Pynchon Has Firecrackers








Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777 flight crash site




After declaring Mary Ann Tharaldsen a Apocalyptic Artist, I go further and suggest the excavation of her lost artwork would bring on Armageddon. Was I right?

After getting stoned with Thomas Pynchon, Pynchon pulled firecrackers out of his pocket and asked if there was somewhere he could shoot them off. Today, thousands who took LSD in the 60s, did so believing our collective minds could stop the genocide in Vietnam and bring about World Peace. When evangelicals failed to elect Sarah Palin with the help of their collective PRAYERS, they reinvented themselves as Revolutionary Soldiers, who armed with the God-given Constitution, would RUIN the choice of the Democrats for President.

Very few see the target here, being, the Christniks must negate the power of secular choice that empowers the idea of Free Will. All things must be ORDAINED. This includes The End Time, that must occur, or they are rendered False Prophets. Mary Ann is a secular prophet, the answer to Sarah Palin.

Why does Pynchon keep firecrackers in his pocket?


In the video I found on the internet, M mentions she did a sculpture. In back of her along the wall, are fresh two by fours lined up like extras on a movie set, or, balletrinas waiting to dance on stage. These boards are Mary Ann’s props that are in a state of suspended animation. Something is going to happen with this lumber. In front of the lumber is M’s LOST ARTWORK that I have never seen! She never told me she was an APOCALYPTIC ARTIST. I have never beheld such chaos, such destruction, such madness and despair. Here is M’s Black Swan Song unveiled at last. But, is it too late? Did the world end as she knew it, a long time ago?

I have never seen these damaged works of art, never knew they existed. What they reveal to me, is, this artist tried to SAVE THE WORLD with HER art. The key word here is “her”, because, women are not allowed to try and save the world. The question here, is, does Mary Ann employ a secular philosophy to do this thing, or, has she borrowed from the church? I knew her as an atheist, but she could be a secret Christian Appologist.

On one of M’s paintings she wrote these words “NO PEACE”. America must rid itself of the idea there must be TOTAL WAR, before there can be peace. Appocolyptic writing came about when Judaic apologists could no longer employ a jumble of chaotic words, allegedly from God, to explain why there is such a thing as HUMAN HISTORY that was growing ever more indifferent to God. Mary Ann’s greatest sin, is, she is a very intelligent, and highly educated, Humanist. Many men want to see her fail.

The person that has helped M get her work back in the light, understands this is a historic event, but, she and M can’t quite put their finger on it. In this still-pic these two women pose like bookends and wave their hands over the dead who reach up to them.
“Save us!”

Tom was lanky and unathletic, with protruding teeth that embarrassed him. He stuttered, too, and felt a kinship with Porky Pig. But that same friend ascribes some of ­Pynchon’s “social behavior issues” to his “very dysfunctional family”—without elaborating. Pynchon himself almost never talked about his parents, especially in his earlier years. But one afternoon in the mid-sixties, he and his then-girlfriend, Mary Ann Tharaldsen, were driving through Big Sur when she complained of nausea. She wanted to stop at a bar and have a shot to settle her stomach. According to Tharaldsen, he exploded, telling her he would not tolerate midday drinking. When she asked why, he told her he’d seen his mother, after drinking,  accidentally puncture his father’s eye with a clothespin. It was the only time, says Tharaldsen, who lived with him, that he ever mentioned his family. “He was disconnected from them,” she says. “There seems to have been something not good there.”

Now? A speculative rendering of the novelist today.

Engineering physics, the hardest program at Cornell, was meant to supply Cold War America with its elites—the best and the brightest, junior league. One professor called its students “intellectual supermen”; Pynchon’s old friend David ­Shetzline remembers them as “the slide-rule boys.” But after less than two years in the major, Pynchon left Cornell in order to enlist in another Cold War operation, the Navy. He once wrote that ­calculus was “the only class I ever failed,” but he’s always used self-deprecation to deflect inquiries, and professors ­remembered universally good grades. Tharaldsen says she saw Pynchon’s IQ score, somewhere in the 190s. So why would he leave? He wrote much later about feeling in college “a sense of that other world humming out there”—a sense that would surely nag him from one city to another for the rest of his life. He was also in thrall to Thomas Wolfe and Lord Byron. Most likely he wanted to follow their examples, to experience adventure at ground level and not from the command centers.

“I thought he was a little weird,” says Pynchon’s Cornell friend Kirkpatrick Sale. “He stayed by himself most of the time.” But the goateed introvert came out for a beer once in a while, and noodled around on a guitar. He and Sale began writing an operetta, called “Minstrel Island,” about a land to which artists escaped from a square America ruled by IBM. “That gray-flannel-suit world was very much our future,” Sale says, “and we wanted of course to avoid it.” The goofy, unfinished musical was a precursor to Pynchon’s grand project—charting the fantasies and fears of individuals fleeing an all-consuming machine (Republican, electronic, whatever). Like Pynchon, these figures generally begin as straight arrows—Slothrop the military Wasp; The Crying of Lot 49’s Oedipa Maas coming home from a Tupperware party—insiders forced out by awful visions they never asked to see.

Jules Siegel, in a 1977 Playboy

His alienation had begun to coalesce into a worldview. Pynchon had written to the Sales that Seattle “is a nightmare. If there were no people in it it would be beautiful.” In his next letter, he complained that a group of “ten more or less individuals” at Boeing, “assembled in a conference room … turned into something else: The Magazine.” His letters, like his books, brim with the tension between individuals and groups, between intense curiosity and hopeless disillusionment. For much of his life he would flee crowds and cities, dipping a toe into cultures and communities and then leaving and skewering them in turn. (Friends describe him, in person as on the page, as an incomparable mimic.) Only rarely do we see him ask himself why—as when the Sales, later, pressed him on whether he hated Mexico, too. “What I hate is inside, not outside,” he wrote back, “a kind of deathwish I never knew I had.

In his few public pronouncements, Pynchon has reacted to the term recluse with either defiant denial (“ ‘Recluse’ is a code word generated by journalists … meaning, doesn’t like to talk to reporters,” he told CNN) or self-mockery (“Get your picture taken with a reclusive author!” he yelled to passing traffic on The ­Simpsons). He did experiment with the condition in Mexico, but he wasn’t cut out for the Salinger school of reclusion; he was too restless for that. A “dedicated sucker” for fictional chase scenes, he seemed to need them in real life, too, whether he was the pursuer or the pursued.

