Tom Robbins RIP

An unedited, timed write upon hearing the news that Tom Robbins had died.

from Wikipedia, a photo of the iconic cover of Still Life With Woodpecker

Tom Robbins*** died yesterday. He was 92. His book, ***Still Life with Woodpecker, was a really big deal when I was in college. Everyone I knew was reading it and recommending that it be read and you’d see it lying around on sofas and coffee tables and peeking out of backpacks. Robbins, it turns out, had attended Virginia Commonwealth University where I was in school. Not only was he a VCU student, but he had been in their Mass Commuications Department. (Did he graduate?) Mass Comm was my major and the school took great pride in mentioning that Tom Robbins had been there.

I was a very naïve and uneducated – truly – young woman at 19 years of age. I wouldn’t even call me a woman. Girl. Perhaps that’s why Still Life was such a revelation and puzzle to me. I imagined its main character – something Hankshaw? – to look a bit like me. A skinny slatternly blonde teenager. Except I didn’t have the oversized thumbs that allowed her to hitchhike so prolifically. The whole hitchhiking thing confused me. If there was a metaphor with the thumbs and the ride catching it was lost on me. Instead, I worried that it was a sure prescription for getting into the worst sort of trouble.

There was also a whole thing about whooping cranes. Birds I’d heard of but wasn’t interested in. Robbins made a big deal out of them and I think they had quite a moment in the spotlight as a result. Everyone was talking about whooping cranes but, honestly, I thought who cares about a bunch of big birds gathering in a big field in Nebraska?

The real whopper in Still Life, however, was an icky, detailed description of anal sex. Something that never would have occurred to me in a zillion years. Sissy Hankshaw – I think Sissy was her name, I’m going to look it up after I finish this writing – was hanging out with an old hermit dude. He sounded rather unattractive, besides being old. They were taking peyote (why?!) and sitting around on a cliff of some sort. He was very wise, as old hermits in 1970s books and movies tend to be, and he taught her how to literally take it up the ass. I recall there being lots of lubricating and opening and stretching. Slowly working up to full on penetration. This was supposed to be liberating and spiritually elevating. As I recall.

It was shocking and silly and boring to me. “Why bother with all that nonsense?” I thought. For whose benefit? Not Sissy’s! Not mine!

Maybe I should re-read it, though I’d imagine it hasn’t aged well. Some loner dude’s weird fantasy about a lost hippie girl who could be manipulated and groomed to suit his pervert proclivities. I remember what the book cover looked like, but I’ve no idea where the still life or the woodpecker fit into the story. Perhaps it will remain a mystery to me.

***I did look Robbins and the novel up after writing this, and there’s a LOT I got completely wrong! For starters, the book was Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, not Still Life With Woodpecker. Ha ha ha. I think I read them both, but now I can’t remember anything about Still Life except the book cover. My apologies to my young and present self and to anyone who appreciated Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. Having read the Wikipedia page, I don’t think I’ll bother rereading either novel.