Wilbur by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
#2- Wilbur- The Day
Wilbur sat as calmly and contentedly in his room as one can do that surrounded by the heavenly cacophony, insurgent water, and fifty-eight soon-to-be, chatty Cheeseball trophies.
Actually, he might have been standing. But he was a bird, and with birds it is often as hard to tell the difference as it is to bite into hard cheese; beak testing Double Gloucester only one of many possible manifestations. When he attempted to look down he couldn’t see his feet, and it didn’t matter as at each side he had a wing of every color of the rainbow; blues, greens, reds, blacks, whites, yellows, browns, purples, and every mixture he could imagine. Were Wilbur to travel, he was no pedestrian and would take to the sky. But, he had no plans of going anywhere else.
Though, out of politeness, he never articulated it, he suspected that he had accumulated the highest number of Cheeseball trophies. Wilbur could not be 100% certain of that as he had no access to the “Guinness Book of World Records” or The Official Cheeseball Records.com.
Tragically, Wilbur also did not know how to read or operate a computer. He didn’t even have a smart phone. Worse, even if he had such equipment and skills, he possessed no fingers with which he might navigate through cyber screens or manipulate a
Page 6
keyboard; a severe impediment to participation in the post truth era. Even wings had their built-in limitations; and he had absolutely no intention of utilizing his great and colorful beak to sift through and turn sheets of paper, or like a chicken pecks at the ground, poke at the squiggly-decorated-mechanical-levers as if he were a typewriter’s assistant enabler. This rarely bothered him much, and his bouts with anxiety tended to center around the times when he obsessed about his stature in the world of Cheeseball or had an itch. The majority of the time he was contented to believe that he was one of the Cheeseball greats, now retired and resting near his laurels. Deep down, he had always thought that the trophies were his. That just had to be. Wilbur had little or no memory of anything other than the room in which he now resided, but the physical evidence of his Cheeseball acumen was sufficiently overwhelming to satisfy any investigation performed by either a grouchy physicist who graduated with a B cum (pronounced kyoom) or a legal maven spouting; “Possession is nine tenths of the law.”
Maybe it was that doubting one tenth which would foster in his protrusive beak, an elusive, existentially brain based agony, desirous of complete certitude. Wilbur would probably have constantly been the most happy of properly sized, colorful, immobile, balsa wood toucans if he was smart enough to know that he had no brain and acted accordingly.
Wilbur
Page 7
Of course, if Wilbur knew all that, then he’d also know that he had not won any of his Cheeseball trophies. It’s one of those double bind things they often mention on that “Bookworm”
show, apparently unaware that a lobotomy would solve their despondency at least ninety percent of the time.
Wilbur; property of the author.
The storm abated, taking its earthly intrusion back where it came from until the next unscheduled and random show. The light filtered through the eastern window, gingerly at first and steadily increasing by the second. Wilbur wondered why no one
Page 8
was talking. Usually the trophies began their silly chatter as soon as the light came through the room’s one window which some currently faced. The coterie of frontal skylight interfacers switched each time they were moved, providing an eclecticism of sorts, a kaleidoscopic point of view. He never previously realized how much he depended on prompting, hearing, seeing, and participating with the trophies, as they carried on with their impassioned discussions until it was now gone.
They’d chatter on and on about whether Trump, presumably the one with the prevailing suit this hand, first or second said that he'd fired the little club opportunist, because of his actions which heavily, and how heavily is eminently debatable; contributed to the diamond-masquerading-as-a-heart’s electoral triumph. From a wobbly, uncertain point of view this seemed semi-highly reasonable. That is, excepting the possible flaw in that it is strange to fire someone for the attempted “fix” of a card game, whether Bridge or Pinochle, in your favor. To do otherwise one must assume that it is possible for a Trump card to weigh the possible and indeterminate values of personally game detrimental principles. Most would agree that if any values higher than personal aggrandizement and the unreported cash revenue attendant to the trick taking play exist, it is capable of hiding at a Grandmaster level.
Page 9
But then the Trump card compounded the complexity by turning around and giving yet another version of the story. In this one he seemed to illogically choose to enter dangerous territory, when he said that he had really fired the little club opportunist because he wouldn't be cooperative about the extra-cards-in-the-old-sock investigation. The direct and seemingly predictable result was that No Trump was appointed to find out what was going on, which could possibly result in getting Trump over-ridden or at least put in a position where in order to win, the value of his cards had to exceed the value of No Trump’s cards; quite a comeuppance for one accustomed to ruling the board.