Pynchon was nominated for a National Book Award, won a Faulkner First Novel prize, and was hounded by the press. In a letter to the Sales, he recounted his escape from two Time/Life reporters in Mexico City with a mix of pain and exhilaration. He happened to be out; his landlady told them “she didn’t know nothing, and go away”; he hid out in a motel over the weekend; later he retrieved his stuff and fled for Guanajuato. He suspected that “Lippinfink” was responsible. “So like please, please,” he concluded, “help me stay under cover.”
What finally smoked him out was Richard Fariña’s wedding to Mimi Baez, sister of the famous folk singer. In August, Pynchon took a bus up the California coast to serve as his friend’s best man. Remembering the visit soon after, Fariña portrayed Pynchon with his head buried in Scientific American before eventually “coming to life with the tacos.” Pynchon later wrote to Mimi that Fariña teased him about his “anti-photograph Thing … what’s the matter, you afraid people are going to stick pins; pour aqua regia? So how could I tell him yeah, yeah right, you got it.”
After Fariña’s wedding, Pynchon went up to Berkeley, where he met up with Tharaldsen and Seidler. For years, Pynchon trackers have wondered about Tharaldsen, listed as married to Pynchon in a 1966–67 alumni directory. The real story is not of a secret marriage but a distressing divorce—hers from Seidler. Pynchon and Tharaldsen quickly fell in love, and when Pynchon went back to Mexico City shortly after John F. Kennedy was assassinated, Tharaldsen soon followed.
In Mexico, Tharaldsen says, Pynchon wrote all night, slept all day, and kept mostly to himself. When he didn’t write, he read—mainly Latin American writers like Jorge Luis Borges, a big influence on his second novel, The Crying of Lot 49. (He also translated Julio Cortázar’s short story “Axolotl.”) His odd writing habits persisted throughout his life; later, when he was in the throes of a chapter, he’d live off junk food (and sometimes pot). He’d cover the windows with black sheets, never answer the door, and avoid anything that smelled of obligation. He often worked on multiple books at once—three or four in the mid-sixties—and a friend remembers him bringing up the subject of 1997’s Mason & Dixon in 1970.
Tharaldsen grew bored of the routine. Soon they moved to Houston, then to Manhattan Beach. Tharaldsen, a painter, did a portrait of Pynchon with a pig on his shoulder, referencing a pig figurine he’d always carry in his pocket, talking to it on the street or at the movies. (He still identified closely with the animals, collecting swine paraphernalia and even signing a note to friends with a drawing of a pig.) Once Tharaldsen painted a man with massive teeth devouring a burger, which she titled Bottomless, Unfillable Nothingness. Pynchon thought it was him, and hated it. Tharaldsen insists it wasn’t, but their friend Mary Beal isn’t so sure. “I know she regarded him as devouring people. I think in the sense that he—well, I shouldn’t say this, because all writers do it. Writers use people.”
Tharaldsen hated L.A., and decided to go back to school in Berkeley. “I thought they were unserious sort of beach people—lazy bums! But Tom didn’t care because he was inside all day and writing all night.” At the moment, eager to break with his publisher, Lippincott (and rejoin Cork Smith, since departed to Viking), he saw Lot 49 as a quickie “potboiler” meant to break his option with the house—forcing them to either reject it, liberating him, or pay him $10,000. They paid him, defying his own low opinion of it. In his introduction to Slow Learner, a later collection of his early stories, he’d write that with Lot 49, “I seem to have forgotten most of what I thought I’d learned up till then.” Now it’s required reading in college courses, a gateway drug to the serious stuff. Which, of course, was his next book: Gravity’s Rainbow.
On the day Fariña’s Been Down So Long  was published, the debut author went for a ride on the back of a motorcycle, crashed, and was killed. Pynchon, devastated, wrote to Mimi that Fariña had made him “more open to myself, to experience.” But in the wake of his friend’s death, he seemed only more determined to live purely for himself. By one account, he tried pot more seriously in Berkeley around 1965; it seems this time it took. Later in life, he was known to keep a simple sign up above his desk:

ESCHEW SLOTH. Gravity’s Rainbow is evidence of his success, but in Manhattan Beach, sloth was never further than the surf two blocks from his one-bedroom apartment, or the next delivery of Panama Red, a potent brand of weed smuggled in by a paratrooper with PTSD.
The poet Bill Pearlman, who knew him in those days, once wrote that he “got the impression Pynchon wanted no part of the middle-class adult world”—that he “got more pleasure and information from the young, and was in some ways childlike himself.” There grew around Pynchon, by the beach, something that looks from the distance of years like a cult—a cult of privacy, at least, which paradoxically helped cement the legend of Tom the Recluse. “He was surrounded by a group of people that protected him fiercely,” says Jim Hall, a peripheral member, “and you either were accepted on some level or you were not.”
With his straggly hair and mustache and Army-surplus clothes, the writer who’d once resembled William Faulkner now looked more like Frank Zappa. For a while he took in a girlfriend, the young daughter of Phyllis Coates, TV’s original Lois Lane, and looked after her son, Ethan. “They huddled up in that little dump he lived in,” Coates remembers. “Tom was very good to Ethan.” There was lots of what was once called getting together and is now called hooking up. Among the women was Chrissie Jolly, the wife of Jules Siegel, which is why his Playboy exposé was titled “Who Is Thomas Pynchon … and Why Did He Take Off With My Wife?”
Siegel and Jolly wrote a short book about Pynchon, in which Jolly said he “could slip into any character he wanted. He was really crafty, methodical.” For good measure, she added, “He broke up more than one marriage, because he was too shy to find someone on his own.” Harsh as that may sound, Tharaldsen ­seconds it: “That seems to be his modus operandi,” she says. “He was very withdrawn, and the one way he could make connections with women would be through his friends … It’s a pattern.”

Pynchon might have been in the city at the time. From Manhattan Beach he’d followed friends up to pot-saturated Eureka, then crashed in New York. In a letter that winter to the Shetzlines, he vented his disenchantment with a city whose bohemian heyday was over. At the Village Gate, there was to be an “Impeachment Rally” against Nixon. “Why didn’t they have one in ’68?” he asked. He railed against the “third rate heads” of New York, the “dirty, desolate heart” of a declining empire, and the righteous proto-yuppie liberals better known as the “urban assholery.” He couldn’t “dig to live a ‘literary’ life no more.” He and a girlfriend might move “across the sea,” or maybe head back West. “Yes, it does sound like ‘aimless drifting,’ doesn’t it?”
In context, Pynchon’s cri de coeur wasn’t that of a radical but of an artist straddling a deep fissure in American life. His sixties friends had retreated into the California woods, the subject-to-be of a novel, Vineland, that he wouldn’t get it together to finish for seventeen years. His literary peers were assimilated into the “assholery” he disdained. A key word in Gravity’s Rainbow is preterite, which literally means bygone, but in Pynchon takes on the meaning of outside, oppressed, non-elite. And who was he?
“I think he withdrew and went to ground,” says Shetzline. “Had a kind of sit-down about where he stood with American cultural confusion. The middle was hard ground to hold … There was no going home.” Pynchon spoke of “riding the ’Hound”: taking a bus from town to town and always sitting in the back, watching the world with a thermos of coffee growing cold in his hand.
Occasionally he came out to visit the Shetzlines in rural Oregon. “I remember Pynchon on the horse I had,” Shetzline says. “He looked like Don Quixote.” Shetz­line’s ex-wife Mary Beal says he mostly stayed up late and watched TV. (Kirk Sale remembers his houseguest arguing with his kids over which cartoons to watch.) After crashing in their daughter’s room, Pynchon gave Beal an odd compliment: “People put me up in their kids’ rooms all the time, and hers is the first bed that doesn’t smell of urine.” The Shetzlines were part of an underground railroad for an author on the run. “He was just Mr. Mysterious,” she says.
Once, at a party out in the woods, a man they knew “outed Tom as a famous writer,” Beal recalls. “And of course nobody in the area reads literary novels—just a bunch of country folk … It mortified Tom to the point where he left the following day.” What could have been so mortifying? Beal thinks it had more to do with being unknown to a room full of people than it did with the one guy who was hounding him.
A Pynchon tracker has found at least one actual “hidey-hole” of his, as Shetzline calls it. Between 1976 and 1977, he spent more than a year in a neat but tiny redwood cabin in Trinidad, California, separated by 300 feet of trees from the lush, rocky shore of the Pacific. It’s deep in Humboldt County, the hippie paradise at the center of Vineland.
But that book wasn’t one of the two he was contracted by Viking to write. Those were Mason & Dixon, about the surveyors, and a never-written novel about an insurance adjuster flown in to Japan to assess the damage done by Godzilla. Viking had granted him a $1 million advance, beginning with $50,000 a year for three years. In his first experiment with reclusion, Pynchon had made do on $1,000 in Mexico; now he was living on a doctor’s salary in a glorified lean-to, years out from a finished book. Having eluded the media and the narcs but not his own paranoia, Pynchon had succeeded in eschewing the machine; now what about sloth?

