Drag Envy

The Bikram studio I attend recently acquired an industrial humidifier which, during class, sits in the corner and hisses and spews a column of steam like a chained dragon. The studio is now as sultry and steamy as Danang, a big improvement from the searing, dry, pre-humidifier days. The owner used to be in the HVAC business and installed this system that could probably roast every student alive if the instructor got careless with the settings. Before the humidifier I had to be careful not to wear earrings made out of conducting metals unless I wanted burned earlobes. The floor would burn my feet like I was standing on coals and I would have to hop around. One time I had my feet next to one of the vents and it was like my soles were being hit by a hairdryer, like some especially cruel form of bastinado. The woman lying next to me caught my eye and we both burst into amazed laughter.

I adore the heat, though. I feel like I sweat out so much toxic crud and it gives me a high like no other, like I’ve just slammed a bunch of primo heroin (or so I’ve read). When I stagger out of class I often have to step over all the nodding junkies that congregate in the alley next to the studio, a popular stop for needle exchange. “HA! Higher than you, suckas!” I thought to myself as I passed them. Of course, as it so often happens, my petty superiority instantly and karmically bit me in the ass because immediately afterwards I collided with this neighborhood drag queen street walker whose beauty and fashion sense I find extremely intimidating. She is always dressed to the nines, and that day had a beautiful shawl she had probably crocheted herself wrapped fashionably around her 20 inch waist. She glared at me and strutted past, waggling her hips like a runway model. This particular drag queen always stirs deep feelings of inadequacy in me about my feminine allure and overall appearance. She puts me to shame and makes me feel like I’m not ‘working it,’ that I’m frittering away my God-given attributes. When I look at her and see what she’s doing with what she’s got I always feel like I’m lazily squandering my feminine allure. After our run-in I slinked away, covered in sweat, my hair a greasy mess and my face all ruddy and inflamed from the heat. I caught my reflection in a store window and realized that my bright red face resembled those of my alcoholic patrons who acquire those exposure sunburns from passing out face up in the sun for hours.

To console myself, I stopped at my favorite cheese shop to investigate their new cheeses. I like my cheeses sweaty, oozing and pungent, the varieties that smell like something the dogs dug up from the yard, the kind that are prohibited by law from carrying on public transportation. Among their dazzling array of foul cheeses I discovered an awesomely putrid new one, The Stinking Bishop, that was so good it made me gag. (Wouldn’t The Stinking Bishop also make a good pub name?) While I was sniffing and poking more cheeses these two impeccably dressed, fashionably emaciated French girls joined me at the counter. And it must be true that those bitches don't get fat because they gorged on about a pound each of samples. They looked like they had just stepped out of the offices of French Vogue and I looked like I had just crawled out of a sewer. Anyway, I felt real good about myself yesterday. The French and the drag queens have shamed me into putting more of an effort into my looks. I have become quite lazy about my appearance, so I guess I'm lucky to live in a town teeming with both types to give me a good kick in the ass when I need it.

Drag Envy

The Bikram studio I attend recently acquired an industrial humidifier which, during class, sits in the corner and hisses and spews a column of steam like a chained dragon. The studio is now as sultry and steamy as Danang, a big improvement from the searing, dry, pre-humidifier days. The owner used to be in the HVAC business and installed this system that could probably roast every student alive if the instructor got careless with the settings. Before the humidifier I had to be careful not to wear earrings made out of conducting metals unless I wanted burned earlobes. The floor would burn my feet like I was standing on coals and I would have to hop around. One time I had my feet next to one of the vents and it was like my soles were being hit by a hairdryer, like some especially cruel form of bastinado. The woman lying next to me caught my eye and we both burst into amazed laughter.

I adore the heat, though. I feel like I sweat out so much toxic crud and it gives me a high like no other, like I’ve just slammed a bunch of primo heroin (or so I’ve read). When I stagger out of class I often have to step over all the nodding junkies that congregate in the alley next to the studio, a popular stop for needle exchange. “HA! Higher than you, suckas!” I thought to myself as I passed them. Of course, as it so often happens, my petty superiority instantly and karmically bit me in the ass because immediately afterwards I collided with this neighborhood drag queen street walker whose beauty and fashion sense I find extremely intimidating. She is always dressed to the nines, and that day had a beautiful shawl she had probably crocheted herself wrapped fashionably around her 20 inch waist. She glared at me and strutted past, waggling her hips like a runway model. This particular drag queen always stirs deep feelings of inadequacy in me about my feminine allure and overall appearance. She puts me to shame and makes me feel like I’m not ‘working it,’ that I’m frittering away my God-given attributes. When I look at her and see what she’s doing with what she’s got I always feel like I’m lazily squandering my feminine allure. After our run-in I slinked away, covered in sweat, my hair a greasy mess and my face all ruddy and inflamed from the heat. I caught my reflection in a store window and realized that my bright red face resembled those of my alcoholic patrons who acquire those exposure sunburns from passing out face up in the sun for hours.

To console myself, I stopped at my favorite cheese shop to investigate their new cheeses. I like my cheeses sweaty, oozing and pungent, the varieties that smell like something the dogs dug up from the yard, the kind that are prohibited by law from carrying on public transportation. Among their dazzling array of foul cheeses I discovered an awesomely putrid new one, The Stinking Bishop, that was so good it made me gag. (Wouldn’t The Stinking Bishop also make a good pub name?) While I was sniffing and poking more cheeses these two impeccably dressed, fashionably emaciated French girls joined me at the counter. And it must be true that those bitches don't get fat because they gorged on about a pound each of samples. They looked like they had just stepped out of the offices of French Vogue and I looked like I had just crawled out of a sewer. Anyway, I felt real good about myself yesterday. The French and the drag queens have shamed me into putting more of an effort into my looks. I have become quite lazy about my appearance, so I guess I'm lucky to live in a town teeming with both types to give me a good kick in the ass when I need it.

A Pox on You

I finally finished off Pox: Genius, Madness, and the Mysteries of Syphilis. As fascinating a read as it was, even a morbid gorehound like myself who likes to curl up before bedtime with books like this could only handle all the chronicles of suffering in small, carefully timed chunks. Before I read the book it never really dawned on me how profoundly significant syphilis was from a historical standpoint, and how it caused as much societal upheaval as the Black Plague. As much as I hate to agree with the Religious Right, promiscuity is one hell of a vector for disease. Syphilis' effects on sexual mores linger today, and is as much an argument for safe sex and monogamy as there ever was.

During the first major European outbreak in Naples in 1494, before the disease burned down and worked out a more agreeable arrangement with its host, the symptoms of of syphilis were immediate, horrific and virulent. Mortality often occurred in as little as two weeks.

From Rats, Lice and History.
The ulcerations which often resulted from the eruptions covered the body from the head to the knees. Crusts formed and the sick presented so dreadful an appearance that their companions abandoned them and even the lepers avoided them. Extensive losses of tissue in the nose, throat, and mouth followed the skin manifestations, and in the train of these came painful swellings of the bones, often involving the skull. In survivors, emaciation and exhaustion lasted for many years.

I also read in Pox that infant rape, that barbarous home remedy for AIDS you hear about going on in Africa, also occurred in the early days of the syphilis outbreak in Europe. It turns out that ‘virgin cure’ for venereal disease isn’t something just currently being promulgated by witch doctors in Africa.

The complexity of the disease and its varying horrific manifestations are truly mind boggling. Syphilis is knows as the Great Imitator because during its decades long progression it mimics an amazing number of other painful conditions and diseases. Malaria, gout, insanity, clinical depression, heart disease and conjunctivitis are just a taste of the diseases syphilis can mimic and be misdiagnosed as. The needless agony that those doctors allowed in the Tuskeegee Experiments makes me believe that those responsible should be made an example of and hanged Nuremberg style.

Historians believe that this figure from the Isenheim Altarpiece, the unparalleled masterpiece that Grunewald created for hospital chapel of Saint Anthony's Monastery, is suffering from syphilis. St Anthony is the patron saint of skin diseases, and the monastery served as a hospital for those afflicted with both ergotism and syphilis.
I wonder if the agony of the syphilitics inspired Grunewald's truly grotesque painting, “Dead Lovers.” Note the clammy toad suctioned on to the woman’s genitals, the ghastly rictus of their faces, the snakes whipping and writhing through their corpses. Witnessing the terrible toll that venereal disease could enact must have made quite an impression upon Grunewald.

