I work with many volunteers, patrons, and, problematically, because it is unacknowledged, an occasional co-worker, who I assume has some basic kind of developmental disability. That is, something is limited in their social facility or thinking processes in some significant way, but I don't exactly know what. I don't know the wide extent of it, the diagnosis, or usually even the extent to which it redefines or circumscribes their lives. There are some volunteers and many patrons where it is extremely clear that they deal with profound social functioning issues, but all of it is on a kind of continuum, and as the list of things a person is able to do on their own grows, it starts to meet up with all the other people I know and deal with who are considered perfectly able. But no one is perfectly able. We all carry at least a few bits of damage, at least, and personality itself is partly, in the glass half empty scheme of things, defined by things that don't work so well in us.
So it turns out we are all developmentally disabled, at least in a non scientific sense of that term. And this is an understanding, not a theory. If you think the President of the United States, or a revered author, or the Astronauts in space do not find it painfully difficult or impossible to do things you or I can do as a matter of course, or at least with basic facility, then you have misunderstood the very nature of human beings. We have been given the responsibilities of the gods, but none of their powers.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Elaborate russian puns
I do not really write jokes, I mean, not formal, two rabbis walk into a bar jokes. But sometimes they are visited upon me, an idea, a response, a light bulb moment that causes my brain to thrust a joke into my hands. This happens almost always at the Library. Sometimes I just get the kernel of the joke to start and am compelled to puzzle out the rest of it. These jokes are almost exclusively pun related, and, like most jokes, are not terribly funny. But with the visitation of the joke comes a Rime of the Ancient Mariner like need to tell said joke. I don't even put up the suggestion of a fight. I know my duty when I see it. I march off and tell the joke to the five people in nearest proximity to me. If, as with the joke below, it appears to me while I am dealing with a patron, I tell the patron, usually along with whoever my co-worker is out there. Then I walk into the back room and tell whoever is back there. Then I walk to the teen room and tell the teen librarian. Usually I manage to tell it really well just one of the times I tell it. That helps lift the curse. There are usually two to five tellings before I am released. There must have been some albatross I killed somewhere, but I can't remember.
So if I am released, why am I sharing this joke with you now? No, sorry, it is not too good to deprive you of. What actually happened is that it started out simple, but not quite right. And as I told it more and more I kept layering it up. By the time it all sort of fit properly together I'd already told it to everyone, so I need this one more telling to release me from my responsibilities.
A man with a pair of skis goes to see a Doctor.
"I didn't know whether to come to you Doctor, my ailment just seems so strange, but it's driving me crazy and I need help." The man says.
"Yes, what's the problem?"
"My Russian grandmother died and left me these very old skis. They are a family heirloom once belonging to a great composer. I am an avid skier and as soon as I could I excitedly took my new skis out to the slopes. Before I even made it down my first run I started coughing a bizarre and horrible cough!"
"What is so strange about this cough?" The Doctor asks.
"Well, when I cough, the taste of black tea, with spices of cardamon, ginger, and black pepper, floods my mouth. And the cough, the cough, no matter what I do, makes the sound of The 1812 Overture! Here, I'll show you."
The man clips the skis to his boots and is soon coughing. Sure enough the cough sounds just like The 1812 Overture, and the man manages to say "Yes, and there's the taste of the spiced black tea as well."
The Doctor looks carefully at the man. She feels his glands. Then she crouches down and looks at the skis. "I see the problem." She says nodding.
"Yes?" inquires the man eagerly.
"These aren't just any skis." The Doctor says. "These are Chai Cough Skis."
So if I am released, why am I sharing this joke with you now? No, sorry, it is not too good to deprive you of. What actually happened is that it started out simple, but not quite right. And as I told it more and more I kept layering it up. By the time it all sort of fit properly together I'd already told it to everyone, so I need this one more telling to release me from my responsibilities.
A man with a pair of skis goes to see a Doctor.
"I didn't know whether to come to you Doctor, my ailment just seems so strange, but it's driving me crazy and I need help." The man says.
"Yes, what's the problem?"
"My Russian grandmother died and left me these very old skis. They are a family heirloom once belonging to a great composer. I am an avid skier and as soon as I could I excitedly took my new skis out to the slopes. Before I even made it down my first run I started coughing a bizarre and horrible cough!"
"What is so strange about this cough?" The Doctor asks.
"Well, when I cough, the taste of black tea, with spices of cardamon, ginger, and black pepper, floods my mouth. And the cough, the cough, no matter what I do, makes the sound of The 1812 Overture! Here, I'll show you."
The man clips the skis to his boots and is soon coughing. Sure enough the cough sounds just like The 1812 Overture, and the man manages to say "Yes, and there's the taste of the spiced black tea as well."
The Doctor looks carefully at the man. She feels his glands. Then she crouches down and looks at the skis. "I see the problem." She says nodding.
"Yes?" inquires the man eagerly.
"These aren't just any skis." The Doctor says. "These are Chai Cough Skis."
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Sport in street
I was in bed with my wife, and I was trying to sleep at 10:30 in the evening. Still recovering from a rough cold it was not easy going. But whatever natural problems of illness I had in sleeping were increased exponentially by the sound of people playing ball in the street. A group of young men had moved into the large rental house just a little down the block from us. This house has always been a problem in the sense that whoever has lived there has been strongly inclined to make a lot of noise on the street, often in the wee hours of the morning. This wasn't the wee hours, but it was annoying and seemed to be issuing from that most usual culprit. Thud, thud, Thud, THUD, thud thud. Was it a basketball? No, too irregular. A football? No, too frequent. Certainly it had to be a larger, air filled ball. The sound was too blunt for anything stiffer, like a Frisbee, or baseball. And what was it that could go on like that with no rhythm and no break?
I tossed and turned. Fortunately I wasn't coughing. That was good. If only they would stop, I thought, I could maybe sleep.
Thud, thud, thud, Thud THUD, thud. There were no animating noises of young men at play. Just the ball, or whatever it was. I could make no sense of the noise. I could not crack this puzzle.
Finally overcome with curiosity I rose from bed, went to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered out. In the middle of the street were three young men, maybe in their twenties, kicking a soccer ball between them. There was no chatter, no competition. It was serious and earnest, and they were very, very, very good. Heads, chest, knees, feet, onto the next one, and as I stood watching for two minutes, cold and sleep deprived, not once did that soccer ball ever touch ground. Not even close. Professional soccer players had moved into the house down the street.
As I went back to bed I dealt with a small stew of reactions. To get that good you have to play a lot of futbol. This could go on for quite awhile! And I also thought, they were really good! I don't know if it was the satisfaction of my curiosity, the increase in my sleepiness, or my respect for them, perhaps it was all three, but I was asleep in minutes. I don't know how late they played.
I tossed and turned. Fortunately I wasn't coughing. That was good. If only they would stop, I thought, I could maybe sleep.
Thud, thud, thud, Thud THUD, thud. There were no animating noises of young men at play. Just the ball, or whatever it was. I could make no sense of the noise. I could not crack this puzzle.
Finally overcome with curiosity I rose from bed, went to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered out. In the middle of the street were three young men, maybe in their twenties, kicking a soccer ball between them. There was no chatter, no competition. It was serious and earnest, and they were very, very, very good. Heads, chest, knees, feet, onto the next one, and as I stood watching for two minutes, cold and sleep deprived, not once did that soccer ball ever touch ground. Not even close. Professional soccer players had moved into the house down the street.
