again I pretended to be unimpressed. "A not unprovocative title," I said as calmly as I could, "but obviously meant to be nothing more than a joke by its author. In any event," I added, "one should never judge a manuscript by its cover."
     Ballbraker hesitated for a few heartbeats as if he suspected I might be pulling some JewishIntellectual wool over his beady Moronic eyes before he began thumbing through the manuscript; and when enough time had elapsed to indicate for my benefit he had given the matter his serious consideration, he shrugged and said, "What the hell—take it home and enjoy yourself. It looks harmless enough, but if you find anything that might be of forensic interest, give me a call. Or, better yet, we can discuss it this weekend at the little shindig I'm throwing at my place. You are coming, I hope. I've got some fetching new undies I'm just dying to show off."
     Naturally I didn't hesitate to accept Ballbraker's Faustian proposition. What price wouldn't I have paid to wrench that Holy Grail from his fat, hairy hands (and doing so wouldn't be the first time I'd mortgaged my soul for the sake of some geopolitical or philanthropic cause)! So I promised him I would be there "with bells on" for his perverted little fashion show, adding that: "As for the matter in hand—when dealing with a case like that of the late and enigmatic Jack F. Klutz no stone should be left unturned.  Besides which, does one ever really know what one might find hidden between the covers of even the most innocentlooking book?" As I expected him to do, Ballbraker reacted to this gratuitous persiflaged of mine as reverentially as most Morons do the wisdom they find in their Chinese fortune cookies. After exchanging a few more of those diplomatic banalities which pass for the heartfelt farewells of allies, coprofessionals and fellowtransvestites, I finally freed myself from his repugnant aura and casually strolled my familiar way past the guards at the main exit. Once safely outside I clutched that manuscript to my breast as if it were one of the legitimate pornographic "rarities" Ballbraker occasionally "liberated" from his personal collection of the contraband seized by the FIB in its unceasing crusade to protect Moronia from the detranquilizing effects of obscene ideas—contraband he thought might provide the rundown batteries of my sex drive with a jump start now and then. Despite the carefully cultivated intimacy of my relationship with Ballbraker, and while neither I nor the State Department's security experts ever succeeded in confirming my suspicions, I always presumed my embassy living quarters had been thoroughly wired by the FIB. Whether it results from the utterly unpredictable way they do just about everything, or from some more subtle congenital anachronism, the Morons have always had a special talent for espionage (see History of the Morons, Vol IX, pp 101-105 for my ruminations on the etiology of Moronic artfulness). In any event, I took the prudent course of confining my perusal of The Average Woman's Guide etc. to the supersanitized environs of my ambassadorial office. And it was there, having poured myself a tall Napoleon brandy and lit my Rattray's Hal O'the Wyndefilled Dunhill briar, that I settled into my favorite chair, crossed my legs and, at long last, prepared to feast my eyes on whatever wicked treasures lay hidden between those enticingly plain covers.

I didn't have long to wait for my first surprise. The title page itself informed me that the author wasn't Jack F. Klutz but a certain female named Katya Kahkov. My second surprise came on the very same page as I marveled at how Kahkov had expanded her cover title to read as follows:

THE AVERAGE WOMAN'S GUIDE
TO WRITING
AN ARTISTIC MASTERPIECE

   Being a novel written in the style of a Handbook by which
the humblest housewife, salesgirl, receptionist, stenographer,
ecdysiast, streetcleaner, charwoman, scullerymaid, chorusgirl, trollop &c.
can easily acquire all of the hitherto secret skills, techniques & professional tricks needed
for authoring their own bestselling books of fact or fiction

by
KATYA KAHKOV

[World Famous Underground Novelist, Lecturer & Female Freedomfighter for the cause
of liberating Soviet women from their ageold yoke of sexual & intellectual tyranny]

