Act Disruptively and Carry a Big Stick

The other morning I was walking the dogs and was stopped by the sight of a flock of feral parrots that had completely taken over a berry tree. A crowd soon gathered to watch the parrots devour the berries. To my left some tourists were busy taking photographs. I was dismayed to notice standing right next to me on my other side was one of the most problematic patrons in the system. I run into a lot of my patrons outside the library in unexpected places, sometimes so much so that I suspect that my reality is just one goddamn giant computer simulation and that the program is running low on memory and is having to recycle its characters.

This patron comes in to use our internet and is infamous for his histrionics when the computers aren't working. He is also notorious for carrying a large quarterstaff. He uses it ostensibly as a walking aid but it could easily double as weapon and it terrifies me. One of the side effects of his psychiatric medication is a dry mouth, a condition that makes his breath poisonous and causes him to smack his mouth in this maddeningly rhythmic way. This sound has almost driven me to tears more than once. Supposedly he had a large trust fund which has been bled dry by stays at mental institutions. He's abrasive, demanding and entitled. He likes to hover over my shoulder while I look up obscure titles for him on the interlibrary loan database and slowly smack in my ear and poke my monitor with his grimy index finger.

I first encountered him on the rainy night when the police came in to question the old homeless man who had been killing and roasting pigeons on a spit outside the library. He began to complain loudly to me that the interrogation was disruptive and that the police should have removed the suspect from the premises so as not to disturb the other patrons in the library, all two of them. I was frankly overjoyed to have the policemen there and couldn't care less about how much noise they were making. I wasn't about to go shush them and interfere with their job. He began complaining and fussing about how he was this serious scholar who had spent a lot of time at the British Library, an institution that would never have allowed this sort of disturbance. I told him that every system has its own unique challenges and that there was nothing I could do.

The last time he came in the library he was apparently off of his meds because he was wild eyed and agitated. He had used up his allotted time on the internet and the system wouldn't let him on again. He began to flail about in distress and I was terrified that he was going to start smashing the monitors with his cudgel. To calm him down I gave him a pass on the internet and he settled down. My favorite homeless man who gives me all of the background on all of the characters that wander into the library said that he has been kicked out of every shelter in the city and, although he is universally loathed by homeless and social workers alike for being so obnoxious, is basically harmless.

Best Part of Waking Up...

I have been fascinated with chanting ever since I saw the Buddhist cremation scene on Six Feet Under. During the funeral ceremony, a group of Buddhist monks begin ritually chanting. The sound is stunning, like a cosmic punch in the gut, and I have never heard anything like it before. I ordered a CD from the library and was listening to it this morning. It was raining and I was drinking coffee and looking dreamily out the window at the incredible view of the city when I shifted my foot slightly, right into a large pile of cold dog vomit, which brought me crashing back to earth in a hurry. I guess the rib bones we gave Billy or Spoon last night didn't agree with their little systems.

Best Part of Waking Up...

I have been fascinated with chanting ever since I saw the Buddhist cremation scene on Six Feet Under. During the funeral ceremony, a group of Buddhist monks begin ritually chanting. The sound is stunning, like a cosmic punch in the gut, and I have never heard anything like it before. I ordered a CD from the library and was listening to it this morning. It was raining and I was drinking coffee and looking dreamily out the window at the incredible view of the city when I shifted my foot slightly, right into a large pile of cold dog vomit, which brought me crashing back to earth in a hurry. I guess the rib bones we gave Billy or Spoon last night didn't agree with their little systems.

Other People's Children's Keeper

A little latchkey girl was acting rowdy and when I went to quiet her for the fifth or so time she was unrepentant and insolent so I kicked her out of the library with a stern, "Go play outside in the park, NOW!" I then spent the rest of the afternoon agonizing in a hellfire of guilt, certain that she was being sodomized in the park bathroom by some skid row vagrant. When I went outside on an errand I saw her skipping along across the street, carefree and unmolested, but still unsupervised and on her own. I waved her back in the library, where she spent the rest of the time we were open reading quietly in the corner.

Other People's Children's Keeper

A little latchkey girl was acting rowdy and when I went to quiet her for the fifth or so time she was unrepentant and insolent so I kicked her out of the library with a stern, "Go play outside in the park, NOW!" I then spent the rest of the afternoon agonizing in a hellfire of guilt, certain that she was being sodomized in the park bathroom by some skid row vagrant. When I went outside on an errand I saw her skipping along across the street, carefree and unmolested, but still unsupervised and on her own. I waved her back in the library, where she spent the rest of the time we were open reading quietly in the corner.

Wigfield: The Can-Do Town That Just May Not

This book from Amy Sedaris, Paul Dinello and Stephen Colbert, the triumverate who brought you Strangers with Candy, is definitely not for everybody. I thought it was brilliant, though, and not just because the subject matter - the Deep South, strippers, white trash, and the dismantling of environmentally destructive dams - is close to my heart. Here is an excerpt that I find particularly insightful about the relationships between the sexes and how they are formed in the family.



An interview with Fleet Hollinger, the Mayor of Wigfield.



I'm also a family man. I have a son, Fleet Jr., who is at the military academy up in Shell Knob, hopefully getting some of the pussy kicked out of him. And I have a beautiful daughter by the name of Carla. She is just the apple of my eye a la mode. I can't believe how fast she is growing up. Soon it will be time for her to meet a fella and settle down. Now, if this hypothetical fella knows what's good for him, he'll treat her right. 'Cause I'm gonna be lurking in the shadows, keeping watch every minute. And if he so much as sullies, or stains, or soils the innocence of that angel who came straight from God, I swear to Sweet Jesus hanging out on the cross, I will mount his goddamn head on the grill of my 4x4. I shit thee not.



