(as transcribed by Dan Plonsey)
(Performed at Dog Eared Books in SF, and at the Stork Club, 9/22/95)
Today is the day that we celebrate the recent history of the world, with all the many wonderful developments and inventions and wonderful things, and also we give thanks to each other for things which we are given, or which we have taken anyway, even though no one said we could, by the grace of His Royal Highness, who benificently allows as many transgressions as we can manage, provided that none are against him or against his crown or against his express wishes, as set forth in His Royal Highness's Holiday Wish and Gift List, to which you are all asked to refer at the check-out stand when making your purchases today and every day during this holiday year.
It is my pleasant duty, as Court Historian, to speak once again to you, on the subject, once again, of: "The Way Things Were and The Way Things Are Now." A complete transcript of my little talk---in the form of a pamphlet entitled, "Life Before, During and After the Apocalypse"---may be purchased at the register. Indeed, this pamphlet is a required purchase, being as it is listed among "mandatory" items on His Royal Highness's Holiday Wish and Gift List, so buy two: one for His Royal Highness and one for yourself.
With me today is His Royal Highness's Marching Band slash Spanish Wind Ensemble. Though their numbers are admittedly small, this is due to the ensemble's elite nature. Not just for anyone, nonetheless, His Royal Highness's Marching Band slash Spanish Wind Ensemble is holding auditions. Today they will play for us a number of stirring march tunes which never fail to evoke the feelings, images, sights and sounds and even olfactory memories which I have had to omit from my scholarly account of our recent history---which, without further ado, I now begin.
Section 1. Life Before the Apocalypse
Life before the apocalypse was a fearful affair. Everyone was scared of almost everything. Citizens were afraid to leave their homes after dark. Among those many things of which people were terrified, reading stood out as an activity which could only be attempted in the direst of circumstances. We don't know when the trouble began, because at first folks were ashamed to talk of it (it seemed so silly), but it came out eventually that nearly everyone had developed an intense reaction to the letter W. Parades were organized to encourage reading, but to no avail. One day, as the parade rode by, a small girl yelled out, "The letter W looks like two daggers coming down upon me while I'm tied to me bed, and my eyes are bugging out with fear!" Everyone looked at the little girl, and they looked at the parade, and they looked at each other and they nodded their heads and they said, "The little girl is right! The letter W is out to murder us in cold blood!" Then a little boy said, "And the letter m, lower-case, resembles the two breasts with which we will be smothered!" "The m is smutty!" cried the crowd. "And the O is a big bullet hole in my skull!" said a guy who actually did have a bullet-hole in his skull, and who was one of the living dead. That evening, everyone thought it over, and most sensible people decided that while the M and the O weren't really out to get them, the W most certainly was, and that the only solution was to stay inside with the doors locked.
And now His Royal Highness's Marching Band slash Spanish Wind Ensemble will play the March of---and from!---Bread, which was written around this time to commemorate the fact that bread was going to brutally murder us if we didn't get out of our kitchens immediately.
[March of---and from!---Bread]
That was the March of---and from!---Bread. And now, we would like to play the March of Obvious Wonderful Aroma, which was written in a brief moment of joy during these fearful pre-apocalyptic times, when a wonderful aroma was detected wafting about the land. March of Obvious Wonderful Aroma.
[March of Obvious Wonderful Aroma]
That was the March of Obvious Wonderful Aroma, reminding us that all was not dark and dismal in pre-apocalyptic times. Yes, even then there were moments of pleasure and sheer olfactory delight. But imagine the compounded horror which gripped and tore at the hearts of the people with icy fingers: when they realized: that the wonderful aroma came from TOAST! They were all going to die after all! And most hideously, too! This next piece was written during this dawning realization of dread fate. This fearful composition is called, March of Jeepers! It's TOAST!
[March of Jeepers! It's TOAST!]
That was the blood-curdling March of Jeepers! It's TOAST! By this point in history, anyone who wasn't nuts was pretty much out of his or her mind with fear. Fortunately, a few people were able to keep the world functioning. These were people who could go to work every day and do the meaningless tasks there, return home, watch TV and go to sleep. Yes, these people were afraid, just as much as everyone else, but unlike everyone else, unlike you and I, these people were smart enough to have jobs, but they were too stupid to know enough to lock themselves in their basement and barricade the doors! They were smart and dumb simultaneously. It's very curious. This next piece expresses our appreciation for these nuts who kept doing the things they did, because they were too stupid to come in out of the rain: March of the Idiot Savants.
[March of the Idiot Savants]
That was the March of the Idiot Savants, which is dedicated to people who are either stupider than they look, or who are mixed up in some fundamental way which we recognize and pity them for, even though they haven't noticed that anything's wrong, which is pretty annoying, you must admit! But we owe our lives to these stupid people, because it was their willful ignorance which led to the apocalypse.
Section 2. The Apocalypse.
