Chamblee54

This is a repost from 2015. It was a simpler time. … In 1977, Rolling Stone did a piece about a “counterculture writer” named Thomas Eugene Robbins. “Tommy Rotten,” is known for colorful phrasing. It is as if Vladimir Nabokov caught butterflies with psychedelic juice in their wings, and made a lepidopterist stew that allowed him behind the looking glass. … You can tell people that my goal is to write novels that are like a basket of cherry tomatoes—when you bite into a paragraph, you don’t know which way the juice is going to squirt.” Pictures today are from Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library
Tibetan Peach Pie: A True Account of an Imaginative Life is a TER autobiography. This accounts for the page references. … On page 25, TER was on an Asian honeymoon. A Sing snake crossed their path. A guide invited the snake to dinner. The reptile was prepared with enough red chili paste to give heartburn to the human blowtorch. TER felt as though he had gargled napalm. Later, on page 145, TER would describe “many a hot, sticky summer night, when a restless Richmond felt like the interior of a napalmed watermelon.”
TER is thirteen years old on page 63. He has not joined the church, given his soul to Jesus, and been assured of salvation. These are important items on the Southern Baptist bucket list. At the end of the service, the congregation sings “Just as I am,” and kids are shamed into salvation. The Baptist ritual of pressuring pre pubescent youth into a “commitment of faith” is morally dubious. Yes, this is better than what the Roman Pedophile Church likes to do with little boys, but that’s a technicality. … The man assigned to win the soul of TER was Dr. Peters. “tall, gaunt, and pale, with a weak damp smile and cold damp palms: shaking hands with him was like being forced to grasp the flaccid penis of a hypothermic zombie….more creepy than refrigerated possum slobber.”
At some point TER is on a ship, and editing a newspaper. “…the paper’s adviser, a Roman Catholic chaplain who possessed the purplish physiognomy and perpetually petulant pucker of the overly zealous censor.” Soon TER is in Nebraska, and buys his first automobile, a “1947 Kaiser … looked like the illegitimate child of a sperm whale and a pizza oven.” TER did not specify the gender.
The Fan was the hippie district of Richmond VA, although the 1954 version was considerably tamer than the summer of love variety. TER was reading books about zen. Learning zen, by reading a book, was similar to learning how to swim by reading a magazine. Or telling time by reading a newspaper. As Ben Hecht put it, “Trying to determine what is going on in the world by reading newspapers is like trying to tell the time by watching the second hand of a clock.” … “I’d better shut up now before the woo-woo alarms go off.”
The edited version of this nonsense ended before a purple paragraph. Purple prose has long been a derogatory phrase for overwrought wordsmithery. It is now the sunday after turkey day, in the year of our satan 2023. As TER liked to say in “Cowgirls,” the state of the world is desperate as usual. TER is either 91 or 87, depending on what mood google is in. We probably will not get another novel out of him. … There is probably a good quote to end this with, but I am too lazy to look for it.