Katje, my dear sister-in-law, contacted me last night about 12:45. The poor thing was so distraught, I could even forgive her for being such a silly new-age airhead – which, as regular readers of this Web log know, recently resulted in a visit by my dear brother Rob Roy, who, TC fans will be glad to know, has been attending his son Jason’s cooking classes (held at my place in Great Falls, Virginia) every weekend since. Both brother and nephew now have color in their cheeks and no longer look like pictures from Darfur. I was still concerned about Katje having recently developed a melamine phobia, of course, since it’s driven her to consume nothing but brown rice, and there’s no way I’m inviting a radical vegan like that over to my place to watch her husband, her son and me prepare and consume veal osso bucco.
Katje: Tom, I’m sorry to call so late.
Tom: No problem, my beloved relatives can call me anytime, anywhere. You know that, Nordic Ice Queen, don’t you – we Italians, we’re all about family.
Katje: Well, Tom, I don’t want to seem catty or anything, but you must admit – your business cards say “Tom Collins,” not “Tom Collins Martini.”
Tom: Right – and Lenny Bruce explained that he changed his name because he thought “Leonard Schneider” was too Hollywood. Capice, paisan?
Katje: You know, Tom, you speaking street Italian right now, that like, totally freaks me out, considering why I’m calling you.
Tom: Oh yeah, and that is?
Katje: It’s about your brother Rob Roy. I don’t know, maybe even Jason, too.
Tom: They get into a tiff with those strait-laced Virginia neighbors of yours, Tattoo Lady? Didn’t I tell you to move north of the Potomac, what – like months ago?
Katje: No, no, it’s cool with the neighbors – except for a few of them who are taking us to court about our compost heap.
Tom: Your compost heap.
Katje: Okay, my compost heap! Just forget about that stuff for a minute, okay? Your brother, and maybe your nephew, have both developed a serious… male problem.
Tom: Seems to me that Jason’s a little bit too young for an enlarged prostate. Why don’t you just quit chewing on it and spit it out?
Katje: Okay, I’ll level with you. It’s “The Sopranos.”
Tom: “The Sopranos?” That stupid HBO series that glorifies the Mafia? You have no idea how angry ordinary, normal, patriotic, hard-working Italian-Americans are about that pandering, asinine drivel.
Katje: Well, I certainly know how pissed off you are about it, because you told me once, in excruciating detail, about seven years ago, after you had four B-52 floaters at Dora’s going-away party.
Tom: I got a right to be. Every honest Italian-American does. That show is total B.S.
Katje: Maybe so, but your little brother and his son were total freak fans for it, Tom.
Tom: What do you mean, they were? Did something happen that made them stop?
Katje: I don’t think anything could make them stop being total freak fans of “The Sopranos,” Tom. What happened was, the series ended.
Tom: It did?
Katje: Oh, right, how would you know? And if you never watched it, how come you know it’s so bad, huh?
Tom: Look, something like “The Sopranos” is the same as something like “Seinfeld,” “Raiders of the Lost Ark” or “Star Wars,” okay? I mean, even if I never saw either of those movies, or ever watched a single episode of either of those brainless, horrid TV series, I still know what they are about! How can anyone avoid knowing that, what with the saturation culture bombing everybody has to endure concerning such unmitigated trash? So anyway, “The Sopranos” ended. Fine. Big deal. So what?
Katje: It was the way it ended!
Tom: What, did Tony Soprano finally get whacked by his rivals? Or did he and his family enter the Federal Witness Protection Program? Or maybe they ran away from the Mob to Brazil or someplace on their own? Or did Tony just drop dead of a heart attack? Maybe he tried to rape his psychiatrist and got busted for that? The Russian mobster who Tony’s captain left in the woods for dead – the one who was an ex-Soviet Interior Ministry commando – did he come back and exact some poetic revenge, perhaps?
Katje: No, nothing like that.
Tom: So how did eight long years of “The Sopranos” finally end, already?
Katje: Well, Tony was like eating onion rings in this diner with his wife and son and Tony’s daughter was outside trying to parallel park and the diner was filling up with other Italians and you couldn’t tell whether they were interested in Tony, or knew who Tony was, even, or if they were just there to eat burgers and onion rings themselves, you know, and a song comes on the jukebox and then – then everything fades to black – and that was the end.
Tom: Really?
Katje: Uh-huh.