As I went back to bed I dealt with a small stew of reactions. To get that good you have to play a lot of futbol. This could go on for quite awhile! And I also thought, they were really good! I don't know if it was the satisfaction of my curiosity, the increase in my sleepiness, or my respect for them, perhaps it was all three, but I was asleep in minutes. I don't know how late they played.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Script for 3 minute movie
Not having the energy or suitable skills to film the following
3-minute YouTube video, I present it here as a teleplay script. Not
really knowing how to write a teleplay script I present it here sort of as a roughly
written description of a 3-minute video. It was inspired by the teen librarian's account of a Library event in which a participant stumbled into a meeting room wall and put a huge crack and dent in it. The participant was uninjured.
Opening shot: Person in a white, brightly lit room. No windows, no doors. The person sits in a simple chair calmly reading a book. The camera starts out very static, but moves about more and more as events unfold.
There is a sudden, almost sonic burst of energy. Some invisible force seems to slam into one of the white walls. From this, the wall visibly buckles and a massive crack forms across the wall, nearly running from the floor to the ceiling. The person starts at the noise and looks amazed and uneasy at the damaged wall. The person investigates and finds no explanation. As they begin to accept the oddity, the same bizarre concussive event happens on the wall to their right. The person is now seriously spooked, looking around at they know not what, when, before their eyes, another wall invisibly splits with a deep crack and a boom. Frantic, feeling under assault by what seems to be some hostile spirit they cannot identify, the person starts freaking out. They are whirling and desperate as the camera also whirls in a frenzy about them. With a massive shocking boom the last untouched wall is slammed unseen and cracked and bent by force. The person is thrown into terror. Spinning about madly they suddenly face the camera, and us, the viewers, directly. They calm with alarming suddenly, and, completely composed, they say to the camera "You broke the fourth wall."
Room and Walls
Opening shot: Person in a white, brightly lit room. No windows, no doors. The person sits in a simple chair calmly reading a book. The camera starts out very static, but moves about more and more as events unfold.
There is a sudden, almost sonic burst of energy. Some invisible force seems to slam into one of the white walls. From this, the wall visibly buckles and a massive crack forms across the wall, nearly running from the floor to the ceiling. The person starts at the noise and looks amazed and uneasy at the damaged wall. The person investigates and finds no explanation. As they begin to accept the oddity, the same bizarre concussive event happens on the wall to their right. The person is now seriously spooked, looking around at they know not what, when, before their eyes, another wall invisibly splits with a deep crack and a boom. Frantic, feeling under assault by what seems to be some hostile spirit they cannot identify, the person starts freaking out. They are whirling and desperate as the camera also whirls in a frenzy about them. With a massive shocking boom the last untouched wall is slammed unseen and cracked and bent by force. The person is thrown into terror. Spinning about madly they suddenly face the camera, and us, the viewers, directly. They calm with alarming suddenly, and, completely composed, they say to the camera "You broke the fourth wall."
Monday, November 11, 2013
my drugs
I have recently mentioned here that as a teen, and for a while into my twenties, I took a variety of drugs. I took hard drugs. But I don't mean it in the conventional use of that description. Hard drugs usually is intended to refer to something about the strength and danger of the drugs in question. What I mean by hard drugs has to do with difficulty. I took drugs that were extremely difficult. Drugs that challenged one's notion of oneself. Drugs that made me uncomfortable. Drugs that launched assaults on the edges of my consciousness, on my notions of what being human is, and on my very sanity.
They were interesting, but they were not well suited to me.
When I was 16, 17, 18, I took LSD, mushrooms, peyote. I smoked pot too, but rarely actually found it fun. I remember one moment of insight, some weekend with the boys in Todd's house, taking LSD while his parents were away, finding my way to the hall bathroom where Todd was doing something with his face in the mirror, and saying to him "But this is how I always am."
Fly high? Do not seek the sun. Fly low? Do not touch the water. Sociable, confident? Don't drink alcohol. Energetic, high revving? You do not need caffeine. Spacey, musing, thoughtful? Avoid marijuana. Lucid, anxious? Eschew the hallucinogens.
I don't think drugs are essential. I don't need to be on drugs. But the right ones can be nice too. I drink alcohol moderately on occasion. It's especially helpful in social situations. I have caffeine daily. I love the drink, but to have a flush of energy and vividness once or twice a day is lovely too. These are the right drugs for me. Not because they are legal, I don't believe drugs should be illegal, and of course marijuana and acid are vastly less dangerous than alcohol, but because they suit me, because they are easy, not hard.
A very small story I am prone to tell is this one I have told you, that I took the wrong drugs as a teenager. And it is true that I would have done much better in that time with a little alcohol softening uncomfortableness and caffeine to show me something about restless energy. But none of it would have solved the deeper problems running through my life at that time. And of all the things I have had to survive in my life, I feel a little pride at surviving LSD and Peyote and the like. They were a little like surviving myself.
They were interesting, but they were not well suited to me.
When I was 16, 17, 18, I took LSD, mushrooms, peyote. I smoked pot too, but rarely actually found it fun. I remember one moment of insight, some weekend with the boys in Todd's house, taking LSD while his parents were away, finding my way to the hall bathroom where Todd was doing something with his face in the mirror, and saying to him "But this is how I always am."
Fly high? Do not seek the sun. Fly low? Do not touch the water. Sociable, confident? Don't drink alcohol. Energetic, high revving? You do not need caffeine. Spacey, musing, thoughtful? Avoid marijuana. Lucid, anxious? Eschew the hallucinogens.
I don't think drugs are essential. I don't need to be on drugs. But the right ones can be nice too. I drink alcohol moderately on occasion. It's especially helpful in social situations. I have caffeine daily. I love the drink, but to have a flush of energy and vividness once or twice a day is lovely too. These are the right drugs for me. Not because they are legal, I don't believe drugs should be illegal, and of course marijuana and acid are vastly less dangerous than alcohol, but because they suit me, because they are easy, not hard.
A very small story I am prone to tell is this one I have told you, that I took the wrong drugs as a teenager. And it is true that I would have done much better in that time with a little alcohol softening uncomfortableness and caffeine to show me something about restless energy. But none of it would have solved the deeper problems running through my life at that time. And of all the things I have had to survive in my life, I feel a little pride at surviving LSD and Peyote and the like. They were a little like surviving myself.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
My recommended books: The Hundred Greatest Books, Albums, and Artists (With Romantic Comedy recommendations too!)
You will also find The Hundred Greatest Albums of all time list here (in progress). I am just starting The Hundred Greatest Artists too. And a Recommended Romantic Comedy list has been added. All of this is below.
Three brief notes before the recommendations:
1. Every (usually Red) colored title, name or sometimes word in here is a link to one of my at least somewhat relevant blog posts.
2. Books are by genre and so may duplicate in multiple genre lists.
The Hundred Greatest Books ever written, with each individual book being the single greatest book ever written. By genre.
Mysteries:
The Big Over Easy and The Fourth Bear by Jasper Fforde.
Coyote Waits and Sacred Clowns by Hillerman (I liked his mystery series very much, but it peaked here for me and qualified for my list).