Hindsight and under-the-table-leg-kicking had certainly revealed a great deal of trouble for Trump already, and there remained a few more tricks to be played. The degree of the aforementioned which has been taken from “fake news” channels is indeterminate if one considers “Fox” and “MSNBC” to be real, reasonably competent, and desirous of retaining their customary degree of partisan “credibility.” Hey, look. No one is applying for the opening at Saint.com. Everyone stresses their side of the story, but to be caught in a direct lie is detrimental to the entity’s market value and the liar’s job. Checks and balances are immortal.
Page 10
Taken as it may have been unclearly stated, this is the best ersatz evidence yet to support the claim that Trump isn't following some kind of deep strategy, unless it is the equivalent of something AlphaGo has not yet been capable of imagining, no less outplaying. At least that was as close to Wilbur’s understanding of what the previously incessant trophy chatter was about; the shifting sands in the shifty world of politics, power, and money.
Had he the heartlessness to tell the truth, Wilbur didn’t care about the headache inducing current details of the timeless game of politics, power, and money. He had absolutely no understanding of the morality questions the trophies attached to a hairbrained card game. But he pretended that he did, as he found that he was addicted to the animated noise that the trophies made. Now, this silent morning made him feel like a cold turkey, rather than the warm, vividly colored, wooden, and friendly toucan with artistic pretensions, which he truly was.
After Wilbur's fifth chirp, one trophy, customarily less vocal, said something off-key; “We trophies have never been so neglected and depressed. We used to be well admired parts of a nice place. This place is dingy and neglected, as now are we too.”
Wilbur
Page 11
In a choked voice, Rodney, another trophy added; “One of my pillars was broken in that bag, and no one has even tried to fix it for me.”
Rodney and his broken pillar; property of the author.
Wilbur said; “Bag?”
Rodney said; “You don’t remember the bag? You have absolutely no memory or concept of time. You have been exceedingly blessed.”
Wilbur didn’t feel so blessed at that moment, as the silence which made him uncomfortable returned.
Page 12
Wilbur had nothing to distract him, and he consequently focussed on what the two trophies had said, as it both disturbed him and raised questions for which he had no answer. Both of the trophies had alluded to having been somewhere else before they were in this room one had called dingy of all things. Dingy was a relative term, and he had nothing to compare this place to. It is what it is. As far as he was concerned, one could call it dingy or one could call it sublime. The word chosen to characterize the room was merely a reflection of the characterizer’s imperfect personal outlook and usually indicative of his unrecognized value judgements; and not much of a reflection upon the room itself. Wilbur only had memories of this space, though it didn’t seem likely to him that he could have won the trophies here. There were no games going on, but he couldn’t be sure if he had just forgotten them.
He said; “What nice place? What bag?” He got no answer. Not even a reference to a card game. Card game? What card game? No one had played cards here. So, there must have been an elsewhere, at least for his pals, the trophies. But, he was again reminded that he could have forgotten it.
The trophies were utterly resolute that day. He called out to them, and finally one replied saying; “It’s not you Wilbur.
It’s not personal. It’s this place.”
Page 13
Being told that it wasn’t personal, Wilbur felt better.
Then he didn’t. Whichever direction he mentally took it, the effect was the same. Silence. A silence he couldn’t stand. He decided that he had to pass the quiet day in reverie, but couldn’t think of what to rever about. It was troubling, and in that state of discombobulation he wound up revering about what he recalled of the past.
That didn’t occupy Wilbur’s neurons or synapses for more than a few seconds, as his recollection of the past was not much different from his recollection of the present. Sure, the present was louder and there were different displays of light, dark, and gradations in between. They always managed to return to where they once were, but all in all the only meaningful change was the current verbal tranquility and the degree of wind and rain which had come through the window at his back.
“Hmmnnn,” Wilbur thought. He had used the word “tranquility” to describe a situation which had made him feel disturbed, and he had thought “window;” something neither he, nor some of the trophies had ever seen, having had their backs to it.
But he could not deny from time to time having felt the breeze; heard the rain, thunder, and lightning; as well as the sounds of vehicles, voices and the inebriated screams and exultations of those not in his room, and apparently in some kind of intoxicated and intoxicating state of consciousness.
