We're back in Starkpatch, MS, for a bit and we just got in from a
fabulous evening out with friends, dining at a great new Japanese
restaurant (which is run by a bunch of Mandarin Chinese, as far as we
could tell), scarfing sushi, crispy fried fish and hot saki. Good
stuff. I can't recall the name of it, but it's on Stark Road, in case
you're in the neighborhood.
We've spent the last couple days down in Wayne County,
MS, visiting my Aunt, Uncle and Cousin and doing the late Christmas
thing with them. We also visited my Mamaw, who is still in her resident
care home. Can't say that this visit went as well as the one last month. I suppose it could have been worse, though.
It was not one of Mamaw's good days. Unlike last
time, when she was semi-energetic and attentive, this time she mostly
slept. When she was awake, she was kind of confused, though we did
manage to get a smile out of her when we told her we'd helped clean her
house and fiercely missed her cooking. It was not an easy visit for
us, though. She's not doing well and is getting progressively worse.
She had lost a lot of weight since even our Thanksgiving visit, and she
didn't have that much weight available to lose in the first place. She
is skin and bones at this point, wrapped up in blankets in her bed where
she spends most of her time sleeping. Her Alzheimers has progressed to
the point where she can no longer swallow properly on most days and
she's not much interested in food to begin with. They're feeding her as
many cans of Ensure as they can get down her, which is, again, not many
on most days. Doctors have already begun discussing the possibility of
a feeding tube with my aunt, which is a prospect none of us want to see
happen. Mamaw made her wishes clear that she didn't want to wind up
like that. We think she would hate it if she knew she was in the
residence care home at all, which thankfully she doesn't seem to.
Mamaw was a terribly private person in life, very
quiet and reserved and unwilling to be beholden to anyone nor to have
people sticking noses into her business. Those traits as well as her
hearing loss helped mask the extent of her condition for quite some
time. No one was even aware she had any mental problems until she began
forgetting names of close family members, or calling them by the wrong
names, or imagining that she had house guests when there were none.
Looking back, we can see that there were lots of signs, but most of
these signs could also be interpreted any number of other, less harmful
ways, so it's no wonder they were missed. You could chalk any number of
things up to bad eyesight, loss of hearing or simple frailty, only
seeing their true significance after the fact. I now look back on the
conversations I've had with her over the past five years and I can see
that even before the disease began they were much the same as after.
The only time I can really pin down a major warning sign is when I
called her in April of this year and she seemed to think I was my sister
for a few seconds. (For those just joining us, I'm male and have a
fairly deep voice, whereas my sister does not.)
I keep praying that God will call her home, reuniting
her with the souls of her own grandmother (who Mamaw evidently cared for
in much this same way when she was much younger--she's actually
mentioned this in the past few months), her parents, her husband, her
brothers and that of her daughter, my mother. Barring that, I pray that
God will give her comfort in the days to come.
If you're inclined to prayer, how bout say one on her
behalf. You can refer to her as Miss Bessie, if you'd like a name to
use. Please say one for my Aunt Dora too. She's having to make most of
the hard decisions here and I pray for God to give her guidance and
wisdom.
While we're at it, please also say a prayer or two for
my Uncle Chuck, on my Dad's side of the family, in Missouri. He just
underwent double bypass surgery this afternoon. From what I'm told,
he's doing well so far, particularly since the surgery was supposed to
be triple bypass, but the surgeons scaled it back when they saw he
didn't need all three. He and his family are going through the ringer
on this, so they could all use positive thoughts and prayers.
Thanks.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Saturday, December 27, 2003
"I can't get into things without my keys"
Before leaving for this trip, I figured there were a few automotive
issues to take care of first. No need having a repeat of the serpentine belt shredding incident
of Thanksgiving,especially when that very belt has been squeaking for
the past three weeks since our return. My thought was that it was just a
bit loose and needed tightening. I also needed an oil change, so we
wound up taking the Malibu to the local dealership since I knew they
would have the proper belt tightening and oil changing tools that my
usual place might not.
The dealership called a few hours later to say that I'm in need of a belt-pulley replacement. They didn't have the pulley in stock so it was up to me to decide what to do.
"Well, is it safe to travel with?" I asked. I figured, if it'll hold out til after the new year we can just change it then. After all, we don't want to make a 1,200 mile plus road trip in my wife's `91 Escort Station Wagon. Beyond being far from the most comfortable vehicle we own, it's also 50k miles past its 80k mile life expectancy. And we hope it lasts another 50k, or however many it takes to get us past Ash's graduation.
The dealership guy put me on hold to consult the experts. The experts said I should be fine.
When I came round to pick up the car, I marched up to the payment window where the dealership clerk guy I'd dealt with earlier stood, along side a large managerial-looking fellow.
"Hello," I said. "I'm here to pick up a blue `99 Malibu. I probably owe you guys some money for an oil change as well."
The managerial fellow sorted through some paperwork, found a page he liked, grabbed a keychain off the hook board behind him and slid it across the counter to me. I noticed immediately that the key was not mine.
"Um. This isn't me," I said.
"What?" Manager said.
"This isn't my key."
"Yeah, it is," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Uh, no, it's not."
"Uh, yeah, it IS," he insisted.
I picked up the keychain. It had a black plastic remote door unlocking device and a standard Chevrolet key with the black plastic grip.
"Sir, I promise you, I know what my key looks like and this is not it. For one thing, I don't have a little door clicker on mine. And for another thing my key is bent." I held up the unbent key for his inspection, then put the whole thing back on the counter.
The big managerial guy was getting angry now. Something wasn't making sense in his world. He snatched up the key chain and turned to the dealership clerk guy.
"Well, this is the key you gave me for it earlier! This IS the key to the Malibu!" he snapped. He was starting to turn red. Then he spun round, key still in hand, and stomped out of the office and out the side door into the lot beside the dealership.
The clerk gave me a confused and possibly irritated look. I had stirred up trouble.
"Um," I hazarded. "Is there a possibility there are two blue `99 Malibus in for service today?"
"Hmm. Could be," the clerk said. While he looked through more paperwork, I glanced through the window in the garage doors to watch the manager stomping around the lot in search of a blue Malibu in which to test the key.
"Oh, here it is," the clerk said after a few more seconds. He found my paperwork and shortly thereafter my true and properly bent key.
"Thanks," I said. "I sometimes forget I'm not the only one driving a Malibu."
The door flew open and the manager stomped back into the office, a triumphant gleem in his eye.
"I told you this was your key!" he said.
"No, Bill, it's not," the clerk said.
Bill the manager started to launch into a loud rant about how he'd just tried the key out in the Malibu and it had worked just fine when the clerk somehow managed to wedge the doppleganger Malibu theory in as well as point out my real key dangling from my finger.
"Oh," Bill said. He looked disappointed that the steam of his rant had been taken out of him. I can sympathize. Then he looked angry again. "Dammit! I hate it when I'm wrong!" he shouted. Then he smiled. "Well, it's still the first time I've ever been wrong... today."
The dealership called a few hours later to say that I'm in need of a belt-pulley replacement. They didn't have the pulley in stock so it was up to me to decide what to do.
"Well, is it safe to travel with?" I asked. I figured, if it'll hold out til after the new year we can just change it then. After all, we don't want to make a 1,200 mile plus road trip in my wife's `91 Escort Station Wagon. Beyond being far from the most comfortable vehicle we own, it's also 50k miles past its 80k mile life expectancy. And we hope it lasts another 50k, or however many it takes to get us past Ash's graduation.
The dealership guy put me on hold to consult the experts. The experts said I should be fine.
When I came round to pick up the car, I marched up to the payment window where the dealership clerk guy I'd dealt with earlier stood, along side a large managerial-looking fellow.
"Hello," I said. "I'm here to pick up a blue `99 Malibu. I probably owe you guys some money for an oil change as well."
The managerial fellow sorted through some paperwork, found a page he liked, grabbed a keychain off the hook board behind him and slid it across the counter to me. I noticed immediately that the key was not mine.
"Um. This isn't me," I said.
"What?" Manager said.
"This isn't my key."
"Yeah, it is," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Uh, no, it's not."
"Uh, yeah, it IS," he insisted.
I picked up the keychain. It had a black plastic remote door unlocking device and a standard Chevrolet key with the black plastic grip.
"Sir, I promise you, I know what my key looks like and this is not it. For one thing, I don't have a little door clicker on mine. And for another thing my key is bent." I held up the unbent key for his inspection, then put the whole thing back on the counter.
The big managerial guy was getting angry now. Something wasn't making sense in his world. He snatched up the key chain and turned to the dealership clerk guy.
"Well, this is the key you gave me for it earlier! This IS the key to the Malibu!" he snapped. He was starting to turn red. Then he spun round, key still in hand, and stomped out of the office and out the side door into the lot beside the dealership.
The clerk gave me a confused and possibly irritated look. I had stirred up trouble.
"Um," I hazarded. "Is there a possibility there are two blue `99 Malibus in for service today?"
"Hmm. Could be," the clerk said. While he looked through more paperwork, I glanced through the window in the garage doors to watch the manager stomping around the lot in search of a blue Malibu in which to test the key.
"Oh, here it is," the clerk said after a few more seconds. He found my paperwork and shortly thereafter my true and properly bent key.
"Thanks," I said. "I sometimes forget I'm not the only one driving a Malibu."
The door flew open and the manager stomped back into the office, a triumphant gleem in his eye.
"I told you this was your key!" he said.
"No, Bill, it's not," the clerk said.
Bill the manager started to launch into a loud rant about how he'd just tried the key out in the Malibu and it had worked just fine when the clerk somehow managed to wedge the doppleganger Malibu theory in as well as point out my real key dangling from my finger.
"Oh," Bill said. He looked disappointed that the steam of his rant had been taken out of him. I can sympathize. Then he looked angry again. "Dammit! I hate it when I'm wrong!" he shouted. Then he smiled. "Well, it's still the first time I've ever been wrong... today."
Friday, December 26, 2003
Crazy Town
We're at Ashley's `rents' house where Christmas is a time to
celebrate the festive season by spending time with loved-ones, laughing,
telling stories and eating tremendous amounts of fantastic food. (And
to me, that is the definition of a good time.)
My moms-in-law is a famed cook who spent much of yesterday and the early morning hours crafting an exquisite brunch for the "fambly." We fell upon it at 9:30 Christmas morning, feasting on quiche, country ham, biscuits, eggs, cheesy grits, baked french toast and other sundry foodstuffs. I then spent the rest of the day avoiding going into that part of the house, for fear of being drawn inextricably to the food table. Didn't work.
As to our Christmas...
None of us are particularly well-to-do money-wise at the moment so for the past few years we've put a moratorium on gift-buying. Basically, we might buy gifts for any kids who happen to be around, but none for anyone older than ourselves. And every year, just about everyone cheats and gets stuff for people anyway, pissing off the people (i.e. us) who DIDN'T cheat and DIDN'T get anyone anything, as per the rules of the game. (Not that I'm complaining too much, as my wonderful mother-in-law gave me a home-made, hand-knitted, actual-size Doctor Who scarf a couple of years ago, and I count that as one of the all time greatest Christmas presents I've ever received.)
This year, though, we finally managed to convince everyone not to get us anything and it worked. And there were very few kids around, so no one had to wade into the fray of Christmas shoppers fighting to buy the best stuff. On our way into town Wednesday, we drove past the enormous lines of cars stretched down the interstate near the exits leading to the Mall area of town and we cackled gleefully and unsympatheticaly at them. "Stupid Christmas shoppers!" we shouted. "Who would be dumb enough to venture out on Christmas Eve to shop?"
What a difference a couple of days makes.
This morning, at 5:30 a.m., I was roused by my sweet wife who was about to go out to do a spot of Day After Christmas, pre-dawn shopping. Her quest was to find a DVD player to serve as our Christmas present to one another this year. However, she wasn't sure what I might be looking for in a DVD player and had opted to consult me on my surprise. I don't know if that was good or bad idea, at this point. Perhaps I should have just said, "Get a good one" and left it at that. Instead, I decided to drag-keister out of bed and accopany her on her quest because I didn't know what I want in a DVD player either.
