Idle Hands

A man approached the desk. He was dressed in a nondescript way except for a fuzzy magenta scarf.

“Do you like my scarf? My girlfriend knit it for me. Go ahead, touch it.” He pulled the scarf toward me.

“Oooh – cozy. I wish I could knit, that I had a hobby like that.”

“So do I! I can’t knit, but I can needlepoint. In fact, I have this idea for a project. I want to take a giant canvas and put it on my wall. Then I will project a pattern on it and do a needlepoint tapestry. I need a hobby. I don’t really have any, except masturbating and smoking pot.”

Although the content of his speech was anything but, his delivery was dull and monotonous. I then looked at his eyes, which were crazy diamond/black holes of the sun/see you on the darkside of the moon vacant, haunted pits.

“Well, we all need a hobby. You know what they say about idle hands and all… Knitting and needlepoint books are on the 2nd floor. You have a good day, Sir.”

Loud Pipes Save Lives

Years ago when I worked at the sheriff's office I spent a few days entering information about the local bike gang into our new database, DrugTrak. Much to my delight, many of these files had photographs taken by undercover agents at various biker gatherings. The bikers all looked straight out of central casting, complete with nicknames and alisases like "Tarantula" and "Mad Dog." A couple of them were even missing eyes, gouged out during fights, I presume, and meth rotted teeth. I certainly wouldn't have hired this sorry looking bunch to do security at my concert. I thought there couldn’t possibly be any more of an ugly bunch of lowlifes until the department busted up a dog fighting ring a few months later - those mutants looked straight out of The Hills Have Eyes. There wasn’t a lot of biker gang activity in the county, so the project didn’t last long. The Feds did send us a fabulous poster that had photographs of all the jackets of various gangs emblazoned with their mottoes. I coveted that poster dearly but my sergeant, a weekend biker, pulled rank and claimed it instead.
Here are some of the mottoes I remember from the poster:

Hell' s Angels: Three people will keep a secret if two are dead.

Outlaws: God forgives, Outlaws don't. (GFOD for short.)

Bandidos: We are the people that our parents warned us about

Mongols: Respect Few - Fear None

Pagans, maybe? Your brother ain't always right, but he's always your
brother and Snitches are a dying breed

Rockers (English bikers): N.C.N.R. (No C#nt, No Ride) I guess that's the British version of Grass, Ass or Gas - Nobody Rides for Free.

I like the bikers who oppose helmet laws and wear "Let Those who Ride Decide" t-shirts. Those in need of organs thank them!

Loud Pipes Save Lives

Years ago when I worked at the sheriff's office I spent a few days entering information about the local bike gang into our new database, DrugTrak. Much to my delight, many of these files had photographs taken by undercover agents at various biker gatherings. The bikers all looked straight out of central casting, complete with nicknames and alisases like "Tarantula" and "Mad Dog." A couple of them were even missing eyes, gouged out during fights, I presume, and meth rotted teeth. I certainly wouldn't have hired this sorry looking bunch to do security at my concert. I thought there couldn’t possibly be any more of an ugly bunch of lowlifes until the department busted up a dog fighting ring a few months later - those mutants looked straight out of The Hills Have Eyes. There wasn’t a lot of biker gang activity in the county, so the project didn’t last long. The Feds did send us a fabulous poster that had photographs of all the jackets of various gangs emblazoned with their mottoes. I coveted that poster dearly but my sergeant, a weekend biker, pulled rank and claimed it instead.
Here are some of the mottoes I remember from the poster:

Hell' s Angels: Three people will keep a secret if two are dead.

Outlaws: God forgives, Outlaws don't. (GFOD for short.)

Bandidos: We are the people that our parents warned us about

Mongols: Respect Few - Fear None

Pagans, maybe? Your brother ain't always right, but he's always your
brother and Snitches are a dying breed

Rockers (English bikers): N.C.N.R. (No C#nt, No Ride) I guess that's the British version of Grass, Ass or Gas - Nobody Rides for Free.

I like the bikers who oppose helmet laws and wear "Let Those who Ride Decide" t-shirts. Those in need of organs thank them!

Helping and Hating the Homeless

The front steps of the library are buzzing with homeless entrepreneurship and activity. A man has set up an al fresco barbershop, complete with a black barber's chair he must have dragged out of some dump. There are several towels spread out by crack heads pedaling their strange wares: broken sun glasses, scratched up, empty CD cases, collapsed shoes, moisture swollen mass market paperbacks, battered cooking utensils, 4 year old Yellow Pages. A raving homeless man is preaching fire and brimstone, but seems only to be evangelizing the pigeons, rats and roaches, which seem to be there more for the bread crumbs he has spread before them than the message. ‘Tis the season for Samaritans to drive by and drop off plates of food, which the homeless litter half eaten on the steps, rich leavings for the pigeons and rats. I consider these drive-by do gooders more of a nuisance than the homeless themselves. Their misguided philanthropy contributes to the transformation of the the library steps into a homeless gathering places, a de facto homeless shelter, and we have neither the resources, training and funding to deal with the this. I am trying to balance my frustration and repulsion with pity and empathy for everyone involved in the whole sorry, endlessly complex mess.

Suggested further reading:

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City: a Memoir by Nick Flynn. The author’s father was a self proclaimed artist who abandoned his family to live on the streets. The book is about Flynn’s drifter twenties, in which he spends most of the time working in homeless shelters, trying to come to terms with his father’s decisions and circumstances.

Helping and Hating the Homeless: The Struggle at the Margins of America by Peter Marin
Originally published in Harper’s, this is a beautifully written essay by a former homeless man that recounts the author’s own experiences, as well as the history of homelessness and events that have shaped current philosophies and attitudes toward the condition.

Helping and Hating the Homeless

The front steps of the library are buzzing with homeless entrepreneurship and activity. A man has set up an al fresco barbershop, complete with a black barber's chair he must have dragged out of some dump. There are several towels spread out by crack heads pedaling their strange wares: broken sun glasses, scratched up, empty CD cases, collapsed shoes, moisture swollen mass market paperbacks, battered cooking utensils, 4 year old Yellow Pages. A raving homeless man is preaching fire and brimstone, but seems only to be evangelizing the pigeons, rats and roaches, which seem to be there more for the bread crumbs he has spread before them than the message. ‘Tis the season for Samaritans to drive by and drop off plates of food, which the homeless litter half eaten on the steps, rich leavings for the pigeons and rats. I consider these drive-by do gooders more of a nuisance than the homeless themselves. Their misguided philanthropy contributes to the transformation of the the library steps into a homeless gathering places, a de facto homeless shelter, and we have neither the resources, training and funding to deal with the this. I am trying to balance my frustration and repulsion with pity and empathy for everyone involved in the whole sorry, endlessly complex mess.

Suggested further reading:

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City: a Memoir by Nick Flynn. The author’s father was a self proclaimed artist who abandoned his family to live on the streets. The book is about Flynn’s drifter twenties, in which he spends most of the time working in homeless shelters, trying to come to terms with his father’s decisions and circumstances.

Helping and Hating the Homeless: The Struggle at the Margins of America by Peter Marin
Originally published in Harper’s, this is a beautifully written essay by a former homeless man that recounts the author’s own experiences, as well as the history of homelessness and events that have shaped current philosophies and attitudes toward the condition.

Whippit, Baby

My new dentist is an elegant, glamorous Chinese woman who looks like she’s about 22. Multiple fountains burble and ozonate the office, and the décor, with its use of soothing beige raw silk, is much more suggestive of a spa than a dentist's office. Opera arias plays softly over the loudspeaker and Vogue is on the waiting room tables. The maternal but stylish dental hygenists soothingly press their soft bosom into your head while they're cleaning scraping your teeth. Aside from all the aesthetic beauty of her office, my principal reason for selecting my new dentist is her guaranteed ‘anxiety free’ method of dentistry, i.e., lots and lots of nitrous, even for the most basic and minor of procedures.

The other day I had to get a filling replaced and a deep cleaning. As I was greedily and frantically sucking the nitrous like a starved piglet, mindful not to let my eyes roll back in my head lest I be cut off, I noticed the piped music changed from classical to Christmas music. The song Feliz Navidad began to agitateme and increase my anxiety levels, but the next song, “Christmas, Christmas” by Alvin and the Chipmunks, horrifying under the best of circumstances, was absolutely intolerable loaded on nitrous. I stopped the procedure and asked for headphones. Most of the CD selection consisted of Celine Dion, Bette Midler and Frank Sinatra, so the best I could find was Natalie Merchant's Tiger Lilly. Although I’ve never been a particular fan of hers, as I lay back and relaxed, trying go to my special place, I had thoughts like,
"These lyrics are both beautiful and...profound. I...am...so...getting...this...CD.”

