So... I had a dream last night. In this dream, Monica Belluccii was married to Mario Cippolini (Don't ask me, I have know idea where this stuff comes from.) They had a big house in Paradise Valley, and for some reason, I was there. Monica came to me and said she needed help. She was holding an armful of carbon tubes and lugs. She said that they were part of a prototype of Mario's newest bike. She had been looking at it, and had touched it... Just touched it... And they had fallen apart. "Could you PLEASE help me put them back together before Mario gets home?" Why of course! Let me take a look.
So, the Cherubs have a new album out... It kicks ass. It's like Buzz Osborne and Kim Gordon had a bastard love child. The child, named Be Sharp, was raised on a diet consisting entirely of prunes and leftover Thanksgiving turkey. The prunes were cooked via low voltage electricity. The current was generated by wrapping 38 D-cell batteries in aluminum foil and gently rubbing them through the fur of newborn Siamese-twin Persian kittens. The kittens, joined at the genitals, were abandoned by their mother, but lovingly raised by a pygmy goat named Alice. Alice suffered from halitosis. Her owner, seeking to cure Alice's skunky breath, invented an animal mouthwash made of acidic oils distilled from orange peels. The orange peel mouthwash killed Alice, but ended up being repurposed as an environmentally friendly solvent, and made Alice's owner an overnight millionaire. Years later, Be Sharp (Buzz Osborne and Kim Gordon's bastard love child... Remember him?), who had grown up and became a world famous thief, stole all of the money. He spent it on cocaine, several tons of glitter and 67 disco balls. He packed the cocaine and glitter into the disco balls, along with fistfuls of firecrackers. He hung them from the ceiling of the Fillmore right before a Cherubs concert. He blew them up during the second encore. The disco balls, not the Cherubs. The audience went ape shit. It was fucking awesome. Just like this album. Go buy it. Go buy it right now.
I started a new project. It has consumed me... Eaten me whole. It has taken on a life of its own, and now I have this living thing in my grasp, and I am trying like hell to not squeeze too tightly. It twists and turns and dives of its own volition. It's a helluva ride. I have been going back to Bukowski quite a bit for inspiration. This poem in particular has been resonating:
Today, the zero of you that read this are going to humor me while I ramble on about one of my heroes. The one and only Thomas Ruggles Pynchon. (Seriously... I have no idea where this is going. Initiate ramble... NOW.)
What I do for a living, I do with words. I'm a hack, but I'm a hack that loves his tools. I have an affection for them. I appreciate it when language is used effectively. It doesn't matter to me if the words are spoken, written, sung or read... I love 'em.
Thomas Pynchon is a kung-fu grand master word slinger. He is as good as it gets. His name belongs alongside the greats. Hemingway, Murakami, Gibson, Le Guin, Neruda... In his own way, he is every bit as powerful as anyone who has ever picked up a pen.
So, now there is this...
It is based on what is far and away Pynchon's most accessible novel, Inherent Vice. It's a great read. Seriously, if you haven't read it yet, do so. Not only is Pynchon a savant level wordsmith, but he is also funny as hell. His sense of humor isn't for everyone. It is sharp. Razor sharp. Think Bill Hicks... Or Richard Pryor. Seriously.
Imagine your favorite funny man on stage. Now imagine said funny man walking off stage and out into the audience. One hand holds the mic, and the other...
A three foot machete.
He's killing it.
Joke after joke, punctuated with wild and unpredictable swings of that fucking machete. The audience is terrified... But they can't leave because they are laughing too hard.
That's Pynchon. He's dangerous. He sucks you in with his pretty words, and guts you before you know what's happening.
The movie? I haven't seen it. I'm sure it will be great. Paul Thomas Anderson is more than suited to the task. As an aside, in my brain? When I first read the book? I had Jeff Bridges pictured as Doc, and Benicio Del Toro as Sauncho. One out of two ain't bad.
I wonder if Pynchon, the most infamous recluse since Salinger, will go see it? Honestly? How could he not? Given... I am thinking like me... the hack... not like a future Nobel Prize winner. I would be there opening day. Hiding in the back row. Hoping the movie rocked. Hoping people loved it.
Pynchon? Who knows. The closest thing to a public appearance that the guy has done was a spot on the Simpson's...
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