Dope Sick Love

Whenever I teach the public basic internet course I always reserve 15 minutes of free time at the end of class for pupils to practice what they've learned and explore the world wide web on their own. The last time I taught class I spent most of that final fifteen minutes trying to assist a homeless man obtain a Match.com account. He really had his heart set on setting up a profile but he was so high on heroin or methadone that he kept nodding off as I tried to walk him through the sign-up process. He was also so loaded that couldn't even manage to type his e-mail address in correctly, not to mention confirm it.

The fields looked something like this:

E-mail: sketchyhomeless@yahoo.....com
Confirm your e-mail: sketyahoo;!yaho.com

If he ever managed to set up his profile I think it would be something like:

Lonely man currently in between places with lots of time on his hands and a giant monkey on his back seeks love from a special lady. Meet me at the library cafeteria or in the 2nd floor stacks.

Whatever drugs he was on seemed to slow his temporal reality to a near halt and it was as if his responses and movements were on time delay. I found the effect very disconcerting, and at times I felt like we were on a completely different spacetime continuum. I noticed the same phenomenon as a child with one of my friend's mom who was addicted to valium. She would wile away the days in her Texas mansion in her king size bed smoking menthol cigarettes and watching gameshows like the Price is Right. She used her bed as an office of sorts and there would always be papers spread all around her on the bed. Although it was 110 degrees outside in the Texas summer she kept her curtains drawn and her bedroom as cold as a cryogenic chamber. Whenever Amy and I would go in there to ask her something she obviously understood everything clearly but her response time was slow, like she was on a 2 second time delay. The benzodiazapines didn't make her speech slower but made it off a beat, as if our words had to travel a long way to reach her. She was usually preternaturally calm but would fly into rages over odd, unpredictable matters like one time when Amy ate a slice of bologna before dinner. I'm not sure if this incident is related to Amy's hospitalization for anorexia in high school a few years later.

Quote of the Day

'It's a bit of a metaphor for my career. Like Icarus. That's all I'm saying. If you get it, great. If not, that's fine too... But you should probably read more."

Factory Records founder Tony Wilson, trying to hang glide, as played by English comic Steve Coogan in 24 Hour Party People.

I always liked this other Icarus painting by Brueghel. See if you can find him!

See if you can find Joseph and Mary in this painting of the Flight from Egypt.

I'm not sure if these artists were trying to find an excuse to do a painting of primarily a secular still life or contemporary landscape painting, or if they were making some sort of statement about how life goes on and people obliviously go about their business while these momentous events are occurring around them.

Quote of the Day

'It's a bit of a metaphor for my career. Like Icarus. That's all I'm saying. If you get it, great. If not, that's fine too... But you should probably read more."

Factory Records founder Tony Wilson, trying to hang glide, as played by English comic Steve Coogan in 24 Hour Party People.

I always liked this other Icarus painting by Brueghel. See if you can find him!

See if you can find Joseph and Mary in this painting of the Flight from Egypt.

I'm not sure if these artists were trying to find an excuse to do a painting of primarily a secular still life or contemporary landscape painting, or if they were making some sort of statement about how life goes on and people obliviously go about their business while these momentous events are occurring around them.

Gentle, Angry People

A man wearing a rather redundant Quakers for Peace button approached the desk and muttered a question about where a conference room was. Since there were several meetings going on the librarian questioned him about which meeting room he wanted to find. He clenched a fist and slammed it against his thigh, "There is a sign out there that says there's a peace meeting in the 1st floor meeting room SO TELL ME WHERE THAT IS!"

I was laughing about later it with my colleague who commented, "I've heard that pacifists are some of the angriest people on earth." But a Quaker pacifist?

I love paradoxical behavior. One time a girl rushed in to my branch library to try to print off her resume. Computers at my old branch did not have word processing and when I informed her she suffered a hysterical meltdown right in front of my desk. I can't bear histrionics and since we all have really bad days I told her that I would print it out from my computer. As I was printing her resume off I noticed that under her personal strengths statement she had written, "I always remain calm and collected even in the most stressful situations."

Gentle, Angry People

A man wearing a rather redundant Quakers for Peace button approached the desk and muttered a question about where a conference room was. Since there were several meetings going on the librarian questioned him about which meeting room he wanted to find. He clenched a fist and slammed it against his thigh, "There is a sign out there that says there's a peace meeting in the 1st floor meeting room SO TELL ME WHERE THAT IS!"

I was laughing about later it with my colleague who commented, "I've heard that pacifists are some of the angriest people on earth." But a Quaker pacifist?

I love paradoxical behavior. One time a girl rushed in to my branch library to try to print off her resume. Computers at my old branch did not have word processing and when I informed her she suffered a hysterical meltdown right in front of my desk. I can't bear histrionics and since we all have really bad days I told her that I would print it out from my computer. As I was printing her resume off I noticed that under her personal strengths statement she had written, "I always remain calm and collected even in the most stressful situations."

I Ain't Afraid of no Scientologists!

Someone was telling me that an African American friend of hers was so tired of turning on the television and seeing ubiquitous Tom Cruise and his future child bride Katie Holmes that she changed the station to BET. There, she believed, she would be free from them. But when she turned the channel to BET she found herself right in the middle of a lengthy segment on 'the pair of fools' - on BET! She was outraged.

