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Apr. 1st, 2004 04:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pearwaldorfSo there was this guy screaming outside my window at 7:30 this morning. Cody and I grumbled and presumed he was at the construction site across the street. Apparently he got into an argument with this woman, and he hit her. A bunch of people saw him, called the police, and he got arrested as he was trying to board the bus to Portland. I am gleefully reveling in his misfortune.
I am reading the Communist Manifesto for about the third time since coming to university, this time for my Foundations of Sociology class. Honestly, people. Can we just devote one class to Marx, study him in depth, and make it a required in the soc department so we don't have to talk about the evolution of the bourgeosie and the proletariat for the eighth time? Granted, one can always use the refresher and be disturbed that Marx was quite prescient in his predictions (although I am not sure if it is because he was really perceptive or because the world has been so influenced by his ideas) and be amused that despite his delusions of grandeur, my store director by definition is a member of the proletariat, even though he would probably think of himself as petit bourgeosie. It does not alleviate my bitterness at his stupidity and ham-handed petty tyranny, but it at least injects some mocking irony into the situation.
I am reading the Communist Manifesto for about the third time since coming to university, this time for my Foundations of Sociology class. Honestly, people. Can we just devote one class to Marx, study him in depth, and make it a required in the soc department so we don't have to talk about the evolution of the bourgeosie and the proletariat for the eighth time? Granted, one can always use the refresher and be disturbed that Marx was quite prescient in his predictions (although I am not sure if it is because he was really perceptive or because the world has been so influenced by his ideas) and be amused that despite his delusions of grandeur, my store director by definition is a member of the proletariat, even though he would probably think of himself as petit bourgeosie. It does not alleviate my bitterness at his stupidity and ham-handed petty tyranny, but it at least injects some mocking irony into the situation.
