As is usually the case, once I blog about a long lost "liberry" rogue
who hasn't been in to see us in months and/or years, they magically turn up.
Yesterday, Conspiracy Guy popped in for a visit. He didn't use a computer but was in to research
something mundane and non-conspiracy related.
Once he'd found the book he wanted and had brought it
to the circ desk, it fell to Mrs. B to break the news that he would need
a new "liberry" card. Though neither of us spoke about it until after
Conspiracy Guy had left, both Mrs. B and I knew that he would be none
too keen on getting a new card, particularly after he saw the Drivers License and Middle Name blanks that are now required information. He asked if they really were required . When Mrs. B said, yes, he decided that he would rather just take the book upstairs and make notes from it. So no card for Conspiracy Guy, but at least there wasn't a screaming fit either.
Can't say the same for another disgruntled patron who,
Mrs. C reports, became very angry when he learned he would (*GASP*) have
to bring his card in if he wanted to check out a book. Never mind that
we TOLD HIM that when he first signed up for the card. So he didn't have his
card on him but didn't want to leave without his book either and was
prepared to get quite huffy about it. Mrs. C said that she could verify
his patron record if she could see his driver's license number and he
reluctantly let her do this. Then, after he had already gotten his way,
he kept right on ranting, threatened to call our superiors and demanded
to know the names of our board of directors so he could complain to
them. Mrs. C told him that it would do no good to complain to the board
of directors since they have nothing to do with it. This was a policy
created by our particular "liberry" network and not a local one. Mr.
Cranky still wanted to know the "liberry" commission's phone number so
he could register his ire with them, so Mrs. C handed it over, too.
I'm glad I wasn't there. I don't know how I would have
handled that. I'm finding my patience with cranky patrons is pretty
thin these days.
Friday, August 06, 2004
Secrets and Lies
Found out our Print Stealing New Devil Twins,
Brent & Brice, weren't on file in our permission slip folder after
all. So I have no way of tattling on them to their mom. Of course, since
they don't have permission slips, they also won't be using the
computers any more until they get their mom to fill out a couple. And
when they do, I'll tattle on them to their mom.
The twins came in and tried to sign up for computers on Monday, when Mrs. C was running the joint solo. She'd read my note about the darn nigh quarter ream of paper they'd printed and stolen, Sunday, and had already checked the permission slip folder for them. When she told them they couldn't have computers without a permission slip they were plenty pissed. So mad, in fact, that she didn't even bother to bless them out for their theft of our paper and ink. Instead, Mrs. C gave them permission slips to take home for signing. If they return with them, we'll ban them until they pay up and also tattle to their mom.
Beyond them, though, I'm getting royally sick of deceptive patrons.
A mom and her two daughters came in yesterday to check out some videos and a few books. As they were browsing, I overheard both of the daughters tell their mom they'd forgotten their library cards. I figured I was going to be in for a fight when they were ready to leave until Mom decided to get a card for herself. No problem. We signed her up for one and she filled it full of eight videos and two of the three books her youngest daughter wanted. I explained that they'd already reached their 10 item limit and would probably need to put something back if they wanted that third book.
"Well can we just sign them up for a card?" Mom asked.
"That depends," I said, sensing the impending ruse. "Do either of them have cards with another area library already?"
Mom was noncommittal on this point. The youngest daughter seemed to waiver on it for a bit too, but finally admitted that, yes, she did have a card with Town-R's library. The older daughter, however, claimed she had no card anywhere.
"You don't have a card at any other area library?" I asked again, just to make sure her statement was on record.
"No," she said.
I raised an eyebrow at this, but decided that if she was lying the computer would soon sort it out. I should have just tried looking for her by name, which would have been quicker, but instead I gave her some rope by letting her fill out an application form. Let's waste everyone's time.
Oldest daughter seemed reluctant to put down an address. When I pressed her for one, she put down her Mom's address in Town-C. Mom asked her why she'd done that, as the girl actually lives with her dad in Town-R. Hearing that, I pointed out that we also had to have the actual physical address where she lived. Daughter didn't seem to like this but took her form and filled out the line, putting down a post office box in Town-R. I pointed out that this wasn't a physical address, so she reluctantly filled out that line too. And, to no one's surprise, as soon as that bit of information was plugged into the computer, it spat up an existing record for her.
"Well, it looks as though you already have a card through TOWN-R's library," I said. I kept my tone diplomatic, implying with it that she had simply made a mistake and not lied through her teeth, her pants aflame, as I knew she had.
"But I don't have a card there," daughter claimed.
"I'm sorry, but this says that you do."
"But they didn't give me a card. They said I didn't need a card," daughter quickly revised. Though I knew she was lying, it still wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. After all, when we first got our new circulation system, some of the area libraries who had not yet received their shipment of new library cards began foolishly issuing patrons new patron accounts anyway. Their logic seemed to be that other libraries were issuing new accounts with new cards, so they didn't want to be left behind just because of a little thing like having no cards. I'd not heard of Town-R doing this, though. And daughter's account actually had one of the new 14 digit card numbers attached to it, which came only pre-printed on our plastic library cards and not a loose sticker, like the old 10 digits, so a card had been issued. Still, I continued to appear to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"Well, they have one of our new card numbers listed here for you, so if they didn't issue you an actual card when you signed up, chances are they'll have one on file for you now. You'll need to see them about it."
"Can't you just give her a card here?" Mom asked.
"No, ma'am. She already has a card. It's one big system and we can only issue one card per patron."
"So she can't check out any books here?"
"Not unless she has her library card," I said.
Mom rolled her eyes and huffed, as though this was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard of and made a big production of dragging out one of her videos to trade in for younger daughter's book.
Technically I had the capability of going ahead and checking the extra book out on the daughter's card. I could even have rationalized it because I'd already called up her REAL account and verified it had the same physical address she'd given me. I decided not to be nice, though. After all, she wasn't being nice by actively lying to me because it served her purposes. And mom had done nearly everything to aid and abet the girl as well. So I'm not about to reward such collective familial dishonesty like that.
And that's really what makes me sick--that a mother would actively assist her daughter in an obvious lie just so she wouldn't have to put one of her own videos back. I guess I shouldn't be surprised by the selfishness and dishonesty of humanity. I'd be willing to bet I've even been guilty of such in the past myself. I still don't have to like it.
The twins came in and tried to sign up for computers on Monday, when Mrs. C was running the joint solo. She'd read my note about the darn nigh quarter ream of paper they'd printed and stolen, Sunday, and had already checked the permission slip folder for them. When she told them they couldn't have computers without a permission slip they were plenty pissed. So mad, in fact, that she didn't even bother to bless them out for their theft of our paper and ink. Instead, Mrs. C gave them permission slips to take home for signing. If they return with them, we'll ban them until they pay up and also tattle to their mom.
Beyond them, though, I'm getting royally sick of deceptive patrons.
A mom and her two daughters came in yesterday to check out some videos and a few books. As they were browsing, I overheard both of the daughters tell their mom they'd forgotten their library cards. I figured I was going to be in for a fight when they were ready to leave until Mom decided to get a card for herself. No problem. We signed her up for one and she filled it full of eight videos and two of the three books her youngest daughter wanted. I explained that they'd already reached their 10 item limit and would probably need to put something back if they wanted that third book.
"Well can we just sign them up for a card?" Mom asked.
"That depends," I said, sensing the impending ruse. "Do either of them have cards with another area library already?"
Mom was noncommittal on this point. The youngest daughter seemed to waiver on it for a bit too, but finally admitted that, yes, she did have a card with Town-R's library. The older daughter, however, claimed she had no card anywhere.
"You don't have a card at any other area library?" I asked again, just to make sure her statement was on record.
"No," she said.
I raised an eyebrow at this, but decided that if she was lying the computer would soon sort it out. I should have just tried looking for her by name, which would have been quicker, but instead I gave her some rope by letting her fill out an application form. Let's waste everyone's time.
Oldest daughter seemed reluctant to put down an address. When I pressed her for one, she put down her Mom's address in Town-C. Mom asked her why she'd done that, as the girl actually lives with her dad in Town-R. Hearing that, I pointed out that we also had to have the actual physical address where she lived. Daughter didn't seem to like this but took her form and filled out the line, putting down a post office box in Town-R. I pointed out that this wasn't a physical address, so she reluctantly filled out that line too. And, to no one's surprise, as soon as that bit of information was plugged into the computer, it spat up an existing record for her.
"Well, it looks as though you already have a card through TOWN-R's library," I said. I kept my tone diplomatic, implying with it that she had simply made a mistake and not lied through her teeth, her pants aflame, as I knew she had.
"But I don't have a card there," daughter claimed.
"I'm sorry, but this says that you do."
"But they didn't give me a card. They said I didn't need a card," daughter quickly revised. Though I knew she was lying, it still wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. After all, when we first got our new circulation system, some of the area libraries who had not yet received their shipment of new library cards began foolishly issuing patrons new patron accounts anyway. Their logic seemed to be that other libraries were issuing new accounts with new cards, so they didn't want to be left behind just because of a little thing like having no cards. I'd not heard of Town-R doing this, though. And daughter's account actually had one of the new 14 digit card numbers attached to it, which came only pre-printed on our plastic library cards and not a loose sticker, like the old 10 digits, so a card had been issued. Still, I continued to appear to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"Well, they have one of our new card numbers listed here for you, so if they didn't issue you an actual card when you signed up, chances are they'll have one on file for you now. You'll need to see them about it."
"Can't you just give her a card here?" Mom asked.
"No, ma'am. She already has a card. It's one big system and we can only issue one card per patron."
"So she can't check out any books here?"
"Not unless she has her library card," I said.
Mom rolled her eyes and huffed, as though this was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard of and made a big production of dragging out one of her videos to trade in for younger daughter's book.
Technically I had the capability of going ahead and checking the extra book out on the daughter's card. I could even have rationalized it because I'd already called up her REAL account and verified it had the same physical address she'd given me. I decided not to be nice, though. After all, she wasn't being nice by actively lying to me because it served her purposes. And mom had done nearly everything to aid and abet the girl as well. So I'm not about to reward such collective familial dishonesty like that.
And that's really what makes me sick--that a mother would actively assist her daughter in an obvious lie just so she wouldn't have to put one of her own videos back. I guess I shouldn't be surprised by the selfishness and dishonesty of humanity. I'd be willing to bet I've even been guilty of such in the past myself. I still don't have to like it.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
BUSTED!
When I went to work yesterday, having my secret identity as a
"liberry" blogger unearthed was the furthest thing from my mind. It was
about to happen all the same, though.
Nearly nine months ago when I first started writing this blog I knew in all likelihood I was eventually gonna get caught. Sure, I tried to be careful about who and what I wrote about. Well, a little careful. I did rename most of the people and places that showed up—sometimes thinly—to limit the clues within the blog itself that could lead back to me. However, I've been plenty sloppy in a lot of ways too. Sometimes this has been intentional. Sometimes not.
It's one thing, however, to not care if readers in other states and indeed other countries know my secret identity. It's a whole other ball of dung for someone here in the Tri-Metro area to find out and that's where the sloppy comes in.
I didn't realize just how sloppy I was in other less obvious ways until a few months ago when I started checking my stats and saw the kind of search engine searches that sometimes lead people in my direction. (And by the way, what the hell kind of person does a subject search for "Chris Farley's Dead Ass," anyway?) The stats showed me that even having such words as "West," "Library"and "Virginia" in proximity to one another on the same page could lead people right to my door if they were merely doing a search for something using those words. There are plenty of other words that, while innocuous enough on the surface, could lead someone local to the blog. So I went back and changed some references, eliminated others and tried to tart the place up a bit to further decrease the chances of someone accidentally stumbling in.
Still, there's only so much you can do to disguise yourself if you're writing a blog about working at a "liberry" in WV to keep those terms from coming up. Eventually, the state and the word library are gonna get together and someone is going to find them in a search. With that in mind, I figured it was likely that someone from library HQ would eventually find me. They may already have. If so, they don't seem to be inclined to rat me out to my boss, Mrs. A.
Frankly, though, I wasn't too concerned about being ratted out that way. I think most of my co-workers would really dig the blog and would quickly become some of my more avid readers were they to learn of it. I've even considered letting them in on it if only to get more accurate reporting out of them on the crazy stuff that happens while I'm not at work. I decided, though, that doing so would cause a chilling effect on what I could say. Granted, I've always made it a point not to talk too much trash about my co-workers, (except, of course, for those who abandon their jobs and make me have to pack up all their interlibrary loans on a day I would otherwise not have been at work—thank you oh so very much, Miss E). Still, I'd much prefer the freedom in which I have the choice to behave myself.
I figure they'll eventually learn of it, either by admission or by someone ratting me out. My hope is that if they're angry at me, it will be because I didn't tell them about it sooner.
No, my imagined worse case scenario was much different. In it, I would go in to work one day, walk back to the computer hall and find somebody there reading my blog. They would turn and look up at me with realization in their eyes and then either wink knowingly or give me the finger. Worse yet, what if they came up to the circ desk and yelled at me about it? Even worse still.... what if it was PARKA? That chest hair entry alone would net me at least a bloody nose. Hell, the rest of my rogues gallery practically rivals Spider-Man's already! Sure, I might do okay one on one with most of them, but what if they ganged up? Carol Satan would tear me to shreds with her talons! Wal-Mart Jesus would clock me with his cudgel! Ron the Ripper would try to rip me, or at the very least fart on me! And Cap'n Crossdresser would hit me with his purse!
No sir... I don't like it.
Like I said, though, when I went to work yesterday, I wasn't thinking about any of the above scenarios. And when I left to go on break, I still wasn't thinking of them. So when it happened, it took me by surprise.
As per my usual Wednesday afternoon routine, I ambled down to the local "mall" comic book kiosk, to see what the new shipment had brought. Garin the comic book guy was there at the desk as usual. For some reason, he seemed especially happy to see me. He just kept saying my name over and over, taking an unwholesome amount of glee at some unrevealed nugget of information. I was oblivious.
"You will NEVER guess what I saw... on... the... internet," he said with a devilish grin. Still, I was clueless. I was somehow picturing that he'd found stills from the new Sin City film adaptation, or the full script for Spider-Man 3, or clips from Catwoman: The Version that Didn't Blow Goats.
Garin continued, slowly letting out his verbal fishing line in preparation for yanking it back suddenly. "I found a website that mentions me and my shop."
That's when it hit me and I instantly knew I was busted.
I always expected such a busting to come with the requisite chills and stomach vertigo that usually accompany major revelations. I didn't get so much of that, though. I must have at least looked properly shocked for a few moments, because Garin just continued grinning triumphantly. Pretty quickly, though, I settled into my new role as the grinning little low-carb dieting kid caught with his hand in the Nutter Butters but who knows he's far too cute and adorable to be punished.
What had happened, as Garin explained it, is that one of his customers decided to look his shop up by name and see if it had a website. They typed the name into a search engine and came up with some ebay entries as well as a little blog entry called The Fix Is In. They took a gander at it and alerted Garin that someone was writing about him on the internet.
"So I see this Tales from the `Liberry' site that mentions my shop," Garin said. "I knew immediately who had to have written it! Just the language you used was SO EXACTLY YOU."
Not only did Garin read his own initial appearance in the blog, but read most of the other entries as well and liked them. (Hey, I told ya I was cute and adorable!) Even my slightly less-than-favorable early review of his store, ("I can't say this one ranks with the best of them. But then again, it's only a kiosk store—what can you really do with a kiosk store?"), written a mere one month after he opened for business was met with smiles and appreciation for my honesty. (And just for the record, I also predicted that his store had a lot of potential and in the ten months since then he's proven just what you CAN do with a kiosk store. It's become quite the quality comic retail outlet. *WAVES TO GARIN* In fact, Garin's search engine search also turned up an award he'd won from Marvel Comics themselves, but which no one at Marvel thought to tell him about.)
Garin's one complaint to me in the whole matter: "So why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"
I explained that I was trying to keep things on the Q.T. as far as local publicity went. As much as I didn't care that he knew about it, I'd much prefer most other locals NOT knowing about it. Particularly the mentally-unbalanced locals who occasionally turn up as subject matter.
