Never Apologize, Never Explain

A colleague was at one of the quieter reference desks on an upper floor when she smelled the undeniable odor of marijuana. She went to investigate, and in the stacks, not 10 feet behind the reference desk, were two guys in their early twenties passing a pipe back and forth.

“This may be a stupid question, but what do you think you’re doing?”

“What?”

“You’re smoking pot. In the library.”

“No. No, we’re not,” one of them said in a “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” tone. The other coughed, allowing a little cloud of smoke to escape out of his mouth.

“You’re surrounded by smoke and I see a pipe in your hand!”

They looked at each other and shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They strolled off. My colleague, a little stunned by their gall, called security and described the two. “I think they’re headed down out the security gates.”

Sure enough, they were. The guard stopped them. “Would you two please step inside the security office?”

“No, I don’t think so.” They continued walking outside. Right then another patron set off the security gate alarm. The library security guard isn’t a police officer, so he decided to turn his attention to the other patron who had set off the alarm.

Although I certainly don’t appreciate pot smoking in the library, I have to give them credit for their brazen audacity, as well as their sense not to go into the security office. Polite non-compliance and a "Never Apologize, Never Explain" policy really is the best course at times. I remember when I worked at the Sheriff’s Office how many people would willingly let police officers search their car without a warrant, believing that if they would just cooperate with the police that the police would cut them a break. Wrong! They just made the police officer’s job easier. 90% of the time, the police officer would have just let the person go, vehicle unsearched, rather than go through the bother of obtaining a warrant. My advice? If you’re ever pulled over, and have something to hide, be polite, but never, ever agree to a search.

In the excellent Bangkok 8, a pot smoker receives a terrible punishment. In the passage, the narrator, a Eurasian dectective, is called to the station to interview an American backpacker who had walked into the police station to ask for directions. When the tourist had asked for directions at the counter, he reached into his pocket, and a huge bag of marijuana fell out. The tourist wasn’t acting appropriately scared; he actually seemed rather smug, like he was pulling one over on the police. Acting on a hunch, the detective asks him if he writes for Travelertales.com, an ‘extreme tourism’ website where travelers post their adventure tales of getting into trouble in foreign countries. The tourist goes pale. The detective explains to the sergeant,

Kids get them themselves in jams in faraway countries, nail-biting situations which could land them in a Thai jail for five years, or get them stoned to death in Saudi Arabia, or strangled by a boa constrictor in Brazil, but there’s always a First World safety net of course, which makes it all quite safe really. Then they write about their heroic escape from the jaws of disaster in a foreign land. It’s a way of getting published. Getting caught with ganga in Krung Thep is a a favorite. According to the Net, the standard bribe is 5000 baht for this quality dope.

The sergeant, a man infamous for his temper, asks the tourist for the 5000 baht. The tourist, with a smug, knowing smile, slaps the exact amount on the table. The sergeant burns the money in front of the tourist, and then makes him roll the entire bag of marijuana into one giant joint, the size of ‘a crooked, white chimney.’ He stands over the tourist and forces him to smoke the entire, giant joint, ensuring that he inhales deeply and properly. He then orders him dragged into 'the hole,' a dank, pitch black pit, for ten hours of solitary confinement. When the tourist emerges, he is sobbing, his sanity barely intact.

Instead of the hole, as a fitting punishment, maybe we could have thrown the pot smokers into our purportedly haunted basement until closing time.

Swamp Safari

This is a photograph of my grandmother on an alligator hunting expedition on Caddo Lake in East Texas. The man in the pith helmet captured wild creatures for circuses, which is where this poor creature was headed, and somehow my grandmother and some of her friends got to tag along on the trip. Note that the little girl in the picture, the circus man’s daughter I believe, is wearing a flour sack with armholes cut into it. This hunting trip was actually my grandmother and grandfather’s first date. They had just met, but my grandfather had such a good time that he decided that my grandmother was the woman for him and proposed shortly afterwards.

Swamp Safari

This is a photograph of my grandmother on an alligator hunting expedition on Caddo Lake in East Texas. The man in the pith helmet captured wild creatures for circuses, which is where this poor creature was headed, and somehow my grandmother and some of her friends got to tag along on the trip. Note that the little girl in the picture, the circus man’s daughter I believe, is wearing a flour sack with armholes cut into it. This hunting trip was actually my grandmother and grandfather’s first date. They had just met, but my grandfather had such a good time that he decided that my grandmother was the woman for him and proposed shortly afterwards.

