Obits - Sports Pages for Seniors

Because I have been writing my share lately, and have a morbid streak in the best of circumstances, I've become very interested in the craft of writing an obituary. The Dead Beat: Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries by Marilyn Johnson is a great read and highlights many of the best of the genre, many of which hale from the London Times, a publication is known for elevating the obituary to an art form. She excerpts many wonderful examples, my favorite being Robert Helpmann's, whose obituary called him "a homosexual of the proselytzing kind."

As well as giving you a tender feeling of schadenfreude, the best obituaries also teach a little history lesson, one that is made all the more powerful and memorable because of the obituary subject's role in it. Here is one I have never forgot about a U.S. survivor of a Japanese concentration camp in the Philippines during WWII. After the war, she and fellow prisoners appealed for the life of the commander, who had been very kind and allowed them to keep and grow their own food, which is the only way they were able to survive. He was was so benevolent that his superiors removed him from his post for "excessive leniency." Years later, she and other camp survivors organized a reunion with him in the United States to express their gratitude.

The title of this one was so evocative of the Dallas/Ft Worth Metroplex, where I was born: Local Man Loved Tractors and Grandkids.

But my favorite obituary ever was for a dog. As a librarian I should be more of a copyright warrior, but I'm going to risk a cease and desist and print it in its entirety here because it's too wonderful not to share. It makes my eyes sting with tears every time I read it.

Mountain Gazette 92, March 2003

OBITUARIES

The deceased: Ace
Born: 1989
Died: December 10, 2002
Cause of death: Cancer

Ace was "put to sleep" on December 10, 2002, after over 13 years of being a Mountain Dawg. He was born at over 8,000 feet and was named after the Ace High Tavern in Golden, Colorado. He was, at six months old, in two avalanches in one day on Mt. Sniktau near Loveland Pass. So, he was nicknamed "Avalanche Ace' " He never did learn to avoid standing on cornices.

He lived with his partner, Scruffy, on Floyd Hill near Evergreen and climbed extensively in the Mt. Evans area. He loved ski mountaineering with his partners/owners, Tim and Laurie, and other ski buddies. Never one to follow a ski track, Ace chased squirrels and bunnies all over the Front Range ski trails. He loved to run ahead of you on the trail and turn back and run straight for you. Just before hitting your ski tips, Ace would veer off to the side of the trail and get face shots in the soft snow. He loved to lay on his belly and pull himself down snow fields by his front paws.

Sometimes, he would be walking on the ski trail and would cut off the trail and run down a snow field for no apparent reason other than a powder run. That is, of course, the best reason.

As Ace got a little older, he added some impressive climbs to his resume, including several 13,000-14,000-foot summits. He skied the north face of Mt. Evans, the NE chute of Grizzly Peak, the north chute of Mt. Snoopy (Pettingell Peak) and the north face of Torres peak. He was often seen up and down the NE bowls on Berthoud Pass and was credited with a full-moon climb on James Peak. He often did the Second-Creek-to-Winter-Park ski tour, sometimes spending the night in the A-frame, sometimes not.

Summer was another favorite season, when Ace went on extensive backpacking trips, sailing and kayaking on Dillon Reservoir and guarding the beer while his partners with prehensile thumbs rock climbed. He trained- for two marathons with his partner Laurie running long runs of 10 miles- His last long run, about six months before his death, was on the trail between Bakerville and Loveland Valley ski area- Here he ran the five miles with ease, even including several "bunny sprints" along the way

Ace loved wildlife and would chase whistle pigs (marmots) and ptarmigans at high altitude. He found a bighorn sheep carcass on Mt. Evans and proudly dragged it to his favorite snowfield where he could roll on it. One day, hiking on Floyd Hill, he found a mountain lion, which fortunately wasn't hungry. Also on Floyd Hill he came across a dead elk skull while hiking with his partner Tim. He was forbidden from bringing it home, but the next day, when no one was home, Ace let himself out of the house via the dog door, scaled a five-foot fence, hiked more than a mile to the elk skull, carried it home BACK OVER THE SAME FIVE-FOOT FENCE, through the dog door and up two flights of stairs, where he laid it on his partners' bed. Maggots and all...

A gift from a good friend.

Ace regularly skied at Loveland and would hike up into Zip Basin or Mt. Trelease with Tim. After the ski back down, Ace was on "van duty." Together, Tim and Ace would ski more than 100 days a year. He was also a regular fixture at the Loveland Apres Ski scene, just recently getting himself 86ed for reasons unknown. He was also often seen at the Red Ram in Georgetown and the back porch of the West Winds in Idaho Springs.

