Fear and Loathing at the Super Bowl

". . . and whosoever was not found written into the book of life was cast into the lake of

fire. . ." -- Revelations 20:15

This was the theme of the sermon I delivered off the 20th floor balcony of the

Hyatt Regency in Houston on the morning of Super Bowl VIII. It was just before dawn, as I

recall, when the urge to speak came on me. Earlier that day I had found -- on the tile

floor of the Men's Room on the hotel mezzanine -- a religious comic book titled "A Demon's

Nightmare," and it was from the text of this sleazy tract that I chose the words of my

sermon.

The Houston Hyatt Regency -- like others designed by architect John Portman in

Atlanta and San Francisco -- is a stack of 1000 rooms, built around a vast lobby at least

30 stories high, with a revolving "spindletop" bar on the roof. The whole center of the

building is a tower of acoustical space. You can walk out of any room and look over the

indoor balcony (20 floors down, in my case) at the palm-shrouded, wood and naugahyde maze

of the bar/lounge on the lobby floor.

Closing time in Houston is 2:00 AM. There are after-hours bars, but the Hyatt

Regency is not one of them. So -- when I was seized by the urge to deliver my sermon at

dawn -- there were only about 20 ant-sized people moving around in the lobby far below.

Earlier, before the bar closed, the whole ground floor had been jammed with

drunken sportswriters, hard-eyed hookers, wandering geeks and hustlers (of almost every

persuasion), and a legion of big and small gamblers from all over the country who roamed

through the drunken, randy crowd -- as casually as possible -- with an eye to picking up a

last-minute sucker bet from some poor bastard half-mad on booze and willing to put some

money, preferably four or five big ones, on "his boys."

The spread, in Houston, was Miami by six, but by midnight on Saturday almost every

one of the two-thousand or so drunks in the lobby of the Regency -- official headquarters

and media vortex for this eighth annual Super Bowl -- was absolutely sure about what was

going to happen when the deal went down on Sunday, about two miles east of the hotel on

the fog-soaked artificial turf of Rice University stadium.

Ah. . . but wait! Why are we talking about gamblers here? Or thousands of hookers

and drunken sportswriters jammed together in a seething mob in the lobby of a Houston

hotel?

And what kind of sick and twisted impulse would cause a professional sportswriter

to deliver a sermon from the Book of Revelations off his hotel balcony on the dawn of

Super Sunday?

I had not planned a sermon for that morning. I had not even planned to be in

Houston, for that matter. . . But now, looking back on that outburst, I see a certain

inevitability about it. Probably it was a crazed and futile effort to somehow explain the

extremely twisted nature of my relationship with God, Nixon and the National Football

League: The three had long since become inseparable in my mind, a sort of unholy trinity

that had caused me more trouble and personal anguish in the past few months than Ron

Ziegler, Hubert Humphrey and Peter Sheridan all together had caused me in a year on the

campaign trail.

Or perhaps it had something to do with my admittedly deep-seated need to have

public revenge on Al Davis, general manager of the Oakland Raiders. . . Or maybe an

overweening desire to confess that I had been wrong, from the start, to have ever agreed

with Richard Nixon about anything, and especially pro football.

In any case, it was apparently something I'd been cranking myself up to deliver

for quite a while. . . and, for reasons I still can't be sure of, the eruption finally

occurred on the dawn of Super Sunday.

I howled at the top of my lungs for almost 30 minutes, raving and screeching about

all those who would soon be cast into the lake of fire, for a variety of low crimes,

misdemeanors and general ugliness that amounted to a sweeping indictment of almost

everybody in the hotel at that hour.

Most of them were asleep when I began speaking, but as a Doctor of Divinity and an

ordained minister in the Church of The New Truth, I knew in my heart that I was merely a

vessel -- a tool, as it were -- of some higher and more powerful voice.

For eight long and degrading days I had skulked around Houston with all the other

professionals, doing our jobs -- which was actually to do nothing at all except drink all

the free booze we could pour into our bodies, courtesy of the National Football League,

and listen to an endless barrage of some of the lamest and silliest swill ever uttered by

man or beast. . . and finally, on Sunday morning about six hours before the opening

kickoff, I was racked to the point of hysteria by a hellish interior conflict.

I was sitting by myself in the room, watching the wind & weather clocks on the TV

set, when I felt a sudden and extremely powerful movement at the base of my spine. Mother

of Sweating Jesus! I thought. What is it -- a leech? Are there leeches in this goddamn

hotel, along with everything else? I jumped off the bed and began clawing at the small of

my back with both hands. The thing felt huge, maybe eight or nine pounds, moving slowly up

my spine toward the base of my neck.

I'd been wondering, all week, why I was feeling so low and out of sorts. . . but

it never occurred to me that a giant leech had been sucking blood out of the base of my

spine all that time; and now the goddamn thing was moving up towards the base of my brain,

going straight for the medulla. . . and as a professional sportswriter I knew that if the

bugger ever reached my medulla I was done for.

It was at this point that serious conflict set in, because I realized -- given the

nature of what was coming up my spine and the drastic effect I knew it would have, very

soon, on my sense of journalistic responsibility -- that I would have to do two things

immediately: First, deliver the sermon that had been brewing in my brain all week long,

and then rush back into the room and write my lead for the Super Bowl story. . .

Or maybe write my lead first, and then deliver the sermon. In any case, there was

no time to lose. The thing was about a third of the way up my spine now, and still moving

at good speed. I jerked on a pair of L.L. Bean stalking shorts and ran out on the balcony

to a nearby ice machine.

Back in the room I filled a glass full of ice and Wild Turkey, then began flipping

through the pages of "A Demon's Nightmare" for some kind of spiritual springboard to get

the sermon moving. I had already decided -- about midway in the ice-run -- that I had

adequate time to address the sleeping crowd and also crank out a lead before that goddamn

bloodsucking slug reached the base of my brain -- or, even worse, if a sharp dose of Wild

Turkey happened to slow the thing down long enough to rob me of my final excuse for

missing the game entirely, like last year. . .

What? Did my tongue slip there? My fingers? Or did I just get a fine professional

hint from my old buddy, Mr. Natural?

Indeed. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. John Mitchell said that --

shortly before he quit his job and left Washington at 90 miles an hour in a

chauffeur-driven limousine.

I have never felt close to John Mitchell, but on that rotten morning in Houston I

came as close as I ever will; because he was, after all, a pro. . . and so, alas, was I.

Or at least I had a fistful of press badges that said I was.

And it was this bedrock sense of professionalism, I think, that quickly solved my

problem. . . which, until that moment when I recalled the foul spectre of Mitchell, had

seemed to require a frantic decision between either delivering my sermon or writing my

lead, in the space of an impossibly short time.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Who said that?

I suspect it was somebody from the Columbia Journalism Review, but I have no

proof. . . and it makes no difference anyway. There is a bond, among pros, that needs no

definition. Or at least it didn't on that Sunday morning in Houston, for reasons that

require no further discussion at this point in time. . . because it suddenly occurred to

me that I had already written the lead for this year's Super Bowl game; I wrote it last

year in Los Angeles, and a quick rip through my fat manila folder of clips labeled

"Football '73" turned it up as if by magic.

I jerked it out of the file, and retyped it on a fresh page slugged: "Super

Bowl/Houston '74." The only change necessary was the substitution of "Minnesota Vikings"

for "Washington Redskins." Except for that, the lead seemed just as adequate for the game

that would begin in about six hours as it was for the one that I missed in Los Angeles in

January of '73.

"The precision-jackhammer attack of the Miami Dolphins stomped the balls off the

Minnesota Vikings today by stomping and hammering with one precise jack-thrust after

another up the middle, mixed with pinpoint-precision passes into the flat and numerous

hammer-jack stops around both ends. . ."

The jangling of the telephone caused me to interrupt my work. I jerked it off the

hook, saying nothing to whoever was on the other end, and began flashing the hotel

operator. When she finally cut in I spoke very calmly. "Look," I said. "I'm a very

friendly person and a minister of the gospel, to boot -- but I thought I left instructions

down there to put no calls -- NO CALLS, GODDAMNIT! -- through to this room, and especially

not now in the middle of this orgy. . . I've been here eight days and nobody's called me

yet. Why in hell would they start now?. . . What? Well, I simply can't accept that kind of

flimsy reasoning, operator. Do you believe in Hell? Are you ready to speak with Saint

Peter?. . . Wait a minute now, calm down. . . I want to be sure you understand one thing

before I get back to my business; I have some people here who need help. . . But I want

you to know that God is Holy! He will not allow sin in his presence! The Bible says:

'There is none righteous. No, not one. . . For all have sinned and come short of the glory

of God.' That's from the book of Romans, young lady. . ."

