The Wrath of Oprah

Did anyone watch Oprah taking a verbal green switch to James Frey’s backside last night for lying and making her look like a fool? I did, and the entire time I had to fight the urge to go run and hide under my bed like a child. Having been on the receiving end of several (well deserved) childhood reprimands dealt by loving but firm Southern African American women, I can tell you there is nothing more terrifyingly effective to make you straighten out. I'll certainly never ride my Big Wheel in the middle of the street again!

I hope that Oprah doesn’t stop choosing living authors for her book club. She has made the careers of many worthy, deserving authors who would have most likely remained obscure without her endorsement. I was overjoyed that she returned to living authors for her book club, but my joy was tempered by her choice of A Million Little Pieces, which I had attempted to read a year or so earlier. I thought the book was awful and unbelievable. I have an open mind, but even I could tell from two early scenes that this book was bullshit.

1) The supposed memoir begins when Frey wakes up on an airplane and finds himself covered in vomit, snot and blood, 4 of his front teeth broken. You can’t even board an airplane in this country with profanity on your shirt. I’ve watched enough Airline to know that a passenger would never be allowed on an airplane in this condition. And Airline features the truly lax Southwest, which practically has zero standards, and allows men aboard wearing cut off sweatpants so you have to see their half boners.

2)This is followed by the whole root canal without anesthesia scene that he lifts straight out of Marathon Man. He claims that the dentist couldn’t even give him a topical anesthetic like Novocaine because he was in rehab. His only analgesic is a tennis ball to squeeze, which is an effective device for him to show everyone what a man he is, and also so he can fill pages with “Oh, the pain, the pain the White Hot Pain.” Bullshit. If he had to have an appendectomy in rehab would they do it without anesthesia as well?

I quit the book after the dentist scene. I’ll read anything, and I mean anything, but the book, even if it's fiction, has to have at least some semblance of authenticity and characters that are plausible, which is why I also despised Memoirs of a Geisha, with its cardboard, inscrutable characters.

Here’s an awesomely mean review, which eviscerates the book efficiently and effectively. With the exception of Hunter S. Thompson and Philip K. Dick, the reviewer pretty much hates everybody, but he reserves special vitriol for Frey.

Meth Thinking

A real dirtbag approached the desk.

"Dude - I need some righteous help. I need a recipe," he leaned in, "A recipe, if you know what I mean."

"What kind of recipe?"

"I'm doing some research." His eyes moved about shiftily. "I need a recipe for meth, you know, methamphetamine, and how to go about making it at home. And I need this recipe to be for more than one person."

"We don't have any recipes for the homemade manufacturing of meth, which, as I'm sure you know, is both illegal and highly dangerous. Why don't you try Google."

Yeah, I heard you can find some recipes on the internet. I don't really know how to use it, but one time I needed some lyrics so I went to lyrics.com and found them there. I tried to do the same with methamphetamine.com but it didn't work."

"Sometimes the internet just isn't logical. Why don't you just try putting it in Google as a keyword search. Good luck with that."

My cousin recently did a rotation in the county burn unit in Nashville, which is apparently brimming with careless meth manufacturers. Often patients who suffer extensive skin grafts return again and again with fresh burns. The hospital staff calls these patients 'frequent flyers.'

Meth is truly a scourge. There is a woman who shares my exact name who is a recovering meth addict who is actively involved in jailhouse ministry. During her addiction, social services removed two children from her custody and she almost died, but was saved by Jesus in jail and now serves as a national spokesperson about meth’s evils. If you Google my name she is one of the first to come up. We’re about the same age and I just know old acquaintances who have Googled me mistake her for me.

Meth Thinking

A real dirtbag approached the desk.

"Dude - I need some righteous help. I need a recipe," he leaned in, "A recipe, if you know what I mean."

"What kind of recipe?"

"I'm doing some research." His eyes moved about shiftily. "I need a recipe for meth, you know, methamphetamine, and how to go about making it at home. And I need this recipe to be for more than one person."

"We don't have any recipes for the homemade manufacturing of meth, which, as I'm sure you know, is both illegal and highly dangerous. Why don't you try Google."

Yeah, I heard you can find some recipes on the internet. I don't really know how to use it, but one time I needed some lyrics so I went to lyrics.com and found them there. I tried to do the same with methamphetamine.com but it didn't work."

"Sometimes the internet just isn't logical. Why don't you just try putting it in Google as a keyword search. Good luck with that."

My cousin recently did a rotation in the county burn unit in Nashville, which is apparently brimming with careless meth manufacturers. Often patients who suffer extensive skin grafts return again and again with fresh burns. The hospital staff calls these patients 'frequent flyers.'

Meth is truly a scourge. There is a woman who shares my exact name who is a recovering meth addict who is actively involved in jailhouse ministry. During her addiction, social services removed two children from her custody and she almost died, but was saved by Jesus in jail and now serves as a national spokesperson about meth’s evils. If you Google my name she is one of the first to come up. We’re about the same age and I just know old acquaintances who have Googled me mistake her for me.

Methy Repartee

Overheard on my bike ride this morning.

Working Girl(?) #1: "Quit selling your p@ssy on this corner!"

Working Girl #2 "Oh, yeah? Well I've never seen a FAT speed freak before!"

Snap, girl!

Methy Repartee

Overheard on my bike ride this morning.

Working Girl(?) #1: "Quit selling your p@ssy on this corner!"

Working Girl #2 "Oh, yeah? Well I've never seen a FAT speed freak before!"

Snap, girl!

Laundry Day

A patron reported that a woman was washing clothes in one of the first floor bathroom toilets. The woman had the stall door open and the patron could see her bent over, both hands immersed, a little pile of clothes next to her. She said that she watched the woman would scrub away, examine the clothing and then flush the toilet repeatedly for the 'rinse cycle.' Apparently, this is not an unusual occurence and our toilets are occasionally clogged when a sock or piece of underwear inadvertantly gets sucked down the pipes.

Laundry Day

A patron reported that a woman was washing clothes in one of the first floor bathroom toilets. The woman had the stall door open and the patron could see her bent over, both hands immersed, a little pile of clothes next to her. She said that she watched the woman would scrub away, examine the clothing and then flush the toilet repeatedly for the 'rinse cycle.' Apparently, this is not an unusual occurence and our toilets are occasionally clogged when a sock or piece of underwear inadvertantly gets sucked down the pipes.

