Punky got Punk’d, by Pancreatitis

I don't know if last week you felt a strange disturbance in the force, or an inexplicable heaviness of the heart, but Punky passed away while I was gone. The morning he died he was drinking with one of his friends in the park, as is his daily routine. His friend went to go buy another 40 to share and when he returned Punky appeared to be napping. When his friend tried to shake Punky awake he noticed that Punky was a little cool to the touch. An autopsy revealed that Punky had died of alcohol related pancreatitis.

Punky has not been at the peak of health lately. His extremities were swollen from edema, an affliction that must have been particular vexing for someone as vain as Punky. I noticed he wasn't adorning himself with glittery objects with the same flair, or smashing heavy glass liquor bottles into the faces of his comrades with the same spirit, or mugging German tourists with the same predatory zeal. A few weeks ago a man left his bike unlocked outside the library for a good hour without it being stolen, which should have been an omen for me. The homeless community was quite affected by his death and even discussed holding a candlelight vigil but I think most of them just got drunk instead. I will say this for Punky, even though he was dangerously volatile and had probably broken a liquor bottle over the faces of each one of them, he had enough charm that these victims were generally distraught over his passing.

So pour a little bit of your next 40 on the ground for him. Resquiat in pacem , Punky.

Another memento mori…

A disconcerting event at the summer camp reunion was seeing the name of a girl who was about five years older than I was on the list of attendees. This was disturbing because I had heard that she died in a car accident a while back. I became even more bewildered when I saw a blonde woman who looked vaguely similar to her wandering around with her name tag on. I thought for a moment that maybe I had misheard that she had died, that it was all a terrible, out of control false rumor, which actually happened with a guy I went to college with. Someone said that he had disappeared in Thailand and that he had been missing for years and the worst was assumed. I was sad and I mourned for him and accepted his death as a fact but then at a reunion I found out that and that he was just fine and married with children and that he had never once been to Thailand in his life. I thought that maybe this was the case with the girl. I was also reminded of how in some of my dreams dead people I knew will make a guest appearance. In those particular dreams I will carry on conversations with them that I usually wrap up with something like, "I'm so glad that we got to have this talk, because I thought you were dead." These dreams put me in a melancholy mood that lasts the rest of the next day, so I don't particularly enjoy them, and seeing the whole situation at camp was giving me the same creepy feeling. Anyway, it turns out that the girl’s brother, who had also attended the camp, had married a woman with the exact same first name and brought her to the reunion. To confuse matters further, she bore a slight physical resemblance to her deceased sister-in-law, and so it freaked a lot of people out.

The Pitfalls of Making an Obscene Phone Call to a Librarian

We stayed with my good friend Douglas for part of the trip down to Texas at his lake house. While we were catching up he told me about an obscene phone call his sister, who is also a librarian, received. She answered the phone and a man drawled, “I seen you nekkid.”



She retorted, “Now, you listen to me. Say, ‘I have seen you naked,’ or ‘I saw you naked,’ but don’t you tell me, ‘I seen you naked!’”



Apparently a grammatical lecture was not what the caller was after, because the only response she heard was the quiet click of the receiver being replaced in its cradle.

The Pitfalls of Making an Obscene Phone Call to a Librarian

We stayed with my good friend Douglas for part of the trip down to Texas at his lake house. While we were catching up he told me about an obscene phone call his sister, who is also a librarian, received. She answered the phone and a man drawled, “I seen you nekkid.”

She retorted, “Now, you listen to me. Say, ‘I have seen you naked,’ or ‘I saw you naked,’ but don’t you tell me, ‘I seen you naked!’”

Apparently a grammatical lecture was not what the caller was after, because the only response she heard was the quiet click of the receiver being replaced in its cradle.

Deep in the Spleen of Texas

Sorry for the dead air. I've been back in my ancestral homelands of East Texas for a summer camp reunion. I'll be back tomorrow and will write more soon.

Deep in the Spleen of Texas

Sorry for the dead air. I've been back in my ancestral homelands of East Texas for a summer camp reunion. I'll be back tomorrow and will write more soon.

JUDGMENT DAY: RISE OF THE COMMODES

While I was on vacation there was a crisis involving our plumbing at the branch. For reasons that have been yet to be discovered, all of the branch’s toilets suffered massive overflows. As if that weren’t horrible enough, sewage came bubbling up from the floor drains, flooding the public and staff bathrooms with gallons of rank, pathogen bearing water. City workers spent days pumping water out and trying to fix the problem, and then our custodians labored to decontaminate the entire area. The stench was sometimes unbearable and the staff was completely traumatized. By the time I returned from vacation there was no trace of the problem except for a faint dank odor of rot and decay, like that of an old mausoleum or the Metro. I thought I had dodged that bullet and smugly congratulated myself on my lucky timing.

Our stalwart public toilet takes a lot of abuse. It is occupied every minute this branch is open and sometimes there will be a line of people ten deep waiting to use it. When I see people impatiently lined up in front of it I am reminded of those sad stories of enslaved Chinese prostitutes smuggled to old San Francisco Chinatown. Because of the Anti-Chinese immigration laws, Chinese immigrants could not bring their wives and families with them nor could Chinese women immigrate. Chinese women were scarce and the few that made it to San Francisco were brought to work in virtual slavery as prostitutes. Men would line up around the block for these women, who would usually only last a few years before dying of disease and overuse. Anyway, the Department of Public Works informed the branch staff that our plumbing is shared with those in the parks, which might be the root of the problem. As bad as our toilets have it the park toilets have it worse: besides non-stop occupancy, the toilets are constantly filled with inappropriate foreign objects, bear witness to the orgiastic revelries of Loretta and suffer God knows what other indignities.

Yesterday a woman emerged from the stairs to the bathroom and pronounced to me, “It’s just that it smells…FECAL down there! I think something must be wrong.” I explained to her that the branch had undergone plumbing problems and that she was probably just experiencing some lingering odors from that unfortunate situation. I went blithely back to work. I should not have dismissed this Cassandra so quickly, because not minutes later I heard someone exclaim, “Water is everywhere!” I went to investigate and sure enough, the toilet was busily overflowing and murky water was coming up from the floor drain, like someone had exploded an M-80 down the commode. I looked in the staff bathroom and my worst fears were confirmed: inches of water swimming with bacteria and toxins were covering the floor in there as well. I shut down the bathrooms and called DPW, who arrived in a few hours with heavy equipment. After the good men of DPW worked on it most of the night, the problem seems to be fixed for now, but I know this won’t be the last of it.

JUDGMENT DAY: RISE OF THE COMMODES

While I was on vacation there was a crisis involving our plumbing at the branch. For reasons that have been yet to be discovered, all of the branch’s toilets suffered massive overflows. As if that weren’t horrible enough, sewage came bubbling up from the floor drains, flooding the public and staff bathrooms with gallons of rank, pathogen bearing water. City workers spent days pumping water out and trying to fix the problem, and then our custodians labored to decontaminate the entire area. The stench was sometimes unbearable and the staff was completely traumatized. By the time I returned from vacation there was no trace of the problem except for a faint dank odor of rot and decay, like that of an old mausoleum or the Metro. I thought I had dodged that bullet and smugly congratulated myself on my lucky timing.

Our stalwart public toilet takes a lot of abuse. It is occupied every minute this branch is open and sometimes there will be a line of people ten deep waiting to use it. When I see people impatiently lined up in front of it I am reminded of those sad stories of enslaved Chinese prostitutes smuggled to old San Francisco Chinatown. Because of the Anti-Chinese immigration laws, Chinese immigrants could not bring their wives and families with them nor could Chinese women immigrate. Chinese women were scarce and the few that made it to San Francisco were brought to work in virtual slavery as prostitutes. Men would line up around the block for these women, who would usually only last a few years before dying of disease and overuse. Anyway, the Department of Public Works informed the branch staff that our plumbing is shared with those in the parks, which might be the root of the problem. As bad as our toilets have it the park toilets have it worse: besides non-stop occupancy, the toilets are constantly filled with inappropriate foreign objects, bear witness to the orgiastic revelries of Loretta and suffer God knows what other indignities.

Yesterday a woman emerged from the stairs to the bathroom and pronounced to me, “It’s just that it smells…FECAL down there! I think something must be wrong.” I explained to her that the branch had undergone plumbing problems and that she was probably just experiencing some lingering odors from that unfortunate situation. I went blithely back to work. I should not have dismissed this Cassandra so quickly, because not minutes later I heard someone exclaim, “Water is everywhere!” I went to investigate and sure enough, the toilet was busily overflowing and murky water was coming up from the floor drain, like someone had exploded an M-80 down the commode. I looked in the staff bathroom and my worst fears were confirmed: inches of water swimming with bacteria and toxins were covering the floor in there as well. I shut down the bathrooms and called DPW, who arrived in a few hours with heavy equipment. After the good men of DPW worked on it most of the night, the problem seems to be fixed for now, but I know this won’t be the last of it.

