The Problem of Susan

I just read Neil Gaiman’s "The Problem with Susan," a short story whose title is a play on Lewis’s The Problem of Pain. Susan is a character in Lewis’s beloved Narnia series, while The Problem of Pain is a treatise in which the Christian apologist tries to explain that pain is a good thing because it brings us closer to God. Lewis proposes that God makes us suffer because if we didn’t we would just be these obstinate, free willed beings who would never know the glory of God because we would never need him; therefore, suffering and unspeakable pain are good for our souls. (Not so sure I agree with that premise, Clive. That’s a little too much of “My daddy beats me ‘cause he loves me” school of thought, the kind of conclusion a bewildered, abused child draws to explain why the person who should love and protect him most is brutalizing him. In fact, the more I think about it, that’s some pretty sick shit.)

In both the Chronicles of Narnia and "The Problem of Susan" Susan is an English girl, the oldest child of the Pevensie family. The children are sent from war bombed London to an eccentric relative’s estate to ride out the war. Once at the estate, the children discover a wardrobe that is a portal to Narnia, a magical kingdom populated by talking beasts and figures from Greek, Norse and Arthurian myths and legends. In Narnia, the children find danger and adventure and plenty of Christian allegory. Of course the religious symbolism, as heavy-handed as it is, completely went over my head when I was read the stories, but it still resonated, and I adored the books. The Chronicles of Narnia were and remain the most treasured books from my childhood, and I reread them every couple of years or so with the exception of the horrid Last Battle, the final book in the series.

The book is basically Armagedon for Narnia, and in the course of the book Lewis sadistically destroys everything the reader holds beloved. There is a particularly painful and detailed scene in which the traitorous dwarves shoot arrows into all of the talking, sentient horses, something that was particularly horrible and distressing to me as a child. Even worse, at the end of the book he kills off all of the Pevensie children in a train crash except Susan. The reader is supposed to take some consolation in that although the children die horrifically, they end up in heaven, a place even more glorious than Narnia. Susan, however, is denied and ‘has’ to go on living because she stopped believing in Narnia and became too "too fond of lipsticks and nylons and invitations to parties.” Nice. What kind of message is that? You can be an intolerable brat and be reformed, as in the character of Eustace, or you can betray your family, like Edmund, and redeem yourself, but if you acquire the natural, normal tastes of a your woman then you’re denied heaven? What kind of message is that? Was C.S. Lewis really such a fussy, misogynistic old confirmed bachelor (he wrote these before he married stalker fan Joy Gresham) that the worst sin a person could commit was to like what a normal teenage girl would? I guess you could argue that Susan committed the worst sin by losing her faith that Narnia existed, a chilhood game she has outgrown, but I still think her punishment is harsh and unfair.

The only explanation I can find for the The Last Battle is that C.S. Lewis went completely off his rocker. I have also found the biographical details of his life to be very illuminating, especially his relationship with death. It seems most wounding event of his childhood was the death of his mother when he was a nine. Before he could even begin to process this tragedy, he was sent off when to boarding school, where, in the grand English public school tradition, he was beaten, brutalized and buggered. As a young man he served in the trenches in WWI, where he witnessed first hand the wholesale slaughter of his chums, and after being wounded returned to England to finish up his education at Oxford. He also went on to fulfill a promise he had made to a slain comrade. What follows might explain some of his problems with women.

From The Narnia Skirmishes, a New York Times article by Charles McGrath:

"For more than 40 years, he lived with the mother of a friend named Edward Moore, with whom he had made one of those earnest World War I pacts: if anything happened to either of them, the other would take care of his friend's family. In the event, it was Moore who died, while Lewis came down with trench fever and was later wounded, not severely but badly enough that he was sent home.

The exact nature of their relationship is something that many of Lewis's biographers would prefer to tiptoe around. But Lewis was far from a sexual innocent, and the evidence strongly suggests that, at least until he got religion, there was an erotic component to his life with Minto. Did they actually sleep together, this earnest, scholarly young man, conventional in almost every other way, and a woman 26 years his senior? Walter Hooper, the editor of Lewis's ''Collected Letters,'' thinks it ''not improbable.'' A.N. Wilson, the best and most persuasive of Lewis's biographers, argues that there's no reason at all to think they didn't, leaving us with the baffling and disquieting psychological picture of C.S. Lewis, the great scholar and writer and Christian apologist-to-be, pedaling off on his bicycle, his academic gown flapping in the wind, to have a nooner with Mum. What Lewis saw in Minto is another matter. No one else could stand her. Warnie once described her association with Lewis as ''the rape of J's life.'' He wrote in his diary at the time of her death in January 1951, ''And so ends the mysterious self-imposed slavery in which J has lived for at least 30 years.'' Minto said of Jack, ''He was as good as an extra maid,'' and she subjected him to a kind of domestic slavery that Wilson says he thinks amounted to sexual masochism on Lewis's part. His servility grew worse toward the end of Minto's life, when she slipped into an angry and querulous senility, and he spent most of his waking hours caring for her, for her ancient, incontinent dog, Bruce, and for Warnie, who eventually became a six-bottle-a-day man and was now stumbling around in a stupor all afternoon."

Interesting food for thought relating to Lewis’ problems with death and women. In any case, I love the Chronicles of Narnia enough to forgive C.S. Lewis for The Last Battle. I basically just ignore the book. Neil Gaiman doesn't forgive so easily, however, and The Problem with Susan is an eerie response to Lewis’s idea of God and Christianity as allegorized in Narnia.

The Problem of Susan

I just read Neil Gaiman’s "The Problem with Susan," a short story whose title is a play on Lewis’s The Problem of Pain. Susan is a character in Lewis’s beloved Narnia series, while The Problem of Pain is a treatise in which the Christian apologist tries to explain that pain is a good thing because it brings us closer to God. Lewis proposes that God makes us suffer because if we didn’t we would just be these obstinate, free willed beings who would never know the glory of God because we would never need him; therefore, suffering and unspeakable pain are good for our souls. (Not so sure I agree with that premise, Clive. That’s a little too much of “My daddy beats me ‘cause he loves me” school of thought, the kind of conclusion a bewildered, abused child draws to explain why the person who should love and protect him most is brutalizing him. In fact, the more I think about it, that’s some pretty sick shit.)

In both the Chronicles of Narnia and "The Problem of Susan" Susan is an English girl, the oldest child of the Pevensie family. The children are sent from war bombed London to an eccentric relative’s estate to ride out the war. Once at the estate, the children discover a wardrobe that is a portal to Narnia, a magical kingdom populated by talking beasts and figures from Greek, Norse and Arthurian myths and legends. In Narnia, the children find danger and adventure and plenty of Christian allegory. Of course the religious symbolism, as heavy-handed as it is, completely went over my head when I was read the stories, but it still resonated, and I adored the books. The Chronicles of Narnia were and remain the most treasured books from my childhood, and I reread them every couple of years or so with the exception of the horrid Last Battle, the final book in the series.

The book is basically Armagedon for Narnia, and in the course of the book Lewis sadistically destroys everything the reader holds beloved. There is a particularly painful and detailed scene in which the traitorous dwarves shoot arrows into all of the talking, sentient horses, something that was particularly horrible and distressing to me as a child. Even worse, at the end of the book he kills off all of the Pevensie children in a train crash except Susan. The reader is supposed to take some consolation in that although the children die horrifically, they end up in heaven, a place even more glorious than Narnia. Susan, however, is denied and ‘has’ to go on living because she stopped believing in Narnia and became too "too fond of lipsticks and nylons and invitations to parties.” Nice. What kind of message is that? You can be an intolerable brat and be reformed, as in the character of Eustace, or you can betray your family, like Edmund, and redeem yourself, but if you acquire the natural, normal tastes of a your woman then you’re denied heaven? What kind of message is that? Was C.S. Lewis really such a fussy, misogynistic old confirmed bachelor (he wrote these before he married stalker fan Joy Gresham) that the worst sin a person could commit was to like what a normal teenage girl would? I guess you could argue that Susan committed the worst sin by losing her faith that Narnia existed, a chilhood game she has outgrown, but I still think her punishment is harsh and unfair.

The only explanation I can find for the The Last Battle is that C.S. Lewis went completely off his rocker. I have also found the biographical details of his life to be very illuminating, especially his relationship with death. It seems most wounding event of his childhood was the death of his mother when he was a nine. Before he could even begin to process this tragedy, he was sent off when to boarding school, where, in the grand English public school tradition, he was beaten, brutalized and buggered. As a young man he served in the trenches in WWI, where he witnessed first hand the wholesale slaughter of his chums, and after being wounded returned to England to finish up his education at Oxford. He also went on to fulfill a promise he had made to a slain comrade. What follows might explain some of his problems with women.

From The Narnia Skirmishes, a New York Times article by Charles McGrath:

"For more than 40 years, he lived with the mother of a friend named Edward Moore, with whom he had made one of those earnest World War I pacts: if anything happened to either of them, the other would take care of his friend's family. In the event, it was Moore who died, while Lewis came down with trench fever and was later wounded, not severely but badly enough that he was sent home.

