Chris Banyas
Editor-in-Chief
My experience with ISU edition textbooks peaked when, upon my passage of the Math 1123 course, I subsequently turned the innumerable pages of that tome into packing material with which to ship my other books back to Amazon for a meager return on my investment.
Thinking of a textbook in terms of it being valuable only in a dismantled form as ersatz packing peanuts is a depressing one.
I suppose the nature of the beast that is the university system in America has necessitated the street drug known to graduates and undergraduates alike, known as TEXT.
Luckily, being a liberal arts major, and one who is commonly viewed as such to be some sort of sylvan dwelling nymphoid creature that speaks in verse and frequently has a far-away look in his eyes, I haven’t had to purchase many of the Necronomicon sized scientific-orientated texts.
The image of people, young and old alike, who have been sold a bill of goods when they put down their signature upon their college application being transformed into jonesing addicts, lying sprawled out in gutters across America, trying to filch enough money in order to scurry and scamper back into the nearest college bookstore in order to facilitate their next TEXT fix is one that, while perhaps not entirely accurate or appropriate, might bring a modicum of levity to the situation a student faces when paying the textbook bill for the upcoming semester.
I have friends who have stacks of old ISU edition textbooks that I look longingly toward every time I dream of driving the wasteland in search of guzzoline. We would, of course, use those texts as the blocks upon which our wasteland cruiser would be enthroned while we installed its boarding spikes and bored out the cylinders.
Boarding spikes, as anyone who has seen the imaginary wasteland I see behind my eyelids behind theirs as well, are just as important as any amount of motor oil, water, or ammunition to your survival therein.
I have two memories which stand out in terms of my dance with the demon known as TEXT.
The first was when I entered a college book store after emerging victorious from the last final of one of my first semesters. The woman behind the counter proceeded to inform me that of the thousands of pages of material I had placed before her, there was a grand total of $2 worth of marketable material that I might exchange with her.
As I don’t remember quite how I ended up at home, throwing the books away myself and grumbling all the way to the dumpster, I might have blacked out.
Motivated forgetting is defined as: a theorized psychological behavior in which people may forget unwanted memories, either consciously or unconsciously.
After my spirit was broken inside that bookstore, I learned to take the money I was offered and be thankful for it.
I developed a coping ritual which involves purchasing $1 worth of Runts from any remaining candy dispensary that still accepts quarters and requires you to turn the crank like a rat in a maze to receive your reward. On the way past the nearest garbage, I pause in quiet assiduity as I send the hellish banana Runts to their doom. Putting these disgusting curved pieces of plastic sugar out of my misery is, for whatever reason, extremely cathartic for me.
I then throw away the remaining dollar, singing Cake’s “I Bombed Korea” while, castigating myself as the ring of each quarter dies out into the plastic bottom of the receptacle, I remember that it is presumptuous to expect any more than a dollar back for my books.
The second story which sticks out occurred when I purchased the textbook that, according to the book list under the class description, was required.
I will now attempt to reenact this scene via textual representation for you. Step into the imagination station with me and cast your look backward.
ME: But the book list said we needed to buy the sixth edition.
INSTRUCTOR: It did, but according to the syllabus the seventh edition is the one which we will be using.
ME: Staring into the middle distance, somewhere above the instructors face yet below the ceiling.
INSTRUCTOR: Don’t worry! The books are more or less the same. You should be fine to use that one.
ME: But the syllabus wasn’t posted until the third class meeting. How was I supposed to know?
INSTRUCTOR: As with all other collegiate courses, the syllabus is what the class is taught from.
ME: So why do they put out the book lists if there’s a possibility that they might be changed before the semester even starts? I spent $300 on this book!
INSTRUCTOR: Like I said, that book will work fine. I’m just recommending that students purchase the seventh edition.
ME: Slowly looking past the instructor, noticing that the seventh edition of the teacher’s text for the class is clearly sticking out of her bag, mocking me.
SOMETIME LATER – AFTER CLASS
INSTRUCTOR: You got a 50 percent because you missed half the questions.
ME: I looked at Mary’s book, and the questions between the sixth and seventh editions are different!
INSTRUCTOR: According to the syllabus, the seventh edition is recommended for this course.
ME: YOU SAID THE SIXTH EDITION, WHICH WAS LISTED ON THE BOOK LIST, WOULD WORK!
JUDAS: The college bookstore had some copies of the seventh edition last time I was in there. Maybe you can get your money back and purchase the new one?
ME: *Hand slowly rises to nose as blood inexorably drips from brainstem, down nasal pathways and finally falls upon the floor, depositing large amounts of my soul with it*
SOMETIME LATER – DURING A CLASS SESSION – After having to settle for the sub-optimal trade-in value of the sixth edition, and thereafter putting that sum toward the purchase of another multi-hundred dollar textbook in the form of the seventh edition.
ME: Leafing slowly through the seventh edition, marveling at how similar it all seems to the sixth. I cut my finger on one of the pages.
INSTRUCTOR: I made PDF’s of all the rest of the assignments from the seventh edition for you guys because there was some misunderstanding *here directing a backward glance in my direction* as to which book we were using.
ME: I heard and felt a pop somewhere inside my head – I prayed it was an aneurysm as the blood from my finger stained the now 5-600 dollar investment on the desk before me.
SATAN: So let’s talk about chapter five.