Anyway, nitrous definitely made a potentially traumatic experience rather beautiful, although after I have nitrous I always feel like I shaved a couple of IQ points off for a couple of days. Doctors are using nitrous oxide on children in emergency rooms to help reduce pain and anxiety while they undergo treatment. While on laughing gas, children often even giggle while getting bones set.

Whippit, Baby

My new dentist is an elegant, glamorous Chinese woman who looks like she’s about 22. Multiple fountains burble and ozonate the office, and the décor, with its use of soothing beige raw silk, is much more suggestive of a spa than a dentist's office. Opera arias plays softly over the loudspeaker and Vogue is on the waiting room tables. The maternal but stylish dental hygenists soothingly press their soft bosom into your head while they're cleaning scraping your teeth. Aside from all the aesthetic beauty of her office, my principal reason for selecting my new dentist is her guaranteed ‘anxiety free’ method of dentistry, i.e., lots and lots of nitrous, even for the most basic and minor of procedures.

The other day I had to get a filling replaced and a deep cleaning. As I was greedily and frantically sucking the nitrous like a starved piglet, mindful not to let my eyes roll back in my head lest I be cut off, I noticed the piped music changed from classical to Christmas music. The song Feliz Navidad began to agitateme and increase my anxiety levels, but the next song, “Christmas, Christmas” by Alvin and the Chipmunks, horrifying under the best of circumstances, was absolutely intolerable loaded on nitrous. I stopped the procedure and asked for headphones. Most of the CD selection consisted of Celine Dion, Bette Midler and Frank Sinatra, so the best I could find was Natalie Merchant's Tiger Lilly. Although I’ve never been a particular fan of hers, as I lay back and relaxed, trying go to my special place, I had thoughts like,
"These lyrics are both beautiful and...profound. I...am...so...getting...this...CD.”

Anyway, nitrous definitely made a potentially traumatic experience rather beautiful, although after I have nitrous I always feel like I shaved a couple of IQ points off for a couple of days. Doctors are using nitrous oxide on children in emergency rooms to help reduce pain and anxiety while they undergo treatment. While on laughing gas, children often even giggle while getting bones set.

Ill-Advised Word Choice

Using the word ‘niggardly’ when addressing a crowd of hostile African-Americans in D.C., especially when you epitomize ‘The Man.’

After a wealthy but unsophisticated American donates money to rebuild your English church after it was damaged in WWII bombing, saying “Thank you for this succour from abroad” in a prayer of thanks during the reconsecration. (The American stalked out of the ceremony in a huff.)

In last month’s Allure Magazine, in a description of the writer’s experience at the Denver Ashtanga Yoga Center.
After our Thai massage, we left feeling calm, clear headed and fully erect for the very first time in months.

Ill-Advised Word Choice

Using the word ‘niggardly’ when addressing a crowd of hostile African-Americans in D.C., especially when you epitomize ‘The Man.’

After a wealthy but unsophisticated American donates money to rebuild your English church after it was damaged in WWII bombing, saying “Thank you for this succour from abroad” in a prayer of thanks during the reconsecration. (The American stalked out of the ceremony in a huff.)

In last month’s Allure Magazine, in a description of the writer’s experience at the Denver Ashtanga Yoga Center.
After our Thai massage, we left feeling calm, clear headed and fully erect for the very first time in months.

Self Help

When asked why his favorite working girl Trixie did something odd, saloon owner and charactonymic Al Swearengen of the delightfully, shockingly profane Deadwood responds, "I would rather try to touch the moon than figure out the workings of the mind of a whore." That is how I'm beginning to feel about the reasons for the actions of some of my patrons, and why I've stopped trying to ponder why patrons do the things they do.

A bashful man approached the desk and softly asked where our self help books on tape were, specifically those on improving self esteem. I showed them where they were on the shelves. He chose one called Build your Self Esteem  and thanked me. A few minutes later he returned to the desk. His face was red and he said, “I think someone switched the tapes. I don’t think this tape belongs in the case.”
I said, “I’m so sorry! That’s happens sometimes – we put the wrong tape in accidentally or patrons switch tapes intentionally around to amuse themselves. I’m glad that you caught that.”
The tape that had been switched for Build your Self Esteem ? Creating & Nurturing your Lesbian Relationships. Now why would someone do that? Was it some sort of practical joke or weird sexual compulsion? OK - I admit it. That's a tiny bit funny. Anyway, I'm beginning to stop caring, although I wish they would stop it.

Self Help

When asked why his favorite working girl Trixie did something odd, saloon owner and charactonymic Al Swearengen of the delightfully, shockingly profane Deadwood responds, "I would rather try to touch the moon than figure out the workings of the mind of a whore." That is how I'm beginning to feel about the reasons for the actions of some of my patrons, and why I've stopped trying to ponder why patrons do the things they do.

A bashful man approached the desk and softly asked where our self help books on tape were, specifically those on improving self esteem. I showed them where they were on the shelves. He chose one called Build your Self Esteem  and thanked me. A few minutes later he returned to the desk. His face was red and he said, “I think someone switched the tapes. I don’t think this tape belongs in the case.”
I said, “I’m so sorry! That’s happens sometimes – we put the wrong tape in accidentally or patrons switch tapes intentionally around to amuse themselves. I’m glad that you caught that.”
The tape that had been switched for Build your Self Esteem ? Creating & Nurturing your Lesbian Relationships. Now why would someone do that? Was it some sort of practical joke or weird sexual compulsion? OK - I admit it. That's a tiny bit funny. Anyway, I'm beginning to stop caring, although I wish they would stop it.

Polly

While I was home for Thanksgiving I asked my grandmother for an update on her best friend Polly, truly one of the most elegant and preternaturally poised women I have ever met. Polly was always immaculately dressed in the height of fashion, even while vacuuming. Once at one of Polly’s famous dinner parties my mother wandered into the kitchen to see Polly in an evening gown and full heels laughing and flambéing some complicated dessert for 12 people, not a bead of sweat marring her perfect makeup.

Polly could also hold her liquor like no one else I have ever met.

When she was in her twenties, a cousin stayed up all night with Polly, then in her fifties, drinking cocktails. Although my cousin considered herself no lightweight, being of hardy Scott ancestry and all, she couldn’t even begin to keep up with Polly. The next morning, my cousin crept to the kitchen to get some coffee. Quivering with the worst hangover of her life, she heard a sing-songy, “Good Morning!” She looked up through her bloodshot eyes to see Polly descending the grand staircase, fresh as a rose, hair styled perfectly, ready to spend a full shopping day at Neiman’s.

My grandmother described a typical cocktail party with Polly. The two of them would outlast their husbands, killjoy sissies who would retire at 1:00 AM. My grandmother and Polly would continue to talk and drink and laugh well into the night, until at last one of them would regretfully leave for home. (The husbands knew to drive a separate car.)

Either my grandmother or Polly, whosever house it was, would say, “Why, it’s much too late! I must follow you home. You couldn’t possibly drive home by yourself.”

Once they arrived at their destination, one would invite the other in for a nightcap.

After a few more drinks and the other would leave for home, the other would exclaim, “Why, it’s much too late! I must follow you home. You couldn’t possibly drive home by yourself.”

And they would repeat the whole scenario, back and forth, until before they knew it was dawn.

I, who have had basically to renounce alcohol bitterly and unwillingly because of debilitating, blistering hangovers inquired, “Didn’t all of the alcohol and cigarettes ever make you feel bad the next day? Even just a little bit?”

My grandmother tossed her head and replied, “Nevah!”

Polly survived three husbands, all of whom apparently died from exhaustion trying to keep up with her. She met her latest husband in an upscale assisted living facility, where competition for men was fierce because the ratio of men to women in that demographic is about 1:8. Leave it to Polly to land the one eligible man in the entire facility.

Polly remained very involved with her college sorority, and as an adult traveled to chapter houses around the states, advising the girls on issues of etiquette and fashionable domesticity. One remarkable fact I never knew was that her sorority created fund as well as a sort of an underground railroad for women in abusive marriages, including several sorority sisters who had married Saudi men who they met while the men were abroad studying in the United States. These men were seemingly Westernized, charming and exotic with large allowances, but once they were married and back in Saudi Arabia it was Not Without my Daughter. Their plight was ignored by the State Department and these women had nowhere else to turn. Their sorority sisters would give money and pull strings and even hire mercenaries to rescue these women back to the United States. Now that’s sisterhood!