I half expect Katie Holmes to start subtly shooting the finger in one of her interviews as a desperate signal for help like our captured servicemen in those North Korean POW propaganda films. Be careful, Katie! Once you're in the clutches of those Scientologists, it's very hard to break free, and they'll hound you for years. I know that they're relentlessly aggressive if you criticize them as well, so I guess I should be careful too. But in the immortal words of Betty Butterfield, "I survived Stage 4 titty cancer! I ain't afraid of no goddamned Scientologists!" Watch this video clip of Betty's dangerous flirtation with the church of Scientology. Betty couldn't help herself; she had to get a personality test because she was feeling so sorry for herself and Tom Cruise just seemed so happy jumping all over the furniture on Oprah.

I Ain't Afraid of no Scientologists!

Someone was telling me that an African American friend of hers was so tired of turning on the television and seeing ubiquitous Tom Cruise and his future child bride Katie Holmes that she changed the station to BET. There, she believed, she would be free from them. But when she turned the channel to BET she found herself right in the middle of a lengthy segment on 'the pair of fools' - on BET! She was outraged.

I half expect Katie Holmes to start subtly shooting the finger in one of her interviews as a desperate signal for help like our captured servicemen in those North Korean POW propaganda films. Be careful, Katie! Once you're in the clutches of those Scientologists, it's very hard to break free, and they'll hound you for years. I know that they're relentlessly aggressive if you criticize them as well, so I guess I should be careful too. But in the immortal words of Betty Butterfield, "I survived Stage 4 titty cancer! I ain't afraid of no goddamned Scientologists!" Watch this video clip of Betty's dangerous flirtation with the church of Scientology. Betty couldn't help herself; she had to get a personality test because she was feeling so sorry for herself and Tom Cruise just seemed so happy jumping all over the furniture on Oprah.

Wallowing in their own crapulence

My old branch is in a neighborhood infested with self labeled poets and artist types who use their artistic identity as a license for drunken excess and moral turpitude. Because of their immature philosophies about the kind of life an artist should lead, they feel outside the boundaries of common decency and believe that to be an artist is to be drunken layabout who engages in self destructive behavior, has self-indulgent, theatrical mental breakdowns and just generally wallows in his own crapulence. In other words, they all fancy themselves Bukowski.

Hey – to each his own, but they were a source of constant irritation to me because of the way they were always slinking into the branch and rattling their cup, trying to wheedle huge sums of money out of my manager to perform whatever doggerel their shitty muse had inspired. Every once in a while in a weak moment or to amuse himself my manager would agree to arrange a performance. On the night of the reading, the audience would be comprised soley of other neighborhood artists. Of course they all despise each other and are gossipier, pettier and more jealous than seventh grade girls, so the audience would heckle and shout obscenities and destroy any possibility of the event being remotely a culturally enriching experience.

So, I was quite amused myself to learn that one of them is now serving jail time for charging into a bar wildly brandishing a machete at an artistic rival over some perceived slight to his work. He seems to actually be thriving in the structured environment of prison, however, and is teaching his fellow inmates yoga, of which he is an ardent practioner. In fact, he was featured prominently in the big book of naked yoga. I hope that he’s not teaching the naked style there, which I think would be dangerous in men's prison. Another ‘artist,’ who is celebrated as a major communist poet in, (oh, Lord where else) France, was recently committed involuntarily and spent one entire week strapped naked to a chair in a padded cell, foaming at the mouth and screaming. He is out now but lost 10 pounds in the mental hospital and looks great. “Apparently,” my boss reported, “a week tied naked to a chair works better than the South Beach Diet.”

Wallowing in their own crapulence

My old branch is in a neighborhood infested with self labeled poets and artist types who use their artistic identity as a license for drunken excess and moral turpitude. Because of their immature philosophies about the kind of life an artist should lead, they feel outside the boundaries of common decency and believe that to be an artist is to be drunken layabout who engages in self destructive behavior, has self-indulgent, theatrical mental breakdowns and just generally wallows in his own crapulence. In other words, they all fancy themselves Bukowski.

Hey – to each his own, but they were a source of constant irritation to me because of the way they were always slinking into the branch and rattling their cup, trying to wheedle huge sums of money out of my manager to perform whatever doggerel their shitty muse had inspired. Every once in a while in a weak moment or to amuse himself my manager would agree to arrange a performance. On the night of the reading, the audience would be comprised soley of other neighborhood artists. Of course they all despise each other and are gossipier, pettier and more jealous than seventh grade girls, so the audience would heckle and shout obscenities and destroy any possibility of the event being remotely a culturally enriching experience.

So, I was quite amused myself to learn that one of them is now serving jail time for charging into a bar wildly brandishing a machete at an artistic rival over some perceived slight to his work. He seems to actually be thriving in the structured environment of prison, however, and is teaching his fellow inmates yoga, of which he is an ardent practioner. In fact, he was featured prominently in the big book of naked yoga. I hope that he’s not teaching the naked style there, which I think would be dangerous in men's prison. Another ‘artist,’ who is celebrated as a major communist poet in, (oh, Lord where else) France, was recently committed involuntarily and spent one entire week strapped naked to a chair in a padded cell, foaming at the mouth and screaming. He is out now but lost 10 pounds in the mental hospital and looks great. “Apparently,” my boss reported, “a week tied naked to a chair works better than the South Beach Diet.”

Library Aquarium

When I man the front desk it I get to watch patrons stream by as they enter and exit the library. As I watch all the people go drifting by I feel as if I’m sitting in front of a giant aquarium, an activity I find endlessly fascinating. The last time I was at the New Orleans' aquarium, E and I couldn't get enough and stared for hours in slack jawed wonder at the tanks of gently rocking sea horses and hypnotically pulsating jellyfish. I think we alarmed the docent, who must have suspected that we had eaten some very powerful blotter acid. I’ve noticed my blood pressure and stress level lower when I watch people go by the desk, just as they do when I gaze into an aquarium. If the desk if very slow, patron watching will send me into a state of deep relaxation, practically a theta state.

