Don't cry for me, drug dealers of NoCal.. *sniff*

[Ben Freeman]

> >Oh my word... you sound as if you are almost proud of the fact you lived in
> >the mega-slang factory of "dope-dealing" northern California!  Are you?
> >Did it sadden you so much that an author wrote a book of fiction which
> >INCORRECTLY used the slang and euphemisms of some dope dealers?  Did that
> >put a tear in your eye and an ache in your heart for them good old damned
> >days when you couldn't throw a rock without hitting some drug dealers?  I
> >am so sorry it annoyed you, you purist, you seeker of truths and honesty.
> >I'm sorry that poor Mr. Pynchon offended your sensibilities and ruined your
> >ENTERTAINMENT and enjoyment of his work.  I also pine for the lost and
> >misrepresented integrity of that honorable bunch of thieves which you are
> >so proud to announce to the world were your neighbors and companions during
> >your long and gritty life.

You know, I think this conversation might go a little better if you
guys took a few steps back, smoked a bit of that pot yourselves and
then came at it with a bit more relaxed perspective, something to the
effect of "I can see the music, I can see the music... oh... and this
lit shit isn't *THAT* important, even if it is my whole life... dude,
can you pass more? Dude, so wait... you think Pynchon, like, doesn't
know how Cali dope dealers talked? That's Craaaazy"

In praise of our/your God, I think TriP really hits the nail on the
head with the pot scene in Gravity's Rainbow, the way your thought
processes work, the way pot makes you paranoid, the way you think
tangentally, shit, I think Slothrop trailing off and disappearing in
the zone might be a little moral lesson for you recovering dope
fiends. Pot might be cool but it messes up your mind, dude...

maybe Richie (my own pet name for Trp) did a little too much smoking
at the time himself and can't REMEMBER what they talked like... that
would certainly lend a whole new seal of authenticity to the whole
thing.

While I'm writing to you guys I figure should describe a pretty
pathetic/exciting dream I had the other night. In it, I met Thomas
Pynchon on a public bus in Turnersville, NJ, where he and his son were
staying at a house they had purchased to research the Philly parts of
Mason and Dixon. This was all based on guilt over looking at the
London Times picture, because I recognized him but had to pretend that
I didn't. As far as he was concerned, I was just some random kid on
the bus who had struck up a conversation with him.

As dreams are wont to do, it quickly cycled out of control, and I
swear I'm not making this part up. TRP is sitting on his lawn,
playing me some old school rap, shaking his head, I think to the Fresh
3 MCS song "Fresh." From another part of the dream, I opened up a
plastic can someone had given me, the kind with the snakes that jump
out even though it says "peanuts." This time, though, flames descended
and erupted all around me (dollar dollar bill yall). I lay on the
residential Turnersville St, cowering as flames encircled me. Then I
looked more closely at the can, and realized that it was designed,
once opened, to make the viewer perceive a hallucenogenic apocalypse,
which of course ties in super-neatly with the whole Pynchon aspect.
TRP sat on his lawn, still listening to the Fresh mcs, unphased by
the apocalypse.

As the dream came to an end (i was rudely and sorrowfully awakened by
a knock on the door), Pynchon was explaining to me that he knew that I
knew who he was, except by now, he had actually turned into Nabokov
and spoke with a thick Russian accent. Really, really bizarre.

Stay sober... ben