Part I: Weirdness in Late Am-Lit
Weirdness: adjective. Involving or suggesting the unknown science, or the supernatural; unearthly, uncanny, fantastic, futuristic, and/or bizarre—also, of strange or extraordinary character. Examples: A situation that arises in which there is no immediate explanation or solution. Most likely a one-time incident that never occurs again, no matter how hard one tries to replicate it—sometime makes IT techs and automobile mechanics go crazy; seeing a man dressed in Batman in the queue for Arby’s on Saint Patrick’s Day in Ann Arbor, Michigan. This paper’s introduction also falls under this definition. Weirdness comes in all forms, sometimes grand and other times, less noticeable. For this final paper, three unrelated weird stories, written by three eccentric authors will display the interlinking synthesis of weirdness in later American literature.
If one could frame a weird meeting of three authors in at a dinner party, it could be envisioned as the following: It was a dark and stormy night as Thomas Pynchon wearing a paper sack over his head, sat dining with Patricia Highsmith in the Hotel Chelsea in the year 2074. A blue police box sat in the corner of the room, and their host, a strange man calling himself a doctor, who struct a strong resembles Paul McGann. Their host served Fish and Chips that he purchased as take away from an Arthur Treacher’s, after learning that the kitchen staff had been long dead for the past twenty years. What was weirder was the two authors having dinner together wrote relatively similar, yet odd science fiction type work. However, the weirder author by comparison was present, yet went unnoticed—Louise Erdrich whose work was weird, but of a slightly different sub-genre of work.
While Pynchon and Highsmith’s works focused on science, Erdrich’s work focused more on mysticism, yet, all three writer’s work shared a strong sense of irony. What was ironic in this obscure dinner party in the future, was that none of the authors, nor the doctor knew they were the subject of a synthesis paper, despite the fact that much of their own work involved irony.
One could theorize if a conversation should occur, it would be possible to include a discussion of how entropy itself be construed as a link between: Louise Erdrich’s “Flue”r; Patricia Highsmith’s “The Quest for Black Caveringi”; and Thomas Pynchon’s “Entropy”, but that would just be silly—possibly satirical if all three were linked together.
Highsmith’s writing on how a Professor Clevering’s search for a giant snail could share an entropic bond to Erdrich’s character Fleur who are both looking for acceptance. While Clevering searches for acceptance through fame, Fleur just wants to lead a normal life—a desire that does not fall to either of them. Fleur herself may have a cosmic entropic link to Pynchon’s own character, Aubade, who herself seemed to exhibit some signs of mysticism (granted, that could just be the weirdness of the European drug consumption of the era at work), which she shares with Fleur.
In this bizarre dinner party, the most normal of the three authors, Erdrich, may provide the pin that can link the Highsmith and Pynchon together. If the three authors were to discuss the irony in their respected works, perhaps Highsmith would open with a quote from “The Quest for Black Caveringi” with a description of an island full of weird giant snails, “He was waist-deep when he stumbled, waist-deep but head under when the snail crashed down upon him, and he realized as thousands of pairs of teeth began to gnaw at his back, that his fate was both to drown and to be chewed to death” (1316). The fact that the Professor could be devoured by the snails of his own ego is in itself irony. This is both weird and unusual, however Doctor Who would likely note that he has seen weirdness like this his entire life.
Not to be outdone in the weirdness of Highsmith’s protagonist’s fate, Erdrich would likely respond with her own work “Fleur.” The irony in her work; however, would not revolve around something as bizarre as giant gastropods, but rather a more mystical approach, with how her character, Fleur Pillager, was portrayed as a witch (or wife of Randall Flagg). The irony in “Fleur” was not the death of the lead character, but fate of those who taunted Fleur herself, “The three [tormentors] had hunched around the barrel where the game was still laid out, and a dead lantern and an empty bottle too… Their faces were set in concentration, mouths open, as if to speak some careful thought…” (1634). Unlike Highsmith, who did not directly state the death of her central character, Erdrich graphically illustrates the death of her protagonist’s tormentors, their dog, and Fleur’s ultimate survival.
Of course, for Doctor Who, who was on his second serving of battered fish, he too has likely encountered something just as odd as to see a small localized tornado destroy a small section of town that had been summoned by the Misshepeshu, which the Doctor would likely claim was some sort of alien to begin with. Of course, saving the best for last, Pynchon, sitting at a far end of the dinning table, slips a handful of French fries under his paper bag mask before applying his own work to the conversation.