It doesn't take much bad influence to ruin a woman. Case in point, that gargoyle who lives at the edge of the woods who I used to call my wife [Now a lesbian Wiccan named High Priestess Thea]. I never saw it coming. She had the perfect life here. All she was required to do was sit in the comfort of the home I built, keep an eye on the kids, have my dinner ready, and keep her yapper shut. I barely even forced her to perform her Wifely Obligation, seeing as how I was having it taken care of it over at the club. Now, I'd call that pretty light lifting. But what you gonna do? I never professed to try to understand women. They're like handguns. You try to keep 'em clean. You try to keep 'em oiled. You take 'em out to the range every so often, fire 'em off. Then one day you forget to put the safety on, and when you're swabbing out the barrel, blammo it goes off in your face. But I can't waste my energy thinking about women, I've got a town to run.

Wigfield: The Can-Do Town That Just May Not

This book from Amy Sedaris, Paul Dinello and Stephen Colbert, the triumverate who brought you Strangers with Candy, is definitely not for everybody. I thought it was brilliant, though, and not just because the subject matter - the Deep South, strippers, white trash, and the dismantling of environmentally destructive dams - is close to my heart. Here is an excerpt that I find particularly insightful about the relationships between the sexes and how they are formed in the family.

An interview with Fleet Hollinger, the Mayor of Wigfield.

I'm also a family man. I have a son, Fleet Jr., who is at the military academy up in Shell Knob, hopefully getting some of the pussy kicked out of him. And I have a beautiful daughter by the name of Carla. She is just the apple of my eye a la mode. I can't believe how fast she is growing up. Soon it will be time for her to meet a fella and settle down. Now, if this hypothetical fella knows what's good for him, he'll treat her right. 'Cause I'm gonna be lurking in the shadows, keeping watch every minute. And if he so much as sullies, or stains, or soils the innocence of that angel who came straight from God, I swear to Sweet Jesus hanging out on the cross, I will mount his goddamn head on the grill of my 4x4. I shit thee not.

It doesn't take much bad influence to ruin a woman. Case in point, that gargoyle who lives at the edge of the woods who I used to call my wife [Now a lesbian Wiccan named High Priestess Thea]. I never saw it coming. She had the perfect life here. All she was required to do was sit in the comfort of the home I built, keep an eye on the kids, have my dinner ready, and keep her yapper shut. I barely even forced her to perform her Wifely Obligation, seeing as how I was having it taken care of it over at the club. Now, I'd call that pretty light lifting. But what you gonna do? I never professed to try to understand women. They're like handguns. You try to keep 'em clean. You try to keep 'em oiled. You take 'em out to the range every so often, fire 'em off. Then one day you forget to put the safety on, and when you're swabbing out the barrel, blammo it goes off in your face. But I can't waste my energy thinking about women, I've got a town to run.

Foxy Travel

In keeping with my opinion that blogs are the ultimate vanity press, we have posted a link to Foxy Travel. There you'll find some old travelogues from the Philippines, Australia, Indonesia and, if I ever get off my ass, Russia.

And move over trend forecaster Faith Popcorn! Look with what eerie prescience I predicted back in 2000, although like Cassandra, no one believed me.
From December, 2000. Dateline: Perth, Australia:

Fair warning: Kylie Minogue did not sink into obscurity after her one
American hit, the lame & annoying remake of Locomotion. She is big here - bigger than Madonna. Australians practically tear up when you mention her name she is so beloved. Prepare & brace yourself NOW for a US Kylie comeback. She's ready, and she has all of Australia behind her.

Buried in the dispatches also is the secret of life that the dolphins whispered to me when I swam with them in Monkey Mia. You'll find it if you look hard enough. All right, all right. I'll go ahead and tell you here: Life ain't nothing but bitches and money.

Foxy Travel

In keeping with my opinion that blogs are the ultimate vanity press, we have posted a link to Foxy Travel. There you'll find some old travelogues from the Philippines, Australia, Indonesia and, if I ever get off my ass, Russia.

And move over trend forecaster Faith Popcorn! Look with what eerie prescience I predicted back in 2000, although like Cassandra, no one believed me.
From December, 2000. Dateline: Perth, Australia:

Fair warning: Kylie Minogue did not sink into obscurity after her one
American hit, the lame & annoying remake of Locomotion. She is big here - bigger than Madonna. Australians practically tear up when you mention her name she is so beloved. Prepare & brace yourself NOW for a US Kylie comeback. She's ready, and she has all of Australia behind her.

Buried in the dispatches also is the secret of life that the dolphins whispered to me when I swam with them in Monkey Mia. You'll find it if you look hard enough. All right, all right. I'll go ahead and tell you here: Life ain't nothing but bitches and money.

Assaulted in the City

Although I try to avoid this city's large shopping district as much as I can, there are just some items that can only be obtained properly in person at a large department store. I found this out the hard way after ordering some bras over the internet at Macys.com. Of course none of them fit right, so I went down to Macy's to exchange them. Even though the website assured that this would be an effortless, simple process I must have been the first person to ever attempt this in that department. The two saleswomen behind the counter weren't sure how to go about it and then disagreed about the correct procedure. Before I knew it, their disagreement quickly escalated to vicious bickering. As an alumna of Carole Reed I know how miserable being on your feet all day working retail is, but there is really nothing excusable about losing it in front of a customer like that. They didn't even try to restrain themselves and threw all professionalism out the window. They finally desisted when another coworker intervened and said that she would handle it. The women gave each other the stink eye and skulked off in opposites directions.



