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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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God, how I love baseball. But Nomar's not hitting, half the Cubs' pitching staff seems to be injured,
the Indians are mostly crap again, the Dodgers have traded away
virtually every player I liked, and I simply can't get behind anything
called the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.
Who's left to cheer?
Ntini!
That's who.
Even
if you don't care about cricket, you might start cheering for this guy
just from reading about him. And against the West Indies, he just
turned in the best performance by any South African bowler, ever.
Besides which, I think one is ethically required to study any sport
in which a writer can complain with a straight face about the losing side's "chronic no-ball
problem."
Tell me the truth: do you not need to know what that means, right this minute? Oh, I think you do.
In conclusion, however, and again, I say: Ntini!
That is all.
(Yes, this is yet another cricket-related post. Start scrolling now! Quick, before your eyes reach the next sentence!
No apologies. For a surprisingly small
amount of extra money to the satellite TV people, there will now be a full year of
international test cricket pumped into this very living room. Much of daily life
here will now be conducted over the gentle clop of willow on leather,
narrated in hushed tones for ten-hour stretches by three guys named
Nigel, all wearing neckties that match no other human garment. Roll
your eyes if you must, but I am in full-blown whee. Still, out of
respect for you, dear reader, I'll try to keep these uncontrollable
bits of glee down to a word or two -- like "Ntini!" -- when they henceforth occur.)
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