Straight, Proof, Whip hand by Dick Francis (and actually most of his mid career mysteries, some of the early ones, none of the late late ones)
Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night by Haddon
Murder on the Orient Express and various Poirot by Agatha Christie
The Doorbell Rang, well, and all Nero Wolfe mysteries by Rex Stout. Yep, the whole lot of them. I suppose I could nitpick away half a dozen out of the "Love" list, but I won't.
The Big Sleep by Chandler (the whole series, though it's been awhile)
The Doorbell Rang, well, and all Nero Wolfe mysteries by Rex Stout. Yep, the whole lot of them. I suppose I could nitpick away half a dozen out of the "Love" list, but I won't.
The Big Sleep by Chandler (the whole series, though it's been awhile)
Collected Sherlock Holmes (Though possibly not after Return of Sherlock Holmes) by Arthur Conan Doyle
Young Adult/Children's:
Catcher in the Rye by Salinger
Wee Free Men and Hat full of Sky, Wintersmith, and I Shall Wear Midnight by Pratchett (The first four of the Tiffany Aching saga)
The Snarkout boys and the Avocado of Death by Daniel Pinkwater
Dragonsong and Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey
Blue Sword by Robin Mckinley
The Golden Compass and The Subtle Knife by Pullman ( but sadly, not the third one)
The Last Dragonslayer and The Song of the Quarkbeast by Jasper Fforde
Young Adult/Children's:
Catcher in the Rye by Salinger
Wee Free Men and Hat full of Sky, Wintersmith, and I Shall Wear Midnight by Pratchett (The first four of the Tiffany Aching saga)
The Snarkout boys and the Avocado of Death by Daniel Pinkwater
Dragonsong and Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey
Blue Sword by Robin Mckinley
The Golden Compass and The Subtle Knife by Pullman ( but sadly, not the third one)
The Last Dragonslayer and The Song of the Quarkbeast by Jasper Fforde
The Adrian Mole Diaries by Townsend (I can only commit to the first two volumes, when he is still a teenager).
Sabriel and Lirael by Garth Nix
Pippi Longstocking by Lindgren
Wizard of Earthsea, Tombs of Atuan, and (maybe?) Farthest Shore by LeGuin
Homeland, Pirate Cinema, and Little Brother by Cory Doctorow
There's a Boy in the Girls Bathroom and all the Wayside School books (including the new one-this being noted here in 2020) by Louis Sachar
Danny Champion of the World and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Dahl
The Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith
Tomorrow When the war Began by John Marsden (and the whole "Tomorrow" series. It's about a bunch of older teens off camping in Australia when their country is invaded by Indonesia or something. They become Guerilla fighters. A more real world feel Hunger Games)
The Chosen by Potok
The Last Dragonslayer and The Song of the Quarkbeast by Jasper Fforde
The Absolutely True Story of a Part-time Indian by Sherman Alexie (the appearance of this book on this list is largely inspired by the piece here that the title links to. Let's just say for now that I like this book very much).
Winnie the Pooh, and House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne
Sci Fi:
The Left Hand of Darkness, The Disposessed, The Word for World is Forest, Four Ways to Forgiveness, and a lot of the story collections by Ursula K. LeGuin
Cats Cradle, Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut (and I think Sirens of Titan, which I might want to reread)
The Eyre Affair and all its sequels by Jasper Fforde
Gateway by Frederik Pohl
The Long Walk by Stephen King
Star Diaries by Stanislaw Lem
Night Watch by Lukyanenko
The Rook by Daniel O'malley
Fantasy:
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde (and really, and all its sequels)
The Last Dragonslayer and The Song of the Quarkbeast by Jasper Fforde
Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett and a scattering of others, most of which include the witches
Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
Wise Mens' Fear by Patrick Rothfuss (sequel to above)
Blue Sword by Robin Mckinley
Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien (I don't even want to talk about the movies, feh)
The Golden Compass by Pullman (and The Subtle Knife, but sadly, not the third one)
Sabriel and Lirael by Garth Nix
The Left Hand of Darkness by LeGuin (and large amounts of her other books, including some of the story collections, and Disposessed, Wizard of Earthsea first three)
Nightwatch by Lukyanenko
Non Fiction:
Adventure:
Ship of the Line by Forester (and the whole Horatio Hornblower saga)
Just regular old Fiction:
In Watermelon Sugar by Brautigan (and a healthy bit of the poetry and Trout Fishing)
The Magic Christian by Terry Southern
Don Quixote by Cervantes (revered literature!)
Bartleby the Scrivener by Melville (look at me with the revered literature stuff!)
Finnegans Wake by James Joyce (based on about four pages, but, still, there's something about it. Search my posts for my encounter, no, wait, go here, and here) This choice elevates the tone of my list like crazy!
Dead Souls by Gogol
King of the Schnorrers by Zangwill
Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
The Mr. Putter and Tabby series by Cynthia Rylant and Arthur Howard
On the Beach by Neil Young
Hmm, I am not even close to finished. So, more later...
Romantic Comedy Movies:
(Of all the lists here this alone is not heralded as "The Hundred Greatest". Why? Because even though I adore these movies all but a few have... imperfections? Let's leave it at that for now).
This is your starter pack:
The Romantic Comedies (and this) I love and recommend include:
Moonstruck
Notting Hill
Love Actually
Music and Lyrics
French Kiss
The Holiday
Tin Cup
Wimbledon
Two Weeks Notice
The Sandler/Barrymore trifecta:
Wedding Singer
50 First Dates
Blended
Coming additions: 100 Greatest Artists
Sabriel and Lirael by Garth Nix
Pippi Longstocking by Lindgren
Wizard of Earthsea, Tombs of Atuan, and (maybe?) Farthest Shore by LeGuin
Homeland, Pirate Cinema, and Little Brother by Cory Doctorow
There's a Boy in the Girls Bathroom and all the Wayside School books (including the new one-this being noted here in 2020) by Louis Sachar
Danny Champion of the World and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Dahl
The Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith
Tomorrow When the war Began by John Marsden (and the whole "Tomorrow" series. It's about a bunch of older teens off camping in Australia when their country is invaded by Indonesia or something. They become Guerilla fighters. A more real world feel Hunger Games)
The Chosen by Potok
The Last Dragonslayer and The Song of the Quarkbeast by Jasper Fforde
The Absolutely True Story of a Part-time Indian by Sherman Alexie (the appearance of this book on this list is largely inspired by the piece here that the title links to. Let's just say for now that I like this book very much).
Lockwood and Co., starting with The Screaming Staircase and exemplifying every quality of a multi book fantasy series done right from start to finish (I think I'd better write a post about this, so one day this should be highlighted). A five book series by Jonathan Stroud.
Harry Potter 1-3 by J.K. Rowling
Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer by Twain
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
Winnie the Pooh, and House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne
Alvin's Secret Code by Clifford B. Hicks (A book I read regularly when I was young, but not since!)
