I think we have to blame this one on Maureen and her In the room the women come and go . . . post. Rory left a comment on that post that prompted me to send him an email entitled “My Sad Duty” — and Rory sent a reply with a preface in which he more or less insisted that I post the exchange here on EOB.

So, since Thursday is my Official Post Day, and since I’m naturally lazy . . . here are 1) Rory’s comment on Maureen’s post, 2) the “My Sad Duty” email, and 3) Rory’s response:

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Rory says:

February 28th, 2007 at 11:44PM

Interesting conversation on this subject. I come at it from a different direction, I think.

As has been mentioned by more than one of us, in some recent posting and comments about our families of origin, I grew up feeling like an alien in my culture. I’ve always felt disconnected from anything that might be called mainstream.

On the other hand, I’m determinedly blue-collar in most ways. I have little appreciation for art or literature. I like good, clean, powerful writing, but all that stuff with allusions and metaphors and parallellograms tends to put me to sleep.

Not that I’m saying I’m stupid (I’ll leave that to others here), but I just don’t have much interest in subtlety. As a counselor, I like to think that I was attuned to subtleties in human behavior and voice and such, but in art and literature, I get bored.

This is reflected in my everyday conversation and in my sense of humor.

Around people like Brad and Caroline, I often feel like a blunt instrument to their rapiers. I’m actually pretty comfy with that role.

Like the rest of you, I often feel like I come from a different planet.

But it’s a planet where they play the blues, drop acid, and make hot lesbian babe jokes, rather than one where they talk about Michelangelo.

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Dear Rory, My Beloved Brother,

It’s my sad duty to inform you that you’re full of shit.

First of all, I’ll stack my blue-collar upbringing and sensibilities against yours any day, Bubba. You grew up in a mud-floored cabin with log walls? Jesus Horatio Christ — You had MUD? And WALLS? (Goddamn aristocrat!)

Second of all, Rory Harper saying that he has “little appreciation for art or literature” is like Bill Clinton saying he “never had sexual relations with that woman.” Please, honky. You read ten times more than I do and have one hundred times the opinions about what you’ve read. Don’t feed me that I’m-a-simple-man-with-a-simple-mind crap.

Third of all, since when is “good, clean, powerful writing” devoid of allusion or metaphor? After all, when I wrote “you’re full of shit,” that was good, clean, powerful writing — but I didn’t mean that you’re literally full of shit, now, did I? (Although you very well may be.)

Fourth of all, art and literature are about human beings. So if you’re “attuned to subtleties in human behavior,” then you’re attuned to subtleties in art and literature, too. Sure, there are plenty of examples of “literature” in which some boring wank-off is being obtuse or clever simply to prove that he’s obtuse or clever . . . but rejecting all subtlety in literature as “boring” because of the wank-offs is like rejecting all rock’n'roll as “boring” because of Pat Boone.

Fifth of all, the fact that you attempt to portray yourself as a “blunt instrument” when compared to the “rapiers” of Brad and Caroline is so mind-bogglingly ludicrous as to make me fear you’ve been hitting the Vicodin wayyyyy too hard. Let us not forget that Caroline is a Bass Player with a propensity for earthy humor, nor that I am a Drummer. (Do I really have to tell you the Drummer Jokes again?)

And sixth of all, your planet “where they play the blues, drop acid, and make hot lesbian babe jokes” just happens to be the most allusive, metaphorical planet in the Galaxy — nay, the Universe.

Even the name of “The Blues” is a metaphor for another METAPHOR. “The Blues” refers to a musical genre; but that musical genre’s name is a metaphor for a state of mind; and that state of mind is described not by its actual attributes but by an allusion to a COLOR.

So when we say “The Blues,” we say that music . . . is emotion . . . is color.

That’s nothing BUT metaphor, Bubba.

So once you claim to love the Blues, my brother, you are automatically embracing one of the deepest artistic metaphors of all time. And that deep metaphorical quality isn’t merely in its name, but in its content. I mean, I hate to break it to you, but when Robert Johnson sang about checking his Terraplane’s oil and tangling with its wires . . . um, well, he wasn’t actually singing about working on his car, know whudda mean?

As for dropping acid: Well, of course you have a point there. Nobody who ever dropped acid ever wrote anything using symbolism, allusion, or metaphor. The Beatles really did live in a Yellow Submarine, and their friend Lucy really was in the sky with diamonds. And “The Doors” didn’t refer to the Doors of Perception, but to actual, physical doors that led to Jim Morrison’s mojo (which was what he called his bathroom).

Also, Purple Haze was merely a cloudy window tint on Jimi Hendrix’s Terraplane.

Nope, nothing metaphorical or allusive there at all.

As for hot lesbian babe jokes . . . Well, Rory, I’ll believe that those hot lesbian babes and their jokes aren’t metaphors when you bring them over to my house and they start doing hot, funny lesbian things that I can videotape.

Seriously. Bring ‘em over. Please. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

If they like, they can even come and go . . . talking of Michelangelo.

In conclusion: By demonstrating that you’re actually a supreme lover of all things symbolic, metaphorical, and allusive — while clumsily pretending otherwise — you have revealed yourself to be a Great and Secret Elitist Snob. You’re probably one of the Literary Illuminati, aren’t you?

Well, enjoy the charade while you can. Because when the Revolution comes, we simple proletarians will hang you from the highest allegory. And then all your hot lesbian babes are belong to us.

                                                metaphorically humping your leg,

                                                                   Bradley

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Rory’s reply:

I am completely stricken with awe at this diatribe. It’s one of the most insightful and entertaining things I’ve read this year. And it’s probably all cosmically true in ways that my limited mind can’t perceive yet. I’m utterly and unreservedly grateful for the effort you’ve put into thinking these matters through so deeply.

Truth for me is, and always has been, that I don’t feel ‘cultured’ and am certainly not ‘literary,’ whatever the hell that means, in my music and writing creation or consumption. Damn near every piece of literature that’s been shoved on me has been promptly ignored. I haven’t read any of the great books, I don’t appreciate classical music or ballet or opera, or any of that other high-tone shit. Gimme some old school Heinlein and some Bluze Rock, and a movie where Things Get Blowed Up Good (and hopefully also set on fire), and I’m home.

But, after reading your learned rant, I now feel like a much deeper and better human being than I ever have before. I and Bulky Jones both thank you for that.

Cultured, but manly, hugs,

Rory