Mr. Butts Shows his Ass

I've never before written of our patron, Mr. Harold Butts. Never had cause to, really. Oh, sure, he's one of our most frequent patrons, visiting us on at least a weekly basis, and is therefore a common sight to be found. And sure, some of my fellow employees have warned me in the past that he can be difficult to deal with and is known for occasionally freaking out on the staff. However, in the five plus years I've worked here, I'd never experienced the slightest bit of ill-behavior from him myself. That is, until recently.

"Where are all your Michners?" Mr. Butts asked in a fairly demanding tone. He was standing in front of the M-section of our hardback general fiction shelves, in our main room downstairs. I looked up from my shelving across the room and could clearly see there were only two or three books by James Michner in that section. The situation struck me as one with a fairly obvious answer, so I gave it to him.

"Well, if they're not on the shelf there, chances are they're checked out."

"Checked out?!" Mr. Butts said, irritation thick. "You're saying all your James Michners are checked out?"

"I can't say that for certain," I said slowly, "but if they aren't on the shelf, chances are pretty good that they are checked out. I can check."

Mr. Butts became quite angry. "I can't believe all your Michners are checked out. I just can't believe that!"

Now that I thought about it, it did seem kind of far fetched that we would suddenly have a run on James Michner, but stranger things have happened. We do have several patrons who are known for vacuuming up every single book by a given author, making their way around the room, checking out their limit in just this fashion. There were also other possibilities.

"We probably have a few in paperback, too," I offered.

"Why wouldn't you have Michners here?" Butts demanded.

"Again, I don't know off hand," I said. "We do sometimes have to weed out books that are in bad shape or haven't been read in a while, but I doubt we would have weeded any Michners without replacing them."

"He's a major writer! You would throw his books away?!" Butts said, as though I hadn't just covered and debunked that possibility. Apparently he had a real jones on to read some Chesapeake. I decided to stop talking to him at this point, as he was clearly not interested in listening. Instead, I did what I should have done in the first place, which was to casually and leisurely walk over to the circulation computer and look up some damn Michner, for yet another possibility occurred to me at that point.

A year or so back, my boss Mrs. A went on a weeding jag that included books we normally would not weed but which had not actually circulated in over two years. Now that I thought about it, James Michner took a pretty big hit then. Instead of deleting his books from our collection, though, we'd simply boxed them up, along with those of many other authors, and put them in remote storage for future use on the distant, beautiful day when we somehow grew proper shelf space or just gave up on that whole laws-of-physics-thing and started shunting them into an easily retrievable, pocket-dimension-based, shelving system. We labeled each box with a list of its contents and stacked them neatly in the storage area. Of course, as soon as those books went into storage, a startling number of patrons coincidentally found they had developed a sudden, desperate need to read those very books which had sat untouched for two years previous. We also discovered that no matter the author and no matter the title, whatever book they wanted was invariably in the box on the bottom of the pile. This being the case, we had to institute a policy in which we would go and fetch the books for the patrons at a more convenient time for us, rather than immediately, agreeing to have them on hand by the following Friday. This saved us the inevitable hassle of having to go to the storage area and slip a disc shifting boxes—a task that's often difficult to do when one is running the desk solo.

I looked up Michner in the computer and found that most of his works were indeed in the box at the bottom of the pile in remote storage. I offered to put Mr. Butts on hold for whichever specific title or titles he was looking for, but Mr. Butts refused to divulge any such information. In the end, he didn't actually want to read any Michner, he was just deeply offended we didn't have the man's full catalog on hand. He didn't spell that out in actual words, but his expression of disgust said it for him, and loudly.

Throughout the rest of Mr. Butts' visit, I was sickeningly sweet in my customer service. This is my usual policy for dealing with assholes, because it annoys the bejezus out of them. Just overly helpful and all Hope you have a delightful day! After he left, I mentioned to Mrs. B that Mr. Butts had shown his ass. She just shook her head and said, "He can be nasty."