Unflappable

One of my colleagues and I were commiserating about working at a certain branch in the system because it is always scarily understaffed, especially at night. The last time she worked an evening shift at this branch only she and one other woman were on duty. The night was uneventful until right before the library was to close at nine. My colleague went back to the children’s area to give a patron she had seen wander back there the ten minute warning. She interrupted him, right among the bean bags and stuffed animals and puzzles, in flagrante delicto  with himself. From the way he whipped around to display himself to her she knew he had planned this.



Instead of giving the pervert what he wanted, (and what was that? For her to fall down on her knees in awe? To run away squealing in terror? I must consult my DSM IV.) she gave him a slow once over that told him in no uncertain terms that she was very unimpressed. She then warned him in an arctic, boner killing tone, “You best hurry and finish up because we’re closing in ten minutes.” She walked back toward the front of the library and calmly called the police. The man quickly got himself together and left, looking rather disappointed and hurt, before the police arrived. I admired her cool headed reaction to the situation and vowed to take a lesson from it for the time when I will inevitably be faced with the same situation.

Unflappable

One of my colleagues and I were commiserating about working at a certain branch in the system because it is always scarily understaffed, especially at night. The last time she worked an evening shift at this branch only she and one other woman were on duty. The night was uneventful until right before the library was to close at nine. My colleague went back to the children’s area to give a patron she had seen wander back there the ten minute warning. She interrupted him, right among the bean bags and stuffed animals and puzzles, in flagrante delicto  with himself. From the way he whipped around to display himself to her she knew he had planned this.

Instead of giving the pervert what he wanted, (and what was that? For her to fall down on her knees in awe? To run away squealing in terror? I must consult my DSM IV.) she gave him a slow once over that told him in no uncertain terms that she was very unimpressed. She then warned him in an arctic, boner killing tone, “You best hurry and finish up because we’re closing in ten minutes.” She walked back toward the front of the library and calmly called the police. The man quickly got himself together and left, looking rather disappointed and hurt, before the police arrived. I admired her cool headed reaction to the situation and vowed to take a lesson from it for the time when I will inevitably be faced with the same situation.

The Vanishing

Our league hosted an Ultimate Frisbee tournament on Sunday. After the games were finished I decided to drive back and get the dogs and let them run around on the fields while we cleaned up, which is perfectly within the letter, if perhaps not the spirit, of the contract I had to sign banishing Billy Jack from all Frisbee tournaments. Elizabeth drew up this contract (which is legally binding, according to Foxylawyer) because the last tournament he went to he barked and squealed and had a noisy tantrum each time I went on the field. Besides the horrible noises he made, he was also an all around dangerous nuisance, tearing into other people’s bags and stealing sandwiches and Power Bars, shredding other dogs' toys, “marking” backpacks, and just basically leaving an endless swath of destruction and annoyance. We had even resorted to “aversion therapy” by making him wear a collar which delivered an electric shock to his neck every time he barked. Billy deviously thwarted the collar by raising his bark into this castrato high pitch which is just outside the range of the collar’s triggering device, but well within a particularly painful and damaging section of the human ear.



On the way back I gave Billy his ball (his preeecccious) to occupy him while I drove, which is sort of like handing a ADHD child a Gameboy so he won’t bother you in the car and you can concentrate on the road. I heard him worrying and playing with it and all seemed fine. When I arrived at the fields I parked the car and opened the door to let the dogs out. Spoonie trotted out but Billy was nowhere to be found. It was as if he had vanished. I knew this could not be possible - all the windows were sealed, no doors had been opened. It was just like a locked room mystery scenario, or the movie Picnic at Hanging Rock, and I was convinced I was losing my mind. After running up and down the car and shrieking his name like a hysterical ninny I finally heard a faint wheezing whimper.



I followed the sound and, incredibly, it seemed to be coming out the side panel speakers near the back seat, sort of like Carol Ann’s voice emanates from the television after she disappears into another dimension in Poltergeist. Before I made a fool out of myself and began sobbing, "Billy, are you in there?" into the speakers I saw the tiniest tuft of white fur protruding from beneath the back car seats, which had been flattened so we could load all of the equipment for the tournament. His ball had apparently dropped down beneath the front passenger seat and he had flattened all 30 pounds of himself – perhaps by collapsing his ribcage like a rat – and squeezed himself through a crevice that was only several inches wide. Then he had squirmed and twisted his way down to the air pocket between the flattened seat and floorboard like a drain snake and then had wedged himself good and tight in there. The ball remained under the front passenger seat, just out of snout reach.



His breathing was faint but labored and I was convinced that he was suffocating and there were only seconds to spare. After wailing for help with the car seat, which I couldn't figure out how to lift because I was in a such a state of useless panic that I probably needed a good slapping, we finally managed to lift seat up off of him. When the weight of the seat was lifted Billy gasped a few times and then immediately resumed his mission and began barking and digging at his ball. Now that he wasn’t being crushed by the weight of the collapsed back seats he managed to reach it. He snatched it in his mouth, jumped to his feet and then ran out of the car in a blur like the bat out of hell that he is.

The Vanishing

Our league hosted an Ultimate Frisbee tournament on Sunday. After the games were finished I decided to drive back and get the dogs and let them run around on the fields while we cleaned up, which is perfectly within the letter, if perhaps not the spirit, of the contract I had to sign banishing Billy Jack from all Frisbee tournaments. Elizabeth drew up this contract (which is legally binding, according to Foxylawyer) because the last tournament he went to he barked and squealed and had a noisy tantrum each time I went on the field. Besides the horrible noises he made, he was also an all around dangerous nuisance, tearing into other people’s bags and stealing sandwiches and Power Bars, shredding other dogs' toys, “marking” backpacks, and just basically leaving an endless swath of destruction and annoyance. We had even resorted to “aversion therapy” by making him wear a collar which delivered an electric shock to his neck every time he barked. Billy deviously thwarted the collar by raising his bark into this castrato high pitch which is just outside the range of the collar’s triggering device, but well within a particularly painful and damaging section of the human ear.

On the way back I gave Billy his ball (his preeecccious) to occupy him while I drove, which is sort of like handing a ADHD child a Gameboy so he won’t bother you in the car and you can concentrate on the road. I heard him worrying and playing with it and all seemed fine. When I arrived at the fields I parked the car and opened the door to let the dogs out. Spoonie trotted out but Billy was nowhere to be found. It was as if he had vanished. I knew this could not be possible - all the windows were sealed, no doors had been opened. It was just like a locked room mystery scenario, or the movie Picnic at Hanging Rock, and I was convinced I was losing my mind. After running up and down the car and shrieking his name like a hysterical ninny I finally heard a faint wheezing whimper.

I followed the sound and, incredibly, it seemed to be coming out the side panel speakers near the back seat, sort of like Carol Ann’s voice emanates from the television after she disappears into another dimension in Poltergeist. Before I made a fool out of myself and began sobbing, "Billy, are you in there?" into the speakers I saw the tiniest tuft of white fur protruding from beneath the back car seats, which had been flattened so we could load all of the equipment for the tournament. His ball had apparently dropped down beneath the front passenger seat and he had flattened all 30 pounds of himself – perhaps by collapsing his ribcage like a rat – and squeezed himself through a crevice that was only several inches wide. Then he had squirmed and twisted his way down to the air pocket between the flattened seat and floorboard like a drain snake and then had wedged himself good and tight in there. The ball remained under the front passenger seat, just out of snout reach.

His breathing was faint but labored and I was convinced that he was suffocating and there were only seconds to spare. After wailing for help with the car seat, which I couldn't figure out how to lift because I was in a such a state of useless panic that I probably needed a good slapping, we finally managed to lift seat up off of him. When the weight of the seat was lifted Billy gasped a few times and then immediately resumed his mission and began barking and digging at his ball. Now that he wasn’t being crushed by the weight of the collapsed back seats he managed to reach it. He snatched it in his mouth, jumped to his feet and then ran out of the car in a blur like the bat out of hell that he is.

Survival of the Most Cooperative

This delights me. From the December, 2003 issue of Audubon.



A coyote will frequently hunt with a badger, apparently showing it where to dig out burrowing prey that the two will share. Although a badger will sourly reject a coyote's invitations to romp, when the badger approaches a coyote, the coyote will wag its tail and roll on its back in delight. A badger will allow a coyote to rest beside it and even touch it. The partnership is no anomaly; in fact, when some coyote researchers see a badger in spring or early summer, they instinctively look for its coyote companion.

