The Chumps of Choice

A Congenial Spot for the Discussion of Against the Day, by Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Cornell '59, and Any Other Damned Thing That Comes Into Our Heads. Warning: Grad Students and Willie-Wavers will be mocked.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Save The Drama For Your Baby Momma, pp 358-373

Hello all—

To begin with. I apologize for my avoidance of crazy links, pictures and what not. I’m just not that good with the internet and finding things. Besides, I imagine that you all can grab information by typing it into google as well as I can. This is not, by the way, a commentary on that type of moderation. I just tend to read Pynchon a little differently s’all: I assume that the crazy things he mentions (cattle rustling camels, for instance), probably is true, and in any case, if it isn’t, I don’t really care because the book is fiction whether it’s historically accurate or not. In other words, if the book references the assasination of president McKinley, I have to process the information the same way that I would the radioactive lighters used by the Chums—both are true to the same degree as they are true in the novel, and whatever truth they hold on Wiki is irrelevant unless mirrored within Against the Day.

Sorry. Bit of willie wagging. I will stop.

This section poses an interesting problem in that it is hard to follow the order of the scenes. Clearly the section starts in the middle of the action by bringing Reef Traverse into the fold. On his way down to Arizona, he passes through Duranga and runs into Mayva some time after her falling out with Lake. This brief encounter allows Reef to introduce his own mother to his new Baby’s momma, Stray Briggs—the girl from Utah for those who, like me, forgot what happened a hundred pages before. One may remember that Stray at the point of her last appearance was with child. Well, the intro to this scene does not mention a child, which seems odd to say the least since, Mayva should (one assumes) want to see her grandchild. The dialogue as it goes seems to suggest that Mayva notices something (“You two ain’t married, by any chance?” on p. 358), but baby Jesse has yet to make an appearance.

The big question I think is: where has Reef been. We learn that since falling in with Stray, Reef has had his skills as a would be desperado pimped out by Stray to anyone willing to pay the price. The scene reads like Reef meeting Stray’s extended family: her “friends” which generally serve as middlemen in these schemes. Note the chain: someone needs something done, they hire a middle man, the middle men (“and not all men, of course”) find Stray, who then sends out Reef. In this section Reef and Stray are on their way to Arizona to round up imported Camels that had been let go wild in Arizona for a friend of Stray’s: Archie Dipple. Somehow the passage alludes to the fact that Reef has some breed of lay expertise concerning camels: “these double doms being in Reef’s experience never quite as retiring as they looked, some of them damned touchy, as a matter of fact” (359). Experience? Where did he get experience?

Turns out the two have been crisscrossing the west for years running scams but always running from land owners who are trying to etch out some Capital (in the Marxist sense). Not my willy wagging, by the way; that’s Pynchon. The point seems to be that this is a different sort of Plutocrat, a Plutocrat in training who will defend their material and shoot anyone “if it even looked like they might want to take it.” Thus the happy couple has been obliged to move around to keep from getting shot.

Their baby, Jesse is kept in a dynamite crate without nails so that it won’t attract lightening. Discuss.

Here’s the problem, the rest of the scenes revolve around this scene chronologically with little rhyme or reason. Though what happens next is a flashback, other scenes are far less obvious. In the next scene, we find Reef alone, near Ophir, attempting to blow up some kind of power plant that’s supplying juice for the town’s silver mines. He rounds the corner with a bunch of dynamite and runs into Stray and Jesse. Reef is following in dad’s footsteps, except that he’s turned it religious. Capital and the plutes are undeniably evil, and Reef sees himself as “a damn Christer and his deliverance with that.” I wonder about these visions and there geographical placement in Utah given the religious (?) implications seen earlier in the Jeshimon chapter, but I digress…

Turns out Stray and Reef are good at communicating and so this scene spawns a happy relationship—the particulars of which I’ve already gone over. As far as Reef is concerned, he is no longer set on avenging the single dead man (his father) but all the dead. “They wanted his attention, them and the ones who’d died at other places, the Coeur d’Alene, Cripple Creek, even back east at Homestead, points in between, all kept making themselves known. They were Reef’s dead now, all reight, and di they meake a grand opera of coming around to remind him. Damn” (362). I do not read this literally (Reef as a medium), but the effect is similar. He is avenging all the dead in these battles. What’s more, his position as Christ-like and the many many further mentions of ghosts in this section make statements like this problematic for an easy read of the above passage.