The exact nature of their relationship is something that many of Lewis's biographers would prefer to tiptoe around. But Lewis was far from a sexual innocent, and the evidence strongly suggests that, at least until he got religion, there was an erotic component to his life with Minto. Did they actually sleep together, this earnest, scholarly young man, conventional in almost every other way, and a woman 26 years his senior? Walter Hooper, the editor of Lewis's ''Collected Letters,'' thinks it ''not improbable.'' A.N. Wilson, the best and most persuasive of Lewis's biographers, argues that there's no reason at all to think they didn't, leaving us with the baffling and disquieting psychological picture of C.S. Lewis, the great scholar and writer and Christian apologist-to-be, pedaling off on his bicycle, his academic gown flapping in the wind, to have a nooner with Mum. What Lewis saw in Minto is another matter. No one else could stand her. Warnie once described her association with Lewis as ''the rape of J's life.'' He wrote in his diary at the time of her death in January 1951, ''And so ends the mysterious self-imposed slavery in which J has lived for at least 30 years.'' Minto said of Jack, ''He was as good as an extra maid,'' and she subjected him to a kind of domestic slavery that Wilson says he thinks amounted to sexual masochism on Lewis's part. His servility grew worse toward the end of Minto's life, when she slipped into an angry and querulous senility, and he spent most of his waking hours caring for her, for her ancient, incontinent dog, Bruce, and for Warnie, who eventually became a six-bottle-a-day man and was now stumbling around in a stupor all afternoon."

Interesting food for thought relating to Lewis’ problems with death and women. In any case, I love the Chronicles of Narnia enough to forgive C.S. Lewis for The Last Battle. I basically just ignore the book. Neil Gaiman doesn't forgive so easily, however, and The Problem with Susan is an eerie response to Lewis’s idea of God and Christianity as allegorized in Narnia.

Vanity Plate

E was bored today.

Vanity Plate

E was bored today.

Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween

Syphilis and Genius

I remember reading about the genius-syphilis connection in my most beloved book of all time, Rats, Lice and History. The book, ostensibly a history of typhus, also includes any interesting digressions the writer, a microbiologist, damn well pleases. It's like sitting in on the most fascinating college lecture you ever had, one in which the teacher wanders off on these electrifying tangents until some killjoy nimrod breaks in and asks, "Is this going to be on the test?" Here Zinsser rather wistfully speculates upon the unexpected cost to mankind the easy antibiotic cure to syphilis brought.

"This might be a loss to civilisation: it has often been claimed that since so many brilliant men have had syphilis, much of the world's greatest achievement was evidently formulated in brains stimulated by the cerebral irritation of an early general paresis. We omit reference to specific instances of this among our contemporaries only to avoid, for our publishers, the vulgar embarrassment of libel suits".

Now I'm reading the illuminating and riveting POX: Genius, Madness, and the Mysteries of Syphilis. The author explores the controversial history (New World or Old World or some horrible super combination of those strains?) of syphilis, the misery and the devastation it wrought, but also the link between genius and syphilis' tertiary stage.

“Right before madness, the syphilitic was often rewarded, in a kind of Faustian bargain for enduring the pain and despair, by episodes of creative euphoria, electrified, joyous energy when grandiosity led to new vision. The heightened perception, dazzling insights and almost mystical knowledge experienced during this time were expressed while precision of form of expression was still possible. At the end of the nineteenth century, it was believed that, in rare instances, syphilis could produce a genius.”

Some of our greatest thinkers who are suspected of having the disease: Charles Baudelaire, Guy de Maupassant, Abraham Lincoln, Vincent van Gogh and Friedrich Nietzsche.

Before any aspiring geniuses run off and infect themselves with syphilis for their art, please read up about the unimaginably agonizing ways the disease ravages and destroys the infected's brain, body and bones, as in the case of Isak Dineson, who reported being struck "with sudden bouts of vomiting and abdominal pain so severe that at times she sat on the floor howling like an animal." Syphilis can eat away at bones, leaving these horrifically painful lesions that look like the bones have been eaten away by acid. Forensic anthropologists looooove syphilis because of the telltale symptoms it leaves on teeth and bones. Most evidence of other disease is lost when the flesh is gone, but a syphillitic's bones tells tales.

Buy a cute plushy syphilis microbe to snuggle up with in bed instead.

Syphilis and Genius

I remember reading about the genius-syphilis connection in my most beloved book of all time, Rats, Lice and History. The book, ostensibly a history of typhus, also includes any interesting digressions the writer, a microbiologist, damn well pleases. It's like sitting in on the most fascinating college lecture you ever had, one in which the teacher wanders off on these electrifying tangents until some killjoy nimrod breaks in and asks, "Is this going to be on the test?" Here Zinsser rather wistfully speculates upon the unexpected cost to mankind the easy antibiotic cure to syphilis brought.

"This might be a loss to civilisation: it has often been claimed that since so many brilliant men have had syphilis, much of the world's greatest achievement was evidently formulated in brains stimulated by the cerebral irritation of an early general paresis. We omit reference to specific instances of this among our contemporaries only to avoid, for our publishers, the vulgar embarrassment of libel suits".

Now I'm reading the illuminating and riveting POX: Genius, Madness, and the Mysteries of Syphilis. The author explores the controversial history (New World or Old World or some horrible super combination of those strains?) of syphilis, the misery and the devastation it wrought, but also the link between genius and syphilis' tertiary stage.

“Right before madness, the syphilitic was often rewarded, in a kind of Faustian bargain for enduring the pain and despair, by episodes of creative euphoria, electrified, joyous energy when grandiosity led to new vision. The heightened perception, dazzling insights and almost mystical knowledge experienced during this time were expressed while precision of form of expression was still possible. At the end of the nineteenth century, it was believed that, in rare instances, syphilis could produce a genius.”

Some of our greatest thinkers who are suspected of having the disease: Charles Baudelaire, Guy de Maupassant, Abraham Lincoln, Vincent van Gogh and Friedrich Nietzsche.

Before any aspiring geniuses run off and infect themselves with syphilis for their art, please read up about the unimaginably agonizing ways the disease ravages and destroys the infected's brain, body and bones, as in the case of Isak Dineson, who reported being struck "with sudden bouts of vomiting and abdominal pain so severe that at times she sat on the floor howling like an animal." Syphilis can eat away at bones, leaving these horrifically painful lesions that look like the bones have been eaten away by acid. Forensic anthropologists looooove syphilis because of the telltale symptoms it leaves on teeth and bones. Most evidence of other disease is lost when the flesh is gone, but a syphillitic's bones tells tales.

Buy a cute plushy syphilis microbe to snuggle up with in bed instead.

Why I Blog

A bunch of us bloggers were asked to write an essay about blogging for a forthcoming issue of Reconstruction, so here goes...

Library Noire

I have never been a faithful diary or journal keeper, so I have surprised myself by regularly maintaining my blog for almost three years now. When I was a child, I received a new diary each Christmas, and would always begin each year with the best of intentions to fill each page. I inevitably lost interest, however, and my entries would peter out. Even those incomplete records did not survive my childhood because every time I would revisit my old diaries I destroyed them in mortification. Let’s just say, Anne Frank I was not, and my slightly older self was extremely judgmental of the immaturity and quality of my younger self’s writing and I would obliterate them in these Stalinistic purges. (Not enough Time + Distance to = Funny). Although I hated my diaries I always loved to write letters and treasured the ones that I would receive in return. I think I have kept every single one. I have a giant archive, shoeboxes full of them, and they are delightful to read.

I guess I have kept up my blog because it is more like a letter to friends and family than a journal. I blog to amuse my friends and family – my experiences on the job at a large urban library are just too rich and bizarre to keep to myself. Keeping a blog improves my attitude and outlook. Now if anything scary or bizarre or disgusting happens I roll my eyes heavenward and whisper a thank you for the material instead of despairing about the situation. If I slip in a puddle of vomit or I interrupt a man jacking off in the stacks or having a seizure overdose at the internet computers I know I can make a funny or at least interesting story out of it. Blogging regularly is a good mental health and professional exercise, because often on this job if you didn’t laugh, as the saying goes, you would cry.

I consider the public in all of its glorious and degraded forms grist for the mill for my blog, and perhaps I’m violating some unwritten librarian ethic. I hope that I am respectful of the characters because they are awesome, and there are great stories about them to tell. I’ve always adored Studs Terkel’s chronicles of ordinary people and I hope to contribute something in that ilk. To protect the innocent and the guilty I write anonymously, keep the location of my library secret and heavily disguise or even create compilations out of the patrons. I’m no social crusader, but I do hope that I raise awareness about some of the disastrous social policy decisions such as deinstitutionalization, and the fact cities across the nation inappropriately and expediently use libraries as cheap day shelters. We librarians are on the front lines here.

