The Quest for Ding-a-Madonga

2005-11-21T10:21:00.000-08:00

THE AMAZING JOURNEY BEGINS

NEVERLAND

THE STORY OF JULIE'S DADDY

BEATLE MICK

LAYING BACK AND THINKING OF ENGLAND

THE TALE OF DING-A-MADONGA

THE POPE AND THE PAUPER

A CAUTIONARY TALE

THE HAPPY QUEEN

DR. MARTIN

MARILYN

THE DANCING DAYS

MICHELANGELO AND LEONARDO

MICHELANGELO AND LEONARDO

2005-09-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci were the best of friends. No, actually, Leonardo hated Michelangelo. And it looked like Michelangelo hated Leonardo back. So it would be safe to say that they both hated each other. In the beginning they sort of tolerated one another, meeting at the Vatican cocktail parties, but when Michelangelo was awarded the Artist of the Year award and Leonardo got a blue ribbon with the inscription ‘Also Ran’, things started to turn nasty. And it didn’t help that in his acceptance speech Michelangelo mentioned “all those no-talent runners-up.” Giorgio Vasari in his best-selling book How Leonardo and Michelangelo Really Hated Each Other recorded a lot of endearing little pranks two great artists played upon one another. For instance, in order to annoy Mick, Leo used to write from right to left. Mick avenged himself by writing with a felt pen on the buttocks of Leo’s lover: “Reserved for Leonardo. No parking at any time.” They would go to incredible lengths to inconvenience each other. When Leo was working in Venice, Mick flooded the whole city. Leo got his feet wet and went down with a cold. When he got better, Leo beat up Mick’s dad. Everyone knew how fond the great artist was of his Papa. Michelangelo caught up with Leonardo in the town of Pisa in Tuscany, which at the time prided itself on having the straightest tower in the whole Italy. Until Mick threw Leonardo at it, that is. Leonardo called the cops, but they had been bribed by Mick, and they did not care about Leo’s kind anyway. Adding insult to battery, Michelangelo sneaked into the Louvre and drew a moustache on Mona Lisa. Undeterred, Leo took a slingshot and broke off half of David’s private part. And it’s very unfortunate that he did that, as his mischief prompted millions of schoolgirls ever since to bug their art teachers with the same question: “How come David has such a small willy?” In my art teaching days I used to wonder if there was anything else in the history of freaking art that female art students cared for! They never asked me what the hell Mona Lisa was grinning about, or why Andy Warhol was such an asshole. All they wanted to know was… But I digress.

Michelangelo at the time was painting a fresco The Whore of Babylon Having a Bath for a bathhouse in Florence, and he didn’t think twice before endowing the reprehensible lady with da Vinci’s features. That pushed Leonardo to the brink. He went to the Pope and accused Michelangelo of formalism. The Pope could not stand formalism, so he ordered the Union of Florentine Artists to expel Michelangelo. So the poor genius ended his days on Earth painting murals in supermarkets and restaurants for a bowl of soup. Leonardo, on the contrary, became world famous, invented the hula-hoop, and became the Pope Leo X. If someone ever tells you that life is fair, you better tell them this story.

THE DANCING DAYS

2005-09-28T17:37:00.000-07:00

Julie and I used to do a lot of dancing together. I even wrote a poem about it. I don’t usually write poetry, except when I need to get into someone’s pants, but this time it was different. This time it was genuine.

Rites of Spring, the harvest moon,
Sacred dance of Brigadoon.
Beat goes on and on and on,
I am only dancing, John.

Dance away your broken heart.
Dance away your heating bill.
Life is not meant to be hard.
Not unless you’re sick or ill.

Next time you quit, make sure you lock the door.
Last time you didn’t – I woke up to find
Four strange chicks in my bed, and six more on the floor.
Saying: “Good morning, milord, we hope you don’t mind.”

I told them I did, and I showed them the door.
They all left in tears, without brushing their teeth.
This type of distraction is hard to ignore.
My true love has left me, so leave me in peath.

