Mipanko (you know, like the candy treat?), Don't be a Hero

I sat outside and shared my lunch with an aggressive, greasy little black bird today. I guess the animal kingdom can smell ‘soft touch pushover’ like they can supposedly smell fear. The bird reminded me so much of Billy that when he cocked his head at me I expected him to emit the same impatient yip Billy gives me when I’m don’t share my food fast enough for his liking. One time when E was eating a bowl of ice cream the dogs gathered around and stared at me expectantly. When Spoon trilled at me, it dawned on me that they were begging me for E’s ice cream, even though E was sitting across the room. I have never seen animals beg by proxy before. Cesar Millan would have a lot of say about how our household is run.

While I sat outside with the bird I spent a lot of time watching the band of homeless who gather outside the library like villagers huddled outside the castle walls. For the most part, they seem to be having a damn good time. They’re convivial and raucous and wile away their day smoking cigarettes, panhandling, shooting up, making out, squabbling and napping by their shopping carts. They watch each others things while they go into the library to use the bathrooms and surf the internet. Toward the afternoon they’ll get a touch football game going.

On a recent weekend they were displaced from their spot by an ethnic fair, and spent their time disgruntled and muttering outside the temporary cyclone fence gates. The ethnic fair was strange. The booths seemed primarily to be sponsored by Safeway and military recruitment. The recruitment booths had all of these soldiers of the fair’s ethnicity milling about, looking dashing and heroic, as lures. Because I like an environment I certainly don’t favor uncontrolled immigration but for all of you immigrant haters out there you should know that these boys are the first ones to enlist and inquire at the reference desk about ASVAB preparation books. They’re so heartbreakingly eager to prove their patriotism.

During the fair one of the women in the band of homeless had a seizure, and her confused friends tried to perform CPR on her. Although their intentions were good, they were completely unhelpful, and the Samaritans were screamed at for their trouble by the EMT when they arrived.

Mipanko (you know, like the candy treat?), Don't be a Hero

I sat outside and shared my lunch with an aggressive, greasy little black bird today. I guess the animal kingdom can smell ‘soft touch pushover’ like they can supposedly smell fear. The bird reminded me so much of Billy that when he cocked his head at me I expected him to emit the same impatient yip Billy gives me when I’m don’t share my food fast enough for his liking. One time when E was eating a bowl of ice cream the dogs gathered around and stared at me expectantly. When Spoon trilled at me, it dawned on me that they were begging me for E’s ice cream, even though E was sitting across the room. I have never seen animals beg by proxy before. Cesar Millan would have a lot of say about how our household is run.

While I sat outside with the bird I spent a lot of time watching the band of homeless who gather outside the library like villagers huddled outside the castle walls. For the most part, they seem to be having a damn good time. They’re convivial and raucous and wile away their day smoking cigarettes, panhandling, shooting up, making out, squabbling and napping by their shopping carts. They watch each others things while they go into the library to use the bathrooms and surf the internet. Toward the afternoon they’ll get a touch football game going.

On a recent weekend they were displaced from their spot by an ethnic fair, and spent their time disgruntled and muttering outside the temporary cyclone fence gates. The ethnic fair was strange. The booths seemed primarily to be sponsored by Safeway and military recruitment. The recruitment booths had all of these soldiers of the fair’s ethnicity milling about, looking dashing and heroic, as lures. Because I like an environment I certainly don’t favor uncontrolled immigration but for all of you immigrant haters out there you should know that these boys are the first ones to enlist and inquire at the reference desk about ASVAB preparation books. They’re so heartbreakingly eager to prove their patriotism.

During the fair one of the women in the band of homeless had a seizure, and her confused friends tried to perform CPR on her. Although their intentions were good, they were completely unhelpful, and the Samaritans were screamed at for their trouble by the EMT when they arrived.

Feeling so Mean I Could Shoot a Man Just for Snoring

We’re finally going to install living room curtains so our neighbors in the apartment building across the street can’t stare into our exciting lives Rear Window style like we do into theirs. I was sitting with my legs crossed Indian style in the library stacks, rooting through a pile of decorating books for inspiration when an older man attracted my attention. He was sitting at a carrel about 10 feet away from my spot, sucking on his dentures as he gazed contemplatively out the window. He was making this horrible, wet smack in slow, maddeningly predictable intervals, like a smoke detector or Chinese Water Torture. While I was giving him the stink eye a teenage girl joined me in the aisle and began sniffling incessantly. As they battled for aural supremacy around me I wondered why some times I'm astoundingly oblivious to noise and the goings-on about me, while other times I unwillingly hone in on random ambient sounds with the laser beam focus of an autistic. The situation made me greatly sympathize with John Wesley Hardin, the Texas outlaw immortalized in those old Time Life commercials as “so mean he once shot a man once just for snoring.”

I know that we all do things to irritate each other, so I shouldn’t judge. In a memorable scene in I, Claudius, Caligula scolds his nephew for his constant coughing. His nephew insolently replies that he can’t help it - he’s sick. His coughing continues, infuriating Caligula. The next day or so Claudius greets Caligula in a hallway and asks where his nephew is. Caligula casually mentions that he has found a cure for his nephew’s cough. He snaps his fingers and a guard brings out the nephew’s head.