Tom: I’m genuinely impressed. That’s a sophisticated, nuanced, post-modern, deconstructionist, existential European art-cinema ending worthy of Buñuel, Bergman, Fellini, Godard or Jodorowsky. And what I’m impressed about, of course, is the utter contempt the writers, directors and producers have for their audience, since those guys are seasoned professionals and they know that the millions of pathetic middle-brow bozos who faithfully watched “The Sopranos” for eight frigging years would never, ever understand an ending like that.
Katje: That’s why I called you Tom – because I knew you could figure this situation. You’re absolutely correct; people were freaking out left and right about it. The Web is full of posts where fans have written their own endings, just because they couldn’t sleep, eat or… anything… until they got it out of their systems!
Tom: So, I take it, you are not a big crazy “Sopranos” fan?
Katje: No way. It’s too violent and everything in the stories is mostly pointless, as far as I can tell. Big waste of time, in my opinion.
Tom: And, consequently, you are completely unaffected by this phenomenon?
Katje: Near as I can tell – until I get Rob into bed. Then, I’d say I’ve got as much of a problem as he does – which is not very much at all, if you catch my drift.
Tom: You mean…
Katje: I mean I’m-a no getta no rolly-polly cannoli from-a my Italian stallion – capice, paisan? Not once – since “The Sopranos” did that weird foreign film festival ending.
Tom: And just how long ago did that happen?
Katje: Two, three days ago.
Tom: You could try waiting…
Katje: Ah, well, Tom, I may just be a skinny blonde pierced and tattooed Norwegian bimbo to you, but your little brother’s been jumping my bones like a sockeye salmon on his way up the Kenai River for nearly two decades now, and I think I know when there’s something wrong with him. Call it women’s intuition if you like, swami, but I don’t believe that waiting a month is going to change anything.
Tom: Yeah, I know – I’ve studied the biochemical pathways, neuronal cascades and hormone chain reactions involved, and, quite frankly, launching the Space Shuttle is child’s play by comparison – but only if you think about it.
Katje: It’s pretty obvious that Rob’s thinking about something, that’s for sure, and it isn’t how hot I make him, either!
Tom: Thinking about anything when you’re engaged in that sort of activity will soft boil even the hardest wood – or at least take the edge off. For example, if a guy just thinks about something like a box wrapped in brown paper and string, or a dog trotting through Central Park…
Katje: Or income tax…
Tom: Well, yeah, income tax works too, but you gotta be real careful thinking about income tax…
Katje: So your point is, it’s all psychological.
Tom: Essentially. For guys, it’s a mixture of doing the Virgin Mary and a two-thousand dollar a night hooker at the same time. That can be a very delicate balance, easily upset by some mental state created by what we experts call “ars coitus frustratum.”
Katje: Which in English is what?
Tom: Translated for maximum effect, it would mean “art-induced mental blue balls.” Which is to say, erectile disfunction caused by extreme involvement in an entertainment or similar activity that ultimately proves frustrating, disappointing or unfulfilled in the extreme.
Katje: So the writers and producers of “The Sopranos” caused this condition in my husband?
Tom: I’m not a psychoanalyst, but I would suggest you consult one.
Katje: If they did this to Rob, can I sue HBO?
Tom: I’m not a lawyer, and you can check me out on this, but I’d say it’s not likely. You see, there’s a legal precedent. Back in the 1930’s, a member of the Philadelphia Philharmonic sued Arnold Schoenberg, alleging that being required to play Schoenberg’s twelve-tone compositions had rendered him impotent.
Katje: You mean, listening to modern orchestral music can wither the wand?
Tom: Well, let’s just say Cerise and I never get jiggy to Schoenberg. I sort of doubt that anyone ever has, actually, or even could, physically, which is the problem in question – no two sane, heterosexual adult human beings could make love listening to Schoenberg any more than they could listening to audio tapes of automobile accidents….
Katje: Actually, Rob and I did that once…
Tom: Okay, then listening to audio tapes of automobile accidents is more erotic than listening to Schoenberg. Why don’t I find that the least bit hard to believe? But the point I’m making is, the law doesn’t care. You see, the court ruled that Schoenberg wasn’t liable, even though the guy suing him was, as a member of American Federation of Musicians, contractually required to play whatever the conductor of the Philharmonic said he had to play.
Katje: Is that why symphony musicians hate their conductors so much?
