Reading Shake Hands with the Devil, or trying to amid all the reefer and thesis-revision-procrastination I've been extremely occupied with this week. Impressions:
1. Citizens of developed countries need a shock collar to go off when something insupportable is happening. As I read about the apathy and cheapness with which the Rwandan abattoir was tolerated, of course "Sudan, Sudan, Sudan" pulses through my brain. 1994, all this went down? What were you doing in 1994? 'Friends' or the 'Simpsons'? 2005 now? Reality television and reefer?
Ah, don't listen to me. If you scraped me down before my morning shower you could bottle the residue and call it hash oil. I don't know what to do, besides push for Canada's military budget to be increased so our foreign policy can be an actual policy instead of, you know, making everybody think we're really great by sending a bunch of under-equipped soldiers to Afghanistan. You know our 'tank commanders' in fact command battalions of jeeps? But hell - if we signed the anti-land mine pact, then land mines don't exist anymore, right?
The Cold War is over. Mister Mister to the south isn't going to take care of us anymore. In fact, he wants our stuff. Maybe he'll leave us alone if we throw daisies at him and say, 'You're baaaaaaad!'
Again, don't listen to me. I still can't believe the government stopped paying for me to be able to see stuff without lowering my tax burden, so I don't know where all that magical money would come from. But I would have been tempted to vote for Stronach for reasons besides those blue, blue eyes. Mmmm. Which leads me to impression two:
2. Roméo Dallaire is dreamy. The way he manages to make a moustache look good aside - even though I've never seen anybody besides Tom Selleck pull that off before.
Strong moral drives, so strong you don't even know they're morals anymore, are dreamy. Incredible adversity and trauma being an impetus for action instead of passivity is dreamy. I don't think I've ever been involved with a man with even the same species of moral fibre. Just a long line of hedonists with acrobatic moral codes, and none too few boys who have looked into my 36 C or Ds or whatever and saw their mommy. This is my fault though. Too much reefer, too lazy, too prone to be enamored of whoever is being reefer-y and lazy on the couch next to me. And you know what? He’s never been Roméo Dallaire.
Anyways, how revolting, all the way from Rwandan genocide to my retarded emotional life. This is why everybody hates North Americans. C’est toujours une histoire de cul avec moi, that’s the real problem. If Michelangelo wasn’t interested in sculpting it, I haven’t been able to concentrate on it for more than a few hours.