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #83

Usually when people phone the "liberry" and ask to speak to someone by name, it's one of the staff they're referring to. On the rare occasion that people have phoned to speak to patrons, an explanation of precisely who they want to talk to is given first. Not so with the New Devil Twins Auxiliary League of Neighborhood Kids.

*RING*

ME— Tri Metro County Library.

KID— Yeah, can I speak to Michael?

ME— I'm sorry, no Michael works here.

KID— No, I just need to speak to Michael.

(Pause)

ME— I'm sorry, but there is no Michael employed here.

KID— No. I know he doesn't work there. But he's there. He's on the computer? He's a kid on the computer?

(Long seething pause)

ME— There are no children currently on any of our computers.

KID— But he was supposed to be there.

ME— Well... he's not.

Linguistics Lessons not found in the 463s

A patron approached the circ desk and announced that she needed a new Social Security card. She added that "THEY" said she could get one at the "liberry." Could I help her?

Now, while I really wanted to tell this lady, "No, ma'am. You can't get a new Social Security Card here. That's the job of the Social Security Administration and we're a library," I did not. That's because after five plus years of working in this joint, I, like most of my "liberry" ass. brethren across the world, am semi-fluent in Patronese. Yes, Patronese, that mysterious language in which patrons say things that are seemingly nonsensical or wildly out of place but which given the proper perspective can be interpreted to mean something entirely different by those with the skill to do so. (It's a remarkably similar to Customerese, which derrivates from Fuktardic, the family of languages also containing Crackheadish, Patient-speak, Dumbassian and Crazy Talk.)

I consulted my inner English/Patronese dictionary and discovered that despite what she'd said, this patron did not actually expect us to fork over a new SS card on the spot. Instead, she hoped we could assist her in applying for a new SS card, perhaps even online. Of course, knowing what she wanted and achieving it are very different things, particularly when it came to dealing with a bureaucratic governmental agency that I doubted would be willing to reissue her a Social Security card without first seeing seven forms of photo identification, a note from her third grade teacher, and, probably, a Social Security card. I explained to her that while I could help her find the SSA website, I did not know off-hand if applying for a new card online was even possible. She was welcome to log on and have a look, though.

The woman looked very sad. "Well, I already went to the library in TOWN C and their computers couldn't do that," she said. "Do your computers have the same.... uh... the same... um..."

"Internet?" I guessed.

"Yeah," she said.

Again, I already knew what she really meant, which was to say that Town C's library hadn't been able to help her out, most likely due to having a volunteer manning the desk who wasn't entirely computer literate, or perhaps that their computers didn't have the correct version of Flash installed to navigate the SSA site. I would be able to help her find the SSA site and likely directions to a form to print out. Unfortunately, I also knew from her particular dialect of Patronese that she didn't really want to do any of this herself, but wanted me to do it all for her. I probably would have done it too, as helping patrons is MY JOB (and I should really look into shutting up bitching about it so much). However, before I could even offer, her cell phone went off. Her or her caller's reception must have been very bad because she kept having to repeat herself. She looked up at me during this and gave me a very disdainful look, as though her crappy phone were somehow my fault.

"Oh, just forget it," she said, standing up to leave. Of course, you already know that was Patronese for, "This is far more effort that I'd hoped to expend. I really did expect you to give me a new Social Security Card on the spot and you're a terrible human being for crushing my expectations by insisting I take some part in achieving my goals. Screw you guys, I'm going home."

Random Facts (and Rules)

I recently learned, via The Onion's AVClub, that Hitchhiker's Guide creator Douglas Adams and Bloom County/Opus creator Berkeley Breathed were friends. Now that's a pairing I both completely see working and yet still find unexpected. Then again, Adams had a pretty amazing group of friends, from Pythons to rock-star-naturalists to actual rock stars.

This quote is taken from The Onion's Random Rules feature, wherein a celebrity puts their digital music player of choice on shuffle and discusses the ten songs that come up.

http://www.avclub.com/content/feature/random_rules_berkeley_breathed

SONG David Gilmour, "There's No Way Out Of Here"

Berkeley Breathed: Eric Clapton isn't God. There isn't one. But David Gilmour and Pink Floyd fill the void. My good friend Douglas Adams, author of The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, died shockingly early, but lived long enough to step onstage and play guitar alongside Gilmour for a birthday present. Almost worth dying young. I think of Douglas when this song pops up, and that's good.