As he has to worry about Stray and Jesse now, Reef decides to head out to Denver, from the town of Ouray in the San Juan range, to bring Frank into the Traverse family business—dynamiting for the union.

Here’s where the problem with putting this chapter in order really comes in. After this scene, Reef will go off and thereafter be essentially sans-Stray and child. He will head off to New Orleans and eventually Genoa. So…when did the scene with Mayva happen? Clearly it had to have happenned before this, but the suggestion is that after that scene, the couple was headed for Arizona where they meet and talk with Dipple and are then seperated. …But the scene of their seperation happens in the San Juan mountains (Southwest Colorado), where they have been fighting the Plutes for some time (I assume since there are all those dead to account for). Am I missing something? Are they returning now from Arizona? Is this the same seperation alluded to at the beginnning of this chapter? Is this seperation out of order; in other words, does it happen after Genoa? I’ll be honest I’m baffled, and in a novel where we see doublings and parrallel dimensions, etc., I’m wondering whether this isn’t a doubling (Reef Traverse through Icelandic spar). I say this because…

In the next scene, Reef leaves Stray and rides out on horse named Borrasca (which means Storm—oh yes; Reef is a rider on the storm) to go up and over the Rocky Mountains. He passes through towns that are burried under snow in the winter and which give names to the ice shelves that are soon to be turned into avalances. It’s all very ominous. We learn that the National Guard often shoot cannons into the ice, which sounds like a clear reference to an idle military building itself up in preparation for the great war.

Somebody hits a shelf of ice near by and starts it going. I realize that there are a lot of really good passages in this section which demonstrate Pynchon’s style and grace, but I want to point out this passage as being especially demonstrative of his skill:
Here she came, the soul-smiting roar, quick as that, grown to fill the day, the bright cloud risen to the top what sky he could still see in that direction, all down here suddenly gone into twilight, and him and Borrasca, dead in the path. Nothing anywhere close enough to get behind. Borrasca being an animal of great common sense, let out with a hell-with-this type of whinny and began to move out of the area quick as he could. Figuring the colt would do better without a rider’s weight, Reef kicked out of the stirrups and rolled off, slipped in the snow, fell, and got up again just in time to turn and face the great descending wall. (365)

Is it pretty? No. But it’s immediate: exactly what is called for in an action scene. Pynchon will probably always be famous for characters who wax intellectual, mixing philosophy, pop culture, and politics into common tongue and colloquialism, but it’s worth noting just how easilly, when needed, he can switch away from that Dickensian/Joycian tongue when the scene all but demands a Hemingway.

In any case, Reef escapes by sheer luck and by sliding down the side of the hill on a waterproof poncho. He nearly falls over a cliff and recovers only to tell his horse that he’s been born again. Reef is split by the ice, recalling the spar, recalling the expedition. What’s funny though is that the horse recognizes this born again-ness in a Hindu sense. In other words, the horse is the reincarnation of someone (Webb?). And then out of nowhere, Reef isn’t alone. What’s even weirder is that Reef isn’t surprised by not being alone as if Jake has always been there. And what’s even weirder than that is that Jake appears without introduction and the scene ends without giving the reader even the slightest mention of who Jake is. I’ll admit it, I’m stumped. Who the hell is Jake and where did he come from?

Reef, Jake, and the horses head back to Ouray where Reef informs Stray that he needs to disappear for a while. Spooked by the assasination attempt, he heads out for a while and assumes the identity of “East Coast nerve case Thrapston Cheesely III,” a continental dandy and polar opposite of Reef Traverse (367). He of course meets a women with a name just as absurd, Ruperta Chirpingdon-Groin, a Brit touring the “wild west” (seems to be a run of them these days…) and they begin touring hot springs in search of eternal youth.

Note, the water metaphors are thick in this chapter. If the avalance is the experience of being born again, what does that say about hot springs, especially considering this passage at the top of 368: “Down in the unlighted depths of the great machine, a steam hammer relentlessly slammed away at blocks of ra ice, vapors rose and blew, a confusion of water in all its phases at once.” We have water driving a machine of water which breaks water—a confusion of the state of things with the things themselves, like aether and light, like chemicals and materials, like electiricity and conductor, word and meaning, etc..