Page 14
Wilbur was feeling a bit better, as he realized that he had just accidentally broached a series of implied questions, which could potentially occupy his neurons and synapses, if any, for quite some time. In an effort to avoid personal confusion and/or the impersonal mixing of differing displays, he decided to start at the beginning; the window in his estimation. Why had he called this unseen item a window? Why not a portal? Why not an opening? Aperture, breach, cavity, gateway, gap, notch, lead-in, inauguration? A few of the possibilities had negative or positive connotations, and indeed sometimes the wind, sounds, and rain allowed in by this ........ “thing” were not always pleasant; though most of the time they were.
Wilbur liked the neutrality of “window” which to him simply meant an opening made for the admission of air, light, water, or all three, commonly fitted with a frame in which are set movable sashes containing panes of glass. While it was nonaligned, hopefully only in a meta sense, it was also put there purposely.
It had to be the work of Cable and Barb.
Having now contentedly solved the primary questions of existence, he had forgotten what it was which prompted his discovery. Innocently suggestive of epistemology’s three round, split decision triumph over the ontological approach, Wilbur decided to rest his neurons and synapses, before dabbling with
Page 15
the minor details which remained. He took advantage of the warm southern breeze and took a nice nap.
Page 16
#3- The Room - Past, Present, and Future Illusions The apartment to which Wilbur’s room was attached actually consisted of four of them, though Wilbur and his friends, the fifty-eight Cheeseball trophies, had no way of knowing that.
Especially when Trump-No Trump debates reached a temporary lull, they all entertained varying suspicions; most often marked by a Wilbur abstention.
The minority consensus (less than half, but in possession of the highest number) was that without having been afforded the courtesy of prior consultation, they had all been placed in the last one. It wasn’t one of the three “living” or sleeping areas.
It was primarily used for storage and as a predictably
“unintentional” temporary resting place for that which was soon to be left out for the garbage man or otherwise less rudely disposed of. The distinctions between the two, if any, are generally as obscure as The Church’s early “Blurred Crusade”
album, and periodically almost as layered and riotous. Opposites attract some.
What was also blurred was the trophy vision. It wasn’t as if there was any possibility of their sight being improved through corrective lenses. They saw no deficiency. As a consequence, nor did they consider that they may have needed any
Page 17
improvements. They thought that they did, and actually did see quite well. Relative comparisons were not at their disposal.
In certain lights, like those provided in early morning or late day by a focussed sunbeam coming in at an angle, always acute, but demonstrably ambivalent in terms of its current placement within the crafting triangle, one could see the many miniscule, yet visually blemishing particles of dust floating through the air. Like a constant leisurely snowfall of gray dots, banal and humdrum if viewed individually, as all of which seemed almost identical, within the confines of five or six minorly varying persona sizes, attributes, and traits, (nafs in the esoteric, poetic ghettoes of the east, and possibly the reason for the imperfection commonly referred to as existence) their totality was as if a bomb had exploded sometime back, and what of terra firma was thereby thrown at the sky was still in the process of re-settling eons later. Not requiring it, but supplemented by sporadic cleansing, which was actually more of a dusting, the room continually had a bit of a haze, most often seen only through the imprecise precision accidentally recorded by a super-duper lense manipulated by a master union cameraman on double overtime, while aiming for the audience excitement generated by an ESPN highlight reel. It’s all about ratings, and for the last half century Nielsen rules.
Page 18
The four rooms were of the “railroad” style, one after the other in succession, only interrupted by a wall with one door, usually left open, as a line of ostensible demarcation.
Consequently apartments in the interior of the complex only had windows in the first and last rooms. Wilbur and the Cheeseball trophies were blessed with one of these apertures; though most of them, like Wilbur, had been positioned with their backs to it. The door they faced was always kept closed.
In addition to each other they could all see some of the stuff which someone had put there. There was a frame, simple, thin and maybe four feet by four feet on legs of two; strange in that it held no picture. The barren “enclosure” merely acted as a minor distraction from, among other things, the boxes and/or boxed-up goods on the other side of the room. Extending from every half inch of the empty frame was a sharp pin, the rear devoid of any noticeable entrance point, thereby inhibiting removal, making the frame dangerous to approach without appropriate precaution; though the half buried pins were far from being able to inflict any blood not fixable by a few scarring stitches.
Upon a minimum of reflection, the frame seemed to be more of a tragic than ominous figure, in that its empty middle suggested that it may have once, and thereby consequently might have been more attractive, less sharp, and more prominent now,
Page 19
if, and/or as, it was ostensibly once filled, as it seems obvious that it was intended to have been filled with a painted canvas. The possibility of an in-out sort of abandonment overwhelms other tragic considerations, and is thereby subject to the human brain’s natural, protective deletion process, poorly affected by Facebook. Its current “void” afforded an unobstructed view into what may have been previously blocked by a representational, impressionistic, or abstractly rendered art form, maximum or minimal; blow-ups of photographic clicks not considered as such.
