CHAPTER 3
Except for the shouting
(BallgameRevolutionaryManifestoGreatAmericanWakeupCall
SuperprotractedForeplay&LiteraryLoveAffairwise) This novel is
history!
Although The Fat Lady does indeed singeth as promised there may—and hopefully will—be some residual ambiguity about whether her Stärke Scheite schichtet mir dort ["Pile high my funeral pyre"] was a Swansong for Valhalla's Last Celestial Gleaming or an Anthem Heralding The Dawn's Early Light Of A New (SocioCultural) Paradise On Earth.
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SOME FINAL WORDS OF WARNING from the Editoress to: (I) Those whose musical tastes are no loftier than the trashy ones displayed in choosing the books they read, and; (II) Who—in their haste to reach this storyending chapter—have ignored the author's advice about putting their climactic expectations on hold for the 5 or 6 hours needed to acquaint them with the "torture" our young hero is on the brink of "suffering" when he is forced to sit through (interrupted by only the briefest callsofnature- and/or coffeebreaks) a recorded performance of Wagner's Der Ring Des Nibelungen consisting of 4 separate operas on 20 doublesided LPs!; (III) The following DISCLAIMER is hereby made by me on the publisher's behalf, TO WIT: (A) Given the intrinsically problematic nature of transscribing any music—let alone Richard Wagner's—into a verbal format, and; (B) Recognizing the author's shortcomings narrativeprosewise—he is, as you've already gathered, no Leo Tolstoi, John Updike or Margaret Mitchell; (C) If the promises heretofore implied, suggested and/or even solemnly sworn by him to his readers concerning the "orgasmic," "transcendental," "euphoric," "rapturous," "synesthetic," "psychosexual," "cathartic," "utopian," "BigBanglike," "intoxicating," "ecstatic," and "epiphanal" results of reading this Final Chapter are—according to the mistaken or -guided beliefs of said readers—not kept; (D) Said sad state of nonconsummational affairs can only be blamed on said readers for their willful or negligent failure to follow said author's advice vis-a-vis rectifying their own educational shortcomings; WHEREFORE said readers are hereby PUT ON NOTICE THAT: (1) It is the opinion of the literary and legal experts retained by us in this matter that ANY & ALL CLAIMS FOR FRAUD, BREACH OF CONTRACT, ALIENATION OF AFFECTIONS, ARTISTIC/FOREPLAY MALPRACTICE OR FALSE ADVERTISING would be: (2) Summarily dismissed on a Constitutional plea of First Amendment immunity under the Poetic License Doctrine set forth in United States v. "Ulysses;" (3) Defeated at trial, or if a rogue jury comprised of housewives ruled by their antiWhiteEuropeanMaleChauvinist passions does render a plaintiff's verdict; (4) Reversed on appeal; NEVERTHELESS & NOTWITHSTANDING said expert opinion, as (a) A Born Again Klutzian; (b) A Patriotic American, and; (c) Someone who believes every woman has the GODGIVEN RIGHT to change her mind: I, Jayne Playne, DO HEREBY TAKE THE UNPRECEDENTED—never before has any editor or especially -ess climbed out on an extracurricular limb as long as this one (but since the author has chosen to disappear on the very eve of his book's publication I think I'm justified in doing whatever it takes to prevent what could be an unhappy ending of his "literary" love affair with you and, more importantly to the utopianized future of the entire human race, vice versa—STEP of not only giving you delinquent ladies A SECOND CHANCE (or bite at that old Biblical "apple") TO COMPLETE YOUR RING CYCLE HOMEWORK AND THEREBY AVOID FLUNKING this course you've struggled so long & valiantly to matriculate-despite what are probably still your nagging doubts about the "blissfulness of erudition"—BUT ONE THAT'S BEEN DRASTICALLY REDUCED from the author's original 5 or 6 hours to the mere 25 or 30 minutes needed for hearing Act One, scene 1 of Das Rheingold played from start to finish; AS A RESULT OF WHICH "harrowing" experience you should: (i) Find it easier to put yourself into Jack's shoes (or ears) while his worst nightmare unfolds than it would otherwise be if you relied on the author's description thereof and, CONSEQUENTLY; (ii) MAXIMIZE the aforementioned "orgasmic," "transcendental," "euphoric," "rapturous," "synesthetic," "psychosexual," "cathartic," "utopian," "BigBanglike," "intoxicating," "ecstatic," and "epiphanal" RESULTS OF READING THIS FINAL CHAPTER!