     The seminal effect this had on me can be seen in the not unsimilar way I expanded the short title of Morons Awake!—my emulation (some will say plagiarism) of Ms Kahkov representing what I believe is the most sincere way for one author to flatter another. If I'm ashamed of anything it's to admit that when I began reading her book the authoress' name didn't ring the metaphorical bells it should have for a man of my sophistication. But, like Howard Carter, as I plunged heedlessly into the mysteries of the Klutz Affair I overlooked matters that seemed to be of only trivial importance (as if they were one of life's footnotes perhaps?).  My subsequent research into the "Katya Kahkov question" revealed she had written a series of what were known during the Brezhnev era as "Male Mutilation Novels" (MaMuNos)—semipornographic works whose publication was prohibited by the Kremlin and were therefore circulated as samizdatG in the beautyparlors, saunas and public toilets of every Soviet metropolis by the downtrodden female proletariat in a form similar to the mimeographed manuscript found in Klutz's apartment. Not that all of Kahkov's novels were disguised as industrial training manuals or vocational doityourself books.  My personal collection of her works indicates most of them were written in the orthodox style of Russian feminist agitporn, as the following titles clearly show: The Harder They Are The Bigger Their Downfall Will Be! (1972), Revenge Of The Sabines! (1973), All Men Are Equally Endowed, or, Size Doesn't Matter When Your Husband's A Dickhead! (1973), and (the MaMuNo hailed as her magnum opus) The Somnambulists: A History Of Female Russian Stupidity, and A Wakeup Call For Sleepwalkers Of Every Sex & Nationality! (1975).
     As demonstrated above, Kahkov took the entitling her MaMuNos almost as seriously as she did that of The Average Woman's Guide &c—which isn't to deprecate the MaMuNos. While they are manifestly obscene in their graphic depiction of phallic amputation, "caponizing" and a variety of other even more diabolical techniques for "unsexing our chauvinistic comrades," by feeding the frenzied mutilation fantasies of her frustrated Soviet Soul Sisters (SoSoSis) Kahkov's MaMuNos were sinking more than just their allegorical fangs into the very crotch of the Marxist Male Mystique (MaMaMy). While the title page of The Average Woman's Guide &c. opened my eyes to a wide range of radically new ways in which the Klutz Affair story might be told, I was nevertheless dumbfounded by what I saw when I turned to Chapter One—which began with the following sentence: "Nothing is more important to the fiction writer than convincing one's reader that what she is reading is true"* Even more startling than the shameless nature of such a candid statement about the trade secrets of writing fiction was the fact that the balance of the page consisted entirely of the footnote to which the reader was referred by the asterisk appearing after the word "true!" This footnote—which ran on for a full 12 pages, and which (for reasons of brevity and certain copyright restrictions) I will be summarizing hereafter—concerned itself primarily with the paradox confronting all novelists when trying to establish their credibility in an artistic genre that, by definition, couldn't be less worthy of a reader's trust. According to Kahkov the solution of this apparently insoluble dilemma could be found in that bag of novelistic tricks euphemistically known as "The Theory and Practice of Verisimilitude."
     VerisimilitudeG is, of course, that hypnotic state into which all novelists seek to put their readers by using a variety of techniques that create an illusion of authenticity average people find impossible to distinguish from the genuine reality in which they themselves live their daily lives. At first glance this might seem as if the novelist is drawing a very fine line indeed between the modus operandi of an art form and the perpetration of a common fraud. But upon closer examination it can be demonstrated that most (if not all!) of what we normally accept as fact is frequently built on a foundation of sand. Hence such "selfevident" truths as "All men are created equal," "The pen is mightier than the sword" and "A book can't be judged by its cover" are, when scientifically scrutinized, not nearly as selfevident as we were led to believe they were in the first place. Moreover, since science itself is in a constant state of evolutionary flux, if there is any single scientific truth it must surely be that yesterday's certitudes invariably become the discredited theories of today (viz the once unshakable astronomical verity that our Earth stood at the center of the universe—or the current orthodoxy among most "enlightened" humanists regarding the nonexistence of God). But there are even more fundamental factors complicating the definition of that most seminal of all words—truth. In order to know what is true we must first agree on what reality is; and to do that we need to answer the threshold question of how reality can be ascertained when we can only perceive it through an imperfect set of sensory organs further flawed by a human psyche predisposed toward its own deification (or at the very least a denial of the possibility its existence is nothing more than an illusion).