That’s what inbreeding? lead pipes? absolute power? meningitis? life long paranoia? will do to you. Actually, the paranoia was well deserved. Caligula's father died under suspicious circumstances, his mother was exiled and starved herself to death, another brother was thrown into a dungeon and resorted to eating the stuffing from his mattress before starving to death, etc.

And by the way, if you ever want to see England’s finest Shakespearean actors torture, murder, participate in orgies and engage in all sorts of other intrigue, decadence and vice, then watch the amazing BBC miniseries I, Claudius.

Robert Graves, the author of the books upon which the series is based, relied heavily on Suetonius’s 12 Caesars. Seutonius definitely had a political axe to grind, so I’m hoping he fabricated or at least exaggerated the cruelity, depravity and perversions of Imperial Rome. Although I was raised Episcopalian, I’ve never grasped the appeal of Christianity (I consider myself more of an ethnic Episcopalian than practicing Episcopalian) but I can see how it was an understandable reaction to the behavior going on at the time, if it truly was that bad. When I toured the catacombs of Rome, favorite hiding and gathering places of early Christians, I envisioned the Christians as termites drilling and eating out the city's foundation. Down in the dank catacombs, E pretended to be the Orkin Man. "Yeah, Emperor. You've got quite an infestation here. This is going to cost ya'."

In I, Claudius, Caligula’s antics include:

• Marrying his sister, impregnating her, cutting out their fetus (Wow - a caesarian from a Caesarian) and eating it because he believed he, as the incarnation of Cronus, should.

• Auctioning off the wives of high ranking Senate members during orgies.

• Appointing his horse Incitatus senator

• Diverting troops from the poorly guarded Northern territories to engage in a mock battle against the Neptune, and ordering them to gather up the shells on the seashore as spoils of war.

• Torturing slaves and executing political enemies, always in plentiful supply due to continuous purges, as his dinner entertainment.

As horribly as the Romans behaved, some sure knew how to die with admirable dignity. When traitorous Praetorian guards pull out their swords to assassinate Caligula's wife, Caesonia, she sneers at them as if they are incompetent serving girls. “Don't make a mess of it," she commands them.

Fun fact: Tony Soprano’s mother is named Livia, a tip of the hat to Claudius’ scheming, vicious grandmother in I, Claudius.

If I, Claudius isn't louche and hard core enough for you, then there's always Bob Guccione's Caligula, which is also lousy with fine British actors, including one of my favorites, Helen Mirren, who plays Caesonia. No matter what role is I see her in I always think of Caligula's sister's aghast reaction when Caligula informs her that he wants to marry Caesonia. "Caesonia? But she's the most promiscuous woman in Rome!"

Feeling so Mean I Could Shoot a Man Just for Snoring

We’re finally going to install living room curtains so our neighbors in the apartment building across the street can’t stare into our exciting lives Rear Window style like we do into theirs. I was sitting with my legs crossed Indian style in the library stacks, rooting through a pile of decorating books for inspiration when an older man attracted my attention. He was sitting at a carrel about 10 feet away from my spot, sucking on his dentures as he gazed contemplatively out the window. He was making this horrible, wet smack in slow, maddeningly predictable intervals, like a smoke detector or Chinese Water Torture. While I was giving him the stink eye a teenage girl joined me in the aisle and began sniffling incessantly. As they battled for aural supremacy around me I wondered why some times I'm astoundingly oblivious to noise and the goings-on about me, while other times I unwillingly hone in on random ambient sounds with the laser beam focus of an autistic. The situation made me greatly sympathize with John Wesley Hardin, the Texas outlaw immortalized in those old Time Life commercials as “so mean he once shot a man once just for snoring.”

I know that we all do things to irritate each other, so I shouldn’t judge. In a memorable scene in I, Claudius, Caligula scolds his nephew for his constant coughing. His nephew insolently replies that he can’t help it - he’s sick. His coughing continues, infuriating Caligula. The next day or so Claudius greets Caligula in a hallway and asks where his nephew is. Caligula casually mentions that he has found a cure for his nephew’s cough. He snaps his fingers and a guard brings out the nephew’s head.

That’s what inbreeding? lead pipes? absolute power? meningitis? life long paranoia? will do to you. Actually, the paranoia was well deserved. Caligula's father died under suspicious circumstances, his mother was exiled and starved herself to death, another brother was thrown into a dungeon and resorted to eating the stuffing from his mattress before starving to death, etc.

And by the way, if you ever want to see England’s finest Shakespearean actors torture, murder, participate in orgies and engage in all sorts of other intrigue, decadence and vice, then watch the amazing BBC miniseries I, Claudius.

Robert Graves, the author of the books upon which the series is based, relied heavily on Suetonius’s 12 Caesars. Seutonius definitely had a political axe to grind, so I’m hoping he fabricated or at least exaggerated the cruelity, depravity and perversions of Imperial Rome. Although I was raised Episcopalian, I’ve never grasped the appeal of Christianity (I consider myself more of an ethnic Episcopalian than practicing Episcopalian) but I can see how it was an understandable reaction to the behavior going on at the time, if it truly was that bad. When I toured the catacombs of Rome, favorite hiding and gathering places of early Christians, I envisioned the Christians as termites drilling and eating out the city's foundation. Down in the dank catacombs, E pretended to be the Orkin Man. "Yeah, Emperor. You've got quite an infestation here. This is going to cost ya'."