Why I Blog

A bunch of us bloggers were asked to write an essay about blogging for a forthcoming issue of Reconstruction, so here goes...

Library Noire

I have never been a faithful diary or journal keeper, so I have surprised myself by regularly maintaining my blog for almost three years now. When I was a child, I received a new diary each Christmas, and would always begin each year with the best of intentions to fill each page. I inevitably lost interest, however, and my entries would peter out. Even those incomplete records did not survive my childhood because every time I would revisit my old diaries I destroyed them in mortification. Let’s just say, Anne Frank I was not, and my slightly older self was extremely judgmental of the immaturity and quality of my younger self’s writing and I would obliterate them in these Stalinistic purges. (Not enough Time + Distance to = Funny). Although I hated my diaries I always loved to write letters and treasured the ones that I would receive in return. I think I have kept every single one. I have a giant archive, shoeboxes full of them, and they are delightful to read.

I guess I have kept up my blog because it is more like a letter to friends and family than a journal. I blog to amuse my friends and family – my experiences on the job at a large urban library are just too rich and bizarre to keep to myself. Keeping a blog improves my attitude and outlook. Now if anything scary or bizarre or disgusting happens I roll my eyes heavenward and whisper a thank you for the material instead of despairing about the situation. If I slip in a puddle of vomit or I interrupt a man jacking off in the stacks or having a seizure overdose at the internet computers I know I can make a funny or at least interesting story out of it. Blogging regularly is a good mental health and professional exercise, because often on this job if you didn’t laugh, as the saying goes, you would cry.

I consider the public in all of its glorious and degraded forms grist for the mill for my blog, and perhaps I’m violating some unwritten librarian ethic. I hope that I am respectful of the characters because they are awesome, and there are great stories about them to tell. I’ve always adored Studs Terkel’s chronicles of ordinary people and I hope to contribute something in that ilk. To protect the innocent and the guilty I write anonymously, keep the location of my library secret and heavily disguise or even create compilations out of the patrons. I’m no social crusader, but I do hope that I raise awareness about some of the disastrous social policy decisions such as deinstitutionalization, and the fact cities across the nation inappropriately and expediently use libraries as cheap day shelters. We librarians are on the front lines here.

What your users are saying about you - Library Best Practices

Recently I attended a lecture at a conference where the speaker exhorted us to monitor all of the various review websites and insider pages like Yelp, Yahoo Travel and City Search to see what our users are saying about our institution.

Here's an enlightening one (well, not to anyone working here):

This is like a nightclub/dive bar for crazy people.

Case in point:

-a friend of mine walked into the men's room to find a filthy homeless guy bent over the sink, taking it from a guy in a business suit. True story.

-another friend who worked here said he met a normal-seeming girl who ended up STALKING him via threatening phone calls and he had to have her banned from the library. He also said they were contantly kicking people out for jacking in the stacks.

They should make a video game based on this place. Nerdy, normal bibliophiles have to dodge flying jizz, urine, and sodomy attempts just to get to their books.

What your users are saying about you - Library Best Practices

Recently I attended a lecture at a conference where the speaker exhorted us to monitor all of the various review websites and insider pages like Yelp, Yahoo Travel and City Search to see what our users are saying about our institution.

Here's an enlightening one (well, not to anyone working here):

This is like a nightclub/dive bar for crazy people.

Case in point:

-a friend of mine walked into the men's room to find a filthy homeless guy bent over the sink, taking it from a guy in a business suit. True story.

-another friend who worked here said he met a normal-seeming girl who ended up STALKING him via threatening phone calls and he had to have her banned from the library. He also said they were contantly kicking people out for jacking in the stacks.

They should make a video game based on this place. Nerdy, normal bibliophiles have to dodge flying jizz, urine, and sodomy attempts just to get to their books.

Awesome Dialogue from My Name is Earl

Earl's friend Ralph (played by Giovanni Ribisi) explaining why he has to shoot Earl for getting drunk and sleeping with Ralph's mother: "That's my mom, Earl! I lived in her for nine months when I was just an itty bitty baby! That was my first home! You broke into my home, man!"

Cornering Earl and cocking the trigger of his pistol:
"Tell it to Jesus, Earl. You disgraced his favorite angel."

Catalina, the Mexican maid, explains to Earl,
"Men don't like it when other men sleep with their mothers. It is why my brother killed our father."

Awesome Dialogue from My Name is Earl

Earl's friend Ralph (played by Giovanni Ribisi) explaining why he has to shoot Earl for getting drunk and sleeping with Ralph's mother: "That's my mom, Earl! I lived in her for nine months when I was just an itty bitty baby! That was my first home! You broke into my home, man!"

Cornering Earl and cocking the trigger of his pistol:
"Tell it to Jesus, Earl. You disgraced his favorite angel."

Catalina, the Mexican maid, explains to Earl,
"Men don't like it when other men sleep with their mothers. It is why my brother killed our father."

Charming Sounds of the City

The other day I was having this very serious conversation on a cell phone with my aunt who lives in Texas while I sat outside at a taqueria a few blocks from the library. Every few minutes a fire truck or ambulance would screech by with deafening sirens, or a gangbanger would creep by with bass so loud it would reverberate in my gut, or some asshole motorcyclist with an altered pipe would blat by and conversation would be impossible. We continued being interrupted by various types of city noise pollution, including a cackling bum who asked me for money, but the piece de resistance was a screeching, emaciated prostitute having an altercation with another woman about half a block up from me. I couldn’t tell if it was a territorial dispute but I doubt it because the target of the crack whore’s rage was an earnest young woman girl who looked like a social worker, not a street walker. The crack whore pursued this woman down the street toward me, hurling threats and insults like, “I’m going to kill you, you bitch!” but since the crack whore was missing all of her front teeth it sounded more like, "I'm going to kill you, you bith!" Then this car screeched up and the social worker looking woman jumped in and sped away. I was laughing and trying to describe the scene to my aunt but my aunt, who is very conservative and used to volunteer side by side with our First Lady Laura Bush folding clothes at the Junior League thrift shop in Midland, Texas somehow didn't think the situation was as funny as I did.

I find all of that kind of seedy urban entertainment completely awesome, but I have to wonder what the hell kind of blighted ghetto hell hole my aunt must think I work in.

Charming Sounds of the City

The other day I was having this very serious conversation on a cell phone with my aunt who lives in Texas while I sat outside at a taqueria a few blocks from the library. Every few minutes a fire truck or ambulance would screech by with deafening sirens, or a gangbanger would creep by with bass so loud it would reverberate in my gut, or some asshole motorcyclist with an altered pipe would blat by and conversation would be impossible. We continued being interrupted by various types of city noise pollution, including a cackling bum who asked me for money, but the piece de resistance was a screeching, emaciated prostitute having an altercation with another woman about half a block up from me. I couldn’t tell if it was a territorial dispute but I doubt it because the target of the crack whore’s rage was an earnest young woman girl who looked like a social worker, not a street walker. The crack whore pursued this woman down the street toward me, hurling threats and insults like, “I’m going to kill you, you bitch!” but since the crack whore was missing all of her front teeth it sounded more like, "I'm going to kill you, you bith!" Then this car screeched up and the social worker looking woman jumped in and sped away. I was laughing and trying to describe the scene to my aunt but my aunt, who is very conservative and used to volunteer side by side with our First Lady Laura Bush folding clothes at the Junior League thrift shop in Midland, Texas somehow didn't think the situation was as funny as I did.

I find all of that kind of seedy urban entertainment completely awesome, but I have to wonder what the hell kind of blighted ghetto hell hole my aunt must think I work in.

You'll rue the day you crossed me, Trebek.

It’s often hard for me to distinguish between a crank phone call and a member of the genuinely confused, possibly insane public.

An elderly woman called with a strong Scottish brogue. I could barely hear her over her blaring television set.

“I was watching that millionaire show, you know the one with Trebek… and Regis Philbin and… I can’t remember the name of the other two hosts. Anyway, one of the questions was, 'Which host is dead and a clone.'”

“What was the question?”

“Which host is dead and a clone?”

"Well, I know that one of the recent Jeopardy contestants jokingly called Alex Trebek a cyborg."

"A what?"

"A human with mechanical or computer parts."

"What? Well, the answer was Alex Trebek."

"Alex Trebek is not dead, and he's not a clone. I think they were making a bad joke."

"Why would they say that? I don't think that's right. I don't think that's right at all. Are ye sure?"

"Yes, they were trying to be funny, but you're right, that joke was in poor taste."

"It most certainly was. Thank you."

I like to watch Jeopardy because it helps keep me sharp for work. Spoon loathes the host, Alex Trebek, however. Whenever she hears his voice she growls and charges the television, screeching and snarling. She then will pace around the room, gnash her teeth and shake and shred her stuffed toys. I call it the Thirty Minutes of Hate. Border Terrier’s are bred to be heard under 10 feet of earth, so her piercing barks really detract the whole Jeopardy viewing experience.

