Today at Krav Maga

I was sitting on the bench outside the classroom waiting for my punch bag class to start when I overheard the two guys next to me. There was no need to eavesdrop because the one guy doing most of the talking was broadcasting his voice in a way that means he is holding forth and that what he is sasaying is meant for everyone in the room.

Guy 1: You’re looking awfully coordinated with your black and red shirt and your black and red shoes. Is that on purpose?

Guy 2: Yeah! (the homosexual implications of this statement escaping him) Black and red are pretty much my favorite colors. My car out there – see it? The Porsche? It’s black and red also. Everything I own is black and red. Even my boat. Did I tell you I got a boat? Remember on Miami Vice? It’s just like the one on that show, the one that what’s-his-face used to have.

Guy 1: Really? What do you call it?

Guy 2: It’s The Genocide.

Guy 1: The Genocide?

Guy 2: Yeah. My ex-girlfriend’s name is Jenna, so I named it The Jennacide after that bitch. Heh-heh. But in these P.C. times you have to be careful so I made the name real small. (like my penis)

Jenna, how could you have let this one go? What a keeper. He then got up and I saw that he was 5’2. I felt a little stab of pity at his sad efforts at overcompensation but then as he swaggered out past me I thought, “Thank you for giving me the visual of your face to put on the punch bag as I pummel it for the next hour. It should definitely increase my level of intensity, you twerp.”

I thought Krav Maga would be a healthy way to release some stress and aggression, but at times I worry that instead it might tap into some bottomless reservoir of rage that will come spewing forth in this uncontrollable gush like at Spindletop. In any case, it will give me a fighting chance if some homicidal patron sneaks up behind me in the stacks and puts his hands around my throat.

Pee-wee exhibition game

Check out this video clip of tiny Ultimate players. Aren’t they as cute as the dickens? I’m so glad that I’ll be officially retired from Ultimate by the time their powers reach maturity.

There is a casual pick-up football game that the homeless play in the parking lot next to the library. Sometimes when I'm leaving for the day I’ll stop and watch them play. It gives this place a collegiate feel, like they’re a bunch of carefree students playing sports in the campus quad. The thick marijuana smoke in the air adds to this feeling. I’m considering giving them a Frisbee to play with.

I was watching their game the other day when an older man in overalls rocking back and forth next to me barked, "I LIKE BUTTERMILK!" in a perfect imitation of Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade.

Update on the guy who threatened to blow the library up if it didn't waive his $25 fine! I half believed that it was written by someone trying to set the poor guy up, perhaps a friend playing a really dangerous practical joke on him. Who would be so stupid to provide his name AND library card number on a threat that carries a federal offense? But, of course he was the author of the note, and even though he boasted that we would never find (fined) him, the authorities did so quickly and without much effort. He was living at his mother's house. He quickly confessed.

Pee-wee exhibition game

Check out this video clip of tiny Ultimate players. Aren’t they as cute as the dickens? I’m so glad that I’ll be officially retired from Ultimate by the time their powers reach maturity.

There is a casual pick-up football game that the homeless play in the parking lot next to the library. Sometimes when I'm leaving for the day I’ll stop and watch them play. It gives this place a collegiate feel, like they’re a bunch of carefree students playing sports in the campus quad. The thick marijuana smoke in the air adds to this feeling. I’m considering giving them a Frisbee to play with.

I was watching their game the other day when an older man in overalls rocking back and forth next to me barked, "I LIKE BUTTERMILK!" in a perfect imitation of Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade.

Update on the guy who threatened to blow the library up if it didn't waive his $25 fine! I half believed that it was written by someone trying to set the poor guy up, perhaps a friend playing a really dangerous practical joke on him. Who would be so stupid to provide his name AND library card number on a threat that carries a federal offense? But, of course he was the author of the note, and even though he boasted that we would never find (fined) him, the authorities did so quickly and without much effort. He was living at his mother's house. He quickly confessed.

Letters from the Big House

The other day I came across a real treasure trove, a file folder of mail from prisons. The folder contains an archive of letters we have received from the incarcerated from all over the world. We make a good faith effort to answer all questions we receive, no matter what the nature of the question or from where it originates.

Most of the questions are straightforward and sincere: “What is the mailing address of the United Nations?” Others are more whimsical, the products of a bored mind trying to pass the time. “What is considered the greatest book of all time, and why?” Some are wistful, and have a sad, yearning, almost lonely hearts flavor to them. “I grew up in your city but moved away when I was young. I returned as an adult but fell in with the wrong crowd. I love your city and dream about it often. I wish I had made better choices. Please could you send me a brochure of your city, and some information about its history? Please write back soon if you have the time. I look forward to hearing from you.” Those you have to be careful to keep a remote, professional distance or the writer might pay a visit to the library looking for you when released.

They are unfailingly respectful and courteous, even the ones from the desperately insane, which of course hold the most interest for me. Here is an excerpt from a Texas prisoner that consists of 4 pages covered with tightly packed script. The letter is one giant sentence of Faulknerian/David Foster Wallace length.

The main reason I am writing is really mainly because I would like to know just how do you go about having a computerized tomography (CT) or a Magnetic Resonance imaging (MRI) done to examining your head would you have to go see a special kind of psychologist and pay to get it done because I really want to be tested I believe I hope a little bit of everything multiple personally I know I have obsessive thinking very bad and I always make my whole life competitive like for a good example I will do something out the ordinary like go for a girl she can be just as ugly as sin but it like a real powerful force I try my best no to do it but I cannot help myself and I can be doing just fine perfect find and I will do something on purpose to file it up and do not want to something so bad so many times it will be just plain old broke you will not be able to fix it like getting a girl pregnant now I do not believe I am psycho but I do have really bad hallucinations...

After a few more pages in this vein he wraps up the letter with, OK you have a great Thanksgiving Day and have a Merry Christmas also eat a lot of pecan pies, and million dollar pies I really appreciate you taking your most valuable time to help me and answer my questions, all my questions, all my questions, all my questions please let me hear from you as soon as possible.

Right after I got my MLS I actually considered becoming a prison librarian. The pay is good and I wanted to atone for being a bureaucrat/foot soldier in this country’s abominable war on drugs, where women are languishing for decades in prison while they serve preposterous mandatory sentences because they rode in the car with their boyfriend once to pick up some fertilizer so he could make meth.

Each job announcement includes the warning that if you are ever taken hostage during a prison riot, the administration will not negotiate your release, so I thought better of it. After reading Wally Lamb’s collection of stories from the writing workshop he conducted at a women’s prison I’m inspired to try to get involved, but on a volunteer basis.

Letters from the Big House

The other day I came across a real treasure trove, a file folder of mail from prisons. The folder contains an archive of letters we have received from the incarcerated from all over the world. We make a good faith effort to answer all questions we receive, no matter what the nature of the question or from where it originates.

Most of the questions are straightforward and sincere: “What is the mailing address of the United Nations?” Others are more whimsical, the products of a bored mind trying to pass the time. “What is considered the greatest book of all time, and why?” Some are wistful, and have a sad, yearning, almost lonely hearts flavor to them. “I grew up in your city but moved away when I was young. I returned as an adult but fell in with the wrong crowd. I love your city and dream about it often. I wish I had made better choices. Please could you send me a brochure of your city, and some information about its history? Please write back soon if you have the time. I look forward to hearing from you.” Those you have to be careful to keep a remote, professional distance or the writer might pay a visit to the library looking for you when released.

They are unfailingly respectful and courteous, even the ones from the desperately insane, which of course hold the most interest for me. Here is an excerpt from a Texas prisoner that consists of 4 pages covered with tightly packed script. The letter is one giant sentence of Faulknerian/David Foster Wallace length.

The main reason I am writing is really mainly because I would like to know just how do you go about having a computerized tomography (CT) or a Magnetic Resonance imaging (MRI) done to examining your head would you have to go see a special kind of psychologist and pay to get it done because I really want to be tested I believe I hope a little bit of everything multiple personally I know I have obsessive thinking very bad and I always make my whole life competitive like for a good example I will do something out the ordinary like go for a girl she can be just as ugly as sin but it like a real powerful force I try my best no to do it but I cannot help myself and I can be doing just fine perfect find and I will do something on purpose to file it up and do not want to something so bad so many times it will be just plain old broke you will not be able to fix it like getting a girl pregnant now I do not believe I am psycho but I do have really bad hallucinations...

After a few more pages in this vein he wraps up the letter with, OK you have a great Thanksgiving Day and have a Merry Christmas also eat a lot of pecan pies, and million dollar pies I really appreciate you taking your most valuable time to help me and answer my questions, all my questions, all my questions, all my questions please let me hear from you as soon as possible.

