'Seriously, Darius? An ONAN Rodeo?' Pox asked, a while back.
'Yeah, why not? It'll be cool, something new, related to IJ themes but also - oh I don't know - original? Unlike the mutant chapters you've been writing lately.'
'Mutant? I haven't written anything approaching mutant! Occasionally paraphrased and examined from other angles, maybe. But purloined and semi- plagiarized, no way! At least not lately.' Pox glares at him ferociously across the miles. If only he could see it, he'd be all quivering in his pointy-toed cowboy boots. His Stetson would be blown off his big hot shiny head.
'Exactly my point. You haven't written anything lately.' Darius seized the opportunity to deflect.
'Let's don't make this about me again, partner. No need to enumerate my shortcomings in public.'
'Okay, okay, don't work yourself up for nothing.'
'Harumph.'
'I'm gonna do it.'
'Do what?'
'Write a rodeo piece. Maybe 2 or 3 of them. And I'm also going to compose an ONAN National Anthem for Johnny Gentle to croon at the event.'
'You're out of your head, partner. People are going to think you're an onanite yourself.'
'I will neither confirm nor deny such allegations,' he retorted with a hidden smirk.
When he first touted the idea like it was something oh so special, Pox thought it was the result of his neuronal synapses having fried in the hot southwestern sun. Poof! That didn't take long. Like he'd been snorting too many dust motes instead of Bing. Then along came Rodeo Part 1 into her inbox. Damn, it was actually pretty good. Not that she'd ever tell Darius that. Nope, no additional swelling of his big head allowed. And then there was another, with the promised anthem. The page views were piling up, twitter was all a-tweet, and Facebook was...well, as usual, annoying as all ONAN.
Pox sighed. It was true, Darius was finally coming into his own. He was getting popular, gaining a following. She reread Rodeo 2 and found herself checking her own map for traces of merriment. There they were. Oh well. He's doing a good job, Pox thought. So she rang him up.
'Darius.'
'Yo, Pox. What up?'
'What's up is your dumbass Rodeo piece #2 . I mean, c'mon, killing off the President? Having convicts jack off in public? You sick bastard.'
Darius is momentarily flummoxed but recovers quickly. 'Why thank you Pox, that just confirms my hunch.'
'Say what?'
'I knew if it offended you, it was cool beans with everyone else.'
'You speak in tongues, Darius.'
' 'Tis true. No worries, Pox. Say, how many page views do we have now? And why did you take the counter off the blog?'
'It's nobody's business, that's why. But if you must know, the count just passed 1,500.'
'I busted my ass for 9 months for 1,500 page views?'
'We're just writing for fun, aren't we? It's not like Pay Per View.'
'...'
'D? Don't get discouraged. It's a good blog. It will catch on one of these days. I bet your Rodeo series will attract thousands of new, erudite, discriminating followers in no time.' Pox knows Darius likes to hear her use big words. It works like a charm.
'You're right, Pox, as always. Well, I better get back to work on Rodeo part 3.' He signs off. Pox clicks on the PIJ link and checks the stats. 1,500,000 page views. Ka-CHING! Cool beans...whatever that means.
Showing posts with label Partners in Jest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Partners in Jest. Show all posts
11 June 2015
07 February 2015
When the hugging gets tough, the tough get stoned
After the newbies left their initiation into Boston area's NA, Ken Erdedy and Kate Gompert * struck up an icy silence in the back seat of Johnette Foltz's battered old sedan on the way back to Ennet House. Erdedy fumed and not from gasper smoke, which there was a plenty. Addicts gotta have at least one allowable vice or they go bats.