Pynchon eased himself gradually, like a scuba diver, back to the surface of mainstream life. He spent a couple more years researching in California, but by the summer of 1988, when he won a $310,000 MacArthur “Genius” grant, he was reached through Jackson in New York (though the MacArthur Foundation had him listed as living in Boston at the time). Vineland came out two years later. A surprisingly accessible, loose, and goofy work about the last refuge of the left in the age of Reagan, it disappointed readers weaned on Pynchon’s dazzling complexity. David Foster Wallace was among the disenchanted. He wrote to Jonathan Franzen that Vineland was “heartbreakingly inferior” and that “I get the strong sense he’s spent twenty years smoking pot and watching TV.” He wasn’t terribly far off, but he missed something, too. His fallen hero had already transformed again, and thrown in his lot—if not exactly with the Reaganites, then certainly not with the shaggy pot-growers of Humboldt County.
Pynchon and Jackson married in 1990 and had a son—first name Jackson—a year later. Pynchon told friends he was seeing a lot more of his parents. His next novel, Mason & Dixon, had far more heft and wild invention than Vineland but sped along more briskly and powerfully than Gravity’s Rainbow. Embedded in it, too, was a far more sophisticated treatment of his American roots—the Pynchons were a long line of surveyors—than his portrait of the decrepit Slothrops. After that came Against the Day, a big and messy novelistic attack on capitalism, written by an author increasingly at peace with its comforts.
The onetime inhabitant of fleabag motels rented an apartment with his family on a major intersection of the Yupper West Side and went cautiously semi-­public. Pynchon had already begun writing for the New York Times: an essay in defense of Luddites; a review of Love in the Time of Cholera; a piece on his favorite deadly sin, sloth. Whereas in the past he’d mostly communicated with peers by letter or phone—calling Harlan Ellison “from time to time,” once to badger him to stop paying income taxes, but never giving the author his number—he now sat down for actual meals with Don DeLillo, Salman Rushdie, and Ian McEwan. When the struggling sitcom The John ­Larroquette Show floated a Pynchon story line, he agreed, so long as it didn’t portray his face and clad his fictional avatar in a Roky Erickson T-shirt. A decade later, he consented to appear on The Simpsons—mainly, he said, because his son was a fan. Showrunner Al Jean remembers a casual, mustachioed figure, son and wife in tow. They discussed private schools and kitchen renovations. Pynchon politely declined a photo-op: “I don’t usually take pictures.” He appeared twice during the show’s run, wearing a paper bag. The first time he didn’t alter a word, but for his ­second cameo he threw in a bonus pun: “The Frying of Latke 49.”

The last thing we should get straight about Thomas Pynchon is that, “classicism” aside, all of his books are in some way autobiographical. Inherent Vice, for instance, starring a perma-stoned “gum-sandal” detective, owed a lot to the characters Pynchon knew in Manhattan Beach. Maybe it speaks to his special fondness for the book—or just the bucket-list dreams of a movie-mad author—that it’s soon to become his first novel adapted for the screen. It’s currently being directed in L.A. by the “imperial” auteur Paul Thomas Anderson, with Joaquin Phoenix in the lead.

Rake’s Progress links to a Pynchon mailing list post featuring Jules Siegel’s old Playboy article, “Who is Thomas Pynchon… And Why Did He Take Off With My Wife?: Shedding a little light on the most famous author-recluse since J. D. Salinger.” (Be sure to read the second page, too.)
Among other things, Siegel claims that Pynchon had a penchant for pot and hash and that he said while rewriting Gravity’s Rainbow, “‘I was so fucked up while I was writing it …. that now I go back over some of those sequences and I can’t figure out what I could have meant.’” He also reports that his wife said, after her affair with Pynchon, that he “was a wonderful lover, sensitive and quick,” but “somewhat unworldly and bookish, easily astonished by her boldness.”

In his March 1977 Playboy article, “Who Is Thomas Pynchon…And Why Did He Take Off With My Wife?”, Jules Siegel claims that in 1966 he visited Pynchon in his one-room apartment in Manhattan Beach, California, while on assignment to do an article on Bob Dylan for The Saturday Evening Post, to wit:
“I told him [TRP] about the Dylan assignment. ‘You ought to do one on The Beach Boys,’ he said. I pretended to ignore that. A year or so later, I was in Los Angeles again, doing a story for the Post on The Beach Boys [ultimately published by Cheetah magazine]. He had forgotten his earlier remark and was no longer interested in them. I took him to my apartment in Laurel Canyon, got him royally loaded and made him lie down on the floor with a speaker at each ear while I played Pet Sounds, their most interesting and least popular record. It was not then fashionable to take The Beach Boys seriously.
“‘Ohhhhh,” he sighed softly with stunned pleasure after the record was done. ‘Now I understand why you are writing a story about them.'”
Tom Hangs with Brian

Brian Wilson, 1966
According to the 2006 bio of Brian Wilson, Catch A Wave: The Rise, Fall and Redemption of the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson (Peter Ames Carlin, Rodale, 2006), Jules Siegel and Pynchon paid a visit to Brian in Beverly Hills:
When Siegel brought his friend Thomas Pynchon up to the house one night, the famous hipster novelist sat in stunned, unhappy silence while the nervous, stoned pop star — who had dragged him into his then-new Arabian tent to get high — kept kicking over the oil lamp he was trying to light. “Brian was kind of afraid of Pynchon, because he’d heard he was an Eastern intellectual establishment genius,” Siegel recalls. “And Pynchon wasn’t very articulate. He was gonna sit there and let you talk while he listened. So neither of them really said a word all night long. It was one of the strangest scenes I’d ever seen in my life.” (p.103-104).
See also Smoking Dope with Thomas Pynchon
Smoking Dope with Thomas Pynchon

A Sixties Memoir
by Andrew Gordon

Andrew Gordon, PhD
[This article appeared in The Vineland Papers: Critical Takes on Pynchon’s Novel [1]]
This is a story about the sixties: it’s about me and some friends of mine, it’s about Berkeley, and it’s about Pynchon. It’s about a decade in which we were all young together and thought we would stay young forever. Berkeley was our Vineland, a dream of a perfect new world. The time was ripe, America was ours, and we were going to change the world: Paradise Now or Apocalypse Now.
Neither one happened. As the decades pass, is anything left of that refuge, that Vineland, apart from memory and isolated dreams? Where are the sixties now? Where are we? And where is Thomas Pynchon?

She said she had met him in Berkeley in 1965 and that they stayed in touch. She asked if I minded if she sent Pynchon my paper. I gave her a copy, suspecting that it would vanish into a black hole.
Several months later, she mentioned that “Tom” had read my paper and liked it, thought it a lot more perceptive than the reviewers’ comments. I thanked her but still wondered what kind of game she was playing.
From time to time, she dropped convincing sounding details about Pynchon. She said he picked his friends carefully and that they guarded his privacy. She said he had written a second novel in haste and for money and that he was not too proud of it; that would be the just-published The Crying of Lot 49. She claimed he had people help him with research and that he was working on an endless novel in which all of his friends would appear, including her. Is Gravity’s Rainbow a roman a clef? If there is ever a biography of Pynchon, someone should investigate that angle. I once combed through Gravity, searching for the character who is supposed to be her; there are just too many, and I couldn’t be sure.
In fact, she reminded me most of Rachel Owlglass in V: she was a bright, lovely Jewish woman who liked to mother people. I was half in love with her but I was also friends with the guy she was living with. They later married and divorced; she claims he’s in Gravity’s Rainbow too.

