Finest quality. MUCH NICER!

When Dan and Eleanor were trekking across India the national catchphrase to compliment possessions or to sell a product was "finest quality." When Eleanor was signing a hotel receipt with her own pen the hotel clerk asked to see her pen, an ordinary ballpoint. He examined it slowly and carefully and as he returned it to he said with approval, "Your pen is of the absolute finest quality."

Another time Eleanor went to go buy toilet paper. She dreaded the errand because the smallest transaction, even for intimate personal items, was always a big, involved process requiring a lot of tedious haggling and time consuming negotiation. The sales clerk presented her with a roll of toilet paper, and then unfurled a few squares as if her were unrolling the finest Persian rug. He waved his hand with an elegant flourish and asked her to examine it herself. Unlike his American counterpart Mr. Whipple, he wanted her to squeeze the roll and pinch the squares so she could marvel at the loft of the tissue. After she touched it, he said smugly, "As you can see, this is of the finest quality." Even though the toilet practically cut her fingers with its coarseness she played along and said, "Yes. Certainly the finest quality I have ever felt."

They were constantly approached and hassled by people trying to beg, sell items, offer their services or con them. The most outrageous come on was when they were traveling in a rickshaw and passed another rickshaw going the opposite direction. The driver of the empty rickshaw yelled at them, "You need rickshaw?" Since they were already in a rickshaw traveling quickly the opposite direction Dan looked at him dumbfounded. Even as the distance rapidly grew between them the rickshaw driver continued his sales pitch and the last thing they heard was a faint " I promise the FINEST Quaaaliteeeeeee."

Lately I've noticed that the common saying to upsell or convince the reluctant buyer among the Chinese in this city has become "MUCH NICER!" I was working in the predominately Chinese area of town and went to a corner market to buy a snack. Most of the products were unrecognizable but I did find some Cheetoes, but only the spicy hot variety. When I asked the store clerk if she had any regular Cheetoes she said, "No. But buy the spicy! MUCH NICER!"

Elizabeth was getting her legs waxed at our neighborhood salon, which is Chinese owned and operated. After the waxing technician finished with her legs she asked Elizabeth if she wanted her bikini line waxed as well. Elizabeth was in a hurry so she declined. The woman gave her a look of reproach and asked, "Are you sure? MUCH NICER!"

Touched by an Angel... of Death

We have a lot of patrons who come to this branch quite consistently, many on a reliable, predictable schedule. Every so often one of these regulars will abruptly terminate his or her visits and I'll never see the person again. It's as if the patron has vanished from the face of the earth, and often I ponder their whereabouts. If the patron is elderly, I fear the worst, like in the case of of a patron in his eighties who used to come in without fail every Tuesday. He was a bit of a rake and was always trying to take me to lunch. Even though I always would demurely decline, each time he came in he would go through the same little routine of harmless courting. Because of his age and his charm I found it sweet and flattering rather than harassing and annoying, especially when he started to lie about his age to me by subtracting 40 years from his 83. When he suddenly stopped coming in I grew concerned and considered calling his home number to check on him. Before I did he came in with his son, who is 60, and explained that he had surgery and had been convalescing, but would soon be as good as new and resume his regular schedule of library visits. I was so relieved that I think I might even break my non fraternization policy go to lunch with him to celebrate his recovery.



The other day I was fortunate enough to get closure on another patron, who is also a

senior citizen. She always wore purple clothing, just like the poem. She usually had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, but her adorable old lady act was actually a form of diabolical mimicry, because in reality she was a vicious, nasty shrew.



Instead of reaching into her pocketbook to hand you a piece of candy, she would instead hand you a piece of your ass. She used to come in to use our internet almost daily and was extremely territorial and possessive of the computers. She would start fights and bully people off so they would relinquish their turn early to her. Usually people were so startled by this unexpected behavior out of this sweet old looking lady that they wouldn't challenge her and would wander off stunned. I saw her make a young English tourist girl cry one time.



Before I knew the extent of what an old C U Next Tuesday  this woman was I noticed her flailing at one of the computers one day. Our internet booking software locks out the computers 5 minutes before each half hour, and she was trying to log on at 25 minutes after the hour. I made the mistake of leaning into her and asking sweetly and softly,



"May I help you? Are you trying to log on?"



She whipped around and sneered, "What do you mean to ask me that? What does it look like I'm trying to do! Don't assume I don't know how to use a computer! And I just got a new hearing aid, so don't scream at me!"



From her overreaction, I thought she must have assumed that I was just another patron who was trying to muscle in on her time.



"I'm sorry - I didn't mean to startle you. I’m not trying to take your spot. I work here. I was just going to tell you that our internet booking software won't let you on until the half hour.”



"Oh, I know you work here! I know who you are. My tax dollars pay your salary, and don't you forget it!"



I have learned not to take these kind of encounters personally. I have also learned that trying to explain or reason with people like this just escalates matters. So, I said, "Well, OK then." and left her to her own devices with the computer for another 5 minutes until the software allowed her to go on.



She continued to come in, always starting fights, always wasting the support staff's time with these lengthy, monotonous complaints about how other people were overusing their time on the internet, a crime that she was almost always guilty of herself. Then one day she stopped coming in, and things became much more pleasant around the internet stations.



A few months later I was at another branch and I saw a small photograph of her under the plastic cover of another librarian's desk. It was unmistakably her, because she was wearing the same purple clothing that was her signature style. I asked the librarian if she knew her, and explained that she was a patron who came in the library all the time but I hadn't seen her in a few months.



"Oh, yes! That's -----! She was such a wonderful, involved activist! You name the cause, you could always count on her to be leading the march! I participated in many a peace rally with her."



Apparently old purple pants had been a real union activist and involved in all the peace activities for years, which just goes to bolster my theory that many of those crusading, save the world types are the biggest interpersonal assholes. Please explain to me if they love humanity so much why they are invariably the nastiest people you've ever met one on one?



The librarian then went on to tell me that she had died of a stroke recently. I actually had to cover my mouth and bite the inside of my cheeks to stop from smiling when I heard the news, and the librarian was touched because she thought I was overcome with emotion. When I got a hold of myself I told the librarian that I was so sorry to hear that and that the branch just wouldn't be the same without her.

Touched by an Angel... of Death

We have a lot of patrons who come to this branch quite consistently, many on a reliable, predictable schedule. Every so often one of these regulars will abruptly terminate his or her visits and I'll never see the person again. It's as if the patron has vanished from the face of the earth, and often I ponder their whereabouts. If the patron is elderly, I fear the worst, like in the case of of a patron in his eighties who used to come in without fail every Tuesday. He was a bit of a rake and was always trying to take me to lunch. Even though I always would demurely decline, each time he came in he would go through the same little routine of harmless courting. Because of his age and his charm I found it sweet and flattering rather than harassing and annoying, especially when he started to lie about his age to me by subtracting 40 years from his 83. When he suddenly stopped coming in I grew concerned and considered calling his home number to check on him. Before I did he came in with his son, who is 60, and explained that he had surgery and had been convalescing, but would soon be as good as new and resume his regular schedule of library visits. I was so relieved that I think I might even break my non fraternization policy go to lunch with him to celebrate his recovery.

The other day I was fortunate enough to get closure on another patron, who is also a
senior citizen. She always wore purple clothing, just like the poem. She usually had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, but her adorable old lady act was actually a form of diabolical mimicry, because in reality she was a vicious, nasty shrew.

Instead of reaching into her pocketbook to hand you a piece of candy, she would instead hand you a piece of your ass. She used to come in to use our internet almost daily and was extremely territorial and possessive of the computers. She would start fights and bully people off so they would relinquish their turn early to her. Usually people were so startled by this unexpected behavior out of this sweet old looking lady that they wouldn't challenge her and would wander off stunned. I saw her make a young English tourist girl cry one time.

Before I knew the extent of what an old C U Next Tuesday  this woman was I noticed her flailing at one of the computers one day. Our internet booking software locks out the computers 5 minutes before each half hour, and she was trying to log on at 25 minutes after the hour. I made the mistake of leaning into her and asking sweetly and softly,

"May I help you? Are you trying to log on?"

She whipped around and sneered, "What do you mean to ask me that? What does it look like I'm trying to do! Don't assume I don't know how to use a computer! And I just got a new hearing aid, so don't scream at me!"

From her overreaction, I thought she must have assumed that I was just another patron who was trying to muscle in on her time.