This dancing thing, it was the idea of our marriage councillor. I know we are not married, but we sought his advice anyway. Dancing was supposed to release the tension in our relationship, to pour fresh energy in it. But just like sex before it, it didn’t do us any good. We might just as well have taken up water skiing.

What we needed was something meaningful, yet absurd, something eye opening, yet ear shuddering, something divine, yet profane, something square, yet somewhat round. Some call it Prostokvosha, some call it Omakoath, some call it doodoowahdoodah. We call it Ding-a-Madonga. But nobody, and I mean nobody, knows what the hell it is.

MARILYN

2005-09-28T17:29:00.000-07:00

Once Julie was Marilyn Monroe, and I was a humble salesman.

Oh, that one! I love that one!

I knocked on her door and offered to buy my simple wares. She declined but asked if I wanted to get to know her better. I said: “Why, sure,” so she invited me to her bedroom. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that her bed was already occupied. Marilyn introduced us. There was Norman, a middle-aged psychiatrist, as well as Arthur Miller’s little Jewish daddy, but the geezer left soon after. Under the bed there was Joe, a cricket player or something. Rosencrantz the milkman and Guildenstern the postman also showed up, but could not stay as they were on duty. They all turned out to be great guys. Marilyn was great too, but as I was getting to know her better, her hubby Arthur Miller came in, back from a book signing, or whatever, and started to argue with Marilyn about something, distracting us to no end. Joe under the bed was not happy either, complaining that he could not concentrate. Only the psychiatrist did not seem to mind - he was busy taking notes.
Soon afterwards Arthur Miller published his acclaimed masterpieces: Death of a Salesman, Death of a Psychiatrist, Death of a Cricket Player or Something and Milkman and Postman are Dead.
I went to the book signing and asked Mr. Miller what he was working on. He said: “Death of a Little Jewish Daddy.” I could have guessed.

DR. MARTIN

2005-09-28T17:21:00.000-07:00

Dr. Martin was an honest man. But he also was a politician. That means he was an honest politician. Oxymoron, you will say. Well, he was certainly unique within his walk of life, so it’s hardly surprising that he often attracted school tours and busloads of gawkers. He liked to address prison populations.
“Remember, guys, it’s highly important to be honest. If I can do it, you can do it too.”
“But you don’t wanna be too honest, Doc,” argued some inmates. “Bad people can take advantage of you.”
But Dr. Martin was adamant.
“Honesty’s reward is a clear conscience,” he liked to point out.
Once he was sent to Afghanistan to inspect Canadian troops and was captured by the Taliban freedom fighters.
“Where you from, mister?” inquired the bearded men who fought for freedom. Dr. Martin knew it would be safer to say he was from Saudi Arabia, but he was the honest one, remember?
“I am from Canada,” he said.
“Oh, so you from Canada? And what you doing here on Afghanistan?”
It would be safer to say he was on holidays, but Dr. Martin always told the truth.
“I’m supposed to be inspecting Canadian troops,” said he.
Now, when the Taliban saw they were dealing with an honest man, they decided to take advantage of him. They appointed him their chief accountant. You see, they had a lot of money channelled to them through international networks, but most of it was going missing. Dr. Martin had to make sure that all the money was spent on suicide bombers, not on belly-dancers at Nebuchadnezzar’s. And he did his job so well that in a month Nebuchadnezzar’s was shut down due to lack of business, and the Taliban had thousands of well-fed suicide bombers at their disposal. They drove the coalition forces out of the country, the Taliban got back in power and put burqas back on women. Dr. Martin ended up Finance Minister in the new Taliban government, and pretty soon Afghanistan was ahead of China in economic growth. See how much damage can one honest idiot inflict?