Happy 30th, Fisher!

Have fun in Carousel.

Happy 30th, Fisher!

Have fun in Carousel.

Best of Luck

A man approached the reference desk and said, “I need help with a website called Craigslist. Do you know how to use it?”

“Sure. What are you trying to do?”

“I need to put a notice in the lost and found. I don’t know how to operate a computer, but I know that a lot of people go to this site. I’m desperate. I would even be willing to pay someone $100 to post it there.” He looked like he was going to cry.

"There's no need for that. I can help you. What do you want the notice to say?”

“Lost: $15,000 in cash on a Philippine Air flight. If found, please return for a reward.”

Best of Luck

A man approached the reference desk and said, “I need help with a website called Craigslist. Do you know how to use it?”

“Sure. What are you trying to do?”

“I need to put a notice in the lost and found. I don’t know how to operate a computer, but I know that a lot of people go to this site. I’m desperate. I would even be willing to pay someone $100 to post it there.” He looked like he was going to cry.

"There's no need for that. I can help you. What do you want the notice to say?”

“Lost: $15,000 in cash on a Philippine Air flight. If found, please return for a reward.”

Telephonophobia

A woman called the library on behalf of her grandson, who had accumulated over $50 of charges for some movies he never returned. In a sweet, quavering voice, the patron's grandmother inquired about what her grandson needed to do to have his borrowing privileges reinstated. The librarian, under the impression that the patron was a child, gave the grandmother some options. She then heard the grandmother carefully relay this information to someone right next to her. The librarian then heard this person, an adult, ask a question, which the grandmother repeated into the phone.

"My grandson wants to know if he can still return the videos and have the charges erased.”

At that moment the librarian noticed from the patron’s record that the grandson was 24 years old.

"Wait a minute, is that your grandson right there? Why don't I just talk directly to him? This might be easier."

"Oh, he refuses to use the phone."

"Excuse me?"

"He doesn't believe in using the phone. He just won't. Doesn't trust it for some reason. I’m not sure why."

"Why don't you just have him come in, then. He'll need to settle this in person, anyway."

The librarian immediately regretted her instructions, realizing that it was best if this patron's record remained suspended so the patron would stay away indefinitely. FBI profilers know that living with one’s mother as an adult male bumps up the weird misfit/ serial killer factor, so I wonder what they would say about a telephonophobic grown man who lives with his grandmother.

Telephonophobia

A woman called the library on behalf of her grandson, who had accumulated over $50 of charges for some movies he never returned. In a sweet, quavering voice, the patron's grandmother inquired about what her grandson needed to do to have his borrowing privileges reinstated. The librarian, under the impression that the patron was a child, gave the grandmother some options. She then heard the grandmother carefully relay this information to someone right next to her. The librarian then heard this person, an adult, ask a question, which the grandmother repeated into the phone.

"My grandson wants to know if he can still return the videos and have the charges erased.”

At that moment the librarian noticed from the patron’s record that the grandson was 24 years old.

"Wait a minute, is that your grandson right there? Why don't I just talk directly to him? This might be easier."

"Oh, he refuses to use the phone."

"Excuse me?"

"He doesn't believe in using the phone. He just won't. Doesn't trust it for some reason. I’m not sure why."

"Why don't you just have him come in, then. He'll need to settle this in person, anyway."

The librarian immediately regretted her instructions, realizing that it was best if this patron's record remained suspended so the patron would stay away indefinitely. FBI profilers know that living with one’s mother as an adult male bumps up the weird misfit/ serial killer factor, so I wonder what they would say about a telephonophobic grown man who lives with his grandmother.

Drive Friendly?

Sorry for the sporadic posting but I have been in Texas helping my grandmother convalesce from hip replacement surgery. And let me just say that I’m accustomed to scary urban traffic and have driven across town during rush hour in Third World hellholes where you can see why the population has had to resort to fatalism because otherwise it would lose its mind, but I have never felt more unsafe than in Fort Worth. Every time I got in the car I felt like I was taking my life into my own hands, mostly due to all of the housewives hopped up on Starbucks and valium on the roads in their juggernaut SUVs. As they would jabber into the cell phones, barreling down the roads toward and past me, all I could think about was how their bumpers were aimed right at my throat level. A very nerve wracking experience, which I dealt with by quadrupling my daily caloric intake and reciting the fear mantra from Dune, which I memorized the other night when the phones were slow and I was desperate to procrastinate actual work.

Drive Friendly?

Sorry for the sporadic posting but I have been in Texas helping my grandmother convalesce from hip replacement surgery. And let me just say that I’m accustomed to scary urban traffic and have driven across town during rush hour in Third World hellholes where you can see why the population has had to resort to fatalism because otherwise it would lose its mind, but I have never felt more unsafe than in Fort Worth. Every time I got in the car I felt like I was taking my life into my own hands, mostly due to all of the housewives hopped up on Starbucks and valium on the roads in their juggernaut SUVs. As they would jabber into the cell phones, barreling down the roads toward and past me, all I could think about was how their bumpers were aimed right at my throat level. A very nerve wracking experience, which I dealt with by quadrupling my daily caloric intake and reciting the fear mantra from Dune, which I memorized the other night when the phones were slow and I was desperate to procrastinate actual work.

Trapped in the (water) Closet

Last night a woman called in hysterics to complain about an incident at the library. A colleague had the pleasure.

"Library, how may I help you?"

"You listen to me. I was in the bathroom, in a stall, and I noticed the janitor sweeping near me. I have an environmental illness with severe asthma, and I can’t breathe in any dust or I might die. So, I asked her if she would stop sweeping, and she ignored me! I asked her again, telling her that I have an illness and she needed to stop, and she just kept sweeping and sweeping, even harder. When I started yelling, she said (mimicking the janitor in the most amazingly offensive sing-songy "me so horneeey" Asian voice) 'Me need to sweepie now! It’s my job! I no care!'"

“All right, now –“

“And then she kept on! And I was in a very vulnerable position so I couldn’t leave. I was trapped because I had my pants around my ankles and was trying to insert a tampon.”

