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| The one and only Tom Wolfe, 1930-2018. |
After Tom Wolfe’s passing last week, I thought it would be
appropriate to collect in one place all of my parodies of Wolfe’s writing
style. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and these
parodies of Wolfe’s style are written with real affection. The titles refer to
the book reviews that they are taken from, and clicking on them will take you
to that review.
If you are really going to appreciate Tom Wolfe, I mean,
really understand him, and understand
where these early pieces are coming from, the one word you need to know, simply must
know, is arteriosclerotic. Arteriosclerotic? Yes, that very word! It means a
hardening of the arteries, and Wolfe uses it in piece after piece in this book
to describe people who are old, square, rigid. Wolfe explained his use of
“arteriosclerotic” in his 1966 Vogue magazine
interview: “Repeating words means that they have become for me inseparable from
the meaning I want. Eventually I get over them. Arteriosclerotic-I was obsessed
for a while with people’s blood vessels getting stiffer and stiffer without
them knowing it.” (Conversations with Tom
Wolfe, p.11)
“The Truest Sport: Jousting with Sam and Charlie,” about
fighter pilots in Vietnam, is kind of a tune-up for Wolfe’s book The Right Stuff. Pilots! The heroes of
the skies! Defying death with every trip! They have ice water running through
their veins! Was Tom Wolfe actually up there on the flight deck with them? In
his white suit? What if it got dirty, full of oil and grease stains?
Skkkkreeeowww! A fighter jet roars past! You can feel it, actually FEEL the
vibrations in your bones! Tom Wolfe gets INSIDE the heads of these fighter
pilots…knowing how they think…you are there for every minute of their flight
over North Vietnam…scanning the skies…looking out for Charlie, or the SAMs, the
surface to air missiles…trying to stay above the flak…lookout, SAM at one
o’clock!!! And then it comes over the radio, “No more parodies of Tom Wolfe’s
writing style!” WHAT??? How can I review this book without resorting to
multiple exclamation points!!! It’s NOT possible…okay, fine…back to boring
normal review writing…
After years of being renowned as one of America’s leading
writers of non-fiction, Tom Wolfe decided to turn his talents towards writing
fiction. But what would he write about? After you’ve covered Ken Kesey and the
Merry Pranksters, Leonard Bernstein hosting a fundraiser for the Black
Panthers, modern art and architecture, and the early days of the space program,
where could you possibly go from there??? So Wolfe decided to take on an entire
city! Yes! That was the way to do it! He looked out of the window of his
townhouse and saw the metropolis sprawling below him…he knew, in that instant,
he had to capture New York City in a novel…all the different class levels…racial
tensions…fantastic wealth jostling shank to flank with crushing poverty…all the
arteriosclerotic old men out there, just making money…yes, this was it!
It started on the beach. That was where they first saw him.
They weren’t quite sure which member of the group had spotted him first, but
eventually they became aware of him. This guy just hanging out on the beach
with a notebook. And what was he wearing? A suit? Dig, man, what kind of crazy
trip was he on? And how old was he? He didn’t look that old, but he just seemed
old, you know, like there was no way he would know who the Beach Boys were, or
that he could possibly know anything about chopped and channeled woodies. What
kind of a nutso getup was he wearing? I mean, fer Chrissake, who in the hell
wears a suit to the beach, man?
And he asked them all of these really basic questions, it
was obvious he had never been surfing. They had to explain everything to him,
which they were only too happy to do. KA-SPLOSH, the surf came roaring in, and
it almost gets him wet, and he’s got these white buck shoes on, if he gets
those babies wet they are done for,
but zoom! He moves back real fast, and doesn’t get a drop on him. Nothing seems
to faze this guy, it’s like he’s off on his own out in some other time zone,
neither hip nor square, just in his own bag with his own groovy happening going
on.
He has this soft voice, like he doesn’t want to draw too
much attention to himself, despite the Beau Brummell wardrobe. He’s got this
real high, cresting forehead, with this mass of hair swooping over from left to
right. He pulls out this notebook, this great, hulking green notebook with the
spirals at the top, and he starts firing questions, one after the other. He’s
scribbling furiously, feverishly trying to get it all down on paper as they
tell him the dope on their lives.
