If you like a book, don't meet the author.

Or don’t read his or her biography. Raymond Chandler’s advice could not be sager in the case of many authors of beloved children’s classics. (Celebrities on the children’s book bandwagon take note) Lewis Carroll, Hans Christian Anderson and J.M. Barrie (despite the utter fabrication that is Finding Neverland) had very bizarre, suspect aspects to their lives. After discovering certain dark truths about them, you find yourself wishing you could expunge the details from your memory so you can continue enjoying their stories in innocent peace without the disturbing subtext of their personal lives.

Even when I was little, however, the stories of Hans Christian Anderson sickened me with their sadism and misogyny. One of his nastiest tales is The Red Shoes, about a little girl who pays the ultimate price for her frivolity when she wears red dancing shoes because she prefers them to her plain, but sensible, wooden clogs. When she dons the shoes she forgets to pay attention in church and begins to dance with joy because they are so beautiful. Soon she finds she cannot stop dancing because the shoes are cursed! She dances night and day and the shoes fill with blood from her feet. She is about to die of exhaustion when a 'kindly' executioner takes pity upon her and chops off her feet. Even the amputation is not severe enough of a punishment for the girl’s sins of vanity and materialism. When she finally truly, thoroughly repents in church after hearing the beauty of the choir, Little Miss High and Mighty Fine Airs dies in shame of a broken heart. She then ascends to heaven, where no one cares what kind of shoes she wears. What a beautiful story. And his classic taleThe Little Mermaid? The price the mermaid pays for for exchanging her tail for feet (and it’s implied, what goes in between them, which she desires so she can have a complete relationship with her beloved prince) is that her every footstep is agony. Each time she walks it's as if she is stepping on knives. Disney left that part out for some reason. And don’t even get me started on The Little Matchstick Girl, which gave me nightmares when I was a little girl.

A recent biography of a children’s author that you don’t want to miss, though, is Jean Nathan’s The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll. Nathan chronicles the tragic, bizarre life of Dare Wright, the author of the best selling children’s classic The Lonely Doll, and it is riveting and offers great psychological insight into the creative processes of the author of the classic children's series. Born in 1914 to a socially prominent but unhappily married parents, Dare was whisked away by her mother after her parents divorce when she was 4. Dare never saw her father again, but developed an eerily close relationship with her mother, Edie, a narcissistic society portrait painter who treated Dare as little more than an extension of herself. Edie kept Dare isolated from other family and children during her childhood. As Dare grew older they would attend parties and take long trips abroad, accompanying each other arm in arm likeSebastian and Violet Venable. People often mistook them for a lesbian couple. Although the biographer doesn't believe the relationship was physically incestuous, at night the mother and daughter would sleep together, Edie hugging Dare tightly like she was her own living doll. Their life together was rich in fantasy, filled with dress up and make believe games. They would spend the days absorbed in creative endeavors like painting, photography and dress making in a world of their own making. Her mother took a lot of photographs of Dare when she was an adult posed in the nude.

Elegant, refined and beautiful, Dare had many suitors, but she could never leave mama for any of them and seemed to have suffered from retarded emotional growth and a chronic case of frigidity. (One beau reported that when he tried to kiss her she thrust a doll between them, warding him off like the doll was a crucifix and he a vampire.)

As a young woman, Dare did achieve independent success as a photographer. After a brief stint as a fashion model, Dare began working on the other side of the camera and became a photographer of some acclaim. She then created The Lonely Little Doll series, children's books illustrated by photographs about a little doll named Edith (Dare's mother's name). Edith is terribly lonely until two bears, a daddy and a baby, show up one day. Although the books are charming and were incredibly popular, they have a creepy, inescapable eroticism running throughout them. Edith’s lacy panties are almost always visible and her hair is often mussed in a sexy ‘bed-head’ style. There is an undeniable S&M bondage element in the series as well. A recurrent theme in their adventures is for Baby Bear to lead Edith astray. Disaster ensues and Papa Bear has to rescue them from their foolishness. He always punishes Edith with a good spanking over his knee, her lacy panties provocatively visible. Edith also gets tied up a lot in her adventures. Despite the blatant eroticism, the books obviously resonated with little girls. The series was wildly popular, among the top selling children's books in the 50s and 60s.

Tragically, Dare was unable to heal herself through her art, although the psychodymanics that play out in her work are fascinating. When her mother died, Dare, in her sixties, found herself adrift and lost. Alone in her New York apartment/studio, she retreated into alcoholism and fantasy. When she would venture outside of her apartment she often stationed herself like a bag lady on a bench in Central Park, her mangy blonde wig askew, surrounded by vagrant suitors. She was trustingly childlike and would often bring homeless men home to stay with her, asking her horrified maid, “Isn’t he so handsome?” Her friends were helpless to stop her descent. After she was raped and beaten by one of the vagrants she had taken in (Nathan surmises that this was Dare's only sexual encounter), her decline accelerated and she eventually had to be hospitalized permanently. She died two years later in the hospital at the age of 86.

Shine on, You Crazy Diamond

The other day a homeless man with wild eyes approached the reference desk and asked where the Bibles were, a big tip off that he was schizophrenic. I’ve noticed that many schizophrenics, or at least the ones who frequent the library, seem preoccupied by religion. I've read that this has something to do with their brains' overabundant production of the chemical dopamine, which causes schizophrenics to infuse every object and event with either mystical meaning or paranoid significance. They come to the library to seek answers in religious literature or propound on their persecutory or conspiratorial theories. Because of deinstitutionalization, or at least the way the process has been carried out, and other complex societal forces and conditions, many mentally ill homeless camp out at the library because they have no other place to go.

Usually as soon as schizophrenics open their mouth I can identify them by their spiel. Without preamble, they launch into a monologue about how they are receiving messages from Jesus or government agencies or the Kennedy’s. If they are paranoid schizophrenics, they will say that those agents are conspiring against them. (I actually find the Kennedy's very sinister myself.) Their chatter is as recognizable and telltale a symptom of their disease as the visible symptoms of psoriasis or Kaposi Sarcoma or the chicken pox.

One patron told me one night that he instantaneously knew that his son was schizophrenic when he called him and announced, "Dad! I made a great discovery! Jesus and Hitler were the same man!"

After we had three paranoid schizophrenics in a row talk at the reference desk about receiving radio transmissions in their heads from the CIA, my colleague commented, “What is the deal? Do they all read from the same manual?”

A recent article in Psychology Today explains why:

Because the addict's dopamine-driven salience system keeps telling her that something very important is happening, ordinary events appear intensely meaningful. That police car? That song on the radio? That man with a cigarette walking by? They must be part of a massive international conspiracy.
Kapur calls it "biased inductive logic"--a top-down effort to explain the feeling that everything seems important. The cognitive parts of a schizophrenic's brain create the paranoid tale in an effort to explain the constant red alert blaring from the dopamine circuits, using any stimuli available. This is why delusions are culturally appropriate. African schizophrenics may fear they've fallen under the spell of a shaman, while Kapur's patients in Toronto think that the Mounties are after them.
From Conspiracy Theories Explained. Psychology Today, Nov-Dec, 2004

I led the patron who asked for the Bibles over to them. He was intimidatingly large and I’ll have to admit that, especially in light of the the kicker incident, I was a little wary of leading him back to the stacks alone. After I showed him the shelf of Bibles and I was in such a hurry to get back to my desk that I tripped. I would have probably taken out a shelf of books but the patron gallantly caught my arm, steadied me and asked with great concern, “Are you all right?” After ensuring that I was fine he took a stack of Bibles and parked himself next to a man reading the newspaper. Like an old-time evangelical preacher, he began to preach hellfire and brimstone while he pounded on one of the open Bibles. My manager told him to keep it down and he quieted himself and read softly outloud for a while.

Later, while I was trying to give directions on the phone to a woman when he stood behind me and shouted to the other librarian if we had anything on Star Trek, specifically the movie that he had seen but no one else has seen.

“This movie was so cool! It was like you were actually in it. Do you have that one?”

My colleague said that our Star Trek movies were all out but that we did have some Star Trek books and showed him where. He took a stack, sat back down and proceeded to have a conversation with Spock, or at least his rendering on the cover of one of the books.

“Remember when you did that, Spock? That was so BAD ASS.”

He suddenly started making strange sputtering noises as he had these violent, jerking tics, like a windup toy self destructing, or Bugs Bunny right after he drank Dr. Jekyll's potion. He began staggering around in circles until he finally made his way out the door. I was glad that he left on his own accord so I wouldn't have to, especially after he had been so kind to catch me after I tripped.

Shine on, You Crazy Diamond

The other day a homeless man with wild eyes approached the reference desk and asked where the Bibles were, a big tip off that he was schizophrenic. I’ve noticed that many schizophrenics, or at least the ones who frequent the library, seem preoccupied by religion. I've read that this has something to do with their brains' overabundant production of the chemical dopamine, which causes schizophrenics to infuse every object and event with either mystical meaning or paranoid significance. They come to the library to seek answers in religious literature or propound on their persecutory or conspiratorial theories. Because of deinstitutionalization, or at least the way the process has been carried out, and other complex societal forces and conditions, many mentally ill homeless camp out at the library because they have no other place to go.