My colleague, wincing, “Oh, now, ma’am – “

“I have environmental sensitivity! I have medical papers to prove this! You have to respect this! I’ll have you know that I’m going to call the mayor’s office, the EPA, the Human Rights Commission and my lawyer.” She then mercifully slammed down the phone. For someone with a respiratory ailment, she was able to deliver a 10 minute, relentless tirade with the ease and wind of a classically trained opera singer.

Earlier that day I had a call from a man who felt like he had been mistreated by another colleague. He called earlier to verify the spelling of a number of simple words like 'always' and 'expect' and felt like the librarian who answered the call had been condescending. I apologized profusely, and asked if there were anything I could do.

“This has really ruined my day. Those words that I asked for may have been easy, but I suffered a head injury and now I have trouble with these things. Oh, GREAT!”

I could hear the sound of jagged breathing. “Sir, are you all right?”

“Now I am having an anxiety attack. That’s just great. I want to speak to that librarian’s supervisor.”

A colleague describes these people as tyrannical victims. We encounter enough of this type at the library that I think the condition is worthy of its own entry in the DSM IV. These people are obviously suffering and in pain, whether mentally or physically, but they use their pain and victimhood as a powerful weapon to rage at or injure others, especially hapless public servants, in some way.

Trapped in the (water) Closet

Last night a woman called in hysterics to complain about an incident at the library. A colleague had the pleasure.

"Library, how may I help you?"

"You listen to me. I was in the bathroom, in a stall, and I noticed the janitor sweeping near me. I have an environmental illness with severe asthma, and I can’t breathe in any dust or I might die. So, I asked her if she would stop sweeping, and she ignored me! I asked her again, telling her that I have an illness and she needed to stop, and she just kept sweeping and sweeping, even harder. When I started yelling, she said (mimicking the janitor in the most amazingly offensive sing-songy "me so horneeey" Asian voice) 'Me need to sweepie now! It’s my job! I no care!'"

“All right, now –“

“And then she kept on! And I was in a very vulnerable position so I couldn’t leave. I was trapped because I had my pants around my ankles and was trying to insert a tampon.”

My colleague, wincing, “Oh, now, ma’am – “

“I have environmental sensitivity! I have medical papers to prove this! You have to respect this! I’ll have you know that I’m going to call the mayor’s office, the EPA, the Human Rights Commission and my lawyer.” She then mercifully slammed down the phone. For someone with a respiratory ailment, she was able to deliver a 10 minute, relentless tirade with the ease and wind of a classically trained opera singer.

Earlier that day I had a call from a man who felt like he had been mistreated by another colleague. He called earlier to verify the spelling of a number of simple words like 'always' and 'expect' and felt like the librarian who answered the call had been condescending. I apologized profusely, and asked if there were anything I could do.

“This has really ruined my day. Those words that I asked for may have been easy, but I suffered a head injury and now I have trouble with these things. Oh, GREAT!”

I could hear the sound of jagged breathing. “Sir, are you all right?”

“Now I am having an anxiety attack. That’s just great. I want to speak to that librarian’s supervisor.”

A colleague describes these people as tyrannical victims. We encounter enough of this type at the library that I think the condition is worthy of its own entry in the DSM IV. These people are obviously suffering and in pain, whether mentally or physically, but they use their pain and victimhood as a powerful weapon to rage at or injure others, especially hapless public servants, in some way.

More Raising Arizona

An intense man approached the desk and slammed some legal files down and demanded from my colleague information about recidivism rates. I looked up and almost said, "Recidivism! Re-peat offender. Not a pretty name now, is it." But he looked like a completely humorless prick so I kept my mouth shut.

More Raising Arizona

An intense man approached the desk and slammed some legal files down and demanded from my colleague information about recidivism rates. I looked up and almost said, "Recidivism! Re-peat offender. Not a pretty name now, is it." But he looked like a completely humorless prick so I kept my mouth shut.

Apocalypse Now

This morning on my desk was an employee memo reminding us of proper procedure if we should encounter biohazardous and infectious materials in the library. The gist of the memo is that if we come across lice infested clothing and blankets, needles, materials soaked in blood or other body fluids, piles of human feces or puddles of vomit, we should not attempt to pick any of this up with our hands. I was reminded of the joke H.I.’s wife swapping, bigoted boss tells him.

Say, did you hear about the person of the Polish persuasion who walked into a bar with a big 'ol pile of shit in his hands and he says, "Look what I almost stepped in"?

It’s distressing that biohazard encounters are frequent enough in the library to warrant a memo, but I’ve accepted it as an occupational hazard. Besides, this job has pushed me so far off the OCD spectrum that it really doesn’t bother me any more.

When I was talking to my stepfather about some fecal incident at the library he began acting squeamish and confessed to me that he couldn't tolerate the smell, to the point where he couldn't even change his own child’s diapers. I began giving him a hard time, saying things like "Isn't that just like a man! You think you’re so tough. Are you sure this isn’t a clever ploy to get out of diaper duty? Hah-Hah, you big baby."

Later E pulled me aside and told me that the reason my stepfather couldn’t tolerate the smell stemmed back from when he was in 'Nam. He was on a river patrol boat when the bloated body of an African American service man floated by. The crew fished the body out and when they plunked it down on deck the body, grotesquely swollen and taut with gasses, exploded. Immediately every single soldier on the boat was bent over projectile vomiting. Since that incident, my stepfather has suffered from in intense case of olfactory PSTD and cannot stand anything that reminds him of the smell of the dead soldier. Boy, did I feel like an asshole.

Apocalypse Now

This morning on my desk was an employee memo reminding us of proper procedure if we should encounter biohazardous and infectious materials in the library. The gist of the memo is that if we come across lice infested clothing and blankets, needles, materials soaked in blood or other body fluids, piles of human feces or puddles of vomit, we should not attempt to pick any of this up with our hands. I was reminded of the joke H.I.’s wife swapping, bigoted boss tells him.

Say, did you hear about the person of the Polish persuasion who walked into a bar with a big 'ol pile of shit in his hands and he says, "Look what I almost stepped in"?

It’s distressing that biohazard encounters are frequent enough in the library to warrant a memo, but I’ve accepted it as an occupational hazard. Besides, this job has pushed me so far off the OCD spectrum that it really doesn’t bother me any more.