At first we couldn’t figure out what it is about Alex Trebek that aroused such strong passions in Spoon. Although he can be a little smug and affected with his foreign pronunciations, he seems like a mostly inoffensive Canadian to me, which is why I always thought Sean Connery’s irrational, belligerent hatred of Alex Trebek on the Celebrity Jeopardy skits on SNL was so funny. Eventually we figured out that it’s the Double Jeopardy graphics that set her off. For some reason, the way the graphics rush and spin out antagonize her, and now she associates Trebek’s voice with them, so as soon as she hears his voice she starts her fit.

You'll rue the day you crossed me, Trebek.

It’s often hard for me to distinguish between a crank phone call and a member of the genuinely confused, possibly insane public.

An elderly woman called with a strong Scottish brogue. I could barely hear her over her blaring television set.

“I was watching that millionaire show, you know the one with Trebek… and Regis Philbin and… I can’t remember the name of the other two hosts. Anyway, one of the questions was, 'Which host is dead and a clone.'”

“What was the question?”

“Which host is dead and a clone?”

"Well, I know that one of the recent Jeopardy contestants jokingly called Alex Trebek a cyborg."

"A what?"

"A human with mechanical or computer parts."

"What? Well, the answer was Alex Trebek."

"Alex Trebek is not dead, and he's not a clone. I think they were making a bad joke."

"Why would they say that? I don't think that's right. I don't think that's right at all. Are ye sure?"

"Yes, they were trying to be funny, but you're right, that joke was in poor taste."

"It most certainly was. Thank you."

I like to watch Jeopardy because it helps keep me sharp for work. Spoon loathes the host, Alex Trebek, however. Whenever she hears his voice she growls and charges the television, screeching and snarling. She then will pace around the room, gnash her teeth and shake and shred her stuffed toys. I call it the Thirty Minutes of Hate. Border Terrier’s are bred to be heard under 10 feet of earth, so her piercing barks really detract the whole Jeopardy viewing experience.

At first we couldn’t figure out what it is about Alex Trebek that aroused such strong passions in Spoon. Although he can be a little smug and affected with his foreign pronunciations, he seems like a mostly inoffensive Canadian to me, which is why I always thought Sean Connery’s irrational, belligerent hatred of Alex Trebek on the Celebrity Jeopardy skits on SNL was so funny. Eventually we figured out that it’s the Double Jeopardy graphics that set her off. For some reason, the way the graphics rush and spin out antagonize her, and now she associates Trebek’s voice with them, so as soon as she hears his voice she starts her fit.

Krazee Eyez Killah

It's a hard world for little things.

On a hike yesterday, Spoon pounced upon, viciously shook and snapped the neck of a small woodland creature. I suspect the little animal, some sort of mouse, was a little sluggish from the cold and had been busily putting the finishing touches on its winter stores. For whatever reason, it didn’t realize that Spoon was coming up on it. The only ameliorating factor was that she did such a thorough job I didn’t have to euthanize it with the heel of my hiking boot. While I was brooding and distracted Billy rolled in something especially rank - elk urine, perhaps? - and I had to drive home with the windows down, gagging and trying not to pass out behind the wheel.

This is the first scalp (pelt?) in Spoon’s belt. She has participated in some earthdog trials, an event whose goal is for the dog to find a caged rat at the end of an underground maze. Dogs are judged for their timing and the ferocity at which they bark at the rat. (No rats are ever harmed during these events). These trials really whipped up her bloodlust and ever since she participated we have had to spell the word “rat” around her. If she hears the word, even on the television, it sends her into a frenzy of screaming and pacing and whining. She could certainly never sit quietly through The Departed.

The situation really bummed me out. But, Border Terriers are ratters, after all, so I certainly can’t blame her for doing what she’s bred to do. Although I’ve made half hearted attempts, I’m no vegetarian. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m descended from greasy meat eaters and am genetically programmed to crave meat. When I do eat meat, however, I try to be respectful of the animal and mindful of the effects my diet has on the ecosystem. I never delude myself about the suffering that it causes.

I guess that’s why I’m still enraged that Jessica Simpson, confounded by the “Chicken of the Sea” slogan on the can of tuna she opened, questioned her incredulous husband if she were eating chicken or fish. At least honor the animal that died for you by knowing what it is, you stupid, fucking whore.

By the way, I began this post with a quote from one of my favorite all time movies, Night of the Hunter. Rachel Cooper, the gentle but steely widow who takes in children during the Great Depression, says, "It's a hard world for little things" when a hawk swoops down on a rabbit. The Coen Brothers, who let's just say were heavily influenced by this movie, have H.I. McDonough say it in Raising Arizona.

Krazee Eyez Killah

It's a hard world for little things.

On a hike yesterday, Spoon pounced upon, viciously shook and snapped the neck of a small woodland creature. I suspect the little animal, some sort of mouse, was a little sluggish from the cold and had been busily putting the finishing touches on its winter stores. For whatever reason, it didn’t realize that Spoon was coming up on it. The only ameliorating factor was that she did such a thorough job I didn’t have to euthanize it with the heel of my hiking boot. While I was brooding and distracted Billy rolled in something especially rank - elk urine, perhaps? - and I had to drive home with the windows down, gagging and trying not to pass out behind the wheel.

This is the first scalp (pelt?) in Spoon’s belt. She has participated in some earthdog trials, an event whose goal is for the dog to find a caged rat at the end of an underground maze. Dogs are judged for their timing and the ferocity at which they bark at the rat. (No rats are ever harmed during these events). These trials really whipped up her bloodlust and ever since she participated we have had to spell the word “rat” around her. If she hears the word, even on the television, it sends her into a frenzy of screaming and pacing and whining. She could certainly never sit quietly through The Departed.

The situation really bummed me out. But, Border Terriers are ratters, after all, so I certainly can’t blame her for doing what she’s bred to do. Although I’ve made half hearted attempts, I’m no vegetarian. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m descended from greasy meat eaters and am genetically programmed to crave meat. When I do eat meat, however, I try to be respectful of the animal and mindful of the effects my diet has on the ecosystem. I never delude myself about the suffering that it causes.

I guess that’s why I’m still enraged that Jessica Simpson, confounded by the “Chicken of the Sea” slogan on the can of tuna she opened, questioned her incredulous husband if she were eating chicken or fish. At least honor the animal that died for you by knowing what it is, you stupid, fucking whore.

By the way, I began this post with a quote from one of my favorite all time movies, Night of the Hunter. Rachel Cooper, the gentle but steely widow who takes in children during the Great Depression, says, "It's a hard world for little things" when a hawk swoops down on a rabbit. The Coen Brothers, who let's just say were heavily influenced by this movie, have H.I. McDonough say it in Raising Arizona.

Awww, I wasn't going to kill her...

A big thank you to E for downloading this picture of the lawn dart scene from Reno 911! that features Reno resident dirtball and “Captain of Suspicious Behavior” Big Mike who, despite having a lawn dart protruding from his skull, still valiantly clutches his beer.

Big Mike is one of the many fabulous recurring characters on Reno 911!. Reno's police officers frequently respond to complaints of domestic violence or disturbances of the peace at Big Mike's residence. In my favorite episode featuring Big Mike, Lt. Dangle holds a scavenger hunt, the prize being two tickets to an execution later that evening. As Deputy Travis Junior explains, this is a particularly desirable prize because “getting two tickets to an execution is like getting two tickets to NASCAR on the front row, except you *know* Jeff Gordon's gonna die.”

Scavenger Hunt Items
Crackhead with a wig- 5pts.
Perp over 6'5"- 10pts.
Man with teats (B cup or larger) - 5pts.
Best looking hooker- 15pts.
Red foreign car- 5pts.
Perp with animal tattoo- 5pts.
Double Points if perp is Jewish

As the officers canvass Reno in search of items on the scavenger hunt, Dangle and Travis visit Big Mike because they heard rumors that either his sister or his common law wife recently gave him a tattoo. They drive up and find Big Mike sitting in a chair watering his weed and trash choked lawn with a hose. They hassle and provoke Big Mike, who sprays them with his water hose. They use that as excuse to tackle him so they can check out his tattoo. After they lift his shirt up they are disappointed to discover that Big Mike’s tattoo is that of a dragon, and while they have Big Mike’s face shoved in the dirt they debate whether the dragon will count since it’s a mythical beast. Big Mike insists that the tattoo, which is on his trunk, is that of a panther. He twists his neck to look at it and realizes for the first time that the tatoo is a dragon. In a rage, he escapes the officers and charges the house, threatening to kill his sister for not giving him the correct panther tatto. The officers subdue him and handcuff him. “Awwww, I wasn’t going to kill her, I was just going to f*ck her up,” Big Mike confesses sheepishly as they lead him away to the squad car.

Come to think of it, Reno's finest should have started at the library; if they had, they would have completed the hunt in about 5 minutes.

Awww, I wasn't going to kill her...

A big thank you to E for downloading this picture of the lawn dart scene from Reno 911! that features Reno resident dirtball and “Captain of Suspicious Behavior” Big Mike who, despite having a lawn dart protruding from his skull, still valiantly clutches his beer.

