Who is Henry E. Panky? And why should you, in particular, interest yourself in the lurid bouillabaise of arrant nonsense ladled up so enthusiastically in the following pages?
Well, to begin with, if his critics are to be credited, and a process of elimination is helpful, Mr. Panky is no Al Franken, no Garrison Keillor and no David Sedaris. Most emphatically, he's apparently not Thomas Pynchon either. Honestly, that last jab hurt his feelings a little. (Like many of us, in the absence of definitive evidence otherwise, he'd long hoped he might be the mysterious Mr. P.) “How can they be so sure? Then how about Don DeLillo or Janeane Garofalo?” he whimpered. “Can I be them?” Forgive me, but in order to avoid another distasteful tantrum, I heartily assured him he could.
Then, not long ago, the author himself suggested, if I understood him correctly (he was communicating via charades), that he was, in actuality...the Kwisatz Haderach of Planet Dune! You may recall that the Kwisatz Haderach was the messianic Deliverer in Frank Herbert’s futurist bestseller, "Dune", who drank the hallucinogenic, giant sand-worm juice and then, in a sequel, became a giant worm himself. (Though that part never rang true to me. I mean, come on! Who’s going to trade being a Messiah, swirling in his robes on the stormy mountain top with the attendant power, glory and chicks, to be a humongous, eyeless worm? That's the problem with sequels: the inspiration is spent, but the money, she is good.) It may ring some bells if I mention that Kyle MacLachlan played the Kwisatz in the David Lynch film that also starred Sting.
[Oddly enough, I once had substantial, and I believe somewhat legitimate, hopes of being the Kwisatz Haderach myself, though, lately, it’s crossed my mind that the world might be riper for the return of Shabbetai Tzevi (of the apostate Shabbetaian doctrine). Or Frosty: the children say he’ll be back some day too. Jesus, I don't know.]
In any case, born into any previous age, Mr. Panky would almost certainly have been abandoned on the steaming midden for the hyenas and buzzards, or sold into slavery for a few copper rupees, or, if the family was pious, donated to the local, baby-eating deity in exchange for a good crop of peanuts. In the unlikely event of his living to maturity, it's reasonable to expect a public burning, impalement, stoning, flaying and/or defenestration to entertain the riff raff.
Admittedly, this may still occur under the Bush administration.
This modest book of "tender mercies” was conceived in 2002 when Mr. Panky had the between-medications epiphany that everything in his life – the drug abuse and religious quackery, the sexual obsession and dysfunction, the brittle mania and self-loathing despair – had been for a reason ( per moi, an extremely dubious reason). He wasn’t, after all, just another mood-swinging, moral munchkin sliding, squealing with terror, down the dark, offal chute of life. No, something had moulded him, like playdough or Jell-O salad -- to deliver a glorious message of emotional and intellectual sclerosis! Two years later, that message now lies, like a slouching beast awaiting only your hesitant poke to awaken, within the pages of this very manuscript.
In a few moments, dear reader, for the negligible price of a three-egg omelet, two side-meats and a small espresso beverage of your choice, Mr. Panky shall unstintingly heap the empty plate of your credulity with the bulging breakfast burrito of his own inexplicable wit.
And so, without further ado, I present to you the stories, koan and parables, the letters, lectures and lunatic magniloquence of the new Kwisatz Haderach of Dune, Mr. Henry E. Panky!
Bon appetit! And welcome to the granfalloon!
Patrick M. Carlisle
Editor
March 2004
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