A Pox on You

I finally finished off Pox: Genius, Madness, and the Mysteries of Syphilis. As fascinating a read as it was, even a morbid gorehound like myself who likes to curl up before bedtime with books like this could only handle all the chronicles of suffering in small, carefully timed chunks. Before I read the book it never really dawned on me how profoundly significant syphilis was from a historical standpoint, and how it caused as much societal upheaval as the Black Plague. As much as I hate to agree with the Religious Right, promiscuity is one hell of a vector for disease. Syphilis' effects on sexual mores linger today, and is as much an argument for safe sex and monogamy as there ever was.

During the first major European outbreak in Naples in 1494, before the disease burned down and worked out a more agreeable arrangement with its host, the symptoms of of syphilis were immediate, horrific and virulent. Mortality often occurred in as little as two weeks.

From Rats, Lice and History.
The ulcerations which often resulted from the eruptions covered the body from the head to the knees. Crusts formed and the sick presented so dreadful an appearance that their companions abandoned them and even the lepers avoided them. Extensive losses of tissue in the nose, throat, and mouth followed the skin manifestations, and in the train of these came painful swellings of the bones, often involving the skull. In survivors, emaciation and exhaustion lasted for many years.

I also read in Pox that infant rape, that barbarous home remedy for AIDS you hear about going on in Africa, also occurred in the early days of the syphilis outbreak in Europe. It turns out that ‘virgin cure’ for venereal disease isn’t something just currently being promulgated by witch doctors in Africa.

The complexity of the disease and its varying horrific manifestations are truly mind boggling. Syphilis is knows as the Great Imitator because during its decades long progression it mimics an amazing number of other painful conditions and diseases. Malaria, gout, insanity, clinical depression, heart disease and conjunctivitis are just a taste of the diseases syphilis can mimic and be misdiagnosed as. The needless agony that those doctors allowed in the Tuskeegee Experiments makes me believe that those responsible should be made an example of and hanged Nuremberg style.

Historians believe that this figure from the Isenheim Altarpiece, the unparalleled masterpiece that Grunewald created for hospital chapel of Saint Anthony's Monastery, is suffering from syphilis. St Anthony is the patron saint of skin diseases, and the monastery served as a hospital for those afflicted with both ergotism and syphilis.
I wonder if the agony of the syphilitics inspired Grunewald's truly grotesque painting, “Dead Lovers.” Note the clammy toad suctioned on to the woman’s genitals, the ghastly rictus of their faces, the snakes whipping and writhing through their corpses. Witnessing the terrible toll that venereal disease could enact must have made quite an impression upon Grunewald.

Ain't it a crying shame

I lost patience with one of our patrons the other evening and I feel a bad about it. I believe that this patron is a transient who blew into town couple of weeks ago. Since then, he's in the library from the time the doors open until security hustles him out at closing. He has an asymmetrical bowl haircut, the buggy eyes of someone suffering from a thyroid condition and a garbage bag filled with all of his earthly possessions slung over his back. Although he seems nice enough he has the disconcerting habit of slouching up to the desk right before we close and reciting:

“Yellow and green strings come out of sores. You can always tell that the pope has blessed it because a recognizable string, sometimes green, sometimes yellow will be coming out of the weeping sore. There are sores all over the bodies of believers and that is proof that they have been blessed by the pope. Check your body for these sores so you will see if you have been so blessed. Pus and strings, strings and pus.”

I had heard the speech four nights in a row so when he approached the desk the other night and took a deep breath I pointed my finger at him and said, “NO!” He drew back like I had slapped him and then glared back at me indignantly. "God! I wasn't going to say that! You didn't know what I was going to say!" He then lurked by the side of the desk giving me the stink eye until we closed. I don't know why I just didn't let him say his piece. In these cases I usually just grit my teeth and internally recite, “There but for the grace of God” but there is something unseemly about his little speech, as if he’s a flasher, showing me something nasty from his brain and getting off on it. I get the feeling that he enjoys the shock value and the look of revulsion his words cause.

I must be suffering from a case of compassion fatigue. Since the city uses as (unofficially, expediently, cynically) as its mental institution/homeless shelter we get so many lost, mentally ill people in libraries. Often we become the only ones who will listen to them. Usually I just let them run their script and smile and nod, but I just wasn't in the mood to hear his gross delusion for the fifth night in a row.

How cruel to have your mind turn on you like that, what a special walking hell it must be. The brain is such delicate, daedal piece of machinery. It seems so tragically easy for something to go haywire, and once it does your entire personality, who you are - your soul, your essence - can be altered into this grotesque caricature of yourself.

I read a heart wrenching, devastatingly honest piece in Harper’s a few years ago about a woman who chronicles her mother’s descent into Alzheimer’s, the most perversely cruel disease that exists. She described how, before the disease, the sound of her mother calling her name used to be the sweetest sound in the world. After her mother got sick she would follow the author around the house repeating it until she couldn’t stand the sound anymore, until it made her want to tear out her hair in rage and frustration. “This person looked like my mother, sounded like my mother, but she was becoming everything that had been anathema to her: intrusive, complaining.”

She expanded the piece into a book called Death in Slow Motion which I will never, ever have the guts to read.

Ain't it a crying shame

I lost patience with one of our patrons the other evening and I feel a bad about it. I believe that this patron is a transient who blew into town couple of weeks ago. Since then, he's in the library from the time the doors open until security hustles him out at closing. He has an asymmetrical bowl haircut, the buggy eyes of someone suffering from a thyroid condition and a garbage bag filled with all of his earthly possessions slung over his back. Although he seems nice enough he has the disconcerting habit of slouching up to the desk right before we close and reciting:

“Yellow and green strings come out of sores. You can always tell that the pope has blessed it because a recognizable string, sometimes green, sometimes yellow will be coming out of the weeping sore. There are sores all over the bodies of believers and that is proof that they have been blessed by the pope. Check your body for these sores so you will see if you have been so blessed. Pus and strings, strings and pus.”

I had heard the speech four nights in a row so when he approached the desk the other night and took a deep breath I pointed my finger at him and said, “NO!” He drew back like I had slapped him and then glared back at me indignantly. "God! I wasn't going to say that! You didn't know what I was going to say!" He then lurked by the side of the desk giving me the stink eye until we closed. I don't know why I just didn't let him say his piece. In these cases I usually just grit my teeth and internally recite, “There but for the grace of God” but there is something unseemly about his little speech, as if he’s a flasher, showing me something nasty from his brain and getting off on it. I get the feeling that he enjoys the shock value and the look of revulsion his words cause.

I must be suffering from a case of compassion fatigue. Since the city uses as (unofficially, expediently, cynically) as its mental institution/homeless shelter we get so many lost, mentally ill people in libraries. Often we become the only ones who will listen to them. Usually I just let them run their script and smile and nod, but I just wasn't in the mood to hear his gross delusion for the fifth night in a row.

How cruel to have your mind turn on you like that, what a special walking hell it must be. The brain is such delicate, daedal piece of machinery. It seems so tragically easy for something to go haywire, and once it does your entire personality, who you are - your soul, your essence - can be altered into this grotesque caricature of yourself.

I read a heart wrenching, devastatingly honest piece in Harper’s a few years ago about a woman who chronicles her mother’s descent into Alzheimer’s, the most perversely cruel disease that exists. She described how, before the disease, the sound of her mother calling her name used to be the sweetest sound in the world. After her mother got sick she would follow the author around the house repeating it until she couldn’t stand the sound anymore, until it made her want to tear out her hair in rage and frustration. “This person looked like my mother, sounded like my mother, but she was becoming everything that had been anathema to her: intrusive, complaining.”

She expanded the piece into a book called Death in Slow Motion which I will never, ever have the guts to read.

The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

In my public internet class the other day I demonstrated the power of using quotations in a search by having my pupils type "the woods are lovely, dark and deep" in their Google search fields.

"Does anybody recognize this phrase?" I asked.

"Yeah! They said it in that Chuck Bronson movie!!!” an elderly African American man from Georgia sitting on the front row shouted.

“Actually, it’s from the poem by Robert Fro - YOU'RE RIGHT! Telefon! About all of the sleeper cells!”

I hadn't thought of that Chuck Bronson classic of Cold War paranoia in years. In the move, these seemingly all-American ordinary citizens, going about their day, making a pancake breakfast for their kids, for exacmple, receive a phone call.“The woods are lovely, dark and deep” a silkily but sinister voice (Donald Pleasance) on the other end of the line tells them.

Then their eyes glaze over and they stumble out to their car to go blow up the local military installation and themselves along with it.

This brainwashing idea has been spoofed many times, most memorably in the Naked Gun. Here's a great New Yorker article on brainwashing and popular culture.

