Dope Sick Love Still Blows

Check out this comment I got from 'Sarah,' who took umbrage with my negative review of Dope Sick Love. I really don’t know why I am even wasting my time responding to this little electronic snit, all quivering in its self righteous indignation. I truly hope it was written by a teenager because I would really worry about an adult who takes herself this seriously.

This movie is an un-biased and "REALISTIC" window into the real lives of dope addicted people trying to forge a life, no matter how meager, and do what we all attempt to do in this world, find and hold on to love and or commitment in it's rawest form. Apparently your only interested in the reality of addiction and disease when it's sprinkled with a little intervention and hope to make YOU feel better about it. This is the reality of 99% of the drug addicts out there and the movie set out to accurately document the real life goings on of people who live this way. It wasn't intended to leave half witted librarians with a sense of decensy, although apparently it did make you feel better about yourself and you were succesful in further degrading and demoralizing people who clearly didn't need any help to begin with. So, really it wasn't a total waste, you were able to pass judgement and feel holier than thou throughout the entire experience, right? And deep down that's all your ever really looking to do now, isn't it? I found the movie to be accurate and realistic, and although I didn't always feel good about what I saw on the screen I felt a sense of empathy and compassion for these people. I hope they are able to find whatever they truly seek....What eludes us all. Even you 'Foxy' (your name speaks volumes)Self value and true love.
Sarah

Sarah,
I frequently encounter and serve the likes of the cast of Dope Sick Love at work and on the streets of my neighborhood, so please don’t tell me I’m not interested in their reality - it’s a daily part of my life and job. My colleagues and I at a large urban library are on the front line. We have to deal with the fallout and consequences of this nation’s public policies - misguided, misdirected and ineffective as they are.

The documentary was irresponsible and exploitative. And I’m sorry, but the way those addicts were portrayed was anything but sympathetic. The absolute last thing the subjects stirred in me was compassion, and I'm pretty damn bleeding heart (AND I put my money where my mouth is by working with these people.) What angered me the most about the documentary was that any Blue State/Middle American who watches it will only have disgust and loathing for these people and the way they live, which is, the way they see it, by whoring, scamming, lying and stealing. Do you think that the next time the average citizen who watched that is asked to cough up tax dollars for rehabilitation, needle exchange or other harm reduction programs (which have PROVEN to be effective) that they will want to pay for anything but locking the addicts up and throwing away the key? The documentary was like a propaganda film made by the most neo-conservative, zero tolerance, anti-social program lobby. This film said to me, “See? These people are scum and deserve to be locked away. They are filthy animals not worth saving.” Forge a life? My God, all they are trying to do is feed their next fix by any means possible.

My biggest beef is that this documentary didn't put these people in any sort of context nor did it try to explain why they became the way they are. A documentary that accomplishes this and successfully and powerfully humanizes heroin addiction is Black Tar Heroin, Dark End of the Street. Stephen Okazaki, who spent years with his subjects, effectively shows the sometimes inexorable societal and familial forces that result in the tragedy of addiction. As harrowing as the documentary is, he ALWAYS treats his subjects with dignity and compassion. The street domestic between Sebastian and Michelle, the one where she chases after him and he kicks her down and throws her bag in the street while she screeches at him like a scalded crow? Grotesquely comic, yes, but not a sensitive and dignified portrayal of the situation. Using the word ‘love’ in the title of this documentary is a sick parody of the word.

Also, how did you arrive at your decision that the documentary is the reality of 99% of all addicts? That’s really preposterous - there are millions of addicts in the US and only a small percentage live on the street. The fact is the majority of addicts manage to hold down jobs and remain, for the most part (except for the drugs), law abiding citizens. The addicts portrayed in this documentary are at the extreme of the most extreme end of the spectrum. What I find so powerful about the television show Intervention is that most of its subjects are highly sympathetic (except for the rapping former child prodigy gambling addict) and from ‘normal’ families. They are GOOD people who have lost their way and become ensnared by addiction. It shows how addiction can happen to anybody and how salvation from addiction is possible, that there is a way out besides death or jail or the streets. Shows like Black Tar Heroin and Intervention raise awareness and national levels of compassion concerning addiction without being luridly exploitative.

After watching the documentary, the only useful lessons I walked away with were:

1) I must shred my receipts so I don't enable an addict to scam a store

2) Some men will stick it into anything, and are gullible enough to believe that an emaciated, filthy junkie is an undercover cop

3) I need to tell my neighbors in my condo that if they every buzz a stranger into the building I will kill them

4) That Starbucks needs to install black lights in their bathrooms, as many have in Vancouver, so junkies can't find a vein

So, Sarah, why don’t you lighten up and then run along and learn the difference between it’s and its and your and you’re. After you master basic diction, go watch Requiem for a Dream for I’m sure your 50th time because you think it's the best, 'realistic' movie ever so you can continue to convince yourself that you really know what an accurate portrayal of drug addiction and the human condition is.

Foxy (By the way, your not liking the name speaks volumes about you and your tiresome, self righteous lack of a sense of humor)

Dope Sick Love Still Blows

Check out this comment I got from 'Sarah,' who took umbrage with my negative review of Dope Sick Love. I really don’t know why I am even wasting my time responding to this little electronic snit, all quivering in its self righteous indignation. I truly hope it was written by a teenager because I would really worry about an adult who takes herself this seriously.

This movie is an un-biased and "REALISTIC" window into the real lives of dope addicted people trying to forge a life, no matter how meager, and do what we all attempt to do in this world, find and hold on to love and or commitment in it's rawest form. Apparently your only interested in the reality of addiction and disease when it's sprinkled with a little intervention and hope to make YOU feel better about it. This is the reality of 99% of the drug addicts out there and the movie set out to accurately document the real life goings on of people who live this way. It wasn't intended to leave half witted librarians with a sense of decensy, although apparently it did make you feel better about yourself and you were succesful in further degrading and demoralizing people who clearly didn't need any help to begin with. So, really it wasn't a total waste, you were able to pass judgement and feel holier than thou throughout the entire experience, right? And deep down that's all your ever really looking to do now, isn't it? I found the movie to be accurate and realistic, and although I didn't always feel good about what I saw on the screen I felt a sense of empathy and compassion for these people. I hope they are able to find whatever they truly seek....What eludes us all. Even you 'Foxy' (your name speaks volumes)Self value and true love.
Sarah

Sarah,
I frequently encounter and serve the likes of the cast of Dope Sick Love at work and on the streets of my neighborhood, so please don’t tell me I’m not interested in their reality - it’s a daily part of my life and job. My colleagues and I at a large urban library are on the front line. We have to deal with the fallout and consequences of this nation’s public policies - misguided, misdirected and ineffective as they are.

The documentary was irresponsible and exploitative. And I’m sorry, but the way those addicts were portrayed was anything but sympathetic. The absolute last thing the subjects stirred in me was compassion, and I'm pretty damn bleeding heart (AND I put my money where my mouth is by working with these people.) What angered me the most about the documentary was that any Blue State/Middle American who watches it will only have disgust and loathing for these people and the way they live, which is, the way they see it, by whoring, scamming, lying and stealing. Do you think that the next time the average citizen who watched that is asked to cough up tax dollars for rehabilitation, needle exchange or other harm reduction programs (which have PROVEN to be effective) that they will want to pay for anything but locking the addicts up and throwing away the key? The documentary was like a propaganda film made by the most neo-conservative, zero tolerance, anti-social program lobby. This film said to me, “See? These people are scum and deserve to be locked away. They are filthy animals not worth saving.” Forge a life? My God, all they are trying to do is feed their next fix by any means possible.

My biggest beef is that this documentary didn't put these people in any sort of context nor did it try to explain why they became the way they are. A documentary that accomplishes this and successfully and powerfully humanizes heroin addiction is Black Tar Heroin, Dark End of the Street. Stephen Okazaki, who spent years with his subjects, effectively shows the sometimes inexorable societal and familial forces that result in the tragedy of addiction. As harrowing as the documentary is, he ALWAYS treats his subjects with dignity and compassion. The street domestic between Sebastian and Michelle, the one where she chases after him and he kicks her down and throws her bag in the street while she screeches at him like a scalded crow? Grotesquely comic, yes, but not a sensitive and dignified portrayal of the situation. Using the word ‘love’ in the title of this documentary is a sick parody of the word.

Also, how did you arrive at your decision that the documentary is the reality of 99% of all addicts? That’s really preposterous - there are millions of addicts in the US and only a small percentage live on the street. The fact is the majority of addicts manage to hold down jobs and remain, for the most part (except for the drugs), law abiding citizens. The addicts portrayed in this documentary are at the extreme of the most extreme end of the spectrum. What I find so powerful about the television show Intervention is that most of its subjects are highly sympathetic (except for the rapping former child prodigy gambling addict) and from ‘normal’ families. They are GOOD people who have lost their way and become ensnared by addiction. It shows how addiction can happen to anybody and how salvation from addiction is possible, that there is a way out besides death or jail or the streets. Shows like Black Tar Heroin and Intervention raise awareness and national levels of compassion concerning addiction without being luridly exploitative.