AVC: Who arranged that present for him?

BB: Gilmour, who was a friend of Douglas'. There's something to be said for celebrityhood as a writer.

Still, that sounds like a lot of fun to try. Here are five tracks that my player spit out at random...

"Uncle Walter" Ben Folds Five from their self-titled debut.

I really like Ben Folds Five, particularly their first and third albums. I always thought Ben sounded like the guy from the Kleenex commericals in the 1980s, the ones with the jingle that ended with "Kleenex says... bless yooouuu." Except, I imagine Ben would change those lyrics to something a good bit more rude.

"Sleep to Dream Her" Dave Matthews Band, from Everyday.

Everyday was the album Dave released instead of the material from the now legendary Lillywhite Sessions, most of which was retooled for Busted Stuff. I remember being very disappointed in Everyday initially because it wasn't the same great songs I'd just heard in a live Dave Matthews concert some months beforehand. However, it's a great little album on its own merrit and speaks to the talent DMB possesses. It's sort of a, Ah, we don't fell like releasing all those fantastic songs we already recorded so we'll just dash off a few other fantastic songs and release them instead.

"Armida" Vinx from The Storyteller.

I like Vinx a lot, but I have to confess I've not listened to this particular album more than a couple of times in the 6 or 7 years since I bought it. I tend to listen to his debut album, Rooms in my Fatha's House, instead, which was produced by Sting and is just brilliant stuff. Actor Roscoe Lee Brown, who recently passed away, has a part on it and Sheryl Crow sings backup on a song or two (albeit billed as Cheryl Crow). I feel a little bad that I liked Vinx's first album so much yet haven't given his next two that I own a fair shake to stick in my head, nor have I sampled any of the 10 albums or so he's put out since.

"How We Won the War" Patton Oswalt from Feelin Kinda Patton.

Patton Oswalt is my favorite comedian working today. This track is particularly funny. He has a new comedy album being released next week. I'm there.


"I Know What I Know" Paul Simon, Graceland.

Whether it's true or not, I've long claimed to be my generation's greatest Paul Simon fan. Graceland was my introduction to him. Actually, his appearance on Saturday Night Live, round about 1987, just a few months before Graceland was released, was my first introduction to him. Since then I've gobbled up about everything he's put out and gone back to seek out past records, including, of course, Simon & Garfunkel. "I Know What I Know" is not my favorite song from Graceland, but I like it all the same.

Further Confessions of a Complete Goober

My moms in law is in town this week. As always, it's been fantastic! See, Ma likes to spoil us with comfort foods, including such favorites as blackberry cobbler, strawberry rhubarb crisp and her world-famous banana pudding. Also, because Ma can't stand a mess, our house is more or less spotless. I tell you, there's no downside.

Since I had the day off, and since Ma was around to provide me with transportation, I decided to take my car to the repair shop down the road to have a few of its many ailments seen to. I walked back, resumed my day off and soon discussions turned to what we were to have for dinner. We didn't have quite all of the ingredients for the chicken alfredo pizza Ma had proposed, so I agreed to take her car and head out to the store.

"I'll probably stop by the gym, first," I told her. Gotta work off some of this cobbler, after all.

I unlocked Ma's vehicle using the key fob button on her keychain, but found I couldn't open the driver's side door. Ma had warned me, though, that her driver's side door doesn't always open via the handle, so I would have to go around and open it from the passenger side. This I did.

On arriving at the gym, I found myself with a dilemma. Ma's keychain is a massive construction, largely due to the commercial-kitchen-sized canister of pepper spray she lugs around on it. Now, I have no problems going to the store and buying maxi-pads or tampons or Midol or any of the other things most guys typically have issues with being sent to the store to buy. I just don't see what the big deal is about it; after all, no one is going to assume I'm buying such items for myself, but, instead, will assume that I'm buying them for a girlfriend or wife, further indicating that I am equipped with a woman and therefore not a complete loser.