In I, Claudius, Caligula’s antics include:

• Marrying his sister, impregnating her, cutting out their fetus (Wow - a caesarian from a Caesarian) and eating it because he believed he, as the incarnation of Cronus, should.

• Auctioning off the wives of high ranking Senate members during orgies.

• Appointing his horse Incitatus senator

• Diverting troops from the poorly guarded Northern territories to engage in a mock battle against the Neptune, and ordering them to gather up the shells on the seashore as spoils of war.

• Torturing slaves and executing political enemies, always in plentiful supply due to continuous purges, as his dinner entertainment.

As horribly as the Romans behaved, some sure knew how to die with admirable dignity. When traitorous Praetorian guards pull out their swords to assassinate Caligula's wife, Caesonia, she sneers at them as if they are incompetent serving girls. “Don't make a mess of it," she commands them.

Fun fact: Tony Soprano’s mother is named Livia, a tip of the hat to Claudius’ scheming, vicious grandmother in I, Claudius.

If I, Claudius isn't louche and hard core enough for you, then there's always Bob Guccione's Caligula, which is also lousy with fine British actors, including one of my favorites, Helen Mirren, who plays Caesonia. No matter what role is I see her in I always think of Caligula's sister's aghast reaction when Caligula informs her that he wants to marry Caesonia. "Caesonia? But she's the most promiscuous woman in Rome!"

Spies and Men on the Make Everywhere

From our suggestion forms...

On Tuesday so I noticed a motherly type casing the place. Dresses like she has money. She looked like she was in her 50s, and very petite, no bigger than a size 2. No facial markings at all even though I looked quite closely at her for anything distinguishing. Her face is remarkably flat from the side, though. Plain bobby type hair cut – very stylish. A very distinct crown on the back of her head. It starts from the center and slants to the right. A forceps birth?

Then the next day I noticed a group of young people probably under 30 trying to take a picture of the map on the west side entrance. Why would someone take a picture of the map? To have a blueprint of the place of course!!!

They probably have this revenge idea to set the world right or finally get it their way. Some messed up way of never forgetting their still not home. No more Pearl Harbors.

Next

For the past month or so there have been countless males who sit down beside me and act like I show up here to meet them. It is annoying. Help to alleviate this delimma for me.

I had to stop reading this one because I felt myself starting to get sucked in and agreeing with it, just like I did when I read Kaczynski's manifesto.

Churches taking six hundred years to build in Europe dot the countryside. The clergy of these churches recommended to sovereigns to kill people in order to meet the commands of the church. They relied upon power and not love to control the peoples of their churches. The churches here have united into the NCC to exercise their power and not love within mankind. Churches are of man and the churches have convinced man they are bad by spending their money. Ministers are not needed in God's churches, only advisors. Let the money be in the hands of the church attendants for their families and good uses. A tall church is only a monument.
You have doctors raping women after surgery, operating and removing wrong limbs and body parts. They falsify reports to government programs to get more of their god, money. They pool their money and pay ambulance drivers to bring a profiled patient to them. When the patient arrives they use and Intern to do the surgery and he connects the man's veins as a plumber. The leg atrophies until it turns black. They feed the man pills until he cannot hold his head up and he slobbers. The man asks to be removed from the pills, his head regains control, his slobbering ended! Now he finds, his kidneys were destroyed by the pills! He is now on dialysis for the rest of his life!
Governments have allowed chemical companies to add chloramine (nitrogen and two hydrogen atoms) to replace the cancer causing chlorine. Now a statistical number of humans will lose the function of their kidneys and be put on dialysis machines, the company producing the chloramine also produces the chemicals for the dialysis machines. Airplane contrails in the sky show chemicals that drop down upon the populace!
The RJ Reynolds Company added leaves to their cigarettes to entrap more on these cancer causing weeds. The lungs of man have sacks that purify the blood as it passes. Smoking a cigarette is carrying your own polluted air along with you. This impure air generator will be later be replaced with a cylinder of oxygen to help survive the emphysema Drag that cylinder around like Jacob Mawley's chains in Dickens Christmas Story.
The optical people want to sell you glasses every two years! No one tells you that your eyes have muscles that need to be exercised just like any muscle. More of their god, money is earned if you buy every two years!
The farmers of the Midwest created a corn oil to feed to their cattle and pigs. A problem occurred where the animals started having heart attacks! So as not to lose money on the deal, they went to industry and announced with great fanfare, Mazola Oil! Now humans had the heart attacks! This oil creates plaque within the arteries. Then Linus Pauling. a Nobel Prize Laureate, told people to take a lot of vitamin "C" to fight colds. Two things happened, the vitamin "C" cleans the arteries out and leeches calcium from the body. So men were getting heart attacks from the plague blocking the heart valves and creating bone spurs in addition!

Spies and Men on the Make Everywhere

From our suggestion forms...

On Tuesday so I noticed a motherly type casing the place. Dresses like she has money. She looked like she was in her 50s, and very petite, no bigger than a size 2. No facial markings at all even though I looked quite closely at her for anything distinguishing. Her face is remarkably flat from the side, though. Plain bobby type hair cut – very stylish. A very distinct crown on the back of her head. It starts from the center and slants to the right. A forceps birth?

Then the next day I noticed a group of young people probably under 30 trying to take a picture of the map on the west side entrance. Why would someone take a picture of the map? To have a blueprint of the place of course!!!

They probably have this revenge idea to set the world right or finally get it their way. Some messed up way of never forgetting their still not home. No more Pearl Harbors.

