My interview with Moshiach part II

The story thus far: Bitter gives a ride to a hitchhiker, who turns out to be Moshiach. Bitter asks him what we could do to help him come faster.

Moshiach sat for a few minutes, picking at his goatee, deep in thought.

"You know," he said, "you probably think that I know a lot about the answer to that question. I used to think about it all the time, and over the years, I've had a lot of great ideas, reasons for the Jews staying in exile, accomplishments that God wanted to see before the great redemption." He smiled, perhaps remembering some of the great deeds, and continued animatedly.

"But time after time, just when I thought I'd be asked to come, at the apex of a great era, the conclusion of some great suffering, I'd have my bags packed, and be ready to go,m and you know what would happen?"

"What?" I wondered, hanging on to his every word.

"Nothing." he said. "N-o-thing! So I don't know. The point is, I don't think about it much anymore. When the time comes, the time comes." He slumped back in the seat, spent.
I was deflated. Suddenly he perked up.

"Hey!" he said. "Maybe you have some ideas!"
"M-m-me?" I stammered.

"Yeah, you!" he enthused. "You know," he continued reflectively, "I don't get out much. Yeah I can be misboidaid as long as I want, and I keep up with the news, just to know which rulers I might have to hondle with. But I kema'at never just hang around poshitteh yidden.

"Tell me," he continued, "do you go to shul? You have a big chevra?"

"I-I guess.."

"So you tell me!" He was gaining steam here, his Chai necklace bouncing as he gesticulated. For the first time I noticed a hint of an Israeli accent. "What is it? What can they do to help me come? To merit the ge'ulah?"

I hadn't thought about it, and I was a little uncomfortable being put on the spot by Moshiach himself.

"I'm sorry!" he said, as though reading my thoughts, "Maybe I shouldn't have put so much pressure on you! It's okay if you don't know! Hey, I've been thinking about it for years and I don't know! It's okay, Tzaddik'l!" He pulled a hip flask out of his frock and unscrewed the cap.
"Well..." I said, "I guess now that you mention it...."

He tried to hide it, but his eyes lit up. He took a swig from the bottle.

"Nu?"

"I don't know...Some people say that the music at weddings is too loud." The words felt stupider as they left my mouth.

"Soooo..." he prompted.

"I don't know. I guess they say that it's a bizayon for the older generation-" I noticed him fiddling with his ring "- that it's disrespectful to the older generation, and it's not sensitive, and could cause hearing loss..." He looked skeptical, but thought about it for a minute.

"Honor your parents, show respect to your elders, watch verily your health...I guess it's important. But what if the chosson likes loud music? Or the kalla? There would be a reason to play it loud." He paused. "Maybe it's wrong, but It's certainly a nuanced question.

"Who complains about this?" he asked.

"I don't know, I guess... In the paper... I've seen...here and there, about it."

"Jewish papers?"

"Yeah, I guess. They have pages of letters from readers, and I've seen some readers complain about the music."

"Maybe." he said dubiously. He gazed at the tzitzis twisted between his fingers, and ran his finger along the blue thread. He looked up.

"Anything else?"