Survival of the Most Cooperative

This delights me. From the December, 2003 issue of Audubon.

A coyote will frequently hunt with a badger, apparently showing it where to dig out burrowing prey that the two will share. Although a badger will sourly reject a coyote's invitations to romp, when the badger approaches a coyote, the coyote will wag its tail and roll on its back in delight. A badger will allow a coyote to rest beside it and even touch it. The partnership is no anomaly; in fact, when some coyote researchers see a badger in spring or early summer, they instinctively look for its coyote companion.

Sick-up in the city

One time I was riding the bus and it was crammed with the usual bizarre cross section of this town's society when suddenly one of the passengers, whom I judged to be a $5 hooker (even in what was, at the time, a very inflated economy), staggered up from her seat. She then shouted to the bus driver, “Open the back door!” With the jerky, palsied gait of a crack addict, she made her way to the back door, positioned herself at the back steps and then leaned over and started heaving. In between retches she hollered,



“I said, open the back door!" and, “I know you heard me say open the GODDAMN back door!”



While we all waited with bated breath, the bus driver sprung the door at last and she leaned out and started noisely vomiting. After an encore of dry heaving, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “All right! You can close it now!” She then sat back down in her seat as if nothing happened and promptly fell asleep. Relieved that she wasn't going to start some horrible bio-chain reaction like on that Southwest flight, I thought to myself “Awww, how sweet. She must be pregnant.”



You don’t have to ride the bus in the city to be spared public vomiting. My dear friend at Neonjungle worked in an upscale office in which one of the secretaries suffered bouts of morning sickness. When she would have spells of nausea she would reach for the handiest trashcan and empty the contents of her stomach. She would do this in public trashcans - in the breakroom, in the halls, in the foyer, wherever - and then blithely go on her way. While working in her own cubicle she would lean over, vomit in her own trashcan and then resume typing, leaving her mess for the janitor to empty the next morning, much to the distress and dismay of her coworkers. Although in a way I admire her grim dedication and perserverance, this behavior was really not fair to her coworkers, and probably reinforced some old chauvinistic attitudes about women belonging in the workplace. This was definitely a problem for Human Resources to address, which is why even though I would love knowing gossip and hearing all about the outlandish behavior of my coworkers, this was a never a field I would be interested in.

Sick-up in the city

One time I was riding the bus and it was crammed with the usual bizarre cross section of this town's society when suddenly one of the passengers, whom I judged to be a $5 hooker (even in what was, at the time, a very inflated economy), staggered up from her seat. She then shouted to the bus driver, “Open the back door!” With the jerky, palsied gait of a crack addict, she made her way to the back door, positioned herself at the back steps and then leaned over and started heaving. In between retches she hollered,

“I said, open the back door!" and, “I know you heard me say open the GODDAMN back door!”

While we all waited with bated breath, the bus driver sprung the door at last and she leaned out and started noisely vomiting. After an encore of dry heaving, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “All right! You can close it now!” She then sat back down in her seat as if nothing happened and promptly fell asleep. Relieved that she wasn't going to start some horrible bio-chain reaction like on that Southwest flight, I thought to myself “Awww, how sweet. She must be pregnant.”

You don’t have to ride the bus in the city to be spared public vomiting. My dear friend at Neonjungle worked in an upscale office in which one of the secretaries suffered bouts of morning sickness. When she would have spells of nausea she would reach for the handiest trashcan and empty the contents of her stomach. She would do this in public trashcans - in the breakroom, in the halls, in the foyer, wherever - and then blithely go on her way. While working in her own cubicle she would lean over, vomit in her own trashcan and then resume typing, leaving her mess for the janitor to empty the next morning, much to the distress and dismay of her coworkers. Although in a way I admire her grim dedication and perserverance, this behavior was really not fair to her coworkers, and probably reinforced some old chauvinistic attitudes about women belonging in the workplace. This was definitely a problem for Human Resources to address, which is why even though I would love knowing gossip and hearing all about the outlandish behavior of my coworkers, this was a never a field I would be interested in.

Moleman, Your Rageaholic Sponsor Called...

Perhaps he’s too filled with shame, an emotion of which I believed he was incapable, or he crossed the wrong person FINALLY, or he’s going to a court ordered 12 step program for anger management, but for some reason Moleman has not set foot in the library since his last big fit. Maybe he is on his way to becoming one of those “disappeared” patrons. In any case, we are under orders to notify security immediately if he darkens our doors because they would like to have a little talk with him.



I was telling my stepbrother about the blood art book and he said that in art school one of his class assignments had been for the students to paint a picture of their ‘essence.’ In the studio he watched one of his classmates take a pocketknife and slash his own leg, milk some blood out of the wound, and then use it as paint. That art teacher was really asking for it, in my opinion, and was lucky that the student used his blood instead of some other, less painfully harvested bodily fluid to define his essence.



Tales of Russia are to come soon when I get my pictures together to serve as visual aids. I'm still bitter that a certain family member forgot to bring my camera after borrowing it so I couldn't get any pictures of myself prostrate and weeping in front of Lenin's Tomb.

Moleman, Your Rageaholic Sponsor Called...

Perhaps he’s too filled with shame, an emotion of which I believed he was incapable, or he crossed the wrong person FINALLY, or he’s going to a court ordered 12 step program for anger management, but for some reason Moleman has not set foot in the library since his last big fit. Maybe he is on his way to becoming one of those “disappeared” patrons. In any case, we are under orders to notify security immediately if he darkens our doors because they would like to have a little talk with him.

I was telling my stepbrother about the blood art book and he said that in art school one of his class assignments had been for the students to paint a picture of their ‘essence.’ In the studio he watched one of his classmates take a pocketknife and slash his own leg, milk some blood out of the wound, and then use it as paint. That art teacher was really asking for it, in my opinion, and was lucky that the student used his blood instead of some other, less painfully harvested bodily fluid to define his essence.

Tales of Russia are to come soon when I get my pictures together to serve as visual aids. I'm still bitter that a certain family member forgot to bring my camera after borrowing it so I couldn't get any pictures of myself prostrate and weeping in front of Lenin's Tomb.

Guess whose panties these are!

The most horrifying obligation I can imagine. Reading it brings out the darkest misogynist in me and makes me question whether we should ever have been trusted with the vote. A comrade who's planning the bachelorette party with this over eager monster forwarded this to me. These women are in their 30s, by the way. This is why some men hate women. Seriously.



I got your message, and I can't do Wednesday since I have class until 10. I have classes Tues, Wed, Thurs and will be away this weekend for my girlfriend's wedding. But I could meet next Thursday after 7:30 pm.



I think the biggest thing is just letting the girls know to reserve that weekend for XXXX's bachelorette fun in XXXXXXXX!!! We can take care of the details as they come, but I want to make sure as many girls can come as possible!



We can talk via email if you like - seems like it might be easier.



Here are some ideas I have:



I like the idea of your hot tub!!! We'll have to work that in somehow. I was also thinking a sleepover would be fun - does anyone have a big enough house? And would be willing to have the girls over? We could do it at my place, but I have a tiny place.



Saturday afternoon/early evening we could start with games, gifts, and prizes. Then limo/club/dancing night Saturday, sleep over and brunch on Sun AM? Or we can even make it a Friday - Sunday thing too. What do you think?



Girls bring a colored feather boa (black is fine) for when we go out to the clubs! So we can stand out and draw attention to our group and glam it up and be fabulous! XXX will have fancy white one for bride to be. I'm pretty certain XXX will not want to wear a tiara, but I can make a pretty veil just in case she is down with wearing it.



Here are some ideas for games:



Each girl brings lingerie that reflects her own personality for the "guess whose" game. These are gifts that the bride to be will be keeping. Or we could just do regular bachelorette gifts. If girls want to bring something kinky and fun, all the better! Whatever they are comfortable with.

Some other games:



1. Bachelorette Oath of Secrecy - signed contract all the girls need to sign



2 Create XXX's Wedding dress out of toilet paper (3-4 teams w/one model) - this one is fun!!! Makes for great pictures too!



3. Draw XXX's wedding dress on top of your head on a piece of paper



4. Guess who's panties/lingerie that is (gift giving time)



5. guy Scavenger Hunt Game (for one of the nights out - this one is awesome. I've made this for every bachelorette party and it never fails to be fun! Think Polaroid camera, think looking for guys with the best ass, best abs, biggest feet! nicest eyes, guy whose name is Mike, etc. all posing with XXX for Polaroid, all added to her necklace so by the end of the night she has all these polaroids of her and guys with fabulous bods! Hahaha!



