Memestruck V

I've been memetagged by Sara over at Disheveled. Here are the rules as given...

"Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog."

I, however, am going to ignore the last part of the rules, violating the very nature of the meme, because I'm too cool for that. If you'd like to continue it on your own, consider yourself tagged.

1. When I was in the 5th grade, I embezzled over $80 from the March of Dimes. Our school's administration forced us out into the world to collect donations for the March, (though I didn't think of it in those terms at the time so it's not like my embezzlement was an act of protest, or anything). We were all supposed to take our little donation envelope and go door to door, collecting money which we were to turn in at school on a specific date. When that specific date arrived, I was genuinely home sick. I wanted to turn the money in anyway, and even brought it with me to school the next day, but because our teachers had stressed to us so many times that they couldn't take any money after the deadline had passed, I was afraid to bring up the subject because I thought they would yell at me. I investigated no further and no one ever asked me about it. After a few months of storing the money in my safe place in the bookshelf of our living room, I began spending the money, slowly, so as not to draw attention to myself. Though I have probably not yet paid it all back, I still guiltilly purchase the little March of Dimes paper shoes whenever a grocery store clerk asks if I'd like to contribute as I'm checking out.

2. Out of the 50 or 60 comics I've obtained on Free Comic Book Day, during the past three years, I don't believe I've read more than two of them. Instead, they sit in stacks or in plastic bags in my office, unread and unloved. I have no explanation for this nor, seemingly, the ability to do anything about it.

3. I have an annoying habit of purchasing new albums by artists I love and then not listening to them for years at a stretch or even listening to them enough times to give them a fair shake. Sometimes those same albums, when given a chance later, become my favorite albums by a given artist. Perhaps I'm afraid I'll be disappointed and turned off an artist. Perhaps its my collector mentality, evidenced on Free Comic Book Day, where I'm content to merely own them. Not sure. Currently I have the following albums waiting to be given a test drive: Fiona Apple's "When the Pawn..." which I listened to years ago and loved but have not heard more than a song randomly played by my mp3 player now that I own it; Barenaked Ladies "Are Me" which I've heard a couple of times, but haven't played repeatedly as I have with their others; They Might Be Giants "The Spine"; Michael Penn "Resigned"; Midnight Oil "Breathe" and "Redneck Wonderland"; Dave Matthews Band "Stand Up" which I've only heard a couple of times; Sonia Dada "Barefootsoul" and "Test Pattern" both of which I've listened to once, enjoyed, and never touched again; Subdudes "Two Beasts"; Vinx "I love my job" and "Storyteller"; and pretty much anything by David Wilcox, most of whose albums I've owned for years, have listened to and enjoyed once, and still haven't given another good shake.

4. I was quite disappointed by the final episode of the Sopranos. (MINOR SPOILERS FOLLOW.) Not so much the very end of the episode that people have complained about, which can be interpreted in a number of ways and will likely be talked about for years, but for the fact that Paulie Walnuts did not die in a horrible manner, or indeed AT ALL. Ever since the episode a few seasons back where Paulie kills one of his elderly mother's equally elderly friends because he mistakenly thinks she's got money stashed somewhere, I've been waiting for Paulie's death and have hoped that it would occur in the most horrible manner possible. I was overjoyed when he got prostate cancer last season, as that seemed like it would be a good, long, slow, horrible death for him. But he beat it! And who do they kill off? Bobby, the one character on the show that I liked as a human being and was sorry to see shackled to the likes of Janice. Oh, and they royally messed up Silvio, who, despite being pretty amoral himself, was just so cool that you really didn't mind. Paulie, however, is irredeemably evil and I so wanted to see him switch to Phil's side, get caught at it and then be beaten to death by Tony at 3 o'clock, or something equally fitting to the show's established elements. Now that I think about it, though, if Tony was indeed hit when the show went to black, it would have come from 3 o'clock. Ahhhhhh. David Chase, I think I'm on to you.

5. Vol. 1 has an end. And it will, though you might not notice right away.

6. One of my major regrets in life is trying eggnog. Each Christmas season, throughout my time on earth, I've seen people nearly break their necks running to get a cup of eggnog like it was one of the best things you could possibly drink, and I always wondered what the big deal was. I even recall, at a fairly early age, being denied eggnog by my father (likely for my own good, as it was probably spiked) and deciding thereafter not to drink the stuff on principle. I went for years turning down offered cups of eggnog, resolved to go through life without having tasted it. Then, a couple years back, at my in-laws' house, I decided that was silly and I should just try some and did. The experience was so underwhelming that I cannot for the life of me see what all those people who nearly killed themselves trying to get some were after. It was just so very bleh tasting that I cannot understand what the big deal about it is. It made me angry. I mean, if it had been even as good as drinking a cookies N cream milkshake, I could maybe see the attraction, but it just wasn't good at all. Maybe it's that people who love eggnog don't really like the eggnog so much as whatever alcohol they've spiked it with. In other words, it's a good excuse to drink hard liquor in front of the kids without them knowing about it and the reason all those people from my childhood were so happy drinking it is because they were getting wasted. That's the only thing I can think of to explain the craze. That or peer pressure.

7. On a similar topic, I am in possession of secret knowledge of the true origin behind both a fad and a grandly successful unintentional sociological experiment. See, the cafeteria of the high school I attended, (Starkville High, in Starkpatch, MS), is legendary for its chicken nuggets. The legend and resulting incidents didn't start during my time there, but during my younger sister's time there and have reportedly continued in the years since. What happened is this: in the early 1990s, on our cafeteria's chicken nugget day there were literally stampedes through the hallways escalating into riots in the lunch line due to students attempting to cut in line in order to quench their desire to stuff their gobs with mechanically separated poultry parts that much more quickly. Now, as an alumnus, I consumed many of those same nuggets myself and can report that they were nothing special and were pretty sub par for even a high school cafeteria. When I was in college, I heard of these riots and was mystified by them. I mean, who has that kind of passion about chicken nuggets? The craze over them can be explained, though, not due to their actual taste but instead to the idea of their taste as sold by a charismatic huckster named Shane McRae. Shane is an actor these days, but back then he was something of a Ferris Bueller type, beloved by pretty much any given clique you might find in a high school. He was friends with everyone from theatre nerds to jocks to goths to bandnerds to bowheads, etc. Years later, while talking to Shane and some other friends, the topic of the Chicken Nugget Riots of 1992 arose and Shane laughed and explained that he was behind it all. One day, in a class right before lunch, Shane told one of his friends that he was about to start something big; he would race to the cafeteria as though his life depended on it and tell anyone in his path to get out of said path because no one was getting in his way on chicken nugget day. And this he did. Within weeks, whenever they were posted on the menu, there were whole lines and then whole herds of students racing to wait in line to eat these phenomenally shitty chicken nuggets. And it continued for YEARS after he graduated. For all I know, it continues to this day. Shane may go on to win Academy Awards, but, if for nothing else, he has achieved immortality for the chicken nuggets.

8. My highschool cafeteria did, however, make the best Ranch dressing I've ever had and I crave it to this day.

I can hear it in their VERY VOICES!

Mrs. A and I were at the circ desk when the phone rang and I answered it. A lady on the line explained that we had been holding a book for her and she wanted to make sure we still were, because she knew her hold time was up soon. We still had her book and I told her she still had a day to pick it up.

"I'll be right over to get it," she said.

As I hung up the phone, I turned to Mrs. A and announced, "She will not have her library card when she arrives. I can hear it in her voice."

Mrs. A laughed and continued processing inter"liberry" loan requests.

Ten minutes later, the patron from the phone arrived and mentioned that she was the person who'd just called. While she browsed our new fiction, I fetched her held book and set it upon the counter, awaiting the inevitable. Sure enough, she came over and said, "Am I ready to go?"

"Actually, I need to check it out to you first. Can I scan your library card?"

"You mean you... oh," she said. "I need the card?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said sweetly.

"You can't just look me up by..."

"No, ma'am," I said even more sweetly, this time with a smile.

She seemed to debate something internally for a couple of seconds, then gestured to the door and gave the international sign language for I'll be right back, I have to go get my pocketbook out of the car. When she was out the door, I turned to Mrs. A.

"What did I say?" I asked. "I tell you, I can hear it in their VERY VOICES!"

Mrs. A was suitably impressed.

I was even more correct than I had originally thought, though. Back our patron came, pocketbook in hand. She dug through it for nearly a minute searching for her card. Occasionally she would mutter, "I bet she still has it," and "Ohhhhh, she didn't give it back." Finally, she gave me a pitiful look and explained that she was pretty sure she'd loaned her card to her daughter, but the kid hadn't returned it. She then blinked hopefully and her eyes darted to my computer, using the international eye-sign-language for You could just look my name up in your computer, couldn't you?

"I can hold it for you here," I said, my own voice straining at the known boundaries of sweetness.

The patron left, sans book.

Twenty minutes later, she returned. Turns out she'd only left her card at work.

Combat Pay (PART II)

After a bit, a new computer patron happened in and I was forced to go back and log them onto a computer within Barbara Turdmurkle's field of vision.