After watching the documentary, the only useful lessons I walked away with were:

1) I must shred my receipts so I don't enable an addict to scam a store

2) Some men will stick it into anything, and are gullible enough to believe that an emaciated, filthy junkie is an undercover cop

3) I need to tell my neighbors in my condo that if they every buzz a stranger into the building I will kill them

4) That Starbucks needs to install black lights in their bathrooms, as many have in Vancouver, so junkies can't find a vein

So, Sarah, why don’t you lighten up and then run along and learn the difference between it’s and its and your and you’re. After you master basic diction, go watch Requiem for a Dream for I’m sure your 50th time because you think it's the best, 'realistic' movie ever so you can continue to convince yourself that you really know what an accurate portrayal of drug addiction and the human condition is.

Foxy (By the way, your not liking the name speaks volumes about you and your tiresome, self righteous lack of a sense of humor)

Don't Click on the Link!

I've heard there's a very scary monster at this link! Whatever you do, don't click on this link!

Or this one!

I'm begging you!

Not this one!

OK, I really, really mean it this time. Actually, that's E's new AIM icon. Poor Andrea Dworkin. May God rest her pitiful, rape fantasy tortured soul. My old manager used to live on the same block as she did in Brooklyn, and said every time he saw her he was almost knocked down by these rays of hostility and hate she emitted as she lumbered around the neighborhood in her signature overalls. I said, "But that still didn't stop you from wanting to rape her, did it, you filthy man!"

Spoon is finally getting groomed next week. Doesn't she look like a wookie?

Here's the original book, which was one of my favorites as a child. Come to think of it, it's kind of subversive in that it encourages breaking the rules, which I guess was very au courant in that hippy drippy era. Thankfully, I had plenty of Davey and Goliath to keep me morally centered. How far children's books have come. I'm glad I never was exposed to the famous German 19th century children's book Struwwelpeter, a perennial favorite in that country, which explains a lot. Check out what happens to little Pauline, who pays a high price for her fascination with fire. I mean, no one wants a bunch of little pyromaniacs running around but isn't there a less terrifying way to teach a child not to play with matches?

Fyodor Dostoyevsky believed that you could tell a lot about a society by its prisons, but I believe you can tell more about a society by the stories read and given to its children. In For Your Own Good : Hidden Cruelty in Child-Rearing and the Roots of Violence, Swiss psychiatrist Alice Miller theorizes that German pedalogical practices made Germans particularly vulnerable to Nazism. Child rearing practices at the time, which emphasised discipline and breaking the child's will by means bordering on sadism, created a nation of cruel bullies vulnerable to being held in thrall to a father figure like Hitler. And later, scheisse porn. It's a fascinating book.

Don't Click on the Link!

I've heard there's a very scary monster at this link! Whatever you do, don't click on this link!

Or this one!

I'm begging you!

Not this one!

OK, I really, really mean it this time. Actually, that's E's new AIM icon. Poor Andrea Dworkin. May God rest her pitiful, rape fantasy tortured soul. My old manager used to live on the same block as she did in Brooklyn, and said every time he saw her he was almost knocked down by these rays of hostility and hate she emitted as she lumbered around the neighborhood in her signature overalls. I said, "But that still didn't stop you from wanting to rape her, did it, you filthy man!"

Spoon is finally getting groomed next week. Doesn't she look like a wookie?

Here's the original book, which was one of my favorites as a child. Come to think of it, it's kind of subversive in that it encourages breaking the rules, which I guess was very au courant in that hippy drippy era. Thankfully, I had plenty of Davey and Goliath to keep me morally centered. How far children's books have come. I'm glad I never was exposed to the famous German 19th century children's book Struwwelpeter, a perennial favorite in that country, which explains a lot. Check out what happens to little Pauline, who pays a high price for her fascination with fire. I mean, no one wants a bunch of little pyromaniacs running around but isn't there a less terrifying way to teach a child not to play with matches?

Fyodor Dostoyevsky believed that you could tell a lot about a society by its prisons, but I believe you can tell more about a society by the stories read and given to its children. In For Your Own Good : Hidden Cruelty in Child-Rearing and the Roots of Violence, Swiss psychiatrist Alice Miller theorizes that German pedalogical practices made Germans particularly vulnerable to Nazism. Child rearing practices at the time, which emphasised discipline and breaking the child's will by means bordering on sadism, created a nation of cruel bullies vulnerable to being held in thrall to a father figure like Hitler. And later, scheisse porn. It's a fascinating book.

Radical Chic

I recently watched The Weather Underground, a fascinating documentary about the extremist, anti Vietnam war SDS splinter group. Its members engaged in a terrorist campaign of bombings on architectural symbols of ‘the establishment’ (mostly bank and post offices, always after hours) from the late 60s until the mid 70s, when the US finally withdrew from Vietnam and the group disintegrated without its unifying cause. The group was founded because, in their words, despite million person strong marches on D.C. and other forms of non violent protests, the war was escalating and the American public seemed content to go about their lives while the body count and atrocities mounted in Vietnam. The Weather Underground, comprised primarily of incredibly privileged Ivy League college students, believed with all the idealistic, romantic, uncompromising fervor of youth that a bloody, explosive revolution to overthrow the government was the only answer to what Martin Luther King called the “abominable, evil, unjust war in Vietnam.”

From the documentary’s archival interviews and news footage of the members of the Weather Underground, it seems that many were playing revolutionary, mostly because of their tender age. (Someone described it as a children's crusade gone mad). Articulate, multagenic Bernadine Dorhn, dressed in her microminis, gave the movement a glamorous, radical mystique. Children of privilege thought they were, they wanted to align themselves with more oppressed 'authentic' groups like the Black Panthers, who seemed for to regard them dubiously, especially after The Days of Rage debacle, a march organized by the Weather Underground march in Chicago in October, 1969. During the march all of those inviting pane glass windows that they protestors were passing by proved too much temptation. After the first one was smashed the night erupted into a free for all, riot of pointless destruction and hooliganism.

When stopped and questioned by the press about the event, Fred Hampton of the Black Panthers condemned and dismissed the riot in an impromptu, hypnotic rap.

We believe that the weathermen’s action is anachronistic, opportunistic, individualistic. It’s chauvinistic, it’s Custeristic. And that’s the bad part about it. It’s Custeristic in that its leaders take their people into situations where the people can be massacred and they call it a revolution.
It’s nothing but child’s play. It’s folly. We think these people may be sincere but they’re misguided. They’re muddleheads and they’re scatterbrained.

Their powerful, influential daddies spared them from being rooted out and assassinated by the police and FBI, unlike members of other radical groups, like Fred Hampton. But their daddies couldn’t save them from themselves, as in the case when 3 of them blew themselves up while building a bomb in an expensive Greenwich village apartment. The three who died were building a bomb to explode during a noncommissioned officers dance at Fort Dix. Even though the dates of the officers would be killed, Mark Rudd said that the builders of the bomb justified their plan because “there are no innocent in this war of aggression.”

One of the most heartbreaking scenes is an interview with James Outin, the wealthy, Republican banker father of 28 year old Diana Outin, who died in the blast. Looking like he was in shock, he said, “I've been asked how I would advise other parents and I have answered that I have no advice at all. I wouldn't know how to advise myself. I'm looking for guidelines myself from somebody else.”

The group disbanded and the members went underground in the mid 70s. In the early 80s most wanted individuals, weary of living on the lam, turned themselves into the FBI. Almost all of the charges against them were dropped because most of the FBI’s evidence against them was gathered illegally and therefore inadmissible. Today, many have settled into normal, bourgeois lives ensconsed in cushy academia (Bill Ayers ia an education professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, Bernadine Dohrn, an associate professor and director at Northwestern University's Children and Justice Center, Mark Rudd teaches at a junior college in New Mexico.)

In the recent interviews of them featured in the documentary, most of the members' politics are still way left of center, but some like Mark Rudd seem haunted and embarrassed and befuddled by his actions back then. Others, like David Gilbert, serving a life sentence for his involvement in a Brink’s truck robbery that resulted in the death of a driver and 2 police officers, remain cheerfully unrepentant.

The filmmakers put their actions it in some context by showing the incredibly violent zietgest of the time, but they don’t explain why the US felt compelled to stop the red tide at any cost, why the US was involved in the Vietnam in the first place. The film doesn’t go into the horrors that were taking place in communist countries, where millions and millions of people were being murdered in totalitarian nightmares that made Orwell’s 1984 look like a walk in the park. With the luxury of hindsight we can see what folly the Vietnam war was, and be amazed at how long it took for our government to admit its mistake and withdraw, even faced with undeniable evidence of the pointlessness of the war. Too bad the decision makers hadn't bothered to read the eerily prescient The Quiet American, in which Graham Greene laid out what a grave mistake US involvement in Vietnam would be, and how the Domino Effect just didn't apply in that country. Anyway, as painful and costly as Vietnam was, I’m just relieved that the United States finally learned a lesson about the folly of fighting insurgents on their own soil. Oh, wait…

Todd Gitlin, former SDS president who was ousted by the Weathermen, provides the wisest warning about zealotry and what happens when people cross the line into terrorism.