The silence at the other end of the line was beginning to make me nervous. But I

could feel the sap rising, so I decided to continue my sermon from the balcony. . . and I

suddenly realized that somebody was beating on my door. Jesus god, I thought, it's the

manager; they've come for me at last.

But it was a TV reporter from Pittsburgh, raving drunk and demanding to take a

shower. I jerked him into the room. "Nevermind the goddamn shower," I said. "Do you

realize what I have on my spine?" He stared at me, unable to speak. "A giant leech," I

said. "It's been there for eight days, getting fatter and fatter with blood."

He nodded slowly as I led him over to the phone. "I hate leeches," he muttered.

"That's the least of our problems," I said. "Room service won't send any beer up

until noon, and all the bars are closed. . . I have this Wild Turkey, but I think it's too

heavy for the situation we're in."

"You're right," he said. "I got work to do. The goddamn game's about to start. I

need a shower."

"Me too," I said. "But I have some work to do first, so you'll have to make the

call."

"Call?" He slumped into a chair in front of the window, staring out at the thick

grey mist that had hung on the town for eight days -- except now, as Super Sunday dawned,

it was thicker and wetter than ever.

I gave him the phone: "Call the manager," I said. "Tell him you're Howard Cosell

and you're visiting up here with a minister in 2003; we're having a private prayer

breakfast and we need two fifths of his best red wine, with a box of saltine crackers."

He nodded unhappily. "Hell, I came here for a shower. Who needs the wine?"

"It's important," I said. "You make the call while I go outside and get started."

He shrugged and dialed "0" while I hurried out to the balcony, clearing my throat

for an opening run at James 2:19:

"Beware!" I shouted, "for the Devils also believe, and tremble!"

I waited for a moment, but there was no reply from the lobby, 20 floors down -- so

I tried Ephesians 6:12, which seemed more appropriate:

"For we wrestle not," I screamed, "against flesh and blood -- but against

principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world -- and,

yes -- against spiritual wickedness in high places!"

Still there was no response except the booming echoes of my own voice. . . but the

thing on my spine was moving with new vigor now, and I sensed there was not much time. All

movement in the lobby had ceased. They were all standing still down there -- maybe 20 or

30 people. . . but were they listening? Could they hear?

I couldn't be sure. The acoustics of these massive lobbies are not predictable. I

knew, for instance, that a person sitting in a room on the 11th floor, with the door open,

could hear -- with unnerving clarity -- the sound of a cocktail glass shattering on the

floor of the lobby. It was also true that almost every word of Gregg Allman's

"Multi-Colored Lady" played at top volume on a dual-speaker Sony TC-126 in an open-door

room on the 20th floor could be heard in the NFL press room on the hotel mezzanine. . .

but it was hard to be sure of the timbre and carrying-power of my own voice in this

cavern; it sounded, to me, like the deep screaming of a bull elk in the rut. . . but there

was no way to know, for sure, if I was really getting through.

"Discipline!" I bellowed. "Remember Vince Lombardi!" I paused to let that one sink

in -- waiting for applause, but none came. "Remember George Metesky!" I shouted. "He had

discipline!"

Nobody down in the lobby seemed to catch that one, although I sensed the first

stirrings of action on the balconies just below me. It was almost time for the Free

Breakfast in the Imperial Ballroom downstairs, and some of the early-rising sportswriters

seemed to be up and about. Somewhere behind me a phone was ringing, but I paid no

attention. It was time, I felt, to bring it all together. . . my voice was giving out, but

despite the occasional dead spots and bursts of high-pitched wavering, I grasped the

railing of the balcony and got braced for some flat-out raving:

"Revelations, Twenty-fifteen!" I screamed. "Say Hallelujah! Yes! Say Hallelujah!"

People were definitely responding now. I could hear their voices, full of

excitement -- but the acoustics of the place made it impossible to get a good fix on the

cries that were bounding back and forth across the lobby. Were they saying "Hallelujah"?

"Four more years!" I shouted. "My friend General Haig has told us that the Forces

of Darkness are now in control of the Nation -- and they will rule for four more years!" I

paused to sip my drink, then I hit it again: "And Al Davis has told us that whosoever was

not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire!"

I reached around behind me with my free hand, slapping at a spot between my

shoulder blades to slow the thing down.

"How many of you will be cast into the lake of fire in the next four years? How

many will survive? I have spoken with General Haig, and --"

At this point I was seized by both arms and jerked backwards, spilling my drink

and interrupting the climax of my sermon. "You crazy bastard!" a voice screamed. "Look

what you've done! The manager just called. Get back in the room and lock the fucking door!

He's going to bust us!"

It was the TV man from Pittsburgh, trying to drag me back from my pulpit. I

slipped out of his grasp and returned to the balcony. "This is Super Sunday!" I screamed.

"I want every one of you worthless bastards down in the lobby in ten minutes so we can

praise God and sing the national anthem!"

At this point I noticed the TV man sprinting down the hall toward the elevators,

and the sight of him running caused something to snap in my brain. "There he goes!" I

shouted. "He's headed for the lobby! Watch out! It's Al Davis. He has a knife!"

I could see people moving on all the balconies now, and also down in the lobby.

Then, just before I ducked back in my room, I saw one of the glass-walled elevators

starting down, with a single figure inside it. . . he was the most visible man in the

building; a trapped and crazy animal descending slowly -- in full view of everybody from

the busboys in the ground-floor coffee-shop to Jimmy the Greek on the balcony above me --

to certain captivity by that ugly crowd at the bottom.

I watched for a moment, then hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on my doorknob and

double-locked the door. That elevator, I knew, would be empty when it got to the lobby.

There were at least five floors, on the way down, where he could jump out and bang on a

friendly door for safe refuge. . . and the crowd in the lobby had not seen him clearly

enough, through the tinted-glass wall of the elevator, to recognize him later on.

And there was not much time for vengeance, anyway, on the odd chance that anyone

cared.

It had been a dull week, even by sportswriters' standards, and now the day of the

Big Game was finally on us. Just one more free breakfast, one more ride, and by nightfall

the thing would be over.

The first media-bus was scheduled to leave the hotel for the stadium at 10:30,

four hours before kickoff, so I figured that gave me some time to relax and act human. I

filled the bathtub with hot water, plugged the tape recorder with both speakers into a

socket right next to the tub, and spent the next two hours in a steam-stupor, listening to

Rosalie Sorrels and Doug Sahm, chewing idly on a small slice of Mr. Natural, and reading

the Cocaine Papers of Sigmund Freud.

Around noon I went downstairs to the Imperial Ballroom to read the morning papers

over the limp dregs of NFL's free breakfast, then I stopped at the free bar for a few

bloody marys before wandering outside to catch the last bus for the stadium -- the CBS

special -- complete with more bloody marys, screwdrivers and a roving wagon-meister who

seemed to have everything under control.

On the bus to the stadium I made a few more bets on Miami. At that point I was

picking up everything I could get, regardless of the points. It had been a long and

jangled night, but the two things that needed to be done before game-time -- my sermon and

my lead -- were already done, and the rest of the day looked easy: Just try to keep out of

trouble and stay straight enough to collect on all my bets.

The consensus among the 1600 or so sportswriters in town favored Miami by almost

two to one. . . but there are only a handful of sportswriters in this country with enough

sense to pour piss out of their own boots, and by Saturday night there was an obvious

drift among the few "smart" ones to Minnesota, with a seven-point cushion. Paul Zimmerman

of the New York Post, author of A Thinking Man's Guide to Pro Football and the

sportswriting fraternity's scaled-down answer to the Washington Post's political guru

David Broder, had organized his traditional pressroom betting pool -- where any

sportswriter who felt up to it could put a dollar in the pot and predict the final score

(in writing, on the pressroom bulletin board, for all the world to see). . . and whoever

came closest would pick up a thousand or so dollars.

Or at least that was the theory. But in reality there were only about 400 writers

willing to risk a public prediction on the outcome of a game that -- even to an amateur

like me -- was so obvious that I took every bet I could get against the Vikings,

regardless of the spread. As late as 10:30 on Sunday morning I was calling bookies on both

coasts, doubling and tripling my bets with every point I could get from five to seven. . .

and by 2:35 on Sunday afternoon, five minutes after the kickoff, I knew I was home free.

Moments later, when the Dolphins drove the length of the field for another

touchdown, I began collecting money. The final outcome was painfully clear less than

halfway through the first quarter-- and shortly after that, Sport Magazine editor Dick

Schapp reached over my shoulder in the press section and dropped two bills -- a five and a

twenty -- in my lap.

I smiled back at him. "Jesus," I said. "Are you giving up already? This game is

far from over, my man. Your people are only 21 points down, and we still have a whole half

to go."

He shook his head sadly.

"You're not counting on a second-half rally?" I asked, pocketing his money.