"I'm sorry - I didn't mean to startle you. I’m not trying to take your spot. I work here. I was just going to tell you that our internet booking software won't let you on until the half hour.”

"Oh, I know you work here! I know who you are. My tax dollars pay your salary, and don't you forget it!"

I have learned not to take these kind of encounters personally. I have also learned that trying to explain or reason with people like this just escalates matters. So, I said, "Well, OK then." and left her to her own devices with the computer for another 5 minutes until the software allowed her to go on.

She continued to come in, always starting fights, always wasting the support staff's time with these lengthy, monotonous complaints about how other people were overusing their time on the internet, a crime that she was almost always guilty of herself. Then one day she stopped coming in, and things became much more pleasant around the internet stations.

A few months later I was at another branch and I saw a small photograph of her under the plastic cover of another librarian's desk. It was unmistakably her, because she was wearing the same purple clothing that was her signature style. I asked the librarian if she knew her, and explained that she was a patron who came in the library all the time but I hadn't seen her in a few months.

"Oh, yes! That's -----! She was such a wonderful, involved activist! You name the cause, you could always count on her to be leading the march! I participated in many a peace rally with her."

Apparently old purple pants had been a real union activist and involved in all the peace activities for years, which just goes to bolster my theory that many of those crusading, save the world types are the biggest interpersonal assholes. Please explain to me if they love humanity so much why they are invariably the nastiest people you've ever met one on one?

The librarian then went on to tell me that she had died of a stroke recently. I actually had to cover my mouth and bite the inside of my cheeks to stop from smiling when I heard the news, and the librarian was touched because she thought I was overcome with emotion. When I got a hold of myself I told the librarian that I was so sorry to hear that and that the branch just wouldn't be the same without her.

2004 Bulwer-Lytton Bad Fiction Contest Winner

She resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight ... summarily, like Martha Stewart ripping the sand vein out of a shrimp's tail ... though the term 'love affair' now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism ... not unlike 'sand vein,' which is after all an intestine, not a vein ... and that tarry substance inside certainly isn't sand ... and that brought her back to Ramon.



Another good one:

The knife handle jutted from her chest like one of the plastic pop-up timers in a frozen turkey, but from the blood pooling around the wound, it was apparent that this bird wasn't done.



Click here for more.

2004 Bulwer-Lytton Bad Fiction Contest Winner

She resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight ... summarily, like Martha Stewart ripping the sand vein out of a shrimp's tail ... though the term 'love affair' now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism ... not unlike 'sand vein,' which is after all an intestine, not a vein ... and that tarry substance inside certainly isn't sand ... and that brought her back to Ramon.

Another good one:
The knife handle jutted from her chest like one of the plastic pop-up timers in a frozen turkey, but from the blood pooling around the wound, it was apparent that this bird wasn't done.

Click here for more.

Tao of Poop

One of the colleagues who started in the system around the same time as I did substituted for my vacationing manager the other day at my branch. We had a good time catching up. Like me, she came from a corporate library background and so we always enjoy exchanging stories and marveling at how different our jobs are now that we are civil servants.



When she first started she reported to a branch in the famed hippie section of town. It was her very first day and as she was walking up the steps and about to unlock the front door something stopped her dead in her tracks. There on the doorstep was mighty, steaming pile of human excrement. Since this was her first day, she was at a loss as to how handle this situation, which was not exactly the ‘welcome mat’ she expected or hoped for. This was not like anything she had faced before in her corporate job or an eventuality covered in library school. While she was standing there wondering what to do a homeless man came up behind her and said, “Pardon me, ma’am.” He then did a very chivalrous thing. He did not lay his coat down for her to walk over it like Sir Walter Raleigh (Elizabeth’s guess), but he did take some newspapers and cleaned up every last bit of it. After he was finished, this gallant drifter then walked off, never to be seen again. Although some people might have considered this an inauspicious beginning, she (like I do) loves and appreciates her civil service job, because although working with the public has its challenges, some of them even fecal, you have to put up with a lot more ‘shit’ in a corporate job.

Tao of Poop

One of the colleagues who started in the system around the same time as I did substituted for my vacationing manager the other day at my branch. We had a good time catching up. Like me, she came from a corporate library background and so we always enjoy exchanging stories and marveling at how different our jobs are now that we are civil servants.

When she first started she reported to a branch in the famed hippie section of town. It was her very first day and as she was walking up the steps and about to unlock the front door something stopped her dead in her tracks. There on the doorstep was mighty, steaming pile of human excrement. Since this was her first day, she was at a loss as to how handle this situation, which was not exactly the ‘welcome mat’ she expected or hoped for. This was not like anything she had faced before in her corporate job or an eventuality covered in library school. While she was standing there wondering what to do a homeless man came up behind her and said, “Pardon me, ma’am.” He then did a very chivalrous thing. He did not lay his coat down for her to walk over it like Sir Walter Raleigh (Elizabeth’s guess), but he did take some newspapers and cleaned up every last bit of it. After he was finished, this gallant drifter then walked off, never to be seen again. Although some people might have considered this an inauspicious beginning, she (like I do) loves and appreciates her civil service job, because although working with the public has its challenges, some of them even fecal, you have to put up with a lot more ‘shit’ in a corporate job.

You will respect my authoritAY

I had to get a little iron fisted with the computer boyz in the children's section the other day. They are in here from the moment we open until the computers shut off fifteen minutes before we close, meaning sometimes they'll be at the computers for 11 hours at a stretch. Since they spend their day cooped up inside playing computer games that exercise nothing but their hands, they get, unsurprisingly, rowdy and disruptive. Sometimes going beserker on them is the only way to reach them and keep them in line.



I think they are already a little frightened of me since they witnessed an incident involving a little boy about six months ago. This little boy is a real brat with indulgent, older parents who think everything he does, not matter how obnoxious, is absolutely adorable. Whether he's tearing around the library getting dangerously underfoot, sassing the librarians when they try to reign him in, or throwing a tantrum because we don't have a certain video or it's time to leave, his parents just chuckle indulgently while I dig my nails into my hands and the other adult patrons glare at me to do something. One time he came running in, and after I stopped him and asked him not to run in the library he reached over and maliciously turned my computer off, destroying an e-mail that I had put a lot of thought and care into. He then ran off. Furious, I followed him to the children's section. He then came barrelling out from behind a bookshelf, his arms full of videos, yelling greedily,



"Look, look, I got the last TWO Arthur videos! And they're all mine!"



He then tripped and fell flat on his face right in front of the children's computers, scattering the videos all of the floor, unhurt but stunned. Of course I burst out laughing, and the computer kidz looked at me wide-eyed, amazed that an adult, someone in a position of authority, could be that immature and petty. Even if I'm going to burn in hell for that, it was deeply satisfying thing for me to see.

You will respect my authoritAY

I had to get a little iron fisted with the computer boyz in the children's section the other day. They are in here from the moment we open until the computers shut off fifteen minutes before we close, meaning sometimes they'll be at the computers for 11 hours at a stretch. Since they spend their day cooped up inside playing computer games that exercise nothing but their hands, they get, unsurprisingly, rowdy and disruptive. Sometimes going beserker on them is the only way to reach them and keep them in line.

I think they are already a little frightened of me since they witnessed an incident involving a little boy about six months ago. This little boy is a real brat with indulgent, older parents who think everything he does, not matter how obnoxious, is absolutely adorable. Whether he's tearing around the library getting dangerously underfoot, sassing the librarians when they try to reign him in, or throwing a tantrum because we don't have a certain video or it's time to leave, his parents just chuckle indulgently while I dig my nails into my hands and the other adult patrons glare at me to do something. One time he came running in, and after I stopped him and asked him not to run in the library he reached over and maliciously turned my computer off, destroying an e-mail that I had put a lot of thought and care into. He then ran off. Furious, I followed him to the children's section. He then came barrelling out from behind a bookshelf, his arms full of videos, yelling greedily,

"Look, look, I got the last TWO Arthur videos! And they're all mine!"

He then tripped and fell flat on his face right in front of the children's computers, scattering the videos all of the floor, unhurt but stunned. Of course I burst out laughing, and the computer kidz looked at me wide-eyed, amazed that an adult, someone in a position of authority, could be that immature and petty. Even if I'm going to burn in hell for that, it was deeply satisfying thing for me to see.