I think what has to be stared at is that they brought themselves, they were not brought, they brought themselves to that point, to the point of which they were ready to be mass murderers. This is mass murder we're talking about. They came to this conclusion which is the conclusion that was come to by all the great killers, whether Hitler or Stalin or Mao, that they have a grand project for the transformation and purification of the world. And in the face of that project, ordinary life is dispensable. They joined that tradition.

I highly recommend this very illuminating documentary that couldn't be more relevant and timely.

Radical Chic

I recently watched The Weather Underground, a fascinating documentary about the extremist, anti Vietnam war SDS splinter group. Its members engaged in a terrorist campaign of bombings on architectural symbols of ‘the establishment’ (mostly bank and post offices, always after hours) from the late 60s until the mid 70s, when the US finally withdrew from Vietnam and the group disintegrated without its unifying cause. The group was founded because, in their words, despite million person strong marches on D.C. and other forms of non violent protests, the war was escalating and the American public seemed content to go about their lives while the body count and atrocities mounted in Vietnam. The Weather Underground, comprised primarily of incredibly privileged Ivy League college students, believed with all the idealistic, romantic, uncompromising fervor of youth that a bloody, explosive revolution to overthrow the government was the only answer to what Martin Luther King called the “abominable, evil, unjust war in Vietnam.”

From the documentary’s archival interviews and news footage of the members of the Weather Underground, it seems that many were playing revolutionary, mostly because of their tender age. (Someone described it as a children's crusade gone mad). Articulate, multagenic Bernadine Dorhn, dressed in her microminis, gave the movement a glamorous, radical mystique. Children of privilege thought they were, they wanted to align themselves with more oppressed 'authentic' groups like the Black Panthers, who seemed for to regard them dubiously, especially after The Days of Rage debacle, a march organized by the Weather Underground march in Chicago in October, 1969. During the march all of those inviting pane glass windows that they protestors were passing by proved too much temptation. After the first one was smashed the night erupted into a free for all, riot of pointless destruction and hooliganism.

When stopped and questioned by the press about the event, Fred Hampton of the Black Panthers condemned and dismissed the riot in an impromptu, hypnotic rap.

We believe that the weathermen’s action is anachronistic, opportunistic, individualistic. It’s chauvinistic, it’s Custeristic. And that’s the bad part about it. It’s Custeristic in that its leaders take their people into situations where the people can be massacred and they call it a revolution.
It’s nothing but child’s play. It’s folly. We think these people may be sincere but they’re misguided. They’re muddleheads and they’re scatterbrained.

Their powerful, influential daddies spared them from being rooted out and assassinated by the police and FBI, unlike members of other radical groups, like Fred Hampton. But their daddies couldn’t save them from themselves, as in the case when 3 of them blew themselves up while building a bomb in an expensive Greenwich village apartment. The three who died were building a bomb to explode during a noncommissioned officers dance at Fort Dix. Even though the dates of the officers would be killed, Mark Rudd said that the builders of the bomb justified their plan because “there are no innocent in this war of aggression.”

One of the most heartbreaking scenes is an interview with James Outin, the wealthy, Republican banker father of 28 year old Diana Outin, who died in the blast. Looking like he was in shock, he said, “I've been asked how I would advise other parents and I have answered that I have no advice at all. I wouldn't know how to advise myself. I'm looking for guidelines myself from somebody else.”

The group disbanded and the members went underground in the mid 70s. In the early 80s most wanted individuals, weary of living on the lam, turned themselves into the FBI. Almost all of the charges against them were dropped because most of the FBI’s evidence against them was gathered illegally and therefore inadmissible. Today, many have settled into normal, bourgeois lives ensconsed in cushy academia (Bill Ayers ia an education professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, Bernadine Dohrn, an associate professor and director at Northwestern University's Children and Justice Center, Mark Rudd teaches at a junior college in New Mexico.)

In the recent interviews of them featured in the documentary, most of the members' politics are still way left of center, but some like Mark Rudd seem haunted and embarrassed and befuddled by his actions back then. Others, like David Gilbert, serving a life sentence for his involvement in a Brink’s truck robbery that resulted in the death of a driver and 2 police officers, remain cheerfully unrepentant.

The filmmakers put their actions it in some context by showing the incredibly violent zietgest of the time, but they don’t explain why the US felt compelled to stop the red tide at any cost, why the US was involved in the Vietnam in the first place. The film doesn’t go into the horrors that were taking place in communist countries, where millions and millions of people were being murdered in totalitarian nightmares that made Orwell’s 1984 look like a walk in the park. With the luxury of hindsight we can see what folly the Vietnam war was, and be amazed at how long it took for our government to admit its mistake and withdraw, even faced with undeniable evidence of the pointlessness of the war. Too bad the decision makers hadn't bothered to read the eerily prescient The Quiet American, in which Graham Greene laid out what a grave mistake US involvement in Vietnam would be, and how the Domino Effect just didn't apply in that country. Anyway, as painful and costly as Vietnam was, I’m just relieved that the United States finally learned a lesson about the folly of fighting insurgents on their own soil. Oh, wait…

Todd Gitlin, former SDS president who was ousted by the Weathermen, provides the wisest warning about zealotry and what happens when people cross the line into terrorism.

I think what has to be stared at is that they brought themselves, they were not brought, they brought themselves to that point, to the point of which they were ready to be mass murderers. This is mass murder we're talking about. They came to this conclusion which is the conclusion that was come to by all the great killers, whether Hitler or Stalin or Mao, that they have a grand project for the transformation and purification of the world. And in the face of that project, ordinary life is dispensable. They joined that tradition.

I highly recommend this very illuminating documentary that couldn't be more relevant and timely.

Best pickup line EVER

Get me a library card 'cause I'm checking you OUT.

Best pickup line EVER

Get me a library card 'cause I'm checking you OUT.

You're It!

Dialogic hit me with a book tag, a viral request of sorts for the recipient to answer 5 questions about books. After I've completed the questions, I'm supposed to ask five more people.

Q1 -- You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to save?

Rats, Lice and History – Because I learned more about Western Civilization and the natural history of man in its 300 pages than in any History class I took or in anything else I have ever read. Ostensibly a natural history of typhus, microbiologist Hans Zinsser uses the disease and its impact on man to provide a sweeping narrative of 2000 years of Western civillization.

Jared Diamond ripped off the title, style and form for his book Gun, Germs and Steel. Michael Pollan is indebted to him as well. In the book Zinsser offers a history not only of rats (he points out uncomfortable similarities of that species to ours), lice and typhus, but also medicine, plague, parasitisim, religion, warfare and (especially in how the outcome was inevitably determined by disease), conquest human folly, evolution, science, epidemiology, civic sanitation, and various diseases like syphilis, Black Plague, St. Vitus’ Dance and scurvy.

He’s cumudgeonly but never too cynical and he NEVER loses his sense of humor. The entire book is brilliantly insightful and astoundingly funny, full of fascinating digressions, tangents and erudite wit. If Ambrose Bierce were a microbiologist this is the work he would have produced.

I would memorize it because it’s one of my all time favorite books, and its purpose will be to let others know that as dark as times may be, humanity (along with its sidekick, the rat) will prevail.

Q2 -- Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

John D. McDonald’s Travis McGee, although life expectancy for his special ladies was never too long, since they were usually killed off so he could have another interesting romantic interest in the next installment. It would never have worked. He was too much of a loner.

I always had a crush on those charming alcoholic sophisticates Nick and Nora Charles. They had a pleasant marital arrangement based on lots of money (hers), mutual affection, witty banter and crime solving. I also like Morticia and Gomez Addams. If only all ennui and all of life's troubles could be chased away by Gomez’s cry of, “Tango!”

Q3 -- The last book you bought is?

(Or bought for me at my request. Thank you, E!) Death Scenes: A Homicide Detective's Scrapbook. It’s a collection of remembrances of an L.A. homicide detective who served during the 30s and 40s. Fascinating visual record of gruesome but every day events he would encounter on the job. One of the most haunting pictures is of a bunch of partygoers who succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. They all looked as if they had just peacefully fallen asleep on the couch. I felt a little bit like Serial Mom reading it in bed the other night. It reminds me of my days at the Sheriff’s Office, where I would spend hours poring over crime scene photos, where I developed a lurid streak a mile wide.


Q4 -- What books are you currently reading?

