lionel
17-Jun-2009, 11:41
Not quite finished this yet, but I couldn't resist posting this quotation and my comment about this story of two Nam vets in a V.A. hospital - one a black guy (Braiden) with only a head and torso, and the other (Walter) white with no face. I'll add to this later, but so far this is the only joke in a very grim book:
'They were having preaching one Sunday morning in this black church and they had a new piccolo player playing along with the choir. Well, they played two or three songs there and somebody all of a sudden hollered out in this real deep voice, The piccolo player's a motherfucker. Everybody hushed. The old reverend was up in the pulpit and he looked out over the congregation. He was just shocked. He said, Who was that called my piccolo player a motherfucker? Nobody said a word. Everybody was looking around to see who it was. The old reverend stood up there for a minute. Said, All right. I want the man who's setting next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up. Nobody said a word. The old reverend was just getting madder all the time. He said, All right. I want the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up. And hell, nobody stood up. Nobody said a word. The old reverend stood up there and just got pissed off as hell. Then he hollered, All right! I want the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up. Finally there was this one little bitty guy in the back who stood up. And everybody was looking at him. He said, Reveren, I ain't the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called your piccolo player a motherfucker. I ain't even the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called your piccolo player a motherfucker. And I ain't the man who called your piccolo player a motherfucker. What I want to know is, who called that motherfucker a piccolo player?'
Walter is relating the joke to Braiden to ease the tedium of life in the hospital, cheering up his new friend, passing a sleepness night as best he can, but there's more to it than that. The repetition in the joke itself echoes the awful, repetitive nature of the life the man with just a head and torso - and the man with no face - are forced to live. The punchline, of course, is a masterpeice of absurdity, as are so many jokes in general: having denied that he called the piccolo player a motherfucker, 'one little bitty guy' proceeds not only to call the man a motherfucker, but to deny that the man is a piccolo player. He turns the narrative in on itself. From one personal point of view we move to two: yes, this piccolo player is a motherfucker, but he is no piccolo player either. A man under attack can lose his self-esteem, but 'one little bitty guy' takes away his raison d'?tre. This joke is saying far more than it appears to be saying on first impression: it's demolishing the existential integrity of the two men - something like 'I didn't call you men freaks, but I'd like to know who called you freaks men' - but at the same time it's reinforcing that very integrity through the medium of shared humour. Yes, it's also a very warm book. There's something very Beckettian in this paradox.
'They were having preaching one Sunday morning in this black church and they had a new piccolo player playing along with the choir. Well, they played two or three songs there and somebody all of a sudden hollered out in this real deep voice, The piccolo player's a motherfucker. Everybody hushed. The old reverend was up in the pulpit and he looked out over the congregation. He was just shocked. He said, Who was that called my piccolo player a motherfucker? Nobody said a word. Everybody was looking around to see who it was. The old reverend stood up there for a minute. Said, All right. I want the man who's setting next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up. Nobody said a word. The old reverend was just getting madder all the time. He said, All right. I want the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up. And hell, nobody stood up. Nobody said a word. The old reverend stood up there and just got pissed off as hell. Then he hollered, All right! I want the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called my piccolo player a motherfucker to stand up. Finally there was this one little bitty guy in the back who stood up. And everybody was looking at him. He said, Reveren, I ain't the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called your piccolo player a motherfucker. I ain't even the man who's setting next to the man who's setting next to the man who called your piccolo player a motherfucker. And I ain't the man who called your piccolo player a motherfucker. What I want to know is, who called that motherfucker a piccolo player?'
Walter is relating the joke to Braiden to ease the tedium of life in the hospital, cheering up his new friend, passing a sleepness night as best he can, but there's more to it than that. The repetition in the joke itself echoes the awful, repetitive nature of the life the man with just a head and torso - and the man with no face - are forced to live. The punchline, of course, is a masterpeice of absurdity, as are so many jokes in general: having denied that he called the piccolo player a motherfucker, 'one little bitty guy' proceeds not only to call the man a motherfucker, but to deny that the man is a piccolo player. He turns the narrative in on itself. From one personal point of view we move to two: yes, this piccolo player is a motherfucker, but he is no piccolo player either. A man under attack can lose his self-esteem, but 'one little bitty guy' takes away his raison d'?tre. This joke is saying far more than it appears to be saying on first impression: it's demolishing the existential integrity of the two men - something like 'I didn't call you men freaks, but I'd like to know who called you freaks men' - but at the same time it's reinforcing that very integrity through the medium of shared humour. Yes, it's also a very warm book. There's something very Beckettian in this paradox.