Well, those are my ideas. I'll talk to XXX about the limo. Let me know what you think about the Fri to Sun OR the Sat to Sun sleepover. I'm thinking we need to reserve the limo for Saturday night though, right? Okay, talk to you later. Have a great day ladies!

Guess whose panties these are!

The most horrifying obligation I can imagine. Reading it brings out the darkest misogynist in me and makes me question whether we should ever have been trusted with the vote. A comrade who's planning the bachelorette party with this over eager monster forwarded this to me. These women are in their 30s, by the way. This is why some men hate women. Seriously.

I got your message, and I can't do Wednesday since I have class until 10. I have classes Tues, Wed, Thurs and will be away this weekend for my girlfriend's wedding. But I could meet next Thursday after 7:30 pm.

I think the biggest thing is just letting the girls know to reserve that weekend for XXXX's bachelorette fun in XXXXXXXX!!! We can take care of the details as they come, but I want to make sure as many girls can come as possible!

We can talk via email if you like - seems like it might be easier.

Here are some ideas I have:

I like the idea of your hot tub!!! We'll have to work that in somehow. I was also thinking a sleepover would be fun - does anyone have a big enough house? And would be willing to have the girls over? We could do it at my place, but I have a tiny place.

Saturday afternoon/early evening we could start with games, gifts, and prizes. Then limo/club/dancing night Saturday, sleep over and brunch on Sun AM? Or we can even make it a Friday - Sunday thing too. What do you think?

Girls bring a colored feather boa (black is fine) for when we go out to the clubs! So we can stand out and draw attention to our group and glam it up and be fabulous! XXX will have fancy white one for bride to be. I'm pretty certain XXX will not want to wear a tiara, but I can make a pretty veil just in case she is down with wearing it.

Here are some ideas for games:

Each girl brings lingerie that reflects her own personality for the "guess whose" game. These are gifts that the bride to be will be keeping. Or we could just do regular bachelorette gifts. If girls want to bring something kinky and fun, all the better! Whatever they are comfortable with.
Some other games:

1. Bachelorette Oath of Secrecy - signed contract all the girls need to sign

2 Create XXX's Wedding dress out of toilet paper (3-4 teams w/one model) - this one is fun!!! Makes for great pictures too!

3. Draw XXX's wedding dress on top of your head on a piece of paper

4. Guess who's panties/lingerie that is (gift giving time)

5. guy Scavenger Hunt Game (for one of the nights out - this one is awesome. I've made this for every bachelorette party and it never fails to be fun! Think Polaroid camera, think looking for guys with the best ass, best abs, biggest feet! nicest eyes, guy whose name is Mike, etc. all posing with XXX for Polaroid, all added to her necklace so by the end of the night she has all these polaroids of her and guys with fabulous bods! Hahaha!

Well, those are my ideas. I'll talk to XXX about the limo. Let me know what you think about the Fri to Sun OR the Sat to Sun sleepover. I'm thinking we need to reserve the limo for Saturday night though, right? Okay, talk to you later. Have a great day ladies!

More Norma News...

My colleague at Mrs. Desmond's neighborhood branch was hanging up a sign in the window when this spectrally white bald head loomed right in front of him on the other side of the glass. Its appearance was as shocking as when the waterlogged head of the fisherman floats to the pane of glass in the submerged boat in Jaws. The apparation glowered at him and then slowly backed away and disappeared from his sight. After my colleague finished clutching his chest like Fred Sanford he realized that it was only Mrs. Desmond he had seen, initially unrecognizable without her signature white silk (or sometimes aluminum, when the voices get too loud)turban. It also threw him off because underneath her turban she is completely bald, which none of us knew. My colleague is pretty sure she shaves her hair herself because the girls at the Walgreens across the street told him that Norma had been seen shoplifting large quantities of razors and shaving cream. Her skull is also covered with angry red, possibly infected shaving nicks. Maybe she thinks that her hair is transmitting thoughts into her head, like antennae, so it had to all go. Her mental illness really seems to be accelerating. I eagerly await news of her next research project, which I predict will be a convergence of her Anti-Semitic conspiracy theories, dark sexual obsessions and schizophrenic persecutory delusions.



Loretta news! I know you missed her as much as I did. She has been really scarce since the city put her up in a residential hotel room. Well, the other week she hosted what some might call a grand celebration of the end of Summer but others may more matter-of-factly call a gangbang in the public toilet in the park. Police had to break the revelry up, which was taking place right before the school across the street was due to let out.

More Norma News...

My colleague at Mrs. Desmond's neighborhood branch was hanging up a sign in the window when this spectrally white bald head loomed right in front of him on the other side of the glass. Its appearance was as shocking as when the waterlogged head of the fisherman floats to the pane of glass in the submerged boat in Jaws. The apparation glowered at him and then slowly backed away and disappeared from his sight. After my colleague finished clutching his chest like Fred Sanford he realized that it was only Mrs. Desmond he had seen, initially unrecognizable without her signature white silk (or sometimes aluminum, when the voices get too loud)turban. It also threw him off because underneath her turban she is completely bald, which none of us knew. My colleague is pretty sure she shaves her hair herself because the girls at the Walgreens across the street told him that Norma had been seen shoplifting large quantities of razors and shaving cream. Her skull is also covered with angry red, possibly infected shaving nicks. Maybe she thinks that her hair is transmitting thoughts into her head, like antennae, so it had to all go. Her mental illness really seems to be accelerating. I eagerly await news of her next research project, which I predict will be a convergence of her Anti-Semitic conspiracy theories, dark sexual obsessions and schizophrenic persecutory delusions.

Loretta news! I know you missed her as much as I did. She has been really scarce since the city put her up in a residential hotel room. Well, the other week she hosted what some might call a grand celebration of the end of Summer but others may more matter-of-factly call a gangbang in the public toilet in the park. Police had to break the revelry up, which was taking place right before the school across the street was due to let out.

Your People

The research of the turbaned, Norma Desmond-esque grand dame takes her and the unfortunate librarian who happens to be on duty in many bizarre directions. The only thing predictable about her studies is that they are always arcane and they are always prurient. Lately her pursuit of knowledge has her exploring the history of bestiality. The other day she swept in and without preamble or the exchange of pleasantries commanded her long suffering, favorite librarian to have all books that this system owns on bestiality sent to her. Not surprisingly, our system’s holdings on the subject are not extensive, so he offered to inter-library loan some books or (bravely) search the internet for her. She took umbrage at this deficiency in our collection. She glared at him and hissed,



"That’s absolutely shocking this system doesn’t own more books about this. I’m also surprised that you yourself don’t know more about it. After all, your people have been committing bestiality for years!"



The librarian, knowing exactly what she meant by ‘your people,’ gave her a mock bashful look and replied,



“My people? You mean librarians?”



“OF COURSE NOT!” she bellowed. “I’m speaking of the Jews, of course.”



The librarian good naturedly laughed and apologized for his ignorance. This appeased her, and she said, “One day when I have more time I must tell you all about it.” She then strode off to continue her quest for enlightenment elsewhere.

Your People

The research of the turbaned, Norma Desmond-esque grand dame takes her and the unfortunate librarian who happens to be on duty in many bizarre directions. The only thing predictable about her studies is that they are always arcane and they are always prurient. Lately her pursuit of knowledge has her exploring the history of bestiality. The other day she swept in and without preamble or the exchange of pleasantries commanded her long suffering, favorite librarian to have all books that this system owns on bestiality sent to her. Not surprisingly, our system’s holdings on the subject are not extensive, so he offered to inter-library loan some books or (bravely) search the internet for her. She took umbrage at this deficiency in our collection. She glared at him and hissed,

"That’s absolutely shocking this system doesn’t own more books about this. I’m also surprised that you yourself don’t know more about it. After all, your people have been committing bestiality for years!"

The librarian, knowing exactly what she meant by ‘your people,’ gave her a mock bashful look and replied,

“My people? You mean librarians?”

“OF COURSE NOT!” she bellowed. “I’m speaking of the Jews, of course.”

The librarian good naturedly laughed and apologized for his ignorance. This appeased her, and she said, “One day when I have more time I must tell you all about it.” She then strode off to continue her quest for enlightenment elsewhere.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

After Russia I stayed in Ft. Worth for a few days with my family. I got to indulge in my favorite activity while I'm home: rooting through old family photographs, mementos, and other assorted relics. I always unearth some fascinating artifacts that offer a lot of insight into the lives of my ancestors. Illustrious or not, they were all interesting. Here is an excerpt of my great-grandfather's memorial resolution letter I came across from the Exchange Club of Ft. Worth, which he helped found.