Maniac McGee by Jerry Spinelli
A Long Way From Chicago by Richard Peck
A Year Down Yonder by Richard Peck
The Mr. Putter and Tabby series by Cynthia Rylant and Arthur Howard
Romance:
Blue Sword by Robin Mckinley
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (nothing else of hers quite does it though)
Bridget Jones Diary by Helen Fielding
The Mr. Putter and Tabby series by Cynthia Rylant and Arthur Howard
Romance:
Blue Sword by Robin Mckinley
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (nothing else of hers quite does it though)
Bridget Jones Diary by Helen Fielding
Sci Fi:
The Left Hand of Darkness, The Disposessed, The Word for World is Forest, Four Ways to Forgiveness, and a lot of the story collections by Ursula K. LeGuin
Cats Cradle, Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut (and I think Sirens of Titan, which I might want to reread)
The Eyre Affair and all its sequels by Jasper Fforde
Gateway by Frederik Pohl
The Long Walk by Stephen King
Star Diaries by Stanislaw Lem
Night Watch by Lukyanenko
The Rook by Daniel O'malley
Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card
The Martian by Andy Weir
The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells
Fantasy:
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde (and really, and all its sequels)
The Last Dragonslayer and The Song of the Quarkbeast by Jasper Fforde
Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett and a scattering of others, most of which include the witches
Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
Wise Mens' Fear by Patrick Rothfuss (sequel to above)
Blue Sword by Robin Mckinley
Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien (I don't even want to talk about the movies, feh)
The Golden Compass by Pullman (and The Subtle Knife, but sadly, not the third one)
Sabriel and Lirael by Garth Nix
The Left Hand of Darkness by LeGuin (and large amounts of her other books, including some of the story collections, and Disposessed, Wizard of Earthsea first three)
Nightwatch by Lukyanenko
Deadly Education by Naomi Novik
Lockwood and Co., a five book series by Jonathan Stroud, starting with The Screaming Staircase and exemplifying every quality of a multi book fantasy series done right from start to finish.
Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain
Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faerie by Heather Fawcett
Memoir:
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
Surely you're Joking Mr. Feynman by Feynman and some other guy (this actually is the exception to my rule that no good book is written by two authors, one vastly more famous that the other).
Fishwhistle, and Uncle Boris in the Yukon by Daniel Pinkwater
The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston
My Family and other Animals by Gerald Durrell (the post this links to importantly qualifies this entry)
Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faerie by Heather Fawcett
Memoir:
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
Surely you're Joking Mr. Feynman by Feynman and some other guy (this actually is the exception to my rule that no good book is written by two authors, one vastly more famous that the other).
Fishwhistle, and Uncle Boris in the Yukon by Daniel Pinkwater
The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston
My Family and other Animals by Gerald Durrell (the post this links to importantly qualifies this entry)
The Dog Who Wouldn't Be, The Boat that Wouldn't Float, Never Cry Wolf, People of the Deer, all by Farley Mowat
It's Only Slow Food Until you Try and Eat It by Bill Heavey
All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot
Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes
Maus by Art Spiegelman
Non Fiction:
(See above category as well)
In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan
Summerhill by A. S. Neill
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe
Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown
The Tracker (also) by Tom Brown Jr. (honestly it probably doesn't so much belong in non fiction, but...)
Never Cry Wolf, The Dog Who Wouldn't Be, and People of the Deer by Farley Mowat (come to think of it let's add The Boat Who Wouldn't Float which is awfully nice to spend a bit of time with)
The Man Who Ate Everything by Steingarten
Searching for Bobby Fischer by Fred Waitzkin
Context by Cory Doctorow
In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan
Summerhill by A. S. Neill
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe
Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown
The Tracker (also) by Tom Brown Jr. (honestly it probably doesn't so much belong in non fiction, but...)
Never Cry Wolf, The Dog Who Wouldn't Be, and People of the Deer by Farley Mowat (come to think of it let's add The Boat Who Wouldn't Float which is awfully nice to spend a bit of time with)
The Man Who Ate Everything by Steingarten
Searching for Bobby Fischer by Fred Waitzkin
Context by Cory Doctorow
The collected Miss Manners Books (any that are mainly compendiums of the columns) by Judith Martin
Adventure:
Ship of the Line by Forester (and the whole Horatio Hornblower saga)
Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway
The Dog Who Wouldn't Be, The Boat that Wouldn't Float, Never Cry Wolf, People of the Deer, all by Farley Mowat
Call of the Wild by Jack London
Hatchet by Gary Paulsen
A Dream in Polar Fog by Yuri Rytkheu
Just regular old Fiction:
In Watermelon Sugar by Brautigan (and a healthy bit of the poetry and Trout Fishing)
The Magic Christian by Terry Southern
Don Quixote by Cervantes (revered literature!)
Bartleby the Scrivener by Melville (look at me with the revered literature stuff!)
Finnegans Wake by James Joyce (based on about four pages, but, still, there's something about it. Search my posts for my encounter, no, wait, go here, and here) This choice elevates the tone of my list like crazy!
Dead Souls by Gogol
King of the Schnorrers by Zangwill
Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Resurrection, Death of Ivan Ilyich by Tolstoy (more literature! Not for the faint of heart!)
Mice and Men, Tortilla Flat, Grapes of Wrath, In Dubious Battle, by Steinbeck
Wise Blood, Violent Bear it Away, Everything That Rises Must Converge by Flannery O'connor
Dragons Love Tacos by Adam Rubin
Picture Books:
Dragons Love Tacos by Adam Rubin
Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg
Nanette's Baguette, Gerald and Piggie series, The Pigeon Books, and really most everything by Mo Willems
The Sleep Book, Horton Hears a Who, Horton Hatches the Egg, Green Eggs and Ham, and The Lorax by Dr. Seuss (also maybe a couple others?)
The Sleep Book, Horton Hears a Who, Horton Hatches the Egg, Green Eggs and Ham, and The Lorax by Dr. Seuss (also maybe a couple others?)
The Mr. Putter and Tabby series by Cynthia Rylant and Arthur Howard
(With each album being individually the greatest album ever, so, not a ranked list)
On the Beach by Neil Young
Mustt Mustt by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Kind of Blue by Miles Davis
Kind of Blue by Miles Davis
The Red Album by The Beatles
Live at the Fillmore by Lucinda Williams
World Gone Wrong by Bob Dylan (The World Gone Wrong links to the series post about that album, but watch out for the "Bob Dylan" link as it connects to a vast listing of my many, many Bob Dylan posts)
Grapesongs by Gabriel Arquilevich (Curiously like the Bob Dylan link above this second link will link not just to a single post, but to a vast series of posts about the the person who made Grapesongs).
Blues for Allah by The Grateful Dead
Chopin's Nocturnes by Chopin as performed by Vladimir Ashkenazy
Ok Computer by Radiohead
Ladies of the Canyon by Joni Mitchell
Good Old Boys by Randy Newman
The B-52's by The B-52's
Gone Again by Patti Smith
Gone Again by Patti Smith
John Prine Live by John Prine
The Kinks Album by The Kinks
For Emma Forever Ago by Bon Iver
The Paris and Vienna Concerts and The Koln Concert by Keith Jarrett (not official entries)
Hmm, I am not even close to finished. So, more later...
The Hundred Greatest Artworks of All Time! (New)
The Deposition from the Cross by Pontormo (In Florence)
Sleeping Cupid by Caravaggio (In Florence)
Romantic Comedy Movies:
(Of all the lists here this alone is not heralded as "The Hundred Greatest". Why? Because even though I adore these movies all but a few have... imperfections? Let's leave it at that for now).
This is your starter pack:
The Romantic Comedies (and this) I love and recommend include:
Moonstruck
Notting Hill
Love Actually
Music and Lyrics
French Kiss
The Holiday
Tin Cup
Wimbledon
Two Weeks Notice
Groundhog Day
Management
New in Town
About Time
I.Q.