Pitiful stories of mistreatment as well as pleas for the US Government to intervene in child custody issues between US women and Saudi nationals had become such a problem that the State Department in 2003 issued an advisory brochure detailing what is in store for American women who marry Saudi nationals. The State Department posted the brochure on its website, but removed it shortly for revision due to pressure from the American Muslim Council, who protested that it was prejudiced and derogatory. The new revision has yet to be posted.

Curiously, the Saudis themselves had no problem with the brochure.

Another interesting fact about Polly was that one of her great-uncles was taken by the Comanches from the family's West Texas ranch when he was boy. His family wasn't able to ransom him for a few years, and when he finally was returned it was against his will. He had gone fully native by then and for years kept trying to run away back to the Comanches. When he wasn't trying to escape, he would spend the rest of his time out on the porch staring wistfully into the horizon. He never readjusted to life among the whites, and eventually drank himself to death.

Polly

While I was home for Thanksgiving I asked my grandmother for an update on her best friend Polly, truly one of the most elegant and preternaturally poised women I have ever met. Polly was always immaculately dressed in the height of fashion, even while vacuuming. Once at one of Polly’s famous dinner parties my mother wandered into the kitchen to see Polly in an evening gown and full heels laughing and flambéing some complicated dessert for 12 people, not a bead of sweat marring her perfect makeup.

Polly could also hold her liquor like no one else I have ever met.

When she was in her twenties, a cousin stayed up all night with Polly, then in her fifties, drinking cocktails. Although my cousin considered herself no lightweight, being of hardy Scott ancestry and all, she couldn’t even begin to keep up with Polly. The next morning, my cousin crept to the kitchen to get some coffee. Quivering with the worst hangover of her life, she heard a sing-songy, “Good Morning!” She looked up through her bloodshot eyes to see Polly descending the grand staircase, fresh as a rose, hair styled perfectly, ready to spend a full shopping day at Neiman’s.

My grandmother described a typical cocktail party with Polly. The two of them would outlast their husbands, killjoy sissies who would retire at 1:00 AM. My grandmother and Polly would continue to talk and drink and laugh well into the night, until at last one of them would regretfully leave for home. (The husbands knew to drive a separate car.)

Either my grandmother or Polly, whosever house it was, would say, “Why, it’s much too late! I must follow you home. You couldn’t possibly drive home by yourself.”

Once they arrived at their destination, one would invite the other in for a nightcap.

After a few more drinks and the other would leave for home, the other would exclaim, “Why, it’s much too late! I must follow you home. You couldn’t possibly drive home by yourself.”

And they would repeat the whole scenario, back and forth, until before they knew it was dawn.

I, who have had basically to renounce alcohol bitterly and unwillingly because of debilitating, blistering hangovers inquired, “Didn’t all of the alcohol and cigarettes ever make you feel bad the next day? Even just a little bit?”

My grandmother tossed her head and replied, “Nevah!”

Polly survived three husbands, all of whom apparently died from exhaustion trying to keep up with her. She met her latest husband in an upscale assisted living facility, where competition for men was fierce because the ratio of men to women in that demographic is about 1:8. Leave it to Polly to land the one eligible man in the entire facility.

Polly remained very involved with her college sorority, and as an adult traveled to chapter houses around the states, advising the girls on issues of etiquette and fashionable domesticity. One remarkable fact I never knew was that her sorority created fund as well as a sort of an underground railroad for women in abusive marriages, including several sorority sisters who had married Saudi men who they met while the men were abroad studying in the United States. These men were seemingly Westernized, charming and exotic with large allowances, but once they were married and back in Saudi Arabia it was Not Without my Daughter. Their plight was ignored by the State Department and these women had nowhere else to turn. Their sorority sisters would give money and pull strings and even hire mercenaries to rescue these women back to the United States. Now that’s sisterhood!

Pitiful stories of mistreatment as well as pleas for the US Government to intervene in child custody issues between US women and Saudi nationals had become such a problem that the State Department in 2003 issued an advisory brochure detailing what is in store for American women who marry Saudi nationals. The State Department posted the brochure on its website, but removed it shortly for revision due to pressure from the American Muslim Council, who protested that it was prejudiced and derogatory. The new revision has yet to be posted.

Curiously, the Saudis themselves had no problem with the brochure.

Another interesting fact about Polly was that one of her great-uncles was taken by the Comanches from the family's West Texas ranch when he was boy. His family wasn't able to ransom him for a few years, and when he finally was returned it was against his will. He had gone fully native by then and for years kept trying to run away back to the Comanches. When he wasn't trying to escape, he would spend the rest of his time out on the porch staring wistfully into the horizon. He never readjusted to life among the whites, and eventually drank himself to death.

Cruisy Dog Park

Dan used his cell phone to capture Sid, the white Jack Russell who is Billy's brother, sandwiched in this nest of neutered males. Dan was visiting the city as a tourist, and wasn't aware how infamously cruisy this dog park is.

Cruisy Dog Park

Dan used his cell phone to capture Sid, the white Jack Russell who is Billy's brother, sandwiched in this nest of neutered males. Dan was visiting the city as a tourist, and wasn't aware how infamously cruisy this dog park is.

Library 911

A frantic German tourist rushed the desk. "The man in the chairs for the internet! He is most sick!" I looked over and there was one of our regulars, an enrollee of the nearby methadone clinic, nodding off in the chairs in the internet waiting area. He was snoring and his head would flop around until it rested comfortably on the person's shoulder next to him in line, which happened to be that of the German tourist's girlfriend. I thanked him and called security. What a relief it is to let security handle these situations!

At the branches, which have no security, I would often have to make the call whether a situation was a medical emergency or not, a heavy responsibility that I dreaded immensely. Once a sweet elderly woman slumped over clutching her arm waved me away saying, "It's just a bit of indigestion, dear!" Her symptoms sounded more like those of a heart attack than indigestion, but she refused help and, despite my protestations, got up and wandered out of the library and out of my realm of control. I've had unattended children have lightning fast near fatal asthma attacks and patrons who have suffered drug overdoses and seizures. I have stumbled over people passed out on the floor for indeterminate reasons. Once a dazed skateboarder bleeding profusely from his skull staggered into the library demanding an icepack.

When security poked the man asleep at the internet he huffily denied being impaired and claimed that it was a symptom of his diabetes. The security guard said, "If you're slipping off into a diabetic coma then I'm going to need to call the ambulance." His recovery was miraculous and instantaneous and he got up and walked out of the library.

Library 911

A frantic German tourist rushed the desk. "The man in the chairs for the internet! He is most sick!" I looked over and there was one of our regulars, an enrollee of the nearby methadone clinic, nodding off in the chairs in the internet waiting area. He was snoring and his head would flop around until it rested comfortably on the person's shoulder next to him in line, which happened to be that of the German tourist's girlfriend. I thanked him and called security. What a relief it is to let security handle these situations!

At the branches, which have no security, I would often have to make the call whether a situation was a medical emergency or not, a heavy responsibility that I dreaded immensely. Once a sweet elderly woman slumped over clutching her arm waved me away saying, "It's just a bit of indigestion, dear!" Her symptoms sounded more like those of a heart attack than indigestion, but she refused help and, despite my protestations, got up and wandered out of the library and out of my realm of control. I've had unattended children have lightning fast near fatal asthma attacks and patrons who have suffered drug overdoses and seizures. I have stumbled over people passed out on the floor for indeterminate reasons. Once a dazed skateboarder bleeding profusely from his skull staggered into the library demanding an icepack.

When security poked the man asleep at the internet he huffily denied being impaired and claimed that it was a symptom of his diabetes. The security guard said, "If you're slipping off into a diabetic coma then I'm going to need to call the ambulance." His recovery was miraculous and instantaneous and he got up and walked out of the library.

Stepmom of the Year

The other day on the phones: "Um, yeah? Do you, like, handle the obituaries of the state?"

“Do you need an obituary? What is the date or time period?”

“Yeah, I need a couple of them. They’re within the last couple of months or so. They’re of my stepkids. They drowned in some kind of boating accident. I don't know the date, though.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

“See, my husband? He’s in the penitentiary, so he can’t look for no obituaries. But I can’t get them from the kids’ mother, so someone said to check with y’all.”

“Well, let me check some news databases.”

While I searched, I could hear over the phone the reaction of the Maury Povich studio audience to a guest’s positive paternity test, until that was drowned out by the barking of at least 6 lapdogs.

When the dogs quieted, I asked, “Do you mind turning your television down a bit? Thanks! Well, I looked up the name in our local newspaper, a national newspaper database and even SSI death records. There was no mention of anyone of that last name dying or even involved in a boating accident. Are you sure it happened in this city?”