Next

For the past month or so there have been countless males who sit down beside me and act like I show up here to meet them. It is annoying. Help to alleviate this delimma for me.

I had to stop reading this one because I felt myself starting to get sucked in and agreeing with it, just like I did when I read Kaczynski's manifesto.

Churches taking six hundred years to build in Europe dot the countryside. The clergy of these churches recommended to sovereigns to kill people in order to meet the commands of the church. They relied upon power and not love to control the peoples of their churches. The churches here have united into the NCC to exercise their power and not love within mankind. Churches are of man and the churches have convinced man they are bad by spending their money. Ministers are not needed in God's churches, only advisors. Let the money be in the hands of the church attendants for their families and good uses. A tall church is only a monument.
You have doctors raping women after surgery, operating and removing wrong limbs and body parts. They falsify reports to government programs to get more of their god, money. They pool their money and pay ambulance drivers to bring a profiled patient to them. When the patient arrives they use and Intern to do the surgery and he connects the man's veins as a plumber. The leg atrophies until it turns black. They feed the man pills until he cannot hold his head up and he slobbers. The man asks to be removed from the pills, his head regains control, his slobbering ended! Now he finds, his kidneys were destroyed by the pills! He is now on dialysis for the rest of his life!
Governments have allowed chemical companies to add chloramine (nitrogen and two hydrogen atoms) to replace the cancer causing chlorine. Now a statistical number of humans will lose the function of their kidneys and be put on dialysis machines, the company producing the chloramine also produces the chemicals for the dialysis machines. Airplane contrails in the sky show chemicals that drop down upon the populace!
The RJ Reynolds Company added leaves to their cigarettes to entrap more on these cancer causing weeds. The lungs of man have sacks that purify the blood as it passes. Smoking a cigarette is carrying your own polluted air along with you. This impure air generator will be later be replaced with a cylinder of oxygen to help survive the emphysema Drag that cylinder around like Jacob Mawley's chains in Dickens Christmas Story.
The optical people want to sell you glasses every two years! No one tells you that your eyes have muscles that need to be exercised just like any muscle. More of their god, money is earned if you buy every two years!
The farmers of the Midwest created a corn oil to feed to their cattle and pigs. A problem occurred where the animals started having heart attacks! So as not to lose money on the deal, they went to industry and announced with great fanfare, Mazola Oil! Now humans had the heart attacks! This oil creates plaque within the arteries. Then Linus Pauling. a Nobel Prize Laureate, told people to take a lot of vitamin "C" to fight colds. Two things happened, the vitamin "C" cleans the arteries out and leeches calcium from the body. So men were getting heart attacks from the plague blocking the heart valves and creating bone spurs in addition!

The Most Dangerous Game

The other days I was rooting around in a thrift store and found one of those old anthologies of literature used in high school English. It was only $.50, so I bought it. I’m glad I did, because the anthology contains one of my all time favorite short stories, The Most Dangerous Game. Even though the story has been dismissed as pulp adventure fiction, it is a thrilling ‘gateway’ story that started me and many others on the road to a lifelong reading addiction.

The story is about an American big game hunter named Rainsford who falls overboard a ship headed toward South America. He washes ashore on an island which is inhabited by a mysterious nobleman named General Zoraff. The General treats him as an honored guest, but during their lavish meal, served on the finest linen and china, the General confesses how bored with hunting animals. Since animals rely solely on instinct, they are no match for him, a man who can reason. Because he has tired of hunting animals, he now uses shipwrecked sailors as his quarry, who are much more challenging, dangerous and rewarding to hunt. When Rainsford refuses to join him in the hunt, Zaroff decides to hunt him instead.

As I read the story it dawned on me that Thomas Harris based his character Hannibal Lecter on Zoraff.

Similarities:
They’re both displaced Old World nobility.
Hannibal was a Lithuanian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate.
General Zaroff is a Russian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate. He emigrated after the Russian Revolution.

They’re both refined and cultured. They’re extremely eloquent and connoisseurs of art, food and wine. They are educated, sophisticated men who possess a formal manner, which is primarily what makes them so chillingly monstrous. After Zoraff believes he killed the protagonist, “he sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a perfumed cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.”

They both read Marcus Aurelius.

They believe that their victims are not worthy to live. Hannibal kills his patient Raspail, a flautist in the Baltimore Symphony, because of his inferior musicianship. Hannibal felt Raspail’s flute playing was ruining his enjoyment of the symphony, and besides, “his therapy was going nowhere.” In Hannibal, Barney explains to Clarice, "He told me once that, whenever it was `feasible,' he preferred to eat the rude. `Free-range rude,' he called them.”
Zoraff justifies his hunting because his quarry is “the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships, lacars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels - a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them.”

They are charming, considerate hosts with impeccable manners - except for the killing part. When Miggs flicks his semen on Clarice, Hannibal Lecter is horrified and exclaims, “I would not have this happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.” (Although cannibalism, by his standards, is not.)

It’s interesting to see these connections and discovering them make it less intimidating for me, a tyro writer, that authors often don’t invent characters whole cloth. Margaret Mitchell based Scarlett O’Hara on Becky Sharpe of Vanity Fair and her grandmother, and most of Gone with the Wind was just reworked family stories. And don't get me started on Jay McInhenry. Anyway, I've added my theory to the Wikipedia entry for Hannibal Lecter, and we'll see if it's reverted or not.