Pynchon could easily dominate the conversation as the weirdness of entropic topics such as Native American mysticism, and giant snails pale in comparison to the cerebral weirdness of his own writings. Unlike Highsmith’s and Erdrich’s work that starts out relatively mundane, and only grow stranger as their texts developed, Pynchon’s work in Entropy starts out strange straight from the gate. However, unlike the aforementioned works by the other two authors, no one directly perishes as a result of the entropy in play, though it is highly implied that Callisto and Aubade do freeze to death as a result. This in itself is ironic in that entropy is fully employed as an equilibrium by means of Aubade’s smashing of the window—balancing the 37 Celsius inside with the 37 Fahrenheit temperature outside.
Suddenly then, as if seeing the single and unavoidable conclusion to all this he moved swiftly to the window before Callisto could speak; tore away the drapes and smashed out the glass with two exquisite hands which came away bleeding and glistening with splinters; and turned to face the man on the bed and wait with him until the moment of equilibrium was reached, when37 degrees Fahrenheit should prevail both outside and inside, and forever, and the hovering, curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion. (1531)
This would allude to their own impending demise as people do not live long in 37-degree weather during winter all too long.
The Paul McGann impersonating host would likely nod in agreement as he munch away on a hushpuppy wondering how many other quotes Pynchon could recite. Meatball’s half of the story was entropic and full of discord on its own, worthy of a full paper analysis, and likely most aligned with his own tales.
Of course, all three authors’ stories are weird enough to have been the base of a Doctor Who adventure. Oddness comes in all forms, occasionally remarkable and other times, less perceptible as a contrast from each of the three works cited, by three peculiar novelists that interlaced synthesis of oddness in American fiction.
Works Cited
Levine, Robert S., et al. The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Shorter 9th ed.,
W.W. Norton & Company, 2017.
General notes: I decided I want to write the synthesis on, Thomas Pynchon “Entropy” and, Patricia Highsmith “The Quest for Black Caveringi”. Originally, I chose to link both Highsmith and Pynchon together was because they were both weird, fun, and satirically ironic which I think fits the overall tone of postmodernism, though I chose not to do a postmodernistic criticism of the works. Louise Erdrich’s Fleur was added because it was the closest reading to fit the “weirdness” theme, and itself was a weird contrast to compare to the other two authors after the fact. I had originally thought of incorporating either all the Native American stories, or the Jewish written works, but in the end felt that I would look at a common theme connecting “weirdness” as it posed a somewhat intriguing challenge to write. And, while, I may have failed in the execution, it was considerably more interesting to dare myself to something different, than to yawn my over to grab a low hanging fruit, though I do like low hanging fruit since it is less stressful on my poor back.
Part II: Creative Piece
It was just another Tuesday. Nothing ever of monumental importance had happened on Tuesday, or so Worshipful Master, Chuck Billy Graham, a prominent Washington freemason would often refute when prompted by the Countess Natasha Rostov who often would visit her secret lover’s office located on the second floor of the Lower’s Building on the corner 17th and K St. Security was tight, and none without the passphrase could enter. Granted, no one should know the secret phrase that would grant access to the highly secretive office, but, in the words of the late great J. Edgar Hoover during an impromptu CBC Radio One interview at the Toronto Grand Hotel Royal, “Fuck it.”
Auspiciously, both Graham and Rostov knew the passphrase as though carved into their souls by a giant red rufous itself, or as a result of constantly rereading the voice activated security system’s owner’s manual under the section 12.6.8b, Default Passphrase:
The woodpecker pecked on the outhouse door.
He pecked and he pecked until his pecker was sore.
Now, these words cannot be muttered by anyone aside the technical writers of Raytheon’s ARX-6 Voice Activation Security Door Passphrase System, or the countless others who had printed and distributed the book, including those who had posted the manual as a PDF document in Raytheon’s online help and troubleshooting section of the company website, easily located by a Google search. Thanks in part to the billion dollar contract that the United States military had secured with Raytheon, advanced voice automation had made illegal access by anyone other than Graham or those who he granted access to nearly impossible—at least to those who had bothered to change the default passcode, despite rumors to the contrary; even the NSA, CIA, FBI, or MLB were unable to crack the algorithms. The success rate status of MI5, the KGB, NBA, and Transport Canada are still unknown.
Of course, there was one person who had the ability, the wits, and the personal interest to crack this code—the great editorial minds of OMNI, all but laid out step-by-step instructions under the order of its publisher Larry Flint. Yet, despite the years that many government intelligence agencies, and that of Major League Baseball, had anyone bothered to consult the world’s largest purvey of smut, then the secrets of the events that had transpired in a non-discrete office building on K Street would have been disclosed for considerably less money than what those who wanted to know had pissed away in public funds. Had anyone bothered to read the owner’s manual, one could easily have attempted to gain access to the office using the default passphrase—but then again, when has the government or the bulk of the private sector ever understood the rudimentary basics of information security?