So the novelist is by no means alone in dealing with these prickly onto/epistemologicalG conundrums.  Nor should verisimilitude necessarily be held in lower repute than the more socially acceptable means (metaphysics, philosophy, theology) by which the truth or falsity of something is decided. Who's to say, for instance, that "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" is any less valid than E=MC2? Or, to put it another way: could anything be more manifestly unbelievable than the acts of murder, rape, mayhem, social depravity and cultural decline one sees routinely unfolding on the nightly news (or that the likeness of Elvis Presley appears on a United States postage stamp)? Accordingly, would it really be so absurd to ask ourselves whether the Vietnam war was a hard fact of American life, or a television series concocted by some atavisticG Orson Welles as a cautionary tale of what might happen if we didn't learn our southeast Asian history lessons? Far from being a poor substitute for veracity, the argument can be made—as Kahkov does so cogently in her footnote—that verisimilitude is quintessentially superior to the kind of truth revealed to us by scientists and scholars. Nevertheless, in the final analysis, it is to the scientist and the scholar that a novelist must turn for the principal method by which the hypnotic state of verisimilitude is most effectively induced, namely: the humble footnote!
     Why does Kahkov raise the humble footnote to such a lofty state? Because, since the footnote is used almost exclusively in works of a pedantic nature its appearance in a novel lends an intellectual legitimacy to an undertaking that is normally considered to be totally lacking in such prestigious credentials. Invested as it is with the cachetG of probity, the footnote—even when employed for the most devious purpose— is a tool whose verisimilitudinous efficacy can't be exaggerated (and certainly not ignored) by the modern novelist. And, just as the common turnip has proven to be "a manysplendored vegetable" for the Morons, so too: The garden variety footnote is a multifaceted literary device which is alltoo frequently overlooked by the casual critic and unimaginative author.
     An example of the footnote's dexterity is what Kahkov calls "The Fineprint Effect." Briefly stated, The Fineprint Effect is a phenomenon resulting from the discrepancy between the size of type used for the main text and that used in the subtext (or footnotes) appearing beneath the main text. Invariably the finer print size of the footnote imbues it with the reverence one reluctantly concedes to the microscopic legalese appearing in a Lease Rather Than Buy A Car commercial ("not available to those who can't otherwise qualify to purchase said car"), a pre approved creditcard application ("subject to approval of the applicant") or the label of a perfectly safe pharmaceutical product ("whose use may result in potentially lethal side effects"). Just as the average sucker who foregoes reading a disclaimer before swallowing the bait knows in his heart of hearts he was given an even break by the salesman who hooked him, so too, the ordinary reader who in her breakneck rush to reach a novel's end ignores its footnotes is nevertheless compelled by the subliminal effect of the fine print she knowingly disregarded to take off (or at least tip) her thinking cap to an author who had the decency to lay his caveat emptor cards on the literary table before taking her credulity so completely to the cleaners.
     A far slyer facet of the footnote's subliminal seductivity is the sub rosaG position it occupies below a "separator" line at the very bottom of the page; a furtive status that, in conjunction with its fine print, pedantic vocabulary, serpentine syntax (of which this sentence is itself an example) and esoteric subject matter, opens a veritable Pandora's Box of clandestine connotations. Kahkov compares this dichotomousd relationship between the main text and that of the footnote to a dinner party where the most fascinating conversation is frequently the one taking place under the table. Even the most innocentlooking footnotes can produce in the maidenlyest of imaginations a mental picture of those plainlywrapped purchases which are only transacted under an apparently reputable bookseller's or artdealer's counter. Paradoxical though it might be; it is the very inconspicuousness of the footnote that conjures up such alluring visions of adulterous knees making contact, forbidden flesh being fondled, passionate billets-douxG passing from furtive hand to furtive hand, and erotic (or even pornographic) objects d'art changing ownership. Not so much as that act of slightly lowering the eyes one is forced to do when reading a footnote escapes Kahkov's finelytoothed analytical comb! What for centuries was construed as just an inconsequential effect of literary coercion is to her a phenomenon not without its role to play in establishing a novelist's influence (if not mastery) over her reader. Forcing the reader to direct her gaze downward may only be a minor victory, true enough; but it constitutes an incremental escalation of a process which can eventually result in phsyiopsychological manipulations of monumental relevance to solving a novelist's credibility problem! Moreover the lowering of one's eyes serves to reinforces the clandestine nature of the relationship between a footnote's author and its reader—a relationship whose furtiveness provides a conspiratorial basis on which a genuine mutuality of trust can, in the fullness of time, be built.
     Nevertheless, the use of such an unorthodox device in a novel isn't without its perils.  As Kahkov points out near the end of her own trailblazing footnote: "In the effort to seduce one's reader the novelist must avoid overdoing a good thing." Accordingly, there is a limit beyond which any footnote (and its reader's patience) should not be pushed—a limit this footnote of mine is no doubt very close to reaching! As I myself learned when mastering the Art of Superprotracted Foreplay in Moronia—while female Morons do indeed require a phenomenally extensive period of preparation (2 hours is the bare minimum!) before they can physically consummate their lovemaking, there is also a Fatigue Factor involved which can be frustratingly counterproductive when an eveninglong seduction climaxes with nothing more satisfying than a yawn, an apology, and a (not so) "good night!"  There is, of course, an abundance of parallels between writing a novel and making love, but for my immediate purpose it can be stated as a general rule that: When calculating to what precise point a reader's prurient attention span (and stamina) can be stretched before it breaks, a novelist needs to be extremely virtuosic in the utilization of an experimental delaying tactic like that of the elongated footnote. And yet, as with lovemaking itself, the hazards of such a daunting enterprise should not be exaggerated to the point where they cramp one's literary style or inhibit the spirit of artistic adventure. While it's true that since we embarked on this extended digression I may have misused my power over you as an author, it is also true that throughout our extended dalliance you had the power at any time to say— "Enough is enough, sir!"—and banish me (or at least my footnote) from your presence. For all this talk about how a novelist seduces, manipulates, coerces, tyrannizes, exploits and defrauds his reader, in the final analysis it is she who holds not only the novelist's book in her delicate feminine hands, but the very requital of his wooing should she become so disaffected with the waywardness of his courtship that she ceases her reading for good.
     But if I must plead to the charge of luring innocent women to commit acts of psychosexual perversity I will do so by quoting my mentor, Katya Kahkov, who said in her own defense against a similar indictment: "No matter how depraved it might seem to some, since footnoting is an act that can only be committed by mutually consenting adults, those who practice it are shielded by their Godgiven right to artistic privacy." In any case, because a footnote is essentially ornamental in character it can be ignored or not ignored without making any substantial difference to the story it seeks to embellish. What I call the "No harm no foul" rule.
     Not that I'm apologizing for having "waylaid" you, dear reader! In masterminding your imaginary abduction my motives were, for the most part, entirely honorable. And I think you will agree the rapport we have so far developed with all this "fine print" could never have become as intimate with the unfolding of even the trashiest novel's first chapter. Through the "magic" of this footnote we've shared secrets and gotten to know each other in ways which are forbidden by the regulations for writing a conventional bestseller. Unhindered by the novelist's need to arouse curiosity, manufacture suspense, develop characters and "advance the plot" I have been free to lead you through this enchanted underworld where we could explore at our leisure the mysteries of creativity and the more arcane aspects of the literary craft to which the average reader is rarely permitted access. But, even as I write this, I know my time and your patience are running out. So let me end this valedictory with two brief parables that might shorten the distance to what I've been driving at.

