"Dwayne Michael Carter, Jr. (born September 27, 1982 in New Orleans, Louisiana), better known by his stage name Lil Wayne, is an American rapper."
"Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Jr. (born May 8, 1937) is an American writer based in New York City, noted for his dense and complex works of fiction."
Are they so different, these two Americans? One a yankee, the other a southern boy; born decades apart, both would rise up from the mundane American sea and bitch-slap the country hard on the mouth. O, these two legendary titans; these two gigantic juniors; these two commanding generals of self-armed clone armies which wield bazookas that discharge unstoppable torrents of wit, vigor, action, sex, comedy, violence, history, religion, futurism--long & tangled ropes of words (in the languages of Milton, of Voltaire, Richard Feinman) that snake about and bandy with meaning, disregard, bandy again, squeeze your sister's breasts, breath in your ear, take a bite of your sandwich, and then quietly wait while you give up the contents of your wallet and the days of your calendar.
Both Dedication 2 and The Crying of Lot 49 knocked me immediately on my ass and made me a devotee in a span of 2 days. It took me several months and more than one attempt to read Gravity's Rainbow; I had the same problem with The Carter II. But this pairing goes beyond mere superficial comparisons. In fact, fuck that. disregard what I wrote above (and don't, for the love of Christ, attempt to read any Pynchon while listening to Lil Wayne--especially don't mix the orgy scene on the riverboat in G.R. with "Did It Before"...I graduated Summa from Princeton while high on Oxycontin and holding a thermos full of Johnny Walker and A&W root-beer, and I even I would not attempt such a feat). Just know that there are no other writers like Pynchon; no other rappers like Weezy F. Baby (please say the baby). And, for that matter, Lil Wayne is also a writer, isn't he? And as for Thomas Pynchon, well, I don't know if he can rap, but he can certainly design (and, ostensibly, build) a multiple-warhead missile to launch at your mom's house (where you, no doubt, live in the basement "apartment") and kill you 46 ways from Sunday, motherfucker, so don't go doubting Pynchon's ultra-thuggitude.
When I first decided to write all of this out, I was going to pull out all of the stops--citations from their various works, analytical breakdowns, footnotes, and the rest. But the fact is, the very second that I started writing, I lost my shit. I couldn't fucking handle it. The shit's mad visceral, son; the internet can't hope to convey any real information or, dare I say, emotion about these men (though Thomas Pynchon may have invented the internet). It can only pay homage, act as a temporary shrine.
Fuck, I've worked myself into a frenzy here. I'm speechless. I need a drink. Tommy P. once said, "Why should things be easy to understand?" Weezy F. once said, "My chain Toucan Sam; that tropical colors you can't match that; Gotta be abstract."
They're goddamn right, goddamn it.
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