Please allow me to explain

Several of you commented on Billy's attire in the photo I posted on July 9th's entry. Before you accuse me of being the kind of odd, reclusive spinster librarian who dresses up her cat and dog children in twee outfits and forces them to participate in creepy tea parties, let me explain that they were in those outfits for a good reason: work. Although Sid's outfit (pictured left, in beefcake green) suggests International Male, they modeled for Pets.com, the irrational e-business that ruined many an exuberant investor and became a case study for dot com idiocy and profligacy. Say what you will about us exploiting our animals - Sid, Spoon and Billy Jack got to be part of dot bomb history.



How did they get this gig? Well, this whole thing is just who knows who and favoritism. (Elizabeth is friends with a photographer who was doing business with the company.) The dogs weren’t paid in stock options, but they were compensated with boxes and boxes of ridiculous merchandise, including a naugahyde bomber jacket, which I think cost $60 retail on the site. I can't figure out why the company went bust.



Instead of being wildly rich on paper, the dogs became wildly rich in crappy product, which arrived all at once in four huge boxes. We had a wonderful time opening up all of the boxes with the dogs. It was just like Christmas for them, and now they think anytime a box comes it's for them. We still have a bunch of outfits and Pets.com schwag, mementoes of the bubble that we hope to sell on Ebay for nostalgic, ironic types who collect that kind of crap.



Speaking of collectible keepsakes from defunct companies: people look covetously at my WANG coffee cup, which is not for sale, FRANCIS, ever. You'll have to pry that from my cold, dead hands.

Please allow me to explain

Several of you commented on Billy's attire in the photo I posted on July 9th's entry. Before you accuse me of being the kind of odd, reclusive spinster librarian who dresses up her cat and dog children in twee outfits and forces them to participate in creepy tea parties, let me explain that they were in those outfits for a good reason: work. Although Sid's outfit (pictured left, in beefcake green) suggests International Male, they modeled for Pets.com, the irrational e-business that ruined many an exuberant investor and became a case study for dot com idiocy and profligacy. Say what you will about us exploiting our animals - Sid, Spoon and Billy Jack got to be part of dot bomb history.

How did they get this gig? Well, this whole thing is just who knows who and favoritism. (Elizabeth is friends with a photographer who was doing business with the company.) The dogs weren’t paid in stock options, but they were compensated with boxes and boxes of ridiculous merchandise, including a naugahyde bomber jacket, which I think cost $60 retail on the site. I can't figure out why the company went bust.

Instead of being wildly rich on paper, the dogs became wildly rich in crappy product, which arrived all at once in four huge boxes. We had a wonderful time opening up all of the boxes with the dogs. It was just like Christmas for them, and now they think anytime a box comes it's for them. We still have a bunch of outfits and Pets.com schwag, mementoes of the bubble that we hope to sell on Ebay for nostalgic, ironic types who collect that kind of crap.

Speaking of collectible keepsakes from defunct companies: people look covetously at my WANG coffee cup, which is not for sale, FRANCIS, ever. You'll have to pry that from my cold, dead hands.

Creep Sweep

The criminals who designed and built this shoddily constructed branch inexplicably filled it with nooks, crannies and blind corners, a terrible idea for a public facility like this. I dread doing the ‘creep sweep,’ the closing procedure where we patrol the stacks to make sure all the patrons are out of the building, because I’m terrified one of them is going to ambush me and pounce on my back like a chupacabra.



So far this hasn’t happened, but the other night I got quite a scare when a homeless man suddenly materialized from behind one of the shelves right in front of me when I thought the library was empty. I was so startled I almost fell back and fainted, just like the man in Mulholland Drive after the creature pops out from behind the dumpster of the Winkies, a scene for which I will never, ever forgive David Lynch. This homeless man, who is a regular, looks amazingly similar to the monster in Mullholland Drive. Like the thing that lives behind Winkies, his clothing and skin are completely blackened with grime and his long hair has matted itself into greasy dread locks. What I find most horrifying about him is that he has that same sinister lack of facial expression, this beatific blankness about him. I usually see him on my morning walk with the dogs by the bay, picking intently at the weeping sores that cover his filth encrusted body or sorting through the trash for cigarette butts, waiting for my branch to open so he can pay me and the keyboard of one of our catalog computers a visit. For reasons I cannot fathom, he is obsessed with the keyboard - it seems that it has a powerful, totemic attraction, a religious signficance, for him. When the library opens up he’ll shuffle in, grab a volume of the encylopedia and park himself at a table in the back. He’ll behave quietly for while, but the call of the keyboard will be too much, and he’ll move toward it and start tapping on the keys in this ritualistic, compulsive manner. He’ll peck slowly at first, typing gibberish, but then he’ll build momentum until he’s frenziedly, destructively pounding on the keyboard with his filthy hands, all the time maintaining this eerily serene expression even as his level of exertion increases, as if what he is doing is bringing him deep peace. At that point my manager will ask him to leave, which the homeless man will do but slowly, because he is reluctant to be separated from the object of his obsession. He usually won’t return again until the next day, when the entire scenario will repeat itself. Since it wasn’t part of his routine to be in there so late at night, I was more shocked to see him than I would have been ordinarily. I hope he doesn’t do that to me again, because I only have so many of those in me that I can take.

Creep Sweep

The criminals who designed and built this shoddily constructed branch inexplicably filled it with nooks, crannies and blind corners, a terrible idea for a public facility like this. I dread doing the ‘creep sweep,’ the closing procedure where we patrol the stacks to make sure all the patrons are out of the building, because I’m terrified one of them is going to ambush me and pounce on my back like a chupacabra.

So far this hasn’t happened, but the other night I got quite a scare when a homeless man suddenly materialized from behind one of the shelves right in front of me when I thought the library was empty. I was so startled I almost fell back and fainted, just like the man in Mulholland Drive after the creature pops out from behind the dumpster of the Winkies, a scene for which I will never, ever forgive David Lynch. This homeless man, who is a regular, looks amazingly similar to the monster in Mullholland Drive. Like the thing that lives behind Winkies, his clothing and skin are completely blackened with grime and his long hair has matted itself into greasy dread locks. What I find most horrifying about him is that he has that same sinister lack of facial expression, this beatific blankness about him. I usually see him on my morning walk with the dogs by the bay, picking intently at the weeping sores that cover his filth encrusted body or sorting through the trash for cigarette butts, waiting for my branch to open so he can pay me and the keyboard of one of our catalog computers a visit. For reasons I cannot fathom, he is obsessed with the keyboard - it seems that it has a powerful, totemic attraction, a religious signficance, for him. When the library opens up he’ll shuffle in, grab a volume of the encylopedia and park himself at a table in the back. He’ll behave quietly for while, but the call of the keyboard will be too much, and he’ll move toward it and start tapping on the keys in this ritualistic, compulsive manner. He’ll peck slowly at first, typing gibberish, but then he’ll build momentum until he’s frenziedly, destructively pounding on the keyboard with his filthy hands, all the time maintaining this eerily serene expression even as his level of exertion increases, as if what he is doing is bringing him deep peace. At that point my manager will ask him to leave, which the homeless man will do but slowly, because he is reluctant to be separated from the object of his obsession. He usually won’t return again until the next day, when the entire scenario will repeat itself. Since it wasn’t part of his routine to be in there so late at night, I was more shocked to see him than I would have been ordinarily. I hope he doesn’t do that to me again, because I only have so many of those in me that I can take.

Behold my Radiance

Billy Jack has been out of control lately - suspiciously insinuating and aggressively charming. His vanity and narcissism know no bounds. I suspect he is trying to overcompensate after his disgraceful cowardice over the 4th of July weekend, when he had to be sedated like a hysterical woman because of the fireworks. Lately, when he’s lounging in the sun preening himself and notices someone looking at him, he’ll roll on his side, slowly open up his back legs and expose his genitals to that person, like a peacock displaying his feathers. Our two places are connected by dog doors, so the puppies have access to both apartments. Billy has begun sleeping in all the different beds during the night, spending a few hours in one and then moving onto the next one until he's curled up with every single person in every single bed in the house. Elizabeth calls him a polygamist.



The branch were I am stationed today is so small that there is only one bathroom, which means that the staff has to share the bathroom with the public. Anyone who has seen how I keep house knows that I am far from finicky, but even I have my limits. I know too much about what goes down in the public restrooms of a metropolitan library to ever set foot in one. Since I have a bladder the size of a pecan, I have been trying to avoid liquids, so maybe I’ll make it to closing.