With the exception of when we first open the doors, which we call ‘the running of the bulls’ because of the way the hoards rush and shove in to get in line on the computers, most people take their time and wander about. Colorful drag queens in all of their finery, gray bottom feeders, hustler types casing everyone like sharp eyed predators, classes of uniformed children darting about like schools of sardines, sassy streetwalkers, men and women in business suits, new immigrants in ethnic costume, elegant dowagers, deranged homeless cackling and jabbering to themselves, Hare Krishnas in saffron robes, European and Japanese tourists with brightly colored backpacks, tattooed bike messengers, rumpled scholars - they all pass by the desk in a colorful fanfare as if carried along by gentle currents. I again am reminded that libraries are one of this society's last mixing places, where people from all walks of life and all strata freely mingle. Sometimes when I'm marveling at all of the people I get philosophical and I can’t help but think that whoever is responsible for all this, for all of this glorious and sublimely ridiculous creation, surely loves variety. Who/whatever also had quite a sense of humor and graciously bestowed in all of us a sense of wonder and humor so we could appreciate his work.

Library Aquarium

When I man the front desk it I get to watch patrons stream by as they enter and exit the library. As I watch all the people go drifting by I feel as if I’m sitting in front of a giant aquarium, an activity I find endlessly fascinating. The last time I was at the New Orleans' aquarium, E and I couldn't get enough and stared for hours in slack jawed wonder at the tanks of gently rocking sea horses and hypnotically pulsating jellyfish. I think we alarmed the docent, who must have suspected that we had eaten some very powerful blotter acid. I’ve noticed my blood pressure and stress level lower when I watch people go by the desk, just as they do when I gaze into an aquarium. If the desk if very slow, patron watching will send me into a state of deep relaxation, practically a theta state.

With the exception of when we first open the doors, which we call ‘the running of the bulls’ because of the way the hoards rush and shove in to get in line on the computers, most people take their time and wander about. Colorful drag queens in all of their finery, gray bottom feeders, hustler types casing everyone like sharp eyed predators, classes of uniformed children darting about like schools of sardines, sassy streetwalkers, men and women in business suits, new immigrants in ethnic costume, elegant dowagers, deranged homeless cackling and jabbering to themselves, Hare Krishnas in saffron robes, European and Japanese tourists with brightly colored backpacks, tattooed bike messengers, rumpled scholars - they all pass by the desk in a colorful fanfare as if carried along by gentle currents. I again am reminded that libraries are one of this society's last mixing places, where people from all walks of life and all strata freely mingle. Sometimes when I'm marveling at all of the people I get philosophical and I can’t help but think that whoever is responsible for all this, for all of this glorious and sublimely ridiculous creation, surely loves variety. Who/whatever also had quite a sense of humor and graciously bestowed in all of us a sense of wonder and humor so we could appreciate his work.

Lost in Translation

I have been attempting to play my own private game of kodo by thinking of smells to accompany particular literary works, but it’s really hard. Perhaps my sense of smell is too dormant. Certainly in my line of work I certainly haven’t been trying to develop it. Perhaps like many things eastern, it’s too much for my hopelessly western mind and I am incapable of grokking it, like when I watched MTV India a few years ago. I could only handle about twenty minutes before I had to turn it off and go lie down in a dark room. The images were so alien and bizarre to me that they were upsetting to me and actually caused my brain physical pain.

Here’s my feeble attempt at kodo. I don’t think I’m doing it right, but it is an interesting synesthetic exercise.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: patchouli and b.o.

The works of Hemingway: whiskey, gun smoke and brain matter

The works of Mitch Albom: vanilla, or something else insipid but comforting

Lost in Translation

I have been attempting to play my own private game of kodo by thinking of smells to accompany particular literary works, but it’s really hard. Perhaps my sense of smell is too dormant. Certainly in my line of work I certainly haven’t been trying to develop it. Perhaps like many things eastern, it’s too much for my hopelessly western mind and I am incapable of grokking it, like when I watched MTV India a few years ago. I could only handle about twenty minutes before I had to turn it off and go lie down in a dark room. The images were so alien and bizarre to me that they were upsetting to me and actually caused my brain physical pain.

Here’s my feeble attempt at kodo. I don’t think I’m doing it right, but it is an interesting synesthetic exercise.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: patchouli and b.o.

The works of Hemingway: whiskey, gun smoke and brain matter

The works of Mitch Albom: vanilla, or something else insipid but comforting

They are from another planet

It only takes only a cursory view of Japanese horror films like The Ring, Dark Water and Hot Tub Girls to know that Japanese culture differs vastly from ours. But what can you say about a society that has elevated a smelling game to a high art? From the endlessly fascinating Jacobson's Organ and the Remarkable Nature of Smell:

In Japan they play a game, called kodo, in which participants try to guess the names of up to two and a half thousand different scents. In even more refined versions of the game, one kind of incense is burned and the participants are required to find whichever other incense will combine most pleasantly with the first. And at the highest and most aesthetic level of competition, participants try to create an odour which would be most appropriate as an accompaniment to a particular literary work, perhaps one of the lesser-known poems of Kokinshu.

They are from another planet

It only takes only a cursory view of Japanese horror films like The Ring, Dark Water and Hot Tub Girls to know that Japanese culture differs vastly from ours. But what can you say about a society that has elevated a smelling game to a high art? From the endlessly fascinating Jacobson's Organ and the Remarkable Nature of Smell:

In Japan they play a game, called kodo, in which participants try to guess the names of up to two and a half thousand different scents. In even more refined versions of the game, one kind of incense is burned and the participants are required to find whichever other incense will combine most pleasantly with the first. And at the highest and most aesthetic level of competition, participants try to create an odour which would be most appropriate as an accompaniment to a particular literary work, perhaps one of the lesser-known poems of Kokinshu.