One night in early June of 1967, my Pynchon connection phoned me at my apartment on Shattuck Avenue. Pynchon was in town, staying with her and her boyfriend. He’d been living in L.A., flown up to Seattle to visit friends from Boeing, and on his way back to L.A. had stopped off for a day in Berkeley. She said, “Tom wants to meet you.”
This was like a command audience with the Pope. I kick-started my motorcycle and, I think, made it across town to her place near San Pablo Avenue before she had time to put down the phone.
Many years later, I ran into her at a literature conference and she revealed some unexpected details about herself and Pynchon. They weren’t just friends; they had been lovers and lived together in Berkeley for a while in 1965. She described him as being then a “prematurely middleaged” young man with “a lot of hang-ups.” She claimed she was the first to turn him on to dope. They broke up because of the “hang-ups,” but they remained friends and corresponded. From time to time, he would reappear suddenly and unexpectedly in her life — the last time at her wedding, with a wedding present of a kilo of Michoacan (a superior brand of Mexican killer weed).
That night in June of 1967 she made it clear on the phone that I was not to ask Pynchon about his work: past, present, or future. Just what did that leave me to talk about with him, I wondered as I drove across town, burning with anticipation. Yet I still had the nagging feeling that, like Oedipa Maas, I might be the victim of an elaborate hoax, that there would be no Pynchon at her apartment, just an imposter — or perhaps a locked door with a mail slot marked with the sign of a muted posthorn.

Part IV: A Screaming Comes Across the Sky
She had a tiny, one-bedroom house, living room separated from bedroom by a bead curtain. As I entered, the room was flooded with a pungent aroma and enough smoke to induce an immediate contact high; I coughed. A long, lanky young man was methodically rolling joints on the table; his stash box was a One-a-Day Brand Multivitamin pill bottle. He carefully finished rolling and extended the bomber to me, saying, “Hey, man, would you like a joint?” (This was Berkeley 1967; people really talked that way back then.) I took a toke gladly; it was obvious by the fog in the room that they were way ahead of me.
This man, who was introduced to me as Thomas Pynchon, appeared to be in his late twenties. I’m six foot one, but he was taller than me, about six two or three. He wore a corduroy shirt and corduroy pants, both green, and a pair of those brown, ankle-high suede shoes known as desert boots. He was lean, almost emaciated, and his eyes were wasted. His hair was thick and brown and he had a ragged, reddish-brown soupstrainer mustache; I wondered if he had grown it to hide his teeth, which were crooked and slightly protruding.
Pynchon was evidently a man of few words. I wanted very much to talk with him, to sound him out, at least to get him to laugh, but as we sat on the floor and passed around buzz bombers and grew progressively more zonked, he didn’t say much, just listened intently as our hostess and host and I talked. The conversation was disjointed, grass talk consisting of little bits and revelations (Leslie Fiedler had just been busted for possession of marijuana) and silly stoned jokes, like the one about the woman who traded in her menstrual cycle for a Yamaha. I thought of Pynchon as a Van der Graaf machine, one of those generators that keeps building static electricity until a lightning bolt zaps between the terminals.
All of a sudden, he pulled out of his pocket a string of firecrackers and asked, “Where can we set these off?”
“Why don’t we blow up the statue of Queen Victoria?” I replied.
“O wow, man, have you read that book?” Pynchon said. He’d caught my allusion to Leonard Cohen’s novel, Beautiful Losers, recently released in paperback. Cohen’s hero actually does blow up a statue of Victoria, a typically sixties symbolic gesture. I was pleased to finally get a response from Pynchon, yet I still felt like the overeager grad student trying too hard to impress the Prof.
There were no Victorian monuments to explode in Berkeley, so we drove instead to the Marina and set off the fireworks by the Bay. We walked by the water, past junkpiles, setting off cherry bombs and running like hell. A midnight ritual: four heavily stoned people hearing the snap, crackle, and pop, watching the dazzle against the black mud and the midnight waters. At that moment, halfway around the world in Vietnam, equally stoned soldiers were probably admiring in the same way the rocket’s red glare.
Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, everyone had the hungry munchies and I suggested an all-night burger palace on University Avenue, probably the only restaurant open at that hour. It was a huge fluorescent Burgertown. As we sat at formica-topped tables and ate greasy sleazeburgers, Pynchon slouched in the booth, long thin legs in green Levi’s sprawled out, pensively biting his nails. Then he ripped a styrofoam coffee cup into tiny, meticulous shreds. He had dissipated, tired eyes like Robert Mitchum’s.
The place featured a colorful old baroque Wurlitzer jukebox. We fed the machine streams of quarters: the Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields” and Country Joe’s “Sweet Lorraine.” Pynchon chose Procul Harum’s “Whiter Shade of Pale” and the Stones’ “Ruby Tuesday,” which remain for me associated with that night.
In Vineland, after D.L. rescues Frenesi from the Berkeley streetfighting, They sat devouring cheeseburgers, fries, and shakes in a waterfront place full of refugees from the fighting up the hill, all their eyes, including ones that had wept, now lighted from the inside — was it only the overhead fluorescents, some trick of sun and water outside? no . . . too many of these fevered lamps not to have origin across the line somewhere, in a world sprung new, not even defined yet, worth the loss of nearly everything in this one. The jukebox played the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe and the Fish. . . . Revolution all around them, world-class burgers, jukebox solidarity. . . .(117).
D.L. and Frenesi’s “jukebox solidarity” doesn’t last. And that night in 1967 I made the mistake of introducing Pynchon to an acquaintance of mine who happened to be in the restaurant, the manager of a local rock band; they became engrossed in a technical conversation about music, and I was lost.
The last thing I recall is sitting with Pynchon in the open back of a red pickup truck, freezing, as we rocketed up into the Berkeley hills. The fog slid in like satin, so thick the water dripped on me. Suddenly, out of a cloud, San Francisco materialized below us. It was dawn.
Later that morning Pynchon caught a plane back to L.A. I never saw him again.

Most of all, I learned that the sixties profoundly affected Pynchon, or at least I like to believe that they moved him the way they moved me. According to his classmate Jules Siegel, at Cornell in the fifties, “Tom Pynchon was quiet and neat and did his homework faithfully. He went to Mass and confessed, though to what would be a mystery. He got $25 a week spending money and managed it perfectly, did not cut class and always got grades in the high 90s. His only disappointment was not to have been pledged to a fraternity. . . .” This well-behaved Pynchon was a member of the Silent Generation that went to college in the 50s, a generation taught to act prematurely middle-aged. In the late 1960s, the critic Theodore Solotaroff looked back on the repressed behavior of his generation in the 1950s:

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“Why did you take my wife?”



Jules Siegel 2

Jules Siegel entertains a theory about “The urge to confess” which is the core of my unfinished novel ‘The Gideon Computer’. He suggests Timothy Leary might have been CIA.

The last Hippie is captured when upon beholding the Gideon Computer by his bed in his favorite flop-house hotel – instead of the Gideon Bible – he could not resist the come-on he read;

“Talk to me Pilgrim.”