Born in Fannin County, Texas, he moved to Oklahoma Territory at the age of ten...

At the age of 25 he became mayor of the Town of Cornish, in which capacity he not only served as an administrator, but also sat in judgment in misdemeanor cases involving outlaw Indians, renegade whites, and half-breeds.



Not mentioned in the memorial was his famous habit of downing two Manhattans with his lunch at the Exchange Club each day.



I also found an old Christmas card on the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the War Between the States (still known in some circles as The War of Northern Aggression) from some of my cousins. The card featured a drawing of a soldier waving a tattered Confederate Army battle flag. The significance to Christmas escapes me. Next to the drawing was a roll of all of our family's Confederate army veterans. My great-great grandfather was listed as a drummer boy of a Texas regiment (22nd Texas Guards C.S.A). He also worked in a munitions plant when he was eleven and would have to bite the lead bullets as some part of the manufacturing process. He didn't seem any worse for the wear, which resulted in my grandmother saying, "Which is why I don't listen to all of this nonsense about lead poisoning!"



Some of her Southern heritage must have influenced me because when I was little I refused to read Little Women. I had no interest in the lives and hardships of those Yankee goody-two-shoes, whose father was away fighting on the enemy side. When I recently told my grandmother, who has mellowed greatly throughout the years, she sighed, "Oh, no. You must have learned that from me."



That heritage is hard to shake, because I still cringe when somebody calls me 'Yankee' when I'm abroad.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

After Russia I stayed in Ft. Worth for a few days with my family. I got to indulge in my favorite activity while I'm home: rooting through old family photographs, mementos, and other assorted relics. I always unearth some fascinating artifacts that offer a lot of insight into the lives of my ancestors. Illustrious or not, they were all interesting. Here is an excerpt of my great-grandfather's memorial resolution letter I came across from the Exchange Club of Ft. Worth, which he helped found.

Born in Fannin County, Texas, he moved to Oklahoma Territory at the age of ten...
At the age of 25 he became mayor of the Town of Cornish, in which capacity he not only served as an administrator, but also sat in judgment in misdemeanor cases involving outlaw Indians, renegade whites, and half-breeds.

Not mentioned in the memorial was his famous habit of downing two Manhattans with his lunch at the Exchange Club each day.

I also found an old Christmas card on the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the War Between the States (still known in some circles as The War of Northern Aggression) from some of my cousins. The card featured a drawing of a soldier waving a tattered Confederate Army battle flag. The significance to Christmas escapes me. Next to the drawing was a roll of all of our family's Confederate army veterans. My great-great grandfather was listed as a drummer boy of a Texas regiment (22nd Texas Guards C.S.A). He also worked in a munitions plant when he was eleven and would have to bite the lead bullets as some part of the manufacturing process. He didn't seem any worse for the wear, which resulted in my grandmother saying, "Which is why I don't listen to all of this nonsense about lead poisoning!"

Some of her Southern heritage must have influenced me because when I was little I refused to read Little Women. I had no interest in the lives and hardships of those Yankee goody-two-shoes, whose father was away fighting on the enemy side. When I recently told my grandmother, who has mellowed greatly throughout the years, she sighed, "Oh, no. You must have learned that from me."

That heritage is hard to shake, because I still cringe when somebody calls me 'Yankee' when I'm abroad.

Back in the USsssA

I am deranged from jetlag, and still have not recovered from Lufthansa having the gall to show Garfield, The Movie on the 9 hour flight to Frankfurt AND the return flight. (Elizabeth asked, "Doesn't that violate some sort of international law to show the same movie both ways?") The worst part of the experience, besides kicking myself for not having rationed my feelgood pills wisely, was having to listen to the middle aged man sitting behind me laughing imbecilically throughout the entire movie at that orange CGI nightmare.



After Garfield, The Movie,  Lufthansa treated us to some Euro music videos, including the British boy band Westside's completely unnecessary remake of that musical abortion Uptown Girl. In the updated version, Claudia Schiffer replaces Christie Brinkley as the higher caste blonde.



The two Russian airliners that crashed left on the same day from the same Moscow airport as I did. Terrorism is suspected, most likely explosives, and bodies still strapped into airliner seats rained down over some town, just like Lockerbie. I remember reading that several of the Lockerbie victims found on the ground in their seats had their fingers still tightly crossed. Two young women found intact in their seats had their arms wrapped around each other as well as their fingers crossed, which haunts me. Now it can haunt you, too. Sorry.



I promise a more upbeat and coherent entry tomorrow. Russia was another world, and my trip there was a life altering experience, althought our tour group was senescent and crotchety with little patience for our rambunctious, unwieldly group of 11, which included several teenagers with access to unlimited vodka for the first times in their tender young lives. I think the average age on the cruise ship was 70, hailing mostly from the Midwest. It's like a ship full of 180 variations of Alfred and Enid Lambert from The Corrections. On no less than three occasions some straggler from our group held the bus up, throwing off our carefully and tightly scheduled tours. One thing is certain: our tour group would have fragged us if they weren't so old and enfeebled.

Back in the USsssA

I am deranged from jetlag, and still have not recovered from Lufthansa having the gall to show Garfield, The Movie on the 9 hour flight to Frankfurt AND the return flight. (Elizabeth asked, "Doesn't that violate some sort of international law to show the same movie both ways?") The worst part of the experience, besides kicking myself for not having rationed my feelgood pills wisely, was having to listen to the middle aged man sitting behind me laughing imbecilically throughout the entire movie at that orange CGI nightmare.

After Garfield, The Movie,  Lufthansa treated us to some Euro music videos, including the British boy band Westside's completely unnecessary remake of that musical abortion Uptown Girl. In the updated version, Claudia Schiffer replaces Christie Brinkley as the higher caste blonde.

The two Russian airliners that crashed left on the same day from the same Moscow airport as I did. Terrorism is suspected, most likely explosives, and bodies still strapped into airliner seats rained down over some town, just like Lockerbie. I remember reading that several of the Lockerbie victims found on the ground in their seats had their fingers still tightly crossed. Two young women found intact in their seats had their arms wrapped around each other as well as their fingers crossed, which haunts me. Now it can haunt you, too. Sorry.

I promise a more upbeat and coherent entry tomorrow. Russia was another world, and my trip there was a life altering experience, althought our tour group was senescent and crotchety with little patience for our rambunctious, unwieldly group of 11, which included several teenagers with access to unlimited vodka for the first times in their tender young lives. I think the average age on the cruise ship was 70, hailing mostly from the Midwest. It's like a ship full of 180 variations of Alfred and Enid Lambert from The Corrections. On no less than three occasions some straggler from our group held the bus up, throwing off our carefully and tightly scheduled tours. One thing is certain: our tour group would have fragged us if they weren't so old and enfeebled.

From Russia, with Radioactivity

Thank you, Comrade Stalin! You are the gift to your people that keeps on giving. I’m leaving tonight for the Journey of the Czars, which I am secretly calling the Stalin Trail. Some of the incorrigible Lefties that frequent this branch got a little misty when they heard I was traveling to Mother Russia.



My grandmother is taking all of her grandchildren on this trip. She is 86 and intrepid and has taken her grandchildren all over the world. She’s like Auntie Mame but a lot more reliable and lot less dangerously madcap. Fifteen years ago she was scrambling up Mayan pyramids in the Yucatan with one grandchild, 10 years ago she was chewing Coca leaves in the Amazon with another (complaining to the guide that she wasn’t ‘feeling anything yet’) and a few years ago she was wheeled through the ruins of Pompeii by yet another grandchild. Pompeii is far from 'accessible;' in fact, it is one giant boulder field. She had poor circulation in a leg and it was bothering her so she insisted on wheelchair. The astounded Italian guides said, “But no! Thees has never been done before…” But my cousin Rae determinedly pushed her through in the chair on one of the chariot ruts and my grandmother didn’t miss a thing.



Au revoir! I don’t know if I’ll have access to the internet, or if I can even get off of the boat to find a cafe that won't have all cyrillic keyboards, but I’ll try to send travelogues. Then, if we aren't all detained by an international incident caused by one of my relative travel companions, we should return on the 24th.

From Russia, with Radioactivity

Thank you, Comrade Stalin! You are the gift to your people that keeps on giving. I’m leaving tonight for the Journey of the Czars, which I am secretly calling the Stalin Trail. Some of the incorrigible Lefties that frequent this branch got a little misty when they heard I was traveling to Mother Russia.