Right after I got my MLS I actually considered becoming a prison librarian. The pay is good and I wanted to atone for being a bureaucrat/foot soldier in this country’s abominable war on drugs, where women are languishing for decades in prison while they serve preposterous mandatory sentences because they rode in the car with their boyfriend once to pick up some fertilizer so he could make meth.

Each job announcement includes the warning that if you are ever taken hostage during a prison riot, the administration will not negotiate your release, so I thought better of it. After reading Wally Lamb’s collection of stories from the writing workshop he conducted at a women’s prison I’m inspired to try to get involved, but on a volunteer basis.

Have a Suggestion? Use our friendly on-line form!

Hi My Name is XXXX and this is my library card number XXXX i know i have to pay my 25.oo and i won't pay anything to you until you take that 25.00 off i you don't ill blow up the Library and you will not fined me any where in the city so i know you will do the right think ok bitch and i'll suck your Dick if you want me to

This patron was disgruntled that his record was frozen because he owed $25 for some videos he had checked out and never returned in 2003. We get bomb threats all of the time (what is it with that compulsion?) but this one, with its bewitching blend of federal offense level threats, offers of sexual favors and adorable Freudian slips (fined for find), has been my favorite so far.

Have a Suggestion? Use our friendly on-line form!

Hi My Name is XXXX and this is my library card number XXXX i know i have to pay my 25.oo and i won't pay anything to you until you take that 25.00 off i you don't ill blow up the Library and you will not fined me any where in the city so i know you will do the right think ok bitch and i'll suck your Dick if you want me to

This patron was disgruntled that his record was frozen because he owed $25 for some videos he had checked out and never returned in 2003. We get bomb threats all of the time (what is it with that compulsion?) but this one, with its bewitching blend of federal offense level threats, offers of sexual favors and adorable Freudian slips (fined for find), has been my favorite so far.

Lottery in June, Corn be Heavy Soon!

We have been having a run on numerology books lately because our state lottery jackpot has reached an astronomical sum. I guess that approach, although hardly scientific, is as good as any for state sanctioned gambling. I am fascinated by and have a soft spot for the occult and people trying to use it to improve their lives. It adds an element of magical fun into our sterile, scientifically (i.e., boring) modern existences. Right after 9-11 I was working at the branch in a predominately Hispanic neighborhood. The patrons would tentatively approach the desk, look furtively around and whisper, "Hay libros de... Nostradamus?" Apparently, wild rumors were circulating around about how Nostradamus had predicted the fall of the twin towers and they wanted to verify it.

Lottery in June, Corn be Heavy Soon!

We have been having a run on numerology books lately because our state lottery jackpot has reached an astronomical sum. I guess that approach, although hardly scientific, is as good as any for state sanctioned gambling. I am fascinated by and have a soft spot for the occult and people trying to use it to improve their lives. It adds an element of magical fun into our sterile, scientifically (i.e., boring) modern existences. Right after 9-11 I was working at the branch in a predominately Hispanic neighborhood. The patrons would tentatively approach the desk, look furtively around and whisper, "Hay libros de... Nostradamus?" Apparently, wild rumors were circulating around about how Nostradamus had predicted the fall of the twin towers and they wanted to verify it.

She's so good looking that she looks like a man

A transgender (man to woman) called the library the other day because she had lost her makeup bag somewhere in the library. She was transferred to security, which handles all lost and found. While she was explaining her situation the security officer kept referring to her as “Sir.” Although insensitive, he didn’t mean to be disrespectful or insulting, it’s that she sounded, well, like a man, and the security guard kept forgetting himself. The patron was deeply hurt and called back to complain, but before she could get too far into her story she burst into tears. I’m sure she was upset and distressed over her lost makeup bag – makeup is a pricey investment, and I would be devastated if I lost mine - but I also had to wonder how much of her outburst was caused by the emotional roller of her hormone treatments. Although I did feel terrible for her, and was deeply apologetic and passed along the news about the need for further sensitivity training, there was a small part of me that went, “HAH! Welcome to my world! You think being a woman is all about makeup and nail polish and pretty clothes? Well let me tell you that it’s also about being at the mercy of evil female hormones that make you irrational and moody and seethe and bloat and pout and binge eat and cry for no reason, which can completely destroy your professional credibility with your male colleagues. Congratulations, you're a woman now."

Recently, a man approached the front desk and said that he was a transgender and wanted to use the women’s bathroom. He was wearing a lumberjack shirt and work boots and couldn’t have looked more manly and macho. His presence in the women’s bathroom would have caused nothing less than panic. The librarian asked for documentation, which he couldn’t provide, and he stormed away with a, “You’ll be hearing from me soon.” I mean, how are we supposed to distinguish between your garden variety pervert and a true transgender? Although, from what I’ve heard of the condition of the men’s restroom, I couldn’t blame him for using a ploy to gain acces to the women’s bathroom.

I wonder how Asian countries, where men who live as women are tolerated as a third sex, handle the bathroom situation. It was hard not to gawk in amazement and admiration at the transgender women in Malaysia, who were without exception stunning and gorgeous. The only way to really distinguish them from ‘real women,’ the dead giveaway, is that they looked too perfect. Real women always have some flaw, and the way to test for authenticity was to look for the flaw, like with a diamond.

She's so good looking that she looks like a man

A transgender (man to woman) called the library the other day because she had lost her makeup bag somewhere in the library. She was transferred to security, which handles all lost and found. While she was explaining her situation the security officer kept referring to her as “Sir.” Although insensitive, he didn’t mean to be disrespectful or insulting, it’s that she sounded, well, like a man, and the security guard kept forgetting himself. The patron was deeply hurt and called back to complain, but before she could get too far into her story she burst into tears. I’m sure she was upset and distressed over her lost makeup bag – makeup is a pricey investment, and I would be devastated if I lost mine - but I also had to wonder how much of her outburst was caused by the emotional roller of her hormone treatments. Although I did feel terrible for her, and was deeply apologetic and passed along the news about the need for further sensitivity training, there was a small part of me that went, “HAH! Welcome to my world! You think being a woman is all about makeup and nail polish and pretty clothes? Well let me tell you that it’s also about being at the mercy of evil female hormones that make you irrational and moody and seethe and bloat and pout and binge eat and cry for no reason, which can completely destroy your professional credibility with your male colleagues. Congratulations, you're a woman now."

Recently, a man approached the front desk and said that he was a transgender and wanted to use the women’s bathroom. He was wearing a lumberjack shirt and work boots and couldn’t have looked more manly and macho. His presence in the women’s bathroom would have caused nothing less than panic. The librarian asked for documentation, which he couldn’t provide, and he stormed away with a, “You’ll be hearing from me soon.” I mean, how are we supposed to distinguish between your garden variety pervert and a true transgender? Although, from what I’ve heard of the condition of the men’s restroom, I couldn’t blame him for using a ploy to gain acces to the women’s bathroom.

I wonder how Asian countries, where men who live as women are tolerated as a third sex, handle the bathroom situation. It was hard not to gawk in amazement and admiration at the transgender women in Malaysia, who were without exception stunning and gorgeous. The only way to really distinguish them from ‘real women,’ the dead giveaway, is that they looked too perfect. Real women always have some flaw, and the way to test for authenticity was to look for the flaw, like with a diamond.

I bet you're as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside

During the mid-day rush a woman called to see what Perricone books we had available. Patrons in person always take precedence over telephone patrons, so the librarian told the woman that it would be a moment because there was a line of people. The woman replied that she would wait. Not more than two minutes later, the librarian ran back to the shelves and returned with some books for the telephone patron. When she picked up the phone the woman exploded, "I've been on hold forever! FUCK YOU!" and slammed down the phone. My. I know that there has been a sad decline in civility and gentility in this society, but even with my extremely low expectations that response shocked me.

Perhaps someone should recommend some books on inner beauty to her. She will need a lot more than salmon and blueberries and other foods rich in antioxidants to make her an attractive person.

I bet you're as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside

During the mid-day rush a woman called to see what Perricone books we had available. Patrons in person always take precedence over telephone patrons, so the librarian told the woman that it would be a moment because there was a line of people. The woman replied that she would wait. Not more than two minutes later, the librarian ran back to the shelves and returned with some books for the telephone patron. When she picked up the phone the woman exploded, "I've been on hold forever! FUCK YOU!" and slammed down the phone. My. I know that there has been a sad decline in civility and gentility in this society, but even with my extremely low expectations that response shocked me.

Perhaps someone should recommend some books on inner beauty to her. She will need a lot more than salmon and blueberries and other foods rich in antioxidants to make her an attractive person.

