The Little Old Man .... by Adam (2003)

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During a visit to Massachusetts this summer, I was recruited and indoctrinated by the radical left. There’s a monthly political rag called Z Magazine that offers a yearly media course for people who hate their country or think that chickens can mourn for their scrambled offspring. I thought I might get some useful ideas and contacts out of this, since I work with Burmese media (who hate their government, but usually eat both eggs and chickens). 

The workshop was in Woods Hole, a misty Stephen King-ish nautical town near Cape Cod. I must admit it was one of the most powerful experiences of my life: hanging out with incredibly dedicated progressives; hobnobbing with semi-famous intellectuals; studying unworkable, utopian alternative economic systems; scrutinizing the zany recklessness of the mainstream media.  

I was initially afraid that I would be surrounded by super-serious lefties and all humour would be perceived as dehumanizing and fascist. But it was exactly the opposite. Sixty-some people took part in the workshop, and almost all had great senses of humour and supreme conversational skills. Unfortunately, the few humour-oppressors all landed in my workgroup.  

Actually, the workgroup was a failure from the beginning. I think this is why we need guys with guns – they help socialists make up their minds. We spent hours going round in circles before we determined that all decisions are inherently fascist, and agreed on refusing to make any.  

My attempts at humour, while occasionally offensive, were toned down from my usual cock and flipper baby material. But efforts to inject fun into our group presentation were met with offended gasps. To me, little is less exciting than a guy reading a mission statement. So why not deliver the goods while strumming a child’s plastic banjo with a skull-faced mascot named Corpsey? This was shot down by the more serious group members who felt that you can’t mention war and then strum plastic. Not at a time when American marines are snacking on the limbs of Iraqi children, anyhow.  

The supposed highlight of the ten-day workshop was the appearance of Noam Chomsky, famous American foreign policy critic / MIT Prof / linguist – the Elizabeth Taylor of left-wing politics. Chomsky was allegedly there to “teach” but really just propped himself in front of a microphone and blah-blahed about American imperialism.  

In a gathering that was supposed to reject things like celebrity and inequity, it was weird to see the tone change on Chomsky’s arrival. He even had a handler to prep us: “Noam will speak, then break for 15 minutes. Don’t try to touch Noam. Do not offer Noam food. If Noam reaches toward you, curtsy, smile and expose your genitals.” 

My first impression of Chomsky was: Wow, he’s old and he’s just like any other little, old man. And he’s wearing Dockers. I spent my first few minutes pondering the nipple-sized liver spot to the left of his nose. I restrained my urge to lick a tissue and reach over to rub it off.

His “classes” went well but the deference to his celebrity was shocking. There’s no way I was lining up to shake hands with some old man just because he is some kind of left-wing pop idol. Besides, I had already made sure my fingers grazed his when he returned my pen after signing my copy of his new book. I forget exactly what he signed, but it was something like: “To my Ad-man: Your inspiration envelops me like a scented all-over body spray. Love Chom.”

During an evening session, he gave another speech. I wanted to ask a question and at first I thought I might go with:

“Have you heard about the new pirate movie?”

“No, actually I haven’t.” an intrigued Noam would respond.

“It’s rated Aarrrrrrhhh.” I’d deliver with a swashbuckling pirate arm-slash.

Then whoops of laughter would gush from the podium and Noam would leap over the nest of microphones, embracing me while flapping two home-plate Boston Red Sox tickets in front of my nose. “These babies are for us,” he would say. “For Adam and Noam.”

Instead I asked him something about the US role in toppling dictatorships (ie Burma), and he responded with: “Yeah, that’s a good question… IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE….” And then he turned from the microphone and uttered something like, “Who let that asshole in?” I did, however, gain my own measure of celebrity after the comment, as the proud recipient of dozens of “another universe” jabs and taunts throughout the remainder of the week. Anyway, Noam and I have some issues to work through, which is natural when two imposing intellects butt heads. Honestly, though, I thought his interpretation of American policy towards Burma was simplistic.

My revenge came days later when I nicked his cafeteria meal card. It was just sitting on a desk in the Z office after he had left. Figuring they would just throw it away, I liberated it into my pocket. It has his name on it, so I might use it to get some speaking engagements myself. By the way, Noam had two soups, a salad and a coffee for lunch.

Two soups!?! Freak.

This article appeared in Bunk Magazine, December 2003.