Behold my Radiance

Billy Jack has been out of control lately - suspiciously insinuating and aggressively charming. His vanity and narcissism know no bounds. I suspect he is trying to overcompensate after his disgraceful cowardice over the 4th of July weekend, when he had to be sedated like a hysterical woman because of the fireworks. Lately, when he’s lounging in the sun preening himself and notices someone looking at him, he’ll roll on his side, slowly open up his back legs and expose his genitals to that person, like a peacock displaying his feathers. Our two places are connected by dog doors, so the puppies have access to both apartments. Billy has begun sleeping in all the different beds during the night, spending a few hours in one and then moving onto the next one until he's curled up with every single person in every single bed in the house. Elizabeth calls him a polygamist.

The branch were I am stationed today is so small that there is only one bathroom, which means that the staff has to share the bathroom with the public. Anyone who has seen how I keep house knows that I am far from finicky, but even I have my limits. I know too much about what goes down in the public restrooms of a metropolitan library to ever set foot in one. Since I have a bladder the size of a pecan, I have been trying to avoid liquids, so maybe I’ll make it to closing.

Aromatherapy for Librarians

This was the title of an actual seminar offered at a recent library convention. I wonder what healing and stress reducing aromas the seminar suggested as therapy. I certainly encounter a lot of aromas while at work at the library, and none are remotely therapeutic. Since I began working with the public a few years ago I have encountered odors so noisomely evil that I have flirted with the idea of taking up smoking, a hideous habit I gave up years ago, to dull my sense of smell. Sometimes I contemplate even more drastic measures, like shooting a bottle rocket up my nose so, like Selma Bouvier, I would be permanently deprived of my sense of smell.



One particular patron has a body odor so putrid that the unfortunate page who had to check out his material one time retched right in front of him. I’ve really smelled nothing like him before – it’s indescribable, but I’ll try. He smells like a combination of stale cigars, hair grease and slow death (apologies to Joseph Conrad). He always wears the exact same oily hat and raincoat, and his odor contaminates the entire library like a dirty bomb or tear gas. His odor is so abominable that the staff was almost driven to revolt, so my manager had the unenviable duty of talking to him about his problem. The patron became belligerent and defensive, and didn’t return to the library for almost a year, which made us all rejoice. The other night he returned like some kind of curse, though, dressed exact same greasy hat and clothing, more putrescent than ever. Since my manager no longer works the same night as I do I hope that the responsibility never falls on me to give him another talking to about his odor.



Another patron with an odor problem I feel very conflicted about. He is a homeless alcoholic but has a very courtly and charming Old World manner about him and is perfectly well behaved in every other aspect. He is always so gracious and every time he visits the branch he makes sure to visit my desk so he can shower me with compliments, flattery, and, regrettably, molecules coated in his stench. Despite all of his refinement and courtesy, he has such a pungent odor that when he stands before me my eyes will begin to water and I will start to panic. He actually smells like he has been swimming in a port-o-let. I don’t mean that he smells like sewage, but that he actually smells like the blue deodorant chemical disinfectant liquid that port-o-lets use. I don’t know how it is possible that he reeks of that distinctive odor unless he bathes in it. Now I have become so sensitive to that odor that whenever I pass by a port-o-let I get a full body shudder and my mouth waters as it does as a harbinger of vomit. This patron also wears the same, never varying, never cleaned dark suit every day. Lately it has been covered with a fine dusting of white powder, as if he had just escaped from Pompeii or the World Trade Center. Maybe he is sleeping every night in the port-o-let of a construction site, and the powder is dust from the site. I have considered getting a scented hankie I could pull out and discreetly dab beneath my nostrils when he visits. That way, I could protect myself from his odor and playfully and coquettishly flick it at him after pays me a particularly over the top compliment.

Aromatherapy for Librarians

This was the title of an actual seminar offered at a recent library convention. I wonder what healing and stress reducing aromas the seminar suggested as therapy. I certainly encounter a lot of aromas while at work at the library, and none are remotely therapeutic. Since I began working with the public a few years ago I have encountered odors so noisomely evil that I have flirted with the idea of taking up smoking, a hideous habit I gave up years ago, to dull my sense of smell. Sometimes I contemplate even more drastic measures, like shooting a bottle rocket up my nose so, like Selma Bouvier, I would be permanently deprived of my sense of smell.

One particular patron has a body odor so putrid that the unfortunate page who had to check out his material one time retched right in front of him. I’ve really smelled nothing like him before – it’s indescribable, but I’ll try. He smells like a combination of stale cigars, hair grease and slow death (apologies to Joseph Conrad). He always wears the exact same oily hat and raincoat, and his odor contaminates the entire library like a dirty bomb or tear gas. His odor is so abominable that the staff was almost driven to revolt, so my manager had the unenviable duty of talking to him about his problem. The patron became belligerent and defensive, and didn’t return to the library for almost a year, which made us all rejoice. The other night he returned like some kind of curse, though, dressed exact same greasy hat and clothing, more putrescent than ever. Since my manager no longer works the same night as I do I hope that the responsibility never falls on me to give him another talking to about his odor.

Another patron with an odor problem I feel very conflicted about. He is a homeless alcoholic but has a very courtly and charming Old World manner about him and is perfectly well behaved in every other aspect. He is always so gracious and every time he visits the branch he makes sure to visit my desk so he can shower me with compliments, flattery, and, regrettably, molecules coated in his stench. Despite all of his refinement and courtesy, he has such a pungent odor that when he stands before me my eyes will begin to water and I will start to panic. He actually smells like he has been swimming in a port-o-let. I don’t mean that he smells like sewage, but that he actually smells like the blue deodorant chemical disinfectant liquid that port-o-lets use. I don’t know how it is possible that he reeks of that distinctive odor unless he bathes in it. Now I have become so sensitive to that odor that whenever I pass by a port-o-let I get a full body shudder and my mouth waters as it does as a harbinger of vomit. This patron also wears the same, never varying, never cleaned dark suit every day. Lately it has been covered with a fine dusting of white powder, as if he had just escaped from Pompeii or the World Trade Center. Maybe he is sleeping every night in the port-o-let of a construction site, and the powder is dust from the site. I have considered getting a scented hankie I could pull out and discreetly dab beneath my nostrils when he visits. That way, I could protect myself from his odor and playfully and coquettishly flick it at him after pays me a particularly over the top compliment.

The Moleman Cometh

If Joel Steinberg had paid a visit to the Island of Dr. Moreau and been crossbred with a mole, you would have something like my least favorite patron, the Moleman. Physically, he's like a mole, but there the resemblence ends, because unless you happen to be a grub, Thumbelina or fussy gardener, moles are gentle, untroublesome creatures who serve a useful purpose in the ecosystem by aerating the soil. Personality wise, however, he is a lot like child battering lawyer Joel Steinberg: abusive with an explosive temper and a dangerous sense of self entitlement. He would be absolutely terrifying if he weren’t 5’4, pear shaped and, judging from the thickness of his lenses, legally blind. He also has a voice that rises in a very unmanly, regressive way while he's throwing his tantrums like a nasty three year old.



He likes to come in Tuesday nights because he is a bully and a coward and he knows there are no men working then to throw him out. He stalks in, already in a snit, dressed in a three piece suit because he's a man to be reckoned with.  A man who won't pay $9.95 a month for his own internet, but a man to be reckoned with nonetheless. The gremlins (Pixies? Hobgoblins? Brownies? Ghosts in the Machine? Angry souls of ancestors?) that infest our computers sense his humorless, pompous, self important air and amuse themselves by fucking with him, usually by disconnecting whatever computer he is working on from the internet, always timing it to destroy the bulk of whatever he was working on because he is an idiot who never learns to back up his work. Ordinarily I would derive petty satisfaction from this, but he then starts to throw a tantrum and the staff has to bear the brunt of his petty rages. He actually screamed at me one time,



“Maybe the other people who come into use this library ARE LOSERS (quit projecting, Moleman!)  who have nothing better to do than deal with this these computer issues, but I MYSELF am not A LOSER! (protesting a bit too much, Moleman!) ”



Somehow I’ll get the computer back on-line and then he’ll pound angrily on the keyboard until his turn is over, huffing loudly in this exasperated, put-out manner, poisoning our plants with his toxically perturbed energy. Afterward he’ll approach the desk to check out a book. Because he considers himself above due dates he always has a large fine, and when he is told the amount he will start screaming and ranting at the poor female Asian support staff worker about how the library is always trying to rip him off. He will actually jump up and down in this incredibly undignified manner like Yosemite Sam or Rumpelstiltskin after the queen guesses his name. The first time I witnessed one of his fits I stood there with my mouth open, amazed that a grown man could behave in such a way. Since I have worked a lot with children I managed to placate him, but his Tuesday night tantrums began to become a regular thing and were beginning to rattle the staff. I suspect that he saves up all of his slights and frustrations from the week and then comes into the library to blow off steam as some kind of sick release. I also get the feeling that there is something creepily sexual about it, since he really likes to let loose, to ejaculate emotionally, on the support staff, all beautiful, delicate Asian girls.