'Hugs not drugs,' is touted at Boston area NA meetings, which rhymes with but is not = 'Hugs not Ughs', the UHID motto. They are not at all the same despite sounding similar. Ken has touchophobia, which means he cannot bear to be touched by anyone, not even police, lovers, friends, family, and least of all same sex strangers of a different race altogether. So when at his first NA meeting after Interdependence Day which Kate and he were mandatorily dragged to by Johnette, after which tediousness he was subjected to the horrific spectacle of strangers hugging one another, like any self-respecting touchophobe he removed himself from the throng hoping to avoid the disgusting hugs without offending anyone. Like they were offending him with their amiable sexless grinding of frontal body parts. Poor Ken, he didn't know where to look, offended or offending he so not wanted to be. What Ken wanted was to be at home listening to his silent stereo and staring at the front door and the clock, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his connection, which would be the last time, he knew, before he would finally quit using for good. Instead, here he was, attending a funky NA meeting, clearly which he did not enjoy. Erdedy was no addict, he was a recreational user of delta-9 tetrahydrocannabolinol (marijuana). Ken knew the medicinal names, uses and side effects of every substance to which he subjected his own self. He was here because of suffering from the side effects of pot use: it had begun interfering with his eating, sleep, memory, job, and sex life. Indeed, pretty much his whole life was fucked up because of his fondness for DuBois. But he was getting clean now, and clean he would stay. Yes, indeed.
He studied the coffee stains on the paper tablecloth, and the burn marks on the threadbare carpets. There were no black bugs here, crawling in and out of tiny holes in the walls. He hoped he could sidle out the door with or without Kate and Johnette and avoid the possibility of getting germs all over his topcoat which resembled the cashmere one favored by Randy Lenz. He hated that furtive, sneaky bastard, all pretentious and pretending to be clean, when it was clear to Erdedy that Lenz was not only still using but doing other nasty shit involving Hefty bags, small animals and Bruce Green. He shuddered, and the next thing he knew, a big badass black pot abuser not only enveloped Ken in a smelly bear hug but then reamed his sorry addicted ass out in front of group. How dare Erdedy put himself above everyone else? Did he somehow think big bad blackasses, er, black badasses, actually enjoyed hugging arrogant, skinny white dudes (IJ p 506-7)? Erdedy sucked it up, how could he not, given the man's loud and large in-your-face uncouthness and sincerity? But now, safely en route back to Ennet, he fumed.
Johnette was not terribly bothered by the two stonefaced, stonewalling newbies, driving. She'd been in their shoes herself, once or twice, so she would give them a lot of latitude to work things out as she knew they would, given time. Right now, nearing Ennet House, she needed to find a parking space so she could get her charges safely indoors before curfew. At this time of night, a motley collection of dented, scratched, hubcapless and hapless sets of wheels lined the streets nearby. It was 22:47 and in an hour or so Gately would be found moving all the vehicles to the opposite side of the road, or risk pissing off the highway police, incurring parking tickets, and so on. The nightly auto maneuvers were so much fun to watch when it was big doofus Gately's turn. Sometimes he couldn't fit his large frame into the undersized bucket seats, and his head would make a dent on the interior of the car roofs. Many of the Ennet vehicles had visible roof humps which meant Gately had moved them so many times that he finally made permanent head imprints on them.
Before Johnette can bring the car to a total stop, coasting into a spot downwards of 3 mph, her foot tapping the brakes which pads were due for replacement a like year ago, Kate flings open the passenger-side door and stomps her way down the deserted street and into the busy common room at Ennet, leaving Erdedy to his back-seat fuming and foot jiggling, for which he is famous, Ken. Johnette raises her left eyebrow in the manner of "what up with her, dude?" but says nothing and neither does Ken, who temporarily stops fuming long enough to scuttle across the back seat and nearly tears his pant leg on something sticking up from the rusty floor. He nods curtly to Johnette and stalks off down the street, in the opposite direction of Ennet House, perhaps rethinking his commitments and devising a backup plan, meaning Plan B. Too often addicts don't even plan one step ahead, but Erdedy is an exception to the rule. His steps become brisker than the north wind blowing his hair around and whipping his in need of a haircut hair into his eyes.
Head down and amidst one big squint, Ken almost plows into Lenz, who is hurrying toward Ennet after a night on the town, alone, jaunty after his latest adventure, temporarily emptied of powerless and rage, but Lenz is on Red Alert because he just scored some high quality Bing and had for some reason left his PoP in his room before heading out. Said Bing is in his pocket and when he sidesteps Erdedy, the littlest Hefty bag ever manufactured falls out onto the sidewalk. (Lenz, inexplicably, does not notice and scurries off to scootch into Ennet House by curfew. He always cuts it close, that's part of the thrill of the chase - isn't that right, Randy?)