“Well, 6 people drowned, supposedly! I don’t know what city it was in! I just know that it happened somewhere in your big ass state! I tried to put it in Google but it was just ridiculous what I got back. Jesus Christ, the innernet was the biggest waste of time. I tell you...” Sound of smoke exhalation.

“I’m sorry. I can give you the number of the Vital Records Office. Perhaps they can help you locate the Death Certificates. Call back if you get the exact date and we’ll go from there.”

Stepmom of the Year

The other day on the phones: "Um, yeah? Do you, like, handle the obituaries of the state?"

“Do you need an obituary? What is the date or time period?”

“Yeah, I need a couple of them. They’re within the last couple of months or so. They’re of my stepkids. They drowned in some kind of boating accident. I don't know the date, though.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

“See, my husband? He’s in the penitentiary, so he can’t look for no obituaries. But I can’t get them from the kids’ mother, so someone said to check with y’all.”

“Well, let me check some news databases.”

While I searched, I could hear over the phone the reaction of the Maury Povich studio audience to a guest’s positive paternity test, until that was drowned out by the barking of at least 6 lapdogs.

When the dogs quieted, I asked, “Do you mind turning your television down a bit? Thanks! Well, I looked up the name in our local newspaper, a national newspaper database and even SSI death records. There was no mention of anyone of that last name dying or even involved in a boating accident. Are you sure it happened in this city?”

“Well, 6 people drowned, supposedly! I don’t know what city it was in! I just know that it happened somewhere in your big ass state! I tried to put it in Google but it was just ridiculous what I got back. Jesus Christ, the innernet was the biggest waste of time. I tell you...” Sound of smoke exhalation.

“I’m sorry. I can give you the number of the Vital Records Office. Perhaps they can help you locate the Death Certificates. Call back if you get the exact date and we’ll go from there.”

Fox(y) News Alert

I consulted Security and they told me that they escorted the spider bite victim to the free clinic a few blocks away.

Fox(y) News Alert

I consulted Security and they told me that they escorted the spider bite victim to the free clinic a few blocks away.

Seek Medical Attention @ Your Library

A man approached the desk and asked if we had any videos on spiders.

"What kind of videos about spiders? Are you interested in nature videos? Do you want to learn more about them?"

He groaned and shook his head back and forth. "I JUST NEED A VIDEO ON SPIDERS. Look here, I got bitten by one." He placed his hand on the desk. My colleague and I both gasped, because his hand was the size of a puffer fish, with two oozing puncture marks on the back about 1/2 an inch apart. I couldn't even imagine a spider with fangs that size.

"You should see a doctor right away! That could be a brown recluse or black widow bite! Do you want me to find the nearest clinic or hospital?"

"Just get me a video on spiders."

"Sir, we don't have any except a children's video about spiders, lizards and snakes. You won't learn anything in there to help you with that bite. Can I get you some first aid information about spider bites?"

"I don't want a book. Don't you understand, I can't read! I don't know how." His lower lip began trembling violently. He looked like he was going into shock.

"O.K., then, just tell me what floor your books on spiders are."

"Second floor, but please let me call security. They have have some first aid and can help get you some medical help."

"I just need a video on spiders!" He staggered off to the second floor. My colleague and I were at a loss as to what to do with someone who refused help. I wasn't sure if his reason was affected by shock. We were just about to call security when we saw a guard leading him out of the library.

Seek Medical Attention @ Your Library

A man approached the desk and asked if we had any videos on spiders.

"What kind of videos about spiders? Are you interested in nature videos? Do you want to learn more about them?"

He groaned and shook his head back and forth. "I JUST NEED A VIDEO ON SPIDERS. Look here, I got bitten by one." He placed his hand on the desk. My colleague and I both gasped, because his hand was the size of a puffer fish, with two oozing puncture marks on the back about 1/2 an inch apart. I couldn't even imagine a spider with fangs that size.

"You should see a doctor right away! That could be a brown recluse or black widow bite! Do you want me to find the nearest clinic or hospital?"

"Just get me a video on spiders."

"Sir, we don't have any except a children's video about spiders, lizards and snakes. You won't learn anything in there to help you with that bite. Can I get you some first aid information about spider bites?"

"I don't want a book. Don't you understand, I can't read! I don't know how." His lower lip began trembling violently. He looked like he was going into shock.

"O.K., then, just tell me what floor your books on spiders are."

"Second floor, but please let me call security. They have have some first aid and can help get you some medical help."

"I just need a video on spiders!" He staggered off to the second floor. My colleague and I were at a loss as to what to do with someone who refused help. I wasn't sure if his reason was affected by shock. We were just about to call security when we saw a guard leading him out of the library.

Why we never vacuum

Although you probably can't tell from the picture, the vacuum cleaner is covered in bite marks.

Why we never vacuum

Although you probably can't tell from the picture, the vacuum cleaner is covered in bite marks.

It's 9:00 on a Saturday, and the regular crowd shuffles stampedes in

Every two weeks the library hosts a free legal clinic. It is extremely popular and people line up for it well before the library opens for business. When the doors fling open, the elderly and the infirm had just better get out of the way. From the vantage point of my desk, it is like watching newly hatched turtles race desperately toward the sea, both horrific and mesmerizing.

I had a lawyer friend who volunteered for the clinic and she said that about half of the people were there for reasons that would break your heart and make you cry out at the injustice of it all: the elderly poor being evicted by unscrupulous landlords, mothers desperate for child support, immigrants being cheated in the cruelest and lowest sort of way. A fair number, about 25%, wanted to file cases against the FBI or CIA for stealing their identity or transmitting radio signals through their brain, and she would refer them to the social worker who had set up a desk next to the clinic. The rest were patrons who wanted to file cases against the library for security guard brutality, or because their records have been suspended for large fines, or because we wouldn't give them extra internet computer time, even though they have a disability, a medically diagnosed disability, goddamnit!. Whether their cases have merit or not, I think it's a little ungrateful and impertinent to use a library's free legal clinic to file suit against that library.

It's 9:00 on a Saturday, and the regular crowd shuffles stampedes in

Every two weeks the library hosts a free legal clinic. It is extremely popular and people line up for it well before the library opens for business. When the doors fling open, the elderly and the infirm had just better get out of the way. From the vantage point of my desk, it is like watching newly hatched turtles race desperately toward the sea, both horrific and mesmerizing.

I had a lawyer friend who volunteered for the clinic and she said that about half of the people were there for reasons that would break your heart and make you cry out at the injustice of it all: the elderly poor being evicted by unscrupulous landlords, mothers desperate for child support, immigrants being cheated in the cruelest and lowest sort of way. A fair number, about 25%, wanted to file cases against the FBI or CIA for stealing their identity or transmitting radio signals through their brain, and she would refer them to the social worker who had set up a desk next to the clinic. The rest were patrons who wanted to file cases against the library for security guard brutality, or because their records have been suspended for large fines, or because we wouldn't give them extra internet computer time, even though they have a disability, a medically diagnosed disability, goddamnit!. Whether their cases have merit or not, I think it's a little ungrateful and impertinent to use a library's free legal clinic to file suit against that library.

The difference between retrievers and terriers

I had some butter on my fingers and decided to let the dogs each lick one. When I offered my finger to Dixie, the blind black lab from Alabama, it was if it were being cleaned by the softest of butterfly wings, but when I gave my fingers to Billy and Spoon, it was as if I had plunged them into waters infested by piranhas in a deskeletonizing feeding frenzy. I expected nothing but white bone when I pulled my hand back.

The difference between retrievers and terriers

I had some butter on my fingers and decided to let the dogs each lick one. When I offered my finger to Dixie, the blind black lab from Alabama, it was if it were being cleaned by the softest of butterfly wings, but when I gave my fingers to Billy and Spoon, it was as if I had plunged them into waters infested by piranhas in a deskeletonizing feeding frenzy. I expected nothing but white bone when I pulled my hand back.

What street drug is that patron on? A guessing game.

The other day I was having a conversation at the reference desk with a drifter type, a veteran hippy who was wearing a leather floppy hat just like Dennis Hopper's character Billy in Easy Rider. He told me that the last time he was in the city was for New Year's Eve many years ago. He attended some party in an industrial junk yard and a woman, burnt out but still attractive, approached him and complained that she didn't have anyone to kiss at midnight, which was fast approaching. He told her that if she didn't find anyone else to come back and they could kiss each other to ring in the New Year properly. She found him at midnight and they kissed at midnight, but they parted ways soon afterward. He later found out that she was Cathy Smith, the woman who had administered the fatal speedball to John Belushi.

