Noam Chomsky, "Class Warfare: Interviews with David Barsamian"
�I have sort of a feeling that I�ve saturated the market with books.� -Noam Chomsky
Gee, ya think? I think the only subject I haven�t seen a Chomsky book on is the success of Matt Damon. It won�t surprise me when it comes out, however, and I�ll probably buy it.
In the meantime, is there really anything new I can say about a Chomsky book? Probably not, though I must say I�m enjoying these interview books more than his actual works. Brevity can be a good thing, particularly with Noam.
So, I think I�ll use this space to talk about me. Alan called me at work at about 4 p.m. to inform me that I would be playing the dreaded Catan with him and his buddies tonight. I wasn�t really ready for it: I was already tired, it was a really crazy day all day at work, and I really just wanted to finish this book and go to sleep.
I got home from work at about 7:10 p.m. When I arrived, Smoking Buddy reminded me that it was our roommates� birthday, and he had called to tell us to meet at Taco Bravo. I hadn�t eaten all day, so I was more than willing to go. I brought this book with me.
We got to Taco Bravo. For those not familiar with it, let's just say that it was probably an old Taco Bell until it decided to stop paying the franchise fees. Also, Taco Bell gives out rewards for the cleanest restaurant, and Taco Bravo don�t need no stinkin� awards.
The way Jerrod (yet another roommate of mine) explains it, Taco Bravo was an important part of the Vietnam War: the planes would fly along the borders of Cambodia and the radio operator would call out, �Charley Tico Niner, Time to deploy Taco Bravo.� That was the signal to drop the bombs. And then the children burned.
The same facets hold true today. I had a super burrito that would kill the NVA in a heartbeat. Tempting fate, I also had a Del Prima Taco.
If only I had been able to go home after that everything would have been all right. If I had gone home, I could have brought new definitions to the term �projectile vomiting,� though not in the old-fashioned sense.
I�m talking about down-low rumblings, just in case you�re incredibly obtuse.
As it stood, we went to Ross�s girlfriend's house where I was trapped, not having any way to escape from Campbell, and even worse, being stuck at the house of a girl whom I�ve had a crush on since I first met her. Afraid to move and more afraid of the consequences of what would happen if I did, I lay on the floor and read.
I finished 130 pages of this book on their floor, my stomach (amongst other things) churning. This coming from a guy who can take shots of straight Tabasco sauce. That�s how powerful Taco Bravo is.
Eventually, the rest of the party came inside to inform us that we were now going to Boswell�s.
Boswell�s probably needs some explanation as well. Boswell�s is where people who are over 35 and still desperately trying to look hip go to die. Or to mate. I�m not clear which one it is. (Of course, I shouldn�t talk as I�m 32 and still dye my hair stupid colors.)
It�s filled with white-trash burnouts and hoochies who give hoochies a bad name. The last time I went there, again against my will, I listened to three football hooligans talk about how they should approach a 45-year-old woman for a proposed gang bang. I did not want to go to this place.
But I didn�t have any choice. We walked in, I stood by the side and listened to the terrible house cover band while they played everything from �Rollercoaster� to �Ice Ice Baby.� Meanwhile, various people jerked and swayed on the dance floor.
I no longer fear Hell.
I found myself going outside to smoke several times. On one outing, I got flagged down by one of the dance freaks. He introduced himself to me. We�ll call him Carl, because that�s his name.
�What�s your name?� Carl asked.
�Dean.�
�Dan.�
�No, Dean. Like James Dean. Only different.�
�Different how?�
�James Dean is dead.�
�Hmmm. Good point. You like this place?�
�No.�
�No? Why not?�
�Because the drinks are overpriced, the band is so loud that you can�t actually talk inside, and they�re playing music I hate. And besides, the people here...� — I remembered that he was shaking his booty so furiously that I told our crowd to watch him closely to make sure he didn�t swallow his tongue — �... aren�t the people I usually hang out with,� I quickly amended.
Carl then told me a lot of stories, although none of them ever went anywhere, and I was soon wondering what he wanted with me. Was he trying to pick up on me? Was he trying to sell me drugs? Was he trying to get me to invest in seashore property in Florida? I don�t know, because he never finished a sentence. But he mentioned topics that could have gone in any of these directions.
�I know Dave Matthews,� he said finally when I asked him what his point was.
�Okay...�
�And so,� he said, �what I want to know is, if I dared you — you, Dan, pay attention — if I asked you to dance with a fat girl right now, would you do it?�
And people wonder why I read all the goddamn time.