One time he approached the circulation desk to throw one of his tantrums and he spotted the security guards, who for the first and probably only time in my entire life had made a surprise visit from the Main and were somewhere where they were needed. Because he's a coward, he choked back his incipient tantrum and then scurried off like a roach into the night. I thought he was ridiculous but when I realized how traumatized the circulation desk workers were by his behavior I had my boss have a talk with him about his behavior and he has improved. He rarely comes in the library now, but I can always tell he's there before I even see him because I’ll hear his exasperated sighs and feel a pull from the vortex of peevishness that surrounds him.

The Moleman Cometh

If Joel Steinberg had paid a visit to the Island of Dr. Moreau and been crossbred with a mole, you would have something like my least favorite patron, the Moleman. Physically, he's like a mole, but there the resemblence ends, because unless you happen to be a grub, Thumbelina or fussy gardener, moles are gentle, untroublesome creatures who serve a useful purpose in the ecosystem by aerating the soil. Personality wise, however, he is a lot like child battering lawyer Joel Steinberg: abusive with an explosive temper and a dangerous sense of self entitlement. He would be absolutely terrifying if he weren’t 5’4, pear shaped and, judging from the thickness of his lenses, legally blind. He also has a voice that rises in a very unmanly, regressive way while he's throwing his tantrums like a nasty three year old.

He likes to come in Tuesday nights because he is a bully and a coward and he knows there are no men working then to throw him out. He stalks in, already in a snit, dressed in a three piece suit because he's a man to be reckoned with.  A man who won't pay $9.95 a month for his own internet, but a man to be reckoned with nonetheless. The gremlins (Pixies? Hobgoblins? Brownies? Ghosts in the Machine? Angry souls of ancestors?) that infest our computers sense his humorless, pompous, self important air and amuse themselves by fucking with him, usually by disconnecting whatever computer he is working on from the internet, always timing it to destroy the bulk of whatever he was working on because he is an idiot who never learns to back up his work. Ordinarily I would derive petty satisfaction from this, but he then starts to throw a tantrum and the staff has to bear the brunt of his petty rages. He actually screamed at me one time,

“Maybe the other people who come into use this library ARE LOSERS (quit projecting, Moleman!)  who have nothing better to do than deal with this these computer issues, but I MYSELF am not A LOSER! (protesting a bit too much, Moleman!) ”

Somehow I’ll get the computer back on-line and then he’ll pound angrily on the keyboard until his turn is over, huffing loudly in this exasperated, put-out manner, poisoning our plants with his toxically perturbed energy. Afterward he’ll approach the desk to check out a book. Because he considers himself above due dates he always has a large fine, and when he is told the amount he will start screaming and ranting at the poor female Asian support staff worker about how the library is always trying to rip him off. He will actually jump up and down in this incredibly undignified manner like Yosemite Sam or Rumpelstiltskin after the queen guesses his name. The first time I witnessed one of his fits I stood there with my mouth open, amazed that a grown man could behave in such a way. Since I have worked a lot with children I managed to placate him, but his Tuesday night tantrums began to become a regular thing and were beginning to rattle the staff. I suspect that he saves up all of his slights and frustrations from the week and then comes into the library to blow off steam as some kind of sick release. I also get the feeling that there is something creepily sexual about it, since he really likes to let loose, to ejaculate emotionally, on the support staff, all beautiful, delicate Asian girls.

One time he approached the circulation desk to throw one of his tantrums and he spotted the security guards, who for the first and probably only time in my entire life had made a surprise visit from the Main and were somewhere where they were needed. Because he's a coward, he choked back his incipient tantrum and then scurried off like a roach into the night. I thought he was ridiculous but when I realized how traumatized the circulation desk workers were by his behavior I had my boss have a talk with him about his behavior and he has improved. He rarely comes in the library now, but I can always tell he's there before I even see him because I’ll hear his exasperated sighs and feel a pull from the vortex of peevishness that surrounds him.

More truths that eerily reveal themselves in fiction

From Amy Tan's collection of essays, The Opposite of Fate. Isabel Allende reported a similar experience.



While I was writing the Joy Luck Club, I asked my mother to tell me more about her parents, both of who had died when she was a child. My mother revealed that my widowed grandmother had remarried – a disgraceful thing to do, my mother said, but at least she became the first wife to a rich man. Later my grandmother gave birth to a son; two months after that, she accidentally died, from eating opium while having too much of a good time.



When I wrote the story “Magpies,” I changed the detail a bit; the young widow is raped by a rich man and becomes his fourth wife, a lowly concubine who gives birth to the man’s first son, the result of the rape. The baby is claimed by a higher-ranking wife, and this so enrages the fourth wife about the worthlessness of her life that she dies, not accidentally while having fun, but with the vengeance of suicide.



When my mother read this story, she asked me, “How you know what really happen? Why can you write about things you don’t know?” And then she remembered: I have always been able to talk to ghosts.

More truths that eerily reveal themselves in fiction

From Amy Tan's collection of essays, The Opposite of Fate. Isabel Allende reported a similar experience.

While I was writing the Joy Luck Club, I asked my mother to tell me more about her parents, both of who had died when she was a child. My mother revealed that my widowed grandmother had remarried – a disgraceful thing to do, my mother said, but at least she became the first wife to a rich man. Later my grandmother gave birth to a son; two months after that, she accidentally died, from eating opium while having too much of a good time.

When I wrote the story “Magpies,” I changed the detail a bit; the young widow is raped by a rich man and becomes his fourth wife, a lowly concubine who gives birth to the man’s first son, the result of the rape. The baby is claimed by a higher-ranking wife, and this so enrages the fourth wife about the worthlessness of her life that she dies, not accidentally while having fun, but with the vengeance of suicide.

When my mother read this story, she asked me, “How you know what really happen? Why can you write about things you don’t know?” And then she remembered: I have always been able to talk to ghosts.

Punky and the Revolution

I helped a patron today find the phone number of a family in Italy that had taken her in from a refugee camp when she was a young woman fleeing Communists in Hungary in the 1960s. She cared for this Italian family's children and then eventually moved on to the United States after being granted asylum. She was going back to Italy and wanted to see them and thank them again for their kindness. We were able to find a couple of promising phone number leads and she came back a while later to say that she had reached them on the phone and then we both got a little emotional together. I have a special soft spot for survivors of communist totalitarian regimes because we get a lot of haunted survivors of the Cultural Revolution in China at this branch. Orwell had no idea how bad it could get. 1984 was a real walk in the park in comparison.



Earlier I spotted Punky roving around the neighborhood with a videocamera - just like Leni Riefenstahl, but a lot more mincing and drunk. I was wondering if Punky had taken up videography as a new hobby when the Feisty Old Broad came in and said that Punky told her he 'found' the camera on a playground bench. I'm sure he found that video camera just like he found the bike he stole outside the library. He then tried to sell it to her and every single person that passes through the park, but there were no takers. Even the wig shop/thrift store on the corner, which is notorious for fencing stolen items, won't touch it.



The FOB said that she saw that the frantic and heartbroken owners took out an advertisement in the paper offering a reward for its return in yesterday's paper. The FOB said that she was going to go to the homeless center and threaten Punky that she would call the police on him if doesn't return it. I hope that the rightful owners get it back, but Punky is so spiteful that I fear he will destroy the camera rather than relinquish it, even if it is of no use to him. He's just that petty.



Loretta Update



It's now summer and Loretta has taken a new lover. Putting her boozy coquetry and cozy new lodgings to work, she got herself a man and she is now cohabitating with him in her new residential hotel room. I hope he treats her decently.