I had just said, "Good thing it didn't work out with her - it sounds like she was unlucky to party with," when I heard the sound of screaming and fighting. I looked over to see about 6 security guards tackle and try to restrain a patron. He was putting up quite a fight with what seemed like superhuman strength, but the security guards finally managed to get him out the door. I found out that a little earlier he had taken over a table by spreading out stacks of papers, all full of scribblings and John Nash formulas and calculations. He began cackling and pulling his hair out and becoming increasingly, terrifyingly agitated. When he started screaming at other patrons, both actual and imagined, the security guard asked him to leave. He lunged at the guard and that's when the melee began. I suspect he was in the tweaking stage of methamphetamine use, though it was my understanding that in that stage you had more of bunker mentality and preferred holing up in your dwelling so you could take apart your electronics unmolested. So maybe he was on angel dust, which would explain the superhuman strength. A few hours later I was working the phones he called to file a complaint about the brutality of our security. He held it together for a little while but his case soon disintegrated into nonsense word salad. Supposedly paranoid schizophrenics and tweakers are indistinguishable in psychological tests. In any case, I spent the rest of the afternoon pondering whether he was on angel dust or meth. Kind of a waste of time, but it did make the afternoon pass quickly.

What street drug is that patron on? A guessing game.

The other day I was having a conversation at the reference desk with a drifter type, a veteran hippy who was wearing a leather floppy hat just like Dennis Hopper's character Billy in Easy Rider. He told me that the last time he was in the city was for New Year's Eve many years ago. He attended some party in an industrial junk yard and a woman, burnt out but still attractive, approached him and complained that she didn't have anyone to kiss at midnight, which was fast approaching. He told her that if she didn't find anyone else to come back and they could kiss each other to ring in the New Year properly. She found him at midnight and they kissed at midnight, but they parted ways soon afterward. He later found out that she was Cathy Smith, the woman who had administered the fatal speedball to John Belushi.

I had just said, "Good thing it didn't work out with her - it sounds like she was unlucky to party with," when I heard the sound of screaming and fighting. I looked over to see about 6 security guards tackle and try to restrain a patron. He was putting up quite a fight with what seemed like superhuman strength, but the security guards finally managed to get him out the door. I found out that a little earlier he had taken over a table by spreading out stacks of papers, all full of scribblings and John Nash formulas and calculations. He began cackling and pulling his hair out and becoming increasingly, terrifyingly agitated. When he started screaming at other patrons, both actual and imagined, the security guard asked him to leave. He lunged at the guard and that's when the melee began. I suspect he was in the tweaking stage of methamphetamine use, though it was my understanding that in that stage you had more of bunker mentality and preferred holing up in your dwelling so you could take apart your electronics unmolested. So maybe he was on angel dust, which would explain the superhuman strength. A few hours later I was working the phones he called to file a complaint about the brutality of our security. He held it together for a little while but his case soon disintegrated into nonsense word salad. Supposedly paranoid schizophrenics and tweakers are indistinguishable in psychological tests. In any case, I spent the rest of the afternoon pondering whether he was on angel dust or meth. Kind of a waste of time, but it did make the afternoon pass quickly.

Sofa-Cum Bed Plus Loveseat

Our guests will no longer have to sleep on a blowup bed. Isn't it pretty? Billy Jack and Spoon love it, too. See them glaring territorially down upon high at Dixie, my cousin's black lab. E found the sofa sleeper bed on Craigslist. While going through the ads she came across one entitled:

Sealy Sofa-Cum Bed Plus Loveseat

Eeewww. Is cum  really the wisest word choice in an ad about a sofa bed? I know that it's just a fancy word for 'with,' but it is also a less fancy word for something else, something that everyone fears is spattered all over a used piece of furniture, causing hideous, unspeakable stains. I almost feel like writing the seller, probably some senior citizen innocent, to alert them to the connotations of the word cum, especially when used with loveseat.

Sofa-Cum Bed Plus Loveseat

Our guests will no longer have to sleep on a blowup bed. Isn't it pretty? Billy Jack and Spoon love it, too. See them glaring territorially down upon high at Dixie, my cousin's black lab. E found the sofa sleeper bed on Craigslist. While going through the ads she came across one entitled:

Sealy Sofa-Cum Bed Plus Loveseat

Eeewww. Is cum  really the wisest word choice in an ad about a sofa bed? I know that it's just a fancy word for 'with,' but it is also a less fancy word for something else, something that everyone fears is spattered all over a used piece of furniture, causing hideous, unspeakable stains. I almost feel like writing the seller, probably some senior citizen innocent, to alert them to the connotations of the word cum, especially when used with loveseat.

"The World is not a Fragrant Place." Raymond Chandler

I got to see one of my cousins this weekend while she was out here for a wedding. Her grandmother, my grandmother’s sister, was famous in medical school for being able to diagnose various illnesses solely by her sense of smell. While a resident on her diagnostic rounds she would pronounce a patient sick with yellow fever or tuberculosis to the amazement and often outright disbelief of some of her hostile male peers. She was never wrong. Now that dogs are being used to detect cancer, it is obvious that there is some odor component to disease. From my exposure to the mentally ill at the library, I am convinced that schizophrenics carry a distinctive odor, a sort of oniony, metallic smell. Another cousin who is doing a psychiatry rotation out here is dubious.

"Yes. They do have a distinctive odor, and that odor is urine and sweat, and it's caused by not bathing."

Odor is a gauge of well-being - when an animal stops grooming itself and begins to stink as result that is one of the first indicators that it is sick. But I still believe that it’s not simply unwashed body odor that I smell on my patrons. I suspect that some of my patrons exhale their biochemical disorders on their breath and excrete them through their sweat and it is possible to detect and recognize this odor. Some of these patrons make me feel unbalanced and uneasy at a core level, even before I realize that they are mentally ill, so I wonder if this odor is one's frontline sentinel, your natural defense to warn you something is seriously wrong with this person. Or perhaps their unbalanced, haywire pheromones are sending out conflicting, confusing signals that alarm me. Pheromones can have a powerful, often subliminal effect on a person I was discussing my odor theory with one of my colleagues who told me about a homeless man sitting near her desk. She confessed that, to her horror, she had had the sudden urge to walk over behind him, move his greasy pony tail aside and start nibbling on his neck. She said that this was the first and only time anything so strange like that had happened to her and surely that was the work of some powerful pheromone malfunction. In any case, a powerful sense of smell is a handicap in this profession.

"The World is not a Fragrant Place." Raymond Chandler

I got to see one of my cousins this weekend while she was out here for a wedding. Her grandmother, my grandmother’s sister, was famous in medical school for being able to diagnose various illnesses solely by her sense of smell. While a resident on her diagnostic rounds she would pronounce a patient sick with yellow fever or tuberculosis to the amazement and often outright disbelief of some of her hostile male peers. She was never wrong. Now that dogs are being used to detect cancer, it is obvious that there is some odor component to disease. From my exposure to the mentally ill at the library, I am convinced that schizophrenics carry a distinctive odor, a sort of oniony, metallic smell. Another cousin who is doing a psychiatry rotation out here is dubious.

"Yes. They do have a distinctive odor, and that odor is urine and sweat, and it's caused by not bathing."

Odor is a gauge of well-being - when an animal stops grooming itself and begins to stink as result that is one of the first indicators that it is sick. But I still believe that it’s not simply unwashed body odor that I smell on my patrons. I suspect that some of my patrons exhale their biochemical disorders on their breath and excrete them through their sweat and it is possible to detect and recognize this odor. Some of these patrons make me feel unbalanced and uneasy at a core level, even before I realize that they are mentally ill, so I wonder if this odor is one's frontline sentinel, your natural defense to warn you something is seriously wrong with this person. Or perhaps their unbalanced, haywire pheromones are sending out conflicting, confusing signals that alarm me. Pheromones can have a powerful, often subliminal effect on a person I was discussing my odor theory with one of my colleagues who told me about a homeless man sitting near her desk. She confessed that, to her horror, she had had the sudden urge to walk over behind him, move his greasy pony tail aside and start nibbling on his neck. She said that this was the first and only time anything so strange like that had happened to her and surely that was the work of some powerful pheromone malfunction. In any case, a powerful sense of smell is a handicap in this profession.

The Haunting

After the staff performed a Buddhist cleansing ceremony last year, the spooky branch's paranormal activity abated. Staff members remain reluctant to work alone there during closed hours, but the staff all seem much more relaxed and carefree. We might need to conduct a similiar rite here at the Main, because there have been reports of hauntings in one of the basements and it's beginning to affect morale and job performance in one of the departments.