We went to Sears, Best Buy, Target and Circuit City. Most everyone was fresh out of anything we were interested in. Some had woefully cheap DVD players, but I've spent many years buying the cheapest appliances on the market and have almost always regreted it later, so we didn't go that route.
Now for those of you who've never shopped for one of these things, you might wonder what the hell is so complicated about it all that it has to be made into a major life-decision. Fair question, I suppose, but there are a lot of factors to consider. See, I'm sort of in the market for a DVD/VCR combo, because my VCR has suuuuucked for the past couple of years and refuses to be programmed. So I could use a new VCR with my DVD. But I don't want a sucky VCR with my DVD, so I have to make sure it's got the whole four head system, etc. My stereo is also on its deathbed and is no longer willing to actually play CDs, so a DVD player that can do that would be handy too. It would also be nice if it could play MP3s. I don't actually have any MP3s, but should I ever stumble on any, I'd like to be able to play em. Hell, I'd also like an FM radio frequency tuner in there too, (see the above bit about the crappy stereo), and a home theater sound system would be handy, while we're at it. I'd also like progressive scan as a feature. I don't own a digital TV, or anything, nor am I likely to won one in the next 10 years, but I'd like to have something that can hook to it and play DVDs most efficiently when I eventually do own one. (Like any piece of electronic equipment purchased today will actually last 10 years. I've been through 2 VCRs, 2 TVs and a couple of stereo systems and any number of computer systems in the past 7 years. Electronics in this day and age are not made to last.)
Basically, I want a miracle machine that does everything I might want it to do, exactly when I tell it to do it. No one makes one of those, though, so we have to wade through ones with lesser options.... at 7 in the morning... with 5,000 other pre-dawn after-Christmas shoppers dogging our steps.
After searching the world over for the better part of four hours, we gave up. Nothing ideal was available and what was available was of debatable quality. We slunk home empty handed.
My moms-in-law is a famed cook who spent much of yesterday and the early morning hours crafting an exquisite brunch for the "fambly." We fell upon it at 9:30 Christmas morning, feasting on quiche, country ham, biscuits, eggs, cheesy grits, baked french toast and other sundry foodstuffs. I then spent the rest of the day avoiding going into that part of the house, for fear of being drawn inextricably to the food table. Didn't work.
As to our Christmas...
None of us are particularly well-to-do money-wise at the moment so for the past few years we've put a moratorium on gift-buying. Basically, we might buy gifts for any kids who happen to be around, but none for anyone older than ourselves. And every year, just about everyone cheats and gets stuff for people anyway, pissing off the people (i.e. us) who DIDN'T cheat and DIDN'T get anyone anything, as per the rules of the game. (Not that I'm complaining too much, as my wonderful mother-in-law gave me a home-made, hand-knitted, actual-size Doctor Who scarf a couple of years ago, and I count that as one of the all time greatest Christmas presents I've ever received.)
This year, though, we finally managed to convince everyone not to get us anything and it worked. And there were very few kids around, so no one had to wade into the fray of Christmas shoppers fighting to buy the best stuff. On our way into town Wednesday, we drove past the enormous lines of cars stretched down the interstate near the exits leading to the Mall area of town and we cackled gleefully and unsympatheticaly at them. "Stupid Christmas shoppers!" we shouted. "Who would be dumb enough to venture out on Christmas Eve to shop?"
What a difference a couple of days makes.
This morning, at 5:30 a.m., I was roused by my sweet wife who was about to go out to do a spot of Day After Christmas, pre-dawn shopping. Her quest was to find a DVD player to serve as our Christmas present to one another this year. However, she wasn't sure what I might be looking for in a DVD player and had opted to consult me on my surprise. I don't know if that was good or bad idea, at this point. Perhaps I should have just said, "Get a good one" and left it at that. Instead, I decided to drag-keister out of bed and accopany her on her quest because I didn't know what I want in a DVD player either.
We went to Sears, Best Buy, Target and Circuit City. Most everyone was fresh out of anything we were interested in. Some had woefully cheap DVD players, but I've spent many years buying the cheapest appliances on the market and have almost always regreted it later, so we didn't go that route.
Now for those of you who've never shopped for one of these things, you might wonder what the hell is so complicated about it all that it has to be made into a major life-decision. Fair question, I suppose, but there are a lot of factors to consider. See, I'm sort of in the market for a DVD/VCR combo, because my VCR has suuuuucked for the past couple of years and refuses to be programmed. So I could use a new VCR with my DVD. But I don't want a sucky VCR with my DVD, so I have to make sure it's got the whole four head system, etc. My stereo is also on its deathbed and is no longer willing to actually play CDs, so a DVD player that can do that would be handy too. It would also be nice if it could play MP3s. I don't actually have any MP3s, but should I ever stumble on any, I'd like to be able to play em. Hell, I'd also like an FM radio frequency tuner in there too, (see the above bit about the crappy stereo), and a home theater sound system would be handy, while we're at it. I'd also like progressive scan as a feature. I don't own a digital TV, or anything, nor am I likely to won one in the next 10 years, but I'd like to have something that can hook to it and play DVDs most efficiently when I eventually do own one. (Like any piece of electronic equipment purchased today will actually last 10 years. I've been through 2 VCRs, 2 TVs and a couple of stereo systems and any number of computer systems in the past 7 years. Electronics in this day and age are not made to last.)
Basically, I want a miracle machine that does everything I might want it to do, exactly when I tell it to do it. No one makes one of those, though, so we have to wade through ones with lesser options.... at 7 in the morning... with 5,000 other pre-dawn after-Christmas shoppers dogging our steps.
After searching the world over for the better part of four hours, we gave up. Nothing ideal was available and what was available was of debatable quality. We slunk home empty handed.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Comfort Food Par-Tay
This past Monday we had our "liberry" Christmas party, featuring the previously heralded theme of Comfort Food & Cookies.
The food was fantastic, the company excellent and a glaze of carbohydrate-euphoria (i.e. "comfort") settled over everyone.
The cookie part supposedly involved us mixing and baking 8 dozen cookies to give to our fellow employees as gifts. I cheated and baked 8 dozen store-bought peanut butter cookies with mini Reese's cups in them instead.
And Mrs. J was able to make it too. She's doing much better, though she still can't get around as well as she'd like nor eat much.
My only complaint with the evening is that I couldn't eat much either. Not that I didn't try my best. It's just that my and my wife's digestive systems have now been altered by our near 3 month long stint on the Atkins program so that we, sadly, can no longer consume the mass quantity of food that we used to. I used to be able to put away two brimming-full plates of food and have room for desert. Now, I'm lucky if I have room to breathe after one plate. It's great for our health but is a massive bitch otherwise. When we cheat, we feel obligated to really do some damage, but we just can't now and it pisses us off. We weren't the only ones in that boat at the party, though. After our meal the entire staff sat around looking at all the plates of tasty cookies none of which we had any desire to eat because our brains were screaming "YOU'RE FULL, YOU FOOLS!"
After dinner, we all gathered in Mrs. A's living room where we took turns keeping her dog out of the cookies and telling each horror stories about problem patrons. (Ironic, in that Mrs. A's living room is the former living room of the Dufus's grandmother.) A couple of employees from libraries in neighboring towns joined us at the party and we were surprised at how many problem patrons we have in common, but it was valuable to share our most effective techniques for dealing with them.
The food was fantastic, the company excellent and a glaze of carbohydrate-euphoria (i.e. "comfort") settled over everyone.
The cookie part supposedly involved us mixing and baking 8 dozen cookies to give to our fellow employees as gifts. I cheated and baked 8 dozen store-bought peanut butter cookies with mini Reese's cups in them instead.
And Mrs. J was able to make it too. She's doing much better, though she still can't get around as well as she'd like nor eat much.
My only complaint with the evening is that I couldn't eat much either. Not that I didn't try my best. It's just that my and my wife's digestive systems have now been altered by our near 3 month long stint on the Atkins program so that we, sadly, can no longer consume the mass quantity of food that we used to. I used to be able to put away two brimming-full plates of food and have room for desert. Now, I'm lucky if I have room to breathe after one plate. It's great for our health but is a massive bitch otherwise. When we cheat, we feel obligated to really do some damage, but we just can't now and it pisses us off. We weren't the only ones in that boat at the party, though. After our meal the entire staff sat around looking at all the plates of tasty cookies none of which we had any desire to eat because our brains were screaming "YOU'RE FULL, YOU FOOLS!"
After dinner, we all gathered in Mrs. A's living room where we took turns keeping her dog out of the cookies and telling each horror stories about problem patrons. (Ironic, in that Mrs. A's living room is the former living room of the Dufus's grandmother.) A couple of employees from libraries in neighboring towns joined us at the party and we were surprised at how many problem patrons we have in common, but it was valuable to share our most effective techniques for dealing with them.
Sunday, December 21, 2003
Lord of the Rings
Caught a matinee of LOTR: Return of the King on Saturday. It was a damn good film and a lot more faithful to the book than the last one.
Our viewing was only marred by a couple of teenagers on a date seated directly behind us. Three and a half hours of "That's just retarded" and "Oh, that's disgusting." In fact, I think the girl half of the dating couple said "Oh, that's disgusting" no less than fifty times during the course of the film. And their ongoing commentary was of a nature that could only aspire to the heights of wit and observational skill of the great critic team of Beavis and Butthead.
The only time they ever shut up was toward the end of the movie, when all the disgusting stuff had ended and the girl was too busy crying at the sad bits to say anything. The guy, of course, had no idea what to do about his girlfriend crying so he shut up too.
The incident made me realize something, though. I almost hate to say it, but I think I've now become one of those old people who used to turn around and stare at me and my friends whenever we got talkative during a movie. What's more, I now understand we were in the wrong then and those whippershapping, drugstore soda-fountain drinking punks behind us were wrong Saturday, by gum!
Our viewing was only marred by a couple of teenagers on a date seated directly behind us. Three and a half hours of "That's just retarded" and "Oh, that's disgusting." In fact, I think the girl half of the dating couple said "Oh, that's disgusting" no less than fifty times during the course of the film. And their ongoing commentary was of a nature that could only aspire to the heights of wit and observational skill of the great critic team of Beavis and Butthead.
The only time they ever shut up was toward the end of the movie, when all the disgusting stuff had ended and the girl was too busy crying at the sad bits to say anything. The guy, of course, had no idea what to do about his girlfriend crying so he shut up too.
The incident made me realize something, though. I almost hate to say it, but I think I've now become one of those old people who used to turn around and stare at me and my friends whenever we got talkative during a movie. What's more, I now understand we were in the wrong then and those whippershapping, drugstore soda-fountain drinking punks behind us were wrong Saturday, by gum!
Friday, December 19, 2003
Dawn of the Dufus Part III
When the Dufus wasn't lobbying for a job with
us, he was plenty busy being a smarmy little turd-blossom on a day to
day basis. His interactions with library staff, or indeed anyone else,
were peppered with his usual name-droppings. It was as if he could not
exist without letting everybody know that he has had some degree of
interaction with a few people whose names we might recognize and is
therefore worthy of recognition himself. And anyone who came within
twenty feet of him got their own personal copy of his lone article about
the library. (I once saw him on the street corner, promising a passerby
whose aquaintance he had just made a copy of that most blessed work.)
And because he's obviously such an enormously important individual, library rules like time limits on the patron computers obviously don't apply to him. With most patrons, all you have to do is let them know their time is up and someone is waiting for their computer and you walk away, affording them the time to wrap up what they're doing and log off. With the Dufus, the ONLY way to get him to get off a computer was to go back and tell him his time was up and then stand there like the Colossus at Rhodes, giving him the stank eye until he actually got off. If you didn't, he would immediately start a new and lengthy e-mail as soon as you stepped away, and would often try to start one while you stood there waiting.
And what was so all-fired important that he just HAD to write just one last e-mail? Normally, I wouldn't know because I don't make it a habit to pry into what sort of activities our patrons are up to on the net. But since I was usually the guy who had to stand there giving him the stank eye, I sussed it out pretty quick.
Was the Dufus, perhaps, writing to a grant agency, pleading with them for library funds? No.
Was the Dufus corresponding with friends back West? Oh, no, my friends, no.