In his older years, Ace skijored with his pal Scruffy, even entering a ski-joring race with no formal training. After two dog fights and Scruffy contributing some brown klister to the trail, they still came in fifth place out of a field of about a dozen. Soon after, their racing careers ended.

Scruffy died in January of 2000, and Ace became a season pass holder at Devil's Thumb Ranch. He never got over his wanderlust and loved to escape and tour most of Clear Creek County, including a five-mile trip down I70 from Floyd Hill to Kermit's, where he walked in the bar, got a drink out of the toilet, licked himself and laid down for a nap.

Ace's last big adventure was two months before his death - a five-day trip into the Cirque of Towers in the Wind Rivers. He had his own bed - a half bag (down) - and slept in the tent. He hiked for five days, being lifted over boulders in a talus field. Three weeks before he died, Ace ran the dog trail at Devil's Thumb, rolling in and consuming a large pile of horse manure. Life was good to Ace.

On December 10, the vet found a six-inch tumor on his spleen. We wondered why he was moving slowly.

Soon, we will pick up his ashes at the vet hospital and scatter them on Mt. Sniktau, where he became Avalanche Ace. He was a tough, barrelchested guy with sunburned eyes and paws scarred from scree.

- Laurie Crow

Obits - Sports Pages for Seniors

Because I have been writing my share lately, and have a morbid streak in the best of circumstances, I've become very interested in the craft of writing an obituary. The Dead Beat: Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries by Marilyn Johnson is a great read and highlights many of the best of the genre, many of which hale from the London Times, a publication is known for elevating the obituary to an art form. She excerpts many wonderful examples, my favorite being Robert Helpmann's, whose obituary called him "a homosexual of the proselytzing kind."

As well as giving you a tender feeling of schadenfreude, the best obituaries also teach a little history lesson, one that is made all the more powerful and memorable because of the obituary subject's role in it. Here is one I have never forgot about a U.S. survivor of a Japanese concentration camp in the Philippines during WWII. After the war, she and fellow prisoners appealed for the life of the commander, who had been very kind and allowed them to keep and grow their own food, which is the only way they were able to survive. He was was so benevolent that his superiors removed him from his post for "excessive leniency." Years later, she and other camp survivors organized a reunion with him in the United States to express their gratitude.

The title of this one was so evocative of the Dallas/Ft Worth Metroplex, where I was born: Local Man Loved Tractors and Grandkids.

But my favorite obituary ever was for a dog. As a librarian I should be more of a copyright warrior, but I'm going to risk a cease and desist and print it in its entirety here because it's too wonderful not to share. It makes my eyes sting with tears every time I read it.

Mountain Gazette 92, March 2003

OBITUARIES

The deceased: Ace
Born: 1989
Died: December 10, 2002
Cause of death: Cancer

Ace was "put to sleep" on December 10, 2002, after over 13 years of being a Mountain Dawg. He was born at over 8,000 feet and was named after the Ace High Tavern in Golden, Colorado. He was, at six months old, in two avalanches in one day on Mt. Sniktau near Loveland Pass. So, he was nicknamed "Avalanche Ace' " He never did learn to avoid standing on cornices.

He lived with his partner, Scruffy, on Floyd Hill near Evergreen and climbed extensively in the Mt. Evans area. He loved ski mountaineering with his partners/owners, Tim and Laurie, and other ski buddies. Never one to follow a ski track, Ace chased squirrels and bunnies all over the Front Range ski trails. He loved to run ahead of you on the trail and turn back and run straight for you. Just before hitting your ski tips, Ace would veer off to the side of the trail and get face shots in the soft snow. He loved to lay on his belly and pull himself down snow fields by his front paws.

Sometimes, he would be walking on the ski trail and would cut off the trail and run down a snow field for no apparent reason other than a powder run. That is, of course, the best reason.

As Ace got a little older, he added some impressive climbs to his resume, including several 13,000-14,000-foot summits. He skied the north face of Mt. Evans, the NE chute of Grizzly Peak, the north chute of Mt. Snoopy (Pettingell Peak) and the north face of Torres peak. He was often seen up and down the NE bowls on Berthoud Pass and was credited with a full-moon climb on James Peak. He often did the Second-Creek-to-Winter-Park ski tour, sometimes spending the night in the A-frame, sometimes not.

