NOW, WHERE WERE WE?—Ah, yes!—I was working my way down to her shoulders! What can I tell you about them? Is there any word (or combination of words) in my (or any novelist's) lexicon to express the infinite complexity of their curvaceous contours—or their palpable caress- and kissability? How does one avoid depicting those "twin buttresses flanking the love temple of a such a glamorous deity that has been so superbly architected" in anything but the hackneyed anatomical metaphors of the trashy novels I've been criticizing so relentlessly throughout this literary masterpiece of mine? Is it possible my decision to "inventory those stunning treasures I saw revealed by that starknaked sexgoddess from the top down" was, now that I look back on it, an artistic blunder typical of those made by all first time novelist? Shouldn't it have been obvious to me any attempt to solve a problem of such magnitude is bound to be counterproductive? In the last analysis, dear reader, isn't a sight so sublimely ineffableG  as the one I'm claiming to have seen better left to your own imagination? However, assuming most of my readers will be women, doesn't that raise the question of whether by definition you are incapable of imagining the kind of spectacle whose extravagant sexuality I—or any other man—would think of as being sublime? After all, from everything men are told by women about the "spiritual and intellectual" nature of their attraction to the opposite sex, is it reasonable (let alone gallant) for a novelist to expect—or even ask—his female readers to see with their feminine minds'eyes a sight so shamelessly masculine in the fullfrontalization of its nudity?

     On the other hand should a man really believe everything a woman tells him about the "more ethereal nature" of her "feminine prurience?" Haven't most women been known to use such linguistic devices as a seductive ploy; or, having already seduced a man—as a conversational stratagem of their own by which to delay the climaxing of his copulatory expectations until hers are in a similar state of incipience?

     Or have men been deceiving themselves about the congenital nature of their masculinity; especially as it applies to those more manifestly female of a woman's anatomical enticements?105  Are all men truly born with the capacity to idolize the female form in the rapturous way they do—or have women mythologized themselves (and their bodies) so successfully they are appreciated by even the dullest men with an aesthetic sophistication approaching that of a painter who sees in the plainest of his nude models the stuff from which he can create an artistic masterpiece?106 Why is it men who are cultural basketcases suddenly turn into connoisseurs of female "pulchritude" at the sight of a short skirt or a tight sweater? Isn't it because they've been trained to do so by the very women who complain about being treated as mere sexobjects? Why else does a woman persist in wearing those short skirts and tight sweaters107 if not to use her own body as a manifesto proclaiming the superiority of female beauty over that with which men believe themselves divinely imbued because, ipso facto: Only one sex could have been created in the exact image of its masculine Maker?

     Finally we must ask ourselves this: Is the underlying motive for all these selfpromotional sexappeal stratagems simply that sadistic satisfaction an exhibitionist derives from knowing the circumstances108 in which she so (art)fully reveals herself make it all but impossible (and certainly illegal) for the male observing her to consummate the lust she has aroused in him? If that's not the case—and what decent woman could (or would) answer otherwise—there is only one other logical explanation: While the beauty of a nude woman might be in the eyes of her masculine beholder, the idea of nudity itself would never have entered his Neanderthal skull had it not been put there first by the female whose physical attributes he scrutinizes so skillfully. Hence it can be said: The voyeuristic proclivities all men think they have been born with are, in reality, an acquired response to that particular set of visual stimuli to which the very objects of their animal attraction have, as a sex, conditioned them.  Accordingly, the conventional "wisdom" about such an "open and shut" case as the "purely male domain" of literary erotica, prurience and pornography is by no means a closed book. Since even the lewdest author only fills that void in a woman's lovelife whose existence she proves by curling up with a novel no really respectable housewife should read, the proposition can be advanced that a man's pen is only another of those tools by which women turn bookwriting smoothtalkers like me into their sexslaves. And, dear reader, if this has indeed been the true state of our affair throughout your reading of what I have so far written, is there any point in elaborating any further on my picture of "the beautiful blonde sitting stark naked in that vintage '59 Cadillac Eldorado convertible" the very first sentence of Morons Awake! caused your own prurient imagination to paint so perfectly?

