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These are the times that try men’s souls. Or, at least, mine.
I hate primary season so much it makes me rage at the wind. Nothing speaks to the absurdity of politics moreso than this load of crap. While the general election in November at least pretends to be about what the people want, the primaries are always about what the media says about the candidates, which state wants more influence over the other, which candidate is the best-looking, most well-spoken, or has collected the most money so far. Do any of them deliver messages that resonate with regular folks? Umm, I don’t know since that apparently doesn’t matter.
So it’s been nice to read the good Dr. Thompson’s book chronicling his chronicles of the 1972 presidential race. I can’t think of anyone better than him, being so outside of the establishment (he always calls members of the mainstream punditry, “the press wizards”). We read to know we’re not alone, and reading this is like having a sage old dope smoker by my side agreeing with everything I scream at the newspaper every morning.
Better than that, he is writing about a bygone era of politics I never knew existed. This year was the pivotal one, apparently. Back then, the possibility — even inevitability — of strong third parties was real. This was a time when party nominees weren’t necessarily decided upon by voters — the gruesome 1968 Democratic National Convention was evidence of that. While the pundits and the press almost single-handedly coronate or crucify nominees today (remember the Dean scream?), in ’72 reporters were still only as influential in the process as football commentators are in the outcome of the Super Bowl.
But the dirty, corporate-controlled, People Magazine-style campaigns were sown back then. It’s kind of exhilarating to read about it first-hand from someone as human and honest as Thompson.
I don’t usually have any embarrassment about what I’m reading in public. One notable exception was when I realized that I was reading The Position while in the waiting room at a pediatrician’s office. Oops. Fortunately all the patients were too young to read (or were too enthralled with Sponge Bob).
Since I started reading it, I’ve been quietly tucking One Perfect Day away in certain company and deftly hiding the title when on the subway. I carry it back cover out as I walk down the street.
I feel so guilty about hating weddings.
No one wants to be that asshole who rains on someone’s parade. And not just any parade - a wedding is the biggest ticker-tape, socially acceptable, self-congratulatory parade we have in our society. No other event (except perhaps the birth of a child) holds so much sway over everyone.
Hating weddings is like hating baseball, babies, apple pie or the Bush Administration. Admit it and you’re sure to be on a list of dissenters somewhere. You’re considered the worst kind of anti-American. You’re dangerous and must be stopped.
What to read next? It’s probably one of the most exciting and frustrating questions a reader can ask. It’s a tough question. Tougher still if you are a discerning reader looking for something new and interesting.
Though I like a good mind candy, beach read book as much as the next person, I’m a little more demanding when it comes to “good reads.” If it’s currently on the NYT bestseller list (Harry Potter being the exception), I don’t read it. If I see more than two people on the subway reading, I skip it. If it’s in the top 100 on Amazon or Barnes and Noble, I’ll pass. A good website for fiction for the anti-masses is bas bleu though they have been known to be very wrong (the Hazards of Good Breeding and Lucy are two notable examples).
The safest bet is to ask other reader friends. Reading is an experience made more enjoyable by sharing. The simple phrase “You gotta read this!” makes what is necessarily a solitary activity suddenly a social one. It’s the one thing guaranteed to drag us - hard core readers that is - out of our shells. We hold up our titles like recent travellers with a photo album. We want others to read - to see what we saw and to live what we lived.
I can say (somewhat truthfully) that Mary Roach gave me this book.
OK, so the author didn’t give it to me. I almost bought this book a while ago because I work with a woman named Mary Roach. Since she’s our resident expert on all things medicine, and mysterious about everything else in her life, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she secretly authored this book (of course the author photo would have been doctored har har). When I told her this, she not only laughed, she said she had the book and brought it in for me.
I wasn’t really sure if I was actually going to like this book. I’ve read many treatises on obscure, seemingly interesting topics and most of them, though well intended, fail miserably to be interesting.
Not so this book.