Erdedy looks down at the sidewalk and sees the tiny bag lying there, picks it up and surreptiously stows it in his breast pocket. He takes his time walking back toward Ennet, realizing that Plan B just quantum-leapt into Plan C.....in Ken's mind, Plan C seems a lot more palatable than Plan B. Which is, let's get so high and give asshole Lenz his comeuppance while we're at it. We, of course, meaning Ken Erdedy all by his lonesome self. No need to let anyone else share this treasure trove. If people still said "woo hoo" in O.N.A.N., Erdedy would be woohoo-ing from the rooftops. He's always wanted to score some high quality Bing, never had the nerve, and now it almost literally falls from the sky at his feet, like manna.
Hours later, Ken Erdedy is stoned out of his friggin' gourd, lying on the dew-covered grass outside Ennet House, very near the spot where Mario had his first and thus far only personal Millenial Fizzie, and happy...happy....so happy. He watches a little black bug sally into and out of the pores in his hand. Cute, he thinks, I really, really, really like bugs. Bugs, not hugs.
His laughter could be heard all the way to Enfield Tennis Academy.
________________
Mini - HSSS:
Darius: Pox, you got your facts mixed up again. Didn't you do your research, doll?
Pox: Whaddya mean, D?
Darius: People do not get stoned on Bing.
Pox: What would you call it, Mr. Man?
Darius: I dunno.....gimme a minute...or some Bing....it's been too long ya know....then I'll let you...
Pox: Let me what?
Darius: Know.
Pox: No?
Darius: No, no no! I'll let you know!
Pox: You continue to mystify me all the time.
Darius: Just tryin' to keep you on your toes, partner!
__________________
* All characters in PIJ are FICTIONAL, including Darius and Pandora, and are not intended to portray the activities of any living person who happens to share the same name. Except in the case of celebrities for whom any press is good press.
.
'Hugs not drugs,' is touted at Boston area NA meetings, which rhymes with but is not = 'Hugs not Ughs', the UHID motto. They are not at all the same despite sounding similar. Ken has touchophobia, which means he cannot bear to be touched by anyone, not even police, lovers, friends, family, and least of all same sex strangers of a different race altogether. So when at his first NA meeting after Interdependence Day which Kate and he were mandatorily dragged to by Johnette, after which tediousness he was subjected to the horrific spectacle of strangers hugging one another, like any self-respecting touchophobe he removed himself from the throng hoping to avoid the disgusting hugs without offending anyone. Like they were offending him with their amiable sexless grinding of frontal body parts. Poor Ken, he didn't know where to look, offended or offending he so not wanted to be. What Ken wanted was to be at home listening to his silent stereo and staring at the front door and the clock, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his connection, which would be the last time, he knew, before he would finally quit using for good. Instead, here he was, attending a funky NA meeting, clearly which he did not enjoy. Erdedy was no addict, he was a recreational user of delta-9 tetrahydrocannabolinol (marijuana). Ken knew the medicinal names, uses and side effects of every substance to which he subjected his own self. He was here because of suffering from the side effects of pot use: it had begun interfering with his eating, sleep, memory, job, and sex life. Indeed, pretty much his whole life was fucked up because of his fondness for DuBois. But he was getting clean now, and clean he would stay. Yes, indeed.
He studied the coffee stains on the paper tablecloth, and the burn marks on the threadbare carpets. There were no black bugs here, crawling in and out of tiny holes in the walls. He hoped he could sidle out the door with or without Kate and Johnette and avoid the possibility of getting germs all over his topcoat which resembled the cashmere one favored by Randy Lenz. He hated that furtive, sneaky bastard, all pretentious and pretending to be clean, when it was clear to Erdedy that Lenz was not only still using but doing other nasty shit involving Hefty bags, small animals and Bruce Green. He shuddered, and the next thing he knew, a big badass black pot abuser not only enveloped Ken in a smelly bear hug but then reamed his sorry addicted ass out in front of group. How dare Erdedy put himself above everyone else? Did he somehow think big bad blackasses, er, black badasses, actually enjoyed hugging arrogant, skinny white dudes (IJ p 506-7)? Erdedy sucked it up, how could he not, given the man's loud and large in-your-face uncouthness and sincerity? But now, safely en route back to Ennet, he fumed.