Big Mike is one of the many fabulous recurring characters on Reno 911!. Reno's police officers frequently respond to complaints of domestic violence or disturbances of the peace at Big Mike's residence. In my favorite episode featuring Big Mike, Lt. Dangle holds a scavenger hunt, the prize being two tickets to an execution later that evening. As Deputy Travis Junior explains, this is a particularly desirable prize because “getting two tickets to an execution is like getting two tickets to NASCAR on the front row, except you *know* Jeff Gordon's gonna die.”

Scavenger Hunt Items
Crackhead with a wig- 5pts.
Perp over 6'5"- 10pts.
Man with teats (B cup or larger) - 5pts.
Best looking hooker- 15pts.
Red foreign car- 5pts.
Perp with animal tattoo- 5pts.
Double Points if perp is Jewish

As the officers canvass Reno in search of items on the scavenger hunt, Dangle and Travis visit Big Mike because they heard rumors that either his sister or his common law wife recently gave him a tattoo. They drive up and find Big Mike sitting in a chair watering his weed and trash choked lawn with a hose. They hassle and provoke Big Mike, who sprays them with his water hose. They use that as excuse to tackle him so they can check out his tattoo. After they lift his shirt up they are disappointed to discover that Big Mike’s tattoo is that of a dragon, and while they have Big Mike’s face shoved in the dirt they debate whether the dragon will count since it’s a mythical beast. Big Mike insists that the tattoo, which is on his trunk, is that of a panther. He twists his neck to look at it and realizes for the first time that the tatoo is a dragon. In a rage, he escapes the officers and charges the house, threatening to kill his sister for not giving him the correct panther tatto. The officers subdue him and handcuff him. “Awwww, I wasn’t going to kill her, I was just going to f*ck her up,” Big Mike confesses sheepishly as they lead him away to the squad car.

Come to think of it, Reno's finest should have started at the library; if they had, they would have completed the hunt in about 5 minutes.

I Heart the War Nerd

I have two televisions set up next to each other so I can watch movies while I do a taped workout, and although it helps make the workouts go faster, I end up giving them both only my half assed attention. The other day I finally watched Shaving Ryan’s Saving Private Ryan, a movie I have been avoiding for years. I had so much adrenalin coursing through me during the Omaha Beach scene that I didn’t realize I was seriously overdoing it with the weights, so much so that I could barely walk the next day.

This might surprise you, but even though I enjoy browsing through crime scene photos and studying the life cycles of parasites and vampire bats, I really can't bear the subject of war. Even though I have what some people may think are morbid and depraved tastes, the cruelty, the carnage and the waste of war are too much, even for me, to stand. I am certainly no Iris Chang, who apparently would pester and beg her grandparents for stories of the Rape of Nanking, an event of which they were the unfortunate eyewitnesses. As a child, she would sit at their knee and listen raptly to their sickening descriptions like they were treasured bedtime stories. Personally, I don’t like such knowledge rattling around in my head. That kind of information tends to be like some sort of opportunistic infection, lying in wait to attack and fill me with despair when I’m depressed, sick or weak. Perhaps this is what happened with Iris Chang, who committed suicide after she drove herself to exhaustion interviewing survivors of the Bataan Death March for her last project.

Despite my aversion to war reading, lately I've been really into the columns of Gary Brecher, The War Nerd. He probably doesn’t exist – people suspect he is a literary collaboration, a nom de guerre of the Exile's Mark Ames and John Dolan – but the column is brilliantly informative and, despite the grim subject matter, hilarious. He has scathing opinions about the situation we’ve gotten ourselves into in Iraq, writes stuff about North Korea that will keep you awake at night, and is highly politically incorrect. This is an excerpt from one of my favorite columns, Colombia: One Hundred Years of Slaughtertude.

There are some countries that turn into psycho killers once they put on a uniform, but wouldn't even run a yellow light once they're in civvies again. Two classic examples: the Japanese and Germans. The Japanese did things in China that just don't bear thinkin' about...beheading contests, sword practice on pregnant Chinese prisoners, baby-bayoneting volleyball -- but those same soldiers went home and turned into shy little salary-men who wouldn't jaywalk, never mind hurt anybody. Same with the Germans: let'em loose in a gray helmet and they think up stuff that'd make Saddam ashamed -- but back home in Dusseldorf they'd die before they'd drop a popsicle stick on the sidewalk.

I thought about this column the other day when I was commuting to work on my bicycle. I had inched into the crosswalk to let a car pass by me and take a right turn. A German man walked by and said, “Ja! You’re over the line.” I was no more than 5 inches into the crosswalk, but this was enough to warrant a public scolding from a German. I’m glad that I don’t live in such a terribly rigid and repressed society like Japan or Germany. All that human nature tapped down leaks out in other ways, like rape manga, war atrocities and scheisse porn.

I Heart the War Nerd

I have two televisions set up next to each other so I can watch movies while I do a taped workout, and although it helps make the workouts go faster, I end up giving them both only my half assed attention. The other day I finally watched Shaving Ryan’s Saving Private Ryan, a movie I have been avoiding for years. I had so much adrenalin coursing through me during the Omaha Beach scene that I didn’t realize I was seriously overdoing it with the weights, so much so that I could barely walk the next day.

This might surprise you, but even though I enjoy browsing through crime scene photos and studying the life cycles of parasites and vampire bats, I really can't bear the subject of war. Even though I have what some people may think are morbid and depraved tastes, the cruelty, the carnage and the waste of war are too much, even for me, to stand. I am certainly no Iris Chang, who apparently would pester and beg her grandparents for stories of the Rape of Nanking, an event of which they were the unfortunate eyewitnesses. As a child, she would sit at their knee and listen raptly to their sickening descriptions like they were treasured bedtime stories. Personally, I don’t like such knowledge rattling around in my head. That kind of information tends to be like some sort of opportunistic infection, lying in wait to attack and fill me with despair when I’m depressed, sick or weak. Perhaps this is what happened with Iris Chang, who committed suicide after she drove herself to exhaustion interviewing survivors of the Bataan Death March for her last project.

Despite my aversion to war reading, lately I've been really into the columns of Gary Brecher, The War Nerd. He probably doesn’t exist – people suspect he is a literary collaboration, a nom de guerre of the Exile's Mark Ames and John Dolan – but the column is brilliantly informative and, despite the grim subject matter, hilarious. He has scathing opinions about the situation we’ve gotten ourselves into in Iraq, writes stuff about North Korea that will keep you awake at night, and is highly politically incorrect. This is an excerpt from one of my favorite columns, Colombia: One Hundred Years of Slaughtertude.

There are some countries that turn into psycho killers once they put on a uniform, but wouldn't even run a yellow light once they're in civvies again. Two classic examples: the Japanese and Germans. The Japanese did things in China that just don't bear thinkin' about...beheading contests, sword practice on pregnant Chinese prisoners, baby-bayoneting volleyball -- but those same soldiers went home and turned into shy little salary-men who wouldn't jaywalk, never mind hurt anybody. Same with the Germans: let'em loose in a gray helmet and they think up stuff that'd make Saddam ashamed -- but back home in Dusseldorf they'd die before they'd drop a popsicle stick on the sidewalk.

I thought about this column the other day when I was commuting to work on my bicycle. I had inched into the crosswalk to let a car pass by me and take a right turn. A German man walked by and said, “Ja! You’re over the line.” I was no more than 5 inches into the crosswalk, but this was enough to warrant a public scolding from a German. I’m glad that I don’t live in such a terribly rigid and repressed society like Japan or Germany. All that human nature tapped down leaks out in other ways, like rape manga, war atrocities and scheisse porn.

Typing Pool

Despite the myriad classes the library offers, many patrons refuse to use computer word processing. Because one of the library’s missions is to help these people left behind by technology’s inexorable advance, the library offers typewriters for these public to use. Because repair and service contracts are increasingly hard to come by, however, the number of typewriters in this system has lately dwindled down to one. I’m afraid soon our last typewriter will become out of commission and these people will be forced to adapt. In the meantime, this typewriter is in great demand, and there is always a line of restive patrons waiting to use it.

I thought that these patrons preferred the typewriter because they didn’t know how to use word processing, but the security guards informed me that many patrons refuse to use computers because they're fearful government or some other sort of agency or organization will monitor them through the computers.

One woman complained to the guards that every time she went to use the typewriter she would fall asleep. She blamed this on her enemies, many of whom happened to be competing for the typewriter in line with her, rather than on the hot, rather airless glassed in office where the typewriter resides. Another woman claimed that she and Vice President Dick Cheney collaborated on an invention together and it’s an issue of national security that she contact him. Every day, as soon as the library doors open she races to get in line for the typewriter so she can write Dick Cheney long letters.

