It is a word that says in the least amount of time, "You suck... No, really. You truly, honestly, absolutely suck more ass than a Shop-Vac-nozzle-mouthed proctologist in an, um, ass convention, or something else involving, um, you know... Asses, plural ... Oh, did I mention you, uh, like, suck ass, as well, or something?" In those instances, it is a really handy word for the dull-witted, borderline-unintelligable person attempting to defuse their explosively compulsive ass fixations from casual conversation. (Ass, ass, assy, assiness, asshole assasins assaying asinine assumptions assuaged asphyxiated associative assorted assurances, ass, ass, ass!)

Hate encapsulates the gamut of emotions. From the "I hate your guts" (though, I can say that about anybody. However, I would love to say to someone, once, "Aww, you have the cutest intestines ever!" But that might be interpreted as a precursor to anal sex or a Jack the Ripper copycat murder... Probably an even better reason to say it.) to the resigned "I hate this town," knowing full well they will continue living in said town and secretly like it for its comfort zone feel, to the ironic declaration "I hate Hate," as if Hate were this venomous bastard you know, who throws his linebacker-sized bulk around and flicks spitwads in your hair when you're not looking, to the ever-popular, "I hate you," used as a term of endearment amongst friends, akin to a misanthropic punk rocker flashing a scowl, when you know full well it is actually the smile of a closet soap-opera watcher, who has a little, fluffy, white kitten named Death.

I say I hate a great many things, and I do, but rare are the times that I aim it point blank at someone or something and actually intend to convey the full-throttled vitriol of its meaning. You have to actually care to truly hate something. It requires focus, an expenditure of energy, a love for the hate-beam being projected at its enemy. There are some real wackos that thrive on it, live on its inferno. (Fellini is said to need an enemy to create art. Convenient excuse to be an asshole.) But I feel that, for the most part, hate is an empty threat made up of hollowed-out, bird-bone letters fused together to create a four-letter word that could be smashed to bits with a sneeze. People say it and forget it in the same motion. Streets are paved with its detritus. (I would so live on a road called "Hate Street." It would have really ugly, black, archaic, crumbling houses with giant, mutated, pet leeches chained up in the front yards and demons pitchforking old people with walkers in the butt. You go to the mailbox, and your neighbor leans out the window, flips you off, and puts a curse on your unborn children. Ahh, Eden.)

It has been a long time since I have said I hated someone or something and actually meant it, wholly and completely. (That is, if you take away the daily mantra of "I hate Bush," with the slight variation of "I fucking hate Bush." Bush's name now representing all the various branches of deceit and disease and brainless propaganda and ineptness and carelessness running rampant through the administration and party, alike. The figurehead of all that is rotten in this country. You say Bush, but you mean every bastard lackey in tow, as well... God, I HATE Bush.) One night, though, I was talking to The Plain Jane girls, and the subject turned to literature; how it is oftentimes difficult to say you truly hate a book, without finding something, no matter how small, redeemable about it. (Mary had NO problem pointing to John Steinbeck and Edith Wharton. She imagined purgatory was a place where you had to read their books, over and over again, with no end in sight.) I could not think of a book or author that I truly hated. Sure, there have been some awful books I have read, and they did not even have a mere sentence worth saving for future generations, let alone this one, (over the years, I have gained the spine to throw away a book before it hurts my mind anymore than it already has, before I stop hating the words and hate the creator beyond reason.) but to actually declare a pure-hearted hate toward them seemed excessive to their inconsquential, mainstream state of thrift-store-tossaway nothingness.

Then, Mary said the magic word, "Thoreau," and the reflexive response was an ardent, "UGH," shared between us. Past the upsurging wave of stomach acid, my embittered response was, "I HATE Thoreau." And it was true. An honest hatred, a fact I had long forgotten. And, accordingly, as with all violent reactions evoked from within one another, the girls were amused by the response, just as I had been amused moments earlier by Mary's anti-Steinbeck stance, whereas Alyssa and I thought Grapes of Wrath was good. The mere suggestion that the perils of the Joad family could possibly qualify as "good," made Mary groan all the louder. Which in turn, of course, just made it funnier. (I wonder what Mary would have said if I mentioned that Hitler was a great fan of the book, and read it several times, believing it embodied the stalwart spirit of America. My imagined response is, "SEE! Hitler liked it, it SUX!")

Amidst the amusement, Mary suggested, "You should write about how you hate Thoreau," followed by another amused chuckle at her own suggestion.

So here I am. Not because Mary said so (Oh, she's so domineering. Help. Please. May Day. SOS!), but instead returning to the part about hate requiring an expenditure of energy. Mary planted the absurd seed, but I am typing at this computer keyboard because of the legitimacy of my hatred. This essay is like a cotillion for a hurking Dr. Jekyll, dressed in a frilly white dress; a baby shower for a devilspawn, with the mug of Quasimodo; a bris for an ill-intentioned Frankenstein. Hate doesn't mind its P's and Q's, but its F's and U's (You know how long I waited to use that retarded phrase? Take that, Emily Post, you antiquated, uptight, frigid bitch, you! Nothing quite like kicking the deceased champion of social mores. Ah--burp--bliss!). So without further ado...