The saleswoman eventually figured it out and I exited Macy's, a little traumatized after witnessing the Macy's women turn on each other like that. While I was walking on the sidewalk of the busy shopping square ruminating about happy I was not to work in retail I felt someone grab me from behind. Before I knew it, two hands gripped my hips, shaking them back and forth like one of those old fraudulent quack machine belt weight reducers. I thought that maybe it was some friend giving me an overly exuberant greeting when it dawned on me that I didn't know anyone who looked like some old WPA reject who stank of fortified wine. I gave a cry of outrage and took my shopping bags and began beating my assailant on the head and body. The bags made very ineffective and unsatisfying weapons of defence because they only contained had a couple of bras and tissue paper. I then screamed something nasty at him that I'm too embarassed to repeat.



These two sweet Midwestern matrons who didn't have enough streetsmarts to pretend that they weren't seeing anything were aghast. I heard one of them say,



"Oh, my goodness. What on earth is going on?"



After the language I used, they probably reported back to all of their friends at home that they had seen an exciting fight between a pimp and one of his bitches. Anyway, my butt grabber started cackling like a crazy old miner and staggered off. The next time the library's beat cop paid a visit I complained to him about it. He said, "That sounds just like Rayland Flowers." I said, "You mean Rayland Flowers of Rayland and Madame? Has his career sunk so low?" And he said, "No, that's Wayland Flowers." You can understand my confusion.



He came in later that afternoon with a mug shot and sure enough it was a picture of a Mr. Rayland Flowers, who had this sheepish, coy, "Aren't I a naughty, naughty boy" smirk on his face in the picture. His m.o. is to run up and grab women on the ass and then run off. He's more of a nuisance than danger, and he only grabs booties of the finest quality, only certain ones that arouse sudden and violent passions in him, so it's a compliment, in a way. Our beat cop said that he would have a talk with Mr. Flowers.

Assaulted in the City

Although I try to avoid this city's large shopping district as much as I can, there are just some items that can only be obtained properly in person at a large department store. I found this out the hard way after ordering some bras over the internet at Macys.com. Of course none of them fit right, so I went down to Macy's to exchange them. Even though the website assured that this would be an effortless, simple process I must have been the first person to ever attempt this in that department. The two saleswomen behind the counter weren't sure how to go about it and then disagreed about the correct procedure. Before I knew it, their disagreement quickly escalated to vicious bickering. As an alumna of Carole Reed I know how miserable being on your feet all day working retail is, but there is really nothing excusable about losing it in front of a customer like that. They didn't even try to restrain themselves and threw all professionalism out the window. They finally desisted when another coworker intervened and said that she would handle it. The women gave each other the stink eye and skulked off in opposites directions.

The saleswoman eventually figured it out and I exited Macy's, a little traumatized after witnessing the Macy's women turn on each other like that. While I was walking on the sidewalk of the busy shopping square ruminating about happy I was not to work in retail I felt someone grab me from behind. Before I knew it, two hands gripped my hips, shaking them back and forth like one of those old fraudulent quack machine belt weight reducers. I thought that maybe it was some friend giving me an overly exuberant greeting when it dawned on me that I didn't know anyone who looked like some old WPA reject who stank of fortified wine. I gave a cry of outrage and took my shopping bags and began beating my assailant on the head and body. The bags made very ineffective and unsatisfying weapons of defence because they only contained had a couple of bras and tissue paper. I then screamed something nasty at him that I'm too embarassed to repeat.

These two sweet Midwestern matrons who didn't have enough streetsmarts to pretend that they weren't seeing anything were aghast. I heard one of them say,

"Oh, my goodness. What on earth is going on?"

After the language I used, they probably reported back to all of their friends at home that they had seen an exciting fight between a pimp and one of his bitches. Anyway, my butt grabber started cackling like a crazy old miner and staggered off. The next time the library's beat cop paid a visit I complained to him about it. He said, "That sounds just like Rayland Flowers." I said, "You mean Rayland Flowers of Rayland and Madame? Has his career sunk so low?" And he said, "No, that's Wayland Flowers." You can understand my confusion.

He came in later that afternoon with a mug shot and sure enough it was a picture of a Mr. Rayland Flowers, who had this sheepish, coy, "Aren't I a naughty, naughty boy" smirk on his face in the picture. His m.o. is to run up and grab women on the ass and then run off. He's more of a nuisance than danger, and he only grabs booties of the finest quality, only certain ones that arouse sudden and violent passions in him, so it's a compliment, in a way. Our beat cop said that he would have a talk with Mr. Flowers.

Should Offer Weekly Rates

Our time in Idaho is nearing an end and E was searching for hotels to stay in tomorrow night when we're on the road. Here's a rather ominous review found on Tripadvisor of a place with the suggestive name of The Speakeasy Motel.



I pride myself on feeling as comfortable with the lowest of our society as the highest, yet when I walked into the lobby of the Speakeasy I was simply disgusted. A prior review suggested that there was poor ventilation, well it was much worse than that. My room was dirty, hot, poorly lit, and there was a powdery residue that seemed to cover all surfaces of the room including the bath. But what was most troubling, was that feeling you get when you sense a real danger. I could not stay there as I had a sense of impending doom. As a result of these conditions, I did not even have the strength the complain. I let them keep my $100, gathered my wife, and didn't walk but ran out of the place.



The review is inexplicably entitled "Should Offer Weekly Rates." The reviewer accuses the place in this gothic and overblown style of giving him a sense of 'real danger' and 'impending doom,' but the complaint that he chose to highlight above all else is that the place didn't cut him a weekly rate.