THE HAPPY QUEEN

2005-09-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

Despite faring poorly at the charts, the Beatles were always welcome at the Buckingham palace. They played at every party there and were always paid five quid each for their troubles. Every time the servants heard a lot of noise and smelled ganja in the hallways, they knew: the Beatles were here. But one day Black Sabbath, who fared at the charts even worse than the Beatles, kidnapped the Fab Four, put on their clothes and wigs and sneaked into the Palace. Once inside they took their guns out of guitar cases and kidnapped the Queen and her relatives at the gunpoint. They took them to an undisclosed location across the road and kept them there hoping to raise some funds. But nobody cared to pay the ransom. Even when Black Sabbath reduced the amount from £1 million to £24.99, there were still no takers. Three years later the Royal family was set free for free, but when Her Majesty and the rest returned to the palace, they found that it had been turned into a hospital, and they were refused entry because they were in perfect health. Oh, yes, and the ground floor had been turned into a daycare centre.
If you’re thinking this is going to be one of those heart-wrenching stories about people who have lost everything only to embark on a painful journey to spiritual redemption, you are quite mistaken. Oh, no, wait, you’re right. This is actually a heart-wrenching story about people who have lost everything only to embark on a painful journey to spiritual redemption. But it has a happy ending, sort of. The queen found a job as a cleaner at the daycare centre, and her husband became a night guard at Harrod’s. They were scraping by, but they were happy. Their children were too young to work – they were only 47 – but they helped out a lot, doing dishes, washing, ironing and so on, except sometimes they could do no ironing because their dad would drink away the iron. But they were happy.
“You know, Bobby,” the queen would say to her husband. “I think we are happier now that we earn our own bread than when we lived in a gilded cage in that blasted palace.”
“Watch your language, Tracy dear,” the duke would implore.
“No, Bobby, I mean it. How can one possibly miss that goddamn life, that flippin’ royal protocol, court bastards constantly using us to their advantage, having to smile at Vladimir Putin, the bloody Beatles giving us headache and second-hand ganja poisoning, all that meaningless pompous routine, tabloids giving us hell, the bloody Corgis pooping everywhere, having to visit freakin’ Canada every ten years? Now at last I can read the book I’ve wanted to read all my life, but was afraid the servants would notice – Lady Chatterley’s Lover by DH Lawrence. Now we can order pizza, go to the movies, have fun. Isn’t it what life is about, Bobby?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
At this very moment across the ocean Black Sabbath were kidnapping Patty Hearst.

A CAUTIONARY TALE

2005-09-28T16:42:00.000-07:00

Every relationship has certain moments one would pay large sums of money in order to forget. Julie and I had one such moment on September, 14, 1999. On that memorable day we were sucking each other faces, and I accidentally…
Yeah right! That was a deliberate…
…I accidentally sucked part of Julie’s face in. I promptly apologized and rather hoped the whole incident would be quickly forgotten. But embarrassing incidents rarely go away.

In the past, when chivalry was the code of the day, the man in my situation would have been expected to marry the woman he has just defiled. But today, when women get defiled more often than chickens beheaded, it is hardly the case. So I was quite astonished when Julie said:
“I hope you understand now, Peter, that you must marry me.”
“But look, Julie, I can’t. Have I ever told you what happened to my parents after they got married?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Listen then. When they met, my parents were normal people in every aspect. My mom was a nurse, and my dad was a roadkill remover. When they were young, they were even more run-of-the-mill. My mom used to be a member of the all-girl punk group the Slits, and my dad was Luciano Pavarotti. As they grew older, their tongues grew longer, and their love for each other grew stronger.