The Dufus was, in fact, REPLYING TO HIS SPAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That's right. The Dufus read each and every e-mail he was sent, spam or not, and replied to all of it. Never mind that most spam can't be replied to, the Dufus tried it anyway. And would tell you about it!!! In great detail!!!!
"George W.'s office just sent me an e-mail asking for a campaign contribution," he said, referring to an obvious mailing-list spawned e-note. "They want $20,000. Well, I'm writing them back and tell them what I think of the way they're running the country right now. And I'm not going to send them anything."
He also enjoyed trying to discuss current events with you, but kept twisting the events around to suggest he was actively involved in them.
"You know, it's a sad day that Arnold Schwarzeneggar was elected governor of California," he once said. Then he added, "Well, I might go to the inaugural ball, but I'm not making any donations."
Now why would a guy who supposedly has all this money that everyone keeps wanting him to give them have any need to hog up the patron computers at a public library? Couldn't he just buy his own computer and while away the hours at his parents' house replying to all his spam until his heart was content?
All his computer shennanigans were irritating enough, but the Dufus usually chose to do them dangerously close to closing time. He'd pop in for a computer at a half an hour til close (surpassing even Mr. Big Stupid in inconvenient computer usage) or less. You would think that telling someone "We're closed now" would be more of an incentive to get off the computer than merely saying "Your time is up." Alas, it was not the case. I would warn him 15 minutes before closing that we would be closing in 15 minutes. Then, 10 minutes. Then, 5 minutes. Then, we're closed. Then, no, really, we are closed. Then, I'm not kidding, we truly are closed as of five minutes ago. Then, I'm locking the door and turning off the lights. You need to be on the other side of it when I do.
And while I would have been well within my rights and posted computer policy to just shut the damned computer off in his face, I've always chosen to try the polite route first. Again, though, the only effective method was to just go Colossus on him and stand there til he got off. (Or hit him with a chair, though I only fantasized about that option.)
It seems the Dufus may no longer be bothering us so regularly. A couple of months ago we heard he took a position with the board of directors of a foundation established by a half-way famous long dead WV author in said author's former home town. We considered calling them up to warn them but figured if they hadn't been able to see through his smarm-infested weasel nature they probably deserve him.
His position there may or may not have gone well for him. As of Friday, Mrs. A informed me that the Dufus had moved out of the area entirely. He hasn't returned to the West Coast, but is at least a comfortable distance away in a neighboring state where he is probably even now plaguing library assistants.
The Dufus, 2003-2003, Inactive Member of the Liberry Rogues Gallery.
And because he's obviously such an enormously important individual, library rules like time limits on the patron computers obviously don't apply to him. With most patrons, all you have to do is let them know their time is up and someone is waiting for their computer and you walk away, affording them the time to wrap up what they're doing and log off. With the Dufus, the ONLY way to get him to get off a computer was to go back and tell him his time was up and then stand there like the Colossus at Rhodes, giving him the stank eye until he actually got off. If you didn't, he would immediately start a new and lengthy e-mail as soon as you stepped away, and would often try to start one while you stood there waiting.
And what was so all-fired important that he just HAD to write just one last e-mail? Normally, I wouldn't know because I don't make it a habit to pry into what sort of activities our patrons are up to on the net. But since I was usually the guy who had to stand there giving him the stank eye, I sussed it out pretty quick.
Was the Dufus, perhaps, writing to a grant agency, pleading with them for library funds? No.
Was the Dufus corresponding with friends back West? Oh, no, my friends, no.
The Dufus was, in fact, REPLYING TO HIS SPAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That's right. The Dufus read each and every e-mail he was sent, spam or not, and replied to all of it. Never mind that most spam can't be replied to, the Dufus tried it anyway. And would tell you about it!!! In great detail!!!!
"George W.'s office just sent me an e-mail asking for a campaign contribution," he said, referring to an obvious mailing-list spawned e-note. "They want $20,000. Well, I'm writing them back and tell them what I think of the way they're running the country right now. And I'm not going to send them anything."
He also enjoyed trying to discuss current events with you, but kept twisting the events around to suggest he was actively involved in them.
"You know, it's a sad day that Arnold Schwarzeneggar was elected governor of California," he once said. Then he added, "Well, I might go to the inaugural ball, but I'm not making any donations."
Now why would a guy who supposedly has all this money that everyone keeps wanting him to give them have any need to hog up the patron computers at a public library? Couldn't he just buy his own computer and while away the hours at his parents' house replying to all his spam until his heart was content?
All his computer shennanigans were irritating enough, but the Dufus usually chose to do them dangerously close to closing time. He'd pop in for a computer at a half an hour til close (surpassing even Mr. Big Stupid in inconvenient computer usage) or less. You would think that telling someone "We're closed now" would be more of an incentive to get off the computer than merely saying "Your time is up." Alas, it was not the case. I would warn him 15 minutes before closing that we would be closing in 15 minutes. Then, 10 minutes. Then, 5 minutes. Then, we're closed. Then, no, really, we are closed. Then, I'm not kidding, we truly are closed as of five minutes ago. Then, I'm locking the door and turning off the lights. You need to be on the other side of it when I do.
And while I would have been well within my rights and posted computer policy to just shut the damned computer off in his face, I've always chosen to try the polite route first. Again, though, the only effective method was to just go Colossus on him and stand there til he got off. (Or hit him with a chair, though I only fantasized about that option.)
It seems the Dufus may no longer be bothering us so regularly. A couple of months ago we heard he took a position with the board of directors of a foundation established by a half-way famous long dead WV author in said author's former home town. We considered calling them up to warn them but figured if they hadn't been able to see through his smarm-infested weasel nature they probably deserve him.
His position there may or may not have gone well for him. As of Friday, Mrs. A informed me that the Dufus had moved out of the area entirely. He hasn't returned to the West Coast, but is at least a comfortable distance away in a neighboring state where he is probably even now plaguing library assistants.
The Dufus, 2003-2003, Inactive Member of the Liberry Rogues Gallery.
Dawn of The Dufus Part II
Following the Dufus's miraculous return to town, he had become desperate to find some sort of use for his oh so obvious talents in areas of publicity and fund-raising.
Can ya guess who he chose to inflict himself on?
You see, our library board is in the process of raising money to build a new library. And while they have already raised 40 percent of the $3 million needed to start the building process (all without the Dufus's help, I might add) the Dufus felt we were in dire need of his P.R. services and has taken every opportunity afforded him (we quickly learned to stop affording him opportunities if we can at all help it) to sing his own praises in the art of fundraising and publicity and drop a few dozen important names while doing it.
It turns out the Dufus had been hogging our computers for two afternoons to write an article about the library itself, which he hoped to peddle to one or more of our local papers and use as a big weasely foot in the door while stumping for a job to our board.
In the following weeks, he was in a constant state of panic trying to get a meeting with our head Librarian, Mrs. A, in order to discuss his sprawling and unsolicited plans for a marketing campaign. Mrs. A, meanwhile, was in a panic to avoid the Dufus at all costs. Through a series of incredible coincidences, he always seemed to come in to see her just when she was headed out the door on important errands.
It also didn't help that Mrs. A had recently purchased and was living in the former home of the Dufus's grandmother. So not only did he stalk Mrs. A for a job interview but also to beg permission to come by and see the house he spent so much time in as a Dufusy little whelp.
Seeing that he was never able to sync schedules with Mrs. A, the Dufus took to sitting in on as many library board meetings as possible. This is completely cool, as the meetings are open to the public, but the Dufus used the time to continue singing his own praises, listing off congressmen he's friendly with, actors and socialites he personally knows and famous authors who regularly throw him birthday parties, (though I somehow question whether Homer Hickam actually threw the Dufus's weasel-ass a birthday party, being as how the only reason Hickam was in the state in the first place was for a Rocket Boys reunion down in what's left of Coalwood, a party the Dufus no doubt crashed in the first place). The Dufus also went on at length about the tremendous amount of fundraising he did for a library in California and how he could do the same for us. The board actually researched this point. It turned out that the Dufus's part of the fundraising was a miniscule portion of a much bigger project involving thousands of other people, in which he mattered very little.
As you might guess, our board was not at all impressed by the Dufus and his name droppings, particularly since one member of the board already IS a former congressman and another is the heir to the fortune of a major toiletries manufacturing corporation, a lady the Pope might come to for a loan.
They were equally unimpressed a few weeks later, when they heard that the Dufus paid a visit to the state library commission and introduced himself to one of the state officials as the new P.R. man for our library's building project. The official hadn't realized we'd chosen anyone for the job yet, and phoned us up to inquire about it. Mrs. A informed them that we hadn't chosen anyone, but we now had a permanent candidate for the DO NOT HIRE list.
(To Be Concluded)
Can ya guess who he chose to inflict himself on?
You see, our library board is in the process of raising money to build a new library. And while they have already raised 40 percent of the $3 million needed to start the building process (all without the Dufus's help, I might add) the Dufus felt we were in dire need of his P.R. services and has taken every opportunity afforded him (we quickly learned to stop affording him opportunities if we can at all help it) to sing his own praises in the art of fundraising and publicity and drop a few dozen important names while doing it.
It turns out the Dufus had been hogging our computers for two afternoons to write an article about the library itself, which he hoped to peddle to one or more of our local papers and use as a big weasely foot in the door while stumping for a job to our board.
In the following weeks, he was in a constant state of panic trying to get a meeting with our head Librarian, Mrs. A, in order to discuss his sprawling and unsolicited plans for a marketing campaign. Mrs. A, meanwhile, was in a panic to avoid the Dufus at all costs. Through a series of incredible coincidences, he always seemed to come in to see her just when she was headed out the door on important errands.
It also didn't help that Mrs. A had recently purchased and was living in the former home of the Dufus's grandmother. So not only did he stalk Mrs. A for a job interview but also to beg permission to come by and see the house he spent so much time in as a Dufusy little whelp.
Seeing that he was never able to sync schedules with Mrs. A, the Dufus took to sitting in on as many library board meetings as possible. This is completely cool, as the meetings are open to the public, but the Dufus used the time to continue singing his own praises, listing off congressmen he's friendly with, actors and socialites he personally knows and famous authors who regularly throw him birthday parties, (though I somehow question whether Homer Hickam actually threw the Dufus's weasel-ass a birthday party, being as how the only reason Hickam was in the state in the first place was for a Rocket Boys reunion down in what's left of Coalwood, a party the Dufus no doubt crashed in the first place). The Dufus also went on at length about the tremendous amount of fundraising he did for a library in California and how he could do the same for us. The board actually researched this point. It turned out that the Dufus's part of the fundraising was a miniscule portion of a much bigger project involving thousands of other people, in which he mattered very little.
As you might guess, our board was not at all impressed by the Dufus and his name droppings, particularly since one member of the board already IS a former congressman and another is the heir to the fortune of a major toiletries manufacturing corporation, a lady the Pope might come to for a loan.
They were equally unimpressed a few weeks later, when they heard that the Dufus paid a visit to the state library commission and introduced himself to one of the state officials as the new P.R. man for our library's building project. The official hadn't realized we'd chosen anyone for the job yet, and phoned us up to inquire about it. Mrs. A informed them that we hadn't chosen anyone, but we now had a permanent candidate for the DO NOT HIRE list.
(To Be Concluded)
Dawn of the Dufus Part I
I've had to move another member of our Liberry Rogues Gallery from the Active column to the Inactive column. You might think losing another active member was a setback. However, in the case of this patron, it's good news since we liked him almost as much as we like Chester the (potential) Molester. Not a damn lot.
I am speaking of none other than The Dufus.
Allow me to tell his tale.
I first encountered the Dufus after coming in one Thursday afternoon to hear the library staff complaining about some jerk who had refused to get off one of the patron computers for most of the afternoon. Our computer policy is that each patron gets a half hour on one of our three computers and after that, if someone else is waiting to get on one, they have to relinquish it. If no one's waiting, they can stay til someone is. This guy, however, had been told multiple times by multiple staff members that his half hour was up and he needed to get off--information he chose to ignore. This went on for over three hours, with various staff members popping back to ask him to get off every ten minutes or so. Finally, one of our librarians went back and threatened to turn the computer off in his face, causing him to lose all changes in the document he was working on. Only then did he reluctantly get off. As soon as another computer came open, he was back at it again.