Post Partum

God, I adore this picture of my Aunt Kitsie. I have coveted this picture for years and she finally allowed me to borrow it to scan it when I was home. Here she is, shortly after her ‘lying-in,’ receiving visitors, her state of confinement over at last. She gave birth the civilized way, drugged to the gills and out like a light. Her husband was banished outside to the waiting room where he spent hours pacing nervously, getting loaded and handing out cigars. The baby is superfluous and has been whisked away by attentive nurses so there is nothing to distract from the most important person in the situation, the mother. She has assumed her rightful place, the center of attention and is chainsmoking, not having been able to smoke (I assume) during labor. I love her full professional make up and glamorous up-do. Although you can’t tell from the picture, her room is full of guests and they’re all carrying on like it’s one giant cocktail party. So much preferable to some hippy home birth on a shower curtain.

Post Partum

God, I adore this picture of my Aunt Kitsie. I have coveted this picture for years and she finally allowed me to borrow it to scan it when I was home. Here she is, shortly after her ‘lying-in,’ receiving visitors, her state of confinement over at last. She gave birth the civilized way, drugged to the gills and out like a light. Her husband was banished outside to the waiting room where he spent hours pacing nervously, getting loaded and handing out cigars. The baby is superfluous and has been whisked away by attentive nurses so there is nothing to distract from the most important person in the situation, the mother. She has assumed her rightful place, the center of attention and is chainsmoking, not having been able to smoke (I assume) during labor. I love her full professional make up and glamorous up-do. Although you can’t tell from the picture, her room is full of guests and they’re all carrying on like it’s one giant cocktail party. So much preferable to some hippy home birth on a shower curtain.

I Love Amazon's Listmania

Films for the bourgeoisie to walk out on

I Love Amazon's Listmania

Films for the bourgeoisie to walk out on

Crazy-Ass Patrons and their Delusional Riffs

A man approached the desk and said in a panicked rush, “Something’s wrong with the computer! I just got on and it’s telling me that I only have 2 minutes left!”

“Sir, you probably need to restart it.”

“How do I do that?”

I showed him Ctrl Alt Delete.

“I can’t possibly do that!” he whined. “My wrist is broken, see?” He showed me what looked like a perfectly fine wrist. “I’ve been trying to get acupuncture and I can’t get the government to pay for it. I just moved back from Japan and can’t handle this pace of life. What I really can’t handle is this society of computers. I don’t know how to use them. I can’t believe I have to go through all of this! Now I’ve written the governor all about it and explained to him why I’m trying to impeach the president. I need to go back to Indonesia because everything is too rushed here. I need to meditate. I’m working so hard to impeach the president. ALL I WANT IS THE GOVERNMENT TO PAY FOR MY FUCKING ACUPUNCTURE!”

He then went stormed back to his computer, now occupied by an opportunistic squatter. They got into a screaming match and security arrived at last and escorted him out of the building.

I then went to work the telephones.
My first call:

Hello, do you have any books on freemasonry? I’m very interested because my father and grandfather were freemasons and therefore responsible for much of this city’s skyline.

I told her a few of the titles.

Thank you. I saw my father, well, I’m talking about my natural father. I was raised in a foster home but by family. My father fought in the war in the Pacific against the Emperor and shortly after he returned stateside he was taken to fight the Cold War, even though we were royal. This was in the early 60s. I never saw him again but I am not sad or bitter. I was born severely deformed so my foster family, even though we were related, shunned me. Even though we were royalty, we were struggling, so we always worked. That’s why my father and grandfather and his father before him and so on were Freemasons. They liked to put things together with their hands. We were always very prominent, proud and shy. I will come by to pick up those books. GOD BLESS THE USA AND GOD BLESS THE LIBRARIES!

Crazy-Ass Patrons and their Delusional Riffs

A man approached the desk and said in a panicked rush, “Something’s wrong with the computer! I just got on and it’s telling me that I only have 2 minutes left!”

“Sir, you probably need to restart it.”

“How do I do that?”

I showed him Ctrl Alt Delete.

“I can’t possibly do that!” he whined. “My wrist is broken, see?” He showed me what looked like a perfectly fine wrist. “I’ve been trying to get acupuncture and I can’t get the government to pay for it. I just moved back from Japan and can’t handle this pace of life. What I really can’t handle is this society of computers. I don’t know how to use them. I can’t believe I have to go through all of this! Now I’ve written the governor all about it and explained to him why I’m trying to impeach the president. I need to go back to Indonesia because everything is too rushed here. I need to meditate. I’m working so hard to impeach the president. ALL I WANT IS THE GOVERNMENT TO PAY FOR MY FUCKING ACUPUNCTURE!”

He then went stormed back to his computer, now occupied by an opportunistic squatter. They got into a screaming match and security arrived at last and escorted him out of the building.

I then went to work the telephones.
My first call:

Hello, do you have any books on freemasonry? I’m very interested because my father and grandfather were freemasons and therefore responsible for much of this city’s skyline.

I told her a few of the titles.

Thank you. I saw my father, well, I’m talking about my natural father. I was raised in a foster home but by family. My father fought in the war in the Pacific against the Emperor and shortly after he returned stateside he was taken to fight the Cold War, even though we were royal. This was in the early 60s. I never saw him again but I am not sad or bitter. I was born severely deformed so my foster family, even though we were related, shunned me. Even though we were royalty, we were struggling, so we always worked. That’s why my father and grandfather and his father before him and so on were Freemasons. They liked to put things together with their hands. We were always very prominent, proud and shy. I will come by to pick up those books. GOD BLESS THE USA AND GOD BLESS THE LIBRARIES!

