An investigation into the symbolic systems that surround Love, the calcified expectations and traditions and dialectics that were established long before we all arrive here.
But traipsing through Bleeding Edge, Pynchon’s latest novel, one notices that we only brush by the ragged blind energy of Pynchon’s early work. Gone are Tom’s four-day lease-breaking parties that end in drug-laced epiphanies, drunken Navymen howling for hoorhouses, meditations on heat-death… Now his protagonists would rather skip the whole orgy thing, order take-out, and put on an old Bette Davis movie.
If Bob Saget, whose got a disgusting mind, could think of something really terrible, it’s probably been done on an operatic stage in Germany.
By the way, I’m married and my husband sucks ass. And my best friends were all gay and he made me get rid of ’em. And I hate my life.