That said, damn if I was lugging a big ol' can of pepper spray into the gym on a set of gargantu-girly keys. Instead, I removed the vehicle's key from the key chain, clipped it to my own keys and went in to work out.

Afterward, I returned to Ma's car where I again had to open the driver's side door from the passenger side. I didn't even have to use the key, though, for I'd left the car unlocked.

At the grocery store, I decided to leave my MP3 player in the car. To make sure that it was still there when I returned, I hit the door lock and headed on into the store. Some 20 minutes later, I emerged, laden with groceries, and attempted to unlock the driver's side door with Ma's key. The key barely made it half-way into the lock before stopping. No amount of wiggling would allow it any further.

Oh, that's the broken door, I thought. I then tried the passenger door and had the same result. No deal.

Aw, shit, I thought. I've locked myself out of the car. How dumb. My MP3 player stared up at me from the passenger seat, as did the enormous can of pepper spray and the magic door unlocking key fob clipped to it. I stood there for a minute, the sun beating down on me, my two canisters of Minute Maid concentrated orange juice mix thawing in the plastic bags at my side. Then I dug out my cell and phoned Ma.

I've had to confess a lot of dumb things to my mother-in-law over the years. For instance, there was the time I drove from Tupelo, MS, to Hickory, NC, to see Ashley, but took a wrong turn in Atlanta and wound up taking I-75 instead of I-85. Unfortunately, I was in Chattanooga before I realized my mistake. I knew I'd need to phone Ashley to let her know I would be late, but didn't have her number at work, so I had to phone Ma to get the number, at which point she interrogated the truth out of me. Not fun, but to her credit Ma did eventually let me marry her daughter despite my repeatedly proven status as a complete goober.

Ma took the door-locking incident in stride. She admitted that she wasn't sure if there was even a door key on the ring, as she always used the key fob to unlock the door. She did say that she had an emergency back up key in her pocketbook, but since there were no other vehicles at home I would have to find a way to come get it.

"Can you get a ride with someone you know there?" she asked.

Oddly, I had seen a handful of patrons in and around the store who knew me from the "liberry." There was Mrs. French, who is a patron I like a lot and have worked with in local theatrical productions, but I'd just seen her drive away as I arrived at the car. There was also Mabel, a lady who used to be one of our resident amateur geneal0gists before Gene Gene the Geneal0gy Machine usurped her throne. I'd seen her heading into the store on my way out. And, unfortunately, there was also Mr. Perfect.

I've only written about Mr. W. Perfect peripherally in the past. He's a patron of ours who's a nice enough guy, but distinguishes himself through his insistence on using only W0rd Perfect for his word processing. He loves W0rd Perfect and, given the opportunity, will go on and on about it, praising Corel for having created the program in the first place, lecturing us on how it has enriched his life and proclaiming his undying devotion to it. I personally hate W0rd Perfect, mostly because of Corel's insistence of refusing to use the same keyboard commands as other, superior products and generally being in league with the devil. I therefore find such devotion to it irritating and kind of creepy. Whatever. Unfortunately for Mr. Perfect, only one of our patron computers still has W0rd Perfect on it and he tends to only need to use it when that computer is otherwise taken. He's always very cool about it and never raises a stink, but often fills any amount of time he has to wait for it with flowerly soliloquies about how grateful he is to live on the same planet as W0rd Perfect and his barely platonic love for the program.

Even as I stood there in the parking lot, I spied Mr. Perfect approaching his own car. I considered going over and asking him for help, but asking someone to drive you home and then back was kind of a big favor to ask, particularly of someone you're not friends with in the first place. I didn't imagine he would turn me down, or anything, but I really didn't want to owe Mr. Perfect any favors. There are patrons I like, patrons I don't like, patrons I tolerate and patrons I'm more or less indifferent to. I'm indifferent to Mr. Perfect, other than that whole vaguely creepy feeling about his lust for W0rd Perfect. But our relationship is pretty much one of cordial distance and I like it that way and don't want to upset that balance.