Summer was another favorite season, when Ace went on extensive backpacking trips, sailing and kayaking on Dillon Reservoir and guarding the beer while his partners with prehensile thumbs rock climbed. He trained- for two marathons with his partner Laurie running long runs of 10 miles- His last long run, about six months before his death, was on the trail between Bakerville and Loveland Valley ski area- Here he ran the five miles with ease, even including several "bunny sprints" along the way

Ace loved wildlife and would chase whistle pigs (marmots) and ptarmigans at high altitude. He found a bighorn sheep carcass on Mt. Evans and proudly dragged it to his favorite snowfield where he could roll on it. One day, hiking on Floyd Hill, he found a mountain lion, which fortunately wasn't hungry. Also on Floyd Hill he came across a dead elk skull while hiking with his partner Tim. He was forbidden from bringing it home, but the next day, when no one was home, Ace let himself out of the house via the dog door, scaled a five-foot fence, hiked more than a mile to the elk skull, carried it home BACK OVER THE SAME FIVE-FOOT FENCE, through the dog door and up two flights of stairs, where he laid it on his partners' bed. Maggots and all...

A gift from a good friend.

Ace regularly skied at Loveland and would hike up into Zip Basin or Mt. Trelease with Tim. After the ski back down, Ace was on "van duty." Together, Tim and Ace would ski more than 100 days a year. He was also a regular fixture at the Loveland Apres Ski scene, just recently getting himself 86ed for reasons unknown. He was also often seen at the Red Ram in Georgetown and the back porch of the West Winds in Idaho Springs.

In his older years, Ace skijored with his pal Scruffy, even entering a ski-joring race with no formal training. After two dog fights and Scruffy contributing some brown klister to the trail, they still came in fifth place out of a field of about a dozen. Soon after, their racing careers ended.

Scruffy died in January of 2000, and Ace became a season pass holder at Devil's Thumb Ranch. He never got over his wanderlust and loved to escape and tour most of Clear Creek County, including a five-mile trip down I70 from Floyd Hill to Kermit's, where he walked in the bar, got a drink out of the toilet, licked himself and laid down for a nap.

Ace's last big adventure was two months before his death - a five-day trip into the Cirque of Towers in the Wind Rivers. He had his own bed - a half bag (down) - and slept in the tent. He hiked for five days, being lifted over boulders in a talus field. Three weeks before he died, Ace ran the dog trail at Devil's Thumb, rolling in and consuming a large pile of horse manure. Life was good to Ace.

On December 10, the vet found a six-inch tumor on his spleen. We wondered why he was moving slowly.

Soon, we will pick up his ashes at the vet hospital and scatter them on Mt. Sniktau, where he became Avalanche Ace. He was a tough, barrelchested guy with sunburned eyes and paws scarred from scree.

- Laurie Crow

Crabs Season

Crab season kicked off recently and inadvertent hilarity ensued when I called the Safeway seafood department to inquire if there were any in stock.

“Do you have crabs?” I asked the butcher.

I didn’t realize the implications of what I had said until E, who had overhead my question, began shrieking with laughter. “Didn’t you mean to ask if he had CRAB?” Then I started laughing myself and apologizing and insisting that this was not a prank call. I promised that I wasn’t going to ask him if his refrigerator were running or for him to page Mike Hunt or Amanda Hugginkiss. The butcher had a very thick Cantonese accent so I don’t think he got my accidental joke. In any case, I was very appreciative that he patiently waited for me to calm down so he could answer my question.

I’m not a big fan of prank phone calls or the television show Crank Yankers. I don’t think it’s right to harass good people who are just trying to do their jobs. I get enough outrageous and odd questions as it is when I work the phones from the genuinely mentally ill and other vulnerable members of the population so don’t burn up my patience, compassion, goodwill and time on jokes that are not as nearly as clever as the perpetrator likes to think.

The other day I had my first call from a woman on a bipolar manic upswing. I’ve heard the term ‘pressured speech,’ but this went way beyond that. She seemed helpless in the grip of this talking jag. I felt pummeled by her words to the point where I wanted cover my head protectively with my hands like a boxer. She kept going on and on about the reasons for her overdue books and how she had been mistreated by a branch manager until I finally had to wish her a good night and hang up on her. She kept calling back the rest of the evening to go over the same matter, even though her problem had been resolved and there was nothing more to do for her. I felt sorry for her because she acted like she needed an audience for her torrent of words like it was a matter of life or death, but there was just no way to accomodate her.

Crabs Season

Crab season kicked off recently and inadvertent hilarity ensued when I called the Safeway seafood department to inquire if there were any in stock.

“Do you have crabs?” I asked the butcher.

I didn’t realize the implications of what I had said until E, who had overhead my question, began shrieking with laughter. “Didn’t you mean to ask if he had CRAB?” Then I started laughing myself and apologizing and insisting that this was not a prank call. I promised that I wasn’t going to ask him if his refrigerator were running or for him to page Mike Hunt or Amanda Hugginkiss. The butcher had a very thick Cantonese accent so I don’t think he got my accidental joke. In any case, I was very appreciative that he patiently waited for me to calm down so he could answer my question.