I hate Henry David Thoreau. Pure and simple. First of all, that name. It says, "No, no. Really. I am not a Ralph Waldo Emerson knockoff. I am some other fully-named American writer with ambitions to be soothsayer." Bah... soothsayer. If you write simply enough, anything you say will be considered universal "truth." And though Thoreau's quotes read simple enough (I just Googled him and looked at some of his quotes. They look like fortune cookie sayings glommed from a Poor Richard's Almanac. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away." "A penny saved is a penny earned." "A gag reflex evoked is an apple-pulp vomit party earned."), what I remember of Thoreau's prose was that he was wordy and full of himself. Like in Walden, for instance, there is a premise I can get behind. Man breaks away from the warm bosom of society to live in a shack in the woods, built on the shores of an icy pond. Great! Yes! It speaks to the inner-recluse in me. But, somehow, Thoreau ruins a good premise by going out of his way to prove how hip to the intelligentsia scene he was. When he isn't self-aggrandizing, not only mentioning but listing in a fully-detailed ledger in his journal about how frugally he lives compared to everyone else (like I really care about how much his dungarees cost and how much his preserves went for at market), he is going on about dusty, archaic books that nobody gives a crap about, when all you want him to write about is the subtle observations of the pond, the changing of the seasons, the animals, the atmosphere. Though you do get some broad, atmospheric brush strokes, it is not enough. What I wanted from Walden, as I'm sure most people did, was a book that catered to the daydream of a recluse, so that I could live vicariously through his words, not so that I could get a full glimpse of the inside of an anally-retentive, structured brain of a holier-than-thou, smarmy bastard, with the imagination and wit of Orville Redenbacher's flatulence. If writing "truth" means boring people to tears, give me lies anyday.

And in Civil Disobedience, where Thoreau chronicles his refusal to pay his income taxes and the subsequent jail time served, you get the full-breadth perspective of what kind of a bastard he is. He is a guy with a messianic complex. He isn't sitting in a jail cell or living in the woods because he cares about others; it is about self-glorification. He acts out and is contrary just so his wish of being crucified can be fulfilled. He writes because he actually believes he, and only he, can enlighten the masses. He is the Tom Wolfe/Benny Hinn-type asshole that drapes himself in white (symbolic, I'm sure, in Thoreau's case. Not the literal, ever-present white suits of self-righteousness of the aforementioned), because he is beyond reproach. As Stacey (one of the close friends of The Plain Jane girls) once said, "It is hard to trust a man that wears white all the time." It is true. It is very difficult. When you are shown nothing but white, the only thing left of interest is to search for skidmarks, and I'm sure Thoreau had more than his fair share. A man, like Thoreau, could never be self-effacing, could never admit to being a lameass. I could imagine someone, like I am, cracking a joke about him to his face, and he, instantly, seeing red, instead of laughing it off, shooting that angry, hurt stare of "How dare you say anything negative about ME!"

In conclusion, Henry David Thoreau sucked---and, bare in mind, this is all coming from someone that appreciates environmental awareness and embraces anti-big government sentiment. The inherent lameness of Thoreau, somehow, negates all that he tried to accomplish with his words. He makes you want to do things that go against your nature, even when you agree with him in principle. Instead of calling in and sending money to support the Save Walden Woods campaign, as I once saw Bruce Springsteen attempting to drum up support for the cause on public television years ago, you feel the compulsion to go against your nature and burn the damn pristine trees just so you can erase the memory of him from the face of the planet and create a scab on earth worthy of his life. Instead of saying, in Mod Squad rerun vernacular, "Groovy! Stick it to the Man! Don't hand over your hard-earned bread! Short the Power Company from the inside, man. Dig?" you say, "Just pay your taxes and shut up, bitch!"

Stacey said, "He rode a little high on the horse." Well, I am the bastard that says he rode a little high on the back of a little, Shetland pony, dressed in a Napoleon uniform, in full denial of his smallness, convinced the world at large bowed down at his feet, never thinking to look up at the regular-sized, everyday people looming over him like giants, all the while a tick on the ass of the world.

Hmm. You know... I think the thing I really hate about Henry David Thoreau is that he reminds me of me. The fucker.

Anyway, as the current, imperial, bastardly, self-appointed arbiter of good taste, I, with the embarrassed support of The Plain Jane, ask that you snail mail copies of Henry David Thoreau books to The Plain Jane address (The Plain Jane / PMB #190 / 10606 Camino Ruiz Ste. 8 / San Diego, CA. 92126) for a good old-fashioned book burning. We, at The Plain Jane, need support from people like you, so that future generations can be rid of the cataclysmic blight known as Thoreau. With each donation of a hundred books or more, you will receive a disproportionately small treat as our thanks to you. With your help, we can conquer Thoreau in this lifetime. Thank you.