Certain old and seldom requested books are stored in the stacks of the basement, quiet and dank as a morgue. When a patron wants one of these books he fills out a request slip and gives it to a page and the page then journeys down an elevator to the basement stacks to retrieve the book. A few weeks ago a manager asked one of the pages to go get a book and the page his face contorted in fear. When the manager asked him what was taking so long the page confessed that he felt a ghostly presence down in the basement and was terrified to go down there. The manager decided to accomodate the page for a while and assigned him other tasks. Soon other pages began to balk and refuse to go down to the basement. She received reports of feelings of nameless dread, inexplicable cold spots, arm and neck hair raising and mysterious sounds - your standard haunting phenomena. The manager began to suspect that this was a clever way to shirk one of the pages' most unpopular duties so she went down to the basement herself to retrieve a book to show her staff that there was nothing to fear and silly superstitions did not belong in the workplace. She didn't see anything unusual, but as she reached for the book another fell off the shelf above her onto her head.

The book that fell on her head was, fittingly enough, about cats. I have to wonder if the fates were cruelly mocking her and her profession, or if the ghost was is that of a recently deceased librarian retiree of this system whose obituary I read last week. She was in her nineties, and bequeathed her surprisingly large estate to the care of her cats, 'whom she considered part of her family.' Upon their death, the remainder of the estate was to go to a local veterinary school for geriatric feline research. I have to thank her for that boost to the image of our profession.

The Haunting

After the staff performed a Buddhist cleansing ceremony last year, the spooky branch's paranormal activity abated. Staff members remain reluctant to work alone there during closed hours, but the staff all seem much more relaxed and carefree. We might need to conduct a similiar rite here at the Main, because there have been reports of hauntings in one of the basements and it's beginning to affect morale and job performance in one of the departments.

Certain old and seldom requested books are stored in the stacks of the basement, quiet and dank as a morgue. When a patron wants one of these books he fills out a request slip and gives it to a page and the page then journeys down an elevator to the basement stacks to retrieve the book. A few weeks ago a manager asked one of the pages to go get a book and the page his face contorted in fear. When the manager asked him what was taking so long the page confessed that he felt a ghostly presence down in the basement and was terrified to go down there. The manager decided to accomodate the page for a while and assigned him other tasks. Soon other pages began to balk and refuse to go down to the basement. She received reports of feelings of nameless dread, inexplicable cold spots, arm and neck hair raising and mysterious sounds - your standard haunting phenomena. The manager began to suspect that this was a clever way to shirk one of the pages' most unpopular duties so she went down to the basement herself to retrieve a book to show her staff that there was nothing to fear and silly superstitions did not belong in the workplace. She didn't see anything unusual, but as she reached for the book another fell off the shelf above her onto her head.

The book that fell on her head was, fittingly enough, about cats. I have to wonder if the fates were cruelly mocking her and her profession, or if the ghost was is that of a recently deceased librarian retiree of this system whose obituary I read last week. She was in her nineties, and bequeathed her surprisingly large estate to the care of her cats, 'whom she considered part of her family.' Upon their death, the remainder of the estate was to go to a local veterinary school for geriatric feline research. I have to thank her for that boost to the image of our profession.

Foxy, Full of Grace

There are some good things to know about one's self and something I've discovered is that I would make a terrible drug mule. I learned this one time smuggling back some Cuban cigars from Mexico into the United States. I don't even smoke cigars but had purchased them because I was desperate for some last minute souvenirs. I had a long list of people expecting gifts, but had spent the entire trip in a tequila blackout devouring molé and shopping for myself at the farmacia with a PDR instead of thinking of others. Going through customs I had the cigar box shoved down the front of my pants with my shirt rather obviously hanging loose over my pants, like I was trying to disguise a pregnancy from my parents. If discovered, the worst that could happen would be the confiscation of my contraband and a lecture from a U.S. customs agent about supporting communist regimes, but I was still sweating, pale, shifty eyed and on the edge of vomiting.

I was waved through without incident, but was sickened rather than thrilled by all the adrenaline searing through my body. Although the embargo makes us the joke of the rest of the world, I did feel a twinge of guilt about propping up an evil, garrulous communist dictatorship. And isn’t that the fantasy of many an old man to have your very own nation where you can hold your airwaves hostage for hours on a nightly basis  and force your people to listen to your rambling, grandiose stories about how you invented the smallpox vaccination and were the most outstanding beisbol player in the history of your country. Say what you will about the evils of the HUAC, look at the alternative.

Foxy, Full of Grace

There are some good things to know about one's self and something I've discovered is that I would make a terrible drug mule. I learned this one time smuggling back some Cuban cigars from Mexico into the United States. I don't even smoke cigars but had purchased them because I was desperate for some last minute souvenirs. I had a long list of people expecting gifts, but had spent the entire trip in a tequila blackout devouring molé and shopping for myself at the farmacia with a PDR instead of thinking of others. Going through customs I had the cigar box shoved down the front of my pants with my shirt rather obviously hanging loose over my pants, like I was trying to disguise a pregnancy from my parents. If discovered, the worst that could happen would be the confiscation of my contraband and a lecture from a U.S. customs agent about supporting communist regimes, but I was still sweating, pale, shifty eyed and on the edge of vomiting.

I was waved through without incident, but was sickened rather than thrilled by all the adrenaline searing through my body. Although the embargo makes us the joke of the rest of the world, I did feel a twinge of guilt about propping up an evil, garrulous communist dictatorship. And isn’t that the fantasy of many an old man to have your very own nation where you can hold your airwaves hostage for hours on a nightly basis  and force your people to listen to your rambling, grandiose stories about how you invented the smallpox vaccination and were the most outstanding beisbol player in the history of your country. Say what you will about the evils of the HUAC, look at the alternative.

Uncle Dick

Cousin May was telling us how she and her husband took their children back to see their grandparents in Jackson Hole last summer. They attended the annual Demolition Derby while they were there, a big family affair with lots of cowboys, stunt clowns, barrel racing and a streaker, who although uninvited, was carrying on an annual tradition of sorts. The streaker was having a high time exhibiting himself to the crowd, successfully evading the rodeo clowns for a while when the police stepped in to take matters into their own hands, by tackling the streaker and tazering him. All the children screamed as they watched the downed streaker convulse and lose control of his bladder while being jolted by the unnecessarily high voltage. Thank God the police were there to protect the children from the nudity.

Here's a darling photograph of May's children with 'Uncle' Dick Cheney, who enjoys showing his soft side and a cocktail. I have entitled it Uncle Dick's Storytime and Cocktail Hour.

Uncle Dick

Cousin May was telling us how she and her husband took their children back to see their grandparents in Jackson Hole last summer. They attended the annual Demolition Derby while they were there, a big family affair with lots of cowboys, stunt clowns, barrel racing and a streaker, who although uninvited, was carrying on an annual tradition of sorts. The streaker was having a high time exhibiting himself to the crowd, successfully evading the rodeo clowns for a while when the police stepped in to take matters into their own hands, by tackling the streaker and tazering him. All the children screamed as they watched the downed streaker convulse and lose control of his bladder while being jolted by the unnecessarily high voltage. Thank God the police were there to protect the children from the nudity.

Here's a darling photograph of May's children with 'Uncle' Dick Cheney, who enjoys showing his soft side and a cocktail. I have entitled it Uncle Dick's Storytime and Cocktail Hour.

Library Defense 101

All the animals come out at night.
Travis Bickle

Now that I’m at the Main Library, my time at work is so much less stressful, and I owe it all to having Security. I hadn’t realized how on edge I had been working in the branches. Because the branches are without security, I was always preoccupied by the responsibility of enforcing peace and order. Having to be the law and fretting about what patrons were up to put me in this exhausting state of combat readiness. When I patrolled the stacks (what is known as the creep sweep in the biz) I tried to cultivate a zanshin state of awareness but never could get beyond feeling like a green Vietnam War grunt patrolling the jungle after smoking some especially potent Thai stick, paranoid and jumping at every sound.

The nights were the worst, because nightcrawler patrons tended to really act up then, especially Tuesdays nights when the library was staffed solely by women for some inexplicable reason. Patrons would take advantage and pull all sorts of scary behavior they never would have dared had there been a man working. If it were a cold night, drunken homeless often refused to leave at closing time, even when I tried to plead and reason with them. Only when I threatened to call the police would they reluctantly, resentfully shuffle out. Often they would wait right outside the door to intimidate us when we left.