Then, as if somebody rang the crazy bell, who should show up at the kiosk right on cue... Doc Oc-Fetishist Woman!
This time she wasn't looking for the New Doc Ock or the Old Doc Ock or any Doc Ock. Instead, she had come to see if Garin had any other toys for her husband. Sure enough, a great huge Fantastic 4 Four Pack set of figures has been released, including figures of all four members of the FF plus Franklin Richards, Doctor Doom and even Robbie the EFFing Robot. This, apparently, is what DOF Woman's husband had ordered and she was overjoyed at its arrival.
Naturally, there had to be a wrinkle, though. In addition to the Fantastic Four Pack, a brand new Thing figure had also been released, which was a different sculpt than the version of Thing already in the pack. Garin just wanted to call her attention to it in case her husband was interested, as he knew the guy liked the FF characters. This completely threw Doc Ock Fetishist Woman into a tizzy, though. Garin had to explain to her several times that her husband hadn't ordered the extra Thing so she didn't need to buy it, but if her husband was interested it was there. I had to walk out of sight of her to keep from cracking up laughing as DOF Woman struggled with these concepts for a couple of minutes, dancing perilously close to but never actually crossing the line into understanding. Finally Garin took the extra Thing away from her and told her he would hold on to it and save it for her husband should he want it.
"You'll save it for him then?"
"Yes."
"You'll save it for him then?"
"YES."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I cannot make up shit that crazy!
So guess what, Garin... If I do get drummed out of the library for this blog, I'm moving into your comic shop and starting a new blog there. Seems like it's just another station for the local Crazy Train.
Nearly nine months ago when I first started writing this blog I knew in all likelihood I was eventually gonna get caught. Sure, I tried to be careful about who and what I wrote about. Well, a little careful. I did rename most of the people and places that showed up—sometimes thinly—to limit the clues within the blog itself that could lead back to me. However, I've been plenty sloppy in a lot of ways too. Sometimes this has been intentional. Sometimes not.
It's one thing, however, to not care if readers in other states and indeed other countries know my secret identity. It's a whole other ball of dung for someone here in the Tri-Metro area to find out and that's where the sloppy comes in.
I didn't realize just how sloppy I was in other less obvious ways until a few months ago when I started checking my stats and saw the kind of search engine searches that sometimes lead people in my direction. (And by the way, what the hell kind of person does a subject search for "Chris Farley's Dead Ass," anyway?) The stats showed me that even having such words as "West," "Library"and "Virginia" in proximity to one another on the same page could lead people right to my door if they were merely doing a search for something using those words. There are plenty of other words that, while innocuous enough on the surface, could lead someone local to the blog. So I went back and changed some references, eliminated others and tried to tart the place up a bit to further decrease the chances of someone accidentally stumbling in.
Still, there's only so much you can do to disguise yourself if you're writing a blog about working at a "liberry" in WV to keep those terms from coming up. Eventually, the state and the word library are gonna get together and someone is going to find them in a search. With that in mind, I figured it was likely that someone from library HQ would eventually find me. They may already have. If so, they don't seem to be inclined to rat me out to my boss, Mrs. A.
Frankly, though, I wasn't too concerned about being ratted out that way. I think most of my co-workers would really dig the blog and would quickly become some of my more avid readers were they to learn of it. I've even considered letting them in on it if only to get more accurate reporting out of them on the crazy stuff that happens while I'm not at work. I decided, though, that doing so would cause a chilling effect on what I could say. Granted, I've always made it a point not to talk too much trash about my co-workers, (except, of course, for those who abandon their jobs and make me have to pack up all their interlibrary loans on a day I would otherwise not have been at work—thank you oh so very much, Miss E). Still, I'd much prefer the freedom in which I have the choice to behave myself.
I figure they'll eventually learn of it, either by admission or by someone ratting me out. My hope is that if they're angry at me, it will be because I didn't tell them about it sooner.
No, my imagined worse case scenario was much different. In it, I would go in to work one day, walk back to the computer hall and find somebody there reading my blog. They would turn and look up at me with realization in their eyes and then either wink knowingly or give me the finger. Worse yet, what if they came up to the circ desk and yelled at me about it? Even worse still.... what if it was PARKA? That chest hair entry alone would net me at least a bloody nose. Hell, the rest of my rogues gallery practically rivals Spider-Man's already! Sure, I might do okay one on one with most of them, but what if they ganged up? Carol Satan would tear me to shreds with her talons! Wal-Mart Jesus would clock me with his cudgel! Ron the Ripper would try to rip me, or at the very least fart on me! And Cap'n Crossdresser would hit me with his purse!
No sir... I don't like it.
Like I said, though, when I went to work yesterday, I wasn't thinking about any of the above scenarios. And when I left to go on break, I still wasn't thinking of them. So when it happened, it took me by surprise.
As per my usual Wednesday afternoon routine, I ambled down to the local "mall" comic book kiosk, to see what the new shipment had brought. Garin the comic book guy was there at the desk as usual. For some reason, he seemed especially happy to see me. He just kept saying my name over and over, taking an unwholesome amount of glee at some unrevealed nugget of information. I was oblivious.
"You will NEVER guess what I saw... on... the... internet," he said with a devilish grin. Still, I was clueless. I was somehow picturing that he'd found stills from the new Sin City film adaptation, or the full script for Spider-Man 3, or clips from Catwoman: The Version that Didn't Blow Goats.
Garin continued, slowly letting out his verbal fishing line in preparation for yanking it back suddenly. "I found a website that mentions me and my shop."
That's when it hit me and I instantly knew I was busted.
I always expected such a busting to come with the requisite chills and stomach vertigo that usually accompany major revelations. I didn't get so much of that, though. I must have at least looked properly shocked for a few moments, because Garin just continued grinning triumphantly. Pretty quickly, though, I settled into my new role as the grinning little low-carb dieting kid caught with his hand in the Nutter Butters but who knows he's far too cute and adorable to be punished.
What had happened, as Garin explained it, is that one of his customers decided to look his shop up by name and see if it had a website. They typed the name into a search engine and came up with some ebay entries as well as a little blog entry called The Fix Is In. They took a gander at it and alerted Garin that someone was writing about him on the internet.
"So I see this Tales from the `Liberry' site that mentions my shop," Garin said. "I knew immediately who had to have written it! Just the language you used was SO EXACTLY YOU."
Not only did Garin read his own initial appearance in the blog, but read most of the other entries as well and liked them. (Hey, I told ya I was cute and adorable!) Even my slightly less-than-favorable early review of his store, ("I can't say this one ranks with the best of them. But then again, it's only a kiosk store—what can you really do with a kiosk store?"), written a mere one month after he opened for business was met with smiles and appreciation for my honesty. (And just for the record, I also predicted that his store had a lot of potential and in the ten months since then he's proven just what you CAN do with a kiosk store. It's become quite the quality comic retail outlet. *WAVES TO GARIN* In fact, Garin's search engine search also turned up an award he'd won from Marvel Comics themselves, but which no one at Marvel thought to tell him about.)
Garin's one complaint to me in the whole matter: "So why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"
I explained that I was trying to keep things on the Q.T. as far as local publicity went. As much as I didn't care that he knew about it, I'd much prefer most other locals NOT knowing about it. Particularly the mentally-unbalanced locals who occasionally turn up as subject matter.
Then, as if somebody rang the crazy bell, who should show up at the kiosk right on cue... Doc Oc-Fetishist Woman!
This time she wasn't looking for the New Doc Ock or the Old Doc Ock or any Doc Ock. Instead, she had come to see if Garin had any other toys for her husband. Sure enough, a great huge Fantastic 4 Four Pack set of figures has been released, including figures of all four members of the FF plus Franklin Richards, Doctor Doom and even Robbie the EFFing Robot. This, apparently, is what DOF Woman's husband had ordered and she was overjoyed at its arrival.
Naturally, there had to be a wrinkle, though. In addition to the Fantastic Four Pack, a brand new Thing figure had also been released, which was a different sculpt than the version of Thing already in the pack. Garin just wanted to call her attention to it in case her husband was interested, as he knew the guy liked the FF characters. This completely threw Doc Ock Fetishist Woman into a tizzy, though. Garin had to explain to her several times that her husband hadn't ordered the extra Thing so she didn't need to buy it, but if her husband was interested it was there. I had to walk out of sight of her to keep from cracking up laughing as DOF Woman struggled with these concepts for a couple of minutes, dancing perilously close to but never actually crossing the line into understanding. Finally Garin took the extra Thing away from her and told her he would hold on to it and save it for her husband should he want it.
"You'll save it for him then?"
"Yes."
"You'll save it for him then?"
"YES."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I cannot make up shit that crazy!
So guess what, Garin... If I do get drummed out of the library for this blog, I'm moving into your comic shop and starting a new blog there. Seems like it's just another station for the local Crazy Train.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Goat Wang
I would just like to take this moment to say a hearty "I told ya so" regarding my prediction last February of the goat wang fellatio capabilities of Halle Berry's version of Catwoman.
I've not seen it, nor am I going to, but the consensus of reviewers does seem to back me up.
Granted, most people aren't going in to Catwoman expecting Citizen Kane. Most of the audience is there to see Halle jumping around in a leather getup most self-respecting hookers would be embarrassed to wear. Believe me, I can sympathize.
But may I suggest an alternative?
Why not go rent the DVD of Monster's Ball where you get to see a damn lot more of Halle's lovely physique plus the added bonuses of both frame by frame pause AND an engaging story.
Remember: Friends don't let friends see Catwoman.
I've not seen it, nor am I going to, but the consensus of reviewers does seem to back me up.
Granted, most people aren't going in to Catwoman expecting Citizen Kane. Most of the audience is there to see Halle jumping around in a leather getup most self-respecting hookers would be embarrassed to wear. Believe me, I can sympathize.
But may I suggest an alternative?
Why not go rent the DVD of Monster's Ball where you get to see a damn lot more of Halle's lovely physique plus the added bonuses of both frame by frame pause AND an engaging story.
Remember: Friends don't let friends see Catwoman.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Sunday Shift
So with our weekender Miss E effectively out of
the picture, I hit the library at 1 today for my first Sunday shift in
quite a while.
Sunday shifts are usually plenty boring, but I knew I was going to have a busy enough day. See, Mrs. H has now been recruited to become our new Saturday "liberry" ass. leaving Mrs. B and I to rotate Sundays. This is fine with me. Trouble is, Mrs. H doesn't seem to know how to prepare and pack up the week's worth of interlibrary loans, so it's fallen to the Sunday shifter to do that for the past couple of weeks. This is okay too. I'd rather have something to do. Beyond that, though, today's shift was far from boring.
There was, of course, a crowd at the door as I arrived at 12:55. Great.
When I went upstairs and flipped on the light switch, the lights all came on then immediately went back off as the breaker tripped from the surge. Double great. Even greater is the fact that I have no idea where the breaker switch box is. I looked around for it, but it wasn't in any of the obvious places like closets or bathrooms or walls. Damn, it was probably in the basement.
Mr. B-Natural was among the crowd outside and was the first to sign up for a computer. More followed, including Brent & Brice, two twin teenagers who have been making a nuisance of themselves for reasons which will become apparent. They're not related to the Devil Twins, of Rogues Gallery fame, but they probably should be.
The wife turned up around 1:30 with lunch for the two of us. She's on her way out of town, headed back to Clarksburg until later in the month. After lunch, I decided that while she was there and was able to guard the desk, I'd go to the basement and see about the breaker. I was headed for the door on that very quest when Jimmy the "Anonymous" Snitch came in and started signing in for a computer. Jimmy's been in a couple of times recently. One day last week, I actually had to ask a patron I liked to get off the computers just to give one to frickin' Jimmy's dumb criminal ass. And just minutes earlier, I'd had to bust another favored patron off to give one to Parka. At the time I thought, Who's next? Chester? The computers were all full, though, and not due for any openings for 16 minutes. I mentioned that to Jimmy on my way out the door.
Despite high expectations, I could find no evidence of a breaker box in the basement. I didn't want to spend a lot of time in there, though. Jimmy was lurking in the library and while the wife was standing guard on the cash box no one was guarding the upstairs restroom, where Jimmy's pal Bladder Boy once found and stole our laptop. I rushed back up to the main library and then upstairs. Jimmy was sitting in a chair at the top of the stairs near the periodicals. I walked behind him and into Mrs. A's office where I retrieved the restroom key from its hiding place then made a big conspicuous production of locking the restroom door as loudly as I could.
Back downstairs, a few minutes later, I was telling the wife what I had just done when she suddenly signaled to me to be quiet. Too late, I was still finishing my sentence, "...conspicuously locked the bathroom door" when Jimmy entered the room behind me. He had to have heard what I was saying and he would also have to know what it meant. I realized that I didn't care if he did hear me. I really don't mind if he knows that I know he's a sneaky little weasel. If I were really ballsy, though, I would ask Jimmy how his sentencing went this month. I'd honestly like to know, cause I haven't heard.
I had to tell Brice and Brent to relinquish their computers to let Jimmy and another patron have them. B&B, who are probably 13 years old, are infamous for coming in, using our computers, printing lots of pages and either leaving the pages unpaid for or, more often, taking the pages unpaid for. Mrs. A and I both have spoken to them about this and told them they had to pay for everything they print, but they don't seem to care. I figured with the wife still guarding the desk they wouldn't dare grab their prints and leave, but they did. They probably even felt safe in doing it, since they're not card carrying patrons so we don't have their home number to rat them out to their mother. Unfortunately for them, they neglected to remember that we do have their phone number on file as part of their parental permission slip. Unfortunately for me, I didn't remember that until just now, so I'll have to phone her up next time I'm in. Should be fun.
Sunday shifts are usually plenty boring, but I knew I was going to have a busy enough day. See, Mrs. H has now been recruited to become our new Saturday "liberry" ass. leaving Mrs. B and I to rotate Sundays. This is fine with me. Trouble is, Mrs. H doesn't seem to know how to prepare and pack up the week's worth of interlibrary loans, so it's fallen to the Sunday shifter to do that for the past couple of weeks. This is okay too. I'd rather have something to do. Beyond that, though, today's shift was far from boring.
There was, of course, a crowd at the door as I arrived at 12:55. Great.
When I went upstairs and flipped on the light switch, the lights all came on then immediately went back off as the breaker tripped from the surge. Double great. Even greater is the fact that I have no idea where the breaker switch box is. I looked around for it, but it wasn't in any of the obvious places like closets or bathrooms or walls. Damn, it was probably in the basement.
Mr. B-Natural was among the crowd outside and was the first to sign up for a computer. More followed, including Brent & Brice, two twin teenagers who have been making a nuisance of themselves for reasons which will become apparent. They're not related to the Devil Twins, of Rogues Gallery fame, but they probably should be.
The wife turned up around 1:30 with lunch for the two of us. She's on her way out of town, headed back to Clarksburg until later in the month. After lunch, I decided that while she was there and was able to guard the desk, I'd go to the basement and see about the breaker. I was headed for the door on that very quest when Jimmy the "Anonymous" Snitch came in and started signing in for a computer. Jimmy's been in a couple of times recently. One day last week, I actually had to ask a patron I liked to get off the computers just to give one to frickin' Jimmy's dumb criminal ass. And just minutes earlier, I'd had to bust another favored patron off to give one to Parka. At the time I thought, Who's next? Chester? The computers were all full, though, and not due for any openings for 16 minutes. I mentioned that to Jimmy on my way out the door.
Despite high expectations, I could find no evidence of a breaker box in the basement. I didn't want to spend a lot of time in there, though. Jimmy was lurking in the library and while the wife was standing guard on the cash box no one was guarding the upstairs restroom, where Jimmy's pal Bladder Boy once found and stole our laptop. I rushed back up to the main library and then upstairs. Jimmy was sitting in a chair at the top of the stairs near the periodicals. I walked behind him and into Mrs. A's office where I retrieved the restroom key from its hiding place then made a big conspicuous production of locking the restroom door as loudly as I could.