Usually as soon as schizophrenics open their mouth I can identify them by their spiel. Without preamble, they launch into a monologue about how they are receiving messages from Jesus or government agencies or the Kennedy’s. If they are paranoid schizophrenics, they will say that those agents are conspiring against them. (I actually find the Kennedy's very sinister myself.) Their chatter is as recognizable and telltale a symptom of their disease as the visible symptoms of psoriasis or Kaposi Sarcoma or the chicken pox.

One patron told me one night that he instantaneously knew that his son was schizophrenic when he called him and announced, "Dad! I made a great discovery! Jesus and Hitler were the same man!"

After we had three paranoid schizophrenics in a row talk at the reference desk about receiving radio transmissions in their heads from the CIA, my colleague commented, “What is the deal? Do they all read from the same manual?”

A recent article in Psychology Today explains why:

Because the addict's dopamine-driven salience system keeps telling her that something very important is happening, ordinary events appear intensely meaningful. That police car? That song on the radio? That man with a cigarette walking by? They must be part of a massive international conspiracy.
Kapur calls it "biased inductive logic"--a top-down effort to explain the feeling that everything seems important. The cognitive parts of a schizophrenic's brain create the paranoid tale in an effort to explain the constant red alert blaring from the dopamine circuits, using any stimuli available. This is why delusions are culturally appropriate. African schizophrenics may fear they've fallen under the spell of a shaman, while Kapur's patients in Toronto think that the Mounties are after them.
From Conspiracy Theories Explained. Psychology Today, Nov-Dec, 2004

I led the patron who asked for the Bibles over to them. He was intimidatingly large and I’ll have to admit that, especially in light of the the kicker incident, I was a little wary of leading him back to the stacks alone. After I showed him the shelf of Bibles and I was in such a hurry to get back to my desk that I tripped. I would have probably taken out a shelf of books but the patron gallantly caught my arm, steadied me and asked with great concern, “Are you all right?” After ensuring that I was fine he took a stack of Bibles and parked himself next to a man reading the newspaper. Like an old-time evangelical preacher, he began to preach hellfire and brimstone while he pounded on one of the open Bibles. My manager told him to keep it down and he quieted himself and read softly outloud for a while.

Later, while I was trying to give directions on the phone to a woman when he stood behind me and shouted to the other librarian if we had anything on Star Trek, specifically the movie that he had seen but no one else has seen.

“This movie was so cool! It was like you were actually in it. Do you have that one?”

My colleague said that our Star Trek movies were all out but that we did have some Star Trek books and showed him where. He took a stack, sat back down and proceeded to have a conversation with Spock, or at least his rendering on the cover of one of the books.

“Remember when you did that, Spock? That was so BAD ASS.”

He suddenly started making strange sputtering noises as he had these violent, jerking tics, like a windup toy self destructing, or Bugs Bunny right after he drank Dr. Jekyll's potion. He began staggering around in circles until he finally made his way out the door. I was glad that he left on his own accord so I wouldn't have to, especially after he had been so kind to catch me after I tripped.

Loveline

Caller Mandy: So my boyfriend, he is like really pressuring me to have more anal and I don’t want to because it hurts. Exhales cigarette smoke loudly.



Dr. Drew: Mandy, I don’t know why you would let him do something that causes you physical pain. That’s your body’s way of – Hey, Mandy! Do you mind not smoking while I talk to you?



Adam: Yeah, Mandy. Smoking while you ask a doctor a question is like violating yourself with a crucifix while talking to your priest.

Loveline

Caller Mandy: So my boyfriend, he is like really pressuring me to have more anal and I don’t want to because it hurts. Exhales cigarette smoke loudly.

Dr. Drew: Mandy, I don’t know why you would let him do something that causes you physical pain. That’s your body’s way of – Hey, Mandy! Do you mind not smoking while I talk to you?

Adam: Yeah, Mandy. Smoking while you ask a doctor a question is like violating yourself with a crucifix while talking to your priest.

Ooops! BUTTERFINGERS!

I spent this morning squatting in front of the copier trying to extract pieces of a jammed sheet of paper with a pair of tweezers. This is a very delicate procedure that requires the steady hands and focus of a sapper, or at least a proficient Operation player. If the paper breaks off in the gears of the machine the Xerox man must be summoned. He is usually stretched thin and sometimes cannot make a service call until 48 hours later or more. Not having a copy machine in a library is bad any time, but it is disastrous during tax season. Like Anne Frank, I believe that people are basically good at heart and that they will do the right thing as long as it's convenient. If our copy machine is out of order, however, certain people feel justified in ripping pages out of books and magazines, and, during tax season, which we are in the midst of, stealing our master tax forms. Missing tax forms will push our more delicate, less stable patrons over the edge, and if I suggest that they sign up for the library internet and print the forms out from the IRS website they will look at me in puzzled hurt like I've just told them to go fuck themselves.



While I was trying to pull the pieces of paper out, I overheard a conversation between two patrons waiting for the internet that made concentration difficult:



"Here this bitch is, a known murderer and bad check writer, and they're hassling me?"



"That's not right, man."



"And the police are telling me to calm down? I mean, what the FUCK."



"They don't know anything."



"I just want her out of my apartment. We're so fucking through."



"Crazy whore."



My hand then slipped, ripping the paper and making it completely inextricable so I gave up and called the repairman.

Ooops! BUTTERFINGERS!

I spent this morning squatting in front of the copier trying to extract pieces of a jammed sheet of paper with a pair of tweezers. This is a very delicate procedure that requires the steady hands and focus of a sapper, or at least a proficient Operation player. If the paper breaks off in the gears of the machine the Xerox man must be summoned. He is usually stretched thin and sometimes cannot make a service call until 48 hours later or more. Not having a copy machine in a library is bad any time, but it is disastrous during tax season. Like Anne Frank, I believe that people are basically good at heart and that they will do the right thing as long as it's convenient. If our copy machine is out of order, however, certain people feel justified in ripping pages out of books and magazines, and, during tax season, which we are in the midst of, stealing our master tax forms. Missing tax forms will push our more delicate, less stable patrons over the edge, and if I suggest that they sign up for the library internet and print the forms out from the IRS website they will look at me in puzzled hurt like I've just told them to go fuck themselves.

While I was trying to pull the pieces of paper out, I overheard a conversation between two patrons waiting for the internet that made concentration difficult:

"Here this bitch is, a known murderer and bad check writer, and they're hassling me?"

"That's not right, man."

"And the police are telling me to calm down? I mean, what the FUCK."

"They don't know anything."

"I just want her out of my apartment. We're so fucking through."

"Crazy whore."

My hand then slipped, ripping the paper and making it completely inextricable so I gave up and called the repairman.

Freshmaker?

An older man, casually but very neatly dressed, approached the reference desk. He was wearing good walking shoes and looked like he had just wandered away from an upscale tour group. I expected him to ask for directions or to use the internet, but instead he asked if I could print out the contact number for the Better Business Bureau, the Chamber of Commerce and the Office of Consumer Affairs for some cities. I asked what cities he would like the information for and he presented a long scroll of paper filled with columns and columns of miniscule writing, a list of cities as long as the Southern casualties at the Battle of Gettsyburg. As I squinted at the tiny, migraine inducing script I noticed a pattern, that all of the cities had the word White in the them: White Settlement, Texas; White Fish, Montana; White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia.

He then wrote a note on a scrap piece of paper and showed it to me:

"Old administrator here, VERY CORRUPT"

As he handed the note to me his eyes darted around shiftily like spies were everywhere. After he was sure that I read the his note he destroyed it by tearing it into tiny pieces. I almost expected him then to start swallowing them out of paranoia that someone else might be able to piece the note back together and read it. I examined the list of cities again and told him that I would do 5 of them for him but if he wanted all of the cities he would to look them up himself, which I would be happy to show him how to do. I started at the top of the list and looked up the information for the first five cities for him. As I was finishing he asked,

“Does that thing,” pointing to the monitor, “have white lines that jump out you?”

“Wha-? Uh, no, it’s a very good monitor," I replied.

What about those cords,” gesturing toward the cables circled around the base of the monitor. “Do they ever try to come out and wrap themselves around your wrists and neck?”

As he waited for my answer, which wasn't exactly tripping off my tongue, he pulled out a roll of Mentos from his pocket and offered me one, just as if we were at the end of a really creepy Mentos commercial. He then muttered to himself, “No, those cords, they’re just playthings, I guess.”

I declined the Mentos and handed him the list back. I told him that my manager would be happy to show him how to look up the list, but I was needed in the back - a lie, of course. He said not today and then wandered off to the stacks. A few minutes later he went to the circulation desk and told the page, who was wearing a black sweater,

“Shame on you for wearing so much black.”

He then left the library.

Freshmaker?

An older man, casually but very neatly dressed, approached the reference desk. He was wearing good walking shoes and looked like he had just wandered away from an upscale tour group. I expected him to ask for directions or to use the internet, but instead he asked if I could print out the contact number for the Better Business Bureau, the Chamber of Commerce and the Office of Consumer Affairs for some cities. I asked what cities he would like the information for and he presented a long scroll of paper filled with columns and columns of miniscule writing, a list of cities as long as the Southern casualties at the Battle of Gettsyburg. As I squinted at the tiny, migraine inducing script I noticed a pattern, that all of the cities had the word White in the them: White Settlement, Texas; White Fish, Montana; White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia.

