You are probably a genius!

 

As we have dashed off across the country, on a laboriously long train ride, back to one of my favorite cities I have seen, to hopefully look at an apartment we may want to and even be able to rent, I am eager to stuff clerkmanifesto's cheeks full of food to delay the moment when I have to start posting from my phone. 

Posting from my phone is not easy and sometimes looks funny.

And so, what a fabulous time for a...

Clerkmanifesto Classic!

The Clerkmanifesto Genius Quiz

Are you a genius?

How can you trust your own highly invested self-assurance, or, conversely, that your noble humility won't muck up your scientific evaluation.

That's where this test comes into play.

Yes, you may have taken a genius test before. One of two things invariably happened: 

1. They said you were a genius because your qualities and abilities matched the ones that they themselves had and over-valued. Or

2. They said you weren't a genius because they were jealous, jealous of your genius.

Either way they had an axe to grind, a chip in the pot, a cliche nailed up on the metaphor for all souls to see. Oh how I hate them.

On the other hand I don't have an axe to grind. Except against Republicans. And fast food sandwich restaurants. And the rich. And most dog owners. And Kazuo Ishiguro. And the Internet. And Centrists. And the country of Poland. And managers. And the publishing industry. And all the people who don't read my blog. And God. 

And especially those bloody disingenuous people with their damn genius tests!

Oh how I hate them. I hate them more than anything in the whole world! I hate hate hate the genius test people!!!!!

Not for anything they ever did to me. And not really for anything they did to anyone else. But for, well, er, um, actually I can't think of anything right now. And, so, um, maybe I don't hate them all that much. Maybe I like them. I haven't worked that out yet. I have to think this over.

But that's not the point.

The point is, well, it's around here someplace. Hang on while I look.

Oh. I know what it was. It was that you should take my test. 

My god it's hard. Incredibly hard. Awe-inspiringly hard.

No, not the test. I'm referring to writing the introductory comments.

The test is actually pretty easy...

If you're a genius!

 The Clerkmanifesto Genius Quiz

1. The name of this test is:

     A. I'm going to have to think outside of the box for this one, aren't I? Clever!

     B. Ah, you no fool me. Trick question. You tell me what the name of this test is!

     C. The Clerkmanifesto Genius Quiz.

     D. I see, weeding out the weak on the first question.

     E. I'm supposed to expect a first answer to be a "C" or "D", but it's always "E" to throw people off.

2. The most common mistake the blog author makes in writing Clerkmanifesto is:

     A. Its for it's and it's for its.

     B. No, wait, it's it's for its and its for it's. Yes, that one.

     C. Functionally "A" and "B" are the same and so must be a set up for "C" to be correct.

     D. Mistake? But there's never been, oh, I see, wink's as good as a nod to a blind man. Mistake indeed!

     E. I hate to be the one to tell you, but just when Clerkmanifesto has the golden ring in its grasp it gets distracted by the meaning of the universe.

3. The meaning of the Universe is:

     A. Probably around here somewhere.

     B. I just pick whatever letter choice tells me which letter choice to pick. This question doesn't have one of those, but this one is at least closest in spirit.

     C. Oh man, do these get any harder? Who doesn't know this?

     D. People like the "Answer "C"" guy just drive me crazy. Fine, everyone knows, so just tell me for god's sake!

 
     E. Can everyone just settle down here? The answer is "Love", or sometimes "Revenge". Like 90% "Love", 10% "Revenge".

4. How many questions are in this test?

     A. Oh man, this is a mindbender. We, taking the test, can see how many questions there are, but you, still writing the test, cannot. How then will you fill out your multiple choice answers?
          a. Right, I didn't think of that!
          b. b.
          c. How many points do we get for answering the questions in the answers? I'm asking for a friend.
          d. It's not that big a deal, he merely needs to take a fair guess at what the answer will be and then stick to it as he completes writing the quiz.
          e. I'm a friend of "C". Did "C" leave me any messages?

 
     B. Three?

     C. On the 4th question it's almost always "all of the above" or "none of the above". Look for one of those to show up as a choice and choose that. Don't worry, they won't both be in there.