Back downstairs, a few minutes later, I was telling the wife what I had just done when she suddenly signaled to me to be quiet. Too late, I was still finishing my sentence, "...conspicuously locked the bathroom door" when Jimmy entered the room behind me. He had to have heard what I was saying and he would also have to know what it meant. I realized that I didn't care if he did hear me. I really don't mind if he knows that I know he's a sneaky little weasel. If I were really ballsy, though, I would ask Jimmy how his sentencing went this month. I'd honestly like to know, cause I haven't heard.
I had to tell Brice and Brent to relinquish their computers to let Jimmy and another patron have them. B&B, who are probably 13 years old, are infamous for coming in, using our computers, printing lots of pages and either leaving the pages unpaid for or, more often, taking the pages unpaid for. Mrs. A and I both have spoken to them about this and told them they had to pay for everything they print, but they don't seem to care. I figured with the wife still guarding the desk they wouldn't dare grab their prints and leave, but they did. They probably even felt safe in doing it, since they're not card carrying patrons so we don't have their home number to rat them out to their mother. Unfortunately for them, they neglected to remember that we do have their phone number on file as part of their parental permission slip. Unfortunately for me, I didn't remember that until just now, so I'll have to phone her up next time I'm in. Should be fun.
Handbasket Update
Well, Miss E is now DEFINITELY no longer an employee of the "liberry".
As of closing time Friday, she still had not returned any of Mrs. A's calls further convincing us that she was trying to quit through sheer neglect. This would seem to be the case as Mrs. A has spoken with Miss E's mother and learned that Miss E has taken a factory job two towns over and has actually been working it for the past week and a half. It's a second shift position, meaning she doesn't leave work until 1 in the morning. This further indicates that the story we were told about her being very sick last weekend was a lie.
This is very disappointing to us all, but primarily to Mrs. A, Mrs. C, Mrs. B and Mrs. J who have known Miss E for most of her life. They were her friends as well as coworkers and say that this sort of behavior is not what they would have expected from her--or at least not from the Miss E they used to know.
Miss E has been a common sight at the library since she was a small child. She practically grew up in the summer reading and story-hour programs and was among the students in Miss E's first Summer Reading group. Eventually, she outgrew the programs and began volunteering to help out with them. It was because of this formerly good relationship that Mrs. A offered her a job as our weekend library assistant last year when she was only a junior in highschool. She was already among the handful of high school aged kids who we practically consider library staff, so it made sense to bring her in part time. As an employee, Miss E had been fairly decent. Weekend shift is never the most exciting, but she usually did a good job of it. Sure, she's been guilty of doing so using less than her whole ass on occasion, but what can you expect? She was in high school!
Unfortunately, things haven't gone so well for Miss E's personal life this year and they weren't that great to start with. There are a lot of things I'd like to write about it, both bad and good, but I won't go into it here. Ex-coworker or not I still don't care to spread around her personal business no matter how pseudonymously.
I still think Miss E is a good egg at heart. However, she's a good egg who comes from a carton full of spoiled and otherwise cracked eggs. Despite her best and half-best efforts, theirs is an influence that's proving to be very difficult to escape.
As of closing time Friday, she still had not returned any of Mrs. A's calls further convincing us that she was trying to quit through sheer neglect. This would seem to be the case as Mrs. A has spoken with Miss E's mother and learned that Miss E has taken a factory job two towns over and has actually been working it for the past week and a half. It's a second shift position, meaning she doesn't leave work until 1 in the morning. This further indicates that the story we were told about her being very sick last weekend was a lie.
This is very disappointing to us all, but primarily to Mrs. A, Mrs. C, Mrs. B and Mrs. J who have known Miss E for most of her life. They were her friends as well as coworkers and say that this sort of behavior is not what they would have expected from her--or at least not from the Miss E they used to know.
Miss E has been a common sight at the library since she was a small child. She practically grew up in the summer reading and story-hour programs and was among the students in Miss E's first Summer Reading group. Eventually, she outgrew the programs and began volunteering to help out with them. It was because of this formerly good relationship that Mrs. A offered her a job as our weekend library assistant last year when she was only a junior in highschool. She was already among the handful of high school aged kids who we practically consider library staff, so it made sense to bring her in part time. As an employee, Miss E had been fairly decent. Weekend shift is never the most exciting, but she usually did a good job of it. Sure, she's been guilty of doing so using less than her whole ass on occasion, but what can you expect? She was in high school!
Unfortunately, things haven't gone so well for Miss E's personal life this year and they weren't that great to start with. There are a lot of things I'd like to write about it, both bad and good, but I won't go into it here. Ex-coworker or not I still don't care to spread around her personal business no matter how pseudonymously.
I still think Miss E is a good egg at heart. However, she's a good egg who comes from a carton full of spoiled and otherwise cracked eggs. Despite her best and half-best efforts, theirs is an influence that's proving to be very difficult to escape.
Friday, July 30, 2004
Here's your handbasket, now get in line.
Well it was plenty peaceful at the "liberry" Thursday. The computer
traffic had calmed down and the final day of Summer Reading went
splendidly. Unfortunately several other things went to hell at
work.
It appears Miss E may no longer be with us as an employee. It's not that anyone wants her gone or even wants to fire her, but she's not leaving anyone a lot of choice at this point.
Last Thursday, her mom called in to say she'd be out for all of her weekend shifts due to being sick. No prob. We covered just fine. However, an anonymous male also called shortly after her mother's call and told us the same thing. We assume this is her boyfriend, but we don't know for sure. And neither call mentioned anything about her missing the rest of her shifts for the remainder of this week. It's now been a solid week since she's been in and she's not phoned or returned any calls or messages.
We've checked into it enough to determine that she is still alive, but her refusal to call Mrs. A is more than a bit odd. There are other circumstances that may shed light on this, but I'm not going to go into them now, if ever. Most of what we think we know about the situation is gossipy speculation at best, which Miss E would not wish to be repeated. Rest assured, there's Drama O' Plenty at every turn.
Meanwhile, I'll be picking up some extra hours as I fill in for Miss E's Sunday shifts.
It appears Miss E may no longer be with us as an employee. It's not that anyone wants her gone or even wants to fire her, but she's not leaving anyone a lot of choice at this point.
Last Thursday, her mom called in to say she'd be out for all of her weekend shifts due to being sick. No prob. We covered just fine. However, an anonymous male also called shortly after her mother's call and told us the same thing. We assume this is her boyfriend, but we don't know for sure. And neither call mentioned anything about her missing the rest of her shifts for the remainder of this week. It's now been a solid week since she's been in and she's not phoned or returned any calls or messages.
We've checked into it enough to determine that she is still alive, but her refusal to call Mrs. A is more than a bit odd. There are other circumstances that may shed light on this, but I'm not going to go into them now, if ever. Most of what we think we know about the situation is gossipy speculation at best, which Miss E would not wish to be repeated. Rest assured, there's Drama O' Plenty at every turn.
Meanwhile, I'll be picking up some extra hours as I fill in for Miss E's Sunday shifts.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
"Lemme in! I gotta use the innanet!"
Wow. Today was craptastic, bordering on shitacular!
Lots of irritating and bad things happened to me today and most of the worst of it centered around computers. Sometimes it was our new circulation software, which crashed our circ computer twice for no reason then abandoned all its saved settings in the interim. Mostly, though, it was the patron computers--specifically the patrons using them--that gave me the most headaches.
We were lousy with computer patrons--a full 42 of them by the end of the day, which I think may be a new internet crowd record. At no time between the hours of 1 and 4 were there fewer than three computers in full use with at least one person, usually two, waiting to take a turn. It was amazing and incredibly frustrating.
And yet people kept coming in--often in groups. Yes, sir, they'd arrive, three deep already, with hopeful happy "I'm going to use the internet" expressions on their innocent little faces only to have their expectations crushed by the grumpy "liberry" ass. at the desk.
My oft-repeated mantra became: "Sorry, it may be a while. They're all full right now and there are two people waiting ahead of you. The soonest I could put you on will be 29 minutes from now unless one of them dies or gives up."
One of the computer patrons was an utter newbie to the world of the internet. She signed on as instructed and asked, "Could one of you come put me on the internet. It's been a while since I've used it." I think by "a while" she really meant, "I once saw someone else use a computer. On TV. From across a very smoky room."
I logged her on and showed her the Internet Explorer icon, which I activated, bringing up the program. I assumed she knew what to do from there and left her for her half hour. She departed a while later, but came back after a couple of hours to sign on again. This time, I just logged the computer on, figuring she'd been taught about how to load IE already. Well, she did load it, but just barely. After she eventually called me back to help her again, I saw that she had made it as far as our home page and had managed to open up some kind of funky Windows program screen that I'd never seen before. I had to close it all out and double click the IE icon for her, a feat which seemed to delight and amaze her.
As she shortly explained, she was trying to apply for a job somewhere but needed an e-mail address. Someone had suggested she come to the library and sign up for a Hotmail address. They'd even written www.hotmail.com on a piece of paper for her, but she had no clue as to where to type in the address. Only then did I finally realize just what an internet neophyte she truly was. Still, I'm happy to help educate newbies where I can, so I showed her the address field and instructed her on the minor points of typing in hotmail.com there. Once that came up, I showed her where to click for a new account, showed her around the application screen. I pointed out the important bits, such as the fact that there was no way in hell she could use her own very common name as the username and not have a five digit number affixed to it. I should have known something was amiss, though, when she seemed to have trouble with the whole concept of passwords. She kept asking me if the password was supposed to be the same as her username.
"Well, I guess it could be, but I don't recommend it," I told her. "Hotmail might not even let you do that."
No, Hotmail most certainly DID NOT want her to do that. In fact, this is exactly what Hotmail was telling her to stop doing when I went back to check on her 15 minutes later. It also didn't want her to use spaces or punctuation in her password.
"I don't understand," she kept saying. "I'm not typing in any spaces or punctuation but it says I can't use that password."
"Is your password your name then?"
"Uh, yes," the woman said, looking at me with an expression that suggested she thought I was some sort of psychic to have guessed her impossible password.
"Don't use your name," I said. "Hotmail won't accept it."
"Oh," she said. She immediately typed in variations on her name twice more and twice more Hotmail refused to accept them.
Over the course of the next ten minutes I struggled to persuade her to stop doing this and to choose something different. I also told her she needed to write down whatever she chose. Did she? Oh, no. Instead, she moved on to the next screen where her chosen user ID of her name was rejected on account it didn't have the aforementioned 5 digit number affixed to it. She didn't like that option, though, so she decided to use her dog's name. This also didn't work, cause there are thousands of other Hotmail users who use her dog's name too.
While sorting this out, she wound up having to go back through the password business again as apparently something had gone amiss somewhere in the process, then back through the username section where she finally settled on her dog's name plus 278. I then made her take my pen and write this down.
Eventually, we got into her new Hotmail account. Knowing how confusing the whole process was for her, I wanted to log her out, then hold her hand and lead her through the login process and show here how to use the damned thing. And, of course, when she tried to log in, Hotmail refused to accept her password.
Another ten minutes crawled by as she tried variations on her name, her dog's name and then capitalized versions of the previous. And because she hadn't written the password down at the same time she wrote her username down, both of which I'd told her to do, she now had no idea what password she'd chosen.
Finally, I convinced her to just use the I'm a damned moron and can't remember my password for five whole minutes link, answer her secret question, (answer: her dog's name), and finally get to choose a new password. Naturally, she tried to use her frickin' dog's name again and screwed it all up!
"Ma'am, you CAN. NOT. use your dog's name, nor YOUR name as a password," I said, practically hissing. "Your username is already your dog's name so Hotmail will NOT accept it as a password. You will HAVE to use a completely different and unrelated word."
"Well, I don't know. You pick one for me," she said, when we'd brought up the new password screen again.
I pointed to our new orange internet sign, flipped back over the top of the monitor.
"Orange," I said.
She shrugged and typed it in.
With that Herculean task finally accomplished, I prepared to leave her to her own devices.
"So now I can just go to the job site?" she asked. I looked and saw her pointing to her piece of paper, where the job site's address was written as well.
"Sure thing," I said. "Just type it in the address line there."
I then left the computer hallway, hauled ass for the circ desk, and told Mrs. C I was going on break.
When I returned, half an hour later, the lady was gone. Mrs. C said she'd had to go back and help the woman twice before finally realizing that the woman firmly believed her new Hotmail username and password would serve as her username and password for the job site. They might have, if she'd had an account with the job site to begin with. Both of them quickly realized that this was not something that needed to be tackled today and the woman left.
Lots of irritating and bad things happened to me today and most of the worst of it centered around computers. Sometimes it was our new circulation software, which crashed our circ computer twice for no reason then abandoned all its saved settings in the interim. Mostly, though, it was the patron computers--specifically the patrons using them--that gave me the most headaches.
We were lousy with computer patrons--a full 42 of them by the end of the day, which I think may be a new internet crowd record. At no time between the hours of 1 and 4 were there fewer than three computers in full use with at least one person, usually two, waiting to take a turn. It was amazing and incredibly frustrating.
And yet people kept coming in--often in groups. Yes, sir, they'd arrive, three deep already, with hopeful happy "I'm going to use the internet" expressions on their innocent little faces only to have their expectations crushed by the grumpy "liberry" ass. at the desk.
My oft-repeated mantra became: "Sorry, it may be a while. They're all full right now and there are two people waiting ahead of you. The soonest I could put you on will be 29 minutes from now unless one of them dies or gives up."
One of the computer patrons was an utter newbie to the world of the internet. She signed on as instructed and asked, "Could one of you come put me on the internet. It's been a while since I've used it." I think by "a while" she really meant, "I once saw someone else use a computer. On TV. From across a very smoky room."
I logged her on and showed her the Internet Explorer icon, which I activated, bringing up the program. I assumed she knew what to do from there and left her for her half hour. She departed a while later, but came back after a couple of hours to sign on again. This time, I just logged the computer on, figuring she'd been taught about how to load IE already. Well, she did load it, but just barely. After she eventually called me back to help her again, I saw that she had made it as far as our home page and had managed to open up some kind of funky Windows program screen that I'd never seen before. I had to close it all out and double click the IE icon for her, a feat which seemed to delight and amaze her.
As she shortly explained, she was trying to apply for a job somewhere but needed an e-mail address. Someone had suggested she come to the library and sign up for a Hotmail address. They'd even written www.hotmail.com on a piece of paper for her, but she had no clue as to where to type in the address. Only then did I finally realize just what an internet neophyte she truly was. Still, I'm happy to help educate newbies where I can, so I showed her the address field and instructed her on the minor points of typing in hotmail.com there. Once that came up, I showed her where to click for a new account, showed her around the application screen. I pointed out the important bits, such as the fact that there was no way in hell she could use her own very common name as the username and not have a five digit number affixed to it. I should have known something was amiss, though, when she seemed to have trouble with the whole concept of passwords. She kept asking me if the password was supposed to be the same as her username.
"Well, I guess it could be, but I don't recommend it," I told her. "Hotmail might not even let you do that."
No, Hotmail most certainly DID NOT want her to do that. In fact, this is exactly what Hotmail was telling her to stop doing when I went back to check on her 15 minutes later. It also didn't want her to use spaces or punctuation in her password.
"I don't understand," she kept saying. "I'm not typing in any spaces or punctuation but it says I can't use that password."
"Is your password your name then?"
"Uh, yes," the woman said, looking at me with an expression that suggested she thought I was some sort of psychic to have guessed her impossible password.
"Don't use your name," I said. "Hotmail won't accept it."
"Oh," she said. She immediately typed in variations on her name twice more and twice more Hotmail refused to accept them.
Over the course of the next ten minutes I struggled to persuade her to stop doing this and to choose something different. I also told her she needed to write down whatever she chose. Did she? Oh, no. Instead, she moved on to the next screen where her chosen user ID of her name was rejected on account it didn't have the aforementioned 5 digit number affixed to it. She didn't like that option, though, so she decided to use her dog's name. This also didn't work, cause there are thousands of other Hotmail users who use her dog's name too.