As I watched, Mr. Perfect opened the hood of his car and began staring into his engine. Ah, great. So he too had car problems. Maybe he was just putting in new oil.

I turned away and began searching the wheel wells for the magnetic key holder that Ma had said had been hidden in one of them at some point in the past. I didn't find it in any of them, so I lay on the pavement to check beneath the car itself, trying to ignore the strange looks I was receiving from passers by.

I considered my options. I could try calling my insurance agency, but I didn't think they would pay for a locksmith to open someone else's car. I then considered phoning Mrs. A or Mrs. C and asking them to come over. They'd probably do it, but I hated to have to ask. I could just sit there and wait for Ashley to get off from work, but she's working out of town this month so a wait for her return would be fairly lengthy. I could walk home. As the crow flies, I didn't live very far away, but there was really no crow-path to my house that didn't involve crossing angry-bull-inhabited fields.

I sighed and looked back over my shoulder toward Mr. Perfect's car. It was gone. In its place, however, was a new car driven by my church choir director, Martha. I almost wished Mr. Perfect had still been there, because I owe Martha pretty big already. I've not been to choir practice, let alone sang with the choir since before going to Alaska. Granted, I've been out of town a lot and our summer choir practice schedule has been fairly thin, but that choir is hurting for tenors and I haven't been out of town so often that I couldn't come in. Martha would never broach the subject, but I knew she was thinkin' it.

"Are you having trouble?" Martha asked.

"Uh huh," I said.

Upon hearing my tale of woe, Martha graciously offered to drive me home and back. My fear was that Ma's back up key would be another ignition key, but instead it was an emergency door key that unlocked the doors just fine. I thanked Martha and told her she was my guardian angel. And though it was never discussed, I estimate that it will take at least three months of regularly attended choir practices to pay off this debt.

Screen shot

Hey, I'm famous.

http://pcdesktops.blogspot.com/2007/07/juices-pc-screenshot-from-usa.html

Ah, Inconsistently Executed Public Service, You are Indeed a Harsh Mistress

While I often feel the urge to scream at patrons, it's a rare occasion that I want to haul off and belt one. I'm still not convinced I really wanted to belt annoying patron Ms. Green, Sean Connery-style, but I was tempted to cram her cell-phone in her mouth and tatoo some basic library policy somewhere on her person that she might notice it.

Ms. Green came in to return a book. Before she could, though, she spotted a friend of hers and the two of them began conversing next to the circ-desk, recommending books to one another and having a good old time. No problem. We weren't busy and they weren't so much in the way. Then Ms. Green's cell phone went off.

"Oh, wait, let me see if this is someone I want to talk to," Ms. Green said, taking a gander at her phone's screen. She stared at it for a few seconds while its irritating and lengthy chirp continued at full volume. (And what company would willfully design a ringtone as annoying as THAT one? For that matter, why would anyone willingly choose THAT ringtone? "Let's see... Out of all the ringtone choices I have here, I think I'll pick the one that sounds like a convicted cockatiel's first night in Cell Block-D. Yeah, that'll be a good one.")

"Nah," she said, and set the phone down on the desk where it continued to chirp, long and loud. She didn't decline the call. She didn't put it on silent mode. She just let it do its thing and went back to her conversation over the racket. Whomever was calling was pretty intent on talking to Ms. Green, too, cause the phone continued to chirp for nearly half a minute. Strike one against Ms. Green.

Shortly, Ms. Green's friend went off to search for a book while Ms. Green remained at the desk, leafing through the book her friend had just returned and recommended. Ms. Green's own return lay on the desk before her.

"Are you returning that one?" I asked.

"Yes, but I need to wait and do it in a minute because I forgot my library card."

Now, what Ms. Green was indicating was that she wanted to wait until she was ready to check out before actually returning her book so that, when I scanned her book to check it in, her patron record would pop up on our screen, allowing us access to her record without her card and, she hoped, allowing her to check other stuff out on it. This is a back door method for checking books out without a card that we USED to employ back before our library consortium cracked down on such rules violations and which some of our staff, on occasion, still use even today when no one in authority is looking. Strictly speaking it's not allowed, especially for patrons with strikes against them.

