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Actual Books
Who Hates Whom:
Well-Armed Fanatics,
Intractable Conflicts,
and Various Things Blowing Up
A Woefully Incomplete Guide™
“Revelatory... Harris's sly wit and infectious curiosity make understanding world chaos fascinating... witty, horrific, and necessary.”
-- Boston Globe
"Brave... irreverent... charges into the thick of the globe's myriad simmering wars... hilariously relaxed."
-- New York Observer
“Fascinating, enlightening, and surprisingly: NOT TOTALLY DEPRESSING.”
-- John Hodgman,
author, The Areas of My Expertise and correspondent for The Daily Show
"A rollicking ride of intellectual discovery and emotional growth... his comic timing never fails"
-- The Wall Street Journal
"A surprisingly touching memoir"
-- Entertainment Weekly
"Effortlessly funny and informative... tender, human, and very wise... A must for anyone who loves Jeopardy!, or has ever seen it, or is breathing."
-- Joss Whedon, creator, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
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Home from Kona, catching up.
A few minutes ago I start hearing loud buzzing whoppity-whoppity noises outside my window. And then more, and more, and then more on top. A whole swarm of helicopters suddenly forming. What the...?
So I look out, and there are no fewer than seven helicopters in view, all facing a construction crane about a half-mile from here, down in Century City. OK, I think to myself, must be a car crash or a roof collapse or some other passing calamity that can make the hair and teeth all breathless between ads for investment firms.
Sure enough, some guy you don't know is being rescued from a crane, an event which has no conceivable news value or impact on your life whatsoever. And so of course it's being covered by everyone with a camera and a helicopter.
These riveting, dramatic pictures, the anchortools say. Of course, if the guy is being rescued six feet off the ground, there's no news here. These riveting pictures are only dramatic because somebody might fall or die on live TV. It's a hoped-for snuff film in progress. Nothing else.
Sadly for the "news" producers across America, the guy was rescued and whisked away directly, with a relative minimum of riveting, dramatic fuss. Off went the rescue chopper.
And then the half-dozen bottle flies, attracted by the smell of potential shit, all flew away, too.
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