Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

Personal

by

My mother, ever the intrepid homemaker upon the once-a-year occasion that finds me in our house for three consecutive days, rose with dawn this morning to acquire the last few items on our Italian Christmas Grocery List. We do not make ham. We do not eat turkey. For us, Christmas is all about a inordinately large pot of gravy, some sort of homemade pasta, and upwards of a dozen eggs worth of scappels. However, since i left for school, Christmas has also been the chance for the two of us to collectively gorge ourselves on high-cholesterol Italian desserts. This was the reason Elaine was out of the house just after eight this morning.


While i am a cheesecake addict through and through, my mother tends to veer more towards pastries and chocolates. This year she decided that my jumbo-cheesecake would get the axe in favour of an equally massive tiramisu, and the bakery informed her that she’d have to arrive “pretty early” to secure a nummy liquor-soaked cake for herself. They literally told her that people would be lined up around the block before the subway started running; she took it with a grain of salt and got in the car during the back half of Good Morning America.


8:25 — “Hey, it’s me… i can’t believe you actually woke up this early. … Whatever. Listen, i’m just swinging by the pastry place and running some quick errands. … Yeah, i’ll be at your apartment by ten.”


Much to my mother’s chagrin (and my endless amusement), the line at Isgro’s was around the block … not only around the block, but nearly motionless in a dead-pan imitation of its ticket-line cousin i endured while flying last week.


9:30 — “Peter, hey, it’s me … i’ve been in line for about an hour. … You should see it, it’s a madhouse … I’ll call you before i come to pick you up. … Yeah, i should be there around ten-thirty.”

And, not only was this line packed to the gills with a cheery assortment of dietary die-hard degos who had the presence of mind to bring along folding chairs and thermoses, but it was being patrolled by a Mr. and Mrs. Claus — her with pastry samples, and him with a tray of Amaretto in tiny disposable shot-glasses. Furthermore, the local news was interviewing people up and down the line, kindly declining several offers of liquid warmth … via Mr. Claus as well as the crowd at large (who apparently came equipped). Did i mention it was about 43 degrees outside?


10:35 — “Um, Peter, it’s me … Yes, i’m still in line. … No, i can’t even see the doors from here. Santa keeps asking me if i’d like a drink. … Oh, no, I should be in by eleven.”

Upon her finally arriving (let’s call it @ twelvish) my mother had bought half our housecat’s weight in Italian desserts, and she blithely informed me that she was going to be on the noon and five-o’clock news, the latter of which she was taping at that very moment.


I skipped over the bit where i hid all of the liquor in my apartment so my grandmother could come up and see it (“Jesus, do you have enough steps in this place? I swear, i’d have a heart attack with all these goddamned steps.”), and also the bit where i got zero sleep to finish my mother’s freaking Christmas present that she had better appreciate.

Does anybody rememer last Christmas? I seem to remember it being cuter than this…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/12/8174145/

by

But, i miss it. I miss going to sleep with the huge book splayed open somewhere in the middle on the pillow next to me. I miss sneaking a peak forward to see how long i had to wait for another Pemulis appearance. Infinite Jest became a placeholder in my life for the dependency that it reviles … on entertainment, on liquor, on drugs, on other people … watching the characters in their endless dance of all of the above and even more left me free to do what i needed to do in my life without feeling the elastic pull of any of my various addictive tendencies in one direction or another.

As soon as i finished the last seven pages my grandmother was in the room, chirping like a bird. I had somehow managed to stave her off by showing her how close to finished i was, but i found myself without a defense and my first thought was “i need a drink.” I’ve never needed a drink before; in fact, i haven’t been drinking especially often lately. Suddenly, it became the focal point of my day: coming home to my empty apartment and getting blitzed enough so that everything was fuzzy around the edges like a peach and i could simmer quietly down into silence and sleep. Imagining the slippery slope to unconsciousness i might take later was enough to save me from the endless bickering of my septuagenarian family-members, and to get my on the plane.