"Oh, oh, excuuuuuse me. I need some help heeeere," Barbie T said in her slow, breathy, singsong voice, upon catching sight of me. I stepped over to her system. Barbara explained that she was trying to look at her credit report on her credit protection agency's website, but couldn't seem to get into it.

"Did you try your username and password?" I asked her.

"Whaaaat?"

"Your username and password," I said. "In order to access your account with them, you have to log into the site using a username and password."

Barbie thought for a moment. "I don't have one."

"Yes, you do," I said. I told her that the last time I'd seen her in the library, she'd been trying to check her credit report and had phoned up her protection agency and spoken to someone who had given her a username and password, which she'd written down and used to access her account. In order to do that again, she would have to use that username and password.

Barbara said she didn't remember any of that. She remembered I had helped her then, but she didn't know what her password might be. I suggested it might help if she phoned up her credit protection agency and asked them what it might be.

At that moment, a patron carried some books on tape past me headed seemingly toward the front room.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go back up front. I'm the only staff member in the building," I said.

"Oh, no, I'm going to be a while," the tape carrying patron said. I nearly spat on her.

Barbara Turdmurkle pointed to her screen. "Since I couldn't get my credit report, I wanted to look at something else." She explained then that she was trying to find a list of local car dealerships who were friendly with her insurance agency, the PROMINENT TEXAS-BASED INSURANCE COMPANY.

"Have you been to their website?" I asked, noting that the auto insurance search engine on her screen was not it.

She said she had and had tried to find it but nothing had worked and it had taken her twenty minutes to find the screen she was now on which wasn't giving her what she wanted either. To demonstrate, she clicked the search button beside of which was a completely blank search field. Nothing happened. I could feel my head start to ache.

"Ma'am, that isn't PTBIC's website. If you want to find PTBIC-friendly dealers, I suggest you start back at PTBIC's website."

"But it took me twenty minutes to get here," she said.

"Ma'am, I really REALLY recommend that you go back to PTBIC's site and start again."

Barbie T blinked at her screen and made no move to do so. She seemed reluctant to leave the incorrect screen on the grounds that it had taken her so long to incorrectly get there. So I explained to her again that the site she was on was not PTBIC's site and if she wanted to find information about them the best place to start was WITH THEIR SITE.

"Or maybe you know which dealerships would work with them?" she asked hopefully. The only explanation I have for this is that apparently the memory that I too am a customer of PTBIC filtered through her noggin.

"No. I do not have that information," I said. I then, for a third time, suggested she return to the PTBIC website, hoping to leave her to it.

"I don't know how to do that," she said.

Blood vessels in my brain strained at the force exerted upon them

So, I stepped over and showed her how to click in the address bar and told her what to type. She misspelled both the address and the ".com" following it. We corrected and moved on.

At the PTBIC's site, there was no indication of what she wanted. We searched high and low and didn't find it in any readily apparent place.

"Ma'am, what I would suggest you do is to phone PTBIC and ask them to tell you the names of the dealerships they work with."

"I've already been on the phone with them for two hours, today," she said. Oh, those poor poor people. "They gave me this password," she said, pointing to a piece of paper she had brought. Ah, now she knows about passwords. Unfortunately for her, there was no accompanying login for her "password" nor any place on the site where it made sense to type it. I tried to explain that in probably 99.999 percent of the cases where a password is required, there will also be a username or login name as well. She would not only need that, but would also need a better idea of where to type them. Barbie T then slowly and breathily told me that she needed to find the information not in order to purchase a new car from a PTBIC friendly dealer, but because she had ALREADY purchased a car from a non-PTBIC-friendly dealer and had gotten herself into some sort of financial trouble doing so. Deeper and deeper grew the dungpit of dealing with Barbie T.

Thankfully, having now spent 10 minutes away from the circ-desk, a patron popped her head into the hall to see if I might come check her out, so I was able to leave Barbie T to her own devices. She was not finished with me, though. After a few minutes she hobbled on up to the circ-desk and proceeded to interrogate me further on the subject of PTBIC friendly dealerships. I even returned to the PTBIC's site and tried to find something—ANYTHING—that might prove or, better still, disprove that there was any help to be had for her. Throughout the process, we were interrupted by patrons checking out, each of whom Barbie T—in a desperate, attention-starved ploy—dropped hints to about how her life was a sob story in an effort to get them to engage her in conversation about it. Wisely, they avoided taking the bait. I was eventually able to convince her that her best course of action was to leave and go call PTBIC and let some other poor bastard deal with her.

Barbie T thanked me for my patience and my help, lingered at the desk a bit longer, as if considering possibly asking me for help on other topics, then finally hobbled her way out the door.

Immediately, I wrote a note to my boss that in the future she should really consider giving the staff a Barbara Turdmurkle Combat Pay bonus whenever we have to deal her, cause it's just not worth it for what we make now.

Combat Pay (PART I)

Five O'Clock was nearly upon us, on my first day back at work, which meant the rest of the staff would soon flee the building, leaving me by my lonesome. That being the case, I went up to the staff bathroom to have myself a whiz before returning to the circ desk for my remaining two hour stretch. Upon entering the main room, I was greeted with the horrifying sight of Barbara Turdmurkle, bees of insanity buzzing frantically about her head, signing up for a computer.

Aw shit, I nearly said aloud. Mrs. B gave me a very sympathetic look as she walked past me to go log on a system for Barbie T.

This was not good. Not good at all.

Granted, a visit from Barbara Turdmurkle is never good, but it's especially bad when computers are involved. In addition to being BUGF**K CRAZY, Barbara Turdmurkle is also computer illiterate to an astounding degree. Yet she keeps purchasing services which require computer access to use.

After ten minutes trapped in the computer hall, putting her well past five o'clock, Mrs. B returned to the front room.

"Did you get her taken care of?" Mrs. C asked.

"I don't think so, but I'm going home," Mrs. B said. Then she added in my direction, "Sorry."

"Traitor!"

She quickly left, along with the rest of the gleeful traitors.

For the next twenty minutes I studiously avoided any library duty that might cause me to come in proximity to the computer hall. This was difficult, because people kept coming in to sign up for computers, causing me to have to actually enter the comuter hall to log them onto systems. Fortunately, the first one was at a system not in Barbie T's direct line of sight, so I was able to stealthily creep up, log it on and then creep away, much liken unto a ninja. I did notice what she was doing with her computer, though: she was trying to log in to her credit protection agency's site. No, no, no, no, no, no, not good. I instantly knew how this little drama was going to play out.

A few minutes later, one of the other computer users signed out and said, "That woman back there is having a lot of trouble on the computer. She kept asking me for help, but I didn't know how to help her."

I thanked the patron for the information, watched her leave and then stayed put at the desk.

Was this a demonstration of a library employee being actively and perhaps stubbornly non-service-oriented? Hells yes, and I make no apologies for it. I want NOTHING. TO. DO. with Barbara Turdmurkle if I can at all help it. Beyond being an exasperating and quite insane human being, Barbie T has a long history of claiming to have been groped, verbally abused or otherwise assaulted by men who have innocently assisted her in the past, regardless of witness testimony that such incidents did not occur.

An example: My boss Mrs. A told me that a few years back a neighboring library allowed a local man to conduct a computer class in their facility on a Saturday afternoon after closing time. One such Saturday, Barbie T came up and began banging on the door, clearly after the posted hours, and continued to bang on the door until the guy had to stop class to see what she wanted. Barbie T insisted that she HAD to make photocopies, that it was a dire photocopy emergency and she simply HAD to make them there despite his protestations that they were closed and he wasn't authorized to let nonclassmembers in the building. The man finally relented and let her in anyway. Being completely helpless with all forms of technology, Barbie T also required assistance in making her photocopies which, according to the legend, were numerous and complicated. The man had to stop his class to assist her, eventually got her to leave and then she went out into the community and told everyone she met that he'd felt her up and cursed at her when she declined his advances. Nevermind that the entire incident was witnessed by the members of his class who all said no such thing occurred. Unfortunately for many people, that was not the only time such allegations have been spread against innocents by Barbara Turdmurkle. I wish very much to avoid being her next victim.

Another example: Barbie T has a longstanding animosity with the neighbor in the apartment next to hers. I know this, as do a surprising number of people in our county, because Barbie T will tell anyone who strays near her about about how evil her neighbor is, how her neighbor has sex with her boyfriend against the adjoining wall just to annoy Barbie T, and how Barbie is convinced that the evil neighbor is trying to steal her identity. (And after seeing a glimpse of the kind of financial chaos that apparently exists in Barbie's life, I have to ask: Who would want it?) Rumor now has it that the reason we haven't seen Barbara Turdmurkle in just under a year is that she's had to spend some time away for psychiatric evaluation after leaving death threats on her neighbor's answering machine.

She is, as the medical establishment terms it, a Fruit Loop.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

Got them Lower 48 Can't Sleep Blues

So we've gone "outside" as the Alaskans say and have returned to West Virginia, jetlagged, sore and covered in cat fur. The trip home was largely uneventful, which is how I like my 15 hour trips to be. Delta even went so far as to feed us, which I thought was mighty nice of them and a rare event in airlines these days. (I got no more than a couple bags of mini-pretzels and some tomato juice out of U.S. Air on the way up.) The food was good, even.

