Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Friday, April 13, 2007

Vonnegut wrote more than once about how he was killing himself with cigarettes.
He lived longer than he expected, I wager. Good for him.
My grandma lived even longer smoking those things. My dad lost that bet.

At the food co-op last night I heard some lovely loud distorted guitar rock music. I asked the friendly young nose-ringed spike-haired cashier what the music was and she said, "I put on Come On Pilgrim by the Pixies because Kurt Vonnegut died. You know, Billy Pilgrim."

Yes, I knew.

A very sweet tribute.

I haven't read Vonnegut in years, but Breakfast Of Champions made a deep impression on me when I read it in junior high. Lennon & the Beatles were my ideal rockers: funny, impassioned, pained, unembarrassable, tender, excessive. Vonnegut's book struck me the same way and I thought, "This book is rock-and-roll." (Somehow, at that time, I don't remember lust being part of my rock-and-roll ethos.)

Condolences to those who loved him personally.

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