When I was talking to my stepfather about some fecal incident at the library he began acting squeamish and confessed to me that he couldn't tolerate the smell, to the point where he couldn't even change his own child’s diapers. I began giving him a hard time, saying things like "Isn't that just like a man! You think you’re so tough. Are you sure this isn’t a clever ploy to get out of diaper duty? Hah-Hah, you big baby."

Later E pulled me aside and told me that the reason my stepfather couldn’t tolerate the smell stemmed back from when he was in 'Nam. He was on a river patrol boat when the bloated body of an African American service man floated by. The crew fished the body out and when they plunked it down on deck the body, grotesquely swollen and taut with gasses, exploded. Immediately every single soldier on the boat was bent over projectile vomiting. Since that incident, my stepfather has suffered from in intense case of olfactory PSTD and cannot stand anything that reminds him of the smell of the dead soldier. Boy, did I feel like an asshole.

Newspeak and Spell

Doubleplusungood

On-line Ask-a-Question Form:
Question so say u lost ur book do u have 2 pay 4 it cuzthen i help my fd's 2 borrow dat book

Newspeak and Spell

Doubleplusungood

On-line Ask-a-Question Form:
Question so say u lost ur book do u have 2 pay 4 it cuzthen i help my fd's 2 borrow dat book

Flirting with Disaster

Billy's Angry Inch would have been a lot angrier if E hadn't noticed where Billy was resting his little stub - right in the sliding glass door track! Is Billy Jack engaging in some sort of odd risk taking, thrill seeking behavior, or is he just being a moron? The whole reason Jack Russells' tails are docked is for their safety, because docked tails don't bang into things or impede dogs from turning and twisting around in varmint holes. (Jack Russells are the GI 'tunnel rats' in hunting parties and the war against varmints). You wouldn't think he could get in that much trouble with his overdocked tail, but apparently so.

Flirting with Disaster

Billy's Angry Inch would have been a lot angrier if E hadn't noticed where Billy was resting his little stub - right in the sliding glass door track! Is Billy Jack engaging in some sort of odd risk taking, thrill seeking behavior, or is he just being a moron? The whole reason Jack Russells' tails are docked is for their safety, because docked tails don't bang into things or impede dogs from turning and twisting around in varmint holes. (Jack Russells are the GI 'tunnel rats' in hunting parties and the war against varmints). You wouldn't think he could get in that much trouble with his overdocked tail, but apparently so.

Weatherman

"I think it's raining. That or someone's urinating in the second floor stacks."

A colleague in our first floor, windowless back offices.

Weatherman

"I think it's raining. That or someone's urinating in the second floor stacks."

A colleague in our first floor, windowless back offices.

Ich bein ein Berliner

I have been suffering from a cold that has filled me with nothing but mucus, malaise and lassitude. All my energy has been devoted to feeling sorry for myself rather than blogging, but here’s some reader’s advisory for you: A Woman in Berlin: Eight Weeks in the Conquered City. It is the diary of an anonymous woman in Berlin toward the end of World War II and it is an incredibly important contribution to the annals of primary historical material. The author is so eloquent, observant, resourceful and wry that you greatly sympathize with her plight. She is never self pitying and never in denial that the population has brought this upon itself. It is a testament to the power of her writing that, for the first time in my life, I actually felt sorry for a German.

When the diary begins, Berlin is becoming a bombed out shell and social order is breaking down. The populace knows that the end of the Reich is near and it waits with bated breath for the Russian tanks to roll in. Although everyone knows to expect no mercy from the Russians, their advance will be a relief in a way, because the relentless bombing will stop. A popular saying circulates: 'Better a Russki on top than a Yank overhead.’ Better to be raped than bombed into oblivion, in other words. Deprivations are severe and there is neither heat nor running water. The author is lightheaded from hunger, and “every thought begins and ends with food.”

In the insane thinking typical of the end of the Reich, the German army has left large caches of liquor for the Russians to find. The theory is that the liquor will weaken and degrade the Russians’ fighting ability, but instead makes them drunk, uninhibited and emboldened to commit rape and other war crimes. There is definitely a payback element for Hitler’s appalling atrocities against Soviet civilians, but other factors come into play as well. Many of these soldiers had been severely mistreated by their own officers, and conquered women were an easy target upon which to take out their humiliation. Most soldiers were lonely and miserable and had been away from their families for years, and desperately yearned for human touch and female companionship.

During the initial sacking of the city the author is gang raped several times, and soon pragmatically decides that she needs to find ‘a single wolf to keep away the pack.’ She is well traveled and knows elementary Russian, and sets out to make some sort of an arrangement with a soldier. Cultivated and pretty, she soon works her way up from supply sergeant to major.

She is wise to do so because all the other women on her block are raped indiscriminately - even grandmothers. She reports that the Russians have a saying: "You old, you must be healthy!" Women hide in crawl spaces or try to disguise themselves as men or crones when they are forced to venture out to forage for food and water. One group of women remains safe on the upper floor of an apartment because a family on the first floor, several children included, all hung themselves, and serve as scarecrows to keep the soldiers from exploring the building further.

What is so impressive about the author is how calm and rational she remains in her writing. She is somehow able to maintain a rational detachment without sounding like an emotionally flat, shell shocked victim. She uses gallows humor as an effective coping mechanism. In her observations of the events, the author is not above a droll vindictiveness for war profiteers.

"She's by far the plumpest woman in our group, very buxom. People say they like that...The older women in particular who had once been quite plump have shrunken terribly. Of course the distiller's wife is an exception. Since the war began she hasn't lacked for things to trade. And now she's paying for her unmerited fat.”

She also mentions the ‘Ivans’ surprising acts of gentleness and decency. For the most part, they adored children and clung to their innocence. They enjoyed dandling babies on their knees and playing Santa Claus by distributing food.

When order is somewhat restored, the author is forced to work doing laundry for soldiers or taking apart and boxing up factory machinery (the means of production) to be shipped back to Russia. The work is pointless and absurd – do the Russians really believe that they’ll be able to reassemble the machinery out of these unlabeled boxes of jumbled parts? – but any protest is impossible.

