The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Al Franken, �The Truth (with jokes)�

Started August 30 � Finished Sept. 14, 2006; 336 pages. Posted 27 December 2006

Any person familiar with this site should realize that the so-called �book-review� claim equals the same as a promise to a solution to the problems in the Middle East. The thing is, I�ve recently had some new people join who might not know this, so I thought I should repeat it. As far as the book review thing goes — if I can figure out a way to tie the book into my own life, I�ll do so. If not, then I�ll continue to ramble on about my own life anyway. After all, it�s free to read this site. To get a book based on my recommendations would cost you money that would be better spent on simpler pleasures — like black tar heroin.

But I mean, come on — how can I not build something personal around a book titled The Truth (with jokes)?

What this means is, be prepared for a long entry. Ready?

So anyhoo, The Truth (with jokes), isn�t as good, or as relevant, or as funny as Franken�s previous foray into the publishing world with Lies and the Lying Liars that Tell Them. Part of that comes from the fact that he�s not as obtuse this time around. Indeed, in the preface, Franken mentions that he had a lot of complaints that is was too hard to tell what was satire and what actually happened, not that this should be a surprise to anyone who followed the GWB presidency over the last six years.

You should have known better, says Franken, although he wasn�t surprised that we didn�t.

That�s the point of Franken�s later books. The absurdity is there, but in case you weren�t paying attention, here�s something you should know. The majority of jokes this time around come from facts. And those facts are usually enough to make a person duck and cover under a school desk.

Of course, he has such easy subject matter to make fun of, namely the Bush administration and the Iraq war. It�s always easy to make fun of the past, particularly when you have access to the information. Case in point: There�s the MySpace phenomenon, of which, yes, I�m a part of. Yes, I have an account, but you�ll notice if you find me that it�s for drinking buddies. (Which reminds me: Rumblelizard and Barb, we�re going to have to negotiate this. Samantha and I worked out a time where she called and we shared a conversation over a drink, despite the fact that she was in Georgia and I was in Hawaii. This will be difficult for Barb, since she doesn�t drink, but maybe I�ll just have two drinks. Anyway...)

So yes, MySpace has made it incredibly easy to locate people. And no less then three ex-girlfriends whom I haven�t spoken with for over ten years, along with some other people who I didn�t know as intimately have located me. Which is all fine, reminiscing is nice. But other people have held onto their memories better than I have. And some have photographic evidence. You want the truth? Along with the opportunity to make jokes? Here we go:

No, I�m not the guy in the hat. I�m the one with the slack-jawed look and the posture akin to Shaggy, from the Scooby Doo cartoons. Yeah, I don�t know how I managed to have no less than three ex-girlfriends either.

I mean, jeez, it was an era of bad haircuts, but c�mon! Why the hell didn�t somebody tell me? And before you all jump all over the opportunity to call me a hippie, I�d like to say that I showered, and I could beat anybody�s ass who called me a hippie, which thereby disqualified me from hippie status. (That�s still true today, so fuckin� watch it...) As far as the length of hair thing, even I was surprised, but just barely. I had a brief area of spiking my hair but soon gave that up after I realized I spent more time in the bathroom than my sister. Plus, I think there was a part of me that decided to let the hair grow long given my contrary nature, because punks weren�t supposed to have long hair. Mostly though, I was just lazy and didn�t give a fuck about my appearance, obviously.

The thing is, with all the reminiscing and catching up that I�ve had through this Internet age and instant data collection, I�ve had time to think my thought process as an angry adolescent with a bad haircut. Though I tell people who ask about the bar specialty drink of the �Slutty Dean� that it�s a childhood wish fulfillment � some kids say they want to grow up to be firemen, some kids want to be astronauts, and I wanted a drink named after me � 20 years back, when I looked that stupid, I told people I wanted to be a reporter. I wanted, as it says on my resum�, �to expose nefarious activity by a corporation and/or government and then be assassinated by same said corporation and/or government.�

I�ve been saying that for a long time. Truth is, I never thought it would happen. Finally, I took steps to make it a reality. The plan was to go through more schooling to make the connections neccesary to get an internship, and then hope that they would want to keep me. As it turned out, just a little after a year passed since I moved here, I was walking into the office of a major metropolitan alternative weekly.

Of course, that�s a story all into itself. The address listed states the offices are on College Walk. Type that into Mapquest looking for directions, and College Walk is never mentioned, instead telling you to park on a different street and you�re there. I followed those instructions and didn�t see the offices of what should hold a newsroom. So I parked and took a little jaunt, trying to locate the offices.

Turning around the corner, I found College Walk, and saw why it wasn�t listed in the directions. Essentually, College Walk is a little strip of sidewalk next to a canal, a strip where the homeless are camped out in tents, and transvestite hookers are out in force. And I was traversing this area in my funeral suit, dressed up in my faux-employability disguise.

Making four left turns, I finally found the offices, located on the second floor of a dilapidated two-story building that looked more suited for shitty apartments than a newspaper. I found the correct room number and turned the door knob. Nothing happened.

The door was locked but I could see people inside, so I tapped lightly on the glass. The receptionist peered through the blinds, looking at me with an accusing look. I waved and smiled, attempting to look amicable. She opened the door enough to stick the bare minimum of her head through the door.

�Hi,� I said, � I, um, have an interview with the editor...�

�Oh sure,� she said, opening the door. �Sorry, we have a bit of a crack problem around here.�

I had the interview, which was informal and friendly, primarily consisting about how the day-to-day operation went. He finally asked if I had any questions.

�Well, I guess I�m just asking if you�re offering me the job, because if you are, I�m accepting.�

�I�m offering,� he said.

�I accept.�

When I left, I had the biggest fucking smile on my face, which is probably why the fat transvestite hooker let me pass without argument. The pay? It ain�t much, which they said straight away. During the interview, the editor told me that they get paid next to nothing.

�Well,� I said, �your idea of nothing might be different from mine.�

�No,� he said, �it�s really nothing.�

Even so, it�s more than I was making, and it�s what I set out to do. That�s what�s so weird to me. I suppose it�s from years of believing all these people in power who kept insisting that I would never amount to anything. Not that I�ve amounted to anything, but I made a goal and achieved it, and took a risk to make it happen. They probably could have gotten away with paying me less, but don�t tell them that. Besides, money doesn�t mean shit to me. I probably still own and wear whatever shirt I�m wearing in that picture. (Oh, and by the way, for those who read the past few entries, that was the leather jacket that housed the dead rodent for a few years.)

What is amazing is that despite my cockiness, the certainty that I exuded from nearly 20 years ago that I would end up doing what I wanted, I�m not sure I ever believed it would happen myself. I�m a pragmatist, not a dreamer. I mean, sure, I�d like to be supreme dictator of the world, but I�m ready to wash dishes if that didn�t happen, and as we all know, becoming supreme dictator is all about connections, and I already turned everybody off from my cocksure attitude from 20 years ago.

That and the haircut.


Rating: Worth Used.

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