Come dawn, after he has written ‘The Gideon Computer’ he is arrested after confessing he killed a man in Utah that had given him a ride while hitchhiking.

As I write, it occurs to me I might have sublimaly borrowed Vonnegut’s Billy Pilgrim. My hero’s name is Berkeley Bill Bolagard.

Jules Siegel wrote “Who is Thomas Pynchon . . . and why did he take off with my Wife?” for Playboy. (March 1977) Jules says his wife did not take off, this title suggested by Playboy that took off when it published pin-ups of Marilyn Monroe who Tom mentions. As a writer, Jules fails to grasp the truth WRITERS are the CONFESSORS. So is my ex-wife, Mary Ann Tharaldsen who tells a writer her ancient secrets about Pynchon. This bids me, and Mary Ann’s other ex-husband to ask;

“Why did you take my wife to Mexico and blow her mind? You ruined her for me.”

Jules made the mistake of showing his wife Tom’s letters, that she understood were addressed to the subconscious libido most folks were forced to share with Marilyn Monroe, including the President of the United States, and his brother.

How many wives has Tom slept with? Is he the proverbial ‘Back-door Man’? Is this why he keeps his mouth shut lest he get on a roll?

Jon Presco

He had decided long ago that no Situation had any objective reality: it only existed in the minds of those who happened to be in on it at any specific moment. Since these several minds tended to form a sum total or complex more mongrel than homogeneous, The Situation must necessarily appear to a single observer much like a diagram in four dimensions to an eye conditioned to seeing the world in only three. Hence the success or failure of any diplomatic issue must vary directly with the degree of rapport achieved by the team confronting it. This had led to the near obsession with teamwork which had inspired his colleagues to dub him Soft-show Sydney, on the assumption that he was at his best working in front of a chorus line.

But it was a neat theory, and he was in love with it.The only consolation he drew from the present chaos was that his theory managed to explain it.

Jules Siegel writes to Wikipedia

I moved this part of the article, edited in by Jules Siegel to this talk page:
Siegel has denied that the article constitutes some form of “revenge” on his part.Siegel comments, “Some corrections: I never said that the dental work was to improve his appearance. The issue of “revenge” is ridiculous and more than a little insulting. In the first place, there was no reason for it, as I got the girl. Chrissie never ran off with him. That was just a stupid title that Playboy thought would appeal to the masses. They had a brief (although very intense) affair, not uncommon at the time (or any time, human nature being what it is). She and I got over it very quickly and we had a child together and lived together for another six years. We broke up for reasons that had nothing to do with him. More importantly, as I said in the article (which is really very affectionate, and not at all hostile), Chrissie and I were firm believers in one of the most hallowed ethical concepts of our time: people are not property. My previous comments about this were removed by someone. If these are now removed I will make a complaint to the moderators and ask that the article be locked. Is that clear?”

I noticed you are a contributor here now Mr. Siegel, thanks for joining in, we dig your stay. Please create an account for yourself too so we know when you’re editing us. I took out the fact you pointed out as incorrect, that’s the way we commonly do it here. The non-issue regarding your article in Playboy is better off here at the talk page, since Wikipedia strives to contain only valid and verified facts, not discussions of said facts as such, that is what the talk page is indeed for.

Thanks for popping in and hope you will keep editing us, please add in more things to this and other articles where you have superior information on Tom. Nixdorf 20:50, August 28, 2005 (UTC)

“Chrissie and I were firm believers in one of the most hallowed ethical concepts of our time: people are not property.” Hey, Jules, I just wanted to thank your generation for finally repudiating slavery! Heh, thankfully it was repudiated long before his generation. But he didn’t mean slavery per se, as is clear from the context. :) Zafiroblue05 03:12, 21 December 2005 (UTC) I recognize that quite well, but to me it’s a little tiring how people of “their” generation seem to have a self-righteous attitude about the world. I find it snobbish and rife with opportunity for sarcasm and satire. Hmmm, I know what you mean. But then again, I find that a lot of people are snobbish and self-righteous. The “greatest generation,” for example… *shrug* Zafiroblue05 21:09, 22

When Marilyn Monroe got out of the game, I wrote something like, “Southern California’s special horror notwithstanding, if the world offered nothing, nowhere to support or make bearable whatever her private grief was, then it is that world, and not she, that is at fault.”
I wrote that in the first few shook-up minutes after hearing the bulletin sandwiched in between Don and Phil Everly and surrounded by all manner of whoops and whistles coming out of an audio signal generator, like you are apt to hear on the provincial radio these days. But I don’t think I’d take those words back.

The world is at fault, not because it is inherently good or bad or anything but what it is, but because it doesn’t prepare us in anything but body to get along with.

Our souls it leaves to whatever obsolescences, bigotries, theories of education workable and un, parental wisdom or lack of it, happen to get in its more or less Brownian (your phrase) pilgrimage between the cord-cutting ceremony and the time they slide you down the chute into the oven, while the guy on the Wurlitzer plays Aba Daba Honeymoon because you had once told somebody it was the nadir of all American expression; only they didn’t know what nadir meant but it must be good because of the vehemence with which you expressed yourself. Letter to Jules Siegel, published in Cavalier magazine (August 1965); republished in “Pynchon notes 15″ and “”The World is at Fault” at
December 2005 (UTC)

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Marilyn and Belle






Rosamonds 1944 Aug Lilian

Night before last, Chris Wandel asked me how Belle and I were doing. I felt she was asking for her boyfriend, Stefan Eins, as well.

The day I met Belle in Ken Kesey Square, Marilyn called that evening.

“I fell in love today with a younger version of you” I told the love of my life who is my dear friend this very day. “Not that you look just alike, but she has your ambience. She was wearing black leotards. There was something about her, a Bohemian flare. She even has your mole. What side of your neck was your mole on? I forgot.”

“I had it removed seven years ago because it was cancerous.”

Marilyn and Chris understand me, my relationship with women and my muse. This is why I have known these beautiful Bohemian women for a hundred years. They are amused, and saddened by the vicious attack, the attempt to control my information.

“But this is how the best Bohemian stories go. There has to be a Gypsy girl, a female Robin Hood, a Master Thief who delights in capturing the jewels of the gentry, the upper crust, because, nothing is sacred in the world but the Gypsy Oath.”

“I understand.” Marilyn said. Then we talked about the statuette of the young girl and her cat that M’s mother gave her, that she did not want, nor her daughter. So I took her in, this symbol of our lost innocence, lost when Marie made us going to three Billy Graham Crusades at the LA Coliseum, and when I did not “go down” and get saved for having ‘Teen Sex Thoughts’ I knew we were doomed, especially after Marie found the ‘The Last Temptation of Jesus Christ’ under her daughter’s mattress where we fell asleep in each other’s arms after I rose quietly from my blankets put on the floor, I allowed to stay the night as long as I went to church in the morning.

You see, Marie used her beautiful (and sexy) daughter to tempt me, have me be ‘with sin’ because I was raised Catholic, and was a child of Satan in her eyes. If only she could save me, then she would be guaranteed a place in heaven, for she was sleeping next door with a married man.

And so I got threats from a shrill shrew, the Queen of the Street Banchees who falsely accused me of stalking Beautiful Belle, with lust in my heart. And I dare not go downtown. And, so it goes! Once again I was…..used.

“Stay away from Belle, if you know what’s good for you: if you want to live!”