Our only major trouble out of the trip happened after we'd landed in Charlotte and discovered that we had no idea where Ashley's car was parked. Three weeks ago, when she first flew out, Ash left the little card telling her where she parked in her car on the premise that she wouldn't be able to find it anyway after three weeks. She would just remember where she parked. Long term parking lots, however, look very different in broad daylight than they do at 3 a.m. and we soon found that we were the last ones on the airport shuttle bus.

"If you can tell me where your car is parked, I'll take you there," the annoyed driver said.

"If I knew where my car was parked, I would have just gotten off there," Ashley responded.

After another loop around the lot and more running commentary about the wisdom of remembering where you parked from the driver, (Does this look like where you parked it? What about this? Does this look familiar? What about THIS anonymous ocean of cars?) Ashley told her, "There. There it is. I see my car. It's here. Stop here." Then, once we and our bags were deposited in the lot and the shuttle had driven away, Ashley said, "I have no idea where my car is. I just couldn't deal with any more from her." Fortunately, it wasn't far away and she soon located it and was gracious enough to come back and pick me up despite my poor attitude on the subject of losing one's car.

Right now, it's 1 a.m., but my jetlagged brain tells me that it's only 9 p.m., so here I sit a typin' away when I should have long since been in bed.

I've now had a chance to restructure the post card entries, revising them to reflect the dates on which they were taken and adding some text and a number of new pictures to boot. Have a look.

Postcards from Alaska 36

One of my last views of Alaska, taken around 9:55 p.m. My wife told me early on that her goal was for me to love Alaksa by the time we left. Looking out at those pointy, purple mountains, I realized that I truly did. It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen and I'm already looking forward to my next trip up.

Until then I will miss this place. I also fear that all other states have been ruined for me by its beauty. I only thought we had mountains in West Virginia.

Postcards from Alaska #35

Ah, we finally spotted a moose up close. Unfortunately, he was probably filled with sawdust. This guy was in an Alaska museum down town. Moose are huge and it just amazes me that all that bulk can stay balanced atop those awkward, skinny legs.



The carcas of the rarely seen, crafty and ever-elusive species, the Mountain Whale.

Postcards from Alaska #34

My major regret of our journey was a double slam. Midway through her medical conference, Ashley sent me a link for Cyrano's Playhouse in Anchorage. At first I didn't know why until I looked at their coming attractions page and saw my friend Suehyla El Attar's play The Perfect Prayer was being produced there. What was more, Suehyla would be attending several shows and giving talkbacks afterward from May 24 through May 28.

I've known Sue since high school and have acted with her many times. The Perfect Prayer was a play she had written an early version of in college and had produced at Mississippi State. I wasn't in the production, but she and I were both in the production of Triumph of the West that was paired with it. I thought it would be the greatest thing ever to show up for those talkbacks unannounced and ask her some dumb question just to see her lose her shit when she figured out it was me. Unfortunately, we quickly discovered that we were not going to be in Anchorage at any point during the time she was there. We were already going to be in the Fairbanks area and couldn't exactly jaunt back for a night in the RV. I phoned her up to see if she would be coming in any earlier, so we could maybe extend our time in the south before heading up, but it was not to be. She said she would have loved to have lost her shit at seeing a long lost costar such as myself planted in the audience. "I thought you people were all dead!" she would have said.

My other regret is that we didn't get to see her play at all. By the time we did return to Anchorage, on May 31, we had something of a crisis involving luggage and rapidly thawing fish, which took until well past 9 at night to resolve. I had to make do with seeing the theatre it was produced at and reading a glowing review of it posted in their window.

Postcards from Alaska #33

Because the sun doesn't ever completely go down in May, ten o'clock at night there's this very cool glow that comes over everything, making the mountains turn purple. I live in a very mountainy area, so I've seen purple mountains before, but this was PURPLE. The photo above really doesn't do it justice AT ALL. That particular hue was one of the most beautiful things I saw during the trip and I was never able to quite capture it.

Postcards from Alaska #32

Solomon's Gulch is a scenic area across the bay from Valdez, very near the shore end of the AK pipeline. The gulch itself is beautiful, but the Soloman Gulch trail boasts what our guidebook called a steep trail leading to a lake. I thought this sounded challenging so I and the wife hoofed it up a very steep and rocky trail, through a wooded area filled with strange plants, including skunk weed (which did indeed smell like a skunk) and devil's broomstick (which is a long flowering plant with thick spiky vines that looks like it would really ruin your day were you to, say, roll down a steep hill into them).


We eventually reached a crossroads between two even steeper trails, which was where the wife said she was headed back to the RV and I could decide if I wanted to walk further. The above picture is taken from atop the next ridge, looking back toward the bay. Nearly killed me to reach this point.


Once I reached it, I had this to look at: a valley leading, I hoped, to the top of the gulch and more very steep hills beyond, presumably leading to the lake. I stumbled on toward the bridge and gulch top, cursing the journey and declaring that someone would be made to pay if the view from down there wasn't pretty damn spectacular.


I don't know if the topside view was all that great, but it was pretty enough. I decided, though, that the lake would have to be pretty for someone else to see, because I wasn't walking up any more hills beyond the one that would lead me back down the trail.

Postcards from Alaska #31

Down by the shore in Valdez. We considered going out fishing while visiting the area, but decided that $260 per person, not to mention addtional equipment rental costs and license fees, was a bit steep, particularly considering it isn't even salmon season yet. We'd have to catch a loooooot of fish to justify that kind of expendature, and I'm not that great a fisherman. Instead, we settled for a more practical solution and simply went down to the local seafood distributor, who send out hundreds of their own commerical fishing boats, and bought a bunch of salmon, halibut and halibut cheeks from them. (We bought that last item simply so we can invite people over to eat "`but cheeks.")



Valdez is a twice built town. The original was wiped out in an earthquake, and then relocated down the road a ways. The original town's footprint can still be found among the plants along the western shore of the bay. I thought it might be creepy to visit it, but instead it's just mostly this flat place occasionally broken up by concrete slabs.

Postcards from Alaska #30

The Valdez Public Library was one of three such institutions I visited during our time in AK. As using the internet was the only reason I was visiting, I found it very odd to find myself forced into the role of an "innanet" crowder. I also found it odd to have to figure out the internet useage protocol for each of the libraries. Each of them was different from one another and from my own. One (Fairbanks' Wein library) issued me a temporary library card with which I could use their sign in computer to reserve a system for either 50 minutes or 15 minutes. Valdez had a sign in sheet, but one prebroken into time blocks of the day, offering only one half hour's credit for the entire day. Anchorage also had a temporary login card, but conducted a bit more of a personal interview with me, typing some personal information up before handing it over.

I must give the staff members credit for being patient with me as I gave them confused looks when asking such questions as "Uhhh, which computer is Stacks #5?" and "Where do I print?" and "So, I don't have to have any sort of login to use your wireless?" To a person, they were nice and helpful. And if any of the Fairbanks staff is reading this, I was the guy in two different Superman T-shirts on two consecutive days.

Postcards from Alaska #29

Young bald eagles don't get their white heads until they're a couple years old. They're still scary huge, though. This was a morning shot on an overcast day (Valdez is known for its overcast days).

Postcards from Alaska #28

Bridal Veil Falls, near Thompson's Pass. Some jerk at the bottom.

Postcards from Alaska #27

This partially finished train tunnel, near Thompson Pass, was hand dug and nearing completion, sometime in the nineteenth century, when a dispute broke out over it resulting in a gun battle and an abandoned tunnel project.

Postcards from Alaska #26

A different eagle feeding on a different frozen lake, later in the day. A few hours after we saw this, we witnessed a bald eagle feeding on something completely different. As we neared Thompson's Pass, we spied some turns attacking a bald eagle in mid-air. They swooped and soared around him, pecking at him and then manuevering away before he could snap them out of the air. They were trying to distract him from their nearby nest. They were unsuccessful. Just after we stopped to take photos of their attack, the eagle landed in their nest and gobbled up the baby turns. The parent birds continued to swoop down, angrilly pecking him on the head. Perhaps fortunately, all of the pictures and mpeg footage I took of the event disappeared from my camera.

Postcards from Alaska #25

This was a scenic little creek near Paxon, AK, where Ash and her family built their first cabin. They were homesteaders, which meant if they developed a given patch of Alaska owned land, stayed on it and kept it up for three years, they could claim it as their own property. They found one atop a mound of springy tundra located by a running creek and with a fantastic view of the mountains nearby. In fact, Ashley's dad refused to put a door on his outhouse on the grounds that it would block his view.

Just shy of three years later, some locals who didn't like Ashley's father decided they wanted him out. They found a loophole in the state code that said you couldn't build within three miles of the oil pipeline and because Ash's family cabin was barely within that boundary, her dad was forced to tear the cabin down. After that, Ash's family left the area. The only thing remaining of the cabin today are the footers, an overgrown road, a few weathered boards and that fantastic view.