The diary ends when the author’s boyfriend deserts and returns. When she shows him the diary, he closes it in disgust and inquires why all German women have become ‘a bunch of shameless bitches.’ He doesn’t want to hear or know about what it’s taken for her to survive, and their relationship does not survive.

When the diary was first published in the 1950s, Germany was also neither ready to hear nor come to terms with the collective rape of its female citizens. The diary was met with hostility and vicious attacks against its authenticity. It was treated as if it were some indictment against German men, as if it dishonored and shamed the German men who were unable to protect the women, as well as if it made the women who did what they had to do to survive seem like they had fraternized and prostituted themselves to the enemy. It soon became out of print and relegated to obscurity. The work wasn’t republished until last year, according to the terms of the author, who only wanted it republished after her death.

One unsatisfying element of the book was for all of the author’s eloquence and introspection she never adequately explains why and how the German’s allowed Hitler to come to power. She was not a member of the Nazi party, but she was no dissident either. She has more than an inkling about what was going on in the Holocaust – at one point she compares a woman who looks like a bulldog to someone she imagines would be a good concentration camp guard – but she remains patriotic to her people. She mentions that she had an opportunity to move abroad at the beginning of the war, but decided to stay in her country, right or wrong, evil regime or not. Still, the author is an intelligent, beautiful writer and her descriptions of conditions are harrowing but tempered by her wry, clear eyed observations. Highly recommended.

Ich bein ein Berliner

I have been suffering from a cold that has filled me with nothing but mucus, malaise and lassitude. All my energy has been devoted to feeling sorry for myself rather than blogging, but here’s some reader’s advisory for you: A Woman in Berlin: Eight Weeks in the Conquered City. It is the diary of an anonymous woman in Berlin toward the end of World War II and it is an incredibly important contribution to the annals of primary historical material. The author is so eloquent, observant, resourceful and wry that you greatly sympathize with her plight. She is never self pitying and never in denial that the population has brought this upon itself. It is a testament to the power of her writing that, for the first time in my life, I actually felt sorry for a German.

When the diary begins, Berlin is becoming a bombed out shell and social order is breaking down. The populace knows that the end of the Reich is near and it waits with bated breath for the Russian tanks to roll in. Although everyone knows to expect no mercy from the Russians, their advance will be a relief in a way, because the relentless bombing will stop. A popular saying circulates: 'Better a Russki on top than a Yank overhead.’ Better to be raped than bombed into oblivion, in other words. Deprivations are severe and there is neither heat nor running water. The author is lightheaded from hunger, and “every thought begins and ends with food.”

In the insane thinking typical of the end of the Reich, the German army has left large caches of liquor for the Russians to find. The theory is that the liquor will weaken and degrade the Russians’ fighting ability, but instead makes them drunk, uninhibited and emboldened to commit rape and other war crimes. There is definitely a payback element for Hitler’s appalling atrocities against Soviet civilians, but other factors come into play as well. Many of these soldiers had been severely mistreated by their own officers, and conquered women were an easy target upon which to take out their humiliation. Most soldiers were lonely and miserable and had been away from their families for years, and desperately yearned for human touch and female companionship.

During the initial sacking of the city the author is gang raped several times, and soon pragmatically decides that she needs to find ‘a single wolf to keep away the pack.’ She is well traveled and knows elementary Russian, and sets out to make some sort of an arrangement with a soldier. Cultivated and pretty, she soon works her way up from supply sergeant to major.

She is wise to do so because all the other women on her block are raped indiscriminately - even grandmothers. She reports that the Russians have a saying: "You old, you must be healthy!" Women hide in crawl spaces or try to disguise themselves as men or crones when they are forced to venture out to forage for food and water. One group of women remains safe on the upper floor of an apartment because a family on the first floor, several children included, all hung themselves, and serve as scarecrows to keep the soldiers from exploring the building further.

What is so impressive about the author is how calm and rational she remains in her writing. She is somehow able to maintain a rational detachment without sounding like an emotionally flat, shell shocked victim. She uses gallows humor as an effective coping mechanism. In her observations of the events, the author is not above a droll vindictiveness for war profiteers.

"She's by far the plumpest woman in our group, very buxom. People say they like that...The older women in particular who had once been quite plump have shrunken terribly. Of course the distiller's wife is an exception. Since the war began she hasn't lacked for things to trade. And now she's paying for her unmerited fat.”

She also mentions the ‘Ivans’ surprising acts of gentleness and decency. For the most part, they adored children and clung to their innocence. They enjoyed dandling babies on their knees and playing Santa Claus by distributing food.

When order is somewhat restored, the author is forced to work doing laundry for soldiers or taking apart and boxing up factory machinery (the means of production) to be shipped back to Russia. The work is pointless and absurd – do the Russians really believe that they’ll be able to reassemble the machinery out of these unlabeled boxes of jumbled parts? – but any protest is impossible.

The diary ends when the author’s boyfriend deserts and returns. When she shows him the diary, he closes it in disgust and inquires why all German women have become ‘a bunch of shameless bitches.’ He doesn’t want to hear or know about what it’s taken for her to survive, and their relationship does not survive.

When the diary was first published in the 1950s, Germany was also neither ready to hear nor come to terms with the collective rape of its female citizens. The diary was met with hostility and vicious attacks against its authenticity. It was treated as if it were some indictment against German men, as if it dishonored and shamed the German men who were unable to protect the women, as well as if it made the women who did what they had to do to survive seem like they had fraternized and prostituted themselves to the enemy. It soon became out of print and relegated to obscurity. The work wasn’t republished until last year, according to the terms of the author, who only wanted it republished after her death.

One unsatisfying element of the book was for all of the author’s eloquence and introspection she never adequately explains why and how the German’s allowed Hitler to come to power. She was not a member of the Nazi party, but she was no dissident either. She has more than an inkling about what was going on in the Holocaust – at one point she compares a woman who looks like a bulldog to someone she imagines would be a good concentration camp guard – but she remains patriotic to her people. She mentions that she had an opportunity to move abroad at the beginning of the war, but decided to stay in her country, right or wrong, evil regime or not. Still, the author is an intelligent, beautiful writer and her descriptions of conditions are harrowing but tempered by her wry, clear eyed observations. Highly recommended.

