I love the winter. Donning a ski mask donned, I can roam Sheridan Road unrecognized. No more crippled smiles to my friends’ ex-others who I never liked in the first place. No more stupid conversations the length and substance of a radio commercial. Though I may be free, however, the rest of you seem captured in fatuous blather. It makes one wonder, how can it be so cold when people are blowing so much hot air out of their mouths?
What I am saying is that we have a problem, similar to diarrhea: We — and this means students and professors — talk too much. Don’t panic; I have consulted an expert.
Mike Preston, author of the world’s first “openly hostile” self-help book, “Stop Talking Now!”, has written a pamphlet that rivals the Tao Te Ching in its wisdom. Preston has seen the real world and heard what it has to say. He’s not interested.
A life-long stand-up comedian, Preston bolstered his income with social work. It has taken its toll on him. “Some people practice tough love,” he says. “I practice tough apathy. Which means, I don’t care. But I don’t care very deeply.”
Preston professionally chatted with the mentally ill and the developmentally disabled. He served time, for example, as a teacher’s aid for mildly retarded adults. After years of babble with the outliers of society’s mental universe, Preston, as it were, saw the light: These people have the right to speak, which illogically makes them think they have something to say.
What Preston realized is that everybody — from rabble to academia — thinks along similar terms. “This country guarantees the right to speak,” Preston told me. “Well, I have a right not to listen.”
The book itself is an easy read, with excellent chapter headings to guide even those most resistant to shutting up: “There Are People Who Are Good With Words. You’re Not One Of Them.” Helpful definitions: “Moaning: ‘The White Trash Cousin of Bitching.'” And sound advice: “Try this: Take a walk through a nearby cemetery. Look around at all of the headstones. Each one represents someone who was once just like you, firmly convinced that their ideas were crucial and urgently needed to be heard. Where are they now? Six feet under. How important is it?”
But Preston is not simply a scabbed-over cynic, fed up with the world. He just thinks shutting the hell up gets bad press these days.
His mandates are not limited to your dime-store prattle. Professors, in fact, compose a most notorious stratum afflicted with the gift of unmediated gab. What’s frightening is that their conviction often gains them a flock. Preston addresses this problem in Chapter Two: “You may even have attained a respectable station in life and a small following of flunkies who hang on your every word and strive to be just like you. Congratulations,” he points out, “You’re King of the Dipshits.”
But in some cases, I disagree with Preston. I think many of you at Northwestern have a great deal to say. You have unique opinions that will enrich my world view. Assault my narrow-mindedness with the bold diversity of life.
I’m interested, for example, to hear how racism has affected your suburb. You went to Spain? Oh, I’d love to hear your enlightened opinions of America. What? You’re stressed out, so busy, have so much work to do? Let’s hear it. Because you’re fucking special. Really, I mean it.
Tim Requarth is a Weinberg senior. He can be reached at [email protected].