He stared at me, saying nothing. . . then he rolled his eyes up toward the soupy

mist above the stadium where the Goodyear Blimp was hovering, almost invisible in the fog.

When I began this doom-struck story many months ago, the idea was to follow one

team all the way to the Super Bowl and, in the process, try to document the alleged -- or

at least Nixonian -- similarities between pro football and politics. The problem, at that

time, was to decide which team to follow. It had to be one with a good chance of going all

the way, and also a team I could get along with over an extended period of time.

That was in early November, and the list of possibilities included about half the

League, but, I narrowed it down to the four teams where I already knew some of the

players: Los Angeles, Miami, Washington and Oakland. . . and after many days of brooding I

chose Oakland.

There were two main factors involved: 1) I had already made a large bet, at 8-1

odds, on Oakland to go all the way -- as opposed to a 4-1 bet on the Redskins and 2-1

against Minnesota. . . and 2) When I checked with Dave Burgin, a former San Francisco

Examiner and Washington Star-News sports editor, he said there were only two teams in the

whole League flakey enough for me to identify with in any kind of personal or human way:

One was Pittsburgh and the other was Oakland.

Well. . . it is three months later now, and the question that still haunts me, is,

which jail, morgue or asylum would I be in today if I'd happened to pick one of the other

teams.

Even now -- almost 2000 miles and two months removed from the Raider headquarters

in Oakland -- I still want to reach for an icepick every time I see a football. . . and my

only consolation, looking back on that nightmare, is that I might have decided to "cover"

the Dallas Cowboys. Just before talking to Burgin, in fact, I read a savage novel called

North Dallas Forty, by ex-Cowboy flanker Pete Gent, and it had cranked up my interest in

both Dallas and the Cowboys enough so that I was right on the brink of dumping Oakland and

heading for Texas. . .

Fortunately, I was shrewd enough to choose Oakland -- a decision that resulted,

less than three weeks after I made it, in a series of personal and professional disasters

ranging from massive slander and a beating by stadium-cops outside the Raider dressing

room, to total banishment from the field, locker room, press box, and for all practical

purposes -- because of the dark assumptions that would inevitably be made about any player

seen with me in public -- from any bar, restaurant, zoo or shotgun store in the Bay Area

frequented by any Raider players.

The reasons for all this are still not entirely clear -- or maybe they are, and I

still can't grasp the real meaning of what happened. Perhaps it was merely a case of the

chickens coming home to roost, accompanied by three giant condors...

From Hunter S. Thompson, "Fear and Loathing at the Superbowl"

Rolling Stone, Feb 15, 1973

La famille Fenouillard chez les Papous

 

Chez les Papous.

M. Fenouillard déjà chef de famille le devient de cuisine.

Or, en revenant à la surface, M. Fenouillard se trouve dans le voisinage d'un canot anglais regagnant son bord. M. Fenouillard saisit l'occasion par les cheveux et le canot par son gouvernail, donnant ainsi au monde une nouvelle preuve de son sang-froid bien connu et de sa présence d'esprit devenue légendaire.
Conduit en présence du capitaine Asdrubal Mac Haron, M. Fenouillard cherche une phrase qui soit de circonstance : « Commodore, dit M. Fenouillard avec à-propos, je viens comme Thémistocle et Napoléon m'asseoir au foyer de la perfide Albion ! » Ces dames admirent l'érudition de M. Fenouillard et implorent de l'œil le capitaine Asdrubal.
« Aôh ! dit le commandant Asdrubal Mac Haron, le bateau il a été le Old Erin et, nô le perfide Albion. Tout de même le maître coq il été devenu mort, vous pouvez vous asseoir au foyer de loui ! » C'est ainsi que M. Fenouillard devint cuisinier, madame Fenouillard relaveuse et mesdemoiselles marmiteuses à bord du Old Erin, capitaine Asdrubal Mac Haron.
Malheureusement, les connaissances culinaires de M. Fenouillard ne sont pas à la hauteur de sa bonne volonté. C'est ce qui explique pourquoi le commandant Asdrubal Mac Haron éprouve un certain malaise et le besoin de manifester son mécontentement.
Accusé de tentative d'empoisonnement sur la personne d'Asdrubal Mac Haron, M. Fenouillard a le choix entre : être pendu haut et court à la vergue du grand cacatois ou abandonné avec sa famille sur la plage inhospitalière d'une île déserte.
M. Fenouillard ayant observé qu'il aimerait mieux ni l'un, ni l'autre, on lui fait remarquer qu'il sort de l'hypothèse. Alors il choisit la plage inhospitalière.
Or, cette île déserte se trouve être peuplée de beaucoup de sauvages.

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Le « pas du Tournebroche ».

Conduits sous bonne escorte au village de la peuplade, nos amis assistent de loin à quelques préparatifs, que M. Fenouillard n'hésite pas à qualifier de culinaires. « Je m'y connais ! » dit-il ; puis il ajoute : « Enfin nous allons donc pouvoir nous mettre quelque chose sous la dent ! ces sauvages sont vraiment de bien excellentes personnes ! »
« Et comme ils sont méthodiques et intelligents ! poursuit M. Fenouillard. Évidemment ils vont nous partager la nourriture proportionnellement à notre poids ! Sinon, je ne m'expliquerai pas très bien le but de cette opération. » Pauvre M. Fenouillard qui ne voit pas que ce n'est là que le prologue d'un drame…, mais n'anticipons pas !
Les Papous s'étant mis alors à exécuter une danse de caractère connue dans le pays sous le nom de « pas du tournebroche » M. Fenouillard s'imagine qu'on lui donne la comédie. « Décidément ces jeunes gens sont d'une amabilité et d'une distinction parfaites, » dit-il. « Je parie que pendant notre repas, nous aurons la musique de la garde républicaine. »
Mais, hélas ! la vie n'est qu'un tissu de désillusions. La danse terminée, deux aimables jeunes gens s'approchent et avec une exquise politesse, essayent, par quelques signes forts intelligibles, même pour un esprit non prévenu, de faire comprendre à monsieur et madame Fenouillard dont le poids a été reconnu suffisant, quelles sont les intentions de la peuplade à leur égard.
Madame Fenouillard, qui est très intelligente, a compris et croit devoir s'évanouir. Par esprit d'imitation, ces demoiselles s'évanouissent aussi, au grand étonnement des jeunes gens non moins aimables que distingués. Il n'est pas certain que mesdemoiselles Fenouillard aient compris ; depuis quelque temps leur intelligence semble comme obscurcie.
Quant à M. Fenouillard, qui craint d'avoir compris, il juge que le moment est venu de se découvrir pour adresser au ciel une dernière et solennelle prière. Il enlève donc le béret immaculé, insigne de ses dernières fonctions et emblème de son âme pure ; puis levant au ciel des yeux humides de larmes…

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Agénor I^er, roi des Papous.

Or, d'après une antique prophétie des Papous, un homme blanc marqué d'un signe au front, devait un jour sortir de la mer pour faire le bonheur du peuple. C'est pourquoi, à la vue du front découvert de M. Fenouillard, les Papous se prosternent avec ferveur devant le hanneton indélébile.
Puis M. Fenouillard l'élu du Grand-Esprit, est triomphalement porté avec respect et sa famille jusqu'à la case royale, au milieu d'un grand concours de peuple dont les acclamations enthousiastes le proclament Grand-Ghi-Ghi-Bat-i-Fol des Papous, sous le nom d'Agénor I^er.
Alors un délégué s'avance et, avec toutes les marques du plus profond respect, tente de faire comprendre au nouveau roi qu'il doit, de toute nécessité, se laisser accommoder à la mode du jour. Agénor I^er, qui n'a pas compris; demande quelques instants de méditation.
Ensuite, deux délégués forts éloquents entreprennent de prouver par des arguments décisifs à Agénor I^er qu'il a tout intérêt à adopter le costume national.
M. Fenouillard (sous le nom d'Agénor I^er) se décide, et ne tarde pas à apparaître en grand uniforme aux yeux éblouis de ses peuples.
Puis pour fêter dignement l'avénement du nouveau monarque, il y eut de solennelles réjouissances – «  que le peuple célébra avec un calme digne des plus grandes éloges, en donnant l'exemple d'une tempérance rare en pareille circonstance » (Extrait du Journal officiel des Papous, Agénor I^er étant roi).

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M. Fenouillard commet un calembour.