On the unfortunate and tiny chance that the preceding paragraph makes any sense to you, it is strongly suggested that you lie like a dog on your next government mandated Rorsach test.
Through the vast pinned frame opening, Willard and the Cheeseball trophies could easily see the 1950’s blond wooded end table and the mirrored bedroom vanity chest behind it, or in front of it, for someone viewing from one hundred and eighty degrees from the other side; such as the initial observation, if any, of the haphazard, though consistently periodic “dusters.”
Upon cursory, initial observation, one might not notice any difference between the instruments carried by these “dusters.”
But, if one could suspend the compelling urge to laugh, ask stupid questions, or otherwise get off point; and instead
Wilbur
Page 20
scrutinized the utensils which the “dusters” carried, one might note that the variations between them were not only a matter of their obvious formation, but perhaps of more significance, a suggested glimpse into the overt cultivating experiences which encouraged them to be as they were.
One form of dusting instrument; property of the author.
These “dusters” always entered Wilbur’s room as a pair. The quick and quiet efficiency of the lamb’s wool instruments temporarily displaced Wilbur and the Cheeseball trophies’
accumulation of dust, throwing it into the air, whereupon it immediately began to resettle not far from the original place from which it had been displaced.
Wilbur
Page 21
The other form of dusting instrument; property of the author.
Wilbur might have vocalized that he found the process as long-term-seriously silly, if it did not pleasantly tickle him into a very frivolous short-lived silliness.
These “dusters” appeared twice every seven glittering mounds. At least that was how Wilbur viewed the mounds through the back of his head. It seemed as if that was a very imprecise way of measuring, but it was the only one he easily had at his disposal. Moreover, it really didn’t matter in the least if the
“correct” relative “duster” to mound ratio was actually two of eight, three of nine, or one of two. None of the Cheeseball trophies ever asked Wilbur about it and he really didn’t care.
The thought seemed to be merely something inflicted upon a process which had been allowed to degenerate to the use of words
Wilbur
Page 22
and numbers, not that some processes might be more amenable that way; and is no doubt a conspiracy promulgated through the mean-spirited and sterile halls of academe. If you don’t believe that, just ask DFW. He was an officially recognized genius, with a plaque and everything.
1950’s mirrored bedroom vanity chest; property of the author.
In a possible testimony to Wilbur’s power of observation, his methodology seemed to work exceedingly well whenever the vanity mirror’s center reflected no atmospheric obstructions for extended periods. He entered a state of ephemeral anxiety as he pondered how an imperfect mirror’s reflection might actually be
Page 23
conducive to providing a more accurate observation. It intuitively seemed as if something was as skewed as “fun house”
reflections.
Perhaps seeing Wilbur’s state of consternation, the Cheeseball trophy Wilbur knew as Agita Bust broke the silence, and said; “What is bothering you, Wilbur?”
Happy to hear a sound, Wilbur said; “I don’t know how to explain it well. It’s kind of the nature of epistemology, existence, and lack of authenticity.”
Agita tried to hide a giggle when she replied; “I guess you paid little attention when that was covered freshman year.”
Wilbur said; “Well, no. I went to a public university and they didn’t require it. So, I took stuff like Matrices and Linear Programming instead.”
Agita said; “No!!! Tell me you just made that up.”
Wilbur said; “No. At the time I preferred having concrete answers to being dependent on the instructor’s opinion of an essay for 70% of my grade.”
Page 24
#4- Cable and Barb; A Few Months Ago Once upon a hopelessly drunken recent time, the Cable and Barb Dwyer duo accidentally became Wilbur’s benefactors, though Wilbur never exactly saw it that way. He was unaware that the mid-thirties and much too quickly escalating couple had purchased the Cheeseball trophies purposely, and at the same time they were unaware that they had inadvertently purchased Wilbur, too. In a way the serendipitous mutuality made sense as after all, everything does come in packages, but most people and wooden birds don’t check all the details.
Cable and Barb probably had a strong suspicion that their bag full of trophies was hot, merely because they purchased them at 3AM from a skinny smack and/or crack head of indeterminate sex or gender whose shaking babble seemed to imply a need for immediate sustenance at the expense of any long term notion of quality or value.