Let your Freak Flag Fly @ the Library!

An older man, probably in his sixties, strolled by the reference desk on his way to get some tax forms. He was dressed in a flowing red cape, a lycra Superman top and a red speedo. His bottom half was bare, except for the speedo, but he did have an oversized captain’s hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Thoroughly accustomed to this kind of spectacle, neither patrons nor library staff batted an eye as the man went about his business at the library…

Let your Freak Flag Fly @ the Library!

An older man, probably in his sixties, strolled by the reference desk on his way to get some tax forms. He was dressed in a flowing red cape, a lycra Superman top and a red speedo. His bottom half was bare, except for the speedo, but he did have an oversized captain’s hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Thoroughly accustomed to this kind of spectacle, neither patrons nor library staff batted an eye as the man went about his business at the library…

Nobody Writes Jokes in Base 13

A rumpled, Ted Kazinski type wearing an extremely form fitting Weezer shirt - a rather puzzling fashion choice for a man in his fifties - approached the reference desk and began talking about Base 13. I know nothing about mathematics; in fact, I consider it a form of professional malpractice when I help any child at the library above the 5th grade with his or her math homework, so I could not explain Base 13 to you, even with a gun to my head. Here is the Wikipedia entry. The patron continued touting Base 13's efficiency and explaining how advantageous it would be for society if we operated under this system. According to the patron, in a Base 13 world, peace and harmony would reign and love would rule the stars. He then brought up the red flag word, the CIA, as telltale a symptom of schizophrenia as Kaposi's Sarcoma is to AIDS.

“When my father was in the CIA years ago, the agency looked into switching the U.S. into a Base 13 system, and I wish that they had gone ahead and done it, because a lot of the violence and upheaval we’ve experienced could have been avoided. It would have changed all of human consciousness! If only we would just switch to from a Base 10 to a Base 13 model! I want to show you what a superior system it is – take a look at some of my calculations.”

He then began pulling out stacks of John Nash style script and formulas, but thankfully a line began to form and my colleague told him that she had to help with other patrons.

A little math humor from the Wikipedia entry:

In the end of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams, a possible question to have the answer "forty-two" is presented: "What do you get if you multiply six by nine?" Of course, the answer is deliberately wrong, creating a humorous effect – if the calculation is carried out in base 10. People who were trying to find a deeper meaning in the passage soon noticed that in base 13, 6 × 9 is actually 42 (as 4 × 13 + 2 = 54). When confronted with this, the author stated that it was a mere coincidence, and that "Nobody writes jokes in base 13 [...] I may be a pretty sad person, but I don't make jokes in base 13."

Nobody Writes Jokes in Base 13

A rumpled, Ted Kazinski type wearing an extremely form fitting Weezer shirt - a rather puzzling fashion choice for a man in his fifties - approached the reference desk and began talking about Base 13. I know nothing about mathematics; in fact, I consider it a form of professional malpractice when I help any child at the library above the 5th grade with his or her math homework, so I could not explain Base 13 to you, even with a gun to my head. Here is the Wikipedia entry. The patron continued touting Base 13's efficiency and explaining how advantageous it would be for society if we operated under this system. According to the patron, in a Base 13 world, peace and harmony would reign and love would rule the stars. He then brought up the red flag word, the CIA, as telltale a symptom of schizophrenia as Kaposi's Sarcoma is to AIDS.

“When my father was in the CIA years ago, the agency looked into switching the U.S. into a Base 13 system, and I wish that they had gone ahead and done it, because a lot of the violence and upheaval we’ve experienced could have been avoided. It would have changed all of human consciousness! If only we would just switch to from a Base 10 to a Base 13 model! I want to show you what a superior system it is – take a look at some of my calculations.”

He then began pulling out stacks of John Nash style script and formulas, but thankfully a line began to form and my colleague told him that she had to help with other patrons.