When i left the hospital i wanted, more than anything else, to be somewhere other than in my own head. Yes, i wanted to go home. Yes, i was hungry. Most of all, though, i was craving an opportunity to poke at my perceptions and rattle my reasons. I wanted to feel disconnected in a wholly opposite way from how i felt in the hospital. And, i did. It was perhaps the most excruciatingly stupid single night of my life, but i woke up the next morning with that binge-stupidity as a tangible buffer between my sick and confined self and my well self — the two never saw an intersection because i made sure to remove myself from where they might’ve met.

This has become the function of substance to me, suddenly … separation. I’ve always thought that anything potentially addictive would be dangerous when it stopped just being fun and started being useful and i was entirely right, but i managed to forget about the entire situation while i had that thick book on my pillow filled with its own endless fucked up addicts to draw my escapism from. Now it’s gone, and i am set back to my continuing reality.


And, importantly: alone — no more characters to keep me up at night. So, maybe it wasn’t a reaction to the novel, but to the mental company it provided.

I’m not sure. I’m going to sleep on it.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/12/8138240/

by

I finished Infinite Jest this morning on the floor of my grandmother’s bedroom in Florida. It’s over. Done. Completed. 1088 pages in a cover with the exact same colors as my second demo cd, starting while marooned in a hospital bed and finished while marooned in an retirement condo.

Somehow finishing it only seems like half as much an accomplishment as starting it. Starting a 1k+ page book, especially this particular 1k+ book, you need motivation, interest, and all of your wits about you as you are introduced to a seemingly endless cast of characters in no specific order, chronological or otherwise. You also should probably keep a notepad and several bookmarks handy. And make sure to rotate your reading posture every few dozen pages so that you don’t lose any limbs.

The great failing of Infinite Jest – and, believe me, it definitely fails – is two-fold. The first problem i (inevitably) had with it is that it featured a total lack of editing. Yes, everything was spelt as it should have been, and the grammar and syntax was impeccable where applicable. In fact, the writing was nearly perfect. The problem was that there was too damned much nearly perfect writing … too good to want to skim over, but absolutely non-vital to the story. Endless footnotes regarding the manufacturers of the umpteen prescription drugs each character is addicted to. Lengthy passages in ebonic street-slang to introduce a minor character who has no cumulative effect on the story at large. A complex subplot about the pursuit of happiness that is basically never resolved. David Foster Wallace is a great master of prose, but that’s all he seems to be … his plot doesn’t resolve it’s three major thrusts — my second major problem with the novel: the entire latter two hundred pages feel like a digression rather than a progression and the damned book ends with a wholly irrelevant flashback that would have been better suited as an introduction of Don Gately rather than an end to the book. I’m all for novels that leave readers with questions, but we are left in the dark about Hal, Orin, Pemulis, Stice, Wayne, Gately, Joelle, Marathe, Steeply, and all of the rest of our favourites; a re-read of the opening passage will give you an idea of where they all wound up, but not how they got there.


Essentially, Wallace set up a Jest too Infinite to follow through on; namely, a riveting and perfect novel so grand in scope and scheme that he is unable (or unwilling) to end it in any way in keeping with the rest of the novel. Yes, this is part of the jest, but it is also the mark of a sloppy conceptualist who should have had an editor take a hatchet to revisionist US history, endlessly tepid passages about Himself’s youth, the 20+ little buddies introduced in one lump sum, Hal’s sidebar trip to teddy-bear-land, and what turns out to be a novel in itself about Gately. Yes to the hilariously unnarrated conversations within the Incandenza clan. Yes to the laugh-out-loud Estachon game that makes Quidditch look like bumper-bowling. Yes to Pemulis and his hat full of narcotic wonders. Yes to Marathe and Steeply’s debate on the pursuit of happiness. In fact, yes to the entire world-weary tone of a society that is addicted to everything, including entertainment, and doesn’t know when to stop.


In a way the end of the novel is the perfect allegory for the the film that is the perfect allegory for the novel, but in failing to deliver the goods on any of the nearly dozen major plot threads he had been weaving together the entire time, David Foster Wallace ultimately proves himself an inept cock-tease of a writer who couldn’t help but throw all of his many tricks at the reader without every taking the time to bring anything quite to a climax.. Because, frankly, despite every indication that you’re headed there, you aren’t.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/12/8137700/