I’m not a big fan of prank phone calls or the television show Crank Yankers. I don’t think it’s right to harass good people who are just trying to do their jobs. I get enough outrageous and odd questions as it is when I work the phones from the genuinely mentally ill and other vulnerable members of the population so don’t burn up my patience, compassion, goodwill and time on jokes that are not as nearly as clever as the perpetrator likes to think.

The other day I had my first call from a woman on a bipolar manic upswing. I’ve heard the term ‘pressured speech,’ but this went way beyond that. She seemed helpless in the grip of this talking jag. I felt pummeled by her words to the point where I wanted cover my head protectively with my hands like a boxer. She kept going on and on about the reasons for her overdue books and how she had been mistreated by a branch manager until I finally had to wish her a good night and hang up on her. She kept calling back the rest of the evening to go over the same matter, even though her problem had been resolved and there was nothing more to do for her. I felt sorry for her because she acted like she needed an audience for her torrent of words like it was a matter of life or death, but there was just no way to accomodate her.

Trouble, trouble move away

Sorry for the radio silence but I was called home for yet another family funeral and asked to write another obituary... This was only a week after my good frisbee buddy and frequent Foxylibrarian commentator Ryan Stich was killed in a motorcycle accident in Georgia. What a shame and what a waste.

When the family is gathered all together like that I get to snoop around for more family lore - one of the few solaces of funerals. Here's a gem: my grandmother is rumored to have been born at 12:30 AM, February 12, but her parents backdated the event to February 11th. Her parents didn't want her sharing a birthday with Abraham Lincoln, that day being one of infamy in the South. Or I guess I should say for a certain segment of the Southern population, since I'm sure the descendents of freed slaves didn't have such a problem with the day. It was easier to do those sort of things - to tamper with the official record - in the days of home births.

Trouble, trouble move away

Sorry for the radio silence but I was called home for yet another family funeral and asked to write another obituary... This was only a week after my good frisbee buddy and frequent Foxylibrarian commentator Ryan Stich was killed in a motorcycle accident in Georgia. What a shame and what a waste.

When the family is gathered all together like that I get to snoop around for more family lore - one of the few solaces of funerals. Here's a gem: my grandmother is rumored to have been born at 12:30 AM, February 12, but her parents backdated the event to February 11th. Her parents didn't want her sharing a birthday with Abraham Lincoln, that day being one of infamy in the South. Or I guess I should say for a certain segment of the Southern population, since I'm sure the descendents of freed slaves didn't have such a problem with the day. It was easier to do those sort of things - to tamper with the official record - in the days of home births.

Wit and Wisdom of Churchill

This is rather apocryphal, but I love it. Here Churchill is responding to accusations that he has not given the Royal Navy its due.

Addressing the Sea Lords: "You say that I am ignoring the time-honored traditions of the Royal Navy? And what might they be? I shall tell you in three words: rum, buggery, and the lash! Good morning, sirs."

If I ever get a boat, I am so naming it "Rum, Buggery and the Lash."

Wit and Wisdom of Churchill

This is rather apocryphal, but I love it. Here Churchill is responding to accusations that he has not given the Royal Navy its due.

Addressing the Sea Lords: "You say that I am ignoring the time-honored traditions of the Royal Navy? And what might they be? I shall tell you in three words: rum, buggery, and the lash! Good morning, sirs."

If I ever get a boat, I am so naming it "Rum, Buggery and the Lash."

Booty Call *69

I was trying to find this page turner in the urban fiction genre on Amazon for a patron. The title wasn't coming up in Amazon, and then it dawned on me that the asterisk was acting as some sort of truncator or wild card and it was throwing the search off. I left the asterisk out, typed in "booty call 69" and voila. Publishers really should consider these sort of things when coming up with titles.

Amazon search tips.

Booty Call *69

I was trying to find this page turner in the urban fiction genre on Amazon for a patron. The title wasn't coming up in Amazon, and then it dawned on me that the asterisk was acting as some sort of truncator or wild card and it was throwing the search off. I left the asterisk out, typed in "booty call 69" and voila. Publishers really should consider these sort of things when coming up with titles.

Amazon search tips.

Children of the Damned

A little girl, no more than eight years old, quietly approached the desk. She reached into her Powderpuff Girl’s backpack and pulled out Isaac Asimov’s Nightfall.

“Hello. I’m looking for the short story "Nightfall" by Isaac Asimov.”

“It’s not in that book?”

“I'm looking for the short story. This is the result of collaboration with another author, Robert Silverberg. Together he and Asimov and expanded the short story into novel length. I am only interested in the short story.”

Her poise was beyond preternatural and her voice was as carefully modulated as HAL the computer or Nurse Ratchet. It was all my colleague and I could do not to stare at her like she was channeling some sort of demon.

