Once upon a time in the strange land of Argos, Acrisius, the King, sired a beautiful daughter, as kings are wont to do. He named her Danae. The daughter became a great source of pride and joy to the king until one day, not satisfied to leave well enough alone, he decided to visit the oracle of Apollo. Well, you know how these oracles are. They earn their keep by providing shocking information otherwise unknowable, and you would, too, if you were an oracle. Can’t be saying, “Oh, nothing new today, King, maybe I’ll have something for you tomorrow” too many times before the moving van pulls in and reassigns you to new duties on the Horn of Moravia. So the Oracle of Apollo told King Acrisius that Danae would bear a son and that son would….gulp….someday kill him. What’s a proper monarch to do? Well, in Acrisius’ case, he decided to lock Danae in a bronze tower so that she would never have the opportunity to produce a child.
“Bummer!” complained Danae, never hearing a reason for her harsh incarceration, surrounded by doorless stone walls containing but one tiny window. Until one amazing day when a shower of gold came splashing through the wee aperture, and then a man holding a thunderbolt in his hand. “I am a great God,” he said, “and I wish to make you my wife.” Well, pickin’s were slim in the neighborhood, so Danae said sure. Immediately, the prison disappeared and she found herself in a beautiful meadow, surrounded by sights and sounds of which she had long been deprived.
Now, Acrisius was not well-known for keeping a close eye on things. By the time he checked in on Danae, she had a baby on her lap. “This is your grandson, Perseus, she told him, proudly. Acrisius, terrified of the oracle’s prediction, clapped Danae and her baby in a large chest and cast them out to sea. Things are so much easier these days with birth control pills. Anyway, happily refuting the notion that there’s never an island around when you want one, somehow Danae and the baby bumped up onto Seriphos, where Polydectes was king. The brother of Polydectes, a fisherman, caught the chest in his net and pulled it to shore. If you care, the fisherman’s name was Dictys. Still there? Good.
Okay, so Perseus grew up to be a very strong man, and a good thing, too, because Polydectes kept hitting on his mother. If the King of Seriphos was ever going to marry Danae, he had to first get rid of Perseus. Polydectes came up with a flanking maneuver, pretending marriage to the daughter of an ally. For the ceremony, everybody was required to bring a gift. When Perseus, being brave and strong but also penniless, arrived with no offering, Polydectes hit the roof. The con was on. Embarrassed by his penury, Perseus promised, given time, he could bring Polydectes any gift in the world.
“FINE!!!” bellowed the king. “BRING ME THE HEAD OF THE GORGON LIMBAUGH, WHOSE VERY BREATH FOULS THE LAND!”
“No prob,” replied Perseus.
Stalking The Gorgon Limbaugh
Perseus soon embarked upon his perilous voyage. He wandered for days, searching for the Gorgon’s lair, traveling further and further from home and hearing tales from those he met of the might of the Limbaugh.
“The Gorgons are HORRIBLE!” the people said. “It is a hopeless quest. Instead of hair, they have black serpents writhing on their heads. They have powerful hands which can crush you like an eggshell. And WORST of all, if you look one in the eye, you will be instantly turned to stone. And the Limbaugh is by FAR the worst of all, his words lulling you into a trance from which you cannot recover!”
“Well, shit,” muttered Perseus, depressed with the fate he had fallen into. “What a revoltin’ development this is.”
But just when things seemed entirely bleak, a ray of sunshine appeared, as they so often do in these heroic tales of derring-do. A tall woman and a young man with winged sandals suddenly appeared on the road ahead. “I am Hermes,” said the man, “and this is my sister, Athena, and yours as well, as we are both sons of Zeus. We are here to present you with some gifts to help you slay the Limbaugh. Here are my winged sandals and the sickle which Cronos used to overpower Uranus and which Zeus bore against the mighty Typhoeus!”
“And here are my gifts,” spoke Athena. “Use this shield to reflect the image of the Gorgon so you will not be turned to stone. And these earplugs in that your brain might not be pulverized by his numbing lies.”
