My Day

On the dogs' and my walk this morning I noticed no less than 6 homeless men unconscious on the street. One had passed out on the sidewalk while pushing his grocery cart, which had tumped over, spilling the contents to the curb. When I walked by, two grimfaced cops were standing over him. They looked extremely reluctant to begin cleaning up the mess.

Another man by the park was lying on a bunch of Fed-Ex boxes that he had laid out like a raft. He was on his back, hands folded on his chest. He was surrounded by his possessions, which were carefully stacked and folded around his body on the Fed-Ex white boxes, nothing touching the ground. It looked a Viking funeral pyre, ready to be pushed out to sea.

Another man was slumped back against a building on my very own street. He was sitting upright but his legs were splayed out in this impossible, contorted way, like they had been deboned. I called the cops on that one.

Homeless passed out on the street are nothing unusual in this city, and I step over them as blithely as the New Yorkers who so horrified country boy innocent Joe Buck in Midnight Cowboy. The unusually high number was enough to make even my jaded self take notice, though. It’s not even the 1st or 15th, when the welfare checks arrive and the homeless fill the emergency rooms instead of the library. I wonder if there’s some new drug or a particularly powerful batch of heroin that has hit the streets. Typically, all that is obtainable in this town is the dirty and inferior Mexican Black Tar. Maybe some Asian stuff managed to slip in and the junkies, unused to its quality and potency, are overdosing.

I recently read about an interesting and promising new treatment for opiate addiction, the African shrub ibogaine. A hallucinogenic like peyote, it is similarly used in religious ceremonies by certain West African tribes. People who have taken it describe it as a 3 day trip of nearly indescribable intensity and complexity. They compare the trip to a vision quest, and many describe seeing their entire life as if on a movie reel. The person sees and works through traumatic events in their life and reaches a peaceful understanding of his past. Some alkaloid in the plant also plugs up the body’s opiate receptors, so addicts don't go through the dreaded withdrawal or cravings. It has a reported success rate of 80%, which certainly blows traditional treatments out of the water. Currently the drug is illegal in the US, and more study is needed, but its ethnobotanical potential is extremely promising.

Some of the testimonials are fascinating.

Piggy, Piggy

"Greg and Nancy Balzly of Benjamin, Utah, couldn't figure out how Bo, an 8 1/2 week-old border collie, and his brother were getting fat when they refused to eat the dog food put out for them. Mystery solved when the couple found Bo lunching with Bertha the sow's piglets on Jan. 24."

Piggy, Piggy

"Greg and Nancy Balzly of Benjamin, Utah, couldn't figure out how Bo, an 8 1/2 week-old border collie, and his brother were getting fat when they refused to eat the dog food put out for them. Mystery solved when the couple found Bo lunching with Bertha the sow's piglets on Jan. 24."

Diggin' the Scene with a Gangsta Lean

A patron wanted to know the artist of the song containing the lyrics ‘Diamond in the back, sunroof top/ Diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean.” Through a little research, we discovered the song was a one hit wonder in the 70s by William Devaughn entitled "Be Thankful For What You Got" (1974). It has since been sampled in several rap songs, most notably by half-pint Eazy-E in the N.W.A. classic Gangsta Gangsta, which happens serendipitiously to be on my Ipod, sandwiched somewhere between Air Supply, (Pipin' Hot) Bread, Enya and The Little River Band. As you know, librarians are nothing if not full of street cred. I had always wondered myself where the rather mellow excerpt, which is sung in sweet falsetto, originated. It's used with such jarring effect in the middle of that gritty, violent and angry song. Although the sample seemed so out of place, so harmonically incongruous and dissonant, it worked well within "Gangsta Gangsta." It was catchy enough to lodge itself in my memory, to the extent where I would find myself humming it.

Lyrics from the William Devaughn song:

Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac
Gangsta whitewalls
TV antennas in the back
You may not have a car at all
But remember brothers and sisters
You can still stand tall

Just be thankful for what you've got
Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac
Diamond in the back, sunroof top
Diggin' the scene
With a gangsta lean
Gangsta whitewalls
TV antennas in the back

The diamond in the back refers to the diamond shaped rear window of certain makes of Cadillacs popular in the inner cities during the 1970s. Although the message of the song is a positive one of non-materialism, Devoughn still rather wistfully decribes the Cadillac in loving, lingering detail.

However, it is a much more life affirming message than the murderous and “life ain’t nothing but bitches and money" message of the NWA song in which its sampled. NWA also twisted the classic R&B Express Yourself, a song about individuality, healthy non conformity and the courage of artistic expression, into a much more violent, cynical, crude, message full of thuggish bravado. Perhaps this is a reflection the level of anger and alienation that has pervaded in the inner city and they're trying to turn the prior message on its head. Or, the songs are familiar and in the popular collective consciousness and they're capitalizing on its catchy hook.

From Gangsta Gangsta:

Police tried to roll, so it's time to go
I creeped away real slow and jumped in the six-fo'
Wit the "Diamond in the back, sun-roof top"
Diggin the scene with the gangsta lean
Cause I'm the E, I don't slang or bang
I just smoke motherf**kers like it ain't no thang


Ludacris samples Diamond in Back song to justify a life of crime.