Their characters lived in a world gone wrong, a world in which, long before the atom bomb, civilization had created the machinery for its own destruction and was learning to use it with all the moronic delight of a gangster trying out his first machine-gun.
Raymond Chandler

Times may be scary now, but I still think it was much more terrifying growing up with the threat of global nuclear annihilation. It didn’t help that a high school teacher of mine, one of those types that goes into teaching to push their little agendas on impressionable minds, had me convinced that nuclear war was imminent. He assigned all of this material to scare the hell out of us and supply us with a lifetime of radioactive nightmares. We were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. I remember wishing, rather selfishly now that I think of it, that the Reds would drop the bomb and just get it over with so I wouldn’t have to write my gigantic final term paper that I had procrastinated even getting started (typically) until the night before it was due.

Mr. Harmon's reading list to scare the shit out of young ladies:

A Canticle for Leibowitz
You think you’re reading a charming little story about a Medieval monastery full of manuscript illuminators until it dawns on you that this is actually the post apocalyptic future, the 26th century to be exact, and the manuscripts the monks are illuminating are bomb blueprints that survived “The Great Burning.” (You can guess what that was).

By the Waters of Babylon
Short story of a young aboriginal tribesman on a vision quest who travels to a mysterious and perilous place called the Island of the Dead. I wonder if this is story is where Miller, the author of Leibowitz, got the idea.

Alas, Babylon
Survivors in a small Florida town deal with the aftermath of nuclear holocaust.

On the Beach
Australians survived the initial blast, but they soon realize that they're doomed by a radiactive cloud headed straight for them. The book revolves around how the characters spend their last time on earth before they take their government supplied cyanide pills.

How are we humans ever going to get past our death drive? Even that Frost poem, when you get down to it, is a hypnotic love poem to death. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, for sure. As the Abbot Dom Zerchi so poignantly asks in A Canticle for Leibowitz, "Listen, are we helpless? Are we doomed to do it again and again and again? Have we no choice but to play the Phoenix, in an unending sequence of rise and fall? Assyria, Babylon, Egypt, Greece, Carthage, Rome, the Empires of Charlemagne and the Turk. Ground to dust and plowed with salt. Spain, France, Britain, America—burned into the oblivion of the centuries. And again and again and again."

The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

In my public internet class the other day I demonstrated the power of using quotations in a search by having my pupils type "the woods are lovely, dark and deep" in their Google search fields.

"Does anybody recognize this phrase?" I asked.

"Yeah! They said it in that Chuck Bronson movie!!!” an elderly African American man from Georgia sitting on the front row shouted.

“Actually, it’s from the poem by Robert Fro - YOU'RE RIGHT! Telefon! About all of the sleeper cells!”

I hadn't thought of that Chuck Bronson classic of Cold War paranoia in years. In the move, these seemingly all-American ordinary citizens, going about their day, making a pancake breakfast for their kids, for exacmple, receive a phone call.“The woods are lovely, dark and deep” a silkily but sinister voice (Donald Pleasance) on the other end of the line tells them.

Then their eyes glaze over and they stumble out to their car to go blow up the local military installation and themselves along with it.

This brainwashing idea has been spoofed many times, most memorably in the Naked Gun. Here's a great New Yorker article on brainwashing and popular culture.

Their characters lived in a world gone wrong, a world in which, long before the atom bomb, civilization had created the machinery for its own destruction and was learning to use it with all the moronic delight of a gangster trying out his first machine-gun.
Raymond Chandler

Times may be scary now, but I still think it was much more terrifying growing up with the threat of global nuclear annihilation. It didn’t help that a high school teacher of mine, one of those types that goes into teaching to push their little agendas on impressionable minds, had me convinced that nuclear war was imminent. He assigned all of this material to scare the hell out of us and supply us with a lifetime of radioactive nightmares. We were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. I remember wishing, rather selfishly now that I think of it, that the Reds would drop the bomb and just get it over with so I wouldn’t have to write my gigantic final term paper that I had procrastinated even getting started (typically) until the night before it was due.

Mr. Harmon's reading list to scare the shit out of young ladies:

A Canticle for Leibowitz
You think you’re reading a charming little story about a Medieval monastery full of manuscript illuminators until it dawns on you that this is actually the post apocalyptic future, the 26th century to be exact, and the manuscripts the monks are illuminating are bomb blueprints that survived “The Great Burning.” (You can guess what that was).

By the Waters of Babylon
Short story of a young aboriginal tribesman on a vision quest who travels to a mysterious and perilous place called the Island of the Dead. I wonder if this is story is where Miller, the author of Leibowitz, got the idea.

Alas, Babylon
Survivors in a small Florida town deal with the aftermath of nuclear holocaust.

On the Beach
Australians survived the initial blast, but they soon realize that they're doomed by a radiactive cloud headed straight for them. The book revolves around how the characters spend their last time on earth before they take their government supplied cyanide pills.

How are we humans ever going to get past our death drive? Even that Frost poem, when you get down to it, is a hypnotic love poem to death. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, for sure. As the Abbot Dom Zerchi so poignantly asks in A Canticle for Leibowitz, "Listen, are we helpless? Are we doomed to do it again and again and again? Have we no choice but to play the Phoenix, in an unending sequence of rise and fall? Assyria, Babylon, Egypt, Greece, Carthage, Rome, the Empires of Charlemagne and the Turk. Ground to dust and plowed with salt. Spain, France, Britain, America—burned into the oblivion of the centuries. And again and again and again."

And who shall I say is calling?

I think my iPod's fucking with me. I’ve been experiencing a lot of eerie synchronicity with the music on my Ipod and the world outside. The other day I was listening to the song Southside on my way to Krav Maga. When I arrived at the studio, the instructor was blasting Southside on the sound system at almost the exact point of my iPod. While I was walking home after class a sign in my neighborhood's bookstore caught my eye. The sign was informing customers about the memorial services of one of the employees who had died unexpectedly. Leonard Cohen's Who by Fire was playing on my iPod at that moment, a morbidly appropriate sound track for the moment. Thank God I don’t smoke (a lot) of meth or have schizophrenia and am not obsessively trying to draw meaning about the significance of these odd coincidences.

Who by Fire is such a searingly, hauntingly beautiful song, an exquisite memento mori. It sounds like an eerie incantation, a prayer, a dark but beautiful lullaby. Cohen modeled it on the Unetaneh-Tokef, liturgy recited on the Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,
And on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
How many shall pass away and how many shall be born,
Who shall live and who shall die,
Who shall reach the end of his days and who shall not,
Who shall perish by water and who by fire,
Who by sword and who by wild beast,
Who by famine and who by thirst,
Who by earthquake and who by plague,
Who by strangulation and who by stoning...

I can just see the members of the congregation chanting the prayer while looking askance at those around them, imagining and pondering everyone's, including their own, fates.

Cohen's lyrics:

And who by fire, who by water,
who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
who in your merry merry month of may,
who by very slow decay,
and who shall I say is calling?

And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
and who by avalanche, who by powder,
who for his greed, who for his hunger,
and who shall I say is calling?

And who by brave assent, who by accident,
who in solitude, who in this mirror,
who by his lady's command, who by his own hand,
who in mortal chains, who in power,
and who shall I say is calling?

One of my favorite songs of all time is Cohen's exquisitely depressing Bird on a Wire, which contains some of the what must be the most haunting lyrics ever written:

Like a baby stillborn, or a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out to me

As depressing as the song may be, it also contains some excellent advice.

I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, you must not ask for so much.
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, hey, why not ask for more?

Hey indeed, why not ask for more? Why listen to the beggar?

Youtube.com is lousy with Cohen performances. Here is a good one of Who by Fire with a violin solo that will tear your heart out. In fact, if you feel like wallowing in melancholia a good rainy day activity is watching all of the different performances and covers of Cohen's music. (Warning: may cause clinical depression.)

I especially enjoy Rufus Wainwright's campy, Shirley Bassey-esque version of Everybody Knows.

And who shall I say is calling?

I think my iPod's fucking with me. I’ve been experiencing a lot of eerie synchronicity with the music on my Ipod and the world outside. The other day I was listening to the song Southside on my way to Krav Maga. When I arrived at the studio, the instructor was blasting Southside on the sound system at almost the exact point of my iPod. While I was walking home after class a sign in my neighborhood's bookstore caught my eye. The sign was informing customers about the memorial services of one of the employees who had died unexpectedly. Leonard Cohen's Who by Fire was playing on my iPod at that moment, a morbidly appropriate sound track for the moment. Thank God I don’t smoke (a lot) of meth or have schizophrenia and am not obsessively trying to draw meaning about the significance of these odd coincidences.