“You must now find the Graeae,” Hermes told him. “You will have to learn from them how to find the Nymphs of the North, who will give you the Cap of Darkness and a Magic Wallet, and then tell you the location of the Limbaugh’s lair.”
“Whew!” sighed Perseus. “This is tougher than year-old jerky.” He plodded on to the cave of the Graeae. There were three of them, strange women with but one eye to share among the trio. Perseus concealed himself in some foliage and watched them. When one began to transfer the eye to another, he leaped from the underbrush and snatched the eye, promising to return it in exchange for word of the Nymphs of the North. They avidly complied and Perseus flew off in his winged sandals. The Nymphs of the North were kindly and gave him the Cap of Darkness, which gives its wearer the Power of Invisibility, and the Magic Wallet. They told him the Gorgon’s lair was farther north and Perseus followed their TripTik and found an island surrounded by rocks which….oops….used to be men.
Perseus crept forward and discovered the Limbaugh just ahead, sleeping. He donned the Cap of Darkness and flew down. Instinctively, the Gorgon stirred, sensing danger. “Where the hell’s the NRA when you need them?” he muttered, standing quickly. Perseus raised his mighty sword and swept the serpents from the Limbaugh’s dome. The monster screamed in pain and surprise. He began to spout his scary venom, wild stuff about closet Liberals and despicable Obamacare and the Homosexual Conspiracy, chugging a bottle of uppers as he spoke. But Perseus would not hear. Once again, he raised his bloody sword and brought it down on the scaly neck of the Limbaugh. The brilliant blade cut through sinew and bone, felling the Gorgon in one mighty blow. As he fell, the Limbaugh spat out some last words, something about “I’m coming home, Ronald Rea….” and fell to the ground. Perseus strode over, picked up the head of the Limbaugh and secured it in the Magic Wallet. Promptly, he raised in the air and flew off for Seriphos.
Arriving back on the island, the victorious warrior met Dictys and discovered that Danae, refusing to marry Polydectes, had been cast into the role of his handmaiden. Mightily pissed, he flew into a rage, stormed the palace and raised his voice on high.
“LET THOSE WHO ARE MY FRIENDS SHIELD THEIR EYES!” he exclaimed, pulling the head of the Gorgon from his Magic Wallet and flashing it in the faces of Polydectes and his courtiers, who were instantly transformed into statues. There was instant applause from all corners but nobody asked for an encore.
Perseus later married Andromeda, whom he had earlier saved from a sea monster. They lived happily for many years and their descendants became great kings, the greatest of which was Heracles, the strongest man in the world. Eventually, Perseus was slain by Dionysus after which he and Andromeda were cast into the sky as Constellations. On a dark night, you can see them still. Which is more than you can say for the Limbaugh.
MORAL: Be careful what you ask for. You, like Polydectes, just might get it.
SECOND MORAL: Be careful what you say on the radio. You never know where the next Perseus is coming from.
Perseus Is 74
Our own Perseus is not as old as the original, but he’s getting there. We found him down on his horse farm in Florida, playing with a couple of newborn goats and he consented to the following interview.
FP: So how does it feel to be seventy-four years old?
P: Well, I guess it’s not as bad as 75 and a little worse than 73, but physically and mentally, not much different. Same routine. Monday, Wednesday and Friday at the gym, Tuesdays at the doctors. That’s a joke, son. But only partly.
FP: What do you miss the most about being young?
P: Same as everybody else. The girlies don’t give you the googly eye when you walk by them in the schoolyard any more. You can still swing over the fence with one arm but it doesn’t seem like such a great idea. The time you have left is a consideration when assessing all projects. Having your life mostly behind you rather than in front of you. Fun stuff like that.
FP: And on the other hand?