Punky and the Revolution

I helped a patron today find the phone number of a family in Italy that had taken her in from a refugee camp when she was a young woman fleeing Communists in Hungary in the 1960s. She cared for this Italian family's children and then eventually moved on to the United States after being granted asylum. She was going back to Italy and wanted to see them and thank them again for their kindness. We were able to find a couple of promising phone number leads and she came back a while later to say that she had reached them on the phone and then we both got a little emotional together. I have a special soft spot for survivors of communist totalitarian regimes because we get a lot of haunted survivors of the Cultural Revolution in China at this branch. Orwell had no idea how bad it could get. 1984 was a real walk in the park in comparison.

Earlier I spotted Punky roving around the neighborhood with a videocamera - just like Leni Riefenstahl, but a lot more mincing and drunk. I was wondering if Punky had taken up videography as a new hobby when the Feisty Old Broad came in and said that Punky told her he 'found' the camera on a playground bench. I'm sure he found that video camera just like he found the bike he stole outside the library. He then tried to sell it to her and every single person that passes through the park, but there were no takers. Even the wig shop/thrift store on the corner, which is notorious for fencing stolen items, won't touch it.

The FOB said that she saw that the frantic and heartbroken owners took out an advertisement in the paper offering a reward for its return in yesterday's paper. The FOB said that she was going to go to the homeless center and threaten Punky that she would call the police on him if doesn't return it. I hope that the rightful owners get it back, but Punky is so spiteful that I fear he will destroy the camera rather than relinquish it, even if it is of no use to him. He's just that petty.

Loretta Update

It's now summer and Loretta has taken a new lover. Putting her boozy coquetry and cozy new lodgings to work, she got herself a man and she is now cohabitating with him in her new residential hotel room. I hope he treats her decently.

Flop Sweet Flop for Loretta

I apologize if it seems that I have been neglecting my blog, but I was away in the beautiful countryside of Connecticut for my cousin’s wedding. I had a wonderful time and got to reconnect with many cousins and friends I haven’t seen in years, but I am now bone tired, jet lagged and all around fried.



At the rehearsal dinner I was seated next to a friend of the groom who is a social worker. She specializes in addiction and works in a methadone clinic. Since that is what my my job seems like at times, my cousin knew we would have lots in common to talk about. The social worker lives in Charleston, WV, and told me that Oxycontin (a.k.a. Hillybilly Heroin) has become a real scourge there, outpacing even crystal meth. Her addicted patients crush the pills to release its time release feature, snort the powder, and then spend the day woolgathering and collecting disability, much like their west coast urban counterpart, the denizens of the park near my library branch.



Happy news on the Loretta front. The city is trying to wean its homeless off of cash handouts by providing more housing and services, and Loretta has been affected by this new policy. Although the city reduced Loretta's welfare payment, it set her up in a room in a residential hotel on the other side of town. Her new residence is far enough away from the park that it is too much effort for her to visit often, although it would finally be safe for her to do so. Archie, the man who broke her finger and stamped on her foot when she refused to share her money with him a few months ago, violated parole and is back in jail, so Loretta is safe from his predations for the time being.



More later after I collect my wits.

Flop Sweet Flop for Loretta

I apologize if it seems that I have been neglecting my blog, but I was away in the beautiful countryside of Connecticut for my cousin’s wedding. I had a wonderful time and got to reconnect with many cousins and friends I haven’t seen in years, but I am now bone tired, jet lagged and all around fried.

At the rehearsal dinner I was seated next to a friend of the groom who is a social worker. She specializes in addiction and works in a methadone clinic. Since that is what my my job seems like at times, my cousin knew we would have lots in common to talk about. The social worker lives in Charleston, WV, and told me that Oxycontin (a.k.a. Hillybilly Heroin) has become a real scourge there, outpacing even crystal meth. Her addicted patients crush the pills to release its time release feature, snort the powder, and then spend the day woolgathering and collecting disability, much like their west coast urban counterpart, the denizens of the park near my library branch.

Happy news on the Loretta front. The city is trying to wean its homeless off of cash handouts by providing more housing and services, and Loretta has been affected by this new policy. Although the city reduced Loretta's welfare payment, it set her up in a room in a residential hotel on the other side of town. Her new residence is far enough away from the park that it is too much effort for her to visit often, although it would finally be safe for her to do so. Archie, the man who broke her finger and stamped on her foot when she refused to share her money with him a few months ago, violated parole and is back in jail, so Loretta is safe from his predations for the time being.

More later after I collect my wits.

Braaains...Internet...Braaains...Internet

The doors of this branch are glass so when patrons crowd outside waiting for the library to open they can see me inside milling about or seated at the reference desk. I can feel them watching me. This library is always busy, but now school is out and our neighboring branch is closed for remodeling so we have even larger numbers than usual. Today well before we opened a mob had already formed. Just like the cannibalistic zombies in the shopping mall of Dawn of the Dead, they were pressing against the glass, trying to get in to eat my brain and/or get first in line for the internet computers, fogging and fingerprinting and smudging up the glass as they pawed at the doors with horrible, mindless intent.

I really shouldn't think of my patrons in this way.

Braaains...Internet...Braaains...Internet

The doors of this branch are glass so when patrons crowd outside waiting for the library to open they can see me inside milling about or seated at the reference desk. I can feel them watching me. This library is always busy, but now school is out and our neighboring branch is closed for remodeling so we have even larger numbers than usual. Today well before we opened a mob had already formed. Just like the cannibalistic zombies in the shopping mall of Dawn of the Dead, they were pressing against the glass, trying to get in to eat my brain and/or get first in line for the internet computers, fogging and fingerprinting and smudging up the glass as they pawed at the doors with horrible, mindless intent.

I really shouldn't think of my patrons in this way.

Bolshevik Beach Reading

Listening to the local listener call-in show on public radio this morning was like listening to a spoof. The topic of the day's show was fun summer reading, and the literary taste of the callers revealed a lot about this area’s 10:00 AM NPR market demographic, which apparently consists of unemployed radical relics of the sixties with indoctrination on their mind. Although I found it hilarious, it would have been enough to give that gorgon-of-The-Right Anne Coulter an aneurism. Here’s some light reading that the callers suggested you tote to the beach, along with your copy of the Daily Worker and Jemima J. Curiously, there hasn't been a run on these titles at the library today.



I’m not making these up - these were actual suggestions.



Chasing Che: A Motorcycle Journey in Search of the Guevara Legend



The Autobiography of Mother Jones



Murdered by Capitalism: A Memoir of 150 Years of Life and Death on the American Left



The Koran

Bolshevik Beach Reading

Listening to the local listener call-in show on public radio this morning was like listening to a spoof. The topic of the day's show was fun summer reading, and the literary taste of the callers revealed a lot about this area’s 10:00 AM NPR market demographic, which apparently consists of unemployed radical relics of the sixties with indoctrination on their mind. Although I found it hilarious, it would have been enough to give that gorgon-of-The-Right Anne Coulter an aneurism. Here’s some light reading that the callers suggested you tote to the beach, along with your copy of the Daily Worker and Jemima J. Curiously, there hasn't been a run on these titles at the library today.

I’m not making these up - these were actual suggestions.

Chasing Che: A Motorcycle Journey in Search of the Guevara Legend

The Autobiography of Mother Jones

Murdered by Capitalism: A Memoir of 150 Years of Life and Death on the American Left

The Koran

You're my bitch, rope toy

We used to think it was absolutely adorable when Billy Jack would methodically gather all of his toys together in a big pile like this, until we noticed that he was arranging his toys like this so he could hump them in this disturbingly aggressive manner. He was not being a little sex fiend, though. Humping of this sort is a sign of dominance, and this behavior signified that we a had a pathologically dominant puppy on our hands. We theorize Billy never got over being the runt of his litter, and now he is hell bent on being the alpha of all.

You're my bitch, rope toy

We used to think it was absolutely adorable when Billy Jack would methodically gather all of his toys together in a big pile like this, until we noticed that he was arranging his toys like this so he could hump them in this disturbingly aggressive manner. He was not being a little sex fiend, though. Humping of this sort is a sign of dominance, and this behavior signified that we a had a pathologically dominant puppy on our hands. We theorize Billy never got over being the runt of his litter, and now he is hell bent on being the alpha of all.