My grandmother is taking all of her grandchildren on this trip. She is 86 and intrepid and has taken her grandchildren all over the world. She’s like Auntie Mame but a lot more reliable and lot less dangerously madcap. Fifteen years ago she was scrambling up Mayan pyramids in the Yucatan with one grandchild, 10 years ago she was chewing Coca leaves in the Amazon with another (complaining to the guide that she wasn’t ‘feeling anything yet’) and a few years ago she was wheeled through the ruins of Pompeii by yet another grandchild. Pompeii is far from 'accessible;' in fact, it is one giant boulder field. She had poor circulation in a leg and it was bothering her so she insisted on wheelchair. The astounded Italian guides said, “But no! Thees has never been done before…” But my cousin Rae determinedly pushed her through in the chair on one of the chariot ruts and my grandmother didn’t miss a thing.

Au revoir! I don’t know if I’ll have access to the internet, or if I can even get off of the boat to find a cafe that won't have all cyrillic keyboards, but I’ll try to send travelogues. Then, if we aren't all detained by an international incident caused by one of my relative travel companions, we should return on the 24th.

Nevermore

The other day I was woolgathering during a lull at the reference desk when I heard a patron call for her child. The little girl’s name was Annabel (Asian, of course) and I was reminded of that sick Edgar Allen Poe poem Annabel Lee. Even though I’ve had enough horror in my life lately due to Moleman I thought it might be fun to revisit the work of Poe since I haven’t read any since high school and I enjoy a good scare from time to time. All my branch’s Poe books were checked out so I ordered one to be sent from another branch.



The next day I came in and my manager had left a stack of donated paperbacks for me to consider for the collection and what do you know was on top, The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Writings. I didn’t get a chance to look through much of it but then the next day I went to substitute at a branch and there was The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe propped up on the keyboard waiting for me like some eerie reading advisory from the universe. And then I saw that someone was doing a Edgar Allen Poe reading another one of the branches and then I turned on the TV and there was The Raven starring Vincent Price. The hateful, aggressive mockingbirds who are nesting in our back yard have also been doing a lot of tap tap tapping on our office window as if they have something important to say, which I think, instead of "Nevermore," is "Get the hell out - this is our place now." And I pondered, “What is up with this creepy synchronicity and what does it all mean?” Then I remembered from my DSM IV (my favorite new indispensable resource) that one of the signs of the onset of psychotic breakdown is becoming obsessed with connections and finding patterns in meaningless repetitions and events, and so I decided to chalk all the Poe up to a strange coincidence and not think about it anymore before I ended up jabbering incessantly about it and sounding like some of my more deranged patrons.



Today I had to tell a woman screaming on a cell phone while she was browsing the videos to keep it down. She was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt turned inside out AND backwards. Not that I want a return to the oppressively formal days of girdles, pantyhose and matching pocketbooks and shoes, but can we not find a middle ground?

Nevermore

The other day I was woolgathering during a lull at the reference desk when I heard a patron call for her child. The little girl’s name was Annabel (Asian, of course) and I was reminded of that sick Edgar Allen Poe poem Annabel Lee. Even though I’ve had enough horror in my life lately due to Moleman I thought it might be fun to revisit the work of Poe since I haven’t read any since high school and I enjoy a good scare from time to time. All my branch’s Poe books were checked out so I ordered one to be sent from another branch.

The next day I came in and my manager had left a stack of donated paperbacks for me to consider for the collection and what do you know was on top, The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Writings. I didn’t get a chance to look through much of it but then the next day I went to substitute at a branch and there was The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe propped up on the keyboard waiting for me like some eerie reading advisory from the universe. And then I saw that someone was doing a Edgar Allen Poe reading another one of the branches and then I turned on the TV and there was The Raven starring Vincent Price. The hateful, aggressive mockingbirds who are nesting in our back yard have also been doing a lot of tap tap tapping on our office window as if they have something important to say, which I think, instead of "Nevermore," is "Get the hell out - this is our place now." And I pondered, “What is up with this creepy synchronicity and what does it all mean?” Then I remembered from my DSM IV (my favorite new indispensable resource) that one of the signs of the onset of psychotic breakdown is becoming obsessed with connections and finding patterns in meaningless repetitions and events, and so I decided to chalk all the Poe up to a strange coincidence and not think about it anymore before I ended up jabbering incessantly about it and sounding like some of my more deranged patrons.

Today I had to tell a woman screaming on a cell phone while she was browsing the videos to keep it down. She was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt turned inside out AND backwards. Not that I want a return to the oppressively formal days of girdles, pantyhose and matching pocketbooks and shoes, but can we not find a middle ground?

Moleman Bites Back!

Moleman, whose behavior, I've decided, can only be explained by the presence of an egg sized tumor pressing against his frontal lobe, wrote my manager an e-mail with his version of the events. I knew I had nothing to worry about because there were tons of witnesses and my manager is a reasonable man who has his staff’s back. My manager has also had a long history with Moleman, although he’s missed the darker end of the spectrum of Moleman’s behavior because Moleman is sly and shrewd enough only to reveal his true demonic self when they’re no men around, which is probably why he remains alive today. I was relieved that I didn’t have to worry about it becoming our own miniature Rashonon because, of course, my colleagues corroborated my version of what had happened. His e-mail was full of errors, contradictions, and attempts at legalese that were not so much pompous as they were sad and pathetic. Its content was more damning than anything I said because in it he admitted to standing over the other female patron and explained his reasons why.



First he conceded that perhaps it was unwise of him to stand over the tiny Chinese woman, but she was definitely ‘asking for it’ and needed to know how it felt to be ‘pestered’ like he had felt ‘pestered’ by her and (unbelievable!) that he was simply trying to teach her some manners. He didn’t seem to understand how a man screaming and looming over a woman he outweighed by 100 pounds might be interpreted as a threatening act and harassment, not the helpful lesson in etiquette, civility and American mores that he intended it to be. Thank you cultural ambassador Moleman for trying to bridge the cultural divide and educate her on the American way of doing things! Perhaps you should volunteer at the immigration welcome center.



He didn’t help his case any when he brought up a previous incident when I told him to watch his language after he screamed the "f" word about 20 times over having to pay some fines. He wrote that even though he believed it was an issue of free speech that he be able to scream the f word in the library, (Moleman, champion of civil liberties!) he decided not to say it in front of me anymore because I had asked him not to, as if my request were unreasonable and he was humoring a delicate, priggish woman because he is such a sensitive, accomodating gentleman. He wanted it to be acknowledged that, although he didn’t feel like he was under any obligation to, he refrained from using any profanity during our latest 'contretemps' (yes, that is the word he used) as a 'curiosity,' (he had obviously misspelled courtesy and the spellchecker had changed courtesy to curiosity). That's right, he acted liked he should be given a commendation from the mayor and the keys to the city for not screaming the word 'fuck' in a library full of children. Anyway, security has sworn to be there on the next night when I work alone and he usually comes in. They usually send these two large, intimidating African-American women who brook absolutely no nonsense and suffer no fools and eat much scarier, truly raving psychotic homeless at the main for breakfast, so I'm looking forward to seeing if tries anything with them.

Moleman Bites Back!

Moleman, whose behavior, I've decided, can only be explained by the presence of an egg sized tumor pressing against his frontal lobe, wrote my manager an e-mail with his version of the events. I knew I had nothing to worry about because there were tons of witnesses and my manager is a reasonable man who has his staff’s back. My manager has also had a long history with Moleman, although he’s missed the darker end of the spectrum of Moleman’s behavior because Moleman is sly and shrewd enough only to reveal his true demonic self when they’re no men around, which is probably why he remains alive today. I was relieved that I didn’t have to worry about it becoming our own miniature Rashonon because, of course, my colleagues corroborated my version of what had happened. His e-mail was full of errors, contradictions, and attempts at legalese that were not so much pompous as they were sad and pathetic. Its content was more damning than anything I said because in it he admitted to standing over the other female patron and explained his reasons why.

First he conceded that perhaps it was unwise of him to stand over the tiny Chinese woman, but she was definitely ‘asking for it’ and needed to know how it felt to be ‘pestered’ like he had felt ‘pestered’ by her and (unbelievable!) that he was simply trying to teach her some manners. He didn’t seem to understand how a man screaming and looming over a woman he outweighed by 100 pounds might be interpreted as a threatening act and harassment, not the helpful lesson in etiquette, civility and American mores that he intended it to be. Thank you cultural ambassador Moleman for trying to bridge the cultural divide and educate her on the American way of doing things! Perhaps you should volunteer at the immigration welcome center.