My Grandfather and the Old Goat

My grandfather was a rather larger than life, Howard Hughes (without the crippling OCD) character. He died of cancer before I was born, which he probably developed poking around in some uranium mines he owned. One of his great passions was flying, and during the 1930s somehow ended up establishing the air force for that death squad wielding, right wing dictator treasured ally and bulwark against communism, Rafael Trujillo. Trujillo recently had taken over the Banana Dominican Republic and, like most tin pot dictators, desired an air force of his very own to show off and command. My grandfather was in the Air Force Reserve, and he and his best friend, without knowledge or consent of the United States government, went down there for a few months in Trujillo’s employ. This was most likely treasonous, especially since they were wearing a foreign sovereign's uniform, but my grandfather never let matters like that interfere with his good time. He loved visiting Latin American and nobody could throw a banquet like those dictators.

Here he is pictured with Trujillo. My grandfather is on the right. He and his friend spent most of their time in the Dominican Republic strafing peasants delivering the mail and attending large parties and banquets in their honor. In the sixties, my great aunt stopped in Santo Domingo on a cruise and everyone they talked to remembered him and his friend. A man at the market said that he had been a little boy at the time and used to follow my grandfather about because he thought he was a movie star. I’m sorry I never got to meet him. He wasn’t the best family man and at the time of his death, a lingering, horrible death from cancer, was estranged from both of his daughters. My mother had many unresolved issues with him that affected her her entire life, and I always thought that it was curious, that there must have been some kind of connection, that they succumbed to terminal cancer around the same age.

My Grandfather and the Old Goat

My grandfather was a rather larger than life, Howard Hughes (without the crippling OCD) character. He died of cancer before I was born, which he probably developed poking around in some uranium mines he owned. One of his great passions was flying, and during the 1930s somehow ended up establishing the air force for that death squad wielding, right wing dictator treasured ally and bulwark against communism, Rafael Trujillo. Trujillo recently had taken over the Banana Dominican Republic and, like most tin pot dictators, desired an air force of his very own to show off and command. My grandfather was in the Air Force Reserve, and he and his best friend, without knowledge or consent of the United States government, went down there for a few months in Trujillo’s employ. This was most likely treasonous, especially since they were wearing a foreign sovereign's uniform, but my grandfather never let matters like that interfere with his good time. He loved visiting Latin American and nobody could throw a banquet like those dictators.

Here he is pictured with Trujillo. My grandfather is on the right. He and his friend spent most of their time in the Dominican Republic strafing peasants delivering the mail and attending large parties and banquets in their honor. In the sixties, my great aunt stopped in Santo Domingo on a cruise and everyone they talked to remembered him and his friend. A man at the market said that he had been a little boy at the time and used to follow my grandfather about because he thought he was a movie star. I’m sorry I never got to meet him. He wasn’t the best family man and at the time of his death, a lingering, horrible death from cancer, was estranged from both of his daughters. My mother had many unresolved issues with him that affected her her entire life, and I always thought that it was curious, that there must have been some kind of connection, that they succumbed to terminal cancer around the same age.

'Tis the Season

For schizophrenics to call the library.

"Library information? How may I help you?"

"Get me Ted Turner's mailing address."

While I was looking up the information, he began muttering under his breath, "Cops, library security, Bill Gates, no one will loan you a dime if you've been arrested. No one will loan you a goddamn dime. Why can't I get any money?"

Later that hour:

"Library information."

"OK, I'm reading this book and I've got to know if this is really true. Who was the first woman to interview a president of the United States in the nude?"

"Are you asking if the president was nude, the female conducting the interview or both?"

"The president, the president was in the nude! The first time a woman interviewed a president he was in the nude. It's in the book! It's in the book! I got it from the library. I read all about it. I want to make sure it's not stolen. It contains some really amazing stuff. There's a chapter about a woman who ran against another president on a platform ticket of orgasms. She believed in shorts skirts, orgasms and national childcare. There is some really important stuff in this book. It's called Nymphos and other Maniacs, but I'm afraid this book will be stolen. Has the library's copy been stolen? HAS THE LIBRARY'S COPY BEEN STOLEN?"

"We have several copies. I wouldn't worry about it, although I really appreciate your concern. The book is by Irving Wallace, who's usually pretty reliable. I would trust him. You have a good day."

'Tis the Season

For schizophrenics to call the library.

"Library information? How may I help you?"

"Get me Ted Turner's mailing address."

While I was looking up the information, he began muttering under his breath, "Cops, library security, Bill Gates, no one will loan you a dime if you've been arrested. No one will loan you a goddamn dime. Why can't I get any money?"

Later that hour:

"Library information."

"OK, I'm reading this book and I've got to know if this is really true. Who was the first woman to interview a president of the United States in the nude?"

"Are you asking if the president was nude, the female conducting the interview or both?"

"The president, the president was in the nude! The first time a woman interviewed a president he was in the nude. It's in the book! It's in the book! I got it from the library. I read all about it. I want to make sure it's not stolen. It contains some really amazing stuff. There's a chapter about a woman who ran against another president on a platform ticket of orgasms. She believed in shorts skirts, orgasms and national childcare. There is some really important stuff in this book. It's called Nymphos and other Maniacs, but I'm afraid this book will be stolen. Has the library's copy been stolen? HAS THE LIBRARY'S COPY BEEN STOLEN?"

"We have several copies. I wouldn't worry about it, although I really appreciate your concern. The book is by Irving Wallace, who's usually pretty reliable. I would trust him. You have a good day."

My library books were seriously overdue but the fines should be waived because...

"I loaned them to friend and her house slid off its foundation with the books in it! The house was condemned! Did you want me to break the law and endanger my life to retrieve the books? Are you saying the books are worth more than my life?"
(She tried to use the same excuse the next year.)

"I'm battling a possible addiction."

"Due to the richness of the material I couldn't possibly savour these books in the paltry time allowed me." (12 weeks)

"I thought society was going to collapse and it didn't, but I left the books I had checked out on survivalism in the woods and now I can't find them."

A man's sister sent some overdue interlibrary loan books back with an apologetic note for their lateness. The books were European 'art' texts with pictures of naked children. Right after he checked the books out, her brother had gone to jail for 6 months for pedophilia. When he was released he did the honorable thing, which is hang himself, although not completely honorable, because he didn't return his library books first. His sister found the books, a pile of overdue notices as well as some other really unpleasant things when she was cleaning out his apartment. What a grim task that must have been.