The new couple head off to New Orleans where Ruperta becomes offended by Reef’s desire to dance to jass. After her abandonment, Reef meets new friends while smoking reefer (you know we were all waiting for it to happen). The two new characters, an Irish guy,“Wolfe" Tone O’Rooney and an African American jass musician, “Dope” Breedlove are discussing jass’s merits as an expression of anarchism. Reef falls in with Wolfe and is introduced to Flaco, another anarchist “chemist” like Reef. Flaco explains that Europe needs people who are good with explosions because they need to make sure that the trains can make it through the mountains so as to carry soldiers to the front…just in case a war breaks out. I imagine this will get worked out in discussion, but this seems like the first time (of, I imagine, many) dynamite is seen as a tool for smoothing that path for war.

In another of those weird alchemical moments, Flaco explains that governments, in repressing people, are essentially simmulating death, and that Flaco wants a counter-death which he sees as chemistry. Thus chemistry is a mode of freedom. On 372, we learn a little about Flaco’s history. He was rounded up as an anarchist after a bombing at the opening of William Tell in Montjuich. Collected with the other anarchists, he becomes an anarchist and now fights against the state, “which includes: the church, the latigundios, the banks and corporations, of course” (372). The description he gives of becoming an anarchist mirrors the theory of jass offerred by “Dope” earlier—that is anarchist even though it is socially cooperative.

In any case, the assasination of McKinley has made the U.S. an uninviting country for the anarchists, so they’re all attempting to leave in mass out of New Orleans. This dates the scene around 1901, for what it’s worth. In any case, Flaco invites Reef to come along with him to Genoa (heading towards the Chums; cross your fingers) and so they await news of the arrival of their ship, the Despedida

In the last scene, Flaco, Reef and Wolfe sit drinking beer and watching the sun go down. Wolfe comments that because they are drifters they are always in a new place for the new day and so they never see things change except geographically. As they are never part of anything, they become ghosts. Read this into the title as you wish.

…and I’m spent.

Monstro out.


At Monday, March 26, 2007 7:08:00 PM, Blogger Will Divide said...

The action here seems to unwind in a linear enough way, though the chronology is very confusing. Reference was made to McKinley's killing while Webb was still hanging out with Deuce, so I put the year here to be about 1904. That said, the so-called Italian Troubles [...] fresh in the civic memory of New Orleans (369:12-14) were in March, 1891. Not that fresh, izzit?

It seems to me the chronology of all the Colorado mountain sections is rendered rather freehand, signifying what exactly is hard to say. Remember also the quandry we were recently in regarding the nature of Lake's status as a virgin on her wedding night, and one wonders if the Traverse saga was grafted from some earlier root.

While we're piling it on, I'll note the most awkward sentence I've found Pynchon to write (361:14): for he was never to forgive whatever it had been dealt him the hand he got. Things may not be going Reef's way here, but that needs at least a comma.

And Jake with the colt (366:17) is American slang for "It was okay with the horse."

At Tuesday, March 27, 2007 7:54:00 AM, Blogger Boldly Serving Up Wheat Grass said...

Nice summary, Monstro. I felt really stupid for missing a couple of things... I hadn't looked up the horse name but, even if I had, I might've missed that "Rider on the Storm" reference. Also, the Reef/reefer thing... Can't believe I didn't pick up on that one.

The Jesse in the dynamite crate thing was priceless. I more or less read it as the Traverse family curse or destiny -- kind of an old west version of the House of Atreus. I'd not be surprised to see Jesse all grow'd up and into some serious anarchy before the book's end.

Gotta run now. I'll check back in later...

At Tuesday, March 27, 2007 10:03:00 AM, Blogger Monstro D. Whale said...

I will be honest. I think I glossed over the last half of the section, but I was pressed for time (severely). In any case, the lightening thing. It's a big thing in this book (the horse's name, Tesla, Merle Rideout's ball lightening friend, and now the baby crib). I have a feeling that lightening is important here because, as far as I know, air doesn't conduct electricity. Therefore, the charge in the clouds combined with the charge in the ground shouldn't have the ability to jump across the negative space...but it does. I'm no meteorologist or anything, but this seems to go across other symbolic systems at work in the novel, but then I'm still left wondering (week after week it seems), symbolic of what? What is all this posturing over systems that conduct through emptiness (money without a gold standar, light without ether, geography without maps) actually supposed to remind us of in the grand scheme of things. In other words: yeah, it's weird, but so what?