THE first parable concerns a "cult" film entitled My Dinner With Andre—which not only did surprising well at the box office, its debut actually raised a small puff of revolutionary smoke on America's cultural horizon. What makes My Dinner With Andre more memorable (to my way of thinking) than Citizen Kane is that it consists entirely of a conversation between two people over dinner! Regrettably their conversation isn't nearly so scintillating as the innovative structure of the film itself. Nevertheless, My Dinner With Andre deserves far more attention than it presently receives; and it is one of my hopes that by so flagrantly plagiarizing its conversational tour de force with this chapterlong digression (My Footnote With The Author Of Morons Awake!?) I will in some small way help to kindle a renewed interest in what should have been a watershed event in the history of American moviemaking.
     The second parable is one that will be weaving its way throughout Morons Awake!—in several variations—as one of its major motifs. In its most seminal state it is the fragment of a long conversation I once had (over dinner as it happened) with one of my Moronic friends; a man whose level of intelligence and cultural sophistication is certainly no less than those of most nonMorons and several notches higher than not a few Americans I've known. As usual we were discussing the Decline of Western Civilization and what, if anything, could be done to reverse it. My friend was doubtful about turning back an historical tide that was being propelled by such vast and, for the most part, unfathomable, forces.
    "But," he said, "there is a way we will know if any light can be seen at the end of this nightmarish tunnel."
      Oh?" I responded.
    "Yes," he slyly continued, "someday, when you pull up to a traffic light in downtown Moronville and hear Mahler's 5th Symphony—or its equivalent—coming from the open window of an adjoining car you will know there is at least a slender ray of hope for the future of mankind on this planet."
     "And you," I asked him, "Have you ever heard Mahler's 5th under the circumstances you are describing—or any similar to it?"
     "No. Not yet," he said, ruefully. "But, after all, I've spent my entire life in Moronia! For a cosmopolitan like yourself I should think such an event would not be a rarity—"
      Of course I had to tell him that in all of my travels I had not, unfortunately, ever had the experience he described. I wonder, dear reader, if you have?  I wonder if anyone has!  My own car radio is always tuned to a classical station and there must have been countless occasions when Mahler's 5th Symphony (or its equivalent) was heard coming from my open window. But does that prove anyone actually appreciated what it was they were hearing? Like the proverbial tree falling in a wasteland—unless there is someone who knows what they are listening to, Mahler's glorious Fifth Symphony is just another 45 minutes of the undifferentiated noise broadcast 24 hours a day from one end of the FM dial to the other!

