Thar He Blows…In Fact, He
Blows Everywhere
May 9, 2025
Many a tale has been told
of behemoths as heroes, villains, predators, quarry, pitchman. Goliath, Moby-Dick, Godzilla, King Kong, Bigfoot, The Hulk, Jaws, Reacher, Paul Bunyan, the
Jolly Green Giant.
One particular giant, was a
so-called monster of the deep who had a mentally unstable, obsessed and
delusional hunter who refused to cease his pursuit of the innocent beast. The
unhinged captain Ahab, due to his tragic mental illness and deep-seated lack of
humanity, deemed the behemoth evil. These two, the hunter and the prey and the
futilely insane chase comprised the classic MOBY-DICK.
Though long dead, Melville
has managed to pen a sequel, turning, at long last, the tables. It is no longer
the ship’s captain who has lost all contact with reality. Now everyone involved
knows that the elusive, blubbery quarry is in fact the evil, demented blowhard
that must be caught and ended before not only the crew of Pequod II, but the
ship itself, and the ocean it sails on and the planet on which the ocean exists
will all be brought to ruin. The new captain, Baha must complete his crucial
mission to put a stop to the monster hell-bent of total destruction.
And so, Paying Attention™,
long known for its creation of and fondness for the arts, is honored to bring
you, for the first time anywhere, the opening paragraph of the posthumous
masterpiece by the late great Hannibal Lecter…sorry, Herman Melville. Here then
are the opening words of MOBY-DON.
MOBY-DON (WHO IS ALSO A DICK)
CHAPTER 1. Loomings.
Stop calling me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having few if any
fucks to give, and nothing particular to interest me in politics, I thought I
would turn my attentions to less nauseating parts of the world. It is a way I
have of driving off the screaming voices in my head and regulating my insides.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the brain; whenever it is a deadly
cold, unrelenting December in my soul; whenever I find myself longingly pausing
before coffin warehouses, and imagining which style would suit my form and how
soon it might be nice for one last sleep; and especially whenever the doings of
the world get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong power of the
will to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, in the path of
some over large motor vehicle—then, I account it high time to cease paying
attention as soon as I can. This is my substitute for banging my head against the wall.
With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly
take to the bed, practically suffocating myself in pillows and too many
blankets. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all
men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings
towards the toxicity of politics with me.*
Well, there you have it. Likely another masterpiece by Melville. They said it couldn’t be done. Actually, now that I think about it, they might have said it shouldn’t be done. Either way, they said something and it has been done. I wouldn’t rush out to your local bookstore – if you even have one – because chances are it won’t be available anywhere in the near future, what with all the book bannings and burnings, and fascism and whatnot.
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*Full
disclosure: Melville did not actually write this posthumously. It was apparently penned by Melville’s great,
great, great, great grandson I. Melville using as a nom de plume that of his
great, great, great, great grandfather.
I. Melville reporting, etc.