On the morning-evening of the purchase, Cable and Barb were customarily kind of lit up in the multi-colored, neon glow of
“Dominick’s Bar and Café.” It was closing time for the establishment at the corner of Thirteenth Street, the block in Lower Darby which also accommodated their four story apartment hovel. They emerged from their Dominick’s sanctuary and were again confronted with their not quite sober reality. The place
Wilbur
Page 25
was once de classe cool, though that concept did not yet exist in common parlance at the time, but now it seemed more grungy dangerous, a reality which now did. The only remaining tree was withering, on a dawdling and laborious trip toward the firewood pile, perhaps with a slight preference for cremation over “life”
on Thirteenth Street.
Thirteenth Street; property of the author.
The area was fine, safe and affordable fifteen years prior when Cable and Barb got together and settled in what had gradually become a “terrorist” infiltrated no-go zone.
Stimulating Republican income tax cuts had little effect as few residents had sufficient income to have paid any to begin with.
Page 26
Low interest rates were the primary impetus for the stock market to have had gone up five times over, but the only securities purchased by Cable and Barb were those which bolted their door.
They were just happy to be together that fifteen years prior when Cable and Barb first got jointly linked. Like them, the area was kind of young and uncaring. Their move to it was well after the official end of the “hippy days,” but retro remnants reflectively remained in various places not yet touched by its defunct, dangerous, and directly deadly dissipations.
Now in Lower Darby there were routine reports of neighborhood destructive street crime from the anecdotally inclined on-line periodicals as well as the anecdotally inclined and expansive Police Department; as if the resident’s common sightings were not sufficient, thereby ostensibly for the benefit of shut-ins. Low end street crime and homeless drug victims in search of quick cash and access to Mickey D’s garbage cans is toxic. The alleged perpetrators seemed to spawn more alleged perpetrators by the day, the heinousness of their crimes rising in a consistent proportion.
Virtually all of Cable and Barb’s original local friends had moved away, some citing a desire to be in more open spaces.
That is perhaps one of those truths which conveniently leave out the communication of the heart of the story; as some of it was unpopular and unrewarding to articulate. It doesn’t really
Page 27
matter, as those who were there know, and those who weren’t can never. Cable and Barb were still in the pariah zone feeling older, stuck, and increasingly besieged by the moment which portended an eternity of continued decline.
In a disgust over-ruled by drunken desperation, Cable double checked the bag offered by the smack-crack head, while feigning a much too unpracticed hand slide over a pants pocket, intended to show that he was packing a “loaded friend.” The smack-crack head might have been intimidated and more price negotiable had this not become familiar territory, had he valued his life, or had he noticed.
Cable didn’t see Wilbur, but he saw a potload of Cheeseball trophies. He didn’t have any precise knowledge of the value and status of Cheeseball memorabilia, but was quite certain that it was much more than the fifty bucks the smack-crack head was asking for the whole bag, maybe even as much as $10-20 apiece.
Being of less than plebian awareness in regard to the “sport” of Cheeseball, he had no interest in and no aesthetic appreciation for the trophies, but thought that he might be able to re-sell them to needy, new-at-the-game opportunists, or maybe even a toddy time, Cheeseball aficionado, if his supposed impending good luck continued.
In one last possible excuse for a nullification of the impending guilty transaction, Cable looked to Barb, who might
Wilbur
Page 28
have been truly or pretending to be more concerned with staying on her two feet on a sidewalk which from her perspective was swaying in irregular patterns reminiscent of the ocean waves seen while hang-gliding at the Jersey shore.
Lower Darby’s “welcoming” entrance; property of the author.
With his fifty dollars in hand, the smack-crack head scampered off at the speed of an elated rat running on a wheel which never brings him to the cheese, and is used for a
“scientific” study of how long a sentient being is willing to continue to fruitlessly try.
Cable was left holding the bag. He carried it half a block and up three flights of stairs to home. He placed the trophies
Page 29
in the back room and shut the door, for the first time making note of Wilbur.
Cable said; “I was cheated. I got a bird.”
Barb said; “He’s cute,” before she and Cable collapsed into bed.
Page 30
#5- The Cheesy Status Symbol- Timeless The game of Cheese Rolling is most often referred to as Cheeseball. The latter was originally used as a pejorative term, but has since “outgrown” that through its standardization, constancy, and likely because it eliminated one syllable.