Should Offer Weekly Rates

Our time in Idaho is nearing an end and E was searching for hotels to stay in tomorrow night when we're on the road. Here's a rather ominous review found on Tripadvisor of a place with the suggestive name of The Speakeasy Motel.

I pride myself on feeling as comfortable with the lowest of our society as the highest, yet when I walked into the lobby of the Speakeasy I was simply disgusted. A prior review suggested that there was poor ventilation, well it was much worse than that. My room was dirty, hot, poorly lit, and there was a powdery residue that seemed to cover all surfaces of the room including the bath. But what was most troubling, was that feeling you get when you sense a real danger. I could not stay there as I had a sense of impending doom. As a result of these conditions, I did not even have the strength the complain. I let them keep my $100, gathered my wife, and didn't walk but ran out of the place.

The review is inexplicably entitled "Should Offer Weekly Rates." The reviewer accuses the place in this gothic and overblown style of giving him a sense of 'real danger' and 'impending doom,' but the complaint that he chose to highlight above all else is that the place didn't cut him a weekly rate.

Lessons from the Animal Kingdom, Part II

One morning I was lying in bed gazing out my window and noticed some activity outside. Some flying insects were colonizing the cavity between my bedroom window and storm window. I was dismayed to discover that the insects were wasps, but I couldn't help watching them fly back and forth. I became fascinated with their impressive industry – I could practically see their nest going up before my eyes. Even though the painful moth lesson was fresh in my mind I decided that since the wasps weren’t technically trespassing inside my house that it would be fun and safe to watch the construction process. I would have my own personal ant farm-like window into the inner workings of a wasp’s nest. Instead of being sensible and calling maintenance, I decided instead to keep and watch the wasps behind my protective glass. My view was so close-up that I could even see the objects they carried in their tiny mouths. Fancying myself a Jane Goodall of the poisonous insect world, I observed their activities closely and made a note of each new hexagonal cell added to the nest.



At night they would sleep in a layer around the surface of the nest, slowly beating their wings. One night I was checking on the sleeping wasps and had my face right up next to the glass. One of the wasps suddenly raised its head and stared at me with such malevolent, alien, hostile hatred that I actually drew back. The wasp must have communicated to his brethren in some instantaneous way either by pheromone or telepathy because all of the sudden all of the wasps were awake and staring at me in unison. It was as if they had just become aware of my presence at that instant and did not like what they saw one bit. From their hostile, evil glares I could tell that they were not in any way interested in peaceful coexistence. Completely creeped out, I went to bed. In the middle of the night I was awoken by a tiny scratching on my face and hands. I turned on my lamp and there were about 5 wasps crawling all over me and my bed - sentinels, I assume, on a reconnaissance and/or seek and destroy mission. To this day I still don’t know how they managed to get in through the window. I squealed in terror and ran out of my bedroom and slammed the door. I had to spend the rest of the night on the couch downstairs. The next morning I called maintenance and had the wasp nest taken care of like I should have done in the first place.



While the wasp drama was unfolding I began having problems with a coworker. I was employed by the corporate library of a power company in Alabama. At that time the power business was slowly lurching toward deregulation. Work at the power company had an almost civil service pace, with redundancies and lots of dead weight. As the company began gearing up for competition they finally began to pay attention to their bottom line. One of the cost savings measures enacted was to cut their real estate overhead. The library was in a prime location and had to consolidate its collection and weed heavily. Cubicles replaced many of the bookshelves. A small department completely unrelated to the library – I think they had something to do with graphics - moved in. This was there third move in the year and something about their Joad like existence, and the fact that they all knew deep down that their make work jobs were doomed, caused their point person, whom we’ll call Tracie, to snap.



Tracie was a newly wed and had cut all of her hair into a very unflattering short style, which is what a certain variety of pink collar Southern woman does to give notice that her ass is about to spread to gargantuan portions. Her most unattractive feature, however, was the sound of her voice. The Southern accent can be one of the most beautiful on earth, but she did not have that particular kind. Her twang was strident and she pronounced her name Trayayaycie with grating epenthesis. We shared the same last name and I was terrified that people would think we were related.



She would visit me in my cubicle and waste unconsciable amounts of my time complaining about the many ways she had been victimized by the company. Her tales of injustice were always baroque, conspiratorial and tedious. The sagas would always end with her somehow being cheated out of her annual bonus and the money she felt was rightfully hers going to someone less worthy. As she would drone on I found her hideous twang increasingly difficult to tune out. During one deadline I was less than receptive and she took umbrage and decided that I had turned from a sympathetic ear into an enemy.



She started her campaign subtly and pettily. She would ask sweetly if her department could have the backside of a bookshelf I had emptied during the massive weeding, and I would say, sure. I would come in the next day and she would have taken 2 entire rows of bookshelves. When I asked her why she had taken so much more than I had given she would looked at my like I was crazy and replied, “Oh, no. You say-aid I could hay-ave both.” She stated it with such sincerity that for a moment I thought maybe I was mistaken. I actually began to doubt myself a little, even though I knew that I would never have given her those shelves. I let her have them anyway, which was a tactical error on my part. She was very Hitler in '38 - my concession emboldened her.