Puis on immole quelques victimes. La dernière est un prisonnier dans lequel M. Fenouillard (sous le nom provisoire d'Agénor I^er), reconnaît le docteur Guy Mauve, une vieille connaissance. — M. Fenouillard, grand, noble, généreux, le couvre immédiatement de son sceptre et de sa protection.
Pleins de déférences pour les ordres de l'illustrissime monarque qui tient d'une main si ferme les rênes du gouvernement de la locomotive de leur État, les hauts dignitaires se font un plaisir de conduire eux-mêmes, avec toutes sortes d'égards, le docteur Guy Mauve dans la case royale.
Là, le docteur Guy Mauve, qui est naturellement observateur, s'aperçoit, avec surprise mêlée d'intime satisfaction, qu'il se trouve en présence de physionomies à lui connues et que ces physionomies semblent être, comme d'habitude, dans un état de léthargie avancée.
Aussitôt le docteur se met en devoir d'ajouter à son grand mémoire un 14^e appendice intitulé : « Des voyages immenses que peuvent entreprendre et parachever à l'état de sommeil les animaux dits hibernants. » Appendice où il formule de nouveau cette opinion, déjà par lui émise, que ces dames dorment à la façon du loir.
« Et vous savez si le loir est cher ! » murmure sentencieusement une voix à son oreille. C'est Agénor I^er, qui, fatigué des cérémonies auxquelles on le soumet, a tenté de se soustraire à l'anglaise à l'admiration de ses peuples et à leurs hommages et qui, usant de ses prérogatives royales, s'est permis de lire par dessus l'épaule du docteur.
Agénor en I^er, intimement ravi d'avoir tant d'esprit, ayant légérement souri de cet excellent calembour, le peuple, qui ignore la cause du mécontentement du Grand-Ghi-Ghi-Bat-i-Fol, s'empresse néanmoins de se tordre. C'est ainsi que les choses se passent en Papouasie.

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Extraordinaire conséquence d'un calembour.

Le rire étant éminemment contagieux gagne les Micronésiens qui deviennent aussitôt tire-bouchonoïdes. (Dessin dû à l'habile crayon de mademoiselle Artémise Fenouillard, princesse du sang.)
La contagion atteignant les Polynésiens eux-mêmes, ceux-ci éclatent de rire. (Dessin communiqué par mademoiselle Cunégonde Fenouillard, autre princesse du sang.)
Par esprit d'imitation, les volcans du Pacifique entrent eux-mêmes en éruption. (Dessin fait d'imagination par l'auteur qui n'est ni prince, ni princesse du sang.)
Ce qui détermine un violent tremblement de terre. (Ce dessin a été exécuté par un de nos plus grands artistes – c'est l'auteur – d'après un instantané communiqué par M. Fenouillard qui affirme avoir, dans ces circonstances, conservé tout son sang froid.)
Lequel tremblement produit deux effets principaux : 1^er effet : il réveille ses dames de leur léthargie. 2^e effet : il n'en produit aucun sur le docteur qui se contente d'écrire en note : Traitement nouveau des léthargiques : déterminer un violent tremblement de terre.
Le tremblement de terre produit encore un effet secondaire et accessoire. Persuadés que ce cataclysme est l'indice de la colère des dieux contre leur grand Ghi-Ghi-Bat-i-Fol, les Papous s'empressent de leur sacrifier quelques victimes expiatoires.
NOTA BENE. — Ces renseignements nous ayant été donnés par M. Fenouillard lui-même, nous croyons qu'il y a lieu de ne pas ajouter entièrement foi aux causes qui, selon lui, ont provoqué sa déchéance. Ces causes nous paraissent par trop invraisemblables. Il doit y avoir autre chose.
Dernière heure. — Nous recevons de Melbourne la dépêche suivante : « Agénor I^er détrôné pour actes arbitraires et despotiques : a voulu mettre un impôt sur bretelles, faux-cols et sous-pieds, afin de doter ses filles. » Nous avions donc raison de douter.

Le roi de la lune

Dalí, Arrabal: La orgía malograda

Arrabal decía riéndose que Picasso era un imbécil genial, uno enfermo de priapismo, que se despatarraba en una poltrona y sentaba a las mujeres, todas las que pudiera, sobre su enorme polla, sin mover otro músculo, otro que no fuera su polla, sin prodigar una caricia se entiende, y que sus últimos días los pasó bajo el control absoluto de los órganos del KGB soviético, y que para poder visitarlo alguien los agentes del tenebroso aparato debían pedir autorización a las más altas instancias del Kremlin.

Luego volvió a repetir que Dalí, el Divino Dalí, estaba entre los tres hombres más inteligentes que había tratado, y acto seguido, empezó a contar como le habría conocido una noche en que sonó el teléfono en su apartamento en París y al preguntar quién es, una voz le contestó desde el otro lado de la línea, soy yo, Dalí, el Divino Dalí, he visto una de sus obras y quiero escriba una para mí, para montarla, y Arrabal, claro, cómo no Maestro, y Dalí, sí pero antes quiero que pase por mi hotel con una esclava. Arrabal no tenía ni idea donde podía encontrar una esclava, pero sin pensarlo dos veces, le dijo, sí, sí, mañana a las ocho de la noche en su hotel y tomó la dirección.

Arrabal cuenta que en su apartamento había unos amigos, entre ellos una joven lesbiana, feminista militante, maoísta y estudiante de la Sorbonne, y que al comunicarles el pedido de Dalí, pensó que la combativa muchacha saltaría una furia por lo que consideraría una atrocidad, pero no, ella dijo que en su clase podía conseguir siete más de su misma condición para que sirvieran de esclavas ante Dalí y Arrabal.

Arrabal nunca estuvo confiado y siempre creyó podía ser una trampa de la tropa lésbica para lincharlo o castrarlo, o peor, para castrarlo primero y luego lincharlo. No obstante, asegura que al otro día desde las seis de la tarde estaba en su apartamento la tribu de 8 tríbadas listas para el acto sacrificial, pero así y todo Arrabal no confiaba, podía ser un plan de las aguerridas combatientes de la izquierda parisina para, dos pájaros de un tiro, deshacerse de él y de Dalí, o al menos de sus respectivos apéndices viriles. Confiesa Arrabal que lo más complejo fue encontrar una cuerda, que terminó comprando en un pequeño mercado de purgas cercano, que diera para maniatar firmemente a las ocho maoístas, la maniobra misma de maniatar a las maoístas, se dice torpe para cierta labores manuales, y que finalmente, con la ayuda eficaz de su esposa, terminó amarrando convenientemente a la dote de esclavas caídas como del cielo.

Alquiló un coche de caballos y legó frente al lujoso hotel donde vivía el Divino, y nada más bajar con su cordillera de maoístas, que trabajosamente marchaban entre hoscas y curiosas, el portero, un negro inmenso, no le dejó ni hablar y dijo, sí, ya sé, para la habitación imperial del Gran Dalí, yo les conduzco, por aquí, por favor, por aquí, cuidado con las esclavas, no se lastimen, y que una maoísta, seguro la más comprometida con la causa de los humildes del mundo, le lanzó un furioso escupitajo al negro, y que éste, sin perder la compostura, y sin limpiarse, dijo, no se preocupe Sr. así suelen ser las esclavas.

En la habitación fueron recibidos por Dalí y Gala. Con ellos había otro negro inmenso, en traje militar lleno de entorchados y medallas, y al que Dalí llamaba como su Jefe de la Guerra, además de Luis XVI, una vieja destentada, tapada hasta el cuello, y acostada en una cama estilo imperio, y que a cada momento se sentaba levemente para beber largo de un botellón de Wiskey ubicado sobre un artilugio de cedro en el centro mismo de la cama. Luis XVI no hablaba, sólo bebía y sonreía como lo que era, un rey o una reina.

Dalí ordenó al Jefe de la Guerra desatar a las esclavas. Arrabal, el temor aún reflejado en sus ojos, el temor reflejado tras el reflejo de las copas de tinto italiano del Café Borges, y acto seguido ordenó a la primera lesbiana para que mostrara el trasero, unas nalgas blancas y tersas, recuerda Arrabal, y que acto seguido empezó a azotarla sin piedad con un pesado látigo de cuero negro y siete lenguas, bifurcándose cada una en otras siete, bifurcaciones borgeanas, extraído de un cofre de plata, incrustado en pedrerías, y que se dijo, ahora va a iniciar la revuelta lésbica, mañana estaremos en la primera plana de todos los periódicos parisinos, pero no, la azotó hasta la primera sangre, Gala daba moderados saltitos de entusiasmo, Gala la mujer que hizo a Dalí, dijo Arrabal tras un trago largo, y así fue sacando la sangre de cada uno de los ocho traseros maoístas, bajo la atenta, escrutadora mirada del Jefe de la Guerra, sin una protesta por parte de las militantes, salvo unos quejidos y unos siseos, a medio camino entre el dolor y el placer, con cada caída, restallar del látigo en los heroicos traseros revolucionarios.