Johnette was not terribly bothered by the two stonefaced, stonewalling newbies, driving. She'd been in their shoes herself, once or twice, so she would give them a lot of latitude to work things out as she knew they would, given time. Right now, nearing Ennet House, she needed to find a parking space so she could get her charges safely indoors before curfew. At this time of night, a motley collection of dented, scratched, hubcapless and hapless sets of wheels lined the streets nearby. It was 22:47 and in an hour or so Gately would be found moving all the vehicles to the opposite side of the road, or risk pissing off the highway police, incurring parking tickets, and so on. The nightly auto maneuvers were so much fun to watch when it was big doofus Gately's turn. Sometimes he couldn't fit his large frame into the undersized bucket seats, and his head would make a dent on the interior of the car roofs. Many of the Ennet vehicles had visible roof humps which meant Gately had moved them so many times that he finally made permanent head imprints on them.
Before Johnette can bring the car to a total stop, coasting into a spot downwards of 3 mph, her foot tapping the brakes which pads were due for replacement a like year ago, Kate flings open the passenger-side door and stomps her way down the deserted street and into the busy common room at Ennet, leaving Erdedy to his back-seat fuming and foot jiggling, for which he is famous, Ken. Johnette raises her left eyebrow in the manner of "what up with her, dude?" but says nothing and neither does Ken, who temporarily stops fuming long enough to scuttle across the back seat and nearly tears his pant leg on something sticking up from the rusty floor. He nods curtly to Johnette and stalks off down the street, in the opposite direction of Ennet House, perhaps rethinking his commitments and devising a backup plan, meaning Plan B. Too often addicts don't even plan one step ahead, but Erdedy is an exception to the rule. His steps become brisker than the north wind blowing his hair around and whipping his in need of a haircut hair into his eyes.
Head down and amidst one big squint, Ken almost plows into Lenz, who is hurrying toward Ennet after a night on the town, alone, jaunty after his latest adventure, temporarily emptied of powerless and rage, but Lenz is on Red Alert because he just scored some high quality Bing and had for some reason left his PoP in his room before heading out. Said Bing is in his pocket and when he sidesteps Erdedy, the littlest Hefty bag ever manufactured falls out onto the sidewalk. (Lenz, inexplicably, does not notice and scurries off to scootch into Ennet House by curfew. He always cuts it close, that's part of the thrill of the chase - isn't that right, Randy?)
Erdedy looks down at the sidewalk and sees the tiny bag lying there, picks it up and surreptiously stows it in his breast pocket. He takes his time walking back toward Ennet, realizing that Plan B just quantum-leapt into Plan C.....in Ken's mind, Plan C seems a lot more palatable than Plan B. Which is, let's get so high and give asshole Lenz his comeuppance while we're at it. We, of course, meaning Ken Erdedy all by his lonesome self. No need to let anyone else share this treasure trove. If people still said "woo hoo" in O.N.A.N., Erdedy would be woohoo-ing from the rooftops. He's always wanted to score some high quality Bing, never had the nerve, and now it almost literally falls from the sky at his feet, like manna.
Hours later, Ken Erdedy is stoned out of his friggin' gourd, lying on the dew-covered grass outside Ennet House, very near the spot where Mario had his first and thus far only personal Millenial Fizzie, and happy...happy....so happy. He watches a little black bug sally into and out of the pores in his hand. Cute, he thinks, I really, really, really like bugs. Bugs, not hugs.
His laughter could be heard all the way to Enfield Tennis Academy.
________________
Mini - HSSS:
Darius: Pox, you got your facts mixed up again. Didn't you do your research, doll?
Pox: Whaddya mean, D?
Darius: People do not get stoned on Bing.
Pox: What would you call it, Mr. Man?
Darius: I dunno.....gimme a minute...or some Bing....it's been too long ya know....then I'll let you...
Pox: Let me what?
Darius: Know.
Pox: No?
Darius: No, no no! I'll let you know!
Pox: You continue to mystify me all the time.
Darius: Just tryin' to keep you on your toes, partner!
__________________
* All characters in PIJ are FICTIONAL, including Darius and Pandora, and are not intended to portray the activities of any living person who happens to share the same name. Except in the case of celebrities for whom any press is good press.
