Max, The Master.
We were all waiting in a hallway outside the performance room. The hallway was lined with steel and wire shelving that was stocked with boxes of cereal and large institutional cans of soup, mostly beefish. Max was nervous, resplendent in his orange robes, which looked like orange bedsheets from the 1970′s that had simply been starched and ironed and wrapped around him. He shuffled back and forth on his bare feet as we waited to enter the room.
Behind me, the Grand Master passed by. He was a short fellow with glasses who looked vaguely like Woody Allen, and he spoke to no one, looked at no one, just pushed his way past everyone into the room. A hush fell over the assembly in the hallway — the GrandMaster! — and Max looked thoroughly respectful, clasping his hands together as if he were monkish supplicant — we had all been told that once the ceremony was finished, Max himself would be considered a Master, and it was a tenet of the GrandMaster that all Masters be shown due respect by the general population.
Max was about to graduate from throat-singing school. He had learned somehow to sing with his throat, and the ceremony was intended to note his elevation to a higher plane of existence because of his mastery of the technique. I found the whole thing privately ridiculous, and before the gathering, Max had indicated that he too found the pomp and circumstance associated with the practice to be a little self-consumed. It seemed, however, that the GrandMaster was extremely serious about the whole thing; anyone who mastered the art of throat-singing was to have ascended to the highest possible plane of existence, and should be considered to be far beyond all other beings. Max, somewhat sheepishly, had admitted that perhaps he did not think it was necessary that I treat him any differently, and I grinned my standard mocking-of-Max grin at him as he continued to shuffle back and forth on his bare feet, his starchy orange bedsheet-robes crackling with each movement.
A hush grew over the crowd in the hallway; the ceremony was about to begin. People began to file in to the performance room, and as we prepared to enter the holy throat-singing sanctum, I incongruously noted the brand names of the large boxes of cereal stacked on the wire shelves beside me. Most of them seemed to be bran-and-raisin based.
Max crinkled in his bulbous and stiff orange shroud as we turned and aligned ourselves for entry. He was nervous.
“You’ll do fine,” I whispered as we moved forward towards the entrance.
Alarm clock.
You are well and truly warped, my son (he intoned throat-singingly).
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 10:03 am
Bless me, father, for I have weirdly dreamed.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 10:47 am
I think there is a novel (or at least a novella) in this.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 11:12 am
Well, it certainly would be easy to play Spot-The-Max for this one. He’s somewhere in every thing I write, with the possible exception of Playland Park.
I wish I could draw the Orange Toga. It was this amazing swirl of bright orange bedsheet. Really freaky.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 11:30 am
I’m the Grandmaster, right?
Btw – t-12 min to knockout for knee surgery. Wish me luck.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 1:19 pm
Good luck, and no, you’re not the GrandMaster. He’s the one who looked just like Woody Allen.
You’re just a plain old Master.
With a new knee.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 2:55 pm
I live, it appears.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 6:01 pm
Excellent.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 7:06 pm
There I was, just about getting a third harmonic happenin’… and I woke up somewhere in Thailand…
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 8:03 pm
Glad you got through it, Max!
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 10:17 pm
Time will tell. Hoping for the best. I’m already walking unassisted – unless you count the percosets as assistance.
Comment on January 30, 2013 @ 11:04 pm
Mooo Moooo Moooooo Moooooo
Comment on January 31, 2013 @ 7:36 am
That was a reference to the above Cow song.
Great Molly Ivins quote, from Kos:
Comment on January 31, 2013 @ 7:45 am
Wait — I think Slug was talking about the throat-singing training, not the surgery.
Comment on January 31, 2013 @ 7:47 am
What do you think I was talking about? That throat-singing wreaks havoc on your whole system.
Comment on January 31, 2013 @ 9:23 am
Just did #16 and now I’ll be moo-in’ all day. You really should hear it in throat-singing though. That’s what cows speak you know.
Comment on January 31, 2013 @ 9:44 am
It is, actually, a very positive and oddly-moving tune. Makes me want to see the movie.
Comment on January 31, 2013 @ 10:26 am