The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

previous - next - random review

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., �The Sirens of Titan�

Started July 6 � Finished July 27, 2006; 278 pages. Posted 08 September 2006

[This is the second part of my recent trip back to California, which began here.]

---

I didn�t mean to make that last entry a cliffhanger, it�s just that I started typing after I got home from doing research on another bar for my newspaper column around 2 a.m. whereupon I typed up a column. After I finished that I started on that last entry and when I stopped it was nine in the morning, meaning I had to be back at work in a little over eight hours. It was time for me to quit, even if it wasn�t the best time to stop the story. Sorry about that. As it turned out, just after I had shut off the computer and was getting into bed, there was a knock at my front door.

Now, my room is located right along the pathway for the door which means I don�t even need to get up when people come knocking. So I didn�t, instead lifting the beach mat that serves as a curtain for my windows, giving my room that ten-year-old boy�s treehouse decor.

There was a tiny, withered old man outside peering into our front door, looking eager. He jumped at hearing my voice come from behind him as I peered out the window.

�Can I help you?� I asked.

�Oh! You startled me! I, uh, I was just... are you all right?�

�I�m fine, I work nights, and you got me just as I was going to sleep. So, can I help you? Quickly?�

�Oh sure,� he stammered. �Well, I was just going to ask if you know Jesus.�

�Not personally, but he did kill a friend of mine,� I answered. Of course, he wouldn�t know the joke or the reference, so I guess that was a little cruel. I�ve been crueler to porch knocking preachers before though, so I think he should consider himself lucky. Anyhoo, he started to ask me for clarification, when I waved him off. �Listen,� I said, �I�m a committed atheist, but I do usually love having civil conversations about religion and theology. Right now, however, is not one of those times.�

�Oh well, I understand. Would you mind if I left you some of our literature?�

�Sure, feel free, I�ll read it on the crapper, just to be ironic. Besides, if I�m going to say you�re full of shit, I need to know what shit you�re full of, right?�

�Oh! Well, it�s not all about Jesus,� he said, hoisting one of his Awake! magazines, which of course was the opposite of what I wanted to be. �This one has an article about important discoveries concerning blood.�

�What, like the fact that it really tastes nothing like the red wine or grape juice served at communion? �Cause I already knew that.�

�Uh, no, it�s about...�

I waved him off. �Look, I�m sorry, I just can�t do this right now. I can feel me going from being funny to just being mean. But leave the magazines on the table outside, and I promise I�ll read them.� With that, I let the beach mat fall back over the window. I�m pretty sure I was asleep before he got out of our driveway.

So to get back to the story from the previous entry, both this night I just described and the night before I went back to California, I had been awake for somewhere around 36 hours. I don�t really drink coffee anymore because coffee for me has always been for daylight hours, which I don�t get to see a whole lot of these days, except for when it streams through my window while I�m up typing these stupid entries.

But there I was, awake, and though slightly delirious (and sure, probably a little drunk), the news reports on the foiled terror plot snapped me back out of exhaustion. I love television news in times of crisis when it�s still breaking, and in fact, that�s usually the only time I do watch those stations. It�s like all the rules about accuracy and accountability go flying out the window while the networks rush to get eye catching graphics and dramatic music, and it�s almost as funny as The Onion. I sat on the edge of my bed and started flipping back and forth between CNN�s Headline News, CNN, and Fox News, since the three stations are all next to each other.

TERROR! read most of the titles down at the bottom, or sometimes, TERROR FOILED! as if terror was a sentient being, twirling a mustache and saying �You must pay the rent!�

Oh man, if that reference doesn�t make me a dork and/or incredibly old, I don�t know what will.

Things were still very much in the early stages at this point, meaning most of the stories were concentrating on Heathrow and details about the plot. But as I was watching, reports began to run about airports in the U.S. and how they were reacting, which was irrationally � canceled flights, massive security upgrades, and huge layovers.

And I�m the guy who has terrible luck with airports. That got me off the bed. I called the shuttle service, which wasn�t due to pick me up for another three and a half hours, which would theoretically give me an hour and a half before my flight left. I got their answering machine saying their office wouldn�t be open for another hour but shortly after leaving a message they called back. I explained that I have a history of bad luck with airports, and wanted to do whatever was possible to circumvent any problems. They asked when I wanted to be picked up.

�Hell,� I said, �I�m ready now.�

�We�ll be there in ten minutes.�

I went back to watching the news, then happened to look down at my shirt. I�ve flown a lot since September eleventh, and I�ve made it a point that whenever I fly, I sport my Propagandhi shit that has a line drawing of a man pushing a broom with the caption underneath reading, �I�d rather be flag burning.�

Let me be serious for a moment. I always thought it was important to wear that shirt when I flew because it was a statement � it was saying that I wasn�t willing to live in fear, either of terrorists or the people afraid of said terrorists. But more than that, it was a slap in the face to people who would want to censor others for their beliefs. The climate has changed and dissenters are regarded with fear and suspicion. We�re expected to shut up and march like cattle, looking, acting and being as non-threatening as possible. Lately it�s seemed that when people begin to relax and think about the situation we�ve created, there�s news of another terrorist attack, sometimes foiled like on this day, sometimes not, such as the Tube bombing in London. Call me cynical, but it strikes me as convenient.