Postcards from Alaska #24

Tracking the wily moose. We'd seen an actual moose earlier that morning, which seemed to jog parallel to the highway as we drove. I was just happy to see a moose, but Ashley nearly had a heart attack at the thought that it could dash in front of us at any moment. When a girl in her early 20s, Ashley barely survived such a moose strike. The moose did too. Her car, not so much.


Found his poop, though.

Postcards from Alaska #23

A bald eagle feeding on a frozen lake. Originally, he was much closer to the road. So much so that when we saw him we both said, "What the hell is that big ass thing out there?" before realizing it was an eagle. I don't know if you've seen one live, before, but they're imposingly huge creatures. By the time we got the RV parked and Ashley had dashed barefooted through mud and snow melt to photograph it, the eagle took off and flew further out onto the lake to finish his meal.

Postcards from Alaska #22

Springtime in Alaska, (taken at Summit Lake, May 28, 2007, midmorning). Soon after this was taken, it began to snow.

Postcards from Alaska #21

This was my first real glimpse of the famous oil pipeline, this section near Grand Junction. Ashley's dad helped build this sucker.

Postcards from Alaska #20

Ashley grew up in the Sa1cha area, near North Pole, AK. As a kid, she used to climb the Sa1cha bluff with her friends and sister and swore she would do so again before we left the area. We were late getting out, though, and it was around 11 p.m. that night when we started to leave the area. I knew she wouldn't get another chance, this trip, and asked if she was still up for it.

"Well, do you want to climb the bluff at 11 at night?" she asked.

"Hell, I'll do it just to say I climbed the bluff at 11 at night," I said.

By the time we made it to the top it was 11:30 p.m. It was still twilight.



Mid way up the bluff is the location for a graveyard for the Sa1chacket indians. I can't find them in Google, so the rumors of how small they are in number may be true. In fact, according to local Sa1cha tradition, there is one surviving member of the tribe left in the area and she will be the last person allowed to be buried on the bluff when she dies.



Another look from the Sa1cha bluff, including the Sa1chaket river for which the area is named.

Postcards from Alaska #19

Here we find the Unofficial State Bird of Alaska, the mosquito. Yep, they grow em big here. Locals drink their whiskey with a deet chaser.



Oh, yeah. You might have heard that Santa lives in North Pole, AK, too. He has an RV park. He charges too much, though, so we stayed in a friends driveway instead.

Actual Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #22

A long time female patron we haven't seen in months brings several books on tape to the desk to check out. She stands there for several seconds as I wait for it to occur to her that she needs to produce her library card. It does not.

ME: Do you have your library card?

PATRON: Oh, no. My name is SUZIE SCHEXNADER. (Not her real name)

ME: Well, these days you do need your card.

PATRON: Oh, sure. My husband said you had gone to a new system and that I would need to get a new card, but I don't have one.

ME: (For some reason, something about her name rings a bell with me. I believe I made her husband's card and that he had one made for her at the same time. I look her name up in the computer and sure enough there she is.) Are you sure your husband didn't get one made for you. We already have you in the computer.

PATRON: No. No. He showed me his, but he didn't give me one. I don't have a card.

ME: (Still remaining polite) Well, our computer says that we issued a new card for you. (I hold up an example wallet-sized card for her to see) You sure you don't have one like this?

PATRON: (Going through her pocketbook to no avail) No, that's what his looks like, but I don't have one.

I leaf through the stack of unclaimed or forgotten cards we keep by the desk, but her card is not among them.

ME: Could your husband still have it?

PATRON: Um. Maybe. I suppose I could call him. Can I use your phone?

ME: Sure.

As the patron dials the phone number and waits for her husband to answer, I notice that her phone-holding hand is also holding a ring of keys upon which is secured one of our Key-Card library cards.

ME: (Pointing to it) Ah. There it is!

PATRON: (Looks at it, dumbfounded, as though she's never seen it before in her life) Oh... um... (Hears her husband answer the phone ) Oh, hi, Phil. I'm calling from the library... and I... just found my new card. So... never mind.

Postcards from Alaska #18

I want a log cabin with a turret.


And a cool door.

We saw this place while seeking fried halibut at a place called Ester's Gold Camp, a former gold mining camp turned seafood buffet. Unfortunately, the buffet did not offer the halibut I assumed it would. Also unfortunately, their crab was not particularly impressive. I mean, it wasn't bad, or anything. It WAS tasty enough, being Dungeness crab and all. And I did eat an awful lot of it to be complaining. However, so far in my life, I've not yet tasted crab that explains why those guys on Deadliest Catch risk their lives. Maybe I just don't get it.

Postcards from Alaska #17

I used to hear people say that halibut have both eyes on the same side of their head, but I never believed it. Now that's one #$%&ed up looking fish, but damn if he ain't tasty.

Halibut, for my money, is some good fish. I like it much better than crab, but then again I didn't eat any king crab on the trip so maybe I don't know from good crab.

My quest, during my trip, was to find perfect beer battered, deep fried halibut. Now, most halibut is good anyway, but I sometimes paid out the ass for fish that wasn't all that impressive. I eventually succeeded in finding two fine fine examples, though. The second best I found was at Mike's Restaurant in Valdez, where they offer a $15 halibut fingers plate that was mighty nice. The hands down best, however, was at the Glacier Brewhouse in downtown Anchorage. I'm sure their $27 halibut plate with all its herbs and spices and alder smoke is quite nice, but I recommend just getting the beer battered halibut appetizer. For around $12, you get five massive chunks of beer battered deep fried halibut. For a few bucks more, you can get it with Parmesan and garlic encrusted fries.

Postcards from Alaska #16

Sleepy Sled Dog

Postcards from Alaska #15

Sled dog demonstration at Denali National Park. It was funny that all the sled dog's had the ranger's sled dog introduction speech memorized as well as he did. Just when it got to the part where he was about to go over and help hook the dogs up before racing around a gravel track, they all went nuts. He hadn't moved an inch, but they knew he was about to and wanted to be picked for demo duty.

Postcards from Alaska #14

On the bus tour at Denali Park, you ride along these tiny little one lane dirt roads that, during part of the journey, wind along the side of a mountain. Its during that side of the mountain part, when two or more tour busses are coming the opposite direction, around blind curves, that your sphincter really gets a good clenching workout. Fortunately, we were the inside bus and didn't have an immediate right hand window-side view of potential rocky death.

McKinley was too cloudy to see on this particular day and our tour only went half way to it before turning back. It would probably have been worth an additional 6 hours to reach it, had we been able to see it.

Postcards from Alaska #13

This was actually our second moose sighting. I'd been hoping to see one since I arrived, but they were irritatingly thin on the ground. Actually, they were pretty thick on the ground, but so were the trees. My first moose was spotted while driving. He or she was standing in a clearing down an embankment by the side of the road and I only got a brief glimpse. This one, however, ambled across our path as we were on the way up to Denali park.

Postcards from Alaska #12

Purrtyyyyyyyy.

Postcards from Alaska #11

Alyeska also has a small population of ground squirrels, such as this guy. Moments after this picture was taken, he rushed us. I don't know if he was trying to scare us or if he was just curious as to what we were all about, but he gave up with that tactic and scurried away where I and my camera couldn't get at him.

Postcards from Alaska #10

Alyeska is a ski resort and hotel, located at the bottom of a mountain, with a five star restaurant near the top. They also offer tourists the chance to ride up in the cable car for around $15 a pop and get a good look at the view. Nice, huh?

Postcards from Alaska #9

We saw Alyeska Resort on the Travel Channel and thought it might be nice to visit. We forgot to write down where it was located, however, but stumbled upon it all the same. (Doesn't hurt that, for the largest state in the union, Alaska only really has about 8 highways to its name.)

Postcards from Alaska #8

I actually ate a very small chunk of this glacier. Quite smooth, but with hint of whale ass.

Postcards from Alaska #7

"You've been a whale of an audience, ladies and gentlemen! Have a good evening and don't forget to tip the tourboat staff. G'night!"

Postcards from Alaska #6

Exit Glacier, near Seward, is a glacier you can walk to. If you're dumb you'll go stand next to it and possibly get calved on. Or, you can take the vanilla wussy way and stay behind the rope, like me.

Postcards from Alaska #5

Resurrection Bay, near our first major stop in Seward, AK. An all around gorgeous place.

Postcards from Alaska #4

Memo to self: Next time I come to Alaska, bring a camera with a stronger zoom.

Postcards from Alaska #3

See what I mean?

Postcards from Alaska #2

Little known facts about Alaska: No sign in this state is without at least one bullet hole.

Postcards from Alaska #1

Home sweet home. This is the Winnebago we rented for our two week Alaskan adventure. Even with gas prices soaring, this was still cheaper than staying in $150 per night hotels (tourist season prices, dontchaknow) and eating out at expensive restaurants every meal (during tourist season all restaurants in AK are expensive). We rented this one from Great Alaskan Holidays in Anchorage. A fantastic company and a great all around experience.

A-MINUS: 0

I've never been to Alaska before, but later this afternoon I'm headed up there. Yes indeedy, I'm finally off to visit the homeland, or at least the growing up land, of my wife Ashley.