P. S.
Since it's unlikely we'll have another opportunity for exchanging goodbyes, dear reader, let me close this "businesslike conversation" on a more personal note by saying, from the bottom of my heart, how thrilled I am to have played a part in our "metaphysical" ménage à trois—one that, when millions of other similarly average "Moronic" housewives are awakened from their SleepingBeauty dreamlives, will indeed launch America's Second NeoEgalitarian Revolution and forever reverse the (manmade) decline of Western Civilization SocioCulturallywise!
Yours Affectionately,
J. P.
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WHEN VANDERPHD THREW THE black box's master switch Jack expected to feel the searing pain of an electrical shock sizzling its highvoltage way through his central nervous system. Therefore he was somewhat—and not altogether unpleasantly—surprised to learn his worst nightmare fears might have been exaggerated. At least so far. And excrutiating painwise! But the sense of relief he felt was by no means without some reservations, several of which grew more ominous as the weird sounds he heard continued to get weirder and weirder. For the first 4 or 5 minutes—during which Wagner sets Das Reingold's aquatic scene with those seemingly interminable 136 bars of wavelike (Wellen) variations on a single Eb major chord—all Jack could do was ask himself whether the strange sounds he heard were: (a) That "classical" or "long hair" music all Lowbrow and even most Middlebrow Morons prescribed as "a better cure for insomnia than counting sheep;" (b) A form of psychological warfare similar to those in the war stories his father told him about how certain Orientals used loudspeakers for convincing mercenaries like him to surrender before a battle began and, if they did—which on several occasion Josef Klutz found himself doing—as an even more effective method for getting the bravest soldier of fortune to confess the "errors" of their "pro- or antiImperialistlackey ways," depending on who was brainwashing whom, or; (c) A combination of (a) and (b)? After another 5 or 6 minutes passed (allowing Woglinde, Wellgunde & Flosshilde to warble their frolicsome way through the Rheintöchtermotiv) and based on the now obvious fact the "blackbox" to which Vanderphd had wired him was nothing more mysterious—or lethal—than some sort of new fangled phonograph, Jack concluded that: If what he'd heard so far was "classical" music he could understand why normal, decent, selfrespecting Low-, Middle- and even some UpperMiddlebrow Moronettes and -esses said they "wouldn't be caught dead attending a performance of Cosi fan tutte, Peter Grimes, Les Mamelles de Tiresias and/or especially anything written by that boring old fusspot, Richard Wagner—despite all the elitist claptrap about the 'civilizing effect' attending such 'cultural' events is supposed to have on these 'barbaric' bosoms of ours." Not that Jack or his Moronic elders can be blamed for holding the Grandest Of All Operatic Composers in such contempt when sitting through Die Feen, Rienzi, Der Fliegende Holländer, Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Tristan und Isolde, Das Rheingold, Die Walküre, Siegfried, Gštterdämmerung or Parsifal is an act the average German avoids like the bubonic plague.
As Jack saw it, the basic problem with Das Rheingold—although he was no more familiar with the titles comprising Wagner's canon than Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn were with those of Shakespeare's, Milton's, Melville's or Whitman's —was that it neither rocked nor rolled! Added to the complete absence of those earsplitting screams, squeals, caterwauls, howls, screeches, shrieks, ululations,G yowls, yawps, roars and miscellaneous cachinnationsG only a lead guitar can disgorge from its electroacousticalized innards was the fatal lack of that constant pounding, thumping, thwacking, thudding, throbbing, crashing, resounding, belting, banging, whomping, whambamming and footstomping beat normally provided by a band's percussion section. Moreover, both tune- and lyricswise Jack had yet to discern a single phrase in either of those crucial categories he could—or would want to—remember. Let alone whistle, hum, sing or be forced into hearing repeated over and over again like a broken record; or one whose songwriter's hopes for turning vinyl into gold had gotten themselves stuck in a deeply disconcerting groove. And while for Jack the time Wagner took to complete Das Rheingold's opening scene felt like one of those "eternities" which keep cropping up as we wend our CanterburyTaleslike way toward (what will be in only a few more pages, dear reader!) the Joyous Finale of this (semi)religious pilgrimage—when those 23 actual minutes finally did pass he congratulated himself for surviving them with, as far as he could tell, all of his "marbles" still in working order despite having been pushed well beyond the outer limits of what would have driven a normal prepubescent Moron (or even an above average American housewife?) stark, raving mad.
