Slavoj �i�ek, �Iraq: The Borrowed Kettle�
Yes, this is a real person. And I thought I got made fun of for my name when I was little.
This is yet another book that I got from Maximum RockNRoll for review purposes. �i�ek is a Senior researcher for Social Studies in Ljubljana. That�s right, Ljubljana. That�s in Slovenia. It�s the land of people who have ridiculous names. I don�t know about you, but whenever I�m trying to make sense of American foreign policy and world affairs, Slovenia is precisely who I look to for guidance.
This is wake-up call for those who might think that it�s cool that I�m writing for MRR.
Since I have to write about the actual book for the review, I�ll skip discussing it here. Just in case you are interested, it�s full of that typical Ljubljanian party-line doctrine they�ve been espousing since their country was formed, which I believe was about ten minutes ago. The first essay, concentrating on Bush�s war with Iraq has some great points, and is told in a style that�s fairly interesting. When he moves to less-pressing areas, the snooze factor comes into play yet again.
Now I just need to think of 600 more words to insert to make that point. In the meantime, let�s talk about me.
My entire life seems to be on hold. I can�t get Columbia University to return my calls. I need to start thinking about applying to other schools, but I haven�t had the time. Work has been so busy that by the time I finish, I�m too tired to do much of anything except curl up with my girlfriend. And I�m broke.
And I have eleven books waiting for me to review.
It�s the stagnancy that�s killing me here, which is odd, as I�ve been busy as fuck. I can�t figure out what to do, and thus I�m stuck in this weird inertia. I�m jealous of Joe�s ability to pick up and take off. I need to get back in school. I need to go back to Hawaii. I need to do something besides complain about all of these things.
And I need to figure out why I�m unhappy.
The strange thing is, I think this mood swing stemmed from a guy who tracked me down after reading my book. I was working last week, and it was really busy as soon as I opened the front door. I was rummaging though the twelve boxes of books some guy had brought, just so I could get to the six boxes that somebody else was carting in. And then I noticed from the corner of my eye guy walking in, tentatively clutching a battered copy of my book in both hands.
He sidestepped the guy carting in his boxes of John Grisham novels and stood beside me, nervously asking if I was Dean. When I said I was, he told me that he had read my book. I wasn�t sure if I should apologize, or thank him. But then he started gushing about how he really liked it.
As I said, it was really fucking busy. I tried to talk to him while sorting though books like a madman, pulling out things I wanted for the store while trying to find a clear flat space to put the ones I didn�t want down while I dug through the boxes. He was trying to tell me that he had also gone to Bath on the San Jose State program, but I was constantly interrupted by people who wanted to know where the self-help section was. Then the phone would ring. Then somebody else would cart in bags of books, and I�d have to talk to these people.
And although this guy didn�t remember me, I knew him. He was in a class with me when I first started at San Jose State, and he bugged the hell out of me. In fact, he bugged me so much that I even remembered his name, something I can�t even do for some ex-lovers. He was the kind of guy who would talk a lot in class, though it never had anything to do with the subject at hand. I remember at one point during the class that I actually chewed him out for wasting class time with something that didn�t have anything to do with the subject. Normally, professors don�t put up with that but this one let me rant, I suspect, because she was sick of him as well.
Anyway, he stood there now, and when I wasn�t directly helping some other customer he would try and talk to me about my book, but he said something to the extent of, �You know, Bukowski would have nailed that girl.�
I stopped sorting books and looked at him.
�So did I,� I said finally. �Wasn�t that clear?�
�Oh yeah, but he would have written about it!� he said.
�I guess you�re right,� I said. �But that�s exactly why I didn�t.�
�Yeah, I caught that. I�m just saying.�
�Oh.�
I went back to sorting though books.
At this point I think he realized we weren�t going to have a conversation about the finer points of disclosure. He asked if I would sign his book, and then slipped me a stack of papers, asking if I would read it. I said I would, but immediately put the manuscript to the side and continued working. He looked a little hurt by that.
Actually, he looked flustered by the whole experience. It�s hard to describe, but I think this guy had plotted out how our meeting would take place in his mind, and nothing had gone according to plan. He pulled his trump card as I signed the book and handed it back to him.
�Thanks!� he exclaimed. �I�m gonna sell this on eBay for a hundred dollars!�
�Well,� I said, �thanks for the thought, but I don�t think you could sell me on eBay for a hundred dollars.�
He left shortly thereafter, and once it slowed down enough for me to reflect on what happened, I felt weird. On one hand, it felt nice that somebody tracked me down just to try and get me to sign his copy of my book. But I felt that his entire notion how our meeting would take place had to be a let down. Not just a let down because it was too busy for me to talk with him, but because he must have realized that I�m just a schmuck working in a used bookstore who happened to write a book. I wasn�t going to take him under my wing and make him a �published author.�
This got me thinking about myself. If it weren�t for Craig, who really provided the drive behind getting the book out, I�d still be a schmuck working in a used bookstore, only a schmuck sans book.
Hopefully this realization will carry over and make me work on being more than that. After all, if I�m going to have fans, I ought to give them a reason to be fans. There�s nothing to admire about my stagnation.