A little math humor from the Wikipedia entry:

In the end of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams, a possible question to have the answer "forty-two" is presented: "What do you get if you multiply six by nine?" Of course, the answer is deliberately wrong, creating a humorous effect – if the calculation is carried out in base 10. People who were trying to find a deeper meaning in the passage soon noticed that in base 13, 6 × 9 is actually 42 (as 4 × 13 + 2 = 54). When confronted with this, the author stated that it was a mere coincidence, and that "Nobody writes jokes in base 13 [...] I may be a pretty sad person, but I don't make jokes in base 13."

Memory

An excerpt from On the Sea of Memory: A Journey from Forgetting to Memory, a reflection on memory and the brain and the self by Jonathon Cott, who had 15 years of his memory erased by electric shock therapy. In the following passage, he discusses the relationship between emotions and memory, and how stress can heighten and enhance the powers of recall.

…(I)n Medieval times, before writing was used to keep historical records, when means other than writing had to be found to maintain records of important events such as a wedding or negotiations between powerful families, you say that a child about seven years old was selected, instructed to observe the proceedings carefully, and then thrown into a river. In that way, it was said, memory of the even would be impressed on the child and the record of the event maintained for the child’s lifetime. That hyperactive amygdala was certainly working overtime.

Memory

An excerpt from On the Sea of Memory: A Journey from Forgetting to Memory, a reflection on memory and the brain and the self by Jonathon Cott, who had 15 years of his memory erased by electric shock therapy. In the following passage, he discusses the relationship between emotions and memory, and how stress can heighten and enhance the powers of recall.

…(I)n Medieval times, before writing was used to keep historical records, when means other than writing had to be found to maintain records of important events such as a wedding or negotiations between powerful families, you say that a child about seven years old was selected, instructed to observe the proceedings carefully, and then thrown into a river. In that way, it was said, memory of the even would be impressed on the child and the record of the event maintained for the child’s lifetime. That hyperactive amygdala was certainly working overtime.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, 1927

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, 1927

Trickery!

I have always been fascinated by the survival tactics of mimicry, camouflage and deception in the animal and plant kingdoms. Some of my patrons could take a lesson from these species.

A shifty teenager, straight out of central casting for Juvenile Delinquent Gang Banger, came in and asked for DVDs on lock picking. This system does not own any DVDs but there are some reference books, reference because any circulating ones are stolen immediately. I was glad that we didn’t have any material for him, because if he were stopped by the police with those books in his possession, a likelihood considering his demeanor, dress and attitude, he would probably be in big trouble.

Then a man who looked like he spun right out of the "Hey, man, is that Freedom Rock" commercial asked if we had any information on growing plants indoors. "You know what I mean? Like," meaningfully wiggling his eyebrows, "hydroponically?"

Maybe this patron was into to growing roses. His intent for the information is not for me to question or assume, but I had to ask myself why he wouldn't want to be a little more subtle. If you're going to risk growing marijuana, don't look like such a goddamn stoner stereotype. It reminded me of college when couple of my friends discovered the Grateful Dead. When they transformed themselves into slovenly Deadheads with dancing teddy bear stickers plastered all over their car they were actually puzzled when the Virginia Highway patrol would pull them every 10 miles.

The guy who was slyest and smartest about his illegal activities in college was an SAE who looked and dressed exactly like Tucker Carlson. He was the biggest acid and MDMA dealer on campus but flew right under the noses of the administration because of his clean cut appearance and involvement in student leadership activities. I had to admire his excellent employment of mimicry, which certainly let him get away with a lot. I wonder where he is today – probably Congress.

Trickery!

I have always been fascinated by the survival tactics of mimicry, camouflage and deception in the animal and plant kingdoms. Some of my patrons could take a lesson from these species.

A shifty teenager, straight out of central casting for Juvenile Delinquent Gang Banger, came in and asked for DVDs on lock picking. This system does not own any DVDs but there are some reference books, reference because any circulating ones are stolen immediately. I was glad that we didn’t have any material for him, because if he were stopped by the police with those books in his possession, a likelihood considering his demeanor, dress and attitude, he would probably be in big trouble.

Then a man who looked like he spun right out of the "Hey, man, is that Freedom Rock" commercial asked if we had any information on growing plants indoors. "You know what I mean? Like," meaningfully wiggling his eyebrows, "hydroponically?"

