Memes Gets Meme'd By Pastorius
I have longed maintained that Pastoirius is working out levels of irony that rival that Tower of Babel, in both sheer altitude, not too mention, ambition. It's indeed frightening to think of what kind of multi-ambidextrous mind must be to come up with the cacaphonous crap that that guy comes up with day in, and day out. And nobody even reads him. He just keeps writing and writing, and writing, and writing, and .
Ah well, for now, we must accept what we can not exceed.
On to the strange "Book Meme", which Pasroroius has so ill-fortunately sent my way. (By the way, I'm not exactly sure what he means by a "Meme", anyway).
1. Total Number of Books I have owned. The number strecthes litrally into the hundreds of thousands. Many of them I have owned with tedious repetition. I often amble into a latenight bookstore with nothing else to do, only to find that I come out of it with a confused jumble of books, many of which I have already owned.
I must admit that sometimes, I do buy books based solely upon the attractiveness of the girl behind the counter. In such cases, I will meander the lazy labrynthe of the bookstore aisles, in a valorous attempt to find books that she might like, if she were buying them.
I do not like to admit, my less intellectual activities, but in the interest of partipating in this "meme" I will go for it. Yes, I buy books that I think the countergirl would like so that she might be jealous and ask me about them , only to strike up a conversation, which in a meta-determined series of happy acciedents, many times, leads me to the nascent nuptials of my neo-gnarctisism.
But anyway, that's why I often end up buying the same books over and over. I must have owned 70 or 80 copies of The Bell Jar, for instance. Or how many times, have I bought Sexual Personae by the fearey Camille Pahlia? Or The Lonely Doll, by Dare Wright. That one works in a pinch everytime.
But, maybe once again I have gone astray, because I have not revealed the origination of my love for books. When I was a child, my family lived in a very large house in the Hamptons (well, my mother and I did, my father only visited on the weekesnd, He had an apartment in the city during the weekdays). On those weekends when my father did make his dread presence known, I would retire to our families vast library, for this is the one room in the house, wherein I could be exceedingly sure that my father would not visit.
In this mysterious antechamber I would find my hearts delight. Books upon books, with all the stories of the world and then some. Whereas, I always knew what was going to happen in the real world, I never knew what would happen in a book. I think this is what Hamlet meant by:
"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your spitoon-like mind, my fair Horatio."
Because like Stephen kIng's great novel of the 21st century Rose Red, the house that contains a library is larger in demension on the inside than it is on the outside.
(I know , i know about Danielevski, and his incipient pile of trash , House of Leaves, the supposed inspriation for Rose Red. Let's fact it, King doesn't read, nor does he need to read, so he could not have been influenced by such a vapid work)
My childhood thus wasn't was spent reading the works of Ovid, Rilke and Joyce. I once designed a popup book based upon the characters from The Dead.
Anyway, at least a portions of the hundreds of thousands I count as my own are the ones which became a part of me, in those earlly days of childhood in my parents Hampton House library.
2. Last book I bought. It would be better to ask me, "Screaming Memes, what was the last book you stole?" Because that would be a better story. Stealing books, is a more sincere endeavor for me, because when I steal, I do it out of a real desire to possess the book (in the Biblical sense of the word), to have it and to hold it, in an embrace of love, suspended above the dreary dollarhounds of the capatalist conclave.
If I steal a book, it is mine in a way that no book could be if I bought it. When I buy a book, I can never truly enjoy it, because my stomach churns with noxious nausea just thinking about the "publishing house" which enjoy the booty of Baal's blood that is the bilging bourgeiouisie bank of bile.
Besides, as I mentioned before, I only pay for books, when I'm trying to impress the counter girl.
I have never been caught, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.
3. Last Book I Read. Howard Zinn's A Peephole Histroy of the American People. I'm still digesting this book. It is unsettlingly impactful in it's absolute evisceration of the American panoply. No stone is left unturned, that one isn't so angry as to turn yet again.
For instance, when Zinn set his incisors to the reality of the World War II mythos and the revelation sunk in that Roosevelt played the Machiavellian with the Japanese - and truly baited them into the bombing of Pearl Harbor - it became immediately impairent after all these years, that something is amiss.
And then, if you think about it, what does Japan have to do with the Nazi's anyway? (Now, let's not mince words here, I, Memes, is definately against the Nazi's. My great grandmother Lipschitz expired in a Nazi camp), but let's face it, there could have been other ways to take care of the Germans, by appealing to the people since of Democracy for instance.
The Germans are a proud people, and if it would have been made clear to them what was being done in their name, we can rest assured they would have been very angry and thrown Hitler out of office.
4. Five Books That Mean a Log To me.
1) Manufacturing Consent by Noam Chomsky - just as the date rapist turns a "no" into a yes, so does the American Television systeme manufacture a "yes" to their murdrous military machinations.
2) Wanted Man: In Search of Bob Dylan Everything you ever wanted to know about the "poet laureate" of American song. We are even treated to the early day romance he had (tender moments) with Bonnie Breecher, the original "Girl from the North Country" from the legendary song of the same name. If you ever wondered to yourself, "What was Bob like, back before he was Dylan? Does he still like to be called Zimmy by his personal friends?" this is the book for you.
3) The Lords and The New Creatures by Jim Morrison. The seminal poetry of Jim Morrison, written mostly in college classes, in lieu of notetaking. This is the vital, innocent Morrison. Before the drink and hallucenogens smashed his mind into a billion brilliant refracting slivers of mirror. What a revalation.
4) Simulacra and Simulation by Jean Baudrillard - This is one of the deepest works of profundity to which I have ever applied my mind's resources. Baudrillard deconstructs word, media and deed, in a punishing analysis of America's radical severance from reality. Baudrillard elucidates all the ways in which America flooded the original ocean of our vision with the viscous hyppereality of petrochemotherapy.
Yes, this is the book from which spawned the word "the Matrix" which has since itself become part of the Matrix - as it is a hit movie, and is thus subservient to the capatalist system. But, that unfortunate incident was not Baudrillards doing (and I am pretty sure he is appropriately ashamed) so it really shouldn't affect our appreciation of his apparatus.
5) Zen and The Art of motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Prisig. I'm going to be honest with you, I don't really remember reading this book, but I know from the effluvia of the time (early 70's) that this was an influential work. An eery attempt at a transmigration of all values, the West meets the East, (and we all know how that ought to turn out if ever the maraudering mammals of mammon would ever give us a head start) and a prescient reminiscience of the days when quality meant more than the hierarchical qualitative.
5. Who will I infect with this Meme?
George Bush, because he has a lot to ANSWER for.
Henry Kissinger, because the Atlantic Monthly has proven it all beyond a shadow of a .
Zack De La Rocha a brother with whom I can reallywork together share in a movement.
Thanks for rockin' wit me,