     D. It can't be many more now as most of the thematic and narrative elements have played through.

     E. I'm going to skip this one and come back to it later if there's still time left.

Scoring:


We have automatically scored your test. Well done. Your score is:

43



What your score means:


1-10:


Yes, congratulations! You are a genius. But more the garden variety type that hangs out in the four corners area of the U.S. mistaking train themed murals for the real thing and unsuccessfully hunting flightless birds.


11-20:


You are a hard core genius who, well, you've already deduced the rest of what I was going to say.


21-30:


Hello Albert Einstein!

(This zone range is reserved for Albert Einstein. If by error your test result fell into this range and you are not Albert Einstein please double check your results, resubmit or, if still in the 21-30 range, send an error documentation report to our trunk office. We apologize for any inconvenience).


31-40:

))(__+|\+?>>><&^^^%&$><.<.


41-50:

I'm kind of embarrassed you read my blog, but, like, honored.

Clerkmanifesto classics: Peer Pressure revisited

 

Trying to buck up clerkmanifesto for while I race off to look for a new apartment somewhere across France, I have been posting my glorious new photographic style.

But because I got excited and posted them at ten or twenty at a time, I am now out!

Which means it's time for a clerkmanifesto classic!

This classic is from, well, I don't know, I didn't look. Let's just say it's from the days of yore.

It is called...

Peer Pressure

Rarely does a day go by here at the library wherein one of my co-workers doesn't come up to me and say "Hey, want to go out to the parking lot and do some meth?"

I have heard meth can be unhealthy for you, so, though I'm glad they asked, I am compelled to say "No, thank you."

If only they would leave it at that. But there's always the "Oh, come on, it's fun and it makes you work faster."

So then I mumble "Sorry, but my body is a temple." Which I immediately regret as i watch them roll their eyes at me and walk away.

I was reading a bit of a nice book of poems here by Baudelaire when a co-worker came up behind me. "Oh, hey." They said. "I love that poem!"

"Me too!" I said, delighted one of my co-workers was also a Baudelaire fan.

"Can I have it?" Asked the co-worker.

"You want the book?"

"No, can I just have that poem?"

So I shrugged and started copying out the poem for this person.

"No, just tear out the page." My co-worker said impatiently.

"Oh." I responded. "I can't. It's a library book."

"Pff." The person said. "Like anyone will notice."

"Sorry, I can't." I mumbled. And my co-worker walked away disgusted with me. Later I saw them whispering with someone and pointing at me.

It's hard to find a friend around here.

Maybe I should have torn the page out. It just didn't seem right somehow.

Later that same day a group of us were at the front desk and one of my managers said in a grand invitiation "Who wants a coffee?"

"Me!" I cried out excitedly.

A couple of other people more reservedly expressed interest, and my boss opened up the cash register and took out a couple of twenties.

"Ka-ching." My boss said.

"Can you just take money from the library like that for coffee?" I asked.

"Oh, c'mon, who's gonna care?"

"No thanks." I mumbled embarassedly. "Don't get me one."

The manager shrugged and said "More for us." But I'm pretty sure one of my other co-workers muttered "killjoy" at me under their breath.

Then I had to jealously watch everyone drinking their super fancy coffee drinks while no one talked to me for the rest of the day.

Finally, at the end of the day, when a big group of us were leaving, someone loudly said "Who wants to go downtown, get drunk, and make fun of immigrants?"

Everyone cheered, but I said "Sorry, I can't." in a low voice. 

And someone said "Like we were even asking you." Then they all left together. 

I got in my car and listened to Keith Jarrett on my stereo and maybe cried a little.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I'm better, or more moral than anyone. I'm not saying I'm right and they're wrong.



I'm just different.

Customer feedback from back when clerkmanifesto was hilarious

 

Feeling that I can't in good conscience show you Dr. Seuss style pictures of flowers yet again, but also as yet unable to do anything other than take more pictures and convert them obsessively, I thought it might be a good idea to dig into the vast clerkmanifesto archives.

I quickly found something! It is a laugh a minute riot from another era.

You're going to love this. And it has no pictures of flowers whatsoever!

It's from eight years ago which weirdly seems not that long ago and yet insanely long ago. You know how time is, as you're held in its maniacal thrall just like me.