Maybe this patron was into to growing roses. His intent for the information is not for me to question or assume, but I had to ask myself why he wouldn't want to be a little more subtle. If you're going to risk growing marijuana, don't look like such a goddamn stoner stereotype. It reminded me of college when couple of my friends discovered the Grateful Dead. When they transformed themselves into slovenly Deadheads with dancing teddy bear stickers plastered all over their car they were actually puzzled when the Virginia Highway patrol would pull them every 10 miles.

The guy who was slyest and smartest about his illegal activities in college was an SAE who looked and dressed exactly like Tucker Carlson. He was the biggest acid and MDMA dealer on campus but flew right under the noses of the administration because of his clean cut appearance and involvement in student leadership activities. I had to admire his excellent employment of mimicry, which certainly let him get away with a lot. I wonder where he is today – probably Congress.

At the Reference Desk

For reference services rendered, patrons have blessed me, laid hands and prayed on me, squealed with glee, clutched my hands, burst into tears (for setting up an appointment with INS), slapped me on the back, drawn me pictures (sometimes the pictures were of me), asked me out, written me poems, given me chocolates, coupons, coffee, a homemade smoothie, flowers, and a gardenia corsage, hugged me, offered to give me a shoulder massage (she was a professional masseuse).

Others have screamed at me, thrown tantrums, slammed a fist down on my desk when I wouldn't let them use the phone and instead directed them to the payphone 20 yards away, shot me looks of such hate that I could actually feel it (it feels like heat), aggressively tried to start staring contests with me, drooled on my keyboard, dropped a marijuana roach on my keyboard, and informed me that they paid my salary when I wouldn't let them have extra internet time.

So far no one has spit on me.

At the Reference Desk

For reference services rendered, patrons have blessed me, laid hands and prayed on me, squealed with glee, clutched my hands, burst into tears (for setting up an appointment with INS), slapped me on the back, drawn me pictures (sometimes the pictures were of me), asked me out, written me poems, given me chocolates, coupons, coffee, a homemade smoothie, flowers, and a gardenia corsage, hugged me, offered to give me a shoulder massage (she was a professional masseuse).

Others have screamed at me, thrown tantrums, slammed a fist down on my desk when I wouldn't let them use the phone and instead directed them to the payphone 20 yards away, shot me looks of such hate that I could actually feel it (it feels like heat), aggressively tried to start staring contests with me, drooled on my keyboard, dropped a marijuana roach on my keyboard, and informed me that they paid my salary when I wouldn't let them have extra internet time.

So far no one has spit on me.

Keeps you on your Toes

You think you're having a normal, pleasant, interesting conversation with a patron and without warning he'll turn on you and hiss, "Why did you suggest this book? Don't you see it has an odd number in the coding? What are you trying to do me?" Then as he's gathering his papers he'll shoot you a look of deep betrayal followed by a smug, "Nice try - I'm on to you" and storm off.

Soon I hope to reach a stage of imperturbability, like a priest or cop who has seen it all and cannot be shocked or surprised by anything anybody does or says. I imagine that it will be almost like a state of transcendence or grace. Or maybe I'm confusing that with severe burn-out.

Keeps you on your Toes

You think you're having a normal, pleasant, interesting conversation with a patron and without warning he'll turn on you and hiss, "Why did you suggest this book? Don't you see it has an odd number in the coding? What are you trying to do me?" Then as he's gathering his papers he'll shoot you a look of deep betrayal followed by a smug, "Nice try - I'm on to you" and storm off.

Soon I hope to reach a stage of imperturbability, like a priest or cop who has seen it all and cannot be shocked or surprised by anything anybody does or says. I imagine that it will be almost like a state of transcendence or grace. Or maybe I'm confusing that with severe burn-out.

Dr. Dolan's Follow-up Article about Frey

Here is Dolan, a columnist for the expatriate newspaper The Exile, with some more about Frey.

Also in the current issue, hilarious but depressing hate mail sent to Dolan by Frey fans.

Dr. Dolan's Follow-up Article about Frey

Here is Dolan, a columnist for the expatriate newspaper The Exile, with some more about Frey.

Also in the current issue, hilarious but depressing hate mail sent to Dolan by Frey fans.

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.

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.”