Too many to list here, which is the pitfall of working in a public library and having all of this access. I just finished My Life So Far by ‘Hanoi’ Jane Fonda. She’s pretty annoying but so emblematic of that Boomer generation I just had to.
I like to keep the works of mordant gay men like David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs close by to read and reread.
I just finished the Epicure's Lament by Kate Christiansen, who writes like a mordant gay man. It's excellent.
I always keep my Southern belle lettrists by my bedside (Florence King – hilarious and wise but beware, she does not suffer fools gladly. Rosemary Daniell, Flannery O’Conner).

I just finished February House: The Story of W. H. Auden, Carson McCullers, Jane and Paul Bowles, Benjamin Britten, and Gypsy Rose Lee, Under One Roof In Wartime America, about the time before WWII when this amazingly diverse group of artist created a colony of sorts in a house in Brooklyn.

Q5 -- Five books you would take to a desert[ed] island?

I would like them epic, to pass the time.
Gone with the Wind –. Mitchell captures the oral history tradition of her culture brilliantly – a remarkable piece of storytelling. Also, the pure social Darwinism aspect of it, how these people had to recreate their lives and a new society from the ashes of war in which most of them lost everything.

Shogun – Perhaps only a writer who was a prisoner of war and husband to a Japanese national could produce such a that provides a window to the mentality of the Japanese. Recreates Shogun Japan vividly. He really opens up an entirely other world to the reader. Read this instead of the dreadful Memoirs of a Geisha.

House of Spirits – While I find Marquez’s magic realistic style nightmarish and unsettling, Allende's is beautiful and lyrical. She began this book as a letter to her grandfather about the history of their family. Politics, love, the whole South American, and human experience.

The Stand – When I read this when I was 13 I proclaimed, “STEPHEN KING IS THE GREATEST LIVING AUTHOR, EVER!” Ok, he sucks now, but his early stuff is fantastic, especially this apocalyptic tale of a battle for good and evil that takes place among the survivors of a super plague. I reread the Stand every couple of years. What a storyteller.

I’m sneaking a few more on: Books of Lists, People’s Almanac or anything else published by the team of Wallechinsky and Wallace. These books are compendiums of every fascinating, bizarre, delightful and wondrous fact that you can imagine. Their works have provided endless amusement and education and have made me a formidable Trivial Pursuit player.

You're It!

Dialogic hit me with a book tag, a viral request of sorts for the recipient to answer 5 questions about books. After I've completed the questions, I'm supposed to ask five more people.

Q1 -- You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to save?

Rats, Lice and History – Because I learned more about Western Civilization and the natural history of man in its 300 pages than in any History class I took or in anything else I have ever read. Ostensibly a natural history of typhus, microbiologist Hans Zinsser uses the disease and its impact on man to provide a sweeping narrative of 2000 years of Western civillization.

Jared Diamond ripped off the title, style and form for his book Gun, Germs and Steel. Michael Pollan is indebted to him as well. In the book Zinsser offers a history not only of rats (he points out uncomfortable similarities of that species to ours), lice and typhus, but also medicine, plague, parasitisim, religion, warfare and (especially in how the outcome was inevitably determined by disease), conquest human folly, evolution, science, epidemiology, civic sanitation, and various diseases like syphilis, Black Plague, St. Vitus’ Dance and scurvy.

He’s cumudgeonly but never too cynical and he NEVER loses his sense of humor. The entire book is brilliantly insightful and astoundingly funny, full of fascinating digressions, tangents and erudite wit. If Ambrose Bierce were a microbiologist this is the work he would have produced.

I would memorize it because it’s one of my all time favorite books, and its purpose will be to let others know that as dark as times may be, humanity (along with its sidekick, the rat) will prevail.

Q2 -- Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

John D. McDonald’s Travis McGee, although life expectancy for his special ladies was never too long, since they were usually killed off so he could have another interesting romantic interest in the next installment. It would never have worked. He was too much of a loner.

I always had a crush on those charming alcoholic sophisticates Nick and Nora Charles. They had a pleasant marital arrangement based on lots of money (hers), mutual affection, witty banter and crime solving. I also like Morticia and Gomez Addams. If only all ennui and all of life's troubles could be chased away by Gomez’s cry of, “Tango!”

Q3 -- The last book you bought is?

(Or bought for me at my request. Thank you, E!) Death Scenes: A Homicide Detective's Scrapbook. It’s a collection of remembrances of an L.A. homicide detective who served during the 30s and 40s. Fascinating visual record of gruesome but every day events he would encounter on the job. One of the most haunting pictures is of a bunch of partygoers who succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. They all looked as if they had just peacefully fallen asleep on the couch. I felt a little bit like Serial Mom reading it in bed the other night. It reminds me of my days at the Sheriff’s Office, where I would spend hours poring over crime scene photos, where I developed a lurid streak a mile wide.


Q4 -- What books are you currently reading?

Too many to list here, which is the pitfall of working in a public library and having all of this access. I just finished My Life So Far by ‘Hanoi’ Jane Fonda. She’s pretty annoying but so emblematic of that Boomer generation I just had to.
I like to keep the works of mordant gay men like David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs close by to read and reread.
I just finished the Epicure's Lament by Kate Christiansen, who writes like a mordant gay man. It's excellent.
I always keep my Southern belle lettrists by my bedside (Florence King – hilarious and wise but beware, she does not suffer fools gladly. Rosemary Daniell, Flannery O’Conner).

I just finished February House: The Story of W. H. Auden, Carson McCullers, Jane and Paul Bowles, Benjamin Britten, and Gypsy Rose Lee, Under One Roof In Wartime America, about the time before WWII when this amazingly diverse group of artist created a colony of sorts in a house in Brooklyn.

Q5 -- Five books you would take to a desert[ed] island?

I would like them epic, to pass the time.
Gone with the Wind –. Mitchell captures the oral history tradition of her culture brilliantly – a remarkable piece of storytelling. Also, the pure social Darwinism aspect of it, how these people had to recreate their lives and a new society from the ashes of war in which most of them lost everything.

Shogun – Perhaps only a writer who was a prisoner of war and husband to a Japanese national could produce such a that provides a window to the mentality of the Japanese. Recreates Shogun Japan vividly. He really opens up an entirely other world to the reader. Read this instead of the dreadful Memoirs of a Geisha.

House of Spirits – While I find Marquez’s magic realistic style nightmarish and unsettling, Allende's is beautiful and lyrical. She began this book as a letter to her grandfather about the history of their family. Politics, love, the whole South American, and human experience.

The Stand – When I read this when I was 13 I proclaimed, “STEPHEN KING IS THE GREATEST LIVING AUTHOR, EVER!” Ok, he sucks now, but his early stuff is fantastic, especially this apocalyptic tale of a battle for good and evil that takes place among the survivors of a super plague. I reread the Stand every couple of years. What a storyteller.

I’m sneaking a few more on: Books of Lists, People’s Almanac or anything else published by the team of Wallechinsky and Wallace. These books are compendiums of every fascinating, bizarre, delightful and wondrous fact that you can imagine. Their works have provided endless amusement and education and have made me a formidable Trivial Pursuit player.

Dope Sick Love - For the Love of God, Don't Watch It

I have been riveted by A&E’s Intervention, the documentary style television show that follows various addicted people around and then surprises them with an intervention that the show has helped their friends and families stage. Although it has come under fire for being exploitative (one outraged critic called it ‘an emotional snuff film’), I find it fascinating, educational and cautionary, especially in the ways it exposes how families and friends inadvertently support the addict’s disease. I thought I would also enjoy watching the documentary Dope Sick Love, which chronicles the trials and tribulations a junkie faces on the streets of New York. I watched it last night and it was absolutely revolting, and unless you especially enjoy seeing needles plunging into veins covered with crusted sores, I don’t recommend it. To counteract this vile images do you know how many hours I will have to spend immersing myself in Benac.com (like I don’t already!), the website of the wholesome Mormon family I cyberstalk? This was a documentary that offered neither hope nor redemption.

The subjects of this film are two couples as they con, scam, thieve, lie, bicker, prostitute themselves, and search for a viable vein, all of which they do in a hideous New York accent, which I found made the whole experience even harder to endure. One of the women, screeching after her life partner during a quarrel and then whining and crying because her needle is too dull to pierce her vein (her boyfriend selfishly took the ‘good’ needle), sounded just like a strung out Joan Rivers. Nancy Spungun lives! Another delightful scene involves one of them cleaning his syringe in a commode and then loading it up and sticking it in his vein. His body is a temple!

I am curious to know why the junkies never go to the NYPL to fix. Instead, they spend a lot of time trying to break into apartment and office buildings to shoot up in the stairwells. Perhaps under the new order established by Giuliani the librarians are empowered enough to enforce the rules and there is a zero tolerance for that sort of behavior, which flourishes and is done with impunity in this city and elsewhere.