The next day the Dufus came back for Part II of this behavior. The first time his allotted half hour ran out, I went back to his computer and politely said, "Excuse me, sir, but we have a patron waiting..." nodding toward the computer to indicate what they were waiting for.
"For meeee?" he said.
Now, the tone of his question did NOT say, Are they waiting ON me? No. His tone said, Are they waiting FOR me? It was exactly as if he thought there was someone up front who had heard he was in town and had rushed right down to the Liberry to meet the fabled Dufus and shake his hand.
Ten minutes later, I had to go back to the Dufus to again alert him that we had other patrons waiting.
"For meeee?" he repeated, in exactly the same tone as before.
"No, ON you," I corrected. "You need to log off. Now."
Why, you might ask, would someone think so highly of themselves as to actually believe someone might be waiting FOR them? Ahhh, therein lies the rub.
The Dufus, I later learned, comes from local old money and grew up in the area but has spent the last several years living on the West Coast. To hear him tell it--and he takes great joy in telling it--when he was back on the West Coast, he was a minor deity and part time journalist who spent his days hobnobbing with the rich and famous, dear and trusted friend to all of them. He's quite accustomed therefore to people falling all over him, so it would have come as no surprise that someone was waiting FOR him. After all, surely EVERYONE had heard how the Dufus had miraculously returned from the West Coast to grace his home town with his presence (and move back in with his parents).
You only THINK I'm laying it on thick here. I promise you, I am not.
(To Be Continued)
Thursday, December 18, 2003
The People of the Caller ID
My friend T used to write a blog called Poocakes. It is, alas, no more, but she did one of the best rants I've read on people who use their caller ID units as answering machines.
Caller ID people, as they're known, come home, check their caller ID units and then sit and call every number that has called them throughout the day, familiar or not, to find out who was calling them and why. T and I share the opinion that Caller ID people suck the pituitary glands out of dead chickens. We think they should be tied down and forced to watch multiple reruns of Small Wonder and She's the Sheriff until they learn the valuable lesson that there are better things a person can do with their time. (Says the guy with nothing better to do than write a blog.)
At the time of her rant, Theresa had the misfortune of working as a receptionist in a medium large non-profit organization and was constantly plagued by Caller ID people calling their office back to find out who had called them and what they wanted. Theresa would point out to them that there were 40 people who worked in the building any one of whom might have been the culprit. This never seems to matter to Caller ID people, though.
Our point is, if someone didn't leave a message on the answering machine in the first place, it probably wasn't important enough to matter. And if the Caller ID person doesn't own an answering machine, well they need to get off their butts and go get one. Right Now! I mean, for Shank's sake, they're dirt cheap these days! People get `em in the bottom of cereal boxes! So if knowing who called you and why is so all-fired important then join the rest of us in the 21st century and go get an answering machine! It's not like you have to feed it or anything. Just put it in a corner, record a nice outgoing message, join the call-screener's union and quit calling everybody all the time. (And this goes double for you people who have books put on hold for you at the library and then are never home when we call. You folks frustrate the ever-living just-you-nevermind out of me!)
*sips nerve tonic*
Today we had one at work. A lady named Tammi called to ask why someone from the "liberry" had "called me on my phone." Mrs. A took Tammi's name and asked around if any of us had had reason to call this woman. We had not. Mrs. A explained to Tammi that none of the employees had called her and suggested a patron might have borrowed our phone to do so. Nope. Caller ID people don't care for logic. Tammi insisted that she had no business with the library so there was no reason for anyone to have called her from it and she wanted to know why we had anyway. Mrs. A tried to defend our good name, but it was to no avail and Tammi hung up, irritated.
Something about Tammi's name rang a bell with Mrs. A, though. Sure enough, a quick check of our computer login sheet showed that either Tammi herself or perhaps a relative of Tammi's named Tommi (we were never quite sure, as the handwriting was so poor) who shared Tammi's last name, had been in and had used one of the patron computers today. We theorize this person probably even borrowed the phone to call home. If it was daughter Tommi, it makes sense. If it was Tammi herself, though, she maybe needs to cut back on the weed. The jury's still out.
Caller ID people, as they're known, come home, check their caller ID units and then sit and call every number that has called them throughout the day, familiar or not, to find out who was calling them and why. T and I share the opinion that Caller ID people suck the pituitary glands out of dead chickens. We think they should be tied down and forced to watch multiple reruns of Small Wonder and She's the Sheriff until they learn the valuable lesson that there are better things a person can do with their time. (Says the guy with nothing better to do than write a blog.)
At the time of her rant, Theresa had the misfortune of working as a receptionist in a medium large non-profit organization and was constantly plagued by Caller ID people calling their office back to find out who had called them and what they wanted. Theresa would point out to them that there were 40 people who worked in the building any one of whom might have been the culprit. This never seems to matter to Caller ID people, though.
Our point is, if someone didn't leave a message on the answering machine in the first place, it probably wasn't important enough to matter. And if the Caller ID person doesn't own an answering machine, well they need to get off their butts and go get one. Right Now! I mean, for Shank's sake, they're dirt cheap these days! People get `em in the bottom of cereal boxes! So if knowing who called you and why is so all-fired important then join the rest of us in the 21st century and go get an answering machine! It's not like you have to feed it or anything. Just put it in a corner, record a nice outgoing message, join the call-screener's union and quit calling everybody all the time. (And this goes double for you people who have books put on hold for you at the library and then are never home when we call. You folks frustrate the ever-living just-you-nevermind out of me!)
*sips nerve tonic*
Today we had one at work. A lady named Tammi called to ask why someone from the "liberry" had "called me on my phone." Mrs. A took Tammi's name and asked around if any of us had had reason to call this woman. We had not. Mrs. A explained to Tammi that none of the employees had called her and suggested a patron might have borrowed our phone to do so. Nope. Caller ID people don't care for logic. Tammi insisted that she had no business with the library so there was no reason for anyone to have called her from it and she wanted to know why we had anyway. Mrs. A tried to defend our good name, but it was to no avail and Tammi hung up, irritated.
Something about Tammi's name rang a bell with Mrs. A, though. Sure enough, a quick check of our computer login sheet showed that either Tammi herself or perhaps a relative of Tammi's named Tommi (we were never quite sure, as the handwriting was so poor) who shared Tammi's last name, had been in and had used one of the patron computers today. We theorize this person probably even borrowed the phone to call home. If it was daughter Tommi, it makes sense. If it was Tammi herself, though, she maybe needs to cut back on the weed. The jury's still out.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
The Greatest and Best Blog Entry in the World... tribute
Today was a day most "liberry" bloggers would dread. It was almost entirely uneventful. Some might even say boring. Our only Rogue was Mr. B-Natural, who came in with his dog and proceeded to behave himself admirably. Makes me almost long for the days when he would get all worked up at having to share a computer hallway with the likes of the Untalented Mr. Ripley, or throw a huge tantrum if we told him his time was up and someone else was waiting for his computer. The worst he did today was turn the computer sign-in clipboard upside down before signing his name. This is standard procedure for Mr. B-Natural, who seems to be operating under the misconception that it somehow annoys us that he does this. Far from it. It actually makes it easier for us to read his name from the other side of the counter and therefore see when it's time to ask him to get off. (We once printed up a special sign-in sheet that was exactly the same no matter which direction he turned it in. He failed to notice, killing our practical joke.)
Probably the most eventful moment of today's workday came when I and Mrs. A and Mrs. C, the librarians, came up with the greatest and best food-theme in the world for our upcoming staff Christmas party.
In years past we've either gone out to eat or done a covered dish dinner where everyone brings a dish or two and a mighty feast commences. These have been most enjoyable occasions, but this year we wanted to do something different. We were wanting something similar to the covered dish dinner, but which somehow involved buckets of KFC chicken being brought in.
(And while I'm at it, let me just mini-rant on KFC's whole "Hey, get us, our chicken is low-carb friendly, so you're not gonna get fat eating it" ad campaign. Yeah, it's low carb... IF YOU REMOVE THE POUND AND A HALF OF BREADING ON IT! What a bunch of damned morons!)
So, anyway, Mrs. A really wanted the KFC to be a part of all this, as she's been craving it like mad for days. Then we hit upon the brilliant part. Fried chicken is comfort food, so why don't we just throw a comfort food party and bring nothing but huge vats of carb-laden fatty dishes we can all stuff ourselves with until we're soaked in food afterglow.
Oh, and cookies too! I almost forgot the cookies!!!! We're each gonna bring, like, 8 dozen cookies, so we'll have 8 different 8 dozen batches of different kinds of cookies. This way, everyone can walk away with a cookie sampler pack of at least a dozen different cookies. It's just frickin' brilliant, I tells ya! BRILLIANT!!!!
Frankly, it's such a stroke of damned genius that I really don't need anything else interesting to share today.
Comfort... Food... Party.
Three words defining true blog value right there.
I could have just signed on, spat that out there and walked away and it would have been a fine entry. Being the benevolent soul I am, through, I threw in the 8 dozen cookies variety pack for bonus added value.
Good night, everybody. Thanks for coming. Don't forget to tip your waitress!
(Continued)
Probably the most eventful moment of today's workday came when I and Mrs. A and Mrs. C, the librarians, came up with the greatest and best food-theme in the world for our upcoming staff Christmas party.
In years past we've either gone out to eat or done a covered dish dinner where everyone brings a dish or two and a mighty feast commences. These have been most enjoyable occasions, but this year we wanted to do something different. We were wanting something similar to the covered dish dinner, but which somehow involved buckets of KFC chicken being brought in.
(And while I'm at it, let me just mini-rant on KFC's whole "Hey, get us, our chicken is low-carb friendly, so you're not gonna get fat eating it" ad campaign. Yeah, it's low carb... IF YOU REMOVE THE POUND AND A HALF OF BREADING ON IT! What a bunch of damned morons!)
So, anyway, Mrs. A really wanted the KFC to be a part of all this, as she's been craving it like mad for days. Then we hit upon the brilliant part. Fried chicken is comfort food, so why don't we just throw a comfort food party and bring nothing but huge vats of carb-laden fatty dishes we can all stuff ourselves with until we're soaked in food afterglow.
Oh, and cookies too! I almost forgot the cookies!!!! We're each gonna bring, like, 8 dozen cookies, so we'll have 8 different 8 dozen batches of different kinds of cookies. This way, everyone can walk away with a cookie sampler pack of at least a dozen different cookies. It's just frickin' brilliant, I tells ya! BRILLIANT!!!!
Frankly, it's such a stroke of damned genius that I really don't need anything else interesting to share today.
Comfort... Food... Party.
Three words defining true blog value right there.
I could have just signed on, spat that out there and walked away and it would have been a fine entry. Being the benevolent soul I am, through, I threw in the 8 dozen cookies variety pack for bonus added value.
Good night, everybody. Thanks for coming. Don't forget to tip your waitress!
(Continued)
Sunday, December 14, 2003
More Snow (oh, AND brains)
Nothing terribly Liberry related to say at the moment.
It's been snowing again here. Started Saturday night with some sleet and freezing rain then turned to snow overnight and has vacillated back and forth ever since. Made getting around town kind of a pain. Actually, it wasn't that big a pain, since my wife, the former Alaskan, took the wheel and chauffeured me around to my day's events.
Both the community chorale and church choir I sing with had their Christmas concerts/cantata today, so it was a bit of a busy party in the ol' vocal chords. Both concerts went very well, though the wifeonly barely made it to tonight's cantata. I had to be there early for rehearsal so I left her at home to finish packing to return to her surgical rotation this week. Before I left at 5:45, I warned her that she still needed to de-ice her car and not to piddle around and forget about it.
Shortly before our 7:30 cantata started, I looked out into the audience and didn't see the wife anywhere. I was a bit worried about her, but being as how the cantata was starting and I was the narrator, I couldn't do much about it other than pray.
Finally, bout three songs into the program, the wifecame through the door.
She had not, as I assumed, forgotten to de-ice her car. Instead, dutifully de-iced it at 6:30, well ahead of schedule, but couldn't get her Ford Escort station wagon up our steep driveway afterward. She had to put on her snow chains, one of which broke and wrapped itself around her axle, forcing her to get out and proceed to get soaked and filthy digging it out and putting it back on again. And then she just barely made it up the driveway at 7:35.