Miss Daisy Makes a Phone Call

I received a phone message from my 87 year old, deeply southern grandmother that I should save and send off to the Library of Congress. It really is a cultural relic that ought to be preserved for posterity. Apparently an old school friend is trying to get in touch with me and called her phone number, which she has had for the past 50 years. The phone is being forwarded to a rehabilitative facility where she is convalescing from a broken hip and where her African American maid, Debbie, has also moved in to care for her. My grandmother called me to relay the message and the transcript of her message went something like,

"Hello! An old school friend of yours called and she's trying to reach you. Here's her numb-ah. Well, I thought I had it here. Debbie, now where is that numb-ah? I thought I asked you to give it to me!"

"Oh, no you didn't, Mz. Ferrell! You didn't ask me no such thing."

"I'm sure I did! I know I asked you for that numb-ah. Then help me find that numbah."

Adamantly, "Uh-uh, no ma'am. You did not ask me to give it to you." Then with a lot of exasperated sass, "Now what have you gone and done with that number, Mz. Ferrell! I swear!"

The sound of paper rustling and objects being thrown about.

"Well, have you found it?"

"No, I haven't! I have no idea where you have gone and put it!!" More clucking and muttering, a lot more yelling back and forth, and several of Debbie's drawn out 'Mmm-mmmms.' The repartee goes on for about 5 for minutes until the number is located at last.

I was laughing about the conversation with my mom and she said, "I'm so glad that she has Debbie. It's obvious that these kind of exchanges are very stimulating to her."

Miss Daisy Makes a Phone Call

I received a phone message from my 87 year old, deeply southern grandmother that I should save and send off to the Library of Congress. It really is a cultural relic that ought to be preserved for posterity. Apparently an old school friend is trying to get in touch with me and called her phone number, which she has had for the past 50 years. The phone is being forwarded to a rehabilitative facility where she is convalescing from a broken hip and where her African American maid, Debbie, has also moved in to care for her. My grandmother called me to relay the message and the transcript of her message went something like,

"Hello! An old school friend of yours called and she's trying to reach you. Here's her numb-ah. Well, I thought I had it here. Debbie, now where is that numb-ah? I thought I asked you to give it to me!"

"Oh, no you didn't, Mz. Ferrell! You didn't ask me no such thing."

"I'm sure I did! I know I asked you for that numb-ah. Then help me find that numbah."

Adamantly, "Uh-uh, no ma'am. You did not ask me to give it to you." Then with a lot of exasperated sass, "Now what have you gone and done with that number, Mz. Ferrell! I swear!"

The sound of paper rustling and objects being thrown about.

"Well, have you found it?"

"No, I haven't! I have no idea where you have gone and put it!!" More clucking and muttering, a lot more yelling back and forth, and several of Debbie's drawn out 'Mmm-mmmms.' The repartee goes on for about 5 for minutes until the number is located at last.

I was laughing about the conversation with my mom and she said, "I'm so glad that she has Debbie. It's obvious that these kind of exchanges are very stimulating to her."

Libricide

I have a really bad habit of sticking the ends of pens and pencils in my mouth and chewing on them in this absentminded fashion. I don’t know why I go around putting objects around in my mouth like a toddler - I guess I must be partially arrested in some oral fixation stage or I never got over quitting smoking. I had a wake up call as to how dangerously unsanitary this habit is the other day at the reference desk, where we keep boxes of golf pencils at the edge for the general public to use. Toward closing time a man who had so much grime encrusted all over him he looked like he was doing an impression of Al Jolsen in The Jazz Singer approached the desk. He was particularly memorable because he had a large goiter, something I have never seen outside of a textbook. He fumbled around in one of his pockets and produced a handful of our golf pencils he had been hoarding for some reason. He dumped them in the box and grunted, “I’m returning these.”

When I tried to thank him I realized that I had a pencil in my mouth – a staff pencil, but still, seeing those little golf pencils grimy and crawling with pestilence brought it home that I must break myself of this habit immediately. I spit out the pencil like a blow dart and desperately wished I could run off and scrub my mouth with lye and boiling water. After he lumbered off I stared at the pencils and thought how nice it would be if we kept the pencils for the public suspended in barbicide, like barbers do their combs. It would be way more sanitary that way, and if I ever, EVER stuck one in my mouth the bitter taste would serve as a corrective reminder.

Libricide

I have a really bad habit of sticking the ends of pens and pencils in my mouth and chewing on them in this absentminded fashion. I don’t know why I go around putting objects around in my mouth like a toddler - I guess I must be partially arrested in some oral fixation stage or I never got over quitting smoking. I had a wake up call as to how dangerously unsanitary this habit is the other day at the reference desk, where we keep boxes of golf pencils at the edge for the general public to use. Toward closing time a man who had so much grime encrusted all over him he looked like he was doing an impression of Al Jolsen in The Jazz Singer approached the desk. He was particularly memorable because he had a large goiter, something I have never seen outside of a textbook. He fumbled around in one of his pockets and produced a handful of our golf pencils he had been hoarding for some reason. He dumped them in the box and grunted, “I’m returning these.”

When I tried to thank him I realized that I had a pencil in my mouth – a staff pencil, but still, seeing those little golf pencils grimy and crawling with pestilence brought it home that I must break myself of this habit immediately. I spit out the pencil like a blow dart and desperately wished I could run off and scrub my mouth with lye and boiling water. After he lumbered off I stared at the pencils and thought how nice it would be if we kept the pencils for the public suspended in barbicide, like barbers do their combs. It would be way more sanitary that way, and if I ever, EVER stuck one in my mouth the bitter taste would serve as a corrective reminder.

Fecal Mischief

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Fecal Mischief

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Little Emperors

Children with older, upwardly mobile parents often spell trouble in the library. Their parents have a lax and overindulgent style of childrearing that can cause problems and disruption in the library. Perhaps because the parents are older and postponed childbearing so long, they tend to marvel over and treat their children like adored grandchildren. Please don’t get me wrong - I’m all for people being into their children. I see enough neglected latchkey children as it is. I also don’t want a return to the Spartan method of pedagogy, what with all of the exposing infants on the hillside to weed out the weak ones and the mothers sending their sons off to war with a cold, “Son, you are to come home with your shield or on it.” Although, if this country is going to engage in perpetual warmongering then a return to the Spartan model of society might be a good idea, since it did seem to produce excellent citizen soldiers.

I also think the English upper class tradition of sending one’s children off to year round kindergarten boarding school is cruel. Really, what then is the point of having children? It reminds me of that old National Lampoon spoof ad of those military schools you see in the back of the New Yorker. The ad had a picture of a tiny baby in a full military school uniform and the tagline, “Give us your infant and we’ll return a reasonable adult to you in 21 years.”

One day I was out in a slightly obnoxiously gentrified neighborhood working at the children’s desk. A mother had been hovering over her little four year old boy for an hour, trying to push books upon him when all he wanted to do was piece together a puzzle. I’m sure because he couldn’t finish the puzzle he acted out in frustration and rebellion by shoving a bunch of the puzzle pieces in his pockets. She caught him and said that he couldn't have them and that they belonged to the library. In a pleading tone she tried to coax them from him.

He said, “No! I don’t want to.”

“But honey, they belong to the library. Don’t you want other children to be able to play with them?” She begged him, “Please put them back.”

He stuck his lower lip out and pouted, "You're not being my FWIEYEND."

I felt like saying, "You're damn right she's not your FWIEYEND. She's your MOTHER, and her job number 1 is to turn you into a decent, non thieving human being/citizen.”

“Oh, darling! But of course I’m you’re friend!” Rushing to appease to her child, she hugged him and clucked over him. She saw that I was watching and pried the pieces away from him while his obstinance escalated into a tantrum.

I grit my teeth and tried to fake a smile of commiseration.

I had been at another branch with a little boy screaming for Thomas the Tank Engine videos. The children’s area and the adult area were not separate, so the little boys screams were disturbing the adults trying to read newspapers at the tables. They glared at the child and began to grumble. The manager, an infinitely kind and patient woman, knelt down and said, “This is a library. Use your inside voice.”

The mother snatched her child away like a grizzly sow and hissed, “How dare you! We don’t like to come into this library! And you know why? Each time we do you try to crush his spirit!”

How can you reason with a person like this? I wish I could have told her, “Look, lady. Your child is crushing my spirit and every other adult's in here.”

Give me a raving paranoid schizophrenic homeless man brandishing a plastic jug of his urine at me any day.

Little Emperors

Children with older, upwardly mobile parents often spell trouble in the library. Their parents have a lax and overindulgent style of childrearing that can cause problems and disruption in the library. Perhaps because the parents are older and postponed childbearing so long, they tend to marvel over and treat their children like adored grandchildren. Please don’t get me wrong - I’m all for people being into their children. I see enough neglected latchkey children as it is. I also don’t want a return to the Spartan method of pedagogy, what with all of the exposing infants on the hillside to weed out the weak ones and the mothers sending their sons off to war with a cold, “Son, you are to come home with your shield or on it.” Although, if this country is going to engage in perpetual warmongering then a return to the Spartan model of society might be a good idea, since it did seem to produce excellent citizen soldiers.