Who by Fire is such a searingly, hauntingly beautiful song, an exquisite memento mori. It sounds like an eerie incantation, a prayer, a dark but beautiful lullaby. Cohen modeled it on the Unetaneh-Tokef, liturgy recited on the Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,
And on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
How many shall pass away and how many shall be born,
Who shall live and who shall die,
Who shall reach the end of his days and who shall not,
Who shall perish by water and who by fire,
Who by sword and who by wild beast,
Who by famine and who by thirst,
Who by earthquake and who by plague,
Who by strangulation and who by stoning...

I can just see the members of the congregation chanting the prayer while looking askance at those around them, imagining and pondering everyone's, including their own, fates.

Cohen's lyrics:

And who by fire, who by water,
who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
who in your merry merry month of may,
who by very slow decay,
and who shall I say is calling?

And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
and who by avalanche, who by powder,
who for his greed, who for his hunger,
and who shall I say is calling?

And who by brave assent, who by accident,
who in solitude, who in this mirror,
who by his lady's command, who by his own hand,
who in mortal chains, who in power,
and who shall I say is calling?

One of my favorite songs of all time is Cohen's exquisitely depressing Bird on a Wire, which contains some of the what must be the most haunting lyrics ever written:

Like a baby stillborn, or a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out to me

As depressing as the song may be, it also contains some excellent advice.

I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, you must not ask for so much.
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, hey, why not ask for more?

Hey indeed, why not ask for more? Why listen to the beggar?

Youtube.com is lousy with Cohen performances. Here is a good one of Who by Fire with a violin solo that will tear your heart out. In fact, if you feel like wallowing in melancholia a good rainy day activity is watching all of the different performances and covers of Cohen's music. (Warning: may cause clinical depression.)

I especially enjoy Rufus Wainwright's campy, Shirley Bassey-esque version of Everybody Knows.

Miss Lonelyhearts

I apologize for the lack of updates but I have been handling the bulk of the email and IM reference and it’s been much more physically and emotionally draining than I could have ever anticipated. This electronic reference seems to reach a whole new…class of patrons and sometimes the magnitude of their problems, desperation and witlessness fills with me with this sort of despairing wonder. They're just so lost. I’m certainly not going to let their questions get to me until they destroy me like Nathanael West's Miss Lonelyhearts, but they certainly have sapped my vitality and creative energy while I’ve been shoring up and fortifying my boundaries.

Anyway, here are some choice samples. Details have been changed to protect the patron, and I have also have made an attempt to clean up the spelling and grammar for your sanity as well as mine.

Patron:
Patron: : i got this girl pregnant and today her other baby's daddy gets out of jail and is just crazy. If he beat her up so she lost the baby would I be able to press charges? Even if she didn’t want to? Like if he kicked her or threw her down the stairs or something?

These two just seemed like shit-smeared pungi stick lined traps set by extremists. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole and instead directed them to Planned Parenthood.

Patron: i live in XXXXX county people tell me an abortion can be done within 3 months, others say up to 5 months. i need to find a place that will do abortion at 7 months

Patron: My daughter is 16 and I want her to have an abortion but she won’t. Can I force her?

Medical Emergencies:
Patron:Hello. My father-in-law accidentally ate all of our dog’s Heartguard flea and heart worm medication. Is it poisonous? It says keep out of reach of children.

Librarian: GET OFF IM AND CALL POISON CONTROL IMMEDIATELY 1-800-222-1222

The “All in the Family” or “My Bitch ex-wife” category. Oftentimes these are written in ALLCAPS. These are always referred to legal aid.

Patron: CAN A PERSON WITHHOLD VISITATION EVEN THOUGH THEY HAVE A COURT ORDER? THE LAST TIME I TRIED TO PICK UP THE KIDS THEY WOULDN’T LET ME IN FROM THE PORCH. SHE HAS A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST ME BUT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE IS REAL CORRUPT HERE

Patron: How do I enforce visitation when the other party won't open the door even for the sheriff?


Patron: I have been paying child support for 15 years for a child that is not mine never signed birth certifi cate, even though I was married. Is there a law that states if you are not the biological father and can prove it do you still have to pay and can I get refunded.

Patron: A temporary Restraining Order was granted against me. However,a permanent order was not granted. How can I get this erased. My employer requires background checks and I don't want this to come up.

Patron: Can I appeal a judges order to change child custody orders if I feel I was misunderstood and my ex wife lied?

In any case, I used to think the grotesque characters of Flannery O’Connor and Nathanial West were a lot funnier than I do now that I'm dealing with them. But I do have to say that I am still in awe at the brilliance of West naming Miss Lonelyheart’s cynical, tormenting boss, Shrike. Shrike, who sadistically revels in disillusioning and destroying any religious or romantic notions Miss Lonelyhearts may express, shares a name with a carnivorous bird that impales its prey on thorns. The shrike, also known as the butcher bird, uses the thorn as leverage to tear its prey apart as well as handy storage for the little corpse. Mother Nature is one strange bitch.

Miss Lonelyhearts

I apologize for the lack of updates but I have been handling the bulk of the email and IM reference and it’s been much more physically and emotionally draining than I could have ever anticipated. This electronic reference seems to reach a whole new…class of patrons and sometimes the magnitude of their problems, desperation and witlessness fills with me with this sort of despairing wonder. They're just so lost. I’m certainly not going to let their questions get to me until they destroy me like Nathanael West's Miss Lonelyhearts, but they certainly have sapped my vitality and creative energy while I’ve been shoring up and fortifying my boundaries.

Anyway, here are some choice samples. Details have been changed to protect the patron, and I have also have made an attempt to clean up the spelling and grammar for your sanity as well as mine.

Patron:
Patron: : i got this girl pregnant and today her other baby's daddy gets out of jail and is just crazy. If he beat her up so she lost the baby would I be able to press charges? Even if she didn’t want to? Like if he kicked her or threw her down the stairs or something?

These two just seemed like shit-smeared pungi stick lined traps set by extremists. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole and instead directed them to Planned Parenthood.

Patron: i live in XXXXX county people tell me an abortion can be done within 3 months, others say up to 5 months. i need to find a place that will do abortion at 7 months

Patron: My daughter is 16 and I want her to have an abortion but she won’t. Can I force her?

Medical Emergencies:
Patron:Hello. My father-in-law accidentally ate all of our dog’s Heartguard flea and heart worm medication. Is it poisonous? It says keep out of reach of children.

Librarian: GET OFF IM AND CALL POISON CONTROL IMMEDIATELY 1-800-222-1222

The “All in the Family” or “My Bitch ex-wife” category. Oftentimes these are written in ALLCAPS. These are always referred to legal aid.

Patron: CAN A PERSON WITHHOLD VISITATION EVEN THOUGH THEY HAVE A COURT ORDER? THE LAST TIME I TRIED TO PICK UP THE KIDS THEY WOULDN’T LET ME IN FROM THE PORCH. SHE HAS A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST ME BUT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE IS REAL CORRUPT HERE

Patron: How do I enforce visitation when the other party won't open the door even for the sheriff?


Patron: I have been paying child support for 15 years for a child that is not mine never signed birth certifi cate, even though I was married. Is there a law that states if you are not the biological father and can prove it do you still have to pay and can I get refunded.

Patron: A temporary Restraining Order was granted against me. However,a permanent order was not granted. How can I get this erased. My employer requires background checks and I don't want this to come up.

Patron: Can I appeal a judges order to change child custody orders if I feel I was misunderstood and my ex wife lied?

In any case, I used to think the grotesque characters of Flannery O’Connor and Nathanial West were a lot funnier than I do now that I'm dealing with them. But I do have to say that I am still in awe at the brilliance of West naming Miss Lonelyheart’s cynical, tormenting boss, Shrike. Shrike, who sadistically revels in disillusioning and destroying any religious or romantic notions Miss Lonelyhearts may express, shares a name with a carnivorous bird that impales its prey on thorns. The shrike, also known as the butcher bird, uses the thorn as leverage to tear its prey apart as well as handy storage for the little corpse. Mother Nature is one strange bitch.

More Rave Reviews from our Patrons

From a popular on-line review site...

A junkie in the bathroom asked me to help her shoot up as she attempted to simultaneously wrap a slender piece of rubberized hose around her bicep, tugging at it with her teeth and holding a disgustingly dirty needle in the other hand. I'm nice but I ain't that nice...

The crazies will talk to each other out loud here and then bitch about the librarians talking! i was told by someone who witnessed this guy running in to the library holding his butt and headed straight to the bathroom. unfortunately the men's room was closed for cleaning and the guy still holding his butt started to kick and scream at the bathroom door. He had to be escorted out of the library.

More Rave Reviews from our Patrons

From a popular on-line review site...