Several similar incidents followed, and each time she would deny that she had overstepped her bounds or done anything without permission. Then she got greedy. She wanted to forward all of her department calls to the library. Aside from office space our departments were not connected in any way, so I thought this was a terrible and presumptuous idea. She basically was asking me to be her receptionist. My boss said absolutely not, anyway. Well, she went ahead and did it. I discovered she had done this with the phones on the same morning as the wasps had invaded my bedroom. I decided that the wasps were a metaphor from nature for this crazy fucking bitch. Like a wasp, she was a creature with whom I could not reason nor peacefully coexist. I reported her unauthorized phone forwarding to my boss and she was officially reprimanded. Well, that was it. She left me alone afterwards but froze me out, jerking her chin away from me whenever we would cross paths. I thought, “Fine with me, you child.”



Sadly, I couldn’t call someone to remove her like the I did the wasps so we still had to share close quarters. She needed a new target for her petty aggression and she got one when her department began using temporary labor. I watched her toy with and systematically fire 4 temps, who had no recourse and could be dismissed for any reason. Not content with just sacking them, she would invent preposterous but reputation destroying cases against them. She would report that they had stolen a ream of fax paper or had spent all day on the phone on personal calls. I knew for sure that the latter was an outright lie because my cubicle was right next to the one the temps used.



But, justice was finally served. It turns out that the last temp she tried to fire had worked in the company before and had many connections, including a close friendship to Tracie’s boss’ boss, a relationship of which Trayayaycie was unaware. She got herself into real hot water. The entire drama was reaching a crescendo when I got a job that moved me out of the city and across the country, so I never did find out what happened to her. I’m sure her job has been eliminated, but, unfortunately, like the fulsome kittens that populated her cubicle on posters and in photographs, that kind usually ends up landing on their feet.

Lessons from the Animal Kingdom, Part II

One morning I was lying in bed gazing out my window and noticed some activity outside. Some flying insects were colonizing the cavity between my bedroom window and storm window. I was dismayed to discover that the insects were wasps, but I couldn't help watching them fly back and forth. I became fascinated with their impressive industry – I could practically see their nest going up before my eyes. Even though the painful moth lesson was fresh in my mind I decided that since the wasps weren’t technically trespassing inside my house that it would be fun and safe to watch the construction process. I would have my own personal ant farm-like window into the inner workings of a wasp’s nest. Instead of being sensible and calling maintenance, I decided instead to keep and watch the wasps behind my protective glass. My view was so close-up that I could even see the objects they carried in their tiny mouths. Fancying myself a Jane Goodall of the poisonous insect world, I observed their activities closely and made a note of each new hexagonal cell added to the nest.

At night they would sleep in a layer around the surface of the nest, slowly beating their wings. One night I was checking on the sleeping wasps and had my face right up next to the glass. One of the wasps suddenly raised its head and stared at me with such malevolent, alien, hostile hatred that I actually drew back. The wasp must have communicated to his brethren in some instantaneous way either by pheromone or telepathy because all of the sudden all of the wasps were awake and staring at me in unison. It was as if they had just become aware of my presence at that instant and did not like what they saw one bit. From their hostile, evil glares I could tell that they were not in any way interested in peaceful coexistence. Completely creeped out, I went to bed. In the middle of the night I was awoken by a tiny scratching on my face and hands. I turned on my lamp and there were about 5 wasps crawling all over me and my bed - sentinels, I assume, on a reconnaissance and/or seek and destroy mission. To this day I still don’t know how they managed to get in through the window. I squealed in terror and ran out of my bedroom and slammed the door. I had to spend the rest of the night on the couch downstairs. The next morning I called maintenance and had the wasp nest taken care of like I should have done in the first place.

While the wasp drama was unfolding I began having problems with a coworker. I was employed by the corporate library of a power company in Alabama. At that time the power business was slowly lurching toward deregulation. Work at the power company had an almost civil service pace, with redundancies and lots of dead weight. As the company began gearing up for competition they finally began to pay attention to their bottom line. One of the cost savings measures enacted was to cut their real estate overhead. The library was in a prime location and had to consolidate its collection and weed heavily. Cubicles replaced many of the bookshelves. A small department completely unrelated to the library – I think they had something to do with graphics - moved in. This was there third move in the year and something about their Joad like existence, and the fact that they all knew deep down that their make work jobs were doomed, caused their point person, whom we’ll call Tracie, to snap.

Tracie was a newly wed and had cut all of her hair into a very unflattering short style, which is what a certain variety of pink collar Southern woman does to give notice that her ass is about to spread to gargantuan portions. Her most unattractive feature, however, was the sound of her voice. The Southern accent can be one of the most beautiful on earth, but she did not have that particular kind. Her twang was strident and she pronounced her name Trayayaycie with grating epenthesis. We shared the same last name and I was terrified that people would think we were related.

She would visit me in my cubicle and waste unconsciable amounts of my time complaining about the many ways she had been victimized by the company. Her tales of injustice were always baroque, conspiratorial and tedious. The sagas would always end with her somehow being cheated out of her annual bonus and the money she felt was rightfully hers going to someone less worthy. As she would drone on I found her hideous twang increasingly difficult to tune out. During one deadline I was less than receptive and she took umbrage and decided that I had turned from a sympathetic ear into an enemy.

She started her campaign subtly and pettily. She would ask sweetly if her department could have the backside of a bookshelf I had emptied during the massive weeding, and I would say, sure. I would come in the next day and she would have taken 2 entire rows of bookshelves. When I asked her why she had taken so much more than I had given she would looked at my like I was crazy and replied, “Oh, no. You say-aid I could hay-ave both.” She stated it with such sincerity that for a moment I thought maybe I was mistaken. I actually began to doubt myself a little, even though I knew that I would never have given her those shelves. I let her have them anyway, which was a tactical error on my part. She was very Hitler in '38 - my concession emboldened her.