The Most Dangerous Game

The other days I was rooting around in a thrift store and found one of those old anthologies of literature used in high school English. It was only $.50, so I bought it. I’m glad I did, because the anthology contains one of my all time favorite short stories, The Most Dangerous Game. Even though the story has been dismissed as pulp adventure fiction, it is a thrilling ‘gateway’ story that started me and many others on the road to a lifelong reading addiction.

The story is about an American big game hunter named Rainsford who falls overboard a ship headed toward South America. He washes ashore on an island which is inhabited by a mysterious nobleman named General Zoraff. The General treats him as an honored guest, but during their lavish meal, served on the finest linen and china, the General confesses how bored with hunting animals. Since animals rely solely on instinct, they are no match for him, a man who can reason. Because he has tired of hunting animals, he now uses shipwrecked sailors as his quarry, who are much more challenging, dangerous and rewarding to hunt. When Rainsford refuses to join him in the hunt, Zaroff decides to hunt him instead.

As I read the story it dawned on me that Thomas Harris based his character Hannibal Lecter on Zoraff.

Similarities:
They’re both displaced Old World nobility.
Hannibal was a Lithuanian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate.
General Zaroff is a Russian aristocrat who grew up on a large estate. He emigrated after the Russian Revolution.

They’re both refined and cultured. They’re extremely eloquent and connoisseurs of art, food and wine. They are educated, sophisticated men who possess a formal manner, which is primarily what makes them so chillingly monstrous. After Zoraff believes he killed the protagonist, “he sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a perfumed cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.”

They both read Marcus Aurelius.

They believe that their victims are not worthy to live. Hannibal kills his patient Raspail, a flautist in the Baltimore Symphony, because of his inferior musicianship. Hannibal felt Raspail’s flute playing was ruining his enjoyment of the symphony, and besides, “his therapy was going nowhere.” In Hannibal, Barney explains to Clarice, "He told me once that, whenever it was `feasible,' he preferred to eat the rude. `Free-range rude,' he called them.”
Zoraff justifies his hunting because his quarry is “the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships, lacars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels - a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them.”

They are charming, considerate hosts with impeccable manners - except for the killing part. When Miggs flicks his semen on Clarice, Hannibal Lecter is horrified and exclaims, “I would not have this happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.” (Although cannibalism, by his standards, is not.)

It’s interesting to see these connections and discovering them make it less intimidating for me, a tyro writer, that authors often don’t invent characters whole cloth. Margaret Mitchell based Scarlett O’Hara on Becky Sharpe of Vanity Fair and her grandmother, and most of Gone with the Wind was just reworked family stories. And don't get me started on Jay McInhenry. Anyway, I've added my theory to the Wikipedia entry for Hannibal Lecter, and we'll see if it's reverted or not.

But I Live in a Nice Neighborhood, Damnit!

While I was on the reference desk I saw a German tourist couple approach one of our regular patrons to ask for directions to a museum. In classic German tourist style, they had identical cropped haircuts and matching fanny packs. The only sexual dimorphism in regards to dress was the male’s sandals and black socks pulled up to his mid-calf. The particular patron looks like an intense, New York intellectual but actually has the mind of a child, although he occassionaly makes some remarkably astute comments to me. My guess would be that he’s bipolar schizophrenic. When he is off his medication he becomes an excitable nuisance, and unfortunately for these Teutonic tourists, this was just such a time.

He began giving them directions, and pointing his arms wildly around to indicate the museum, but then he lost his train of thought and launched into a convoluted story about a soccer match he had been in years before.

“And then I was fullback but the coach sent us way, way up the line. It was much to high up the field! And then the wing on my team, he was this crazy Lebanese guy, he told me that I had to get back. But my coach had told me to go forward! And then the ball was coming toward me, but there was this group of defenders headed right toward me, and it was unbelievable. I then got the ball and ran with it, and then passed it to the Lebanese forward.”

He became increasingly agitated and frequently overcome by giggling. The tourists went from listening intently, trying to make out his words, to confusion, to dawning realization, to a pained, trapped look. They continued listening politely until I waved them over to the desk.

After I had given them the directions and sent them on their way, the patron came to the desk and started repeating the same soccer story to me verbatim. Usually I'm entranced by the speech of schizophrenics. The hair on the back of my neck rises up and I get goose bumps. I am riveted by their schizophrenic flourishes and bizarre flights of fancy. But sports stories are so tediously boring to me me, I can't even abide them from a raving schizophrenic. Aside from the crumbling infrastructure, this is why it would be my nightmare to live in Cuba. Supposedly Castro takes over the radio waves for hours reminiscing about his days as a baseball player, torturing his people with rambling, longwinded stories of his glory days. As I have said before, I suspect this is many an old garrulous man's fantasy, to hold an entire nation captive for this purpose.

On the homefront... Outside of our window this morning on the sidewalk we could see a bum brazenly passed out, face up, lying comfortably in the sun. He awoke, stuck his hand down the front of his pants, and gave himself a nice, leisurely scratch. He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a tin of Altoids and popped one in his mouth - to get ready for a hot date, I suppose? Some idiot do-gooder had placed a Venti Starbucks next to him. He appeared like he was going to spend the rest of the day there basking himself, but Pam and Fisher were home watching the World Cup and called the cops.