However, an even less expensive manner in which those who wished to be in the know, for less than the $3.50 newsstand cost of a December 1988 issue of OMNI, one could simple read on, for I the writer know exactly what transpired between the Chuck Billy Graham and Countess Natasha Rostov on the summer afternoon on February 30th, 1986 (yes, Febr. 30th).
Natasha was never a fan of any month that had a three in it, and this February was a triple leap year. The only thing worse than dealing with leap years, were leap minutes as was evident as the countess spent the better part of three minutes attempting to readjust her Seiko. She had been waiting in the lobby of the King of the Python Lodge #33 of the A.F.A.M. Her appointment with the Worshipful Master of the lodge was not something she was accustomed to. The walls of the waiting room were lined in pure gold, with silver leaf accent wrapping. Clearly this lodge had enough wealth to put many of the Arab sheiks she had dealings with put to shame.
Truth be known, had Sheik Al-Alli Allah-Bubba Bazoongas-Bubbagunush had seen the wealth of just the waiting room alone, it would likely result in his suicide, as no one should have more wealth than he. Nonetheless, the countess was unaccustomed to not being the one in the driver’s seat commanding the terms of a meeting—and she disliked waiting.
As Rostov waited, she had already flipped through the issues of People, OMNI, and a few other assorted publications that sat on top of the waiting room’s coffee table, none of which grabbed her interest. After a few more moments of waiting, Graham entered the room as almost by magic. The countess had not seen where he had entered from. “Sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am,” he said as he kneeled down to kiss her hand, “I had some business to attend to.”
“I hope it was not too pressing a matter that I pulled you away from,” the young woman said, modestly, though she had not really cared about the torrid affairs her host had.
The older gentleman waved her comment off, “Nothing important. Just had to broker a deal between the Shriner’s Hospital for Children and RuPaul Reubens’ Gay Witches for Abortion.”
“Oh, I hope it went well,” she feigned consideration, but was failing miserably at the attempt.
The thirty-third-degree mason, and senior member of the shrine, waved his hand. “I know your time is short, and that that you are not here to discuss such trivial matters.” Graham stated, reaching into the jacket pocket of his navy-blue blazer to retrieve the item.
“Yes, well, I do have a lot of things and people to do today,” she replied with a sly grin as though there were great plans afoot. While the older gentleman was retrieving the item for which, the countess’s arrival revolved around, she glanced at the wall clock. It was now 3:33, an ominous sign. The only way today could possibly be more worrisome would be if her five o’clock appointment with Peter David Cronenberg is delayed due to construction on the Red Line again—there was always construction on the Red Line it seemed.
“Ah, here we are,” he said as he presented the countess a hard-plastic encapsulation containing a small card inside. “As agreed, one 1984 Topps Ricky Henderson rookie card in mind condition, per the Becket price guide.”
The countess then handed the Worshipful Master the only known copy of Two-Live Crew: Live from the Cleveland Zoo Memorial Tribute to the Falco. “Here you go as agreed. You may even wish to authenticate that the autograph indeed signed by David Hobbs.”
“Oh, I trust you completely,” he whispered as he waved his hand. “Next week, if you could be so kind, bring me the pornographic video of Sharon Stone Phillips and Oliva Newton John Wayne, so we can exchange for that 84 Donrus Don Mattingly rookie card. I also still have quite a few Willie Stargell cards laying about as well.”
The countess and the mason both came to an agreement and parted ways. For while the countess was happy in her complacency in knowing her secret indulgence of collecting valuable baseball cards going smoothly, she was however oblivious to the fact that the combination of the card she had been gathering was part of a carefully laid out lot by Major League Baseball. But why you might ask—only MLB knows.
And as for the odd collections that the leader of the local Masonic Lodge, the secrets behind the material he had been hording may perhaps be too terrifying to even mention in the polite company of academia. The stakes were too great to be reveal if this transaction or any other were to fail. As so long as all parties involved remained in the dark to the true meanings of this prose, it is best left to say, “Let sleeping woodpeckers lie.”
Author’s Notes: For my creative piece, I went with Pynchon’s, “Entropy.” This work resonated with me pretty well. To be fair, I am taking ENGL-210 concurrently with this class, so I have been writing creatively non-stop for the past several months, so that may or may not be to my detriment for this part of the assignment. Considering my own background with the Masonic Lodge, my former commanding officer/roommate in the Coast Guard Reserves (who was a military historian, and the Assistant Deputy Director of the Cryptologic Museum at Fort Meade), and working in DC as a journalist, I had always been a fan of this genre.