Several similar incidents followed, and each time she would deny that she had overstepped her bounds or done anything without permission. Then she got greedy. She wanted to forward all of her department calls to the library. Aside from office space our departments were not connected in any way, so I thought this was a terrible and presumptuous idea. She basically was asking me to be her receptionist. My boss said absolutely not, anyway. Well, she went ahead and did it. I discovered she had done this with the phones on the same morning as the wasps had invaded my bedroom. I decided that the wasps were a metaphor from nature for this crazy fucking bitch. Like a wasp, she was a creature with whom I could not reason nor peacefully coexist. I reported her unauthorized phone forwarding to my boss and she was officially reprimanded. Well, that was it. She left me alone afterwards but froze me out, jerking her chin away from me whenever we would cross paths. I thought, “Fine with me, you child.”

Sadly, I couldn’t call someone to remove her like the I did the wasps so we still had to share close quarters. She needed a new target for her petty aggression and she got one when her department began using temporary labor. I watched her toy with and systematically fire 4 temps, who had no recourse and could be dismissed for any reason. Not content with just sacking them, she would invent preposterous but reputation destroying cases against them. She would report that they had stolen a ream of fax paper or had spent all day on the phone on personal calls. I knew for sure that the latter was an outright lie because my cubicle was right next to the one the temps used.

But, justice was finally served. It turns out that the last temp she tried to fire had worked in the company before and had many connections, including a close friendship to Tracie’s boss’ boss, a relationship of which Trayayaycie was unaware. She got herself into real hot water. The entire drama was reaching a crescendo when I got a job that moved me out of the city and across the country, so I never did find out what happened to her. I’m sure her job has been eliminated, but, unfortunately, like the fulsome kittens that populated her cubicle on posters and in photographs, that kind usually ends up landing on their feet.

Lessons from the Animal Kingdom, Part I

Years ago I was reading in bed and noticed a moth fluttering around my bedside lamp. Instead of taking my book and crushing the moth against the wall, I spent about 10 minutes trying to capture it, painfully stubbing my toe in the process. Gently cupping the insect in my hands, I carried it outside, careful so the powder (which is actually not powder, but tiny scales) on its wings did not rub off on my hands. I released the moth into the night, saying “Be free, little one!” and felt the warm and pious glow one gets from being gentle to all God’s creatures, even a little moth. I felt practically Jain! I went to bed marveling at the connection that all living things share.



I forgot about my little winged visitor until a few months later when I went to pull out all of my sweaters for winter. Every single one had gaping holes. As I frantically examined my sweaters I noticed that my favorites - the sweaters I treasured most - had suffered the most damage and were now practically lacy with holes. I stifled a scream, because I realized that the voracious offspring of the little moth I had saved were responsible for the destruction of a large part of my wardrobe. Now I am merciless and hunt down and destroy any trespassing moths and have put big blocks of cedar in my sweater drawer.



Coming up next, wasps build a nest in my storm window, and a coworker tries to take over my office space.

Lessons from the Animal Kingdom, Part I

Years ago I was reading in bed and noticed a moth fluttering around my bedside lamp. Instead of taking my book and crushing the moth against the wall, I spent about 10 minutes trying to capture it, painfully stubbing my toe in the process. Gently cupping the insect in my hands, I carried it outside, careful so the powder (which is actually not powder, but tiny scales) on its wings did not rub off on my hands. I released the moth into the night, saying “Be free, little one!” and felt the warm and pious glow one gets from being gentle to all God’s creatures, even a little moth. I felt practically Jain! I went to bed marveling at the connection that all living things share.

I forgot about my little winged visitor until a few months later when I went to pull out all of my sweaters for winter. Every single one had gaping holes. As I frantically examined my sweaters I noticed that my favorites - the sweaters I treasured most - had suffered the most damage and were now practically lacy with holes. I stifled a scream, because I realized that the voracious offspring of the little moth I had saved were responsible for the destruction of a large part of my wardrobe. Now I am merciless and hunt down and destroy any trespassing moths and have put big blocks of cedar in my sweater drawer.

Coming up next, wasps build a nest in my storm window, and a coworker tries to take over my office space.

Idaho

It’s gorgeous and…potatoey. The leaves are changing and the state is also experiencing a wonderful Indian Summer. It’s like being in a John Denver song! We are having a wonderful time going on long hikes with the dogs every day. They like to run ahead on the trails so they have plenty of time to roll with sensual abandon in any greasy slick of putrefaction they find on the trail. After grinding the decaying matter as deeply as they can into their fur they smugly trot away, wrapped securely in their cloaks of invisibility and stink, believing themselves undetectable to any rodents they may come across. Spoonie rolled in some large animal's urine/and or remains and her smell rivaled the worst of my patrons. Thankfully through on the job training at the library I have learned to mute my sense of smell.



The Tennis Ball: Billy's teacher, mother, secret lover



I have written before of Billy’s relationship with tennis ball, which is unhealthy and obsessive, and maybe a little bit disturbingly sexual. Something about the essence of tennis balls hits the addiction section of his pea brain. He can only be given tennis balls under very controlled circumstances or destruction and mayhem will result. In a mystery worthy of Leonard Nimoy’s In Search Of. Billy was able to find TWO tennis balls 3 miles into a trail that was pristine. Besides the trail itself there was absolutely no evidence of man, not even a cigarette butt or Power Bar wrapper! It was as if the tennis balls had fallen from a plane in a The Gods Must Be Crazy type situation, or that Billy had regurgitated them. He had a wonderful time rolling it under our feet so we would kick it and ‘make it alive’ and he could stalk it, seize it and shake and snap its 'neck,' always on narrow precipice or on a hairpin turn.