I've lightly edited this post as it was so close to perfection I could taste it.

Now it is almost as close to perfection as it was before I edited it. Enjoy!

It is time for our annual customer feedback review. If you would be so kind as to fill out this year's Customer Feedback Survey Form we can immediately begin to make the changes to this blog that you have been longing for. Unless you think this blog is already perfect, in which case we won't have to do anything. Which would be nice, because we're really very, very tired.

So tired...

Deeply tired...

Anyway, please do fill out our form:

Clerkmanifesto Customer Feedback Survey, 2026

My number one concern with clerkmanifesto is

A. None. I think it's perfect! Or like, perfect 30 percent of the time.

B. I'm concerned with how tired you are.

C. Ho boy, concern. Plenty of concerns! Pull up a chair. But I mean it in a good way.

D. There must be some mistake. I'm supposed to be here doing the Taco Bell Customer Survey.

E. The narrow and highly particular range of options on your multiple choice surveys.

I read clerkmanifesto

A. Yes.

B. Er, will I still receive a coupon for one of Taco Bell's delicious chimichilangalaquas?

C. EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY!!!!!

D. Answer "C" is making me uncomfortable.

E. Sorry I'm late. Has the survey started yet?

My favorite part of clerkmanifesto is

A. When you pretend you're joking.

B. "Favorite" is a very strong word in this context.

C. Its profound obscurity.

D. Is this clerkmanifesto? It's kind of cute. Do you have any flower pictures?

E. I'd really rather not be pinned down to a single letter choice answer. Oh, foiled again!

My least favorite part of clerkmanifesto is

A.When the hilarity dies down and I am left sadly and wistfully looking at my computer wondering painfully what it's all about.

B. The free kittens. But not so much the crippled ones. I know that doesn't speak well of me but I must answer honestly.

C. When it awkwardly inserts mentions of its corporate sponsor Taco Bell.

D. When it starts going on about how great it is, even if it totally is great, maybe the most amazing thing ever written for the Internet, a work of towering genius and a shining light in a dark world. It is a masterpiece of beauty, vision, and wisdom, and a gift, truly a gift to humanity like no other. I am ever humbled and inspired by it.

E. Yeah. Same as "D" for me. Or maybe "A", although I thought about "B" too for awhile. What was "E" again?

In conclusion I just really want you to know that

A. A customer feedback survey that is functionally impossible to fill out or submit is hardly likely to be a great font of improvement for your little blog.

B. You are undercharging for clerkmanifesto the blog, but overcharging for your wonderful (but expensive) Clerkmanifesto Tea Cosy.

C. Answer "A" is not a nice person, in case you wondered.

D. Your failure to institute any of my suggestions from your last eleven customer feedback surveys only makes me more optimistic that this one is finally gonna be it!

E. All my favorite answers were "E" up until the last one when, oh, curses! Foiled again!

Cote d'Azur

 

It is not usually my nature to write prefaces for my postings here, after all, these missives are carefully short most of the time, a little experimental, conversational, and, hopefully, self contained. But today's piece was written on the train coming home from Montpellier and takes a bit of a darker view of where we live now. Written directly into clerkmanifesto it would be happily standing on its own, but typing it up for you a week later my feelings have moved around a lot, and I find it necessary to explain that this essay, while I still stand behind it, expresses one far end of my more extreme and occasionally rather volatile moods about this Belle Epoque city.

Where we stand in relation to moving or not from here is an open question at the moment, especially in the wake of the charms of Montpellier. And sometimes I think it is not the more negative feelings that are challenging in particular about living here, but the manic nature of it, as it can so terribly delight me as much as it can quickly and bitterly disappoint me too.

Champagne problems maybe.

Anyway, take a look at this:

Cote d'Azur

The ocean is magic in my pretty city on a beach of a million perfect rocks, which everyone hobbles on and pretends are charming.

There is an old city here from a few hundred years ago, the streets colorful and winding and almost Italian. It's packed with souvenir shops and restaurants, vintage stores and butchers and bakeries, and a few nearly but not quite spectacular churches, and a lovely climbing way to an old Jewish cemetery we have not been to once since we moved here.

