Tom Robbins made me envious in the best possible way. His books were the kind I’ve always wanted to write. Simultaneously profound, original, and funny. The man never met a metaphor he couldn’t turn into a mind-expanding drug, and his work was filled with them. He plied them with such panache so that each bite was a chocolatey mouthful of velvety mousse topped with fresh raspberry coulis. The flavor exploded on the tongue without remorse or respite. I read him gasping for another turn that would carry with it a sense of pending enlightenment and devilish insouciance, a mixture of spice and sweet that covered the meninges of the brain in an intoxicating hard-candy shell that melted in the mind, not in the hand.
He told me once when I asked him to join in a collective project I was trying to assemble, that he would have to pass, because he wrote too slowly. I had once read that he never rewrote. Each sentence was perfect on arrival. I found that hard to believe, but his craft was so impeccably well-written, I could see him mining each phrase with a slow deliberation that bordered on meditation. Needless to say my envy was a combination of mint and Kelly Green.
My first encounter with Mr. Robbins was in the now long defunct LA bookstore, the Bodhi Tree. My dear friend, Keetje, whose radiance stopped hearts, and could have been one of Robbins’ heroines, handed me a copy of Another Roadside Attraction and said, “You must read this.” How could I not. Holy shit, I thought when I did.
Many years later when I asked him to sign a first edition of ARA I had cherished for decades, he laughed and said that he only had one or two of these left himself, because as he said, “I used to give them to woman I met with hopes that I’d get laid.” Well, yeah. If I were Tom Robbins and could write like that, I wouldn’t hesitate to follow suit. Arguably, the rampant sexism of his ploy could be forgiven from the man who would eventually create Sissy Hackshaw and her marvelous giant thumbs, in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. A book replete with blatant political incorrectness, which could also be forgiven. As Sissy awoke in the cave of the character Robbins nefariously named, The Chink, after the two of them had spent a week of nonstop screwing. Much to her surprise, Sissy found him gone. ( One of my favorite sayings, “Found missing) She did find scrawled on one wall of the cave “Everything is sacred, nothing is profane.” And on the other wall, “ Nothing is sacred, everything is profane.” Who says enlightenment can’t be found in a cave? That scene defined my perspective of the world then as it does now.
Was there a favorite book? Do I have a favorite child? Probably Jitterbug Perfume would come close, but Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climes certainly would give it a good ride for the money.
But favorites are fickle. I loved Robbins’ swagger and lilt, his courageous outrageousness and his impeccable authenticity. I once spent a half a day driving up and down the streets of La Connor, Washington, searching for signs of his telltale Jaguar so I could just say hello and maybe buy him a drink. When I finally found the car, I decided not to bother him for fear of clay feet. It turned out I needn’t have feared, he was exactly who he was.
Forevermore, he and his extraordinary talent will be greatly missed. Perhaps, he got out just in time. His obit said when he died he was surrounded by those that loved him and his favorite animals.
Rest easy, good sir. I am forever in your debt in this lifetime and invariably some to come.