"Um, I'm really not supposed to do that either," I told Ms. Green. "You need to have your library card to check out books." This is not news to Ms. Green, for we've all had the You need to have your card... conversation with her many a time before. It did not, however, stop her from giving me an appraising look, perhaps sizing up my potential for being swayed by either charm or hissy fit. She decided to try charm and began blinking at me in what I can only assume was an attempt at sympathy-seeking puppy dog-eyes.

"Reeeallllly?" she said. Blink blink blink.

Unmoved, I nodded.

She blinked at me some more, before adding, "This look's not working, huh?" She actually said that. I smiled politely, but gave no quarter.

I thought she might next try for "fit" but she only lightly complained that she really needed something to read before heading to the health club, but now wouldn't have anything and would be forced to read a magazine instead. Oh, the pain.

Y'know, if aquiring something to read was so all fired important to her when she decided to come to the library, it seems like she might have, oh, I don't know, brought her card with her, or something. I mean, isn't "Repeating the same behavior and expecting different results" the very definition of insanity? And beyond that, I continue to SO completely fail to understand patrons who keep doing things like this. Is it truly that much of a hassle to keep up with your library card?

After a few more minutes of browsing and chatting with her friend, it suddenly occurred to Ms. Green that she still had one other book checked out. Her manner suggested that she was afraid the book might be nearly overdue and in need of a renewal. I knew what was coming when she returned to the circ-desk.

"Oh, oh, I have this other book out I'd like to check on," she said. "It'll be under Mary Green." Then she did that frantic little hand wave at the monitor patrons always do when they want us to just work our magic with it when they don't have their card. It's the very sort of gesture that says, yeah, yeah, we all know you can look us up by name no matter what you tell us, so just make with the lookin' up and we'll all go home happy.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I really do need your library card to access your patron record."

Ms. Green looked surprised for a second, as though I was telling her something she'd never heard before. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, as if she were about to say something, most likely about previous "liberry" ass.es who'd let her look up her record in just this manner despite it being against the rules. A mildly annoyed expression crossed her face and I thought she might be reconsidering her hissy fit, but she didn't attempt one nor a return to the puppy dog-eyes. What could she say? "But, Mrs. B let me get away with breaking the rules!"?

To quote Gedde Watanabe, "Suppliiiiies!"

Screw the IPhone, I want one of these!

S is for Shifting

I was in the general fiction L's when I spied, resting on its side, neatly atop one row of the books there, a lone Dennis LeHane. Poking from beneath the front cover of it was a bright orange shelving slip, indicating that eternal Newbie Greenhorn Ms. S had at some point intended to shelve this particular book. As she hadn't been on shift for over a full day, she had obviously failed in her task. (As had the rest of us in noticing during the subsequent day.)

I picked up the book, to finish her shelving job, but found that the row of LeHanes it belonged in was packed so tightly that it was impossible to wedge in this new one. Shelf rows above and below the LeHanes were similarly packed.

Now, if one were to be charitable, one might assume that Ms. S had attempted to shelve the book, found that the shelves were packed, intended to shift properly in order to fit it, but got sidetracked by a patron and set the book down--merely temporarily, mind you--then forgot to come back and shelve it later. Or, one might look at the history of the employee in question and recall her great animosity toward the very concept of shifting books and decide that she forgot to do it out of convenience.

Whatever the case, one of the reasons the shelves were so tight is because the greenhorns keep shelving new books in them. We recently had a motherload of new books arrive and the new books section became wildly overcrowded. The greenhorns, who've often been guilty of shelving the new books on a good day, asked and were given permission to shelve some of the older new books on the walls rather than stick to our usual 6 months in the New Section rule for new books on the walls to free up room in the new section. Many of the ones I've found, though, were from as recent as last month, so they weren't exactly being picky about which ones they shelved.