I also think the English upper class tradition of sending one’s children off to year round kindergarten boarding school is cruel. Really, what then is the point of having children? It reminds me of that old National Lampoon spoof ad of those military schools you see in the back of the New Yorker. The ad had a picture of a tiny baby in a full military school uniform and the tagline, “Give us your infant and we’ll return a reasonable adult to you in 21 years.”

One day I was out in a slightly obnoxiously gentrified neighborhood working at the children’s desk. A mother had been hovering over her little four year old boy for an hour, trying to push books upon him when all he wanted to do was piece together a puzzle. I’m sure because he couldn’t finish the puzzle he acted out in frustration and rebellion by shoving a bunch of the puzzle pieces in his pockets. She caught him and said that he couldn't have them and that they belonged to the library. In a pleading tone she tried to coax them from him.

He said, “No! I don’t want to.”

“But honey, they belong to the library. Don’t you want other children to be able to play with them?” She begged him, “Please put them back.”

He stuck his lower lip out and pouted, "You're not being my FWIEYEND."

I felt like saying, "You're damn right she's not your FWIEYEND. She's your MOTHER, and her job number 1 is to turn you into a decent, non thieving human being/citizen.”

“Oh, darling! But of course I’m you’re friend!” Rushing to appease to her child, she hugged him and clucked over him. She saw that I was watching and pried the pieces away from him while his obstinance escalated into a tantrum.

I grit my teeth and tried to fake a smile of commiseration.

I had been at another branch with a little boy screaming for Thomas the Tank Engine videos. The children’s area and the adult area were not separate, so the little boys screams were disturbing the adults trying to read newspapers at the tables. They glared at the child and began to grumble. The manager, an infinitely kind and patient woman, knelt down and said, “This is a library. Use your inside voice.”

The mother snatched her child away like a grizzly sow and hissed, “How dare you! We don’t like to come into this library! And you know why? Each time we do you try to crush his spirit!”

How can you reason with a person like this? I wish I could have told her, “Look, lady. Your child is crushing my spirit and every other adult's in here.”

Give me a raving paranoid schizophrenic homeless man brandishing a plastic jug of his urine at me any day.

Thrill Ride 2000

I usually slide into a little funk at the beginning of summer because I’m overcome with melancholy nostalgia for the pine woods of East Texas where I spent many halcyon summers at camp. When I graduated from camper to counselor I worked in the horse stables teaching riding there. One of the best parts of the job was taking the friskier, more high spirited horses out for a run in between classes, especially the summer after a devastating equine infectious anemia outbreak decimated our usual herd of ancient, mellow trail horses. These gentle nags were replaced with 5 years old half broken horses fresh from the racetracks, almost completely unsuitable for novice riders. Horses are sly and crafty creatures that can immediately sense when an inexperienced rider is on them. They will take full advantage, stepping on a rider’s feet and leaning all of its weight onto that when the rider is trying to mount the horse, sticking its head in the grass to graze while the rider pulls on the reins in vain, or, without warning, galloping off for a few spins around the riding ring while the terrified, hysterical camper clings to its neck for dear life. One way to ensure better equine behavior was to wear the horses out between classes.

We would take the horses and race hell for leather through trails in the woods. There was really nothing as thrilling as crashing through the trees, jumping over fallen logs, getting whipped in the face by overgrown branches and eating spider webs (if you were first) or dirt clods (if you weren’t) kicked up by the rider in front of you. Lately I have managed to recapture some of the thrill by riding my bike to work, especially when I ride through a certain section of the city on my way to the library, a free-for-all, lawless neighborhood that has fiercely resisted any attempts at gentrification. This area has been basically ceded to drug addicts, hookers, retired sailors, the hopelessly insane and the permanently addicted. It’s as lawless as Deadwood, and it is vibrant with depravity and sin. The sexual energy alone thrown off by prostitutes, boy hustlers and men cruising for sex is enough to knock me off my bike. Yesterday was the first of the month, a.ka. pay day, and the entire area was even more festive than usual as people poured out into the streets like it was Mardi Gras. The streets and sidewalks were transformed into an open air marketplace, a bazaar of vice.

Addicts don’t respect laws, especially minor ones like jaywalking, and I had to dodge and weave my way through junkies wandering and carousing in the streets as I pedaled as fast as I could. I was distracted by one drag queen’s outfit, ho’ couture at its finest, and almost rammed a barefoot woman in a t-shirt and nothing else who had lurched out between two parked cars right into the bike lane. She looked like whatever she was addicted to had given her permanent neurological damage, but she jerked back in time and disaster was avoided.

One of the many sex shops that line the streets has a window dresser with a sense of humor, creativity and style who updates the displays frequently. Usually the window features a mannequin dressed in t-shirts the store is selling. Sometimes these shirts will have a seasonal theme. Around St. Patrick’s day the mannequin wore a vibrant green t-shirt that read in huge letters encased in a shamrock “F*ck me, I’m Irish!.” These days the shirt reads “Beaverfight Referee” and the mannequin had a whistle around its neck and a referee hat. In an artistic touch, sort of the the Surrealist school, the mannequin is surrounded by a garden of upright pitch black dildoes that I pray are novelty size. I still prefer riding through the woods on a horse, but biking through the urban jungle as fast as I can is still a pretty exhilarating way to start my day. The smell of crack burning in the morning is beginning to smell like victory to me.

Thrill Ride 2000

I usually slide into a little funk at the beginning of summer because I’m overcome with melancholy nostalgia for the pine woods of East Texas where I spent many halcyon summers at camp. When I graduated from camper to counselor I worked in the horse stables teaching riding there. One of the best parts of the job was taking the friskier, more high spirited horses out for a run in between classes, especially the summer after a devastating equine infectious anemia outbreak decimated our usual herd of ancient, mellow trail horses. These gentle nags were replaced with 5 years old half broken horses fresh from the racetracks, almost completely unsuitable for novice riders. Horses are sly and crafty creatures that can immediately sense when an inexperienced rider is on them. They will take full advantage, stepping on a rider’s feet and leaning all of its weight onto that when the rider is trying to mount the horse, sticking its head in the grass to graze while the rider pulls on the reins in vain, or, without warning, galloping off for a few spins around the riding ring while the terrified, hysterical camper clings to its neck for dear life. One way to ensure better equine behavior was to wear the horses out between classes.

We would take the horses and race hell for leather through trails in the woods. There was really nothing as thrilling as crashing through the trees, jumping over fallen logs, getting whipped in the face by overgrown branches and eating spider webs (if you were first) or dirt clods (if you weren’t) kicked up by the rider in front of you. Lately I have managed to recapture some of the thrill by riding my bike to work, especially when I ride through a certain section of the city on my way to the library, a free-for-all, lawless neighborhood that has fiercely resisted any attempts at gentrification. This area has been basically ceded to drug addicts, hookers, retired sailors, the hopelessly insane and the permanently addicted. It’s as lawless as Deadwood, and it is vibrant with depravity and sin. The sexual energy alone thrown off by prostitutes, boy hustlers and men cruising for sex is enough to knock me off my bike. Yesterday was the first of the month, a.ka. pay day, and the entire area was even more festive than usual as people poured out into the streets like it was Mardi Gras. The streets and sidewalks were transformed into an open air marketplace, a bazaar of vice.

Addicts don’t respect laws, especially minor ones like jaywalking, and I had to dodge and weave my way through junkies wandering and carousing in the streets as I pedaled as fast as I could. I was distracted by one drag queen’s outfit, ho’ couture at its finest, and almost rammed a barefoot woman in a t-shirt and nothing else who had lurched out between two parked cars right into the bike lane. She looked like whatever she was addicted to had given her permanent neurological damage, but she jerked back in time and disaster was avoided.

One of the many sex shops that line the streets has a window dresser with a sense of humor, creativity and style who updates the displays frequently. Usually the window features a mannequin dressed in t-shirts the store is selling. Sometimes these shirts will have a seasonal theme. Around St. Patrick’s day the mannequin wore a vibrant green t-shirt that read in huge letters encased in a shamrock “F*ck me, I’m Irish!.” These days the shirt reads “Beaverfight Referee” and the mannequin had a whistle around its neck and a referee hat. In an artistic touch, sort of the the Surrealist school, the mannequin is surrounded by a garden of upright pitch black dildoes that I pray are novelty size. I still prefer riding through the woods on a horse, but biking through the urban jungle as fast as I can is still a pretty exhilarating way to start my day. The smell of crack burning in the morning is beginning to smell like victory to me.