Agregó Arrabal que al otro día el Jefe de la Guerra fue a recogerle a su apartamento por órdenes del Divino y llevado a una mansión a las afueras de París. Allí en torno a una piscina había unas veinte prostitutas follando con perros, una lo hacía con un enorme mono, otra con un caballo y, sobre todo, decía, follaban entre ellas, en tanto Gala y Dalí observaban el escenario de la batalla desde dos tronos dorados. Asegura que el Divino y la Diva se levantaron y fueron efusivos a saludarle.

Recuerda el escritor que Dalí le pidió encarecidamente que follara con una prostituta, especie de walkiria ataviada con una túnica transparentada, una que hasta ese momento no participaba en la orgía, y a la cual, tanto Dalí como Gala, llamaban dulcemente como la Gran Princesa Aria, y que él se negó rotundamente bajo el argumento de que era un hombre casto, y que Dalí insistía, no hay hombres castos, y yo ordeno que te la folles, tú no puedes desairarme, es una fiesta en tu honor, una fiesta pánica, y Arrabal, pánico soy yo, pero soy casto, soy el casto José del Antiguo Testamento.

Dice Arrabal que Dalí enfureció, que lo hizo salir del lugar escoltado por el Jefe de la Guerra y que al voltear un ángulo de la piscina para salir, alcanzó a divisar al Divino Dalí a cuatro patas lamiendo el culo de la Gran Princesa Aria que, también a cuatro patas, se había despojado convenientemente de la túnica transparentada.

Al otro día, cuenta Arrabal, recibió una llamada de Dalí, un Júpiter tonante, que le decía del otro lado de la línea, óyeme bien, Casto José, cacho de casto, si nada más te atreves a contar algo de lo que has visto, vivido, te destruyo, juro que acabo contigo, con tu carrera, te hago una nada, una sombra, con lo que Arrabal entendió que Dalí quería decir exactamente lo contrario, quería que lo contara, que diera testimonio. Yo bajé el resto de mi copa, pagué, y pensé Arrabal quiere lo mismo, quiere que de testimonio, quiere que yo les cuente esta historia.

Armando de Armas

"Encuentro de tercer tipo con Fernando Arrabal (II)"

http://eichikawa.com/2009/01/encuentro-de-tercer-tipo-con-fernando-arrabal-ii.html

¿Dónde está mi cabeza?

- I -

Antes de despertar, ofrecióse a mi espíritu el horrible caso en forma de angustiosa sospecha, como una tristeza hondísima, farsa cruel de mis endiablados nervios que suelen desmandarse con trágico humorismo. Desperté; no osaba moverme; no tenía valor para reconocerme y pedir a los sentidos la certificación material de lo que ya tenía en mi alma todo el valor del conocimiento... Por fin, más pudo la curiosidad que el terror; alargué mi mano, me toqué, palpé... Imposible exponer mi angustia cuando pasé la mano de un hombro a otro sin tropezar en nada... El espanto me impedía tocar la parte, no diré dolorida, pues no sentía dolor alguno... la parte que aquella increíble mutilación dejaba al descubierto... Por fin, apliqué mis dedos a la vértebra cortada como un troncho de col; palpé los músculos, los tendones, los coágulos de sangre, todo seco, insensible, tendiendo a endurecerse ya, como espesa papilla que al contacto del aire se acartona... Metí el dedo en la tráquea; tosí... metílo también en el esófago, que funcionó automáticamente queriendo tragármelo... recorrí el circuito de piel de afilado borde... Nada, no cabía dudar ya. El infalible tacto daba fe de aquel horroso, inaudito hecho. Yo, yo mismo, reconociéndome vivo, pensante, y hasta en perfecto estado de salud física, no tenía cabeza.

- II -

Largo rato estuve inmóvil, divagando en penosas imaginaciones. Mi mente, después de juguetear con todas las ideas posibles, empezó a fijarse en las causas de mi decapitación. ¿Había sido degollado durante la noche por mano de verdugo? Mis nervios no guardaban reminiscencia del cortante filo de la cuchilla. Busqué en ellos algún rastro de escalofrío tremendo y fugaz, y no lo encontré. Sin duda mi cabeza había sido separada del tronco por medio de una preparación anatómica desconocida, y el caso era de robo más que de asesinato; una sustracción alevosa, consumada por manos hábiles, que me sorprendieron indefenso, solo y profundamente dormido.

En mi pena y turbación, centellas de esperanza iluminaban a ratos mi ser.. Instintivamente me incorporé en el lecho; miré a todos lados, creyendo encontrar sobre la mesa de noche, en alguna silla, en el suelo, lo que en rigor de verdad anatómica debía estar sobre mis hombros, y nada... no la vi. Hasta me aventuré a mirar debajo de la cama... y tampoco. Confusión igual no tuve en mi vida, ni creo que hombre alguno en semejante perplejidad se haya visto nunca. El asombro era en mí tan grande como el terror.

No sé cuánto tiempo pasé en aquella turbación muda y ansiosa. Por fin, se me impuso la necesidad de llamar, de reunir en torno mío los cuidados domésticos, la amistad, la ciencia. Lo deseaba y lo temía, y el pensar en la estupefacción de mi criado cuando me viese, aumentaba extraordinariamente mi ansiedad.

Pero no había más remedio: llamé... Contra lo que yo esperaba, mi ayuda de cámara no se asombró tanto como yo creía. Nos miramos un rato en silencio.

-Ya ves, Pepe -le dije, procurando que el tono de mi voz atenuase la gravedad de lo que decía-; ya lo ves, no tengo cabeza.

El pobre viejo me miró con lástima silenciosa; me miró mucho, como expresando lo irremediable de mi tribulación.

Cuando se apartó de mí, llamado por sus quehaceres, me sentí tan solo, tan abandonado, que le volví a llamar en tono quejumbroso y aun huraño, diciéndole con cierta acritud:

-Ya podréis ver si está en alguna parte, en el gabinete, en la sala, en la biblioteca... No se os ocurre nada.

A poco volvió José, y con su afligida cara y su gesto de inmenso desaliento, sin emplear palabra alguna, díjome que mi cabeza no parecía.

- III -

La mañana avanzaba, y decidí levantarme. Mientras me vestía, la esperanza volvió a sonreír dentro de mí.

-¡Ah! -pensé- de fijo que mi cabeza está en mi despacho... ¡Vaya, que no habérseme ocurrido antes!... ¡qué cabeza! Anoche estuve trabajando hasta hora muy avanzada... ¿En qué? No puedo recordarlo fácilmente; pero ello debió de ser mi Discurso-memoria sobre la Aritmética filosófico-social, o sea, Reducción a fórmulas numéricas de todas las ciencias metafísicas. Recuerdo haber escrito diez y ocho veces un párrafo de inaudita profundidad, no logrando en ninguna de ellas expresar con fidelidad mi pensamiento. Llegué a sentir horriblemente caldeada la región cerebral. Las ideas, hirvientes, se me salían por ojos y oídos, estallando como burbujas de aire, y llegué a sentir un ardor irresistible, una obstrucción congestiva que me inquietaron sobremanera...

Y enlazando estas impresiones, vine a recordar claramente un hecho que llevó la tranquilidad a mi alma. A eso de las tres de la madrugada, horriblemente molestado por el ardor de mi cerebro y no consiguiendo atenuarlo pasándome la mano por la calva, me cogí con ambas manos la cabeza, la fui ladeando poquito a poco, como quien saca un tapón muy apretado, y al fin, con ligerísimo escozor en el cuello... me la quité, y cuidadosamente la puse sobre la mesa. Sentí un gran alivio, y me acosté tan fresco.

- IV -

Este recuerdo me devolvió la tranquilidad. Sin acabar de vestirme, corrí al despacho. Casi, casi tocaban al techo los rimeros de libros y papeles que sobre la mesa había. ¡Montones de ciencia, pilas de erudición! Vi la lámpara ahumada, el tintero tan negro por fuera como por dentro, cuartillas mil llenas de números chiquirritines..., pero la cabeza no la vi.

Nueva ansiedad. La última esperanza era encontrarla en los cajones de la mesa. Bien pudo suceder que al guardar el enorme fárrago de apuntes, se quedase la cabeza entre ellos, como una hoja de papel secante o una cuartilla en blanco. Lo revolví todo, pasé hoja por hoja, y nada... ¡Tampoco allí!

Salí de mi despacho de puntillas, evitando el ruido, pues no quería que mi familia me sintiese. Metíme de nuevo en la cama, sumergiéndome en negras meditaciones. ¡Qué situación, qué conflicto! Por de pronto, ya no podría salir a la calle porque el asombro y horror de los transeúntes habían de ser nuevo suplicio para mí. En ninguna parte podía presentar mi decapitada personalidad. La burla en unos, la compasión en otros, la extrañeza en todos me atormentaría horriblemente. Ya no podría concluir mi Discurso-memoria sobre la Aritmética filosófico-social; ni aun podría tener el consuelo de leer en la Academia los voluminosos capítulos ya escritos de aquella importante obra. ¡Cómo era posible que me presentase ante mis dignos compañeros con mutilación tan lastimosa! ¡Ni cómo pretender que un cuerpo descabezado tuviera dignidad oratoria, ni representación literaria...! ¡Imposible! Era ya hombre acabado, perdido para siempre.

