Fw: what would [pynchon] drive?

[pynchonoid]

--- barbara100 at jps.net wrote:
> But your car must've been in the garage that time I
> came over. 

A long-ago-paid-for '88 Camry with torn upholstery and
190,000 miles on it, still gets just under 30
miles/gallon on the highway. 

Here's a report -- goodness only knows if it's true or
not -- of at least one Pynchonmobile:  

[...] On a cool March afternoon in 1991, I was on my
way to Charlotte to judge a St. Patrick's Day poetry
reading. I was sucking up to a water fountain at a
southbound rest area along Interstate 77 in Virginia
when a tall fellow in a half-zipped bomber jacket and
pilot sunglasses tapped me on the shoulder and asked,
"Well, professor, have you worked Vineland into one of
your modern novel courses yet?" I knew the voice,
tried to hide my shock and surprise, wiped my lips on
the sleeve of my nylon windbreaker. He shook my hand,
and before I could answer said, "Come join me for a
short while in my rented RV. You look like you could
use a beverage. 

Immediately I told him how chagrined I was over not
being indirectly ridiculed or caricatured in Vineland,
that three hours of Olympia--on me--should have been
worth a cameo at any rate, or at least a minor
Thanatoid part. I vowed never to teach the book
anywhere, in spite of its cosmic verities, wonderful
characters, and generally epic complaints raised to
the level of allegory. 

He roared and shot back, "Good! Really, or rilly,
good, professor. Youâll get your uppercuts some day,
but meanwhile, let us retire to my shiny, rented
Airstream to drain my last four specimens of Rolling
Rock, the infamous green death from the beautiful
Laurel Highlands. You may claim two of them." 

Youâre in quite the bubbling frame of mind, it seems,
for such a typical and dreary March day. What brings
you to the Interstate, southbound, and in a frigging
recreational abomination?" 

Oh, he spoke the truth. We strolled to the big parking
lot where a long, silver trailer sat in tow behind a
Chevy pickup truck. We went inside. 

"Why, Iâm embarked on an adventure, to pick up my fair
love and agent, who to you shall remain anonymous,
along with the details of my destinations, and so on.
I trust you understand." 

"Indeed, indeed," I replied, as we sat down at a
pull-down table, one that seemed to drop out of the
wall, like a hobbit's Murphy bed. Pynchon opened the
small refrigerator and lifted out a cardboard six-pack
carrier with four Rolling Rock longnecks in it, poised
like green rockets ready to launch some desperate
environmental campaign. Aggressive was I this time as
to the writer's work in progress, Mason & Dixon, an
imaginative picaresque biography and historical novel
starring those two British astronomers turned
surveyors who contributed geographical definition to
the American Civil War with their famous line. He
allowed me to read a few pages of the manuscript,
specifics of which I now do not recall, although I did
laugh out loud twice.  

"Delighted that you approve, doctor." He said it with
a thick southern drawl, while verily lilting from the
FM radio on the counter next to the tiny sink--truly
it must have been FM, for the sound, as Steely Dan
once noted and sang, had "no static at all!"--yes,
meandering through the damp air of the Airstream came
the words and music to "Come Back to Us Barbara Lewis
Hare Krishna Beauregard," by John Prine. 

After about twenty more minutes of trash talk about
the weather and the demise of the English major he
explained, "Schrap, my man, I must get this gleaming,
obscene contraption back on the highway. Melanie is
just going to croak when she sees me in this.
Meanwhile, it was truly good to see you again. Give me
your card, and maybe Iâll be in touch. Appreciate the
cooperation." The beers were consumed. We shook hands.


As I left, I tripped down the flimsy, aluminum steps
of the motor home, stumbling into the parking lot but
breaking my fall with a gloved right hand. Laughter
oozed from behind the slamming door. I let it go.[...]


<http://www.pynchon.pomona.edu/bio/adventures.html>


=====
<http://www.pynchonoid.org/>

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