     Therefore, to avoid not only a futile exercise but one that might actually impair your perception of my "beautiful stark naked blonde" we will abandon the plans I had made for meticulously describing the effect produced on me by the sight of her breasts, her belly, her thighs—and all those other aspects of her fullyfrontalized femininity about which, as a woman, you have already reached your own conclusions. And, my dear reader, the curtailment of these plans produces an additional benefit: It makes up for virtually all the time we lost in arriving at this pivotal point in our story! All that remains now, before I lead you across the last river on whose not too distant shore gleams the Promised Land toward which we've been making our (unholy) pilgrimage, are a few words about that Cadillac Eldorado. Although this must seem  to you like a pursuit of trivia that can't conceivably justify the resulting torment it will cause at this late stage in the consummation of your climactic expectancy, my reasons for doing so aren't entirely diabolical. Believe me, dear reader, in the interest of maintaining our momentum I seriously considered relegating my remarks about the vehicle in which the starknaked blonde was sitting to a footnote. But I have a strong hunch some (if not most) of you have been ignoring these furtive little memoranda of mine lately. And while nothing I say now about her '59 Biarritz is crucial to climaxing this First Book of Morons Awake! it will play a majorish role in the "codetta"—that ancillary movement some composers write to "ice their symphonic cake;" or as an "artistic afterlewd" in which the audience can relish the lingering cathartic effects triggered by the Grand Finale until its everfading reverberations become utterly inaudible (or the listener's psychological stamina is exhausted).109

     And it's not as if this is the first time I have called your attention to the specific make and model of the vehicle that blonde sexgoddess was driving. Far from it. In one form or another I have woven the particulars of that automotive motif throughout Morons Awake!'s "metaphorical tapestry."  Why do I attribute such importance to the car I saw her sitting in that I am now stretching what must be your dangerously overstretched patience to explain my reasons for doing so? Because, dear reader, given the nonmechanical inclinations of your gender what choice have I got? Can I reasonably expect an average housewife to appreciate the dilemma that car of hers created for me at the time I first saw her sitting in it starknaked until you have at least a rudimentary understanding of the awesome effect such a glorious machine has on a man? No. I think you will agree some remedial education is not inappropriate on a subject which could be beneficial should you find yourself in a situation similar to that of the blonde who was so fully revealing herself to me .

STATED IN ITS SIMPLEST TERMS, the problem created for me by that vintage '59 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz was this: Its beauty rivaled that of the starknaked sexgoddess who was driving it! Simultaneously seeing both of the 2 loveliest objects a man never dreams he might someday be lucky enough to see 1 of was a "blessing" that couldn't have been more emotionally mixed. Not that I was a fanatical aficionado of automotive memorabilia. But even an intellectual with my limited curiosity about transportational trivia couldn't be entirely oblivious to the legendary reputation of what Cadillac itself described as "The most ostentatious automobile they had ever manufactured"—a boast considered to be an understatement by those experts who hail the '59 Eldorado Biarritz as "the most ostentatious automobile ever manufactured by anyone!110 And my familiarity with that classiest of all American automotive classics wasn't entirely academic. On the occasion of President Kennedy's dressrehearsal visit to Moronia before delivering his Ich bin ein Berliner speech in what was then West Germany, Eisenhower's "old" '59 Biarritz had been flown to Moronville for the historic event.111  How could I forget sitting in the front seat of that most glamorous manifestation of Presidential power and American flamboyance as we slowly made our way through those cheering throngs of Morons lining Main Street? It was storybook stuff! For an hour Moronia had truly become Camelot! And I was seen by all of its subjects to be the most exalted member of the Royal couple's entourage!

     But that wasn't to be my only preHollywood encounter with a legendary '59 Eldorado. In the 25 years following that fabled motorcade down Moronville's Main Street there were several times when the corner of my eye was caught by the nostalgic sight of that enchanted conveyance while watching one of Jedgar Ballbraker's "art" films or turning the pages of some slick "fashion" magazine his FIB agents had recently confiscated. It seems the '59 Eldorado Biarritz is, quite literally, the vehicle most preferred for displaying the sexual wares of the "models" and "actresses" who pose for indecent pictures and appear in stag movies. Even the calendars I've seen hanging on the walls of Moronia's most respectable business establishments occasionally feature some platinumblonde bimbo provocatively sprawling her seminude self on the zebra- or leopardskin upholstery of that legendary (and portable) lovenest. And, although my memory has surely been scrambled by what transpired at the corner of Hollywood & Vine, it's not impossible that when reading the accounts of her fatal car accident I noticed the wreckage in which Jayne Mansfield's decapitated corpse was found might have been that of the flamingopink '59 Biarritz she once drove so shamelessly up and down the streets and boulevards of a Tinseltown that was not then so easily astonished by seeing such a brazen example of automotive exhibitionism.