But I Live in a Nice Neighborhood, Damnit!

While I was on the reference desk I saw a German tourist couple approach one of our regular patrons to ask for directions to a museum. In classic German tourist style, they had identical cropped haircuts and matching fanny packs. The only sexual dimorphism in regards to dress was the male’s sandals and black socks pulled up to his mid-calf. The particular patron looks like an intense, New York intellectual but actually has the mind of a child, although he occassionaly makes some remarkably astute comments to me. My guess would be that he’s bipolar schizophrenic. When he is off his medication he becomes an excitable nuisance, and unfortunately for these Teutonic tourists, this was just such a time.

He began giving them directions, and pointing his arms wildly around to indicate the museum, but then he lost his train of thought and launched into a convoluted story about a soccer match he had been in years before.

“And then I was fullback but the coach sent us way, way up the line. It was much to high up the field! And then the wing on my team, he was this crazy Lebanese guy, he told me that I had to get back. But my coach had told me to go forward! And then the ball was coming toward me, but there was this group of defenders headed right toward me, and it was unbelievable. I then got the ball and ran with it, and then passed it to the Lebanese forward.”

He became increasingly agitated and frequently overcome by giggling. The tourists went from listening intently, trying to make out his words, to confusion, to dawning realization, to a pained, trapped look. They continued listening politely until I waved them over to the desk.

After I had given them the directions and sent them on their way, the patron came to the desk and started repeating the same soccer story to me verbatim. Usually I'm entranced by the speech of schizophrenics. The hair on the back of my neck rises up and I get goose bumps. I am riveted by their schizophrenic flourishes and bizarre flights of fancy. But sports stories are so tediously boring to me me, I can't even abide them from a raving schizophrenic. Aside from the crumbling infrastructure, this is why it would be my nightmare to live in Cuba. Supposedly Castro takes over the radio waves for hours reminiscing about his days as a baseball player, torturing his people with rambling, longwinded stories of his glory days. As I have said before, I suspect this is many an old garrulous man's fantasy, to hold an entire nation captive for this purpose.

On the homefront... Outside of our window this morning on the sidewalk we could see a bum brazenly passed out, face up, lying comfortably in the sun. He awoke, stuck his hand down the front of his pants, and gave himself a nice, leisurely scratch. He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a tin of Altoids and popped one in his mouth - to get ready for a hot date, I suppose? Some idiot do-gooder had placed a Venti Starbucks next to him. He appeared like he was going to spend the rest of the day there basking himself, but Pam and Fisher were home watching the World Cup and called the cops.

From the Library

A woman who sounded loaded called and wanted to know if we had Deepak Chopra's Overcoming Addictions. It was 10:00 in the morning.

A disheveled, wide-eyed woman ran up to the desk and shrieked, “Someone poured acid on my lips! There's a woman trying to kill me in the library. My lips! They’re buuuuurning!” She clutched the edge of the desk and rocked her body back and forth. My colleague, not even glancing up from some papers he was reading, nonchalantly raised his hand and pointed toward the security office. “Ma’am, you'll need to tell security.” She staggered off in that direction. Oddly enough, the woman did have chapped, ruined lips, but my bet would be more the result from an overheated glass crack pipe than from an acid wielding assailant.

“I've got to read some Scientology. But I can't read. They won't let me use the tape recorders because I don't have a library card. Isn't that a violation of my civil rights?”

A bag lady dragging her belongings in trash bags set them down by the desk. After rooting around in them for a minute, she pulled a grimy bundle of papers. “I have here a list of 150 names of celebrities, religious and, political figures. You find me their addresses.”
“You’ll need to go to the business desk. They have directories and they’ll show you how to look the names and addresses up.”
“I don’t want to have to go to another desk! You find them for me.”
“I’m sorry, but this is just a basic information desk.” He pointed to the line that was forming behind her. “I don’t have time to help you with such an involved project, but the librarians upstairs will. You’ll need to go to that department.”
She whipped around, balled her fists and began screaming, "He's refusing me service! He's refusing me service!”

An aging belle floated toward the desk. She was wearing a low cut diaphanous, pastel dress and looked like she had just stepped out of some Southern Gothic flashback. Tragically, her mind seemed as ravaged as her décolletage. She shared some décor suggestions. “This would be a perfect spot for a fountain or waterfall, right in the center of the foyer area. I think that it would give the entire place - which is rather cold and institutional, don’t you agree? - an everglade jungle appeal. A wishing well would be another idea for a tourist attraction and would give this place a nice, overall tropical jungle look. Yes, that would make it quite a field trip attraction. I also think formal high teas in the cafeteria would be a real draw, that they would bring in a more elevated crowd. Then if you would throw in a tropical rain setting with lots of greenery, plants and shrubbery, large, exotic flowers like a botanical garden, some piped in music tapes of birds singing, water and other relaxing sorts of noises, or just music piped in over the loudspeakers to add to the overall ambiance… Well, I think it would make this place so lovely, don’t you agree?”

A woman called, “What is all of the blood spilled in Iraq doing to the earth there?”
I’m not sure if this was a rhetorical question, if she was just calling to make some sort of political point, and was trying to drag us into a discussion, but I almost told her that I imagine that all that blood would be fertilizing the earth. especially if it's mixed with all of the nitrogen IED's, which probably by now is now enough to return that desert to the conditions when it was known as the Fertile Crescent. I had always heard that the blood soaked fields of Verdun and Shiloh produced bumper crops for years after battles were fought there. Confusing the matter, however, was that the patron had a thick Romanian accent, which made me think - vampire? My colleague transferred her to the science desk.