Because there are so many paranoid people in line eager to pound out their manifestos, complaint forms to government agencies, etc., the situation can become volatile. Because of the high levels of paranoia, many in line consider eye contact a prying act of aggression, and fist fights and shoving matches erupt occasionally. I've also found that conspiracy case nuts are the least tolerant and most dismissive of conspiracy theories that differ from their own. In any case, the desk near the line for the typewriter is the best seat in the house for paranoid watching and conspiracy theory eavesdropping.

Typing Pool

Despite the myriad classes the library offers, many patrons refuse to use computer word processing. Because one of the library’s missions is to help these people left behind by technology’s inexorable advance, the library offers typewriters for these public to use. Because repair and service contracts are increasingly hard to come by, however, the number of typewriters in this system has lately dwindled down to one. I’m afraid soon our last typewriter will become out of commission and these people will be forced to adapt. In the meantime, this typewriter is in great demand, and there is always a line of restive patrons waiting to use it.

I thought that these patrons preferred the typewriter because they didn’t know how to use word processing, but the security guards informed me that many patrons refuse to use computers because they're fearful government or some other sort of agency or organization will monitor them through the computers.

One woman complained to the guards that every time she went to use the typewriter she would fall asleep. She blamed this on her enemies, many of whom happened to be competing for the typewriter in line with her, rather than on the hot, rather airless glassed in office where the typewriter resides. Another woman claimed that she and Vice President Dick Cheney collaborated on an invention together and it’s an issue of national security that she contact him. Every day, as soon as the library doors open she races to get in line for the typewriter so she can write Dick Cheney long letters.

Because there are so many paranoid people in line eager to pound out their manifestos, complaint forms to government agencies, etc., the situation can become volatile. Because of the high levels of paranoia, many in line consider eye contact a prying act of aggression, and fist fights and shoving matches erupt occasionally. I've also found that conspiracy case nuts are the least tolerant and most dismissive of conspiracy theories that differ from their own. In any case, the desk near the line for the typewriter is the best seat in the house for paranoid watching and conspiracy theory eavesdropping.

The Stench

Lately I’ve been charged with pulling older books in the new fiction section. I really enjoy the task and find it deeply relaxing, almost meditative. I receive great tactile pleasure from running my fingers across books spines and shifting and rearranging the books from shelf to shelf. Unfortunately, the back of the section is an inviting place for the homeless to nap and for junkies to enjoy a nice heroin doze. Often they will shoot me a bleary stink eye if I drop a book or disturb them in their favorite haunt.

The air is thick with the smell of hair grease, fortified wine tinged sweat, unwashed body, clothes that haven’t been changed in months, perhaps years, wet wool, and that curious metallic odor of mental illness. It is a heady symphony of odors both acrid and cloying and it permeates your nostrils, your clothes, your hair and your memory. The odors overwhelm our HVAC system and I could make a case that the odor situation is becoming an OSHA issue.

One of our pages who works three different jobs told me that his girlfriend can always tell he's been at the library because his clothes reek. She makes him leave them outside the door, like I used to do when I would go to the bars and my clothes would reek of cigarette smoke. I remember how a friend who dated a nurse could always tell when his girlfriend did a round at the burn unit, because the odor of burned human flesh would permeate the fibers of her clothes. Or how a colleague told me that to this day he will still unconsciously hold his breath when his brother walks by, a conditioned response because of the stench his brother would throw off when he worked at a chicken processing plant one summer twenty years ago.

Private, free, no strings attached showers abound in this area, as do places to acquire free clothing. By no strings I mean that the people who use the showers face neither condescending nor humiliating requirements to use them. Sobriety is not a stipulation, there is no gospel preaching, no gauntlet of sanctimonious, smugly cheerful do-gooders (God spare me and all of humanity from this type) - none of the regular humiliations the homeless must endure and surely resent in order to receive charity. Why don’t they avail themselves of these showers? The only parallel I can draw is to animals that stop grooming themselves when they’re very sick or dying. Yet we allow these people to rot in their stench like not to do so is a violation of their inalienable rights. I guess that’s the society we live in.

Smells are life. I enjoy rich, pungent odors: Morbier cheese, the carcinogenic smell of gasoline when I fill up my car, the odor of books burning and decomposing from acid treated paper, the smell of mulch, horse sweat when I worked at the stables, but I often wish I could shut my nostrils like I do my eyes. That way I wouldn’t have had to endure at an old job a colleague who doused herself with some cheap, chemical perfume that clawed at my nostrils and choked my throat. I could never identify the brand, but I’m suspecting one of those awful ones named after a celebrity, like J-Lo. How depressing that anyone buys that shit.

Sometimes my sense of smell provides me with information I wish I didn’t know, knowledge that puts me in an ethical quandary. One time a yuppie soccer mom type surrounded by children approached the desk. Her breath was flammable with vodka fumes at 3:00 in the afternoon. I felt like saying to her, “It’s a myth that vodka is odorless, so whom do you think you’re fooling?” All I could wonder about the rest of the afternoon was if all of those kids were going to pile in a van piloted by this woman. What is my obligation to interfere?

One time a toddler crawled in my lap at one of the branches where I was substituting. His teeth were rotten and stained brown like a betel nut addict, and the memory of that sweet, putrid stench makes my mouth fill with water as I type this. I guess his parents were putting him to bed with a bottle of juice each night and the sugar had rotted his teeth. Was this child in agony from his rotting and abscessed teeth? If so, did he think that this suffering was just part of existence, a fact of life? How or is it even my place to explain to his parents, who didn’t speak any English, about free dental care? Do I unleash the blunt tool of social services on this family whose name I don’t even know and whom I might never see again at the library?

Strong odors at the library are an occupational hazard to which I should probably just resign myself. And on the bright side, at least if people reek, they won't be able to sneak up on me in the stacks.

The Stench

Lately I’ve been charged with pulling older books in the new fiction section. I really enjoy the task and find it deeply relaxing, almost meditative. I receive great tactile pleasure from running my fingers across books spines and shifting and rearranging the books from shelf to shelf. Unfortunately, the back of the section is an inviting place for the homeless to nap and for junkies to enjoy a nice heroin doze. Often they will shoot me a bleary stink eye if I drop a book or disturb them in their favorite haunt.

The air is thick with the smell of hair grease, fortified wine tinged sweat, unwashed body, clothes that haven’t been changed in months, perhaps years, wet wool, and that curious metallic odor of mental illness. It is a heady symphony of odors both acrid and cloying and it permeates your nostrils, your clothes, your hair and your memory. The odors overwhelm our HVAC system and I could make a case that the odor situation is becoming an OSHA issue.

One of our pages who works three different jobs told me that his girlfriend can always tell he's been at the library because his clothes reek. She makes him leave them outside the door, like I used to do when I would go to the bars and my clothes would reek of cigarette smoke. I remember how a friend who dated a nurse could always tell when his girlfriend did a round at the burn unit, because the odor of burned human flesh would permeate the fibers of her clothes. Or how a colleague told me that to this day he will still unconsciously hold his breath when his brother walks by, a conditioned response because of the stench his brother would throw off when he worked at a chicken processing plant one summer twenty years ago.

Private, free, no strings attached showers abound in this area, as do places to acquire free clothing. By no strings I mean that the people who use the showers face neither condescending nor humiliating requirements to use them. Sobriety is not a stipulation, there is no gospel preaching, no gauntlet of sanctimonious, smugly cheerful do-gooders (God spare me and all of humanity from this type) - none of the regular humiliations the homeless must endure and surely resent in order to receive charity. Why don’t they avail themselves of these showers? The only parallel I can draw is to animals that stop grooming themselves when they’re very sick or dying. Yet we allow these people to rot in their stench like not to do so is a violation of their inalienable rights. I guess that’s the society we live in.

Smells are life. I enjoy rich, pungent odors: Morbier cheese, the carcinogenic smell of gasoline when I fill up my car, the odor of books burning and decomposing from acid treated paper, the smell of mulch, horse sweat when I worked at the stables, but I often wish I could shut my nostrils like I do my eyes. That way I wouldn’t have had to endure at an old job a colleague who doused herself with some cheap, chemical perfume that clawed at my nostrils and choked my throat. I could never identify the brand, but I’m suspecting one of those awful ones named after a celebrity, like J-Lo. How depressing that anyone buys that shit.

Sometimes my sense of smell provides me with information I wish I didn’t know, knowledge that puts me in an ethical quandary. One time a yuppie soccer mom type surrounded by children approached the desk. Her breath was flammable with vodka fumes at 3:00 in the afternoon. I felt like saying to her, “It’s a myth that vodka is odorless, so whom do you think you’re fooling?” All I could wonder about the rest of the afternoon was if all of those kids were going to pile in a van piloted by this woman. What is my obligation to interfere?

One time a toddler crawled in my lap at one of the branches where I was substituting. His teeth were rotten and stained brown like a betel nut addict, and the memory of that sweet, putrid stench makes my mouth fill with water as I type this. I guess his parents were putting him to bed with a bottle of juice each night and the sugar had rotted his teeth. Was this child in agony from his rotting and abscessed teeth? If so, did he think that this suffering was just part of existence, a fact of life? How or is it even my place to explain to his parents, who didn’t speak any English, about free dental care? Do I unleash the blunt tool of social services on this family whose name I don’t even know and whom I might never see again at the library?