He then wrote a note on a scrap piece of paper and showed it to me:

"Old administrator here, VERY CORRUPT"

As he handed the note to me his eyes darted around shiftily like spies were everywhere. After he was sure that I read the his note he destroyed it by tearing it into tiny pieces. I almost expected him then to start swallowing them out of paranoia that someone else might be able to piece the note back together and read it. I examined the list of cities again and told him that I would do 5 of them for him but if he wanted all of the cities he would to look them up himself, which I would be happy to show him how to do. I started at the top of the list and looked up the information for the first five cities for him. As I was finishing he asked,

“Does that thing,” pointing to the monitor, “have white lines that jump out you?”

“Wha-? Uh, no, it’s a very good monitor," I replied.

What about those cords,” gesturing toward the cables circled around the base of the monitor. “Do they ever try to come out and wrap themselves around your wrists and neck?”

As he waited for my answer, which wasn't exactly tripping off my tongue, he pulled out a roll of Mentos from his pocket and offered me one, just as if we were at the end of a really creepy Mentos commercial. He then muttered to himself, “No, those cords, they’re just playthings, I guess.”

I declined the Mentos and handed him the list back. I told him that my manager would be happy to show him how to look up the list, but I was needed in the back - a lie, of course. He said not today and then wandered off to the stacks. A few minutes later he went to the circulation desk and told the page, who was wearing a black sweater,

“Shame on you for wearing so much black.”

He then left the library.

The Dude

Most men have at least one friend who drives their girlfriends batty. This friend is usually a slovenly deadbeat - an obnoxious drunk and habitual stoner who parties way too much for her taste. She feels he is a bad influence on her boyfriend. He has a low grade telepathy for knowing just the wrong time to drop by (always uninvited), and he stays for hours situated on the couch mooching beer and weed and doing things like belching and talking with his mouth full that infuriate and outrage female sensibilities. For sentimental reasons, or out of a misguided sense of loyalty, or because they like to let their wild idiot side play out vicariously through him, men will not cut this guy loose. They seem to romanticize their one friend who is living free outside societal constraints, perhaps because they feel that they have been tamed and forced to settle down. For whatever reason, guys will obstinately defend their friend and chuckle indulgently even as they have to bail him out or loan him money for the infinite time. They refuse to find fault with him,

“Poor dude! He just has the worst luck! The cops completely overreacted. Talk about police brutality.”

“He just keeps dating these girls that turn out to be psycho bitches that screw him over completely! Oh, by the way, he needs a place to stay so he’ll be moving in for a while.”

Even though the girlfriend will try to undermine their friendship with all the effort and dirty tactics of the CIA destabilizing communist friendly governments in Latin America, the boyfriend, no matter how pliable and whipped in every other aspect, remains stupidly, stubbornly loyal to his friend. It enrages the girlfriend that she can’t win this one battle, which makes her hate the friend all the more.

I had an old boyfriend Birmingham who had a friend just like this named Tony. In usual fashion Tony got thrown out of his current living arrangement so my friend took him in and let him sleep in a room in the back of his apartment. The room was small and there was only space for a bed, but somehow Tony also managed to cram his extensive porn collection, which was about as large as the Library of Alexandria, into the room as well. He had inherited the collection from his long time bachelor brother when he got married and it was Tony’s single largest material asset. Girls of every nationality performing every fetish imaginable were represented on the porn's pages, many of which were expensively laminated. Because space was limited, porn was strewn about in a thick porn carpet around the room and in large, precarious piles, stacked up as shamelessly as New Yorkers and LL. Bean catalogs. There was even porn shoved between the mattresses, poking out like a dust ruffle or lettuce leaves from a sandwich. Tony didn’t bother using a mattress cover or fitted bottom sheet and had only a grimy sheet laid across the top, only partially covering the stained mattress. His room, which had no door, was quite a sight, and girls would stand before it in mesmerized horror like a bird before a snake.

The worst part about Tony was that he would inconsiderately monopolize the single apartment bathroom. He would either spend hours locked in there with his harem of porn or anchored on the toilet in peristaltic spasms from all the cheap cocaine cut with baby laxative he had done the night before. No one else could, or wanted, to use the bathroom.

Tony eventually moved on but one day my friend was telling me about how months after Tony left he opened up a Monopoly game and found the magazine Swingers of Birmingham. My old boyfriend suspects that Tony had been interrupted while perusing it and had hurriedly shoved it in the Monopoly box. I asked where it was and my old boyfriend said that he had thrown it out because it was absolutely disgusting, full of very unattractive hillbillies, about the level of glamour and taste that you would expect from Hustler's Beaver Hunt (link not safe for work). I would have given anything to see such a thing. I remain deeply disappointed to this day that I didn’t get to see it and I still haven't forgiven him for throwing it out.

The Dude

Most men have at least one friend who drives their girlfriends batty. This friend is usually a slovenly deadbeat - an obnoxious drunk and habitual stoner who parties way too much for her taste. She feels he is a bad influence on her boyfriend. He has a low grade telepathy for knowing just the wrong time to drop by (always uninvited), and he stays for hours situated on the couch mooching beer and weed and doing things like belching and talking with his mouth full that infuriate and outrage female sensibilities. For sentimental reasons, or out of a misguided sense of loyalty, or because they like to let their wild idiot side play out vicariously through him, men will not cut this guy loose. They seem to romanticize their one friend who is living free outside societal constraints, perhaps because they feel that they have been tamed and forced to settle down. For whatever reason, guys will obstinately defend their friend and chuckle indulgently even as they have to bail him out or loan him money for the infinite time. They refuse to find fault with him,

“Poor dude! He just has the worst luck! The cops completely overreacted. Talk about police brutality.”

“He just keeps dating these girls that turn out to be psycho bitches that screw him over completely! Oh, by the way, he needs a place to stay so he’ll be moving in for a while.”

Even though the girlfriend will try to undermine their friendship with all the effort and dirty tactics of the CIA destabilizing communist friendly governments in Latin America, the boyfriend, no matter how pliable and whipped in every other aspect, remains stupidly, stubbornly loyal to his friend. It enrages the girlfriend that she can’t win this one battle, which makes her hate the friend all the more.

I had an old boyfriend Birmingham who had a friend just like this named Tony. In usual fashion Tony got thrown out of his current living arrangement so my friend took him in and let him sleep in a room in the back of his apartment. The room was small and there was only space for a bed, but somehow Tony also managed to cram his extensive porn collection, which was about as large as the Library of Alexandria, into the room as well. He had inherited the collection from his long time bachelor brother when he got married and it was Tony’s single largest material asset. Girls of every nationality performing every fetish imaginable were represented on the porn's pages, many of which were expensively laminated. Because space was limited, porn was strewn about in a thick porn carpet around the room and in large, precarious piles, stacked up as shamelessly as New Yorkers and LL. Bean catalogs. There was even porn shoved between the mattresses, poking out like a dust ruffle or lettuce leaves from a sandwich. Tony didn’t bother using a mattress cover or fitted bottom sheet and had only a grimy sheet laid across the top, only partially covering the stained mattress. His room, which had no door, was quite a sight, and girls would stand before it in mesmerized horror like a bird before a snake.

The worst part about Tony was that he would inconsiderately monopolize the single apartment bathroom. He would either spend hours locked in there with his harem of porn or anchored on the toilet in peristaltic spasms from all the cheap cocaine cut with baby laxative he had done the night before. No one else could, or wanted, to use the bathroom.

Tony eventually moved on but one day my friend was telling me about how months after Tony left he opened up a Monopoly game and found the magazine Swingers of Birmingham. My old boyfriend suspects that Tony had been interrupted while perusing it and had hurriedly shoved it in the Monopoly box. I asked where it was and my old boyfriend said that he had thrown it out because it was absolutely disgusting, full of very unattractive hillbillies, about the level of glamour and taste that you would expect from Hustler's Beaver Hunt (link not safe for work). I would have given anything to see such a thing. I remain deeply disappointed to this day that I didn’t get to see it and I still haven't forgiven him for throwing it out.

What are you reading?

When I went to cover for the other branch last week I was relieved to miss my ‘date’ with the Tuesday night vaguely obscene phone caller. He called again the night before I left for Asia, leading me to the conclusion that this was going to become a regular Tuesday night event, just one more thing to look forward to on nights that were plenty creepy enough. I recognized his mysterious European accent immediately and he stuck to his habitual script and began the phone call by asking whether the reference librarian was available. I said that he was talking to one, and he started off innocuously with a question about books that refuted or explained the Da Vinci code. Because of the controversial nature and obscene success of the book there have been a passle of them, and he wanted me to read off each title to him slowly so he could write each one down. After finishing that long list, he dispensed with his version of foreplay and asked for books we had about the Marquis de Sade. I thought, “Here we go.” He wanted to me to list each one and describe them in as much detail as possible. His breathing was starting to get a little heavy so I lied and said that I had a line at the reference desk. He replied that he would call back in about 30 minutes. I told the children’s librarian what was going on and she said,



“Did you look at the caller ID?”



DUH! I forgot our recently installed anonymity destroying feature. When he called again to continue my description of the Marquis de Sade collection I wrote down his number and did a reverse look up. He was calling from some photography studio all the way across town. A frustrated photographer working late and needing to blow off a little steam? Although I am committed to public service, this isn’t one that I am willing to provide, certainly not at my salary. I ended the call by telling him that we were a busy branch and if he needed in depth reference he should call the Main.

What are you reading?