So one day my dad asked my mom’s hand in marriage, and she said: “Yeah, sure.”
Little did they know that it would lead to an utter disaster. Their wedding had been announced far and wide, and a lot of different people showed up, some of them, as it happens, without invitation. There was one guy who had been to the same school as dad, or something. His name had been totally forgotten, but he invited himself to the wedding as if he was a dear old friend. And he brought an ill-fated present with him.
“What present?”
“A book.”
“A book?”
“There was no one around to warn them, nobody who could open their eyes. I hadn’t been born yet, and my uncle Nicholas, the only man who had enough sense to avert the tragedy, had been killed by the Bolsheviks.”
“What kind of a book was it?”
“It was a book by professor Joseph Campbell.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“Professor Campbell was the smartest man alive before he died some twenty years ago. The book contained his teachings of profound wisdom. My parents were captivated by them, especially by his insistence that people must do what they most desire, hang on to their rapture. The prof called it following one’s bliss. Looking deep into himself, Dad discovered that what he desired the most was not scraping dead animals off the road, but to kill little old moneylender ladies. So he proceeded accordingly. Mom did a deep soul searching of her own and realized that her real rapture was not in changing bedpans and sticking needles into people, but to walk the city streets at night dressed in fishnet stockings, accosting passersby with: “Hey, big boy, wanna have some fun?” And that’s exactly what she started doing. Of course they found happiness they’d been looking for, doing what they had been so passionate about and this way enriching the community, but can you imagine how I, their only child, felt?”
“How?”
“The way it all was going, it was hardly surprising they were not able to give me a proper birth. People at the hospital had to do it for them, from the conception to the Caesarean. I remember myself as a kid – it was awful. Daddy was constantly on the run from the law, Mommy always at work, oftentimes bringing her work home. I was on my own, making myself sandwiches for school. My childhood was completely wrecked, which largely explains why I am such a sad wreck today. And all because one day my parents decided they were not happy enough as they were and would be better off being married.”
“What a heartbreaking story. A cautionary tale, indeed. You’re right, Pete, let’s forget about this idea. Let’s never get married.”
“I love you, Julie.”
“Likewise, Honey.”

THE POPE AND THE PAUPER

2005-09-28T16:34:00.000-07:00

Once again we bumped into the same Wandering Monk, and he told us another story. Not that we asked him to.
One day the Pope was sitting in the Vatican, feeling bored. He'd taught everyone how to live, he'd apologized for all the church's misdeeds in the past, and he could not think of anything else to do. He wanted to live the life to the fullest, to roll in the morning dew, to fondle well-formed female buttocks, to make obscene phone calls, to use heavy drugs and explore the meaning of life.
Looking out of the window the Pope saw a pauper who was crossing the piazza. An idea suddenly crossed the Holy Father's weary mind. He invited the pauper inside and told him to take his clothes off. The poor guy was used to that kind of things, so he disrobed quickly. The Pope did the same, only it took him more time - he had more things on.
"I think we should agree on the fee first, Your Holiness," the pauper suggested, for he'd been burned before. Imagine his surprise when the Pope slipped into his rags and beckoned the pauper to put the papal vestment on. Before the lucky sod could say Eucharist, the Pope bolted out, jumped into a taxi and was gone.
A life full of adventures lay before him. Sex, drugs, rock'n'roll, soup kitchens… But soon he grew tired of it all. There was too much to do. Consider his typical daily routine:

9am: Breakfast at the Holy Virgin mission.
10am: Gang bang at Luigi's.
12pm: Lunch at the Holy Virgin.
1pm: Coke party at Francesca's.
4pm: Orgy at Claudia's.
7pm: Motörhead live show at the Coliseum.
10pm: Dope and s/m extravaganza at Decameron.
5am: Retiring to a bench in the park.

On top of that he was supposed to be raising funds by aggressive panhandling and picking pockets.
The Pope was not a young man and he could not endure this lifestyle for long. It was a full life, alright, but it was too much too late. He remembered his quiet life as the Holy Father, when there was hardly anything to do, with a warm fuzzy feeling. So he returned to the Vatican and ordered the acting Pope to switch back.
But the pauper-come-Pope wouldn't hear of it.
"I like it here," he said to the Pope. "I've never been happier before. And stop bugging me, or I'll unleash my cardinals on you."
The former Pope knew better than to risk that, so he quickly walked away, tears streaming down his cheeks. He would give anything to avoid seeing Francesca and Claudia again. He was so desperate that for a minute he even considered moving to Ireland and forming U2, but he dismissed the idea as utterly distasteful.
Little did he know that the Vatican hosted an interfaith conference that very week. As the ex-Pope was walking past the window of an exclusive suite where His Holiness the Dalai Lama was staying, he heard a voice speaking with a heavy Tibetan accent:
"Hey, poor pauper, come in for a minute, will you?"