From age five, when her dad moved the family up there, looking to and eventually taking a job as an industrial mechanic on the oil pipeline project in the mid 1970s, to age 25, Alaska was where Ashley called home. She and her family lived in a variety of places—often Little House on the Prairie style, with no running water and an outhouse, sometimes in the middle of the wilderness with no roads of any sort leading to them and supplies air-dropped every two weeks—but eventually settled down in a little community called Salcha. I'll get to see that area and lots more.

Unfortunately, I've been operating under the mistaken impression that I was supposed to fly out Saturday instead of today despite the fact that my itenerary clearly says May 18. So I'm about to pile the cat in the car to zoom down to North Carolina where I'm ditching her with the in-laws and then flying out of Charlotte at 5:20. I guess the countdown still works, as it's a 10 hour flight, so I won't get there until the wee hours of Saturday. Well, the wee hours for me, it'll only be midnight when I get there.

Oy, I should have left yesterday.

I'll drop in from time to time, posting from libraries across Alaska, uploading snapshots and no doubt sitting next to the Alaskan equivallent of Mr. B-Natural.

A-MINUS: 1 or 0 depending on your point of view

The Unprecedented

NO!

#$%&ING!

WAY!

I'm simply astounded!

Awestruck, even!

I'm amazed, taken of breath and at a near complete loss for words (except for, well, these).

How come? Lemme tells ya.

A computer patron came up to the circ desk and asked me how she might print information from a website but only print a select amount of it and not print the entire site. Can you believe that shit?

Huh?

No, listen to what I'm saying, here, because I don't think you understand the full gravity of the situation.

This patron asked this question IN ADVANCE of attempting it. This beautiful, compassionate, caring soul didn't just print out the entire damn website and THEN come complain about how she only wanted a sentence. No, she actually sought out our assistance IN ADVANCE in order to accomplish the goal she had set before her.

IN! ADVANCE!

I nearly cried with joy and amazement! It was like a religious experience. I tell you, if I wasn't already married and if she hadn't been kind of a hag, I would have kissed her full on the lips and slipped her some tongue. Instead, I joyfully supplied her with my, until that moment unused, pre-printing lecture on the finer points of internet printing and how she might highlight the one sentence she wanted, go to the print menu, select "SELECTED TEXT" and then print.

It made my millennium.

A-MINUS: 2

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #81

*RING*

ME— Tri-Metro County Library?

BIRTHDAY LADY— Yes, could you tell me what year Jerry Falwell was born?

ME— Oh, did he pass?

BIRTHDAY LADY— Yes he... Ohhh, no. You hadn't heard.

I failed to mention to Birthday Lady that the only deaths of famous people I EVER hear about come from either her or Entertainment Weekly. Instead, I fired up Google, looked up Mr. Falwell's birthday of August 11, 1933, and passed the information on. Birthday Lady explained that Mr. Falwell had died of an apparent heart attack. She then apologized to me for being the bearer of such tragic news, but she'd only just heard about it herself.

A-MINUS: 3

Mr. B-Notary?

Speaking of dogs in the building, one of our favorite neighbors of the "liberry" is a lady named Carrie, who bought the house of our former "liberry" neighbor Mona, when Mona moved away a few months back. Carrie visits us frequently and is a considerable "liberry" donor. Unfortunately, she owns a small yap dog which she insists on bringing with her where ever she goes and almost always brings it into the library when she visits. Mrs. A has been concerned that Mr. B-Natural would catch sight of the dog and then throw a big, righteous, Grumpiest Old Man in all the World hissy that someone else's dog was allowed to come in the building but his was banned. She's not been so worried, though, that she's asked Carrie not to bring her pooch. (Did I mention she's a major donor?) So far, Mr. B-Natural hasn't seen the dog, but there have been some close calls.

In the middle of last week's story hour, Mr. B-Natural came up to the desk clutching a fistful of papers.

"I need to get these notarized," he said. "You a notary?"

"No, I'm not and both of our others are busy at the moment," I said. Then I recalled that Mrs. A was actually in the building and is a notary. I told Mr. B-Natural that I might have one for him after all and went upstairs to find Mrs. A.

Upon returning to the desk, I told him, "She'll be down in a couple minutes." I then tried to find something productive to do while we both stood there waiting.

"I already signed these papers," Mr. B-Natural offered.

I gave him the long, slow burn look. "You're not supposed to sign them until the notary can witness it," I said. "MRS. A won't be able to notarize that unless she witnesses you sign it." THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT OF A NOTARY!

"Ahhhhh, I can just sign it again," he grumped.

Mrs. A came down from her office, saw that he'd already signed the papers and reiterated the purpose of a notary to him. Mr. B-Natural told her he could just sign it again over his previous signature and she reluctantly agreed to witness that. While he was doing so, the door opened and in came Carrie and her pooch. Carrie was dropping something off and came right up to the desk, within a foot of Mr. B-Natural, and passed it over the desk to Mrs. A. Fortunately, Carrie had somewhere else she needed to be and departed before Mr. B-Natural had a chance to look up. As Carrie left, Mrs. A turned and gave me a horrified look at the bullet we'd just dodged. It's not that she's afraid of Mr. B-Natural's wrath, but that doesn't mean she wants to listen to it either. Plus, he would have a point. We're playing favorites with dogs. Granted, Carrie's pooch is far less likely to be riddled with the kind of fleas Bubba has delivered to us in the past, but it's still not being completely fair.

A-MINUS: 4

Mr. B-Wireless?

Mr. B-Natural has let it be known that he just ordered a laptop computer and will soon be taking advantage of the "liberry's" wireless access. No more will he have to wait in line in order to get right to his "innanet" crossword puzzle. No more will he be busted off the computer in the middle of a very important game of solitaire in favor of a child who only wishes to spend hours on MySpace. He will be footloose and fancy free... provided he remains within the as yet undetermined confines of our wireless signal.

"Hey, will I be able to use it outside, so I can sit there with my dog?" he asked last week.

"Not sure," I said. "Probably. Some people have used it in their cars, out front."

"What about at the picnic table?"

The picnic table is a bit far away for what I imagine are our signal reach limits. However, I'd be willing to drag it closer to the building if only for the sake of his dog, Bubba—a wonderful animal who we like far more than we do its owner.

Eventually, he will realize that with a wireless connection he can use outside, we'll no longer be able to prevent him from drinking his coffee as he uses the internet. And when he spills that cup of coffee in his own keyboard, he will have to live with the consequences.

A-MINUS: 5

Bite my ass, lady! And I mean that only in the kindest possible way.

Mrs. B told me about this one.

Early last week, Mrs. B received a phone call from an irate patron. This patron said that she had requested an inter"liberry" loan two weeks ago and it still hadn't arrived for her. She was furious that this was the case because she really needed that book. Mrs. B looked up the title in our consortium's directory and found that one library in the entire consortium owned the book and it was currently checked out. She explained this to the woman on the phone, pointing out that if a given book is not currently on the shelves of the library that owns it, that book can't exactly be loaned out until it is first returned.

The woman didn't care to hear this, of course, and insisted that she had been assured the book was available and would be in her hands within 10 days. Furthermore, if the book wasn't in her hands by the end of the day, she was going to phone the library commission to complain about us. Mrs. B told her that she was welcome to do so, but that we had no control over when or whether the book would arrive, nor did the library commission.

The lady then backtracked a bit and said that she might instead call the library commission to complain about the library that actually owned the book. Mrs. B tried to point out that the book might have been checked out from the other library between the time the ILL request was originally taken and the time we actually processed it, a day or so later. It might not even be overdue and could therefore not be recalled by the library that owned it to loan to us. The woman angrilly insisted that no one wanted to read that book, it wasn't popular and so no one would have checked it out. If she didn't have it by the end of the day, she was phoning the library commission to tattle on someone. She HAD to have that book.

When Mrs. C returned, Mrs. B asked her about the ILL. Mrs. C looked the book up and found that it was actually checked out to us by the library that owned it as part of the interlibrary loan and it had already been mailed but had not yet arrived. Mrs. C phoned the patron back and told her this. The patron was suddenly all nice and happy and said she was sorry she had gotten so angry with us over it before, but that she really needed that book for a paper she was writing for a class and had to have it immediately.

Mid afternoon, the mail arrived and so did this lady's requested book. Mrs. B phoned her up immediately and told her the book was waiting for her. The patron was overjoyed.

Four days later, she actually came to pick it up.

A-MINUS: 8

And the password is... (2007)

When it comes to the New Devil Twins and their Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids, we rarely encounter any of their parents. The most we usually see from the parents is when they pop their heads in the front door to ask if their kids are on the premesis, almost as if they are afraid of setting actual foot in the building.

Last week, though, the mom of two of the primary League members stopped by, with her kids in tow, to sign up for computers. We only had one available at that point, which I knew because I'd gone back to reboot it some minutes earlier. The other two computers were occupied by a no-name patron and Mr. B-Natural, respectively. I told the mom she and her kids were welcome to use the computer we had.

The eldest son, Mark, signed up and headed on back leaving mom and little brother at the desk. Mom said that her younger son (points to younger son) had told her about some permission form we needed to have her sign in order for him to use the internet on his own and asked for one of those. I forked it over and waited while she started in on it.

"He's not going to be able to look at anything bad, is he?" she asked.