Dope Sick Love - For the Love of God, Don't Watch It

I have been riveted by A&E’s Intervention, the documentary style television show that follows various addicted people around and then surprises them with an intervention that the show has helped their friends and families stage. Although it has come under fire for being exploitative (one outraged critic called it ‘an emotional snuff film’), I find it fascinating, educational and cautionary, especially in the ways it exposes how families and friends inadvertently support the addict’s disease. I thought I would also enjoy watching the documentary Dope Sick Love, which chronicles the trials and tribulations a junkie faces on the streets of New York. I watched it last night and it was absolutely revolting, and unless you especially enjoy seeing needles plunging into veins covered with crusted sores, I don’t recommend it. To counteract this vile images do you know how many hours I will have to spend immersing myself in Benac.com (like I don’t already!), the website of the wholesome Mormon family I cyberstalk? This was a documentary that offered neither hope nor redemption.

The subjects of this film are two couples as they con, scam, thieve, lie, bicker, prostitute themselves, and search for a viable vein, all of which they do in a hideous New York accent, which I found made the whole experience even harder to endure. One of the women, screeching after her life partner during a quarrel and then whining and crying because her needle is too dull to pierce her vein (her boyfriend selfishly took the ‘good’ needle), sounded just like a strung out Joan Rivers. Nancy Spungun lives! Another delightful scene involves one of them cleaning his syringe in a commode and then loading it up and sticking it in his vein. His body is a temple!

I am curious to know why the junkies never go to the NYPL to fix. Instead, they spend a lot of time trying to break into apartment and office buildings to shoot up in the stairwells. Perhaps under the new order established by Giuliani the librarians are empowered enough to enforce the rules and there is a zero tolerance for that sort of behavior, which flourishes and is done with impunity in this city and elsewhere.

Foxzilla

Stamping on the model city of Charleston, SC at the visitor center.

Foxzilla

Stamping on the model city of Charleston, SC at the visitor center.

Moonshine and Magnolias

Sorry for the dearth of posts. I've been all over Dixie for the past 11 days attending a wedding and a reunion. More later when I gather my wits.

Moonshine and Magnolias

Sorry for the dearth of posts. I've been all over Dixie for the past 11 days attending a wedding and a reunion. More later when I gather my wits.

Bulwer Lytton Submissions Due April 15th

Be sure to get your bad writing in.

Here's mine.

"Touch my baby sister again, you two bit Romeo, and I'll kick you right where it hurts," she said testily.

Collaboration with E:

Even though he was well seasoned officer with over 20 years of experience, when Sgt. O’Riley arrived at the crime scene (forever to be known in crime annals as the Great Waffle House on Highway 105 Massacre) and saw all of the bodies scattered, smothered, diced and covered, he promptly chunked.

Bulwer Lytton Submissions Due April 15th

Be sure to get your bad writing in.

Here's mine.

"Touch my baby sister again, you two bit Romeo, and I'll kick you right where it hurts," she said testily.

Collaboration with E:

Even though he was well seasoned officer with over 20 years of experience, when Sgt. O’Riley arrived at the crime scene (forever to be known in crime annals as the Great Waffle House on Highway 105 Massacre) and saw all of the bodies scattered, smothered, diced and covered, he promptly chunked.

Goin' tharn

My very elegant manager wanted to walk me around the building to show me all of the different entrances employees could use. We almost tripped over a sobbing man, who was sitting right outside the front doors, curled up with his knees against his chest. He reminded me of one of those horrifying Peruvian mummies, the preserved remains of sacrificial victims who were OBVIOUSLY BURIED ALIVE and died in untold pain and fear. Say what you will, Zinn, about how evil the White Man is and how he should forever squirm in guilt about the crimes he perpetrated upon native peoples, there was still some hair raising stuff going on in these native civilizations that we need to remember, ritual human sacrifice being just one of them. There was also plenty of subjugation, slavery, torture and genocide of their own neighboring natives, so one should be wary of romanticizing these people, especially if you're a historian. During my first attempt at reading People’s History when Zinn wrote about the Aztecs and how horrible and treacherous Cortez and the Spaniards were against this beautiful, great civilization all I could think about was if ever there were two Peoples that deserved each other more it was the Spaniards and the Aztecs. What disgusting torture one hadn’t thought of the other one had. No one culture has a monopoly or Lion’s Share on depravity and evil, it’s all humanity that needs to be watched for because the potential for great evil and sadism resides in all of us. Some cultures, namely the Germans and Japanese, need to be watched even more closely.

Anyway, we had to practically step over the sobbing man, who then pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head, because even if he was occupying a space in a very crowded sidewalk he needed his privacy. When we turned around the corner I saw that the side street was deserted except for a deranged homeless man kicking, screaming and beating a tree. I felt that we should have turned around but the side entrance was 5 feet in front of us and my manager said, “I think it’s all right. I think we can make it.” I have a new sympathy for squirrels and other creatures routinely flattened by cars because we both stood there frozen with indecision whether to turn around and head back or go for the door. In the language of the rabbits in Watership Down it's called 'going tharn.'

Right then he spotted us and took a break from his tree battering to scream, “Do you two cunts have something to say? Well, do you? Because I'll take you up to the state hospital where they'll really do something to your forehead!!!" He then reared up like he was going to charge us. I desperately groped for my key to the side entrance and we got in to the sanctuary of the building just in time.

Goin' tharn

My very elegant manager wanted to walk me around the building to show me all of the different entrances employees could use. We almost tripped over a sobbing man, who was sitting right outside the front doors, curled up with his knees against his chest. He reminded me of one of those horrifying Peruvian mummies, the preserved remains of sacrificial victims who were OBVIOUSLY BURIED ALIVE and died in untold pain and fear. Say what you will, Zinn, about how evil the White Man is and how he should forever squirm in guilt about the crimes he perpetrated upon native peoples, there was still some hair raising stuff going on in these native civilizations that we need to remember, ritual human sacrifice being just one of them. There was also plenty of subjugation, slavery, torture and genocide of their own neighboring natives, so one should be wary of romanticizing these people, especially if you're a historian. During my first attempt at reading People’s History when Zinn wrote about the Aztecs and how horrible and treacherous Cortez and the Spaniards were against this beautiful, great civilization all I could think about was if ever there were two Peoples that deserved each other more it was the Spaniards and the Aztecs. What disgusting torture one hadn’t thought of the other one had. No one culture has a monopoly or Lion’s Share on depravity and evil, it’s all humanity that needs to be watched for because the potential for great evil and sadism resides in all of us. Some cultures, namely the Germans and Japanese, need to be watched even more closely.

Anyway, we had to practically step over the sobbing man, who then pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head, because even if he was occupying a space in a very crowded sidewalk he needed his privacy. When we turned around the corner I saw that the side street was deserted except for a deranged homeless man kicking, screaming and beating a tree. I felt that we should have turned around but the side entrance was 5 feet in front of us and my manager said, “I think it’s all right. I think we can make it.” I have a new sympathy for squirrels and other creatures routinely flattened by cars because we both stood there frozen with indecision whether to turn around and head back or go for the door. In the language of the rabbits in Watership Down it's called 'going tharn.'

Right then he spotted us and took a break from his tree battering to scream, “Do you two cunts have something to say? Well, do you? Because I'll take you up to the state hospital where they'll really do something to your forehead!!!" He then reared up like he was going to charge us. I desperately groped for my key to the side entrance and we got in to the sanctuary of the building just in time.

Men laying their trick money down

Challenge o' the Day! The movie Seabiscuit was challenged the other day. 'Challenge' is a library term meaning a patron has asked that something be removed from the collection because the patron finds the material too offensive and objectionable to reside in a library. When asked why, the patron, an elderly woman, snapped, "Because that little jockey visits a WHORE in MEXICO!"

She was the spitting image of the boardroom member in Tommy Boy.

Boardroom Man (J.R. Zimmerman): "If this factory goes under, the whole town goes under."
Boardroom Woman (Helen Hughes): "And that's when the whores come in."
Paul: "Excuse me? What was that?"
Boardroom Woman: Looking with hateful resentment at her husband, who flinches. "Men laying their trick money down. $20 to pay the rent? Maybe instead I'll spend it on the whore. Whores running around doing their little behind shake for the menfolk."
Richard: "I kinda like her idea."
Boardroom Man: "For Christ sake, once during the war I visited a prostitute, and my life has been a living hell ever since."

Men laying their trick money down

Challenge o' the Day! The movie Seabiscuit was challenged the other day. 'Challenge' is a library term meaning a patron has asked that something be removed from the collection because the patron finds the material too offensive and objectionable to reside in a library. When asked why, the patron, an elderly woman, snapped, "Because that little jockey visits a WHORE in MEXICO!"

She was the spitting image of the boardroom member in Tommy Boy.

Boardroom Man (J.R. Zimmerman): "If this factory goes under, the whole town goes under."
Boardroom Woman (Helen Hughes): "And that's when the whores come in."
Paul: "Excuse me? What was that?"
Boardroom Woman: Looking with hateful resentment at her husband, who flinches. "Men laying their trick money down. $20 to pay the rent? Maybe instead I'll spend it on the whore. Whores running around doing their little behind shake for the menfolk."
Richard: "I kinda like her idea."
Boardroom Man: "For Christ sake, once during the war I visited a prostitute, and my life has been a living hell ever since."