From the Library

A woman who sounded loaded called and wanted to know if we had Deepak Chopra's Overcoming Addictions. It was 10:00 in the morning.

A disheveled, wide-eyed woman ran up to the desk and shrieked, “Someone poured acid on my lips! There's a woman trying to kill me in the library. My lips! They’re buuuuurning!” She clutched the edge of the desk and rocked her body back and forth. My colleague, not even glancing up from some papers he was reading, nonchalantly raised his hand and pointed toward the security office. “Ma’am, you'll need to tell security.” She staggered off in that direction. Oddly enough, the woman did have chapped, ruined lips, but my bet would be more the result from an overheated glass crack pipe than from an acid wielding assailant.

“I've got to read some Scientology. But I can't read. They won't let me use the tape recorders because I don't have a library card. Isn't that a violation of my civil rights?”

A bag lady dragging her belongings in trash bags set them down by the desk. After rooting around in them for a minute, she pulled a grimy bundle of papers. “I have here a list of 150 names of celebrities, religious and, political figures. You find me their addresses.”
“You’ll need to go to the business desk. They have directories and they’ll show you how to look the names and addresses up.”
“I don’t want to have to go to another desk! You find them for me.”
“I’m sorry, but this is just a basic information desk.” He pointed to the line that was forming behind her. “I don’t have time to help you with such an involved project, but the librarians upstairs will. You’ll need to go to that department.”
She whipped around, balled her fists and began screaming, "He's refusing me service! He's refusing me service!”

An aging belle floated toward the desk. She was wearing a low cut diaphanous, pastel dress and looked like she had just stepped out of some Southern Gothic flashback. Tragically, her mind seemed as ravaged as her décolletage. She shared some décor suggestions. “This would be a perfect spot for a fountain or waterfall, right in the center of the foyer area. I think that it would give the entire place - which is rather cold and institutional, don’t you agree? - an everglade jungle appeal. A wishing well would be another idea for a tourist attraction and would give this place a nice, overall tropical jungle look. Yes, that would make it quite a field trip attraction. I also think formal high teas in the cafeteria would be a real draw, that they would bring in a more elevated crowd. Then if you would throw in a tropical rain setting with lots of greenery, plants and shrubbery, large, exotic flowers like a botanical garden, some piped in music tapes of birds singing, water and other relaxing sorts of noises, or just music piped in over the loudspeakers to add to the overall ambiance… Well, I think it would make this place so lovely, don’t you agree?”

A woman called, “What is all of the blood spilled in Iraq doing to the earth there?”
I’m not sure if this was a rhetorical question, if she was just calling to make some sort of political point, and was trying to drag us into a discussion, but I almost told her that I imagine that all that blood would be fertilizing the earth. especially if it's mixed with all of the nitrogen IED's, which probably by now is now enough to return that desert to the conditions when it was known as the Fertile Crescent. I had always heard that the blood soaked fields of Verdun and Shiloh produced bumper crops for years after battles were fought there. Confusing the matter, however, was that the patron had a thick Romanian accent, which made me think - vampire? My colleague transferred her to the science desk.

Brother, can you Spare 60 wpm

The other day while I was at the reference desk a man asked if I could type a short letter for him. He looked like a hard luck case and it was slow at the desk so I agreed, although I told him that this was an extraordinary, one-time exception and that if he told anyone I would deny having performed this service for him. If word got out that the librarians were transcribing or taking dictation then every patron with a manifesto, 20 page rambling letter to estranged family, social security disability plea, resume or neighborhood bulletin warning about CIA brain monitoring* would storm the desk, papers in hand, demanding equal treatment. Those kind of favors always bite you in the ass. If my colleagues discovered that I had started this precedent, one of them would probably slip up behind me in my cubicle and slit my throat, Colombian narco-execution style. I can’t say that I would blame them.

The patron was gratifyingly appreciative, and promised to maintain his silence. The next day while I was clear across town for a dentist’s appointment the same patron approached me and asked me for spare change in a suspiciously aggressive manner. Not to sound like a melodramatic paranoid, but I think he may have been considering mugging me. I was out of context so he didn’t recognize me until I said hello, and then we both had a good laugh. I was glad that he remembered my kindness, especially if it stopped him from taking my wallet.

Even though I live in one of the largest cities in the United States I find that I run into people I know with eerie, improbable regularity. One day when I was working at my old branch I helped a girl fresh from a Midwestern backwater figure out which buses she needed to take to get to her interview. Two days later, in a neighborhood miles away, the same girl, not recognizing me at first, came up to me and asked me what bus she should take to get to another part of the city. I wonder if she thought that I had materialized like some bus schedule guardian angel, or something more sinister, like she was in some sort of Truman Show situation.

*All items I have been asked to type while I was on the reference desk

Brother, can you Spare 60 wpm

The other day while I was at the reference desk a man asked if I could type a short letter for him. He looked like a hard luck case and it was slow at the desk so I agreed, although I told him that this was an extraordinary, one-time exception and that if he told anyone I would deny having performed this service for him. If word got out that the librarians were transcribing or taking dictation then every patron with a manifesto, 20 page rambling letter to estranged family, social security disability plea, resume or neighborhood bulletin warning about CIA brain monitoring* would storm the desk, papers in hand, demanding equal treatment. Those kind of favors always bite you in the ass. If my colleagues discovered that I had started this precedent, one of them would probably slip up behind me in my cubicle and slit my throat, Colombian narco-execution style. I can’t say that I would blame them.