Oddly, as much animosity as I've had toward Ms. S, I've recently found that my dislike of her has been growing far less. With the above example, she's clearly not started doing her job to perfection or anything. However, now that she's had a year under her belt, she has gotten better and has stopped exhibitting quite the degree of laziness we're accustomed to seeing. Either that or we've just gotten accustomed to it and are no longer so offended.

Further oddly, when she arrived for her shift the other day, I found myself greeting her with genuine friendliness.

Maybe I'm coming down with something.

No, I really do think she's actually gotten better. She still asks lots of questions, but the questions are no longer so dumb and with such obvious answers as they once were. Furthermore, she seems far less surly than she has been. Maybe its just the sort of job that takes some people about a year to settle in to. It took Ms. M that long to acheive a status in which we did not curse her very name. Now she's a valued employee who has graduated greenhorndom and acheived the rank of "Liberry" Ass. I'm not yet ready to grant that to Ms. S, but I can forsee a day when I might.

Dishin' It Up: A Cautionary Tale (LAST EPILOGUE EVER)

It's been over two months since my last bit of dealing with the vile and ass-sucking entity known as DirecTV. It's been blissful. In fact, I continue to have nothing but high praise for Dish Network, despite the fact that I am still without distant networks, except for Fox. If I must be without distant networks, I'd much rather be without them with Dish Network than with the sphincter remora that is DirecTV. But I digress...

Last I heard from them, they still owed me $16.32, the difference between the amount they originally said we owed them for our early disconnection and the amount they eventually wound up crediting us in order to cover the original claim against us.

In the intervening days, we've faithfully received a bill each month displaying that credit of $16.32.

Today, we finally received a check in the mail for the amount of $16.32. I will, of course, be cashing it and hoping against hope that it is the final piece of mail, junk or otherwise, I ever receive from that company.

I'm an optimistic soul, no?

Got them Gravity Hill, Ain't Got No Card, Oh, Wait, I do Have a Card, or DID Have a Card, AND Fines, Blues.

Mrs. J was sweeping the front walk when a large lady came huffing and puffing up the gravity hill. She was about to fall over from the strain. (In her defense, the gravity hill doesn't look like much of a problem to ascend, but, being the gravity hill, it always is.) Mrs. J didn't know the lady, but they talked for a minute or two. I learned later that the lady had asked Mrs. J how she might obtain a library card and Mrs. J had told her we needed her to fill out a form and produce a drivers license. I didn't know that then, though.

The lady and Mrs. J came inside and between wheezes the lady was all, "Oh, lordy mercy, that hill!" and "I should stop smoking," and "Oh my gosh, that hill," and stuff. She barely made it to the circ desk, where she deposited her brick of a pocketbook and began digging in it, I presumed for her library card.

"What I need is a basic math book," the lady explained. I looked one up for her and Mrs. J volunteered to head upstairs to nonfiction to retrieve it, so that the lady's heart wouldn't explode going up our staircase. While we waited, the lady continued digging in her pocketbook for her card, going through several thick, rubber-band wrapped stacks of cards and papers and the like. I went back to processing magazines while she searched.

"Will you take an insurance card?" she asked.

Wow, that hill really had addled her brain.

"No, ma'am. We need the actual card."

"What about a driver's license?"

"I'm sorry, but we need the actual card," I said.

"What card?"

"Your library card."

She gave me a long confused look.

"But I don't have one."

"You weren't just searching your purse for your library card?"

"No. I was looking for my license to get a card."

Oohhhhhh, now I got it. I whipped out an application, which she filled out and handed over. Then, when I started creating the card in the computer an identical record popped up before I'd even arrived at the Unique ID section. Same name, address, phone and drivers license popped up in the previously existing record. It also had $179.80 worth of fines and was blocked.

"Ma'am, it looks like we do have a patron record on file for you already. Looks like it's from TOWN-D."

"TOWN-D? Oh, I haven't been to TOWN-D in years and years and years and years and years. I don't have a card from there."

"Well, I've got you right here with the same name, address, telephone number and drivers license number, from TOWN-D. I'm afraid this says you have $179.80 in fines with them, so I can't check anything out to you until you take care of that."