The Homeless at the Library & in my Neighborhood

Who are all of these peoples? What got them? What happened in their lives? Is this lifestyle forced upon them, or are they choosing to live this way?

What could have gone wrong? Brain disease? Did their brain start malfunctioning, through no fault of their own, and turn on them? Did they start hearing voices, implacable and relentless? Did they have a giant nervous breakdown? Did their mental demons get the best of them? Was it brain damage, something organic perhaps, like a concussion from falling off of a ladder or a blow to the head? A catastrophic stroke, or an aneurism? Alcohol dementia?

Or is homelessness caused by economic and societal forces? Are these displaced people? Throwaway kids? Drifters, hobos? People who didn’t put enough away for retirement? Were these men who stepped out for cigarettes and never came home? Foster kids graduated from the system with no family or safety net to fall back on? Are these the victims of systematic abuse that no child, no matter how resilient, could endure to become a functioning member of society? Or teenagers lured by the romance of the streets and some naive concept of freedom? Burn outs? Domestic abuse refugees? People with innate streaks of self destruction and self loathing? Rejected misfits, tormented loners? Maimed veterans who suffered some unspeakable trauma in war now with an intractable case of PSTD? Victims of repeated bad choices? Ex-cons waiting to cycle back into prison because they can’t hack it on the outside? People with no job skills? IV drug users? Drunks? The hopelessly addicted? Disconnected, alienated people? Seekers and artists who took their bohemian lifestyles too far? People who have intentionally marginalized themselves because they won’t live within society and its rules, who love the carousing, free wheeling life and easy camaraderie of the streets and are only too happy to live on charity and sleep in doorways?

Are these the mass deinstitutionalized, old patients ruined by psychotropic drugs and shock treatments from the dark ages of psychiatry? Are these people who just gave up and resigned themselves to life on the streets?

The Homeless at the Library & in my Neighborhood

Who are all of these peoples? What got them? What happened in their lives? Is this lifestyle forced upon them, or are they choosing to live this way?

What could have gone wrong? Brain disease? Did their brain start malfunctioning, through no fault of their own, and turn on them? Did they start hearing voices, implacable and relentless? Did they have a giant nervous breakdown? Did their mental demons get the best of them? Was it brain damage, something organic perhaps, like a concussion from falling off of a ladder or a blow to the head? A catastrophic stroke, or an aneurism? Alcohol dementia?

Or is homelessness caused by economic and societal forces? Are these displaced people? Throwaway kids? Drifters, hobos? People who didn’t put enough away for retirement? Were these men who stepped out for cigarettes and never came home? Foster kids graduated from the system with no family or safety net to fall back on? Are these the victims of systematic abuse that no child, no matter how resilient, could endure to become a functioning member of society? Or teenagers lured by the romance of the streets and some naive concept of freedom? Burn outs? Domestic abuse refugees? People with innate streaks of self destruction and self loathing? Rejected misfits, tormented loners? Maimed veterans who suffered some unspeakable trauma in war now with an intractable case of PSTD? Victims of repeated bad choices? Ex-cons waiting to cycle back into prison because they can’t hack it on the outside? People with no job skills? IV drug users? Drunks? The hopelessly addicted? Disconnected, alienated people? Seekers and artists who took their bohemian lifestyles too far? People who have intentionally marginalized themselves because they won’t live within society and its rules, who love the carousing, free wheeling life and easy camaraderie of the streets and are only too happy to live on charity and sleep in doorways?

Are these the mass deinstitutionalized, old patients ruined by psychotropic drugs and shock treatments from the dark ages of psychiatry? Are these people who just gave up and resigned themselves to life on the streets?

Mock - Si! - Ing! Si! Bird - Si!

Those hateful mockingbirds are back. Although we can’t locate their nest, there has to be one, because that can be the only explanation for their territorial, aggressive behavior. Billy and Spoon cannot even go into the backyard to poo in peace. One chased Spoon all the way up the back stairs landing, swooping and screeching like some tiny pterodactyl. Flying by the window one of them spied the dogs in the office, and now it will sit on the ledge screeching threats until I charge the window and it flies away.

I wish I had my mom’s cat, Ginger. Ginger is a solid black stray who showed up rather eerily the day after our other black cat, Slinky, also a stray, died. Slinky expired of old age on the oriental carpet of the living room while my mom was in the process of selling her house. The real estate agent was touring some very promising prospective buyers and when they entered the living room they all practically tripped over his body, which blended in nicely with the carpet. Rigor had set in and his four legs were sticking stiffly out like a tipped over piñata. The wife screamed and burst into tears. The couple must have decided that if having a black cat cross over your path was bad luck, tripping over a dead one in your potential living room was even worse, so they passed on the house. Ginger, through some underground network of cats, heard there was an opening and appeared at the door, and was taken in because everyone was in mourning and sentimental and Ginger looked just like Slinky. Ginger, although extremely loving to humans, was quite the stealthy, bordering on psychopathic, hunter. My parents lived in front of a wooded levee teeming with rats and field mice. He liked to stun them and drag them unconscious into my mom’s dressing room, an enclosed space with no avenue for escape that he used as his own personal torture chamber. He would lie there waiting for the hapless creature to come to and then would toy with them like some serial killer for hours. When he tired of his little Jeffrey Dahmer games he would eat the body and then thoughtfully leave the head for my mom on her pillow.