Hmm, what about that pimpin'? It's good tippin'
Tax free, and I know a lot of people that love to screw
Yeah, it's just a way of the world, with boys and girls
I'm adjustin' to my environment
This government cheatin' us, so I'll cheat 'em back
Why can't work feel like retirement?

[Chorus]
Diamond in the back
I wanna (sunroof top)
I wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)
I wanna (diamond in the back)
Could use a (sunroof top)
Sho' wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)
I wish I had a (diamond in the back)
I wanna (sunroof top)
I wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)
I wanna (diamond in the back)
And I wanna (sunroof top)
I wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)

Gangsta, gangsta, gangsta...

Diggin' the Scene with a Gangsta Lean

A patron wanted to know the artist of the song containing the lyrics ‘Diamond in the back, sunroof top/ Diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean.” Through a little research, we discovered the song was a one hit wonder in the 70s by William Devaughn entitled "Be Thankful For What You Got" (1974). It has since been sampled in several rap songs, most notably by half-pint Eazy-E in the N.W.A. classic Gangsta Gangsta, which happens serendipitiously to be on my Ipod, sandwiched somewhere between Air Supply, (Pipin' Hot) Bread, Enya and The Little River Band. As you know, librarians are nothing if not full of street cred. I had always wondered myself where the rather mellow excerpt, which is sung in sweet falsetto, originated. It's used with such jarring effect in the middle of that gritty, violent and angry song. Although the sample seemed so out of place, so harmonically incongruous and dissonant, it worked well within "Gangsta Gangsta." It was catchy enough to lodge itself in my memory, to the extent where I would find myself humming it.

Lyrics from the William Devaughn song:

Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac
Gangsta whitewalls
TV antennas in the back
You may not have a car at all
But remember brothers and sisters
You can still stand tall

Just be thankful for what you've got
Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac
Diamond in the back, sunroof top
Diggin' the scene
With a gangsta lean
Gangsta whitewalls
TV antennas in the back

The diamond in the back refers to the diamond shaped rear window of certain makes of Cadillacs popular in the inner cities during the 1970s. Although the message of the song is a positive one of non-materialism, Devoughn still rather wistfully decribes the Cadillac in loving, lingering detail.

However, it is a much more life affirming message than the murderous and “life ain’t nothing but bitches and money" message of the NWA song in which its sampled. NWA also twisted the classic R&B Express Yourself, a song about individuality, healthy non conformity and the courage of artistic expression, into a much more violent, cynical, crude, message full of thuggish bravado. Perhaps this is a reflection the level of anger and alienation that has pervaded in the inner city and they're trying to turn the prior message on its head. Or, the songs are familiar and in the popular collective consciousness and they're capitalizing on its catchy hook.

From Gangsta Gangsta:

Police tried to roll, so it's time to go
I creeped away real slow and jumped in the six-fo'
Wit the "Diamond in the back, sun-roof top"
Diggin the scene with the gangsta lean
Cause I'm the E, I don't slang or bang
I just smoke motherf**kers like it ain't no thang


Ludacris samples Diamond in Back song to justify a life of crime.

Hmm, what about that pimpin'? It's good tippin'
Tax free, and I know a lot of people that love to screw
Yeah, it's just a way of the world, with boys and girls
I'm adjustin' to my environment
This government cheatin' us, so I'll cheat 'em back
Why can't work feel like retirement?

[Chorus]
Diamond in the back
I wanna (sunroof top)
I wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)
I wanna (diamond in the back)
Could use a (sunroof top)
Sho' wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)
I wish I had a (diamond in the back)
I wanna (sunroof top)
I wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)
I wanna (diamond in the back)
And I wanna (sunroof top)
I wanna (diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean)

Gangsta, gangsta, gangsta...

Ring of (sap)Phire

A woman with a thick Russian accent called for help writing a reward poster. She had been in a grocery store bathroom earlier that day and removed her ring to wash her hands. She placed it next to the sink but then forget it and left, and when she returned a few moments later, the ring was gone. She wanted to know what she should write on the poster, and what kind of reward should be offered. She was distraught and weeping throughout the entire phone call, and toward the end she confided that the piece, a ring of amber and intricate gold workmanship, was her engagement ring, and was priceless to her. She sobbed that she didn’t know how she was going to confess her mistake to her husband.

And by the way, how many women lose rings this way? I know that my grandmother lost a ruby and diamond ring in Mexico City doing the exact same thing – she took off her ring in a public bathroom to wash her hands and left it there. Jewelry is beautiful but it carries a heavy responsibility. I myself have tried to cultivate a philosophy of non attachment to it, ever since I had a ring stolen from me my junior year of high school.