     Bearing those parables in mind, dear reader, if I have whispered the odd sweet nothing in your ear (as I am doing now) it was the result of an impetuous realization that I am not necessarily engaging in a futile exercise as I sit here composing sentences such as this one. Someday these thoughts may very well find their way from me to you and, hopefully, many others with your potential appreciation for the finer things in life —such as a movie about a dinner conversation and a Mahler symphony—or perhaps a Fellinilike film about an enormous traffic jam in which all the drivers discover they've been listening to Mahler's 5th—whereupon a marathon conversation ensues between them on such mutually fascinating topics as: The appalling state of America's educational system; The equally appalling state of American culture; A new novel that begins with a chapterlong footnote; The reasons (or lack thereof) for their destinations before the traffic jam intervened so providentially to unite them in a common cause to redirectionalize their own lives—and perhaps even launch a Second (SocioCultural) American Revolution that might reverse the Decline of Western Civilization!

AM I a complete lunatic to imagine such a fantastic scenario? Or, having read this far, are you beginning to detect a degree of method in the way I keep returning this footnote to its starting point at the corner of Hollywood & Vine? Were you to now reread the sentence with which Chapter 1 begins would your appreciation for its tapestrylike construction be that much more sophisticated for having read this footnote? And if I dared to compare the first sentence of Morons Awake! with the first 4 notes of Mahler's—or Beethoven's—Fifth Symphony would you think I was being outrageously vain? Or, might you just be willing to concede there could indeed be a glimmer of truth in my farfetched claim to literary fame? Since the end of my "Disquisition On The Not Necessarily So Humble Footnote" has indeed brought us back to the corner of Hollywood & Vine this might be the appropriate time for those of you who can wait no longer to rejoin the story by proceeding directly to the second chapter. As with the art of foreplay, after many years of experience I've learned to leave the question of when one should proceed to the next phase of lovemaking in the hands of his partner.