I read that cats were originally domesticated to guard granaries. They were selectively bred for their hunting and killing prowess, so soon that instinct became removed from any tie to hunger. Cats became remorseless killers who killed for the pleasure of it. Wild bird enthusiasts despise them because of the millions of birds they kill each year. In any case, we could never have a cat because Billy and Spoon are their sworn enemy. We have to spell out the word, otherwise Billy and Spoon will start on a screaming, barking jag and run into the back yard looking for the stray who sometimes walks along the top of the fence. How they learned the word I don’t know.

Mock - Si! - Ing! Si! Bird - Si!

Those hateful mockingbirds are back. Although we can’t locate their nest, there has to be one, because that can be the only explanation for their territorial, aggressive behavior. Billy and Spoon cannot even go into the backyard to poo in peace. One chased Spoon all the way up the back stairs landing, swooping and screeching like some tiny pterodactyl. Flying by the window one of them spied the dogs in the office, and now it will sit on the ledge screeching threats until I charge the window and it flies away.

I wish I had my mom’s cat, Ginger. Ginger is a solid black stray who showed up rather eerily the day after our other black cat, Slinky, also a stray, died. Slinky expired of old age on the oriental carpet of the living room while my mom was in the process of selling her house. The real estate agent was touring some very promising prospective buyers and when they entered the living room they all practically tripped over his body, which blended in nicely with the carpet. Rigor had set in and his four legs were sticking stiffly out like a tipped over piñata. The wife screamed and burst into tears. The couple must have decided that if having a black cat cross over your path was bad luck, tripping over a dead one in your potential living room was even worse, so they passed on the house. Ginger, through some underground network of cats, heard there was an opening and appeared at the door, and was taken in because everyone was in mourning and sentimental and Ginger looked just like Slinky. Ginger, although extremely loving to humans, was quite the stealthy, bordering on psychopathic, hunter. My parents lived in front of a wooded levee teeming with rats and field mice. He liked to stun them and drag them unconscious into my mom’s dressing room, an enclosed space with no avenue for escape that he used as his own personal torture chamber. He would lie there waiting for the hapless creature to come to and then would toy with them like some serial killer for hours. When he tired of his little Jeffrey Dahmer games he would eat the body and then thoughtfully leave the head for my mom on her pillow.

I read that cats were originally domesticated to guard granaries. They were selectively bred for their hunting and killing prowess, so soon that instinct became removed from any tie to hunger. Cats became remorseless killers who killed for the pleasure of it. Wild bird enthusiasts despise them because of the millions of birds they kill each year. In any case, we could never have a cat because Billy and Spoon are their sworn enemy. We have to spell out the word, otherwise Billy and Spoon will start on a screaming, barking jag and run into the back yard looking for the stray who sometimes walks along the top of the fence. How they learned the word I don’t know.

Paperboy Wants his Two Dollars

Occasionally I get to work the front information desk and when patrons unfamiliar with this vast library wander in, I direct them to the appropriate floor and section of the library. Often patrons will ask questions like, "Do you have a paging system? I thought I told my friend to meet me here but now I can’t remember if we’re supposed to meet somewhere else.” Apparently, they have confused the library with an airport terminal, and don’t think that other patrons trying to study or read or spend time in quiet contemplation would mind constant interruption by a squawking loudspeaker. These are the kissing cousins of people who don’t understand why the following statement should never, ever be uttered into cell phone, “Hey! What are you doing? I’m just sitting here at the library!”

If a member of the public wishes to speak to a specific employee in the library, he or she comes to the information desk. Oftentimes the person looks rather dubious, or throws off some strange stalker energy, but that is not for me to judge. After taking the person’s name, I’ll call the person at their desk and try to track them down to inform/warn him that a patron is trying to reach him. One day this teenage boy swaggered up and asked for one of our computer technicians. My colleague called him at his desk and there was no answer. She asked the young man if he would like to leave a message and he replied, “Well, where is he?” She said that she had no idea and that leaving a message was the best she could do. After he gave off a lot of attitude she suggested that he try back in a little while, which he did every fifteen minutes for the next two hours. Each time, the exchange went:

“Well, when is he coming back?”

“All I can do is keep calling.”

Finally, he gave this disdainful harrumph, leaned in over the desk and asked her in this really nasty, insolent way, “Is this a problem, me asking for him?” Like his tough, menacing attitude was going to command him respect. He then told her breasts, “I’m outta here.” In an ominous tone he added, "Tell him the paperboy was here to see him."

I had to wonder if the computer technician had stiffed his paperboy, because this patron reminded of the relentless paperboy in Better Off Dead, who chases hapless John Cusack the entire film like a Fury for the two dollars he owes him. I felt like leaving the computer technician a message, “Two dollars! I want my two dollars!”

Paperboy Wants his Two Dollars

Occasionally I get to work the front information desk and when patrons unfamiliar with this vast library wander in, I direct them to the appropriate floor and section of the library. Often patrons will ask questions like, "Do you have a paging system? I thought I told my friend to meet me here but now I can’t remember if we’re supposed to meet somewhere else.” Apparently, they have confused the library with an airport terminal, and don’t think that other patrons trying to study or read or spend time in quiet contemplation would mind constant interruption by a squawking loudspeaker. These are the kissing cousins of people who don’t understand why the following statement should never, ever be uttered into cell phone, “Hey! What are you doing? I’m just sitting here at the library!”