- V -

La desesperación me sugirió una idea salvadora: consultar al punto el caso con mi amigo el doctor Miquis, hombre de mucho saber a la moderna, médico filósofo, y, hasta cierto punto, sacerdotal, porque no hay otro para consolar a los enfermos cuando no puede curarlos o hacerles creer que sufren menos de lo que sufren.

La resolución de verle me alentó: vestíme a toda prisa. ¡Ay! ¡Qué impresión tan extraña, cuando al embozarme pasaba mi capa de un hombro a otro, tapando el cuello como servilleta en plato para que no caigan moscas! Y al salir de mi alcoba, cuya puerta, como de casa antigua, es de corta alzada, no tuve que inclinarme para salir, según costumbre de toda mi vida. Salí bien derecho, y aun sobraba un palmo de puerta.

Salí y volví a entrar para cerciorarme de la disminución de mi estatura, y en una de éstas, redobláronse de tal modo mis ganas de mirarme al espejo, que ya no pude vencer la tentación, y me fui derecho hasta el armario de luna. Tres veces me acerqué y otras tantas me detuve, sin valor bastante para verme... Al fin me vi... ¡Horripilante figura! Era yo como una ánfora jorobada, de corto cuello y asas muy grandes. El corte del pescuezo me recordaba los modelos en cera o pasta que yo había visto mil veces en Museos anatómicos.

Mandé traer un coche, porque me aterraba la idea de ser visto en la calle, y de que me siguieran los chicos, y de ser espanto y chacota de la muchedumbre. Metíme con rápido movimiento en la berlina. El cochero no advirtió nada, y durante el trayecto nadie se fijó en mí.

Tuve la suerte de encontrar a Miquis en su despacho, y me recibió con la cortesía graciosa de costumbre, disimulando con su habilidad profesional el asombro que debí causarle.

-Ya ves, querido Augusto -le dije, dejándome caer en un sillón-, ya ves lo que me pasa...

-Sí, sí -replicó frotándose las manos y mirándome atentamente-: ya veo, ya... No es cosa de cuidado.

-¡Que no es cosa de cuidado!

-Quiero decir... Efectos del mal tiempo, de este endiablado viento frío del Este...

-¡El viento frío es la causa de...!

-¿Por qué no?

-El problema, querido Augusto, es saber si me la han cortado violentamente o me la han sustraído por un procedimiento latroanatómico, que sería grande y pasmosa novedad en la historia de la malicia humana.

Tan torpe estaba aquel día el agudísimo doctor, que no me comprendía. Al fin, refiriéndole mis angustias, pareció enterarse, y al punto su ingenio fecundo me sugirió ideas consoladoras.

-No es tan grave el caso como parece -me dijo- y casi, casi, me atrevo a asegurar que la encontraremos muy pronto. Ante todo, conviene que te llenes de paciencia y calma. La cabeza existe. ¿Dónde está? Ése es el problema.

Y dicho esto, echó por aquella boca unas erudiciones tan amenas y unas sabidurías tan donosas, que me tuvo como encantado más de media hora. Todo ello era muy bonito; pero no veía yo que por tal camino fuéramos al fin capital de encontrar una cabeza perdida. Concluyó prohibiéndome en absoluto la continuación de mis trabajos sobre la Aritmética filosófico-social, y al fin, como quien no dice nada, dejóse caer con una indicación, en la que al punto reconocí la claridad de su talento.

¿Quién tenía la cabeza? Para despejar esta incógnita convenía que yo examinase en mi conciencia y en mi memoria todas mis conexiones mundanas y sociales. ¿Qué casas y círculos frecuentaba yo? ¿A quién trataba con intimidad más o menos constante y pegajosa? ¿No era público y notorio que mis visitas a la Marquesa viuda de X... traspasaban, por su frecuencia y duración, los límites a que debe circunscribirse la cortesía? ¿No podría suceder que en una de aquellas visitas me hubiera dejado la cabeza, o me la hubieran secuestrado y escondido, como en rehenes que garantizara la próxima vuelta?

Diome tanta luz esta indicación, y tan contento me puse, y tan claro vi el fin de mi desdicha, que apenas pude mostrar al conspicuo Doctor mi agradecimiento, y abrazándole, salí presuroso. Ya no tenía sosiego hasta no personarme en casa de la Marquesa, a quien tenía por autora de la más pesada broma que mujer alguna pudo inventar.

- VI -

La esperanza me alentaba. Corrí por las calles, hasta que el cansancio me obligó a moderar el paso. La gente no reparaba en mi horrible mutilación, o si la veía, no manifestaba gran asombro. Algunos me miraban como asustados: vi la sorpresa en muchos semblantes, pero el terror no.

Diome por examinar los escaparates de las tiendas, y para colmo de confusión, nada de cuanto vi me atraía tanto como las instalaciones de sombreros. Pero estaba de Dios que una nueva y horripilante sorpresa trastornase mi espíritu, privándome de la alegría que lo embargaba y sumergiéndome en dudas crueles. En la vitrina de una peluquería elegante vi...

Era una cabeza de caballero admirablemente peinada, con barba corta, ojos azules, nariz aguileña... era, en fin, mi cabeza, mi propia y auténtica cabeza... ¡Ah! cuando la vi, la fuerza de la emoción por poco me priva del conocimiento... Era, era mi cabeza, sin más diferencia que la perfección del peinado, pues yo apenas tenía cabello que peinar, y aquella cabeza ostentaba una espléndida peluca.

Ideas contradictorias cruzaron por mi mente. ¿Era? ¿No era? Y si era, ¿cómo había ido a parar allí? Si no era, ¿cómo explicar el pasmoso parecido? Dábanme ganas de detener a los transeúntes con estas palabras: «Hágame usted el favor de decirme si es esa mi cabeza.»

Ocurrióme que debía entrar en la tienda, inquirir, proponer, y por último, comprar la cabeza a cualquier precio... Pensado y hecho; con trémula mano abrí la puerta y entré... Dado el primer paso, detúveme cohibido, recelando que mi descabezada presencia produjese estupor y quizás hilaridad. Pero una mujer hermosa, que de la trastienda salió risueña y afable, invitóme a sentarme, señalando la más próxima silla con su bonita mano, en la cual tenía un peine1.

FIN


1. La continuación en el número de Navidad del año que viene.

B. Pérez Galdós, "¿Dónde está mi cabeza?", El Imparcial, 30-31 diciembre 1892

Santa Lives!

The figure of Santa Claus is shrouded in mystery and contradiction. Well before the founding of the Christian Church, men (and women, if the men let them go outside) would gaze up at the heavens during the bleakest, longest nights of the year and wail, although probably not in English, “Who will deliver us from this endless wintry gloom? What can sustain us through the long nights ahead besides heavy drinking, the worship of moss, and staring at endless reruns of the Bronze Age equivalent of Law & Order?” Then would every heart beat with a single desire and every voice give utterance to the same wish: “Isn’t there some big fat man up there who can come down here and give me free stuff?"

In response to such universal human longing, Santa Claus appears. And yet, from the first, he is a figure of controversy. It begins with his very name: Santa, scholars tell us, is the feminine form of the Spanish/Italian/Portuguese word for “saint.” But Claus is a masculine Nordic/Germanic name. Is Santa Claus a girl with a boy’s name or a boy with a girl’s name or what? It’s worse than Leslie or Alex! No wonder, then, that when we (henceforth, by “we” I will mean not only those of us in the intellectual elite but everyone else, too!) first think of Santa Claus, we think of a hermaphrodite. And no wonder that, when we ask ourselves where he’s from, we instantly decide: Switzerland, where everyone is half Italian and half German and half French, where the boys wear dresses and learn to curtsy, where the girls smoke pipes and en- joy a good arm wrestle, and which is home to the high- est percentage of Swiss hermaphrodites in the world. And yet, no matter how often we repeat to one another, “Santa Claus is a Swiss hermaphrodite,” it is never fully credible, never entirely satisfying. Then we are shown the familiar figure in the red suit, and we don’t know what to think. 