The American President
Mamma Mia
New in Town
About Time
I.Q.
The American President
Mamma Mia
Long Shot
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
To All the Boys I've Loved Before
Princess Switch
The Sandler/Barrymore trifecta:
Wedding Singer
50 First Dates
Blended
Coming additions: 100 Greatest Artists
last revised:
Many dozens of unnoted times until I started to list edit dates:
10/9/20
10/11/20
10/13/20
10/29/20
10/30/20
10/30/20
11/7/20
11/8/20
11/9-20
1/15/21
9/18/24
11/18/24
The Basement for this post (includes previous introductory notes and information that may find a home elsewhere in time):
This list is growing more complicated all the time, so I will try
to give as brief as possible an introduction. I'll do it in list form!
1. Important! This list has evolved into a weird collection of nearly, but not quite, random links across the several thousand post history of my blog and so is maybe a good exploration vehicle to the history (not necessarily to "The Best") of Clerkmanifesto. Every colored title or name or sometimes even word in here is a link to one of my at least somewhat relevant blog posts (even "recommended books" above is a link to a discussion of book recommendations!). So click freely on red text! It's a good way to follow what piques your interest. Short essays will explain my title choices sometimes directly, sometimes it will discuss something about the author. Sometimes it is very direct; an essay, a review, or a reference, but also it can be a complicated, idiosyncratic connection. There's only one way to find out.
2. Every one of these are books I love, but, yes, in some cases the love is a bit rusty. I may not have read some books for a long, long time, and I would maybe feel differently about them now. Still, I'll try to keep all books to ones I suspect I'd still at least kind of love if I read them now.
3. I'm listing things into Genres of all kinds. Many books may be mentioned more than once if they fit in multiple genres/categories.
1. Important! This list has evolved into a weird collection of nearly, but not quite, random links across the several thousand post history of my blog and so is maybe a good exploration vehicle to the history (not necessarily to "The Best") of Clerkmanifesto. Every colored title or name or sometimes even word in here is a link to one of my at least somewhat relevant blog posts (even "recommended books" above is a link to a discussion of book recommendations!). So click freely on red text! It's a good way to follow what piques your interest. Short essays will explain my title choices sometimes directly, sometimes it will discuss something about the author. Sometimes it is very direct; an essay, a review, or a reference, but also it can be a complicated, idiosyncratic connection. There's only one way to find out.
2. Every one of these are books I love, but, yes, in some cases the love is a bit rusty. I may not have read some books for a long, long time, and I would maybe feel differently about them now. Still, I'll try to keep all books to ones I suspect I'd still at least kind of love if I read them now.
3. I'm listing things into Genres of all kinds. Many books may be mentioned more than once if they fit in multiple genres/categories.
4.
It looks terrible I know. Sorry. It has been patched, added to,
repaired, and corrected hundreds of times in its seven years, and now it
looks like an ancient battered suitcase held onto for nostalgia's sake.
Today, 10-9-2020 I spent several hours working on it just to get it to a
state where it looks like it needs a lot of work. So just take what you
can from it.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
kafka caffeine
It is a bit of a cliche and a bit of a cartoon truism that cats like milk. In my interactions with cats I have never had any experiences to call these sources into question. Cats like milk. Nevertheless, I have read that cow's milk is not terribly good for cats and so I have never given kafka, the Library cat, any milk. That doesn't mean he hasn't had any. The cat kafka is inclined to take what he likes if he can. But a cat has a more limited array of tools at their command when they occupy the world of people, and so, sometimes in order to take what they like, something extra must come with it. In young kafka's case, the extra was espresso.
In the early afternoon at the Library I was preparing a milkier cappuccino for an afternoon spiritual lift, and, because one of my colleagues seemed in need of one, I was making a cappuccino for them as well. I drew the two shots of espresso, steamed the milk, and assembled the drinks in my giant white latte mugs. I set one down on one of the break room tables and took the other out to my co worker. While out there I got caught up in some Library business and it was quite a while before I could get back to my drink.
When I entered the break room kafka had his front paws perched on the rim of the latte cup, which was wobbling, and he was steadily lapping up the warm frothy mixture of espresso and milk. As he looked over at me the slight weight shift caused the cup to flip to its side. There was no torrent of cappuccino onto the table because this small cat had managed to consume a large portion of a generous beverage. Still, a small, pale brown river turned the tabletop into a landscape and wetted kafka's paws. He sat down and licked them clean, and then we just looked at each other.
You may think, from these accounts of kafka in the library, that we are always regarding each other over some disaster, but no. As often as not, when we encounter each other, in pretty much any situation, we just look at each other. We grow quieter and quieter, more still, and then, usually at kafka's action, it's over. So we looked at each other as we often do. And after awhile of looking at each other I wondered if all the caffeine would have any strange effects on such a small cat. Then, without warning, kafka leaped prodigiously, balletically, from the table onto me. Using tiny needle claws and a bare dusting of cat magic he was almost instantly perched on my shoulder. He balanced and collected himself. Then he rubbed the side of his face three times against my cheekbone. I could feel the wetness of the cappuccino on my face. I smelled coffee. Then, without further notice, he jumped to the ground and was gone, off into the heart of the library where he conducts mysterious deeds. I barely saw him leaving before he was gone. I picked up the cup, wiped down the table, and made myself another cappuccino.
In the early afternoon at the Library I was preparing a milkier cappuccino for an afternoon spiritual lift, and, because one of my colleagues seemed in need of one, I was making a cappuccino for them as well. I drew the two shots of espresso, steamed the milk, and assembled the drinks in my giant white latte mugs. I set one down on one of the break room tables and took the other out to my co worker. While out there I got caught up in some Library business and it was quite a while before I could get back to my drink.
When I entered the break room kafka had his front paws perched on the rim of the latte cup, which was wobbling, and he was steadily lapping up the warm frothy mixture of espresso and milk. As he looked over at me the slight weight shift caused the cup to flip to its side. There was no torrent of cappuccino onto the table because this small cat had managed to consume a large portion of a generous beverage. Still, a small, pale brown river turned the tabletop into a landscape and wetted kafka's paws. He sat down and licked them clean, and then we just looked at each other.
You may think, from these accounts of kafka in the library, that we are always regarding each other over some disaster, but no. As often as not, when we encounter each other, in pretty much any situation, we just look at each other. We grow quieter and quieter, more still, and then, usually at kafka's action, it's over. So we looked at each other as we often do. And after awhile of looking at each other I wondered if all the caffeine would have any strange effects on such a small cat. Then, without warning, kafka leaped prodigiously, balletically, from the table onto me. Using tiny needle claws and a bare dusting of cat magic he was almost instantly perched on my shoulder. He balanced and collected himself. Then he rubbed the side of his face three times against my cheekbone. I could feel the wetness of the cappuccino on my face. I smelled coffee. Then, without further notice, he jumped to the ground and was gone, off into the heart of the library where he conducts mysterious deeds. I barely saw him leaving before he was gone. I picked up the cup, wiped down the table, and made myself another cappuccino.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Drugs in Library
As a person who has experimented widely with recreational drugs (actually, they weren't really experiments) I would think I would be pretty good at spotting what people are under the influence of at the Library. I'm not. On rare occasions I'll smell something on a patron's breath, or have a sudden frisson of awareness, and think "Oh my god, this person is drunk!" or "This person is stoned!" as if this event is a shocking or amazing rarity, and not something that is frequently true but that manages to constantly evade my notice. My theory is that I am not good at spotting all this drug influence out in the public because the effects of these drugs are so readily and relentlessly mimicked by a public under the influence of nothing more powerful than lunch.