Cheeseball is a simple, and yet status conveying sport for both the participants and observers. The origin of this notion of prestige is unclear. Some would attest to the rising price of Double Gloucester cheese, though that does not explain why this was so when Double Gloucester was still a household staple. Some mention the small number of those involved in the sport; the attendant exclusivity as convincing as the attestations of the fans of “buried” post-modern writers of disregard, who say; “If you’ve never heard of it, that means its good.” A consensus, inasmuch as less than fifty percent may be called that, seemed to have settled upon a theory based on the unrecorded exclamation of the first Cheeseball champion, Jack Goff, who when upon crossing the finish line yelled; “I am the cheese!”
just before sticking his entire face into the prize Double Gloucester. This could be seen as an easily communicated,
“amusing” anecdote.
If the scenario is still a bit out of focus, here is how Cheeseball is played. From the top of a steep hill, a round of
Page 31
Double Gloucester cheese, approximating nine pounds, is rolled and competitors chase after it. The first individual across the finish line at the bottom of the hill wins the cheese, a sometimes personalized trophy, and a host of social accolades.
In theory, the competitors aim is to catch the rolling cheese, but this method of winning never happens, as the cheese gets a head start and can reach a speed of 70 MPH. In 1997 the cheese took a wrong turn and a spectator was knocked over and injured.
The incident resulted in nothing more than a few bruises, a Gloucester nose smear which turned out to be negative, and the official ruling that the game had to be started over in ostensible “concern” for the flattened “victim.”
But the subsequent, successful “pain and suffering” lawsuit brought by one “Chunky” Elizabeth Lardbutt, resulted in Cheeseball becoming an unsanctioned and clandestine, if not renegade, sport played by those well insured and a few striving mavericks. This resulted in Cheeseball and its participants attaining an even higher level of “super cool” status, and a rabid fandom which regularly took to the internet to post rumors of the date, time, and location of upcoming events, the majority of which was “fake news” primarily proffered by those seeking to broaden the popularity of their own profile.
Wilbur
Page 32
Cheeseball game; property of the author.
The game retained its old time air of congeniality and high class sportsmanship. But now, when the cheese started rolling, an intensely increased level of dirty play became the norm.
Hockey-like checking, tripping, and even an occasional high sticking commenced and quickly increased as the non-existent referees did not enforce the non-existent rules which had been established. Many players and even more so, the fans preferred this increasingly action oriented form of play, considering it a better reflection of reality. Old timers had long thought this modernization inevitable; a matter of when rather than if.
Sylvester Stallone, Wesley Snipes, Bruce Lee’s Estate Executrix, Mister T, Donald Trump, Steve Bannon, the actress who
Page 33
plays “Peppermint,” the original bald head, Telly Savalas, and even some “free” style fighter charged with spousal abuse took credit for increasing Cheeseball’s popularity through their unrequested open endorsements. Alex Baldwin did too, but the public considered Alex to be a much-too-obvious joke.
Page 34
#6- The Cheese Rolling Trophy- 1920 - Present It is estimated that 196 “authentic” Cheese Rolling trophies exist. Though Cheeseball play goes back quite some time, one theory of it having evolved from a 14th century British game called “Hard Cheese.” In the US records of the game officially commenced in 1920 and under the auspices of the
“Reserved International Cheeseball Holders,” hereinafter referred to as RICH, play had been an annual event.
Only first place trophies were ever awarded. Some call this fascist, while most consider it to be a symbol of the proper and natural incentive to win. When finishing a close, but undisputed second in 1929, Dudley Deadbeat opined that trophies should also be given for second place, third place, and even honorable mention. He received no direct response from the RICH
sanctioning authorities, but was immediately branded a Communist, and was banned from all future events.
You brightly note that this indicates 98 trophies.
Correctamundo, indeed. However, complications ensued following and as a consequence of the lawsuit brought by “Chunky”
Elizabeth Lardbutt in 1997 which had an arguably deleterious effect. As a space taking spectator, in possession of two seats, she was struck by an errant cheeseball, which apparently had a penchant to get off the main path. “Chunky” had a pronounced
Page 35
weight advantage, but the Cheeseball had a rolling start. The mess with the medical expense, loss of income, pain and suffering, psychological damage, and “Chunky’s” irreparably-cheeseballed-special-order-big-beautiful-women dress lawsuit resulted in the disbanding of the sanctioning authority. RICH
officially broke up with the intention of leaving any supposedly injured party no one to sue in this increasingly litigious society.