IN THE AFTERMATH OF JACK'S FIRST encounter with Wagner's relentless turgidity (sometimes known as "continuous melodic flow" or ununterbrochenmusikfluß) Vanderphd's demeanor and actions led Jack to believe the worst was probably over. For starters he switched off the phonograph, poured 2 cups of steaming liquid from a large thermos jug on his desk and, with what could almost be described as a not altogether unfriendly smile, said—"Well, my young friend, I think we've earned ourselves a coffeebreak, don't you?" Whereupon he removed Jack's gag, untied his right arm and offered him 1 of the cups. To which Jack naively replied, "Thank you, sir, but I'm not much of a coffee drinker."
"I am not asking you to drink it boy!" Vanderphd admonished him with a tone of voice whose malevolence left no doubt Jack's worst nightmare fears were anything but over, "I'm telling you! And if you don't I'll be more than happy to pour it down that impertinent throat of yours!"
After swallowing a few sips of the bitter brew—if Vanderphd hadn't poisoned he might just as well have—and when it seemed to him as if the stormiest phase of the old musicologist's temper tantrum had passed, Jack tried to spread some additional oil on his turbulent emotional waters by explaining—"I didn't mean to be impertinent just now, sir."
"Oh?"
"No, sir. I only thought that since—"
"You? Think! Don't make me laugh!" Vanderphd exploded. "'You' and 'thinking' are contradictory terms my boy! Not that I expect someone so completely lamebrained, dimwitted, idiotic, imbecilic, mindless, thick-, knuckle-, bone- and block- headed to understand just how stupid he really is!"
These fulminations on Jack's intellectual shortcomings and those of his "congenitally subnormal Moronic ilk" went on— and on—until Vanderphd exhausted the vast vocabulary of similitudes, metaphors, analogies, allusions, hyperbole, expletives, continguities, tropes, synonyms, pejoratives, colloquialisms, euphemisms, clichés, slang, maledictions, neologisms and all the other invectives he had collected over the years to express the contempt he felt for his "subhuman compatriots." [The Vanderphds claim their ancestral roots were sunk deeply in the civilized soil of Saxony until 1574 when, as "unrepentant papists," they sought sanctuary in Moronia from persecution by the wave of antiCatholic fervor sweeping through that once Holiest of Imperial Roman duchies Vaticanwise. What they fail to explain, however, is why, during the next 4 centuries— throughout which the Morons persecuted them for their elevated brows, long hair, fancypantsedartsyfartiness & unabashed Weisenheimerism—they didn't just pack their bags and move to one of Europe's greener sociocultural pastures? An option I would have exercised at the dropping of a hat had it been available to me. Which it wasn't because of my naïve (but, as it turned out, DivinelyInspiredLaunchingOfAmerica'sSecondRevolutionwise-providential, in the frequently abused sense of that word messianicnovelwritingwise) belief a true patriot must sacrifice himself for his country even when doing so makes little or no sense; and in some cases (Marcus Junius Brutus, Oliver Cromwell, Maximilien Robespierre, V. I. Lenin, Albert Speer, Robert MacNamara, G. Gordon Liddy, Muammar Al-Qadhafi, Ayatollah Khomeini, etc.) produces results which are counterpatriotic.] And, since under his Mean Old Musicologist's hide Cyrus Vanderphd was essentially an incurable humanitarian, he gave Jack a chance to complete his half finished sentence by asking him—
"You didn't seriously believe this experiment of mine would end so quickly—and/or painlessly—did you?"
"Yes, sir; that's pretty much it in a nutshell."
"Based on what for heaven's sake?"
"Based on when you compare what was, after all, a fairly harmless prank to begin with and the living nightmare I've been put through since you caught me in the act of pulling it; I figure we're pretty much titfortat, punishmentfittingthe crimewise. Besides which, not only have you already taught me a lesson I won't ever forget; it's one whose message you can bet your bottom dollar I'll deliver to every other urchin in Moronia. If I live long enough to tell my story—"
"That sounds very reasonable, but—"
"I was hoping you would see things my way, sir."
"I'm sure you were! But, as I was going to say: There is a flaw in your analysis."
"A flaw, sir?"
"Yes, my boy. And, like most of those you Morons have a habit of ignoring when leaping to the first conclusion that pops into your empty heads, I'm afraid this one is fatal."
"If it's not too much trouble, sir, maybe you could point out where I went wrong jumpingtoconclusionswise?"
"Trouble? Not at all! As a matter of fact I would like nothing better than to shed some light on that Neanderthallike mentality of yours!"
"So would I!"
"Which doesn't mean this 'Arabian Nights' strategy you are hoping will postpone the inevitable ad infinitum has me fooled!"