"How much?" she asked in a cool measured and not entirely surprised tone.

I told her and it still didn't seem to phase her. She didn't ask what the fines were for, didn't bat an eye. For that amount of money, I would have spotted her a tantrum, but she didn't get upset at all.

"I'll just go right over there and pay that," she said. "Then I'll come back here and finish getting this card."

"Actually, your card from Town-D will work here."

"Oh?" she said calmly.

"Yes."

"You have a good day," she said, moving toward the door.

"You too," I said. "The hill's easier going down."

She laughed and left.

After checking out a few more patrons, I looked up the lady's account to see what she had out that cost $179.80. Turned out the fines were for four videos—basic Hollywood movies, most likely purchased at Wally World and donated—checked out in 2004. Town-D assigned a replacement value of around $44.95 each to them. My guess is, they'll never see it nor the videos nor that patron ever again.

Then again, nor will we.

Dear Robert Palmer...

The strangest thing happened yesterday.

Mr. B-Natural came in, sans laptop, and signed up to use one of our normal patron computers. His face clean shaven. And his golf cap, seemingly identical to the hole-ridden one he's been sporting, was completely free of holes.

I don't know what this means, but it caused me to question whether or not I'd dreamed up the whole laptop / moustache / lost-a-fight-with-a-leaky-battery-hat thing he's had going for the past week.

Tell me, am I dreaming?

Mr. B-Moustache?

Mr. B-Natural, as he threatened, is now wireless laptop equipped. He proudly marches into the "liberry," laptop case slung casually at his side, and gestures at us using the international sign-language for "Gimme a 4 hour session of wireless time, I've got a crossword puzzle callin' my name."

The odd thing is that along with his acquisition of modern personal technology, Mr. B-Natural has also acquired both a moustache and a golf-cap that looks as though it lost a fight with a leaky car battery. The cap is riddled with holes, allowing its padding to show through in places, but he wears it proudly all the same. While the moustache has yet to fully grow in, I have to admit that it kind of suits him. Or, at least, it works far better than the shiny silver toupee he sported, a few years back, before returning it, presumably to the toupee store, scarcely a week later.

She was born where?

On Friday, Birthday Lady phoned for Ruth Graham's birthday, following her unfortunate passing. She was born June 10, 1920 to medical missionary parents in Qingjiang, Kiangsu, China.

Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #82

*RING*

ME— Tri-Metro County Library.

TELEMARKETER— (Female voice with thick Indian accent) Hello, my name is (name said too quickly to catch) and I am calling on behalf of (company name said too quickly to catch). May I please speak to the owner of the business?

ME— Um, this is a public library.

TELEMARKETER— Yes. May I please speak to the owner of the business?

(Pause)

ME— Well, that's going to be kind of hard. There are quite a few of them.

TELEMARKETER— I'm sorry?

ME— This is a public library.

TELEMARKETER— Yes. May I please speak to the... May I... Maybe you can help me to understand?

ME— We're a PUBLIC. LIBRARY.

TELEMARKETER— Are you a person who is able to make decisions for the business?

ME— No. I am an employee of a public library. I can't make decisions.

TELEMARKETER— May I speak to someone who is able to make decisions for the business?

ME— No. She's not here at the moment, but she doesn't take sales calls.

TELEMARKETER— But I am not selling you something, yet.

ME— Even so.

TELEMARKETER— I would please like to ask you a few questions about your...

ME— I'm sorry, but I don't think I can answer your questions. I'm the only employee at work right now and I need to go.

TELEMARKETER— When would be a more convenient time to call back?

ME— Again, my boss does not take sales calls or telemarketing calls. We're a public library. We're not really set up for this sort of thing.

(Long pause)

TELEMARKETER— Thank you very much, and have a good evening.

ME— You too.

*CLICK*

PATRON STANDING AT DESK— Dude, you were far more patient with them than I would have been.

(The moral of this story is that apparently not only are America's help desk jobs being outsourced overseas, but now our telemarketing jobs are as well.)

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