tinasky in tower's e-pulse

[Djuna35 at aol.com]

>From this week's Tower Records' E-Pulse (their weekly music trivia
publication) :

2. best rock'n'roll read, non-rock division:
     In April, 1983, a small paper in Mendocino, Calif., received a letter
which bashed the attempts at poetry that appeared in its pages. It was
signed, "Wanda Tinasky, Fort Bragg." The letter stirred up local literati,
some of whom responded, angrily. After a few more letters to the Mendocino
Commentary, Tinasky discovered the Anderson Valley Advertiser, a weekly
published out of Boonville, Calif.; during the next few years her highly
entertaining missives -- dense with paranoia, puns, literary arcana,
pop-culture references and attitude (and funny as hell) -- would grace the
AVA's letters page. The last one signed by Tinasky appeared in April, 1990.
     In early 1990, Thomas Pynchon's novel 'Vineland' was published.
Typical Pynchon: dense with paranoia, puns, literary arcana, pop-culture
references and attitude (and funny as hell) -- and set on California's
Mendocino coast. AVA publisher Bruce Anderson read 'Vineland' and was
struck by the similarities: Was Tinasky in actuality the reclusive Pynchon?
     Judge for yourself: 'THE LETTERS OF WANDA TINASKY,' Edited by TR
Factor (Vers Libre Press, P.O. Box 2911, Portland, OR 97208-2911, $22.00,
224 pages) contains all of Tinasky's letters, annotated, along with a
selection of other wack letters from Cali's north coast.
     Here's one of Tinasky's longer letters to give you a taste:
   'Dear Mr. Anderson:
It is a _bas canard_, or in the Queen's English, a duck fart, that I am an
alcoholic escapee from a mental institution, and that I have been barred
from the pages of every publication on the Mendocino coast. I defy anyone
to produce documentary proof that I have ever been institutionalized, or
that I have broken the vow of the Nazarite, or that the number of
publications barring me amounts to more than one. Two. Three. Yes, I sleep
under a bridge, eat out of garbage cans, and dress out of the free box at
Corners of the Mouth, but I demand the respect due every law-abiding,
tax-paying American citizen! I am not surprised that the cravens who hide
behind the pseudonyms of "Berna Simmons" (not in the phone book), "Gary
Milliman" (his name is legion, a phony monicker if I ever saw one & I've
seen a million of them) & "Willie Tinasky" (also known as John O. Clark,
Jr. & probably 1/2 a dozen other things in your paper) ... I say I'm not
surprised that these twirts (a twirt is the offspring of a twerp & a twit,
& you Vonnegut fans know what those are) ... I say ... well, now I forget
what I was going to say about them, but that _you_, Mr. Anderson, should
turn on me like a viper ... I should get Russ Morro to throw thirty pieces
of silver at you! 1980's American dimes! I don't care that you say we've
never met ... I knew you were married ... or that I write a column for the
Depressed Democrat, but when you call me the most relentless hate writer in
your experience & say I'm cannonfodder for the next Hitler, you hurt me
more than words can tell. I don't even know what a wine yuppie is! Is that
a wineo, or something like a _carafe_? God knows I have never harbored a
rancorous thought against a fellow creature, or deliberately uttered a
hurtful falsehood or truth about any man, woman or child living or dead, &
when you, Mr. Anderson, whom I looked on as the embodiment of all that is
fine & decent ... whom I thought of almost as the father I never knew ...
when you descend to using your weekly asswiper to calumniate me like a
vulgar fanfaron ... well, I don't care. Wotthehell, Mr. Anderson,
wotthehell, the word is _toujours gai_ & I have bigger fish to fry than
Phil Crawdad. I'm off to Portland, Oregon to defend my spiritual leader
Elron (Hubbard or Reagan, I forget, but it doesn't matter) & thirty-nine
million of his hard-earned dollars from some crazy broad, & I ask you, what
could anybody have done to her that was worth thirty-nine million bucks?
Justice! _Ecrasez l'infame!_
Yr. ob'd'nt Servant
Wanda Tinasky
P.S. I'm going to tell John Travolta what you said about him.'
     Pynchon or no, some of you will enjoy the hell out of this book. I
sure did.