THE TALE OF DING-A-MADONGA

2005-09-28T15:40:00.000-07:00

It was back in the 60’s, when I was backpacking across South America, searching for my inner self, that I stumbled upon that tribe in the Amazon jungle. They had been completely isolated down there. I guess I was the first white person they saw in 30 years, since Amelia Earhart landed in their area in 1937. They still referred to her as Mabooponga, which means The Great Yummy One Which Came from the Sky. Anyway, when I stayed with them, they told me a story about that mythical hero of theirs, Huyonga, sort of our Hercules. And that guy, he had just everything. He had defeated all his enemies, he had the biggest sea-doo, which he used to whoosh up and down the Amazon and scare the crap out of crocodiles. His cell-phone never stopped ringing, he’d gotten to know intimately all of the chief’s wives, especially that curly one named Brandi. But he still felt that something was missing in his life. He tried to look for that something, but he had no idea what it was. So he went to seek the counsel of the wisest elder, named Pizdonga. That Pizdonga knew everything there was to know. So Huyonga asked the old man:
“Tell me, oh the wise one, what’s missing in my life? You see, I’ve defeated all my enemies, I’ve gotten to know...”
“I know, I know,” Pizdonga interrupted him. ”Especially that curly one named Brandi. I’ve heard a lot about your exploits. You are one cool guy. The only thing that you are missing, son, is called Ding-a-Madonga...”

Then suddenly the old man died quite accidentally, before he could explain what exactly Ding-a-Madonga meant. Some say Huyonga is still out there searching for that mysterious Ding-a-Madonga, but can never find it, because he has no clue what it is.
Julie and I, we are on our own quest to find that thingamabob. Keep on reading, and you may discover the greatest mystery of the Mankind.

LAYING BACK AND THINKING OF ENGLAND

2005-09-28T15:10:00.000-07:00

On long winter nights Julie and I would curl up in front of the fire and I would read Mahabharata to her. When I read about Arjuna's mom arranging for her five sons to marry Draupadi, Julie suddenly got very agitated.
What a conniving old bitch!� she exclaimed. Pretended not to know what kind of prize they brought home! Make sure you divide it evenly! My mom was totally the same. Every time I brought a boyfriend home, she would snatch him from under my nose and marry him. At one point she was married to five of my boyfriends at once. In fact, the only boyfriend of mine she didn't marry is you.�
I cleared my throat.
Julie, I think I've got a little confession to make� I said, hiding my eyes. I hated to upset her, but I was brought up a candid lad.
So you're also married to my mother� That's nice. What the f...�
Wait, Julie, wait. Before you start using adult-oriented language, let me explain. It was a quick civic ceremony at the municipal hall, very simple. And I don't even think it was perfectly legal�
Why not�
Well, you see, when the mayor asked me if I was taking your mom as a lawfully wedded wife, I said "I doo".
So, what's wrong with tha�
You see, I said "I doo", not "I do", but "I doo". That means the whole thing was a fake, doesn't it? And you shouldn't judge your Mom too harshly, Julie. She may be your mother, but first and foremost she is a woman�

Tell me, Peter, do you still love her�
Well, I've got a lot of respect for her as a person and a mother of my girlfriend. But when it comes down to it�
Yes�
In the deepest recesses of my heart�
Yes�
I laid back and thought of England.
No�
All right, then. Where were we�
And then Arjuna asked Draupadi what was for breakfast?

BEATLE MICK

2005-09-28T15:03:00.000-07:00

Mick Jagger has always wanted to be a Beatle. But he was late for the crucial audition, and all the four positions had been filled by the time he arrived. That did not deter him, though. He bought a big plastic nose at a dollar store and would sneak into the studio and sit at the drums, pretending to be Ringo. But they would always kick him out. He even wrote I Wanna Be Your Man for them, but they didn’t even thank him. That was one of the reasons Mick could never get no satisfaction.
“You know, Marianne Faithfull,” he would say to Marianne Faithfull. “I can’t get no satisfaction.”
“Me too,” Ms. Faithfull would reply with a little sigh. “But you can’t always get what you want.”
In the end, though, it was all for the better. Who remembers the Beatles now, but Mick and the Pricks are still up in the charts.