When I went to cover for the other branch last week I was relieved to miss my ‘date’ with the Tuesday night vaguely obscene phone caller. He called again the night before I left for Asia, leading me to the conclusion that this was going to become a regular Tuesday night event, just one more thing to look forward to on nights that were plenty creepy enough. I recognized his mysterious European accent immediately and he stuck to his habitual script and began the phone call by asking whether the reference librarian was available. I said that he was talking to one, and he started off innocuously with a question about books that refuted or explained the Da Vinci code. Because of the controversial nature and obscene success of the book there have been a passle of them, and he wanted me to read off each title to him slowly so he could write each one down. After finishing that long list, he dispensed with his version of foreplay and asked for books we had about the Marquis de Sade. I thought, “Here we go.” He wanted to me to list each one and describe them in as much detail as possible. His breathing was starting to get a little heavy so I lied and said that I had a line at the reference desk. He replied that he would call back in about 30 minutes. I told the children’s librarian what was going on and she said,

“Did you look at the caller ID?”

DUH! I forgot our recently installed anonymity destroying feature. When he called again to continue my description of the Marquis de Sade collection I wrote down his number and did a reverse look up. He was calling from some photography studio all the way across town. A frustrated photographer working late and needing to blow off a little steam? Although I am committed to public service, this isn’t one that I am willing to provide, certainly not at my salary. I ended the call by telling him that we were a busy branch and if he needed in depth reference he should call the Main.

The Horrors, the horrors

Today was my first day back at work, but as soon as I arrived I was summoned to another branch to cover for a colleague who had called in sick. I was reluctant to go because I had anticipated being at my home branch and catching up with all of my coworkers and favorite patrons, who I had heard were full of anxious concern over my wellbeing, even though they manager assured them that I left days after the tsunami. I’m glad they didn’t have to see me laid up in my hotel room in the tropics suffering the effects of my own tsunami, the one that took place in my gut. I spent several days of my trip listless from the heat and loss of electrolytes, with no television to comfort me, feeling as though I were going slowly insane in my jungle sickbed just like Kurtz. I’m glad that even when I querulously whined, “The horror, the horror” E made me suck it up and swallow toxic amounts of Immodium and go participate in the wedding festivities. Anyway, today I barely had time to tell everyone hello before heading off to the shorthanded branch, which is in a neighborhood renown for its freaks, dropouts, bohemians and homeless.



When I arrived at the branch there were four grocery carts parked in front of the library steps filled with blankets, clothes, portable radios and the other detritus the homeless accumulate, including large plastic milk jugs full of urine. I was then distracted all day by a man sitting on a couch near my desk swatting at the imaginary flies/hornets/devils/tiny pink flying elephants/spacemen swarming around his head. He somehow managed to balance a Teen People on his lap, which he monopolized all day. In between swats he would either chuckle or exclaim angrily at something he read in magazine. Scattered throughout the library were a few hollow eyed Vietnam Vet types in fatigues staring catatonically at the wall for hours, as still and blank as Oliver Sack’s patients in Awakening.



The oddest patron was a homeless man with a trash bag AND large army duffel bag full of paper: old letters, receipts, bills, magazine articles, birthday and greeting cards, school reports, tickets, religious pamphlets, bus transfers, junk mail. I’m talking mountains of paper, a lifetime’s worth, which he spent our entire open hours carefully, methodically sorting through. He would examine each piece as he smoothed out its wrinkles and then he would place it in piles, only to sweep them hurriedly all right back in his bags before the library closed, destroying any order in which he might have just placed them. I’m curious as to whether he spends each day performing this task, only to start over when he’s completed like Sisyphus. He looked liked peaceful and content while he was sorting and making the piles, though, so I guess as far as paralyzing compulsions go, this one isn’t so bad.

The Horrors, the horrors

Today was my first day back at work, but as soon as I arrived I was summoned to another branch to cover for a colleague who had called in sick. I was reluctant to go because I had anticipated being at my home branch and catching up with all of my coworkers and favorite patrons, who I had heard were full of anxious concern over my wellbeing, even though they manager assured them that I left days after the tsunami. I’m glad they didn’t have to see me laid up in my hotel room in the tropics suffering the effects of my own tsunami, the one that took place in my gut. I spent several days of my trip listless from the heat and loss of electrolytes, with no television to comfort me, feeling as though I were going slowly insane in my jungle sickbed just like Kurtz. I’m glad that even when I querulously whined, “The horror, the horror” E made me suck it up and swallow toxic amounts of Immodium and go participate in the wedding festivities. Anyway, today I barely had time to tell everyone hello before heading off to the shorthanded branch, which is in a neighborhood renown for its freaks, dropouts, bohemians and homeless.

When I arrived at the branch there were four grocery carts parked in front of the library steps filled with blankets, clothes, portable radios and the other detritus the homeless accumulate, including large plastic milk jugs full of urine. I was then distracted all day by a man sitting on a couch near my desk swatting at the imaginary flies/hornets/devils/tiny pink flying elephants/spacemen swarming around his head. He somehow managed to balance a Teen People on his lap, which he monopolized all day. In between swats he would either chuckle or exclaim angrily at something he read in magazine. Scattered throughout the library were a few hollow eyed Vietnam Vet types in fatigues staring catatonically at the wall for hours, as still and blank as Oliver Sack’s patients in Awakening.

The oddest patron was a homeless man with a trash bag AND large army duffel bag full of paper: old letters, receipts, bills, magazine articles, birthday and greeting cards, school reports, tickets, religious pamphlets, bus transfers, junk mail. I’m talking mountains of paper, a lifetime’s worth, which he spent our entire open hours carefully, methodically sorting through. He would examine each piece as he smoothed out its wrinkles and then he would place it in piles, only to sweep them hurriedly all right back in his bags before the library closed, destroying any order in which he might have just placed them. I’m curious as to whether he spends each day performing this task, only to start over when he’s completed like Sisyphus. He looked liked peaceful and content while he was sorting and making the piles, though, so I guess as far as paralyzing compulsions go, this one isn’t so bad.

I regret to inform you that yo, you got the crabs, motherfucka!

I’m still cRaZy from jetlag. I just drove back from dropping E off at the airport and feel that it was irresponsible for me to be operating heavy machinery. It always hits me viciously going west to east for some reason. When I came back from Asia the last times a few years ago I thought I was going to lose my mind. I’m sure all of the cheap, foreignly manufacture benzodiazepines I had wheedled out of the hotel doctor in Indonesia for the flight home didn’t help my mental state of affairs. I wanted them because in some sort of retarded folly I thought I could avoid all of the terrifying turbulence by putting myself into a chemically induced state of suspended animation. I don't recommend this.

Since I’m incapable of writing coherently right now I’ll do a little reader’s advisory, the excellent Blue Blood. It is the memoirs of a Harvard educated New York police officer Edward Conlon. He’s a fantastic storyteller and he accumulated some great material during his time as a beat cop and narcotics officer on the mean streets of Metro New York. The book is fascinating, horrific and hilarious and reminds me of my own time at the Sheriff’s Office, although my experiences were a little more country fried and less hardcore than his on the public housing project beat in the Bronx.

He talks about one of his crack head confidential informants who had a joke involving a freshly released convict and a five dollar hooker. She enjoyed telling it to all the police officers and district attorneys, and since her repertoire was limited to this one joke, he heard it repeatedly. One of the punch lines involves the doctor informing the parolee that he has contracted public lice. The way the confidential informant has the doctor breaking the news to his patient is: “And the doctor says, ‘Yo, you got crabs motherfucka!”

I always laughed when she came to the part about the doctor. It reminded me of Crazy Larry’s notes to his ex-girlfriend on hospital stationery – You got the AIDS, Bitch! – or maybe there was a South Bronx doctor with that exact bedside manner. A few ADAs’ laughed, but more than one felt it necessary to caution her, “That’s a good joke, but you have to promise you won’t tell it to the judge.”

I regret to inform you that yo, you got the crabs, motherfucka!

I’m still cRaZy from jetlag. I just drove back from dropping E off at the airport and feel that it was irresponsible for me to be operating heavy machinery. It always hits me viciously going west to east for some reason. When I came back from Asia the last times a few years ago I thought I was going to lose my mind. I’m sure all of the cheap, foreignly manufacture benzodiazepines I had wheedled out of the hotel doctor in Indonesia for the flight home didn’t help my mental state of affairs. I wanted them because in some sort of retarded folly I thought I could avoid all of the terrifying turbulence by putting myself into a chemically induced state of suspended animation. I don't recommend this.

Since I’m incapable of writing coherently right now I’ll do a little reader’s advisory, the excellent Blue Blood. It is the memoirs of a Harvard educated New York police officer Edward Conlon. He’s a fantastic storyteller and he accumulated some great material during his time as a beat cop and narcotics officer on the mean streets of Metro New York. The book is fascinating, horrific and hilarious and reminds me of my own time at the Sheriff’s Office, although my experiences were a little more country fried and less hardcore than his on the public housing project beat in the Bronx.

He talks about one of his crack head confidential informants who had a joke involving a freshly released convict and a five dollar hooker. She enjoyed telling it to all the police officers and district attorneys, and since her repertoire was limited to this one joke, he heard it repeatedly. One of the punch lines involves the doctor informing the parolee that he has contracted public lice. The way the confidential informant has the doctor breaking the news to his patient is: “And the doctor says, ‘Yo, you got crabs motherfucka!”