At Tuesday, March 27, 2007 10:07:00 AM, Blogger Monstro D. Whale said...

Also, for those who've never been, New Orleans buildings are set up to have a courtyard in the center of the block that is accessible only to people who own, rent, or otherwise occupy the buildings. If you walk the streets you can catch glimpses of these "secret spots" (which are often illustrious gardens out of keeping with the touristy surroundings) through wrought iron gates that lead in, but you can't go in. It is very mysterious. The idea that New Orleans has another unseen life is historically, culturally, religiously, and even archetecturally accurate.

At Tuesday, March 27, 2007 4:46:00 PM, Blogger Boldly Serving Up Wheat Grass said...

Another thought... When I read that part at the end (p. 373) about Wolf Tone copying the ink stamp for the passport, I flashed back to the red stamp-like Asian-looking graphic on the book cover.

"Mysterious and multifold is the Way of the Potato" says Wolf Tone. Interesting capitalization, eh? ... that word "Way" perhaps suggesting the Tao, an Asian concept.

Wonder if it's all connected somehow? Is the capitalized "Potato" the vegetable incarnation of the mineral spar? Just thinking out loud...

At Wednesday, March 28, 2007 3:39:00 AM, Blogger Monte Davis said...

...air doesn't conduct electricity. Therefore, the charge in the clouds combined with the charge in the ground shouldn't have the ability to jump across the negative space...but it does

There are plenty of questions to be answered about lightning (especially ball lightning), but this exaggerates the mystery of the "ordinary" kind. Anything will conduct electricity if the potential difference is great enough.

At Thursday, March 29, 2007 11:13:00 PM, Blogger Joseph said...

"we drove that car as far as we could, abandoned it out west, split up on the dock that night with the feeling it was best..

.. the only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keeping on like a bird that flew, tangled up in blue

.. I drifted down to New Orleans....
there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air...

I must admit I was alittle uneasy when she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe, tangled up in blue"

Reef's escape from the avalanche reminds me of Webbs ecape from the flying lead, reinforcing the sense of calling already whispering to him from the Ghosts of the war with the pluts. The outlaw freedom offered by dynamite is his true love and it pulls him from making a home with Stray to be a storm rider, out across the blue to tunnel into the mountains of the old world.

Does he remind anyone else of Dylan? or the Jack of Hearts?

At Friday, March 30, 2007 5:11:00 PM, Blogger Neddie said...


Did anybody catch this?:

"...pianos under the hands of whorehouse professors sounding like they came with keys between the keys." (368:37 -- emphasis mine.)

At Friday, March 30, 2007 5:34:00 PM, Blogger Will Divide said...

Re: Dylan

Funny enough, I got a distinct Pat Garret and Billy the Kid vibe from the section after this one.

At Friday, March 30, 2007 6:14:00 PM, Blogger Boldly Serving Up Wheat Grass said...

RE: "keys between the keys."

Yep, definitely caught that one. I've been fascinated with the history of Storyville for ages. Around this time, the professors in the tenderloin would've included Tony Jackson and Jelly Roll Morton. If anyone could make a piano sound like this, it'd have been those guys (or others like them).

At Saturday, March 31, 2007 2:08:00 PM, Blogger Monstro D. Whale said...

Neddie, BSUWG, could you further elucidate? I'm not a "jazz man" myself, so I'm sure there's something here I'm missing. Is it more than there expertise seems to grant them extra notes to play?

At Saturday, March 31, 2007 7:33:00 PM, Blogger Neddie said...

Monstro: Ah, that's right -- you came in late, and prolly missed the discussion...

It's Thelonious Monk from Pynchon's epigraph, come back and waving a cheery hello.

As Will pointed out in his comment on the linked post, Monk was known for trying to reach for notes that he heard between contiguous notes on the piano keyboard by playing the notes on either side of the imaginary note. He would try to simulate a note between, say, A and A sharp by playing both those notes together.