A junkie in the bathroom asked me to help her shoot up as she attempted to simultaneously wrap a slender piece of rubberized hose around her bicep, tugging at it with her teeth and holding a disgustingly dirty needle in the other hand. I'm nice but I ain't that nice...

The crazies will talk to each other out loud here and then bitch about the librarians talking! i was told by someone who witnessed this guy running in to the library holding his butt and headed straight to the bathroom. unfortunately the men's room was closed for cleaning and the guy still holding his butt started to kick and scream at the bathroom door. He had to be escorted out of the library.

Pearls of God

A patron keeps pestering us about when the library's copy of The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers will be available for circulation. True crime is a popular subject - we can hardly keep Ann Rule books on the shelves - and many patrons, including sweet little old ladies with a twinkle in their eye I have come to recognize as bloodthirsty, are serial killer/sensational murder enthusiasts. This patron’s overweening passion for such a grisly subject, however, gives even the most imperturbable and beyond caring burnt out of us pause. Although I would definitely classify him as misfit loner, he seems to be a nice enough guy (as the neighbors always say), but he smells eye wateringly bad - like carrion, to be exact. Perhaps that's from all the bodies of his victims that he keeps plastered up in his walls “for company.”

Recently, another patron approached the desk wearing filth caked rags he probably hadn’t changed out of since the first Bush administration. He looked like some raving, wild eyed prophet and after we could catch our breathe I said to my colleague, “He smelled like an anchorite!” Oh, the Middle Ages... Supposedly at the height of that unfortunate fad in early Christianity, Europe and the Holy Land were lousy with anchorites and stylites. Reportedly, they stank so wretchedly that people could smell them for miles.

From Sex and Salvation by Margaret Bhatty:
Since sex depends heavily on the chemistry of sex appeal, those anxious for their souls rendered themselves as unattractive as possible. Adornment and finery was of the devil, while bathing was a sin. Anchorites, fleeing temptation by women, lived in the wilderness unwashed for the rest of their lives. St. Abraham, "a man of singular beauty", fled on his wedding night and never washed for the next fifty years. The dirt on his person "reflected the purity of his soul." Body odour was called "the odour of sanctity" and lice, "the pearls of God." Those celibates who couldn't live in the wilderness, climbed to the top of tall columns and were called stylites. Up there they were assured of being free from the contact with women which could put their souls at risk.

Sweet Jesus, the closer I walk with thee! I can’t wait to call security to report a patron flicking “pearls of God” from his body at passersby in the magazines area. For further entertaining reading about some of the gross, fleshly-mortification-and- debasement-as-a-route to holiness notions in early Christianity, please read Holy Feast, Holy Fast. It contains a nauseating yet riveting section about a favorite custom of saint wannabes: sucking the pus out of and plucking and eating the scabs off of lepers. From what I can gather, those saints were quite competitive, always trying to one up each other in the gross out department. One profiled saint, Angelina of Folina, claimed she found the leper pus “as sweet as the communion.” Not to be outdone, Catherine of Siena boasted, "Never in my life have I tasted any food and drink sweeter or more exquisite than this pus." In any case, those girls make that albino with his cilice in The Da Vinci code look like a total pussy.

Pearls of God

A patron keeps pestering us about when the library's copy of The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers will be available for circulation. True crime is a popular subject - we can hardly keep Ann Rule books on the shelves - and many patrons, including sweet little old ladies with a twinkle in their eye I have come to recognize as bloodthirsty, are serial killer/sensational murder enthusiasts. This patron’s overweening passion for such a grisly subject, however, gives even the most imperturbable and beyond caring burnt out of us pause. Although I would definitely classify him as misfit loner, he seems to be a nice enough guy (as the neighbors always say), but he smells eye wateringly bad - like carrion, to be exact. Perhaps that's from all the bodies of his victims that he keeps plastered up in his walls “for company.”

Recently, another patron approached the desk wearing filth caked rags he probably hadn’t changed out of since the first Bush administration. He looked like some raving, wild eyed prophet and after we could catch our breathe I said to my colleague, “He smelled like an anchorite!” Oh, the Middle Ages... Supposedly at the height of that unfortunate fad in early Christianity, Europe and the Holy Land were lousy with anchorites and stylites. Reportedly, they stank so wretchedly that people could smell them for miles.

From Sex and Salvation by Margaret Bhatty:
Since sex depends heavily on the chemistry of sex appeal, those anxious for their souls rendered themselves as unattractive as possible. Adornment and finery was of the devil, while bathing was a sin. Anchorites, fleeing temptation by women, lived in the wilderness unwashed for the rest of their lives. St. Abraham, "a man of singular beauty", fled on his wedding night and never washed for the next fifty years. The dirt on his person "reflected the purity of his soul." Body odour was called "the odour of sanctity" and lice, "the pearls of God." Those celibates who couldn't live in the wilderness, climbed to the top of tall columns and were called stylites. Up there they were assured of being free from the contact with women which could put their souls at risk.

Sweet Jesus, the closer I walk with thee! I can’t wait to call security to report a patron flicking “pearls of God” from his body at passersby in the magazines area. For further entertaining reading about some of the gross, fleshly-mortification-and- debasement-as-a-route to holiness notions in early Christianity, please read Holy Feast, Holy Fast. It contains a nauseating yet riveting section about a favorite custom of saint wannabes: sucking the pus out of and plucking and eating the scabs off of lepers. From what I can gather, those saints were quite competitive, always trying to one up each other in the gross out department. One profiled saint, Angelina of Folina, claimed she found the leper pus “as sweet as the communion.” Not to be outdone, Catherine of Siena boasted, "Never in my life have I tasted any food and drink sweeter or more exquisite than this pus." In any case, those girls make that albino with his cilice in The Da Vinci code look like a total pussy.

IM Reference: Last Refuge of the Shiftless Student

Patron:I need you to tell me what photosynthesis is.

Librarian: From Encarta: Photosynthesis, process by which green plants and certain other organisms use the energy of light to convert carbon dioxide and water into the simple sugar glucose. In so doing, photosynthesis provides the basic energy source for virtually all organisms. An extremely important byproduct of photosynthesis is oxygen, on which most organisms depend.

Patron: But I need it in your own words

Librarian: What grade are you in? Do you want a definition that might be easier to understand? Would you like the definition from World Book, a children’s encyclopedia?

Patron: 7th. Just give it to me in your own words. I need it in your own words

Librarian: Is this for a homework assignment?

Patron: GIVE IT TO ME IN YOUR OWN WORDS

Librarian: Sorry, I provided you with the definition. I’m not going to do your homework assignment for you. Anything else I can help you with?

Patron signed off

IM Reference, last refuge of the profoundly lazy

Patron: I need some facts about President Wilson

Librarian: Here are some quick facts from Encarta:
Lowered tariff rates and established a federal income tax with the Underwood Tariff of 1913.
Established the Federal Reserve System in 1914 to supervise and regulate banks.
Asked Congress to declare war on Germany on April 2, 1917, after many diplomatic attempts to end World War I.
Signed peace treaty with Germany to end World War I in 1919.
Received the 1919 Nobel Peace Prize for efforts to end World War I and to establish the League of Nations.
1902-1910 Served as president of Princeton University.
1911-1913 Served as governor of New Jersey.
1913-1921 President of the United States.
Wilson allowed sheep to graze on the White House lawn during World War I; their wool helped raise money for the Red Cross.
Wilson was the first president to cross the Atlantic Ocean while in office.
Wilson established the practice of holding regular presidential press conferences.

Patron: I just need 5. Pick out the five best facts and give them to me.

Librarian: I gave you five facts. Pick out the ones you want.

Patron: I just want five facts that are the best.

Librarian: I gave you the material. It’s up to you to judge which ones you need. Please don’t ask me to do your homework.

Patron signed off

IM Reference: Last Refuge of the Shiftless Student

Patron:I need you to tell me what photosynthesis is.

Librarian: From Encarta: Photosynthesis, process by which green plants and certain other organisms use the energy of light to convert carbon dioxide and water into the simple sugar glucose. In so doing, photosynthesis provides the basic energy source for virtually all organisms. An extremely important byproduct of photosynthesis is oxygen, on which most organisms depend.

Patron: But I need it in your own words

Librarian: What grade are you in? Do you want a definition that might be easier to understand? Would you like the definition from World Book, a children’s encyclopedia?

Patron: 7th. Just give it to me in your own words. I need it in your own words

Librarian: Is this for a homework assignment?

Patron: GIVE IT TO ME IN YOUR OWN WORDS

Librarian: Sorry, I provided you with the definition. I’m not going to do your homework assignment for you. Anything else I can help you with?

