He Wrote Me Back...R.I.P. Tom Wolfe

I'd just missed him at Alan Flusser's atelier one afternoon. And a few years before that I fingered one of his white jackets on a hangar at Vincent Nicolosi's flourescently intimidating workshop.

I wrote him a letter many years ago. And he wrote me back. If the house was on fire, my Wolfe letter would be one of the first things I'd grab.

His radioactive lexicon suited the hell out of me and I absolutely loved what his words made my imagination do. He'd almost put my mind's eye out sometimes.

And he was Southern. And reviled by Norman Mailer.

R.I.P. Tom Wolfe