I was attending an all girls boarding school at the time, and although the students were supposedly young ladies from well-to-do families, the entire place was a den of thieves. I’m not sure why stealing was so widespread, but I think it was more of a sickness, a psychological disorder like kleptomania, than greed/need motivated stealing. I got the feeling that it was about stealing the other owner’s essence and power than the actual object. Items taken ranged from the smallest, most inconsequential things to big ticket items like typewriters and jewelry. One girl was actually shipping boxes of stolen objects home. For some reason a box was returned and the administration opened it. In it there were half empty bottles of shampoo, a typewriter and about 50 bras of varying sizes that had been stolen from the laundry room throughout the year. She was as indiscriminate as a magpie - there was really no rhyme or reason to what she had taken. In any case, in the boarding school environment, kleptomania and other unfortunate psychological disorders like bulimia flourished. The environment just seemed to breed it.

Like a fool, I brought back to school a sapphire and diamond ring my grandmother had given me for my sixteenth birthday. Right before a big three day weekend, the ring vanished from my dresser. I was devastated. Although I don’t quite remember why, my roommate and I suspected one of the girls in the room next to us. Although we had no concrete proof, the girl we suspected seemed a little too eager to cast the blame on others, and had acted strangely when I told her the ring was missing. One of the girls down the hall even dreamed that she had been the culprit. We could never prove anything, however, and the suspect was expelled the next month for cheating on a math test.

I thought I would never see my ring again. Several years later my roommate was at a fraternity party at Washington and Lee, and saw the girl, our former neighbor we had suspected, WEARING THE RING. My roommate was drunk and scared to confront her, but all of her friends kept goading her on, making chicken sounds, and finally she walked right up to her and said, “Look. I know you have the ring. Give it back.” And she did! Just like that. My roommate knew a bunch of her classmates, and so word was out about her larceny and her reputation was ruined. My roommate also heard from the girl’s friend that that week she had had an abortion as well, the consequence of a one night stand with some completely unsympathetic fraternity asshole. To be exposed as a thief and suffer an abortion in so short a time period - what a shitty week that must have been for her!

One of the African American cooks at a summer camp in East Texas I went to told me about an unusual thief. She began noticing that her jewelry and various articles around the house like hairbrushes started disappearing. She suspected and accused her sisters, who then claimed that they were missing objects as well. The air was thick with suspicion and they all eyed each other with mistrust until one day she went to the attic and discovered a little lair that her pet raccoon had set up for himself, full of all the missing items. Her raccoon had been stealing them and decorating his nest with all of the objects. She said that it was like a miniature Aladdin’s Cave, full of jewelry and other shiny objects and bright feathers and colorful bits of cloth. I guess all God’s creatures love and get tempted by pretty things.

Ring of (sap)Phire

A woman with a thick Russian accent called for help writing a reward poster. She had been in a grocery store bathroom earlier that day and removed her ring to wash her hands. She placed it next to the sink but then forget it and left, and when she returned a few moments later, the ring was gone. She wanted to know what she should write on the poster, and what kind of reward should be offered. She was distraught and weeping throughout the entire phone call, and toward the end she confided that the piece, a ring of amber and intricate gold workmanship, was her engagement ring, and was priceless to her. She sobbed that she didn’t know how she was going to confess her mistake to her husband.

And by the way, how many women lose rings this way? I know that my grandmother lost a ruby and diamond ring in Mexico City doing the exact same thing – she took off her ring in a public bathroom to wash her hands and left it there. Jewelry is beautiful but it carries a heavy responsibility. I myself have tried to cultivate a philosophy of non attachment to it, ever since I had a ring stolen from me my junior year of high school.

I was attending an all girls boarding school at the time, and although the students were supposedly young ladies from well-to-do families, the entire place was a den of thieves. I’m not sure why stealing was so widespread, but I think it was more of a sickness, a psychological disorder like kleptomania, than greed/need motivated stealing. I got the feeling that it was about stealing the other owner’s essence and power than the actual object. Items taken ranged from the smallest, most inconsequential things to big ticket items like typewriters and jewelry. One girl was actually shipping boxes of stolen objects home. For some reason a box was returned and the administration opened it. In it there were half empty bottles of shampoo, a typewriter and about 50 bras of varying sizes that had been stolen from the laundry room throughout the year. She was as indiscriminate as a magpie - there was really no rhyme or reason to what she had taken. In any case, in the boarding school environment, kleptomania and other unfortunate psychological disorders like bulimia flourished. The environment just seemed to breed it.

Like a fool, I brought back to school a sapphire and diamond ring my grandmother had given me for my sixteenth birthday. Right before a big three day weekend, the ring vanished from my dresser. I was devastated. Although I don’t quite remember why, my roommate and I suspected one of the girls in the room next to us. Although we had no concrete proof, the girl we suspected seemed a little too eager to cast the blame on others, and had acted strangely when I told her the ring was missing. One of the girls down the hall even dreamed that she had been the culprit. We could never prove anything, however, and the suspect was expelled the next month for cheating on a math test.