While sorting this out, she wound up having to go back through the password business again as apparently something had gone amiss somewhere in the process, then back through the username section where she finally settled on her dog's name plus 278. I then made her take my pen and write this down.
Eventually, we got into her new Hotmail account. Knowing how confusing the whole process was for her, I wanted to log her out, then hold her hand and lead her through the login process and show here how to use the damned thing. And, of course, when she tried to log in, Hotmail refused to accept her password.
Another ten minutes crawled by as she tried variations on her name, her dog's name and then capitalized versions of the previous. And because she hadn't written the password down at the same time she wrote her username down, both of which I'd told her to do, she now had no idea what password she'd chosen.
Finally, I convinced her to just use the I'm a damned moron and can't remember my password for five whole minutes link, answer her secret question, (answer: her dog's name), and finally get to choose a new password. Naturally, she tried to use her frickin' dog's name again and screwed it all up!
"Ma'am, you CAN. NOT. use your dog's name, nor YOUR name as a password," I said, practically hissing. "Your username is already your dog's name so Hotmail will NOT accept it as a password. You will HAVE to use a completely different and unrelated word."
"Well, I don't know. You pick one for me," she said, when we'd brought up the new password screen again.
I pointed to our new orange internet sign, flipped back over the top of the monitor.
"Orange," I said.
She shrugged and typed it in.
With that Herculean task finally accomplished, I prepared to leave her to her own devices.
"So now I can just go to the job site?" she asked. I looked and saw her pointing to her piece of paper, where the job site's address was written as well.
"Sure thing," I said. "Just type it in the address line there."
I then left the computer hallway, hauled ass for the circ desk, and told Mrs. C I was going on break.
When I returned, half an hour later, the lady was gone. Mrs. C said she'd had to go back and help the woman twice before finally realizing that the woman firmly believed her new Hotmail username and password would serve as her username and password for the job site. They might have, if she'd had an account with the job site to begin with. Both of them quickly realized that this was not something that needed to be tackled today and the woman left.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Mr. B-Sighting
My wife is home this week, studying for
the boards next month and readying her resume and personal statement for
her upcoming residency interviews.
Yesterday morning, we had to pop by her school to pick up some study-guides and stop in the school library to look up some information. Whose car should we see parked outside but that of Mr. B-Natural.
I've long since known that our library was not the only one Mr. B-Natural frequents, particularly on Monday mornings when my library branch doesn't open until 1. We know he goes to the med-school's library and sometimes the community college's.
When we parked next to his car, I knew exactly who I would find sitting in its passenger seat. Sure enough, Mr. B-Natural's dog Bubba was curled up there, the gnawed remains of a Hardee's biscuit resting on its wax paper wrapper beside him. I had known Bubba would be there because, sweet dog or not, there was no way in hell the school's librarian would have allowed the pooch inside. She has enough problems keeping Mr. B-Natural from smuggling his coffee in, let alone having to watch out for Bubba-droppings on their clean carpet. (In Bubba's defense, we've never known him to actually leave any droppings when visiting us. He's a very good dog.)
"Hey, Bubba! How ya doin'?" I said, cheerfully waving to the dog through the open window. Bubba looked nervous and conflicted. Sure, I was a familiar enough guy to him, but I was completely out of my usual "liberry" context and therefore might be considered a questionable figure to be lurking around his owner's car. So while Bubba didn't bark, he also didn't wag his tail or look at all happy to see me.
The wife thought it was sweet of Mr. B-Natural to give Bubba his own Hardee's biscuit.
Yesterday morning, we had to pop by her school to pick up some study-guides and stop in the school library to look up some information. Whose car should we see parked outside but that of Mr. B-Natural.
I've long since known that our library was not the only one Mr. B-Natural frequents, particularly on Monday mornings when my library branch doesn't open until 1. We know he goes to the med-school's library and sometimes the community college's.
When we parked next to his car, I knew exactly who I would find sitting in its passenger seat. Sure enough, Mr. B-Natural's dog Bubba was curled up there, the gnawed remains of a Hardee's biscuit resting on its wax paper wrapper beside him. I had known Bubba would be there because, sweet dog or not, there was no way in hell the school's librarian would have allowed the pooch inside. She has enough problems keeping Mr. B-Natural from smuggling his coffee in, let alone having to watch out for Bubba-droppings on their clean carpet. (In Bubba's defense, we've never known him to actually leave any droppings when visiting us. He's a very good dog.)
"Hey, Bubba! How ya doin'?" I said, cheerfully waving to the dog through the open window. Bubba looked nervous and conflicted. Sure, I was a familiar enough guy to him, but I was completely out of my usual "liberry" context and therefore might be considered a questionable figure to be lurking around his owner's car. So while Bubba didn't bark, he also didn't wag his tail or look at all happy to see me.
The wife thought it was sweet of Mr. B-Natural to give Bubba his own Hardee's biscuit.
Summer Reading Day 9
I woke up Monday thinking, Joy! It's Monday. It's Summer Reading Day. And I get to run the desk all by my lonesome!
That's right, Mrs. A was out of town at a meeting so I had to run the circ-desk by myself while the rest of the staff was outside conducting a water fight with the Summer Readers. So in addition to the usual Monday Madness, my day was punctuated by the occasional soggy dripping child padding through in search of books. I don't know how many friendly fire water casualties we had among our book population, but I'd imagine there were some.
One child even wanted to check out our gigantic Norman Rockwell retrospective, a book I pray was protected in the dry confines of our activities room before the water fight started. In addition to requiring a good sized wheelbarrow to move, this book is so huge that we don't have any plastic jacket cover big enough to fit its dustjacket. So it's one of the only books in the place not protected by plastic. A water fight goes down around it and we're talking serious collateral damage.
As busy as it was--what with fifty librarians and sundry relatives phoning up YET AGAIN to ask if the people they knew good and well were outside involved with Summer Reading could speak to them for a minute--my only real trouble came late in the day, after the Summer Reading crowd had left. A patron had been browsing the shelves for twenty minutes or so before bringing her finds up to the desk and giving me her name to check out.
"Um, do you have your library card, ma'am?" I asked.
"No. It's back home. Why?"
"Well, erm... we kind of need your card to check books out. It's part of the policy for our new system."
"What? You're kidding, right?" she said.
"No, ma'am. I'm afraid not. We really do need the card."
"But my card's at home. It's back in NEIGHBORHING county. You mean I'm going to have to drive all the way back to NEIGHBORING county just to check out a few books?"
"Well, ma'am, I'm not saying you have to do that, but we DO need the card to check books out to you."
Fire flashed through the woman's eyes. She was getting hot about this. She left her books on the desk and started moving toward the door, talking back at me over her shoulder and occasionally stopping to give me fiery glances as she went.
"So even though I could just show you my driver's license and prove that I am who I say I am, I can't check out any books?!"
"Oh, well, ma'am, if you..."
"This is just ridiculous! I already drove over here once today, then saw the sign saying you didn't open until 1 and had to turn around and go back home!" She was really screaming now and was quite angry.
"Ma'am... if you..." I tried to start again.
"Now I have to drive all the way back home and come back for a few books?!"
"Ma'am..." I said, a bit louder than I meant. "Ma'am, you do have your driver's license on you?"
"Yes!"
"Well, I'll take that, then," I said. Sure, it was against the policy by letter, but if I could match her drivers license number to the one in her patron record it was just as good as having her card there. That's part of the whole reason we require driver's license numbers in the first place.
This instantly took the wind out of her sails. Suddenly, she didn't have anything to argue about and was forced to realize just what a big deal she had been making about it all in the first place and became suitably apologetic.
She began fishing out her ID and I asked her name so I could go ahead and bring up her record. Only when I checked, there was no such record for her to be found. It was only then that I realized she didn't even have one of our new cards. I had to direct her to our applications, feeling terribly silly in the process for not having realized my error before. By now the woman was feeling so bad about screaming at me, though, that she completely didn't care that it had been my error and gladly filled out a form.
That's right, Mrs. A was out of town at a meeting so I had to run the circ-desk by myself while the rest of the staff was outside conducting a water fight with the Summer Readers. So in addition to the usual Monday Madness, my day was punctuated by the occasional soggy dripping child padding through in search of books. I don't know how many friendly fire water casualties we had among our book population, but I'd imagine there were some.
One child even wanted to check out our gigantic Norman Rockwell retrospective, a book I pray was protected in the dry confines of our activities room before the water fight started. In addition to requiring a good sized wheelbarrow to move, this book is so huge that we don't have any plastic jacket cover big enough to fit its dustjacket. So it's one of the only books in the place not protected by plastic. A water fight goes down around it and we're talking serious collateral damage.
As busy as it was--what with fifty librarians and sundry relatives phoning up YET AGAIN to ask if the people they knew good and well were outside involved with Summer Reading could speak to them for a minute--my only real trouble came late in the day, after the Summer Reading crowd had left. A patron had been browsing the shelves for twenty minutes or so before bringing her finds up to the desk and giving me her name to check out.
"Um, do you have your library card, ma'am?" I asked.
"No. It's back home. Why?"
"Well, erm... we kind of need your card to check books out. It's part of the policy for our new system."
"What? You're kidding, right?" she said.
"No, ma'am. I'm afraid not. We really do need the card."
"But my card's at home. It's back in NEIGHBORHING county. You mean I'm going to have to drive all the way back to NEIGHBORING county just to check out a few books?"
"Well, ma'am, I'm not saying you have to do that, but we DO need the card to check books out to you."
Fire flashed through the woman's eyes. She was getting hot about this. She left her books on the desk and started moving toward the door, talking back at me over her shoulder and occasionally stopping to give me fiery glances as she went.
"So even though I could just show you my driver's license and prove that I am who I say I am, I can't check out any books?!"
"Oh, well, ma'am, if you..."
"This is just ridiculous! I already drove over here once today, then saw the sign saying you didn't open until 1 and had to turn around and go back home!" She was really screaming now and was quite angry.
"Ma'am... if you..." I tried to start again.
"Now I have to drive all the way back home and come back for a few books?!"
"Ma'am..." I said, a bit louder than I meant. "Ma'am, you do have your driver's license on you?"
"Yes!"
"Well, I'll take that, then," I said. Sure, it was against the policy by letter, but if I could match her drivers license number to the one in her patron record it was just as good as having her card there. That's part of the whole reason we require driver's license numbers in the first place.
This instantly took the wind out of her sails. Suddenly, she didn't have anything to argue about and was forced to realize just what a big deal she had been making about it all in the first place and became suitably apologetic.
She began fishing out her ID and I asked her name so I could go ahead and bring up her record. Only when I checked, there was no such record for her to be found. It was only then that I realized she didn't even have one of our new cards. I had to direct her to our applications, feeling terribly silly in the process for not having realized my error before. By now the woman was feeling so bad about screaming at me, though, that she completely didn't care that it had been my error and gladly filled out a form.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Weekend Interlude
(We'll return to our regular storyline in just a moment, but first a weekend interlude...)
This Friday was supposed to be my Friday off, but Mrs. A asked me to come in anyway. Miss E, our usual Friday night closer, was sick; Mrs. B had to take her mom to the doctor; Mrs. C was taking the day off; and Mrs. H was leaving at 3. I rolled in at 4 to find Mrs. A recovering from a sudden patron rush and the book cart brimming with books to shelve.
I'm glad I came in, though. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the pleasure of issuing Paranoid Rick James a library card.
Shortly after Mrs. A left, Rick James's girlfriend Gladys Knight came in. She turned in her books on tape from last week and went back to find some more. A minute later, in walked Rick James. When he saw me at the desk, he almost immediately began digging in his wallet and soon brought out his driver's license.
"I've decided to get a library card," he said. This flew in the face of his reported tantrum about both getting a library card and having to supply a drivers license to do so from last week. My theory is that he thought he was somehow saving face by getting me to sign him up since as far as he knew I didn't know anything about said tantrum last week. I smiled and told him to fill out one of our application forms. He did. No fight whatsoever. Put his drivers license number down and a physical address and everything. Then he passed his license over for me to inspect as I began typing in his information.
I was suspicious. Rick was giving in far too easily. What was the trick here? I kept examining his license to make sure it was actually his and not someone else's he was trying to pass off. He seemed far too agreeable to the situation for this not to be a ruse, but I couldn't find anything wrong with it.
"That must be some big database you guys have," Rick said.
"Yeah. Gettin' bigger all the time," I told him.
While I typed, Gladys Knight came back into the main room and caught sight of Rick at the desk.
"What is this?" she said with a knowing grin. "What are you doing?"
"I'm... uh. I decided to go ahead and get a library card," Rick said sheepishly.
"Oh, you did?" Gladys said, now grinning from ear to ear. "So does this mean I get to yell at you for twenty minutes when we get home?"
Rick really seemed to want to change the subject. After I gave him his card, he quickly ushered Gladys back toward the books on tape to continue their discussion out of earshot. I just laughed inwardly.
After a while longer, Gladys came back and checked out some books on tape. She also had a novel that I'd seen Rick walking around with earlier. I knew good and well it was his, but she seemed to want to check it out.
So that was the trick, was it? He was going to get a library card for himself but continue using hers anyway, just to spite us! He'd discovered a way to subvert our system and keep on checking out books semi-anonymously.
Trouble was, I didn't think there was much I could do about it. Sure, I could have raised a stink and told him he had to check the book out on his own card, but I think that's what he wants. He's inclined to cause trouble to begin with and probably wants something to get good and worked up about. Especially since it would just prove to his pea mind that what we're really out to do is keep track of what our patrons read in collusion with "the government". Also, if Gladys wants to check a book out on her card for Rick or anybody else, she's welcome to do so. She's still responsible for the book getting returned to us and if she wants to take on that risk for her boyfriend then who are we to say otherwise?
I checked it all out to her and they left. And maybe I'm just projecting this, but I could have sworn Rick James looked smug.
This irritated me and continued irritating me throughout the rest of the afternoon. I could already foresee what Rick's next move would be. Next time, he will just borrow her card and come in to check out books for himself. And he'll do it with the satisfaction that he's pulling one over on "the man" and subverting our carefully constructed conspiracy to keep track of what he reads.
Oh yeah? Well Rick doesn't know from subversion, I thought. I then went into the records and moved Rick's novel onto his own card. Sure, it was petty and childish of me to do this, but damn it sure felt good. Of course, if he ever sees it there--which I doubt he will--it will confirm his misguided suspicions, but first it will make him extraordinarily mad and he will know who really won the day.
This Friday was supposed to be my Friday off, but Mrs. A asked me to come in anyway. Miss E, our usual Friday night closer, was sick; Mrs. B had to take her mom to the doctor; Mrs. C was taking the day off; and Mrs. H was leaving at 3. I rolled in at 4 to find Mrs. A recovering from a sudden patron rush and the book cart brimming with books to shelve.
I'm glad I came in, though. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the pleasure of issuing Paranoid Rick James a library card.
Shortly after Mrs. A left, Rick James's girlfriend Gladys Knight came in. She turned in her books on tape from last week and went back to find some more. A minute later, in walked Rick James. When he saw me at the desk, he almost immediately began digging in his wallet and soon brought out his driver's license.
"I've decided to get a library card," he said. This flew in the face of his reported tantrum about both getting a library card and having to supply a drivers license to do so from last week. My theory is that he thought he was somehow saving face by getting me to sign him up since as far as he knew I didn't know anything about said tantrum last week. I smiled and told him to fill out one of our application forms. He did. No fight whatsoever. Put his drivers license number down and a physical address and everything. Then he passed his license over for me to inspect as I began typing in his information.
I was suspicious. Rick was giving in far too easily. What was the trick here? I kept examining his license to make sure it was actually his and not someone else's he was trying to pass off. He seemed far too agreeable to the situation for this not to be a ruse, but I couldn't find anything wrong with it.
"That must be some big database you guys have," Rick said.
"Yeah. Gettin' bigger all the time," I told him.
While I typed, Gladys Knight came back into the main room and caught sight of Rick at the desk.
"What is this?" she said with a knowing grin. "What are you doing?"