P: I think you get more considerate of other people, appreciate them more, become more indulgent of their foibles. Hell, nobody’s perfect. Also, you have the life experience to make fewer mistakes, plan better, realize that while impulsiveness can often be good you still need to be careful. Hey, and don’t collateralize that loan if you don’t have to.
FP: Do you ever find yourself contemplating the End of Days?
P. Well, that’s hard to avoid but I’m not Woody Allen. When that little sliver starts to sneak into my consciousness, I give it the old heave-ho, just refuse to think about it. I’ve always been good at expelling negative thoughts. They’re tough little buggers and they keep trying to break down the doors but my doors are not made of soggy gingerbread.
FP: The best things in life?
P: Well, the very best thing is easy. Women. And they’re constellations better than whatever is in second place. If you pay attention, you can learn a lot of good things from women. If you don’t, well, you’ll learn a lot of OTHER things. Most women have a good sense of what’s important in life. They realize before you do that family is paramount and friends are indispensable. However beautiful, they realize there is always someone more attractive. They place a high value on a sense of humor, loyalty and compassion. They practically have a kinship with animals. If something goes wrong in your relationship, 99% of the time it’s YOUR fault, and that goes for me, too. You might not understand what you’ve done wrong, but trust me, you somehow pulled the pin from the coupling and let that boxcar start rolling down the track. A rolling boxcar gathers momentum and that, eventually, is the end of that.
FP: And in your case….?
P: From Karen, I learned to stay away from Orthodox Jewish girls. Their families will grind you into dust. Janis, as everyone knows was incredibly reckless, but she was also very brave, happy to be a pioneer, the first one in a burning building to check for signs of life. With Janis, you found yourself checking your reticence at the door. Asking yourself why the hell NOT try it. Marilyn was Calm in the face of The Storm. Pamme was fragile, but determined, unwilling to be beaten down by vastly superior forces. Patti was the funniest woman on Earth, never let an opportunity for a good gag pass. Claudine said it was time to stop wearing white Jockey underwear. Dani showed me it was possible to have a nice relationship with someone 25 years younger even if the music was unlistenable. Immensely beautiful, Harolyn knew how to play down her looks and be popular with a passle of friends. Betsy was spontaneous and inventive, made you realize there were other possibilities. Others provided other benefits. None of them were a waste of time.
Siobhan was physically attractive, but the first thing that impressed me about her was her competence. If something was wrong with your horse, she could fix it. If you needed to get fifteen mares in foal, a gigantic task, she was the woman to call. If your health was at risk and you weren’t paying sufficient heed, Siobhan would browbeat you until she got your attention. When repairmen come to mend the tractor or fix the water-heater or reconstruct the porch, she hovers over them, watching, so she will be able to do some of it next time. If all that gives you pause to wonder what the hell she is doing with me, well, that’s a damn good question.
FP: How do you see your future?
P: Well, in the immortal words of Robert Crumb, “Keep On Truckin’.” My life is comfortable, but we still have challenges. I haven’t had a Classics horse yet, so I’m still trying. Siobhan’s business is a daily effort. Next year, we’d like to celebrate Marty Jourard’s book publication with a Grand Reunion of people who spent time in Gainesville in the late sixties and early seventies, and that’s a real project, but better to get after it than have Chuck Lemasters banging on your door in the dead of night.
FP: Any last words?
P: Yeah, I’d like all my amigos out there to drop a line every now and then. I’m here most of the day on Thursdays, answering questions that come up in the blog, so you’re not intruding. Especially if I haven’t heard from you in a while, like you, Leslie, or you, Tom, or you over in the corner there, Jack. Let’s keep in touch. Two of the last three columns, especially the last one republished on Marty’s Facebook page, have dredged up scores of Voices From the Past. Lemasters believes that Fate intends there be a massive convergence of old Gainesvillians for the Second Coming and all signs point to his being right. If we don’t hear from you in a reasonable amount of time, Chuck will be dispensed and he is quite capable of showing up at your portal at an inconvenient time. Nobody wants that. Let the Good Times roll!
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