He didn’t help his case any when he brought up a previous incident when I told him to watch his language after he screamed the "f" word about 20 times over having to pay some fines. He wrote that even though he believed it was an issue of free speech that he be able to scream the f word in the library, (Moleman, champion of civil liberties!) he decided not to say it in front of me anymore because I had asked him not to, as if my request were unreasonable and he was humoring a delicate, priggish woman because he is such a sensitive, accomodating gentleman. He wanted it to be acknowledged that, although he didn’t feel like he was under any obligation to, he refrained from using any profanity during our latest 'contretemps' (yes, that is the word he used) as a 'curiosity,' (he had obviously misspelled courtesy and the spellchecker had changed courtesy to curiosity). That's right, he acted liked he should be given a commendation from the mayor and the keys to the city for not screaming the word 'fuck' in a library full of children. Anyway, security has sworn to be there on the next night when I work alone and he usually comes in. They usually send these two large, intimidating African-American women who brook absolutely no nonsense and suffer no fools and eat much scarier, truly raving psychotic homeless at the main for breakfast, so I'm looking forward to seeing if tries anything with them.

Moleman/ summer in the city/ making my job/ stressful and shitty

I feel like relocating this blog from foxylibrarian.com to disgruntledlibrarian.com, and our public access internet station is to blame. There were fireworks once more at the internet terminals last night, this time involving the notorious Moleman, who is officially my least favorite patron EVER. I have described my branch's terrible public access computer setup. Cramped quarters and really bad feng shui encourage people to act up, fight, and sometimes suffer full blown psychotic meltdowns that are a wonder to behold. I have good reason to believe that the public access computers have been built over ancient Indian burial grounds as well.



Moleman ostensibly comes in each Tuesday night to use the internet, but the real reason is to give himself the opportunity to have a cathartic screaming tantrum. Moleman needs to vent all the frustrations and slights that have accumulated during the week from the hard job of being a Moleman. Because he is a despicable coward he really likes to let his displaced anger loose all over defenseless Asian women. My gut feeling that he is getting off in some creepily sexual way.



Moleman was using the 15 minute express computer. It rebooted. I'm not sure if he had been on it for the full 15 minutes, but the next person in line, a young Asian woman, saw that the computer had logged off and went to claim her turn. He then told her that he had accidentally logged himself off and was going to start it back up and use his remaining time, which he estimated was about 8 minutes. She didn’t understand (I'm not sure how good her English was) and stood her ground behind him. He then began to yell at her and refused to leave the computer. When she wouldn't leave either, he screamed, "Fine, so take the computer, but I'm going to stand over you now!" He then leaned against the wall hovering over her and staring aggressively at her. Besides verbally intimidating her by screaming in her ear, I felt he was physically trying to intimidate her as well. She weighed about 100 pounds.



This all happened very quickly and at that point I told him to sit down that second in the blue chair and wait his turn. He didn't move and was still crowding her and yelling about how it was his turn. I told him to back away and stop yelling at her or I would call security.



He screamed, "Fine, then I will call my attorney!"



Oooooooh! I'm so scared! You can't afford to get internet at home yet you have an attorney on retainer!



He then marched over and asked where was I when she was hovering over him and accused me of enforcing the rules selectively. And then he tried to make it sound like the computer had shut off on him and that there was a problem with our computers, and I asked, "So why did you tell her that you yourself had accidentally logged off? Which is it?"



He then said, "I don't know how good her English is. Maybe you can speak Chinese, but I can't."



"Is that why you were screaming at her? Because screaming at people in a language they don't know helps them understand it?"



He then accused me of singling him out for harassment. After my borderline smartass comments I refused to argue with him (which is what he wanted, a good screaming match, which is the only way he can get off because he is obviously impotent) and I would only respond to him by saying things like, "If you would like to report me to my manager and discuss it with him then you do that." Because I wouldn't fight with him Moleman got even more apoplectic and his face turned all scarlet and veiny like someone had pumped a gallon of boiling 5 alarm chili straight up his ass.



Then a whiskey voiced barfly browsing the videos said, "Oh, just call the cops, hon! You don't need this crap."



He then stormed off into the night to go crawl in the dirt hole where he lives and eat worms and destroy someone's lawn.



It's one thing to scream at the staff, but now he's going after other patrons, female, of course. He doesn't scare me in the least since he's so pudgy, pocket sized, ridiculous and runty, but I could see a bystander intervening and the situation escalating into something really ugly. He restricts his performances to when there are no men around for just this reason, though. So, I spent the rest of the evening typing up an incident report and security has promised to have a talk with him and ban him if he acts up again.

Moleman/ summer in the city/ making my job/ stressful and shitty

I feel like relocating this blog from foxylibrarian.com to disgruntledlibrarian.com, and our public access internet station is to blame. There were fireworks once more at the internet terminals last night, this time involving the notorious Moleman, who is officially my least favorite patron EVER. I have described my branch's terrible public access computer setup. Cramped quarters and really bad feng shui encourage people to act up, fight, and sometimes suffer full blown psychotic meltdowns that are a wonder to behold. I have good reason to believe that the public access computers have been built over ancient Indian burial grounds as well.

Moleman ostensibly comes in each Tuesday night to use the internet, but the real reason is to give himself the opportunity to have a cathartic screaming tantrum. Moleman needs to vent all the frustrations and slights that have accumulated during the week from the hard job of being a Moleman. Because he is a despicable coward he really likes to let his displaced anger loose all over defenseless Asian women. My gut feeling that he is getting off in some creepily sexual way.

Moleman was using the 15 minute express computer. It rebooted. I'm not sure if he had been on it for the full 15 minutes, but the next person in line, a young Asian woman, saw that the computer had logged off and went to claim her turn. He then told her that he had accidentally logged himself off and was going to start it back up and use his remaining time, which he estimated was about 8 minutes. She didn’t understand (I'm not sure how good her English was) and stood her ground behind him. He then began to yell at her and refused to leave the computer. When she wouldn't leave either, he screamed, "Fine, so take the computer, but I'm going to stand over you now!" He then leaned against the wall hovering over her and staring aggressively at her. Besides verbally intimidating her by screaming in her ear, I felt he was physically trying to intimidate her as well. She weighed about 100 pounds.

This all happened very quickly and at that point I told him to sit down that second in the blue chair and wait his turn. He didn't move and was still crowding her and yelling about how it was his turn. I told him to back away and stop yelling at her or I would call security.

He screamed, "Fine, then I will call my attorney!"

Oooooooh! I'm so scared! You can't afford to get internet at home yet you have an attorney on retainer!

He then marched over and asked where was I when she was hovering over him and accused me of enforcing the rules selectively. And then he tried to make it sound like the computer had shut off on him and that there was a problem with our computers, and I asked, "So why did you tell her that you yourself had accidentally logged off? Which is it?"

He then said, "I don't know how good her English is. Maybe you can speak Chinese, but I can't."

"Is that why you were screaming at her? Because screaming at people in a language they don't know helps them understand it?"

He then accused me of singling him out for harassment. After my borderline smartass comments I refused to argue with him (which is what he wanted, a good screaming match, which is the only way he can get off because he is obviously impotent) and I would only respond to him by saying things like, "If you would like to report me to my manager and discuss it with him then you do that." Because I wouldn't fight with him Moleman got even more apoplectic and his face turned all scarlet and veiny like someone had pumped a gallon of boiling 5 alarm chili straight up his ass.

Then a whiskey voiced barfly browsing the videos said, "Oh, just call the cops, hon! You don't need this crap."

He then stormed off into the night to go crawl in the dirt hole where he lives and eat worms and destroy someone's lawn.

It's one thing to scream at the staff, but now he's going after other patrons, female, of course. He doesn't scare me in the least since he's so pudgy, pocket sized, ridiculous and runty, but I could see a bystander intervening and the situation escalating into something really ugly. He restricts his performances to when there are no men around for just this reason, though. So, I spent the rest of the evening typing up an incident report and security has promised to have a talk with him and ban him if he acts up again.

Internet Spats

A patron came in and approached me at the desk. He looked like a harmless, aging hippy, sunblasted but not exposure tanned, slightly grimy but not filthy.

Although I had never laid eyes on him before he said, "I know you, baby. You and me go waaaay back."

He leaned over me and drummed his fingers right in front of my keyboard impertinently. As if violating my personal space weren't enough, he then chewed his gum loudly in my ear a few times as he was leaning over me. One of the things that I hate most in the world is the sound of gum smacking. It is my bete noire . I hate it so much that I think it would be worth immigrating to Singapore, where it's banned and I think you get (rightfully) caned for being caught with it, so I don't have to ever hear it again.