Tom: I’m sure that’s one of the reasons, but what I’m going on to say here is that if that guy couldn’t get the court to recognize ars coitus frustratum, and he was forced to be exposed to the emasculating art, then I think it’s extremely unlikely that anyone who voluntarily sat there for eight years lapping up “The Sopranos” could win by maintaining that the series ending sucked so bad, he can’t get Clarabell to jump through Princess Summerfallwinterspring’s war hoop no more…
Katje: I can’t help thinking that this has got to be some kind of historic event. I mean, Rob can’t possibly be alone…
Tom: He’s by no means alone – but historic, unique or unprecedented, this situation most certainly is not.
Katje: Really?
Tom: Sure. Although the Latin term has the literal word for “art” in it, the term applies to all forms of entertainment or similar activities. Ask any woman married to a Chicago Cubs fan.
Katje: Oh. So what about husbands of women who are Chicago Cubs fans?
Tom: Ask Bill Clinton.
Katje: So a lot of people get this thing, this artzy… cutup… frustration?
Tom: Sure. It’s why domestic beatings skyrocket when the home town sports team loses a big game – the fans know what’s coming – months, if not years, of impotence…
Katje: So it’s that?
Tom: That plus being broke from betting all their money on a losing home team. Just look at all of those morons who wrote their own “Sopranos” endings and posted them on the Web. It’s like some kind of primitive tribal ritual where the cave men bring scraps of leaves with magic markings on them and shove them in the magic rock crevices, then pray like crazy for their manhood to come back. Only instead of fanatical Hassidim sticking parchment in the Wailing Wall and davining like dabbling ducks, we got vidiots posting their versions of satisfying “Sopranos” endings on the Internet and emailing everybody they know, telling them to read it. The object is obvious – make the bad, incomprehensible, unsatisfying thing go away; then substitute a safe, comfortable, understandable world view expressed through shared interpretation of a fictional substitute for reality.
Katje: Jesus Christ, Tom, when you explain it like that, people seem so pitifully stupid, I’m sincerely ashamed to be a member of the human race.
Tom: You get used to it.
Katje: But what can I do about Rob? And Jason?
Tom: You sure about Jason?
Katje: Yeah. His girlfriend had a talk with me about it.
Tom: Not that girl whose mother had Jason arrested, I hope?
Katje: No, he got another one. She’s nineteen.
Tom: That, at least, is a relief. So both Rob and Jason are suffering from acute ACF?
Katje: Affirmative, doctor Collins.
Tom: Don’t call me “doctor,” I work for a living!
Katje: Sorry. What do I do?
Tom: Quentin Tarantino.
Katje: What about him?
Tom: His films approximate the same level of mindless violence, the same fraudulent content of middlebrow faux-”meaning,” the same fawning gangster worship, the same type of two-dimensional character development, the same pointless, idiotic story structure and the same predictable, transparent and boring plot twists as “The Sopranos,” but he was raised on gutter snipe grind house bilge and never gave a hoot about film as art. Consequently, all of his films have nice strong, satisfying endings, every one of which is presented in almost exactly the same milieu as “The Sopranos” was. Rent “Reservoir Dogs,” “Pulp Fiction,” and “From Dusk Til Dawn,” then you, Rob, Jason and his girl all get comfy on the couch. Make sure you have lots of ice cold, high quality brewskis on hand. While you’re watching, feed the guys plenty of oysters, sushi uni maki, shelled, salted pistachio nuts, escargot in garlic butter and basil, marzipan, guacamole and chips, chocolate, rinded goat cheese with black and white truffles, fresh raspberries, fresh pineapple, pasta with pignoli pesto, fresh figs, ginger beer, and out-of-season eggnog with extra nutmeg, wildflower honey and Black Seal Bermuda rum. When each of the stories in the Tarantino movies arrives at its obvious and satisfying climax, you ladies hug and kiss the guys and make a big fuss about how cool, gory and fulfilling that story was. Repeat as needed until your respective mates drag you off into the appropriate bedrooms.
Katje: Tom, I’m going to have to make a lot of sacrifices to do that!
Tom: Hey, you don’t have to eat the aphrodisiac food, dear, you just have to prepare it for the men folk!
Katje: Well, I don’t like the idea of poor little oysters and snails and sea urchins having to die – not to mention those poor goats and chickens and bees getting exploited; but if it will help Rob and Jason out of this post-Sopranos depression they’re in now, I guess it will be worth it.
Tom: If it’s any consolation, I know that if I were there, it would be hard for me, too.
Katje: What part?
Tom: Pretending I think Quentin Tarantino is a genius.