I've been in the trenches, bitch, and I've seen the grim reaper slapping me around like the whore that I am
Maybe it's the drugs. Maybe it IS the painkillers I am on. Maybe it's the constant surge of pain emanating from my neck. Maybe it's the constant whine of the cars flying by my window, honking, blaring, smashing, and BEEP BEEP BEEPING as their alarms go off. Or maybe it's that my mind is too unfocused, changing channels like a schizofrenic television set, thinking about school, friends, love, cheesy Beatles songs, my budget, my lack of employment and my lack of an ability to get a job this week because of my sprained neck. I have trudged through this book, catching glimpses of gems and even some witty lines that grabbed me by the nuts and brought my mind back into focus. But I really can't understand. I don't understand why. "I just don't understand..." Why what? What is to understand? Why this was a best-seller. Why this book, among many, many others, has been deemed the "best representation" of the vietnam war.
Maybe it's the drugs. His, not mine. Maybe his ramblic style appeals to that lost generation of burnout hippies turned blue-balled-collar workers. Maybe they felt the "normal" journalists' just couldn't give them a voice. Maybe it was exactly his confusing style that made them say, "DAMNIT, HE WRITES LIKE I THINK: Like he's batshit insane!"
Or is it because he was there so long and therefore his opinion matters. Maybe because he was there with the men in the field for years, writing, laughing, shooting, singing, dancing, crying, peeing, drinking, and maybe even loving, that gave him his "street cred." Whatever it the reason, I still don't agree that it is all that and a bag of juicy fruit. I honestly felt Hunter S. Thompson's coverage of a motorcycle race in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" was a better piece of journalism. Sure, his articles had NOTHING to do with the motorcycle race (or VietNam), but he showed what we all want to see: The American Dream.
And as for this whole thing about not wanting the book to interfere with your Joey viewing, I must say that I disagree. I have been desensitized to violence, so most of the stuff in this book doesn't affect me. It's too impersonal of a book for me to be affected by it anyway. I don't really get to know the characters that are dying. The character I think I connected with the most was the one who was trying to get on the plane to go home. He kept waiting out there, scared, laying in the trench, watching his plane to safety fly away over and over again. I was affected more by his FEAR than by any other violence in the book. Helicopter filled with corpses? Meh, seen it, done it.
I don't think it will hurt your pretty little heads to read about a little bit of horror. I think living through horror is one of the best things that can happen to a person. To a point. I know these people, made into killing machines, were made the worse by it, but in my personal experiences, I love life more now than most of the people around me. People that have it better off than me get depressed and sad and all whiney over petty things in their lives. Sure, I have my down days, but after living through many experiences that I didn't know whether I would live, and having friends that didn't live through them, I can appreciate life on a level that not many people can. Once death flops its bulging shade over your head, steals your friends, and makes it clear to you that you can go at any minute, it changes your view on life. You can find the oddest things funny, including death. You can be politically incorrect and not care. You can dance in an elevator as it takes you down 17 floors. You can sing "L is for the way you look at me," as you walk down the hallway with your sister. You can play air guitar in a restaurant that is considered "Fine Dining" because it strikes you as something that would be enjoyable. You can even make long rants on a class blog that have nothing to do with the reading... Well, sort of... That'll do...
To sum it all up: What doesn't kill you will only make you happy.
Maybe it's the drugs. His, not mine. Maybe his ramblic style appeals to that lost generation of burnout hippies turned blue-balled-collar workers. Maybe they felt the "normal" journalists' just couldn't give them a voice. Maybe it was exactly his confusing style that made them say, "DAMNIT, HE WRITES LIKE I THINK: Like he's batshit insane!"
Or is it because he was there so long and therefore his opinion matters. Maybe because he was there with the men in the field for years, writing, laughing, shooting, singing, dancing, crying, peeing, drinking, and maybe even loving, that gave him his "street cred." Whatever it the reason, I still don't agree that it is all that and a bag of juicy fruit. I honestly felt Hunter S. Thompson's coverage of a motorcycle race in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" was a better piece of journalism. Sure, his articles had NOTHING to do with the motorcycle race (or VietNam), but he showed what we all want to see: The American Dream.
And as for this whole thing about not wanting the book to interfere with your Joey viewing, I must say that I disagree. I have been desensitized to violence, so most of the stuff in this book doesn't affect me. It's too impersonal of a book for me to be affected by it anyway. I don't really get to know the characters that are dying. The character I think I connected with the most was the one who was trying to get on the plane to go home. He kept waiting out there, scared, laying in the trench, watching his plane to safety fly away over and over again. I was affected more by his FEAR than by any other violence in the book. Helicopter filled with corpses? Meh, seen it, done it.
I don't think it will hurt your pretty little heads to read about a little bit of horror. I think living through horror is one of the best things that can happen to a person. To a point. I know these people, made into killing machines, were made the worse by it, but in my personal experiences, I love life more now than most of the people around me. People that have it better off than me get depressed and sad and all whiney over petty things in their lives. Sure, I have my down days, but after living through many experiences that I didn't know whether I would live, and having friends that didn't live through them, I can appreciate life on a level that not many people can. Once death flops its bulging shade over your head, steals your friends, and makes it clear to you that you can go at any minute, it changes your view on life. You can find the oddest things funny, including death. You can be politically incorrect and not care. You can dance in an elevator as it takes you down 17 floors. You can sing "L is for the way you look at me," as you walk down the hallway with your sister. You can play air guitar in a restaurant that is considered "Fine Dining" because it strikes you as something that would be enjoyable. You can even make long rants on a class blog that have nothing to do with the reading... Well, sort of... That'll do...
To sum it all up: What doesn't kill you will only make you happy.
posted by Joshua at 11:53 PM
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