The most beautiful word in the English language: Security

At the branches there is no Security, which could make for some harrowing times. As a branch librarian I was responsible for maintaining peace and order while trying to balance the rights, needs and expectations of every patron, some of whom were clinically insane, or, if I was lucky, a simple garden variety sociopath. Breaking up fisticuffs over the internet, waking up sleeping homeless, asking a person who smells like a corpse to leave and not come back until he or she has showered (a painfully awkward conversation for both parties), these duties were all for me as a branch librarian to handle on my own, unless I wanted to call the police, which I was oddly hesitant to do. Help from library security was always a good hour away.

Although the clientele are definitely scarier down here at The Main, now Security handles everything! Someone having a seizure? Call Security! Someone reporting a guy fixing, vomiting and nodding off in a study carrel? Call Security! Patron lost a wallet, an umbrella, a child? Call Security! People overstaying their time on the internet, having noisy sex in the upstairs bathrooms, masturbating to porn? Oh, yoo-hoo, Se-cur-it-y!

It’s heavenly. Simply not having to referee the internets has made the stress level of my job plummet and my blood pressure return to normal levels. I love Security and plan on lavishing these heroes with gifts and baked goods.

The most beautiful word in the English language: Security

At the branches there is no Security, which could make for some harrowing times. As a branch librarian I was responsible for maintaining peace and order while trying to balance the rights, needs and expectations of every patron, some of whom were clinically insane, or, if I was lucky, a simple garden variety sociopath. Breaking up fisticuffs over the internet, waking up sleeping homeless, asking a person who smells like a corpse to leave and not come back until he or she has showered (a painfully awkward conversation for both parties), these duties were all for me as a branch librarian to handle on my own, unless I wanted to call the police, which I was oddly hesitant to do. Help from library security was always a good hour away.

Although the clientele are definitely scarier down here at The Main, now Security handles everything! Someone having a seizure? Call Security! Someone reporting a guy fixing, vomiting and nodding off in a study carrel? Call Security! Patron lost a wallet, an umbrella, a child? Call Security! People overstaying their time on the internet, having noisy sex in the upstairs bathrooms, masturbating to porn? Oh, yoo-hoo, Se-cur-it-y!

It’s heavenly. Simply not having to referee the internets has made the stress level of my job plummet and my blood pressure return to normal levels. I love Security and plan on lavishing these heroes with gifts and baked goods.

Needle and the Damage Done

Recently one of the library branches suffered a terrible clog in its public toilet. When the plumber came to deal with the mess the manager told him to be careful of needles, the probable source of the obstruction. The plumber looked at her quizzically and asked,

"You mean pine needles?"

Isn't that sweet? He obviously isn't from the city. I wonder if the libraries should just admit defeat and install needle safety disposal canisters in all of the public restrooms.

Needle and the Damage Done

Recently one of the library branches suffered a terrible clog in its public toilet. When the plumber came to deal with the mess the manager told him to be careful of needles, the probable source of the obstruction. The plumber looked at her quizzically and asked,

"You mean pine needles?"

Isn't that sweet? He obviously isn't from the city. I wonder if the libraries should just admit defeat and install needle safety disposal canisters in all of the public restrooms.

Wild, wild Main

Hello from the Main, the architect of which refused to let his artistic vision be compromised in way by the realities and practical needs of a large urban library. I can only conclude that the architect had to have remained stalwartly, stubbornly deaf to the librarians' increasingly frantic and impassioned pleas about the reality of their work environment. His dreams of a civic showcase included hollowing out the building for a giant atrium to fill the 8 story building. I'm sure he envisioned the atrium filling his showcase with light and and air, but instead it fills the entire building with insectile noise, this constant din and hum that makes one feel as if one is in the bowels of a wasp's nest. When security drags a problem patron out, a frequent occurrence, the patron's screaming and cursing reverberates, the curses ricocheting up and down the entire space of the atrium until they shoot right into the children's area, a particularly unfortunate acoustical trick.

I love my new job, though, although I miss my old branch terribly. Several of my patrons made it down to the Main to wish me well on my first day, which I found extremely touching. The Feisty Old Broad even brought me a box of chocolates. My favorite part so far has been at the front desk watching the patrons walk by, this fascinating parade of every facet of the human condition. Libraries are one of the last great facilities where people from all walks of life come together - - from serious scholars to society matrons to absolute scum of the earth. While E waited outside the library to pick me and gaping at the stream of humanity pouring out she noticed that most patrons left 10 minutes before the library closed, when all of the computers are shut down. She said, "It was like someone set off a huge flea bomb!"

Wild, wild Main

Hello from the Main, the architect of which refused to let his artistic vision be compromised in way by the realities and practical needs of a large urban library. I can only conclude that the architect had to have remained stalwartly, stubbornly deaf to the librarians' increasingly frantic and impassioned pleas about the reality of their work environment. His dreams of a civic showcase included hollowing out the building for a giant atrium to fill the 8 story building. I'm sure he envisioned the atrium filling his showcase with light and and air, but instead it fills the entire building with insectile noise, this constant din and hum that makes one feel as if one is in the bowels of a wasp's nest. When security drags a problem patron out, a frequent occurrence, the patron's screaming and cursing reverberates, the curses ricocheting up and down the entire space of the atrium until they shoot right into the children's area, a particularly unfortunate acoustical trick.

I love my new job, though, although I miss my old branch terribly. Several of my patrons made it down to the Main to wish me well on my first day, which I found extremely touching. The Feisty Old Broad even brought me a box of chocolates. My favorite part so far has been at the front desk watching the patrons walk by, this fascinating parade of every facet of the human condition. Libraries are one of the last great facilities where people from all walks of life come together - - from serious scholars to society matrons to absolute scum of the earth. While E waited outside the library to pick me and gaping at the stream of humanity pouring out she noticed that most patrons left 10 minutes before the library closed, when all of the computers are shut down. She said, "It was like someone set off a huge flea bomb!"

On our daily walk through the park the dogs and I will stop and visit with one of the friendly park gardeners named Jack. Even though dogs must destroy his flower beds and he has to clean up nasty messes left by irresponsible pet owners, he hasn’t allowed any of that to harden his heart toward dogs. He adores them and keeps a big bag of dog biscuits in his gardener’s cart. Spoon and Billy are crazy about Jack and about ¼ of a mile away from the park Billy will start straining and pulling at his leash in this frenzied, frantic way to get to Jack. I believe he pulls on his leash like that also because he's a dirty little auto erotic asphyxiater.

To Spoon and Billy there is something magical about a complete stranger handing out treats. Dogs are apparently capable of generalizing because now they consider all the people of the park their personal treat dispenser. They will often run up to strangers with this entitled expectation of a handout. Oftentimes this person is some raving homeless person I recognize from the library and with whom I’m desperately avoiding eye contact. I will have to give the dogs a mean little jerk on their leash to get them away from them.

Jack and I share a lot of the same patrons, many of whom spend their nights in the park and then wander over to the library during the day to bathe in the sink, nap, and use the facilities. We exchange stories and compare all of the different nicknames we have for all of the characters. I recently found out through Jack that at the park, Stinky is known as Johnny Low Pants because the crotch of his jeans hangs around his knees in perfect, even though accidental, super fresh ghetto rapper style. He often marks his territory in the park by spraying diarrhea all over a certain section of a retaining wall.

The other day Jack and I were talking and I looked over and noticed that Billy and Dixie (Fisher’s blind black lab that I had taken on the walk), had both had decided to take matters into their hands and were trying to break into his garden golf cart to get at the treats, ramming, pawing and jumping at the cart like they were big black bears in Yellowstone. I was mortified by their manners but Jack just laughed and rewarded them with more treats.

On our daily walk through the park the dogs and I will stop and visit with one of the friendly park gardeners named Jack. Even though dogs must destroy his flower beds and he has to clean up nasty messes left by irresponsible pet owners, he hasn’t allowed any of that to harden his heart toward dogs. He adores them and keeps a big bag of dog biscuits in his gardener’s cart. Spoon and Billy are crazy about Jack and about ¼ of a mile away from the park Billy will start straining and pulling at his leash in this frenzied, frantic way to get to Jack. I believe he pulls on his leash like that also because he's a dirty little auto erotic asphyxiater.

To Spoon and Billy there is something magical about a complete stranger handing out treats. Dogs are apparently capable of generalizing because now they consider all the people of the park their personal treat dispenser. They will often run up to strangers with this entitled expectation of a handout. Oftentimes this person is some raving homeless person I recognize from the library and with whom I’m desperately avoiding eye contact. I will have to give the dogs a mean little jerk on their leash to get them away from them.