Last week I saw that Belle and my aunt Lillian look alike. Lil and my uncle invited M and I to a family get together at the beach. We went shopping for a bikini. M was fifteen when Lil met her for the first time. There was jealousy. Marilyn and I were desperate to learn how to deal with the destructive jealousy from those close to us. No one was on our side. Not even Billy Graham. It was a set-up!

I had it all. Belle was going to pose for me. She would have gone to New York with me, or, the Ends of the Earth. But, there came this Temptation after I read her poem wherein it appear she was using money meant for the poor and homeless, to go party with. I was bid to say something. I looked at what that was and how it would take everything from me, especially the beautiful ending of my book.

“Just keep your mouth shut, Jon Gregory. Don’t say anything, or you’ll ruin everything.”

Thus spoke the dark editor within that bid me to come live on the surface of life, and pretend. And while she sit next to my empty canvas, and as I pick up my first brush, I will do my best to ignore what I read, and what I could not help but conclude. When I beheld this Latest Temptation, I wrote………

“You better not be using the homeless, for I will oppose you and found my own program to help them.”


Jon Presco

Copyright 2014

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Mary Ann’s Peyote Dance

Royal Rosamond Press:

I have seen the future. “In Mary Ann’s Art Restoration Movie she suggests she rendered her apocalyptic vision while on drugs. M told me she experimented with LSD. Perhaps she told me she did peyote. But, what pisses me off, is there is SHAME here, she apologizing for doing such a thing because she has been shamed, even punished for her far-out choices that the Religious-right has glommed on to, they using peyote as their legal inroad to make a law that has the Women’s Movement going to the wall over. There is going to be a huge battle over this ruling. There will be millions of hours of legal and moral discussions. So far we have not heard from the Native Americans who are being used an abused, their religious beliefs passed over once more in order for the Christian need to GET OBAMA and his healthcare, and destroy it.”

Gaza (CNN) — Three weeks into the Gaza conflict, fighting is intensifying, the death toll is climbing and Israel has warned its citizens to be ready for a prolonged battle.
Efforts to bring about a lasting cease-fire between Israel and Hamas have failed to gain traction, despite calls from world leaders.
Israeli airstrikes and artillery rained down on Gaza early Tuesday as the Palestinian death toll rose above 1,100, according to health authorities.
The Israeli military reported that 10 of its soldiers were killed Monday, five of them in an attack in which militants used a tunnel to get into Israeli territory.

Originally posted on rosamondpress:









Yesterday, the Supreme Court did a batch of peyote and took our democracy on a vision quest. They declared a company has a mortal soul and thus a right to protect it’s religious freedoms. Artists make logos for companies and help brand them. I pointed this out with Target, a logo that Jaspar John’s made famous that is a new age cross. In HOBBY LOBBY I see HOLY LOBBY.

“The case that led to the 1993 act was a 1990 decision by the Supreme Court that upheld Oregon’s denial of unemployment claims by two men who were fired by the Native American Church for ingesting peyote. In ruling against the men, the high court tossed out previously used balancing test in First Amendment cases involving the free exercise of religion. The 1993 was overwhelmingly bipartisan.”

On December 29, 2013, I posted this on the Facebook of Charles J. Shield who…

View original 3,115 more words

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Marilyn at Moonfire Ranch












When Marilyn told me her portfolia got burned up in a fire, I grieved, for she told me within were photographs of her friend, Maggie Thrett. She is posing in the dresses and outfits M made for this actress who was in ‘Mudd’s Women’ a Star Trek eposode.

M had gone to Paris when she was seventeen to study fashoin design. Like the Rosamond Women, she made her own clothes. M&M used to go to parties togethers, and the Reneisance Fair, with their mutual friend, Jane Marie Mandsfield, the daughter of the famous actress who was the other Blonde Hollywood Bobmshell. Mother and daughter both appeared in Playboy magazine that did a centerfold shoot at Moonfire last year.

When I reminded M she has one photo of just her and Jane in it, she asked me;

“Who do you think took the photo?”

I blushed!

When Maggie was invted to the Moonfire Ranch, she got M an invite. At this famous Bohemian house that overlooks the Paccific Ocean, M met McDonald who married Ertha Kitt. He took a liking to Marilyn who made it on the A list. Perhaps it was the modeling she did in this artist’s retreat that was in the movie Mondo Hollywood that starred Jane Mansfield. M said she posed against this mural an artist rendered in a out-of-this world home that Captain Kirk might dwell in on his days off.

Here again is that architectural theme that we find in the Big Sur, and the house designed by for Allan Fox. This is why I was shocked to learn Allan sold that home shortly after Christine drowned, it the kind of home you keep in the family for generations to come. Julie Lynch sold a movie script about Rosamond to the director who did ‘Scent of a Woman’. Will Hollywood be going out to Rocky Point?

At Mooonfire the rich and famous came to partake of the creative ambience and behold other beautiful people. George Harris and Andy Warhol have been guests. Manson and his women did a walk-on.

This Spot of Venus was the best America had to offer, at least on the West Coast. There was a need to say you were there. Here is The Supreme Stage where long white curtain like the hems of giant Greek Angels wave like flags in the ocean breeze. Here the Lost Angels are found keeping their secrets. Here, beautiful souls can have it all, all that was denied since the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock and unleashed a broadside on the naked native, a bombardment of prudishness, a hatred of pagans and heathens. From these heights, there came a grand

Oly! Oly Ocean. Free!”

Marilyn lived in Latico Canyon up the coast. She and her boyfriend were going to raise Russian Wolf Hounds on a ranch they rented. M would walk on Santa Monica and Venice Beach with her two hounds wearing the scarves and dresses she made. The famous fashion photographer, Steven Silverstein did a shoot of M on Malibu Beach. The movie ‘Harper’ was shot at Moonfire. Consider Pynchon’s book ‘Inherent Vice’ that is being made into a movie. The Manson Murders lurk in the background. Marilyn walks out of a Icart on to the sands of Venice with her hounds, she hot on the trail of the Great Mystery of Life.

When Mary Ann Tharaldsen and I flew down to LA to get married, we slept in Marilyn’s bed. Mary Ann had a aversion to motels and hotels that I assumed was a hangover from her marriage to Thomas Pynchon. M let M wear one of her Train Dresses that was inspired by a pattern that Maggie found, she wanting M to make her a house robe. We got married in Topanga Canyon by a minister who went to Hollywood Boulevard in order to convert lost Hippie street urchins. Bryan MacLean sang ‘Amazing Grace’ at our wedding. He was converted to Christianity by the same minister that converted Bob Dylan.

The biography ‘Forever Changes’ says my friend, Bryan McLean lived at Vito Paulekas’ warehouse and practiced with the band that was once called ‘The Grass Roots’. There is a Laurel Canyon connection. Vito was a sculpture who surrounded himself with wild chicks and nude dancers, some who became the GTOs. Vito is in Mondo Hollywood, as is Lewis Mark, the owner of Moonfire.

In Forever Changes, Arthur Lee talk about the first time they saw Bryan and the Whiskey a Go-Go. He was surrounded by beautiful young women, his followers. It is alleged Arthur invited Bryan to join his band because these girls were Groupies of the Bryds, whom Bryan was a roadie for. But, Bryan was a Chick magnet in High School. He would take me on his rounds, usually on Friday night. He made dates with three girls. When we came thru the door, it was as if he was celebrity. The mothers swooned, and did all they could to get my Bryan to stay. While Bryan is at Vito’s warehouse, Andy Walhol is doing a similar scene in New York.

