The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Edward S. Herman �The Real Terror Network: Terrorism in Fact and Propaganda�

Started March 15 - Finished March 18, 2004; 270 pages. Posted 10 April 2004

Dear Mr. Carrico:

The Admissions Committee has completed its review of your application to the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia University. We received an unprecedented number of qualified applicants this year and although we cannot off you a place in the class of 2005 at this time, the Committee was very impressed with your abilities and would like to offer you a spot on the waiting list, from which applicants are admitted if attrition occurs.

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In other words, I�m to sit on the bench during the football season until the jerk quarterback breaks his leg in a barfight when he tries to slip the romantic lead female a date rape drug, and I happen to be infatuated with that same girl.

I�ve done these scenarios before, most notably when I lived in Hawaii during my fourth grade year. I was on the basketball team, and being as I had only recently moved there, didn�t have a lot of friends. It probably didn't help that I was the only white kid.

Anyhoo, our team did pretty well, though not from any effort on my part. I would be open, ready to score, but my teammates would rather throw the ball to their friends. When I did get the ball, I was chastised for either holding it too long, or throwing it too quickly.

Still, my team found ourselves in the playoffs. We were up against our rival, a team who thoroughly trounced us in our last meeting. The score remained close for the entire game.

Final quarter, a little more than two minutes to go and we were down by three points. Chuckie, a large Japanese/Samoan bully who didn't care for me, scored as the two-minute warning bell sounded.

When the clock started again, the opposing team charged the court, shot, and missed.

One minute, 30 seconds left.

Our team rebounded, pressed and passed down court. Shot and missed the rebound. Ball in opponent's hands.

One minute.

One guy one our team stole the ball, only to get pinned by three players.

Thirty seconds.

He looked for a place to pass to, but there was nobody in range who was open.

Nobody except for me.

He threw me the ball.

As if this weren't movie clich� enough, I sprinted down the court, twisted past my blocker, leapt into the air and shot as the crowd shouted the remaining seconds.

The final buzzer rang as the ball was in the air. Everything slowed to Lord of the Rings or The Passion of the Christ speed. The ball hit the rim and bounced up. It bounced again and circled around the rim. Finally, it looked as if the ball had decided to stop altogether and rest perfectly balanced on the rim.

And then it dropped in. We win the game by one point, going onto the championships.

This is where the music is supposed to swell. This is where the bullies on my own team are supposed to acknowledge my worth as a fellow player, and as a fellow human being. This is where the entire team is supposed to carry me on their shoulders, chanting my name. I waited for it all to happen.

Chuckie walked past and grumbled, �lucky shot.�

We lost the next game.

Anyway, so I�m a second-stringer for Columbia. Fine by me. Thanks for whomever included the bribe.


Rating: Worth selling to help pay my tuition at Columbia.

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