Живой культовый классик лютто-бешшенно продактплейсментит российское мороженое и лично тов. Децла.

“No, no, it’s real ice cream,” Igor explains. “Russian ice cream. Not this Euromarket food-police shit.” “High butterfat content,” March translates. “Soviet-era nostalgia, basically.” “Fucking Nestlé,” Igor rooting through the freezer. “Fucking unsaturated vegetable oils. Hippie shit. Corrupting entire generation. I have arrangements, fly this in once a month on refrigerator plane to Kennedy. OK, so we got Ice-Fili here, Ramzai, also Inmarko, from Novosibirsk, very awesome morozhenoye, Metelitsa, Talosto… today, for you, on special, hazelnut, chocolate chips, vishnya, which is sour cherry…”

«For a while Maxine has been aware of peripheral armwaving and hand jive, not to mention quiet declamation and deejay sound effects, from the direction of Misha and Grisha, who turn out to be great fans of the semiunderground Russian hip-hop scene, in particular a pint-size Russian Rastafarian rap star named Detsl— having committed to memory his first two albums, Misha doing the music and beatboxing, Grisha the lyric, unless she has them switched around… Igor pointedly consulting a white-gold Rolex Cellini, “Do you think hip-hop is good for them? You have children? What about them, do they…” “The stuff I was listening to at that age, I’m in no position — but this number they’re doing now, it’s kinda catchy.” “‘ Vetcherinka U Detsla,’” Grisha sez. “‘ Party at Detsl’s,’” explains Misha. “Wait, wait, let’s do ‘Ulitchnyi Boyets’ for her.” “Next time,” Igor rising to leave, “promise.”»

Thomas Pynchon, Bleeding Edge. Penguin Group US. Kindle Edition.

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