And there are people. People people people, all pouring through the city even into the wee hours, filling the vast promenade above the stony beach, and driving their cars to nowhere on the mad four lane road between the city and its paradise. And there are all the tourists lost in a dazzled wonder and release from less glamorous and obliging cities, and the residents carefully turned out (or sometimes just down and out), strangely hard and impatient, posing a dream life under made up faces and well assembled clothes.

What joy this pretty city brings; its happy colors, its well studied aging, the elegant flourishes of its curling architecture and its curling nearly unintelligible language.

You should see its darling little waves turn white in the moonlight!

You should walk its famous markets smelling flowers and nibbling socca. Sit on a lit terrace sipping a hugo spritz and feel the breeze.

Ah.

Visit this city.

Visit this pretty city once, even twice!

But don't stay too long.

Eventually, all you will see under the makeup, is money.

Clerkmanifestoland: An encounter with the King

 

I have been working on this for several days, and though I wrote the text story today, I have been piecing it together all day with pictures and lore I have been developing all week. What is it? You might ask. Metafiction, sort of. It's a way of showing you my amusement park Clerkmanifestoland, and I may include more little illustrated stories like these in the future to show off the park. 

Think of it as a short short story, or just someone's online magazine account of his day at Clerkmanifestoland.

A Jacket, a Beggar King, and a Book: My Day in Clerkmanifestoland

I had never planned to go to Clerkmanifestoland.

I’d heard of it, of course—everyone has. The internet churns out anecdotes about the crowds, the surprise White Stripes reunion, the philosopher bartenders, the animatronic Holden Caulfields. But it always seemed like something for other people. I’m not an amusement park person. I never have been.

But this spring, traveling solo and with a free day on my hands, I found myself just outside its gates. I booked a last-minute stay in one of the park’s official accommodations—a beautiful, simple room within walking distance of the entrance. No perks, no early admission. Just economical design, a surprisingly good restaurant, and the sense that everything existed for the sake of the park alone. There’s nothing else in the area. No distractions. Just the park.

I didn’t plan. I barely read the park map. I showed up at opening, showed my ticket, got a required temporary tattoo (don't worry, it really does wash off, eventually), and just... wandered.

I didn’t make it into the famous Borromini vs. Bernini Martin Buber Memorial Theater. 

The line was constant, stretching down cobbled alleys, people waiting for mystery performances and rumored musical apparitions. I’d heard Dylan had performed there, more than once. George Clooney read from the blog. But I wasn’t in the mood to wait. Not then.

Instead, I drifted through the park, wide-eyed and slowly disarmed.

The Fox and Skunk in Arles ride caught me off guard.

 

I’d seen their images—the park mascots—but didn’t expect much. Yet the ride was painterly and strange, dreamlike and warm. The boats glided past animatronic Fox and Skunk seated in The Night Café with Van Gogh himself.

 But the trip through the lavender fields with fox and skunk waving and our whole boat disappearing into a flowering hill was the moment that I understood that an amusement park ride might actually be able to be art. The whole thing moved at the pace of reverence. I loved it.

Other things amused or confounded me. I ended up at Pooh and Piglet, a café in Library Storyland, and ordered a honey flight, because that’s literally all they served. It was absurd and oddly moving. Everyone was taking pictures. Some were asked not to sit down unless they ordered. So I did. And I tasted six kinds of honey. It was good, but it was honey.

But the best thing—by far—was my encounter with the King of Schnorrers.

A friend had told me, half-seriously: “Bring something good. If he notices you, you might get picked.” I had this old, theatrical red-and-white velvet show jacket. Vertical stripes. Knee-length. From a theater production I’d done years ago that had a great costume designer. I wore it without much thought, maybe a little hope.

I was in Bugheart Sur Mer, one of the five lands of Clerkmanifestoland, near The Philosopher’s Café, when he found me.

“Can you help a man out?” he said, in a deep Yiddish-tinged accent. “A man with nothing... while you have so much.” He was enormous. Later I learned he’s exactly seven feet tall, though at the time I thought he might be larger. He’s dressed like a 19th-century Eastern European beggar king: hat, vest, a suit once opulent, now worn to threads.

He asked—no, begged—for my jacket. And I gave it to him.