I searched the catalog and found the story in a short story collection on another floor. I wrote out the book and gave her the call number. She thanked me and twirled around and left.

After she was gone my colleague and I almost clutched each other in fear. Who at that age is into Asimov?

Children of the Damned

A little girl, no more than eight years old, quietly approached the desk. She reached into her Powderpuff Girl’s backpack and pulled out Isaac Asimov’s Nightfall.

“Hello. I’m looking for the short story "Nightfall" by Isaac Asimov.”

“It’s not in that book?”

“I'm looking for the short story. This is the result of collaboration with another author, Robert Silverberg. Together he and Asimov and expanded the short story into novel length. I am only interested in the short story.”

Her poise was beyond preternatural and her voice was as carefully modulated as HAL the computer or Nurse Ratchet. It was all my colleague and I could do not to stare at her like she was channeling some sort of demon.

I searched the catalog and found the story in a short story collection on another floor. I wrote out the book and gave her the call number. She thanked me and twirled around and left.

After she was gone my colleague and I almost clutched each other in fear. Who at that age is into Asimov?

From the Annals of Creative Executions

When fed-up natives captured Pedro de Valdivia, a conquistador infamous for his rapacious cruelty and lust for gold, they pried open his mouth and poured molten gold down his throat. As ghastly a way to die as that must have been, it still beats how Edward II was dispatched: with a glowing hot poker up the ass. (He was suspected of being gay and had been promoting too many of his lowborn 'favorites.')

The Mongols liked their executions colorful, practically elevating them to an art form. From John Dolan's "Missing the Mongols":

"They (the Mongols) poured molten silver in the eyes and ears of traitors--a visual joke. They could be compassionate: when Genghiz Khan captured Jamukha, his closest friend, he did Jamukha the honor of killing him by rolling him up in a carpet and crushing him with boulders, so that the blood would remain in the body. They had their own sense of righteousness: when the small Slavic town of Kozelsk, near Kaluga, resisted them for months, they dubbed it "the wicked town." So upset were they with the scandalous behavior of Kozelsk that they not only killed all the inhabitants (which went without saying), but drowned the child-prince, Vladimir, in human blood."

Want more, you sick little devils? List of unusual ways to go.

Hmmmmm. What else. I’m still immensely enjoying Pox: Genius, Madness and Syphilis. The author's theory why 15th - 17th century Spaniards were such dicks:

"The Spain that Columbus left behind was already one of great carnage. Seven hundred years of warfare to take back Spain from the Moors had formed a warrior culture rooted in the values of the conquistador. The Inquisition sought out heretics and non-believers to torture and murder at the stake or on the gallows, to burn or hang, behead or flay. Columbus, very much a man of his times and culture, used these same violent methods against the people he found in the New World."

As I’ve written before, no two cultures deserved each other more than the Spaniards and Aztecs, because what disgusting torture one hadn’t invented the other one had. I have great admiration for the Aztecs, what with their culture's blend of cannibalism and dazzling achievements in astronomy, but I don’t pity them or romanticize them as helpless innocents. The inhabitants of Hispaniola, Columbus’ first stop, however, were peaceful and gentle and Columbus and his men abused their hospitality egregiously. After the natives welcomed them with singing and flowers, Columbus and his men entertained themselves by raping, sport torturing, feeding native infants to dogs, burning natives alive, amputating native limbs, etc. Too bad for Columbus, his men and the rest of Europe, though - the natives were teeming with syphilis, and had their revenge by infecting Columbus’s crew with a virulent new strain to which the men had no resistance. This strain, or some new super-strain that resulted when it mixed with Old World syphillis, had its first major outbreak in Naples in 1493 and before this strain burned itself down those infected would die in as little as two weeks in such agonizing, odorous and grotesque ways that even the lepers shunned them. I’ve always thought that the disease exchange between the Old and New World was rather unfair so it’s heartening to learn that syphilis balanced the scales a bit.

From the Annals of Creative Executions

When fed-up natives captured Pedro de Valdivia, a conquistador infamous for his rapacious cruelty and lust for gold, they pried open his mouth and poured molten gold down his throat. As ghastly a way to die as that must have been, it still beats how Edward II was dispatched: with a glowing hot poker up the ass. (He was suspected of being gay and had been promoting too many of his lowborn 'favorites.')

The Mongols liked their executions colorful, practically elevating them to an art form. From John Dolan's "Missing the Mongols":

"They (the Mongols) poured molten silver in the eyes and ears of traitors--a visual joke. They could be compassionate: when Genghiz Khan captured Jamukha, his closest friend, he did Jamukha the honor of killing him by rolling him up in a carpet and crushing him with boulders, so that the blood would remain in the body. They had their own sense of righteousness: when the small Slavic town of Kozelsk, near Kaluga, resisted them for months, they dubbed it "the wicked town." So upset were they with the scandalous behavior of Kozelsk that they not only killed all the inhabitants (which went without saying), but drowned the child-prince, Vladimir, in human blood."