That�s not even what bothers me about situations like this. It�s more because since 9-11, there seems to be a popular movement centered on censoring free (meaning unpopular) speech. The stickers are everywhere, demanding that we support our troops while pundits like O�Reilly demand that we support our president, and if you dare to question that logic, well, be prepared to suffer the consequences. It�s not like I support the idea of flag burning (which I don�t, because burning flags smell terrible) but I sure as shit believe people should have the right to do so.

Just to try and throw some sort of reference to the book I�m supposedly reviewing, The Sirens of Titan has been in my top five books of all time since I first read it at 16. I read it again at this time because I was letting a friend borrow it and read 260 of its 278 pages waiting for her to show up. I couldn�t help but notice that a lot of what I thought was so deep back then was far too simplistic now. Things have changed, and it�s far more complicated.

It�s like after the towers fell and every fucking student at my school along with every neighbor in my area started wearing flag shirts. I went out and bought another Propagandhi shirt, this one with the emblazoned upside-down flag. Samuel Johnson once said patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel, and you only have to look at our commander-in-chief of the past six years to see how true that statement is. Thirty years ago the general public wouldn�t have put up with the whittling away of our basic rights that�s occurring now. Instead, anybody who doesn�t agree lock, stock, and barrel is called unpatriotic. I can never understand why these people don�t realize that blindly following a government without question is usually referred to as fascism.

I�ve had discussions with my mother, who has seen these shirts that I have and understands the sentiment behind it, but still wishes that I wouldn�t wear them. �You�re just attracting attention to yourself,� she�d tell me, �and not all attention is going to be good.�

I remembered all of this as I was getting ready to leave, but the truth is, I wanted to be on that flight. I wanted to see Kelly. I didn�t want to do anything that might jeopardize that. I took off my Propagandhi shirt and changed into one which had Daredevil emblazoned on the front. I�m still disappointed in myself because of that.

That concludes the serious portion. And did I mention that you�re momma�s so fat...

The shuttle driver arrived, an aging hippie type who along the way, seeing as it was just myself in the car, said he�d rather see Iraq, Iran and North Korea simply bombed into oblivion so we could stop worrying all the time.

This was the fear reaction I was talking about earlier, in case you missed it.

I was horrified. I already knew I wasn�t going to tip well because of the hippy garbage he played on the radio during the ride, but that statement brought it down even lower.

�Oh, come on,� I said. �Seriously, I�m not defending any of those places, but if you think Iran and Iraq are so bad, then shouldn�t we blame ourselves? The entire, what, 13-year war they had with each other was being fought with artillery just over the sophistication of sticks and rocks! And we gave both nations weapons during that time? I mean, why would we do that? I�d say we were hoping one country would take out the other, because then we�d only have one dictator to deal with!�

The aging hippy looked at me. �No, you�re right. I just can�t say things like that to most people.�

Remember what I said about hiding your point of view to remain anonymous? His tip scale was getting lower and lower by the minute.

He dropped me off at the airport. I got my boarding pass and made it through the security gauntlet with no problems. Now I had three hours to kill until my next flight. I went to the cocktail lounge.

While sipping on my drink, wondering what I was supposed to do to keep myself awake, I remembered that I was a reporter. I called my editor, who wasn�t in yet, and left a message on his machine.

�Hey, this is Dean,� I said, �and I just thought you should know that as chance has it, I�m in the airport � past the security gates, and since I have my camera with me that means I can get photos that nobody else has.�

He called back in three minutes.

The problem was, I mean... it�s Hawaii. Not exactly a bastion of terrorist activity, unless you want to smash hijacked planes into Atlantis. Once you got past the security gates, it was business as usual.

So I went back out to the front of the gates and started over.

I took pictures of the long lines, the dogs being led through the airport, and the baggage handlers rubbing powder over suitcases as they tested for explosives. But it was hard to get a good shot as I was now working off nearly 40 hours without sleep and my hands wouldn�t stop shaking. Realizing that I had about 45 minutes before my plane boarded, I got back in line for the security screening.

While waiting, I read over the handbills that were hurriedly pasted up everywhere, detailing all the things that were now considered contraband; everything from toothpaste to baby�s formula. I saw three spelling errors on the flier, and steadied my hand to get a picture. That�s when I felt the big hand on my shoulder.

I turned and looked into the face of a big TSA security guard, sporting a curly mullet haircut, the kind Brett �The Hitman� Hart used to wear in the early 90s.

�Why you taking all these pictures?� He asked, scowling. �You see something interesting?�

�Oh, I find everything interesting,� I said, trying to smile.

�Why do you think it�s interesting?�

�Because I�m a reporter for the Honolulu Weekly.� I said simply.

The guy let go of my shoulder and I watched as he moved toward the front of the security gates, whispering to another employee.

Oh, fuck, I thought. I�m getting cavity searched.

Amazingly enough, I got through with no problems. I even had time to get one last drink at the cocktail lounge. I boarded the plane just as they were making the final call, tucking my bag under the seat and leaning back, pulling my fedora reporter hat over my eyes ready to finally go to sleep.

I made it, I marveled to myself. Now I can just sleep and wake up in California. Barely conscious, I heard them say they were waiting for a few more passengers, but that we should be on our way shortly.

And then I was shaken awake by a flight attendant, telling me I needed to de-board the plane.

(To be continued. Sorry, it�s 7 a.m.)


Rating: Worth new

previous - next - random review