Strong odors at the library are an occupational hazard to which I should probably just resign myself. And on the bright side, at least if people reek, they won't be able to sneak up on me in the stacks.

Daddy, Eugenia and I have something to tell you!

Am I the only one who snickers at this book's title and cover art? I mean, I know that the relentless Ms. Steel's latest effort is about the debutante season or something or other, but the double entendre, however unintended, is quite obvious to me. It doesn't help that the man looks taken aback, as if one of the girls is announcing something rather shocking about the nature of the two girls' relationship.

I'll read anything, and I mean anything, but I have yet to make it through any of Danielle Steel's incessantly expanding ouevre. It's not adequately trashy or racy to be entertaining enough for the escapist fare it's supposed to be, and the characters are just completely dull to me. I find serial wedder Danielle Steel's personal life much more fascinating, especially her pretentions to high society and her rough trade phase, which culminated in her prison marriage to serial rapist/recovering heroin addict/overall thug Danny Zugelder. A colleague's cousin was one of Zugelder's victims. He kidnapped her and spent the night raping her and extinguishing cigarettes on her breasts.

Daddy, Eugenia and I have something to tell you!

Am I the only one who snickers at this book's title and cover art? I mean, I know that the relentless Ms. Steel's latest effort is about the debutante season or something or other, but the double entendre, however unintended, is quite obvious to me. It doesn't help that the man looks taken aback, as if one of the girls is announcing something rather shocking about the nature of the two girls' relationship.

I'll read anything, and I mean anything, but I have yet to make it through any of Danielle Steel's incessantly expanding ouevre. It's not adequately trashy or racy to be entertaining enough for the escapist fare it's supposed to be, and the characters are just completely dull to me. I find serial wedder Danielle Steel's personal life much more fascinating, especially her pretentions to high society and her rough trade phase, which culminated in her prison marriage to serial rapist/recovering heroin addict/overall thug Danny Zugelder. A colleague's cousin was one of Zugelder's victims. He kidnapped her and spent the night raping her and extinguishing cigarettes on her breasts.

Trouserless Tuesday!

A colleague proclaimed yesterday Trouserless Tuesday. That morning she was watching people walk by her desk when it occurred to her, “Hmmmm, there’s something odd about that man. Why, he’s not wearing any pants!” A man with nothing but a t-shirt strolled right by her. He waved good naturedly and wished her good morning as he passed her desk. She called security, who promptly escorted him out.

Later I was at the desk when a man stormed up, seething with righteous indignation. “I want to speak to someone in administration. I am being unfairly harassed by your guards!”

“I’m sorry about that. Let me call someone for you now.” I could see our two female guards rolling their eyes as they slowly closed in on him.

“I asked them at the entrance whether my attire was acceptable. They said that it was. But now they’ve arbitrarily decided that it’s not and they’re kicking me out! They are going back on their word.”

He looked perfectly presentable in his button down oxford shirt, but when I peered down over the desk I saw that on his bottom half he was wearing a micromini kilt, a tiny swath of tartan about two inches in length that barely covered his inseam. He whipped around to the face the guards, and the fabric swirled up, exposing himself to me and the guards. “Are you telling me I can’t wear a kilt! It’s part of my cultural heritage! You’re discriminating. Stop this harassment! I demand to speak to a supervisor NOW!”

The guards led him away into the security office. They later told me that several other patrons complained that he was purposefully dropping pencils down in front of their chairs, then bending over and backing up his bare bottom, displaying it inches from their faces.


He reminded me of one of Jack Plotnick’s characters in Reno 911! Under the guise of a magician, carnie operator or puppeteer, he is always trying to unleash his perversion on an unsuspecting public. My favorite is when he portrays a carnival puppeteer who has a small portable stage attached to his waist. He announces that behind the curtained stage lies a magical, albino snake that “grows rigid in your grasp.” He tells the deputies sent out to investigate that they can't see the snake because "it's very sensitive to light and it's really more for women."

Trouserless Tuesday!

A colleague proclaimed yesterday Trouserless Tuesday. That morning she was watching people walk by her desk when it occurred to her, “Hmmmm, there’s something odd about that man. Why, he’s not wearing any pants!” A man with nothing but a t-shirt strolled right by her. He waved good naturedly and wished her good morning as he passed her desk. She called security, who promptly escorted him out.

Later I was at the desk when a man stormed up, seething with righteous indignation. “I want to speak to someone in administration. I am being unfairly harassed by your guards!”

“I’m sorry about that. Let me call someone for you now.” I could see our two female guards rolling their eyes as they slowly closed in on him.

“I asked them at the entrance whether my attire was acceptable. They said that it was. But now they’ve arbitrarily decided that it’s not and they’re kicking me out! They are going back on their word.”

He looked perfectly presentable in his button down oxford shirt, but when I peered down over the desk I saw that on his bottom half he was wearing a micromini kilt, a tiny swath of tartan about two inches in length that barely covered his inseam. He whipped around to the face the guards, and the fabric swirled up, exposing himself to me and the guards. “Are you telling me I can’t wear a kilt! It’s part of my cultural heritage! You’re discriminating. Stop this harassment! I demand to speak to a supervisor NOW!”

The guards led him away into the security office. They later told me that several other patrons complained that he was purposefully dropping pencils down in front of their chairs, then bending over and backing up his bare bottom, displaying it inches from their faces.


He reminded me of one of Jack Plotnick’s characters in Reno 911! Under the guise of a magician, carnie operator or puppeteer, he is always trying to unleash his perversion on an unsuspecting public. My favorite is when he portrays a carnival puppeteer who has a small portable stage attached to his waist. He announces that behind the curtained stage lies a magical, albino snake that “grows rigid in your grasp.” He tells the deputies sent out to investigate that they can't see the snake because "it's very sensitive to light and it's really more for women."

Phone vs Desk Reference

Some of my colleagues prefer answering the phones to the face to face interaction of the reference desk. Each has its pros and cons and inherent risks. At the desk, you can pick up all of the non verbal cues of the patron, so it’s easier to read and connect with people. On the desk you get to witness and interact with humanity in all of its resplendent and degraded and fascinating forms, from the criminally insane to wizened scholars to sweet children and elegant society matrons. Of course you’re physically more vulnerable on the desk, not to mention subjected to revolting smells beyond my power of description. Often it can be hard to shake a patron, like one off his meds on a manic upswing talking jag, or a nasty borderline who will turn you in her mind from her best friend to her worst enemy in a matter of seconds, or unreasonable yuppie moms who are under the mistaken impression that screaming at a civil servant will get them their way, or mentally unstable malcontents who desire a captive audience for their soapbox issue.

Angry bicycle messenger guy: “Do you know what the rich people would do if we took away all of their money?”

“Is this a reference question?”

Not listening, “They would die, of course! They would completely fall apart! This society hates the poor, and I should know! Rich people couldn’t survive if you took away all of their money and power - ”

“I’m sorry, Sir. There’s a line of people. Unless you have a specific question that I can help you answer?”

“Oh – O.K. But think about it! I’ll be back later.”

Obviously no one else in their life will listen to their tired old rant, but they still want and need to be heard, so we get the pleasure at the desk. In most cases, if you just smile and nod while they finish out their script they will wander away. My particular weakness at the desk is for lonely old men, men who obviously live alone and have stopped looking at themselves in the mirror. They don't have anyone to tell them that their fly is open, that their socks don't match, or they cut themselves shaving. Some of them smell as musty as an old cellar. For the most part they’re heartbreakingly kind and courteous, though, and so sweet and desperate for human contact, I have a hard time disengaging and keeping a professional distance and sending them on their way.

Although the phones can be interesting, misunderstandings arise more easily from its communication limitations. People also can have appalling phone manners, and chew food and smack gum and squabble with their children or spouses in my ear. Often they won’t even bother to turn down a blaring television. One regular who is running a small business from his home is a notorious multitasker who never extends you the courtesy of his undivided attention. You can hear him rummaging through papers, or taking calls on his other line, which he’ll then confuse the line on which he has the librarian. He also has all of these maddening habits like playing with the spit in his mouth, and once the librarian could hear the unmistakable sound of him urinating and flushing the toilet. My colleague was outraged. “Call me back when you’re not otherwise engaged!” The librarian slammed the phone down.

Some calls are vaguely obscene, and people who don’t know that we have caller ID are emboldened by the perceived anonymity to be ruder than they would dare to be to your face. But, you can always hang up on a person, while it’s a little more challenging to shake them at the reference desk. My overly active imagination always creates scenarios for the people on the other end of the phone line, like for the mellifluent African American man who calls to order various jazz CDs. He always has some cool jazz playing like Miles Davis or John Coltraine in the background, so I imagine him in a turtleneck swirling a glass of cognac in front of a fire place. Other times my imagination has a more morbid bent, and the scenarios I imagine are much darker.

