Friends (Photograph by Bill McCullough for The Atlantic)
119 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, S.W.3 (Photo: Google Maps)
I am seeking a team of attorneys to file a lawsuit against the owners of Bohemian Grove – forbidding them to use the word and title….BOHEMIAN!
After I raised Talitha Getty from the dead – which was an exhausting task – I go turn on the news and see three men holding fish. This is a Dadaist painting. They are – White Men – who have been caught red-handed. Here is another connection to Bohemian Grove to a Supreme Court Justice.
“What are you men going to do with those fish?”
“Uh! we’re waiting for Uncle Tom Pynchon to arrive with his Bar-B-Quer. He’s going to show us how to cook salmon – Lousiana Style!”
“He’ll be here with ‘The Black Beast’ in a hour or two. We’re flying him and his Q in on a military transport!”
Here is the most surreal headline written to date…
“US justice Samuel Alito defends fishing trip with billionaire Paul Singer“
Washington Irving would salivate over it. It has a Rumple Stiltskin feel to it. Men fishing with other men is the oldest activity known to man. Jesus gets involved, telling his disciples where to cast their net. So, what is so wrong with this picture? One answer is, Jesus, and all members of the Supreme Court are supposed to live the lifestyle of Gypsies – Bohemians! Here is a good article on Bohemian Grove that testifies the trouble real Bohemians are having with – THE SUPER RICH! Justice Alito and Thomas have been caught in Eva Braun’s home movie taken at Hitler’s wolf’s Lair. This looks very bad, unless you can exclaim…
“Here comes Uncle Tom Pynchon now – with his Quer!”
Thomas Pynchon became the King of Bohemians when his best friend, Richard Farina got killed. Mimi Baez Farina – was Queen of the Bohemians. Now that the Billion Dollar Grasp of the Royal Bohemian Court has been loosened, we Real Bohemians must choose a King – and a Queen! I am a candidate. Art immitates life. Damn -if that isn’t Uncle Tom sitting with these rich men in that Grove painting! What do you got, Mr. Presco – a Gypsies Crystal Ball?
John Bohemian Johnny
https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2023/05/harlan-crow-clarence-thomas-relationship/674092/
https://www.ft.com/content/a4640200-12c1-4b3f-94ef-d71fa88b41e8
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf%27s_Lair
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf%27s_Lair
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evelyn_St._Croix_Fleming
Evelyn Beatrice Sainte Croix Fleming, née Rose, known as Eve Fleming (10 January 1885 – 27 July 1964),[1] was an English socialite known for her flamboyant beauty and being the mother of James Bond writer Ian Fleming.
Life[edit]
Born in Kensington, London, Eve was the daughter of George Alfred Sainte Croix Rose (31 January 1854 – 14 February 1926), a captain in the service of the Royal Buckinghamshire Militia (King’s Own) and Justice of the Peace (J.P.) for Berkshire, son of Sir Philip Rose, 1st Baronet, by his marriage on 8 April 1880 to Beatrice Quain (1857 – 4 January 1911), the daughter of Sir Richard Quain, 1st Baronet.
On 15 February 1906 she married Valentine Fleming (17 February 1882 – 20 May 1917),[2] and by that marriage was the mother of four sons: Peter Fleming, Ian Fleming, Richard Fleming and Michael Fleming. Eve was also the grandmother of actress Lucy Fleming.
After her husband’s death in action during World War I, Eve Fleming inherited his large estate in trust, making her very wealthy. However, the conditions of the money in trust transferred it to others should she ever remarry. She became the mistress of painter Augustus John, with whom she had a daughter, the cellist Amaryllis Fleming, and later lived with the Marquess of Winchester until his death.