This action is rumored to have been a ruse, a sham transaction, as “Families Undivided and Kindly United,”
hereinafter referred to as FUKU, sprang up a day later, exhibiting similar, risk averse principals and management. The unconfirmed and unconfirmable suspicions likely emanated from the public non-profit filing which “coincidentally” listed the principals as the attorneys who were known to represent the bosses which the now defunct RICH had. The results of this ostensible ploy were mixed, as subsequent litigants sued the one who got the game started by rolling the cheese, that problematic to the judicial system regarding culpable intent as well as its barred “legal” representatives, the distinction between regulating authority and professional organization irreparably and some would say conveniently blurred, as a result of the continually shifting, generally tending pungently and eagerly toward the shrunken Jivaroan head proportional, extent of
Page 36
workmen’s compensation coverage, including but not limited to the definition of owner vis-à-vis employee, perhaps an intellectual outgrowth of Reagan’s “Laffer Curve” suggestion which resulted in leveraged buyouts.
The losing political party would seem to have adopted a derivation of this type of blurring as standard operating procedure. Their results were unsurprisingly mixed, as the outcome was always an interminable investigation of the winners with only one clear financial beneficiary; the otherwise unemployable investigators on the public dole. Further complications became apparent when and if the losing party managed to win, thereby becoming subjected to the dethroned winner’s investigation. Nielsen reported that the voters-watchers generally considered this a comedy, and the #1 viewed reality TV show regardless of the gender of the investigation proponents. The serious, humor challenged, and usually well-educated got off on expressing fluid outrage while focussed on the fluid details.
Most importantly in terms of the Cheeseball trophies, in 1998 various unsanctioned events sprung up, each awarding a first place trophy, the number of them known to no one.
Investors generally ballpark another 98, roughly corresponding to three per annum; the maverick events virtually indistinguishable from those granted through the shattered
Page 37
remnants of the originally official RICH organization, and the FUKU people, who may or may not have taken its place.
Originally, these trophies were never sold. They resided in prominent places in the homes of those who were never troubled with any difficulties in paying the private school tuition promptly. A quiet source of understated prominence to those of the owner’s ilk, they were once a one decision “choice,” show and “never sell.”
Inklings noticeable to the prescient, short-term Nostrodami of the late twentieth century became common knowledge to the most ordinary of hawks in the twenty-first. The first advent of unruly market behavior since 1929 caused financial setbacks to those paterfamiliases, especially hard hitting to those long and maxed out on margin. This rude activity necessitated that some of the original owners had to keep their heads above water by discarding some assets; the Cheeseball trophies almost a lapidary’s gem; relatively tiny, easily transportable, unrecorded, and thereby three ways difficult for the IRS to inadequately track, if they made the effort.
Authenticity versus forgery actually became a complicated issue, at least for those prone to languid afternoon and early evening discussions on the “select” “Gratis’ Obscure and Otherwise Lousy Softbacks” website, commonly referred to as GOOLS (www/https://GOOLS/en_perp.com) after the forgers did to
Page 38
the Cheeseball trophy market what they did to sports memorabilia. While the initial reaction to the sales offered was an attempt for purchasers to ensure authenticity, the feeling changed when some argued that with the lack of a clear governing authority as prompted by the now comfortable Chunkster’s cheeseball injury lawsuit and the consequent sanctioned-unsanctioned and impromptu events, what was a “real” cheeseball event became a murky swamp. The GOOLS centered confusion might have become seen as just another boring over-intellectualization of an overly obvious scam had the market been flooded with thousands of cheeseball trophies. But the “forgers” had a remarkable, if not potential-profit-motivated and unregulated instinct to keep the number of trophies for sale a mathematical possibility, given the “reality” of 196. Perhaps the esoterically written policies of De Beers Consolidated Mines served as a tangible business model.
Besides, purchasers did not really want to know anything of forgeries. They merely wanted the cachet of having an impressive display, with which to induce envy from their “friends” and visitors, not to mention the security of an Amazonic price chart. The trophies’ association with wealth or the playful secure mockery of it supplied a much better balance than the kidney shaped swimming pool which was absurdly subject to the uncertainties of fleeting tastes and styles.
Page 39
Insurance issues understandably became quite complex and of little interest to anyone other than a Cheeseball trophy owner and his-her insurer, but suffice to say that an “arts rider” to the standard homeowner’s policy was generally sufficient if current market was stipulated, and in addition not subjected to the limitations imposed by the depreciation dictated by the imposition of estimated useful lives, whether straight line or accelerated.
In an attempt to not be accused of having taken any side, FUKU played their cards close to their chest, though supposed inferences continued to be extrapolated.