(Microtonal music is rather harsh on Western ears used to tempered instruments -- Charles Ives experimented with it -- but they've been using it in Middle Eastern music for centuries. And every time you bend a guitar string playing blues, you're playing microtonal.)

I love the conversation that follows a couple pages later, between Wolfe Tone O'Rooney and "Dope" Breedlove:

"Yet I've noticed the same thing when your band plays -- the most amazing social coherence, as if you all shared the same brain."

"Sure, but you don't call that organization."

"What do you call it?"


I'm reminded of the bit in the early Pynchon short "Entropy," in which four jazz musicians, taking their inspiration from Gerry Mulligan's decision not to have a piano player -- and thus no root chords, forcing the soloist to think the root notes rather than hear them -- decide that the next logical step is to think the entire piece. And so they do, simply sitting and thinking the tune, the trumpet player comes in and Duke, the bandleader, excoriates him ("Oaf!") for playing the bridge wrong.

Pretty funny stuff.

At Saturday, March 31, 2007 11:44:00 PM, Blogger Civic Center said...

I was at a Grand Guignol theatre in San Francisco last night (Google The Hypnodrome) where an improvisation piece by John Zorn was being performed as the curtain raiser for a bunch of sex-and-violence vignettes. The musical piece is designed for a conductor to hold up a series of flash cards designed to cue any number of musicians at the same time who are all improvising together, and it's quite brilliant and complex. The version we heard had three instrumentalists: a saxophone, a soprano, and a pianist who was given the complex rules of the game fifteen minutes before she actually performed the ten-minute piece with the rest of the group.

It was completely microtonal, with full harmonic tones and the "spaces in between" vibrating between each other. The sound was bracing.

At Sunday, April 01, 2007 6:03:00 AM, Blogger Will Divide said...

Ives attended Yale in the late 1890s and I was looking for him to make some kind of appearance in the New Haven chapter. But no.

At Sunday, April 01, 2007 6:45:00 AM, Blogger Monstro D. Whale said...

Oh...I guess this will be my thing. Someone will comment on Osama Bin Laden (camels in New Mexico, sheesh...); my thing will be to continuously harp on the message as medium, medium as message kind of thing, and constantly be asking what does it all mean.

I'm not jazz guy. I, sorry all, hate the stuff, but okay. It seems to me, by the description that you've all given, that there is again, two established poles (say A and A sharp) with a medium of would-be meaningless in between, and that what jazz does (and what draws Pynchon to the jazz) is attempt to fill that meaninglessness with meaning so that jazz is like aether, and lightening (sort of, give me a bit of wiggle room on this). The same can be said for time lines that happen and time lines that do not. In between there are numerous alternate realities (Chums of Chance). The same can be said about the space between fiction and fact. In between there are numerous other realities (which is why our reads so often coincide with historical fact). The same might be said concerning economics that have no standard, or a lack of political organization that must somehow be organized.

I think these metaphoric systems are being chosen for a reason. It isn't just that Pynchon is being "trippy" but that he is trying to find simpler ways to describe something and to offer as many metaphors as possible to show that this "trend" in the way things actually work isn't really all that unusual at all. But then, what is he going for finally. What are these the echoes of? That's what's got me right now, because the second you start using politics, religion, and the nature of reality as metaphors for something REALLY important, you have to ask: what's more important than those?

At Sunday, April 01, 2007 5:33:00 PM, Blogger Civic Center said...

Dear Monstro: I didn't find this section all that confusing. In fact, it was one of the more entertainingly picaresque segments so far. The chronology at the beginning includes a few flashbacks to the huckster jobs Reef does for Stray's "middleman friends," which ironically get him into more trouble than his secret anarchist dynamiting, and then it goes on to a moment of relative rest with baby Jesse in the dynamite crib before the open trail beckons again.

The opening on page 358 with Mayva and Stray is very funny as they out-deprecate Reef as mother and lover, ending with them "jabbering away like a couple of birds on a rooftop." I'm sure the baby was discussed. What is not resolved is the answer to "You two ain't married, by any chance?" I'd say no but who knows?

I also don't think Reef is working for the union while he dynamites his various targets. His only compadres seem to be the miner ghosts, including Webb. When he goes off for brother Frank (page 364:1-4) it's with the realization that "his days in the family dynamite business were numbered now, though there had to be other ways to fight this fight apart from setting off explosions. About all he was sure of was that he had to keep on with it to make this thing right. But it was time, just about time, for Frank to be taking up some of the slack."

