It looks like New York got so mad at me for abandoning it for five days that it tried to punish me by heralding my return with a fuck-off blizzard. Well guess what, city? All you managed to do was delay my flight home by thirty minutes, allowing me more time to make out on a hammock in the sunshine, and give me a half day at work. You know, for a city that thinks it's so tough, you are not effective at enacting revenge. Speaking of sunshine...
A year after California real estate mogul Pierce Inverarity dies, his ex-girlfriend Oedipa Maas finds out that she was named executor of his estate. And what a vast, twisty, potentially conspiracy theory-filled estate it is. She discovers the existence of an alternate, underground postal service, and keeps running into signs pointing her towards a conspiracy dating back to the 16th century, revolving around murdered maybe-princes, German war movies, pornographic papal plays, California bookstore arson, and stamp auctions. Oedipa doesn't know if she's going insane, or if she really is finding evidence of a worldwide conspiracy, or if she's hallucinating, or if Inverarity set the whole thing up just to fuck with her.
It's a cool and unique read, with some great descriptive language ("He read the letter and withdrew along a shy string of eyeblinks.") and punny names (Inigo Barfstable. Emory Bortz. Wendell "Mucho" Maas. Mike Fallopian. Genghis Cohen), but I don't know if it was enough to make me want to dive into the gigantic time-suck/mind-fuck that is Gravity's Rainbow. This was enough Pynchon for now.
One of many funny details: Oedipa's lawyer, "wanting at once to be a successful trial lawyer like Perry Mason and, since this was impossible, to destroy Perry Mason by undermining him," had been writing, for years, The Profession v. Perry Mason, A Not-so-hypothetical Indictment.