I always laughed when she came to the part about the doctor. It reminded me of Crazy Larry’s notes to his ex-girlfriend on hospital stationery – You got the AIDS, Bitch! – or maybe there was a South Bronx doctor with that exact bedside manner. A few ADAs’ laughed, but more than one felt it necessary to caution her, “That’s a good joke, but you have to promise you won’t tell it to the judge.”

Sweet Home Alabama

I have returned safely from indolent climes, where I had the time of my life at the best destination wedding I have ever been to. A few uninvited monkeys even made an appearance to give their simian blessing - what more can you ask for? As usual, I was reckless about what I ate and drank and spent more than a few days a puling invalid, in a listless stupor with nothing on the television but footage of the tsunami disaster, which I have to say really became sickeningly pornographic as it lingered on the stricken survivors and photographs of the missing. My belly is gravid with what I hope is beer chub but I fear more likely worms, and if that is the case, judging by the havoc they have wreaked on my system, they are the size of the sandworms of Dune. More happier, less revolting tales soon.

Sweet Home Alabama

I have returned safely from indolent climes, where I had the time of my life at the best destination wedding I have ever been to. A few uninvited monkeys even made an appearance to give their simian blessing - what more can you ask for? As usual, I was reckless about what I ate and drank and spent more than a few days a puling invalid, in a listless stupor with nothing on the television but footage of the tsunami disaster, which I have to say really became sickeningly pornographic as it lingered on the stricken survivors and photographs of the missing. My belly is gravid with what I hope is beer chub but I fear more likely worms, and if that is the case, judging by the havoc they have wreaked on my system, they are the size of the sandworms of Dune. More happier, less revolting tales soon.

Bon Voyage

With my usual impeccable timing, I’m leaving for Indonesia and Malaysia tonight for a wedding. Some of the wedding party is already there and have reported everything is fine and business as usual where we’ll be. At least until the cholera epidemic commences. I’m hoping this is not yet another bad omen, but I couldn't find my passport last night. Whenever I return from a trip I always throw it in a certain file cabinet drawer but when I tried to find it last night it wasn’t there. Its disappearence caused me to go on a hysterical rampage. After frantically rooting around in my desk and every single file in the cabinet, I still could find no passport. Instead of looking for it in a calm, methodical and orderly fashion, I ransacked drawers and rifled through papers like one of these monkeys that are terrorizing villages in India. After sacking the office, I wept a little bit and then maybe had some diarrhea. In my head I began making wild, shameful and unfounded allegations against our angelic Brazilian cleaning women, accusing her of selling the passport to her sister or being part of a stolen passport ring. I even wailed, “WHY, WHY, WHY” a few times.



I then laid waste to the bedroom. I knocked a ceramic lamp off the chest of drawers while I was rummaging through some papers on the nightstand and it shattered. E lamented, “That lamp, like 3, was just too good for this world.” (She had just watched the Dale Earnhardt biopic.) I decided to check the drawer one more time, which I was now convinced was some sort of hungry, sucking hole to another dimension, and found the passport. It had suctioned itself onto the side of the cabinet and camouflaged itself perfectly there like a gecko.



Speaking of, the last time we were in Bali we were kept up at night on several occasions by raucous geckos in our hotel room. The gecko would windup with a, “gahgahgahGAHGAHGAHGECKO.” It would then scream, “GECKO” every 40 seconds or so like a smoke alarm with a dying battery, making sleep an impossibility. We assumed that anything that could make that much noise must be the size of a Komodo Dragon, and lay there in the bed terrified of the monster we must be sharing the hotel room with, but the next morning we would find the vociferous devil somewhere on the wall and he would be the size of my pinkie, adorable and sleepy as it was settling down to go to sleep (geckos are nocturnal). I don’t know what amplification properties these little lizards have but they are amazing.

Bon Voyage

With my usual impeccable timing, I’m leaving for Indonesia and Malaysia tonight for a wedding. Some of the wedding party is already there and have reported everything is fine and business as usual where we’ll be. At least until the cholera epidemic commences. I’m hoping this is not yet another bad omen, but I couldn't find my passport last night. Whenever I return from a trip I always throw it in a certain file cabinet drawer but when I tried to find it last night it wasn’t there. Its disappearence caused me to go on a hysterical rampage. After frantically rooting around in my desk and every single file in the cabinet, I still could find no passport. Instead of looking for it in a calm, methodical and orderly fashion, I ransacked drawers and rifled through papers like one of these monkeys that are terrorizing villages in India. After sacking the office, I wept a little bit and then maybe had some diarrhea. In my head I began making wild, shameful and unfounded allegations against our angelic Brazilian cleaning women, accusing her of selling the passport to her sister or being part of a stolen passport ring. I even wailed, “WHY, WHY, WHY” a few times.

I then laid waste to the bedroom. I knocked a ceramic lamp off the chest of drawers while I was rummaging through some papers on the nightstand and it shattered. E lamented, “That lamp, like 3, was just too good for this world.” (She had just watched the Dale Earnhardt biopic.) I decided to check the drawer one more time, which I was now convinced was some sort of hungry, sucking hole to another dimension, and found the passport. It had suctioned itself onto the side of the cabinet and camouflaged itself perfectly there like a gecko.

Speaking of, the last time we were in Bali we were kept up at night on several occasions by raucous geckos in our hotel room. The gecko would windup with a, “gahgahgahGAHGAHGAHGECKO.” It would then scream, “GECKO” every 40 seconds or so like a smoke alarm with a dying battery, making sleep an impossibility. We assumed that anything that could make that much noise must be the size of a Komodo Dragon, and lay there in the bed terrified of the monster we must be sharing the hotel room with, but the next morning we would find the vociferous devil somewhere on the wall and he would be the size of my pinkie, adorable and sleepy as it was settling down to go to sleep (geckos are nocturnal). I don’t know what amplification properties these little lizards have but they are amazing.

Ladies Man

My cousin met up with an old summer camp friend in Dallas that she hadn't seen in years. As they were reminiscing at a bar, a smooth operating ladies man named Brooklyn kept trying to chat them up. He was beginning to pester them so my cousin gave him the brush off by telling him that she and her friend needed to talk alone because they couldn't decide what to get their grandmother for Christmas.



Brooklyn scratched his head and pondered for a moment and then said helpfully, "I think you ladies should get your grandmother a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Special Label and a housecoat."



Which, come to think of it, would be exactly the kind of gifts my grandmother, a Scotch drinker, would appreciate. When I was staying at her house I grabbed the milk out of the refrigerator and noticed that its original cap, which presumably was lost, had been replaced by a Johnny Walker Red cap. It fit perfectly, just like it was made for it.

Ladies Man

My cousin met up with an old summer camp friend in Dallas that she hadn't seen in years. As they were reminiscing at a bar, a smooth operating ladies man named Brooklyn kept trying to chat them up. He was beginning to pester them so my cousin gave him the brush off by telling him that she and her friend needed to talk alone because they couldn't decide what to get their grandmother for Christmas.

Brooklyn scratched his head and pondered for a moment and then said helpfully, "I think you ladies should get your grandmother a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Special Label and a housecoat."

Which, come to think of it, would be exactly the kind of gifts my grandmother, a Scotch drinker, would appreciate. When I was staying at her house I grabbed the milk out of the refrigerator and noticed that its original cap, which presumably was lost, had been replaced by a Johnny Walker Red cap. It fit perfectly, just like it was made for it.

NARIZ NAVIDAD

E reported that as one of our local homeless men was pandhandling he was lustily caroling the neighborhood with his own garbled version of Jose Feliciano's bilingual Christmas classic Feliz Navidad. He got most of the carol right but swapped Feliz for Nariz, which is also a Spanish word but alters the meaning of the song a bit, since it means 'nose,' not 'merry.'

I have G.T.T. to be with my bloods but will fly back home today.

So, Nariz Narvidad, all! I hope everyone is having a wonderful holidays.

NARIZ NAVIDAD

E reported that as one of our local homeless men was pandhandling he was lustily caroling the neighborhood with his own garbled version of Jose Feliciano's bilingual Christmas classic Feliz Navidad. He got most of the carol right but swapped Feliz for Nariz, which is also a Spanish word but alters the meaning of the song a bit, since it means 'nose,' not 'merry.'
I have G.T.T. to be with my bloods but will fly back home today.
So, Nariz Narvidad, all! I hope everyone is having a wonderful holidays.

Merry XXXmas

A friend of mine in Virginia had a shiftless, ne’er do well uncle who had had estranged himself from his entire family. My friend had only met his uncle once in his life because the uncle, after drifting around for years, had settled far away in Nebraska to work in the dog food factories of Purina Mills. My friend’s grandfather's time was drawing near and his estranged son realized that he better begin insinuating himself back into his father's graces before the distribution of the estate. With visions of a future prodigal son's tearful welcome home as well as a sizable inheritance, he sent a home video for the Virginia family to watch as a Christmas card/peace offering. The VHS tape arrived and the Virginia family all gathered around to watch their uncle and his fifth or sixth wife’s holiday video.



Unfortunately, the uncle was so cheap that he chose to reuse a tape rather than waste a fresh one. It's a shame that he chose to economize in this way, because as the tape began the entire family was treated to raunchy amateur porn starring their uncle and his current wife, who had apparently setup a tripod in front of their bed. After about 5 seconds of "Your Friends and Neighbors" style lovemaking the tape cut off, followed by some static and the scene the uncle obviously meant to send, of him in a Santa Hat waving to the camera, giving a tour of his home decorated with Yuletide cheer.