One night when one patron wouldn’t leave he sat by the door staring at me with so much hatred I really believed he was going to attack me. I looked desperately for something with which to defend myself, but a stapler and hole punch was all I had within my reach. I then spotted the bamboo poles that we thread our newspapers through, and thought that if worse came to worse I could try my hand at martial arts stick fighting. Since most libraries use those sticks to hang their newspaper, perhaps all librarians should be trained in that method.

Library Defense 101

All the animals come out at night.
Travis Bickle

Now that I’m at the Main Library, my time at work is so much less stressful, and I owe it all to having Security. I hadn’t realized how on edge I had been working in the branches. Because the branches are without security, I was always preoccupied by the responsibility of enforcing peace and order. Having to be the law and fretting about what patrons were up to put me in this exhausting state of combat readiness. When I patrolled the stacks (what is known as the creep sweep in the biz) I tried to cultivate a zanshin state of awareness but never could get beyond feeling like a green Vietnam War grunt patrolling the jungle after smoking some especially potent Thai stick, paranoid and jumping at every sound.

The nights were the worst, because nightcrawler patrons tended to really act up then, especially Tuesdays nights when the library was staffed solely by women for some inexplicable reason. Patrons would take advantage and pull all sorts of scary behavior they never would have dared had there been a man working. If it were a cold night, drunken homeless often refused to leave at closing time, even when I tried to plead and reason with them. Only when I threatened to call the police would they reluctantly, resentfully shuffle out. Often they would wait right outside the door to intimidate us when we left.

One night when one patron wouldn’t leave he sat by the door staring at me with so much hatred I really believed he was going to attack me. I looked desperately for something with which to defend myself, but a stapler and hole punch was all I had within my reach. I then spotted the bamboo poles that we thread our newspapers through, and thought that if worse came to worse I could try my hand at martial arts stick fighting. Since most libraries use those sticks to hang their newspaper, perhaps all librarians should be trained in that method.

A Cry (Grita) for Help?

Here I am, just trying to expand my knowledge of another language and culture, and instead I'm being subjected to a man's nervous breakdown, or at the very least his slide into deep, macabre depression. I subscribe to About.com’s Spanish word of the day, written by Gerald Erichson’s, About.com’s Spanish editor. Although the words he selects tend to be ordinary and everyday, over the past few months I’ve noticed that the example sentences he uses to demonstrate the daily word’s meaning have become increasingly morbid and gruesome. Today’s example?

La caudrilla: group, gang, team, squad, small group of dogs used in hunting

Ejemplo: Una cuadrilla de bomberos, peritos y autoridades judiciales exhumaron el cadáver.
Traducción: A team of firefighters, technicians and judicial authorities exhumed the corpse.

Here are some more from the recent past:

Quemarropa: point blank
Ejemplo: Imágenes de televisión muestran a un marine ejecutando a quemarropa a un iraquí herido.
Traducción: TV images show a marine executing an injured Iraqi at point-blank range.

Nadar: to swim
Ejemplo: Los cuerpos de las dos juventudes que se ahogaron fueron tirados del agua ayer.
Traducción: The bodies of the two youths who drowned while swimming were pulled from the water yesterday.

I don’t want to read too much into this, but perhaps he is working out some childhood issues in this one:

Gritar: to shout
Ejemplo: Muchos padres gritan, se burlan, regañan y hasta golpean a otros adultos, sin recibir nunca la ayuda que necesitan.
Traducción: Many parents yell at, make fun of, argue with and even hit other adults without ever getting the help they need.

History lesson:
País: country
Ejemplo: Tras la guerra y las epidemias que asolaron el país, Alemania perdió la tercera parte de su población.
Traducción: After the war and the epidemics that devastated the country, Germany lost a third of its population.

Everything OK, Gerald? I'm worried about you. It's a wonderful service you provide, but perhaps you can keep it a little more light, por favor?

A Cry (Grita) for Help?

Here I am, just trying to expand my knowledge of another language and culture, and instead I'm being subjected to a man's nervous breakdown, or at the very least his slide into deep, macabre depression. I subscribe to About.com’s Spanish word of the day, written by Gerald Erichson’s, About.com’s Spanish editor. Although the words he selects tend to be ordinary and everyday, over the past few months I’ve noticed that the example sentences he uses to demonstrate the daily word’s meaning have become increasingly morbid and gruesome. Today’s example?

La caudrilla: group, gang, team, squad, small group of dogs used in hunting

Ejemplo: Una cuadrilla de bomberos, peritos y autoridades judiciales exhumaron el cadáver.
Traducción: A team of firefighters, technicians and judicial authorities exhumed the corpse.

Here are some more from the recent past:

Quemarropa: point blank
Ejemplo: Imágenes de televisión muestran a un marine ejecutando a quemarropa a un iraquí herido.
Traducción: TV images show a marine executing an injured Iraqi at point-blank range.

Nadar: to swim
Ejemplo: Los cuerpos de las dos juventudes que se ahogaron fueron tirados del agua ayer.
Traducción: The bodies of the two youths who drowned while swimming were pulled from the water yesterday.

I don’t want to read too much into this, but perhaps he is working out some childhood issues in this one:

Gritar: to shout
Ejemplo: Muchos padres gritan, se burlan, regañan y hasta golpean a otros adultos, sin recibir nunca la ayuda que necesitan.
Traducción: Many parents yell at, make fun of, argue with and even hit other adults without ever getting the help they need.

History lesson:
País: country
Ejemplo: Tras la guerra y las epidemias que asolaron el país, Alemania perdió la tercera parte de su población.
Traducción: After the war and the epidemics that devastated the country, Germany lost a third of its population.

Everything OK, Gerald? I'm worried about you. It's a wonderful service you provide, but perhaps you can keep it a little more light, por favor?

Noncompliance

I watched a little toddler amuse himself stamping around on our steps by the security gate. His harried mother approached him and said, “Ok, it’s time to go.” He ignored her and continued playing around on the steps without interruption. She took his hand he went limp and fell to the ground, a perfect body drop that left her dangling him by his arm. When she bent down to pick him up he went completely limp – a perfect act of peaceful non compliance. His facial expression never changed and he never uttered a sound.

I laughed and said, “He’s like a little protester!”

She looked up and said, “Oh, yes. He’s excellent at passive resistance.”

Noncompliance

I watched a little toddler amuse himself stamping around on our steps by the security gate. His harried mother approached him and said, “Ok, it’s time to go.” He ignored her and continued playing around on the steps without interruption. She took his hand he went limp and fell to the ground, a perfect body drop that left her dangling him by his arm. When she bent down to pick him up he went completely limp – a perfect act of peaceful non compliance. His facial expression never changed and he never uttered a sound.

I laughed and said, “He’s like a little protester!”

She looked up and said, “Oh, yes. He’s excellent at passive resistance.”

Identity Crisis

My mother worked for a time at an organization that brought culturally enriching programs to the school children of Fort Worth. She got to meet all sorts of interesting creatives and impresarios this way, and part of her job responsibility was to squire these artists to parties and events in their honor. Her favorite performer she met was a half-Japanese half Caucasian American story teller who grew up in Los Angeles. She told my mother that she had attended a culturally diverse public middle school in L.A. during the turbulent sixties, a time and place fraught with racial tension. One day all the schoolchildren were in the playground when they heard the sound of screaming and gunfire from the offices of the school building. After the deafening whine of feedback, a voice came over the loudspeaker:

"This is Bobby Seale. Your school has been liberated."

Hysteria ensued. Everyone immediately assumed that the Black Panthers had taken over the school and they would all be murdered, which is a bit of an overreaction, but funny now to look back upon. She watched in horror as her teacher, a sedate, normally dignified, middle aged woman, abandoned her pupils and tried to scale the fence in her miniskirt. All the children ran to form groups along race lines: the African-American children gathered together, the Japanese children gathered together, the white children gathered together, the Hispanic children gathered together, etc. Because she was half white and half Japanese, the artist was unsure which group to join and remained is the middle of the pandemonium, standing there like the cheese, all alone. She said that that this was the first time that she was truly aware of her unusual status, the first time she felt truly as if she didn’t know where she belonged.

Identity Crisis

My mother worked for a time at an organization that brought culturally enriching programs to the school children of Fort Worth. She got to meet all sorts of interesting creatives and impresarios this way, and part of her job responsibility was to squire these artists to parties and events in their honor. Her favorite performer she met was a half-Japanese half Caucasian American story teller who grew up in Los Angeles. She told my mother that she had attended a culturally diverse public middle school in L.A. during the turbulent sixties, a time and place fraught with racial tension. One day all the schoolchildren were in the playground when they heard the sound of screaming and gunfire from the offices of the school building. After the deafening whine of feedback, a voice came over the loudspeaker:

"This is Bobby Seale. Your school has been liberated."