Idaho

It’s gorgeous and…potatoey. The leaves are changing and the state is also experiencing a wonderful Indian Summer. It’s like being in a John Denver song! We are having a wonderful time going on long hikes with the dogs every day. They like to run ahead on the trails so they have plenty of time to roll with sensual abandon in any greasy slick of putrefaction they find on the trail. After grinding the decaying matter as deeply as they can into their fur they smugly trot away, wrapped securely in their cloaks of invisibility and stink, believing themselves undetectable to any rodents they may come across. Spoonie rolled in some large animal's urine/and or remains and her smell rivaled the worst of my patrons. Thankfully through on the job training at the library I have learned to mute my sense of smell.

The Tennis Ball: Billy's teacher, mother, secret lover

I have written before of Billy’s relationship with tennis ball, which is unhealthy and obsessive, and maybe a little bit disturbingly sexual. Something about the essence of tennis balls hits the addiction section of his pea brain. He can only be given tennis balls under very controlled circumstances or destruction and mayhem will result. In a mystery worthy of Leonard Nimoy’s In Search Of. Billy was able to find TWO tennis balls 3 miles into a trail that was pristine. Besides the trail itself there was absolutely no evidence of man, not even a cigarette butt or Power Bar wrapper! It was as if the tennis balls had fallen from a plane in a The Gods Must Be Crazy type situation, or that Billy had regurgitated them. He had a wonderful time rolling it under our feet so we would kick it and ‘make it alive’ and he could stalk it, seize it and shake and snap its 'neck,' always on narrow precipice or on a hairpin turn.

Churchill's Wit and Wisdom

Despite being burdened by large student loan debts after graduate school, I spent my entire first bonus on the complete collection of National Lampoon , and will always consider it money well spent. Now some of the classics are available on the internet. Here is one of my favorite pieces on the wit and wisdom of Churchill. After I had heard the real tales about 40 times by pretentious college boys trying to be the height of sophisticated wit, and had even seen the "you'll still be ugly" one on a fraternity shirt, something about the blunt crudeness of the National Lampoon versions killed me.



Churchill was known to drain a glass or two and, after one particularly convivial evening, he chanced to encounter Miss Bessie Braddock, a Socialist member of the House of Commons, who, upon seeing his condition, said, "Winston, you're drunk." Mustering all his dignity, Churchill drew himself up to his full height, cocked an eyebrow and rejoined, "Shove it up your ass, you ugly c*nt."



Here’s another good parody, from Othercrap.com.



After Gulliani compared George W. Bush to Churchill:



Once at an elegant dinner party when the future president still enjoyed imbibing some recreational beverages, George Bush said to Janet Reno, “You’re ugly,” whereupon the grand dame replied, “You’re drunk, George.” The Churchillian Texan smiled, “But in the morning I will still be drunk. Wait, that ain’t right. I mean it is right, but that ain’t what I meant to say. In the morning…fool me twice…. You can’t get fooled twice, you see.”

Churchill's Wit and Wisdom

Despite being burdened by large student loan debts after graduate school, I spent my entire first bonus on the complete collection of National Lampoon , and will always consider it money well spent. Now some of the classics are available on the internet. Here is one of my favorite pieces on the wit and wisdom of Churchill. After I had heard the real tales about 40 times by pretentious college boys trying to be the height of sophisticated wit, and had even seen the "you'll still be ugly" one on a fraternity shirt, something about the blunt crudeness of the National Lampoon versions killed me.

Churchill was known to drain a glass or two and, after one particularly convivial evening, he chanced to encounter Miss Bessie Braddock, a Socialist member of the House of Commons, who, upon seeing his condition, said, "Winston, you're drunk." Mustering all his dignity, Churchill drew himself up to his full height, cocked an eyebrow and rejoined, "Shove it up your ass, you ugly c*nt."

Here’s another good parody, from Othercrap.com.

After Gulliani compared George W. Bush to Churchill:

Once at an elegant dinner party when the future president still enjoyed imbibing some recreational beverages, George Bush said to Janet Reno, “You’re ugly,” whereupon the grand dame replied, “You’re drunk, George.” The Churchillian Texan smiled, “But in the morning I will still be drunk. Wait, that ain’t right. I mean it is right, but that ain’t what I meant to say. In the morning…fool me twice…. You can’t get fooled twice, you see.”

A Valuable Lesson Regarding File Sharing

We are marveling at Elizabeth's new iPod, which is so amazing that I want to fall down on my knees and worship it like a golden calf. We are having a good time going through and organizing our music library, which although unwieldy is child's play to arrange on this magical device. While I was going through the songs I was reminded of the early, primitive days of music file 'sharing' and I had downloaded a file from Napster containing the Enya song "Only If" (please do not judge me, my secret shame). When I opened the file I heard no music, but instead was bombarded by porn of such a depraved and filthy nature it had to be German. But the porn was not the worst part - the file was trojan horsed with a malignant virus. Elizabeth said she could practically hear my hard drive whirring as it was erasing itself. I'm not sure if the little devil was trying to punish me for my musical taste or for stealing music, but now I make sure to get my music legitimately. Not that I wouldn't have been happy to buy it instead of share it at the time - I'm a librarian and I respect copyright and want the artist remunerated - but this was when the music industry was being unforgivably and confoundingly obstreperous, backwards and resistant to the inevitable and there was no place like iTunes to download it lawfully.