For instance, I find people who are stoned to be a bit slow and dreamy, not focused on the task at hand and then over focused on a small detail of the task at hand. They become mellow and spacey. They can be charming and calming, but they do tend to really slow down one's line. If I were to assume every person evidencing these traits to be stoned I would be spending my whole day exclaiming "Oh my god, this person is stoned!" Being shocked about the same thing 40 times a day is probably a feat beyond me.
And what about drunk people. The sloshed. Every day I see loads of people with impaired fine muscle coordination, increased sociability, impaired judgement, and balance difficulty. They're called children. They hit the Library in droves, like we're giving out free drinks! Are they drunk? I get the impression that's just how they are. But it doesn't stop with the younger set. We get people with various disabilities, strange old guys, daffy ladies, freewheeling over confident bruisers, all evincing a good description of some style of drunkenness. Some of them probably are actually drunk, most of them probably aren't.
And what about that voluble chatterbox there, doing three things at once and talking rapidly to his co-worker like he doesn't even need to take a breath. He is revving pretty high. Is he naturally like that? I just happen to know he isn't. I know he's usually a good bit more sedate than all that. And I know for a fact he's had three cappuccinos today. How do I know this? I drank them myself.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Old art, new art
I am as vulnerable to the hype of the new as your next essayist. I put on a brave face about staying current. I erratically strive to be your, and anyone's, source for the hottest new undiscovered genius. I try hard sometimes to carry that restless, sizzling energy of a person surfing the waves of zeitgeist. It's cool. Oh how cool it is! I was spoon fed on cool. And so often it is irresistible to me. But my heart is not in it.
Sure, I am a cultural omnivore. I'll try anything. Working at a Library is like standing on the banks of some great, mythical river, where all stories, songs and ideas float through on the relentless current. I scrabble around, dive in, and look for and at everything. But I have neither the discipline, energy or dedication to categorize, to stay on top of it, to be ever attuned to primarily the newest treasures. In my deepest heart I am not a discoverer, an advocate, a culler of the waters. I am a feaster, a sensualist, a devourer of dreams.
I like my culture tenderized, aged, with its edges rounded into beautiful harmony by wind and rain, ice and heat. I like the mellow flavors to deepen. I like its interrelations with everything around it to have time to seep in and resonate. I like a dash of historical context, which, like salt, illuminates the native flavors. I like my culture pulled from the fires of fad and thrilling discovery, where it has either burnt to a crisp and need not be troubled with, or has browned, caramelized, smoked, and then cooled to the touch. Warm now, with it's own magical, carried, internal heat it may lack some of its earlier thrills and dazzlement, but its depths are now endless, its flavors capable of the most profound resonance, and its beauty quieted enough to register in every range.
I am ever on the lookout for some glorious new art, and am always delighted to hear truly passionate suggestions from my friends, colleagues, and associates. As I said, I'll try just about anything, but a recommendation of Piazzolla's Tango: Zero Hour (1986) or the animal paintings of Bruno Liljefors (1860-1939) is racing to the top of my list, whereas a hot tip on the best new novel that is releasing in only a week or two I may or may not get to right away. It can wait.
Sure, I am a cultural omnivore. I'll try anything. Working at a Library is like standing on the banks of some great, mythical river, where all stories, songs and ideas float through on the relentless current. I scrabble around, dive in, and look for and at everything. But I have neither the discipline, energy or dedication to categorize, to stay on top of it, to be ever attuned to primarily the newest treasures. In my deepest heart I am not a discoverer, an advocate, a culler of the waters. I am a feaster, a sensualist, a devourer of dreams.
I like my culture tenderized, aged, with its edges rounded into beautiful harmony by wind and rain, ice and heat. I like the mellow flavors to deepen. I like its interrelations with everything around it to have time to seep in and resonate. I like a dash of historical context, which, like salt, illuminates the native flavors. I like my culture pulled from the fires of fad and thrilling discovery, where it has either burnt to a crisp and need not be troubled with, or has browned, caramelized, smoked, and then cooled to the touch. Warm now, with it's own magical, carried, internal heat it may lack some of its earlier thrills and dazzlement, but its depths are now endless, its flavors capable of the most profound resonance, and its beauty quieted enough to register in every range.
I am ever on the lookout for some glorious new art, and am always delighted to hear truly passionate suggestions from my friends, colleagues, and associates. As I said, I'll try just about anything, but a recommendation of Piazzolla's Tango: Zero Hour (1986) or the animal paintings of Bruno Liljefors (1860-1939) is racing to the top of my list, whereas a hot tip on the best new novel that is releasing in only a week or two I may or may not get to right away. It can wait.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Being sick
This might not be pretty.
I am still sick. I coughed right after I wrote that. Twice. With that deep, baritone boom that reflects nothing of my high tenor voice, though I do like how it makes it raspy. I think my neighbors down the block might be able to hear my coughs. It is not a Library cough. Or, I should say, today I am keeping it out of the Library as I do not think it will add much to the environment there. Actually, it is a cough I have been hearing quite regularly at the Library for the past month or so. It came from other people. I wish all those other people had stayed home. Maybe I wouldn't have this cough now, or runny nose, slight achiness, or general feeling of just being tired. I don't know. I do know this: I have the sick time appropriate for this situation. I am contagious, though, judging from my four minute research, I am just coming out of the most contagious part of my illness, nevertheless I will still be able to pass this cold along for another few days. And I am doing the right thing by everyone by just staying home.
So why do I feel uncomfortable about staying home?
I'm not sure. It could be because I could work, if I had to, and I like staying home, so, it working out for everyone involved seems... suspicious. I'm not entirely sure who it is suspicious to, but I am pretty sure that person hates me. I have cobbled that person together from pieces of real people I have sadly known. When I call the Library to tell them I am sick that is pretty much the person I expect to answer the phone. I find calling in the hardest part.
Some of that dates back to a different time at my Library, a time when subs were rare, the workload overwhelming, and a person gone sick, or on vacation, just meant more work for everyone left standing. Also, in that time, one needed to talk directly to one's supervisor, who always sounded suspiciously like that person, mentioned in the paragraph above, who hates me. His response was less:
"It breaks my heart you are sick, but we care about you. We want the best for you, and think it is for the best for all of us if you take all the time you need to be whole and healthy again. Shall I take you off the schedule for the next few days? "
And more:
"Okay. Thanks for calling." Kind of mumbled disappointedly, and with less warmth than that sounds like it has. A lot less warmth.
Now I just tell whoever answers the phone. Their reactions vary. My being gone doesn't have the huge effect it used to in our great sea of assorted workers. The main impact is on whatever co-workers might like me and miss me. I just know this from my own experience. If someone I like calls in sick, my day is that much less fun in direct relation to how much I like them. If I don't really like them my day can be better when they don't come. There are also schedule changes when someone is sick, but those are a bit of a crap shoot. That can make your day worse, but usually it ends up making it a bit better.