     Probably the best way to illustrate the predicament I found myself in on the corner of Hollywood & Vine that night is by paraphrasing Rick Blaine: Of all the cars in the world why did she have to drive into my life sitting starknaked behind the wheel of the one that for me would turn out to be the most disconcerting! Even more ironically, the genesis of the '59 Eldorado can be traced to an address located only a few blocks from the very intersection where my rendezvous with destiny had been orchestrated to occur! 80 years before I appeared on the scene Harley Earl had converted his father's Hollywood Carriage Works into a glorified "hotrod shop"112  where he customized the cars then being driven by such luminaries of the silverscreen as Charlie Chaplin, Theda Bara, Tom Mix and Clara Clara. Earl's reputation as an "automotive artist" who sculpted his stylish creations from clay caught the attention of The Cadillac Motor Company in Detroit where he was asked to submit his ideas for streamlining the 1929 models of their junior marque, LaSalle. As a result of that success he was put in charge of General Motors' "Art and Color" Department, which, under his guidance, produced those sensational "Madame X" V-16s of 1932 which, with their sweepingly elegant lines and supersleek integration of form and function, marked the apex of Cadillac's Classical Era.113 As a result of Cadillac's role in producing the Lockheed P-38 fighter aircraft before and during WWII Earl's design concepts became more aeronautical. This trend was reflected in the wraparound windshield, pillarless "hardtop" and prototypical tailfins seen on the 1948 Cadillacs.114  These advanced features were further refined for the introduction of Cadillac's luxurious Eldorado line in 1953 and culminated 6 years later when Earl turned his revolutionary "Cyclone Dream Car" concepts into Cadillac's postclassical masterpiece—the 1959 Eldorado Biarritz Convertible.

     The most distinctive feature of the '59 Eldorado was its set of twin tailfins; which rose to astronomical heights never before seen (or imagined) on any earthbound projectile. So controversial were the stupendous proportions of these stabilizer like projections G M lost its corporate nerve and began reducing their scale in the very next model year—a fact which not only contributes to the '59's rarity115 but, by virtue of its brief appearance on the stage, imbues it with the evanescence associated with the apex of an artistic epoch whose magnificence is only fully appreciated after the event. The majority of those who criticized the "tail fin excesses" of the '59 Eldorado lived to regret the hastiness of their judgment.116  But Harley Earl's '59 Eldorado offered more than just a nifty pair of posterior protuberances as its claim to aesthetic fame. Taken together, the massive front bumper and grille assembly was nothing short of being a monumental work of metallurgical magic—if not an outright artistic coup. More chrome was required for fabricating just one of these colossal castings than was used by Toyota to produce its entire output of cars in 1988!117 And, like its tailfins, the Eldorado's grillework and front bumper assembly were more than just another typically American triumph of size over substance. They were incredibly subtle artifacts whose sculptural complexities (despite their tinseled veneer) rival the most intricate motifs ever carved into the sandstone facades of a medieval cathedral or baroque palace. Nor did Earl's artistry in styling the Eldorado's futuristic front end lack that ribald touch of his venerable predecessors; as evidenced by the sexual gargoyles he slyly designed into the repetitive and manifestly mammalate pairing of the head, brake and turn signal lights.

     Just as it was pointless to dissect the anatomy of that platinumblonde Venus who dazzled me with her nudity, any post mortem examination of the Eldorado's stupefying "sexappeal" would be similarly futile. The only remaining facts you need to know for my storytelling purposes are those relating to the powerplant hidden under that classic musclemachine's deceptively placid hood. In making its statement about what kind of decade the 1960's would—or should—be, Cadillac developed a High Output version of its standard V8 engine for the Eldorado; increasing the displacement from 365 to 390 cubic inches, and its horsepower from 325 to 345. Although engineering data like this might seem somewhat incongruous (or even bizarrely so) to the average reader of an ordinary novel, since this isn't an ordinary novel its relevance can be traced back to that sentence you read (probably just once and without appreciating its prophetic nature) some pages ago in which I stated as clearly as I could without insulting your intelligence:

"And, while destiny may have set the stage in such a way as to make my meeting with that barebosomedplatinum blondesexgoddess inevitable, those 345 horses harnessed beneath the gleaming hood of her appropriately marqued chariot played a decisive role in making our rendezvous the fait accompli it became when they maneuvered her to the corner of Hollywood & Vine with, as it turned out, not a moment to spare."