Page 40
#7- The Epicurean Dyad Cheeseball Trophy Market In the hindsight almost perfected in retrospect, initial sales started out slowly in 1998. Though Amazon and E-Bay had established internet presences by 1994 and 1995, respectively, ads which actually generated money-backed interest were placed in selected periodicals, such as “News from Tokeneke,”
distributed freely within the community. For the uninitiated and/or those paying absolutely no attention whatsoever, Tokeneke is an unincorporated and gated community within the confines of lesser and more dangerous, $300,000 per capita income Darien, Connecticut. “Don’t miss anything about Claire Borecki, Sacha Amereno, Susan Titsworth, Susan Schulz, Matthew Porretta, Christopher Aiker, Chez Ernie and fun others,” proclaimed the right side of the newest issue in letters not clumsily bold, but in the more aberrant italicized condition than the overhead title, as one might expect.
It seemed obvious that one would have to go out of one’s way to commit such a faux pas, that is “to miss anything,”
especially with the “fun others” of Tokeneke; Claire, Sacha, et al.
Actually, in terms of what was happening now, Tokeneke had no significance whatsoever; other than having the as yet un-disproven claim that the first public offering of a Cheeseball
Page 41
trophy had appeared in their version of Albuquerque’s “Alibi.”
The “crème-de-la crème” periodical bearing rarified interest in Cheeseball trophies initially considered Amazon and E-Bay extremely crass, not necessarily trustworthy, and even worse, a possibly publicly traceable source of private money transactions. In retrospect many would consider their instincts to have been accurate.
Those off-topic, digressions now comfortably aside, sales essentially became a “Who blinked first” contest between a skilled negotiator hampered by a passion for increased status and someone who was broke supplemented by the generosities of US
federally sanctioned, personal bankruptcy debt evasions; much like your typical Presidential sort.
One might well gather that the opportunity for a legalized form of debt evasion took top hand, as well as foot, and initial sales tended to approximate asking prices. The subsequent rumors of “forgeries” caused a setback. Its ultimate resolution regarding the issue of “What constitutes a forgery and what constitutes an authenticity” or vague lack thereof, at least resolution-wise, led to a rebound in prices, as it rendered the
“authenticity issue” moot, dependent upon annoying experts, essentially non-existent in terms of clear standards, a bottleneck hindering transactions, and an impediment to the people’s right to financially screw each other, which further
Page 42
led to awkward speculators entering the market, joining in with the “old money” and destitute, primarily un-documentably
“titled” Western Europeans bearing a “lack of money, old, new, or in between,” getting by with “exquisite” manners and “sexy”
accents. These “speculators” shared none of the interests of the old money losers, or even the new money climbers, but rather had a simple interest in buying low and selling high; the upward drift of Rolling Cheese trophies conducive to profitable transactions; their role eventually extolled in MBA programs as necessary “market makers.”
Or maybe it was something else, more akin to the results obtained by a not overly skilled archer throwing darts at a board with a random pattern. In any case, below please find the whole story in indisputable numbers, insofar as transactions may have been honestly reported. One must simultaneously use the minimal degree of common sense to realize that is something which is like 100% implausible, but that charting numbers indoctrinates a certain part of the population. Their beliefs and attendant actions governed by such, which has the effect of making the implausible such into a believable and somewhat predictable such or anti-such one can take to the bank; the vast majority in hope of a lower-your-monthly-payments-bill-consolidation loan.
Page 43
Year
High
Low
Average
Close
1998 50,000 50,000 50,000
50,000
1999 59,500 52,400 55,700
52,400
2000 47,000 42,000 45,000
42,000
2001 40,000 35,000 37,500
35,000
2002 39,000 36,000 37,500
39,000
2003 44,000 41,000 42,500
44,000
2004 51,500 47,000 49,250
51,500
2005 60,000 53,000 56,500
60,000
2006 64,000 61,000 62,500
64,000
2007 72,000 67,000 69,500
72,000
2008 80,000 73,000 76,750
80,000
2009 85,000 80,000 82,500
85,000
2010 91,000 86,000 88,500
91,000
2011 97,000 93,000 95,000
97,000
2012 105,000 100,000 102,500 105,000
2013 112,000 107,000 109,500 112,000
2014 120,000 115,000 117,500 120,000
2015 125,000 121,000 123,000 125,000
2016 132,000 128,000 130,000 132,000
2017 141,000 135,000 138,000 141,000