If a member of the public wishes to speak to a specific employee in the library, he or she comes to the information desk. Oftentimes the person looks rather dubious, or throws off some strange stalker energy, but that is not for me to judge. After taking the person’s name, I’ll call the person at their desk and try to track them down to inform/warn him that a patron is trying to reach him. One day this teenage boy swaggered up and asked for one of our computer technicians. My colleague called him at his desk and there was no answer. She asked the young man if he would like to leave a message and he replied, “Well, where is he?” She said that she had no idea and that leaving a message was the best she could do. After he gave off a lot of attitude she suggested that he try back in a little while, which he did every fifteen minutes for the next two hours. Each time, the exchange went:

“Well, when is he coming back?”

“All I can do is keep calling.”

Finally, he gave this disdainful harrumph, leaned in over the desk and asked her in this really nasty, insolent way, “Is this a problem, me asking for him?” Like his tough, menacing attitude was going to command him respect. He then told her breasts, “I’m outta here.” In an ominous tone he added, "Tell him the paperboy was here to see him."

I had to wonder if the computer technician had stiffed his paperboy, because this patron reminded of the relentless paperboy in Better Off Dead, who chases hapless John Cusack the entire film like a Fury for the two dollars he owes him. I felt like leaving the computer technician a message, “Two dollars! I want my two dollars!”

More Favorite Quotes

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle."
-- Philo of Alexandria

"My work is my sole comfort."
Josef Goebbels

Eric Cartman: "Mom, you'd tell me if you'd ever been in a German Scheisse video,
wouldn't you?"
Mrs. Cartman: "Of course, dear."

Advice to vampires: why not "do your business" as a bat, not a human. Easier that way, and less pollution.
Jack Handey

More Favorite Quotes

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle."
-- Philo of Alexandria

"My work is my sole comfort."
Josef Goebbels

Eric Cartman: "Mom, you'd tell me if you'd ever been in a German Scheisse video,
wouldn't you?"
Mrs. Cartman: "Of course, dear."

Advice to vampires: why not "do your business" as a bat, not a human. Easier that way, and less pollution.
Jack Handey

Find your Groove at the Library

"If you bring forth what is within you, what you will bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."
Jesus, from the Gospel of Thomas

I love this proverb, which is almost like a Buddhist koan or a riddle. When I contemplate it it sends me into the same sort of perplexed but meditative state, in any case. There could be several meanings – is he talking about emotions, or spirituality, or the Kingdom of Heaven? - but my interpretation is that he is admonishing you to find and use your gifts and talents. That is why, as a librarian, when I'm not stepping over poo, I feel it is my duty and privilege to help people use the library to discover their talents, calling and mission. The library is a sacred place. When I wander through the stacks I can sometimes feel this mystical energy of potential and promise emitted by all of the books.

So, come to the library and find what's within you. Unless you're Karl Marx. Instead of working and feeding his impoverished family, he spent his days poring over economics journals at the British Library, analyzing capitalism and piecing together communism. He wrote much of the Communist Manifesto in the reading room of the British Library.

Find your Groove at the Library

"If you bring forth what is within you, what you will bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."
Jesus, from the Gospel of Thomas

I love this proverb, which is almost like a Buddhist koan or a riddle. When I contemplate it it sends me into the same sort of perplexed but meditative state, in any case. There could be several meanings – is he talking about emotions, or spirituality, or the Kingdom of Heaven? - but my interpretation is that he is admonishing you to find and use your gifts and talents. That is why, as a librarian, when I'm not stepping over poo, I feel it is my duty and privilege to help people use the library to discover their talents, calling and mission. The library is a sacred place. When I wander through the stacks I can sometimes feel this mystical energy of potential and promise emitted by all of the books.

So, come to the library and find what's within you. Unless you're Karl Marx. Instead of working and feeding his impoverished family, he spent his days poring over economics journals at the British Library, analyzing capitalism and piecing together communism. He wrote much of the Communist Manifesto in the reading room of the British Library.

A Real Shitty Week

Before I left to visit home we had quite a situation at the library. For about a week piles of human feces were discovered at various places in and around the the building. One was boldly left near the internet computers, for which I find impossible to believe there were no eyewitnesses, and one in the problem alcove of the employee exit, a hotbed of malfeasance.

Non-house broken patrons roaming the library are nothing new, and finding human feces in the library is an unpleasant fact of public librarianship that I have chronicled extensively and nauseatingly in this blog. There was something unusual about the frequency of these episodes, however, and it was beginning to feel like we were under fecal assault. I'm not sure if these were isolated incidences, a coordinated effort, or a disgruntled patron trying to send a message. Perhaps it was the work of some kind of serial shitter.

Well, I should be able to recognize an omen when I see it. I arrived home to the news that my mother's cancer is back, my grandmother suffered a heart attack and other family drama to depressing to mention - a perfect storm of shit. I am going to stay home for a while to help.

A Real Shitty Week

Before I left to visit home we had quite a situation at the library. For about a week piles of human feces were discovered at various places in and around the the building. One was boldly left near the internet computers, for which I find impossible to believe there were no eyewitnesses, and one in the problem alcove of the employee exit, a hotbed of malfeasance.

Non-house broken patrons roaming the library are nothing new, and finding human feces in the library is an unpleasant fact of public librarianship that I have chronicled extensively and nauseatingly in this blog. There was something unusual about the frequency of these episodes, however, and it was beginning to feel like we were under fecal assault. I'm not sure if these were isolated incidences, a coordinated effort, or a disgruntled patron trying to send a message. Perhaps it was the work of some kind of serial shitter.

Well, I should be able to recognize an omen when I see it. I arrived home to the news that my mother's cancer is back, my grandmother suffered a heart attack and other family drama to depressing to mention - a perfect storm of shit. I am going to stay home for a while to help.

