IVIV: chapter seven—Zucky's

[Robin Landseadel]

We may be entering some of the "Get Smart" territory that Laura talked  
about a few pages ago—So Sherlock Holmes, Cheech & Chong and Marcus  
Welby meet at Zucky's. . .

Of course you have to allow a juggler of patter like Pynchon a little  
space to set up his joke. And the probable anachronism of "Mazoh Ball  
Jones" at least has some kinship with the similarly bi-located Kareem- 
Abu-Jamal appearance a few pages ahead if only that both have  
something to do with basketball. Wonder if Ol' Pynch is starting to  
scramble his basketball stats? However you wanna slice up "unreliable  
narrator," we've got an unreliable narrator on our hands. Like he's in  
two places at once when he's not anywhere at all, if you can dig that  
jive, Porgie. Marcus Welby fans figure into this scene as well and the  
food looks good, for once.

In any case, as set-up it works out fine, leading to Doc's real gripe:

	"Pro-cop fuckin mind control's more like it. Inform on your friends,  
kids,
	get a lollipop from the Captain."  . . .

	. . . PIs are doomed, man," Doc continuing his earlier thought, "you
	could've seen it coming for years, in the movies, on the tube. Once
	there was all these great old PIs-Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, the
	shamus of shamuses Johnny Staccato, always smarter and more
	professional than the cops, always end up solvin the crime while the
	cops are followin wrong leads and gettin in the way."

	"Coming in at the end to put the cuffs on."

	"Yeah, but nowadays it's all you see anymore is cops, the tube is
	saturated with fuckin cop shows, just being regular guys, only tryin to
	do their job, folks, no more threat to nobody's freedom than some dad
	in a sitcom. Right. Get the viewer population so cop-happy they're
	beggin to be run in. Good-bye Johnny Staccato, welcome and while
	you're at it please kick my door down, Steve McGarrett. Meantime out
	here in the real world most of us private flatfoots can't even make the
	rent."

This of course is a continuation of the very same gripe, only slightly  
more noir inflected, that Vineland offered us el-dead meato post- 
hippie tubaholics in Vineland.

Then comes page 98, a page I have no intention of spoiling by  
attempting to summarize, explain, link or otherwise spray graffiti on.