“Questions arose. Like, what in the f*ck was going on here, basically.”

It seemed like a good point in the Cannonball to dip my toe back into the elite Infinity Pool of highbrow reading — you know, capital L Literature — and Pynchon seemed like as good of a candidate for Respected Contemporary Author as any of them. But then of course I end up reading the book of his where the protagonist is altered on one of the many favorite substances of the sixties for most of the book and it’s generally about crime and hippies and shadowy criminal enterprises. Inherent Vice still counts toward my goal, I’m sure, but I still like my fancy intellectual books with a seedy underbelly, is what I’m saying. Also relevant: I didn’t see the movie.

Did I understand what was going on the whole time as I was reading? Absolutely not. But as far as I could piece together through the contact high I got while reading this, here is what happened: Doc Sportello, beach-dwelling PI and full-time pothead, is contacted by an ex-girlfriend who has some wild story about a plot to kidnap her current real-estate tycoon boyfriend. She’d like him to check it out if he wouldn’t mind, but before he knows it, another guy related to the big shot developer is dead, a surf punk sax player also connected somehow has to fake his own death, some strippers seem to know more than they let on, a dodgy dental practice coincidentally (see what I did there?) has the same name as a trafficking cargo ship, and somehow all of these moving parts have to do with the guy who did in fact go missing. Oh! And there is a cop who seems to always show up just in time to get Doc in trouble, except he also really seems like he’d like Doc to get to the bottom of it for him, because the LAPD may be involved too and so as department detective there are lines of questioning where Doc may actually have the advantage.

What you need to know, if you’re considering reading Inherent Vice, is that it is not inaccessible, but neither is it simple. The structure of the plot itself as a mystery/noir lends itself to the introduction of a lot of red herrings or people and places who are only marginally important, but add plenty of color to the narrative. Additionally, much of Doc’s stream of consciousness musings, as well as some deliberately opaque acid trip sequences, don’t lend themselves to straightforward prose. That said, if you’re paying attention, the book is in many places wickedly funny, with sharp dialogue, gentle jabs at hippie absentmindedness, and astute critical homage to the time and place. And when the mystery comes together, it on the one hand makes sense, but on the other hand, you may think, “That’s all?” Which is in itself rather amusing, since drugs have a way of making little details seem like a much better deal than they are. Or at least that’s what my friends tell me…