Do other people feel the way I do about all this? I don't know exactly, but there are a lot of indications of similarities. People come in half sick all the time. Why? Some people hoard sick leave like over-zealous squirrels with acorns. They will never be able to use all that sick time and it pays out very poorly at retirement. Some come because they think they are too important to stay home. But I have never worked with a single person who the waters don't close neatly over when they're gone. So, I think it's the hate person. I think a lot of people are carrying around some kind of hate person on this one. So let me be here to tell you, none of us hate you on this. We get a little mad and irritated around it all, but it is never about when you stay home. It is when you show up. So stay home, have some tea, and catch up on your blog posts.
I am still sick. I coughed right after I wrote that. Twice. With that deep, baritone boom that reflects nothing of my high tenor voice, though I do like how it makes it raspy. I think my neighbors down the block might be able to hear my coughs. It is not a Library cough. Or, I should say, today I am keeping it out of the Library as I do not think it will add much to the environment there. Actually, it is a cough I have been hearing quite regularly at the Library for the past month or so. It came from other people. I wish all those other people had stayed home. Maybe I wouldn't have this cough now, or runny nose, slight achiness, or general feeling of just being tired. I don't know. I do know this: I have the sick time appropriate for this situation. I am contagious, though, judging from my four minute research, I am just coming out of the most contagious part of my illness, nevertheless I will still be able to pass this cold along for another few days. And I am doing the right thing by everyone by just staying home.
So why do I feel uncomfortable about staying home?
I'm not sure. It could be because I could work, if I had to, and I like staying home, so, it working out for everyone involved seems... suspicious. I'm not entirely sure who it is suspicious to, but I am pretty sure that person hates me. I have cobbled that person together from pieces of real people I have sadly known. When I call the Library to tell them I am sick that is pretty much the person I expect to answer the phone. I find calling in the hardest part.
Some of that dates back to a different time at my Library, a time when subs were rare, the workload overwhelming, and a person gone sick, or on vacation, just meant more work for everyone left standing. Also, in that time, one needed to talk directly to one's supervisor, who always sounded suspiciously like that person, mentioned in the paragraph above, who hates me. His response was less:
"It breaks my heart you are sick, but we care about you. We want the best for you, and think it is for the best for all of us if you take all the time you need to be whole and healthy again. Shall I take you off the schedule for the next few days? "
And more:
"Okay. Thanks for calling." Kind of mumbled disappointedly, and with less warmth than that sounds like it has. A lot less warmth.
Now I just tell whoever answers the phone. Their reactions vary. My being gone doesn't have the huge effect it used to in our great sea of assorted workers. The main impact is on whatever co-workers might like me and miss me. I just know this from my own experience. If someone I like calls in sick, my day is that much less fun in direct relation to how much I like them. If I don't really like them my day can be better when they don't come. There are also schedule changes when someone is sick, but those are a bit of a crap shoot. That can make your day worse, but usually it ends up making it a bit better.
Do other people feel the way I do about all this? I don't know exactly, but there are a lot of indications of similarities. People come in half sick all the time. Why? Some people hoard sick leave like over-zealous squirrels with acorns. They will never be able to use all that sick time and it pays out very poorly at retirement. Some come because they think they are too important to stay home. But I have never worked with a single person who the waters don't close neatly over when they're gone. So, I think it's the hate person. I think a lot of people are carrying around some kind of hate person on this one. So let me be here to tell you, none of us hate you on this. We get a little mad and irritated around it all, but it is never about when you stay home. It is when you show up. So stay home, have some tea, and catch up on your blog posts.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Cheese at library
For my birthday I received a kingly, lovely, luxurious and deliriously sweet gift of cheese. A lot of very, very nice cheese. Beautiful cheese. Happy cheese. Fat, glamorous, rippling, swirling, gleeful cheese.
I like cheese.
And I like cheese the way I like music. Blue. My wife bought me this cheese. She knows me. It is all blue.
I took it to work, where I am now living on a diet of mostly these more creamy blues, accented with a bit of bread, mixed greens, apples and coffee. It may be a tad high in saturated fats for an ideal long term diet, but I feel pretty good eating this stuff. For awhile.
Nevertheless I am faced with a quantity of cheese it may be beyond me to eat. Particularly intimidating are the two giant wedges that serve as the centerpieces of the gift; a bleu d'auvergne and a black label Cambozola. Faced with blocks of cheese that never diminish, I decided the time was ripe for me to share with, well, pretty much anyone within 50 yards of me. I put servings of the two cheeses into little cups and headed out.
The results were surprisingly mixed. About half of the people it was offered to turned it down from not liking blue cheeses. Though I have encountered this sort of thing before it still leaves me in a state of shock. Like:
"Come see! There is a beautiful Pterosaur flying into a double rainbow over our parking lot!"
"Hmm, I'm not much of a bird person, but thanks."
"Kindly aliens have arrived and are over by the entrance to the kids' room granting everyone the ability to fly!"
"I don't know. I just got a new car. You go. I'll watch the phones."
"I have some cheese. It is from France. Apellation d'origine controlee!"
"Those snobs! No thanks. Give me a nice Kraft single and I'm happy. Mmm, melted right onto a McDonald's hamburger!"
I was able to recover my composure after a bit, and I was able to pass out all my cups of cheese before I got to the public areas of the Library. I was able to override Dave's initial refusal to eat blue cheese (all credit to Dave on that one, not so much to me. I get a little carried away when it comes to cheese). I hope Dave won't mind this bit too much, but, he is something of a gourmand, and he is also still a bit young. This is what he is still in the process of learning: If someone thrusts a glass of 200 dollar a bottle champagne into your hands, a spoonful of caviar, bleu d'auvergne, you do what you can to consume it. As a Library worker, for good or ill, you will not be bombarded with these moments.
I like cheese.
And I like cheese the way I like music. Blue. My wife bought me this cheese. She knows me. It is all blue.
I took it to work, where I am now living on a diet of mostly these more creamy blues, accented with a bit of bread, mixed greens, apples and coffee. It may be a tad high in saturated fats for an ideal long term diet, but I feel pretty good eating this stuff. For awhile.
Nevertheless I am faced with a quantity of cheese it may be beyond me to eat. Particularly intimidating are the two giant wedges that serve as the centerpieces of the gift; a bleu d'auvergne and a black label Cambozola. Faced with blocks of cheese that never diminish, I decided the time was ripe for me to share with, well, pretty much anyone within 50 yards of me. I put servings of the two cheeses into little cups and headed out.
The results were surprisingly mixed. About half of the people it was offered to turned it down from not liking blue cheeses. Though I have encountered this sort of thing before it still leaves me in a state of shock. Like:
"Come see! There is a beautiful Pterosaur flying into a double rainbow over our parking lot!"
"Hmm, I'm not much of a bird person, but thanks."
"Kindly aliens have arrived and are over by the entrance to the kids' room granting everyone the ability to fly!"
"I don't know. I just got a new car. You go. I'll watch the phones."
"I have some cheese. It is from France. Apellation d'origine controlee!"
"Those snobs! No thanks. Give me a nice Kraft single and I'm happy. Mmm, melted right onto a McDonald's hamburger!"