I thought I would never see my ring again. Several years later my roommate was at a fraternity party at Washington and Lee, and saw the girl, our former neighbor we had suspected, WEARING THE RING. My roommate was drunk and scared to confront her, but all of her friends kept goading her on, making chicken sounds, and finally she walked right up to her and said, “Look. I know you have the ring. Give it back.” And she did! Just like that. My roommate knew a bunch of her classmates, and so word was out about her larceny and her reputation was ruined. My roommate also heard from the girl’s friend that that week she had had an abortion as well, the consequence of a one night stand with some completely unsympathetic fraternity asshole. To be exposed as a thief and suffer an abortion in so short a time period - what a shitty week that must have been for her!

One of the African American cooks at a summer camp in East Texas I went to told me about an unusual thief. She began noticing that her jewelry and various articles around the house like hairbrushes started disappearing. She suspected and accused her sisters, who then claimed that they were missing objects as well. The air was thick with suspicion and they all eyed each other with mistrust until one day she went to the attic and discovered a little lair that her pet raccoon had set up for himself, full of all the missing items. Her raccoon had been stealing them and decorating his nest with all of the objects. She said that it was like a miniature Aladdin’s Cave, full of jewelry and other shiny objects and bright feathers and colorful bits of cloth. I guess all God’s creatures love and get tempted by pretty things.

Trapped in the (water) Closet, Part Two

A woman approached the desk, her cheeks red and flustered.

"I was using the bathroom and…and this janitor barged in!”

"I’m really sorry. Wait, the custodian just barged in? Was the stall locked?"

Her eyes shifted to the left. I'm no cop, conman or poker player, but that seems like a serious tell to me. "Uh - the lock was broken! And I begged, "Ma'am, please, I'm trying to use the bathroom! And the janitor said, 'I don't care! I need to refill the seat covers. Let me do my job! Now!' And I begged and I pleaded and she just wouldn't go away! She just kept pushing her way in. And I had my pants down around my ankles. I was helpless! "

“I’m terribly sorry about that, Ma’am. I’ll be sure to report that to the head of custodial services.”

Wow. Doesn’t this woman sound suspiciously similar to the one with environmental sensitivity who complained that the janitor was trying to murder here with dust motes? She made her last complaint over the phone, so no one knew what she looked like, but I have a feeling that she and this woman are one and the same. In any case, this aggressive, overly enthusiastic janitorial behavior is starting to sound like this woman’s personal fantasy fetish to me. That, or our custodial staff is way too gung ho about doing its job.

Trapped in the (water) Closet, Part Two

A woman approached the desk, her cheeks red and flustered.

"I was using the bathroom and…and this janitor barged in!”

"I’m really sorry. Wait, the custodian just barged in? Was the stall locked?"

Her eyes shifted to the left. I'm no cop, conman or poker player, but that seems like a serious tell to me. "Uh - the lock was broken! And I begged, "Ma'am, please, I'm trying to use the bathroom! And the janitor said, 'I don't care! I need to refill the seat covers. Let me do my job! Now!' And I begged and I pleaded and she just wouldn't go away! She just kept pushing her way in. And I had my pants down around my ankles. I was helpless! "

“I’m terribly sorry about that, Ma’am. I’ll be sure to report that to the head of custodial services.”

Wow. Doesn’t this woman sound suspiciously similar to the one with environmental sensitivity who complained that the janitor was trying to murder here with dust motes? She made her last complaint over the phone, so no one knew what she looked like, but I have a feeling that she and this woman are one and the same. In any case, this aggressive, overly enthusiastic janitorial behavior is starting to sound like this woman’s personal fantasy fetish to me. That, or our custodial staff is way too gung ho about doing its job.

Patron Tokens of Appreciation at the Reference Desk

After I helped him sign up for a computer, a patron reached in his pockets and shyly presented me with some sugar packets from the library café.

Next, a homeless woman pushed a bottle full of some evil looking milky liquid toward my colleague. “I made it for you! It’s a mixture of shampoo, body lotion and the lice treatment they gave me over at the shelter. I think it smells real nice, and should make your skin nice and soft. I mixed it just for you.”

OK, I realize ritual sacrifice might be too severe a punishment for the New Age seeker douches below, but just so you know that while they were writhing together in a big mass like one of those snake or toad mating balls they were also moaning and panting and crying out in this very disruptive, obscene way, which was seriously detracting from any other tourist's experience. I guess they reminded me of the people on this HBO Real Sex documentary I had the grave misfortune to watch that featured a polyandry retreat in Northern California. The attendees were all of these wrinkly hippies who would periodically gather to desecrate the redwoods and beautiful natural surroundings with their swinging lifestyle which they tried to sanctify and elevate as some sort of spiritual, enlightening ritual/journey. There was one particularly revolting scene in which they all made a nude circle, lying on their backs with their heads in the middle, and they all chanted and had this noisy group orgasm and "MY EYES! MY EYES! OH GOD MY EYES!"

Patron Tokens of Appreciation at the Reference Desk

After I helped him sign up for a computer, a patron reached in his pockets and shyly presented me with some sugar packets from the library café.

Next, a homeless woman pushed a bottle full of some evil looking milky liquid toward my colleague. “I made it for you! It’s a mixture of shampoo, body lotion and the lice treatment they gave me over at the shelter. I think it smells real nice, and should make your skin nice and soft. I mixed it just for you.”