He was delighted. Triumphant. He asked for more. A ten-spot. My cookies. He quoted the Talmud. I laughed and gave what I had. It was ridiculous and theatrical and unexpectedly touching. Then he handed me a small paper ticket.

“Your time is 3:15 to 3:30,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

Yankele, his apprentice and assistant (as well as his in-character suitor for the King’s daughter, Deborah da Costa), quietly gave me directions. 

I was to go to New Saint Minneapolis (one of the five lands in the park, for those of you not in the know) and find the statue. I’d seen it earlier: the solid bronze likeness of the King of Schnorrers beside an old wooden door not too far from a ride about The Catcher in the Rye.

At 3:15 sharp, I stared at the door. Finally I figured out what I was (probably) supposed to do and slipped my ticket through the slot that literally just said "Here".

The door opened. A British butler greeted me with a bow. “Do you have a guest with you, sir?”

I did not. I stepped into another world.

The interior was lush and lightless. No windows. Plush, upholstered walls. Quiet music. A lounge like an English drawing room, complete with library shelves and crackling fire. The butler served champagne and caviar canapés. He offered me a book. I declined, too stunned.

There was another guest already there from the slot 15 minutes before mine. We talked. He had given the King his wallet, practically emptied it, not knowing why. With his earlier time slot he was called and Yankele appeared with a wink to me and escorted him to the treasure room.

Later, they came for me.

“Because you give to the poor,” Yankele explained, still half in character, “you earn your reward in heaven.”

I entered Your Reward in Heaven—a chamber filled with strange and dazzling objects. I could take one.

I browsed. A signed Joe DiMaggio baseball card. An antique pocket watch. A tiny sculpture carved from translucent stone. But then I saw it: The King of Schnorrers and Other Grotesques, first edition, signed by Israel Zangwill himself.

I took the book. It felt right.

The butler thanked me. Yankele gave me a second ticket—gold-colored this time—granting access to a hidden boutique later that evening. I never even found it, but I didn’t mind. The whole experience felt like a dream.

Afterward, I walked back into the sunlit crowds, champagne still fizzing in my blood. I found a picnic spot in the Maze of Cataloging and ate a bento box lunch I’d picked up in Bugheart Plaza. Salmon, pickled vegetables, perfect rice. I watched other guests pass, some wide-eyed, some exhausted, all a little altered.

That night, I read from my Zangwill book in the courtyard of the Bookstore across from the Bugheart Carousel. A quiet wind moved through the brick alleys. And somewhere in my mind, Fox and Skunk were waving to a boat.

Pablo Picasso (I'm not)

 

For possibly the first time in around 4,000 of these posts, I don't much want to say anything about what I have here. For whatever it is, working or not, it's all there as it is.

So

As ever, click through the picture:

Taking responsibility for the election of Trump

 

Out among all the blame, the shocked and justifiable horror, and all the agonizing, moot cries of "How did this happen!", the one thing I am not seeing, nor have ever seen in regards to the rise and ascendency of Trumpica, is anyone taking responsibility.

And so I have decided to step up. 

It is not in my usual nature to take on such a great burden or to shoulder so disproportionate a culpability. But I understand now that my angry demands that somewhere among the powerful, among those very many who benefit and thrive, there be people who bear the guilt of this great fall in the standard of our country, will not be answered. And so, without recourse, I alone assume the liability.

I am sorry.

This is my fault.

Millions of people will suffer from this dark and twisted worming spiral into Trumpica. And while, of course, the people who have sought this, sold it, fought for it, and voted it in, bear the ultimate responsibility for it, among those said to fight against it there must be some blame to assign as well, some door to mark with the failure of this resistance.

I am this door.

I alone have failed this fight.

I take all accountability and all the debt of this loss. For this you have my deepest, heartfelt apology. I have let everyone down. I should have done better. 

And should you wander now from this tiniest of places on the Internet into the vast arenas where voices are shouting out the blame, do not hesitate to stand and clear your throat, and sadly say:

"No. It was clerkmanifesto who did this.

And he's really sorry."

For so it is.