My Sanitarium Fantasy

I had a violent coughing fit while I was working at the information desk and had to excuse myself to get some water. The public drinking fountain was much closer than the staff room’s, so I made my way over there. When I arrived at the fountain a large and shaggy homeless man was hovering over it. I know he could feel my presence and my desperate needed to use it but, like some belligerent musk ox at the watering hole, he dallied and bogarted it spitefully. After a minute or so I finally gave up and went to the staff room.

Not to be a hypochondriac alarmist, but I hope my coughing spell was not one of the initial symptoms of TB. If it is, I thought it over and have decided that being laid up with tuberculosis in a sanitarium for a couple of months might not be so unpleasant after all. I would spend my days taking sun and fresh air in a chaise lounge as nurses in crisply starched uniforms waited upon me, attending to my every need. My wan pallor would contrast beautifully with my flushed red cheeks, that tell-tale symptom of the consumptive. I would cough delicately into a lace handkerchief that would stain with blossoms of crimson, and my hollow eyed beauty would be irresistible, like that of one of those doomed 19th century courtesans. No demands could be made upon me in my delicate condition, and I would be free and unmolested to read books and lie around in dreamy contemplation and uninterrupted languor. There would also be lots of vicodin for the chest pains. Lots and lots of vicodin. Like many of my patrons, I would also collect full disability.

I did some research and tragically, quarantine and tuberculosis sanitariums no longer exist and the afflicted are now free to roam the streets doing their part to infect new people and contribute to the development of virulent, drug resistant strains because they cannot be bothered to complete their course of antibiotics. If I came down with TB I would probably just be put on 7 month course of antibiotics, a time period during which I inconveniently couldn’t drink, not quite the romantic fantasy I had in mind. I also rode my bike to work for the first time in over a year and it was so exhilarating that I hope that I remain fit and in sound health.

My Sanitarium Fantasy

I had a violent coughing fit while I was working at the information desk and had to excuse myself to get some water. The public drinking fountain was much closer than the staff room’s, so I made my way over there. When I arrived at the fountain a large and shaggy homeless man was hovering over it. I know he could feel my presence and my desperate needed to use it but, like some belligerent musk ox at the watering hole, he dallied and bogarted it spitefully. After a minute or so I finally gave up and went to the staff room.

Not to be a hypochondriac alarmist, but I hope my coughing spell was not one of the initial symptoms of TB. If it is, I thought it over and have decided that being laid up with tuberculosis in a sanitarium for a couple of months might not be so unpleasant after all. I would spend my days taking sun and fresh air in a chaise lounge as nurses in crisply starched uniforms waited upon me, attending to my every need. My wan pallor would contrast beautifully with my flushed red cheeks, that tell-tale symptom of the consumptive. I would cough delicately into a lace handkerchief that would stain with blossoms of crimson, and my hollow eyed beauty would be irresistible, like that of one of those doomed 19th century courtesans. No demands could be made upon me in my delicate condition, and I would be free and unmolested to read books and lie around in dreamy contemplation and uninterrupted languor. There would also be lots of vicodin for the chest pains. Lots and lots of vicodin. Like many of my patrons, I would also collect full disability.

I did some research and tragically, quarantine and tuberculosis sanitariums no longer exist and the afflicted are now free to roam the streets doing their part to infect new people and contribute to the development of virulent, drug resistant strains because they cannot be bothered to complete their course of antibiotics. If I came down with TB I would probably just be put on 7 month course of antibiotics, a time period during which I inconveniently couldn’t drink, not quite the romantic fantasy I had in mind. I also rode my bike to work for the first time in over a year and it was so exhilarating that I hope that I remain fit and in sound health.

You better run along now 'cause I think I see the Mossad

While helping a patron the other day I was a little taken aback to see that the name on his record was remarkably similar to Josef Paul Goebbels. I thought perhaps his parents, either in an act of unfortunate ignorance or incredibly bad taste, had named their child after Hitler’s minister of propaganda, but my colleague informed me that that the patron legally changed his name from a very ordinary, unoffensive one to Josef Paul Goebbels about a year ago. I'm not sure of his reasons and I’m not sure if he insists people address him as "Doctor."

The name was even more surprising to me because he looked nothing like a skinhead or Neo-Nazi or the actual Goebbels himself, but more like your average Kentucky dirtball, with blonde hair tied in a greasy ponytail, soiled khakis, a worn t-shirt and the stink of the street on him. When I saw him he was very well behaved, which my colleague credited with his recent enrollment in a methadone maintenance program. He used to be combative and hyperactive, with a tweaking meth addict’s gnat like attention span. Whenever he asked a reference question he would get easily distracted, interrupting himself or the librarian about some new tangent before he could even finish his first question, jerkily shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot.

He reminded me of a NASCAR fan that E saw interviewed on MSNBC after Dale Earnhardt’s death. News organizations seem to delight in humiliating the South by dredging up the absolute worst embodiment of certain unfortunate southern stereotypes. The man they had chosen to be the face of the South had mirrored sunglasses, a grimy gimme hat, a Members Only jacket and missing teeth. Clearly overcome by emotion, he managed to speak only a little bit about the tragedy that was Dale Earnhardt’s death before he got choked up. Apologizing for needing to take a minute, he said, “I’m sorry, it’s jest that I loved Dale Earnhardt more than I loved my own Daddy!” He then violently jerked his chin to the side and made these “gee gee” choking sounds.

What I found truly pathetic about the Goebbels patron is that he misspelled and garbled Goebbels’s name and no one has bothered to correct him. I bet he doesn’t pronounce it right, either. I will keep the key misspellings secret to protect his anonymity and to keep the Mossad from finding him.

You better run along now 'cause I think I see the Mossad

While helping a patron the other day I was a little taken aback to see that the name on his record was remarkably similar to Josef Paul Goebbels. I thought perhaps his parents, either in an act of unfortunate ignorance or incredibly bad taste, had named their child after Hitler’s minister of propaganda, but my colleague informed me that that the patron legally changed his name from a very ordinary, unoffensive one to Josef Paul Goebbels about a year ago. I'm not sure of his reasons and I’m not sure if he insists people address him as "Doctor."

The name was even more surprising to me because he looked nothing like a skinhead or Neo-Nazi or the actual Goebbels himself, but more like your average Kentucky dirtball, with blonde hair tied in a greasy ponytail, soiled khakis, a worn t-shirt and the stink of the street on him. When I saw him he was very well behaved, which my colleague credited with his recent enrollment in a methadone maintenance program. He used to be combative and hyperactive, with a tweaking meth addict’s gnat like attention span. Whenever he asked a reference question he would get easily distracted, interrupting himself or the librarian about some new tangent before he could even finish his first question, jerkily shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot.

He reminded me of a NASCAR fan that E saw interviewed on MSNBC after Dale Earnhardt’s death. News organizations seem to delight in humiliating the South by dredging up the absolute worst embodiment of certain unfortunate southern stereotypes. The man they had chosen to be the face of the South had mirrored sunglasses, a grimy gimme hat, a Members Only jacket and missing teeth. Clearly overcome by emotion, he managed to speak only a little bit about the tragedy that was Dale Earnhardt’s death before he got choked up. Apologizing for needing to take a minute, he said, “I’m sorry, it’s jest that I loved Dale Earnhardt more than I loved my own Daddy!” He then violently jerked his chin to the side and made these “gee gee” choking sounds.

What I found truly pathetic about the Goebbels patron is that he misspelled and garbled Goebbels’s name and no one has bothered to correct him. I bet he doesn’t pronounce it right, either. I will keep the key misspellings secret to protect his anonymity and to keep the Mossad from finding him.

Air Bud

There is a seldom used staff exit hidden away on one of the sides of this large building. The door opens from the inside of the building to a small, unobtrusively recessed space facing the street. The door’s hydraulic control system is either malfunctioning or needs to be adjusted, because when someone going outside the building pushes the door, no matter how gently, it will swing violently outward. Yesterday one of my colleagues stepped out through this side door of the building and surprised a man who had tucked into the alcove to get out of the wind so he could roll himself a joint. The man was squatting and the heavy door slammed into him. The impact knocked all of the marijuana loose out of the man’s hands and he screamed, “Goddamnit, MAN!” He then began dropped to all fours and began frantically searching the ground for his lost drugs. That space is the perfect little grotto for all sorts of activities, so the ground is sticky and glutinous as flypaper with urine and spilled 40s and God knows what other kind of street sludge. Most of the marijuana remained trapped in it so he was able to recover a good portion of it, and he didn’t look like the overly fastidious type who would have any qualms about smoking it.