But that is only the beginning of our dilemma. If he (if indeed he is a “he”) is Santa Claus, how can he also be, as he is alternatively called, Saint Nicholas? Or Fa- ther Christmas? Or Père Noel? And exactly where does the modern world get off calling him the vulgar, overly familiar Saint Nick? How, in any reasonable universe, can a Christian saint be named Nick? What next? Saint Chet? Saint Tiffany? And what’s with “Kris Kringle”? Isn’t that a brand of doughnuts? Still, at the end of the day—or, more accurately, of the year—we manage to reconcile ourselves to living with these and other unresolved issues. Christmas, as it always does, comes. We betake to festoon the bowers with gaudy bunting and hoist a schooner high to quaff the foaming wassail, although we haven’t the faintest idea what the hell any of that means. Then we welcome Santa Claus into our homes and our department stores, our malls and our children’s hospitals, our drunken of- fice parties and our drunken Chanukah parties and our drunken Kwanzaa parties. Or rather—and we know this all too well, no matter how strenuously we pretend to believe otherwise—we welcome not Santa Claus himself but “Santa Claus,” i.e., a stand-in, a make- believe substitute for the real Claus. Invariably this ersatz Santa—usually embodied by a classroom father, a pediatric resident, or Tyler, the numbskull in Purchasing—dispatches his duties ade- quately, distributing presents and frightening children, embarrassing everyone and “good-naturedly” groping teachers, nurses, and secretaries, sometimes all at once. And yet, throughout, we are haunted by a perennially unresolved question: Is there an actual personage upon whom all these models and impersonations are based? Does Santa Claus actually exist?

The question is as old as civilization itself, and even older if you count early tribal peoples, who just wan- dered around, hunting and gathering and wishing and hoping and bitching and moaning and showing up to stay in places without a reservation. (Hence the impor- tance today of Native American Indian reservations, to redress this grievous lack.) The range of opinions re- garding Clausite existence spans the gamut, from the outright denial of Aclausites (“There is no such thing as Santa Claus.”) to the fervent affirmation of the faith- ful (“Yes there is, and shut up.”). Each side marshals its propositions, refutations, challenges, and “proofs.” And yet, after just under six-point-two jillion years of human history, neither side has so far been able to dis- suade the other, leaving both entrenched in their re- spective positions. Can the deadlock be broken? Can the matter be re- solved once and for all? And can it be done in a way that takes full advantage of the burgeoning market for mildly “spiritual” works that offend no one and make everyone feel great (even Jews)? Can it mention chicken soup, angels, Heaven, a day of the week, an old guy’s nickname, and “code” in the title? I believe that it can, except for the title part. (And even with that, I tried. This work’s original title was Thursdays with Izzie in Heaven: Santa Claus, Angels, and the Chicken Soup Code. My priggish and short- sighted editor made me change it.) I hope, by bringing together all the most persuasive and enduring argu- ments in favor of Santa’s existence, to prove conclu- sively that Santa Claus is a living presence, a gift-toting, reindeer-whipping reality.

Of course some will wonder, why undertake such a project? For those who believe Santa exists, no proof is necessary; for those who do not, no proof is sufficient. The answer, as it always is whenever someone wants to justify publicly doing something for their own private purposes, is: for the children. (...) If every child on earth were to buy a copy of this book (after its translation into eighty-three languages and a print run into the hundreds of millions), and read it, and derive hope from it, I would be content. But if they don’t? Then let it be purchased for them by an entire generation of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, teachers, coaches, clergymen, pediatricians, so- cial workers, babysitters, and well-meaning strangers. Let them purchase it for the same reason that I have written it: for the children. Someone will say, “Yes, but I am Jewish, or Muslim, or Hindu, or of some other religion for which the figure of Santa Claus is at best a pathetic and risible fiction. Why should I care about, and purchase, the present work?” To him or her I say: The issue of Santa Claus’s existence has ramifications that extend far beyond the interest of any particular religion or spiritual world- view. If Santa Claus exists, then he exists for all of us.

If, on Christmas Eve, he truly does bring presents for good little Christian boys and girls, then he is available to bring presents to everyone else, including good little non-Christian boys and girls and big, bad grownups, on the other 364 days of the year. Someone will say, “Well, then, why doesn’t he?” Perhaps because he hasn’t been asked. Why has he not been asked? Because in order to ask something of someone, you first have to believe that that someone ex- ists. That is why I have written this work. Plus for the children.

Ellis Weiner, Santa Lives!

Five Conclusive Arguments for the Existence of Santa Claus

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_D6rXfYXq0

The Tree of Life: Paradise Found at the Arctic Pole

  

The Tree of Life,
The middle tree, and highest there that grew. Milton.

Sowohl der Apfelbaum and die Quelle, als auch der Drache des Hesperidengartens, werden in den Mythen and Märchen der meisten Völker in das Centrum der Natur, an den Gipfel des Weltberges, an den Nordpol verlegt.—Wolfgang Menzel.

In the centre of the Garden of Eden, according to Genesis iii. 3, there was a tree exceptional in position, in character, and in its relations to men. Its fruit was "good for food," it was "pleasant to the eyes," "a tree to be desired." 1 At first sight it would not perhaps appear how a study of this tree in the different mythologies of the ancient world could assist us in locating primitive Paradise. In the discussions of such sites as have usually been proposed it could not; but if the Garden of Eden was precisely at the North Pole, it is plain that a goodly tree standing in the centre of that Garden would have had a visible and obvious cosmical significance which could by no possibility belong to any other. Its fair stem shooting up as arrow-straight as the body of one of the "giant trees of California," far overtopping, it may be, even such gigantic growths as these, would to any one beneath have seemed the living pillar of the very heavens. Around it would have turned the "stars of God," as if in homage; through its topmost branches the human worshiper would have looked up to that unmoving centre-point where stood the changeless throne of the Creator. How conceivable that that Creator should have reserved for sacred uses this one natural altar-height of the Earth, and that by special command He should have guarded its one particular adornment from desecration! (Gen. ii. 16, 17.) If anywhere in the temple of nature there was to be an altar, it could only be here. That it was here finds a fresh and unexpected confirmation in the singular agreement of many ancient religions and mythologies in associating their Paradise-Tree with the axis of the world, or otherwise, with equal unmistakableness, locating it at the Arctic Pole of the Earth. 1

That the Northmen conceived of the universe as a tree (the Yggdrasil) is well known to ordinary readers. Its roots are in the lowest hell, its mid-branches inclose or overarch the abode of men, its top reaches the highest heaven of the gods. It was their poetical way of saying that the whole world is an organic unity pervaded by one life. As the abode of the gods was in the north polar sky, the summit of the tree was at that point, its base in the south polar abyss, its trunk coincident with the axis of heaven and earth. 1 It was, therefore, in position and in nature precisely what an idealizing imagination magnifying the primitive tree of Paradise to a real World-tree would have produced. 2

But while most readers are familiar with this Norse myth, few are aware how ancient and universal an idea it represents. This same tree appears in the earliest Akkadian mythology. 3 And what is precisely to our purpose, it stood, as we have before seen, at "the Centre" or Pole of the earth, where is "the holy house of the gods." 4 It is the same tree which in ancient Egyptian mythology inclosed the sarcophagus of Osiris, and out of which the king of Byblos caused the roof-pillar of his palace to be taken. But this was only another form of the Tat-pillar, which is the axis of the world. 1 In the light of comparative cosmology it is quite impossible to agree with Mr. Renouf in his treatment of the Tree in Egyptian mythology. It is neither "the rain cloud," nor "the light morning cloud," nor "the transparent mist on the horizon." His own citations of texts clearly show that under all its names the Egyptian Tree of Life is a true World-tree, whose trunk is coincident in position and direction with the axis of the world; a tree in whose sky-filling branches Bennu, the sun-bird, is seated; a tree from whose north polar top the "North-wind" proceeds; a tree which, like the Yggdrasil, yields a celestial rain that is as life-giving as Ardvi-Sûra's, and that descends, not merely upon the fields of Lower Egypt, but, like Ardvi-Sûra's, to the Underworld itself, refreshing "those who are in Amenti." 1 The super-terrestrial portion of the Egyptian's Yggdrasil, therefore,—like that of the Northman's,—stands at the Arctic Pole.

The Phœnicians, Syrians, and Assyrians had each their sacred tree in which the universe was symbolized. 2 In the lost work of Pherecydes the former is represented as a "winged oak." 3 Over it was thrown the magnificent veil, or peplos, of Harmonia, on which were represented the all-surrounding Ocean with his rivers, the Earth with its omphalos in the centre, the sphere of Heaven varied by the figures of the stars. 4 But as this self-interpreting symbol was furnished with wings to facilitate its constant rotation, it is plain that we have in it, not only a World-tree, but also one the central line of whose trunk is one with the axis of heaven and earth. 1 In the language of Maury, "It is a conception identical with the Yggdrasil of Scandinavian mythology." 2 That section of the tree, therefore, which reaches from the abode of men into the holy heavens rises pillar-like from the Pole of the earth to the Pole of the sky.