I was able to recover my composure after a bit, and I was able to pass out all my cups of cheese before I got to the public areas of the Library. I was able to override Dave's initial refusal to eat blue cheese (all credit to Dave on that one, not so much to me. I get a little carried away when it comes to cheese). I hope Dave won't mind this bit too much, but, he is something of a gourmand, and he is also still a bit young. This is what he is still in the process of learning: If someone thrusts a glass of 200 dollar a bottle champagne into your hands, a spoonful of caviar, bleu d'auvergne, you do what you can to consume it. As a Library worker, for good or ill, you will not be bombarded with these moments.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Sorry, no blog post today
I'm sorry, but I'm not feeling well. I won't be able to blog today. It started with just a little ragged sore throat, and I thought I might be able to get a short blog post off today, just about anything, but before I could even get some warm liquids in me I started to get kind of achy, and now I think I'm a little stuffed up. I could probably muddle through a blog post if I had to, but I don't think it would turn out as good as it should, and these early, alarming, booming coughs would only make an already perfunctory blog post harder for you to read. Also, I might be contagious, and I don't want to get everyone else here sick. You should probably wash your hands after reading just this. So, anyway, I think it's probably best if I just, you know, rest up, drink a lot of fluids, that sort of thing. My voice is starting to go anyway, so, yeah, this is definitely the right thing to do. Could you just let everyone there reading my blog know that there will be no blog post today? Thanks. Yeah, I hate to do it, but I think it's the right decision. Trust me, you do not want this. I'm pretty sure I'm running a slight fever. I'm going back to sleep. If I feel better in the afternoon maybe I'll write some rough drafts of blog posts in bed. I'll check back in with you tomorrow. Hopefully this is just one of those 24 hour things.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Blog futures
As you may know, traffic on my blog is quite light on Sundays.
Surprisingly, my readership skews heavily towards church goers and
football fanatics. It doesn't look it at first glance, but this is a
very turn-the-other-cheek and then see if you can give them a concussion
sort of blog. Anyway, because readership is so light on Sundays, I like
to keep the tone of the blog post light as well. And it is in that
spirit that I say:
In a hundred years we will all be dead.
Yes, we will be dead, but these words, due to the electronic data storing wonders of the internet, will live forever!
So, if you don't mind, I'd like to address today's words to the future people, living 100 years from the time I write this. All you people who will be dead at that time are free to read along if you like, though you may not find my words of particular usefulness and relevance.
Hello people of the future.
As I write this humankind stands on the brink of a precipice. If you are there, 100 years from now, to hear this, it is impossible not to assume that you have come through some challenging times. Good for you! Correct me if I'm wrong, but I am thinking in your era information is very cheap, but hard goods are a bit scarce. That is why I have carefully double wrapped in plastic two cans of pinto beans and a 8-inch knife and buried them in my backyard. I hope they are of use to you.
Thank you for keeping my memory alive!
In a hundred years we will all be dead.
Yes, we will be dead, but these words, due to the electronic data storing wonders of the internet, will live forever!
So, if you don't mind, I'd like to address today's words to the future people, living 100 years from the time I write this. All you people who will be dead at that time are free to read along if you like, though you may not find my words of particular usefulness and relevance.
Hello people of the future.
As I write this humankind stands on the brink of a precipice. If you are there, 100 years from now, to hear this, it is impossible not to assume that you have come through some challenging times. Good for you! Correct me if I'm wrong, but I am thinking in your era information is very cheap, but hard goods are a bit scarce. That is why I have carefully double wrapped in plastic two cans of pinto beans and a 8-inch knife and buried them in my backyard. I hope they are of use to you.
Thank you for keeping my memory alive!
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Listening
I have always tried to be a good listener, and mostly I suppose I've been all right. I like to know things, and listening can be a very good way to find them out. Also, among the people I really like, I am extremely keen to hear what they have to say. But, in the past, I have always suffered from the occasional weakness that afflicts most listeners. I am so intent on what I think and what I have to say that I can fall into merely taking turns, or, sometimes, I hear things through such intense personal filters that I don't really hear them at all. Also, with strangers and people more distant to me, sometimes I just don't care. People are not always fascinating and sometimes all my little listening withdraws into me so I can try to convey, through body language, an urgent need for it all to stop. I just want to go back to my private thoughts.
But lately I have noticed a change.
It's all this writing.
I write some kind of essay everyday. Sometimes it might be a comic little shaggy dog story. Sometimes it's observational, a plea, an idea, my heart. I really like doing it. But it's every day. I need a lot of inspiration. I find myself throwing myself into bits of experience, into conversation in a different way. I'm not looking for material exactly. That's not how it works. I just want to see everything more clearly, and see more of it. It is seeing the world that lights all the little fires.
People tell me mundane things, deluded things, fascinating things, true things, lies, trivia, jokes, complaints, feelings, dreams, plans, disappointments, technicalities, and charming anecdotes. The same things people tell people everywhere. The world here at the Library is full of rhythms, delights, irritations, surprises and much relentless proceeding of the slow minute hands of our clocks. I used to think I was free to throw away what I wanted, but now the little drawer I put all this stuff in, the little drawer that always seemed crammed with visions of the world as it is, keeps getting emptied, and the onus is always on me to collect more. For good or ill it turns out there is only one really good way to do so. Listening.
But lately I have noticed a change.
It's all this writing.
I write some kind of essay everyday. Sometimes it might be a comic little shaggy dog story. Sometimes it's observational, a plea, an idea, my heart. I really like doing it. But it's every day. I need a lot of inspiration. I find myself throwing myself into bits of experience, into conversation in a different way. I'm not looking for material exactly. That's not how it works. I just want to see everything more clearly, and see more of it. It is seeing the world that lights all the little fires.
People tell me mundane things, deluded things, fascinating things, true things, lies, trivia, jokes, complaints, feelings, dreams, plans, disappointments, technicalities, and charming anecdotes. The same things people tell people everywhere. The world here at the Library is full of rhythms, delights, irritations, surprises and much relentless proceeding of the slow minute hands of our clocks. I used to think I was free to throw away what I wanted, but now the little drawer I put all this stuff in, the little drawer that always seemed crammed with visions of the world as it is, keeps getting emptied, and the onus is always on me to collect more. For good or ill it turns out there is only one really good way to do so. Listening.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Cat in stack
I heard a rustling in the far reaches of the Mystery section and
strolled over for a look. Our newest addition to the Library, kafka the
cat, still more of a kitten, but on the borderline, was batting about a
thickish paperback. We made eye contact and I think both of us were
quite pleased to see each other, though, of course, I can only be sure
of my feelings in the matter. After kafka's regarding of me, pleased or
not, he took one more idle slash at the book, and embarked on a short
tour of personal grooming. That last swipe was one of those deliciously
refreshing cat moments where they seem to so keenly express that their
moral universe is entirely autonomous from our own, and, on average,
probably slightly better.
I petted kafka, one soft cat, and picked up the book. It was neatly eviscerated, flayed curiously, as if it were a small rabbit, and kafka was keen to peel back just the top half of it in a weird display of mangler's virtuosity. I was impressed. "Good kitty." I said, petting kafka some more. "Good kafka." The book was ruined, but I wasn't put out. We've got just tons of books here, but only one cat.
I petted kafka, one soft cat, and picked up the book. It was neatly eviscerated, flayed curiously, as if it were a small rabbit, and kafka was keen to peel back just the top half of it in a weird display of mangler's virtuosity. I was impressed. "Good kitty." I said, petting kafka some more. "Good kafka." The book was ruined, but I wasn't put out. We've got just tons of books here, but only one cat.
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