"Well, he'll have access to pretty much anything that's on the internet," I said. "Well, anything that can get past our filter."

"But nothing gets past the filters, right?"

I shrugged. "You'd be surprised. It's pretty good, as filters go, but it's not foolproof."

She gave the boy a long appraising look.

"MooooOOOOoommm! I'm not gonna look at anything bad."

"You better not."

While they were filling out the form, I went back to log on the computer for Mark. Only, when I came around the corner into the computer hall, I saw Mark was already using it to load a webpage. Mark looked up at me and I saw guilt cross his face.

"Now, how exactly did you do that?" I asked him, knowing full well that I had rebooted that computer earlier and that it had returned to our login screen where a password is required to proceed. "You're not supposed to know the password."

"No... I didn't," he said. "I just hit this button, but I didn't know it." He pointed to the single letter that has served as our password for the past few months. Granted, it's no great feat to have paid attention to our hands during the 200 times we've logged him onto a computer in that time, so it's not exactly surprising that he knew it and he's certainly not the first to have mastered that trick. His brazen use of it, however, was a bit off-putting.

"I'm sorry," Mark added.

"Let him tell me what it is," Mr. B-Natural said in a hopeful tone.

I gave Mark a stern yet forgiving look and told him it was okay. Then I left a note to the staff that we need to change the passwords again.

We've now changed the passwords, yet again. At my suggestion, we're going to use a password of multiple letters. Mrs. A then suggested and instantly approved a choice: my three initials.

Immortality is mine!

(Now if we can only convince Mrs. J to stop saying the letters aloud as she types them.)

A-MINUS: 10

Actual Semi-Paraphrased Second-Hand Information Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #80

SETTING— My "liberry" shortly after Eternal Newbie Greenhorn, Ms. S, arrives for her afternoon shift. UberBoss Mrs. A and Next-in-Command Uber Boss Mrs. C are present at the circ desk when Ms. S appears.

MRS. C— (To Ms. S) As soon as you get clocked in, you can go upstairs and read the shelves.

MS. S— No. I'm going to go read the YAs.

(She actually said that, "No. I'm going to go read the YA's." Said it not merely to a fellow employee but to her superior and in front of her Uber Superior. Not, "I'd PREFER to go and read the YA's," but "NO, I'm GOING to go read the YA's.")

(There followed a pause)

MRS. A— (To Ms. S) Mrs. C just told you to go upstairs and read the shelves in non-fiction. That's what you're going to do.

MRS. C— You can read the YA's (which are downstairs) when we're gone. You can only read upstairs while there are other people here to watch the desk.

MS. S— (Grunts loudly in irritation as she shuffles off to do as she was told.)

Shortly after this, Mrs. A followed, taking Ms. S into her office for a more private meeting, the contents of which I can only speculate about. Unfortunately, the end result was merely a verbal reprimand and not an actual firing.

A-MINUS: 12

C-Note

Instead of my usual shift at my own "liberry," yesterday I did some subbing at Town-C's branch. They were in the throes of their annual salad lunche0n and were short-staffed to begin with, so I agreed to come over and run the desk, provided they fed me. (They did, and quite well.)

It's been a few years since I subbed at Town-C's branch. It's a much smaller "liberry" than ours, essentially one large, meandering room. And while its librarian, Mrs. S (no relation to Ms. S) and our own Mrs. A are friends, there's still something of a rivalry between our two branches--much as there is between our two towns. I don't think the rivalry exists so much on our part, at Town-A, since we pretty much view ourselves as top dog of the whole area, and rightfully so. From what I'm told, though, Town-C's board of directors speaks ill of us every chance they get and encourages their branch to be as free-spirited and different from us as it can. I have to admit, in many ways, they are far more progressive than we are; they do a lot to serve their small community by offering lots of literacy training (we offer it too, but rarely do people take us up on it), and other public service style classes. There are other differences, too.

For instance, Town-C's shelving philosophy differs from our own in that its largely divided by subject, even beyond the Dewey nonfiction. There are separate sections for romance, westerns, inspirational, mystery, large print, classics, children's classics, children's award-winning classics (subdivided by award won), children's award-winning non classics (subdivided by award won), favorite children's authors (individually subdivided outside of the general shelves, by author), favorite classic children's authors who won awards, favorite non-classic children's authors who didn't win any awards and died of consumption, etc. In fact, the children's section is so subdivided that a newbie like me (or a patron, for that matter) can't find ANYTHING without three maps and a sherpa.

Much was the case when a lady came in looking for a copy of a juvenille book, today. The computer said Town-C owned a copy, said it was in, but we couldn't find it on the shelf where we thought it should live. She suggested it might be an award winner, so I looked at the computer again. Sure enough, there was the note "(AWARD)" out beside the call. We looked in the awards section and couldn't find it anywhere in the subdivisions, either. I decided to search the database of the entire county then and noted that that Town-C actually owned two copies, one of which did not show up in my earlier search. It was listed as being located in the Classics Section. Only I didn't know where the classics section was, as it didn't seem to be in the children's area or the general adult fiction area. The mom and I searched the library for a full six minutes before I found the classics section, located in the nonfiction area (not even the 823s) hidden in a floor shelf. There I found both copies of the book in question, both with the exact same call number even though the computer showed two different ones.

Who exactly is that helping?

The philosophical differences also extend to the public computers, of which Town-C has over twice as many as we do. Each patron is given an hour's worth of time, is not run off if no one is waiting, is not even timed and there are no passwords for staff to have to know. It's pretty much a self-serve operation. We had several computer patrons throughout the day, but never more then one at a time. They all knew the drill, came over, signed up on their own, logged off when they were finished and gave me no trouble.

The only rogueish patron was a kid I've long thought of as The Redneck Prince of Darkness. I've not seen this kid as a patron in my own library, but instead have seen him skulking along the streets of Town-C as I've driven through it on my commute to work. If its possible for there to be such a thing as a redneck goth metalhead, this guy is it. As should any true goth kid, he dresses exclusively in black, but in things like black flannel over black Carhartts and work boots. He's got the black knit-cap, too, and the whole thing covered by a long black trenchcoat. When you see him, your brain automatically starts playing NIN on a steel guitar with fiddle accompaniment. He does have the dark, vaguely angry thing down pretty good, but I just can't take him seriously, other than occasionally wondering if he's gonna start shooting. He came in, used the public computer furthest away from the circ desk, way in the back of the double row of them where prying eyes couldn't see his screen, then left.

Town-C also suffers from a similar ailment to my own branch in that it has a most unfortunate location for its public restroom. Town-C's is located directly across from the circ desk, has a paper thin door, no sound-proofing, loud echoey walls and anything that occurs within its confines is clearly audible to the entire library. Only three patrons used it while I was on shift, but I heard all their businesss. Particularly that of a mentally handicapped patron, who came in with many of the same Unobstructed Doors crowd who visit us. He went in the restroom, peed very loudly and cracked the loudest, longest fart on record. I had to retreat around a corner, least one of the aides catch sight of me giggling.

A-MINUS: 15

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #79 (a.k.a. "The Founding Fathers Phone Us Up")

*RING*

ME— Tri-Metro County Library.

GRANDPA SAM— Yes. This is GRANDPA SAM. I have an excerise book out from your library that I’d like to have for a while longer.

ME— Sure thing. Can I have your library card number?

GRANDPA SAM— Oh... I didn’t know I’d need that. Let me go get it.

(Grandpa Sam is gone for around half a minute)

GRANDPA SAM— Sorry about that. I wasn’t prepared.

(Grandpa Sam reads me the number, minus a critical zero, but it was a zero I was able to figure out and I brought up his record and renewed his book.)

ME— Okay, I’ve got that renewed for you.

GRANDPA SAM— Say, listen. I’m really enjoying this book, but I see that it’s been out of print for a while.

ME— Yes?

GRANDPA SAM— Well, I was hoping maybe to find a used copy of it. I hear there’s something called Amazon?

ME— Amazon.com. Yes, sir. That might be a good place to look for it.

GRANDPA SAM— Do you have that?

ME— Um... Nooo... Well, sort of. We have computers here with internet access and patrons can use them to shop at Amazon.com. But it’s entirely up to the patron to make the purchases through Amazon. We have nothing to do with it ourselves. We just offer internet access.

GRANDPA SAM— (In something of a suspicious tone, as if I'm trying to get away with something) Why is that, now?

ME— Errr. Well, Amazon.com is not some kind of subscription service that the library has. It’s an online retailer. We offer internet access and if patrons wish they can visit Amazon.com and buy stuff from them. We don’t have anything to do with it, otherwise, though. We just offer the access to the internet.

GRANDPA SAM— Okay, but, what I mean is, are they good?

ME— Sure. I buy from them all the time.

GRANDPA SAM— I mean, are they a moral company? I’m a Christian and I only want to buy from moral companies.

ME— Errrr... um. I guess they are. I haven’t heard of any protests against them, or anything.

GRANDPA SAM— Well, the book’s out of print anyway, so they won’t likely have it.

ME— Actually, while Amazon might not have it new, they offer a used book service where people sell their used books online and they probably would have it through there.

GRANDPA SAM— Oh? Well, if I was to come up there, could someone show me how to order from this Amazon?