The other day I answered a reference question over the telephone for an elderly woman with the most lovely phone manner, and after we finished her question we stayed on the phone having an interesting discussion about some of her favorite new books. She had such a beautiful speaking voice as well as a droll, urbane wit - definitely the product of a more elegant era. She was like Myrna Loy as Nora Charles in her dotage. After our discussion she spent a good minute singing the praises of library services. Then her voice suddenly darkened and she said, “When I think of what this fucking administration is trying to do to you librarians I just… Oh, please forgive me! I don’t know why I do that. It’s like I have a tiny devil in my mouth that makes me say the most terrible things. Well, have a wonderful day, my darling. You have been most helpful.”



I told her to please call again because I had enjoyed talking to her so much. With the exception of the crankily loathsome AndyRooney, I feel that the elderly have earned the right to speak their mind and if they want to drop an f bomb now and then that’s perfectly fine with me, although I hope in her case it wasn't a harbinger of age related dementia.

The other day I answered a reference question over the telephone for an elderly woman with the most lovely phone manner, and after we finished her question we stayed on the phone having an interesting discussion about some of her favorite new books. She had such a beautiful speaking voice as well as a droll, urbane wit - definitely the product of a more elegant era. She was like Myrna Loy as Nora Charles in her dotage. After our discussion she spent a good minute singing the praises of library services. Then her voice suddenly darkened and she said, “When I think of what this fucking administration is trying to do to you librarians I just… Oh, please forgive me! I don’t know why I do that. It’s like I have a tiny devil in my mouth that makes me say the most terrible things. Well, have a wonderful day, my darling. You have been most helpful.”

I told her to please call again because I had enjoyed talking to her so much. With the exception of the crankily loathsome AndyRooney, I feel that the elderly have earned the right to speak their mind and if they want to drop an f bomb now and then that’s perfectly fine with me, although I hope in her case it wasn't a harbinger of age related dementia.

Shoot up @ your library - a slogan I don't care to see

I was at the branch in the formerly ‘hippie’ section of town yesterday. Although there were still plenty of flower children patrons, they’re now way outnumbered by permanent dropouts, scary drifters, and junkies. In fact, there were enough opiate addicts there that it would make it a convenient time saver for all involved to just go ahead and open a methadone clinic in the branch. I was stationed there because the regular librarian was being stalked and threatened by a deranged female patron the day before. The librarian didn't feel comfortable returning to this branch the next day for some reason and had herself transferred to another branch temporarily. No one bothered to tell me the situation until I reported for duty yesterday morning and I all I could do was wait there like a sitting duck, terrified some angry, crazy woman would come bursting into the library hell bent on revenge. I hoped that her particular mental disorder had not disabled her facial recognition capabilities. Even if she could distinguish me from the object of her obsessive hatred, I prayed that she wouldn't shrug and say to herself, “Well, I’m already here, so I guess the librarian sitting at her desk will have to do.”



I hadn't been to this branch in a while, but I used to work here a lot back when I was a naïve, fledging public librarian and I credit it with bringing me up to speed. One night I went to the children's section and saw that the young woman I had helped print something from the internet earlier had passed out over the heating grate. I immediately thought that she must have slipped into a diabetic coma or suffered a brain aneurysm and shrieked at the tech to call 911. I tried to revive her but she remained inert and unresponsive. Instead of calling 911, the old jaded tech marched over, stood over her and yelled, "No sleeping in the library!" This had about the same effect on her as it did on Uma Thurman when John Travolta plunged the hypodermic needle of adrenaline into her heart in Pulp Fiction. She woke with a gasp, looked around and smiled sheepishly. She then got up and weaved her way unsteadily out the library. Her pupils were pin pricked, what I now recognize as a tell tale sign of heroin use, and soon after we found some hypodermic needles in the bathroom.



I got quite an education the next few times I worked there, and also got good assertiveness training by having to kick junkies off the computers that were nodding off in front of the monitors. Talk about a waste of your turn at the computer! Anyway, I hope that I don’t become so cynical that I won’t recognize a genuine medical emergency when one does happen.

Shoot up @ your library - a slogan I don't care to see

I was at the branch in the formerly ‘hippie’ section of town yesterday. Although there were still plenty of flower children patrons, they’re now way outnumbered by permanent dropouts, scary drifters, and junkies. In fact, there were enough opiate addicts there that it would make it a convenient time saver for all involved to just go ahead and open a methadone clinic in the branch. I was stationed there because the regular librarian was being stalked and threatened by a deranged female patron the day before. The librarian didn't feel comfortable returning to this branch the next day for some reason and had herself transferred to another branch temporarily. No one bothered to tell me the situation until I reported for duty yesterday morning and I all I could do was wait there like a sitting duck, terrified some angry, crazy woman would come bursting into the library hell bent on revenge. I hoped that her particular mental disorder had not disabled her facial recognition capabilities. Even if she could distinguish me from the object of her obsessive hatred, I prayed that she wouldn't shrug and say to herself, “Well, I’m already here, so I guess the librarian sitting at her desk will have to do.”

I hadn't been to this branch in a while, but I used to work here a lot back when I was a naïve, fledging public librarian and I credit it with bringing me up to speed. One night I went to the children's section and saw that the young woman I had helped print something from the internet earlier had passed out over the heating grate. I immediately thought that she must have slipped into a diabetic coma or suffered a brain aneurysm and shrieked at the tech to call 911. I tried to revive her but she remained inert and unresponsive. Instead of calling 911, the old jaded tech marched over, stood over her and yelled, "No sleeping in the library!" This had about the same effect on her as it did on Uma Thurman when John Travolta plunged the hypodermic needle of adrenaline into her heart in Pulp Fiction. She woke with a gasp, looked around and smiled sheepishly. She then got up and weaved her way unsteadily out the library. Her pupils were pin pricked, what I now recognize as a tell tale sign of heroin use, and soon after we found some hypodermic needles in the bathroom.

I got quite an education the next few times I worked there, and also got good assertiveness training by having to kick junkies off the computers that were nodding off in front of the monitors. Talk about a waste of your turn at the computer! Anyway, I hope that I don’t become so cynical that I won’t recognize a genuine medical emergency when one does happen.

I am the devil

The cutest, wittlewist bartender, you say? More like Lloyd, the satanic bartender in The Shining! Here is another picture of Billy Jack and further documentation of his preternatural ability to manipulate and seduce. Placing that little paw on the brick is a coldly calculated maneuver on his (its?) part - save yourself, because he will devour your soul.

I am the devil

The cutest, wittlewist bartender, you say? More like Lloyd, the satanic bartender in The Shining! Here is another picture of Billy Jack and further documentation of his preternatural ability to manipulate and seduce. Placing that little paw on the brick is a coldly calculated maneuver on his (its?) part - save yourself, because he will devour your soul.

Chicken Soup for your Who-Ha

A while back Elizabeth and I were browsing in a used book store and noticed that all of those fulsome books in the Chicken Soup for your Soul series inexplicably fed right into the women’s sexual health section. Elizabeth remarked, “This must be where you find the Chicken Soup for your Pussy  books." Which isn’t too much of a stretch, considering some of the bizarre and micro market targeted books Jack Canfield's treacly, cultish factory empire emits like so much greenhouse gas. From Canfield's website:

It is our deepest pleasure to offer you Chicken Soup for the Chiropractic Soul. As you begin to read Chicken Soup for the Chiropractic Soul we hope that you will be inspired and moved by the heart warming stories of people like yourself who have chosen chiropractic for a holistic approach to healing, pain relief, and lifelong wellness.

Chicken Soup for the NASCAR Soul features great stories of speed, courage, dedication and over-coming adversity. Buckle up for the fastest-moving Chicken Soup for the Soul book ever as many of the sport's biggest names, including Jeff Gordon and Bobby Labonte, take us inside the race car for one inspirational and uplifting story after another. You'll also hear from devoted fans who share how NASCAR has touched their lives.

Do you love your dental team? Once you've read Chicken Soup for the Dental Soul, you'll never think of the dental office—and the professionals who work there—in the same way again. Eavesdrop on kids at the dentist as they make you laugh and cry; delight in hilarious Tooth Fairy adventures; share in the heartwarming experiences of service to the poor and dental missions to third-world countries; see people's self esteem soar and their lives turn around—all thanks to the help of a caring dental team.

I can never get through one goddamned day at the reference desk without having to help at least one person find one of these insipid ‘inspirational’ books. Here is a list I have compiled for future suggestions, inspired by patrons at the library today.