One of my favorite books, The Illuminatus! Trilogy, written by Robert Anton Wilson, and Robert Shea, both of whom were fans themselves of Pynchon, and based much of their collaborative works in the same style, played dividends into my choice in authors. Truth be told, assigning this reading for my leadership discussion of all the works we had this semester, could not have been a better choice.
For conflict, crisis, and resolution, this is a bit more… hidden. Neither three of these are obvious to the characters themselves, but are like most masonic lodges, the Federal Government, and the illuminati, are occurring behind closed doors. All three elements are illustrated (not so clearly as with most events involving those in the shadows) of a great conspiracy. Or, perhaps the bit players do know, but just won’t allude to what they know, what the crisis is, where their conflicts lie, and the future to how their resolutions are formed by these meetings; the reader will never really know.
Hopefully, this piece is close enough with what was requested. It does combine several of his works, in his style as best as I can do it from memory, though I will admit, my own writer’s voice tends to override others. Hopefully, it’s not too long. I fear, there is no such thing as a short piece for me; or rather a short piece for me is often five to ten pages single spaced.
Now, you might ask what I was going for in this piece? That’s a very good question, but the last time I answered that question, two men in black suits showed up, and, man, they do not like being addressed with, “Oh no, not you assholes again? Now what did I do this time?” Government officials REALLY hate that!
Part III: Course Reflection
Dear Professor Jones:
To quote Beck, “In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey. Butane in my veins and I’m out to cut the junkie.” And, just like the first time I had heard “Loser” and was confused, the loser writing this letter felt often confused in a time of COVID-19 while transitioning from in-class to online education. Granted, the start of the semester with a five-credit remedial math class did nothing to make things any easier. For your patience in said matters, I thank you.
I will start this letter by stating what worked. I found the best aspects of this class were obviously the in-class meetings, the small group discussions, and the PowerPoint presentations. On the topic of assignments, I did find that the weekly journals were a lot easier to work with than the essays that were allocated during the first couple of weeks. With the amount of reading, and the shift to online, the reduction of the multi-media blog entries also reduced some of the complexity in the coursework. Assignments aside, I did wish to note that I appreciated the diversity in the selected authors and their works as well.
As for the things that have not worked, I would limit that to online, and narrow that down to the discussion boards. While, granted today, I grasp the concepts of “safe spaces”, or “not wishing to offend anyone”, I did not see a lot of value when we would create a thread, post our responses, and then every subsequent answer in the thread starts with, “I agree with_______.” There was little room for any form of discourse in fear of offense. Perhaps I am just old, but refraining from critical response out of overly concern for offense really does not yield conveying discerning opinions.
If there were any other points to make in the class, it would be that while the amount of diversity in the reading was plentiful, perhaps the ability to focus on one or two readings a week compared to four readings a week plus the poem feels a bit… heavy. It made each reading feel rushed. I do however appreciate the ability to read a greater variety of works, though having more time to focus and zero in more detailed nuances in fewer pieces, I feel would allow for a greater level of reverence of the works.
While I obviously enjoy Pynchon, I also have to admit that some of the other less-traditional texts such as “Maus” was also enjoyable. I am unsure at this early stage to say what impact they may have had on me as a writer (it took me nearly a decade to make such an assessment from the last go around in college), I should note that many of the readings were good, although, I was equally confused, or simply apathetic, as several of my journal entries had reflected.
A question in the prompt asked how I was a unique contributor to the class. To be quite frank, since returning to college, I had typically been the oldest student in the class and had the opportunity to bring forth prior educational and professional career experience to the classroom which was not the case this semester. It was actually nice for once not to be the sole non-traditional scholar and being able to share that status with John. This allowed me not to be the only student who had to give an older perspective to the class.
The final prompt is interesting as I am in college to work on an English Education degree to teach, so being questioned as to how I would teach the class differently is an interesting request that I am not sure how I would answer. The question itself has me thinking about my EDUC class, curriculums, and class construction modules. While, I realize that I am overthinking the question, this is an answer that is indecisively complicated to answer with the mid-semester shift to online. The shift to online is my single biggest complaint. While the younger generation may have less issues with the shift to online, as an older non-traditional student, this made things more complicated.
I apologies as this letter is running a tad long. It was a pleasure to have you as my professor this semester during troubled times.
With regards,
Aaron J. Heiner
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