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THE GLOBBLE VILLAGE:In the Globble Village, every globble is every other globble. If a marriage, for example, is contracted between two globbles, the differentiation of one's spouse from all other individuals in the village is a pre-eminent problem, not to speak of the differentiation of one's spouse, or any other individual, from oneself. Privacy is at the same time unknown and universal, since, when all are one, one's oneness remains inviolate. Divorce among globbles is synonymous with schizophrenia, but the complete identity of psychiatrist and patient which characterises any subsequent treatment only adds another layer of confusion to the prevailing distress. The observer might ask: if all globbles are one, what use is the concept of differentiation at all, how can any concept of association or dis-association be valid in the globble world? Professor D'Pouf has determined that though these concepts are indeed empirically invalid, they nevertheless exist in globble discourse. I.e., globbles converse constantly on such social topics as matrimony, adultery, patrimony, filiality, bar-mitzvahs, debutante balls, rotary clubs, freemasonry, lawsuits, contracts, wills and so on. Impassioned arguments ensue, but, owing to the total identity of all those involved, the differing opinions are expounded at random, and the non-globble observer is at a loss to determine to which globble which viewpoint pertains. Professor D'Pouf, in his epoch making "Globble trobble - A Perplexer of Guides", argues the entire village is a single organism in a state of perpetual schizoid psychosis, in other words, the globbles are totally out of their minds. He cites, for example, a typical law suit:
A globble, designated for the sake of argument A, had welched on an agreement with another globble, arbitrarily designated B (though B might have been equal to A from the onset, a possibility one must always keep in mind), to supply him (or her) with x number of thrubs. (A thrub being a non descript fibrous article of no apparent use which globbles pile in mounds at the edge of the village and leave to rot in the sun.) Accordingly, all globbles in the village felt, simultaneously, an acute anger at A for going back on his word, and a concurrent anger at B for raising the issue, when thrubs were known to be of no earthly value. B having decided to prosecute, the entire village was precipitated into an escalating communal quarrel. The Judge before whom the case was to be heard disqualified himself, as he (or her) was both in accord and discord, and in fact, identical, in the eyes of the Law and society, with both the litigants, ipso facto, at one and the same time. This process was repeated with each adjudicant assigned to the case, so that the issue could never be resolved. The same procedure, Professor D'Pouf ascertained, took place in every one of the seven thousand and forty five court cases he examined, going back three hundred and sixty years. By definition, no dispute could ever be resolved in the globble village, as everyone held at one and the same time every possible point of view on any matter at hand. One would have thought, given that the globbles would thus, unlike Man, being able to experience every side of a question, live by necessity in a state of utopian harmony. But the opposite, as we have seen, is the case. The globble village seethes with insoluble controversy and debate, from simple matters of everyday fashion and clothing, through the type of dressing to be used with salad, and on to topics of profound philosophical import. Any creed or religion embraced by any single globble is ipso facto embraced by them all, and in the network of conflicting dogmas circulating in the village creed wars are fought in ruthless armed battles accompanied by frightful psychic schisms. The observer perceiving a globble flaggelating him/herself with bobub barbs would know that a terrifying struggle between Christianity and Islam, Buddhism and Ayn Rand Objectivism, Trotskyism and Kautskyism, etcctera, is being played out in the poor being's brain. The population of the globble village is so decimated at irregular intervals by the ensuing ideological wars, self mutilations and suicides that it is a miracle any globbles survive to this day at all. Professor D'Pouf can proffer no explanation whatever of the paradox of the globble existenz, and visitors to his ward at the Utrecht Home for the Incurably Lulu can extract no information from his lips but a whimpering "whibble-whibble-whibble" and a cascade of glittering soap bubbles. The world must await the results of the coming Supervius-3 Expedition for any enlightenment concerning these strange and highly unfortunate creatures."So what happens next in the monkey epic?" Tishman asks, glancing at my notes upside down, having made out my latest chapter heading.
"The ape explains his origins," I inform him, thinking it through as I speak. "He is in fact the offspring of two circus anthropoids captured long ago as freaks by the promoter Carl Denham, whose highly romanticized account of our beast's father's capture was rendered inthe famous motion picture. But both the original great apes died of neglect in the circus, not by being shot off the Empire State Building as libellously alleged... Our poor orphan anthropoid escaped the clutches of Denham, then old and bloated on the proceeds of his perfidy, and lit out to the mountains of Wyoming, where he was taken in and brought up by a lone, eccentric farmer, called Egbert J. Fudd, who taught him human speech and put him though a full correspondence course in the Humanities. Then, when the old farmer died, of a broken heart following the assassination of John F. Kennedy, our beast wandered, friendless, across the hills and prairies, finally hiding in a container load of Idaho potatoes en route for the Old World... His search for companionship and even, dared he dream, sexual fulfilment, dot dot dot, lead him to place advertisements in various magazines - The Los Angeles Free Press, Screw, The Village Voice, Time Out, The Lady, Cosmopolitan and the New York Review of Books, among others, to wit:
"Large, hirsute, literate but very shy primate seeks female companions for round the world tour. Must be of acute intelligence, with vivid curiosity for the unknown and open minded to an extreme degree."
"You've been reading my mind." says Tishman. "I've been looking for that girl all my life."
"I thought you find her every week." says I.
"I never found her." he says, nodding his head ruefully. "I fall in love all the time, but the ideal eludes me."
"Ellie?"
"Isn't she wonderful? You should really come and see her perform."
"You know I can't take the performance arts. Its too exhibitionistic for me." Ballet, in particular, I cannot stand. Shmuntz, shmuntz, shmuntz across the stage. In tutus. Is this an activity for grown up persons? Arm wrestling, now there's a man's game. I tried it once, with a brief girl friend from the Socialist Workers International. She beat me. But I still enjoy the Puerto Rican tag teams on Channel Twelve. Is there perhaps a tale or a novella there? But I have forsworn all research. The further from reality the better. With Tishman its the exact opposite. I Am a Camera, But I Can't Afford the Film Stock. Buddy Can You Spare a Can? The man has lived and breathed New York City all his life. He takes his passport to New Jersey.
"I'll be on Long Island all the weekend." he says. "This is the Big Push of the Year. And even if the man doesn't come up trumps, Ellie and me can at least watch the sea."
Old boots, washing up all the way from Mexico. "Well, good luck, man, and have a good time."
" Find yourself a girl, for God's sake, Danny. You're in the prime of life. Take it while it lasts. Women are not like publishers. They want to be fucked."
"Yah. I'll see what what I can do."
"By the way, I've wanted to ask you, where does that wierd title come from?" he asks, as we rise to pay and go.
"Your Monkey's Shmuck Is In My Beard?" I present the check to the cashier.
My turn to unfold a bill. Last remains of the Nest Egg and the spate of cash earned with Tishman painting some yoik's studio loft. Tishman lives, like everyone else, off bank loans. "Its the Rabbi's comment to the barrel organ man: Excuse me, sir, but do you know your monkey's shmuck is in my beard? No, but if you hum it I'll play it."
"I'm sorry I asked." Tishman says.
"They always are," I sigh, "they always are…"
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