Patron signed off

IM Reference, last refuge of the profoundly lazy

Patron: I need some facts about President Wilson

Librarian: Here are some quick facts from Encarta:
Lowered tariff rates and established a federal income tax with the Underwood Tariff of 1913.
Established the Federal Reserve System in 1914 to supervise and regulate banks.
Asked Congress to declare war on Germany on April 2, 1917, after many diplomatic attempts to end World War I.
Signed peace treaty with Germany to end World War I in 1919.
Received the 1919 Nobel Peace Prize for efforts to end World War I and to establish the League of Nations.
1902-1910 Served as president of Princeton University.
1911-1913 Served as governor of New Jersey.
1913-1921 President of the United States.
Wilson allowed sheep to graze on the White House lawn during World War I; their wool helped raise money for the Red Cross.
Wilson was the first president to cross the Atlantic Ocean while in office.
Wilson established the practice of holding regular presidential press conferences.

Patron: I just need 5. Pick out the five best facts and give them to me.

Librarian: I gave you five facts. Pick out the ones you want.

Patron: I just want five facts that are the best.

Librarian: I gave you the material. It’s up to you to judge which ones you need. Please don’t ask me to do your homework.

Patron signed off

Invaluable Advice from Officer Trudy Wiegel

Addressing a school assembly on safety... Now, girls, I don't care if you wear mini-skirts. I don't care if you wear Dungarees. I don't care if you're good at basketball, I don't care if you're fun to be around. But you can rest assured that every one of you, at some point, is going to be raped. And your doctor will give you some good news. Gold pot at the end of the rainbow, you're pregnant. And you're having triplets.

Trudy's Myspace.
From her blog:
Monday, December 18, 2006
A very dark day
Well, I finally got that potato chip from ebay that I've been bidding on and it's amazing! It REALLY DOES look like you can see Oprah's face in it! There are two little dark spots that look just like her eyes and a rippled part on top that looks like her hair before she got a weave and lost all that weight. The bad news is that I sucked it up in the vaccuum this morning when I was cleaning up some cat vomit. Eleven goddam dollars down the drain. Not to mention the sentimental value. A little piece of my heart got sucked up into that vaccuum this morning:(


More Trudy.

Invaluable Advice from Officer Trudy Wiegel

Addressing a school assembly on safety... Now, girls, I don't care if you wear mini-skirts. I don't care if you wear Dungarees. I don't care if you're good at basketball, I don't care if you're fun to be around. But you can rest assured that every one of you, at some point, is going to be raped. And your doctor will give you some good news. Gold pot at the end of the rainbow, you're pregnant. And you're having triplets.

Trudy's Myspace.
From her blog:
Monday, December 18, 2006
A very dark day
Well, I finally got that potato chip from ebay that I've been bidding on and it's amazing! It REALLY DOES look like you can see Oprah's face in it! There are two little dark spots that look just like her eyes and a rippled part on top that looks like her hair before she got a weave and lost all that weight. The bad news is that I sucked it up in the vaccuum this morning when I was cleaning up some cat vomit. Eleven goddam dollars down the drain. Not to mention the sentimental value. A little piece of my heart got sucked up into that vaccuum this morning:(


More Trudy.

Statcounter Fun

Hello and welcome to my recent visitor from Stillwater, Oklahoma using Chickasaw Telecommunications Services, Inc! I can see from Statcounter that you stumbled across my site using the key words "HUSTLER BEAVER HUNT" but instead of amateur hardcore found my humble, porn free (mostly) blog instead. I do consider it the highest compliment that you stayed for a spell, and even visited some of my archives. In fact, I'll take that as the most glowing endorsement of my site yet.

I feel like Jack Horner, the adult film director from Boogie Nights, whose heart's desire was to produce a porno with such a compelling story that the viewer would sit through the entire movie.

Here's a search tip, though. When surfing for hardcore sites of unairbrushed, home groomed hoo-has be sure to switch off the Google Safe Search option, which I can see you have on. Otherwise all of those pictures of overtweaked, methy punani will continue to elude you.

Statcounter Fun

Hello and welcome to my recent visitor from Stillwater, Oklahoma using Chickasaw Telecommunications Services, Inc! I can see from Statcounter that you stumbled across my site using the key words "HUSTLER BEAVER HUNT" but instead of amateur hardcore found my humble, porn free (mostly) blog instead. I do consider it the highest compliment that you stayed for a spell, and even visited some of my archives. In fact, I'll take that as the most glowing endorsement of my site yet.

I feel like Jack Horner, the adult film director from Boogie Nights, whose heart's desire was to produce a porno with such a compelling story that the viewer would sit through the entire movie.

Here's a search tip, though. When surfing for hardcore sites of unairbrushed, home groomed hoo-has be sure to switch off the Google Safe Search option, which I can see you have on. Otherwise all of those pictures of overtweaked, methy punani will continue to elude you.

The Banality of Evil

“Library information, may I help you?”

“Girl, NO WAY! What a ho!”

“Information, how may I help you?”

“Wait a minute. I’m on a bus. Can you hear me?”

“Just barely.”

“Just wait a minute and the people next to me should quiet down”

More screaming and laughing.

“Perhaps this isn’t a good time. Why don’t you call me back when you’re somewhere I can hear you.”

“NOOO! I need to know if you have the following books and it’s really important!”

“What are they?”

“Introduction to Economics: Principles, Problems and Philosophies, Understanding Psychology, Que Tal, a Basic Introduction to Spanish…

“These are textbooks, aren’t they?”

“Yes.

“I’m going to be honest with you. We usually don’t carry them, especially the most current edition that your teacher will require, but I’ll be happy to go ahead and check the catalog.”

Not surprisingly, we didn’t have any on his long list.

“Couldn’t I get them through interlibrary loan?” he asked in a pouty, put out tone.

“You could try, but know that interlibrary loan books can take 4-6 weeks. Books also have to be over a year old to be eligible for interlibrary loan."

“But all these text books are really expensive and I don’t have any money. What am I supposed to do? Why don’t you check all of the surrounding library systems?”

“I’ve already been on the phone with you for five minutes and I need to take other calls. Those catalogs are on-line and you can check that way or call them yourself. Usually they don’t carry current edition of textbooks either.”

“But they’re too much money!”

“Believe me, I sympathize. Textbooks are a racket. Try getting them used off of Amazon or –"A deafening howl of pain interrupted me.

“OOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!! Why did you close the back door on me?”

Muffled sound, I assume from the bus driver, loud laughter from the other passengers.

“What do you mean, I should have gotten out of bed earlier? That really hurt! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.”

As much as I was enjoying hearing the exchange betwhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifeen the bus driver and my phone patron, I had to end the phone call because I was laughing so hard. I'm helpless against slapstick and pain inflicting pratfalls. The idiot thought he was going to be so clever and get a jump on his classmates by reserving all of his textbooks before his classmates that he was not paying attention to what he was doing and got the back doors on the bus slammed on him. The doors are fairly light so I suspect only his dignity was wounded.

I felt remorse for laughing but hearing a college aged man whine and pule about the cost of his textbooks really stirred the civil service sadist in me. I enjoyed, God help me, bearing the bad news that we simply don’t have what he needs. I’m always careful to watch myself for this sort of behavior, that petty, banal type of evil that seems to flower and flourish under civil service, the kind perfected by fonctionnaires. Many libraries are plagued with battle weary, burnt out monsters, the type who take such delight in crushing the joie de vivre out of little children, the ones whose little mean smile reveal the utter delight they feel when they tell a patron, “No, I cannot extend the time on your book.” Or, “The computer timed out and there is simply no way to retrieve your work. It’s lost FOREVER.”

I don’t know what it is about civil service that seems to produce so many on the job tipplers, hoarders and burnt outs, but please don’t let me become one of them. It must be not having the imminent threat of having your ass shown to the door like in non unionized jobs in the private sector. Maybe the fear of being fired is a good thing. Keeps you nice.

The Banality of Evil

“Library information, may I help you?”

“Girl, NO WAY! What a ho!”

“Information, how may I help you?”

“Wait a minute. I’m on a bus. Can you hear me?”

“Just barely.”

“Just wait a minute and the people next to me should quiet down”

More screaming and laughing.

“Perhaps this isn’t a good time. Why don’t you call me back when you’re somewhere I can hear you.”

“NOOO! I need to know if you have the following books and it’s really important!”

“What are they?”

“Introduction to Economics: Principles, Problems and Philosophies, Understanding Psychology, Que Tal, a Basic Introduction to Spanish…

“These are textbooks, aren’t they?”

“Yes.

“I’m going to be honest with you. We usually don’t carry them, especially the most current edition that your teacher will require, but I’ll be happy to go ahead and check the catalog.”

