James W. Loewen, �Lies Across America: What Our Historic Sites Got Wrong�
Something bad is going to happen. I don�t know why I know this. Worse, I don�t know when or why it�s going to happen, much less who it will happen to. I�m assuming that whatever it is, it�ll happen to me, as I�ve been jumpy about it and I don�t care about the rest of you.
All I know is something bad will happen. I don�t claim any paranormal abilities. In fact I think that superstition is a load of crap. I hope it is. Knock on wood. It still doesn�t change the gnawing feeling in my bones, right down to the marrow, that something cataclysmic is going to happen, and happen soon.
The feeling is stupefying. I spent three minutes today at an intersection, waiting for a chance to turn left where there was no traffic, only to then worry some sniper was fixing his bead on me as I waited. And if there were no snipers, then perhaps my inertia would make it easier for some meteorite to land directly on the driver�s side of my roof.
Walking around today I felt like a meerkat, looking everywhere for any possible trouble. My chest was heaving, imploring me to watch my back. And my back was telling me to look out for my head. My head said to ignore it, and to protect the family. I asked if he meant my mom, or perhaps my sister, and my hands reflexively covered my testicles in form of an answer.
I made it though the day, wondering why I felt so paranoid, and indeed, why I still do. I�m at home now, drinking gin and tonics, a new drink, as I was worried my whiskey may have gone sour in the two days I was gone from the house. I have visions of the floor giving way, dropping me to the first story where I would be crushed by the contents of the seven bookcases that surround the room. My cat just jumped over my legs and I can see the bookcases sway with her weight. I braced myself for the fall.
Or perhaps I�m just thinking this must be the end, as I haven�t had sex in three days. This would also explain why I keep reaching for my groin.
There really isn�t anything I can do at this point, so I might as well continue with these reviews. Remember, if I die, I wanna be buried with all my stuff.
Loewen, having a bestseller with Lies My Teacher Told Me, decided to bang the topic like a cheap drum and visit historical markers across the U.S. and explain how they were all misleading at best, and outright falsehoods at worst. Or maybe the other way around.
Most of these inaccuracies are sins of omission. If there�s a statue of a politician who founded the first library in the state, Loewen thinks it�s also important to mention that the guy was also Grand Wizard of the Klan and raped cuddly kittens in the men�s bathroom of the state capitol. His point is to show history with �warts and all� disclosure about what happened. He thinks this will make people, particularly children, more interested in their history.
This guy obviously has no children. If I�m wrong on this point, I�d say it�s fair to say his children probably hate him. Historical sites are boring enough as it is, and this guy wants to make the markers longer than the Vietnam Memorial, even it�s somebody who nobody�s ever heard about? The only way you could make it more excruciating for kids would be to have hot dog vendors surrounding the sites who sold nothing but liver and onions.
Don�t get me wrong, though. I didn�t hate this book. But I think it was far more interesting to find out how everybody and everything is full of shit later on in life, rather than having truth served up on a platter (or a historical marker).
Meanwhile, I�ll be awaiting Loewen�s new book, Lies Your Parents Told You in which he attacks the legends of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, God, and the Milkman Who Bears a Striking Resemblance to Your Little Brother.