I love your confusion about "Jake" appearing out of nowhere at the end of the avalanche scene, but I assume Will put you right on that one. And Neddie's microtonal explanation was wonderful. I sort of understand "the notes between the notes" concept/sound and every "new music" person I know has always been excited by them. They're not symbolic, by the way, they are real sounds that Western music has mostly tried to ignore until the last century.

The New Orleans section is wonderful and both the Irish forger and the Catalunian anarchist are great new characters. I hope they stay with the tale. Flaco's description of what happened in Cataluna after a performance of Rossini's "William Tell" had been bombed at the Barcelona opera house is great. Page 372: line 21 reads: "The state is evil, its divine right proceeds from Hell, Hell is where we all went...all of us, even those who had voted and paid our taxes like good bourgeoisie, came out hating the State. I include in that obscene word the Church, the latifundios, the banks and corporations, of course." The word "latifundio" refers to large land owners, by the way. And "William Tell," originally a Schiller play, is very much a proto-anarchist tale of a community in Switzerland who overthrows their brutal Austro-Hungarian overlords.

I also love the final paragraph of this section, where Wolfe ruminates on the "the curse of the drifter, this desolation of heart we feel each evening at sundown...the possibilities never to be counted, much less lived into, by the likes of us, don't you see, for we're only passing through, we're already ghosts." The same could be said of the Chums of Chance and most of the other major characters in this book.

At Wednesday, June 13, 2007 5:40:00 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I have to agree with Will Divide’s comment of 3/26/07: "While we're piling it on, I'll note the most awkward sentence I've found Pynchon to write (361:14): for he was never to forgive whatever it had been dealt him the hand he got. Things may not be going Reef's way here, but that needs at least a comma." I also had to read that sentence several times before I got it. Nonetheless, I don’t agree it warrants a comma.

On another “note”: I’m a little surprised no one, as far as I know, has commented further on the name Wolf Tone O’Rooney. I guess I will. Besides arising from the 18th century Irish rebel Theobald Wolfe Tone as well as a musical term (both mentioned in the Wiki), this is clearly also a sly and groaningly humorous nod to Slim Gaillard. Slim was one of the most individual, eccentric and original musicians in the history of jazz. An accomplished multi-instrumentalist, he also composed numerous, hilarious nonsense songs, often in a language he created himself called “vout.” This jive jargon enjoyed enormous popularity with the Hipsters during the 1940’s. Joop Visser, in the opening paragraphs of his extensive liner notes to the wonderful Proper 4 CD Box Set “Slim Gaillard: Laughing in Rhythm” relates that Jack Kerouac in his classic novel of the beat generation “On the Road,” expressed his admiration for the jazz surrealist Gaillard as follows: “Now Dean approached him, he approached his God: he thought Slim was God: he shuffled and bowed in front of him and asked him to join us. ‘Right- orooni’ says Slim; he’ll join anybody but won’t guarantee to be there with you in spirit. Dean got a table, bought drinks, and sat stiffly in front of Slim. Slim dreamed over his head. Every time Slim said ‘Orooni,’ Dean said ‘Yes.’ I sat there with these two madmen. Nothing happened. To Slim Gaillard the whole world was just one big Orooni.”

Pynchon’s love of On the Road, jazz, “improvisational” language, and absurdist song is well-known. It’s certainly no accident that this character appears in a section dealing with anarchy and “jass.” Slim Gaillard was a jazz anarchist nonpareil. The name of just this one character, an unmistakable shout out to “vout,” is a perfect example of multiple layers of riffing on top of historical “reality,” Pynchon’s jazz/anarchist stock in trade. How many such nuggets lay buried in this goldmine of a book as we, to borrow Kerouac’s phrase, sit stiffly while Pynchon dreams over our head? “Maybe it’s not the world, but with a minor adjustment or two it’s what the world might be.” Amen-orooni to that.

At Thursday, November 22, 2007 10:11:00 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Regarding names - perhaps the magician 'Zomboni' is also a sly reference to Zambonis, the ICE-cleaning machines used to smooth the surface of the rink before hockey games. They are often (mistakenly) referred to as Zombonis.

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