"I'm... uh. I decided to go ahead and get a library card," Rick said sheepishly.
"Oh, you did?" Gladys said, now grinning from ear to ear. "So does this mean I get to yell at you for twenty minutes when we get home?"
Rick really seemed to want to change the subject. After I gave him his card, he quickly ushered Gladys back toward the books on tape to continue their discussion out of earshot. I just laughed inwardly.
After a while longer, Gladys came back and checked out some books on tape. She also had a novel that I'd seen Rick walking around with earlier. I knew good and well it was his, but she seemed to want to check it out.
So that was the trick, was it? He was going to get a library card for himself but continue using hers anyway, just to spite us! He'd discovered a way to subvert our system and keep on checking out books semi-anonymously.
Trouble was, I didn't think there was much I could do about it. Sure, I could have raised a stink and told him he had to check the book out on his own card, but I think that's what he wants. He's inclined to cause trouble to begin with and probably wants something to get good and worked up about. Especially since it would just prove to his pea mind that what we're really out to do is keep track of what our patrons read in collusion with "the government". Also, if Gladys wants to check a book out on her card for Rick or anybody else, she's welcome to do so. She's still responsible for the book getting returned to us and if she wants to take on that risk for her boyfriend then who are we to say otherwise?
I checked it all out to her and they left. And maybe I'm just projecting this, but I could have sworn Rick James looked smug.
This irritated me and continued irritating me throughout the rest of the afternoon. I could already foresee what Rick's next move would be. Next time, he will just borrow her card and come in to check out books for himself. And he'll do it with the satisfaction that he's pulling one over on "the man" and subverting our carefully constructed conspiracy to keep track of what he reads.
Oh yeah? Well Rick doesn't know from subversion, I thought. I then went into the records and moved Rick's novel onto his own card. Sure, it was petty and childish of me to do this, but damn it sure felt good. Of course, if he ever sees it there--which I doubt he will--it will confirm his misguided suspicions, but first it will make him extraordinarily mad and he will know who really won the day.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Spot the Fake Shemp
This morning one of our regular kids came in to use the internet. He
signed the clipboard as usual, but Mrs. A was manning the desk and
carded him. Surprise of surprises, he didn't have a permission slip on
file.
Our policy is that children under 16 have to either have a parent with them while using the internet or have a parental permission slip on file saying it's okay for them to use the internet. We're only mostly strict on this. Sometimes, a kid will sneak through, but not because we don't care. It's usually that we've assumed they have a permission slip when they don't.
"But I use the internet here all the time!" the kid protested. This was true. I've been logging him on at least twice a week since school let out and all he ever does is surf the Magic: The Gathering website. Still, Mrs. A didn't care how much illegal surfing he'd done already, he would be doing no more without a permission slip.
Kid asked if he could take a permission slip outside where his dad was waiting and have him sign it real quick. Mrs. A gave him one, let him leave, allowed him enough time to start incriminating himself, then went outside to see what he was up to.
Outside there was nary a dad in sight. Instead, kid was sitting at our picnic table filling out his own permission slip. He even looked up and saw Mrs. A watching him do it, then had the sac to come back in with it and try to pass it off anyway.
"Um, my dad had to go run an errand, but he signed it first," kid said. He pointed to the parental signature blank where the letters "J.D." had been scribbled.
Mrs. A looked over his sad little forgery and then verbally pounced on his head. She told him she'd seen him fill it out himself and knew his dad was never there in the first place. No, if he wanted to get on a computer ever again, he was going to have to drag Dad inside in person and have him fill out the slip with witnesses. The kid then left, sans slip.
This all happened while I was down picking up lunch and they told me about it upon my return. I'd even passed the kid on my way back up the hill so I knew exactly who they were talking about.
Around 10 minutes later, kid returned with his mom and little brother in tow. Mrs. A explained to her about the earlier forgery, but Mom seemed unconcerned that her son had tried to forge Dad's name on the permission slip. She signed him right up and put him on a computer then signed her other son up while she was at it.
That's right, Mom--reward the bad behavior! Why not, indeed? After all, he's only just entering his teens, so it's only gonna get better from here on out.
Our policy is that children under 16 have to either have a parent with them while using the internet or have a parental permission slip on file saying it's okay for them to use the internet. We're only mostly strict on this. Sometimes, a kid will sneak through, but not because we don't care. It's usually that we've assumed they have a permission slip when they don't.
"But I use the internet here all the time!" the kid protested. This was true. I've been logging him on at least twice a week since school let out and all he ever does is surf the Magic: The Gathering website. Still, Mrs. A didn't care how much illegal surfing he'd done already, he would be doing no more without a permission slip.
Kid asked if he could take a permission slip outside where his dad was waiting and have him sign it real quick. Mrs. A gave him one, let him leave, allowed him enough time to start incriminating himself, then went outside to see what he was up to.
Outside there was nary a dad in sight. Instead, kid was sitting at our picnic table filling out his own permission slip. He even looked up and saw Mrs. A watching him do it, then had the sac to come back in with it and try to pass it off anyway.
"Um, my dad had to go run an errand, but he signed it first," kid said. He pointed to the parental signature blank where the letters "J.D." had been scribbled.
Mrs. A looked over his sad little forgery and then verbally pounced on his head. She told him she'd seen him fill it out himself and knew his dad was never there in the first place. No, if he wanted to get on a computer ever again, he was going to have to drag Dad inside in person and have him fill out the slip with witnesses. The kid then left, sans slip.
This all happened while I was down picking up lunch and they told me about it upon my return. I'd even passed the kid on my way back up the hill so I knew exactly who they were talking about.
Around 10 minutes later, kid returned with his mom and little brother in tow. Mrs. A explained to her about the earlier forgery, but Mom seemed unconcerned that her son had tried to forge Dad's name on the permission slip. She signed him right up and put him on a computer then signed her other son up while she was at it.
That's right, Mom--reward the bad behavior! Why not, indeed? After all, he's only just entering his teens, so it's only gonna get better from here on out.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Actual Telephone Conversations Heard in Actual Libraries #5
*RING*
ME: TRI-METRO County Public Library.
MALE PATRON: (GRUFFLY) Yeah, I'm gonna need some information. Do your computers subscribe to Consumer Reports online service?
ME: Well, we don't have any kind of special on-line subscription to their site. We do have a regular subscription to the magazine, though.
MALE PATRON: So do you have the CAR issue for this year? Every January they put out a special CAR issue with all the CARS in it. Do you have that?
ME: This would be part of the regular magazine subscription, right?
MALE PATRON: Yeah.
ME: Then, yes, we should have it.
MALE PATRON: (SUSPICIOUSLY) You have that?
ME: (YES, DAMMIT!!) Yes.
About half an hour later he comes in. The man suspiciously resembled Special Prosecutor Ken Starr in both appearance and interrogating manner. We store all the Consumer Reports Car issues behind the desk (along with the Sport Illustrated Swimsuit Issues) as they otherwise get stolen from their storage box upstairs. When I pass him this past APRIL's car issue, he completely fails to notice that it IS in fact the CAR ISSUE that he requested and concentrates entirely on the big "APRIL" printed on the corner of the cover. Apparently this doesn't jibe with when the CAR issue is published on his planet.
MALE PATRON: No. I said I want the January issue! The CAR issue!
ME: That IS the CAR issue.
MALE PATRON: (FINALLY READS THE REST OF THE COVER) Oh.
ME: TRI-METRO County Public Library.
MALE PATRON: (GRUFFLY) Yeah, I'm gonna need some information. Do your computers subscribe to Consumer Reports online service?
ME: Well, we don't have any kind of special on-line subscription to their site. We do have a regular subscription to the magazine, though.
MALE PATRON: So do you have the CAR issue for this year? Every January they put out a special CAR issue with all the CARS in it. Do you have that?
ME: This would be part of the regular magazine subscription, right?
MALE PATRON: Yeah.
ME: Then, yes, we should have it.
MALE PATRON: (SUSPICIOUSLY) You have that?
ME: (YES, DAMMIT!!) Yes.
About half an hour later he comes in. The man suspiciously resembled Special Prosecutor Ken Starr in both appearance and interrogating manner. We store all the Consumer Reports Car issues behind the desk (along with the Sport Illustrated Swimsuit Issues) as they otherwise get stolen from their storage box upstairs. When I pass him this past APRIL's car issue, he completely fails to notice that it IS in fact the CAR ISSUE that he requested and concentrates entirely on the big "APRIL" printed on the corner of the cover. Apparently this doesn't jibe with when the CAR issue is published on his planet.
MALE PATRON: No. I said I want the January issue! The CAR issue!
ME: That IS the CAR issue.
MALE PATRON: (FINALLY READS THE REST OF THE COVER) Oh.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Summer Reading Day 7
I wasn't scheduled to be at work at all for
today's Summer Reading desk-riding session. I figured if they needed me
they would have asked. When I got back home from some errands, though,
there was a message on my answering machine from Mrs. A saying it would
be perfectly all right with her if I wanted to come in. There was a
hint of desperation in her voice, so I rolled on over. It was a good
thing, too, because today brought a more traditional level of
Monday/Summer Reading Day chaos than the past two weeks, not to mention a
few surprise guests.
It never ceases to both amaze and irritate me how many people, who truly should know better, call to speak to my fellow employees during Summer Reading Day. I understand that not every caller realizes this is any big thing, but I'm talking other librarians who have summer reading programs of their own and know how intensive and non-conducive to taking phone calls such programs are. Yet every single week, who calls? Other librarians.
THEM: Is Mrs. C there?
ME: Yes, but she's busy with Summer Reading right now and cannot come to the phone. May I take a message?
Multiply that by about five times and that's the average for that little phone script.
And if it's not librarians, it's relatives and/or significant others of our staff who call. And again, it's not just a one-time "Oops, I forgot" sort of call, it's a weekly "I'm completely oblivious to the fact that this scenario has played out exactly this way for the past four weeks" sort of call. I want to scream, "Dammit, you people know better! Quit EFFing CALLING!!"
I mentioned this to Mrs. A. She said she's had the same problem for much of the past decade and it never stops. One fellow librarian from another county made it a point to call every Thursday morning during Story Hour. Thursday mornings are perhaps the only time during the regular year that Mrs. A is chained to the circulation desk while the rest of the staff is wrangling kids. In this state, she is unable to answer any detailed questions from other libraries because all the answers are upstairs in her office. So every Thursday morning for months this librarian would call and every time Mrs. A would tell her she would have to call back later. Mrs. A even asked her not to call on Thursday mornings, to no avail. Finally, Mrs. A point blank told the woman to stop calling on Thursday mornings. The following Thursday, guess who called? Mrs. A said their conversation went something like this...
MRS. A: What day is it?
OTHER LIBRARIAN: Thursday.
MRS. A: What time is it?
OTHER LIBRARIAN: Ten thirty a.m.
MRS. A: And what is the significance of those two pieces of information?
OTHER LIBRARIAN: Um... I'm not supposed to call you on Thursday mornings?
MRS. A: Riiiiiight!
So after fielding similar calls from about four people who knew better, I was in a fantastic mood.
It was about to get even better.
After about an hour of steady circulation, I looked up from checking out a book to find Chester the (Potential) Molester standing not seven feet from me in the middle of our main room. I was unhappy to see him, to say the least, and tried my damnedest to let him know this with what I hoped was a multi-daggered stare. If it had any effect, it was to make him start stammering.
"I was... I was just... I wanted to use a computer," he said.
Mrs. A stepped up and told him, "They're all full right now."
This wasn't a lie--the computers really were all full and none were due to open up any time soon. I don't think either of us were prepared to let Chester wait around for one, regardless.
"Oh," Chester said. "I guess I should come back another day."
"Yeah. I think that would be a good idea," I said. I was mad, but mostly I'm still smarting for failing to banish him for all time during our last major encounter.
What happened next, though, surprised me. Instead of turning tail and leaving, Chester walked closer to where I was at the circulation desk. I can't be completely sure, but it looked like he had tears in his eyes, or had at least been crying recently. His eyes were certainly red, puffy and watery-looking, so maybe he'd had a recent allergy attack. I somehow don't think so.
"I... I just wanted to apologize for... mumble mumble mumble," Chester said in a low voice.
"What?"
"I... I want to apologize for... if... if I scared any girls... last time," Chester said.
I couldn't believe it! He was actually trying to apologize--not for staring lasciviously at our young patrons, mind you, but for startling any of them while doing so. What was this, some kind of twelve step pedophile program? Step 1: You must apologize to all the library assistants who got pissed off that you were ogling their underage patrons? Step 2: Stop ogling their underage patrons!
Then, like a dog lifting an injured paw, he held out one of his hands for me to shake. I'm very proud to say I had enough presence of mind to keep from shaking it, even out of reflex. No, sir, I will not be accepting an apology from that bloated sack of shit! Not even if I witnessed him wash it first would I ever shake his hand. Moreover, I refuse to give him any reason to believe we're at all cool with his presence in our library.
There passed an awkward moment, during which Chester realized that I had no intention of touching his greasy paw. He withdrew it, then offered it back again, then withdrew it again, as though maybe I might reconsider, then again, no. Then he stood there looking back at me with a kind of hurt, swollen-eyed expression that failed to stir any sympathy in me.
My only response to him was to raise my own hand and give him, not the bird, but instead the kind of finger-flapping bye bye wave favored by toddlers worldwide. Chester turned to the door and went bye byes.
After a minute of standing there fuming, I tagged out from the circulation desk and went outside to make sure he was gone. Mrs. C said he drove off pretty fast, but had made it a point to park his car--poorly, once again--clear on the other side of the Summer Reading activities so he'd have an excuse to walk by the kids on his way to and from.
Since my last confrontation with him, the library staff has been debating whether or not he would ever return. It was pretty much a half and half split between the Yes's and the No's, with me in the middle as a Probably. I guess we have our answer now. We also need to figure out what our new Chester policy will be.
Now that the cards are on the table, do we let him back in?
I know that a number of libraries have policies allowing them to ban patrons from the building, and we've even been known to ban people before ourselves. Where are we going to fall on this guy?
It never ceases to both amaze and irritate me how many people, who truly should know better, call to speak to my fellow employees during Summer Reading Day. I understand that not every caller realizes this is any big thing, but I'm talking other librarians who have summer reading programs of their own and know how intensive and non-conducive to taking phone calls such programs are. Yet every single week, who calls? Other librarians.
THEM: Is Mrs. C there?
ME: Yes, but she's busy with Summer Reading right now and cannot come to the phone. May I take a message?
Multiply that by about five times and that's the average for that little phone script.
And if it's not librarians, it's relatives and/or significant others of our staff who call. And again, it's not just a one-time "Oops, I forgot" sort of call, it's a weekly "I'm completely oblivious to the fact that this scenario has played out exactly this way for the past four weeks" sort of call. I want to scream, "Dammit, you people know better! Quit EFFing CALLING!!"
I mentioned this to Mrs. A. She said she's had the same problem for much of the past decade and it never stops. One fellow librarian from another county made it a point to call every Thursday morning during Story Hour. Thursday mornings are perhaps the only time during the regular year that Mrs. A is chained to the circulation desk while the rest of the staff is wrangling kids. In this state, she is unable to answer any detailed questions from other libraries because all the answers are upstairs in her office. So every Thursday morning for months this librarian would call and every time Mrs. A would tell her she would have to call back later. Mrs. A even asked her not to call on Thursday mornings, to no avail. Finally, Mrs. A point blank told the woman to stop calling on Thursday mornings. The following Thursday, guess who called? Mrs. A said their conversation went something like this...
MRS. A: What day is it?
OTHER LIBRARIAN: Thursday.
MRS. A: What time is it?
OTHER LIBRARIAN: Ten thirty a.m.
MRS. A: And what is the significance of those two pieces of information?
OTHER LIBRARIAN: Um... I'm not supposed to call you on Thursday mornings?
MRS. A: Riiiiiight!
So after fielding similar calls from about four people who knew better, I was in a fantastic mood.
It was about to get even better.