My library books were seriously overdue but the fines should be waived because...

"I loaned them to friend and her house slid off its foundation with the books in it! The house was condemned! Did you want me to break the law and endanger my life to retrieve the books? Are you saying the books are worth more than my life?"
(She tried to use the same excuse the next year.)

"I'm battling a possible addiction."

"Due to the richness of the material I couldn't possibly savour these books in the paltry time allowed me." (12 weeks)

"I thought society was going to collapse and it didn't, but I left the books I had checked out on survivalism in the woods and now I can't find them."

A man's sister sent some overdue interlibrary loan books back with an apologetic note for their lateness. The books were European 'art' texts with pictures of naked children. Right after he checked the books out, her brother had gone to jail for 6 months for pedophilia. When he was released he did the honorable thing, which is hang himself, although not completely honorable, because he didn't return his library books first. His sister found the books, a pile of overdue notices as well as some other really unpleasant things when she was cleaning out his apartment. What a grim task that must have been.

Librarian Foot Fetish

I don’t obsessively monitor my statistics counter like I used to, but it’s still great fun when I do check it. The information I get is crude and basic since I’m using the free version, but I can tell from which ISP a visitor (shout out to P.T. at M&H) is accessing my site and what Google searches were used. Having the word foxy in this blog gets a lot of hits from porn seekers:





Here's how some randy Qatarian found me:
sexey foxy
foxy wemon
foxy and sexy ladey

Redundant:
foxy vixens

Desperate and dumb:
buying methadone on the internet - HAH! Good luck

Disturbing:
zoo p@ssy

Even more disturbing:
Oprah booty (as in her buttocks, or her extravagant audience giveaways?)

Bizarre:
Librarian foot fetish

Although imagining the deep disappointment porn seekers must feel when they reach my site brings me great joy, I do have to feel sorry for the person burdened with this impossibly specific and, I imagine, lonely, fixation. So, just for him, here’s a picture of some librarian feet. Yes, in this circle of feet is a librarian’s, mine! Pretty damn hot, huh? Actually, it was pretty damn hot. This picture was taken at the Dead Elvis Ultimate Frisbee tournament in Memphis, Tennessee, an annual event that takes place the weekend around the date of the King’s death, which as every schoolchild knows is August 16. When I played, the tournament was held out on a shadeless sod farm next to a power plant which would periodically spew black clouds of toxic filth, which you can see coating our legs. (I really don’t miss that laissez faire approach to environmental matters down in Dixie.) Usually the temperature exceeds 100 and the tournament is not complete until 2 or 3 players are hospitalized for heat and/or sun stroke.

I myself got a touch of heat poisoning there, which I have to say is one of the worst possible feelings in the world. I felt like I literally had  been poisoned, and had to stagger off the field in the middle of a point to throw up, which I did behind a trashcan, like an elegant and well-bred young lady. When I read Dennis Covington’s book Salvation on Sand Mountain, a memoir about his time among the fundamentalist snake handlers of Sand Mountain, Alabama, I found that the vivid descriptions of what it feels after you’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake matched this feeling, although I didn’t see the terrifyingly psychedelic auras and halos around objects that these snakebite victims report. After my touch of heat stroke I couldn’t even muster strength to go to the party, and I felt rotten for days, and for a long while afterward couldn’t get in a hot tub or play too long in the sun or I would I could feel that whole mechanism start up and get that wretched feeling again. Supposedly this is the case for multiple snakebite victims as well. Contrary to what I had always heard, you don’t develop any sort of immunity to snakebites from repeated exposure to the venom. Instead, the poison has a cumulative effects, making you sicker with each bite.

I recommend this book, by the way, if you’re into freaky religious Appalachian cults. The book is about how this strychnine drinkin’, rattlesnake handling, speaking in tongues congregation was torn apart after the preacher was accused of trying to kill his wife by thrusting her arm into cage that housed the rattlesnakes the church would handle during the services. Even after suffering multiple bites, she managed to escape and crawl through the woods to her neighbor’s. The preacher claimed that she had asked him to put her arm in the cage to test her faith, and the congregation was split down the middle in opinion of his guilt. Dennis Covington, a New York Times reporter, goes on location to Sand Mountain and eventually becomes swept up in the religious fervor, and at one point even takes up a snake himself. His wife finally catches wind of what he’s up to and shows up and tells him to cut that shit out and come home.

Librarian Foot Fetish

I don’t obsessively monitor my statistics counter like I used to, but it’s still great fun when I do check it. The information I get is crude and basic since I’m using the free version, but I can tell from which ISP a visitor (shout out to P.T. at M&H) is accessing my site and what Google searches were used. Having the word foxy in this blog gets a lot of hits from porn seekers:





Here's how some randy Qatarian found me:
sexey foxy
foxy wemon
foxy and sexy ladey

Redundant:
foxy vixens

Desperate and dumb:
buying methadone on the internet - HAH! Good luck

Disturbing:
zoo p@ssy

Even more disturbing:
Oprah booty (as in her buttocks, or her extravagant audience giveaways?)

Bizarre:
Librarian foot fetish

Although imagining the deep disappointment porn seekers must feel when they reach my site brings me great joy, I do have to feel sorry for the person burdened with this impossibly specific and, I imagine, lonely, fixation. So, just for him, here’s a picture of some librarian feet. Yes, in this circle of feet is a librarian’s, mine! Pretty damn hot, huh? Actually, it was pretty damn hot. This picture was taken at the Dead Elvis Ultimate Frisbee tournament in Memphis, Tennessee, an annual event that takes place the weekend around the date of the King’s death, which as every schoolchild knows is August 16. When I played, the tournament was held out on a shadeless sod farm next to a power plant which would periodically spew black clouds of toxic filth, which you can see coating our legs. (I really don’t miss that laissez faire approach to environmental matters down in Dixie.) Usually the temperature exceeds 100 and the tournament is not complete until 2 or 3 players are hospitalized for heat and/or sun stroke.