Want more, you sick little devils? List of unusual ways to go.

Hmmmmm. What else. I’m still immensely enjoying Pox: Genius, Madness and Syphilis. The author's theory why 15th - 17th century Spaniards were such dicks:

"The Spain that Columbus left behind was already one of great carnage. Seven hundred years of warfare to take back Spain from the Moors had formed a warrior culture rooted in the values of the conquistador. The Inquisition sought out heretics and non-believers to torture and murder at the stake or on the gallows, to burn or hang, behead or flay. Columbus, very much a man of his times and culture, used these same violent methods against the people he found in the New World."

As I’ve written before, no two cultures deserved each other more than the Spaniards and Aztecs, because what disgusting torture one hadn’t invented the other one had. I have great admiration for the Aztecs, what with their culture's blend of cannibalism and dazzling achievements in astronomy, but I don’t pity them or romanticize them as helpless innocents. The inhabitants of Hispaniola, Columbus’ first stop, however, were peaceful and gentle and Columbus and his men abused their hospitality egregiously. After the natives welcomed them with singing and flowers, Columbus and his men entertained themselves by raping, sport torturing, feeding native infants to dogs, burning natives alive, amputating native limbs, etc. Too bad for Columbus, his men and the rest of Europe, though - the natives were teeming with syphilis, and had their revenge by infecting Columbus’s crew with a virulent new strain to which the men had no resistance. This strain, or some new super-strain that resulted when it mixed with Old World syphillis, had its first major outbreak in Naples in 1493 and before this strain burned itself down those infected would die in as little as two weeks in such agonizing, odorous and grotesque ways that even the lepers shunned them. I’ve always thought that the disease exchange between the Old and New World was rather unfair so it’s heartening to learn that syphilis balanced the scales a bit.

Tony Montana Word of the Day: Llello

Llello
1) A white powder that pollutes your womb, so that you can't even have a leetle baby.
2) Cocaine powder.

Courtesy of urbandictionary.com

Tony Montana Word of the Day: Llello

Llello
1) A white powder that pollutes your womb, so that you can't even have a leetle baby.
2) Cocaine powder.

Courtesy of urbandictionary.com

Larceny

A Japanese tourist approached me while I was puttering around the shelves of new books with a tale of woe. He had that he had left his bag unattended in the express internet line while he went off to the bathroom and when he returned it was, predictably, gone. I glanced over at the queue. In line, there was an old wino who was muttering to himself, swatting at the air. There were two hippies with matted dread locks chanting softly, their legs folded on the chairs swami style and their eyes closed. An old African American man was expounding on a passage of the Bible to a throwaway teen. The way to describe the rest of the people in line in one word: sketchy. I looked over at the queue for the internet and it looked more like the waiting room in the central intake unit of a county drug treatment center than a line for the internet.

The unfortunate Japanese tourists seemed genuinely bewildered that someone had taken his bag. I know that this sort of larceny/property crime is quite rare in Japan, but I still think he showed appalling cultural naivety by leaving his bag unguarded. He wanted to know if we had security cameras and I told him we did not. I suggested that he leave his name with security so they could contact him if the bag was turned in.

I myself had my wallet stolen from my backpack while I was in the university library back in graduate school, so I was disabused of my notion of a library being a hallowed, safe place of learning then. It's more like a den of thieves, perverts and deviants AND a palace of learning.

Larceny

A Japanese tourist approached me while I was puttering around the shelves of new books with a tale of woe. He had that he had left his bag unattended in the express internet line while he went off to the bathroom and when he returned it was, predictably, gone. I glanced over at the queue. In line, there was an old wino who was muttering to himself, swatting at the air. There were two hippies with matted dread locks chanting softly, their legs folded on the chairs swami style and their eyes closed. An old African American man was expounding on a passage of the Bible to a throwaway teen. The way to describe the rest of the people in line in one word: sketchy. I looked over at the queue for the internet and it looked more like the waiting room in the central intake unit of a county drug treatment center than a line for the internet.

The unfortunate Japanese tourists seemed genuinely bewildered that someone had taken his bag. I know that this sort of larceny/property crime is quite rare in Japan, but I still think he showed appalling cultural naivety by leaving his bag unguarded. He wanted to know if we had security cameras and I told him we did not. I suggested that he leave his name with security so they could contact him if the bag was turned in.