After about an hour of steady circulation, I looked up from checking out a book to find Chester the (Potential) Molester standing not seven feet from me in the middle of our main room. I was unhappy to see him, to say the least, and tried my damnedest to let him know this with what I hoped was a multi-daggered stare. If it had any effect, it was to make him start stammering.
"I was... I was just... I wanted to use a computer," he said.
Mrs. A stepped up and told him, "They're all full right now."
This wasn't a lie--the computers really were all full and none were due to open up any time soon. I don't think either of us were prepared to let Chester wait around for one, regardless.
"Oh," Chester said. "I guess I should come back another day."
"Yeah. I think that would be a good idea," I said. I was mad, but mostly I'm still smarting for failing to banish him for all time during our last major encounter.
What happened next, though, surprised me. Instead of turning tail and leaving, Chester walked closer to where I was at the circulation desk. I can't be completely sure, but it looked like he had tears in his eyes, or had at least been crying recently. His eyes were certainly red, puffy and watery-looking, so maybe he'd had a recent allergy attack. I somehow don't think so.
"I... I just wanted to apologize for... mumble mumble mumble," Chester said in a low voice.
"What?"
"I... I want to apologize for... if... if I scared any girls... last time," Chester said.
I couldn't believe it! He was actually trying to apologize--not for staring lasciviously at our young patrons, mind you, but for startling any of them while doing so. What was this, some kind of twelve step pedophile program? Step 1: You must apologize to all the library assistants who got pissed off that you were ogling their underage patrons? Step 2: Stop ogling their underage patrons!
Then, like a dog lifting an injured paw, he held out one of his hands for me to shake. I'm very proud to say I had enough presence of mind to keep from shaking it, even out of reflex. No, sir, I will not be accepting an apology from that bloated sack of shit! Not even if I witnessed him wash it first would I ever shake his hand. Moreover, I refuse to give him any reason to believe we're at all cool with his presence in our library.
There passed an awkward moment, during which Chester realized that I had no intention of touching his greasy paw. He withdrew it, then offered it back again, then withdrew it again, as though maybe I might reconsider, then again, no. Then he stood there looking back at me with a kind of hurt, swollen-eyed expression that failed to stir any sympathy in me.
My only response to him was to raise my own hand and give him, not the bird, but instead the kind of finger-flapping bye bye wave favored by toddlers worldwide. Chester turned to the door and went bye byes.
After a minute of standing there fuming, I tagged out from the circulation desk and went outside to make sure he was gone. Mrs. C said he drove off pretty fast, but had made it a point to park his car--poorly, once again--clear on the other side of the Summer Reading activities so he'd have an excuse to walk by the kids on his way to and from.
Since my last confrontation with him, the library staff has been debating whether or not he would ever return. It was pretty much a half and half split between the Yes's and the No's, with me in the middle as a Probably. I guess we have our answer now. We also need to figure out what our new Chester policy will be.
Now that the cards are on the table, do we let him back in?
I know that a number of libraries have policies allowing them to ban patrons from the building, and we've even been known to ban people before ourselves. Where are we going to fall on this guy?
Superfreak!
We've officially had our first complete patron freak-out about the
new library cards. I only wish I had been there to witness it first
hand.
Let's call the superfreak patron in question Rick James, just to establish a theme and for no better reason than I happened to see the real Rick James on a rerun of the Surreal Life a few nights ago. Our Rick James is a guy about my age who, being the wrong race to begin with, of course looks nothing like the real Rick James. In fact, he looks kind of up-tight most of the time. As far as his patronage goes, he's actually only an intermittent patron at best, coming in only once or twice a month, sometimes skipping several months on a stretch. Even with infrequent visits, though, Rick James has skirted the edges of Rogue status on a couple of occasions in the past.
For instance, Rick James is a big fan of our books on tape. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him check out an actual, honest-to-God book from us before. So, one time Rick James checked out one of our books on tape and managed to break one of the tapes. Mind you, this would have been okay with us, as we know that the tapes do break due to the constant wear and tear. We wouldn't have even made him pay for it. However, Rick James not only broke the tape but then tried to repair it on his own. I don't know how exactly he did this, but images of glue and nails come into my head whenever I think about it. In the end, he failed miserably at the repair job, screwed the tape up even more than it had been, then returned it to us. He explained what he'd done and suggested we could probably do a better repair job than he did. I wanted to say, "So could most paraplegic rhesus monkeys," but refrained from doing so.
Now, that's certainly annoying. However, Rick's actual claim to fame is his utter refusal to check anything out on his own card. Ever. It's not that he's even a Seefile or anything--he just refuses to use his own card.
On the first several occasions that I had to deal with him, I would ask his name so I could look up his record, as per our old VTLS system and library policy. Rick James would just shake his head at me and tell me to put it on the card of his girlfriend. Rick's girlfriend, Gladys Knight, used to come in with him fairly often and they always checked their items out on her card then too. I figured it was therefore an authorized move and began putting his books on her card when he was in solo; and it was cool with her. Sure, it was odd, but we didn't care if he used her card so long as she was okay with it. And Rick James was far from the only person to exclusively use someone else's card. Several male patrons used to use their wife's card, which we just chalked up to laziness on their part. With Rick there turned out to be another reason.
For the past several months, Rick and Gladys have seriously cut back on their visits. If I'd thought much about them, I might have assumed they'd moved, but I don't so I didn't. Rick just suddenly popped up again a couple months back, causing me to think, "Oh, yeah, the book-on-tape-won't-use-his-own-card guy. I remember him." And, of course, Rick also returned to checking out more books on tape to Gladys's patron record.
Neither Rick nor Gladys have been in for the past four weeks since we upgraded to our new circulation software system, however. That is until last week when both of them stopped by.
(Again, I only WISH I had been there, so most of the following dialogue is paraphrased from second hand information.)
After bringing their book on tape selections to the circ desk, Miss E told Gladys that she would need one of our new library cards before she could check out. No prob for Gladys Knight--she's easy-going. She even had her old card with her, proving she's a responsible patron. Miss E then asked Rick if he needed one too.
"No, I'll just use hers," Rick James said.
Sorry, but no. We no longer allow patrons to share cards like that. You'll need one of your very own.
Rick James grumbled and griped at this, but went over and started filling out a new card application all the same. It didn't take him long to find something to whine about.
"Hey, why do you need my driver's license number? Do I have to give that?"
Yes, you do.
"But why?"
All of our patrons have to have a unique ID number so we chose a driver's license number since most people have them.
"How come?"
Because we need to be able to tell patrons with the same name apart.
Naturally, Rick didn't like that one little bit.
"This is just the government!" he said. "The government is trying to get this information and keep tabs on what we're reading. Your new system probably keeps a record of everything we read!"
Now first off, the government ALREADY HAS everyone's driver's license information. After all, drivers licenses are issued by THE GOVERNMENT in the first place. Secondly, our system does NOT keep records of everything our patrons have read. Some patrons wish that it did, because they can't manage to keep track of what they've read by themselves and wish we could tell them so they didn't keep checking out the same Patty Cornhole book. But, no, we don't keep patron book records. Even with the new circulation system, we only have the ability to see who the last patron to check out any given book was, and this is for purposes of tracking down patrons who might have allowed their dog to have a bite of a book should we wish them to pay for it. It's hardly a grand scheme of the Homeland Security Conspiracy, but there was no telling this to Rick James.
About this time, Mrs. C stood up from her computer where she'd been listening to Rick James's ranting.
"It's not the government," she told him. "We have nothing to do with the government." (Well, outside of a miniscule amount of funding.) "And we don't store records of what patrons read."
Mrs. C then explained that the drivers license number was necessary to differentiate Rick James from any other Rick Jameses who might be patrons of one of the libraries in the surrounding consortium counties, (or indeed the real Rick James). We're in essence trying to protect our patrons from having other people with the same name check things out on their card, saddling them with the bill if the items aren't returned.
Rick tried to grumble some more about this but relented after Gladys told him it made perfect sense to her. He finally put his license number down and turned in his application to Miss E.
As she was typing it in, Miss E noted that Rick's listed address was a post office box.
Sorry, if your mailing address is a post office box, we'll need a physical address as well.
This is what ignited the powder keg.
"You need a physical address?!! You need a physical address?!! Why would you need a physical address?!!" Rick was really starting to shout, getting far more angry than necessary.
Mrs. C stepped in again and tried to explain that people change post office boxes and telephone numbers all the time and we really have to have a backup method of contacting patrons when we need to.
"But why would you need a physical address?!!" Rick continued to shout, ignoring everything she had just said. It was like his brain was stuck in a loop and just kept repeating, Why would you need a physical address? Why would you need a physical address? over and over, drowning out all explanation to the contrary.
Then a new voice entered the fray. Our head librarian, Mrs. A had come downstairs just before Rick's tantrum began, had witnessed it and now she was having no more of it.
"Now look here!" Mrs. A said. Rick immediately stopped grousing and looked here. Mrs. A marched up to him and said, "The reason we need your physical address is so we'll know where to send the sheriff when you don't bring our books back!"
I love Mrs. A.
Rick didn't have much of a defense for that, but he still had a fallback position: "But why do you need a driver's license number?!"
"Because we don't want anyone getting more than one library card in our system. And if we require a unique ID number like a drivers license we can stop people from getting multiple cards."
"But why..."
"No. Let me explain," Mrs. A said. "Before we put this system into place, there was a patron in another county who got five different library cards from five different libraries with five fake home addresses. She then checked out ALL the arts and crafts books from those libraries and has now disappeared with them. Thousands of dollars worth of books are gone because we didn't require proof of ID to get a library card. Now that we require the drivers license number, if we try to make a new patron record and type that license number in, any existing records with that number will pop up automatically and we won't issue the patron another card."
"But why do you need a physical address?"
Yes, indeedy, Rick had waited through all that just to default to But why do you need a physical address? once again. There was just no talking to him.
Gladys Knight went ahead and accepted her new library card, but Rick James refused to supply the necessary information for his and left saying he'd do it some other time. Our guess is he'll try to go to another area library and see if he can sneak past security measures there. He's not the only one. We've already discovered another guy who has already managed to get two cards at other area libraries by telling them that he has no driver's license or state ID. He also supplies them with faulty contact information, which is why it's important for libraries to follow policy and demand to see some form of identification, if only a current bill and a photo-id. We've now got a "liberry" APB out on that guy and have just added Rick James to the watch list as well.
The Rick James situation, however, does put me in mind of another patron and former almost-rogue who, coincidentally enough, I was already in the process of composing an entry for....
Let's call the superfreak patron in question Rick James, just to establish a theme and for no better reason than I happened to see the real Rick James on a rerun of the Surreal Life a few nights ago. Our Rick James is a guy about my age who, being the wrong race to begin with, of course looks nothing like the real Rick James. In fact, he looks kind of up-tight most of the time. As far as his patronage goes, he's actually only an intermittent patron at best, coming in only once or twice a month, sometimes skipping several months on a stretch. Even with infrequent visits, though, Rick James has skirted the edges of Rogue status on a couple of occasions in the past.
For instance, Rick James is a big fan of our books on tape. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him check out an actual, honest-to-God book from us before. So, one time Rick James checked out one of our books on tape and managed to break one of the tapes. Mind you, this would have been okay with us, as we know that the tapes do break due to the constant wear and tear. We wouldn't have even made him pay for it. However, Rick James not only broke the tape but then tried to repair it on his own. I don't know how exactly he did this, but images of glue and nails come into my head whenever I think about it. In the end, he failed miserably at the repair job, screwed the tape up even more than it had been, then returned it to us. He explained what he'd done and suggested we could probably do a better repair job than he did. I wanted to say, "So could most paraplegic rhesus monkeys," but refrained from doing so.
Now, that's certainly annoying. However, Rick's actual claim to fame is his utter refusal to check anything out on his own card. Ever. It's not that he's even a Seefile or anything--he just refuses to use his own card.
On the first several occasions that I had to deal with him, I would ask his name so I could look up his record, as per our old VTLS system and library policy. Rick James would just shake his head at me and tell me to put it on the card of his girlfriend. Rick's girlfriend, Gladys Knight, used to come in with him fairly often and they always checked their items out on her card then too. I figured it was therefore an authorized move and began putting his books on her card when he was in solo; and it was cool with her. Sure, it was odd, but we didn't care if he used her card so long as she was okay with it. And Rick James was far from the only person to exclusively use someone else's card. Several male patrons used to use their wife's card, which we just chalked up to laziness on their part. With Rick there turned out to be another reason.
For the past several months, Rick and Gladys have seriously cut back on their visits. If I'd thought much about them, I might have assumed they'd moved, but I don't so I didn't. Rick just suddenly popped up again a couple months back, causing me to think, "Oh, yeah, the book-on-tape-won't-use-his-own-card guy. I remember him." And, of course, Rick also returned to checking out more books on tape to Gladys's patron record.
Neither Rick nor Gladys have been in for the past four weeks since we upgraded to our new circulation software system, however. That is until last week when both of them stopped by.
(Again, I only WISH I had been there, so most of the following dialogue is paraphrased from second hand information.)
After bringing their book on tape selections to the circ desk, Miss E told Gladys that she would need one of our new library cards before she could check out. No prob for Gladys Knight--she's easy-going. She even had her old card with her, proving she's a responsible patron. Miss E then asked Rick if he needed one too.
"No, I'll just use hers," Rick James said.
Sorry, but no. We no longer allow patrons to share cards like that. You'll need one of your very own.
Rick James grumbled and griped at this, but went over and started filling out a new card application all the same. It didn't take him long to find something to whine about.
"Hey, why do you need my driver's license number? Do I have to give that?"
Yes, you do.
"But why?"
All of our patrons have to have a unique ID number so we chose a driver's license number since most people have them.
"How come?"
Because we need to be able to tell patrons with the same name apart.
Naturally, Rick didn't like that one little bit.
"This is just the government!" he said. "The government is trying to get this information and keep tabs on what we're reading. Your new system probably keeps a record of everything we read!"
Now first off, the government ALREADY HAS everyone's driver's license information. After all, drivers licenses are issued by THE GOVERNMENT in the first place. Secondly, our system does NOT keep records of everything our patrons have read. Some patrons wish that it did, because they can't manage to keep track of what they've read by themselves and wish we could tell them so they didn't keep checking out the same Patty Cornhole book. But, no, we don't keep patron book records. Even with the new circulation system, we only have the ability to see who the last patron to check out any given book was, and this is for purposes of tracking down patrons who might have allowed their dog to have a bite of a book should we wish them to pay for it. It's hardly a grand scheme of the Homeland Security Conspiracy, but there was no telling this to Rick James.
About this time, Mrs. C stood up from her computer where she'd been listening to Rick James's ranting.
"It's not the government," she told him. "We have nothing to do with the government." (Well, outside of a miniscule amount of funding.) "And we don't store records of what patrons read."
Mrs. C then explained that the drivers license number was necessary to differentiate Rick James from any other Rick Jameses who might be patrons of one of the libraries in the surrounding consortium counties, (or indeed the real Rick James). We're in essence trying to protect our patrons from having other people with the same name check things out on their card, saddling them with the bill if the items aren't returned.
Rick tried to grumble some more about this but relented after Gladys told him it made perfect sense to her. He finally put his license number down and turned in his application to Miss E.
As she was typing it in, Miss E noted that Rick's listed address was a post office box.
Sorry, if your mailing address is a post office box, we'll need a physical address as well.
This is what ignited the powder keg.
"You need a physical address?!! You need a physical address?!! Why would you need a physical address?!!" Rick was really starting to shout, getting far more angry than necessary.
Mrs. C stepped in again and tried to explain that people change post office boxes and telephone numbers all the time and we really have to have a backup method of contacting patrons when we need to.
"But why would you need a physical address?!!" Rick continued to shout, ignoring everything she had just said. It was like his brain was stuck in a loop and just kept repeating, Why would you need a physical address? Why would you need a physical address? over and over, drowning out all explanation to the contrary.
Then a new voice entered the fray. Our head librarian, Mrs. A had come downstairs just before Rick's tantrum began, had witnessed it and now she was having no more of it.