We remember this period in history as a dream. In the dream, we were minding our own business. We were construction workers eating lunch on big girders. Men looked like Herschel Bernardi, and women looked like Lucille Ball. The Herschels were all tired looking and kept mopping their dumb bald heads with polka-dot handkerchiefs, while the Lucys, who all had the exact same idea that they couldn't quite put into words, sat fretting, occasionally looking at the Herschels with expressions of mixed anxiety, dismay, and disgust. Then giant spiders came and sat next to each of us, one on either side. The spiders were about our size, and they two had lunch buckets and polka-dot handkerchiefs with which they mopped themselves. Most of the spiders ate two sandwiches at once with two hands, mopped themselves with two handkerchiefs at once with two other hands, and dangled their four skinny legs, which weren't quite as large as ours. The female spiders were knitting skinny little booties, and now and then they'd say something like like, "well isn't this nice!" or "don't you think this is just so special?" Finally, we got the hang of it, and we were knitting and chatting inanely too. Then the male spiders became agitated. We looked up, and the sky was suddenly gray and menacing, where it had been blue with fluffy clouds. We saw that the foreman was striding towards us grimly, clutching a giant crescent wrench. The spiders packed up their things hurriedly and hopped off the back of the girders and scuttled away stiffly. The foreman kept on coming. We could see beads of perspiration on his face. He wore a red and white checked flannel shirt under his blue overalls. He came right up to us and we flinched and cowered as he thrust a finger up to our face. He spat out of the side of his mouth, barely missing our leg with a thick gob of spit. Then he grabbed our shirt collar and spoke. "What the hell do you think yer doing?" We cringed some more. He looked really angry. "I said, what do you think yer DOING?" He asked again. We were so afraid. We were shivering and our teeth were chattering and we couldn't speak. "I SAID: WHAT the HELL do you THINK yer DOING?" he yelled for a third time. And at this moment---which was the apocalypse, you understand---we realized why we couldn't answer him. It wasn't that we scared (though we were scared). We couldn't answer him because we had no idea what we were doing! "I don't know what I'm doing!" we all said. The foreman's face smoothed. "That's better!" he said, and he turned and vanished. That was the apocalypse. Upon awakening, we said, "Of Course! Mind over matter!" Then, fully awake, we wondered at what we had just said. We sat down and wrote the following composition, having made that first post-apocalyptic decision to accept everything at face value. So here it is, played by His Royal Highness's Marching Band slash Spanish Wind Ensemble: March of `Of Course! Mind over matter!'
[March of "Of Course! Mind over matter!"]
Section 3. After The Apocalypse.
The apocalypse left a good many people stunned, as you may recall. They are home in bed nursing their ugly old selves; unable to attend today's most important event. They are to be pitied, and later, harassed unmercifully. That is an order from His Royal Highness, which he offers in hopes that you will hear him and heed him. The apocalypse also left many of us in need of good, inexpensive transportation. We had to get from here to Miami, where the beaches were to provide sustaining values for our impoverished and ill-nourished souls. Of course, the whole thing was a fiasco. That is why we now have to do lots of things we don't want to do: it's because there was a fiasco, and now we're being punished for it. It doesn't matter whether you were even there or not; it's just too bad for you if you weren't, because even though it was a fiasco, it was what you're being punished for, and that is why so many of you will have to go to work tomorrow and the next day too. What happened is that we rented a boat, and we went out to sea, but the boat wasn't insured, and the captain took an instant dislike to us, so he kept threatening to scuttle the craft. "No, please don't," we asked, but he just kept on saying, "No, I don't like a one of you; I'm going to scuttle this craft---or I would, if it were insured, but since it isn't, I'll just threaten to do it all day." "But you won't really do it? You'll just threaten?" we asked, anxiously. "That's right!" bellowed the captain. But when he saw how our faces relaxed at this news, he grew furious and he said that he would be issuing his threats in a high-pitched wheedling tone which would be very annoying. "I assure you; you will not like this tone of voice," he told us, sneeringly. And he was quite correct. It was a miserable day, and now we're being punished for it.
When we finally got back to the dock, that is when we realized then that we were in need of good, inexpensive transportation. A couple people had vans, and they offered to take us. So we got into the vans, and were dropped off, one by one, as we reached our destination. This next piece is descriptive of the vans, as they were at that time, when we found ourselves relying upon them for good, inexpensive transportation. This piece is called, March of the Vans.
