Wednesday, May 23, 2018

My Tom Wolfe Parodies, by Mark C. Taylor


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.

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