"Now look here!" Mrs. A said. Rick immediately stopped grousing and looked here. Mrs. A marched up to him and said, "The reason we need your physical address is so we'll know where to send the sheriff when you don't bring our books back!"
I love Mrs. A.
Rick didn't have much of a defense for that, but he still had a fallback position: "But why do you need a driver's license number?!"
"Because we don't want anyone getting more than one library card in our system. And if we require a unique ID number like a drivers license we can stop people from getting multiple cards."
"But why..."
"No. Let me explain," Mrs. A said. "Before we put this system into place, there was a patron in another county who got five different library cards from five different libraries with five fake home addresses. She then checked out ALL the arts and crafts books from those libraries and has now disappeared with them. Thousands of dollars worth of books are gone because we didn't require proof of ID to get a library card. Now that we require the drivers license number, if we try to make a new patron record and type that license number in, any existing records with that number will pop up automatically and we won't issue the patron another card."
"But why do you need a physical address?"
Yes, indeedy, Rick had waited through all that just to default to But why do you need a physical address? once again. There was just no talking to him.
Gladys Knight went ahead and accepted her new library card, but Rick James refused to supply the necessary information for his and left saying he'd do it some other time. Our guess is he'll try to go to another area library and see if he can sneak past security measures there. He's not the only one. We've already discovered another guy who has already managed to get two cards at other area libraries by telling them that he has no driver's license or state ID. He also supplies them with faulty contact information, which is why it's important for libraries to follow policy and demand to see some form of identification, if only a current bill and a photo-id. We've now got a "liberry" APB out on that guy and have just added Rick James to the watch list as well.
The Rick James situation, however, does put me in mind of another patron and former almost-rogue who, coincidentally enough, I was already in the process of composing an entry for....
Friday, July 16, 2004
Revenge of the Seefiles!
Around 5 yesterday, a girl came in the library who I didn't think I
would likely ever see again. Her name is Caroline and she's the
daughter of one of our formerly regular patrons, whose first name I can
never remember but we sang in the local chorale together so we're
friendly if not entirely acquainted.
The reason I thought I'd never see Caroline again, nor her mom for that matter, is that a few months back I'd heard from Mrs. C that they'd both moved to Maine. Seemed an unfortunate thing to do, considering they still had two of our books checked out. We'd even gone so far as to add them to the short list of 2004 Seefiles for their treachery. Not only were they in the Seefile, but they had also made it onto my Blocked Patron List of Death, which we keep by the desk to remind us of certain patrons who are NOT to be granted new cards.
I pulled their Seefile records to see what they had out. Turned out to be a couple of young adult books, but one of them was a $20 hardback of the Amber Spyglass, the third book in Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. We don't own another copy and haven't replaced that one.
Hmm, Mom's name is Margaret, I thought while examining the records further. Margaret Robe. Go figure. Also on the Seefile slip itself was the notation that they'd moved to Maine. Glad to know I'd remembered that correctly.
Caroline's mom was no where in sight, so I figured the girl was waiting to be picked up. Mostly she stayed in the children's room, occasionally coming up to the desk to ask if I'd read the Andre Norton book she'd picked out. She also asked me what the first book in the His Dark Materials series was.
Ah ha! Looking to take them ALL are you?
I pondered to myself what I should do. I've always liked their family, even if I don't think enough about them to learn all their first names, and I wasn't itching to smack down the gavel of "liberry" justice on them. For all I knew the books were still in Maine. I decided to get my ducks in a row before saying anything about the books. I rechecked the computer to make sure they were still checked out. Not only were they out, but they weren't even listed as being owned. This meant Mrs. C had removed them during the great purge.
At nearly 15 til close, Caroline came to the desk and asked me to hold a book for her. I said I would then asked, "You're Caroline, right?" I wanted to make completely sure I had the right girl here. She said she was, so I went ahead and asked about the overdues. She didn't recognize either of them as books she'd checked out, which I thought was odd as she'd just asked me about another Pullman book earlier. She said her friend Amy had checked that one out. Obviously, she'd checked it out on Caroline's card.
"Well, how bout ask your friend to have a look around for it. We just got a new library card system and we can't give you a new card until we clear this up."
Caroline went outside to wait for her mom. Mom turned up shortly and Caroline must have showed her the Seefile photocopy, cause they both came inside. Mom--or Margaret, I should say--said she had never heard of the book on her card. She wasn't mad, but definitely didn't remember it. I told her that there was always the possibility we'd made a mistake somehow and that she might need to take it up with Mrs. A.
"Well, we need to get it done soon, I guess, or we can't have cards," Margaret said. "Can I borrow your phone?"
I let her use the phone to call Caroline's friend Amy. Margaret left a message on the answering machine about it, saying that they needed to get the book back as soon as possible or they wouldn't be able to get library cards. The funny thing was, Margaret left her name with the message, but she said it was Stephanie.
Er. Very odd, I thought. The inconsistency was explained shortly, though, when "Stephanie" asked if she could go ahead and get cards for herself and her husband and that the could take care of the rest later. She said this, gesturing toward the photocopy.
Oh, so Margaret is probably another daughter. I see. I get it.
"Hey, why does this thing say `Moved to Maine'?" Stephanie asked.
I blinked at her in confusion for a few seconds. "You didn't move to Maine?"
"No."
"You didn't move anywhere?"
"No. We still live here."
"Huh," I said. Now I was really confused, because Mrs. C DID say they'd moved to Maine and she's almost always on the money with area rumors. Hell, we were the library! If any place beyond the hair salons and barbershops is gossip central, it's the library. "That's really weird. I could have sworn I heard you'd moved to Maine."
They laughed and Stephanie started filling out her application while I waited and tried to think of something to say that would make me look like less of a dumbass.
"Yeah... I was all prepped to ask you how Maine was, but I guess that's out now."
"Well, I hear it's great this time of year," Stephanie said.
Caroline suddenly grabbed at the photocopy.
"Wait a second! This isn't me!" she said, pointing at her own name. "This says Caroline and Margaret Robe."
"Yeah," I said.
Stephanie gave me a perplexed grin. "But we're Caroline and Stephanie Turner."
A long time seemed to pass as I processed this. Slowly, it dawned on me: I'm a damned moron. Their name IS Turner! They're not the Robes at all. I knew that--or, I should have known that. I used to know that. Whatever! The Turner's didn't have any of our books after all. It was all just a series of coincidences and errors compounded further by my being a dumbass.
"Oh.... Oh, wow," I said. "I feel really really stupid."
No one even politely attempted to disagree with me.
I made cards for the whole Turner family while Stephanie borrowed the phone again to call Amy and her parents and tell them it was all a false alarm. I made no fewer than 5 mistakes typing all their information in, including spelling their last name wrong. I apologized for the hassle and the false accusations and they said it was okay, but I know secretly they were thinking, "What a tard!" And rightfully so.
As embarrassing as that is, I figured I'd share it here anyway. After all, I spend most of my blogging time ridiculing patrons, so it's only fitting that they get some revenge now and then.
The reason I thought I'd never see Caroline again, nor her mom for that matter, is that a few months back I'd heard from Mrs. C that they'd both moved to Maine. Seemed an unfortunate thing to do, considering they still had two of our books checked out. We'd even gone so far as to add them to the short list of 2004 Seefiles for their treachery. Not only were they in the Seefile, but they had also made it onto my Blocked Patron List of Death, which we keep by the desk to remind us of certain patrons who are NOT to be granted new cards.
I pulled their Seefile records to see what they had out. Turned out to be a couple of young adult books, but one of them was a $20 hardback of the Amber Spyglass, the third book in Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. We don't own another copy and haven't replaced that one.
Hmm, Mom's name is Margaret, I thought while examining the records further. Margaret Robe. Go figure. Also on the Seefile slip itself was the notation that they'd moved to Maine. Glad to know I'd remembered that correctly.
Caroline's mom was no where in sight, so I figured the girl was waiting to be picked up. Mostly she stayed in the children's room, occasionally coming up to the desk to ask if I'd read the Andre Norton book she'd picked out. She also asked me what the first book in the His Dark Materials series was.
Ah ha! Looking to take them ALL are you?
I pondered to myself what I should do. I've always liked their family, even if I don't think enough about them to learn all their first names, and I wasn't itching to smack down the gavel of "liberry" justice on them. For all I knew the books were still in Maine. I decided to get my ducks in a row before saying anything about the books. I rechecked the computer to make sure they were still checked out. Not only were they out, but they weren't even listed as being owned. This meant Mrs. C had removed them during the great purge.
At nearly 15 til close, Caroline came to the desk and asked me to hold a book for her. I said I would then asked, "You're Caroline, right?" I wanted to make completely sure I had the right girl here. She said she was, so I went ahead and asked about the overdues. She didn't recognize either of them as books she'd checked out, which I thought was odd as she'd just asked me about another Pullman book earlier. She said her friend Amy had checked that one out. Obviously, she'd checked it out on Caroline's card.
"Well, how bout ask your friend to have a look around for it. We just got a new library card system and we can't give you a new card until we clear this up."
Caroline went outside to wait for her mom. Mom turned up shortly and Caroline must have showed her the Seefile photocopy, cause they both came inside. Mom--or Margaret, I should say--said she had never heard of the book on her card. She wasn't mad, but definitely didn't remember it. I told her that there was always the possibility we'd made a mistake somehow and that she might need to take it up with Mrs. A.
"Well, we need to get it done soon, I guess, or we can't have cards," Margaret said. "Can I borrow your phone?"
I let her use the phone to call Caroline's friend Amy. Margaret left a message on the answering machine about it, saying that they needed to get the book back as soon as possible or they wouldn't be able to get library cards. The funny thing was, Margaret left her name with the message, but she said it was Stephanie.
Er. Very odd, I thought. The inconsistency was explained shortly, though, when "Stephanie" asked if she could go ahead and get cards for herself and her husband and that the could take care of the rest later. She said this, gesturing toward the photocopy.
Oh, so Margaret is probably another daughter. I see. I get it.
"Hey, why does this thing say `Moved to Maine'?" Stephanie asked.
I blinked at her in confusion for a few seconds. "You didn't move to Maine?"
"No."
"You didn't move anywhere?"
"No. We still live here."
"Huh," I said. Now I was really confused, because Mrs. C DID say they'd moved to Maine and she's almost always on the money with area rumors. Hell, we were the library! If any place beyond the hair salons and barbershops is gossip central, it's the library. "That's really weird. I could have sworn I heard you'd moved to Maine."
They laughed and Stephanie started filling out her application while I waited and tried to think of something to say that would make me look like less of a dumbass.
"Yeah... I was all prepped to ask you how Maine was, but I guess that's out now."
"Well, I hear it's great this time of year," Stephanie said.
Caroline suddenly grabbed at the photocopy.
"Wait a second! This isn't me!" she said, pointing at her own name. "This says Caroline and Margaret Robe."
"Yeah," I said.
Stephanie gave me a perplexed grin. "But we're Caroline and Stephanie Turner."
A long time seemed to pass as I processed this. Slowly, it dawned on me: I'm a damned moron. Their name IS Turner! They're not the Robes at all. I knew that--or, I should have known that. I used to know that. Whatever! The Turner's didn't have any of our books after all. It was all just a series of coincidences and errors compounded further by my being a dumbass.
"Oh.... Oh, wow," I said. "I feel really really stupid."
No one even politely attempted to disagree with me.
I made cards for the whole Turner family while Stephanie borrowed the phone again to call Amy and her parents and tell them it was all a false alarm. I made no fewer than 5 mistakes typing all their information in, including spelling their last name wrong. I apologized for the hassle and the false accusations and they said it was okay, but I know secretly they were thinking, "What a tard!" And rightfully so.
As embarrassing as that is, I figured I'd share it here anyway. After all, I spend most of my blogging time ridiculing patrons, so it's only fitting that they get some revenge now and then.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Cap'n Crossdresser and the World of Tomorrow!
I'd barely been on shift for half an hour when Cap'n Crossdresser walked through the "liberry's" door.
Today the good Cap'n was wearing a spaghetti-strap floral print sun dress with brown pumps. I don't think he had a purse, but his appearance stirred things up quite a bit, as you might expect.
All of my previous encounters with the Cap'n have been when I was working by myself. It's SO much easier not to crack up laughing at a Bozo-haired man in a dress when you don't have three fellow employees around you who are also trying not to crack up. It was all we could do to wipe the smiles off our faces whenever the Cap'n walked through.
As usual, he went back and used a computer for a while before coming up front to browse the shelves.
When I walked back to the computer hall to sign someone on the Cap'n's former computer, another female computer patron looked up at me and loudly said, "Okay, I just have to say ask... Was that man wearing a dress?"
I immediately held up a finger to my lips to shush her and pointed back toward the front room, silently indicating that the man in the dress was still well within earshot. The woman looked a little sheepish at this, then leaned closer to me and said in a low voice, "So... what? He's a transvestite?"
I shrugged and nodded.
The woman instantly recoiled in apparent disgust at the idea.
Now, I wouldn't go so far as to call the Cap'n disgusting. He's certainly not pretty and is about the least womanly man in a dress you'd ever care to see. He also has an amount of body hair that is encroaching on the extreme levels that Parka recently exhibited, but at no time did I want to claw my own eyes out at the sight of him. In fact, I welcome the Cap'n! He's already one of our best patrons, is always polite, never personally causes trouble and he always livens things up just by being himself. He's out there and fancy free, living his life to the fullest--albeit in a dress. Sure, he looks like somebody's uncle but what's a big burly half bald lumberjack-looking man gonna do if he has such a deep-seated urge to wear a spaghetti strap sun dress out in public. At least it matched his shoes!
I gave the woman a half-dirty look and went back to the circulation desk. Presently, Cap'n Crossdresser applied for a new library card, which I proudly made without even cracking a smile while my fellow employees hid themselves. He never gave me any indication that he'd heard the lady at the computer, but I'm sure he probably did. He has to be used to everyone commenting and cracking up around him.
The Cap'n took his new card and walked out the door in a most manly fashion, clomping his feet along, his sundress swaying as he went.
Today the good Cap'n was wearing a spaghetti-strap floral print sun dress with brown pumps. I don't think he had a purse, but his appearance stirred things up quite a bit, as you might expect.
All of my previous encounters with the Cap'n have been when I was working by myself. It's SO much easier not to crack up laughing at a Bozo-haired man in a dress when you don't have three fellow employees around you who are also trying not to crack up. It was all we could do to wipe the smiles off our faces whenever the Cap'n walked through.
As usual, he went back and used a computer for a while before coming up front to browse the shelves.
When I walked back to the computer hall to sign someone on the Cap'n's former computer, another female computer patron looked up at me and loudly said, "Okay, I just have to say ask... Was that man wearing a dress?"
I immediately held up a finger to my lips to shush her and pointed back toward the front room, silently indicating that the man in the dress was still well within earshot. The woman looked a little sheepish at this, then leaned closer to me and said in a low voice, "So... what? He's a transvestite?"
I shrugged and nodded.
The woman instantly recoiled in apparent disgust at the idea.
Now, I wouldn't go so far as to call the Cap'n disgusting. He's certainly not pretty and is about the least womanly man in a dress you'd ever care to see. He also has an amount of body hair that is encroaching on the extreme levels that Parka recently exhibited, but at no time did I want to claw my own eyes out at the sight of him. In fact, I welcome the Cap'n! He's already one of our best patrons, is always polite, never personally causes trouble and he always livens things up just by being himself. He's out there and fancy free, living his life to the fullest--albeit in a dress. Sure, he looks like somebody's uncle but what's a big burly half bald lumberjack-looking man gonna do if he has such a deep-seated urge to wear a spaghetti strap sun dress out in public. At least it matched his shoes!
I gave the woman a half-dirty look and went back to the circulation desk. Presently, Cap'n Crossdresser applied for a new library card, which I proudly made without even cracking a smile while my fellow employees hid themselves. He never gave me any indication that he'd heard the lady at the computer, but I'm sure he probably did. He has to be used to everyone commenting and cracking up around him.
The Cap'n took his new card and walked out the door in a most manly fashion, clomping his feet along, his sundress swaying as he went.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Ding Dong the Wicked Witch is Dead!