I myself had my wallet stolen from my backpack while I was in the university library back in graduate school, so I was disabused of my notion of a library being a hallowed, safe place of learning then. It's more like a den of thieves, perverts and deviants AND a palace of learning.

Visitation

While I was conked out asleep E heard some sounds from the kitchen that caused her alarm. She went to investigate and heard glass bottles being moved around and knocking against each other. There was also the sound of shuffling feet. My cousin and his girlfriend live below us so she thought they were returning us a favor and making a retributive midnight liquor cabinet raid. (We keep a shotgun filled with rock salt for just such an eventuality.) Their blind black lab, Dixie, also known as the Black Marauder, also makes occasional forays into the kitchen to see if we happened to have left the dog bin unlocked. Because she is blind, she has the advantage at night and usually is as quiet and stealthy as a ninja, so E didn’t think it was her. She flipped on the light and screamed, “Aha!” There was no one in the kitchen but she did see out of corner of her eye a face peeking through the flap of the dog door. She screamed and the head withdrew in a flash like a snapping turtle into its shell. This is a sketch based on E’s description of the intruder-

Since we don't have any Lucky Charms she allowed herself to be hypnotized and this is the result, a much more accurate description, I believe. It looks like our urban raccoons are back, and they have a taste for liquor, since that’s where they headed first.

E recently viewed this news report and it must have made her a little suggestible.

Visitation

While I was conked out asleep E heard some sounds from the kitchen that caused her alarm. She went to investigate and heard glass bottles being moved around and knocking against each other. There was also the sound of shuffling feet. My cousin and his girlfriend live below us so she thought they were returning us a favor and making a retributive midnight liquor cabinet raid. (We keep a shotgun filled with rock salt for just such an eventuality.) Their blind black lab, Dixie, also known as the Black Marauder, also makes occasional forays into the kitchen to see if we happened to have left the dog bin unlocked. Because she is blind, she has the advantage at night and usually is as quiet and stealthy as a ninja, so E didn’t think it was her. She flipped on the light and screamed, “Aha!” There was no one in the kitchen but she did see out of corner of her eye a face peeking through the flap of the dog door. She screamed and the head withdrew in a flash like a snapping turtle into its shell. This is a sketch based on E’s description of the intruder-

Since we don't have any Lucky Charms she allowed herself to be hypnotized and this is the result, a much more accurate description, I believe. It looks like our urban raccoons are back, and they have a taste for liquor, since that’s where they headed first.

E recently viewed this news report and it must have made her a little suggestible.

When Piglets Fly

Billy Jack at the beach with the tennis ball, his teacher/mother/secret lover.

When Piglets Fly

Billy Jack at the beach with the tennis ball, his teacher/mother/secret lover.

Don't Activate the Prey Drive

Not long ago I tried to intervene when Spoon caught and killed a mountain mouse while we were on a hike together. When I grabbed her head to stop her from shaking the little creature to death I was horrified to discover that Spoon had been transformed from my little fuzzy lovebug angel into a killing machine. Terrier instinct had taken over and she was in the full grip of her prey drive and there was no stopping her. Her facial expression reminded me Tom Berenger’s in the final battle scene of Platoon, an expression that I have never forgot. In the heat of the battle Berenger has gone completely beserker and tries to strangle Sheen, whom he doesn’t recognize or discriminate from the enemy because he's in a blind, dead-eyed, instinctive killing rage.

All predators, humans included, have what's called a prey drive and it's a good policy to avoid inflaming it. Recently I felt my own prey drive stirred while watching that horrid movie Failure to Launch. In one scene, Sarah Jessica Parker's character is dragged off to be an unwilling participant in a paintball tournament. During the battle she acts like a completely helpless ninny, and her mouse like squeaks, which I’m sure she thought were adorable and girlish, made Spoon stare at the television hungrily and made me, normally a non-violent creature, want to hunt her down and empty a clip of paintballs into her, and then follow that with a vicious titty twister for good measure. Her acting and making noises like such rodent prey under the circumstance of battle, even a mock, paintball battle, brought out the predator in me as well as Spoon, who I'm sure wanted to grab her by the neck and shake it until it snapped.

I have especially noticed the prey drive in action on my bike. I ride my bike to work, as do many of my colleagues, and we all have a tale about being chased down by an angry driver. Usually this was in response to a road altercation between the biker and driver. If there is any sort of words exchanged, or rude gestures made, etc. and the bike takes off, sometimes the driver will have an instinctive reaction to chase the biker down like a greyhound does a rabbit. There is something about the biker, maybe his or her vulnerability, or the way it seems that the car is overtaking the biker with speed, that makes the biker seem like quarry, and occasionally their primitive instincts overide their common sense and civility. When I ride my bike I now never try to escalate, engage or even make eye contact with drivers. When I formulated my car/bike as prey/quarry theory, it dawned on my that doing the FUH2 while on a bike is a very foolhardy idea. I know that I’m dealing with powerful instincts here.