OK, I realize ritual sacrifice might be too severe a punishment for the New Age seeker douches below, but just so you know that while they were writhing together in a big mass like one of those snake or toad mating balls they were also moaning and panting and crying out in this very disruptive, obscene way, which was seriously detracting from any other tourist's experience. I guess they reminded me of the people on this HBO Real Sex documentary I had the grave misfortune to watch that featured a polyandry retreat in Northern California. The attendees were all of these wrinkly hippies who would periodically gather to desecrate the redwoods and beautiful natural surroundings with their swinging lifestyle which they tried to sanctify and elevate as some sort of spiritual, enlightening ritual/journey. There was one particularly revolting scene in which they all made a nude circle, lying on their backs with their heads in the middle, and they all chanted and had this noisy group orgasm and "MY EYES! MY EYES! OH GOD MY EYES!"

Ugly Americans

Take a look at these fools. Dan and Eleanor just returned from a trip to Mexico City, and while there took a trip to see the pyramids, which is where they encountered this group having some moaning, ecstatic, utterly creepy New Age style spiritual orgy experience on top of the Pyramid of the Sun. Aren’t you embarrassed for them? Aren't you ashamed for America? Looking at this picture makes me want to rip their still beating hearts out of their chests and kick their bodies down the temple stairs! And then cook up their thighs in a pot with tomatoes and peppers for a nice big feast. Yum.

All praise Huitzilopochtli!

Although there is lively scholarly debate on the subject, it looks like, due to periodic crop failures and a paucity of game and domestic animals, cannibalism was the primary source of protein of the Aztec diet, and their whole cosmology of bloodthirsty gods was set up to justify this. Atkins proponents will be vindicated to know that sacrificial victims were caged and fattened up on a high carbohydrate maize diet prior to sacrifice.

Dan and Eleanor reported that Mexico City has undergone a miraculous transformation and a bodyguard and oxygen mask are no longer needed. Supposedly the mayor hired Giuliani as a consultant to enact a New York style cleanup. That's wonderful, because I recently watched Man on Fire, the jaw droppingly violent movie of kidnapping, torture and corruption in Mexico City that made the hellhole Bogata look like a walk in the park in comparison. The best part of the movie was in the credits, though, which has a bewildering note from the producers of the film:

And thank you to Mexico City, a very special place.

Ugly Americans

Take a look at these fools. Dan and Eleanor just returned from a trip to Mexico City, and while there took a trip to see the pyramids, which is where they encountered this group having some moaning, ecstatic, utterly creepy New Age style spiritual orgy experience on top of the Pyramid of the Sun. Aren’t you embarrassed for them? Aren't you ashamed for America? Looking at this picture makes me want to rip their still beating hearts out of their chests and kick their bodies down the temple stairs! And then cook up their thighs in a pot with tomatoes and peppers for a nice big feast. Yum.

All praise Huitzilopochtli!

Although there is lively scholarly debate on the subject, it looks like, due to periodic crop failures and a paucity of game and domestic animals, cannibalism was the primary source of protein of the Aztec diet, and their whole cosmology of bloodthirsty gods was set up to justify this. Atkins proponents will be vindicated to know that sacrificial victims were caged and fattened up on a high carbohydrate maize diet prior to sacrifice.

Dan and Eleanor reported that Mexico City has undergone a miraculous transformation and a bodyguard and oxygen mask are no longer needed. Supposedly the mayor hired Giuliani as a consultant to enact a New York style cleanup. That's wonderful, because I recently watched Man on Fire, the jaw droppingly violent movie of kidnapping, torture and corruption in Mexico City that made the hellhole Bogata look like a walk in the park in comparison. The best part of the movie was in the credits, though, which has a bewildering note from the producers of the film:

And thank you to Mexico City, a very special place.

See you at the Library!

There is a bench lined park that the dogs and I walk through each morning, and I usually recognize many of my patrons from the library stretched out on the benches. As I pass by and see them sleeping or drinking their breakfast 40s in brown bags, scrutinizing and patting their arms and legs in the search for a good vein, I say in my head, “See you in the library in a couple of hours!”

The other morning this hulking, bearded man arose from a bench, stretched and yelled, “Who’s the lucky lady who’s going to start my day off right with a blowjob?”

I myself wasn’t feeling particularly ‘lucky’ that morning, so I kept on walking.

After the park we pass by a sushi restaurant halfway up a very steep street. There we often encounter the Japanese owner, a woman in her forties, outside with her two Chihuahuas and toy poodle. The male Chihuahua, Yuki, is unneutered and extremely macho. When he sees our dogs approach he’ll run to the top of the hill and stand up on his hind legs and loom down at them, trying to create the optical illusion that he is a much bigger threat than he is. The Japanese owner is always dressing them as well as herself in Japanese street fashion and promenading through the park. They are a sublime sight.

One time when E was walking the dogs she stopped and talked to the woman, who was accompanied by another Japanese friend who had limited English. For some reason Billy suspected the friend had a cookie in her hand, and since his outrageous forwardness knows no bounds (I know, I know, my bad), he jumped up on her leg to try to get at her hand.