     For those readers who are still curious about how much longer I (and they) can postpone their climactic expectations there are several more matters relating to The Average Woman's Guide &c whose further discussion will, I think, prove not only worthwhile but entertaining. Among them are Kahkov's recommendations for the incorporation in a novel of maps, affidavits, testimonials, academic material and any other "factual like" references that will leave the reader duly impressed with her author's "scholarlinessr." Having followed her suggestions in this regard by frequently mentioning my History of the Morons and the several appendices to which you have been directed, I have also taken her advice about "spicing up" what might otherwise seem like an unappetizing book (what housewife wants to read about The Decline & Fall Of The American Empire?) with the occasional sprinkling of humor, sex and selfdeprecation. That wry smile which should have traversed your lips when you came upon what I wrote about the Dred Scott decision, for instance, wasn't put there by accident!) Who knows how the course of history might have been altered if Karl Marx hadn't taken himself so seriously when writing his Manifesto?) Despite the gravity of my purpose in authoring Morons Awake!, I've tried to avoid the kind of prudishness generally deemed appropriate for a "serious" book seeking to solve the apocalyptic problems besetting our modern society. Hence the picture I draw of myself is hardly that of a messiah, a prophet, or even a saint. It is the selfportrait of a man who is equally concerned about his hairline, the shape of his nose and the size of his genitals as he is with the salvation of all mankind!
     I think even my harshest critics will agree that previous sentence comes pretty close to perfectly frosting this particular piece of novelistic cake. So, at long last, our prologue is ending. All that remains is a curtain call for its leading lady—my mentor, my inspiration, the one truly great love of my life, and the authoress of The Average Woman's Guide &c—Katya Kahkov!

     On second thought, despite the foregoing climactic statement about my cake being fullyfrosted, it has just occurred to me that: While Katya Kahkov is receiving the applause she so richly deserves, this time could be used to satisfy some of your curiosity concerning the mystique surrounding this most enigmatic of women.
     As fate would have it our paths actually did cross in Moscow during the winter of 1974—where I had gone to monitor a Conference of (socalled) Nonaligned Nations and Microstates. In the course of observing the usual diplomatic amenities I attended a reception given by the British Ambassador, Sir Ralph Stillwater. It was on this receiving line that I first met Katya Kahkov—not that I knew who she really was at the time —when Sir Ralph introduced me to his wife, Lady Margo Stillwater. I would be telling a lie if I said it was a moment I remember as being embellished by the blinding flash of an epiphany. Lady Margo seemed to be nothing more nor less than what she should have been—the proto typically aristocratic wife of an English diplomat. She was tall and slim and altogether elegant. Her flawless alabaster skin was an advertisement for the beneficial effects of Albion's fog on the female complexion. The gown and jewelry in which she chose to drape herself were impeccably unpretentious while being unmistakably aloof. As I approached her to be introduced that evening the effect she produced on me was one of a woman whose charms weren't likely to extend very far beyond their elegant facade. No doubt this was attributable to what had become my preoccupation with Moronic women—whose inner beauty rarely exceeds the depth of their (voluptuous) epidermis. You might think a man with my savoir faire meeting a female with such a blatantly metaphorical name should have immediately alerted himself for the signs of some deeper meaning in every word she spoke and move she made. But "Lady Margo Stillwater" wasn't her real name! It is an alias I have been forced to give her retroactively because of certain legal and diplomatic complexities arising from her pseudonymous activities as the notorious Katya Kahkov. The only clue she might have given me to her secret identity when I took her gloved hand in mine for the obligatory kiss was a casual remark she whispered to me about my "notoriety as a Don Juan among the female population of Moronia."
     It was only after reading the Male Mutilation Novels "Stillwater/Kahkov" wrote before our first and only meeting, that I realized her allusion to Don Juan wasn't meant as the compliment to my virility I took it to be at the time! What an absolute fool I must have seemed in her mankilling eyes when I winked and made what I thought was a wittily indecent offer to personally establish my bonafides with her as a "Superstud & Master of Foreplay par excellence!" She and Sir Ralph must have laughed themselves into a state of hysteria over my "sly" proposition in the privacy of their boudoir! And how many times since have I imagined him exclaiming—"The American Ambassador to Moronia as a Superstud & Master of Foreplay par excellence indeed!" And her reply—"Has there ever been a more perfect example of typecasting since Groucho Marx played a college president?" I'm probably making a mountain from what was in the event the merest of molehills. There is even a slight chance Lady Margo never really said to me what I remember her saying; and that my "indecent" proposition to her was in fact just another wishful thought which failed to escape my lips. It wouldn't have been the first time I had made delusionary advances to an intelligent woman (one of my reasons for so doing being my fear such a woman couldn't fail to notice my very real resemblance to Groucho Marx).
     In the end, of course, my "love affair" with Lady Margo/Katya Kahkov wasn't only consummated via my subsequent reading of The Average Woman's Guide &c—it resulted in that most marvelous of blessed events; the birth of Morons Awake!. The Starknaked Blonde Sexgoddess In The Cadillac Convertible At The Corner Of Hollywood & Vine notwithstanding: Had it not been for that "seminal" book of hers I would never have dreamed of turning the Klutz Affair into The Great American (nonfiction) Novel, Revolutionary Manifesto and Artistic Masterpiece it has since become.