Another colleague surprised a man peeing into a Pringles can in that space, but the man nimbly avoided being hit by the door. Too bad the door missed, because it would have served him right to have urine splash all over him. I mean, there’s a public bathroom in the library he could have used!

Air Bud

There is a seldom used staff exit hidden away on one of the sides of this large building. The door opens from the inside of the building to a small, unobtrusively recessed space facing the street. The door’s hydraulic control system is either malfunctioning or needs to be adjusted, because when someone going outside the building pushes the door, no matter how gently, it will swing violently outward. Yesterday one of my colleagues stepped out through this side door of the building and surprised a man who had tucked into the alcove to get out of the wind so he could roll himself a joint. The man was squatting and the heavy door slammed into him. The impact knocked all of the marijuana loose out of the man’s hands and he screamed, “Goddamnit, MAN!” He then began dropped to all fours and began frantically searching the ground for his lost drugs. That space is the perfect little grotto for all sorts of activities, so the ground is sticky and glutinous as flypaper with urine and spilled 40s and God knows what other kind of street sludge. Most of the marijuana remained trapped in it so he was able to recover a good portion of it, and he didn’t look like the overly fastidious type who would have any qualms about smoking it.

Another colleague surprised a man peeing into a Pringles can in that space, but the man nimbly avoided being hit by the door. Too bad the door missed, because it would have served him right to have urine splash all over him. I mean, there’s a public bathroom in the library he could have used!

Cipro, Anyone?

A woman of indeterminate age with that tell-tale exposure tan approached the desk and said, "I need to get on the internet, and once I'm on it I need you to tell me a good source for medical information. I need a straight up one, one that is going to give me the right information."

I told her that WebMD is very reputable and showed her how to get there.

She leaned toward me over my desk to squint at the screen and said, "Since you're already there, would you go ahead and look up tuberculosis for me?"

With a sinking feeling, I keyed in tuberculosis.

"Are you sure this website is any good? I just found out I have this shit and I'm really freaking out here."

That makes two of us, girlfriend.

Cipro, Anyone?

A woman of indeterminate age with that tell-tale exposure tan approached the desk and said, "I need to get on the internet, and once I'm on it I need you to tell me a good source for medical information. I need a straight up one, one that is going to give me the right information."

I told her that WebMD is very reputable and showed her how to get there.

She leaned toward me over my desk to squint at the screen and said, "Since you're already there, would you go ahead and look up tuberculosis for me?"

With a sinking feeling, I keyed in tuberculosis.

"Are you sure this website is any good? I just found out I have this shit and I'm really freaking out here."

That makes two of us, girlfriend.

The Other Day at Krav Maga

The instructor clapped his hands and announced, "OK, now we’re going to work on kicks to the groin."

The girl next to me said very softly, "Sweet."

The Other Day at Krav Maga

The instructor clapped his hands and announced, "OK, now we’re going to work on kicks to the groin."

The girl next to me said very softly, "Sweet."

How to Disappear Completely and Never Pay your Library Fine

This might surprise you, but all ten of our copies of How to Disappear Completely and Never by Found were checked out years ago and never returned to the library. If our system doesn’t own a particular book, or all the copies are missing, we offer a service called interlibrary loan where we will request the book from another system for the patron. We eventually had to stop interlibrary loaning this title for people, because those copies would never come back either, and this system would always have to eat the cost.

Books on another topic that we have trouble keeping in our collection? Survivalism. One patron checked out almost every title on survivalism we had because he thought society was on the brink of collapse. When the world didn't end on schedule, he decided that he needed his library privileges reinstated. Library fines and replacement charges were the last thing on his mind, so he had been careless with the books and lost them in the wilderness area where he had bunkered down to await the End Times. The replacement fines were over $300. Since he didn’t have any money, he wanted to know if he could work in the interlibrary loan department to pay off the fines. While he was presenting his offer he smelled like he had just wandered back from the wilderness and hadn’t showered the entire time he was out there. The librarian informed him we didn’t have any sort of program like that and he would have to find the books or pay to replace them.

How to Disappear Completely and Never Pay your Library Fine

This might surprise you, but all ten of our copies of How to Disappear Completely and Never by Found were checked out years ago and never returned to the library. If our system doesn’t own a particular book, or all the copies are missing, we offer a service called interlibrary loan where we will request the book from another system for the patron. We eventually had to stop interlibrary loaning this title for people, because those copies would never come back either, and this system would always have to eat the cost.

Books on another topic that we have trouble keeping in our collection? Survivalism. One patron checked out almost every title on survivalism we had because he thought society was on the brink of collapse. When the world didn't end on schedule, he decided that he needed his library privileges reinstated. Library fines and replacement charges were the last thing on his mind, so he had been careless with the books and lost them in the wilderness area where he had bunkered down to await the End Times. The replacement fines were over $300. Since he didn’t have any money, he wanted to know if he could work in the interlibrary loan department to pay off the fines. While he was presenting his offer he smelled like he had just wandered back from the wilderness and hadn’t showered the entire time he was out there. The librarian informed him we didn’t have any sort of program like that and he would have to find the books or pay to replace them.

That Philip Roth is Real Nasty Minded

Like Thomas Pynchon and Saul Bellow, Philip Roth is one of those authors that I’ve been meaning to get around to and have suffered a vague, free floating guilt about not reading. About ten years ago I did try to read Portnoy’s Complaint, but the feverish masturbation fantasies of a young Jewish man in the 50s with a suffocating mother held little appeal for me so I did something I rarely ever do – I gave up and stopped reading it after 50 or so pages. I didn’t really think of him again until he dumped his wife, the actress Claire Bloom. My aunt lives in Connecticut and Claire Bloom was there on a theatrical tour when the marriage ended. One of her best friends took in Claire Bloom, who was absolutely a wreck, and nursed who through the crisis, and so I had a personal, although extremely distant connection to the whole affair that reignited my interest. Philip Roth ended their marriage in such a disgraceful way that it confirmed my feeling that this guy was a total creep. I couldn’t separate the art from the artist and decided that I wasn’t going to go out of my way to read his work. According to Claire Bloom, Philip Roth broke up with her by giving her his new book to read. She curled up in bed one morning with a cup of tea all, all excited to read it, and with creeping horror realized that one of the characters, a shrewish, aging actress, was obviously her. He then tried to bill her $150 an hour for the time he had helped her memorize her scripts. What a guy. (Claire Bloom was no innocent victim, though. When they moved in together Philip Roth insisted that her 18 year old daughter from a previous marriage could not live with them and made her choose between them. She chose her new boyfriend. She rationalized the decision to herself because she felt she was getting old and needed to grab on to love while she could and that he daughter was 18 and adult and could take care of herself.)

And by the way, WHY DO WOMEN DO THIS SORT OF THING? Is it some sort of biological imperative? It’s a common enough occurrence for a woman to put the needs and desires of her new man in front of her own children from a previous relationship that it would lead me to believe it is. I wouldn't put it past Mother Nature, that old bitch. Look what goes in a lion pride, where a new leader of the pride will systematically round up all the nursing cubs, products of his defeated rival, and EAT them. When a nursing lioness loses her cubs abruptly she goes into estrus, and so the new lion king gets to impregnate the lionesses with his DNA, the odor of all their dead cubs still on his breath. Gross.)

I was discussing the documentary The Weather Underground with one of my colleagues, and he suggested that I read American Pastoral, so I decided to give Philip Roth another try. In the novel, Swede Levov, an all around nice guy home town athletic hero, serves his country in WWII and then settles down to run the successful family glove making business that his penniless, immigrant Jewish forefathers had created from nothing. He marries the former Miss New Jersey and they move to bucolic New Jersey to raise their adorable little girl, Merry. Seemingly overnight in some sort of Kafkaesque transformation, his daughter, the apple of his eye, becomes a hateful, 6’0, fat, hulking, slovenly, ideology spewing, radical Vietnam War protester. In a very Weathermen act, she plants a bomb in the local store, and the bomb inadvertently kills the town doctor. She disappears and goes underground, and Swede’s life is destroyed. He tries to go on with life, but can’t stop obsessing over his daughter or trying to find her whereabouts. He refuses to believe that she murdered on her own volition; instead, he believes that she must have been brainwashed by a radical group, or there must have been something that he did to make her this way.

While he searches for her, he analyzes his past, desperately trying to find the one pivotal moment that turned his daughter against him, the instance where it all could have possibly gone wrong. The only event that the Swede could think of, and he replays it again and again in his mind, is what destroyed Philip Roth’s credibility for me. When I read it I thought, “This man doesn’t know females at all!” The scene take place when his daughter is eleven, when they’re driving home together in the car after trip to the beach.