Why, you must be asking, did I add those last 10 words (the ones I have only now underlined) to a sentence you probably thought at the time was at least 10 words longer than it needed to be? And it is undeniably true, dear reader that: Had I not gone to the trouble of being absolutely truthful in writing that sentence no one would have noticed or cared. Or been the wiser for that matter, since what difference can 10 words make in any novel? After all, despite repeatedly telling you my intentions aren't to write just a trashy foreplay novel, is it reasonable for me to expect the average housewife who read the sentence at issue with the attention to detail it deserved? Surely that would be asking too much of the ordinary secretaries, waitresses and supermarket checkers whose curiosity about the contents of Morons Awake! was aroused more by its "flagrant sexuality"118 than by its author's "historic achievement in writing a literary masterpiece that both edifies and entertains the ordinary Moron."119

     Or would it? No matter how many words there might be in a book (or a single sentence) shouldn't the reader presume each and every one of them has been put there by its author for a precise purpose? For example, which of those 10 words Hamlet pronounced so trippingly on his tongue—"To be or not to be; that is the question."—would you suggest Shakespeare change to more perfectly express himself? Or are 10 words too many in a play that runs on for 5 full acts?  Or too few considering the ponderous subject matter they are dealing with? What editor (or reader) would be so bold as to entertain such impious thoughts concerning what is probably the most flawless sentence any playwright has ever devised? And what about those thousands of other words setting the stage for Hamlet's soliloquy? Did the Bard of Avon choose them with any less care in constructing the foundation for his crowning theatrical achievement? Who among you is so brazen she would quibble over even the least of Shakespeare's sentences and thereby run the risk of bringing down the entire dramatic edifice he labored so mightily to build?120

    A similar case can, of course, be made for every word contained in the Bible, every note in Mahler's Fifth Symphony, and every brush stroke in van Gogh's Starry Night. Does this mean I'm asking you to treat Morons Awake! as if it ranked with those towering artistic triumphs? While modesty stops me from asserting such an outrageous claim, why shouldn't a modern American author entertain the loftiest aspirations of bygone times? Is it not a sign of our decadent age that a man is ridiculed for his "quixotic idealism" simply because he believes his fellow Morons are capable of appreciating the "finer things" in life? And who would benefit the most if it should turn out that by writing Morons Awake! I have indeed authored not just a best selling novel and timeless literary masterpiece but a book that actually reversed the decline of Western Civilization? At my age the prospects for enjoying even a flicker of celebrity are dim at best. As for any posthumous artistic fame I might acquire by having sounded the Great American Wakeup Call, it would be small consolation to a man whose motives in doing so were more patriotic than egocentric. No, dear reader; if any fruits result from the pains I have taken in writing each and every word of my Magnum Opus they are all yours for the picking.

     Now then—what was the point I've been trying so hard to make? Dear me, like Polonius, I seem to have lost track of my thoughts just as I was on the verge of uttering some profundity! Where did I go astray? Ah, yes! We were discussing the clue I had previously given you some pages ago concerning the relevancy of the Eldorado's engine specifications to our story—a story that now takes its most dramatic turn!

Book One Chapter 5 Part 3   Return to Index

Footnotes

105 Such as those being shown to me by that ravishing creature driving the Cadillac convertible—and about which I had planned to dilate at some considerable length until I was bushwhacked by my sudden recollection concerning the scarf she was wearing.

106 Male or female, one can't be unimpressed by Degas' boldness in persuading those plain Parisian women to bathe their ordinary French bodies in a cheap tub on the floor of his studio so he could turn them into the immortal nymphs and lovegoddesses whose graceful poses so perfectly epitomize the female form. And yet, despite the credit Degas universally receives (and claimed) for his "consummate act of artistry in deifying the commonest kind of feminine clay" one can't help wondering just how much credit those "ugly ducklings" of his deserve for inspiring him to apotheosize them in the act of bathing? See Appendix N for graphic evidence.

107 Not to mention the plunging necklines, seethrough blouses, hiphugging slacks, lacy lingerie, spikeheeled pumps, perfumes, ointments, creams, powders, nailpolish, lipstick, mascara and countless other feminine artifices calculated to draw a man's mothlike attention to the incandescence of an object d'art he is then told he can only admire from a "safe" distance.