He then whispered in my ear, "Where's that internet?" I pointed at one of our free terminals and he winked in this greasy, insinuating way and said, "Check ya' later." Acting like he owned the place, he sauntered over to the computer and got comfortably settled. Because this branch is inadequate in every way, especially in the way its wired, our three internet terminals are sandwiched together in a very tight nook. It is a tragic experiment in environmental psychology. Many of our internet users are borderlines who have a tenuous grip on reality in the first place, and being forced in there tightly and having their personal space boundaries violated often pushes them over the edge. The situation at the internet frequently degenerates into quarrels, screaming matches, and, if I'm on duty alone with no reinforcements, fist fights. It's volatile and is the single largest source of on the job stress for me.

I was keeping my eye on him and I overheard him bragging to the women next to him that he was in the special forces (more like the very special forces) and got to carry a concealed weapon. This comment alarmed me, and apparently alarmed the woman as well because she got up and left in a real hurry. A large muscular man with a shaved bald head took her place. Because the spacing between the terminals is inadequate, each of them spilled over into the other's space like passengers en route to some NASCAR event on a Southwest Airlines flight and there was unwelcome physical contact. They started to get into it, and one intentionally shoved the other and they got up to fight. My manager intervened and asked them to both leave. The hippy man then started making this really powerful hawking noise like he was drawing up his every drop of available moisture in his body to spit at my manager like some sort of angry llama or agitated cobra. It was all a bluff, though, because after hawking and filling his mouth with spit and holding us all in terrified suspense for about 30 seconds he swallowed loudly and then stormed off.

Internet Spats

A patron came in and approached me at the desk. He looked like a harmless, aging hippy, sunblasted but not exposure tanned, slightly grimy but not filthy.

Although I had never laid eyes on him before he said, "I know you, baby. You and me go waaaay back."

He leaned over me and drummed his fingers right in front of my keyboard impertinently. As if violating my personal space weren't enough, he then chewed his gum loudly in my ear a few times as he was leaning over me. One of the things that I hate most in the world is the sound of gum smacking. It is my bete noire . I hate it so much that I think it would be worth immigrating to Singapore, where it's banned and I think you get (rightfully) caned for being caught with it, so I don't have to ever hear it again.

He then whispered in my ear, "Where's that internet?" I pointed at one of our free terminals and he winked in this greasy, insinuating way and said, "Check ya' later." Acting like he owned the place, he sauntered over to the computer and got comfortably settled. Because this branch is inadequate in every way, especially in the way its wired, our three internet terminals are sandwiched together in a very tight nook. It is a tragic experiment in environmental psychology. Many of our internet users are borderlines who have a tenuous grip on reality in the first place, and being forced in there tightly and having their personal space boundaries violated often pushes them over the edge. The situation at the internet frequently degenerates into quarrels, screaming matches, and, if I'm on duty alone with no reinforcements, fist fights. It's volatile and is the single largest source of on the job stress for me.

I was keeping my eye on him and I overheard him bragging to the women next to him that he was in the special forces (more like the very special forces) and got to carry a concealed weapon. This comment alarmed me, and apparently alarmed the woman as well because she got up and left in a real hurry. A large muscular man with a shaved bald head took her place. Because the spacing between the terminals is inadequate, each of them spilled over into the other's space like passengers en route to some NASCAR event on a Southwest Airlines flight and there was unwelcome physical contact. They started to get into it, and one intentionally shoved the other and they got up to fight. My manager intervened and asked them to both leave. The hippy man then started making this really powerful hawking noise like he was drawing up his every drop of available moisture in his body to spit at my manager like some sort of angry llama or agitated cobra. It was all a bluff, though, because after hawking and filling his mouth with spit and holding us all in terrified suspense for about 30 seconds he swallowed loudly and then stormed off.

That Potter Bitch

I was on reference duty at the front desk when I spotted John the Fisherman heading straight for me. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of him for months. He’s been laying low after his business dreams of opening up a marijuana collective were dashed (went up in smoke? haha), and when I asked him how things were going he told me that he's officially retired now and is just enjoying life. As usual, he reeked of marijuana and was so stoned that he could barely open his red, beady eyes. Once he confirmed that he had me trapped/held captive at the reference desk he launched on this soliloquy which, although mostly nonsensical raving, might make a great performance art piece or actor’s audition monologue.



He started in about how he wanted to donate a book in honor of the son of his landlady who O.D.'d last month on meth. “You know which book I’m talking about, whatever it was called by that Potter bitch, you know, that Scottish writer.” I asked him if he meant J.K. Rowling and he said, "Yeah, that's the one. That lucky whore."



Every year he wants to donate a copy and have it inscribed in memory of his landlady's son, and then he started talking about what an f’in shame it all was because he was a good kid who got himself into speedballs. And then he felt it was important to warn me not to confuse goofballs and speedballs, because goofballs are heroin and cocaine, and speedballs are speed and heroin. And that led to his telling me about how he used to deliver fish to the chief of police's father, who never paid him until the end of the month because he was a tight Chinese bastard, but now he owns blocks and blocks of real estate. His daughter who is now the chief of police remembers him, and he went down and had an appointment with her and they had a big talk about the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang and she told him that she had warned their leader that if they didn’t keep to a certain area of the city or if they sold any of that meth shit that they would have their bikes impounded and get the shit kicked out of them by all of the Irish cops, who hate bikers more than anything, man. Which led to a convoluted story that I couldn't quite follow about his nephew going to jail for methamphetamines, and how he told him that if he caught him again he would make sure his newphew was sent down the river where since he only weighed 160 pounds he would find out what it means to be a woman. Which then had him railing on about his opinions concerning methamphetamine and all of the white girls who were hooking to support their habits themselves and what a shame it was because they all had abusive black pimps. And then he did a really offensive and bad job of mimicking what must have been his version of jive pimp speak, and got so worked up that he was jumping up and down and flecks of spit were forming at the corner of his mouth. Maybe I got a contact high from all of the resin he excretes, but soon all I could think about was how he looked like a silly little baked hobgoblin, and I had to bite the insides of my cheeks not to start smiling which I knew would lead to a full blown giggling jag, which tends to happen when I smoke pot. When I finally could get a word edgewise I told him to tone it down with the racist talk. He then apologized and left, but not before threatening to come back real soon to see me.

That Potter Bitch

I was on reference duty at the front desk when I spotted John the Fisherman heading straight for me. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of him for months. He’s been laying low after his business dreams of opening up a marijuana collective were dashed (went up in smoke? haha), and when I asked him how things were going he told me that he's officially retired now and is just enjoying life. As usual, he reeked of marijuana and was so stoned that he could barely open his red, beady eyes. Once he confirmed that he had me trapped/held captive at the reference desk he launched on this soliloquy which, although mostly nonsensical raving, might make a great performance art piece or actor’s audition monologue.

He started in about how he wanted to donate a book in honor of the son of his landlady who O.D.'d last month on meth. “You know which book I’m talking about, whatever it was called by that Potter bitch, you know, that Scottish writer.” I asked him if he meant J.K. Rowling and he said, "Yeah, that's the one. That lucky whore."

Every year he wants to donate a copy and have it inscribed in memory of his landlady's son, and then he started talking about what an f’in shame it all was because he was a good kid who got himself into speedballs. And then he felt it was important to warn me not to confuse goofballs and speedballs, because goofballs are heroin and cocaine, and speedballs are speed and heroin. And that led to his telling me about how he used to deliver fish to the chief of police's father, who never paid him until the end of the month because he was a tight Chinese bastard, but now he owns blocks and blocks of real estate. His daughter who is now the chief of police remembers him, and he went down and had an appointment with her and they had a big talk about the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang and she told him that she had warned their leader that if they didn’t keep to a certain area of the city or if they sold any of that meth shit that they would have their bikes impounded and get the shit kicked out of them by all of the Irish cops, who hate bikers more than anything, man. Which led to a convoluted story that I couldn't quite follow about his nephew going to jail for methamphetamines, and how he told him that if he caught him again he would make sure his newphew was sent down the river where since he only weighed 160 pounds he would find out what it means to be a woman. Which then had him railing on about his opinions concerning methamphetamine and all of the white girls who were hooking to support their habits themselves and what a shame it was because they all had abusive black pimps. And then he did a really offensive and bad job of mimicking what must have been his version of jive pimp speak, and got so worked up that he was jumping up and down and flecks of spit were forming at the corner of his mouth. Maybe I got a contact high from all of the resin he excretes, but soon all I could think about was how he looked like a silly little baked hobgoblin, and I had to bite the insides of my cheeks not to start smiling which I knew would lead to a full blown giggling jag, which tends to happen when I smoke pot. When I finally could get a word edgewise I told him to tone it down with the racist talk. He then apologized and left, but not before threatening to come back real soon to see me.