    But now that this footnote has run its course and, to persevere with our theatrical metaphor; since your silent applause for my Leading Lady has also petered out—let the curtains reopen on Chapter 2!

Book One Chapter 2 Part 1    Return to Index

Glossary

atavism noun 1.) The reappearance of a characteristic in an organism after several generations of absence, usually caused by the chance recombination of genes. 2.) An individual or a part that exhibits atavism. Also called throwback. 3.) The return of a trait or recurrence of previous behavior after a period of absence. [French atavisme, from Latin atavus, ancestor : atta, father + avus, grandfather.] - atavist noun - atavistic adjective - atavistically adverb

samizdat noun 1.) a. The secret publication and distribution of government-banned literature in the Soviet Union. b. The literature produced by this system. 2.) An underground press. [Russian : sam, self + izdatelstvo, publishing house (from izdat, to publish, on the model of Gosizdat, State Publishing House : iz, from, out of + dat, to give).]

verisimilitude noun 1.) The quality of appearing to be true or real. See synonyms at TRUTH. 2.) Something that has the appearance of being true or real. [Latin verisimilitœdo, from verisimilis, verisimilar. See VERISIMILAR.] - verisimilitudinous adjective

ontology noun The branch of metaphysics dealing with the nature of being.  epistemology noun The branch of philosophy that studies the nature of knowledge, its presuppositions and foundations, and its extent and validity.

cachet noun 1.) A mark or a quality, as of distinction, individuality, or authenticity: "Federal courts have a certain cachet which state courts lack" (Christian Science Monitor). 2.) A seal on a document, such as a letter. 3.) a. A commemorative design stamped on an envelope to mark a postal or philatelic event. b. A motto forming part of a postal cancellation. 4.) A kind of wafer capsule formerly used by pharmacists for presenting an unpleasant-tasting drug. [French, from Old French, from cacher, to press. See CACHE.]

sub rosa adverb In secret; privately or confidentially: held the meeting sub rosa.

billet-doux noun plural billets-doux  A love letter. [French : billet, short note. See BILLET1 + doux, sweet (from Latin dulcis).]

nugatory adjective 1.) Of little or no importance; trifling. 2.) Having no force; invalid. See synonyms at VAIN.