My friend and his sister howled and screamed with laughter, while their mother said with prim fury, "I don't find that funny AT ALL." The grandfather just turned ashen, so I doubt the uncle succeeded in ingratiating himself.

Merry XXXmas

A friend of mine in Virginia had a shiftless, ne’er do well uncle who had had estranged himself from his entire family. My friend had only met his uncle once in his life because the uncle, after drifting around for years, had settled far away in Nebraska to work in the dog food factories of Purina Mills. My friend’s grandfather's time was drawing near and his estranged son realized that he better begin insinuating himself back into his father's graces before the distribution of the estate. With visions of a future prodigal son's tearful welcome home as well as a sizable inheritance, he sent a home video for the Virginia family to watch as a Christmas card/peace offering. The VHS tape arrived and the Virginia family all gathered around to watch their uncle and his fifth or sixth wife’s holiday video.

Unfortunately, the uncle was so cheap that he chose to reuse a tape rather than waste a fresh one. It's a shame that he chose to economize in this way, because as the tape began the entire family was treated to raunchy amateur porn starring their uncle and his current wife, who had apparently setup a tripod in front of their bed. After about 5 seconds of "Your Friends and Neighbors" style lovemaking the tape cut off, followed by some static and the scene the uncle obviously meant to send, of him in a Santa Hat waving to the camera, giving a tour of his home decorated with Yuletide cheer.

My friend and his sister howled and screamed with laughter, while their mother said with prim fury, "I don't find that funny AT ALL." The grandfather just turned ashen, so I doubt the uncle succeeded in ingratiating himself.

Asset Forfeiture

However squalid and sordid the content of the undercover wire tapes may have been, they weren't boring. Meanwhile, all my friends who had also recently graduated were about to gnaw through the veins of their wrists because of the drudgery and tedium of their retail and entry level bank jobs. Now I didn’t care what was waiting for me at work - I was just so grateful not to be working retail at the mall. Sales clerking for Carroll Reed remains to this day the worst job I’ve ever had, and that includes the summer in Colorado when I held a job at both Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen (My Summer of Voluptuousness) and the Christmas break when I worked in the back rooms of Honey Hams blowtorching sugar onto hams for 12 hours straight a day during the seasonal rush. This is the ‘honeying’ process. (Ooops! Did I just reveal a trade secret? I think I even had to sign a non-disclosure on that one.) When I would walk home from that job I reeked so strongly of sugary ham that dogs would howl and chase after me like I was a dog in heat.



Besides learning some practical office skills, I also mastered the metric system from converting all of the various weights and measurements (ounces to grams, etc.) of seized drugs for the narcotic’s officers’ monthly statistic reports. At last I learned what the inneffectual Jimmy Carter never had the balls to force me and the rest of America learn in the 70s. I also provided entertainment to my friends whom I used to do drugs with who enjoyed calling and snickering when I answered the phone "Narcotics." Oh, how I adored my job.



One aspect of my job that I felt terrible about was typing up inventories of people’s belongings seized under asset forfeiture, one of the most insidious weapons yet in the arsenal of the War on Drugs. If the insanely destructive and unfair policy of mandatory sentencing is the Agent Orange in the War on Drugs, then asset forfeiture is the Napalm. I also believe it is highly contradictory to what our founding fathers believed, but I guess that all goes out the window what when you go to war against your own citizens. The theory behind it was that by confiscating kingpin’s ill gotten gains through asset forfeiture, agencies would hit the bad guys were it would hurt and the proceeds would be funneled back into the war. It was supposed to be used against big time dealers, the Tony Montana types who have chained tigers at their weddings and live in vulgar, over the top yet strangely fabulous mansions. That's not the case at all. Small time dealers get all of their property seized, including cars, houses, IRA accounts and family farms. It's a cash cow, and it leads to corruption, inevitably. Departments grow fat and come to rely on it. At the time I worked at the Sheriff’s Office, any proceeds from seized items were required to be used by the agency that seized it, and they would end up buying equipment and funding positions they didn’t really need even though there were other departments overwhelmed and drowning. Asset Forfeiture creates and then feeds the big anti-drug industrial complex: surveillance equipment/helicopter/gun manufacturers, the prison systems to warehouse these (for the most part) non violent people, etc. Many people's jobs and industries that rely on the War on Drugs continuing have become a strong force against any sort of reform or legalization. To be continued…

Asset Forfeiture

However squalid and sordid the content of the undercover wire tapes may have been, they weren't boring. Meanwhile, all my friends who had also recently graduated were about to gnaw through the veins of their wrists because of the drudgery and tedium of their retail and entry level bank jobs. Now I didn’t care what was waiting for me at work - I was just so grateful not to be working retail at the mall. Sales clerking for Carroll Reed remains to this day the worst job I’ve ever had, and that includes the summer in Colorado when I held a job at both Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen (My Summer of Voluptuousness) and the Christmas break when I worked in the back rooms of Honey Hams blowtorching sugar onto hams for 12 hours straight a day during the seasonal rush. This is the ‘honeying’ process. (Ooops! Did I just reveal a trade secret? I think I even had to sign a non-disclosure on that one.) When I would walk home from that job I reeked so strongly of sugary ham that dogs would howl and chase after me like I was a dog in heat.

Besides learning some practical office skills, I also mastered the metric system from converting all of the various weights and measurements (ounces to grams, etc.) of seized drugs for the narcotic’s officers’ monthly statistic reports. At last I learned what the inneffectual Jimmy Carter never had the balls to force me and the rest of America learn in the 70s. I also provided entertainment to my friends whom I used to do drugs with who enjoyed calling and snickering when I answered the phone "Narcotics." Oh, how I adored my job.

One aspect of my job that I felt terrible about was typing up inventories of people’s belongings seized under asset forfeiture, one of the most insidious weapons yet in the arsenal of the War on Drugs. If the insanely destructive and unfair policy of mandatory sentencing is the Agent Orange in the War on Drugs, then asset forfeiture is the Napalm. I also believe it is highly contradictory to what our founding fathers believed, but I guess that all goes out the window what when you go to war against your own citizens. The theory behind it was that by confiscating kingpin’s ill gotten gains through asset forfeiture, agencies would hit the bad guys were it would hurt and the proceeds would be funneled back into the war. It was supposed to be used against big time dealers, the Tony Montana types who have chained tigers at their weddings and live in vulgar, over the top yet strangely fabulous mansions. That's not the case at all. Small time dealers get all of their property seized, including cars, houses, IRA accounts and family farms. It's a cash cow, and it leads to corruption, inevitably. Departments grow fat and come to rely on it. At the time I worked at the Sheriff’s Office, any proceeds from seized items were required to be used by the agency that seized it, and they would end up buying equipment and funding positions they didn’t really need even though there were other departments overwhelmed and drowning. Asset Forfeiture creates and then feeds the big anti-drug industrial complex: surveillance equipment/helicopter/gun manufacturers, the prison systems to warehouse these (for the most part) non violent people, etc. Many people's jobs and industries that rely on the War on Drugs continuing have become a strong force against any sort of reform or legalization. To be continued…

Bringing Down the Medillin Cartel, Part II

HARDLY.



During the time the Sheriff’s Office employed the Professional Confidential Informant, I was kept busy transcribing tapes of the pressured speech of 'poor white' crack users on their meandering quests to re-up. Since the CI and the suspect were usually wired in more ways than one, their missions were not well thought out and they would spend many talkative hours trolling the county's seedy neighborhoods, apartment complexes and trailer parks. The strategy for their errand was very scatter shot and time consuming, so much so that finding the drugs must have been like a full time job for them. Actually, it was their full time job, since every single one of them eventually revealed during their conversations that they collected welfare and food stamps, which most of the dealers would take as currency for crack. As the suspects jabbered away they would reveal all sorts of incriminating details about their lives that made it very hard to feel too sorry for them or for me to remain a bleeding heart Democrat. It was too bad for the targets that their drug use didn’t make them more paranoid of the Judas driving in the car with them. I noticed that white people in general seemed a little more complacent and less wary than African-Americans, whose community had already been the target of several drug sweeps. Since the CI was white he could only sucker other whites into procuring drugs for him, and what dumb, luckless white trash they were.



The CI showed me how he would put his targets at ease. When the pigeon would get in the car, the CI would show them a Santa doll (this was around the holidays).



“Look here what I got my old lady for Christmas.”



He would then pull down the Santa doll’s pants to reveal a grotesquely large penis. An anatomically exaggerated Santa Claus doll was apparently the height of hilarity and they would both cackle and slap their knees for about 5 minutes. The transcript would go something like:



CI: {...LAUGHING...} Isn't that motherfucker the best? {...LAUGHING...}

SUSPECT: {...LAUGHING...} Where did you find that motherfucker? {...LAUGHING...}

CI: {...LAUGHING...} This motherfucking store. {...LAUGHING...}

SUSPECT: {...LAUGHING...} Goddamn, that motherfucker's funny. {...LAUGHING...}

CI: {...LAUGHING...} Sure fucking is.

SUSPECT: I'm going to get me one of those motherfuckers. {...LAUGHING...}

CI: OOOO-WEEE, take a look at that pussy over there!

SUSPECT: I'd like to fuck me that pussy.



After that little ice breaker, the informant and suspect would spend the next 5 or so hours continuing along in this delightful vein and I would have to type every single word of it.