ME— (I knew exactly how this was about to play out.) I suppose so. Keep in mind, though, Amazon.com is going to require a credit card for all transactions.

GRANDPA SAM— I don’t have a credit card. Maybe someone could show me the used books on there and I could call them up and order it by phone?

ME— Um, actually, Amazon is pretty strictly a credit card service.

GRANDPA SAM— So I couldn't call up one of the people with used books?

ME— (Barely supressing a massive urge to sigh loudly into the receiver) I can't tell you that it wouldn't be possible to do that, but most likely, no.

GRANDPA SAM— Okay then.

After we hang up, I began to think about Sam’s dilemma and decide to check Amazon out to see if I can find a used book seller through them. Sure enough, I find one offering Sam’s book of choice and send them an email explaining the situation and asking if Sam could phone them up and order it with a check or money order. They write back within hours and say "nope."

A-MINUS: 17

Jodi Picoult is Haunting my Every Step

I've never read a Jodi Picoult novel. I have no plans to do so at this point, either. Nothing against Jodi, or anything, I just have lots of other books on my list of priority reading ahead of her, most of which I probably won't get around to reading either. However, this hasn't stopped Jodi Picoult from haunting my every step.

It began a couple weeks ago when I spied an ad in a DC comic book for her run as writer on Wonder Woman.

Ah, Jodi Picoult, I thought. I've shelved many of her books in the past. Can't name a title off the top of my head, but the name is familiar.

For some reason, though, this bit of information stayed in my brain, bobbing up and down to the surface of my thoughts.

Picoult. Picoult. Picoult.

Last week, I happened to be shelving a Picoult tome when Mrs. C passed me.

"She's the new writer of Wonder Woman," I told Mrs. C, holding up the Picoult in question.

"Oh, really?"

"Yep."

"They're really getting some big names in as comic writers these days," she said.

"Well, for that matter, Brad Meltzer is the writer of Justice League," I offered.

Mrs. C seemed suitably impressed.

Days passed.

Picoult. Picoult. Picoult.

On Monday, at the gym, I was elliptical machining while listening to Wordballoon, a comics-based podcast, in which writer Greg Rucka (another novelist turned comics scribe) was being interviewed. He was lamenting his brief run on the title of Wonder Woman, last year, stating that he thought he had a pretty good take on the character but that DC doesn't seem to want to follow up on some of the threads he started. Not that he had anything against the fine work of Jodi Picoult, or anything.

Picoult. Picoult. Picoult.

Later in the day, during my "liberry" solo Monday shift, a patron turned in three or four Jodi Picoult books which I then had to shelve.

Picoult. Picoult. Picoult.

Toward the end of my shift, while calling patrons with books on hold, I phoned a lady to tell her about a Mary Higgins F ' ing Clark that we had for her.

PATRON— While I've got you on the line, there's this other author I want to see if you have.

ME— Okay.

PATRON— Oh, let me think. I can't remember her first name and I can't pronounce her last name. It's P-I-C-O-U-L-T?

ME— Jodi Picoult?

PATRON— Yeah, that's her! Do you know her? Have you read anything by her?

ME— No. But I've had several of her books circulate here today, though.

PICOULT. PICOULT. PICOULT.

At this point, my only guess is that either the Synchronicity Fairy is on a serious Jodi Picoult bender or the universe is trying to tell me I should read some Jodi Picoult. If history is any teacher, I'll continue to ignore this cosmic message. I had a very similar synchronicity attack with Anne Tyler's Saint Maybe, a few years back, in which the book itself kept following me, turning up in the oddest places, whispering, siren-like, in an effort to get me to read it. I never did. Still too much priority reading ahead of it.

A-MINUS: 18

5th Week Event

As there are 5 Mondays in this month, I was careful to note, well in advance, that I was scheduled to work the last one today. Didn't need another repeat of the last Monday I nearly failed to work.

Other than an extended session of irritation from Ms. Green—in which she hogged up all the circ desk counter space, taking her time as she wrapped a package to mail out to somebody, like we were the post office, or something, and attempted to give me a bit of trouble over a hold she was supposed to have picked up by last Thursday (a date she set) but which she rolled in to pick up today only to find we'd given it to the community college as an inter"liberry" loan last Friday, not to mention interrupting transactions I was trying to complete with other patrons, y'know, the ones who had to squeeze in on either side of her just to get their books on the desk to check out—not much went awry. It was the usual Monday Madness, minus most of the madness.

Oh, and Birthday Lady phoned. She wanted to know the birthday of St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Josh Hancock, who died last week. The answer, according to Wikipedia, is April 11, 1978. She mentioned that she was a big Cardinals fan. I believe this marks the first non-Hollywood birthday she's asked about.

Who's Got the 10 and a Half (minus the half) 2007?

My fellow "liberry" ass. and former newbie greenhorn, Ms. M, is almost always willing to fill in whenever any of the rest of the staff have pressing outside scheduling conflicts. I had one of those earlier this week and she was kind enough to fill in for me during it. She's actually racked up quite a bit of credit with me in that regard over the past few months, so when I heard she needed Thursday off I figured it was time to pay her back. Granted, I was already scheduled to be at work from 9 to 1 today, which would turn this into a 10 hour shift. I agreed all the same. It's been a while since I've had a 10 hour shift, but in the past they've been great blogging fodder. And at least with Mrs. A, B, C and J present, it wouldn't be a 10 hour solo shift, which is what my previous 10 hour shifts have usually been. The drawback to it being a near full staff shift, though, is that it's difficult to blog it in real time. So I spent the day jotting notes to myself on scrap paper and tucking them into spare pockets to be able to reconstruct at home the following day. 

9:02 a.m.— I arrive at work 2 minutes after 9 due to leaving the house a bit late. However, it was completely necessary for me to make a new thermos full of coffee.

9:05 a.m.— The Coot arrives for what will likely be a 10 hour stay himself. He heads for his favorite seat outside Mrs. A's office where, as in accordance with tradition, he will groan and wail and burp and fart whenever Mrs. A has to use the phone or, indeed, her voice. 

9:15 a.m.— I process the huge stack of periodicals that have piled up since I was last here. As I do so, Mrs. C and Mrs. B are inspecting the general fiction walls, pulling shelving slips out of books and noting whether or not they are shelved correctly. Newbie Greenhorn Ms. S, as per usual, has several that are misshelved, a surprise to no one.  

9:37 a.m.— The staff discusses the fact that we have to move story hour from our usual activity area to the upstairs nonfiction floor due to the fact that we're having a class of violinists and their instructor in today to play for the story hour kids. We put signs up to that effect on the activity room door and then another on the library's front door in the hope that our traditional late comers, (i.e. little Kayla's family), will note them and be quiet when entering. 

9:41 a.m.— Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine arrives for his first computer shift of the day. 

9:45 a.m.— A few months back, Ms. S ran out of her usual orange shelving slips. At that point, she cut out and carefully initialed a large supply of pink shelving slips and in the intervening months, she's continued to use both orange and pink. Recently, former newbie greenhorn Ms. M ran out of her yellow shelving slips, so she too cut a bunch out of pink ones and carefully initialed them, apparently so that they wouldn't be confused with Ms. S's pink shelving slips. While sorting the various slips that Mrs. C and Mrs. B pulled earlier, I make a command decision and announce to the rest of the staff at hand that I am throwing away both sets of pink slips on the grounds that it is moronic to have them in the first place.

9:54 a.m.— The Bakers arrive for story hour. They bring 12,000 books to return. Amazingly, all of their books are from our library branch. 

9:55 a.m.— Mr. B-Natural arrives for his first computer session. He puts 10:00 as his signup time, no doubt thinking it will give him five extra minutes. I start his timer so it won't. 

10:00 a.m.— Story Hour begins. Kayla's family fails to arrive, a surprise to no one. Tuning of stringed instruments can be heard through the very floor above my head. I'm sure the Coot is thrilled.  

10:05 a.m.— I start checking the shelves for this week's overdues.  

10:10 a.m. — Little Kayla's family still has yet to arrive. 

10:27 a.m.— Mr. B-Natural departs, inquiring about the violin noise as he does.  

10:46 a.m.— While still checking shelves for overdues, I see that someone's flagged one of the books I shelved as being misshelved. I double check it, but cannot determine how it is misshelved. It's a mystery book shelved in the mysteries section, it's way too old to be in new fiction, and it's author, Davis, is shelved neatly after Davies and before Debin, just as it should be. What gives?  

11:00 a.m.— Story hour concludes. I notice Gene disappeared at some point, for he is no longer on his computer, nor the can, nor elsewhere in the building. 

11:16 a.m.— No way. It's not even noon and the mail has already arrived. Glory be!  

11:28 a.m.— I sneak away to my hidy-hole in the supply cabinet and retrieve my emergency toothbrush, with which I head to the sink outside our little public restroom under the stairs to brush my teeth and rid myself of coffee breath. No sooner is the brush in my mouth than the Coot squeezes past me to use the can. No good can come of this. I hurriedly brush my teeth and flee the area before he can release any fumes at me.  

11:30 a.m.— I spy the Coot outside, headed for his car. He better have flushed.  