As Josef Goebbel, Hitler's master of propaganda, remarked, "Man is and remains an animal. Here a beast of prey, there a housepet, but always an animal."

One night a colleague and I sat talking on our bikes right outside the employee door. We didn't notice a deranged, hulking man who had been stumbling through and screaming at traffic approach us. All of the sudden he was upon us. As he lurched menacingly toward us he and opened his mouth to say something, I locked eyes with my colleague and we both instantaneously scattered in opposite directions, a common prey evasive tactic. I hadn't even realized consciously what we had done until I was 100 yards away, pedaling furiously. My colleague and I were operating on pure instinct.

While I was digging around for this Goebbel's quote I found this one.

“If the German people lay down their weapons, the Soviets, according to the agreement between Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin, would occupy all of East and Southeast Europe along with the greater part of the Reich. An iron curtain would fall over this enormous territory controlled by the Soviet Union, behind which nations would be slaughtered.” I never knew that it was Goebbels who coined the term 'iron curtain.' I always thought it was Churchill.

Although for me, the most memorable Goebbels quote was that said by his wife, Magda: "Sleep tight, children."

Don't Activate the Prey Drive

Not long ago I tried to intervene when Spoon caught and killed a mountain mouse while we were on a hike together. When I grabbed her head to stop her from shaking the little creature to death I was horrified to discover that Spoon had been transformed from my little fuzzy lovebug angel into a killing machine. Terrier instinct had taken over and she was in the full grip of her prey drive and there was no stopping her. Her facial expression reminded me Tom Berenger’s in the final battle scene of Platoon, an expression that I have never forgot. In the heat of the battle Berenger has gone completely beserker and tries to strangle Sheen, whom he doesn’t recognize or discriminate from the enemy because he's in a blind, dead-eyed, instinctive killing rage.

All predators, humans included, have what's called a prey drive and it's a good policy to avoid inflaming it. Recently I felt my own prey drive stirred while watching that horrid movie Failure to Launch. In one scene, Sarah Jessica Parker's character is dragged off to be an unwilling participant in a paintball tournament. During the battle she acts like a completely helpless ninny, and her mouse like squeaks, which I’m sure she thought were adorable and girlish, made Spoon stare at the television hungrily and made me, normally a non-violent creature, want to hunt her down and empty a clip of paintballs into her, and then follow that with a vicious titty twister for good measure. Her acting and making noises like such rodent prey under the circumstance of battle, even a mock, paintball battle, brought out the predator in me as well as Spoon, who I'm sure wanted to grab her by the neck and shake it until it snapped.

I have especially noticed the prey drive in action on my bike. I ride my bike to work, as do many of my colleagues, and we all have a tale about being chased down by an angry driver. Usually this was in response to a road altercation between the biker and driver. If there is any sort of words exchanged, or rude gestures made, etc. and the bike takes off, sometimes the driver will have an instinctive reaction to chase the biker down like a greyhound does a rabbit. There is something about the biker, maybe his or her vulnerability, or the way it seems that the car is overtaking the biker with speed, that makes the biker seem like quarry, and occasionally their primitive instincts overide their common sense and civility. When I ride my bike I now never try to escalate, engage or even make eye contact with drivers. When I formulated my car/bike as prey/quarry theory, it dawned on my that doing the FUH2 while on a bike is a very foolhardy idea. I know that I’m dealing with powerful instincts here.

As Josef Goebbel, Hitler's master of propaganda, remarked, "Man is and remains an animal. Here a beast of prey, there a housepet, but always an animal."

One night a colleague and I sat talking on our bikes right outside the employee door. We didn't notice a deranged, hulking man who had been stumbling through and screaming at traffic approach us. All of the sudden he was upon us. As he lurched menacingly toward us he and opened his mouth to say something, I locked eyes with my colleague and we both instantaneously scattered in opposite directions, a common prey evasive tactic. I hadn't even realized consciously what we had done until I was 100 yards away, pedaling furiously. My colleague and I were operating on pure instinct.

While I was digging around for this Goebbel's quote I found this one.

“If the German people lay down their weapons, the Soviets, according to the agreement between Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin, would occupy all of East and Southeast Europe along with the greater part of the Reich. An iron curtain would fall over this enormous territory controlled by the Soviet Union, behind which nations would be slaughtered.” I never knew that it was Goebbels who coined the term 'iron curtain.' I always thought it was Churchill.

Although for me, the most memorable Goebbels quote was that said by his wife, Magda: "Sleep tight, children."

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.