Word: junks
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Training has been tough, but in some ways we've got it made. There are so many new weapons and intelligence systems backing us up that I sometimes wonder why we have to do the exercise junk at all. The worst is having to make a six-kilometer forced march with 45 lbs. of gear (including our M-16), move into a defensive position, and hit a number of targets-all in an hour. They tell us the reason is that if we do go into battle, there may be more guys on the other side...
Ironically, because so few realms of food treatment escape the Hesses' criticism, The Taste of America may almost push the average American eater into the three-pills-day-nothing-more school just because after nearly 300 pages of expose with accompanying invective the invasion and triumph of junk food seems almost unsurmountable. And, after a time, boring. The book suffers on occasion from overexposure, or overexpose as the authors feel compelled to make a number of points over and over, ad nauseum, albeit with different examples. And, while their wit makes enjoyable reading, the sustained sharpness gives the book...
...vacant, and browsed through the kitchen. I was amused and pleased to find a can of Goodman's macaroons and three loaves of store-bought bread lying next to the organically grown fruits and vegetables. I have little faith in fanatical purists, and the stray bits of cellophane-wrapped junk food made the valley residents' convictions about energy and nature, waste and consumption emerge with more validity in my mind than if they were just the rhetoric of some perverse cult...
...dodo, or at least lost its teeth, claws and selfish-gene nastiness and become a lumbering, well-meaning vegetable-eater with about as much magnetism as those scurrying, tree-climbing ancestors of ours busily devouring leaves and trying not to be devoured by beasts of the jungle. Brontosaurus indeed. Junk. And forget about Mr. Bangs because Bad Company has just brought out their fourth record in what has become an annual event--Burning Sky succeeds Bad Co., Straightshooter and Run with the Pack. Their music may not be carnivorous, but it's out there in the front evolutionary line...
East West Journal's chief distinction from the usual self-abnegating counter-cultural junk we are expected to wallow water-hoggishly in is its slick packaging. Nothing kills one of those infamous Cambridge cocktail parties faster than a too-complete fatalism. But this magazine starting with a litany of all the terrible things wrong with the world quickly moves on to ice-breaking tidbits like the sayings of a Japanese zen master or a Bucky-Fuller-talking -blues-in-gobbledlygook or the parallels between our war on cancer and Vietnam, "our nation's last great effort in futility...