Cue the Beautiful Gypsy Bandit who with her gang of Bohemian Ragamuffins, the next generation Hippie-chic that tried to hijack this blog, that may contain a Murder Mystery.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2014










About 1,800 feet above the Pacific Ocean, atop a steep mountain overlooking Topanga Canyon, sits a compound with a storied past and some of the biggest views in the city.

From the property’s 60 acres, nearly all of Los Angeles—a city known for its expanse and fragmentation—comes together in one frame. The Valley, downtown, the Westside, the South Bay, Catalina and the entire Santa Monica Bay are visible.

The driveway is a 2-mile-long small dirt road of hairpin turns and steep cliffs. The nearest neighbor is about 3 miles from its large, rusting wrought-iron gate. Solar panels and a backup generator provide power, and a cistern collects rainwater for showers and cooking.
View Graphics

Known as Moonfire Ranch, the compound was the brainchild of Lewis Beach Marvin III, the New York-born heir to the S&H Green Stamps fortune who loved animals and pursued an eccentric search for enlightenment.
Drawn by the property’s remoteness, Mr. Marvin III bought the property for about $15,000 in 1957. Over the next two decades, Mr. Marvin’s estate became part-salon, part-muse for his motley crew of artistic friends.

The Doors played private concerts here; George Harrison of the Beatles was a visitor. Andy Warhol, Tommy Chong and Paul Newman filmed movies on the property.

The home’s living spaces are spread out into three separate buildings, some better maintained than others. There is a temple that overlooks Santa Monica Bay. There’s a geodesic dome, connected to a trailer housing a kitchen next to one of the home’s two bedrooms. The home has one bathroom.

No living space of the home is as stunning as the Round House, a two-story living room built inside a water tank-like building whose interior includes porous rainforest-wood walls, a giant chandelier and 20-foot tall windows looking out on the Santa Monica Bay far below.

Note 3: I’ve also discovered that another member of Vito’s dance troupe, Lewis Beach Marvin III, was the heir to the S&H Green Stamp fortune, as well as the leader of the ‘Moonfire’ family commune which preached a militant, fire and brimstone mantra of “Love Animals, Don’t Eat Them” from makeshift tents along the Sunset Strip.

The Doors had hooked up with Marvin in 1966 when they agreed to perform a benefit concert at Will Rogers State Park in California to raise money for Marvin’s campaign to ban weapons-related toys during the height of the Vietnam War. Marvin continued to press his activism, helping to establish the Animal Freedom Fighters in Venice, California, and addressing the throngs at Woodstock with an anti-meat message, again carrying a lamb on stage, and telling the masses, “The killing of animals causes the killing of men.”

Louis Icart was born in Toulouse, France. He began drawing at an early age. He was particularly interested in fashion, and became famous for his sketches almost immediately. He worked for major design studios at a time when fashion was undergoing a radical change-from the fussiness of the late nineteenth century to the simple, clingy lines of the early twentieth century. He was first son of Jean and Elisabeth Icart and was officially named Louis Justin Laurent Icart.  The use of his initials L.I. would be sufficient in this household. Therefore, from the moment of his birth he was dubbed ‘Helli’.  The Icart family lived modestly in a small brick home on rue Traversière-de-la-balance, in the culturally rich Southern French city of Toulouse, which was the home of many prominent writers and artists, the most famous being Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

Icart fought in World War I. He relied on his art to stem his anguish, sketching on every available surface. It was not until his move to Paris in 1907 that Icart would concentrate on painting, drawing and the production of countless beautiful etchings, which have served (more than the other mediums) to indelibly preserve his name in twentieth century art history. When he returned from the front he made prints from those drawings. The prints, most of which were aquatints and drypoints, showed great skill. Because they were much in demand, Icart frequently made two editions (one European, the other American) to satisfy his public. These prints are considered rare today, and when they are in mint condition they fetch high prices at auction.

Art Deco, a term coined at the 1925 Paris Exposition des Arts Decoratifs, had taken its grip on the Paris of the 1920s.  By the late 1920s Icart, working for both publications and major fashion and design studios, had become very successful, both artistically and financially.  His etchings reached their height of brilliance in this era of Art Deco, and Icart had become the symbol of the epoch.  Yet, although Icart has created for us a picture of Paris and New York life in the 1920s and 1930s, he worked in his own style, derived principally from the study of eighteenth-century French masters such as Jean Antoine Watteau, François Boucher and Jean Honoré Fragonard.

In Icart’s drawings, one sees the Impressionists Degas and Monet and, in his rare watercolors, the Symbolists Odilon Redon and Gustave Moreau.  In fact, Icart lived outside the fashionable artistic movements of the time and was not

completely sympathetic to contemporary art.  Nonetheless, his Parisian scenes are a documentation of the life he saw around him and they are nearly as popular today as when they were first produced.
In 1914 Icart had met a magical, effervescent eighteen-year-old blonde named Fanny Volmers, at the time an employee of the fashion house Paquin.  She would eventually become his wife and a source of artistic inspiration for the rest of his life.

Icart’s portrayal of women is usually sensuous, often erotic, yet always imbued an element of humor, which is as important as the implied or direct sexuality. The beautiful courtesans cavort on rich, thick pillows; their facial expressions projecting passion, dismay or surprise, for the women of Louis Icart are the women of France as we have imagined them to be Eve, Leda, Venus, Scheherazade and Joan of Arc, all wrapped up into an irresistible package.

The film presents a series of vignettes of the more extreme aspects of life in Hollywood – and Los Angeles as a whole – of the period, focussing on “the Hollywood the public does not know”.[2] Personalities who appear in the movie include proto-hippie Gypsy Boots, stripper Jennie Lee, S&H Green Stamps heir Lewis Beach Marvin III, celebrity hair stylist Jay Sebring (later murdered by the Manson gang), psychedelic pioneer Richard Alpert (later known as Ram Dass), singer Bobby Jameson (with his then-girlfriend Gail Sloatman), housekeeper Estella Scott, actors Margaretta Ramsey, Theodore Charach and Valerie Porter, fashion designer Rudi Gernreich, artist Vito Paulekas, surfer Dale Davis, skydiver Jim Arender, and beautician Sheryl Carson. Each personality provides a narrative for their own scenes. The film also shows various social and political gatherings, including an anti-communist crusade, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, a visit to Universal Studios by Princess Margaret, the aftermath of the Watts riots, a UCLA peace rally, and a children’s fashion show. Other individuals shown briefly in the movie included Frank Zappa, Sonny and Cher, Bobby Beausoleil, Alfred Hitchcock, Brigitte Bardot, Jayne Mansfield, Ronald Reagan and several transsexuals.

The film was promoted as “starring Jayne Mansfield”, who had recently died, even though she only appears in it very fleetingly. It was first shown at the Mannheim Film Festival in 1967, and was then scheduled to be shown at the Avignon Festival. However, the French government banned it from being shown, stating:[6]

“This film, in the opinion of certain experts of the Commission [of Control], presents an apology for a certain number of perversities, including drugs and homosexuality, and constitutes a danger to the mental health of the public by its visual aggressivity and the psychology of its editing. The Commission proposes, therefore, its total interdiction.”