"If that means you think I'm trying to pull some sort of wool over your eyes, sir, all I can say is: Such an idea never entered what you keep telling me is this 'empty' head of mine."
"Yes, well—perhaps I did slightly exaggerate the extent of your cranial shortcomings. But, getting back to the question at hand! To begin with: You aren't being punished for the crime you just committed but for those thousands of other 'harmless pranks' played on me by your brainless predecessors—all of whom, unfortunately, were just smart enough not to get caught. Secondly: No rational human being—which of course excludes you—would regard forcing some consummate ignoramus to sit through a complete performance of the world's greatest musical masterpiece as an act of cruelty; but rather one motivated by the most altruistic intentions. Nevertheless, and lastly: This educational experiment of mine can hardly be described by you as a 'punishment' since whether it ends with the coming true of an urchin's worst nightmare or a musicologist's most impossible dream rests entirely in your hands—or ears. And," Vanderphd added with what looked to Jack like a satanic smile, "who knows, after another 5 or 6 hours—and with the help of what would have to be more than one major miracle—you might magically find yourself turning into an avid Wagnerian!"
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AT THIS POINT IN OUR STORY, DEAR READER, you should be delighted to learn that, rather than continue with a blowbyblow account of what happened to Jack during the next 5andahalf hours of an ordeal/experiment identical to the one you yourself went through when completing that Ring Cycle homework I assigned in the previous chapter, we will take advantage of Vanderphd's propitious "avid Wagnerian" remark and shortcut our way climaxward by flashing back to that passage in what the editoress entitled SOME BRIEF INTRODUCTORY REMARKS ON THE READING OF THIS BOOK where the CONFUSED AND/OR PERPLEXED READER undergoes her metamorphosis into the (merely) PERPLEXED READER and finally—when she admits: "What I am prepared to concede, however, is this: Regardless of who and/or what you are: If your introductory remarks were meant to whet my appetite for the "intellectual feast" awaiting me not that many pages from here, you might be happy to know I have acquired something of a taste for reading this kind of Forbidding (she obviously meant to say "forbidden") Literary Fruit!"—the AVID READER.
[This single—and seemingly insignificantlooking when you first read it—detail is the only reason I permitted Miss Playne to put her cartload of editorial bricabrac before my historymaking horse! Although the credit for saving me so much time at this crucial juncture (superprotractedforeplay&novelwritingartistrywise) in bringing your long delayed climactic expectations to the speediest of conclusions belongs exclusively to that (once) CONFUSED AND/OR PERPLEXED READER because of the Promethean (or Brünnhildesque?) willpower she exerted in demanding Jayne and I deal with the questions, concerns and complaints an author and his editor(ess) normally dismiss with contempt as the kind raised by "all those menopausal MaidensInDistress, Imperiled Paulines, Ugly Ducklings, Cinderellas and Sleeping Beauties who think their prospects for enticing some tall, dark and not entirely gormlessG Prince Charming, Galahad, Jack Dalton, Lohengrin or Lone Ranger to rescue, romance, enrapture and/or awaken them with a magical bullet, wand, sword, spell, philtre and/or kiss might be improved if he sees them turning the pages of a literary masterpiece." Unfortunately—except for those clues about her alma mater (B*******d High) and footballplayer husband (Lance)—this most heroic of housewives must, like every other Unknown Soldier(ette), remain anonymous.]
Like most antiOpera and/or -Wagnerites Jack's conversion to avidity came when the curtains rose on Act III of Die Walküre and for the first time (another 8 years would pass before Francis Coppola popularized it with his Apocalypse Now) he heard those awesome notes of Der Walkürenritt played on trombones sounding as if they were forged by the Nibelungen from that mythic metal Alberich stole from the Rhine Maidens. But it wasn't until Götterdämmerung's final 7 bars (Wagner's scoring of his most romantic, sentimental, tender, roseated and, hence, least Wagnerian leitmotivs can be found by turning to Appendix Z—which, despite your irresistible urge for closure no matter how imperfect it turns out to be transcendentalthrill ofalifetimewise, I urge all who didn't voluntarily go beyond those required first 5 or 6 of The Ring's 12 or 13 hours until they reached its "bitter end" to do so now if they want to maximize the climact(er)icG effect of what is on the very cliff's edge of becoming THE GRAND FINALE of this Metaphysical Loveaffair, TrainOfThought Novel, Great Moronic/American WakeupCall, Literary Masterpiece, Revolutionary Manifesto, McGuffey's Reader (For The Newly Autodidacticized Housewife) & Civilizationsaving Gospel Of Born Again Klutzianity) that Jack underwent the Epiphanal Apotheosis transforming him into the Massiah whose Gospel of NeoEgalitarian Salvation As Revealed In This Block busting Bestseller will—with your help and that of all those other average housewives like you—bring about a SocioCultural Paradise On Earth!