11:40 to 11:47 a.m.— Mrs. A, Mrs. B, Mrs. J and I all stand around and tell Ms. S stories, chronicling her latest misadventures in dumbassity. 

 11:50 a.m. — While pulling some shelving slips Mrs. C and Mrs. B missed, I find another pink shelving slip, this one with Ms. S’s initials on one side and Ms. M’s initials on the other. Damn, they’re conspiring together now!!  

12:03 p.m. — I walk down the street to the local market to pick up one of their impressively generous and patron-awe-inspiring salads for lunch.  

12:10 p.m. — I return to the "liberry" and begin eating my impressive and tasty salad.  

12:18 p.m. — Mr. Little Stupid arrives for a computer.  

12:28 p.m. — I finish my salad and go brush my teeth again. Eww, salad breath.  

12:34 p.m. — I receive a phone call from one of the New Devil Twins Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids. I think it's Delbert. He inquires as to whether or not he will be allowed to use a computer should he turn up at the library. It's our policy, you see, that school-aged children of appropriate computer-usage age, even equipped with a permission slip on file, are not allowed to use a computer during school hours, unless they are home school students doing genuine research. According to Delbert, though, he is being schooled in an alternative school, which means he's gotten in trouble at regular school and has been sent there for reform. The alternative school doesn't meet until after 4, so he thinks this is a loophole. I bring it up to Mrs. A and C and they say he can only use a computer during normal school hours if he has a signed letter from his alternative school teacher saying he can, and then can only use it for genuine research. He can't come in and surf MySpace. I gleefully inform him of this.  

12:40 p.m. — Jimmy the Anonymous Snitch arrives for computer time. He brings his mommy with him, who I believe he still lives with and is likely his only means of transportation. What a colossal loser. 

12: 42 p.m. — The rest of the staff leave for lunch. It is Mrs. J's birthday and they're taking her to Crapplebees. Wow, and I thought we liked Mrs. J.  

12:57 p.m. — Jimmy and mommy leave.  

1:00 p.m. — I get a few minutes of peace and begin typing this up in hopes of putting some of it up on the blog early. 

1:04 p.m. — Sudden rush on computers, including a usually clueless wireless guy who will no doubt have trouble logging on and then have to get me to help him.  

1:10 p.m. — Our first "What are your hours?" call of the day. 

1:13 p.m.— Mr. Little stupid approaches the desk and asks me how to spell the word "talk." I tell him.  

1:15 p.m.— Lennie arrives for his Thursday shift. He complains that "it's so hot you can't stand it." He notices me typing and becomes very interested. I stop. 

1:30 p.m.— An old man with a long silver beard arrives saying he has 25 boxes of book donations for us, where do we want them? Since we aren't busy at all, I tell him to drive around to our storage area (i.e. the basement) and I'll come out and help him haul them in.  

1:31 p.m. — There's a sudden rush on the desk, with checkouts and reference questions. The phone also starts ringing with people calling for Mrs. C. I'm the only one on staff, except for Lennie and now can't leave the desk to go help this old man haul boxes. Instead, I send Lennie out and tell him to go unlock the basement and help haul boxes. He leaves.  

1:38 p.m.— The patron tide stemmed, I dash out to the basement door. The old man has two other slightly younger men helping him haul boxes out of a truck and into the basement. Lennie is standing there idly, saying that he'll lock the door back when they finish. I tell him that he's supposed to be helping them, but he doesn't move. One of the old men tells me that they have quite a few more boxes of books they wish to donate. I tell him he'd better give us a few days to get things sorted and cleared out to the BIGGER storage area, before bringing in any more. Mrs. B, our resident donation sorter and reboxer, is going to faint when she sees all these boxes. She only just yesterday got the basement and current crop of book donations sorted and sent off to our larger storage area, off property.  

1:40 p.m.— I dash back inside where a patron is waiting. 

 1:56 p.m. — Lennie won't quit snooping whenever I try to continue typing this up. I don't know how much he's capable of reading, but I learned long ago not to underestimate him. He seems to sense that I'm doing something of interest, though, and keeps asking me questions, like "Who are you writing a letter to?" "Myself," I tell him. I switch from the screen to a scrap of paper, but he's even now trying to get a gander of this very note.  

2:00 p.m. — The rest of the staff returns from lunch.  

2:07 p.m.— I ask Mrs. C and Mrs. B why my book in the mysteries was flagged as misshelved. They say they weren't the ones who flagged it, though. Must be a dumbass newbie greenhorn who did it as some sort of half-assed revenge for my flagging all their misshelved books over the past few months. They can't even get that right.  

2:12 p.m.— I leave for an extended break. Mrs. C tells me I can take more than an hour, as I'm the poor soul on til closing.  

3:30 p.m.— I return. Mrs. C says that drama has occurred in my absence. She says an older lady phoned and asked Mrs. B if there was a man here delivering books to be donated. When told that there had been some men delivering books earlier, who were now gone, the lady said she wanted to leave a message for the man that he needed to phone home. Then the lady burst into tears and hung up. No idea what that was all about. The other news, though, is that the old guys who donated the books took all the empty boxes we'd been saving to sort donated books into. Mrs. B had been begging for some for a week and now they were gone. Lennie told Mrs. C that the men asked him if they could take the boxes but he didn't answer them, so they took them anyway. We'll get them back, most likely in a few days when they bring more books. 

3:45 p.m.— I see that Delbert, the aforementioned Neighborhood Auxiliary League Member, is now using a computer. It's after school hours are over, so there's no rule against it. However, he's been on for over half an hour now and I have to bust him off for another patron. Mr. Little Stupid is still around too, but had, apparently been busted off before because he's now on a different computer than when I left. When I go to reboot Delbert's station, Mr. Little Stupid asks me how to spell "work."  

3:59 p.m.— Fatty Manchild arrives for a computer. He's not wearing jams, per se, but he is wearing shorts. They look to be of the no-print, off-white, board-short variety.  

4:06 p.m.— Mr. Little Stupid finally leaves.  

4:18 p.m.— A woman and three children, each of whom is whining for books, approaches the desk. I hear her tell them that they can't have any books from our library because they have their own library at school to borrow from. They persist. She tells them that kids aren't allowed to have library cards at our library. Never mind the fact that they just exited the CHILDREN'S room, this is what she says. I suspect she's lying to them to get them to quit whining. They continue. She spies me and says, "Kids can't get library cards here, can they?" Her "can they?" seems loaded with intent. "Um... I guess that all depends on what answer you're looking for," I tell her. "The truth," she says. "Okay. Sure, kids can get library cards here." This is not what the woman (their baby-sitter, I think) wants to hear, because she immediately tells the kids that she didn't trust them to check books out on her card since they'd lost so many from school. "But I only lost one, this year," one of the kids says. I gamely try to back her up a bit by telling them that we're really serious about getting our books back and will send our enforcer, Mrs. J, to come get them. They leave with only the sitter's books.  

4:30 p.m.— Yay! I get to make a trip to the post office. People hate us at the post office. Not the postal workers themselves, who seem incapable of caring how many packages we have to mail each week; it's the other customers who hate us for clogging up the lines for 10 minutes at a stretch. I feel their pain. Fortunately, we only have one box and an envelope to mail and I get them sent off without incident.  

4:47 p.m.— I return to find that someone has had a blowout in the public restroom while I was gone and the whole reference hall is super butt-fume stinky.  

5:05 p.m.— Everyone else on staff leaves for the day.  

6:00 p.m.— Been pretty slow going. I've called all my holds and had time to type a bit.  

6:01 p.m.— A patron brings in a book for return. He looks ever so slightly miffed that he actually had to come in the building to do this, as the book return stays locked during hours we're open. 

6:05 p.m.— Wow, an honest to God reference question! A lady wanted organizational information about the W0rld Hea1th Organizati0n and the Pan Amer!can Hea1th Organizati0n. We have no books specifically on them but EBSC0 had loads of articles, two of which seemed to suit her criteria. I print them for her. She writes us a check for a whole dollar. 

6:18 p.m.— A little kid—who's here with his mom and is maybe 7 years of age, if that—comes up to the desk to tell me about how much he likes Shrek and Shrek II and Shrek the Third, even though he's not seen it. He has matching fake tribal tatoos extending from beneath his short sleeved shirt down his arms nearly to his wrists. At least, I hope they're fake; his mom is sporting a few real tattoos. 

6:24 p.m.— Some child is screaming outside. It's that sort of high-pitched, make a dog's ears bleed and your spine seize up sort of squeal that should be reserved only for occasions when murder is about to be committed, but whatever kid it is seems to be flinging it around the neighborhood pretty liberally. It's not a cry of distress. Most likely it's more a scream meaning: "It's raining and I'm getting wet!" 

6:45 p.m.— Closing duties begin in earnest.  

6:47 p.m. — the Purple Nun's brother arrives, but leaves within a few minutes. 

6:55 p.m.— And I am alone and nearly finished for the day. 

6:56 p.m.— Some goofa pulls up outside, no doubt with 400 books to return. 

6:56 p.m.— False alarm. They were just parking here to walk downtown. 

7:00 p.m. — We are officially closed.