108 I refer here, of course, to those models posing for centerfolds and calendar "art" or the "actresses" appearing in XXXrated videos whose future audience of rapeminded voyeurs represents no immediate threat to their "chastity." And even the most tantalizing stripper is protected by an unwritten code of chivalric conduct which keeps the victims of her teasing in their seats—no matter how sorely tempted they are to hurl themselves stageward and improvise a climactic act of sexual catharsis (and revenge) upon the cause of their anguish.. But the amateur exhibitionist also chooses her venue in such a way as to make it virtually impossible (or at least extremely impractical) for a man to get anything more than a "voyeuristic" thrill from what she has chosen to show him. Hence the habit some women have of displaying themselves in the nude from behind the steering wheel of a cruising convertible with enough hotrodded horsepower under its hood to elude all but the most intrepid (and expensive) VIP musclemachines marketed by such purveyors of automotive machismo as Ferrari, Lamborghini, Aston-Martin and Maserati.

109 As socially acceptable musical practices, the Coda, Afterlude and Encore can, of course, be easily analogized to those "postcoital conversations" whereby lovers mutually debrief themselves on their reactions to the intimate experience they have just shared in order to prolong its enjoyment.

110 Classic American Cars, Richard Nichols, Exeter Books, N.Y., 1986. P.86 See Appendix F for pictures.

111 Kennedy's visit to Moronia was the first made to that nation by an American President. The event is also noteworthy because, in addition to previewing his Berlin speech, Kennedy's decision not to use the Biarritz's bulletproof canopy on the short drive from the American embassy along Main Street to the steps of Moronia's Capitol was a harbinger of that fateful day in Dallas a year later. Even with Jackie's help my arguments to JFK that Moronville was crawling with KGB and STASI operatives (not to mention Moronia's homegrown loonies, hooligans and crackpots) failed to change his mind. And, when the Presidential motorcade returned us safely to the embassy, he smilingly reprimanded me for my gloomy prediction his triumphant parade down Moronville's Main Street would be rained upon. "Don't look so glum, Chicken Little," he said with that Camelot smile of his," If you hadn't been so dead wrong about the sky falling on us we wouldn't be here celebrating my Irish luck and your failed Hebraic prophecy!"

112 Maurice D. Hendry, Cadillac—Standard of the World: The Complete Seventyfive Year History, Princeton Publishing Co., 1973, p.246

113 Ibid., p.247

114 Such other proposed innovations as pontoon fenders, rocketshaped noses and cockpitlike canopies were confined to the drawingboard or prototype models. Ibid., p.276.

115 Only 1,320 Biarritz Convertibles rolled off the Cadillac assemblyline in 1959.

116 Cadillac—Standard of the World: The Complete Seventyfive Year History, Princeton Publishing Co., 1973, p.274.

117 Annual Report of The Nippon Metallurgical Institute, Tokyo, 1989, p.117.

118 Which, I'm assuming, whoever publishes Morons Awake! will not hesitate to exploit while pretending to do otherwise.

119 I am assuming here the assumption I made in the previous footnote about the publisher's overt and covert merchandising strategies will be predicated on Morons Awake!'s abundance (some would say surplus) of socially redemptive content. Hence while the front of its dustjacket will doubtless be emblazoned with a lurid depiction of a starknakedplatinumblondesexgoddess displaying herself on the front seat of a convertible, the rear and inside flaps will be crammed with fine print testimonials from critics and scholars praising the literary merits of a profoundly important cultural manifesto that cleverly disguises itself as a trashy bestselling novel.

120 Even without such an uninspired and seemingly inconsequential line like that delivered by Polonius to Reynaldo in Act II, Scene 1: "And then, sir, does 'a this—'a does—What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something; where did I leave?" it's debatable whether Hamlet's soliloquy 2 scenes later would be nearly as memorable as it is.

Glossary
ineffable adjective 1.) Incapable of being expressed; indescribable or unutterable. See synonyms at UNSPEAKABLE. 2.) Not to be uttered; taboo: the ineffable name of the Deity. [Middle English, from Old French, from Latin ineffabilis : in-, not. See IN-1 + effabilis, utterable (from effar, to utter : ex-, ex- + far, to speak).] - ineffability or ineffableness noun - ineffably adverb