Trivia, High Art and Madness

It is hard to believe that a mere two weeks ago I found myself lifted, as a phoenix, from a rather tenacious moment of melancholy to a grand and gratifying endeavor of quite possibly history changing consequence! I was feeling a bit dispirited by my dear Auntie Minerva’s recent involuntary commitment to Danvers. She had acquired the habit of locking herself in her gynaeceum for weeks on end, surviving with her peculiar talent of catching cockroaches with a bar of soap, on those rare occasions when her interest waned from the incessant blast of the television’s parade of game and talk shows, played at a volume that would surely have cast an elephant to ground had one been able to share such a minuscule space. Obviously this could not go on, so the family had the most unpleasant task of sending ‘round the boys in white. Seeing dear Minerva dragged from her apartment, screaming about how an all cockroach diet was essential to good nutrition, and that Star Jones was a prophet and veritable overweight Obadiah, who must be heard and comprehended before all was lost, was not a scene I hope to witness again in a hurry, believe me.

In the nick of time my good friend Chloe rang and announced that she had been chosen to aid a most prominent and respected artist of international renown in the realization of his latest project. It was hardly necessary to interrogate her further, as she was most anxious to fill in every detail posthaste.

Chloe told me the brilliant German conceptualist Rudolf Günter had leased a large space in Sag Harbor, and was preparing to build the most physical aspect of this new installation. It is the first part of a massive undertaking, which will, upon fruition, question every presupposition we have held most dear about History, Chance, and the Personality of Evil. To be finally titled “The Eccentric Assassins”, this symphony of sights, sounds, and experience is to be made up of three parts, working backward in history. It will raise important questions about our understanding of the spirits and motives of the three Presidential assassins; Booth, with “The Assassin Who Thought He Could Fly”, Czolgosz, in “The Virtually Vowel-less Assassin”, and Oswald, in this first installation, with which Chloe was to assist in the creation, “The Laziest Assassin”. It will utilize drawings, charts, diagrams, and a scale model of the assassination site, including a supplementary model of the trail from the infamous Schoolbook Depository to Oswald’s apartment. Mr. Günter’s contention is that Oswald was the “laziest” of these killers, since he chose to ride a bus, rather than walk, to his hideout.

Chloe invited me to accompany her and provide whatever help I could to this exciting project. Of course I accepted! The opportunity to bask in the presence of a mind such as that of Mr. Günter is a rare one indeed, and we and the other volunteers spent the weekend in hard and satisfying work, framing diagrams and drawings, assembling and painting pieces of the magnificent and strangely touching model. Monday evening we celebrated our efforts with gusto at a nearby restaurant. The conversation turned, naturally enough, to the media depictions and theorizing about the Kennedy assassination, on to Oliver Stone’s “JFK”, then to film in general. One of our party spoke of his favorite piece of cinema satire and social criticism, “Network” and declared Albert Finney to be a genius in the part of mad newsman Howard Beale. I spoke up immediately, pointing out that Albert Finney did not play Howard Beale, but curse my failing memory, could not bring to mind the name of the thespian, I remembered later to be Peter Finch, who did portray that prophetic character, and in fact won an Academy Award in the process. My new friend stated most obstinately that I was wrong, and until I provided an alternative name at once I could not prove otherwise. At that point our rather harried waitress came by for our desert and after dinner drink orders. I enlisted her in our debate, asking her if she could provide the correct answer. She was not aware of the film, being of a more tender age than the rest of us, but said she would ask the bartender, an expert in trivia. She returned with our dessert selections, but failed to mention our discussion.

“My dear,” Mr. Günter asked her good naturedly, his deep German accent a joy to hear, “have you made any progress on that actor’s name?”

Slightly rattled, she profusely apologized, and took off for the bar. We had dedicated ourselves to consuming our desserts like starving rabbits, when our waitress returned with our drinks. She, with great flourish, presented Mr. Günter with a bottle of beer, which he had not ordered. He looked a bit puzzled, then read the label, breaking into a robust display of laughter. The rest of us decried being in the dark concerning his merriment, so he turned the bottle for us to read its name.

Clearly misunderstanding his earlier request for “that actor’s name”, our flummoxed waitress had brought a cold bottle of the delicious California brew, Anchor Steam!