That's what I'm reading right now. It's a fun ride, especially after Against the Day. Of course, the graphic descriptions of the food abuses that go on behind the scene make me loathe to run out and spend a lot of money at expensive dining establishments in the near future.
Of course, after I listened to Fast Food Nation I swore that I would never, EVER eat at McDonalds again. A few weeks later, I chomped down on a double cheeseburger and inhaled a large fries with only a twinge of guilt and disgust for my fluid morality. The same thing happened when I read Nickeled and Dimed in America--I thought I'd never shop WalMart again. I already knew they were the devil, anyway. It was just further ammunition. Needless to say, I've darkened their doors more than once since then. AND I've contemplated hiring the Merry Maids to tackle the clutter.
I promise to read McCarthy's The Road before 2008. In the meantime, I'm avoiding what I'm supposed to be doing this minute, which is to be rereading Act I of Death of a Salesman.
(As a side comment to the anonymous poster who suggests that the tragedy is not that Willy's job doesn't have meaning for him but that it doesn't have the meaning he thinks it has--what I'm saying is that Willy should have a job planting or building things. He's good with his hands. But he doesn't think those jobs or callings have enough cache and so he demeans himself for doing them, then demeans others, like Charlie, for not being able to do them, and denigrates his son for "drifting" from ranching job to ranching job. So, sales is not what Will's been called to do.)
I hate the Linda character for her martyrishness. Shit. That seems to be the story of so many of our lives. I guess that, in this way, and in others, I am too much like Biff.
And on that happy note...
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