Hysteria ensued. Everyone immediately assumed that the Black Panthers had taken over the school and they would all be murdered, which is a bit of an overreaction, but funny now to look back upon. She watched in horror as her teacher, a sedate, normally dignified, middle aged woman, abandoned her pupils and tried to scale the fence in her miniskirt. All the children ran to form groups along race lines: the African-American children gathered together, the Japanese children gathered together, the white children gathered together, the Hispanic children gathered together, etc. Because she was half white and half Japanese, the artist was unsure which group to join and remained is the middle of the pandemonium, standing there like the cheese, all alone. She said that that this was the first time that she was truly aware of her unusual status, the first time she felt truly as if she didn’t know where she belonged.

Better Times

I'm back home for a wedding. Here are some blackmail quality photographs of the demure bride taken a few years ago at Sewanee Homecoming. See my hands raised so helpfully to spot her? What drunken, magical thinking to believe that would have been effective in any way whatsoever in breaking her fall.

Better Times

I'm back home for a wedding. Here are some blackmail quality photographs of the demure bride taken a few years ago at Sewanee Homecoming. See my hands raised so helpfully to spot her? What drunken, magical thinking to believe that would have been effective in any way whatsoever in breaking her fall.

Naughty

Children adore stories of their parents' youthful escapades and misbehavior. I discovered this picture of my mother and her friend Brenda, the statuesque blonde, in a Pat O'brien's photojacket. When my mother was in high school she had run off and taken the train to New Orleans to stay with her sister, who was attending Sophie Newcomb, the women's college of Tulane. She had lied to her mother about her whereabouts but, as so often happens, her deception was uncovered. My grandmother called my aunt sobbing. My aunt had never seen nor heard her mother, a great Southern lady, even cry before.

"This...is...the...meanest...thing...you...girls...have...EVUH...done to me!"

The boys in matching madras jackets have not been identified. My aunt suspects that they were just some blind dates that she set them up with. My mom doesn't look too thrilled with hers.

Naughty

Children adore stories of their parents' youthful escapades and misbehavior. I discovered this picture of my mother and her friend Brenda, the statuesque blonde, in a Pat O'brien's photojacket. When my mother was in high school she had run off and taken the train to New Orleans to stay with her sister, who was attending Sophie Newcomb, the women's college of Tulane. She had lied to her mother about her whereabouts but, as so often happens, her deception was uncovered. My grandmother called my aunt sobbing. My aunt had never seen nor heard her mother, a great Southern lady, even cry before.

"This...is...the...meanest...thing...you...girls...have...EVUH...done to me!"

The boys in matching madras jackets have not been identified. My aunt suspects that they were just some blind dates that she set them up with. My mom doesn't look too thrilled with hers.

Bereaved

I apologize for the abrupt halt in postings. Writing my mother's obituary, truly the most horrible duty I've ever had to undertake, has quelled my desire to write for a while. I promise to return soon.

Bereaved

I apologize for the abrupt halt in postings. Writing my mother's obituary, truly the most horrible duty I've ever had to undertake, has quelled my desire to write for a while. I promise to return soon.

The Scent of an Elk

Today I went on a hike and saw what looked like Billy breakdancing on the trail ahead. He had discovered something foul to roll in, which I suspect was elk shit, although it smelled more like dead cat. I screamed but he had already finished adorning himself, and he shot me a look of defiance and triumph and ran off ahead. When I caught up I saw that his shoulders and neck were now solid black, like he was wearing a perfect little shrug of elk shit, and he spent the rest of the hike insuffurably smug and full of himself, strutting around like he was prince of the forest. I had to drive home with the windows open, and even then I was retching.

It could have been worse. A few years ago I read an obituary tribute of a dog named Earl, who was quite famous around Sun Valley and had recently died of old age. In the obituary, Earl’s owner recounted a hike he, his wife and Earl took deep in the backcountry, during which they came across the putrid carcass of an elk. Once it dawned on Earl what it was, he ran to it and began furiously scratching at its stomach, which was taut and swollen with decomposition gases. Before his horrified owners could stop him, Earl had torn into the stomach, stuck his head into the belly and attempted to crawl in. Even using their combined strength, the couple could barely drag him away. They aborted the hike and drove home while Earl sulked in the back of the car. The next day his owners went to work as usual. When they returned, Earl wasn’t there to greet them. They searched the house but Earl was nowhere to be found. They noticed a foul, faintly familiar odor and traced it to their master bedroom, where in their bed, under the covers, was Earl, gnawing on the head of the elk they found on the trail the day before. This meant that Earl had scaled a 10 foot fence, traveled 15 miles into the back country, detached the elk’s head from its body, carried the head back 15 miles, scaled the fence with the elk head and dragged it up to the stairs into the bed, where it was waiting for them, like a nightmare scene from The Godfather. Earl had accomplished all of this in the time that they had been at work.
Click here for more dogs in elk stories... This poor woman actually had to drag the elk carcass on a tarp to her backyard because her two dogs refused to come out.

The Scent of an Elk

Today I went on a hike and saw what looked like Billy breakdancing on the trail ahead. He had discovered something foul to roll in, which I suspect was elk shit, although it smelled more like dead cat. I screamed but he had already finished adorning himself, and he shot me a look of defiance and triumph and ran off ahead. When I caught up I saw that his shoulders and neck were now solid black, like he was wearing a perfect little shrug of elk shit, and he spent the rest of the hike insuffurably smug and full of himself, strutting around like he was prince of the forest. I had to drive home with the windows open, and even then I was retching.

It could have been worse. A few years ago I read an obituary tribute of a dog named Earl, who was quite famous around Sun Valley and had recently died of old age. In the obituary, Earl’s owner recounted a hike he, his wife and Earl took deep in the backcountry, during which they came across the putrid carcass of an elk. Once it dawned on Earl what it was, he ran to it and began furiously scratching at its stomach, which was taut and swollen with decomposition gases. Before his horrified owners could stop him, Earl had torn into the stomach, stuck his head into the belly and attempted to crawl in. Even using their combined strength, the couple could barely drag him away. They aborted the hike and drove home while Earl sulked in the back of the car. The next day his owners went to work as usual. When they returned, Earl wasn’t there to greet them. They searched the house but Earl was nowhere to be found. They noticed a foul, faintly familiar odor and traced it to their master bedroom, where in their bed, under the covers, was Earl, gnawing on the head of the elk they found on the trail the day before. This meant that Earl had scaled a 10 foot fence, traveled 15 miles into the back country, detached the elk’s head from its body, carried the head back 15 miles, scaled the fence with the elk head and dragged it up to the stairs into the bed, where it was waiting for them, like a nightmare scene from The Godfather. Earl had accomplished all of this in the time that they had been at work.
Click here for more dogs in elk stories... This poor woman actually had to drag the elk carcass on a tarp to her backyard because her two dogs refused to come out.

Green and Yellow...

I watched Prozac Nation last night and it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, but maybe that's just because I love cRaZy. Right after the psychiatrist finally prescribes Elizabeth Wurtzel Prozac, I'm sure in a desperate attempt to stop her patient's pointless, incessant whining, to get her just to shut the f up, there is a full screen shot of a spilled bottle of the pills. It's remarkable how dated the green and yellow pills look - the colors are so 80s! If anyone ever mixed up their pills and needed help identifying them, we came up with some handy mnemonics, like the kind you use to identify poisonous snakes and ivy.

Prozac
Green and yellow,
Cheer a Fellow

Amphetamines
Black and white
Up all night! (alternately, suppress your appetite!)

Ritalin
Round and white
Make your kid act right

Vicodin
White with a cute little v
Take too many and deaf you'll be

Viagra
If the diamond is blue
Priapism for you

Green and Yellow...

I watched Prozac Nation last night and it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, but maybe that's just because I love cRaZy. Right after the psychiatrist finally prescribes Elizabeth Wurtzel Prozac, I'm sure in a desperate attempt to stop her patient's pointless, incessant whining, to get her just to shut the f up, there is a full screen shot of a spilled bottle of the pills. It's remarkable how dated the green and yellow pills look - the colors are so 80s! If anyone ever mixed up their pills and needed help identifying them, we came up with some handy mnemonics, like the kind you use to identify poisonous snakes and ivy.

Prozac
Green and yellow,
Cheer a Fellow

Amphetamines
Black and white
Up all night! (alternately, suppress your appetite!)

Ritalin
Round and white
Make your kid act right

Vicodin
White with a cute little v
Take too many and deaf you'll be

Viagra
If the diamond is blue
Priapism for you