11/21/96 Pynchon List New York Meeting

[davemarc]

(Pynchon List New York met for the first time only one month ago, but
already enough time has passed to make me wonder how many of my
recollections remain untainted by memory's caprice.  So I share these
remembrances while inviting other attendees to elaborate upon or correct
them as they see fit.)

We met at Lucky's Bar and Grill, the legendary Manhattan watering hole that
was recently "rehabilitated" in the fashion of so many other  57th Street
eating establishments.  

Once upon a time, Lucky's was a waterfront dive of which it could safely be
said that one certainly didn't go there for the Grill as much as for the
Bar--and the "lively" crowd of sailors, lumberjacks, and recluses that went
with it.  Nowadays, Lucky's is located farther east, just a block away from
Fifth Avenue.  

Like its neighbors Planet Hollywood, Brooklyn Diner USA, Hard Rock Cafe,
and Motown Cafe, it attracts a fair share of tourists.  But even as these
visitors congregate in its cafeteria-cum-gift ship, an altogether different
set of people gathers in its already-fabled Casino Room. Arguably the
"hottest" restaurant in town, the Casino (co-owned by Robert DeNiro, Martin
Scorsese, and Sharon Stone) boasts Vegas decor and specializes in "nouveau
Nevada" cuisine.  

Cocktails cost between two and twelve dollars, the price entirely dependent
on a dice roll; customers who pay more than five bucks for a drink console
themselves by staring into their roulette wheel novelty umbrellas.  
Echoing the roulette motif are the restaurant's thinly sliced pizzas,
carefully divided into 38 uniform portions.  The prix fixe dinner costs
$21; vegetable side dishes are served diced or not at all.  The design
extends to the bathrooms, where the toilets are, naturally, scaled-down
"craps" tables.

We arrived simultaneously, easily and immediately recognizing each other on
the basis of our email exchanges.  Mind-reading maitre-d' Raymond Pierre
greeted led our party to a semi-secluded corner of the Casino, correctly
"guessing" our drink orders in the process.  On the way to the table,
esteemed organizer Chris Karatnytsky turned heads in a luxurious fur coat
that parted to reveal alluring glimpses of her foxy flameproof nightie. 
Seating herself to the left of Chris (who assured me that no animals had
been killed in the making of her outergarment) was the ever-mysterious
RUTHSINGS, enveiled in black Egyptian lace and a haze of perfume, just as
likely to express herself through an elegantly vocalized sentence as
through a few well-played notes on the Stradivarius strapped over her
shoulder.

On the other side of Chris was RICHARD ROMEO, a square-jawed hunk of
manhood whose 6'4" frame was more than adequate to handle the copies of
Gravity's Rainbow, V., Ulysses, Finnegan's Wake, Infinite Jest, and The
Complete Balzac that he apparently always carries with him.  Rounding out
the PLNY contigent was yours truly, an entirely average dreadlocked new
yorker clad in a white loincloth complemented by a kente-cloth tunic
pierced by a custom-made "i luv steven spielberg" button.

Conversation began with a discussion of the most humorous parts of GR.  It
wasn't long before we discovered that we could elicit gales of laughter
simply by shouting out the numbers of the funniest pages of the Bantam
edition.  (We actually had to take a breather after a frenetic dash through
the 130s!)  Then Chris and RICHARD favored us by recounting some ribald
adventures with what seemed like an endless parade of library groupies. 
>From time to time RUTHSINGS accompanied their antic tales with snatches of
"Humoresque" on her violin.  All I could do was relax and enjoy the
spectacle, making sure that all aspects of the discussion remained
Politically Correct.

At one point RICHARD started to tell us about a well-stacked woman who
lurked atop a towering bookshelf only to pounce upon him after the library
had closed.  But he never got to the story's climax because that's when our
guests of honor arrived.  

Chrissie and Faera were, of course, immediately recognizable from the
descriptions Jules had shared.  Both were beautiful, charming, and
gracious--and, of course, very kind to meet with us.  And they too were
impressed by Raymond's ability to "guess" their drink orders.

It should go without saying that none of us were interested in talking
about Pynchon himself.  All of us were exclusively concerned with his
texts.  Indeed, Chrissie told us what we had suspected all along--she
hadn't actually had an affair with the author.  Her relationship had really
been with the manuscripts and drafts lying around his modest living
quarters.  

Chrissie had, in fact, only recently revealed this to Jules.  Now that so
much time had passed, she said, she was surprised at how easy it was for
her to finally talk freely about the entire erotoliterary experience.  So
she told us, with a wistful glint in her left eye, about how she and
Pynchon's writing used to hang out at what must have been some very
exciting clubs downtown. Gently prodded to disclose more, she revealed that
Pynchon's writing never personally partook of any drugs during this period.
 She also said that the key to Pynchon's writing consisted of its coded
references to friends and acquaintances.  The Fay Wray allusions in GR, she
said, clearly referred to her daughter.  What most startled us about this
was our perception that Faera was conceived well after the Fay Wray
references.  "That's what makes Pynchon's writing so brilliant," said
Chrissie, aglow with admiration.

Once we had learned everything we possibly could have learned about
Pynchon's texts, we kicked back a bit and made small talk about trivia like
astrophysics, art books, academic stereotyping, Internet culture, Texas
cuisine, microtonality, Paul Krassner, and Shirley Temple Black.   Near the
end of the evening, I pulled out a camera pilfered from Leni Riefenstahl
and turned to ask Raymond to take a blurry picture of our backs--but he had
anticipated my request and was more than ready to oblige without my asking.
 Once we were in place, all we had to do was wait for a Passing Film
Producer to shuffle out of the way so that Raymond could feel free to shoot
us.

On the way out, we pondered the eternal question of when is the best time
to bundle onself in warm clothing: well inside, on the way out, or outside?
 There were farewell hugs all around as we stumbled out onto the alleged
stomping grounds of the author whose writings, through chance and the
agency of two women named Chris, had brought us together warmly on an
otherwise chilly night.