[March of the Vans]
That was the March of the Vans, a fine and thoroughly evocative composition which reminds us of those vans we took from Miami to wherever we were going, I forget exactly where. One of the features of post-apocalyptic life is that we can't seem to remember a whole lot, and of course that is we we have taken time this evening to ceremoniously treat ourselves to a history lesson, of story and music. The story, of course, can only be part of the true story; the music fills in all the gaps, so please listen closely; it's pretty complicated, even when you're not as forgetful and inattentive and dull-witted as we've all become. Remember, it's not our fault that we're essentially a bunch of ding-dongs; it's all out of a historical necessity. Pre-apocalyptic times were quite disturbing: we were afraid constantly. We used to cower in our sheds when we couldn't make it home in time to cower in our beds. Misery was so prevalent then that only the stupidest people were still functional, and after a while the things they did became absolutely too much to bear. Then the apocalypse came, like a welcome shower almost. Except for the part where it was very painful, and we were convinced that we were going to die and cursed ourselves for being cowards. Other than that, though, it was like a welcome shower of the mildest sort. Keeping in mind that our phobias were so many that shower were covered under two or three, depending. I'm thinking of the fear we had of enclosed spaces with tile floors, and the fear we had of soap getting into our eyes and causing blindness, and the fear we had of how bad soap tastes if you accidentally get some in your mouth, or if someone sneaks into your house while you're in the shower---or maybe someone you'd never suspect who's already in your house---and they come into the shower when you're singing, and they put soapy water in your mouth! None of us welcomed even the most welcome shower in those days, believe me. But now it's all different. Now we like water again, mostly because we've learned not to think about the harsh consequences of getting soap into it. This next piece honors water that is pure and has no evil intent. It's called, March of Water.
[March of Water]
That was March of Water, which honored water that doesn't have soap in it, and which, following the proclamation of His Royal Highness, also does not evilly get into our ears and clog them up. Now we would like to play a composition which honors the record label by whose courtesy Mr. Plonsey is permitted to perform here this evening. yes.no.lp/retro.p, who are known as the label of The Manufacturing of Humidifiers, whose recordings we are proud to sell you, along with PlonseyCards and the complete transcript of these proceedings. This composition is entitled, March of Giraffe, Microphone, Hi-Hat and Polka-Dot Box.
[March of Giraffe, Microphone, Hi-Hat and Polka-Dot Box]
That composition was entitled, March of Giraffe, Microphone, Hi-Hat and Polka-Dot Box. His Royal Highness requests that you acknowledge his worthiness in allowing such a piece to be performed, given its obvious tangential relationship to the educational event at hand. In fact, the appearance of such relatively secular music can only be explained as a kind of pay-off, or mutual back-scratching. It is include in tonight's ceremonial learning as an example of what it would be like if everyone was sleazy and nothing was sacred. Nonetheless, it is also of no consequence, and you are asked to forget it, and concentrate instead on the final segment of tonight's historical presentation.
His Royal Highness appeared on the post-apocalyptic scene not long after we woke up one morning. We sneezed a lot, and when we stopped, there he was. It was as if he'd always been there. Splendidly attired, he held a bowling ball in one hand, and he kindly offered to allow us to take him bowling. We all piled into vans. His Royal Highness revealed that he is and always has been a Spanish Bowler. A Spanish Bowler, he explained graciously, is one who achieves success through extraordinary means. He will not release the bowling ball at just any old time. In fact, to the best of anyone's knowledge, His Royal Highness has never released the bowling ball. Some say that this is what happens to Spanish Bowlers: they have to wait for special circumstances for months or even years, and they become too attached to the ball to ever part with it, so sooner or later, they have it glued to their hand, and there it stays, like a large ring, unusual no more than any ring is unusual, and rings are never unusual for any reason other than their size, and we never find a ring unusual for being too small, only for being too large. And that is the case with His Royal Highness. And he is thoroughly gracious, so we must go bowling as a way to commemorate his grace. These post-apocalyptic times also include a fair amount of leeway for His Royal Highness, who asks that no one make fun of him any more; it makes him feel small and awkward. Besides, he says, it isn't kind at all. So now, to make up for all the many unkind thoughts we have of His Royal Highness, not that anyone really seems to pay attention to him or to his proclamations (which, by the way, is heart-breaking to those of us who work closely with him: he just sits staring into space for hours, and then he's really grumpy and mean to us, and it's because you people are too snotty to obey his commands, which would hardly take you any time at all, and it would make him so happy, and then he wouldn't be so grumpy with us, and take it out on us in the petty kinds of ways that tyrants have of venting their frustration when no one's listening to them. Please, remember what I'm saying next time you make fun of him or the things he does. He is, after all, a Royal personage, and as such his blood is not the same as ours, because he descends from the Sun, or the God of the Sun (if that's not in fact the same thing). And he has a right to tell you what to do, and since the apocalypse is all over now, you have to do it, even if begrudgingly. Begrudgingly is fine. So please, remember this, and try to remember some of what I've reminded you about tonight, about your history, and try to appreciate what we've been through since the Royal Palace was closed and replaced by a computer software outlet. It was a travesty, and no one hardly noticed. Remember that you have responsibilities to His Royal Highness, due to forms which he had copied at his own expense, while you were still not sure what had happened. I've just told you what happened: it was the apocalypse, with giant spiders, and you were asked what you were doing, and you finally admitted that you didn't know. Remember? Come on; concentrate, and I'm sure you'll remember! Anyway, this final piece is written in great respect and in honor of His Royal Highness: March of the Spanish Bowler.
[March of the Spanish Bowler]
Now who remembers what that piece was called?
That's right, it was the March of the Spanish Bowler. And who does it honor?
That's right, it honors His Royal Highness. And His Royal Highness graciously accepts your approbation, and bids you to just hang in there; he's certain you'll be okay again some day. In the meantime, feel free to browse; there will be more music momentarily.