Ernest Hemingway, �Death in the Afternoon�
Okay, okay, we know Hemingway is to be dealt with in song, so here we go.
This book is reviewed to Elton John�s �Saturday Night�s Alright for Fighting�. If that�s not punk enough for you, I�ll remind you that the first time I came across this song, it came from Verbal Abuse. And if that�s too old school for you, apparently Nickleback does the song as well, although I can�t confirm that, as I have no idea who Nickleback is � I�m old, remember? Anyway...
---
Hemingway hadn't written in days
His last book went back a couple of years
His editors thought it was time to stop
Ernest from spending all his time on beer
See, the old man was drunker than a barrel full of monkeys
And the people in Spain just didn't care
The editor�s said it was cute as long as he produced
�What he writes about, we don�t care�
Oh...
His books have always been aggravating
With too much detail always put in
But Hemingway likes to write about fighting
Get a little action in
It�s about a useful as a tourist guide
It tells you all the hot spots at night
But the guide was published 60 years ago
And there�s got to be more to do than see bullfights
While other authors fight for a story to write
Ernest got to pound out any crap he likes
As long as it fits in his manly motif
Of guns, booze, and hunting, and those STD�s!
These things that I say may sound like spite
When I mention that Ernest always seems so trite
If I wanted to see animals fighting for the fans
I could spend all my nights at the fucking Caravan!
Ohhhh...
His books have always been aggravating
With too much detail always put in
But Hemingway likes to write about fighting
Get a little action in
He writes about hookers and where to get good booze
In case you or I might like to try it
Like I really want to see some Spaniard in tights
Gatting about with a cape and a big fucking knife
Hemingway, Hemingway, Hemingway �
Hemingway, Hemingway, Hemingway �
Hemingway, Hemingway, Hemingway �
Likes bullfights.
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Okay, now I got that out of my system. So I read this on the train to San Francisco, on my way to an informational session with Columbia University. I got there a little early, so I finished the last of the book in a nearby bar, reading about how when the Matador, when showing signs of skill or bravery, would get huge cheers of �Ol�!� If the Matador showed signs of cowardice or just seemed unprepared, the audience threw seat cushions into the ring or at the bullfighter. I finished the book and walked into the hotel.
I got to the conference twenty minutes early.
�Ol�!�
Still, with as early as I was, there were several people there who were earlier than myself, and I couldn�t get a seat near the Director of Admissions for Columbia, which blew any chances I had to slip him a bribe, as I had planned. I found a seat more toward the back, avoiding the seat cushions thrown by spectators.
Upon entering, they gave us some bulletins and propaganda for Columbia, and I glanced over the sample test they used for the entrance exam for last year. Their test is divided into subdivisions; there is an area that lists several facts and quotes from a police source about an accident. Your job is to make an interesting and informative news story from this information. That was no problem, and I could hear the spectators cheer in my head.
�Ol�!�
The second part involves setting up an editorial in the style of the New York Times. Without giving you any reference material, they ask you to pick a subject and write a 500-word essay. Here�s a sample: �Discuss the current state of affirmative action in the United States. When and why was it created? Whom does it help or hurt? Who will decide its future? How? Use current and historical examples to answer.�
Little droplets of sweat formed on my head. I decided to move to the third part of the test, trying not to notice the seat cushions flying past my face.
The third part tests your general knowledge of the news of today. You have 35 minutes to answer 25 questions. I fished in my backpack to find a pen. The seat cushion hit me in square between the eyes right when I realized that I hadn�t brought one. But I remembered the table in the hallway, lined up with pens inscribed with the Columbia University logo.
�Ol�!�
Back to the test. Question 1: Name 6 of the 9 Justices that sit on the U.S. Supreme Court. I fill in blanks. Rehnquist. The crowd roars its approval. O�Conner. The cheer rises. Thomas. The crowd goes wild. I go to slot four...
Uhh... Question 2: Name to Mayor of New York City. Easy. Michael Bloomberg. The crowd recovers. Question 3: Karl Rove: Uh... Bush yes-man, but what the hell is his title? I dodge and twist, moving to question 4: Bernard Law. The bull charges. Seat cushions fly. Question 9: The Gulf of Tonkin (historical & current significance?) I can see the horns and there�s nowhere to run. Question 11: Lee Bollinger. On a test that doesn�t even matter, I�m starting to panic. Question 16: January 16, 1991.
President George Herbert Walker Bush�s so called �Line in the Sand� to Iraq! I know that! Back off you fucking bull!
The informational meeting starts, so I can forget how I just failed last year�s application. The Director welcomes us on behalf of himself and Columbia President Lee Bollinger, whom I recognize from my test. I scribble that in my notes. Later, when the director goes through the process with us, he asks who knew question 11. Nobody raised their hand.
Nobody but me, that is. He picks me out and I answer, �the President of Columbia University.�
�Ol�!�
Finally, especially as this is getting a little long, he talks about people that aren�t currently in school, which applies to me. (I graduated, remember? Hello?) And he says that people who have been out of school for six months should have current press clippings to submit, as they want to know you�re serious about journalism.
I don�t have any recent press clippings (Not entirely true, the De Anza paper ran an edited version of my conciliatory statement after the Schwarzenegger election, but somehow I don�t think that piece will impress them).
By the time I�m finished with the meeting, I�m wondering why I want to set myself up for failure once again with applying to this school. Is it really that important to show up all the teachers and counselors I�ve had previously to get into a school that I can�t afford anyway? I walk out of the hotel, wondering how hard the entrance exams would be in order to get a Masters in Creative Writing.
The funk stays with me all night and into the next day as I walk along Haight Street trying to find Green Doc Marten boots, and failing in that as well. The trash all around the sidewalks look exactly like seat cushions every where I go.
I leave back to San Jose, earlier than expected, just so I can catch a train without having to wait an hour. I arrive at the station at 7 p.m., five minutes before the next train leaves. I consider waiting, as I had been rushing around all day, and a half-hour doesn�t seem so bad.
I decide to take it � home, for once, sounds like a good place to be. I board the train and find a seat away from everybody on the top level, trying to read but unable to concentrate.
When we near Palo Alto, the train stops before reaching the platform. I watch a small Chinese girl holding too many bags, waiting for the train doors to open. They don�t. Ten minutes pass. Then 15. We still haven�t moved. Then we hear a panicky voice come over the loudspeaker.
�We hit somebody, we�re going to be here for a while.�
The intercom switches off. I can see sirens in the distance. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Somebody played bullfighter with Caltrains, and they were gored.
And I�m on the train. I can get statements from the passengers. I can try and get a statement from the driver, I might even convince them to let me talk with the cops and paramedics outside. When I get home, I can find out statistics on how often this happens and incorporate it into the story. And I can send this in to either the Merc or Metro, or The Palo Alto Weekly. I can get it published, and use this as one of the clippings.
�Ol�!�
But I don�t. And the reason I don�t is that no matter how much the idea of being a reporter appeals to me, the one thing I�ve never done is chase ambulances. I go back to my book, and think to myself about how the tests for a Masters in Creative Writing probably aren�t very hard at all.