.
22 January 2015
Eschatology 101
Early in YSPDD, Pandora had written down some new words she learned, back when she was studying under a different master, months before she had ever heard of DFW. While recently reviewing the diary, one of those words figuratively glowed like neon.
What was the Word? The word was 'eschatology' - which meant not much to her at that time, but now seemed to have the same etymology as IJ's Eschaton. 'Aha' moment, a serendipitous synchronicity to investigate!
DFW was a deft wordsmith, as we all know, so it stands to reason that he chose to name the highly intense encounter game 'Eschaton', which root meaning is, according to one simplified source, 'end times', or 'the ultimate destiny of humanity'. Might we then deduce that DFW regarded tennis - not just any tennis, but bloody vicious teen angst tennis aided, abetted and plotted with the assistance of teleputer, acronym, and Pemulis - as a sort of end game in itself? The determining factor in who would advance to the Show, and who was woefully unimaginative and/or inept/ and/ or lacking the requisite toolbox-motor integration to ever succeed in anything ever?
Or maybe it's just a metaphor for like, life.
Wikipedia lends some insight into eschatology. Directly quoting now : The Oxford English Dictionary defines eschatology as "The department of theological science concerned with ‘the four last things: death, judgment, heaven and hell’.... In the context of mysticism, the phrase refers metaphorically to the end of ordinary reality and reunion with the Divine. ...Researchers in futures studies and transhumanism investigate how the accelerating rate of scientific progress may lead to a technological singularity in the 21st century that would profoundly and unpredictably change the course of human history, and result in Homo sapiens no longer being the dominant life form on Earth." (end of quote)
Fascinating!
The end of humanity as the dominant life form on earth? Ooh la la. Blade runners, cyborgs, androids, ETs. All gods in the pantheon are welcome here. They bow to each other: Namaste. The byte in me sees the byte in you. Tennis, anyone?
It also fascinates Pox because she is always thinking about life and death and how to make the best of whatever time remains in her own lifespan. If only she could do what she envisioned happening in the Steeply, Herself saga....there would be no need to worry about silly things like aging, debilitating diseases, losing one or more of her 5 senses, and especially forgetting the purpose of the valuable tools in her personal toolbox. God forbid they should rattle and clang in her head like the kind of headaches for which there are no known cure. Pox needs a dose of mental Eschaton, it would seem to this objective observer, in order to keep her synapses all lubed and ready for action, and not all bollixed up in a heap of flung props like those on IJ page 341: ' a degenerative chaos so complex in its disorder that it's hard to tell whether it seems choreographed or simply chaotically disordered.'
ERROR...ERROR...ERROR.
No problem. The games continue.....the show must go on.
What was the Word? The word was 'eschatology' - which meant not much to her at that time, but now seemed to have the same etymology as IJ's Eschaton. 'Aha' moment, a serendipitous synchronicity to investigate!
DFW was a deft wordsmith, as we all know, so it stands to reason that he chose to name the highly intense encounter game 'Eschaton', which root meaning is, according to one simplified source, 'end times', or 'the ultimate destiny of humanity'. Might we then deduce that DFW regarded tennis - not just any tennis, but bloody vicious teen angst tennis aided, abetted and plotted with the assistance of teleputer, acronym, and Pemulis - as a sort of end game in itself? The determining factor in who would advance to the Show, and who was woefully unimaginative and/or inept/ and/ or lacking the requisite toolbox-motor integration to ever succeed in anything ever?
Or maybe it's just a metaphor for like, life.
Wikipedia lends some insight into eschatology. Directly quoting now : The Oxford English Dictionary defines eschatology as "The department of theological science concerned with ‘the four last things: death, judgment, heaven and hell’.... In the context of mysticism, the phrase refers metaphorically to the end of ordinary reality and reunion with the Divine. ...Researchers in futures studies and transhumanism investigate how the accelerating rate of scientific progress may lead to a technological singularity in the 21st century that would profoundly and unpredictably change the course of human history, and result in Homo sapiens no longer being the dominant life form on Earth." (end of quote)
Fascinating!
