Noam Chomsky and Edward S. Herman, �After the Cataclysm: Postwar Indochina & the Reconstruction of Imperial Ideology�
Ok, so crateobscure was kind enough to put a plug on his site for my stuff, but he happened to do it during that last entry of mine, an entry that even I didn�t like. So, instead of going out for Amateur Drinking Night for the Wannabe Irish, I�ve decided to open up with the liquid inspiration, care of Jack Daniel�s. Now it�s time to make with the funny!
On a review for a Noam Chomsky book. Yeah, right.
This is the 26th Chomsky book I read. Ask me anything about American foreign policy since the early 50s. Go ahead, I can answer it. It sucked, and it still sucks. That�s all you really need to say about it. I have 26 books to back me up on that point.
If you asked me to delve any further besides the sucks analogy, however, I might be hard-pressed to give you any specifics. In the meantime, I�m starting to look at the lack of space in my room.
I helped my father move the last time I was in Hawaii. His entire life fit into 15 boxes. My mother is the opposite and when I helped her move from one end of her apartment complex to the other, it took all day because she has boxes upon boxes of everything out of some refusal to throw things away.
I inherited my mother�s genes. What this means is that I have too much crap. I got the response letter from the University of Hawaii, which was more of a �Are you sure you want to come here? �Cause you seem a little over-qualified,� rather than a straight acceptance letter. The way it stands, I may actually be able to go in for a Masters Degree, rather than getting another Bachelor�s.
In the meantime, I�m thinking about all this crap that I have. Eight bookcases. About two thousand books. Over 500 records. Around 200 CD�s. Most of the ten-year run of Mystery Science Theater 3000 on video. Punk rock band shirts from the last 20 years. And I�m wondering how I�m supposed to get all of this over to Hawaii.
If it were just these items of multi-media, the task of moving it all or putting it into storage wouldn�t be so daunting. But I have lots of other crap.
I�ve attempted to clear out the clutter plenty of times before, but I get caught up in reminisces of it all. Papers I�ve saved from classes have to be reread, so I can marvel on how I managed to get high grades despite being a total smartass. Ticket stubs to movies and concerts bring back memories of girls gone by, and I have to pause to perform a little voodoo. And then sometimes I have to try and remember how something got into my drawer, and what it was originally used for.
Just now, I opened a drawer to see what I could find. A pocket-sized electronic chess game that�s missing three pieces. A beer keg tap that we haven�t used in at least eight years, and, if I remember correctly, made the beer taste like ether. Half of an extension cord. A lock which I don�t have the combination for. Approximately 4,000 dollars worth of Camel Cash. Six keys that I don�t know what they open. Game manuals � for the Sega Genesis. Some Nazi gold.
Those all went into the garbage just now, but there�s still two imperial fuckloads of things left. Despite having my mother�s ratpacking instincts, I also inherited my father�s sense of not throwing things away that might be of some use.
I also inherited his sense of being a cheap bastard, but that�s another story.
Or perhaps it isn�t, as I�ve convinced my coworker to ebay these things up for me. Anybody interested in the McFarlane action figures for the Hanson Brothers? (The hockey players, not the band, fucko.) �Cause I got �em. As big as a Daredevil nut as I am, I�ve decided that having a life-sized cardboard cutout of Ben Affleck in leather pants sends the wrong impression. It�s going as well.
Which brings us back to Chomsky. Twenty six books. Twenty six books that I�m never going to read again, and twenty six books that were too dense and dull with information for me to remember specifics from. Twenty six books that, for the most part, were fucking painful to finish.
I�ve been asked about why I finish books that I don�t like, and I always reply that it�s because people don�t have any standards anymore. Nobody finishes things they started. At some point I said to myself that I wanted to read such and such book, and so I did. Keeping all the books I finished was like a badge of honor. Besides, what better thing can you decorate your room with than books?
I can answer that. It�s better to decorate your room with booze and broads, but I can never get the nails to go through properly.
So it�s time to get rid of some of the books. This is easier said than done. About four years ago, I moved from one side of town to the other, and I didn�t have a car. Each day, I loaded up my backpack with books, hopped on my bike, and went to work. Afterward, I rode down to my new place and unloaded my bag. This process lasted for an entire month. I thought about how I didn�t need all these books, and I was at a place where I could sell them. I wasn�t even making a special trip.
I sold fifteen books from my collection.
I�m scanning over my shelves as type this. There are lots of things I know I can�t part with. My Hunter Thompson hardbacks. The Steinbeck and Vonnegut collections. Tom Robbins. Douglas Adams.
Oh god, this is gonna hurt. I gotta do it though, so let�s introduce a new rating:
Is this Chomsky book worth keeping? Hell, no.
In the meantime, the dive bar asked me to DJ again for them next Wednesday, so I can go through my collection and see about what I want to purge from there as well. Since I was rather cautious last time about playing the whacked-out music, I�m gonna go nuts this time. Oooh, people are gonna be annoyed.
And finally, I got tickets to Nomeansno tonight. The show isn�t for another month and a half, but I�m so fucking excited about this.
I don�t care how much worthless crap I have in my room. I�m keeping these tickets.