“..lolling against his bare shoulder, she had turned up her face, and, half innocently, half audaciously, precociously playing the grown-up girl, said, “Daddy, kiss me the way you k-k-kiss umumumother.” Sun-drunk himself, voluptuously fatigued from rolling all morning with her in the heavy surf, he had looked down to see that one of the shoulder straps of her swimsuit had dropped over her arm, and there was her nipple, the hard red bee bite that was her nipple... He lost all his vaunted sense of proportion, drew her to him with one arm, and kissed her stammering mouth with the passion that she had been asking him for all month long while knowing only obscurely what she was asking for.”

Sorry, Philip Roth, but you just failed Psychology 101. Little girls often ask to kiss or even marry their fathers, but WHEN THEY’RE 4, right on track with the Electra complex, not eleven years old, the cusp of puberty. Every girl I know at that age is writhing in self consciousness, and would rather DIE than ask their father such a thing, unless they were molested and had had their sexual boundaries blown out of the water by some other horrible sexual violation.

Actually, he fails pretty miserably in all of his female characterizations - and please don't try to tell me that they're just supposed to be allegorical. Most of the women seemed like, at the very best, ungrateful bitches, and at the worst, monsters who are agents of men's destruction. He seems to resent beautiful women and their sexual power over him - especially women's power to betray and ruin men by letting some their rival have sex with them, like Swede's wife does with his loathed neighbor.

In a truly repellent scene, a young woman, a mysterious associate of Merry who taunts him with her knowledge of his daughter’s whereabouts, tries to seduce him in a hotel room where she has lured him with the promise of information about his daughter. When he rebuffs her advances, she splays herself naked out on the bed and says, “…you’re such a brave man you won’t even look at it, shut your eyes and step right up and smell it. Step right up and take a whiff. The swamp. It sucks you in.” To me, this expresses the real sum of all Philip Roth’s fears in the novel. Not an America gone mad with the war, or the punishment that befalls a Jew who has assimilated and forgotten his roots, but that old bugbear, the vagina dentata. The swamp, it sucks you in.

Is it really as simple as all that? Is that what it all really boils down to for him? The fear of being devoured and destroyed by female sexuality? Really? What a nasty world view.

That Philip Roth is Real Nasty Minded

Like Thomas Pynchon and Saul Bellow, Philip Roth is one of those authors that I’ve been meaning to get around to and have suffered a vague, free floating guilt about not reading. About ten years ago I did try to read Portnoy’s Complaint, but the feverish masturbation fantasies of a young Jewish man in the 50s with a suffocating mother held little appeal for me so I did something I rarely ever do – I gave up and stopped reading it after 50 or so pages. I didn’t really think of him again until he dumped his wife, the actress Claire Bloom. My aunt lives in Connecticut and Claire Bloom was there on a theatrical tour when the marriage ended. One of her best friends took in Claire Bloom, who was absolutely a wreck, and nursed who through the crisis, and so I had a personal, although extremely distant connection to the whole affair that reignited my interest. Philip Roth ended their marriage in such a disgraceful way that it confirmed my feeling that this guy was a total creep. I couldn’t separate the art from the artist and decided that I wasn’t going to go out of my way to read his work. According to Claire Bloom, Philip Roth broke up with her by giving her his new book to read. She curled up in bed one morning with a cup of tea all, all excited to read it, and with creeping horror realized that one of the characters, a shrewish, aging actress, was obviously her. He then tried to bill her $150 an hour for the time he had helped her memorize her scripts. What a guy. (Claire Bloom was no innocent victim, though. When they moved in together Philip Roth insisted that her 18 year old daughter from a previous marriage could not live with them and made her choose between them. She chose her new boyfriend. She rationalized the decision to herself because she felt she was getting old and needed to grab on to love while she could and that he daughter was 18 and adult and could take care of herself.)

And by the way, WHY DO WOMEN DO THIS SORT OF THING? Is it some sort of biological imperative? It’s a common enough occurrence for a woman to put the needs and desires of her new man in front of her own children from a previous relationship that it would lead me to believe it is. I wouldn't put it past Mother Nature, that old bitch. Look what goes in a lion pride, where a new leader of the pride will systematically round up all the nursing cubs, products of his defeated rival, and EAT them. When a nursing lioness loses her cubs abruptly she goes into estrus, and so the new lion king gets to impregnate the lionesses with his DNA, the odor of all their dead cubs still on his breath. Gross.)

I was discussing the documentary The Weather Underground with one of my colleagues, and he suggested that I read American Pastoral, so I decided to give Philip Roth another try. In the novel, Swede Levov, an all around nice guy home town athletic hero, serves his country in WWII and then settles down to run the successful family glove making business that his penniless, immigrant Jewish forefathers had created from nothing. He marries the former Miss New Jersey and they move to bucolic New Jersey to raise their adorable little girl, Merry. Seemingly overnight in some sort of Kafkaesque transformation, his daughter, the apple of his eye, becomes a hateful, 6’0, fat, hulking, slovenly, ideology spewing, radical Vietnam War protester. In a very Weathermen act, she plants a bomb in the local store, and the bomb inadvertently kills the town doctor. She disappears and goes underground, and Swede’s life is destroyed. He tries to go on with life, but can’t stop obsessing over his daughter or trying to find her whereabouts. He refuses to believe that she murdered on her own volition; instead, he believes that she must have been brainwashed by a radical group, or there must have been something that he did to make her this way.

While he searches for her, he analyzes his past, desperately trying to find the one pivotal moment that turned his daughter against him, the instance where it all could have possibly gone wrong. The only event that the Swede could think of, and he replays it again and again in his mind, is what destroyed Philip Roth’s credibility for me. When I read it I thought, “This man doesn’t know females at all!” The scene take place when his daughter is eleven, when they’re driving home together in the car after trip to the beach.

“..lolling against his bare shoulder, she had turned up her face, and, half innocently, half audaciously, precociously playing the grown-up girl, said, “Daddy, kiss me the way you k-k-kiss umumumother.” Sun-drunk himself, voluptuously fatigued from rolling all morning with her in the heavy surf, he had looked down to see that one of the shoulder straps of her swimsuit had dropped over her arm, and there was her nipple, the hard red bee bite that was her nipple... He lost all his vaunted sense of proportion, drew her to him with one arm, and kissed her stammering mouth with the passion that she had been asking him for all month long while knowing only obscurely what she was asking for.”

Sorry, Philip Roth, but you just failed Psychology 101. Little girls often ask to kiss or even marry their fathers, but WHEN THEY’RE 4, right on track with the Electra complex, not eleven years old, the cusp of puberty. Every girl I know at that age is writhing in self consciousness, and would rather DIE than ask their father such a thing, unless they were molested and had had their sexual boundaries blown out of the water by some other horrible sexual violation.

Actually, he fails pretty miserably in all of his female characterizations - and please don't try to tell me that they're just supposed to be allegorical. Most of the women seemed like, at the very best, ungrateful bitches, and at the worst, monsters who are agents of men's destruction. He seems to resent beautiful women and their sexual power over him - especially women's power to betray and ruin men by letting some their rival have sex with them, like Swede's wife does with his loathed neighbor.

In a truly repellent scene, a young woman, a mysterious associate of Merry who taunts him with her knowledge of his daughter’s whereabouts, tries to seduce him in a hotel room where she has lured him with the promise of information about his daughter. When he rebuffs her advances, she splays herself naked out on the bed and says, “…you’re such a brave man you won’t even look at it, shut your eyes and step right up and smell it. Step right up and take a whiff. The swamp. It sucks you in.” To me, this expresses the real sum of all Philip Roth’s fears in the novel. Not an America gone mad with the war, or the punishment that befalls a Jew who has assimilated and forgotten his roots, but that old bugbear, the vagina dentata. The swamp, it sucks you in.

Is it really as simple as all that? Is that what it all really boils down to for him? The fear of being devoured and destroyed by female sexuality? Really? What a nasty world view.

Fun on the Reference Desk

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle."

--Philo of Alexandria

A young man approached the desk. He looked just like Napoleon Dynamite, if Napoleon Dynamite wore all black and worshiped Satan. Like Napoleon, he was a mouth breather. In the same dead pan delivery he asked, “I need all of your books on Halloween. You know, Halloween, the day when the undead walk the earth? It's pretty much my favorite holiday.”

I smiled courteously and replied, “Second floor!”

A man in a business suit said, “I need the telephone number to the local paper. I need to use their microfilm machines.”

“The local paper doesn’t allow the general public to use their microfilm machines. They refer them here. Would you like for me to show you where the microfilm machines are?”

His eyes narrowed and he hissed, “Just give me the fucking number to the paper!” He loomed over my desk. I felt like a bank teller in the middle of a hold up.

He began to shriek, “I’m so goddamn sick of this! The Mexican Mafia infiltrated your machines back in ’86. I can’t tell you how many hundreds of pages of my court documents they have stolen from me!”