No, Mrs. Carol Satan didn't kick the bucket. In fact, she's alive and well and in possession of a new "liberry" card. But enough about her...
Instead, our problems with the new Millennium system giving our printer diarrhea seem to have mostly been resolved. Today, Mrs. C noticed that the little PRINT SLIP box that had been turning itself on at its own whim, causing our printer to reward us with a cover-page and a print for just about any normal function, had simply vanished. Gone. Bye byes. We still had a PRINT button at the top of the screen, allowing us to print on our own schedule as necessary, but the slip box was definitely gone from all screens. We haven't heard officially, but it would seem someone has messed about with the master control program and sorted things out.
My theory is that someone higher-up did the math, saw how much money was being wasted by the printers of 31 libraries spitting out a steady stream of unwanted paper and told the techs to shut it off.
Now if we can only convince them to shut off the coversheets we'll be groovy.
Instead, our problems with the new Millennium system giving our printer diarrhea seem to have mostly been resolved. Today, Mrs. C noticed that the little PRINT SLIP box that had been turning itself on at its own whim, causing our printer to reward us with a cover-page and a print for just about any normal function, had simply vanished. Gone. Bye byes. We still had a PRINT button at the top of the screen, allowing us to print on our own schedule as necessary, but the slip box was definitely gone from all screens. We haven't heard officially, but it would seem someone has messed about with the master control program and sorted things out.
My theory is that someone higher-up did the math, saw how much money was being wasted by the printers of 31 libraries spitting out a steady stream of unwanted paper and told the techs to shut it off.
Now if we can only convince them to shut off the coversheets we'll be groovy.
Last Train to Clarksburg
Even after four years of marriage, I still find that I can only go
for about a week of my wife's absence before I start going into the I Miss My Sweety DT's.
I'm completely fine for the whole week and even kind of enjoy the semi-slobby bachelor lifestyle (as opposed to my usual semi-slobby married lifestyle). When the weeks clock ticks out, though, and she still isn't there the DTs hit hard.
Such separations used to happen pretty infrequently, but over the past year there have been more occasions for this as, being a third year med-student, she's been out of town on clinical rotations quite a bit. Usually these out-of-towners have only lasted for a month at a stretch and were near enough that she was able to come home on the weekends. Occasionally, though, they go longer.
This month, and actually for the next three months, the wife is rotating at a hospital in Clarksburg, WV. At nearly a 3 hour drive away, it's just far enough to make for an irritatingly long and questionably worthwhile journey back and forth--particularly for a gal who's supposed to be studying for her next round of board exams and needs to be using her time wisely. So mostly she'll be staying up there, only coming home every other weekend or so. Maybe less.
Last Friday afternoon, she phoned to say she wasn't coming home as planned. She'd had a late day at the hospital, hadn't packed and just couldn't summon the energy for the soul-sucking trek back here. In a pitiful voice, she asked if I would be too disappointed that she couldn't make it home. I must have sounded pitiful too when told her I would be. (The DT's had hit me a couple days early.)
"Well, you could come see me," she said hopefully.
Seemed a simple enough solution. I had plenty of energy, having spent most of the day sitting around the house doing ebay stuff. So shortly before 7 p.m., I hit the road.
The reason she is spending three months in Clarksburg is because we're shopping for a place for her to do her internship and residency next year. She has her eye on Clarksburg and wants to get the lay of the land. We'd originally planned to try and remain here in the Tri-Metro area on the grounds that we're sick to death of moving. In the past 12 years, neither of us has lived in one location for more than three years, usually less than two, and we're just tired to our very bones of hauling our shit around. Every time we do it, we swear we're never buying another stick of furniture nor any more abject heavy crap. Then, as soon as we're settled, it's off to the comic shop and junk furniture store we go. We've only been in our current house for a year and don't relish having to leave just yet. Moreover, we don't relish having to deal with moving our big ugly Army green gravity couch and have threatened that the next time it's moved at all will be to the front lawn whereupon it will be set ablaze.
Even with that weariness in mind, she has heard fantastic things about the residency program at Clarksburg's hospital. They concentrate on her specialty of family medicine and are apparently offer wonderful teaching environment. We figure if it will make her a better doctor more quickly to do a residency there, we can maybe stomach another move. It's far from a done deal, though.
Choosing a residency is a pretty complicated business. The wife has to pick her first choice of where to go and hope that the hospital she picks also chooses her as its first choice. Beyond that it gets really tricky and if you put down hospitals you really don't want to go to you can find yourself contractually obligated to go there anyway. At the moment our main choices are Clarksburg and TRI-METRO, though we're still not sure which order to rank them. She figures that a three month stint there will let her get to know everyone so that all parties involved can make an informed decision when the time comes to chose. From what I saw of the place this weekend it's still a definite possibility. I can't say I don't have reservations, though.
For instance, when I arrived in Clarksburg, I followed the wife''s directions on how to get to the student house. The house is located just off of downtown Clarksburg in an enormous neighborhood of Victorian-style townhouses that stretches up the side of a foothill. As I'm meandering through the narrowish streets of downtown, I'm noticing at least as many empty storefronts as there are active businesses. This is never a good sign in a local economy. Furthermore, many of the townhouses in her neighborhood are in less than admirable shape.
"I sure hope it's not that house with the smashed out upper windows," I thought. Then I saw the very next house and thought, "I sure hope it's not that house that's boarded up."
Turned out she didn't live in a townhouse at all. The student housing is in a California Ranch-style house built in the late 1960s. It's like walking into an episode of the Brady Bunch, particularly since there are like 14 students living in it at the moment. It has the whole angled wood beam lined ceilings, funky Buddha wall-paper, a wide angular orange worn velour covered sofa plus all the modern conveniences the late 60's had to offer (such as sliding recessed doors, pull out recessed towel rods, food built-in countertop food processor stations, etc). And while the place is actually in fantastic structural shape, there's also that distant yet distinct smell of mildew that began its life in the Johnson administration. In a word, it's Shagadellic.
Mrs. A grew up near Clarksburg and she explained the town's ongoing slow demise to me. The area used to be thriving community with a large number of glass factories that employed much of the population. You can tell from the architecture and design sense downtown that it was once a quite the bustling and vivacious city. However, the factories shut down some time back and the town has been slowly growing weeds ever since. According to Mrs. A, the little unincorporated community she grew up in nearby has been reduced to a gas station and a grocery store, when once it was nearly a town to itself.
It reminds me a lot of Memphis, for some reason. There are parts of it that are nice, sure, but a lot of it is kind of dirty and run down. (Actually, in that regard it's a lot like Town-C where I live now.)
It's a much larger city than I currently live in, even counting all three Tri-Metro towns. There are some great restaurants there with just about any kind of cuisine you'd care to have (except Indian, dammit). It has a comic shop, albeit a fairly sad one that's only open on Saturdays and is pretty much a pickup stop for subscription customers. (There's a better one in Morgantown.) And there are actual live radio stations in the area too, with local DJs. That's what I used to do before moving to a town without such stations and I still get the Jones to return to it on occasion. (And believe me, should I ever do so, I could just pick up where this blog leaves off for all the strange characters I'd meet.)
And in case I want to stay in the "liberry" field, there are a couple of those too. We even stopped by one to scope it out. It was much larger than the one I work in and very nice, (though I noted they're still using the devil program VTLS).
Such a move is still 10 months off, if it occurs at all. Who knows, though--perhaps it won't mean the end of my "liberry" blogging career after all.
All in all, though, I had a great weekend and some quality Sweety time.
I'm completely fine for the whole week and even kind of enjoy the semi-slobby bachelor lifestyle (as opposed to my usual semi-slobby married lifestyle). When the weeks clock ticks out, though, and she still isn't there the DTs hit hard.
Such separations used to happen pretty infrequently, but over the past year there have been more occasions for this as, being a third year med-student, she's been out of town on clinical rotations quite a bit. Usually these out-of-towners have only lasted for a month at a stretch and were near enough that she was able to come home on the weekends. Occasionally, though, they go longer.
This month, and actually for the next three months, the wife is rotating at a hospital in Clarksburg, WV. At nearly a 3 hour drive away, it's just far enough to make for an irritatingly long and questionably worthwhile journey back and forth--particularly for a gal who's supposed to be studying for her next round of board exams and needs to be using her time wisely. So mostly she'll be staying up there, only coming home every other weekend or so. Maybe less.
Last Friday afternoon, she phoned to say she wasn't coming home as planned. She'd had a late day at the hospital, hadn't packed and just couldn't summon the energy for the soul-sucking trek back here. In a pitiful voice, she asked if I would be too disappointed that she couldn't make it home. I must have sounded pitiful too when told her I would be. (The DT's had hit me a couple days early.)
"Well, you could come see me," she said hopefully.
Seemed a simple enough solution. I had plenty of energy, having spent most of the day sitting around the house doing ebay stuff. So shortly before 7 p.m., I hit the road.
The reason she is spending three months in Clarksburg is because we're shopping for a place for her to do her internship and residency next year. She has her eye on Clarksburg and wants to get the lay of the land. We'd originally planned to try and remain here in the Tri-Metro area on the grounds that we're sick to death of moving. In the past 12 years, neither of us has lived in one location for more than three years, usually less than two, and we're just tired to our very bones of hauling our shit around. Every time we do it, we swear we're never buying another stick of furniture nor any more abject heavy crap. Then, as soon as we're settled, it's off to the comic shop and junk furniture store we go. We've only been in our current house for a year and don't relish having to leave just yet. Moreover, we don't relish having to deal with moving our big ugly Army green gravity couch and have threatened that the next time it's moved at all will be to the front lawn whereupon it will be set ablaze.
Even with that weariness in mind, she has heard fantastic things about the residency program at Clarksburg's hospital. They concentrate on her specialty of family medicine and are apparently offer wonderful teaching environment. We figure if it will make her a better doctor more quickly to do a residency there, we can maybe stomach another move. It's far from a done deal, though.
Choosing a residency is a pretty complicated business. The wife has to pick her first choice of where to go and hope that the hospital she picks also chooses her as its first choice. Beyond that it gets really tricky and if you put down hospitals you really don't want to go to you can find yourself contractually obligated to go there anyway. At the moment our main choices are Clarksburg and TRI-METRO, though we're still not sure which order to rank them. She figures that a three month stint there will let her get to know everyone so that all parties involved can make an informed decision when the time comes to chose. From what I saw of the place this weekend it's still a definite possibility. I can't say I don't have reservations, though.
For instance, when I arrived in Clarksburg, I followed the wife''s directions on how to get to the student house. The house is located just off of downtown Clarksburg in an enormous neighborhood of Victorian-style townhouses that stretches up the side of a foothill. As I'm meandering through the narrowish streets of downtown, I'm noticing at least as many empty storefronts as there are active businesses. This is never a good sign in a local economy. Furthermore, many of the townhouses in her neighborhood are in less than admirable shape.
"I sure hope it's not that house with the smashed out upper windows," I thought. Then I saw the very next house and thought, "I sure hope it's not that house that's boarded up."
Turned out she didn't live in a townhouse at all. The student housing is in a California Ranch-style house built in the late 1960s. It's like walking into an episode of the Brady Bunch, particularly since there are like 14 students living in it at the moment. It has the whole angled wood beam lined ceilings, funky Buddha wall-paper, a wide angular orange worn velour covered sofa plus all the modern conveniences the late 60's had to offer (such as sliding recessed doors, pull out recessed towel rods, food built-in countertop food processor stations, etc). And while the place is actually in fantastic structural shape, there's also that distant yet distinct smell of mildew that began its life in the Johnson administration. In a word, it's Shagadellic.
Mrs. A grew up near Clarksburg and she explained the town's ongoing slow demise to me. The area used to be thriving community with a large number of glass factories that employed much of the population. You can tell from the architecture and design sense downtown that it was once a quite the bustling and vivacious city. However, the factories shut down some time back and the town has been slowly growing weeds ever since. According to Mrs. A, the little unincorporated community she grew up in nearby has been reduced to a gas station and a grocery store, when once it was nearly a town to itself.
It reminds me a lot of Memphis, for some reason. There are parts of it that are nice, sure, but a lot of it is kind of dirty and run down. (Actually, in that regard it's a lot like Town-C where I live now.)
It's a much larger city than I currently live in, even counting all three Tri-Metro towns. There are some great restaurants there with just about any kind of cuisine you'd care to have (except Indian, dammit). It has a comic shop, albeit a fairly sad one that's only open on Saturdays and is pretty much a pickup stop for subscription customers. (There's a better one in Morgantown.) And there are actual live radio stations in the area too, with local DJs. That's what I used to do before moving to a town without such stations and I still get the Jones to return to it on occasion. (And believe me, should I ever do so, I could just pick up where this blog leaves off for all the strange characters I'd meet.)
And in case I want to stay in the "liberry" field, there are a couple of those too. We even stopped by one to scope it out. It was much larger than the one I work in and very nice, (though I noted they're still using the devil program VTLS).
Such a move is still 10 months off, if it occurs at all. Who knows, though--perhaps it won't mean the end of my "liberry" blogging career after all.
All in all, though, I had a great weekend and some quality Sweety time.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Do this, Don't do that, Can't Ya Read the Signs?
A while back, Mrs. A asked me to redo the signs on our computers.
The computer room is just covered in signs to begin with, instructing
computer users on the finer points of "liberry" policy regarding the
computers. Mostly the signs go unread, but we do have one sign that's
hard to miss. On each of the computer monitors we have taped a
laminated flip up sign that instructs new computer users that they're
going to need to sign in first before they can use the computer. It
saves people time, as without that sign they'd just sit back there and
try futilely to login for hours. So hopefully they read it, come up
front to sign in on the clipboard then we go back, flip up the sign and
log them on. The flip signs were looking kind of ratty, though, so Mrs.
A wanted me to replace them and Goo-B-Gone the tape residue to clean up the monitors themselves.
I decided that while I was penning a new sign, I might as well incorporate many of the other signs we have back there to consolidate information and perhaps increase the chances that it might actually get read. I also decided to do a first draft of the sign--my dream sign--which I would leave conspicuously on the desk for my fellow staff to enjoy. It read:
BEFORE USING A COMPUTER
YOU MUST SIGN IN AT THE
CIRCULATION DESK. A STAFF
MEMBER WILL LOG YOU ON.
TIME LIMIT: 30 MINUTES.
COMPUTERS WILL BE TURNED
OFF 15 MINUTES PRIOR TO
CLOSING.
(Tue-Fri 6:45,
Sat 1:45,
Sun-Mon 4:45)
PATRONS WHO REFUSE TO
LOG OFF WHEN ASKED WILL
BE HIT SQUAR' IN THE MOUTH.
REMEMBER: THE LIBRARY LOVES YOU.
Of course, this met with universal staff approval. While we're not adopting it as our official sign, we have discussed the possibility of producing REMEMBER: THE LIBRARY LOVES YOU staff T-shirts. They'll go right along with our new Big Brother Millennium Computer system attitude.
I decided that while I was penning a new sign, I might as well incorporate many of the other signs we have back there to consolidate information and perhaps increase the chances that it might actually get read. I also decided to do a first draft of the sign--my dream sign--which I would leave conspicuously on the desk for my fellow staff to enjoy. It read:
YOU MUST SIGN IN AT THE
CIRCULATION DESK. A STAFF
MEMBER WILL LOG YOU ON.
TIME LIMIT: 30 MINUTES.
COMPUTERS WILL BE TURNED
OFF 15 MINUTES PRIOR TO
CLOSING.
(Tue-Fri 6:45,
Sat 1:45,
Sun-Mon 4:45)
PATRONS WHO REFUSE TO
LOG OFF WHEN ASKED WILL
BE HIT SQUAR' IN THE MOUTH.
REMEMBER: THE LIBRARY LOVES YOU.
Of course, this met with universal staff approval. While we're not adopting it as our official sign, we have discussed the possibility of producing REMEMBER: THE LIBRARY LOVES YOU staff T-shirts. They'll go right along with our new Big Brother Millennium Computer system attitude.
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