The ban was later lifted. In 1978, when Mike Curb was running for election as lieutenant governor of California, his opponent, the incumbent Mervyn M. Dymally, claimed that the film was “pornographic” and that Curb “sang falsetto in a bath tub scene with two lesbians” (which Mike Curb denied). [7] After the film was completed, Curb provided music for the film and he agreed that he sang on some of the music, but that he did not participate in the making of the film, or any scenes in the film. Curb won the election. Mike Qualls editor of the Los Angeles Herald Examiner stated that “Nothing in the entire 88 minute film could be described as pornographic”. [8]

The film was later described as a “cult classic… [which] captures the underside of Hollywood by documenting a moment in time… when an inquisitive trust in the unknown was paramount, hope for the future was tangible and life was worth living on the fringe.”[4] A re-edited and expanded “director’s cut” version was premiered at the Moondance Film Festival on 10 June 2006.[4]

Maggie Thrett, born Diane Pine,[1] was a singer and stage, movie and television actress in the 1960s. Aged fifteen, she made her Off-Broadway debut in 1962 in Out Brief Candle.[2] By the age of eighteen she was regularly performing as a dancer at Trude Heller’s in Greenwich Village, New York, as noted in the January 1965 edition of Harper’s Bazaar.[3]
As a vocalist, Maggie Thrett recorded a single (under her birth name) entitled “Lucky Girl” for Take 3 Records in 1964,[4] and had a minor US hit (as Maggie Thrett) in 1965 with “Soupy”, produced by Bob Crewe and issued on the DynoVoice (formerly Dyno-Vox) label.[5] Billboard journalist Aaron Sternfield, reviewing a live Maggie Thrett performance at Basin Street East, New York, on July 15, 1965, wrote that she “has a magnificent range, her phrasing and timing are near perfect, and she blends the right combination of sex and satire.”[6]

In 1966 Maggie Thrett went to Hollywood to further her acting career. As an actress, she is probably best remembered for her roles in a 1966 Star Trek episode (“Mudd’s Women”) and the 1968 comedy movie Three in the Attic. She also appeared as a prostitute in the 1970 movie Cover Me Babe. Having signed to Universal Studios, she is reported to have used her life savings to buy out her contract prior to appearing in Three in the Attic [7] for American International Pictures.

In May 1970, Maggie Thrett was involved in a road accident while a passenger on singer/songwriter Gram Parsons’ motorcycle. Although she was apparently unharmed (Gram Parsons, meanwhile, suffered significant injuries),[8] it was soon after this that she disappeared from the entertainment business[9] having tired of continual auditioning and producers’ unwanted advances. Within two years of leaving Hollywood, Maggie Thrett had met and married her husband, Alex, with whom she has had three children.[10]

Olly olly oxen free (and variants: ollie ollie umphrey, olly-olly-ee, ally ally in free,[1] Ollie Ollie in come free,[2] ally alley ocean free, etc.) is a catchphrase used in such children’s games as hide and seek to indicate that players who are hiding can come out into the open without losing the game, that the position of the sides in a game has changed (as in which side is in the field or which side is at bat or “up” in baseball or kickball), or, alternatively, that the game is entirely over. It is thought[by whom?] to derive from the phrase “All ye, all ye ‘outs’ in free,”,”All the outs in free” or possibly “Calling all the ‘outs’ in free;” in other words: all who are “out” may come in without penalty.[3] Various calls used for such purposes have gone by the collective name of “ollyoxalls” in some places.[4]

The phrase can also be used to coordinate hidden players in the game kick the can, in which a group of people hide within a given radius and a “seeker” is left to guard a can filled with rocks. The seeker has to try to find the “hiders” without allowing them to sneak in and kick the can. In many areas the phrase used is “All-y all-y in come free”, to tell the remaining hidden players it is time to regroup in order to restart the game. The phrase is announced by a hider who successfully

The film pays homage to the Humphrey Bogart private-eye films by bringing Bogart’s wife Lauren Bacall into the story. She plays a wounded and woeful wife, the person most concerned with a missing husband, a role similar to the character of General Sternwood in the Bogart-and-Bacall 1946 movie The Big Sleep.

Harper goes looking for Betty and the money in Castle Beach, where she and Taggert had their love nest, and locates the cottage by finding her white convertible parked outside. He hears Betty being tortured inside by Troy, Claude and Fay. She tells them the money is hidden in a deep freeze storage locker. Harper bursts in, shoots Troy, slugs Claude, locks Fay in a closet and, after he retrieves the key to the locker, helps Betty to escape. After he says that he knows she double-crossed and killed her brother, she reveals that Sampson is being held in an abandoned oil tanker. Harper calls Graves to tell him to meet them there. Harper is hit over the head from behind while searching the ship, knocking him unconscious. Some time later Graves revives Harper. They find Sampson dead, presumably murdered by whoever hit Harper over the head. They also discover that Harper’s car is gone, driven off by Betty. When she sees them looking for the car, she flees at high speed along a narrow winding hillside road and is killed when the car swerves off the road. in and kicks the can.[citation needed]

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Marilyn’s Train Line

Christine 1980 Modeling on Chest

Christine 1980 Modeling on Sofa

Greg 1979 & Wife at their Wedding



Marilyn Reed came out with her ‘Train Line’ in the late 70’s. Her designs were influenced by movies of the 40,s. My late sister, Christine Rosamond Benton owned a Train dress, and my ex-wife, Mary Ann Thareldsen, wore one at our wedding. These two women artists recognized the Creative Class when they saw it, as did Debbie Boone who performed ‘You Light Up My Life’ in M’s dress.

Jon Presco







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Jesus Had Two Wives


It is my conclusion Jesus had two wives, Martha and Mary Magdalene, who were his brother’s wives. Mary as a widow resorted to prostitution until her kinsman-redeemer to her to wed. There were other widow-prostitutes that went with the first church, who did not have a kinsman-redeemer, and were wed to the Rabbi-King in a ritual manner. These were the first Nuns. Many widows sold themselves into servitude and were set free by the Jubilee Jesus.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2014

Levirate marriage is a type of marriage in which the brother of a deceased man is obliged to marry his brother’s widow, and the widow is obliged to marry her deceased husband’s brother.

Levirate marriage has been practiced by societies with a strong clan structure in which exogamous marriage (i.e., that outside the clan) was forbidden. It has been known in many societies around the world. The practice is similar to widow inheritance, where, for example, the deceased husband’s kin can dictate whom the widow may marry.
The term is a derivative of the Latin word levir, meaning “husband’s brother”.

Levirate marriage can, at its most positive, serve as protection for the widow and her children, ensuring that they have a male provider and protector. This can be a positive in a society where women can not have self-sufficiency and must rely on men to provide, especially in societies where women are under the authority, dependent on, in servitude, and/or possessions of their husbands, to ensure the survival of the clan. Thus practice of levirate marriage is strongly associated with patriarchal societies. The practice was extremely important in ancient times (e.g., History of ancient Arab Near East), and remains so today in parts of the world. Having children enabled the inheritance of land, which offered security and status. A levirate marriage might only occur if a man died childless, in order to continue his family line. The anthropologist Ruth Mace also found that the practice of widow inheritance by younger brothers, common in many parts of Africa, serves to reduce population growth, as these men will be forced to marry older (and hence, less fertile) women.[1]

A levirate marriage (Hebrew: yibbum) is mandated by Deuteronomy 25:5-6 of the Hebrew Bible and obliges a brother to marry the widow of his childless deceased brother, with the firstborn child being treated as that of the deceased brother, (see also Genesis 38:8) which renders the child the heir of the deceased brother and not the genetic father.
There is another ritual known as halizah (Deuteronomy 25:9-10), which may be performed if a man refuses to enter into a levirate marriage. In that situation the woman must spit in his presence, remove one of his shoes, and the others in the town referring to him as ‘the one without a shoe’. While this provision implies that a brother may opt out of levirate marriage, there is no provision in the Torah for the widow to do so.

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