All things told, her day was still a sight better than Saddam's. Just for historic note, today's the day the world found out Saddam Hussein had been captured after 8 months on the lam. And on a personal note, I'm sure it's a shitfer to live in for any period of time, but the 4th grader in me thinks his little hidey hole looked kinda cool.
It's been snowing again here. Started Saturday night with some sleet and freezing rain then turned to snow overnight and has vacillated back and forth ever since. Made getting around town kind of a pain. Actually, it wasn't that big a pain, since my wife, the former Alaskan, took the wheel and chauffeured me around to my day's events.
Both the community chorale and church choir I sing with had their Christmas concerts/cantata today, so it was a bit of a busy party in the ol' vocal chords. Both concerts went very well, though the wifeonly barely made it to tonight's cantata. I had to be there early for rehearsal so I left her at home to finish packing to return to her surgical rotation this week. Before I left at 5:45, I warned her that she still needed to de-ice her car and not to piddle around and forget about it.
Shortly before our 7:30 cantata started, I looked out into the audience and didn't see the wife anywhere. I was a bit worried about her, but being as how the cantata was starting and I was the narrator, I couldn't do much about it other than pray.
Finally, bout three songs into the program, the wifecame through the door.
She had not, as I assumed, forgotten to de-ice her car. Instead, dutifully de-iced it at 6:30, well ahead of schedule, but couldn't get her Ford Escort station wagon up our steep driveway afterward. She had to put on her snow chains, one of which broke and wrapped itself around her axle, forcing her to get out and proceed to get soaked and filthy digging it out and putting it back on again. And then she just barely made it up the driveway at 7:35.
All things told, her day was still a sight better than Saddam's. Just for historic note, today's the day the world found out Saddam Hussein had been captured after 8 months on the lam. And on a personal note, I'm sure it's a shitfer to live in for any period of time, but the 4th grader in me thinks his little hidey hole looked kinda cool.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Update on Mrs. J
Got some fairly good news on the Mrs. J front. Her tests in Charleston proved that her heart-attack-like symptoms were caused by some blockage in two of the lesser vessels near her heart. The doctors are going to try treating her with medication and have put her on quite a few different medications, including daily insulin shots and have given her a strict diet to follow. I think this is good. Mrs. J was already a diabetic, yet she ate loads of sweets and whatever else she wanted, despite our protests. Now she says she's going to stick to the diet, as her doctor told her she could either stick to it or die.
She'll be out for another two weeks, during which time the rest of us will have to pick up the work Mrs. J did. And let me tell you, she does A LOT of work. We wound up letting the upstairs shelving go for a couple of weeks and I turned up Wednesday to find a massive pile of books that had to be shelved.
Mrs. J, we miss you.
She'll be out for another two weeks, during which time the rest of us will have to pick up the work Mrs. J did. And let me tell you, she does A LOT of work. We wound up letting the upstairs shelving go for a couple of weeks and I turned up Wednesday to find a massive pile of books that had to be shelved.
Mrs. J, we miss you.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Best Patrons EVER
I spend a lot of time here telling tales about the worst patrons who visit the "liberry" and writing up Rogues Gallery lists for them, but I've not spent much time on the best patrons.
If I were to write a Best Patrons EVER list, the Asners (not their real name) would be at the top of the list. Unlike some families who frequent the library (such as the Fagins--which is not their real name, though I shouldn't care if I wrote their real name here as we have documented proof of their many years of treachery and theft), the Asner's are simply wonderful, wonderful patrons.
Mr. and Mrs. Asner have five or six kids, (they're hard to count because they're never all in at once, though frankly we wouldn't mind if they were). These kids must come from some kind of angelic genetic stock, cause they're all just the best-behaved, most polite, loving, cherubic, bright and beautiful children you'd ever care to know. Most of them are probably around year or two apart in age, ranging from, I'm guessing, 12 down to 2 (and the youngest is, in fact, the Cutest Baby in all the World, bar none). They're always just quiet and helpful and polite and everything you could ever wish for in children. I've never seen them angry or even a little upset. I've never seen them sad or crying. They obey their parents without question, with nary a tantrum if the don't get to check out something they want. I think I can say with full conviction that the Asner kids are the best children I've ever encountered. They're just a joy. I've told Mrs. Asner exactly that.
And better patrons have yet to be born! Most patron families of their size load up each and every child's card with the full limit in books and videos, which makes for a freakin' long checkout time and check in time, should they return with all they borrowed, which they never do. The cards of most families of that size are a tangle of overdues and even blocked patron records due to unreturned books from decades past (See: The Fagins). Not so with the Asners. They're a librarian's fantasy come to life. They never take more than they need in books or videos, almost always less than half the 10 item limit, and they always bring them back well before the due date or call to renew. There's never a fine to be seen or a lost book unfound. And they read quality stuff. Even the little ones, who love the Magic School Bus series and Winn!e the P00h, but never get mindless pap like Barn3y or T3letubbies.
I don't know how Mr. & Mrs. Asner managed to do it, but I know their house is a loving one.
And it's been something of a family tradition that as they reach the front door to depart, the Asner girls almost always turn around and sweetly tell us, "God bless you" before leaving. (They even say it on their answering machine.)
Now I know this sounds like a very Ned Flandersy sort of family, but it SO does not come off like that at all in person. It's utterly genuine. And for me, a guy who has to suffer through bitter patron after bitter patron (some of whom are the grumpiest people in all the world), the Asners are refreshing.
As to the Asner's secret behind their amazing family-skills, I firmly believe it lies somewhere in their daughter's parting quote.
If I were to write a Best Patrons EVER list, the Asners (not their real name) would be at the top of the list. Unlike some families who frequent the library (such as the Fagins--which is not their real name, though I shouldn't care if I wrote their real name here as we have documented proof of their many years of treachery and theft), the Asner's are simply wonderful, wonderful patrons.
Mr. and Mrs. Asner have five or six kids, (they're hard to count because they're never all in at once, though frankly we wouldn't mind if they were). These kids must come from some kind of angelic genetic stock, cause they're all just the best-behaved, most polite, loving, cherubic, bright and beautiful children you'd ever care to know. Most of them are probably around year or two apart in age, ranging from, I'm guessing, 12 down to 2 (and the youngest is, in fact, the Cutest Baby in all the World, bar none). They're always just quiet and helpful and polite and everything you could ever wish for in children. I've never seen them angry or even a little upset. I've never seen them sad or crying. They obey their parents without question, with nary a tantrum if the don't get to check out something they want. I think I can say with full conviction that the Asner kids are the best children I've ever encountered. They're just a joy. I've told Mrs. Asner exactly that.
And better patrons have yet to be born! Most patron families of their size load up each and every child's card with the full limit in books and videos, which makes for a freakin' long checkout time and check in time, should they return with all they borrowed, which they never do. The cards of most families of that size are a tangle of overdues and even blocked patron records due to unreturned books from decades past (See: The Fagins). Not so with the Asners. They're a librarian's fantasy come to life. They never take more than they need in books or videos, almost always less than half the 10 item limit, and they always bring them back well before the due date or call to renew. There's never a fine to be seen or a lost book unfound. And they read quality stuff. Even the little ones, who love the Magic School Bus series and Winn!e the P00h, but never get mindless pap like Barn3y or T3letubbies.
I don't know how Mr. & Mrs. Asner managed to do it, but I know their house is a loving one.
And it's been something of a family tradition that as they reach the front door to depart, the Asner girls almost always turn around and sweetly tell us, "God bless you" before leaving. (They even say it on their answering machine.)
Now I know this sounds like a very Ned Flandersy sort of family, but it SO does not come off like that at all in person. It's utterly genuine. And for me, a guy who has to suffer through bitter patron after bitter patron (some of whom are the grumpiest people in all the world), the Asners are refreshing.
As to the Asner's secret behind their amazing family-skills, I firmly believe it lies somewhere in their daughter's parting quote.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
The fix is in
I used to work a lot of Tuesdays at the "liberry". Somewhere around a year ago our schedules got juggled and I wound up taking over the Wednesday slot. Mostly it's been a good thing, since the "Weird Wednesday" factor assures me of loads of fun patrons to observe. However, there's something to be said about the "Terrible Tuesday" factor.
On Tuesday--the day I wasn't here, mind you--around 5 p.m., a patron parked their `88 Chevy pickup in front of the library and came inside to avail himself of our services. He neglected, however, to set his parking brake. Our library is situated about mid-way up a fairly steep hill at the edge of the downtown area. You do the math.
Yes indeedy, Auntie Gravity and Uncle Laws of Physics took notice of the brakeless truck and sent it hurtling down the hill where it careened off a utility pole, changed direction and crashed into the window of a down-town restaurant. Fortunately, no one was injured.
This is actually not the first time this sort of thing has happened. Over the summer, while working the desk (no doubt on a Wednesday) I heard a tremendous noise from outside, rushed to the door and saw a large Chevy Suburban rocking back and forth on its wheels. It took me a second to notice the little white pickup truck practically sticking out of the Suburban's grill. It was a parking brake incident. The owner of the Suburban, which was barely scratched, was using a computer while the truck's owner was no where to be found. The police came and took down information. The owner of the Suburban decided he didn't really care about any of it, since his vehicle wasn't damaged, and drove away, leaving me to inform the owner of the truck--one Mr. Welsh, another of our regular patrons--why his back bumper was damaged.
When I heard about yesterday's incident, I said, "It wasn't Mr. Welsh, again, was it?"
It wasn't.
Mrs. C, our #2 librarian, held up the local paper and read aloud the details of the crash to the rest of us. I stood there, slack-jawed in amazement, first at my lost opportunity to witness people running and leaping, Little-Rascals-Style, to get out of the way of a runaway truck, then secondly at the ad I then noticed on the back page of the newspaper.
The ad read: "Jac0b's Treeh0use. Collectibles. Toys. Gifts. Comics. For the young and the young at heart. TRI-METRO Mall."
"Sweet crap on a cracker!" I said. "A comic shop!"
You see, in the two and a half years since my wife and I moved to this tiny little West Virginia burg, I've been without my accustomed weekly comics fix. Since 1988, I've always lived in towns that had at least one comic shop, that is until moving here. The closest shop to where I live now had been about an hour away from me and not exactly feasible to get to on a weekly basis. (Plus, it's not an especially good one, either.) The prospect of a comic shop closer to home seemed a distant one. I'd even toyed with the idea of starting my own, but the fact that I didn't think the area could support one and my lack of any business sense convinced me otherwise. In order to get comics at all, I've had to go through Westfield Comics, a mail-order service and a darn good one too. However, with Westfield, I only get a monthly fix of comics and have to pay $6 in shipping. And sure, it's almost like a mini-Christmas when that big ol' box with WESTFIELD COMICS printed on the side arrives at my door (causing the feMailman to beep her horn for me to come out and get it from her car so she doesn't have to walk up and ring the bell), but it's still not the same as walking out of a bonafide comic shop with a brown paper bag full of comic-reading goodness under your arm. Damn, I miss it.
"Oh, yeah. I saw that store," Mrs. C said. "It's a little kiosk out in the middle of the mall."
"What?" I said. "You mean you knew about this?"
"Um. Well, yeah. It was open back during the crafts fair."
"The crafts fair? That was, like, a month ago. You've been sitting on this for a month?"
"Well, I thought to mention it but figured you already knew," Mrs C said. Mrs. A, our head librarian, backed Mrs. C up saying that she too had seen the shop a month ago and also didn't think to tell me, but only because I probably already knew.
"Darn all of you," I said.
They laughed and joked that they knew where I was headed on my break. Sure enough, I headed over to the mall as soon as I could.
The TRI-METRO Mall is hardly a proper "mall," unless by "mall" you mean a collection of empty storefronts and Armed Services recruiting stations set within an enclosed shopping environment. Oh, sure, there is a big chain clothing store there as well as a hair salon, a shoe store and a New Age Crap store (with a fine selection of rocks, tribal masks, jewelry, crystal stuff, rainsticks, artsy twigs, hemp-products and bout any other cheap thing you could want to have imported from India).