Jack and I share a lot of the same patrons, many of whom spend their nights in the park and then wander over to the library during the day to bathe in the sink, nap, and use the facilities. We exchange stories and compare all of the different nicknames we have for all of the characters. I recently found out through Jack that at the park, Stinky is known as Johnny Low Pants because the crotch of his jeans hangs around his knees in perfect, even though accidental, super fresh ghetto rapper style. He often marks his territory in the park by spraying diarrhea all over a certain section of a retaining wall.

The other day Jack and I were talking and I looked over and noticed that Billy and Dixie (Fisher’s blind black lab that I had taken on the walk), had both had decided to take matters into their hands and were trying to break into his garden golf cart to get at the treats, ramming, pawing and jumping at the cart like they were big black bears in Yellowstone. I was mortified by their manners but Jack just laughed and rewarded them with more treats.

Google Tip of the Day

When searching Google’s images library at the public reference desk, especially when you have patrons peering over your shoulder awaiting the results, don’t forget to enable the Google SafeSearch feature. You will then be spared the discomfort the very proper elderly couple and I shared when I went to Google Images to find a map of Corfu for them. Corfu apparently is a popular destination for uninhibited, sun loving male nudists on holiday, many of whom have posted vacation photos of themselves cavorting naked on the beach. OK, the island is basically one giant bathhouse. Google has indexed a good number of these photographs under Corfu and will display them if you don’t have the SafeSearch feature switched on.

Google Tip of the Day

When searching Google’s images library at the public reference desk, especially when you have patrons peering over your shoulder awaiting the results, don’t forget to enable the Google SafeSearch feature. You will then be spared the discomfort the very proper elderly couple and I shared when I went to Google Images to find a map of Corfu for them. Corfu apparently is a popular destination for uninhibited, sun loving male nudists on holiday, many of whom have posted vacation photos of themselves cavorting naked on the beach. OK, the island is basically one giant bathhouse. Google has indexed a good number of these photographs under Corfu and will display them if you don’t have the SafeSearch feature switched on.

Loretta: Cherchez la femme

Only a ride on the bus is as dependable a source for good material as the library. The other day while I was riding toward a branch across town I heard some woman cackling and droning on in a loud voice toward the front. I looked and saw that it that none other than Loretta, the tragic belle of the streets, whose adventures and plight I have chronicled extensively here in this blog. I haven’t seen Loretta since she got her 4th and final residential hotel room in another area of the city far away from the library. When I saw her on the bus she was without her usual retinue of homeless beaux. Her desirability to her suitors peaks at the 1st of the month when she is flush with SSI and trust fund money and then depreciates as the month progresses and her money dwindles. I eavesdropped in rapt, morbid fascination as she regaled some older couple from some polite Midwest state all about how she just loves to ski and tries to get to the slopes at least once a season. Loretta is almost 250 pounds of alcoholic bloat and walks with a cane, an old injury from her friend Archie (a.k.a. Hitler), who stomped on her foot and broke her toe a while back when she wouldn’t hand over her money. She was carrying on and simpering as the couple politely listened to her drunken ramblings until her stop, when she lumbered off the bus. Even under all of the swelling and gin blossoms and exposure blasted skin I can still see the beauty that Loretta must have been, just as you could see Liz Taylor’s beauty underneath all of her fat during that unfortunate period in the seventies when she really let herself go and was all hooked on pain medication from the back injury she incurred during the filming of National Velvet. Loretta strongly resembles Liz Taylor during that phase.

The other day the Feisty Old Broad came in a talkative mood, scandalized but secretly pleased I suspect that her ophthalmologist had told her that morning, “You’re one hot old lady.” I asked her about Loretta and she informed me that Loretta had been on a bender because she witnessed her neighbor down the hall of her residential hotel swan dive out the window. He had been a schizophrenic who refused all medication except for his self prescribed alcohol. He was on a perpetual drunk and his liver was cirrhotic and he suffered from numerous other 'lifestyle' ailments. The week before he had crawled down the halls of the hotel naked and covered in his own shit, screaming about how demons were after him. A group of residents were all carousing in his room when he suddenly got up, walked to his window, swept off the menagerie of beer cans on the ledge and declared, “I AM SUPERMAN!” before jumping out. He fell four stories and then bounced five feet off the pavement. Amazingly, the impact didn’t kill him, but only put him in an exorbitantly costly and lengthy coma at the hospital. A full recovery is expected, however. I don’t understand the irony, how life can be so fragile and tenuous for some who die tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, while others who incessantly abuse their bodies and remain drunk for 50 years straight are more vigorous and harder to kill than Rasputin. Anyway, Loretta was deeply traumatized and has had to anesthetize her pain with rivers of malt liquor.

After Loretta got off the bus a couple replaced her. They were emaciated and smelled sour, and the woman was covered in sores. I’m not sure if the lesions were due to a meth induced skin picking jag, abscesses from infected track marks or something contagious like measles or leprosy. If it were indeed leprosy, then they should have to wear cowls and bells around their neck and keep far away from other people. They were bickering about what stop to get off when the man abruptly lurched off the bus and left her. The woman waited until the bus started off again and then she began wailing and making a scene and beating on the back door until the bus driver stopped and let her off to join her life partner.

Loretta: Cherchez la femme

Only a ride on the bus is as dependable a source for good material as the library. The other day while I was riding toward a branch across town I heard some woman cackling and droning on in a loud voice toward the front. I looked and saw that it that none other than Loretta, the tragic belle of the streets, whose adventures and plight I have chronicled extensively here in this blog. I haven’t seen Loretta since she got her 4th and final residential hotel room in another area of the city far away from the library. When I saw her on the bus she was without her usual retinue of homeless beaux. Her desirability to her suitors peaks at the 1st of the month when she is flush with SSI and trust fund money and then depreciates as the month progresses and her money dwindles. I eavesdropped in rapt, morbid fascination as she regaled some older couple from some polite Midwest state all about how she just loves to ski and tries to get to the slopes at least once a season. Loretta is almost 250 pounds of alcoholic bloat and walks with a cane, an old injury from her friend Archie (a.k.a. Hitler), who stomped on her foot and broke her toe a while back when she wouldn’t hand over her money. She was carrying on and simpering as the couple politely listened to her drunken ramblings until her stop, when she lumbered off the bus. Even under all of the swelling and gin blossoms and exposure blasted skin I can still see the beauty that Loretta must have been, just as you could see Liz Taylor’s beauty underneath all of her fat during that unfortunate period in the seventies when she really let herself go and was all hooked on pain medication from the back injury she incurred during the filming of National Velvet. Loretta strongly resembles Liz Taylor during that phase.

The other day the Feisty Old Broad came in a talkative mood, scandalized but secretly pleased I suspect that her ophthalmologist had told her that morning, “You’re one hot old lady.” I asked her about Loretta and she informed me that Loretta had been on a bender because she witnessed her neighbor down the hall of her residential hotel swan dive out the window. He had been a schizophrenic who refused all medication except for his self prescribed alcohol. He was on a perpetual drunk and his liver was cirrhotic and he suffered from numerous other 'lifestyle' ailments. The week before he had crawled down the halls of the hotel naked and covered in his own shit, screaming about how demons were after him. A group of residents were all carousing in his room when he suddenly got up, walked to his window, swept off the menagerie of beer cans on the ledge and declared, “I AM SUPERMAN!” before jumping out. He fell four stories and then bounced five feet off the pavement. Amazingly, the impact didn’t kill him, but only put him in an exorbitantly costly and lengthy coma at the hospital. A full recovery is expected, however. I don’t understand the irony, how life can be so fragile and tenuous for some who die tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, while others who incessantly abuse their bodies and remain drunk for 50 years straight are more vigorous and harder to kill than Rasputin. Anyway, Loretta was deeply traumatized and has had to anesthetize her pain with rivers of malt liquor.

After Loretta got off the bus a couple replaced her. They were emaciated and smelled sour, and the woman was covered in sores. I’m not sure if the lesions were due to a meth induced skin picking jag, abscesses from infected track marks or something contagious like measles or leprosy. If it were indeed leprosy, then they should have to wear cowls and bells around their neck and keep far away from other people. They were bickering about what stop to get off when the man abruptly lurched off the bus and left her. The woman waited until the bus started off again and then she began wailing and making a scene and beating on the back door until the bus driver stopped and let her off to join her life partner.

Billy Jack=Zogg?

We have long suspected that Billy Jack is some sort of shapeshifting alien brood parasite. If he is indeed Zogg, then he is well on his way to accomplishing his directives, especially the 'devour competitor offspring' mandate. I also wonder if what I believed to be a microchip bump on his neck is really a budding pineal antenna.

In any case, we are too weak and far gone to do anything about it now.

Billy Jack=Zogg?

We have long suspected that Billy Jack is some sort of shapeshifting alien brood parasite. If he is indeed Zogg, then he is well on his way to accomplishing his directives, especially the 'devour competitor offspring' mandate. I also wonder if what I believed to be a microchip bump on his neck is really a budding pineal antenna.

In any case, we are too weak and far gone to do anything about it now.