She pulled her hand back and said in a very sultry, admiring tone. “Ooooh, ag-gur-re-siv-uh.”

See you at the Library!

There is a bench lined park that the dogs and I walk through each morning, and I usually recognize many of my patrons from the library stretched out on the benches. As I pass by and see them sleeping or drinking their breakfast 40s in brown bags, scrutinizing and patting their arms and legs in the search for a good vein, I say in my head, “See you in the library in a couple of hours!”

The other morning this hulking, bearded man arose from a bench, stretched and yelled, “Who’s the lucky lady who’s going to start my day off right with a blowjob?”

I myself wasn’t feeling particularly ‘lucky’ that morning, so I kept on walking.

After the park we pass by a sushi restaurant halfway up a very steep street. There we often encounter the Japanese owner, a woman in her forties, outside with her two Chihuahuas and toy poodle. The male Chihuahua, Yuki, is unneutered and extremely macho. When he sees our dogs approach he’ll run to the top of the hill and stand up on his hind legs and loom down at them, trying to create the optical illusion that he is a much bigger threat than he is. The Japanese owner is always dressing them as well as herself in Japanese street fashion and promenading through the park. They are a sublime sight.

One time when E was walking the dogs she stopped and talked to the woman, who was accompanied by another Japanese friend who had limited English. For some reason Billy suspected the friend had a cookie in her hand, and since his outrageous forwardness knows no bounds (I know, I know, my bad), he jumped up on her leg to try to get at her hand.

She pulled her hand back and said in a very sultry, admiring tone. “Ooooh, ag-gur-re-siv-uh.”

More Tales from the Classroom

A mother and her twenty-something daughter came to class, the daughter ostensibly to help the mother. The daughter refused to touch the computer keyboard, claiming that it was 'impure,' and whispered directions to the mother throughout class. After a while the the two began to bicker over the way the mother was typing. This escalated to the mother jumping out of her chair shrieking, "I'm going to kill you! I'm really going to kill you this time!" Our elderly, gentlemanly African American volunteer ran up to separate them, pleading, "Now, ladies, please!"

A woman weaving and bobbing in her chair slurred, "I can't see my screen! It's double! There's two of everything. There's something wrong with the screen."

"The screen appears fine. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. The problem's with this screen!" The woman then pulled out a pill bottle with a little sleepy eye sticker and began dumping pills into her hand. She brought a couple of the pills to her mouth and dry swallowed them.

I had a man attend my class who was clearly making drug deals in the back row. Every two minutes his phone would ring and he would answer, "Yeah. How much you want? I got that. Hell, yeah, it's the chronic." I asked him if he minded putting his phone on vibrate and to step outside when taking calls.

More Tales from the Classroom

A mother and her twenty-something daughter came to class, the daughter ostensibly to help the mother. The daughter refused to touch the computer keyboard, claiming that it was 'impure,' and whispered directions to the mother throughout class. After a while the the two began to bicker over the way the mother was typing. This escalated to the mother jumping out of her chair shrieking, "I'm going to kill you! I'm really going to kill you this time!" Our elderly, gentlemanly African American volunteer ran up to separate them, pleading, "Now, ladies, please!"

A woman weaving and bobbing in her chair slurred, "I can't see my screen! It's double! There's two of everything. There's something wrong with the screen."

"The screen appears fine. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. The problem's with this screen!" The woman then pulled out a pill bottle with a little sleepy eye sticker and began dumping pills into her hand. She brought a couple of the pills to her mouth and dry swallowed them.

I had a man attend my class who was clearly making drug deals in the back row. Every two minutes his phone would ring and he would answer, "Yeah. How much you want? I got that. Hell, yeah, it's the chronic." I asked him if he minded putting his phone on vibrate and to step outside when taking calls.

OUR TOP STORY TONIGHT!

I occasionally teach a baaaaasic public internet class. Attendance is a mixture of the cast of Ironweed, cheery seniors and immigrants with limited English. There are also a few senior regulars who faithfully attend class, though they seem to retain no memory or skill from the previous class, even though the content of the class varies little. Each time it seems all fresh and new to them, just like in the movie Memento or 50 First Dates. Teaching class can sometimes be comical and absurd but I love it because they laugh politely at my jokes. I kill.

There was a man sitting on the front row who had the aura of a long term residential hotel occupant. He was hard of hearing, nearly legally blind, and seemed to possess several cognitive problems, including, I suspect, a touch of Korsakoff's syndrome. He brought along a friend to assist him, who repeated every thing I said at the top of his voice.

“SHE SAID, TYPE IN WWW.NYTIMES.COM IN THE ADDRESS BAR!”

The man would squint, press his face close enough to lick the screen and then spastically jerk the mouse off the edge of the table.

"SHE SAID, PUT THE MOUSE POINTER ON THE PICTURE!"

I had to laugh because it reminded me so much of the old Chevy Chase Weekend News Update with Garrett Morris as Headmaster of the New York School for the Hard of Hearing. The man’s devotion to his friend was touching, but extremely disruptive, and I had to ask him to keep it down because he was about to cause a class uprising. The stink eye the elderly Chinese woman sitting next to them shot them made my blood run cold.