The end of humanity as the dominant life form on earth? Ooh la la. Blade runners, cyborgs, androids, ETs. All gods in the pantheon are welcome here. They bow to each other: Namaste. The byte in me sees the byte in you. Tennis, anyone?
It also fascinates Pox because she is always thinking about life and death and how to make the best of whatever time remains in her own lifespan. If only she could do what she envisioned happening in the Steeply, Herself saga....there would be no need to worry about silly things like aging, debilitating diseases, losing one or more of her 5 senses, and especially forgetting the purpose of the valuable tools in her personal toolbox. God forbid they should rattle and clang in her head like the kind of headaches for which there are no known cure. Pox needs a dose of mental Eschaton, it would seem to this objective observer, in order to keep her synapses all lubed and ready for action, and not all bollixed up in a heap of flung props like those on IJ page 341: ' a degenerative chaos so complex in its disorder that it's hard to tell whether it seems choreographed or simply chaotically disordered.'
ERROR...ERROR...ERROR.
No problem. The games continue.....the show must go on.
12 January 2015
On the Cover of Newsweek
If there was every any doubt about the enduring appeal of Infinite Jest.....here's proof.
To view the article, click here: http://www.newsweek.com/2015/01/16/turbulent-genius-david-foster-wallace-297688.html
To view the article, click here: http://www.newsweek.com/2015/01/16/turbulent-genius-david-foster-wallace-297688.html
On the cover of Newsweek, 16 January 2015 (YVASV)
26 December 2014
Somewhere Out There
Somewhere out there, in the environs around Boston and Enfield, and Tucson, and Quebec, addicts of all persuasions still religiously attend AA and NA meetings, athletes still try to perfect their respective games hoping for a shot at The Show, governments still form shaky new alliances. And somewhere out there, many thousands, possibly a million Wallace fans still read Infinite Jest.
We need more Jest in our lives.
We sit around in small groups and discuss, we search the internet for new IJ-related websites that will keep us connected, we hunker down with the magnum opus because like the lethal cartridge, we can't get enough Jest. It endlessly and infinitely entertains. It can make mush of our minds all the while strengthening and inspiring them and raising them to new levels of intelligence.....as if we glorified monkeys could ever attain brilliance, as did our master.
Somewhere out there, we like to think that David Foster Wallace has become a wraith and if we are lucky he will pay us a visit. He will continue to inspire us, guide us, tell us what happened next.
Long as it was, we still don't want the story to end. Why should it end, just when we were getting to know Mario and Marathe and Steeply and Lyle and Pemulis and the Moms and Himself. We want to know what happened after Gately was found lying on the beach, tide receding, and if Hal will regain control of his vocals. We want more Gentle, more Psychosis, more Lenz.
In our original stories we speculate on behalf of all DFW/IJ fans. We look at the backside and underbelly of the plot, introduce new characters, and ourselves interact with the published ones and sometimes with each other. We invite you to sit down and view us on your teleputer or yet to be invented entertainment devices. Most of all we simply hope you will be entertained.....
For a full story list, click here: Complete Story List
We need more Jest in our lives.
We sit around in small groups and discuss, we search the internet for new IJ-related websites that will keep us connected, we hunker down with the magnum opus because like the lethal cartridge, we can't get enough Jest. It endlessly and infinitely entertains. It can make mush of our minds all the while strengthening and inspiring them and raising them to new levels of intelligence.....as if we glorified monkeys could ever attain brilliance, as did our master.
Somewhere out there, we like to think that David Foster Wallace has become a wraith and if we are lucky he will pay us a visit. He will continue to inspire us, guide us, tell us what happened next.
Long as it was, we still don't want the story to end. Why should it end, just when we were getting to know Mario and Marathe and Steeply and Lyle and Pemulis and the Moms and Himself. We want to know what happened after Gately was found lying on the beach, tide receding, and if Hal will regain control of his vocals. We want more Gentle, more Psychosis, more Lenz.
In our original stories we speculate on behalf of all DFW/IJ fans. We look at the backside and underbelly of the plot, introduce new characters, and ourselves interact with the published ones and sometimes with each other. We invite you to sit down and view us on your teleputer or yet to be invented entertainment devices. Most of all we simply hope you will be entertained.....
For a full story list, click here: Complete Story List
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