The users were just recreational, as far as you can be a recreational crack user, and none were remotely what you would call a king pin. They were procuring the drug for the CI so they could get a little piece of it as commission. After the CI had collected cases against 15 or so of them, the Narcotics Officers began their arrests. To be continued…

Bringing Down the Medillin Cartel, Part II

HARDLY.

During the time the Sheriff’s Office employed the Professional Confidential Informant, I was kept busy transcribing tapes of the pressured speech of 'poor white' crack users on their meandering quests to re-up. Since the CI and the suspect were usually wired in more ways than one, their missions were not well thought out and they would spend many talkative hours trolling the county's seedy neighborhoods, apartment complexes and trailer parks. The strategy for their errand was very scatter shot and time consuming, so much so that finding the drugs must have been like a full time job for them. Actually, it was their full time job, since every single one of them eventually revealed during their conversations that they collected welfare and food stamps, which most of the dealers would take as currency for crack. As the suspects jabbered away they would reveal all sorts of incriminating details about their lives that made it very hard to feel too sorry for them or for me to remain a bleeding heart Democrat. It was too bad for the targets that their drug use didn’t make them more paranoid of the Judas driving in the car with them. I noticed that white people in general seemed a little more complacent and less wary than African-Americans, whose community had already been the target of several drug sweeps. Since the CI was white he could only sucker other whites into procuring drugs for him, and what dumb, luckless white trash they were.

The CI showed me how he would put his targets at ease. When the pigeon would get in the car, the CI would show them a Santa doll (this was around the holidays).

“Look here what I got my old lady for Christmas.”

He would then pull down the Santa doll’s pants to reveal a grotesquely large penis. An anatomically exaggerated Santa Claus doll was apparently the height of hilarity and they would both cackle and slap their knees for about 5 minutes. The transcript would go something like:

CI: {...LAUGHING...} Isn't that motherfucker the best? {...LAUGHING...}
SUSPECT: {...LAUGHING...} Where did you find that motherfucker? {...LAUGHING...}
CI: {...LAUGHING...} This motherfucking store. {...LAUGHING...}
SUSPECT: {...LAUGHING...} Goddamn, that motherfucker's funny. {...LAUGHING...}
CI: {...LAUGHING...} Sure fucking is.
SUSPECT: I'm going to get me one of those motherfuckers. {...LAUGHING...}
CI: OOOO-WEEE, take a look at that pussy over there!
SUSPECT: I'd like to fuck me that pussy.

After that little ice breaker, the informant and suspect would spend the next 5 or so hours continuing along in this delightful vein and I would have to type every single word of it.

The users were just recreational, as far as you can be a recreational crack user, and none were remotely what you would call a king pin. They were procuring the drug for the CI so they could get a little piece of it as commission. After the CI had collected cases against 15 or so of them, the Narcotics Officers began their arrests. To be continued…

She's (working for) the Sheriff!

The year noneofyourbusiness I graduated from college there was a terrible recession. I know you will find this hard to believe, but even though I had a very hot ticket B.A. in History from an anachronistic all girls finishing school, I was not courted heavily by any Fortune 500 companies. Instead of trying to find adult work, I decided to give myself one last summer as a counselor at a summer camp that I had attended since I was seven. That year I was in charge of a stable of 30 horses and when I wasn’t teaching riding or assigned to cabin duty I had carte blanche with the horses. I spent a lot of my free time racing through the woods and swimming with them in a beautiful private lake, which you do by clinging to their mane as they paddle through the water. I count this as one of my top five experiences of my life. When the summer ended I felt like I had been cast out of heaven into an indifferently cruel world and I had no idea what to do with my life. So I decided to (wince) follow a man and move to Virginia to be near my boyfriend, who still had a couple of years to go in an anachronistic men’s finishing school there.



I had to find work immediately, and out of desperation did so at Carroll Reed, a defunct women's 'sophisticated country casual' clothing store, where my boyfriend’s mother shopped for the lion’s share of her wardrobe. Working retail is just the pits, especially at a strip mall. I've never worked a worse job - the minimum wage salary, the fussy, humorless female supervisors who believe in the company's mission like it's holy writ, the incessant sweater folding and hanging up of clothes, the standing on your feet all day, the boring product. Because it was the South, the customers at least had manners and were pleasant to deal with, but I was still utterly miserable.



One day before an evening shift I watched Miller’s Crossing, and found myself sobbing during the scene when Gabriel Byrne takes John Turturro out to the woods to shoot him. Turturro is begging for his life, pleading and sobbing on his knees for Byrne not to kill him like some kind of animal there in the woods. And I was sobbing right along with him, not because of the intensity of the scene or because I felt the least bit sorry for that weasel Turturro, whom Byrne should have shot through the temple without hesitation, but because the woods were so beautiful and I would have given anything to be there in the woods rather than have to leave to go to work in a mall in a chain store under hideous fluorescent lighting.



Before I became too despondent, my boyfriend’s father, the former attorney of a rural county, helped me acquire my first real office job as a clerk for the Sheriff’s Office. Thanks to a little country cronyism, I was to be a foot soldier, or more aptly a file clerk, in this country’s glorious War on Drugs. The job was funded by a federal grant and my responsibility was to manage a primitive software program called Drug Trak. I was to enter data and old case file information about drug dealers and suspects into the database. Aside from marijuana growing and some small time crack dealing (this was before meth really hit it big), drug trafficking was practically non existent and my position was completely unnecessary. I adored my sinecure, though, especially the narcotics officers, who were good old boys in the best sense: courteous rednecks. They primarily worked nights or out in the field and I rarely saw them except when they passed through the office to throw work at me. I would type up a report for them or to do their monthly statistics or for them while they good naturedly sexually harassed me. I thought they were great and loved teasing them about their latest unconvincing biker mustaches and goatees that they would grow and shave to disguise themselves. Since the country wasn’t a hot bed of drug activity, I was left with a lot of time on my hands, unsupervised and alone in the little narcotics room, which was basically a small office with a computer and a bunch of file cabinets. I used the ample downtime to teach myself WordPerfect and read books of monstrous length like Shogun and the complete works of Ayn Rand, which I found HI-larious. I guess I had missed the small window of the personal development stage (around 14-16 years of age, I believe, the acme of teenage asshole selfishness) when you can actually take her philosophy seriously.



Then the county hired a free lance confidential informant. Most confidential informants are criminals themselves - we're talking real scum of the earth. They move into a community, befriend other dirtbags, get them to sell them drugs while they wear a wire, testify in court against them, collect their money and then head on to the next town. I thought it was a sleazy practice, practically entrapment, but it’s a common tool in our illustrious War on Drugs. So, our confidential informant would wear a wire and go cruising for drugs with addicts. These were no kingpins - they were mostly addicts themselves who wanted to procure drugs for the CI so they could earn a little bit for themselves. The CI and his target would sometimes drive around for hours searching for drugs, and my main job became transcribing these conversations, some of them lasting for hours. I had to type every single tedious word or else the tapes would be inadmissible in court. I became an expert typist and Word Perfect savant. The quality of the conversation of drug addicts was not what you would call elevated or even all that interesting. Often the participants were high on crack and jabbered away at light speed on these nonsensical jags. The word m*therf*cker was used so frequently in their discussion that I taught myself how to make a macro for the word. Most discussions were boring and monotonous, although sometimes they were hilarious. Other times they were horrifying and pitiful. More often they were just plain filthy. Some of these people would spill out their life stories to make conversation, and talk about their kids and family, and I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for their doomed, soon to be mandatorily sentenced asses.

One memorable quote:



“Do you mind if I have a little piece of that rock? I promised my babysitter I would bring her some back.”



While I was reading The Canon and amusing myself rummaging through old case files up in the Narcotics room, the criminal investigators, who were dealing with real crime like rape, homicide, and bad check writing, were drowning in paperwork and desperately in need of some clerical help. That’s when my boss lent my services to them and the real fun began.

She's (working for) the Sheriff!

The year noneofyourbusiness I graduated from college there was a terrible recession. I know you will find this hard to believe, but even though I had a very hot ticket B.A. in History from an anachronistic all girls finishing school, I was not courted heavily by any Fortune 500 companies. Instead of trying to find adult work, I decided to give myself one last summer as a counselor at a summer camp that I had attended since I was seven. That year I was in charge of a stable of 30 horses and when I wasn’t teaching riding or assigned to cabin duty I had carte blanche with the horses. I spent a lot of my free time racing through the woods and swimming with them in a beautiful private lake, which you do by clinging to their mane as they paddle through the water. I count this as one of my top five experiences of my life. When the summer ended I felt like I had been cast out of heaven into an indifferently cruel world and I had no idea what to do with my life. So I decided to (wince) follow a man and move to Virginia to be near my boyfriend, who still had a couple of years to go in an anachronistic men’s finishing school there.

I had to find work immediately, and out of desperation did so at Carroll Reed, a defunct women's 'sophisticated country casual' clothing store, where my boyfriend’s mother shopped for the lion’s share of her wardrobe. Working retail is just the pits, especially at a strip mall. I've never worked a worse job - the minimum wage salary, the fussy, humorless female supervisors who believe in the company's mission like it's holy writ, the incessant sweater folding and hanging up of clothes, the standing on your feet all day, the boring product. Because it was the South, the customers at least had manners and were pleasant to deal with, but I was still utterly miserable.