Sure enough, right out in the middle of the mall aisle as it were was a little kiosk shop of several glass cases full of action figures, both vintage and new, and models and statues and other geek related things. Toward the rear of it were two display shelves with backissues of a wide assortment of comics. There were also a few comic long-boxes, with issues going for $2 or so. The owner of the shop was on the phone, but hung up shortly after I started browsing.
"I would have been here sooner, but I just saw your ad today," I told him while greedily savoring the bagged and backing-boarded issues gleaming before my eyes.
As far comic shops go, I can't say this one ranks with the best of them. (By the way, for my comic buying dollar, the best shop I've been to in years was Austin Books and Comics, in Austin, TX. It's everything I want in a comic shop and so much more.) But then again, it's only a kiosk store--what can you really do with a kiosk store? Every shop has to start somewhere. Hell, my original home town comic shop, the late lamented Gun Dog Comics, began in a warehouse full of dog food and music equipment. Even the New Age Crap store, now a good sized corner shop in the mall, began as a tiny kiosk just over a year ago. I'm sayin' it's got potential.
Garin, the owner of Jac0b's Treeh0use, seems to know his stuff and is not at all like Comic Book Guy on the Simpsons. (Worst trait EVER!) Furthermore, Jac0b's Treeh0use already has a monthly subscription service in place, meaning once I'm shed of my obligations to Westfield (i.e. waiting the two months it will likely take them to ship the remainder of the comics I've ordered in advance) my comics fix will once again become weekly.
On Tuesday--the day I wasn't here, mind you--around 5 p.m., a patron parked their `88 Chevy pickup in front of the library and came inside to avail himself of our services. He neglected, however, to set his parking brake. Our library is situated about mid-way up a fairly steep hill at the edge of the downtown area. You do the math.
Yes indeedy, Auntie Gravity and Uncle Laws of Physics took notice of the brakeless truck and sent it hurtling down the hill where it careened off a utility pole, changed direction and crashed into the window of a down-town restaurant. Fortunately, no one was injured.
This is actually not the first time this sort of thing has happened. Over the summer, while working the desk (no doubt on a Wednesday) I heard a tremendous noise from outside, rushed to the door and saw a large Chevy Suburban rocking back and forth on its wheels. It took me a second to notice the little white pickup truck practically sticking out of the Suburban's grill. It was a parking brake incident. The owner of the Suburban, which was barely scratched, was using a computer while the truck's owner was no where to be found. The police came and took down information. The owner of the Suburban decided he didn't really care about any of it, since his vehicle wasn't damaged, and drove away, leaving me to inform the owner of the truck--one Mr. Welsh, another of our regular patrons--why his back bumper was damaged.
When I heard about yesterday's incident, I said, "It wasn't Mr. Welsh, again, was it?"
It wasn't.
Mrs. C, our #2 librarian, held up the local paper and read aloud the details of the crash to the rest of us. I stood there, slack-jawed in amazement, first at my lost opportunity to witness people running and leaping, Little-Rascals-Style, to get out of the way of a runaway truck, then secondly at the ad I then noticed on the back page of the newspaper.
The ad read: "Jac0b's Treeh0use. Collectibles. Toys. Gifts. Comics. For the young and the young at heart. TRI-METRO Mall."
"Sweet crap on a cracker!" I said. "A comic shop!"
You see, in the two and a half years since my wife and I moved to this tiny little West Virginia burg, I've been without my accustomed weekly comics fix. Since 1988, I've always lived in towns that had at least one comic shop, that is until moving here. The closest shop to where I live now had been about an hour away from me and not exactly feasible to get to on a weekly basis. (Plus, it's not an especially good one, either.) The prospect of a comic shop closer to home seemed a distant one. I'd even toyed with the idea of starting my own, but the fact that I didn't think the area could support one and my lack of any business sense convinced me otherwise. In order to get comics at all, I've had to go through Westfield Comics, a mail-order service and a darn good one too. However, with Westfield, I only get a monthly fix of comics and have to pay $6 in shipping. And sure, it's almost like a mini-Christmas when that big ol' box with WESTFIELD COMICS printed on the side arrives at my door (causing the feMailman to beep her horn for me to come out and get it from her car so she doesn't have to walk up and ring the bell), but it's still not the same as walking out of a bonafide comic shop with a brown paper bag full of comic-reading goodness under your arm. Damn, I miss it.
"Oh, yeah. I saw that store," Mrs. C said. "It's a little kiosk out in the middle of the mall."
"What?" I said. "You mean you knew about this?"
"Um. Well, yeah. It was open back during the crafts fair."
"The crafts fair? That was, like, a month ago. You've been sitting on this for a month?"
"Well, I thought to mention it but figured you already knew," Mrs C said. Mrs. A, our head librarian, backed Mrs. C up saying that she too had seen the shop a month ago and also didn't think to tell me, but only because I probably already knew.
"Darn all of you," I said.
They laughed and joked that they knew where I was headed on my break. Sure enough, I headed over to the mall as soon as I could.
The TRI-METRO Mall is hardly a proper "mall," unless by "mall" you mean a collection of empty storefronts and Armed Services recruiting stations set within an enclosed shopping environment. Oh, sure, there is a big chain clothing store there as well as a hair salon, a shoe store and a New Age Crap store (with a fine selection of rocks, tribal masks, jewelry, crystal stuff, rainsticks, artsy twigs, hemp-products and bout any other cheap thing you could want to have imported from India).
Sure enough, right out in the middle of the mall aisle as it were was a little kiosk shop of several glass cases full of action figures, both vintage and new, and models and statues and other geek related things. Toward the rear of it were two display shelves with backissues of a wide assortment of comics. There were also a few comic long-boxes, with issues going for $2 or so. The owner of the shop was on the phone, but hung up shortly after I started browsing.
"I would have been here sooner, but I just saw your ad today," I told him while greedily savoring the bagged and backing-boarded issues gleaming before my eyes.
As far comic shops go, I can't say this one ranks with the best of them. (By the way, for my comic buying dollar, the best shop I've been to in years was Austin Books and Comics, in Austin, TX. It's everything I want in a comic shop and so much more.) But then again, it's only a kiosk store--what can you really do with a kiosk store? Every shop has to start somewhere. Hell, my original home town comic shop, the late lamented Gun Dog Comics, began in a warehouse full of dog food and music equipment. Even the New Age Crap store, now a good sized corner shop in the mall, began as a tiny kiosk just over a year ago. I'm sayin' it's got potential.
Garin, the owner of Jac0b's Treeh0use, seems to know his stuff and is not at all like Comic Book Guy on the Simpsons. (Worst trait EVER!) Furthermore, Jac0b's Treeh0use already has a monthly subscription service in place, meaning once I'm shed of my obligations to Westfield (i.e. waiting the two months it will likely take them to ship the remainder of the comics I've ordered in advance) my comics fix will once again become weekly.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Brothers in Arms
Well, this blog's made headlines. Over at LIS Blogsource, a library blog about library blogs, they've put up a link to me as part of their Dec 3 entry. Mighty nice of `em. Turns out there are quite a few library related blogs out there. And I haven't exactly cornered the market on the use of the term "Liberry", either.
Probably the biggest and best of them that I've found so far is http://liberryblooze.blogspot.com. This site just irritated me. Not only has it already been around for more than TWO YEARS, but it's using the same frickin' template that I originally chose for this site (hence why I've changed all my colors recently).
The worst part is, it's a great Liberry Horror story site! I should aspire to be that entertaining.
$%#*!!
I'm of half a mind to say "Screw this blogging business" and just go read LiberryBlooze.
But I'm not gonna.
What I'm gonna do is continue making cosmetic changes and proceed business as usual. Oh, and I'd also like to say congrats to Jonathan on reaching the two year mark with Liberryblooze and wish him many years to come. You're a brother in arms, sir, and I salute you.
Probably the biggest and best of them that I've found so far is http://liberryblooze.blogspot.com. This site just irritated me. Not only has it already been around for more than TWO YEARS, but it's using the same frickin' template that I originally chose for this site (hence why I've changed all my colors recently).
The worst part is, it's a great Liberry Horror story site! I should aspire to be that entertaining.
$%#*!!
I'm of half a mind to say "Screw this blogging business" and just go read LiberryBlooze.
But I'm not gonna.
What I'm gonna do is continue making cosmetic changes and proceed business as usual. Oh, and I'd also like to say congrats to Jonathan on reaching the two year mark with Liberryblooze and wish him many years to come. You're a brother in arms, sir, and I salute you.
Monday, December 08, 2003
The Patron Who Must Not Be Named
Out of all the members of the Liberry Rogues Gallery, Chester the (potential) Molester is the one we hate the most.
Actually, our hatred for him varies from day to day, depending on who's in the library, as there are actually people who irritate us far more than Chester, but he's probably the most serious threat we have to look out for, therefore he makes the top of the list.
He is the Patron Who Must Not be Named.
Chester looks like the stereotypical child-molester. In fact, he could be the child-molester poster boy. He's in his 30's; he tends to wear baggy, dirty clothing, often of the sweat-pant variety and always, ALWAYS wears the same ratty-assed vest and little short-brimmed hunting cap; he does indeed possess a traditional "Chester the Molester" mustache; and he most definitely has an unsavory interest in young ladies (and by young ladies, I mean under age 16, usually under age 12). He's SO stereotypical in his predatory molester-like behavior that when you see him actually behaving that way you stop to question your sanity, because you think that no one would EVER possibly behave so openly and obviously like a child-molester and you think that you MUST somehow be mistaken. Then you realize that, no, you're not mistaken and he truly is a sick bastard.
In Chester's defense (what little there is) in the year and a half he's been darkening our door, we've never actually had any incidents of illegality from him--in other words, he's never attempted to actually molest anyone while in the library. Otherwise the police would have been called on him long long ago and he would be making "special friends" in prison. However, the fact that he hasn't actually molested anyone may only be due to the fact that we never give him the opportunity to do so. From the time Chester hits the front step, we're on his ass like westerns on shelves at Tabor Evans' house.
Chester's usual M.O. is to enter the library and immediately head upstairs, pausing on the way to case the children's room for any occupants. When he comes in, we do a quick inventory of any and all kids in the library and where they are. If we don't know, we go look and make sure and if there are any kids near Chester we make sure there's a library staff-member tailing Chester at all times. If there are no children, we let him be, but we take special notice of any girls who come in.
Once Chester finds out there's no one of interest upstairs, he comes back downstairs (stopping to check out the parenting magazines, with their usual young cover-girls on his way) and either leaves disappointed or heads for the internet-access computers. We've never been able to catch Chester viewing anything untoward on the internet. We're not sure if this is due to any skill on his part at keeping only harmless pages up whenever prying eyes are around. We suspect he might just not know how to use it in the first place. Almost as though he can sense that there's porn there to be found, but is stymied at how to access it. We've seen him sit and stare at our home page for minutes at a time. Chester's also not a big fan of signing up at the desk to use one of our computers and is always on the lookout for one that's already logged on but unattended so he can just hop right on. (We keep em logged off whenever he's in the house, just to force him to come put his name on our clip-board. Not that we need his name. Everyone knows his name. Librarians in surrounding counties know his name. So far, the only people that don't seem to know his name are the sex-offender registration pages for WV, which we check regularly.)
So Chester usually stays on the computer for a few minutes and then leaves, provided there are no young girls about. If there are young girls about, he will make any and all excuses to leave the computer area and meander back into the kids' room to stare at them. His favorite excuse is that he needs a pencil. Once this is decided, he gets up, goes into the kids room and, instead of making the straight line from the reference/computer hall through the kids room and into the library's front room, he curves around to the left and pretends to be terribly interested in the Easy Reader section, all the while stealing glances at the girl(s) in the room. It's really pathetic that he seems to think no one can tell what he's up to. Chester will also try to move out of line of sight of the front desk, at which time I move from the front desk until I have line of sight on Chester; this usually means planting myself into the children's room door frame, from where I can stare at Chester and give him the "stank eye." Once Chester spies me spying him, he breaks off from his own staring activities and either heads back for the computer until such a time as it occurs to him that he really needs a pencil (i.e. five seconds later) or he heads to the front desk to get said pencil, at which time I point out to him that there are plenty of pencils by each of the computers and that he should use one of those. This happens EVERY SINGLE TIME. And it really doesn't matter to him that it happens every single time, because he only wanted a pencil so he'd have an excuse to go through the children's room and now that he's been told where the pencils are he has his excuse to go back through the kids room to get one. There, once again, he starts to meander off track and tries to stare at the girl(s), restarting the cycle.