Good Germans

I spent a lighthearted, fun filled Friday night watching the German movie Downfall, where you get to be a fly on the wall in Hitler’s bunker during the last days of the Third Reich. For a claustrophobic 2 ½ hours, you witness the utter chaos and anarchy as the members of the Reich turn on each other like frenzied dogs while the Russians close in. One critic said it was like watching rats trying to claw their way out of a slow flushing toilet for 2 ½ hours. I’ve spent several restless nights as my subconscious has tried to process and work out the horrors I saw: the summary executions for the slightest hint of disloyalty, weeping officers blowing themselves and their unsuspecting families up at the dinner table, roving bands of MPs shooting and hanging civilians, Magda Goebbels calmly poisoning her 6 children with cyanide because she couldn’t bear them living in a world without National Socialism, Nazi officer’s drunken, cocaine fueled orgies, Hitler and friends methodically discussing the pros and cons of different suicide methods, people throwing themselves at the feet of Hitler in crazy-eyed, fanatical devotion.

I've had enough of Germans for a while. I recently tried to watch Heimat, the epic German miniseries, which came highly recommended. I had expectations of some sweet, life affirming chronicle of village life like one of those sleepy English series such as The Vicar of the Dibley or All Creatures Great and Small. After the first show I really had to stop watching. I believed that the story of a German village that spans a hundred years would provide illuminating insight into the German human experience, like the exquisite, heartbreaking Stones from the River, which explained how ordinary human beings could get caught up and participate in great evil. Heimat was created by Germans, so I expected at least a little bit of a romanticized and sentimentalized version of their history, especially since they were getting to tell their side themselves. First of all, Heimat is filmed in the German Expressionist style, and its weird and upsetting camera angles, long, odd silences all filmed in a black and white like dreamscape, were alone enough to make me recoil in horror. Instead, Heimat did nothing but confirm my worst suspicions about the German people. The miniseries begins right after Armistice in a small village. The hateful, suspicious residents of Heimat constantly pry into their neighbor’s business and turn each other into the authorities for whatever petty and vindictive reason they can. Roving bands of bullying children taunt and throw rocks at anyone weak, especially those with physical deformities. Anyone dark is accused of being polluted with gypsy blood. Songs the villagers sing would seem beautiful until you paid attention to the words, which would describe how hateful the French are and how they would be getting theirs soon. You can see where this is all headed. I have enough problems with the Germans as it is – I don’t need to fuel it.

I often have to be careful with what I read or watch. I had to take a break from reading popular Chinese-American authors like Amy Tan and Maxine Hong Kingston because their stories populated with despotic, unbelievably cruel mothers and mothers-in-law, and the overall nasty treatment of the characters to each other in were too painful to take. Their descriptions of the peasantry, especially their misogyny and superstitions, which seemed particularly alien and repulsive to me, were stirring dark currents of xenophobia within me rather than building bridges to cultural understanding.

Good Germans

I spent a lighthearted, fun filled Friday night watching the German movie Downfall, where you get to be a fly on the wall in Hitler’s bunker during the last days of the Third Reich. For a claustrophobic 2 ½ hours, you witness the utter chaos and anarchy as the members of the Reich turn on each other like frenzied dogs while the Russians close in. One critic said it was like watching rats trying to claw their way out of a slow flushing toilet for 2 ½ hours. I’ve spent several restless nights as my subconscious has tried to process and work out the horrors I saw: the summary executions for the slightest hint of disloyalty, weeping officers blowing themselves and their unsuspecting families up at the dinner table, roving bands of MPs shooting and hanging civilians, Magda Goebbels calmly poisoning her 6 children with cyanide because she couldn’t bear them living in a world without National Socialism, Nazi officer’s drunken, cocaine fueled orgies, Hitler and friends methodically discussing the pros and cons of different suicide methods, people throwing themselves at the feet of Hitler in crazy-eyed, fanatical devotion.

I've had enough of Germans for a while. I recently tried to watch Heimat, the epic German miniseries, which came highly recommended. I had expectations of some sweet, life affirming chronicle of village life like one of those sleepy English series such as The Vicar of the Dibley or All Creatures Great and Small. After the first show I really had to stop watching. I believed that the story of a German village that spans a hundred years would provide illuminating insight into the German human experience, like the exquisite, heartbreaking Stones from the River, which explained how ordinary human beings could get caught up and participate in great evil. Heimat was created by Germans, so I expected at least a little bit of a romanticized and sentimentalized version of their history, especially since they were getting to tell their side themselves. First of all, Heimat is filmed in the German Expressionist style, and its weird and upsetting camera angles, long, odd silences all filmed in a black and white like dreamscape, were alone enough to make me recoil in horror. Instead, Heimat did nothing but confirm my worst suspicions about the German people. The miniseries begins right after Armistice in a small village. The hateful, suspicious residents of Heimat constantly pry into their neighbor’s business and turn each other into the authorities for whatever petty and vindictive reason they can. Roving bands of bullying children taunt and throw rocks at anyone weak, especially those with physical deformities. Anyone dark is accused of being polluted with gypsy blood. Songs the villagers sing would seem beautiful until you paid attention to the words, which would describe how hateful the French are and how they would be getting theirs soon. You can see where this is all headed. I have enough problems with the Germans as it is – I don’t need to fuel it.

I often have to be careful with what I read or watch. I had to take a break from reading popular Chinese-American authors like Amy Tan and Maxine Hong Kingston because their stories populated with despotic, unbelievably cruel mothers and mothers-in-law, and the overall nasty treatment of the characters to each other in were too painful to take. Their descriptions of the peasantry, especially their misogyny and superstitions, which seemed particularly alien and repulsive to me, were stirring dark currents of xenophobia within me rather than building bridges to cultural understanding.

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.

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

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Fecal Mischief

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