Odd story in Garrett Morris’s Wikipedia entry: “During rehearsals for the Kirk Douglas hosted episode, he ran screaming onto the set, saying that someone had put an ‘invisible robot’ on his shoulder who watched him everywhere he went. He pleaded with them to get the robot off of him.” Garrett Morris had been freebasing cocaine heavily at the time, which can bring about all sorts of bizarre delusions, including Capgras syndrome, whose sufferers believe that their bodies have been replaced by robots or an imposter.

OUR TOP STORY TONIGHT!

I occasionally teach a baaaaasic public internet class. Attendance is a mixture of the cast of Ironweed, cheery seniors and immigrants with limited English. There are also a few senior regulars who faithfully attend class, though they seem to retain no memory or skill from the previous class, even though the content of the class varies little. Each time it seems all fresh and new to them, just like in the movie Memento or 50 First Dates. Teaching class can sometimes be comical and absurd but I love it because they laugh politely at my jokes. I kill.

There was a man sitting on the front row who had the aura of a long term residential hotel occupant. He was hard of hearing, nearly legally blind, and seemed to possess several cognitive problems, including, I suspect, a touch of Korsakoff's syndrome. He brought along a friend to assist him, who repeated every thing I said at the top of his voice.

“SHE SAID, TYPE IN WWW.NYTIMES.COM IN THE ADDRESS BAR!”

The man would squint, press his face close enough to lick the screen and then spastically jerk the mouse off the edge of the table.

"SHE SAID, PUT THE MOUSE POINTER ON THE PICTURE!"

I had to laugh because it reminded me so much of the old Chevy Chase Weekend News Update with Garrett Morris as Headmaster of the New York School for the Hard of Hearing. The man’s devotion to his friend was touching, but extremely disruptive, and I had to ask him to keep it down because he was about to cause a class uprising. The stink eye the elderly Chinese woman sitting next to them shot them made my blood run cold.

Odd story in Garrett Morris’s Wikipedia entry: “During rehearsals for the Kirk Douglas hosted episode, he ran screaming onto the set, saying that someone had put an ‘invisible robot’ on his shoulder who watched him everywhere he went. He pleaded with them to get the robot off of him.” Garrett Morris had been freebasing cocaine heavily at the time, which can bring about all sorts of bizarre delusions, including Capgras syndrome, whose sufferers believe that their bodies have been replaced by robots or an imposter.

Oh, shit.

One of my colleagues followed her nose to a pile of human feces in the stacks. She discretely ran to call the custodial staff and then looked frantically about for something to rope the section off. Although she was gone only a short time, when she returned some unobservant patron had already stepped in the mess and obliviously tracked it all around.

My colleague told me about the incident a few days ago, and since then the story has popped into my brain at the strangest and most inappropriate times, and my reaction will swing violently between extreme nausea and hysterical laughter. Bless that poor patrons heart - who would think the floors of the library would be as hazardous as the sidewalks of New York pre-pooper scooper laws?

Oh, shit.

One of my colleagues followed her nose to a pile of human feces in the stacks. She discretely ran to call the custodial staff and then looked frantically about for something to rope the section off. Although she was gone only a short time, when she returned some unobservant patron had already stepped in the mess and obliviously tracked it all around.

My colleague told me about the incident a few days ago, and since then the story has popped into my brain at the strangest and most inappropriate times, and my reaction will swing violently between extreme nausea and hysterical laughter. Bless that poor patrons heart - who would think the floors of the library would be as hazardous as the sidewalks of New York pre-pooper scooper laws?

From our Suggestions and Complaints Forms

My psychiatrist, a Dr. xxxx xxxxxx in Rhode Island, has systematically contacted every library in the United States to bar me from accessing the internet. Please lift this restriction. If you are in league with him, then you are denying me my constitutional rights. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

I heard a bizarre interview with Gloria Naylor, the National Book Award winning author of the Women of Brewster Place, on NPR the other day. She was promoting her recently published book 1996, a fictionalized memoir of the ‘chronicle of harassment’ she withstood by a neighbor and ‘government forces’ on a sleepy little coastal island in South Carolina. According to Naylor, her ordeal began when she and her neighbor, a reclusive cat lady, had an altercation over one of the woman’s dozens of cats, a giant gray named Orwell, which kept soiling and tearing up Naylor’s garden. The cat dies when it ingests some poison Naylor put out for rats and the neighbor accuses Naylor of intentionally poisoning it. The neighbor then contacts her brother, purportedly the head of the National Security Agency, and the persecution and harassment of Naylor begins. Soon she notices an unusual and steady traffic of black cars and helicopters driving and flying past her remote corner of the island. She then suspects that someone is tapping into her computer, telephone and mail. Certain that she is under surveillance, fearful to communicate with anyone, she flees the island for New York, and then almost suffers a breakdown because she is convinced, once there, that she is being subjected to mind control.