I myself got a touch of heat poisoning there, which I have to say is one of the worst possible feelings in the world. I felt like I literally had  been poisoned, and had to stagger off the field in the middle of a point to throw up, which I did behind a trashcan, like an elegant and well-bred young lady. When I read Dennis Covington’s book Salvation on Sand Mountain, a memoir about his time among the fundamentalist snake handlers of Sand Mountain, Alabama, I found that the vivid descriptions of what it feels after you’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake matched this feeling, although I didn’t see the terrifyingly psychedelic auras and halos around objects that these snakebite victims report. After my touch of heat stroke I couldn’t even muster strength to go to the party, and I felt rotten for days, and for a long while afterward couldn’t get in a hot tub or play too long in the sun or I would I could feel that whole mechanism start up and get that wretched feeling again. Supposedly this is the case for multiple snakebite victims as well. Contrary to what I had always heard, you don’t develop any sort of immunity to snakebites from repeated exposure to the venom. Instead, the poison has a cumulative effects, making you sicker with each bite.

I recommend this book, by the way, if you’re into freaky religious Appalachian cults. The book is about how this strychnine drinkin’, rattlesnake handling, speaking in tongues congregation was torn apart after the preacher was accused of trying to kill his wife by thrusting her arm into cage that housed the rattlesnakes the church would handle during the services. Even after suffering multiple bites, she managed to escape and crawl through the woods to her neighbor’s. The preacher claimed that she had asked him to put her arm in the cage to test her faith, and the congregation was split down the middle in opinion of his guilt. Dennis Covington, a New York Times reporter, goes on location to Sand Mountain and eventually becomes swept up in the religious fervor, and at one point even takes up a snake himself. His wife finally catches wind of what he’s up to and shows up and tells him to cut that shit out and come home.

Billy Jack

The other day Billy passed by, mincing down the hall.

e: Oh, dear God!

f: What?

e: It's Billy. He's walking around like he owns the place!

f: Oh, about that. Actually, he does. Don't you remember that time when he got you all drunk and made you sign over the house title? He convinced you that it would save a lot of money as part of some complicated tax shelter. Anyway, it seemed to make financial sense at the time.

e: Uh-oh.

f: And he wanted me to let you know that he'll be needing the master bedroom now.

Billy Jack

The other day Billy passed by, mincing down the hall.

e: Oh, dear God!

f: What?

e: It's Billy. He's walking around like he owns the place!

f: Oh, about that. Actually, he does. Don't you remember that time when he got you all drunk and made you sign over the house title? He convinced you that it would save a lot of money as part of some complicated tax shelter. Anyway, it seemed to make financial sense at the time.

e: Uh-oh.

f: And he wanted me to let you know that he'll be needing the master bedroom now.

How not to write a complaint form

The files of the complaints and suggestion forms are a real garden of delights. 90 percent consist of complaints about the condition of the men’s bathroom, which no matter how hard the valiant janitorial staff tries, is always appalling. The other day there were reports of a large man, naked except for a pair of red cowboy boots, having some sort of fit in there. The guards investigated and found a man who had diarrhea all over his clothes and himself and was trying to clean up the mess in the sink. The facilities are not adequate for laundry and such an extensive toilette so he was splashing the filth all over the floors. The worst part was that he adamantly refused to remove his cowboy boots, in which a good portion of the diarrhea had puddled.

There are surprisingly few complaints against the staff, but they are usually the most entertaining. Some of the complaints most likely are legitimate. Civil service does not always bring out the best customer service practices in people and we all have bad days, but patrons often undermine their case with their letter. Even if the case the patron is making is cogent the patron will blow it by describing the employee against whom they’ve taken issue as a “limp wristed librarian,” “illegal alien Oriental janitor,” “bitter old maid who needs desperately to get her some,” and, my personal favorite, that “haughty fairy on the 3rd floor.” Here’s a tip: hate speech discredits you, you will not be taken seriously, and your complaint letter will be ignored. No one from administration will get back to you and the employee will not be reprimanded.

Some more advice. Although it’s hard to have neat penmanship using the golf pencils the library provides, try anyway, because this will help your case. Also, try to calm down. Fury negatively affects one’s writing ability. Sometimes people write the letters in such an agitated state that the letters are so riddled with errors and misspellings that the form looks like the scribblings of a barely literate madman. If you just want to vent, then fine, but don’t expect anything to be done about your complaint.

Often the forms are from mentally ill who, even though amazingly articulate, make no sense whatsoever. Although they have no point, they are wonderful in their own way.

I complimented a man on being handsome. He kicked me out for 30 days! I complied.

How not to write a complaint form

The files of the complaints and suggestion forms are a real garden of delights. 90 percent consist of complaints about the condition of the men’s bathroom, which no matter how hard the valiant janitorial staff tries, is always appalling. The other day there were reports of a large man, naked except for a pair of red cowboy boots, having some sort of fit in there. The guards investigated and found a man who had diarrhea all over his clothes and himself and was trying to clean up the mess in the sink. The facilities are not adequate for laundry and such an extensive toilette so he was splashing the filth all over the floors. The worst part was that he adamantly refused to remove his cowboy boots, in which a good portion of the diarrhea had puddled.

There are surprisingly few complaints against the staff, but they are usually the most entertaining. Some of the complaints most likely are legitimate. Civil service does not always bring out the best customer service practices in people and we all have bad days, but patrons often undermine their case with their letter. Even if the case the patron is making is cogent the patron will blow it by describing the employee against whom they’ve taken issue as a “limp wristed librarian,” “illegal alien Oriental janitor,” “bitter old maid who needs desperately to get her some,” and, my personal favorite, that “haughty fairy on the 3rd floor.” Here’s a tip: hate speech discredits you, you will not be taken seriously, and your complaint letter will be ignored. No one from administration will get back to you and the employee will not be reprimanded.

Some more advice. Although it’s hard to have neat penmanship using the golf pencils the library provides, try anyway, because this will help your case. Also, try to calm down. Fury negatively affects one’s writing ability. Sometimes people write the letters in such an agitated state that the letters are so riddled with errors and misspellings that the form looks like the scribblings of a barely literate madman. If you just want to vent, then fine, but don’t expect anything to be done about your complaint.

Often the forms are from mentally ill who, even though amazingly articulate, make no sense whatsoever. Although they have no point, they are wonderful in their own way.

I complimented a man on being handsome. He kicked me out for 30 days! I complied.

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.”

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.