The patron was gratifyingly appreciative, and promised to maintain his silence. The next day while I was clear across town for a dentist’s appointment the same patron approached me and asked me for spare change in a suspiciously aggressive manner. Not to sound like a melodramatic paranoid, but I think he may have been considering mugging me. I was out of context so he didn’t recognize me until I said hello, and then we both had a good laugh. I was glad that he remembered my kindness, especially if it stopped him from taking my wallet.

Even though I live in one of the largest cities in the United States I find that I run into people I know with eerie, improbable regularity. One day when I was working at my old branch I helped a girl fresh from a Midwestern backwater figure out which buses she needed to take to get to her interview. Two days later, in a neighborhood miles away, the same girl, not recognizing me at first, came up to me and asked me what bus she should take to get to another part of the city. I wonder if she thought that I had materialized like some bus schedule guardian angel, or something more sinister, like she was in some sort of Truman Show situation.

*All items I have been asked to type while I was on the reference desk

Mexican Standoff

E captured the dogs in a deadlock over a toy. The two photographs, although they look identical, were actually taken 30 minutes apart. On this particular occasion the dogs remained at an eerily silent standstill for over an hour, as delicately and precisely balanced together as pieces of a Calder mobile. At various times one would doze off, but even so his or her jaws remained locked down on the plastic Nylabone with the tenacity and pounds per square inch force of a gila monster.

This is a deadly serious situation, because the dog that wins this toy tug of war wins dominancy, which is why you’re never, ever supposed to play tug-of-war with your dog, (and if you do, you better make sure you win.) As Billy (the smaller Jack Russell) got older the battle for alpha supremacy between Sid and Billy progressed from cute sibling rivalry to a bloody internecine war, and eventually Sid had to be re-homed in New York City with E’s brother and his wife.

We got Billy with the best of intentions, really we did. We figured that although the brothers would be from different litters they would, sharing the same bloodline, soon become best friends. Little did we know that in the case of Billy’s litter there was tragic kennel mix-up, resulting in Lemon (Sid and Billy’s dam) accidentally being bred to a demon.

Mexican Standoff

E captured the dogs in a deadlock over a toy. The two photographs, although they look identical, were actually taken 30 minutes apart. On this particular occasion the dogs remained at an eerily silent standstill for over an hour, as delicately and precisely balanced together as pieces of a Calder mobile. At various times one would doze off, but even so his or her jaws remained locked down on the plastic Nylabone with the tenacity and pounds per square inch force of a gila monster.

This is a deadly serious situation, because the dog that wins this toy tug of war wins dominancy, which is why you’re never, ever supposed to play tug-of-war with your dog, (and if you do, you better make sure you win.) As Billy (the smaller Jack Russell) got older the battle for alpha supremacy between Sid and Billy progressed from cute sibling rivalry to a bloody internecine war, and eventually Sid had to be re-homed in New York City with E’s brother and his wife.

We got Billy with the best of intentions, really we did. We figured that although the brothers would be from different litters they would, sharing the same bloodline, soon become best friends. Little did we know that in the case of Billy’s litter there was tragic kennel mix-up, resulting in Lemon (Sid and Billy’s dam) accidentally being bred to a demon.

More White Fang, Please

I'm a sucker for things like this. Check out one of Spoonie's Border Terrier kin, Mitzi, as she attentively listens to this young reader. For more information, check out the website of the Intermountain Therapy Animals Foundation, the organization that started the progam.

More White Fang, Please

I'm a sucker for things like this. Check out one of Spoonie's Border Terrier kin, Mitzi, as she attentively listens to this young reader. For more information, check out the website of the Intermountain Therapy Animals Foundation, the organization that started the progam.

All I Need is One More Sign, Lord

A slightly bedraggled woman approached the desk and mumbled something about needing a phone number. “I called information, and they gave me a fax number.”
“I can help you with a number. What number do you need?”
“I need a number to the Crisis Center.”
“There are a couple of crisis centers. Which one would you like?” I showed her a list which included support centers for runaways, victims of domestic violence and rape, and various addictions.
“I need the Suicide Crisis Center.”

How nice that telephone information gave her a fax machine number so that she got a shrieking fax machine on the line instead of a sympathetic counselor. Or perhaps, in her despondency, she copied the number down incorrectly. In any case, I’m glad that that wasn’t the final straw and that she was willing to try to find the right number.

All I Need is One More Sign, Lord

A slightly bedraggled woman approached the desk and mumbled something about needing a phone number. “I called information, and they gave me a fax number.”
“I can help you with a number. What number do you need?”
“I need a number to the Crisis Center.”
“There are a couple of crisis centers. Which one would you like?” I showed her a list which included support centers for runaways, victims of domestic violence and rape, and various addictions.
“I need the Suicide Crisis Center.”

How nice that telephone information gave her a fax machine number so that she got a shrieking fax machine on the line instead of a sympathetic counselor. Or perhaps, in her despondency, she copied the number down incorrectly. In any case, I’m glad that that wasn’t the final straw and that she was willing to try to find the right number.