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AND, FOR ALL NEOEGALITARIAN PURPOSES, my dear reader, that Sublime Moment Of (Semi)Auto didactic Truth and/or PsychoSexual Bliss toward which we have been slowly—but just as surely as God made little green apples Adam &Evewise—progressing has just come and (more or less, depending on the degree to which your literary IQ has been raised) gone. The following CODETTA is provided merely for those "storytelling" purposes by which conventional (ie. "commercially viable") novelists are judged in a marketplace where a book's plot is valued more highly than any ideas it might contain (and "messages" of a non-, or worse yet, literaryfiction nature are considered "the kiss of death" Block bustingBest seller&HollywoodMegamovieDealwise). Therefore, not only is the CODETTA exempt from the requirement that a housewife must read Morons Awake! from cover to cover before she can legitimately call herself a "Born Again Klutzian," "Revolutionary SocioCulturist" and/or "Cardcarrying NeoEgalitarian"—by ignoring it you will be taking your first untutored step on that elevated path which leaves your trashy reading habits forever behind. Along with all those other chains and shackles of an ignorance whose "bliss"—as Oscar Wilde said about (selfimposed) celibacy—"leaves a lot to be desired!"
[While ordinarily I couldn't agree more with the author's observations on the exaggerated importance of mere story telling, and despite my "last" goodbye to you at the outset of this chapter I must caution you in the strongest possible terms against following his advice not to read the Codetta. Unless, of course, you are the kind of woman whose marital-, love-, and/or sexlife is so totally lusterless she is willing to take any risk—no matter how "suicidal" —in the desperate hope of imbuing it with "at least a glimmer of utopian incandescence." For the average housewife whose discontent with the "downtrodden" state of her domestic affairs is less than catastrophic, however, it would, in my notso humble opinion be helpful to discover exactly what did happen to Jack during those 20plus years between his Götterdämmerung Apotheosis and his martyrdom for the salvation of all mankind before she takes her Born Again Klutzian plunge. Or sets off on that "elevated" path which, along with those trashy reading habits she leaves behind, can result in the permanent loss of her friends, her family—and her "sanity!" At least as that word is defined by societies where a hausfrau, ama de casa, massaia, ménagère, dona de casa or Moroness who thinks she really was created in the image of God, Allah, Brahma, Amon, Ishtar, Tonicacihuatl, Proteus, Sarasvati, Zoroastra, Zeus, Wotan/ Frigga, Osiris/Isis or Dä•Dä/Mä•Mä must be crazy. Accordingly ladies: With what truly is my final farewell; and based on the feminine rapport we've established during our triangulated literary love affair with the author, I hope you will trust my motives more than his at this most pregnant of all those pauses we encountered while crossing that vast wasteland separating us from a Second (NeoEgalitarian) Paradise On Earth—but one whose greener grass it would be safer to assume isn't necessarily snakeless! —J. P.]
Glossary
ululate verb, intransitive ululated, ululating, ululates To howl, wail, or lament loudly. [Latin ululare, ululat-, ultimately of imitative origin.] - ululant (-lent) adjective - ululation noun
cachinnate verb, intransitive cachinnated, cachinnating, cachinnates To laugh hard, loudly, or convulsively; guffaw. [Latin cachinnare, cachinnat-, probably of imitative origin.] - cachinnation noun - cachinnator noun
gormless adjective Chiefly British. Lacking intelligence and vitality; dull. [From dialectal gawm, sense, from Middle English gome, notice, from Old Norse gaumr.]
climacteric noun 1. a. A period of life characterized by physiological and psychic change that marks the end of the reproductive capacity of women and terminates with the completion of menopause. b. A corresponding period sometimes occurring in men that may be marked by a reduction in sexual activity, although fertility is retained. 2. A critical period or year in a person's life when major changes in health or fortune are thought to take place. 3. A critical stage, period, or year: "before the end of the millennium, whether [he] lives to see that ecclesiastical climacteric or not" (Conor Cruise O'Brien). adjective 1. Of or relating to a climacteric. 2. Critical; crucial.[From Latin climactericus, of a dangerous period in life, from Greek klimaktorikos, from klimaktor, dangerous point, rung of a ladder, from klimax, ladder. See CLIMAX.]