During the 1940s and 1950s, she resided at The Abbey, Sutton Courtenay. She died only two weeks before the death of her son Ian on 12 August 1964.[3]
In popular culture[edit]
Eve Fleming’s nickname from her son Ian was M, and Ian may have used his relationship with her as model for M, fictional head of Head of the Secret Intelligence Service and James Bond’s boss.[4]
She became the mistress of painter Augustus John, with whom she had a daughter, the cellist Amaryllis Fleming, and later lived with the Marquess of Winchester until his death
Monica de Mornay De La Croix Rose
After selling Pitt House in 1923 Fleming’s mother bought three cottages in Cheyne Walk and converted them into one dwelling. She named the three Turner’s House after the painter J M W Turner who had spent his last years at No. 119. He died here in 1851. During her time here, Eve established a Bohemian salon for artists, like her lover, Augustus John, to allow them to mingle with patrons such as Winston Churchill. The young Ian lived here during his school holidays and continued to visit whilst he was at Kitzbuhel and at Geneva University.
Then, at the age of 23, he moved in and stayed there until 1936. During this time he was sorting out his future, including abortive army training at Sandhurst, Foreign Office entry exams and unsuccessful careers as stockbroker and banker (including a period of employment by Tom Cull’s grandfather at bankers Cull & Co. Then in 1936, he acquired his final pre-war home at…
Black Pynchon
Posted on August 29, 2018 by Royal Rosamond Press
When I read they were seriously considering having a black man play James Bond, I wondered what they were going to do with all those white man clichés and stereotypes – that I was having a problem with – with my white James Bond – even though I turned him – into a woman. Then there is the smashing of a white man’s icon. Who do we got left? How about, Thomas Pynchon? Why not kill him off and replace him with a – Black Pynchon?
Most of the black people I have known, and know, have very active and healthy social lives. So, the contrast is not in the change of skin color, but, being turned from a reclusive bug hiding in a damp log – into a social butterfly! Tom had a chance to be in the limelight of the Richard and Mimi Farina show. The Baez family were very tribal, and folksy. They are Irish and Mexican stock.
Tom is in my family tree. I married his ex, who said;
“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.”
Maybe Tom will write some of the script? How about a series that opens with Tom recalling his life as a writer. He might open up if he has an alias.
http://www.vulture.com/2013/08/thomas-pynchon-bleeding-edge.html
Black Pynchon
by
John Presco 007
Thomas Pynchon wakes up to the sound of his cellphone ringing. He reaches for it on his night stand, but, it is not there. Getting up, he follows the gospel tune to his writing table.
“When did I choose a gospel tune for my ringer. And, where is my computer!”
Reaching for his phone, Tom let’s out a startled cry when he sees a black hand pick it up.
“Hello!”
“Hi Daddy! Today’s the big day! Let’s go over your itinerary. Drop your mother off at the rest home, and bring your grandsons, Tyrel and Tee-Jay, with you. She won’t put up a fight if they are present. Then, drop them off at football practice. Then, pickup Willie’s bar-b-quer and drop it off at the church. Bring your truck. Then, practice your solo song with the choir. After that, pick up your granddaughter’s wedding cake, bring it home, and get ready for your retirement ceremony, at seven. You can leave the wedding early because the groom has so much family. As the chief of police of Watts, you will be swearing in new officers – before you receive your medal of heroism. Bring your speech. Did you order enough ribs for the choir picnic?
“I’m the chief of police of Watts?” Tom asks, as he checks out his great choppers he owns in the hall mirror.
‘That’s right. But, after tonight, you won’t be!” You’re 81 Daddy, time to spend more time with your 32 grandchildren who love you so much. They’re already fighting over you.
“How old is Momma?” Tom asks.
“Are you getting senile on me? She’s a 107.”
“Can I get a room next to her?”
“Oh, Daddy! You’re such a card! My warm, cuddly, clown! Oh, I almost forgot. Your nieces from Oakland want to see you and Momma do ‘The Bump’. So, get warmed up!”
“You want me to do the Bump – with my Momma?”
“No silly. I want you to do the Bump – with my Momma! Put her on. I want to see if she is done altering my dress.”
From the bathroom comes the sound of splashing in the tub.
“Is that Sharena? Bring the phone in here! I want to talk to her about the surprise party.”
“Who’s surprised party?”
“Never you mind. You don’t have to have your nose in everyone’s business. Now, get going. Go load up the seasoned hardwood for the Q-pot.”
“But, I don’t have any clothes on. Do you know where my clothes are?”
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.”
Rosamond Press 
Leave a comment