The Animals in your library

 

Perhaps it was all building up to this. But with the aid of the holiday I was able to complete my tour de force "Animals in the Library" music video. It is three minutes long, has a song according to my lyrics and the work of my robot friends, and features 20 to 30 different animals, though I am now thinking I forgot to put in the Mastodon.

Ah well, it's too late now. It belongs to the world now...

As ever, click the picture to the video, though this is not a precise comes alive match up today.

Bob Dylan and Neil Young at the VFW

 

Bob Dylan was extremely interested in my account of my library job's social hour/farewell at the local VFW. Bob and I go out for drinks whenever he's in town, but more at cool cocktail bars and good smelling distilleries that serve, you know, good food and drinks. No shade on the local VFW, but... it doesn't.

Nevertheless, Bob loved the idea of the VFW, so he flew in from... somewhere. I think the South, where he'd been touring.

He's always touring.

I met him at the VFW. He brought a friend, or an acquaintance. Bob knows a lot of people. I knew this person too, but only by virtue of his fame. It was Neil Young.

Bob didn't introduce us. And Neil had the slightly stunned look of a person who left a rare day off on his own tour in order to fly to Minnesota and go to a VFW because of god knows what Dylan told him.

We signed in, which I learned one does at a VFW, and we grabbed a table. No one recognized us. We fit the average age demographic, with me being the youngster. We ordered Bulleit Ryes and ginger ale. Bob looked super happy for some reason I could not fathom. Neil fidgeted, but settled down drinking. He finally noticed me. "Are you a musician?" He asked.

"No. I write a blog." I replied. "Clerkmanifesto."

"It's sort of good and read by no one." Bob commented drily, insulting at least six of you out there on the Internet who do actually read it. Look at you now! But I've never noticed any of you to take offense at this sort of thing. Also, Bob reads clerkmanifesto or we wouldn't have been sitting in a raw VFW in a Saint Minneapolis suburb.

Neil took out his phone and started fiddling with it, I assumed to conduct some personal or professional business, but no. He showed me the screen. It was clerkmanifesto. "Is this it?" He asked.

"Yes."

Neil started reading.

Bob and I drank and talked about what we always talk about, which is pretty much anything, and I won't go into these discussions in this particular post. Maybe in a future account. Every once in awhile I'd sneak a peak at Neil's phone. It was always clerkmanifesto. He was quietly reading slowly through, though the sheer volume of clerkmanifesto was bound to defeat him sometime in the evening.

After too many drinks and a wind down with barely tolerable burgers and fries, the VFW closed and spit us into the night. Neil put away his phone and politely said goodbye. He had to get going.

Bob and I went to a nearby swamp to go for a walk in the warmish night.

We didn't say much. We just walked along with the strange sounds in the water. Then I asked "Do you think he liked it?"

"Who?" Bob asked.

"Neil Young. He said nothing and read clerkmanifesto for five straight hours." I exclaimed. "Do you think he liked it?"

"Why would that matter?" Bob asked with genuine interest.

I thought about the question for awhile, but didn't answer.

We walked quietly for awhile more.

Then I started singing softly:

"Oh, the hours we'd spent inside the Coliseum

Dodging lions and a wasting time

Oh, those mighty kings of the jungle, I hardly stand to see em"

Usually when I start singing Bob Dylan to Bob Dylan he gets quietly and amusingly irritated. But for some strange reason he started singing along with me!

"It sure has been a long, hard climb

Train wheels running through the back of my memory

When I ran on the hilltop following a pack of wild geese

Someday everything is gonna sound like a rhapsody

When I paint my masterpiece"

Branding

 

You sure don't get to be a mega-blog like clerkmanifesto without relentless marketing and branding. The success of clerkmanifesto's famous "bugheart" logo and its ubiquitous "CM" has made this eleven year old blog into a global titan with over six daily readers!

I think it's at least six. I kind of don't want to know if it's less.

Although, who would tell me?

But what I'm saying is that one doesn't get to this kind of level without putting in the work. And that is why I have been taking advantage of this mild weather to get out on the train tracks, among the abandoned underpasses, and in the thick of the industrial wastelands, to get the word out with my signature graffiti pieces that represent clerkmanifesto to an unknowing public.

For your pleasure I have herein photographed these pieces for you.

These also explain why two of my six daily readers are hoboes.