Chicken Soup for the Bipolar Patron Who Forgot to Take his Meds

Chicken Soup for the Stressed Mother Who Just Lost It with Her Child in the Video Section

Chicken Soup for the Haunted, Heroin Addicted Vietnam Vet

Chicken Soup for the Cheap Euro Tourist Who Would Rather Wait Two Hours for the Internet than Pay for it at the Reasonably Priced Internet Cafe across the Street (they can read it while they wait!)

Chicken Soup for the Vegan’s Soul. Oh, wait… (Elizabeth’s contribution)

Chicken Soup for the Latchkey child who is on his own for Lunch

Chicken Soup for the Computer Game Addicted Child with Gnarled Hands who Hasn’t Played Outside in Years

Chicken Soup for the Oddly Attractive Exposure Tanned Homeless Man

Chicken Soup seething with Salmonella for the Gorgon (hateful woman who yells at the staff and lies pathologically about when she returned her items to weasel out of her late fines)

Chicken Soup for the Skeevy Relic from the Beat Generation Who Now Lives in a Depressing Residential Hotel and Thinks that Women 40 years his Junior whom he Has the Nerve to Hit on Would Actually be Impressed b/c he had a Passing Acquaintance with Jack Kerouac

Chicken Soup for the Sleeper Cell Terrorist

Chicken Soup for the Book Defacer’s Soul

Chicken Soup for your Who-Ha

A while back Elizabeth and I were browsing in a used book store and noticed that all of those fulsome books in the Chicken Soup for your Soul series inexplicably fed right into the women’s sexual health section. Elizabeth remarked, “This must be where you find the Chicken Soup for your Pussy  books." Which isn’t too much of a stretch, considering some of the bizarre and micro market targeted books Jack Canfield's treacly, cultish factory empire emits like so much greenhouse gas. From Canfield's website:

It is our deepest pleasure to offer you Chicken Soup for the Chiropractic Soul. As you begin to read Chicken Soup for the Chiropractic Soul we hope that you will be inspired and moved by the heart warming stories of people like yourself who have chosen chiropractic for a holistic approach to healing, pain relief, and lifelong wellness.

Chicken Soup for the NASCAR Soul features great stories of speed, courage, dedication and over-coming adversity. Buckle up for the fastest-moving Chicken Soup for the Soul book ever as many of the sport's biggest names, including Jeff Gordon and Bobby Labonte, take us inside the race car for one inspirational and uplifting story after another. You'll also hear from devoted fans who share how NASCAR has touched their lives.

Do you love your dental team? Once you've read Chicken Soup for the Dental Soul, you'll never think of the dental office—and the professionals who work there—in the same way again. Eavesdrop on kids at the dentist as they make you laugh and cry; delight in hilarious Tooth Fairy adventures; share in the heartwarming experiences of service to the poor and dental missions to third-world countries; see people's self esteem soar and their lives turn around—all thanks to the help of a caring dental team.

I can never get through one goddamned day at the reference desk without having to help at least one person find one of these insipid ‘inspirational’ books. Here is a list I have compiled for future suggestions, inspired by patrons at the library today.

Chicken Soup for the Bipolar Patron Who Forgot to Take his Meds

Chicken Soup for the Stressed Mother Who Just Lost It with Her Child in the Video Section

Chicken Soup for the Haunted, Heroin Addicted Vietnam Vet

Chicken Soup for the Cheap Euro Tourist Who Would Rather Wait Two Hours for the Internet than Pay for it at the Reasonably Priced Internet Cafe across the Street (they can read it while they wait!)

Chicken Soup for the Vegan’s Soul. Oh, wait… (Elizabeth’s contribution)

Chicken Soup for the Latchkey child who is on his own for Lunch

Chicken Soup for the Computer Game Addicted Child with Gnarled Hands who Hasn’t Played Outside in Years

Chicken Soup for the Oddly Attractive Exposure Tanned Homeless Man

Chicken Soup seething with Salmonella for the Gorgon (hateful woman who yells at the staff and lies pathologically about when she returned her items to weasel out of her late fines)

Chicken Soup for the Skeevy Relic from the Beat Generation Who Now Lives in a Depressing Residential Hotel and Thinks that Women 40 years his Junior whom he Has the Nerve to Hit on Would Actually be Impressed b/c he had a Passing Acquaintance with Jack Kerouac

Chicken Soup for the Sleeper Cell Terrorist

Chicken Soup for the Book Defacer’s Soul

SINKS ARE FOR HANDWASHING ONLY

AND, AS A COURTESY TO OTHERS, BATHROOM TIME IS LIMITED TO 15 MINUTES



This sign is posted on our bathroom door to discourage patrons from using our small facilities to bathe, inject drugs, and do other things I don’t wish to contemplate. Even if there isn't any malfeasance taking place in the lavatory, the diet and lifestyle of a bum do not promote ‘regularity,’ and so I often end up having to perform one of my least favorite duties: banging on the bathroom door and telling the user that they have exceeded their time and they need to finish things up. Often this puts the bathroom user in a bad temper, and when they emerge they act all indignant, give me the stink eye, and storm out. It’s unpleasant, but since we don’t have security it’s up to the librarians to enforce the rules.



The Tacoma library had terrible issues with their public restrooms, ones that were affecting the entire neighborhood. Prostitutes began using the library's bathroom, the only public one in the area, to 'freshen up' in between customers, and their presence caused a domino effect of drug dealing, other illicit activities and blight in the neighborhood. The fed up library administration went to the city council to demand emergency funding to hire a full-time security guard to stand outside the bathroom door, and his intimidating presence alone was enough for the prostitutes to move elsewhere. Once the ladies moved on, the neighborhood underwent a tiny urban renewal.



Euro tourists are always dismayed and scandalized by this city's lack of public restrooms, and by the time many of them manage to find their way to our library's bathroom they are desperately crossing their little legs. A French company put up free standing, coin operated public restrooms all over the city but those are not always in service. Even if they are, I wouldn’t call them exactly inviting, even for the non-fastidious. Due to the ADA, the bathrooms have to be wheelchair accessible, and so they are just the right size for many of our citizens to turn tricks, transform into a cozy shooting gallery, or take a nap. Every twenty minutes the doors swing open and hoses spray the walls and floors and any occupants down with scalding bleachy water (whether it is occupied or not), but that function is easy to disable. Until the city comes up with a better solution, libraries offer one of the few public restrooms available in the city, except the ones in the park, and chances are they are locked or in use by Loretta.

SINKS ARE FOR HANDWASHING ONLY

AND, AS A COURTESY TO OTHERS, BATHROOM TIME IS LIMITED TO 15 MINUTES

This sign is posted on our bathroom door to discourage patrons from using our small facilities to bathe, inject drugs, and do other things I don’t wish to contemplate. Even if there isn't any malfeasance taking place in the lavatory, the diet and lifestyle of a bum do not promote ‘regularity,’ and so I often end up having to perform one of my least favorite duties: banging on the bathroom door and telling the user that they have exceeded their time and they need to finish things up. Often this puts the bathroom user in a bad temper, and when they emerge they act all indignant, give me the stink eye, and storm out. It’s unpleasant, but since we don’t have security it’s up to the librarians to enforce the rules.

The Tacoma library had terrible issues with their public restrooms, ones that were affecting the entire neighborhood. Prostitutes began using the library's bathroom, the only public one in the area, to 'freshen up' in between customers, and their presence caused a domino effect of drug dealing, other illicit activities and blight in the neighborhood. The fed up library administration went to the city council to demand emergency funding to hire a full-time security guard to stand outside the bathroom door, and his intimidating presence alone was enough for the prostitutes to move elsewhere. Once the ladies moved on, the neighborhood underwent a tiny urban renewal.

Euro tourists are always dismayed and scandalized by this city's lack of public restrooms, and by the time many of them manage to find their way to our library's bathroom they are desperately crossing their little legs. A French company put up free standing, coin operated public restrooms all over the city but those are not always in service. Even if they are, I wouldn’t call them exactly inviting, even for the non-fastidious. Due to the ADA, the bathrooms have to be wheelchair accessible, and so they are just the right size for many of our citizens to turn tricks, transform into a cozy shooting gallery, or take a nap. Every twenty minutes the doors swing open and hoses spray the walls and floors and any occupants down with scalding bleachy water (whether it is occupied or not), but that function is easy to disable. Until the city comes up with a better solution, libraries offer one of the few public restrooms available in the city, except the ones in the park, and chances are they are locked or in use by Loretta.