Tom Wolfe takes on the art world! Tom Wolfe critiques the
leading theories in contemporary art! Tom Wolfe tells you all about the
different stages of being an artist, from the Boho Dance to the Consummation
which ensures critical success! Tom Wolfe takes on the mysteries of abstract
art! You can imagine him, can’t you, in his pristine white suit, squinting
close at an abstract canvas up on the wall of some Seventh Avenue gallery
uptown, one of those galleries that doesn’t want to look like they’re trying
too hard, that serves cheap box wine at show openings and has little
cheeseballs on platters, and those little one-bite brownies that the
receptionist ran out to get at Whole Foods on her lunchbreak. Delicious! The
receptionist is one of those girls you see at practically every gallery, the
fine-boned, sleek, mini-skirt wearing type, just out of college with a B.A. in
Art History; ready to conquer the art world! Wolfe has her sized up right
away-she flirts a little with the male customers, but just enough to make them
confused as to if she’s actually flirting or not. They can never tell, so they
keep coming back for more! And she’s eagerly solicitous of the female
customers, dropping little tidbits from her daily life into her conversations
with them to make her seem “relatable,” “friendly,” and not a “husband-stealing
bitch.” Wolfe keeps staring at the painting, and suddenly, WHOMP! He sees it!
He wonders to himself, why is it so damn flat? Why isn’t there any pigment
visible on the canvas? I’m looking at a painting, but why can’t I tell that
it’s a painting? It’s the damnedest thing! So he walks out of the gallery, with
his hat and his walking stick, and he ponders. He makes his way to the nearest
bookstore and finds their art section. He starts reading criticism. He reads
Clement Greenberg, the patron saint of Abstract Expressionism. And then he
learns about flatness! The sacred integrity of the picture plane! Wolfe becomes
determined to peel the layers of the onion that is contemporary art.
Here’s the longest piece I’ve written in Wolfe’s style, “Tom Wolfe on Donald Trump’s Presidential Campaign,” from August, 2015:
Author’s note: The piece that follows is a work of fiction,
and is not actually by Tom Wolfe. As I was reading a story in The New York Times about Donald Trump’s
visit to the Iowa State Fair yesterday, I thought, “How great would it be if
1960’s-era Tom Wolfe was covering Donald Trump’s Presidential campaign?” So I
decided to write this affectionate parody of Tom Wolfe’s writing style. I
invented all of the quotes uttered by Donald Trump in this piece.
BZZZZZZZZ. As the helicopter scuttles across the sky, the
Iowa crowd grows restless with excitement. “Is that him?” “In a helicopter?”
When it touches down at last, and the rotor blades stop whirring, a familiar
figure steps out. TRUMP! There he is! How does his hair look? He’s wearing a
hat! Trump strides out into the crowd, trailed by a phalanx of reporters and
several aides. Trump’s lips seem to be forever frozen in a petulant Jaggeresque
pout. And then there is his hair. Covered by a red baseball cap emblazoned with
the words, “Make America Great Again,” the famous orange-colored comb-over is
not to be seen today. MOOOOOO! In the distance cattle from the cattle barn make
their opinions known. Trump offers helicopter rides to the kids swarming around
him. When someone mentions the word “liability,” Trump shrugs his shoulders and
says, “Whatever, I’m covered. I’m worth $10 billion dollars. I’m good.” BZZZZZZ
goes the helicopter again, whisking away someone for a short ride.
The candidate walks towards the Agriculture building, where
the famous cow sculpture made out of butter resides. “A cow, made out of
butter? Wow, that’s fantastic,” Trump says. “You know,” he says to no one in
particular, “I’ve done deals with butter companies. Really great people. Great
product.” Inside the Agriculture building, Trump finds himself hemmed in by the
crush of people trying to get close to him. WHHIIIRRRRRR. The air conditioning
hums away, preserving the butter cow for the curious crowd. Trump is unable to
get close enough to the butter cow display to see it. This seems to frustrate
him, as he says, “You know, this building has a lot of potential. You could add
more floors to it, maybe a moving walkway or something so people could get to
the butter cow easier. Maybe have a golden display case for the butter cow. I
could really make this place huge and fantastic. Trump Des Moines, how does
that sound?” WHHHIIIRRRRRR. As Trump talks, his hands are in perpetual motion,
jabbing the air, stabbing to make a point. “America’s very weak right now” JAB!
“President Obama has been a total disaster” STAB! “The Chinese are crushing us
in trade” STAB! JAB! JAB!
Trump poses for selfies with cellphone-wielding people in
the crowd. CLICK! “I think what you’re saying needs to be heard right now.”
CLICK! “I loved The Apprentice!”
CLICK! “Did you try the pork chop on a stick?” CLICK! “Thanks so much for
coming to Iowa!” CLICK! After a short speech, Trump heads back to his
helicopter, thanks everyone for coming out to see him, and flies away.
BZZZZZZZZZZZ.
After Trump departed, I decided it was time to try some of
the fried foods. I bought a deep-fried Snickers bar. As I took my first bite, I
quickly wheeled around and grabbed some extra napkins. After all, I have to
keep this white suit spotless.