I used to try and intimidate Chester as best I could. I'm not a physical violence kind of guy, but I'm told I can exert an intense angry stare when pissed. I used to turn that stare on Chester whenever he came in and continued beaming it at him the whole time he was around. I even followed him from room to room, just to stand idly in the corner and turn the stare on him whenever he looked my way. My goal was to make him as uncomfortable as possible in the hope he would finally realize he wasn't welcome and we were on to his sick little game. As far as I can tell, though, the stare has never had any affect on him whatsoever.
We've talked to other libraries about him to see if they had any better dirt that we did. We even tried to be discrete about it, phoning up the library in the county he lives in and saying, "We wanted to ask you about a problem patron we've been having who lives in your area?" to which the other library responded, "Oh, you mean CHESTER?" That library told us that Chester once confronted their head librarian, accusing her of calling the police on him, as the police had apparently been to his house to ask him about his behavior. The librarian had not called the police on him, but assured him that she would be happy to, should the need arise. More likely what happened is that a concerned parent called the police on him, being as how that particular public library is located on the property of an elementary school and Chester was only there to watch the scenery when school let out.
The only method we've found for keeping Chester out of our library is to stop talking about him altogether. You see, Chester is the Patron Who Must Not Be Named for a very good reason. We found that if we stopped using his real name in common conversation, he stopped turning up so often. Then, on days when we happened to use his name, he DID turn up. So it has become unofficial library policy to never mention his real name. If we refer to him at all, it is as The Patron Who Must Not Be Named. (He knows when you're talkin' about him... so DOOOOON'T even talk about him.)
A part of me would LOVE it if I were to catch him doing something wrong (or something demonstrably wrong, as lascivious staring ain't technically illegal). I would love being able to call the police and tell them something they could actually use besides, "Uh, he was starin' at her," which just doesn't seem to cut it. So far, though, Chester's been playing it careful. But we the library staff remain ever vigilant.
Actually, our hatred for him varies from day to day, depending on who's in the library, as there are actually people who irritate us far more than Chester, but he's probably the most serious threat we have to look out for, therefore he makes the top of the list.
He is the Patron Who Must Not be Named.
Chester looks like the stereotypical child-molester. In fact, he could be the child-molester poster boy. He's in his 30's; he tends to wear baggy, dirty clothing, often of the sweat-pant variety and always, ALWAYS wears the same ratty-assed vest and little short-brimmed hunting cap; he does indeed possess a traditional "Chester the Molester" mustache; and he most definitely has an unsavory interest in young ladies (and by young ladies, I mean under age 16, usually under age 12). He's SO stereotypical in his predatory molester-like behavior that when you see him actually behaving that way you stop to question your sanity, because you think that no one would EVER possibly behave so openly and obviously like a child-molester and you think that you MUST somehow be mistaken. Then you realize that, no, you're not mistaken and he truly is a sick bastard.
In Chester's defense (what little there is) in the year and a half he's been darkening our door, we've never actually had any incidents of illegality from him--in other words, he's never attempted to actually molest anyone while in the library. Otherwise the police would have been called on him long long ago and he would be making "special friends" in prison. However, the fact that he hasn't actually molested anyone may only be due to the fact that we never give him the opportunity to do so. From the time Chester hits the front step, we're on his ass like westerns on shelves at Tabor Evans' house.
Chester's usual M.O. is to enter the library and immediately head upstairs, pausing on the way to case the children's room for any occupants. When he comes in, we do a quick inventory of any and all kids in the library and where they are. If we don't know, we go look and make sure and if there are any kids near Chester we make sure there's a library staff-member tailing Chester at all times. If there are no children, we let him be, but we take special notice of any girls who come in.
Once Chester finds out there's no one of interest upstairs, he comes back downstairs (stopping to check out the parenting magazines, with their usual young cover-girls on his way) and either leaves disappointed or heads for the internet-access computers. We've never been able to catch Chester viewing anything untoward on the internet. We're not sure if this is due to any skill on his part at keeping only harmless pages up whenever prying eyes are around. We suspect he might just not know how to use it in the first place. Almost as though he can sense that there's porn there to be found, but is stymied at how to access it. We've seen him sit and stare at our home page for minutes at a time. Chester's also not a big fan of signing up at the desk to use one of our computers and is always on the lookout for one that's already logged on but unattended so he can just hop right on. (We keep em logged off whenever he's in the house, just to force him to come put his name on our clip-board. Not that we need his name. Everyone knows his name. Librarians in surrounding counties know his name. So far, the only people that don't seem to know his name are the sex-offender registration pages for WV, which we check regularly.)
So Chester usually stays on the computer for a few minutes and then leaves, provided there are no young girls about. If there are young girls about, he will make any and all excuses to leave the computer area and meander back into the kids' room to stare at them. His favorite excuse is that he needs a pencil. Once this is decided, he gets up, goes into the kids room and, instead of making the straight line from the reference/computer hall through the kids room and into the library's front room, he curves around to the left and pretends to be terribly interested in the Easy Reader section, all the while stealing glances at the girl(s) in the room. It's really pathetic that he seems to think no one can tell what he's up to. Chester will also try to move out of line of sight of the front desk, at which time I move from the front desk until I have line of sight on Chester; this usually means planting myself into the children's room door frame, from where I can stare at Chester and give him the "stank eye." Once Chester spies me spying him, he breaks off from his own staring activities and either heads back for the computer until such a time as it occurs to him that he really needs a pencil (i.e. five seconds later) or he heads to the front desk to get said pencil, at which time I point out to him that there are plenty of pencils by each of the computers and that he should use one of those. This happens EVERY SINGLE TIME. And it really doesn't matter to him that it happens every single time, because he only wanted a pencil so he'd have an excuse to go through the children's room and now that he's been told where the pencils are he has his excuse to go back through the kids room to get one. There, once again, he starts to meander off track and tries to stare at the girl(s), restarting the cycle.
I used to try and intimidate Chester as best I could. I'm not a physical violence kind of guy, but I'm told I can exert an intense angry stare when pissed. I used to turn that stare on Chester whenever he came in and continued beaming it at him the whole time he was around. I even followed him from room to room, just to stand idly in the corner and turn the stare on him whenever he looked my way. My goal was to make him as uncomfortable as possible in the hope he would finally realize he wasn't welcome and we were on to his sick little game. As far as I can tell, though, the stare has never had any affect on him whatsoever.
We've talked to other libraries about him to see if they had any better dirt that we did. We even tried to be discrete about it, phoning up the library in the county he lives in and saying, "We wanted to ask you about a problem patron we've been having who lives in your area?" to which the other library responded, "Oh, you mean CHESTER?" That library told us that Chester once confronted their head librarian, accusing her of calling the police on him, as the police had apparently been to his house to ask him about his behavior. The librarian had not called the police on him, but assured him that she would be happy to, should the need arise. More likely what happened is that a concerned parent called the police on him, being as how that particular public library is located on the property of an elementary school and Chester was only there to watch the scenery when school let out.
The only method we've found for keeping Chester out of our library is to stop talking about him altogether. You see, Chester is the Patron Who Must Not Be Named for a very good reason. We found that if we stopped using his real name in common conversation, he stopped turning up so often. Then, on days when we happened to use his name, he DID turn up. So it has become unofficial library policy to never mention his real name. If we refer to him at all, it is as The Patron Who Must Not Be Named. (He knows when you're talkin' about him... so DOOOOON'T even talk about him.)
A part of me would LOVE it if I were to catch him doing something wrong (or something demonstrably wrong, as lascivious staring ain't technically illegal). I would love being able to call the police and tell them something they could actually use besides, "Uh, he was starin' at her," which just doesn't seem to cut it. So far, though, Chester's been playing it careful. But we the library staff remain ever vigilant.
Sunday, December 07, 2003
Benign Legion of Liberry Rogues
Friday was a really boring day at the "Liberry." During the course of the day, we were actually visited by nearly the entire membership of the current Liberry Rogues Gallery, including Ron the (Magazine) Ripper, Chester the (Potential) Molester and both Mr B-Natural (the Grumpiest Old Man in all the World) and Mr. Smiley (the Second Grumpiest Old Man in All The World). Unfortunately, there was narry an incident of misbehavior or even anything interesting out of any of them to report.
In fact, the closest thing to an incident we had was when Mr. B-Natural told me that his puppy, Bubba, had recently given him the gift of a slightly soggy, though still edible, Milkbone dog biscuit and insisted that he take it no matter how many times he threw it away. Mr. B-Natural carried it with him in his pocket, just to show to people. This might strike you as a strange thing to do, but I personally think it's very cute. Plus, it's actually a big step in Mr. B's evolution toward becoming Not Quite the Grumpiest Man in All The World. The dog has mellowed Mr. B-Natural quite a bit, and anything that can accomplish that is a good thing in my book.
Mr. Smiley is still the Second Grumpiest Man in All The World, but he seems to like me so he doesn't give me any crap. This is probably due to my never having had cause to give him any. As far as I can tell, Mr. Smiley has some anger-managment issues. Unfortunately for the purposes of this blog, most of his glory days of raising hell at having his Wallstreet Journal reading time disturbed by even the slightest sound seem to be over. And it's been nearly a year since he caused an elderly lady to fall half-way down the stairs due entirely to his own deep-seated rudeness. No, these days Mr. Smiley seems to be taking an active interest in not being so grumpy. He even tries to be nice, on occasion. It's such an alien behavior for him that he just can't get the hang of it and it always comes off as just wrong and creepy.
I covered Ron the Ripper earlier in this blog's archives, (though I still haven't revealed his secret identity).
And Chester the (potential) Molester? That sick bastard is a whole other post entirely...
In fact, the closest thing to an incident we had was when Mr. B-Natural told me that his puppy, Bubba, had recently given him the gift of a slightly soggy, though still edible, Milkbone dog biscuit and insisted that he take it no matter how many times he threw it away. Mr. B-Natural carried it with him in his pocket, just to show to people. This might strike you as a strange thing to do, but I personally think it's very cute. Plus, it's actually a big step in Mr. B's evolution toward becoming Not Quite the Grumpiest Man in All The World. The dog has mellowed Mr. B-Natural quite a bit, and anything that can accomplish that is a good thing in my book.
Mr. Smiley is still the Second Grumpiest Man in All The World, but he seems to like me so he doesn't give me any crap. This is probably due to my never having had cause to give him any. As far as I can tell, Mr. Smiley has some anger-managment issues. Unfortunately for the purposes of this blog, most of his glory days of raising hell at having his Wallstreet Journal reading time disturbed by even the slightest sound seem to be over. And it's been nearly a year since he caused an elderly lady to fall half-way down the stairs due entirely to his own deep-seated rudeness. No, these days Mr. Smiley seems to be taking an active interest in not being so grumpy. He even tries to be nice, on occasion. It's such an alien behavior for him that he just can't get the hang of it and it always comes off as just wrong and creepy.
I covered Ron the Ripper earlier in this blog's archives, (though I still haven't revealed his secret identity).
And Chester the (potential) Molester? That sick bastard is a whole other post entirely...
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
UGH!!! Part III
Odd bird of the day prize goes to Cap'n Crossdresser, who favored us with a visit this afternoon. The good cap'n was wearing a stylish black quilted ladies long winter coat with a green fleece long sleeve blouse, dark skirt and knee-high leather boots. Oh, and he had a purse that matched the coat.
I'm going home now to prepare for the onslought of sleet and freezing rain we are about to receive.
Tomorrow should be interesting, as I'm going to spend much of it at the W V "Liberry" Assoc's annual conference, held this year at the world famous BIG HOITY TOITY HOTEL AND RESORT . If I can dig out of the ice, that is. I'm supposed to MC a group of W V author readings, including Belinda Anderson, Sharon Gardner, Edwina Pendarvis and Stephen Coonts. Should be fun. I might even cheat a little for some HOITY TOITY HOTEL grub.
I'm going home now to prepare for the onslought of sleet and freezing rain we are about to receive.