THE STORY OF JULIE’S DADDY

2005-09-28T14:58:00.000-07:00

My Daddy used to always say to me: little Julie, never trust people, especially your best friends. Then he would tell me this story. Before he met my Mommy and became my Daddy, my Daddy was a simple farmer. One day he grew tired of ploughing the land, so he joined the circus. He quickly became quite famous for his ball-balancing act. But his closest friend Bruno got jealous of my Daddy’s success, so one day when my Daddy was doing his act, Bruno crept from behind, screwdriver in his hand, and popped the ball my Daddy was balancing on. My Daddy plunged to the floor, broke his bones and died shortly thereafter. The reprehensible Bruno took his place, assumed his identity, and in a few years met my mom. They fell in love, and in nine months I was born. That’s how cruel and unpleasant life can be.

NEVERLAND

2005-09-28T14:52:00.000-07:00

That was definitely the Neverland. There was a lot of pixies around, and none of them had any clothes on.
There was also Leonard Cohen, who had clothes on, but was baring his soul like there was no tomorrow.

“For the last time, where’s the freaking Peter Pan?” demanded Captain Hook in a low raspy voice. Tinker Bell just stared at her toes, pretending to be dumb. The Captain had a habit of using adult-oriented language, and his breath could be used as tear gas. As if that wasn’t enough, he liked slamming his huge hairy fist on the wooden table. Tinker Bell did not know for how long she would be able to go hold it off. She badly needed to go to the washroom.

GOD FOR A DAY

2005-09-28T14:44:00.000-07:00

His name was Quiteaslob. It became apparent from the moment he said:
“Hi there! My name is Quiteaslob.”
“I’m Peter,” I said.
“And I’m Julie,” said Julie and curtseyed.
“Your names don’t matter. You realize, of course, that you are mere figments of my imagination. I’ve just eaten a mushroom. I always see little people after eating those mushrooms.”
“I’ve always suspected we're the figments of somebody’s imagination,” I whispered to Julie. “Remember, last September I told you: Julie, I feel like a figment of someone’s imagination? Remember? But I never thought that someone would be as big as that.”
“It freaks me out,” Julie whispered back. “I thought we were real.”
Quiteaslob intervened: “It’s just as well. I’m a figment of an imagination myself. God’s imagination, that is. Every time He eats some mushrooms, I come into existence”.

“That’s nice,” I grumbled. “So we turn out to be but second hand figments of imagination.”
“Don’t we have, like, our own god, or something?” Julie asked Quiteaslob.
“Beats me,” he replied. “Do you have your prayers answered?”
“No, never,” we conceded.
“Then you probably don’t have one. ‘Cause I always get mine answered. The same day.”
“That sucks!” we muttered.
“You should get yourself a god. No, I’m serious. Comes in handy, y’know. All right, all right, don’t fret, I’ll be your god for a day. What do you want?”
“Well…”

THE AMAZING JOURNEY BEGINS

2005-09-28T14:43:00.000-07:00

We must have eaten something – or drunk - because we found ourselves in some kind of parallel reality, which was quite identical to the reality we had previously called home.
It was filled with familiar characters: friendly giants, pick-pocketing fairies, lascivious mermaids, honest lawyers, hard-working royalty, atheistic dogs, gracious mothers-in-law, trustworthy politicians, Canadian Armed Forces, that kind of stuff.
“Same old, same old,” muttered Julie. “Let’s get out of here.”
“But wait,” said I. “Maybe we can find Ding-a-Madonga here.”
“I doubt it,” she yawned.
Little did she know that what began as a common case of food poisoning turned into the most mind-boggling journey of self-discovery since Alice in Neverland.