One day before an evening shift I watched Miller’s Crossing, and found myself sobbing during the scene when Gabriel Byrne takes John Turturro out to the woods to shoot him. Turturro is begging for his life, pleading and sobbing on his knees for Byrne not to kill him like some kind of animal there in the woods. And I was sobbing right along with him, not because of the intensity of the scene or because I felt the least bit sorry for that weasel Turturro, whom Byrne should have shot through the temple without hesitation, but because the woods were so beautiful and I would have given anything to be there in the woods rather than have to leave to go to work in a mall in a chain store under hideous fluorescent lighting.

Before I became too despondent, my boyfriend’s father, the former attorney of a rural county, helped me acquire my first real office job as a clerk for the Sheriff’s Office. Thanks to a little country cronyism, I was to be a foot soldier, or more aptly a file clerk, in this country’s glorious War on Drugs. The job was funded by a federal grant and my responsibility was to manage a primitive software program called Drug Trak. I was to enter data and old case file information about drug dealers and suspects into the database. Aside from marijuana growing and some small time crack dealing (this was before meth really hit it big), drug trafficking was practically non existent and my position was completely unnecessary. I adored my sinecure, though, especially the narcotics officers, who were good old boys in the best sense: courteous rednecks. They primarily worked nights or out in the field and I rarely saw them except when they passed through the office to throw work at me. I would type up a report for them or to do their monthly statistics or for them while they good naturedly sexually harassed me. I thought they were great and loved teasing them about their latest unconvincing biker mustaches and goatees that they would grow and shave to disguise themselves. Since the country wasn’t a hot bed of drug activity, I was left with a lot of time on my hands, unsupervised and alone in the little narcotics room, which was basically a small office with a computer and a bunch of file cabinets. I used the ample downtime to teach myself WordPerfect and read books of monstrous length like Shogun and the complete works of Ayn Rand, which I found HI-larious. I guess I had missed the small window of the personal development stage (around 14-16 years of age, I believe, the acme of teenage asshole selfishness) when you can actually take her philosophy seriously.

Then the county hired a free lance confidential informant. Most confidential informants are criminals themselves - we're talking real scum of the earth. They move into a community, befriend other dirtbags, get them to sell them drugs while they wear a wire, testify in court against them, collect their money and then head on to the next town. I thought it was a sleazy practice, practically entrapment, but it’s a common tool in our illustrious War on Drugs. So, our confidential informant would wear a wire and go cruising for drugs with addicts. These were no kingpins - they were mostly addicts themselves who wanted to procure drugs for the CI so they could earn a little bit for themselves. The CI and his target would sometimes drive around for hours searching for drugs, and my main job became transcribing these conversations, some of them lasting for hours. I had to type every single tedious word or else the tapes would be inadmissible in court. I became an expert typist and Word Perfect savant. The quality of the conversation of drug addicts was not what you would call elevated or even all that interesting. Often the participants were high on crack and jabbered away at light speed on these nonsensical jags. The word m*therf*cker was used so frequently in their discussion that I taught myself how to make a macro for the word. Most discussions were boring and monotonous, although sometimes they were hilarious. Other times they were horrifying and pitiful. More often they were just plain filthy. Some of these people would spill out their life stories to make conversation, and talk about their kids and family, and I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for their doomed, soon to be mandatorily sentenced asses.
One memorable quote:

“Do you mind if I have a little piece of that rock? I promised my babysitter I would bring her some back.”

While I was reading The Canon and amusing myself rummaging through old case files up in the Narcotics room, the criminal investigators, who were dealing with real crime like rape, homicide, and bad check writing, were drowning in paperwork and desperately in need of some clerical help. That’s when my boss lent my services to them and the real fun began.

Billy and the Angry Inch

We finally saw Hedwig and the Angry Inch last Saturday, and it has been playing practically non stop on the Tivo ever since, which forces anybody else who wanders into the apartment to watch it as well. I believe my own personal viewing count is something like 15 times. Not only is the story poignant, brilliant and unlike anything I’ve ever seen, it is riddled with some of the most hilarious one-liners I've heard ("After my divorce I scraped by with babysitting gigs and odd jobs - mostly the jobs we call blow.” And what can you say about a movie that has an Israeli drag queen named Kristal Nacht.) I’m not particularly fond of musicals, but I have been humming these beautiful songs, some of which are profound and explain Platonic theory much better than any Philosophy professor I ever had, on a constant loop. The Wig in a Box song has to be one of the most inspirational songs I’ve ever heard about pulling yourself up, dusting yourself off and doing what you have to do to get on with life. It has supplanted my previous favorite song of this type, Bobby Gentry's Fancy, which was covered superbly by Reba McEntire. “I might have been born just plain white trash BUT FANCY WAS MY NAME!” Yeah, she got herself a Georgia mansion and she ain't been back. (Billy Jack was almost named Fancy).



Speaking of, we now are more sympathetic of and sensitive to Billy's behavior problems. E theorizes that this all stems from his botched tail docking when he was a 6 week old puppy. Jack Russells’s tails are docked at 6 weeks, but only partially. Enough tail length is supposed to remain – about 5 inches - so that the tails make a convenient little handle for grabbing them and pulling them out of varmint holes. As you can see from the photograph, Billy’s tail was docked much too short and he has been spiteful and overcompensating ever since.



E has been picking Billy up and singing, “6 inches forward and 5 inches back. Billy's got an angry inch, an angry inch!” Anyway, I can't believe Rachel Griffiths didn't get an academy award for her portrayal of the transexual Hedwig. She was amazing. I'm just kidding, but you have to admit the resemblance is remarkable.



Drag queens have always fascinated me. Many of them patronize this branch and even if they are not in their full raiment they are still glamorous creatures to behold. It’s almost like they are a third sex – a combination of female and male, like angels are purported to be. Two like to come in the branch together. They are never seen without their platform heels which make them both about seven feet tall each. They take my breath away, like I'm in the presence of a fallen archangel or some larger than life being or royalty (they're not called queens for nothing). Their vanity, their star power, their overall fabulousness, their supermodel size hips, awe me. I also love their eviscerating humor. They have the feminine catty, cruel streak combined with a man’s physical power and ruthlessness. And they are not to be messed with, sister. They wouldn’t hesitate to rake their Mandarin length nails across one's face, and since they possess a man's strength, this would probably be mortal wound. I can understand why men like Eddie Murphy cruise them – it would be like having sex with some kind of fantastical creature. When they come in I always waive their fines because as that homosexual sage Buddy Cole cautions, "An angry drag queen is scarier than a minotaur!"

Billy and the Angry Inch

We finally saw Hedwig and the Angry Inch last Saturday, and it has been playing practically non stop on the Tivo ever since, which forces anybody else who wanders into the apartment to watch it as well. I believe my own personal viewing count is something like 15 times. Not only is the story poignant, brilliant and unlike anything I’ve ever seen, it is riddled with some of the most hilarious one-liners I've heard ("After my divorce I scraped by with babysitting gigs and odd jobs - mostly the jobs we call blow.” And what can you say about a movie that has an Israeli drag queen named Kristal Nacht.) I’m not particularly fond of musicals, but I have been humming these beautiful songs, some of which are profound and explain Platonic theory much better than any Philosophy professor I ever had, on a constant loop. The Wig in a Box song has to be one of the most inspirational songs I’ve ever heard about pulling yourself up, dusting yourself off and doing what you have to do to get on with life. It has supplanted my previous favorite song of this type, Bobby Gentry's Fancy, which was covered superbly by Reba McEntire. “I might have been born just plain white trash BUT FANCY WAS MY NAME!” Yeah, she got herself a Georgia mansion and she ain't been back. (Billy Jack was almost named Fancy).

Speaking of, we now are more sympathetic of and sensitive to Billy's behavior problems. E theorizes that this all stems from his botched tail docking when he was a 6 week old puppy. Jack Russells’s tails are docked at 6 weeks, but only partially. Enough tail length is supposed to remain – about 5 inches - so that the tails make a convenient little handle for grabbing them and pulling them out of varmint holes. As you can see from the photograph, Billy’s tail was docked much too short and he has been spiteful and overcompensating ever since.

E has been picking Billy up and singing, “6 inches forward and 5 inches back. Billy's got an angry inch, an angry inch!” Anyway, I can't believe Rachel Griffiths didn't get an academy award for her portrayal of the transexual Hedwig. She was amazing. I'm just kidding, but you have to admit the resemblance is remarkable.

Drag queens have always fascinated me. Many of them patronize this branch and even if they are not in their full raiment they are still glamorous creatures to behold. It’s almost like they are a third sex – a combination of female and male, like angels are purported to be. Two like to come in the branch together. They are never seen without their platform heels which make them both about seven feet tall each. They take my breath away, like I'm in the presence of a fallen archangel or some larger than life being or royalty (they're not called queens for nothing). Their vanity, their star power, their overall fabulousness, their supermodel size hips, awe me. I also love their eviscerating humor. They have the feminine catty, cruel streak combined with a man’s physical power and ruthlessness. And they are not to be messed with, sister. They wouldn’t hesitate to rake their Mandarin length nails across one's face, and since they possess a man's strength, this would probably be mortal wound. I can understand why men like Eddie Murphy cruise them – it would be like having sex with some kind of fantastical creature. When they come in I always waive their fines because as that homosexual sage Buddy Cole cautions, "An angry drag queen is scarier than a minotaur!"