Not surprisingly, we didn’t have any on his long list.

“Couldn’t I get them through interlibrary loan?” he asked in a pouty, put out tone.

“You could try, but know that interlibrary loan books can take 4-6 weeks. Books also have to be over a year old to be eligible for interlibrary loan."

“But all these text books are really expensive and I don’t have any money. What am I supposed to do? Why don’t you check all of the surrounding library systems?”

“I’ve already been on the phone with you for five minutes and I need to take other calls. Those catalogs are on-line and you can check that way or call them yourself. Usually they don’t carry current edition of textbooks either.”

“But they’re too much money!”

“Believe me, I sympathize. Textbooks are a racket. Try getting them used off of Amazon or –"A deafening howl of pain interrupted me.

“OOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!! Why did you close the back door on me?”

Muffled sound, I assume from the bus driver, loud laughter from the other passengers.

“What do you mean, I should have gotten out of bed earlier? That really hurt! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.”

As much as I was enjoying hearing the exchange betwhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifeen the bus driver and my phone patron, I had to end the phone call because I was laughing so hard. I'm helpless against slapstick and pain inflicting pratfalls. The idiot thought he was going to be so clever and get a jump on his classmates by reserving all of his textbooks before his classmates that he was not paying attention to what he was doing and got the back doors on the bus slammed on him. The doors are fairly light so I suspect only his dignity was wounded.

I felt remorse for laughing but hearing a college aged man whine and pule about the cost of his textbooks really stirred the civil service sadist in me. I enjoyed, God help me, bearing the bad news that we simply don’t have what he needs. I’m always careful to watch myself for this sort of behavior, that petty, banal type of evil that seems to flower and flourish under civil service, the kind perfected by fonctionnaires. Many libraries are plagued with battle weary, burnt out monsters, the type who take such delight in crushing the joie de vivre out of little children, the ones whose little mean smile reveal the utter delight they feel when they tell a patron, “No, I cannot extend the time on your book.” Or, “The computer timed out and there is simply no way to retrieve your work. It’s lost FOREVER.”

I don’t know what it is about civil service that seems to produce so many on the job tipplers, hoarders and burnt outs, but please don’t let me become one of them. It must be not having the imminent threat of having your ass shown to the door like in non unionized jobs in the private sector. Maybe the fear of being fired is a good thing. Keeps you nice.

The Shinning

One of the regular patrons here has a fixation on military history. He also has some sort of mental condition which I have diagnosed as “barking mad.” An older gentleman with duct taped coke bottle glasses and greasy gray hair, he’ll materialize at the desk and hold forth, orating at a volume level like he is addressing the crowds at one of the imperial forums. His favorite topic is the military exploits of Admiral William Halsey and other famous military figures.

(Fun quote from Halsey, spoken to reassure the American people as he surveyed the ruins of Pearl Harbor: “Before we are through with 'em, the Japanese language will only be spoken in hell!”)

Except for startling the Bejesus out of everyone this patron is relatively harmless, and all it takes is one glare from one of the security guards for him to quiet down and slink off. One time I was at the desk musing about one of the many, many funerals I have been to this past death ridden year. This particular funeral was at a beautiful historic cemetery reserved for the descendents of one of the founding families of a small town in East Texas. After the service I explored the headstones with some cousins. One of my cousins, who grew up in the town, commented, “We used to party in here when I was in high school.”

Right after the memory passed through my head, the patron, who was standing about twenty feet away from in the atrium trying to engage some member of the public in a story about Halsey, turned to me and shouted, "I want to party. Party in a graveyard!" He then came up to the desk and asked me for a Yiddish dictionary.

I wonder if that was some sort of coincidence or if I had shared some eerie psychic connection with the patron. Perhaps the insane can pick up on the mental static of those around him. In any case, psychi ability does run in my family. Family lore has it that my great-great Aunt Elizabeth had the gift. She told my grandmother that when she was a little girl she thought everyone had it, but when people reacted strangely to her she actively ignored it until it almost went away. She would still get occasional flashes, but I guess it’s one of those things that if you don’t use it, you lose it. She must have retained some sort of numinous presence because my grandmother remembered people stopping her on the street and asking her if she had the gift. When this happened one time on a train she said to the woman, “Why do you ask?” The woman said, “I can tell from your aura.”

My grandmother said that the only time she felt a spark of precognition was when she visited a relative’s house. She saw some furniture and said to herself, “That furniture is going to be recovered in light green leather.” Sure enough, the next time she paid a call there was the furniture, exactly how she had envisioned it in her mind’s eye. My grandmother, a highly pragmatic woman, was highly disappointed that she never had a premonition of anything useful, like the direction of the market, so she never tried to develop the ability.

The Shinning.

The Shinning

One of the regular patrons here has a fixation on military history. He also has some sort of mental condition which I have diagnosed as “barking mad.” An older gentleman with duct taped coke bottle glasses and greasy gray hair, he’ll materialize at the desk and hold forth, orating at a volume level like he is addressing the crowds at one of the imperial forums. His favorite topic is the military exploits of Admiral William Halsey and other famous military figures.

(Fun quote from Halsey, spoken to reassure the American people as he surveyed the ruins of Pearl Harbor: “Before we are through with 'em, the Japanese language will only be spoken in hell!”)

Except for startling the Bejesus out of everyone this patron is relatively harmless, and all it takes is one glare from one of the security guards for him to quiet down and slink off. One time I was at the desk musing about one of the many, many funerals I have been to this past death ridden year. This particular funeral was at a beautiful historic cemetery reserved for the descendents of one of the founding families of a small town in East Texas. After the service I explored the headstones with some cousins. One of my cousins, who grew up in the town, commented, “We used to party in here when I was in high school.”

Right after the memory passed through my head, the patron, who was standing about twenty feet away from in the atrium trying to engage some member of the public in a story about Halsey, turned to me and shouted, "I want to party. Party in a graveyard!" He then came up to the desk and asked me for a Yiddish dictionary.

I wonder if that was some sort of coincidence or if I had shared some eerie psychic connection with the patron. Perhaps the insane can pick up on the mental static of those around him. In any case, psychi ability does run in my family. Family lore has it that my great-great Aunt Elizabeth had the gift. She told my grandmother that when she was a little girl she thought everyone had it, but when people reacted strangely to her she actively ignored it until it almost went away. She would still get occasional flashes, but I guess it’s one of those things that if you don’t use it, you lose it. She must have retained some sort of numinous presence because my grandmother remembered people stopping her on the street and asking her if she had the gift. When this happened one time on a train she said to the woman, “Why do you ask?” The woman said, “I can tell from your aura.”

My grandmother said that the only time she felt a spark of precognition was when she visited a relative’s house. She saw some furniture and said to herself, “That furniture is going to be recovered in light green leather.” Sure enough, the next time she paid a call there was the furniture, exactly how she had envisioned it in her mind’s eye. My grandmother, a highly pragmatic woman, was highly disappointed that she never had a premonition of anything useful, like the direction of the market, so she never tried to develop the ability.

The Shinning.

Namaste, Motherfucka!

After a crapulent last few months I'm on a regimen of Krav Maga and Bikram yoga. The different philosophies of these two forms are making me feel like I have a split personality, though, because when I'm at Krav Maga punching or kicking the bag or extricating myself from a stranglehold it's all, "Die, motherfucker, die!!!" and when I'm at yoga it's all about serenity, peace, acceptance and attaining one with the Divine.

If anything, I hope that my yoga practice will mitigate some of the effects of Krav Maga and that I'll reach the beautiful equilibrium of the peaceful warrior. I've noticed that my daydreams have become a lot more violent since I started back on Krav Maga and I'm not sure if it's such a good thing to have physical violence in my repertoire of responses. Not that I would ever go around spoiling for a fight - Krav Maga, or at least what I'm learning at my level, is all about defense - smashing a groin or gouging an eye and then beating a hasty (cowardly) retreat.

And at least I'll have a fighting chance when the zombies come. World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War is the most exhilarating thing I've read in years. Combining two special interests of mine, zombies and Studs Turkel style oral histories, it contains riveting accounts of how ordinary people from all over the world- a soccer mom, a Japanese computer hacker, a Lesotho township shanty town dweller, an Air Force pilot forced to parachute in the Atchafalaya swamp teeming with the hungry, living dead - all survived a zombie war in the near future. Highly recommended.

Namaste, Motherfucka!

After a crapulent last few months I'm on a regimen of Krav Maga and Bikram yoga. The different philosophies of these two forms are making me feel like I have a split personality, though, because when I'm at Krav Maga punching or kicking the bag or extricating myself from a stranglehold it's all, "Die, motherfucker, die!!!" and when I'm at yoga it's all about serenity, peace, acceptance and attaining one with the Divine.