Among the Persians the legendary tree of Paradise took on two forms, according as it was viewed with predominant reference to the universe as an organic whole, or to the vegetable world as proceeding from it. In the first aspect it was the Gaokerena (Gôkard) tree, or "the white Hôm" (Haoma = Soma); in the second, the "tree of all seeds," the "tree opposed to harm." Of the former it is written, "Every one who eats of it becomes immortal; . . . also in the renovation of the universe they prepare its immortality therefrom; it is the chief of plants." 3 Of the second we read, "In like manner as the animals, with grain of fifty and five species and twelve species of medicinal plants, have arisen from the primeval ox, so ten thousand species among the species of principal plants, and a hundred thousand species among ordinary plants, have grown from all these seeds of the tree opposed to harm, the many-seeded. . . . When the seeds of all these plants, with those from the primeval ox, have arisen upon it, every year the bird (Kamros) strips that tree and mingles all the seeds in the water; Tîshtar seizes them with the rain-water and rains them on to all regions." 1

Where stood this tree which, in its dual form, was at once the source of all other trees and the giver of immortality? Every indication points us to the northern Pole. It was in Aîrân-Vej, 2 the Persian Eden, and this we have already found. It was at the source of all waters, the north polar fountain of Ardvî-Sûra. 3 It was begirt with the starry girdle of the zodiacal constellations, which identifies it with the axis of the world. 4 It grew on "the highest height of Harâ-berezaiti," 5 and this is the celestial mountain at the Pole. Finally, although Grill mistakenly makes the Chinvat bridge "correspond with the Milky Way and the rainbow," he nevertheless correctly discerns some relationship between Chinvat and the Persian Tree of Life. 1 By this identification we are again brought to the one unmistakable location toward which all lines of evidence perpetually converge.

The Aryans of India, as early as in the far-off Vedic age, had also their World-tree, which yielded the gods their soma, the drink which maintains immortality. As we should anticipate, its roots are in the Underworld of Yama at the hidden pole, its top in the north polar heaven of the gods, its body is the sustaining axis of the universe. 2 Weber long ago expressly identified it with the World-ash of the Edda; 3 and Kuhn, 4 Senart, 5 and all the more recent writers accept without question the identification. Grill's interesting sketch of the historic developments of the myth may be seen in the Appendix to this volume. 6 Some of the late traces of it in Hindu art betray the ancient conception of the Pole as a means of ascent to heaven, a bridge of souls and of the gods, a stair substituted for the slippery pillar up which the Tauist emperor vainly sought to climb. 1

Among the Greeks 2 it is more than probable that the "holy palm" in Delos, on which Lêtô laid hold at the birth of Apollo, represents the same mythical World-tree. If so, and if we follow Hecatæus in locating the scene, we shall be brought to the Arctic Pole. 3 The eternally flourishing olive of Athênê (Euripides, Ion 1433) seems also but another form of the holy palm, and this in some of its descriptions brings us again to the land of the Hyperboreans. 1 In the Garden of the Hesperides, the tree which bore the golden apples was unquestionably the Tree of Paradise; but following Æschylus, Pherecydes, and Apollodorus, we must place it in the farthest North, beyond the Rhipæan mountains. 2 Traces of the same mythical conception among the Romans are presented by Kuhn. 3

The sacred tree of the Buddhists figures largely in their sculpture. An elaborate specimen representation may be seen on the well-known Sanchi Tope. One inconspicuous feature in the representation has often puzzled observers. Almost invariably, at the very top of the tree we find a little umbrella. So universal is this that its absence occasions remark. 4 This little piece of symbolism has a curious value. In Buddhist mythological art the umbrella symbolizes the north polar heaven of the gods, 5 and by attaching it to the tip of the sacred tree the ancient sculptors of this faith unmistakably showed the cosmical character and axial position of that to which it was attached.

But this cosmic tree was the mythical Bôdhi tree, the Tree of Wisdom,—

                          "Beneath whose leaves
It was ordained that Truth should come to Buddh." 6

Its location is in "the Middle of the Earth." 1 Notwithstanding his doctrine of an African origin of mankind, Gerald Massey says, "In the legendary life of Gautama, Buddha is described as having to pass over the celestial water to reach Nirvana, which is the land of the Bôdhi Tree of Life and Knowledge. He was unable to cross from one bank to the other, but the spirit of the Bôdhi tree stretched out its arms to him and helped him over in safety. By aid of this tree he attained the summit of wisdom and immortal life. It is the same Tree of the Pole and of Paradise all mythology through. The Tree of the Guarani garden, the Hebrew Eden, the Hindu Jambu-dwîpa, is likewise the Tree of Nirvana. This final application of the imagery proves its origin. The realm of rest was first seen at the polar centre of the revolving stars." 2

The ancient Germans called their World-tree the Irmensul, i.e., "Heaven-pillar." Grimm speaks of its close relationship with the Norse Yggdrasil, and ends his high authority to the view that it was simply a mythical expression of the idea of the world's axis. 1 The same view was advanced still earlier by the distinguished Icelandic mythographer, Finn Magnusen. 2 How profoundly the myth affected mediæval Christian art is illustrated in many places, among the rest in the sculptures on the south portal of the Baptistery at Parma. 3 It is also not without a deep significance that "in the mediæval legend of Seth's visit to the Garden of Eden, to obtain for his dying father the Oil of Compassion, the Tree of Life which he saw lifted its top to heaven and sent its root to hell;" 4 and that on the crucifixion of Christ, himself the

"Arbor, quæ ab initio posita est,"

this cosmical Tree of the Garden died, and became the "Arbre Sec" of mediæval story. 5 The Paradise-tree of the Chinese Tauists is also a World-tree. It is found in the centre of the enchanting Garden of the Gods on the summit of the polar Kwen-lun. Its name is Tong, and its location is further defined by the expression that it grows "hard by the closed Gate of Heaven." 1 As in many of the ancient religions, the mount on which, after the Flood, the ark rested was considered the same as that from which in the beginning the first man came forth, it is not strange to find the tree on the top of the mountain of Paradise remembered in some of the legends of the Deluge. In the Tauist legend it seems to take the place of the ark. Thus we are told that "one extraordinary antediluvian saved his life by climbing up a mountain, and there and then, in the manner of birds plaiting a nest, he passed his days on a tree, whilst all the country below him was one sheet of water. He afterwards lived to a very old age, and could testify to his late posterity that a whole race of human beings had been swept from the face of the earth." 2

It is at least suggestive to find this same idea of salvation from a universal deluge by means of a miraculous tree growing on the top of the divine Mountain of the North among the Navajo Indians of our own country. Speaking of the men of the world before our own, and of the warning they had received of the approaching flood, their legends go on: "Then they took soil from all the four corner mountains of the world, and placed it on top of the mountain that stood in the North; and thither they all went, including the people of the mountains, the salt-woman, and such animals as then lived in the third world. When the soil was laid on the mountain, the latter began to grow higher and higher, but the waters continued to rise, and the people climbed upwards to escape the flood. At length the mountain ceased to grow, and they planted on the summit a great reed, into the hollow of which they all entered. The reed grew every night, but did not grow in the daytime; and this is the reason why the reed grows in joints to this day: the hollow internodes show where it grew by night, and the solid nodes show where it rested by day. Thus the waters gained on them in the daytime. The turkey was the last to take refuge in the reed, and he was therefore at the bottom. When the waters rose high enough to wet the turkey, they all knew that danger was near. Often did the waves wash the end of his tail, and it is for this reason that the tips of the turkey's tail-feathers are to this day lighter than the rest of his plumage. At the end of the fourth night from the time it was planted the reed had grown up to the floor of the fourth world, and here they found a hole through which they passed to the surface." 1

The opening sentence of the above citation gives us a topography exactly corresponding to Mount Meru, the Hindu "mountain of the North," with its "four corner mountains of the world," in the four opposite points of the horizon. Moreover, in the Deluge myths of the Hindus, as in this of the Navajos, it was over this central mountain that the survivors of that world-destruction found deliverance. However explained, the coincidences are remarkable.

In Keltic tradition the Tree of Paradise is represented by the tree which bore golden apples in Avalon. But Avalon is always represented as an island in the far North, and its "loadstone castle" self-evidently connects it with the region of the magnetic Pole. 1

In the ancient epic of the Finns, the Kalevala, we see the World-tree of another people. If any doubt could rise as to its position in the universe, the constellation of the Great Bear in its top would suffice to remove it. 2

Thus the sacred trees, like the sacred waters, of every ancient people invariably conduct the investigator to lands outside the historic habitats of the peoples in question, and ever to one and the same primeval home-country, the land of light and glory at the Arctic Pole.

William Warren, Paradise Found. The Cradle of the Human Race at the North Pole 1885