I'm certainly no psychiatrist, but I encounter my fair share of schizophrenics on the job, and these seem like classic paranoid schizophrenic delusions to me. In the interview, Naylor continuously and unnecessarily describes the woman as Jewish, an irrelevant fact except that Jews are a bugbear for certain Southern African Americans (read The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Richard Wright's Black Boy if you don’t believe me). It also seems too much of a coincidence that the cat is named Orwell. Then, of course, there are the black cars, black helicopters and mind control tactics used by a shadowy government agency. What I found most odd is that the NPR interviewer was questioning and responding to her fantastical allegations uncritically, as if there were no question that these events had really happened, rather than the obvious delusions of a mentally ill woman. Although published in December, the book is already hard to find, which makes me suspect that it had an extremely limited release. The folks at MindJustice.org believe her, though. Perhaps it was all the cat feces in her garden that caused her schizophrenia.

Here is an excerpt from 1996.

From our Suggestions and Complaints Forms

My psychiatrist, a Dr. xxxx xxxxxx in Rhode Island, has systematically contacted every library in the United States to bar me from accessing the internet. Please lift this restriction. If you are in league with him, then you are denying me my constitutional rights. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

I heard a bizarre interview with Gloria Naylor, the National Book Award winning author of the Women of Brewster Place, on NPR the other day. She was promoting her recently published book 1996, a fictionalized memoir of the ‘chronicle of harassment’ she withstood by a neighbor and ‘government forces’ on a sleepy little coastal island in South Carolina. According to Naylor, her ordeal began when she and her neighbor, a reclusive cat lady, had an altercation over one of the woman’s dozens of cats, a giant gray named Orwell, which kept soiling and tearing up Naylor’s garden. The cat dies when it ingests some poison Naylor put out for rats and the neighbor accuses Naylor of intentionally poisoning it. The neighbor then contacts her brother, purportedly the head of the National Security Agency, and the persecution and harassment of Naylor begins. Soon she notices an unusual and steady traffic of black cars and helicopters driving and flying past her remote corner of the island. She then suspects that someone is tapping into her computer, telephone and mail. Certain that she is under surveillance, fearful to communicate with anyone, she flees the island for New York, and then almost suffers a breakdown because she is convinced, once there, that she is being subjected to mind control.

I'm certainly no psychiatrist, but I encounter my fair share of schizophrenics on the job, and these seem like classic paranoid schizophrenic delusions to me. In the interview, Naylor continuously and unnecessarily describes the woman as Jewish, an irrelevant fact except that Jews are a bugbear for certain Southern African Americans (read The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Richard Wright's Black Boy if you don’t believe me). It also seems too much of a coincidence that the cat is named Orwell. Then, of course, there are the black cars, black helicopters and mind control tactics used by a shadowy government agency. What I found most odd is that the NPR interviewer was questioning and responding to her fantastical allegations uncritically, as if there were no question that these events had really happened, rather than the obvious delusions of a mentally ill woman. Although published in December, the book is already hard to find, which makes me suspect that it had an extremely limited release. The folks at MindJustice.org believe her, though. Perhaps it was all the cat feces in her garden that caused her schizophrenia.

Here is an excerpt from 1996.

Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jewish God! Thank you, Tom Cruise!

For Talladega Nights, the Legend of Ricky Bobby.

Fabulous things from the trailer:

Sasha Baron Cohen as the despicable, Perrier sponsored French challenger, taunting and talking smack from a carved tub while he shaves his legs, as if NASCAR is the Tour de France.

Ricky Bobby's two sons, Walker and Texas Ranger.

That he owns a cougar, the redneck riche pet of choice.

Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jewish God! Thank you, Tom Cruise!

For Talladega Nights, the Legend of Ricky Bobby.

Fabulous things from the trailer:

Sasha Baron Cohen as the despicable, Perrier sponsored French challenger, taunting and talking smack from a carved tub while he shaves his legs, as if NASCAR is the Tour de France.

Ricky Bobby's two sons, Walker and Texas Ranger.

That he owns a cougar, the redneck riche pet of choice.

Family Portraits

My great-grandmother was a Texas artist of some renown. Here are two of her pieces that I'm currently having reproduced through a magical process called giclee. Over the past few years the technique has improved and the cost has plummeted, so I highly recommend this process if your heirloom paintings are fewer in number than the heirs who pine for them. One is a self portrait of my great-grandmother she did during a particularly stressful time, shortly after her husband had a stroke. The other is of my grandmother (the one astride the alligator in my previous post) and her sister Nancy. Any of the family who would like a copy of these, please let me know.

Family Portraits

My great-grandmother was a Texas artist of some renown. Here are two of her pieces that I'm currently having reproduced through a magical process called giclee. Over the past few years the technique has improved and the cost has plummeted, so I highly recommend this process if your heirloom paintings are fewer in number than the heirs who pine for them. One is a self portrait of my great-grandmother she did during a particularly stressful time, shortly after her husband had a stroke. The other is of my grandmother (the one astride the alligator in my previous post) and her sister Nancy. Any of the family who would like a copy of these, please let me know.

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.

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.