A Scats

[jporter]

A screaming comes across the sky...A.S.C.A.T.S. (yes, I dig the articles).

Beginning with the conviction that Pynchon is nothing if not CORNY, I shall
strive to be as corny as I possibly can be in any attempt to understand any
of his *work* That's *work* as Maynard G. Krebs- (second order Bob Denver)
would say it.

Therefore, picture a vintage '57 Village coffee House: sawdust, coffee,
lots of smoke, the occassional finger pop or bongo, lots'a hep cats and
kittens. A stool, a cone of light off to the side of a counter...

A middleaged beret makes his way to the stool, and for a preamble produces
something like the crucified howl of A. Ginsburg and ending with the
surprised yelp: *work* (as in the triple integration of acceleration) of
Maynard G. Krebs....

A screaming...Indefinite, in the night, constant (( as in the C (see the
guy who wasted Don Infinnegan Gately's buddy- before Donny woke up on the
beach) of an indefinite integral)) comes across *The* sky...(bongo riff
here) The sky, as in the definite article, or integral, as in C replaced by
a number...(lots of finger pops here, head nods in the blue smoke...yea
man, go daddy). Your number...

But not just yours or mine, good buddy, Our Number...

[And as Hal Incandenza might soundlessly (fuck Jacques Derrida) scream: It
is too late.]

It is too late. Then who or what is left around to hear that scream?

The beret, tucking greying locks behind one ear, makes his way back to his
table.

The stool is yours,

Jody