A Valuable Lesson Regarding File Sharing

We are marveling at Elizabeth's new iPod, which is so amazing that I want to fall down on my knees and worship it like a golden calf. We are having a good time going through and organizing our music library, which although unwieldy is child's play to arrange on this magical device. While I was going through the songs I was reminded of the early, primitive days of music file 'sharing' and I had downloaded a file from Napster containing the Enya song "Only If" (please do not judge me, my secret shame). When I opened the file I heard no music, but instead was bombarded by porn of such a depraved and filthy nature it had to be German. But the porn was not the worst part - the file was trojan horsed with a malignant virus. Elizabeth said she could practically hear my hard drive whirring as it was erasing itself. I'm not sure if the little devil was trying to punish me for my musical taste or for stealing music, but now I make sure to get my music legitimately. Not that I wouldn't have been happy to buy it instead of share it at the time - I'm a librarian and I respect copyright and want the artist remunerated - but this was when the music industry was being unforgivably and confoundingly obstreperous, backwards and resistant to the inevitable and there was no place like iTunes to download it lawfully.

The Devil Made Me Do It

A man dressed in a sequin blouse, black satin pants and platform boots approached the desk. He looked like animal enthusiast Brian Fellow ("Is that flying squirrel afraid to fly after 9-11?") dressed as a glam rocker, kind of like one of the Spiders from Mars. He had the same prissy, imperious air of Brian Fellow, as well as his short attention span.

He asked me, "Do you have the Bible?"

"Yes, we do. Would you like one to check out or would do you just want one to ---"

"Which bible do you own? Is it the satantic one?"

"Satanic? Do you mean the one by Anton LeV -"

"That is exactly the one to which I would be referring." He bulged his eyes at me and began tapping his foot expectantly. "Would you go get it for me, puhleeze?" He then rolled his eyes and examined his nails.

The Satanic Bible  is one of those library high theft items, stolen perhaps by aspiring satanists who don't feel beholden to any commandments about stealing or as an act of censorship by concerned vigilantes. Fun Fact: Other commonly stolen books are The Prophesies of Nostradamus , Joy of Sex , consequently followed by titles on pregnancy (naturally enough), and exam preparation guides. The most stolen magazine? Sports Illustrated.

I explained that our small branch did not own the item, but that there were plenty of reference copies down at the main.

He waved his hand dismissively at me and said, "Oh, never you mind. I'm going to be over here reading the paper."

He grabbed the local paper and began noisily rifling through it, occasionally shrieking with hilarity and making loud comments like,

"Oh, no, she diinn't!" and "Da-amn!"

Even though I usually like to establish non aggression pacts with our odder patrons, especially when I'm the only librarian on duty, I finally had to go quiet him. He pursed his lips, flipped through some more pages, and said, "Don't blame me, ma¹am, blame the devil. I'm done with this place anyhow." He then made toward exit, swishing his hips insolently on his the way to the door. When he reached the door he whipped around and hissed at me,

"I rebuke you, librarian! I rebuke you."

The Devil Made Me Do It

A man dressed in a sequin blouse, black satin pants and platform boots approached the desk. He looked like animal enthusiast Brian Fellow ("Is that flying squirrel afraid to fly after 9-11?") dressed as a glam rocker, kind of like one of the Spiders from Mars. He had the same prissy, imperious air of Brian Fellow, as well as his short attention span.

He asked me, "Do you have the Bible?"

"Yes, we do. Would you like one to check out or would do you just want one to ---"

"Which bible do you own? Is it the satantic one?"

"Satanic? Do you mean the one by Anton LeV -"

"That is exactly the one to which I would be referring." He bulged his eyes at me and began tapping his foot expectantly. "Would you go get it for me, puhleeze?" He then rolled his eyes and examined his nails.

The Satanic Bible  is one of those library high theft items, stolen perhaps by aspiring satanists who don't feel beholden to any commandments about stealing or as an act of censorship by concerned vigilantes. Fun Fact: Other commonly stolen books are The Prophesies of Nostradamus , Joy of Sex , consequently followed by titles on pregnancy (naturally enough), and exam preparation guides. The most stolen magazine? Sports Illustrated.

I explained that our small branch did not own the item, but that there were plenty of reference copies down at the main.

He waved his hand dismissively at me and said, "Oh, never you mind. I'm going to be over here reading the paper."

He grabbed the local paper and began noisily rifling through it, occasionally shrieking with hilarity and making loud comments like,

"Oh, no, she diinn't!" and "Da-amn!"

Even though I usually like to establish non aggression pacts with our odder patrons, especially when I'm the only librarian on duty, I finally had to go quiet him. He pursed his lips, flipped through some more pages, and said, "Don't blame me, ma¹am, blame the devil. I'm done with this place anyhow." He then made toward exit, swishing his hips insolently on his the way to the door. When he reached the door he whipped around and hissed at me,

"I rebuke you, librarian! I rebuke you."

On the Road

We're off to Idaho for a couple of weeks. The place where we're staying has wireless so expect frequent updates. Breaking news! Punky's uncle, one of the predators in the park who shakes down all of the SSI recipients for their cash on the 1st of each month, was stabbed. Since he was stabbed with his own knife by someone he was attempting to rob I don't think the police will devote too many manhours searching for his assaillant. Archie is expected to recover fully, after a lengthy, costly stay in the hospital, courtesy of the taxpayer.

On the Road

We're off to Idaho for a couple of weeks. The place where we're staying has wireless so expect frequent updates. Breaking news! Punky's uncle, one of the predators in the park who shakes down all of the SSI recipients for their cash on the 1st of each month, was stabbed. Since he was stabbed with his own knife by someone he was attempting to rob I don't think the police will devote too many manhours searching for his assaillant. Archie is expected to recover fully, after a lengthy, costly stay in the hospital, courtesy of the taxpayer.

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.

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.