Tomorrow should be interesting, as I'm going to spend much of it at the W V "Liberry" Assoc's annual conference, held this year at the world famous BIG HOITY TOITY HOTEL AND RESORT . If I can dig out of the ice, that is. I'm supposed to MC a group of W V author readings, including Belinda Anderson, Sharon Gardner, Edwina Pendarvis and Stephen Coonts. Should be fun. I might even cheat a little for some HOITY TOITY HOTEL grub.
UGH!!! Part II
The day actually got much better. Several of my favorite patrons came in and brightened my day, got some good news from a friend, plus I was able to order and early lunch from the Atkins-friendly downtown restaurant that delivers locally. (I'm back on the Induction period of Atkins, after damaging my carbohydrate avoiding/fat burning digestive system over Thanksgiving. I'm frankly glad to be back on the program, because I can't recall feeling as bloated and sluggish as I did after consuming all those tasty, tasty, empty carbs.)
Other than the fact that I now have about 400 paper cuts on my tongue from licking fund drive envelopes all morning, and the predicted 9 inches of snow we're about to get, and the phone ringing off the hook every time I sit down to type something, and the fact that there are probably 5 handicapped patrons upstairs who, from the sound of it, are trying to jump through the floor, I'm doing pretty good.
Even better is the news that Mrs. J did not have a heart attack after all, but merely has some suspected cardiac blockage and is going for treatment in Charleston tomorrow. This means she likely didn't have any damage to her heart from her episode yesterday. Very good news indeed.
Other than the fact that I now have about 400 paper cuts on my tongue from licking fund drive envelopes all morning, and the predicted 9 inches of snow we're about to get, and the phone ringing off the hook every time I sit down to type something, and the fact that there are probably 5 handicapped patrons upstairs who, from the sound of it, are trying to jump through the floor, I'm doing pretty good.
Even better is the news that Mrs. J did not have a heart attack after all, but merely has some suspected cardiac blockage and is going for treatment in Charleston tomorrow. This means she likely didn't have any damage to her heart from her episode yesterday. Very good news indeed.
UGH!!
I'm at the library and am having a spectacularly crappy day so far.
I had to open today at 9.
I forgot to set my alarm and woke up at 8:20.
Had to quickly gather clothes, coffee and breakfast, which I was planning to take with me to eat here. Coffee took far longer than necessary so I wound up leaving the house at 8:40.
My commute is 15 minutes, on a good day.
8:55, I roll in to the "Liberry" and realize I forgot my breakfast! (Though I did manage to get my coffee.)
The person who closed the library last night did an irresponsibly poor job, the trash is brimming over and the stupid carpet runner to the door is filthy (mostly because patrons insist on wiping their feet on it despite the fact that it is NOT a doormat and that there's a perfectly usable doormat RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE EFFing DOOR!!!!)
And someone has already called to ask what time we close.
So now I'm hungry and cranky and probably have a tendency to snarl at people. It can only get better from here.
So now I'm hungry and cranky and probably have a tendency to snarl at people. It can only get better from here.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
And the drama just keeps on coming
A few minutes ago, our chief librarian gave me a call to let me know that Mrs. J, one of our library workers, is in intensive care right now due to a heart attack. It doesn't seem to be a severe one, at this point, but any heart attack is bad news.
Mrs. J is a nice lady who's been with the library staff for several years. She started out as a Green Thumb worker, paid by the local Green Thumb group to work there, but after they dropped her from their payroll last year our library board agreed to pick her up as a regular employee at the same rate. Mrs J is a good soul, who every year we have to try and talk out of spending her entire paycheck buying presents to give us at our Christmas party. We rarely succeed entirely, but can usually convince her to give us food instead.
If you're of a praying mind, please say one for her.
Mrs. J is a nice lady who's been with the library staff for several years. She started out as a Green Thumb worker, paid by the local Green Thumb group to work there, but after they dropped her from their payroll last year our library board agreed to pick her up as a regular employee at the same rate. Mrs J is a good soul, who every year we have to try and talk out of spending her entire paycheck buying presents to give us at our Christmas party. We rarely succeed entirely, but can usually convince her to give us food instead.
If you're of a praying mind, please say one for her.
Monday, December 01, 2003
Thanksgiving Part II
We left Waynesboro Thursday morning and headed north for Starkville again. We were only in town for an hour or so before setting off for Missouri, where Thanksgiving dinner was to take place on Friday evening, instead of Thursday.
My parents (dad and step-mother) drove in their Lincoln while the wife, I and my sister took my Malibu. Before leaving, Dad asked how fast we wanted to drive, as he was taking lead. We agreed that 5 mph over the limit would be good, as there were going to be many troopers out then. Dad then proceeded to drive 1 mph under the limit all the way to Tupelo.
In Tupelo, we flashed our lights and pulled over to the side of the road after Dad seemingly missed the turn to Memphis. He explained he intended to continue north on Hwy 45 through Corinth, MS and on up to Dyersburg, TN on the way to Missouri. We opted to head up I-78 to Memphis, which is a far faster trip.
"Oh, sure. We'll see who gets there first," Dad said in a tone that suggested it was a forgone conclusion that he and my step-mother would be the winners.
We laughed and took off at a good 10 mph over the limit.
In Memphis, we missed the bypass loop around the city and wound up plowing through it on I-78 proper. At one point we crossed the loop again and the wife, who was driving, turned on the ceiling light of the car so she and Alison could consult our atlas to see if we needed to go back. We did. In the process of turning around to go back to it, though, we wound up in a very questionable neighborhood where there wasn't a great place to turn around. The whole situation made me nervous. I didn't like the idea of driving around in a bad neighborhood with our interior light lit illuminating us as the atlas scanning lost idiots we were. The wife seemed oblivious to all this. She pulled off the bad side street we were already on onto a potentially worse one (or at the very least, deeper into the questionable neighborhood) and then up into an empty lot. She thought the lot's driveway looped back around to the street, but it turned out not to be a driveway in the first place, let alone one with a looping road. The lot was also rather junky. I was worried that we would run over a glass bottle and have a flat. We were not in the sort of neighborhood in which I wished to have a flat at night. I tried very hard to keep my cool, but our situation kept getting worse and I couldn't help groaning about it. I reached up and turned off the interior light, but the wife immediately turned it back on and stopped at the next intersection, STILL in the bad neighborhood, to spread the atlas open once again. My sister, sensing and sharing my nervousness, suggested we get out of the neighborhood before we broke out the maps, so the wife drove on. Now, chances are we were never in any real danger, but I'm a fairly paranoid person when it comes to the potential death of me and my family and tend to insist on avoiding behavior that MIGHT get us killed and or injured.
We arrived at my grandmother's house in Missouri a good hour ahead of my parents and had lots of fun rubbing that in their faces. My dad gave us the bird.
-----------------------------------------
The wife's first Thanksgiving with my family went pretty well. No major arguments broke out and good food was had by all. Her only complaint was the smoke. My extended family consists of one part militant chain-smokers, one part reformed militant chain-smokers and one part semi-militant, usually uncomplaining non-smokers. The wife and I fall into the latter category. We spent most of the weekend trying to avoid the more smoky areas while gamely tolerating our burning lungs and reddened eyes as best we could.
Other than that, my family was my family. Most of them I've not seen in a year and a half, some longer than that. It was a good visit over all.
-----------------------------------------
We wound up leafing through photo albums there too. In fact, there are considerably more photo albums at my grandmother's house, as my grandfather was a habitual photographer. At one point we found a strange photo featuring a child none of us could readily identify. I brought the photo around to everyone who came in to see if any of them knew.
"See, there's Pam, Little Steve, me, Uncle Chuck, Jason, Cameron and then... mystery child."
The truly strange part, though, was that the child LOOKED as if he was a member of the family. He looked a little bit like a cross between me and one of my other cousins, in fact. But we didn't have another cousin that he could possibly be. All available candidates were either far too old or far too young. For a while, we toyed with the idea that this was a photo that fell through into our world from an alternate reality, in which my mother hadn't had a miscarriage between my and my sister's births.
We then accused my Uncle John of inserting a photo he'd digitally doctored, since that is one of his many talents with computers. He claimed he didn't do it, but we all agreed that it would have made a fantastic prank. Just go borrow someone's family photo album, scan in the pictures, digitally insert strangers into them and take it back. Oh the trouble I could get into.
My parents (dad and step-mother) drove in their Lincoln while the wife, I and my sister took my Malibu. Before leaving, Dad asked how fast we wanted to drive, as he was taking lead. We agreed that 5 mph over the limit would be good, as there were going to be many troopers out then. Dad then proceeded to drive 1 mph under the limit all the way to Tupelo.
In Tupelo, we flashed our lights and pulled over to the side of the road after Dad seemingly missed the turn to Memphis. He explained he intended to continue north on Hwy 45 through Corinth, MS and on up to Dyersburg, TN on the way to Missouri. We opted to head up I-78 to Memphis, which is a far faster trip.
"Oh, sure. We'll see who gets there first," Dad said in a tone that suggested it was a forgone conclusion that he and my step-mother would be the winners.
We laughed and took off at a good 10 mph over the limit.
In Memphis, we missed the bypass loop around the city and wound up plowing through it on I-78 proper. At one point we crossed the loop again and the wife, who was driving, turned on the ceiling light of the car so she and Alison could consult our atlas to see if we needed to go back. We did. In the process of turning around to go back to it, though, we wound up in a very questionable neighborhood where there wasn't a great place to turn around. The whole situation made me nervous. I didn't like the idea of driving around in a bad neighborhood with our interior light lit illuminating us as the atlas scanning lost idiots we were. The wife seemed oblivious to all this. She pulled off the bad side street we were already on onto a potentially worse one (or at the very least, deeper into the questionable neighborhood) and then up into an empty lot. She thought the lot's driveway looped back around to the street, but it turned out not to be a driveway in the first place, let alone one with a looping road. The lot was also rather junky. I was worried that we would run over a glass bottle and have a flat. We were not in the sort of neighborhood in which I wished to have a flat at night. I tried very hard to keep my cool, but our situation kept getting worse and I couldn't help groaning about it. I reached up and turned off the interior light, but the wife immediately turned it back on and stopped at the next intersection, STILL in the bad neighborhood, to spread the atlas open once again. My sister, sensing and sharing my nervousness, suggested we get out of the neighborhood before we broke out the maps, so the wife drove on. Now, chances are we were never in any real danger, but I'm a fairly paranoid person when it comes to the potential death of me and my family and tend to insist on avoiding behavior that MIGHT get us killed and or injured.
We arrived at my grandmother's house in Missouri a good hour ahead of my parents and had lots of fun rubbing that in their faces. My dad gave us the bird.
-----------------------------------------
The wife's first Thanksgiving with my family went pretty well. No major arguments broke out and good food was had by all. Her only complaint was the smoke. My extended family consists of one part militant chain-smokers, one part reformed militant chain-smokers and one part semi-militant, usually uncomplaining non-smokers. The wife and I fall into the latter category. We spent most of the weekend trying to avoid the more smoky areas while gamely tolerating our burning lungs and reddened eyes as best we could.
Other than that, my family was my family. Most of them I've not seen in a year and a half, some longer than that. It was a good visit over all.
-----------------------------------------
We wound up leafing through photo albums there too. In fact, there are considerably more photo albums at my grandmother's house, as my grandfather was a habitual photographer. At one point we found a strange photo featuring a child none of us could readily identify. I brought the photo around to everyone who came in to see if any of them knew.
"See, there's Pam, Little Steve, me, Uncle Chuck, Jason, Cameron and then... mystery child."
The truly strange part, though, was that the child LOOKED as if he was a member of the family. He looked a little bit like a cross between me and one of my other cousins, in fact. But we didn't have another cousin that he could possibly be. All available candidates were either far too old or far too young. For a while, we toyed with the idea that this was a photo that fell through into our world from an alternate reality, in which my mother hadn't had a miscarriage between my and my sister's births.
We then accused my Uncle John of inserting a photo he'd digitally doctored, since that is one of his many talents with computers. He claimed he didn't do it, but we all agreed that it would have made a fantastic prank. Just go borrow someone's family photo album, scan in the pictures, digitally insert strangers into them and take it back. Oh the trouble I could get into.
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