Back from the Big Easy

I do apologize for my extended absence. New Orleans was fabulous, as always, but I’ve noticed that each year it takes longer and longer to recover. Between all of the shellfish and alcohol I gave my liver a real pounding. Ever since I’ve been back I’ve felt slow and dull like some sort of Miltowned housewife and have had little desire to do much except catch up on Tivo and stare into space.

I usually go to New Orleans in the summer when the air feels like either malarial, stagnant bathwater or sultry velvet, depending on my level of indigestion and hangover. The weather was cool and crisp this time and it was almost like a different city. Not that I mind the heat too much, since it can have restorative and healing properties, especially when it's cranked up to 115 in a Bikram class. I finally got to one and felt much better after a class where I sweated out all the lard, Hurricane residue and French Quarter sludge I had accumulated on my trip. The studio recently installed a new heater and the temperature sometimes exceeds 120 degrees. Now if I stand on the left side of the room it’s like being under an industrial hairdryer. After the class my face remained an alarming shade of scarlet for hours, and when I went to the Muslim owned convenience store I could tell that the owner suspected I was drunk and was just itching to give me a lecture on the evils of alcohol.

Exciting news. I got the job and I’m transferring down to the wild, wild Main. I have been a civil servant just long enough to have developed a great suspicion of, resistance to and fear of change, but I can’t help be thrilled. I will miss my favorite patrons terribly, but feel relief about getting away from others, especially the notorious Moleman. Lately he has been more creepy and disgruntled than usual, especially since his attempt to get the ACLU to sue me for not letting him scream the F word abusively at the staff seems to be going nowhere. He’s never seen without his walkman, and he seems all agitated by the hate radio I suspect he listens to incessantly. Every time I see him at the internet station I can’t help but imagine that he is typing out his suicide note/manifesto, and after he hits the send button he will massacre the library staff and then turn the automatic weapon on himself. Maybe I’m being overly paranoid, but I would like to get out of here before he snaps, which I feel like is imminent.

Back from the Big Easy

I do apologize for my extended absence. New Orleans was fabulous, as always, but I’ve noticed that each year it takes longer and longer to recover. Between all of the shellfish and alcohol I gave my liver a real pounding. Ever since I’ve been back I’ve felt slow and dull like some sort of Miltowned housewife and have had little desire to do much except catch up on Tivo and stare into space.

I usually go to New Orleans in the summer when the air feels like either malarial, stagnant bathwater or sultry velvet, depending on my level of indigestion and hangover. The weather was cool and crisp this time and it was almost like a different city. Not that I mind the heat too much, since it can have restorative and healing properties, especially when it's cranked up to 115 in a Bikram class. I finally got to one and felt much better after a class where I sweated out all the lard, Hurricane residue and French Quarter sludge I had accumulated on my trip. The studio recently installed a new heater and the temperature sometimes exceeds 120 degrees. Now if I stand on the left side of the room it’s like being under an industrial hairdryer. After the class my face remained an alarming shade of scarlet for hours, and when I went to the Muslim owned convenience store I could tell that the owner suspected I was drunk and was just itching to give me a lecture on the evils of alcohol.

Exciting news. I got the job and I’m transferring down to the wild, wild Main. I have been a civil servant just long enough to have developed a great suspicion of, resistance to and fear of change, but I can’t help be thrilled. I will miss my favorite patrons terribly, but feel relief about getting away from others, especially the notorious Moleman. Lately he has been more creepy and disgruntled than usual, especially since his attempt to get the ACLU to sue me for not letting him scream the F word abusively at the staff seems to be going nowhere. He’s never seen without his walkman, and he seems all agitated by the hate radio I suspect he listens to incessantly. Every time I see him at the internet station I can’t help but imagine that he is typing out his suicide note/manifesto, and after he hits the send button he will massacre the library staff and then turn the automatic weapon on himself. Maybe I’m being overly paranoid, but I would like to get out of here before he snaps, which I feel like is imminent.

A Streetcar Named Diabetes

I'm here in New Orleans for our annual restaurant crawl.

More soon.

A Streetcar Named Diabetes

I'm here in New Orleans for our annual restaurant crawl.

More soon.

Mullet Haiku

This super cool hair
Bucket of chicken
What more could I want

Author unknown

Mullet Haiku

This super cool hair
Bucket of chicken
What more could I want

Author unknown

Mexican Standoff

The other day I overheard a library tech and patron argue over a fine for 45 minutes. This is an astounding amount of time because the fine was ONE DOLLAR. The fine was for a DVD, which in our system can be checked out for 10 days and then renewed once. The patron, a young woman, had renewed it a day early from its original due date, and didn't understand that she only got 10 days from the date of renewal, not 20 days from her original checkout date. She returned the DVD 20 days after she had checked it out so she got fined a dollar. I can understand her confusion, but she was informed of the new due date when she renewed the item, and so sorry, thems the breaks. The tech patiently explained what had happened, but the patron refused to concede. Perhaps the patron believed she could wear down and exhaust the tech into waiving the fine, but no matter how the patron wheedled, raged, threatened or pouted, the tech remained unmoved. She had obviously never had a run in with a civil servant. Even though the patron’s tenacity was impressive, she was no match for the tech. I watched in fascination as the patron banged her head over and over against this civil service brick wall. After wasting a good part of her Saturday morning, the patron finally left. She then called an hour later, disguising her voice, and tried to get me to waive it, but I transferred her right back to the tech. I admit that I found this little human drama compelling and wanted to see it play out. They continued to debate the fine over the phone for another 30 minutes. The grim satisfaction the tech derived from arguing with the patron was palpable, and arguing with the patron over the fine was keeping her from less enjoyable tasks. I had the feeling that they would be locked in this argument until Judgment Day.

Mexican Standoff

The other day I overheard a library tech and patron argue over a fine for 45 minutes. This is an astounding amount of time because the fine was ONE DOLLAR. The fine was for a DVD, which in our system can be checked out for 10 days and then renewed once. The patron, a young woman, had renewed it a day early from its original due date, and didn't understand that she only got 10 days from the date of renewal, not 20 days from her original checkout date. She returned the DVD 20 days after she had checked it out so she got fined a dollar. I can understand her confusion, but she was informed of the new due date when she renewed the item, and so sorry, thems the breaks. The tech patiently explained what had happened, but the patron refused to concede. Perhaps the patron believed she could wear down and exhaust the tech into waiving the fine, but no matter how the patron wheedled, raged, threatened or pouted, the tech remained unmoved. She had obviously never had a run in with a civil servant. Even though the patron’s tenacity was impressive, she was no match for the tech. I watched in fascination as the patron banged her head over and over against this civil service brick wall. After wasting a good part of her Saturday morning, the patron finally left. She then called an hour later, disguising her voice, and tried to get me to waive it, but I transferred her right back to the tech. I admit that I found this little human drama compelling and wanted to see it play out. They continued to debate the fine over the phone for another 30 minutes. The grim satisfaction the tech derived from arguing with the patron was palpable, and arguing with the patron over the fine was keeping her from less enjoyable tasks. I had the feeling that they would be locked in this argument until Judgment Day.

Rick Steve's Travel Tip of the Day for Junkies

In an interview with Rick Steves, he reports that clever Switzerland uses black lights in its public toilets to foil junkies from locating a vein. I then read elsewhere that public bathroom attendants in hardcore Vancouver install black lights AND giant blowers, which create a wind tunnel effect, making it hard for addicts to even hold onto their drugs, much less cook them. Still, determined and shameless junkies often ask the attendant to borrow a flashlight. The attendants keep the temperature boiling hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter, and reserve the right to dump buckets of water over the stalls if people are shooting up in them. I am going to forward these findings to the library director of security.
At the Main, junkies like to shoot up in the bathroom and then snap off the needles in the windowsill and leave them there for people to poke themselves with or for toddlers to pick them up and place in their mouths. Maybe we should also place needle disposal bins in the bathroom like you see in sad, grim old casinos in Reno whose clientele are predominately senior citizens and the morbidly obese with adult onset diabetes.

Rick Steve's Travel Tip of the Day for Junkies

In an interview with Rick Steves, he reports that clever Switzerland uses black lights in its public toilets to foil junkies from locating a vein. I then read elsewhere that public bathroom attendants in hardcore Vancouver install black lights AND giant blowers, which create a wind tunnel effect, making it hard for addicts to even hold onto their drugs, much less cook them. Still, determined and shameless junkies often ask the attendant to borrow a flashlight. The attendants keep the temperature boiling hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter, and reserve the right to dump buckets of water over the stalls if people are shooting up in them. I am going to forward these findings to the library director of security.
At the Main, junkies like to shoot up in the bathroom and then snap off the needles in the windowsill and leave them there for people to poke themselves with or for toddlers to pick them up and place in their mouths. Maybe we should also place needle disposal bins in the bathroom like you see in sad, grim old casinos in Reno whose clientele are predominately senior citizens and the morbidly obese with adult onset diabetes.