I gave him the main subscription number to the paper, silently wishing him luck reaching a human in that automated tarpit. “Here you go!”

A burly man wearing an incongruous tiny pink Hello Kitty backpack, the kind designed to fit the back of an elementary schoolgirl perfectly, approached the desk and said in an eerie monotone, “I was sprayed heavily with pesticides yesterday. I could smell it on my body all day, so I knew it had happened to me. Today I got sprayed again, but it’s odorless. It must be a new kind of pesticide. I thought I should report this.”

“I’ll let the proper people know. Thank you, sir.”

Fun on the Reference Desk

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle."

--Philo of Alexandria

A young man approached the desk. He looked just like Napoleon Dynamite, if Napoleon Dynamite wore all black and worshiped Satan. Like Napoleon, he was a mouth breather. In the same dead pan delivery he asked, “I need all of your books on Halloween. You know, Halloween, the day when the undead walk the earth? It's pretty much my favorite holiday.”

I smiled courteously and replied, “Second floor!”

A man in a business suit said, “I need the telephone number to the local paper. I need to use their microfilm machines.”

“The local paper doesn’t allow the general public to use their microfilm machines. They refer them here. Would you like for me to show you where the microfilm machines are?”

His eyes narrowed and he hissed, “Just give me the fucking number to the paper!” He loomed over my desk. I felt like a bank teller in the middle of a hold up.

He began to shriek, “I’m so goddamn sick of this! The Mexican Mafia infiltrated your machines back in ’86. I can’t tell you how many hundreds of pages of my court documents they have stolen from me!”

I gave him the main subscription number to the paper, silently wishing him luck reaching a human in that automated tarpit. “Here you go!”

A burly man wearing an incongruous tiny pink Hello Kitty backpack, the kind designed to fit the back of an elementary schoolgirl perfectly, approached the desk and said in an eerie monotone, “I was sprayed heavily with pesticides yesterday. I could smell it on my body all day, so I knew it had happened to me. Today I got sprayed again, but it’s odorless. It must be a new kind of pesticide. I thought I should report this.”

“I’ll let the proper people know. Thank you, sir.”

Another Nice Way to Start My Day

On a morning walk with the dogs, getting to see a Buddhist monk in his ochre robes climb out of his car and feed his parking meter. Then we passed a society dowager, who stopped and bent down to examine and fuss over the dogs. She asked,

"Are they both yours?"

When I said yes, she asked, "Do they get along? Are they great friends?"

I replied, "They're best friends! Actually, they're life partners."

"Oh, then, they are both male?"

I laughed, "No, I just meant that they are very devoted and committed to each other."

Another Nice Way to Start My Day

On a morning walk with the dogs, getting to see a Buddhist monk in his ochre robes climb out of his car and feed his parking meter. Then we passed a society dowager, who stopped and bent down to examine and fuss over the dogs. She asked,

"Are they both yours?"

When I said yes, she asked, "Do they get along? Are they great friends?"

I replied, "They're best friends! Actually, they're life partners."

"Oh, then, they are both male?"

I laughed, "No, I just meant that they are very devoted and committed to each other."

Pretty Damn Magical Way to Start your Day

On my way to work, happening upon a group of homeless men practicing Tai Chi in the park. Their ancient Chinese instructor was tottering back and forth, gently correcting their form.

Pretty Damn Magical Way to Start your Day

On my way to work, happening upon a group of homeless men practicing Tai Chi in the park. Their ancient Chinese instructor was tottering back and forth, gently correcting their form.

A Nice Chianti

Part of my new job territory is spending a couple of hours a day answering the main information telephone line. Often I will hear background noises during the calls. The sounds can be distracting, like when someone calls from a cell phone on a street and 5 fire trucks and ambulances go by, or disgusting, like when patrons smack their gum or enjoy their lunch while they’re talking to me. Other times the noises are extremely intriguing and leave a lot to the imagination. Since I’m on the phone and I don’t have a visual, my mind will often produce one. Sometimes,.especially late in the evening when the library is quiet and creepy, the visuals and scenarios that my mind produces for me are extremely unwelcome. One night a male patron with an extremely silky, patrician voice called with a question about the history of a particular vineyard. Classical music was playing softly in the background and all I could think about was the scene in Silence of the Lambs when Hannibal Lecter is preparing to create his gore masterpiece art project out of the two Tennessee policemen. I wondered if the patron was asking about the vineyard because he was trying to pair the exact right wine with the sweetbreads of his victim, who was sitting tied up and gagged 10 feet from the phone. OK, I need to quit watching so many horror movies.

The other day an ancient, hard of hearing woman called, or I guess I should say she had her equally ancient, hard of hearing African American maid call for her. The woman would scream her question and then the maid would communicate the question to me through the phone, even though I heard it perfectly the first time.

“Tell the librarian I need a detective agency! I need the number to the Pinkerton Detective agency!”

“Hello, Ma’am. Good day. Yes. My employer needs the number to the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

I asked, “May I ask what you need the agency for? Maybe I can help you.”

"The librarian needs to know why you need the information because maybe she can help you!"

“I need to find the whereabouts and the telephone number of a person who might be living in the next county!”

“Yes, she needs to find the whereabouts and telephone number of a person in the next county.”

I asked for the name and found the person immediately using http://www.whitepages.com.

“That’s him! Tell the librarian thank you very much!”

“Thank you very much.”

“And to have a good day!”

“And you have a good day.”

I’m always fascinated by the interaction between women of a certain Driving Miss Daisy age and their maids. I recently learned that my grandmother, whose eyesight is beginning to fail, is having her African American maid read her the Wall Street Journal every morning. I can hear it now.

“Look here, Miz Ferrell. The price of Genentech went up!”

Often when I'm on the phone senior citizen shut-ins who are lonely and want to talk will call. It makes me sick with guilt to have to give them rush, but there is usually a queue of callers and my colleagues give me the stink eye if I’m on the phone too long exchanging pleasantries. I have a problem cutting lonely people off at the desk as well. The intensity of their loneliness is hard to bear, and often while I'm at work the song Eleanor Rigby plays on an endless loop in my head.

A Nice Chianti

Part of my new job territory is spending a couple of hours a day answering the main information telephone line. Often I will hear background noises during the calls. The sounds can be distracting, like when someone calls from a cell phone on a street and 5 fire trucks and ambulances go by, or disgusting, like when patrons smack their gum or enjoy their lunch while they’re talking to me. Other times the noises are extremely intriguing and leave a lot to the imagination. Since I’m on the phone and I don’t have a visual, my mind will often produce one. Sometimes,.especially late in the evening when the library is quiet and creepy, the visuals and scenarios that my mind produces for me are extremely unwelcome. One night a male patron with an extremely silky, patrician voice called with a question about the history of a particular vineyard. Classical music was playing softly in the background and all I could think about was the scene in Silence of the Lambs when Hannibal Lecter is preparing to create his gore masterpiece art project out of the two Tennessee policemen. I wondered if the patron was asking about the vineyard because he was trying to pair the exact right wine with the sweetbreads of his victim, who was sitting tied up and gagged 10 feet from the phone. OK, I need to quit watching so many horror movies.

The other day an ancient, hard of hearing woman called, or I guess I should say she had her equally ancient, hard of hearing African American maid call for her. The woman would scream her question and then the maid would communicate the question to me through the phone, even though I heard it perfectly the first time.

“Tell the librarian I need a detective agency! I need the number to the Pinkerton Detective agency!”

“Hello, Ma’am. Good day. Yes. My employer needs the number to the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

I asked, “May I ask what you need the agency for? Maybe I can help you.”

"The librarian needs to know why you need the information because maybe she can help you!"

“I need to find the whereabouts and the telephone number of a person who might be living in the next county!”

“Yes, she needs to find the whereabouts and telephone number of a person in the next county.”

I asked for the name and found the person immediately using http://www.whitepages.com.

“That’s him! Tell the librarian thank you very much!”

“Thank you very much.”

“And to have a good day!”

“And you have a good day.”

I’m always fascinated by the interaction between women of a certain Driving Miss Daisy age and their maids. I recently learned that my grandmother, whose eyesight is beginning to fail, is having her African American maid read her the Wall Street Journal every morning. I can hear it now.

“Look here, Miz Ferrell. The price of Genentech went up!”

Often when I'm on the phone senior citizen shut-ins who are lonely and want to talk will call. It makes me sick with guilt to have to give them rush, but there is usually a queue of callers and my colleagues give me the stink eye if I’m on the phone too long exchanging pleasantries. I have a problem cutting lonely people off at the desk as well. The intensity of their loneliness is hard to bear, and often while I'm at work the song Eleanor Rigby plays on an endless loop in my head.