A woman called whose voice sounded strangled by fat. She told me she had lost track of her children but she needed to find addresses for them. Through labored breathing she said, “Wait, I can get you their social security numbers, if that helps. I had to get their numbers all at once when I got them on the welfare.” I could hear rustling and she began to grunt with exertion. “Uggh... Wait a minute – I have this device, this gripper, you know? I think their cards are in one of these piles next to the bed. I’m going…to try…to reach them. Mmmmmhhh…Uggghh…Mmmmmmg.” I could hear rustling and things falling over. After a while she panted into the phone., “Got ‘em.” I could just see her, this morbidly obese woman trapped on a bed, the television blaring, papers and objects surrounding her in filthy piles.

My favorite call was handled by a colleague. A man with a deep voice asked where he was in line for the latest Harry Potter book.
“Sir, you are 75th in line.”
Unable to contain his excitement, he shouted off the phone, “Mommy! Guess what? I’m 75th in line!”

Phone vs Desk Reference

Some of my colleagues prefer answering the phones to the face to face interaction of the reference desk. Each has its pros and cons and inherent risks. At the desk, you can pick up all of the non verbal cues of the patron, so it’s easier to read and connect with people. On the desk you get to witness and interact with humanity in all of its resplendent and degraded and fascinating forms, from the criminally insane to wizened scholars to sweet children and elegant society matrons. Of course you’re physically more vulnerable on the desk, not to mention subjected to revolting smells beyond my power of description. Often it can be hard to shake a patron, like one off his meds on a manic upswing talking jag, or a nasty borderline who will turn you in her mind from her best friend to her worst enemy in a matter of seconds, or unreasonable yuppie moms who are under the mistaken impression that screaming at a civil servant will get them their way, or mentally unstable malcontents who desire a captive audience for their soapbox issue.

Angry bicycle messenger guy: “Do you know what the rich people would do if we took away all of their money?”

“Is this a reference question?”

Not listening, “They would die, of course! They would completely fall apart! This society hates the poor, and I should know! Rich people couldn’t survive if you took away all of their money and power - ”

“I’m sorry, Sir. There’s a line of people. Unless you have a specific question that I can help you answer?”

“Oh – O.K. But think about it! I’ll be back later.”

Obviously no one else in their life will listen to their tired old rant, but they still want and need to be heard, so we get the pleasure at the desk. In most cases, if you just smile and nod while they finish out their script they will wander away. My particular weakness at the desk is for lonely old men, men who obviously live alone and have stopped looking at themselves in the mirror. They don't have anyone to tell them that their fly is open, that their socks don't match, or they cut themselves shaving. Some of them smell as musty as an old cellar. For the most part they’re heartbreakingly kind and courteous, though, and so sweet and desperate for human contact, I have a hard time disengaging and keeping a professional distance and sending them on their way.

Although the phones can be interesting, misunderstandings arise more easily from its communication limitations. People also can have appalling phone manners, and chew food and smack gum and squabble with their children or spouses in my ear. Often they won’t even bother to turn down a blaring television. One regular who is running a small business from his home is a notorious multitasker who never extends you the courtesy of his undivided attention. You can hear him rummaging through papers, or taking calls on his other line, which he’ll then confuse the line on which he has the librarian. He also has all of these maddening habits like playing with the spit in his mouth, and once the librarian could hear the unmistakable sound of him urinating and flushing the toilet. My colleague was outraged. “Call me back when you’re not otherwise engaged!” The librarian slammed the phone down.

Some calls are vaguely obscene, and people who don’t know that we have caller ID are emboldened by the perceived anonymity to be ruder than they would dare to be to your face. But, you can always hang up on a person, while it’s a little more challenging to shake them at the reference desk. My overly active imagination always creates scenarios for the people on the other end of the phone line, like for the mellifluent African American man who calls to order various jazz CDs. He always has some cool jazz playing like Miles Davis or John Coltraine in the background, so I imagine him in a turtleneck swirling a glass of cognac in front of a fire place. Other times my imagination has a more morbid bent, and the scenarios I imagine are much darker.

A woman called whose voice sounded strangled by fat. She told me she had lost track of her children but she needed to find addresses for them. Through labored breathing she said, “Wait, I can get you their social security numbers, if that helps. I had to get their numbers all at once when I got them on the welfare.” I could hear rustling and she began to grunt with exertion. “Uggh... Wait a minute – I have this device, this gripper, you know? I think their cards are in one of these piles next to the bed. I’m going…to try…to reach them. Mmmmmhhh…Uggghh…Mmmmmmg.” I could hear rustling and things falling over. After a while she panted into the phone., “Got ‘em.” I could just see her, this morbidly obese woman trapped on a bed, the television blaring, papers and objects surrounding her in filthy piles.

My favorite call was handled by a colleague. A man with a deep voice asked where he was in line for the latest Harry Potter book.
“Sir, you are 75th in line.”
Unable to contain his excitement, he shouted off the phone, “Mommy! Guess what? I’m 75th in line!”

Bats have an impressive land speed

Go, bat, go! I’ve made no secret of my fascination with parasitism, but this interest also extends to other more benign forms of cooperation and symbiosis in the animal kingdom. Vampire bats live off the blood of other animals, but they are one of the few animals to practice what is known as reciprocal altruism. A vampire bat who has had a fruitful evening will regurgitate blood for less successful members of its colony. Vampire bats will starve to death in a matter of only a few days if they don’t feed, and every creature has a run of bad luck eventually, so this sort of sharing policy is good insurance for all. Cheaters are noted and evicted from the group.

A humorous image: a vampire bat will flutter down about 10 feet behind its victim (usually a cow or a horse) and then sneak up in this hunched tip toed waddle until it can latch on to the flesh behind its victim's tail. Bats can also run, though. Using the end of their wings like crutches, they can brachiate to great speeds. Scientists put some on a treadmill to measure their speed and were amazed at how fast the little devils could move.

At Rancho Transylvania, a farm/bat research facility in Mexico, a scientist is studying rare and endangered bats that feed exclusively on chickens. The bat will sneak up on a sleeping chicken, bite its toes, and lap up small amount of blood. Often the bats will make a cheeping sound like that of a chick, a sound that seems to soothe and quiet the chickens, as if to say, “Don’t mind us! Nobody but us (baby) chickens here!”

Bats have an impressive land speed

Go, bat, go! I’ve made no secret of my fascination with parasitism, but this interest also extends to other more benign forms of cooperation and symbiosis in the animal kingdom. Vampire bats live off the blood of other animals, but they are one of the few animals to practice what is known as reciprocal altruism. A vampire bat who has had a fruitful evening will regurgitate blood for less successful members of its colony. Vampire bats will starve to death in a matter of only a few days if they don’t feed, and every creature has a run of bad luck eventually, so this sort of sharing policy is good insurance for all. Cheaters are noted and evicted from the group.

A humorous image: a vampire bat will flutter down about 10 feet behind its victim (usually a cow or a horse) and then sneak up in this hunched tip toed waddle until it can latch on to the flesh behind its victim's tail. Bats can also run, though. Using the end of their wings like crutches, they can brachiate to great speeds. Scientists put some on a treadmill to measure their speed and were amazed at how fast the little devils could move.

At Rancho Transylvania, a farm/bat research facility in Mexico, a scientist is studying rare and endangered bats that feed exclusively on chickens. The bat will sneak up on a sleeping chicken, bite its toes, and lap up small amount of blood. Often the bats will make a cheeping sound like that of a chick, a sound that seems to soothe and quiet the chickens, as if to say, “Don’t mind us! Nobody but us (baby) chickens here!”

This Little Piggy Got Broken

Billy broke his sweet baby toe disporting himself with his tennis ball, his household god/significant other/magnificent obsession/teacher-mother-secret lover/preeeeciousss. He has to wear this ungainly cast for 6 weeks. He's not gnawing on the cast so at least he is spared the indignity of the lampshade. He is extremely high on rimadyl in this picture.

Our teen summer reading program just ended, and I've had a good time reading the book reviews the participants had to write to claim their various prizes. Some of them didn't even try, though.

The book I read was Ashley's Ashes by Frank McCourt. It is about a Jewish family's struggle from childhood. It was funny when the author wrote some of his experiences in a childish voice. They were a poor but loving family.

More later...

This Little Piggy Got Broken

Billy broke his sweet baby toe disporting himself with his tennis ball, his household god/significant other/magnificent obsession/teacher-mother-secret lover/preeeeciousss. He has to wear this ungainly cast for 6 weeks. He's not gnawing on the cast so at least he is spared the indignity of the lampshade. He is extremely high on rimadyl in this picture.

Our teen summer reading program just ended, and I've had a good time reading the book reviews the participants had to write to claim their various prizes. Some of them didn't even try, though.

The book I read was Ashley's Ashes by Frank McCourt. It is about a Jewish family's struggle from childhood. It was funny when the author wrote some of his experiences in a childish voice. They were a poor but loving family.

More later...