If anything, I hope that my yoga practice will mitigate some of the effects of Krav Maga and that I'll reach the beautiful equilibrium of the peaceful warrior. I've noticed that my daydreams have become a lot more violent since I started back on Krav Maga and I'm not sure if it's such a good thing to have physical violence in my repertoire of responses. Not that I would ever go around spoiling for a fight - Krav Maga, or at least what I'm learning at my level, is all about defense - smashing a groin or gouging an eye and then beating a hasty (cowardly) retreat.

And at least I'll have a fighting chance when the zombies come. World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War is the most exhilarating thing I've read in years. Combining two special interests of mine, zombies and Studs Turkel style oral histories, it contains riveting accounts of how ordinary people from all over the world- a soccer mom, a Japanese computer hacker, a Lesotho township shanty town dweller, an Air Force pilot forced to parachute in the Atchafalaya swamp teeming with the hungry, living dead - all survived a zombie war in the near future. Highly recommended.

Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment*

*Just a moment, executioner, just a small moment...

Recently I watched Marie Antoinette, Sophia Coppola’s entertaining confectionery of a movie, and have since been reading up on the fates of all of the principles. I knew it ended badly for most of them, but because Ms Coppola stops the movie before the trials, guillotines and raving mobs I wanted to brush up on the details. Wikipedia has excellent entries on all of the characters, full of the fascinating, gossipy tittle tattle that makes reading about their lives so interesting. (In the entry for Marie Antoinette's mother, Maria Theresa of Austria, it reports how she got to marry for love, an unusual occurence for someone of her time and station. It was a fruitful and joyful union, so passionate that the newlyweds reportedly broke a bed on their honeymoon and eventually produced 16 children.)

Although I believe she got a bad rap, Marie Antoinette certainly was spoiled, frivolous and dangerously oblivious.

Fulfilling Marie Antoinette's determination to avoid boredom, conversation in her circle shied away from the mundane or intellectual. According to Madame Campan, one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, "The newest songs from the Comédie, the most timely joke or pun or quip, the bon mot of the day, the latest and choicest tidbit of scandal or gossip – these comprised the sole topics of conversation in the intimate group about the queen; discussion on a serious plane was banished from her court.

She was a loving mother, however, and her maternal devotion softened my feelings toward her. While one son succumbed to spinal tuberculosis, an agonizing death that took months, she never left his side. When another daughter died in infancy she keened and mourned over the body for hours until the body finally had to be taken from her.

But getting to the good part, here is how she faced her own death:

As she was being led to the scaffold, the priest who had accompanied her whispered, "This is the moment, Madame, to arm yourself with courage." Marie Antoinette turned to look at him and smiled, "Courage? The moment when my troubles are going to end is not the moment when my courage is going to fail me." Legend states that her last words were, "Monsieur, I ask your pardon. I did not do it on purpose," spoken after she had accidentally stepped on the executioner's foot.


Madame Du Barry, the low born courtesan and favorite of Marie’ Antoinette’s father in law, King Louis XV, was not so stoic. She initially had escaped to London, but foolishly and against all advice kept returning to Paris to recover jewels she had cached away. Eventually, she was betrayed, seized and charged with conspiracy.
From the Memoirs of Madame Vigée Lebrun, the famous and exquisitely talented royal portraitist.

Madame Du Barry ... is the only woman, among all the women who perished in the dreadful days, who could not stand the sight of the scaffold. She screamed, she begged mercy of the horrible crowd that stood around the scaffold, she aroused them to such a point that the executioner grew anxious and hastened to complete his task.

Reportedly her final words, spoken to the executioner, were "Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment" (Just a moment, executioner, a small moment.) I find this unbearably poignant, because isn’t that what we all want?

Vigee Lebrun continues:
“This convinced me that if the victims of these terrible times had not been so proud, had not met death with such courage, the Terror would have ended much earlier. Men of limited intelligence lack the imagination to be touched by inner suffering, and the populace is more easily stirred by pity than by admiration."

I wonder if this is true, if the not the French nobility had not faced death with such dignity and stoicism, had they not been so determined not to give the rabble the satisfaction, if this would have ended the Terror sooner.

The most chilling and stoic example of a royal facing execution was Catherine Howard, 5th wife of Henry the VII, the second ‘beheaded’ in the mnemonic of Henry's wives: Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced Beheaded, Survived.

From Execution: The Guillotine, the Pendulum, the Thousand Cuts, the Spanish Donkey, and 66 Other Ways to Put Someone to Death

The night preceding her execution the queen, determined not to exhibit any feminine weakness on the scaffold, 'asked that the block might be brought to her room and, this having been done and the executioner fetched, to the amazement of her attendants she knelt and laid her head in the horrible hollow, declaring as she rose to her feet that she could now go through the ordeal with grace and propriety'.

Which she did.

Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment*

*Just a moment, executioner, just a small moment...

Recently I watched Marie Antoinette, Sophia Coppola’s entertaining confectionery of a movie, and have since been reading up on the fates of all of the principles. I knew it ended badly for most of them, but because Ms Coppola stops the movie before the trials, guillotines and raving mobs I wanted to brush up on the details. Wikipedia has excellent entries on all of the characters, full of the fascinating, gossipy tittle tattle that makes reading about their lives so interesting. (In the entry for Marie Antoinette's mother, Maria Theresa of Austria, it reports how she got to marry for love, an unusual occurence for someone of her time and station. It was a fruitful and joyful union, so passionate that the newlyweds reportedly broke a bed on their honeymoon and eventually produced 16 children.)

Although I believe she got a bad rap, Marie Antoinette certainly was spoiled, frivolous and dangerously oblivious.

Fulfilling Marie Antoinette's determination to avoid boredom, conversation in her circle shied away from the mundane or intellectual. According to Madame Campan, one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, "The newest songs from the Comédie, the most timely joke or pun or quip, the bon mot of the day, the latest and choicest tidbit of scandal or gossip – these comprised the sole topics of conversation in the intimate group about the queen; discussion on a serious plane was banished from her court.

She was a loving mother, however, and her maternal devotion softened my feelings toward her. While one son succumbed to spinal tuberculosis, an agonizing death that took months, she never left his side. When another daughter died in infancy she keened and mourned over the body for hours until the body finally had to be taken from her.

But getting to the good part, here is how she faced her own death:

As she was being led to the scaffold, the priest who had accompanied her whispered, "This is the moment, Madame, to arm yourself with courage." Marie Antoinette turned to look at him and smiled, "Courage? The moment when my troubles are going to end is not the moment when my courage is going to fail me." Legend states that her last words were, "Monsieur, I ask your pardon. I did not do it on purpose," spoken after she had accidentally stepped on the executioner's foot.


Madame Du Barry, the low born courtesan and favorite of Marie’ Antoinette’s father in law, King Louis XV, was not so stoic. She initially had escaped to London, but foolishly and against all advice kept returning to Paris to recover jewels she had cached away. Eventually, she was betrayed, seized and charged with conspiracy.
From the Memoirs of Madame Vigée Lebrun, the famous and exquisitely talented royal portraitist.

Madame Du Barry ... is the only woman, among all the women who perished in the dreadful days, who could not stand the sight of the scaffold. She screamed, she begged mercy of the horrible crowd that stood around the scaffold, she aroused them to such a point that the executioner grew anxious and hastened to complete his task.

Reportedly her final words, spoken to the executioner, were "Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment" (Just a moment, executioner, a small moment.) I find this unbearably poignant, because isn’t that what we all want?

Vigee Lebrun continues:
“This convinced me that if the victims of these terrible times had not been so proud, had not met death with such courage, the Terror would have ended much earlier. Men of limited intelligence lack the imagination to be touched by inner suffering, and the populace is more easily stirred by pity than by admiration."

I wonder if this is true, if the not the French nobility had not faced death with such dignity and stoicism, had they not been so determined not to give the rabble the satisfaction, if this would have ended the Terror sooner.

The most chilling and stoic example of a royal facing execution was Catherine Howard, 5th wife of Henry the VII, the second ‘beheaded’ in the mnemonic of Henry's wives: Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced Beheaded, Survived.

From Execution: The Guillotine, the Pendulum, the Thousand Cuts, the Spanish Donkey, and 66 Other Ways to Put Someone to Death

The night preceding her execution the queen, determined not to exhibit any feminine weakness on the scaffold, 'asked that the block might be brought to her room and, this having been done and the executioner fetched, to the amazement of her attendants she knelt and laid her head in the horrible hollow, declaring as she rose to her feet that she could now go through the ordeal with grace and propriety'.

Which she did.